First Meetings
Pairing: Sean/Elijah
Disclaimer: Don’t know these people. No offence intended or money made.
Hope is a long leash, drawn in slowly…
"He should be here in a second, Mr Astin." The New Line PR looks around nervously, as if hoping she can conjure my co-star from the ether.
"It's not a problem," I assure her for the thousandth time. "It's not as if I'm going anywhere." I glance at my watch. "He's not late or anything."
"No, no, I know he isn't," she stutters, and I look at her curiously. What exactly has Elijah done to her? I know of his work, obviously; when I got this gig I made a point of watching as much of his work as I could - not just his of course, but certainly I watched more of his than any of my other future co-stars, since I would be working mainly with him. He didn't come across as the Devil incarnate in any of them, so quite why this girl is so jumpy is beyond me.
I'm distracted from her strange behaviour by the polite 'ding' of the elevator. It really is very polite, and for some reason that noise amuses me every time I hear it. Which is probably why I'm grinning like a fool when the doors open, and a small whirlwind decants and makes its way over towards me.
"Sean!" And somehow I know what's coming, and I brace myself, opening my arms to catch him as he flings himself at me.
"There you are," I say without thinking.
"You been waiting long?" he asks, loosening his death grip, but not letting go.
"No," I answer. "Not long."
When I was very young, I used to believe in miracles, but life and experience knocked that out of me, made me realise that I was foolish and naive. I grew up, I married a wonderful, wonderful woman, and I have a child that means the world to me. I thought I had everything I wanted.
And now my whole world is knocked so far off kilter that I don't know what to do, what to say to cover my shock.
I feel as if I'm holding my whole world in my arms. Everything I've been waiting for, praying for. This is what my life has been missing, without me even realising it. This is my miracle.
He steps back, out of the circle of my arms, and I find myself looking at him properly for the first time in the flesh. All the usual words go through my head, all the words I've seen connected with him; beautiful, delicate, luminous and so on, and yes, he's all of those things, but he's more - oh, so much more. There's wisdom in that direct gaze, and I can see him summing me up, deciding whether or not he likes what he sees. I find myself pathetically hoping that he does. Please let him like me. The last time I had that particular thought was a long time ago and a long way away.
Please let him like me.
"Hi, Sam," he says eventually, and I think his decision is made.
"Hello, Frodo." I can feel a stupid smile spreading from somewhere inside me, and I put my hand over my mouth to try and hide it. He tilts his head and peers up at me, his eyebrows quirking.
"What?" he demands. "You laughing at me?" He prods me in my stomach, and I squirm away uncomfortably. I don't like the extra poundage, and next to him I know that I look like some kind of fat freak. To my amazement, he steps forwards, following me closely, and puts his arms around me, squeezing me tight. "I like it," he says softly. "Don't be embarrassed, not with me."
The poor harassed PR woman chooses that moment to start squawking again, and while part of me is relieved to be away from this strange, over-friendly boy who conjures up long-dormant emotions, another part of me - the larger part - is screaming to be left alone with him, to get to know him, to find out everything about him. But there's plenty of time for that - more than a year.
*
I watch him. I watch him all the time, and the others are starting to notice. We've only been together a few weeks, but it's been such an intense time that these people already feel like old, established friends. Initially, it felt a little bit like TheHobbits'n'Orli - and by the Hobbits, I mean Elijah, Dominic and Billy; I wasn't exactly being excluded, but it was something I was doing without realising it; distancing myself from him, letting him run with the others, people who weren't tied down with a wife and child. And when did I start thinking like that? 'Tied down'. I would wave them off and tell them to enjoy themselves and then call them all in the evening to make sure they were home safe.
It was Dominic who brought me out of it. I like Dominic a lot. He's funny and charming and absolutely relentless whenit comes to getting what he wants. And what he wants is for me to join in with them, to bond with them.
"Come on, Sean. You have to," he says, kneeling by my chair and doing his best puppy dog look at me. "Sam's the one who looks after us all, remember? So you have to get to know us."
"I don't think Sam has to take care of you while you surf," I reply, smiling at him, and just resisting the temptation to stroke his short, semi-shaven head.
"You could - oh I don't know, guard the towels or something. Have the sun block ready to slather all over Elijah's pale and beautiful skin." He laughs, and I join in, even though I can hear the forced quality in it. An image comes to my mind, unbidden and unwelcome; an image that I take out and look at when I'm alone in my bed, hard and aching. Elijah, spreadeagled on the bed, dark hair in stark contrast to the whiteness of the sheets and the paleness of his body, covered in the thinnest sheen of sweat, his hands reaching out for me ...
"I don't know what slathering is, Dom, but I don't want to do it, okay?" I don't mean to snap, but his casual teasing has released something that I would rather keep locked down.
Dominic blinks, but absorbs the tone, not reacting. He stays where he is; in fact if anything he edges a little bit closer and puts his head on the arm of my chair, looking at me upside down, and it's so ridiculously childish and appealing that I feel myself melting.
"Pleeease?" he begs. "Comeoncomeoncomeon..." He puts his hand on my leg and starts stroking it like it was a favoured pet.
"Oh stop it, would you!" I push his hand away, but the annoyance isn't real, not now. Dominic can get around anybody he meets.
So the next time they go surfing, I tag along, feeling like the fat, ugly relation. The best moment of the day is when Elijah sees me, and his face lights up.
"Seanwise!" he shouts, running up to hug me. "At last! I've been waiting for you to come and join us for ever." He's a tactile person, and although I don't think he realises it yet, he mirrors my movements a lot, and so when I put my arm around his shoulders, guiding him back towards the others, he does the same, and the slight weight across my back warms me more than it should.
*
I wonder why it is that nobody else seems to notice what a nervous person he is? Not nervous as in 'ooh look a spider,' but nervous as in living on his nerves. He presents a face to the world and I think he hides behind that face; the charming, easy going, growing up nicely former child actor face. And in the meantime he bites his nails to the quick, smokes too much and occasionally carries a haunted and frightened look behind his eyes. But if anybody asks him how he is, he'll switch on the smile and the little boy charm that has obviously carried him through his life thus far, and people will bask in his warmth, forgetting he ever looked troubled.
As usual, I'm watching every move he's making, and I can see that he's jittery and edgy today, dropping things and stumbling over the Hobbit feet - most unlike him, since he's the only one of us who doesn't seem to have trouble with them. The last straw for him seems to be when he tries to get his pack on and gets it tangled up with his cloak, resulting in a completely stuck Hobbit. I see him take a huge breath and then let it out, try again to untangle himself, and when that doesn't work, he rips both pack and cloak off, swearing loudly.
"Stop staring at him." Dominic's voice makes me jump, but not nearly as much as the hand descending on my shoulder. "You think you're being so subtle, don't you, Astin? Well you're not. You watch him all the time."
"Just doing my duty," I reply. "Somebody has to keep an eye on Mr Frodo." I move my head so that I can see Dominic out of the corner of my eye and smile vaguely. "And now I need to go and untangle him."
"Don't you just."
I ignore Dominic's tone and make my way over to Elijah who is standing very still, glaring at the ground.
"Elijah?" He looks up at me and then back down at the ground. He's breathing far too quickly and I can see his lips are pursed. He looks tired.
I say his name again, but this time he doesn't respond. I reach out and put my hand on his arm. "Leave them," I say, nodding at the cloak and pack still tangled on the ground. "Let somebody else take care of them. Come on."
He sighs and puts his hand to his head as if he was going to run his fingers through his hair, but stops when he remembers that he's wearing a wig - he hates wearing wigs, and prosthetics, and tries not to touch if at all possible - so his hand hovers uselessly for a second before dropping to his side.
"Nothing," he says finally. "I'm fine." He sighs again and leans down to pick up the pack. "It's all right."
"Leave them," I say again. "Come and sit down for a while; you look as if you could do with a rest."
He doesn't seem to hear me, just holds onto the handle of the pack, not moving any further. I say his name again, and he shakes his head before turning to me, smile back in place, Elijah mask on.
"Hey," he says, picking the cloak up as well. "Fucking things. Christ I'm glad I'm not really a Hobbit, I'd never get out of the house. I'd spend the entire day fighting my clothes." He laughs. "You'd be there as well, of course. Making sure that I was all right, and making my tea for me." I catch him as he glances sideways. "That'd be a good part of being a Hobbit."
On my bed, hands reaching out for me ....
I clear my throat and put my hand out for the cloak and pack. He hands them over without a word and we wander aimlessly along the path. He doesn't speak, won't tell me what's wrong, but, in my Sam guise, I can be here for him. Just in case
*
This shoot is so hard, physically and mentally. Hard on all of us, but it seems to weigh hardest on him; after all, he's Frodo - if the rest of us get it wrong we can hide behind each other - he has nobody to hide behind, if he doesn't nail it, he'll be up there looking like a complete fool with nowhere to run. But I think he is nailing it, from what we see in the dailies he's turned into Frodo; in fact I think he's so good that he's going to wear this character around his neck for the rest of his career. It'll make him or break him. I think - I hope - that it's the former.
He's fast asleep, curled in on himself on the hill above Hobbiton while preparations are being made for Bilbo's Party. I sit down next to him, but don't disturb him - he's tired all the time and he needs to sleep. I just want to be near him, maybe even do a spot of Samwise protecting if anybody comes near him.
It's quiet up here, away from all the noise and bustle, and it would be easy to nod off as well, but I don't want to do that, don't want to make myself so vulnerable, maybe do something that I don't want anybody else to know about - I cringe as I think of some of my dreams - so I sit, rather than lie, and watch him.
God, is there anything nicer? Sitting here and watching him. Well, yes. There's lying down with him, and holding him and seeing him look at me with want and love ... I damp down those feelings fast and hard. You're his friend, Sean! Just his friend.
I'm so caught up in staring at him, studying every tiny nuance, that it takes me a minute or two to realise that he has woken up and is staring right back at me.
"Oh, hi," I stutter, and he smiles, shrugging closer to me. The smile doesn't reach his eyes, and I give in to temptation, sliding down until I'm lying next to him, hiding behind the fact that he's awake now so I won't sleep.
"Hi," he says. "Time to go and be adorable again?" He sighs and closes his eyes. "I've got my big eyed trembling lip look down to a fine art now, just you wait. We'll be halfway up that fucking mountain and I'll start. You won't be able to stop laughing."
Looking back from a distance of - oh 10 seconds or so - what I meant to say was, "What's wrong, Lij?" Unfortunately for the brief time when it really mattered, my brain and my tongue were out of touch, and what came out, to my immense surprise, was, "I wish I could take that pain away."
"What pain?" He snuggles closer, and in some kind of dream I watch my arm go around him. Just a friendly cuddle, that's all. "Frodo's pain?"
"Your pain." Oh for god's sake, what's happening? I don't want him to know anything about how I feel. I need to stop now before I get myself into a deeper hole.
He's looking at me now, eyebrows raised in silent question, but I can see in his eyes that he knows the answer to any question he might want to ask me. I have a terrible feeling that I'm on the edge of an abyss, and the next few minutes are going to decide which way I go - whether I step off into the darkness, or retreat back to safety.
"What makes you think I'm in pain?" He looks at me for such a long time that I feel the need to start squirming, but he senses it, and lowers his head, resting it against my shoulder, but he asks the question again, and doesn't sound as if he plans to give up on an answer. I struggle to get it together before I answer him, trying to think of something which will keep him happy without necessarily giving anything away.
"Sometimes ... sometimes you look as if you need a friend," I stutter lamely, and he snorts. "No," I amend hastily. "I don't mean ... oh, nobody gets you, do they Elijah? You always hold something back, some part of you that makes you, you."
"And you get me, do you?" he asks, propping himself up on one elbow, looming over me so that I have to squint at his outline against the brightness of the sky.
And that's when I say it. When I open my big, fat mouth and say the thing that's been building inside me for so long.
"It's just that I love you so very much." And I reach up to cup his face in my hand. Which would be bad enough on its own, if I didn't then shift my hand and tangle my fingers in the soft hobbit curls and pull him down towards me. He lets it happen, shifting slightly so that my kiss lands on his cheek, and he stays still for a second, a hand resting on my chest, the other curled up beneath him There is a horrible, weighted silence before he pulls back and smiles at me, eyes friendly and his touch easy.
"Come on, Sam," he says. "What would your Gaffer say?"
He's so relaxed about what I've just done, and I just want to cut the tongue out of my head. I don't really care what Sam's Gaffer would say; I just care what Elijah thinks.
*
Although I'm not even asleep, the phone's ring still makes me jump, and I fumble it off the cradle.
"Sean?" The voice is so quiet it's not even a whisper, just a breath of sound. "Can I come over?"
"Of course. Where are you? At home? Do you want me to come there?" I get a grip and manage to stop babbling long enough to hear him laugh, sounding a little more like himself, although still very quiet.
"I'm at home. I just wanted to make sure. I'll be there in 15 minutes." He hangs up and I'm left staring at the receiver. He didn't sound right and it seems much longer before my lounge finally lights up as his car pulls into the drive. I'm at the door before he kills the engine.
"Hi," he says, climbing out of the car. "Sorry to wake you."
"You didn't," I say. "I wasn't asleep. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he holds up a hand as I start to speak. "No really, nothing. I just think we need to talk about something. Don't you?"
I feel my heart sinking even as I nod, opening the door for him to step into the house. I follow him and watch as he perches on the edge of the nearest chair, index finger already firmly lodged in his mouth.
"I'm sorry ..." I begin, but he shakes his head.
"No, it's not you," he says, sounding slightly muffled. "I've known for a while how you feel , but I wasn't sure what to do." He finally takes his finger out of his mouth and wipes it absently on his jeans. I realise that the confident manchild has gone completely; what I see now is, for want of a better phrase, the pure essence of Elijah; the jittery, nervous creature that he keeps well hidden from the world.
"I couldn't help it," I say, moving to sit on the couch, not too close, but close enough to touch him if I reach out. "You looked so lost .. you looked like you needed a friend, and I wasn't lying, Elijah, I do love you so very much."
He looks up at that, and half smiles. "I know," he whispers. "I know." His hand twitches, as if he wants to move it, reach for me, but then he leans back in the chair and puts both hands over his face.
"I'm sorry," I say again, and my hands ache because they want to touch him, and my chest hurts because my heart is beating too fast, and all I want to do is hold him, touch him, taste him. Learn him.
"You can't," he says, not moving his hands, and I'm not sure what he's referring to, if he's heard my heart. Can't what? "You can't love me." A pause and a very audible swallow, and suddenly I understand why he isn't moving his hands. He doesn't want me to see how he feels, doesn't want to influence me.
I slide off the couch and crawl over to him. He doesn't hear me coming, and he jumps as I put my hands on his legs, moving them apart so that I can kneel between them. I reach out and put my hands on his waist, and he tenses, not sure what to do.
"Elijah... Please." The words seem to shatter whatever control he thought he had, and he leans forward and gathers me into a hard embrace, his cheek against my hair, his arms around my shoulders. I'm surrounded by him; warm and Elijah-smelling.
"You have a wife," he says softly. "You have a child. In another time, or another place, maybe - maybe - we could have been together, but you have so much to lose." He laughs, a little bitterly. "You see, Sean, you're not the only one who fell in love. The second - I swear to you, the very second - I saw you, that was it. And it has half killed me to deny it, but I have to. I'm sorry."
This time the tears come, and I feel my own throat closing, and I can't speak, just for a second.
"I love my wife," I stutter finally, "and my child - oh, Elijah, she's like nothing else on this earth - and I thought I had it all, and then I met you... I don't know what to think anymore."
"Well you would be so foolish if you did anything that would hurt them," he says, pushing me away slightly so that I can see him, the tears falling steadily from his eyes, the words sounding as if they're being forced over broken glass. "And it's not just that, Sean; you have a reputation, you have a future all mapped out for yourself. I won't be the one responsible for taking that away from you." He reaches up and runs his fingers through my hair, saying my name again. Nobody else has ever said it like that - like it's the beginning and the end of the world in a single word.
"We have a year," I say desperately, my hand reaching up to his face, almost of its own accord, and tracing the deep eye socket, the high, elegant cheekbone, the firm jaw; so many parts go into making him what he is; a boy who is physically on the cusp of manhood, even though emotionally he took that leap a long time ago. He will be a beautiful man, I can see it, I can see the beginning of the mature beauty starting to shine, and the tears fall harder.
"A year," he repeats sadly, his hand still in my hair. He briefly pushes into the touch and then pulls away, shaking his head. "No. I can't do it to you, Sean, and you know that you would be foolish to get carried away."
Yes, I know that. I know he is right, and sensible, and for a brief second I hate him for that; for being so in control that he knows what to do when I - a full decade older - kneel at his feet begging for any crumb that he is willing to cast my way.
He pulls me closer again and I bury my head in the crook of his neck, crying so hard that the sobs are actually making my body shake. He holds me even tighter, rocking me, crooning to me, comforting me, and I try; I try for him, and for me, and for my wife and child who deserve so much more than this, and eventually, so slowly, the tears stop and I begin to control myself.
"One thing," I say, turning my head so that my mouth rests against the soft flesh of his neck. "Just one." I can feel his pulse under my lips, the blood rushing under his skin and for a brief, tearing second I want to be that close to him - to be as necessary to him as blood.
"Anything," he says softly. "You know that."
"At least let me kiss you goodbye."
"Oh, Sean." He laughs softly and tugs on my hair, pulling me away so that he can see me. "Oh, Sean."
And he kisses me. Oh god! It's soft and it's kind, and I can't stop myself from sobbing again, just once. He increases the pressure, opening his mouth slightly, and I take from him, drinking in his soul, trying to find something that will keep me warm. My fingers dig into his thighs and he squirms slightly, whether from discomfort or something else, I don't know.
I don't want to let him go, but I feel him begin to ease away and I know that it's over. I sag back onto my heels, trying to relax my fingers at the same time, but I just maintain my death grip on his legs.
"You know it's for the best, Seanwise. You know it is."
"When did you get so wise?" I ask, trying to laugh. "When did it get so that you were telling me what to do?"
"Never," he says. "I'll never tell you what to do, you know that." He smiles. "Friends?"
"Forever."
What else is there to say? Nothing that will make a bit of difference, and so I watch as he stands up and walks out of the door. He looks back just once and winks, and then he's gone.
And like some kind of teenaged girl with her first crush, I curl up on the floor and cry myself to sleep. And I dream of soft lips and hard flesh.
*
The next day is beyond painful for me. He's a little bit distant, even though I don't think he means it to hurt me; he just wants to make it easier for me, and I try and appreciate it, appreciate the way he's thinking about me. But he told me that he loves me - that my feelings are returned - oh, I don't understand; I feel confused and lost in a way that I thought would never happen to me again. He has knocked me so far away from what I considered 'normal' that it's as if I don't have anything to hang onto.
Only once, during a quick break in filming, does he come up to me.
"Hey." The pressure of his hand on my arm burns and I pull away faster than intended.
"Hey."
"You okay?"
No, Elijah, I'm not 'okay'. Every single nerve in my body is yearning to touch you, to feel you, to have you in my arms. I want to taste you again, give you so much pleasure that you forget your name.
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah. Listen, just a thought. Why don't you call Chris? Get her to come see you, bring the kid. Tell her that her brand new Uncle misses her. It'd do you good - take your mind off stuff."
I almost laugh. He's trying so hard for me; he wants us to be 'okay', to be friends, and how can I fight against that? Against his bright determination, how can I be expected to wallow in my misery? God, I love him.
"That's a good idea, Lij, I'll do that. I'll give her a call and see whether she can get over for a while. Ally can give you grief while we spend some time together."
"I'd like that." And he smiles at me, open and kind - what I think of as his 'Frodo-smile', and with a final touch to my arm, he's gone. It takes me a minute or two to remember to breathe again, but finally all my motor functions kick in and I can walk and smile as normal. And act. Oh yes, I can put on an act.
*
But he's right. I should ring Chris, because I can't spend a year like this, wandering around like some kind of lost soul; I had a life before him, and I will have a life after him; this brief, strange hiccup will be consigned to memory, and I'll forget the effect he had on me; how for a brief time I felt as if I couldn't function without him.
So my wife arrives, and she's beautiful and I love her. My daughter comes, and is sunshine and flowers, making me thankful in so many ways. She loves Elijah - adores him, is fascinated by him, and he is wonderful with her, bonding with her effortlessly, and treating her less like a child than as a small adult, and she responds to that. He will be a great father, if the time ever comes. He and Dominic take her for whole days at a time, letting me be with Chris, rediscovering her, remembering why we married. I know he’s doing it for me, and my heart thanks him for it, and even if part of me aches for him every day, things are getting better. I can talk to him again as my friend, without concentrating on the movement of his lips, remembering their taste. I can hug him without wanting to press my body to his, and if sometimes I hold him a little too long, he doesn't say anything.
And when I make love to my wife, it's her face I see.
*
As long as Chris is with me, all is well; I have someone to go home to at night, and I know he's enjoying himself with Dominic, Billy and Orlando - I listen to their ridiculous tales every morning and I have to smile. We're lucky to have such wonderful friends - there I go again; we - as if we belong together, as if wwe're a single entity. But in some ways we are, at least when working: Sam and Frodo belong together, and work together in perfect harmony, and when we're playing our parts, we have a similar kind of rhythm - we move around and past each other, never encroaching, but always being there.
Sometimes he'll smile at me, for no reason that I can discern, and I can feel my own smile growing in return, knowing that I must look like some foolish, lovestruck fool, but unable to help it. And as Dominic has whispered to me more than once: 'If the cap fits, sunshine....' Nobody's ever said anything out loud, but it's pretty obvious that he, at least, knows, and what he knows, Billy knows. That's just how those two work.
But when Chris leaves, as she has to, that's a different story. I go home to an empty house, and I lie in a cold bed, and I let my imagination run wild, even though I know I should have the sense to curb it.
Reaching for me, begging me...
I wake hard and needy, and I feel ashamed as I take care of it as quickly as possible, standing under a hot shower, trying to wash him off my skin. For a while, everything seems well, but then I get to work and he's there ahead of me in Feet, already talking a mile a minute, and he warms my soul. And he smiles again, and I thank god that my foolish behaviour never lost me my friend.
We manage, because we have to, and things settle down. We're friends, first and foremost. Our truce has many cracks in it, but it seems to be holding. And it is a truce, there is no other word. There is need on both sides - real, aching need, but there is also a prevailing common sense.
And sometimes, late at night, there is so much damn pain.
*
He's held up much better than I, or so I think. Which is why it surprises me so much that it's Elijah who cracks first, who breaks our fragile calm.
Another weekend, another party, and I'm sitting on the couch not thinking about much, just relaxing, letting my eyes wander over the people in front of me, not really settling on anything. I skate over the usual Hobbit huddle, thinking that I should join them but too lazy to get up, when my mind suddenly registers what it is I've seen, and unable to stop myself I look again.
Orlando has Elijah against the wall and seems to be biting his neck. Elijah, one hand resting on the back of Orli's head, is looking directly at me, his eyes full of anger and bitterness. He's drunk, he has to be, or he wouldn't be looking at me. Our eyes lock as Orli continues his adoration of Elijah's pale flesh. Dominic, leaning against the wall at Elijah's side, sees me looking and says something to Elijah, who shakes his head, but doesn't speak. Still looking at me, he pulls Orli's head up and kisses him deeply, one hand locked firmly in his hair, the other roaming the slim body. Slim. And attractive. And young. Everything I'm not.
And whilst part of me wants to be glad Elijah has moved on, has found himself someone to keep him company on this long, lonely shoot, another part - the greater part - screams in anger: He's mine! He doesn't belong to you!
"He's doing it for show." Billy lands next to me on the couch, and puts a consoling hand on my shoulder. "Don't take any notice. Little git."
"How much do you know?" I don't want to say anything that will drop me into a hole.
"Enough," he answers. "Sean, I'm not a kid. I can read body language, and yours just screams all the time."
"Screams what?"
"Love. Lust. Want. The more basic emotions."
"No. I love my wife...." I tail off as it hits me. Yes, I do love my wife. But I love him, too.
"It's perfectly possible to love two people at once," Billy says, accurately reading my thoughts and I actually put my hand over my mouth thinking that I spoke aloud.
"It's all right, you never said that," Billy assures me. He leans in very close and I can smell the alcohol on his breath. "I'm Scottish," he says portentously. "I have the Sight." And then he completely ruins it by giggling in his own uniquely girly way.
But in his drunken wisdom I think he's said something which makes a difference; the something I've wanted somebody to say to me - it's perfectly possible to love two people at once. And I do. I really, really do.
I look over at him again, wanting to tell him, but my new found joy shrinks into a knot of pain as I see what he's doing. Wrapped in Orlando's arms now, all I can see of him is a mop of dark hair as he tilts his head into a kiss, and his arms, tight around Orlando's waist, hands disappearing up inside one of Orli's trademark gaudy shirts. Dominic is still leaning on the wall next to them, but he's turned his back on them and he's watching me, eyes deep and dark.
"Go and claim him," says Billy, mouth close to my ear. "It's what he wants."
"Doesn't seem to be," I mutter. "He seems perfectly happy where he is." Unable to tear my eyes away I watch as he pulls away from the kiss and rests his head against the wall. Orli whispers something to him, but he doesn't respond. Instead, he looks at me again, his expression still bitter, and that part of me that isn't controlled and mature comes roaring to the surface. Yes, damn it! I am in love with two people. My wife and this bitter, deep boy, who was willing to give me up so that I didn't lose everything.
As I stand up and begin to cross the room, I half expect to hear dramatic music, or failing that, all conversation to stop as heads turn to watch us play out our little drama. Of course, nothing happens, because that's what it is; a little drama, hardly noticeable in the bigger drama going on around us - the drama of this film, of the celluloid history we're creating. In the end, it's just about two people who are in love and have been stupid enough to deny themselves the happiness they deserve.
He watches me approach, Orli still completely unaware of me, his tongue apparently stuck pretty firmly in Elijah's ear. I wonder how he'll take this? Well I'll find out in a second.
I can't help feeling slightly ridiculous as I tap Orlando on the shoulder, as if I'm the hero in some cheap b-movie coming to rescue the heroine from the moustache-twirling baddie.
"What?" Orlando's definitely the worse for drink, and his eyes are slightly out of focus, but that's okay, he's always been a cheerful drunk. He's more or less leaning on Elijah now but with the short term memory of the really seriously drunk, doesn't seem to actually be registering that he's there.
"I've come to take him home." Oh god! Where did I leave my white cowboy hat? Hands off that pretty creature there, fella. He doesn't want you.
"Well maybe he doesn't want to go," Orlando says, squinting at Elijah. "Do you want to go?"
"Yes he does," I answer before Elijah can even open his mouth. I look at him and he must see something in me because he subsides without a fight, which is most unlike Elijah when the night is young and the drink is free.
He whispers something to Orli and then slides out from underneath him, ostentatiously tucking his shirt back into his jeans. Orli kind of collapses against the wall and begins to slide down, only to be saved from certain humiliation by Dominic, who looks at me, something unreadable in his eyes. As I watch, Dominic props Orli up and approaches me.
"You be good to him," he whispers, leaning in to make sure that Elijah doesn't overhear. "If you do anything to hurt him then believe me when I tell you that your life won't be worth living." Well that's a surprise, and something that I'll process later. At the moment every one of my senses is on overload and I have no time for anybody else.
We walk out of the party in silence, and make for my car. He doesn't say anything until he's safely ensconced in the passenger seat.
"Well?"
And that's as far as he gets before I reach over and pull him towards me by the hair - by the hair - and kiss him as hard as I can, my tongue deep in his mouth, our lips and noses mashed against each other. He makes a strange, surprised noise in his throat, but doesn't struggle, and eventually his lack of response penetrates my mind and I let him go. He sags back into the seat and even in the darkness of the car I can see his eyes, how surprised he is. Almost shocked.
"I love you, Elijah," I gasp, my hands clenching and unclenching in the fabric of his shirt. "And I love her. I love you both, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. I know that things will be tough but Elijah, god ... you're my miracle."
He looks down at my hands and covers them with his own. He doesn't look up, and the pounding of my heart starts to slow. Have I made a terrible, terrible mistake? Has he really moved on and left me behind? I duck my head to try and see his face, but he doesn't look up.
"Do you mean it?" he says finally, very softly. "You won't do anything stupid? You won't declare this from the rooftops and make a complete fuckup of your career - and probably mine as well? You won't leave Chris and Ally?
"Would you want me to?" I turn my hands so that I can grasp his, and I feel how sweaty his palms are, how nervous he is.
"No." Finally he looks up. "I don't want that, ever."
"Tell me what you do want."
He half smiles. "I want to know that you've come to this decision by yourself, without me influencing you in any way..." He looks up and I nod. The smile changes to a grin
"Then I want you. I want you to fuck me until I scream and then I want you to be there when I go to sleep and when I wake up. And I want to do the same to you." He pauses. "And I don't want you to go around doing anything that could damage either of us, especially you. Agreed?"
And this time when I pull him forward for a kiss, he doesn't hold back, doesn't hold himself still in my arms. He wraps his arms around my neck and dives right in there, and it's different from our 'goodbye' kiss - for one thing there are no tears, anddd for another, he's not pulling away from me; in fact he's crawling out of his seat to try and get closer, and in the end I have to try and push him away, but he's having none of it, pressing even closer and sliding his hand down my belly until he's able to cup my rapidly hardening cock. He moves his hand, flexing his fingers softly while kissing me, fucking my mouth with his tongue, and I groan, putting my hand over his and stopping the movement.
"Don't," I manage to gasp out. "Not here, not after everything you've just said to me about not doing anything foolish."
"You're right." He sits back and stares out of the windshield, breathing in huge gulps of air. "Sean ..." he looks out of the corner of his eye, and dips his head, endearingly shy - "take us home. Please."
And I do. The journey is completed more or less in silence, since I don't think either of us really knows what to say - neither of us expected this night to turn out like this and for my part I still can't believe it has. All I know for certain is that this is what I want - right at this moment in my life, he is what I want.
We go to my house - a deliberate choice. I won't hide this from Chris; we've been together too long to have any secrets - and I don't want him to feel as if he's a shameful secret. He doesn't say anything, but I see in his eyes that he understands.
The second the door closes, he changes, stops being quiet and reserved, and turns into something possessed. He pushes me against the door, kissing me hungrily, his hands already ripping at the buttons on my shirt. He doesn't move his mouth from mine until I grunt a protest at the lack of air, and then he latches onto one of my nipples, licking around it and biting at it none too gently until my hips are bucking towards him of their own accord and I'm gasping like a fish out of water.
With the last bit of sanity I possess, I switch our positions, slamming him hard against the door so hard that the air leaves his lungs in a painful sounding gasp. I rip the shirt off him, dropping it to the floor somewhere behind me, and then I reach for the buttons on his jeans.
It's easy to forget how flexible he is; at least until he wraps his leg around my waist and hooks me close so that our bodies are in direct contact from chest to knee. His hands are clawing at my shirt, and his head is tilted back giving me direct access to that long white neck of his. I take fullest advantage of that, sucking and biting the flesh, marking him, making him mine.
When I finally get my hands into his jeans, he freezes, eyes tightly closed, back arched at a completely impossible angle, and I stop.
"What?" I gasp, my lips against his cheek. "Do you want me to stop?"
"If you do that, I'll hunt you down and make you pay," he replies, his voice thin and reedy sounding as if his lungs still haven't fully recovered from having the air smacked out of them. He puts his hand over mine and tightens his fingers. "Harder," he whispers. "Harder." I obey, gripping him tightly and moving my hand up and down his hard length. His leg tightens around my waist and I try and rest some of my weight on my free arm, but he grunts and pulls me even closer until I get the message and lean against him. he gasps, and his eyes flicker open.
"Fuck," he says, then reaches to kiss me, his tongue telling me the rhythm he wants me to set with my hand, his hips moving against mine, hard and desperate.
His head smacks against the door again as he comes, his entire body going completely rigid. He stops kissing me and simply rests his mouth against mine, panting hard.
It would almost - almost - be enough, if I wasn't so hard that III hurt, and as soon as he opens his eyes, I move off him, letting him slide to the ground. When he's sitting, legs splayed wide, I move to stand between them, opening my jeans, and he does what I want him to - shifting to his knees and taking me into his mouth, working me fast and skilfully until I come, my hands clenching tight in his hair, his fingers hooked into the loops of my jeans.
I sag down to the floor until I'm kneeling opposite him, and look at him. He looks a bit dazed, but then he starts to giggle, and the sound soon becomes a full throated laugh. I join in, although I don't really understand what's funny, and we pretty soon descend into hysterics.
He calms down first, and gathers me into his arms, almost rocking me.
"Fucking amazing," he whispers, his breath tickling my ear. "What a start." He kisses my neck. "Now, if we can actually untangle ourselves from all this clothing, let's go to bed."
I stand up and pull him to his feet, supporting him while he kicks his jeans and boxers off, and then he does the same for me, and together we go up to bed.
*
What a night. The kind of thing that you read about - gentle and loving, and rough and hard; the feel of him around me as he begged me to fuck him - using language straight from the gutter which turned me on more than I thought possible. I bruised and marked him, and he did the same to me, using me in the same way I used him.
And towards dawn, when we had fucked and loved the night through, I saw it. Saw my dream turn into reality.
He lay on my bed, the sheets rumpled and creased, his pale body flushed with desire, his cock hard against his belly, and he reached out for me, begging me ... "Please, Sean. Oh god, please ..." It was better than any dream, finally falling asleep with him, hot and sticky and utterly replete.
*
And in the morning I wake up to the feeling of his mouth on me, roaming my body, soft and sweet. Without opening my eyes, I reach down and touch his face, smiling as he turns towards my hand, kissing my palm.
"Morning," he says, resting his head on my belly, nuzzling at the hair there, pulling at it with his teeth.
"Morning," I reply, and we lie quietly for a second until, he sighs and sits up, looking for all the world like he's just stuck his finger in an electrical socket.
"I suppose we have talk about stuff," he says. "Can't pretend that we'll just live in happy domestic bliss." He puts his finger in his mouth and then pulls a face as he remembers just where it's been and wipes it on the sheet.
"I'm going to tell her," I say, sitting up as well. "I can't not tell her, can I?" I pause. "And I do love her. What I said last night is the truth. I love both of you."
"I know, I wouldn't want it any other way. But Sean, how do you think she'll take this? 'Hi honey, how are you? Oh by the way, I'm fucking Elijah.' Kind of hard to work the conversation around."
I can't help frowning at him. "I don't want you to think that, Lij. I'm not just 'fucking' you - for god's sake, when you think of the heartbreak I - we've - been through, then I don't think this is just fucking."
He smiles and shrugs, then thinks about putting his finger back in his mouth, just stopping himself in time.
"Go have a shower," I say, feeling a laugh starting to bubble up somewhere inside me - a laugh of sheer foolish joy. "Then your nails will be your own again."
"Well, I just keep thinking where these fingers were last night ..." he trails off and pulls a face. "You know?"
"Oh yes, I know." I shift a bit on the bed and he laughs, a peal of pure unfettered amusement, and I laugh in return, because it's impossible not to. I admire the view as he walks away, and only when he's safe in the bathroom with the water running do I let myself think ahead. Think about what will happen when we see the others, and more to the point, just what the hell I'm going to tell Chris. I may have put on my brave, bold face to him, but I have to face the woman I love and tell her that although I still love her, I'm also in love with someone else. She's a brave, wise woman is my Chris, but she's not a saint. None of us are.
***
After Prague
by Wendy Cope
He went. You said
you didn’t want to live –
but there were other cities,
sixteen years,
before you reached the end,
alone in Yelabuga.
Hope is a long leash,
drawn in slowly.
**
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