Photoshoot

He had laughed at me, held close against my body, warm in our bed.

"You have no idea how hard it is to model clothes. The shit that you have to wear. And even if you like the stuff, you have to put up with them prodding you and moving you to exactly where they want you to go."

"I’m sure it’s much harder than it looks," I had said, not really meaning it. I mean, I’ve done the occasional bit of modelling, and all I really know is that it’s not for me, but it was never hard work.

"Come to the shoot." He had looked at me then, leaning over me, rolling me onto my back. "Come and see what it’s like. I’d like you to be there." He had kissed my cheek, then pulled back as I had reached for him, muttering something about "stubble burn".

"I’m not sure I want to be there," I had said, stroking my hand down his back, pulling him as close as I possibly could. "All those beautiful people. Not to even mention watching you being pawed at by strangers. I see enough of that when you’re walking down the street."

He had wrinkled his nose and then hidden his face against my chest, his tongue running through the hair growing there, and we hadn’t spoken again for some time, at least not coherently.

*

And now I sit, curled into a chair that has obviously been designed for people a good deal smaller than I am, and watch him work his magic. It is magic of a kind. The photographer says what he wants, and Elijah responds immediately. He ducks his head and does his patented pout, which makes me smile, because that’s the face he pulls when he is in danger of losing an argument. He tilts his head to the side, his body shifting to balance the position, and he looks – dangerous. Beautiful and dangerous.

The clothes look good on him – a classic suit, cut to show off his body – finally, he’s letting people see that he has a shape, that he’s not a little boy anymore – and a red shirt, which does wonders for him, colour reflecting onto his face and lighting it up. Too often, he wears colours that don’t flatter him. Another way he has of denying who and what he is.

"Okay, thanks." The photographer – can’t remember his name – calls out. "Take a break while we reset the lights."

Elijah nods, and then rolls his head on his shoulders, a sure sign that he’s developing a mammoth headache. He walks over to me, and drops onto the floor at my feet with that easy grace he has always had.

"What about the suit?" I ask, leaning forward and putting my fingers on his temples.

"Fuck it," he says, tilting his head back until it’s resting against my belly. "If you don’t work your magic, I’m probably gonna throw up all over it. Anyway, I expect they’ll put me in something else for the next session." He sighs and falls silent as I begin to move my fingers gently, trying to massage some of the tension and pain away.

"Is it so bad?" I ask softly, more for something to say than because I don’t know the answer. Now that he’s not posing and doing as he’s told, I can see how tight and delicate the skin around his eyes looks, see the beginning of a frown between his eyes. I rub harder and bend down so that I can rest my lips against the top of his head, but pull back quickly at the unfamiliar taste and smell of whatever they’ve put in his hair. That’s not Elijah, and I don’t like it.

"Mmm," he mutters. "Not so bad now. Keep doing that."

Instead, I move my hands down to his neck, my thumbs digging into the tense muscles there. It’s where he carries all his tension – his shoulders and his neck get so knotted up that at times it physically hurts him when I do this, but luckily today isn’t one of those days, and the muscles start to loosen quickly, his shoulders relaxing and his head dropping forward, resting on his drawn up knees.

"Elijah?" Our little cocoon of comfort is spoiled by the intrusion of a bleached-blonde female, who spares me not even a flicker of her eyes, all her attention focused on Elijah, her body language screaming exactly what she would like to do.

I feel it as a physical thing, the way he slips his polite, public persona back on; it’s in the way his spine straightens, in the deep breath he takes before he speaks, and as usual, I feel my insides clench tightly. I wish he’d had more chance to be young.

"Gotta go," he says, using my knees to lever himself up. He turns and smiles down at me. "If you’re bored, you don’t have to stay. I didn’t realise this would go on so long."

"Not bored," I reply immediately. How could I be? Watching him all day is the stuff of dreams. "I’ll sit here, quiet as a mouse. Won’t even know I’m here."

"Oh, I will," he answers, and with a final smile at me, he follows the blonde into a small side room where a bevy of women – and men – would be waiting for him, to fawn and paw over him.

But I’m the one who gets to cure his headaches.

*

When he re-appears, I see that they haven’t done too much to him; he’s lost the suit, but kept the shirt, now twinned with a very nice pair of black jeans. He isn’t wearing any shoes, and as he stands there while the lighting is set, I can see him curling his toes, and once again have one of those real sock you in the guts flashbacks to long months spent getting up before the sun and watching as he stood in the pre-dawn cold, bare-footed, his toes curling. Those times will never leave us. Not ever.

I’m still half in the dream world of remembrance as he starts this next series of shots, and I know that I’m smiling like a loon, but it doesn’t matter; nobody’s taking any notice of me. And why should they? Not when he’s practically making love to the camera.

Maybe because I’m still trapped I some alternate reality where he is still the nineteen year old boy I fell for, I don’t notice in time what he’s doing, don’t have time to bring myself back to the present. All I do know is that when I finally look up and take notice of what he’s doing, I’m not prepared for the way it hits me right in the groin, so sudden and so complete that I actually have to move my coat so that I can hide the almost immediate evidence of my reaction.

He’s on his knees, legs spread apart, gazing into the camera with such a look – I can’t even think of the word for it. The red shirt, which so becomes him, is open, just enough to show a tantalising glimpse of pale flesh, and his hand is tucked into the waistband of his jeans. As I watch, he shifts his hand slightly and it becomes obvious that the top button, at least, is unfastened. Maybe more. Whatever it is he possesses, he has switched it up to maximum, and he is so damn hot that right at this moment I want him so much that I could actually, physically cry.

I’m almost sorry that it’s the last shot, and I watch as he climbs back to his feet, switching his – mojo – off, and turns back into Elijah. He runs his hand through his hair and then grimaces, rubbing his now greasy fingers together.

"That it then, guys?" he asks out loud, and nods when somebody says something I can’t hear. He turns toward the changing rooms, but hasn’t taken more than a step, when the blonde woman re-appears. This time, judging from the way she’s practically plastered against him, I don’t think she’s on official business. I know that it’s childish of me to feel jealous at times like this, but knowing and doing are two different things, and I actually start to get up before I see Elijah laugh and say something which makes her smile, and then peel himself away. He casts a glance over at me, and I smile as well, stupidly relieved. He has always been able to get himself out of situations like this. I need to learn that.

When he reappears a few minutes later, free of make up and back in his own clothes, he approaches me with a very familiar look in his eyes.

"You need to stop doing that," he says, walking toward me until he is completely in my space. "Stop being jealous. I can see on your face that you were all set to come and rescue me." I can feel him pressing against me, and I know he can feel my hardness. He smiles and tilts his head. "You liked watching me, didn’t you? You’d like to do me right here, I think."

"No," I reply, stepping back and turning to look for the exit. "Not here. In our bed."

He follows me, not giving up, and I’m stopped as he wraps his arms around me from behind, leaning into me. I can feel the incredible heat pooling in his groin, even though he’s not hard.

"I want to suck you," he whispers, his breath warm and wet against my ear. "Want your cock in my mouth."

His voice travels straight to my groin, and for the second time in quick succession, I feel myself growing hard, although I try and ignore it.

"You looked beautiful." I content myself with stating the obvious, pulling him around so that I can put my arm around him. "You are beautiful." He hugs me, and drops a kiss against my neck. "How’s the headache?"

"Okay," he says, "not bad." I move him so that I can see his face, and rub at the spot between his eyes, smiling as they droop closed and he leans into my touch for a second.

"You’re lying to me. You know it and I know it, but we’ll pretend that you’re not, all right?"

He squints one eye open. "I didn’t understand any of that."

Sighing, he finally pulls back and stands up properly, rubbing his hands over his face before letting them drop to his sides. His head is obviously really causing him trouble now; his lazy eye is much more pronounced than usual, and that’s always a sure sign.

"I think you need to see a doctor," I tell him. "These headaches are getting worse. I hate watching you work yourself into the ground like this."

"You’re a fine one to talk." He sighs and straightens his shoulders. "It’s just a headache, Sean. I’ve already got a mother, I don’t need another one, so stop it, okay? Anyway, we’ll be on holiday this time next week and I don’t know about you but I don’t plan to leave the bedroom for the first few days. After that, we’ll find somewhere else to fuck."

"We’re going into the mountains, Lijah," I laugh, trying to ignore the silly sting I feel at his comment. "You’ll freeze as soon as you step out the door, you know you will. I’m just going to keep reminding you that it was your idea; you wanted to, and I quote, "play in the snow". Don’t blame me, that’s all I’m saying."

"I never blame you for anything," he says indignantly, and I raise one eyebrow at him, making him laugh. "Well …. When I say anything, that’s not strictly true."

"No, the word you’re actually searching for is ‘everything’. We’ll blame the headache."

A voice calling his name causes him to jerk, startled, and I hear the way the breath hisses through his teeth as he aggravates his headache. He turns around and waves at the woman who has called his name. I vaguely recognise her; some representative of the production company, out for her pound of flesh.

"Interviews?" I ask, and he starts to nod then changes his mind.

"Yeah. If you want to go, Sean, that’s fine. I’m starting to bore myself here."

"No, I’ll stay." I sit back in my chair. "I’ve brought my book."

"Of course you have." He smiles at me. "I’ll try and be quick." I watch as he walks away, and I can see from the way he’s holding his back straight that he’s in pain. I wait until he’s vanished and then I go in search of aspirin. I know that sometimes I’m – too much – for him; that he thinks I try and smother him, but most of the time he realises that it’s just how I am. I need to care for the things I love.

*

He’s in the interviews for hours; for some reason I believed that there was only one of them and that he wouldn’t be long, but in fact it’s something of a junket and so he’s going to end up doing half a dozen or so back to back, whether he wants to or not.

I’m just starting to do the pacing up and down thing when he reappears, waggling his fingers at me in a half-wave before finishing his conversation with his latest hanger-on. He looks like shit. He’s pale and sweaty, and when he looks at me again, he’s all eyes in a too pale face. If I’m any judge of this – and I am – he’s got about ten minutes max before he throws up everywhere, and suddenly I don’t care if I sometimes annoy him. I stride over to him, put my arm around his shoulders and giving him just enough time to say goodbye, I lead him away, searching for the exit.

"Sean…" he says, but his heart isn’t in it. His voice is low and tired. He doesn’t get sick; oh, he gets a few chest problems because he’s such a heavy smoker, but the last major thing was his appendix, but if you ask him about that he’ll maintain he wasn’t actually sick then, more damaged. He doesn’t do sick, he hates it. He tends to approach it with the attitude of a normally healthy man, which is to say he ignores it for as long as he can and then he collapses for a day or two.

He’s on schedule for the collapse any time now.

"Shut up," I say. "Are you okay to get in the car? If you throw up all over that upholstery, you’re the one paying for the clean up."

He gives up, which is another sure sign that he’s not right, his head drooping and his eyes all but closing. He tilts his head as if he’s going to rest it against my shoulder, but then straightens again, swallowing hard. Oh.

"Bathroom." I push him gently through the door on my left and steer him into a cubicle, watching just long enough to make sure he doesn’t fall over and bang his head on something before I step outside and stand guard outside the door. When he reappears his colour is slightly better – less green, but his eyes are at half-mast.

"Car." I take his hand and lead him down the corridor.

"Monosyllabic bastard," he mutters, squeezing my fingers. I squeeze back, and don’t answer.

*

The journey home is the nightmare I expected it to be. Too much traffic, too much heat, air con turned up as high as it will go so I’m freezing my ass off. He’s shivering as well, but turning it down, I know from past experience, isn’t good, because he starts to feel stifled and – well, it’s not pretty. It becomes obvious that this headache is heading full speed toward migraine when his cell rings. He calmly fishes the offending item out of his pocket, rolls down the window, lobs it out and rolls the window back up again.

"Wrong number," he says quietly, resting his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes.

I don’t answer, but I have to bite my lip to keep myself from laughing.

*

Home, finally. He’s practically out on his feet now, hardly able to open his eyes, and I have to prop him up while he fights to get his contacts out. I undress him, force feed him more aspirin and put him to bed, then sit with him, stroking the hair back from his temples as he lies there in our darkened bedroom, his eyes squeezed tightly closed.

"Try and relax," I whisper to him. "You’ll be all right when you’ve slept, you always are."

"I know," he grits out. "You try relaxing when your head’s about to explode." He swallows, and I tense, but he settles again. "Actually I wish it would explode, then at least it would stop fucking hurting." He raises his hands and pulls his hair, and it takes me a second to catch his wrists to stop him.

"Don’t," I say, more horrified than I like to admit. "Don’t hurt yourself." I kiss his forehead as gently as I can, and he snuffles something, pulling his wrists free of my grip.

"Get in," he says. "I need you."

I do as I’m told, quickly stripping off my clothes and sliding into the bed next to him, not touching him, but trying to comfort him just by being close; it’s something he likes even though he rarely admits it. He rolls over onto his side with a grunt, his head resting against my thigh, and, relieved, I listen to his breathing evening out.

"I love you," I whisper, and he grunts again, more softly. "Even when you’re being pissy and sick, I love you."

I slide down the bed until I can pull him close, and we lie like that for a long time. He falls into real sleep, and I doze as the afternoon light starts to fade into evening.

*

"Why?" I open my eyes, startled.

"Why what?" His eyes are still closed, but the skin doesn’t look quite so tight. It’s full dark outside and our room is lit only by the light being cast from the bathroom. I put the back of my hand against his face; his skin is cool, slightly sweaty where he’s been leaning against me for long hours.

"Why do you love me?" He sighs and pushes into my hand. "I’m such a bastard to you sometimes. Why do you put up with me. You should tell me to stop."

"I don’t mind," I answer. "I know you don’t mean it, know that it’s just you being sick."

"You know I’ll make it up to you, right?" He sounds almost worried, and I hasten to reassure him, stroking his hair and kissing his forehead, willing him to be better.

"I love you because you’re you," I say softly, my lips just touching his temple. "Because you turn it on for the camera in a way that just knocks me out, and then you switch it off again just as easily. Because people love you and want to be with you, and want you to be their friend." I kiss him and pull back, watching his eyelids tremble slightly. "And because at the end of it all, they can’t have you because you chose me."

I feel him smile. "There was never a choice to make. Christ, what kind of idiot would turn down the chance of you?"

"You looked out of this world today," I continue, staring at the ceiling. "My god, the camera just about melted and that woman with the awful bleached hair was ready to spontaneously combust if you so much as looked at her." I glance down to check on him, unable to help myself. "I’d like to see you like that one day. On your knees, your jeans unfastened like that, offering yourself. That would be one of my fantasies come true."

The silence between us grows, but it’s comfortable, and I think that maybe he’s fallen asleep again. Part of me hopes he has, because I’m not sure I want him to know about that particular fantasy of mine.

"Pervert." His voice is quiet and muffled, but still enough to startle me so badly that I practically fall out of bed. I feel his eyelashes flutter against my neck as he opens his eyes, and pull back enough to see him. He squints slightly in the light – the headache is obviously still there – but he smiles up at me, no more than an evil quirk of his lips. "Go look in my jacket pocket."

"Are you all right?" I ask him. "You still look dreadful."

"All the looks in one day." He closes his eyes and lowers his head to the pillow, somewhat gingerly. "Go on, then you can come back to bed and make this fucking thing go away."

I slide out of bed, trying not to disturb him too much, and go over to where his jacket is slung over the back of the chair. Hunting through his pockets, my fingers close on a small piece of what feels like card, and I pull it out. Looking at it, I can feel the idiot grin start somewhere in my toes and work its way up.

Elijah stares out of the photograph in my hand. On his knees, legs slightly spread, hand tucked into the waistband of his black jeans. His red shirt is open just enough to give me a hint of what’s underneath, and his eyes send out only one message: ‘Come and get me’.

"I asked them to give me one of the test shots," he says faintly from the bed. "I knew you’d like it."

I move back to the bed and put the photograph on the stand by the phone, where I’ll see it every day, and then I turn back to the real, warm, breathing Elijah that I am lucky enough to have in my bed and in my life. I lean over him and watch as he willingly, if carefully, turns onto his belly, offering me the vulnerable curve of his neck, and as gently as I can, I put my fingers there and begin to massage the pain away.

The End

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