Talking It Through

Pairing: Sean/Elijah

Disclaimer: Don’t know these people. No offence intended or money made.

His face when he opens the door is ... well, priceless. He goes from tired and sad to overjoyed in about 3 seconds flat.

"Sean! Oh god, Sean!" He jumps at me so suddenly that I have to drop my bag so I can catch him, staggering backwards, hardly caring what kind of picture we must make, just so overjoyed to be near him, to have him in my arms again. He smells of cigarettes, alcohol and sleep. And of himself. A heady, overwhelming combination.

"When? Why?" He's stuttering and it's completely endearing. I squeeze him as tightly as I can and then let him slide through my arms until he's on the floor, and then I try and push him away, but he won't let go, pressing against me, his face buried in the crook of my neck. I can hear his voice a constant monotone vibrating against my skin, but I can't make out the words.

"What?" Good grief, this is turning into a very intelligent conversation.

"Sean," he says, and then again, "Sean." He's scrubbing his face backwards and forwards against my shoulder, whispering my name.

"I'm here," I say. "You'll be all right now." I don't even know what I mean by that, but now that I'm here, now that I can see him, I realise just how tired he is, how very young he really is. I finally manage to push him away so that I can cup his face between my hands, and I swallow against the shock. I haven't seen him in almost three weeks and in that time he's changed; he's thin and far too pale, and the bounce has gone, he's worn down.

He looks at me like he's a whipped puppy and he's not 100% sure if I'm going to kick him or hug him, and I feel something tighten inside; I'm the person he should trust even if the rest of the world turns on him and to see that look turned on me hurts. I run my thumbs over the soft skin at the corner of his eyes and watch as a smile starts somewhere and works its way to the surface.

"Come on in," he says, putting his hands over mine and pulling them down so that he can kiss them. "I'm so glad to see you."

I pick up my bag and, the fingers of my other hand twined around his, I follow him, trying to school my face into a bland expression.

"Lose that," he says, gesturing at my bag. "How long can you stay? What are you doing here?" He begins to smile, a proper smile this time. "No, scrub that last question, don't answer it. You're here. That's enough."

He pushes me down onto the couch and sits astride me. He kisses me, and even though I know that I shouldn't, that I should hold him away from me, find out what's wrong, why he's so tired, I don't, I respond to him in the way I always do, my hands holding his hips, moving up to slip into the top of his sweats. The feel of his skin under my fingertips, hot and smooth makes me gasp, and he responds, lifting himself up and pressing me into the cushions, his fingers wrapping in my hair. I'm almost ready to give in, ready to lose myself in him, when I hear him make a noise, a strange, desperate whimper that I've never heard before, and with my fading willpower, I push him away.

"Elijah, stop."

"No," he mutters, nuzzling blindly at my face, "don't want to stop. Want you." His hands trail down my face and then I feel his fingers at my buttons.

"Elijah." I put my hands over his, stopping him in his very determined tracks. "What's wrong?"

"Why should there be anything wrong? Get off, would ya?" Pulling his hands free he starts on my buttons again. He has a strange, wired air about him - he's running on empty I think, and he doesn't know how to slow down.

"Stop it," I say, pushing him away, just so that I can see his face. "Elijah, talk to me."

"Don't push me," he snaps, his fingers still tangled in my shirt. "You came to see me, didn't you? Well I just want to say hello." He pushes forward again, but I push him back again, harder this time so that he slides half off my knee.

"What's wrong?" I ask him again. "Why are you like this? Why are you so wired?"

"I'm just pleased to see you again, and I want to show you." He crawls back up onto my lap, and this time I stop him by putting my hands on his chest.

"Fine." With a snap which is almost audible, his temper breaks. He doesn't lose it too often, but when he does, it's spectacular, and if you happen to be in the firing line it's pretty unnerving. He slides off me and stalks to the centre of the room and then stops, obviously not sure what to do. He turns to face me and opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. Instead, he turns his back and walks to the window.

"Elijah..."

"Shut up!" The aggression in his tone knocks me back. "So all of a sudden it's not all right for me to be pleased to see you? You don't want me to show you any affection, is that it?" He swings round to face me, and his face is almost unrecognisable - anger, grief and confusion written plain for anybody who cares to see; my stomach clenches a little and I can't help but wonder how long he's had that look.

"What do you mean?" I start to push myself off the couch, but his expression stops me.

"Affection," he says again. "You know, people liking each other's company, maybe even hugging each other in public, that sort of thing. You're just like everybody else in this whole stupid, hypocritical business!"

"Oh no," This time I do stand up and walk towards him. "Don't talk like that. What have they done to you, and why didn't you tell me?"

"Nothing," he snaps, backing away from me. "Just, you know, 'don't touch him, Elijah, don't look at him, Elijah, don't fucking breathe at him, Elijah.' You know ..." He sighs and rubs his hands over his face. "I didn't want to tell you, didn't want you to know ... I wasn't expecting you, I'm sorry. You caught me off-guard."

"Why not tell me?" I ask, covering the ground between us and putting my hands on his shoulders. He ducks his head, and I don't force him to look up. He'll do that when he's ready.

"I'm sick of this, Sean," he says eventually, "sick of everything."

"Sick of us?" I ask, my heart pounding. "Even of us?"

"No! I didn't mean that," he assures me, looking up at last, and reaching to cover my hands with his. "Never that. I just ... oh, you know. They say all these things to me, how I shouldn't look at you, touch you, hug you, and then they all go back to their boyfriends and fuck them senseless. What do they expect me to do? Just come back here and do nothing? I can't do that, I can't. I want to see you, want to touch you ..." he tails off and laughs. "Want to open the window and scream your name as loud as I can. Except," he says gloomily, "the fucking place is air conditioned, and I can't open the damn thing."

"Come over here." I pull him over to the sofa and sit him down. "Just how long have you been carrying this?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know. When did they say this to you?"

He sighs, trying to pull away, curl up, but I don't let him. If he knew how much I want to protect him, he'd kick me so hard that I'd become a soprano, but I don't think that the feeling will ever go away, and certainly not as long as he keeps looking so ...

"You look like Gollum," I say, before clapping my hand over my mouth. He looks up at me, a perfect ball of misery, and I can feel laughter building up; some kind of strange reaction to all this, the travelling, the near fight, the shock of his appearance.

"Yeah? Well you look like ... er, a very thin version of Sam." He groans and drops his head against his knees. "God, I can't even insult you properly now. I've lost it totally." He pauses. "What do you mean I look like Gollum? I could get annoyed, you know." His eyes are beginning to soften though, and I take my hand away from my mouth, let him see my smile.

"Wanker," he mutters and slides into my arms, letting me pull him close.

"So tell me," I say. "When did they say this?"

"A while ago," he shrugs dismissively. "Oh Sean I understand what they mean, I really do, but I just get sick of it sometimes. I'm not saying that I want to jump you in public, but it would be nice just to be able to acknowledge that you exist, you know? Christ, sometimes I hate Frodo."

"No you don't." I kiss the top of his head. "You love Frodo. He'll always be a part of you, just like Sam will be with me for the rest of my life. And if we hadn't got those two, then we would never have met."

He nuzzles into my neck, raising one hand to tweak at my earlobe, and I feel him sigh. "I'm sorry for shouting."

"Don't be," I assure him. "That's what I'm here for."

"To be shouted at?" he sits back. "That's not much of a job."

"Well I know," I agree. "But the rewards make up for it." He smiles again and I feel my muscles begin to relax as I watch him calm down. "You keep too much inside," I admonish gently. "You hide behind geek boy."

"He's good camouflage." He shrugs. "Between them, Frodo and geek boy keep me safe." He stands up and pulls me to my feet, keeping his fingers wrapped around mine as we stand almost nose to nose. He leans forward and kisses me, and it's gentle and sweet with none of the earlier desperation.

"I need a shower," I say, pulling away from the kiss. "Then I'm going to show you just why I came all this way." I cup his face in my hand and kiss him again, gently.

He smiles and lets go of my hand, pointing wordlessly towards the bedroom. One of the advantages of being who he is means that he now gets a suite of rooms, and when I go into the bedroom I can't help smile. It's so Elijah in here; messy, clothes and cd's strewn around the room, the television on with the sound down, the light from the screen flickering, causing the shadows to chase themselves into the corners. The bed is unmade, as usual, and I lean down and pick up the telephone which is still lying there, pressing it to my lips. God bless Alexander Graham Bell.

I put the phone back on the base and make my way into the bathroom - more Elijah destruction is in evidence and I can feel my fingers itching to tidy up some of the chaos - except that he'd kill me if I did, so I content myself with picking up some of the wet towels off the floor and dumping them in the hamper.

The shower is glorious - lots of hot water pounding at my shoulders, easing an ache I didn't even know I had. I want to linger under there for an age, but my arms are missing him, so I quickly dry myself off before taking one of the robes supplied by the hotel and making my way back to the bedroom.

It's empty, and I take the opportunity to quickly straighten the bed. As I stand up something catches my eye and picking my way through the cd cases, I make my way over to the writing desk which all these hotels seem to supply. The thing that caught my eye was a gorgeous little model of a horse - of Pegasus, the winged horse - caught as he takes flight, escaping the bonds of earth and making for the skies where freedom is beckoning. It's beautiful, very delicate and breakable, and yet here, in this cluttered just past teenager's bedroom, it sits alone and sacrosanct.

There is a journal-type notebook next to it, which is a surprise because Elijah doesn't keep journals. I glance down at the page, and my eye is caught by one phrase, repeated over and over: I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

"Hey?" I turn around and look at Elijah, silhouetted against the light. "I'm so glad you're here, Sean. I don't even have the words."

"You don't need the words," I reply, holding out my hand. "I've got words enough for the both of us. "Sweetheart, you look so ... tired."

"I don't sleep too well alone, not anymore," he says, coming towards me, ignoring my outstretched hand and leaning himself against me.

"And you work too hard," I admonish softly, pulling him close.

"No," he snorts a bit at that. "Interviews, that's all. I'm just sitting there talking; it shouldn't be so tiring, you know? I don't even have to think about the answers anymore, so why should I feel like this?"

"Because you're you," I say, stepping backwards until my knees hit the edge of the bed. I sit down suddenly, taking him with me, and he laughs quietly, the faintest echo of how he usually sounds.

"I've missed this," he whispers, his head resting in its accustomed place, the crook of my neck. I can feel his eyelashes fluttering against my skin, and my throat closes at the vulnerability of it. He tilts his head up and kisses my jaw, just in front of my ear - a very tender spot, and he laughs again at my response. "Missed you."

"And I missed you," I assure him. I pull him closer so that there is no space between us at all. "Tell me what you hate, Elijah."

He stiffens, but doesn't pull away and I find myself stroking my hand down his back, trying to soothe and relax him.

"Please," I say. "You're scaring me, hobbit boy. Please tell me."

"What I said before," he finally mutters in an undertone. "I hate not being with you, and being cooped up here all the time having to make nice to people I don't even fucking know. Sometimes I feel like I'm being stared at all the time, you know?"

"Why did you buy Pegasus?"

He smiles at that; I feel it against my neck. "Because he symbolises everything I'm not; he's free and powerful and doesn't answer to anyone."

"Elijah..." I push him away and then roll over so that I'm on top of him, my leg between his, my hands either side of his head. He looks young and irresolute and about a million miles away from the Elijah I fell for.

"You're tired," I start, putting my finger over his lips when he begins to protest. "And you know how introspective and downright weird you can get when you're tired. You're lonely, and believe me, so am I. I hate it that you've been here without me, being lonely even though you're surrounded by people. I've been at home, and even though you're not there, you still are; the essence that makes you, you."

"Me me?"

"Shut up." I kiss him, feeling him respond to me, his arms reaching up to wrap around my neck. "And you're annoyed because we can't go public yet. But Elijah that's the word to hang onto; yet. We will do it, you know that, but we have promises to keep. Promises to my wife and my children, and to your family, and to our extended family who were with us in New Zealand."

"I know, I do know," he says, sighing. His fingers start to play with the hair at the back of my neck. "But I get so ... fucking tired of waiting. I'm so proud of you, Sean; I want to show you off to the world. Lookit world, look what I got! Don't you wish you were me?"

"And we will," I say again. "And on that day there will be nobody prouder than me. Just hang on for a little while longer, Elijah, please?"

"I'm not cracking up," he says, sounding affronted. "I'm just pissed at the world, that's all. And tired, and lonely..." he trails off and sighs melodramatically. "And missing my man."

"Er, hello?" Rather childishly I stick my finger in his ear, and the resulting giggle and squirm knocks me off him. I slide to the side and put my arm around his waist, sliding my hand under his t-shirt and resting it on his belly. He makes a contented sound and reaches down to cover my hand with his own.

"Hello," he says. "It's all right, I talked to my man earlier, and until he gets here, you'll just have to do."

"When does he get here?" I ask, letting him pull me in for a kiss.

"When you go," he says when he finally lets me go. "In about 50 years or so."

He reaches in for another kiss, this one more like a proper 'Elijah' kiss - concentrated and energetic and utterly loving. I feel like I'm drowning in him, and when he finally released me, I pull him to me again, kissing him desperately, almost savagely. He whimpers against my lips, but it's all right; it's not the unhappy, frightened noise he made before; this is Elijah, and it's all for me.

"Miss me much?" he says when we come up for air.

"Hardly noticed you'd gone," I offer, lying gamely as his hands unfasten the belt of my robe, revealing evidence completely to the contrary. He smiles and kisses my collarbone, then my chest, then each nipple in turn, concentrating on giving me pleasure.

"My Sean," he whispers, lips against mine, before quickly sitting up and removing his t-shirt and sweats. Gloriously naked, he lies on top of me, his hips moving in gentle counterpoint to my own. I run my hands down his back, revelling in smoothness of his flesh.

"My Elijah," I whisper back into his mouth.

"Make me yours," he says, his head sliding down to rest on my chest. "Please Sean, make me yours."

This is something I can do for him; make him feel loved and whole, and not lonely anymore. He only actually asks for this if he has lost sight of himself and of me, and of us - he once told me that it's his way of reclaiming what the world (that place again!) takes away from him.

And so I set myself to please him, to love him and to bring him home. I tip him onto his back and settle myself over him again, this time skin and against skin. He smiles, eyes half closed, and I smile back, licking his lips until he opens his mouth and lets me kiss him. I relearn him, the way he tastes and sounds, the way he looks as he becomes more aroused; the way his head tilts back and his lips part, his tongue peeking out to lick at his dry lips.

I kiss his neck and his shoulders, biting gently; not hard enough to leave marks, but enough to make him flinch and gasp. Then I push myself up until I'm sitting astride him and I just look at him. So pale - what colour he has is focused in his hair and his eyes and his mouth. And his nipples. I lean down and brush my tongue over one, letting my teeth graze against the flesh. He arches into the touch and the flesh hardens against my tongue.

"Sean..." he whispers, one arm thrown back over his head, the other resting on my back. "My Sean..." He moves his hips and I feel him, hard and proud against me. But we're nowhere near reaching that particular goal, not yet.

I kiss the soft skin of his arms, making him giggle again, and I love that sound so much that I repeat the action, wanting to hear it again. I keep doing it until he squirms away, begging for me to stop, and then I turn my attention to his belly, flat and smooth; he has so little body hair, and I find it a source of constant fascination. I love to watch the way his muscles ripple underneath the thin skin; I watch them as they tense and then relax, and as I run my fingers and then my tongue across him, just above the line of his pubic hair I feel the goosebumps I cause.

I slide off the bed and onto my knees, pushing his legs apart and kissing his thighs, again biting hard enough to make him flinch. I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye and watch as he reaches down to take hold of his cock, his hand fisting around it loosely, working it slowly and languidly. I move up so that on his next downstroke, I can catch his fingers in my mouth, and he freezes, almost not breathing, as I suck first one, then two fingers into my mouth.

He grunts and pushes his hips towards me, urging me to take him into my mouth, but not just yet... instead, I urge him over onto his belly and he obeys, groaning slightly as his hardness rubs against the cotton sheets.

First the backs of his legs - I kiss my way up them until I reach his ass - perfectly round and firm, and absolutely biteable. So I give in to my more basic urges, and do just that, laughing at the groan and the muffled cry of "Sean!" it produces. The sound tails off into something much more primitive when I slide my tongue between his buttocks, licking softly. I feel his hips move as he thrusts into the sheets, and when I put my hand on his back to stop him moving I can feel the sweat beginning to build there.

"Jesus..." he moans, his voice muffled by the sheet he appears to be clutching between his teeth. "Oh fuck..."

When I slide my finger into him, he very nearly takes flight. It's dry and not what I would have wanted ideally, but the way he pushes himself back against me makes me think that perhaps it doesn't matter too much.

"More.." he says. "Much, much more. Whole lots more.... oof! That's it."

Maybe the sheet was a good idea. Very talkative, my Elijah. I slide another finger in and let him adjust to it. He pushes back so hard that he slides off the side of the bed and ends up on his knees as well, which is fine by me, since I'm able to lean over him, moulding my chest against his back, my fingers working in and out, stretching him, making him accustomed to the intrusion.

"Come on." He has turned his head so that his face is scraping across the cotton sheets. The same cotton sheets he is clutching in his fists. His mouth is slightly open as he pants for breath, a fine sheen of sweat is covering his whole body, and he is the most perfect thing that god ever designed.

Enough. I can't take it. I want to bring him home. I position myself and slowly, carefully thrust into him. His head goes back, the tendons in his neck standing out as he adjusts to the pressure and discomfort.

"More," he grits out again. "Please Sean, oh god, please."

I start to move in him, my own eyes closing briefly at the incredible tightness of him around me, his muscles clenching and relaxing, making me gasp out his name, the ability to speak coherently completely escaping me.

And then it's almost silence; gasped instructions - 'harder', 'there', 'more' - whispered sounds, forced from dry throats, skin slapping against skin. It's obscene and beautiful. I run my hand up his back, my fingers shaping around the back of his neck, holding him there.

He comes first, as I had hoped, the sheet back in his mouth, his face pressed against the bed, gasping helplessly, unable to form any kind of word, trembling underneath me. When I come, only seconds later, he gasps again and his whole body tenses, then suddenly relaxes.

"God," I finally gasp, pulling out and crawling onto the bed next to him. "Elijah..."

He groans and lifts his head. There are tears running down his face, which I had half expected, but as he comes into my arms, seeking the comfort and security which I seem to represent to him, I can tell that he isn't upset or hurt. It's catharsis, and I know that, for tonight at least, he's home again.

Tonight, Pegasus can fly.

The End

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