FRANTICALLY FLIRTING Authors: Elanor elanorsmith85@hotmail.com and Nefertiti nefertiti_22002@yahoo.com Pairing: Ian/Elijah Rating: PG-13 for Chs. 1-3, NC-17 for Ch. 4 Summaries: Ch. 1 - Elijah wants a massage, and Ian gives him one. Ch. 2 - Elijah plans to encounter Ian in the studio showers; Ian longs to see Elijah naked. Ch. 3 - At a couple of parties thrown by Viggo, Elijah tries to act older to attract Ian, and Ian tries to act younger to attract Elijah. Ch. 4 - Ian takes Elijah on an educational outing, and they both learn a great deal. Disclaimer: Apart from belonging to that small group who realize that Ian and Lij were meant for each other (if they only knew!), we make no claims for any connection between these events and real life; we derive no income whatsoever from such activities. Chapter 1 1 - Elijah Standing near the trailer he and the other hobbit-actors shared with Ian, Elijah sighed. He'd tried everything, but the object of his obsession wasn't playing ball. Or balls. Or cock or . . . He yanked his mind back to the plan he was supposed to be initiating. He checked his watch, did a few calculations on his fingers and decided it was time. Timing was everything. The hobbits might still be in the trailer if he went over too soon - cue embarrassing excuses - or his quarry might have already gone home if he went too late. He checked the trailer by the simple expedient of jumping up and down at the window. The hobbit side was empty. He grinned to himself, then took a deep breath and settled his features into an expression of pain. He knocked, and that rich voice boomed out, inviting him to come in. If the guy's voice could carry to the furthest recesses of a Victorian theatre, it would have no problem carrying through a plastic door. "Hello, Elijah, what can I do for you?" Ian asked with a beaming, happy smile that had Elijah's insides tying up in delightful knots. Take me on the floor and ravish me, Elijah thought, but instead he said, "I'm not disturbing you?" "Not at all. Gandy's gone to bed for the night. I'm all yours." And I'm yours, take me, take me. Elijah accepted the cup of tea - what was it with the English guys and tea anyway? - and perched opposite Ian's chair. Ian's eyes, he noticed for the millionth time, were the most startling blue. "It's nothing important, Ian." He shaded his voice with slight embarrassment. "Kinda personal." "Really?" Ian's face had lit up, and Elijah had to curl his hands round the arm rests to stop himself from leaping on top of Ian and sending his shirt buttons flying. "O-kay," he said as though the truth were being dragged out, "My back is killing me, Ian. I guess the harness for the Watcher scene pulled something it shouldn't have." Ian was frowning, scrutinising his face. "Poor boy. Would you like a massage?" Ian waggled his fingers invitingly, and Elijah had to swallow hard. He pretended to wince as he nodded. But not here, he thought, too easy for someone to come in on us. "I'm due back for a few more shots yet. Can I come round later? You're not busy are you?" "I think I can fit you in. Here." Elijah held out his hand automatically but, although his filthy mind furnished him with all sorts of things Ian could have been holding out for him, in reality it was just two aspirin. He groaned. Ian heard the noise and gently cupped his face. "My poor hobbit. A long massage and a good soak is what you need." And a long, hard fuck, Elijah thought and left before he did something precipitate. ____________________________________________________________ ________________ He had dressed to kill - or at least to fuck. A pair of faded jeans which he knew were tight in all the right places because he'd actually sat in a cold bath to shrink them and a bright blue shirt which accented his eyes. He'd brushed his teeth twice, used mouthwash and just the faintest touch of musky cologne at his throat. He dithered on the doorstep trying to decide how to play this evening. Shy virginal Elijah who had never had a massage or brash confident Elijah? Ian was a middle-aged Brit. The shy routine seemed more promising. The door opened, and he remembered not to grin too much. Ian ushered him inside and led him into the living room. Soft music was playing, and the room was lit by gently twinkling candles. Ordinarily he would have thought the music hideously dorky, but it seemed somehow appropriate for the vigorous seduction he hoped would follow. "I've made you some camomile tea. It's supposed to be a muscle relaxant. Here." Elijah snorted softly. There was NO way mere tea could relax one crucial muscle tonight. Not the way he was feeling—let alone the way Ian was looking. Elijah pretended to be occupied with his tea so that Ian sat down first. Then Elijah snuggled next to him. He looked up at him with what he hoped was adoration rather than panting need. Ian smiled at him and kissed his cheek in absent fashion. "Did the aspirin help?" "What? I mean pardon?" His mom would have his guts for garters if she caught him saying “What?" Ian repeated the question. "Oh yeah. A bit. I just feel tense and stressed. I'll probably be better soon," he added bravely. Ian looked away swiftly, but when he looked back at Lij, his eyes were gentle. "Come on, then, let's see what the magic fingers can do." Elijah had no doubt that those magic fingers could do JUST what he needed done. Ian urged Elijah to lie face down on the sofa which was adequately large and could, Elijah hoped, serve as support for more energetic gymnastics if required. Ian slipped a pillow under his shoulders and straddled his hips. Elijah had to think suddenly of his eight-times table to stop himself from moaning as his mind screamed at him: Ian is straddling my butt! "Where abouts is the pain?" Ian asked clinically, and Elijah went into flights of fancy at having Ian as his doctor. He pictured him in a white medical robe, his gentle hands examining Elijah's naked body. All over. Carefully. At length. Double-checking everything. "Kind of everywhere," he managed in a strangled voice. Ian made some sort of dear-dear noise and gently began to rub Elijah's shoulders. After a few minutes of Elijah wondering if he had to suggest the removal of his shirt himself, Ian finally succumbed. "This would be a lot easier if you took your shirt off." "Are you sure?" It was rather fun playing innocent Elijah, looking up at Ian with big Frodo eyes. Ian smiled and caressed his cheek again; Elijah pushed into the hand instinctively, but it was withdrawn immediately. "Of course. I'm not going to faint away at the sight of a hobbit without his shirt." Now there was a picture to file away for future reference: Elijah naked and Ian swooning away with desire. Elijah sat up, managing to lean against Ian as though accidentally. He undid his shirt buttons as slowly as he thought he could get away with and peeled the shirt backwards. He gave a wince, and, falling for it beautifully, Ian helped him get it off the rest of the way. Elijah thought he'd died and gone to heaven when Ian laid a hand across his chest and gently eased him down onto the sofa. When Elijah had recovered, Ian was rubbing his back. It was quite divine. He had been worried that he might appear too relaxed but discovered that keeping himself still and not bucking up into Ian's nether regions provided the necessary tension. Ian rubbed down each arm and across his shoulders. Elijah groaned out loud, and Ian chuckled. "That's it. Just relax." Eventually when Elijah felt all drifty and melty, Ian removed his hands and indeed other salient anatomical parts. Elijah pouted and sat up. "Any better?" "Yeah, thanks." He noticed his shirt was thrown on the other chair, and he had no intention of retrieving it. He looked up and noticed Ian was staring at his chest! He immediately felt his heart-rate increase and sat up straighter. His nipples were getting hard. Ian, however, ruined what could have been a perfectly good moment. "You look as if you're getting cold. Here." He practically tore the shirt from Ian's hands with ill grace and fastened it crossly. He froze as Ian's hands cupped his, and he looked up at the man. "You're getting your shirt all higgledy piggledy. Let me." Ian undid the uneven shirt and began to fasten it properly. Despite his disappointment, Elijah let his hands fall to his lap while he savoured the experience. Ian's hands were so gentle. He gasped suddenly because surely Ian's thumb had just grazed his nipple! But no, Ian's face was oblivious. "Thanks, Ian." "You're welcome." Ian smiled down at him and gently kissed his cheek. Elijah gazed up at him with come-to-bed eyes, but Ian pulled away and suggested another cup of tea. 2 - Ian Ian was sitting in the trailer after a long day on the set. Not that he had done much, since there had been more than the usual number of long waits between takes. More frustrating than tiring, but the rushes seemed to prove that they were, implausibly enough, accumulating considerable footage that would eventually fit together into nine or so hours of three feature films. Most of the films he had acted in previously were relatively small-budget affairs, where directors were inclined to push through as many scenes as possible each day, and the small casts made that easier. He was still getting used to life on the set of a multi-hundred-million- dollar epic. There was no real reason for him to go on sitting there. He had checked quite carefully, but none of the annoying glue that held his Gandalf beard on was still adhering to his face. He was washed and dressed and free to go. Yet he lingered on. Three of the hobbit actors who occupied the other end of the trailer had come and gone, and he was wondering with more than idle curiosity where the fourth was. That ridiculously beautiful, ridiculously young . . . He shook his head. If anyone was ridiculous, it was he himself. Lusting after this unattainable young man. When had it all started? Not when he first arrived, he reflected. Most of his fellow cast members had come to New Zealand before he had, and he recalled with an ironic smile how at first he simply felt extremely fortunate to be among such a bevy of male beauties. A broad range of pulchritude, from Elijah’s delicate, ethereal looks to Sean Bean’s athletic physique. He was in seventh heaven during those early days of shooting, flirting away to his heart’s content. Nothing serious, since to his disappointment none of the other actors seemed to be gay. Pity. But he could always look. Of course he had noticed when Elijah began to trail him about. Trying to learn from him, he had said. Well, Ian was used to that. Other actors that he had worked with often remarked that he had taught them a great deal about the craft. If so, he was delighted. Elijah had been so sweet about it, too. “Learn from the best, I always say.” But Elijah’s constant presence and idolizing stares had begun to spook him a bit. The fellow was a trifle too intense, too worshipful. Ian had heard that Elijah’s parents had divorced when he was 15 and that his father had never paid the boy much close attention. Elijah had apparently been raised largely by his mother, and his early success as a child actor had left him isolated in the rarefied atmosphere of Hollywood studios. Having never been a father, or even contemplated becoming one, Ian felt a bit panicky at being expected to step in as a paternal figure for Elijah. What a responsibility! He sincerely hoped that the young man did not become emotionally dependent upon him. At the same time, he could only strive to grace that high pedestal onto which the lad had clearly elevated him. After having become fairly resigned to being a father figure to Elijah, Ian had felt as if he had been struck squarely between the eyes when he suddenly found himself lusting after the young man one day. It had been a rare Sunday of complete leisure, when Peter and Fran had held a barbeque for the principal cast and crew members. (How convenient that February should be the height of summer down in this part of the world!) From the start, Elijah had been following him about like a little puppy, even, he noted with amusement, sitting at his feet to gnaw on those hideously charred lamb chops that everyone was praising to the skies. The smokers had been exiled to their own section of the large backyard—ironically, since the fumes from the grill were billowing all over the neighbourhood. He had just finished telling one of his favourite anecdotes when he looked down to take out a cigarette and saw Elijah’s admiring expression and . . . and suddenly he found himself imagining taking this gorgeous young fellow to bed, stripping his clothes off frantically—or no, perhaps at a slow, controlled, romantic pace—no, frantically. And making love to him and . . . Fuck! and shattering the lad’s fatherly image of him forever! With a great effort he pulled his gaze away to survey his other companions and force a smile as the talk turned in other directions. Fortunately, he thought, looking down at Elijah out of the corner of his eye, the lad was still gazing at him cheerfully, seeming not to have noticed anything. That was when Ian began to have serious doubts about his own suitability for that high pedestal. The rest of the afternoon was a maddening dance, with him moving away from Elijah, taking himself out of temptation’s way, and yet constantly finding himself face to face with the boy—and having to admit that that was exactly where he longed to be. Face to face . . . mouth to mouth . . . torso to sweaty torso . . . Each time it was more difficult to tear himself away, and his fantasies about the boy were running riot. He thought of luring the young fellow inside, finding a bedroom with a lock on the door, or of suggesting a walk, perhaps through one of the belts of woodland that New Zealanders so wisely preserved in their cities. Finally he made an excuse to leave the party early. The intervening weeks had not brought an abatement of his obsession. Quite the contrary. He had to face up to the fact that he would be working for nearly two years—and at intervals after that--with a young man whom he wanted to ravish. A young man who idolized him. And he was not resisting very well. In fact, here he was, sitting alone in his trailer for no reason except in the hope of exchanging a quick greeting as Elijah passed through, or, ideally catching a glimpse of skin as the lad changed clothes. Stop it and get yourself out of here, he thought, these are dangerous waters you’re sailing. He was about to gather his belongings and go when there was a knock on the door. His heart leapt once, hard, but he tried to convince himself that it was most likely someone delivering one of the endless rewrites that had gone past being a running joke among the cast. He called out for whoever it was to come in. Ian turned and did mental handsprings as the door opened to reveal the very person he had just been longing to see. He put on as ordinary and friendly a smile as he could muster and said, “Hello, Elijah, what can I do for you?” Apart from flinging you onto that sofa and having my way with you for the next few hours, he thought wistfully. He wondered why Elijah had not been with the three other young actors; ordinarily they seemed inseparable at the end of the day, going pub-crawling together. And how could he make an excuse to keep this young angel here for a little while? “I’m not disturbing you?” Elijah asked with a strangely diffident manner. Was this leading up to some sort of practical joke, Ian wondered vaguely. Disturbing? Definitely. Disturbingly gorgeous, disturbingly sensual, disturbingly innocent-looking with those wide eyes . . . He pulled himself together and replied calmly, “Not at all. Gandy’s gone to bed for the night.” Inwardly he flinched at the unintended implications of that silly line—for himself, at any rate. Pity Gandy couldn’t take Frodo with him. “I’m all yours.” Fuck! Another casual statement that was all too true. He WAS all too much Elijah’s for the taking at this point—if only the young fellow wanted to take him. Feeling flustered by this simple conversation, he recovered by pouring Elijah a cup of tea from the pot he had under a proper English tea-cozy. A nice, innocent, calming cup of tea. The American accepted it and sat on the chair opposite him. Elijah had the most amazing blue eyes, Ian noted for about the hundredth time, though there seemed to be a hint of worry or pain on the young man’s face. He waited. “It’s nothing important, Ian. Kinda personal.” Before he could stop himself, Ian grinned delightedly and said, “Really?” His thoughts about Elijah had been of a most personal sort, but he realized immediately that whatever Elijah had to tell him was more likely about some little romance that had sprung up between him and someone his own age. A young lady, no doubt. As he watched Elijah’s hands grip the armrests, he worried that he had reacted too cheerfully to what might be a difficult revelation by the young fellow. Elijah did indeed seem somewhat upset about something, to judge from his face. Elijah finally spoke reluctantly, but all he said was, “O-kay. My back is killing me, Ian. I guess the harness for the Watcher scene pulled something it shouldn’t have.” Ian was torn between concern over the lad’s pain and relief that his revelation had nothing to do with a crush on someone else. He really did not feel up to listening to Elijah spilling out his love life and expecting sympathy. But a bad back. He should offer something—a massage, most obviously, and yet the prospect of touching that extraordinary body without being able to caress it seemed almost too much to contemplate. And would Elijah be upset at a gay man offering a massage? No, surely it would not occur to Elijah that Ian had any motives beyond his health and comfort. Again he steeled himself to acting casually. He held up his fingers—which seemed all too obviously to be itching to touch his visitor VERY intimately—and said, “Poor boy. Would you like a massage?” He half expected a suspicious look from Elijah, but the dear fellow winced, and Ian cursed himself for even thinking about sex at a time when the object of his lust was in such pain. Elijah looked at him pathetically and answered, “I’m due back for a few more shots yet. Can I come round later? You’re not busy, are you?” For you, I could drop anything, Ian thought sadly. Anything at all. He tried to speak lightly. “I think I can fit you in.” Fuck! Another unintended double entendre. He could certainly fit Elijah’s cock comfortably into his throat, and there were other things that would fit well—stop it! He turned and dug in a drawer—pausing for a tiny moment as his hands brushed aside a packet of condoms to find the aspirin bottle he was looking for. He turned and extended his hand to Elijah. “Here.” The side of Ian’s hand brushed Elijah’s palm as he deposited the two aspirin there. This is ridiculous, he reflected. I’m used to touching other actors—very attractive ones, too—in the course of my work. Why should this casual little contact throw me into such a state? He realized with a shock that he was becoming distinctly hard and hoped against hope that Elijah would not notice. The young man’s groan of pain made him feel guiltier than ever. How disgusting was it to get a hard-on when the focus of your desire is so clearly suffering? He gritted his teeth and deliberately reached out to comfort Elijah. He put his hands on either side of his head and murmured, “My poor hobbit. A long massage and a good soak is what you need.” And that’s all. Absolutely all. Elijah was looking quite pathetic by this point. He left the trailer so abruptly that Ian wondered if the young man had noticed his arousal or sensed something in his voice. Well, if he had, he simply would not show up for the massage. Sir Ian McKellen went home feeling more dejected than he had in a long time. ____________________________________________________________ ________ He had recovered somewhat by the time the doorbell rang that evening. He had deliberately made himself a complete dinner, fussing over it a bit to occupy his mind. Elijah was coming over, fine, and he was going to touch him in fairly intimate ways, but . . . that was all. He was a mature, dignified man, and over the years there inevitably had been many beautiful men , straight and gay, for whom he had lusted without result. This was just another one of those times. Fuck! Ian opened the door and was somewhat appalled to discover Elijah looking more ravishing than ever. His eyes dropped momentarily to the slight bulge in the very tight jeans. Those blue eyes were simply devastating. And there was one part of Elijah that he would very much like to massage right now, he thought, watching the tight little ass as the lad brushed by him into the room. He followed, his former dejection fast returning. And he sighed as he suddenly realized that the soft music and candles, set up to simulate the relaxing atmosphere of a typical therapeutic massage salon, seemed remarkably like the trappings of a typical seduction as well. He could only hope that Elijah didn’t notice this. He would have to be very, very careful. Very careful. He started off with an innocent statement that he thought could not be misinterpreted in any way. “I’ve made you some camomile tea. It’s supposed to be a muscle relaxant. Here.” And hence anything but an aphrodisiac, he thought. Maybe he should have a pot or two himself. As Elijah sniffed and sipped the tea, Ian sat down. He was shocked when suddenly Elijah sat down right next to him— so close that their bodies were touching. The young man squirmed slightly against him, and his trusting, friendly look cut Ian to the quick. Really, Elijah is enough to corrupt a saint, he thought distractedly. Before he could stop himself, he leaned down and kissed that glowing cheek, then sat desperately thinking how he could get himself out of this situation. That had just been a friendly kiss. Of course. Elijah would take it to be that. It WAS that. “Did the aspirin help?” he asked, but his throat was hoarse. “What? I mean pardon?” Ian cleared his throat and repeated his question. Elijah sighed and looked very solemn. “Oh yeah. A bit. I just feel tense and stressed. I’ll probably be better soon.” He looked so sweet and delectable that Ian found himself almost leaning over to kiss the lad again—and this time not on the cheek. He quickly turned his face away, taking a deep breath and swallowing hard. Summoning all his self- control, he turned back and offered as calmly as possible, “Come on, then, let’s see what the magic fingers can do.” He immediately grimaced inwardly and hoped that that had not come across as suggestively as it might. Fuck! Everything he said to Elijah today seemed to have a salacious overtone. Fortunately the boy seemed too innocent to notice. Let me just get through the next half hour, he prayed to no one in particular. He positioned Elijah face down on the sofa, using a pillow to support his shoulders. Pressing his lips together, he placed one knee by the slim hips and swung the other leg over to rest on the far side. Thankfully his crotch was several inches above the soft curves of the fetching buttocks, and his tight briefs would, he fervently hoped, keep his rapidly swelling cock from pressing into them. Elijah did indeed seem tense, and Ian was dead sure that the boy was thinking, oh, fine, I’ve let myself get into this position with a notoriously gay man on top of me. No wonder he was tense. Ian determined to be absolutely as objective as he could manage, or at least to seem so. “Where abouts is the pain?” he asked, reflecting that his throbbing cock would soon be getting quite painful—and no massage would be forthcoming for that. Focus! he ordered himself. “Kind of everywhere,” Elijah responded, and his tight voice bespoke his nervousness and embarrassment at having Ian in such intimate contact with him. Ian did not trust himself to speak but made a sort of sympathetic grunt and started very tentatively to knead Elijah’s shoulders. It felt marvelous. Absolutely, bloody marvelous. Despite all his caution, his delight in having this beautiful young man under him resurfaced all too forcefully. Surely it wouldn’t be going too far if he just . . . “This would be a lot easier if you took your shirt off,” he blurted and then regretted having spoken when Elijah’s sweet, trusting eyes looked up at him. “Are you sure?” Ian felt like a worm, taking advantage of such innocence to get a look at a beautiful young body. But he could hardly back off now and say, No, actually I suppose it’s easier to rub you with this tight shirt on, or Well, I just wanted to see what color your nipples are and how flat your belly is. In for a penny, he thought, and stroked the lovely cheek once. Retreating instinctively into humor, he said teasingly, “Of course. I’m not going to faint away at the sight of a hobbit without his shirt.” No, of course not. Of course I’m going instead to push you down onto your back and suck on every exposed inch of your smooth skin and— He smothered a gasp as Elijah rose and accidentally leaned briefly against him. He tried not to watch as the young man slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Doesn’t he realize what he’s doing to me, Ian groaned inwardly. But of course Elijah didn’t. He could hardly be thinking about such things, for from his expression he was obviously still in pain. Feeling more guilty than ever, Ian hastened to help him off with the shirt. He hesitated only briefly before putting his hands on the stunning, smooth torso and lowering it down onto the sofa again. Determined to stick to the job at hand, he again straddled Elijah and began to massage him in earnest, applying more and more pressure in a way quite different than he would have used if he were making love to the boy. The muscles were decidedly clenched, and he worked hard at relaxing them. After a while he realized that he was settling into this as a real massage, not an attempt to grope a frighteningly beautiful young body. He heard Elijah give a little groan and felt genuinely pleased that the therapy was working. It WAS just a massage, and perhaps the young man would leave feeling it had been just that. He chuckled briefly, feeling more confident. “That’s it. Just relax.” Soon Elijah’s muscles felt more supple, and Ian realized that further massaging would probably do no additional good. With an enormous sense of relief, he rose quickly and stood looking down at those tight jeans and going back to his earlier thought of how easy it would be to cup those little buttocks or to unfasten the fly and pull— As Elijah sat up, Ian’s eyes snapped quickly to his face. “Any better?” “Yeah, thanks.” The poor lad must be exhausted, between the long day’s shooting and the back problem. He sat quietly, making no attempt to dress and prepare to leave. Ian earnestly wished he would. Offering to help put the shirt back on might seem like he was rushing Elijah away. And it would deprive him of a superb view. He blushed as the young man caught him staring at his chest. Quickly he picked up the shirt. “You look as if you’re getting cold. Here.” He didn’t trust himself to help Elijah put it on, and perhaps the lad thought that rude, for he seemed rather miffed as he grabbed it and silently put it on. Ian tried to make up for it by taking Elijah’s hands in his to stop his clumsy attempts to fasten the buttons. “You’re getting your shirt all higgledy piggledy. Let me.” Ian undid the badly aligned buttons, realizing that once again he had put himself in a position where his intentions could be badly misinterpreted. Or correctly interpreted, he admitted to himself. He was keenly aware of every tiny contact between his fingers and the soft skin beneath the cloth as he did the buttons up correctly. His thumb accidentally touched one of those little pink nipples, and he winced. Apparently Elijah noticed it, for he gasped softly and looked suspiciously up into Ian’s face. Only natural, Ian thought bitterly. Naturally a beautiful young man WOULD suspect any gay man of trying to take advantage, cop a feel. But Elijah handled it well. “Thanks, Ian,” was all he said. “You’re welcome.” It was more than he could resist. He smiled and kissed Elijah’s cheek again, very softly. I deserve that, he thought. He had gotten through this reasonably well. If only the young man, so unconscious of his own tempting body and face, would GO now. But Elijah looked at him with such a friendly expression that he felt a bit silly about his doubts of a moment ago. Surely the young fellow did not suspect his lustful feelings. He had hidden them rather well, he concluded, and he offered Elijah another cup of tea. Chapter 2 1 - Elijah The studio had a locker room which most of the cast used after a long day enduring make up and, even worse, the greasy stuff they used to simulate dirt. Elijah had hit on a plan, a clever plan, an ingenious plan. It was a walk-over in fact - all he had to do was show up for his shower at the same time as Ian. He walked back to his trailer, grinning broadly at his own genius and imagining all sorts of scenarios that would ensue: Ian turning around, seeing Elijah's young, pert body and fucking him right then and there against the smooth tiles of the cubicle; Ian soaping down, oblivious, and Elijah moving on silent feet to stand behind him and rest his hands on his butt. Ian would turn slowly . . . "Shit!" Elijah tripped over his hobbit feet and had to endure Beanie laughing at him all the rest of the way to his trailer. Once safely inside, he waited and wriggled, constantly being scolded by his Feet guy to "Stop moving, for fuck's sake, Elijah, quit it!" He endured the removal of his wig and ears with less patience than usual and worried at his nails. Finally. He had timed everything perfectly. His fellow hobbits were still on set, re-shooting close-ups, while John and Orli were currently filming on location. Affecting a little skip, supremely aware that this was to be It, Elijah entered the locker room. He selected his locker, whistling off-key to himself. His own genius quite took his breath away. The problem with the last plan had been its complexity. Genius lies in simplicity - Ian fucking him against the tiles, for example. Flinging a towel round his waist Elijah entered the shower and - froze. No Ian. He did a double take and blinked furiously but still no Ian. He began to swear. A lot. The door opened, and he whirled round happily, only to see a group of elves, laughing and joking, taking up positions. Elijah soaped up and rinsed quickly, muttering darkly to himself, and got out as quickly as he could. He idled over dressing until the elves - giving him a few puzzled looks - had departed. He paced about, trying to decide what to do. Ian HAD to come here at some point, right? He always needed a shower immediately after getting out of that heavy Gandy the Grey outfit. All he had to do was wait. And wait. A set of dwarves appeared, and Elijah was obliged to shower again or explain why he was loitering in a locker room. Once they had gone and he had dressed for the second time, he decided to return to his trailer and see what the hell Ian was up to. He peeked in, only to discover that Ian had gone. With a jumping heart he asked Ian's make-up guy, who was combing Gandalf's wig, where Ian was. The man transferred his chewing gum to the other cheek and gave an uninterested shrug. Elijah held onto his polite smile with some difficulty. "Dunno. Shower probably." "Fuck!" Swiping up his only other dry towel, Elijah sped back to the locker room, stripped in ten seconds flat and practically leapt into the shower. Sean Astin regarded him with some concern through the steam. Whimpering, Elijah took up his place for his third shower of that evening. "Do you know where Ian is?" he asked with commendable reserve. "Not seen him much." Certainly not enough of him. Not enough of his naked body, not enough of his hard cock . . . Dom paused in shampooing his scalp to shrug. "Dunno, mate." Elijah sulkily got dressed. He had admitted defeat and was on his way towards the car park, grumbling under his breath about the inconsistencies of wizards, when he caught a distant glimpse of Ian heading -- towards the fucking locker room. Elijah raced off and knocked frantically on Housekeeping's door until it was opened by a slow-moving middle-aged lady whose motto in life was the same as the ents and who counted every towel handed out as though it were made of mithril. "Yes, dearie?" "I need a towel." "You've had a towel. Three in fact." "I need another." She was twice his size, but he had desperation on his side. If he got the drop on her, he could wrestle her to the floor, grab his towel and get out of there. "WHY do you need another?" "I just do." He tried his little boy look to disappointingly little effect. She was consulting lists now. Elijah wriggled in frustration and finally hopped over the barrier, grabbed two fluffy towels and raced off, leaving her making indignant clucking noises in his wake. He sprinted down the path, scattering a party of elves, and flung himself into the locker room. He stripped in a whirlwind of clothes and shot into the shower, skidding to a halt. Ian was there! As were Viggo and Beanie. Close to tears, Elijah got in line for his fourth shower. 2 – Ian Ian sat slightly slumped in his makeup chair. He had had his Gandalf makeup and hair prosthetics completely removed, and he badly needed a shower after spending a particularly strenuous day under the grey wizard’s heavy robes in an enclosed set full of unbelievably hot lights. All he wanted now was to feel warm water coursing down his naked body. Correction. All he wanted now was to feel warm water coursing down his naked body as he thrust into Elijah Wood’s naked body, pressed up against the tile wall of the cast shower. Well, he wasn’t going to get THAT, obviously. But was there any harm in wanting just to see the rest of that trim, dizzying little body? Fuck! he thought for the hundredth time that day. The massage session of the evening before had done nothing to stifle his absurd and growing obsession with his dazzling young colleague. This is even worse than working with Will Smith, he reflected with a rueful smile. In a way, that had been one of the easiest acting jobs in the world. No heavy makeup, just sitting on the set, sipping wine—well, grape juice—and smiling fascinatedly at Will for take after take. But he had never become obsessed with Will, probably because the beautiful young man was so flagrantly straight and so extraordinarily self-assured. Elijah had a slightly ambiguous beauty and reticence that was just enough to deceive him into thinking-- Enough! Time for a shower. Despite his feelings of guilt over how he had taken advantage of Elijah’s helplessness during that massage, he could not avoid concocting schemes to see the young man alone again, and ideally in some even more intimate way. Naked, in fact. A shared shower was the obvious way. Just a look, a series of looks, but brief glances, really. No ogling, nothing overt. No touching, just scanning . . . discreet scanning. Just savoring the beauty. Yes, just savoring the beauty. That made it seem all so innocent—sort of. He sighed, staring abstractedly into space. A fine plan, except for one thing. Being naked in a shower with a gay man covertly glancing at him—a gay man who had groped him the night before—would almost certainly make Elijah horribly uncomfortable. Surely he would now be on the lookout for any signs of that sort of interest on Ian’s part. He had been running over the massage episode time and again in his mind. It had taken him hours, in fact, to get to sleep as he stewed in self- recrimination. In retrospect it seemed impossible that Elijah had not sensed his lust and realized that he was taking advantage of the situation to caress the young man’s torso. Afterward Elijah had not left in a huff, but as they sipped their tea, he had seemed quiet and a bit glum. Ian had no right to inflict such feelings on a young cast mate, especially when they would have to work together on such an absurdly long shoot. Well, this is it, he thought, either I take a shower or I become permanently bonded to this chair with sweat. If I run into Elijah, I’ll just have to . . . oh, fuck! What if I get an erection? All too likely. Maybe this will have to be a cold shower, he chuckled bitterly to himself. He stood up, picked up his towel, and headed for the locker room. Just as he reached the door, however, he heard an off-key whistling within. Only one person whistled like that—driving the cast and crew mad. Elijah. And he must be alone or someone would undoubtedly be cursing him and telling him to STOP that infernal whistling. Go in? Sneak away? The thought of strolling into the room to find a naked Elijah, all alone, made him suddenly dizzy. No. Not much self-control available for a situation like that. A brief ogle was not worth the potential consequences. He walked quietly outside again. So, what now? He pulled out his cigarettes. For some reason, standing around doing nothing outside a locker room seemed odd, while standing there smoking had a more purposeful look about it. He smoked one, then realized that he did not want to be prominently in Elijah’s vision when he exited the shower room. Ian strolled aimlessly around the tangles of film equipment and pieces of sets. Fine! A dignified Shakespearean actor—and a mighty wizard—reduced to mooning over a pretty boy. Despite trying to be inconspicuous, he stayed within distant eyesight of the shower door, waiting for Elijah to emerge. Parades of actors he thought were playing minor elves and dwarves came and went. But no Elijah. Ian entertained himself with bitter fantasies about the young man fucking every member of the cast BUT him. Ridiculous. Now he was even getting irrationally jealous over a lad he had a snowball’s chance in hell of having. Maybe he should just get in his car and drive for hours, out into the gorgeous New Zealand scenery. That’s all he needed--to come on set tomorrow having no clue as to the inevitable changes in his dialogue. FINALLY, there was Elijah, heading back for the trailer that Ian shared with the hobbit-actors. Ian cursed whoever had made that fateful assignment of roommates. Stuck next to this gorgeous, tempting little morsel for months on end. Once Elijah had entered the trailer, Ian headed for the locker room again, though by a rather circuitous route that took him nowhere near the trailer—in case Elijah was just fetching something and would come out any second. Just as he got near the building, however, the trailer door opened abruptly, and Ian instinctively ducked behind the huge Orthanc miniature—or bigature, as the Weta Workshop crew insisted on calling them. What in the hell!? Elijah heading back for ANOTHER shower? Maybe he WAS shagging someone else in the cast. Who had just gone in? Sean Astin and Dominic Monaghan. Well, plausible. Two attractive men nearer his own age. Sean was married, but on a long and intense shoot, relationships tended to form. Not the RIGHT one, he reflected sadly. Fuck! This was going far beyond reason now. Elijah was most likely straight. He remembered hearing something to that effect in the popular gossip press. The young man probably had some very good reason for showering again . . . after having spent so VERY long showering before. Ian frowned and lit another cigarette. After an interval spent remembering Elijah’s half-naked body between his thighs the night before and what the soft, flawless skin had felt like under his fingers, he started as Elijah once again exited the locker room. This time he headed for the car park, and Ian breathed a sigh of relief—and not a little regret. So much for covert glimpses of the other half of Elijah naked. Just as well. He stepped on his cigarette when he judged that Elijah was far enough away not to notice him, and continued his interrupted journey to a shower that he now needed more than ever. “Bloody French bedroom farce,” he grumbled under his breath. “Bloody irrational hobbits and their endless showers.” As he was undressing, Viggo and Beanie joined him. Well, at least he would have a pleasant view while showering—if not the one he wanted. And those two were mature and confident enough not to be bothered by being ogled by a gay man. They might find it a bit of a compliment, and he might find it a bit distracting from his current thoughts. He moved into the shower room itself and breathed a long sigh of relief as the hot water flowed over his sticky body. Being a wizard wasn’t easy. No wonder Gandalf looked a bit unkempt. Gandalf the Grey, that is. He much preferred the costume and makeup for the White Wizard. Not as heavy. More flattering, too. He was pleased to find that he was thinking about something other than that sweet, sexy little-- He froze. Elijah, he thought numbly. Naked. Startled, he was too late in his attempt to keep his gaze off the young man’s lower torso. He stared for a few seconds, then turned away in confusion. There was nothing he could say. Apologizing would only further embarrass both of them, especially in front of Viggo and Beanieie. Ian simply nodded to the young man briefly as he hurried out. Elijah’s disappointed little frown devastated him. Fine! Now the young man could hardly doubt that his trusted older cast mate was lusting after him. He thought that Elijah might even have been struggling to keep back tears. Ian dressed as quickly as possible and thought dimly as he walked out into the open air, yes, driving somewhere far, far away might help. Even so, he knew those reproachful eyes would haunt him. He would just have to be even more careful in future not to betray any hint as to his feelings for Elijah—even if it meant being thoroughly uncomfortable during the drive home and showering there. Chapter 3 Weekend 1: Elijah About a week and a half after the shower incident, a heat wave hit Wellington. All the cast had air-conditioned homes, but they were beginning to feel in need of flight from the city, into the gorgeous New Zealand landscapes that so far they had glimpsed only when traveling to and from locations or when in one of said locations, transformed temporarily into Middle-earth. Viggo’s announcement that he had rented a cottage on a surfing beach in Paraparaumu, a half hour’s drive up the coast from Wellington, was greeted with delight. The nine members of the Fellowship were invited for a potluck cookout the following Saturday. Sean Astin and John Rhys-Davies had other commitments, but the rest promised to come. It turned out to be a boiling hot day, though the sea breezes helped a lot. The younger cast members were determined to pack as much sun and surf into the afternoon as possible. Elijah, his creative energies revitalised, had made yet more plans. A beach party! Everyone half naked already. Many possibilities to ogle Ian and show off his own pert little bod. The first thing he did upon arriving was excuse himself to change into his surfing pants. He lingered, checking out the cottage's amenities. He discovered that it contained a plethora of horizontal - if cluttered - surfaces that could be pressed into service if - when - the moment, and other things, arose. Of course, such activities as he had in mind were not inevitably performed horizontally, but there were only a few unadorned vertical surfaces. He cursed Viggo’s irritating habit of putting pictures up at inconvenient heights—just about where he would lean up against the wall as Ian knelt before him and pulled down his trousers and . . . The bathroom was, he admitted, a little disappointing, since it did not hold a Jacuzzi or even a large bath. The shower was little more than a coffin with see-through glass. After recent events, he still could not think of Ian in relation to showers without wincing. Oh, well, his bag full of bath oils, nubby washcloths, and other toiletries looked like it would go to waste. Perhaps the more conventional sexual venue would have to do. Best not to be TOO creative the first time. He peeked into Vig's bedroom. They were not staying the night, so if he was going to catch Ian and do all the indecent, if innovative things he had imagined he'd have to hurry. The bed was very large and firm; it had a headboard and even a footboard. He imagined himself naked and rampant, spread-eagled on that bed with Ian sucking him hungrily. A pity it had to happen so quickly, but once he had Ian’s attention, they could explore MANY more possibilities back in their own homes. He heard heavy footsteps on the landing and ducked quickly back out into the hallway. Beanie grinned at him cheerfully as he went into the bathroom and slammed the door. Elijah headed for the stairs, then realized that in all his investigations, he had forgotten to change into his surfing pants. He sighed and settled down to wait for Beanie to vacate the bathroom, trying not to compare this to his long waits in the shower room for the Ian encounter that had so spectacularly failed to bear fruit. He glanced out the window and froze. Ian was sitting under a tree on the edge of a large, padded wooden chaise lounge, and Dom, clad in skimpy bathing trunks, was sitting pressed close up against him. Their backs were to Elijah, but they were talking in animated fashion, and from their postures, they had to be holding hands! Elijah felt a cold chill pass through him. Great, he had been frantically flirting with Ian for weeks and now this?! He clenched his teeth in determination. He would just have to try harder. There must be a way. Once he had finally got changed and rushed to the yard, Ian was alone again, prudently sunbathing in the shade. He called out a casual “Hi” to Elijah but barely looked up from the large magazine that he was reading. Elijah was sporting the tightest surfing pants he could find after two evenings of visiting dark and dubious shops. He walked back and forth a few times from the yard to the water - apparently because he'd forgotten things - but really to give Ian adequate viewing pleasure of his butt encased in the tight lycra. Dom, he noted with pleasure, was now frolicking in the surf. Perhaps he had just somehow misinterpreted his glimpse of those two sitting together. Dom was straight, for Christ’s sake! Annoyingly, Ian’s magazine completely hid his face from Elijah’s view. Of course much of the rest of Ian was visible, below the magazine, which was all to the good. True, his obviously well-muscled torso was hidden under a strangely silly and definitely superfluous T-shirt, but the shorts held a nicely suggestive bulge at the crotch and left Ian’s long legs completely visible. He allowed himself a moment of rapt contemplation. But that damned magazine left little opportunity to catch the man’s attention. To his utter disgust, Orli strolled across, leaned over Ian’s shoulder, smiled, and said something VERY close to one gorgeous ear. After all the times Elijah had contemplated slurping his tongue lasciviously into that ear, Orli was now far closer to it than HE ever had been. And Ian was looking up into his face—only inches away from his own—and replying in equal good humor. The surf reduced their words to an unintelligible murmur, but Ian’s dazzling smile made it apparent that they were having QUITE a delightful and intimate conversation. Shit! It even looked as though Ian might be getting a hard-on from talking to Orli! That bulge was definitely a bit larger than it had been. Elijah was torn between seething jealousy and bafflement. Ian had been so oblivious to his own flirting all this time that he had just assumed the man was oblivious by nature. He had also assumed that all he had to do was flirt harder and harder and eventually . . . But now Ian was flirting with EVERYONE. Well, not everyone, but two of the more dishy young members of the cast. And the afternoon was young. He bitterly pictured Ian luring every one of the other guys up to that oh-so-convenient bed and fucking them all in turn, while he, Elijah, sat neglected and horny as hell. To his relief, Orli soon straightened up and strolled away toward the beach. Elijah rather desperately considered forcing Ian's interest. But how? Ian had raised the magazine, and the tight shirt and shorts again showed off a great deal of what Elijah longed for. Improvise, quick, you fool, he ordered himself. He was an actor, he could improvise. Maybe somehow Ian could rescue him from something. Nothing really dangerous, but still something that put him in need of . . . well, rescuing. After all he thought, wriggling in discomfort as his erection pressed against the lycra, Ian was a knight - if not quite in shining armour – and Elijah would be happy to play the sexy little thing in distress. He could suddenly get cramps in the water, needing to be helped to the side by his angel of mercy who would then administer mouth to mouth. And tongue to tongue. The only problem with this scenario was that one of his fellow hobbits would probably get there first. They were already on the beach, after all, and Ian was sunk deep in the mattress of that stupid chair— probably fantasizing about fucking Orli. Perhaps he could find a helpful jellyfish to sting him. He closed his eyes, imagining the scene. Ian on his knees, holding his hands while he suffered bravely. Ian's sapphire eyes shot through with worry, Ian's mouth over the wound, sucking out the poison. Elijah groaned as he imagined the wound in question being just beside his nipple. Ian's wet tongue laving the wound . . . WAS sucking jellyfish poison out the treatment for stings? Or was that just for snakes? Well, maybe he could convince Ian it was. "Hey, Viggo," he said brightly. "Elijah." Viggo was painting the sea, mumbling incoherently about form and movement and arty things to Beanie, who was nodding doubtfully and staring at the canvas. "Are there any jellyfish round here?" He tried not to look too hopeful. "What? Why?" Elijah couldn't help but flick a look at Ian who, he discovered, was staring back at him with a wistful look that could be interpreted as longing—but which, given his luck with Ian so far, probably wasn’t. Not for him anyway. He stuck out his butt slightly and assumed an air of innocence. "Just wondered. Do they sting?" Viggo looked him up and down as though expecting him to be wearing a straight jacket. "There are no jellyfish." "Oh." Stupid jellyfish. He glanced over at Ian. The man was totally ignoring him, staring in absorption at something in his hands. A Gameboy! Ian playing with a Gameboy? Pretty childish for a gorgeous, dignified Brit like him. Speaking of dignified, he must remember to fetch a comb for Ian. The sea breezes had done terrible things to his hair. Come on, he HAD to be capable of providing Ian with something more interesting to do on a gorgeous afternoon than play games—that kind of games, anyway! There was a hose just outside the door. Elijah frowned. Someone must have moved it because he knew it had been round the corner earlier. He had done his scouting work very thoroughly. Still, the change was all to the good - now it was in Ian's line of sight without him having to drag it there. Time to haul out the big guns. Desperate measures were called for. Ian COULDN’T ignore him after this. Adopting a provocative swagger, he strolled over and dropped his huge bottle of sun cream on Ian's chaise lounge. Ian looked up at him with wide, startled eyes. "Will you put some cream on for me? Wait, though, I'm gonna wash off the salt first." “You haven’t been in the water yet.” Well, glory be, Sir Knight DID pay at least a little attention to his presence. “No, I mean, uh, the salt from sweating. It’s a hot day, you know. I’m covered with sweat, you know. So will you? Put some cream on me? Huh?” Ian stared at him with a little uncomprehending frown. Elijah gave a mental snort of exasperation. Yeah, Ian, cream, as in, I’m giving you an excuse to run your wonderful hands all over my pert little body. And if that turns you on even one little iota, then I can lure you into the house and . . . “Oh, you mean sun block. Good idea. Lots of harmful rays down in this part of the world, sadly enough.” How clueless can a smart, wonderful guy like Ian be, Elijah wondered. Well, he would put on a good show. He strolled over to the hose. He ensured that he kept his best assets turned in Ian's direction as he sluiced himself down—slowly, thoroughly, twisting and turning. Then he returned to Ian and asked brightly: "How do you want me?" He winced at the double entendre. THAT was a little TOO blatant. Thankfully Ian did not wince in turn or make a smart remark but simply scooped up the bottle which was lying between his spread legs and indicated for Elijah to sit down in front of him. Elijah scrambled to obey, turning his naked back to the man. Memories of the all-too-platonic massage rushed into his mind, but he banished them. Surely this would work better. After all, maybe he had overplayed the pain angle during the massage. Maybe Ian had just avoided making mad, passionate love to him because he didn’t want to risk harming his back further. Yes, that was where he had made his mistake. Of course you don’t fuck a guy writhing in pain. Dumb idea, that fake backache. But a perfectly healthy guy asking you to smear sun cream on—that was tantamount to his walking up and grabbing your crotch, though a trifle more subtle. Surely Ian would HAVE to figure this one out. Ian lifted the magazine, which he had put down between his shins on the lounger when he started playing with the Gameboy, and placed it across his lap. He unscrewed the cap of the sun-block bottle. Looking back over his shoulder in anticipation, Elijah wondered vaguely what in the hell Ian was doing reading PAVEMENT. Kind of a cool, youth-oriented, and mindless magazine for a smart guy like him. And what skin it showed off was mostly women. Oh, well, probably one of the other guys had brought it along. His attention was diverted from it by the sight of Ian squirting a generous dollop of the cream into his palm. Elijah gulped. He felt like he’d squirt a little cream himself if Ian would only carry through in the slightest. The first contact with Ian’s hand was like wildfire, and he surged into the touch. Yeah, it was a LOT like that massage, but this time it would lead to more. It had to. He was soon incapable of thought as Ian slathered on more cream—any thought except one. That wide, inviting bed up in Vig’s room. Finally Ian stopped and before the man could say anything, Elijah turned round and knelt on the end of the chair between Ian’s feet, presenting him with his chest. Suddenly Ian turned his head and stared out toward the ocean. Following his gaze, Elijah saw Orli and Dom surfing. “They’re quite good, aren’t they. Oh, look! That was a pretty impressive duck dive Orli just executed, wasn’t it? His board REALLY porpoised.” What the hell? Was Ian suddenly studying up on surfing terms to impress Orli? Elijah was about to switch back into seething mode when Ian suddenly slapped another dollop of cream against his chest and began to rub. He could collapse in a heap of whimpering desire, or he could try to make conversation. "I bet YOU get sunburned," he piped up, his filthy mind presenting him with the wonderful image of Ian all red and peeling while Elijah played nurse and soothed his extremities with cold compresses, rubbed healing lotions into his skin, sucked his . . . "Yes, I do. Fair skin, like yours." Ian was being very, very thorough, Elijah thought happily. He'd been applying cream to that nipple for ages. He sighed in delight as it hardened. Surely Ian would take a hint and pinch it, surely . . . and then Ian moved his hand up to Elijah’s shoulder. Damn. Finally, all too soon, Elijah was comprehensively slathered. Yeah, safe from all those harmful rays. He briefly considered asking Ian if he wanted Elijah to reciprocate, but the idea of Ian's flesh under his hands made his erection throb so painfully that he gasped. Well, there was nothing he wanted more than to have Ian notice his arousal. This could be it, finally, THE moment . . . He was desperately trying to figure out how to draw Ian’s eyes down to it when he noticed that Ian’s eyes were instead again fixed on the little group down in the surging waves! Ian smiled briefly at Elijah as he rose. “Orli has offered to give me a surfing lesson,” he said with a chuckle, and he picked up a board and walked down toward the beach. He paused and looked back. “They seem to be having fun down there. Are you coming?” Elijah shook his head and sat looking after him in bafflement. Coming? He couldn’t come unless they got themselves up to that bedroom, and the object of his lust was headed in exactly the opposite direction. Surfing lesson? Sir Ian McKellen surfing? That made no sense . . . except for the fact that it was Orli giving him that lesson. He watched sadly as Ian made his way down to the beach. But then Ian just sat down! He wasn’t having a lesson, he had just said that to get away from Elijah and down there ogling those nearly naked guys. Orli. And don’t forget that little cuddle-fest with Dom. They were both straight, but Ian apparently found it amusing to flirt pretty flagrantly with both of them. Yeah, them, not him. What did they have that he didn’t? He sighed, and then insight flooded over him. They were both older than he was, and they were both English. He brooded. Well, those were both differences that could be remedied. That evening, over a few companionable drinks, Elijah studied the problem (and Ian's body, but that was a different matter) from all angles, and discovered two pertinent facts: a) Ian was obviously wary of a relationship with Elijah because of the age gap and because of Elijah's country of origin and b) Ian's ass looked mighty biteable in those shorts. The solution to a) was simple. Elijah must act older, giving the impression of wise-beyond-his-years and adopting mannerisms befitting someone raised in Good Old Blighty. Not that he thought he could pass for English, but using a British accent should work subtly on Ian. His training as an actor had included accents, and indeed he had been cast as Frodo partly because he could do an English accent. But having the accent and knowing what to say were two different things. He decided to seek expert advise on the subject of Englishness from one or more of his three other co-stars. First he tried Beanie, who gave an extensive dissertation on something called the off-side rule but was disappointingly useless when it came to English phrases and traditions. Dom was currently passed out against Billy, and no amount of gentle nudges or not-so-gentle kicks could revive him, so Elijah, stifling his jealousy, turned to Orli. After introducing the topic with what he considered marvellous subtlety—passing it off as research for a film role he someday hoped to play--he asked: "So what typical phrases do you guys use?" Elijah, whose Ian-radar was very sensitive, caught a glimpse of his favourite Brit staring at Orli fixedly. Surreptitiously he slid the footstool upon which he was seated and leaned forward so that his body and most especially his bottom, were interposed between Ian and the object of his gaze—Orli, that disgustingly older, more English guy. "Well, you know, we say ‘what ho' a lot," Orli said. "Then there's ‘I say, old bean' and ‘just the ticket.' ‘Talley ho!’ when we’re hunting, of course.” Fine, mock me, Elijah thought. You just want Ian all for yourself. He would have to work on this during the week. Today’s party had been so idyllic that Vig had volunteered to have another potluck the following Saturday. Despite all the long work days and early-morning make-up and costume sessions, Elijah had to grow way older and more English in seven days. There were the history and traditions. Elijah had no time to actually go to a library or even surf the Net, but as he sat through his endless early- morning feet-application sessions, Elijah thought back on his schooling. He vaguely recalled some dude called Henry having eight wives, presumably not at the same time, and a Spanish Armadillo upsetting Queen Elizabeth. He sort of remembered being dragged through the British Museum as a child and being shown the Magna Carter, source of all modern democracy, yada yada. Well, he was bound to remember more if the occasion arose to display all this learning. The perfect way to hone both his accent and his knowledge of English society was to watch some British films. He visited a local video shop and asked the clerk about English pics. The guy was a total geek and knew every tape in the shop. When he mentioned Alec Guiness films, Lij’s ears pricked up. Alec Guiness! Obi-Wan Kenobi? An English knight, just like Ian. He checked out every Guiness film the place had. Each night, when he was supposed to be asleep, he slipped in an old Ealing comedy and watched Alec Guiness work his magic, or a David Lean drama—and watched Alec Guiness work his magic. God, would this film industry have existed at all without that younger version of Obi-Wan? Sort of an earlier, less dishy version of Ian, too, he reflected. Oh, yeah, Christopher Lee had apparently made a lot of movies in those days, too. Weird. Every now and then he took a break from Englishness and slipped in his tape of SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION, fast-forwarding through all the non- Ian scenes and switching it off after Ian departed jauntily—and all too early—in the airport scene. At least Ian looked like Ian. Not like all those films where he put on heavy make-up and looked ugly and/or old. He was great in APT PUPIL and GODS AND MONSTERS—but it wasn’t much of a turn-on to watch those. Really, though, impressing Ian would depend mostly on costumes and props—just like becoming a hobbit except thankfully with shoes, not fake feet. He considered his apparel very carefully. The surfing shorts of the first seaside party had clearly not lured Ian into staring lustfully at his naked torso and cupping his hands over the bulging-- No, apparently for his yummy but oblivious Ian, those shorts gave the wrong image. Tweed not lycra, that must be the key into Ian’s heart—and pants. No, not pants, he reminded himself. To the English, pants means underpants. The silly blighters (he congratulated himself on knowing that bit of British slang) called pants “trousers.” Time to go shopping. Weekend 2: Elijah A few days later, Elijah snatched a few hours of spare time to shoot off to the nearest mall in search of a summery weekend outfit that said country- gent-and-gagging-for it. Those British films had showed him exactly what he needed. Finally, he settled on cream-coloured trousers, a virgin white shirt (the only thing that would be, he sincerely hoped) with easily rippable buttons and a light blue blazer. He briefly considered a Panama hat but took the assistant's helpless laughter as a gentle hint that he couldn't quite carry THAT off. An umbrella that he could twirl jauntily made no sense in this weather—and besides, twirling took practice. Elijah delayed his arrival at the cottage until well after the official start- time for the party, planning to make a dramatic entrance. He heard sounds of revelry from the back yard and strolled around the house to join the group. Viggo opened the gate with a mumble of some kind about where Elijah had been and what he was wearing. Elijah suppressed the urge to ask him to repeat himself and tried to look past him to see if Ian was about. The object of his desires—okay, lusts--was chatting with Orli-- again!--under the shade of the tree. He glared at the erstwhile elf and was about to storm over when he remembered his mission and settled into what he considered to be a mature gait. He regretted not having brought that umbrella. He could have accidentally poked Orli with it. "Good afternoon," he greeted them in a British accent that could cut glass. Surreptitiously he edged his way between the two men and proceeded to ignore the elf until Orli gave in and went away. He hefted the volume of the complete Shakespeare plays and sonnets that he had just bought and continued, "Ian, I've been reading LEAR again. I dip into it every time I feel the need to work on my deep character motivation. It’s so universal. What do you think is Lear's chief motivation?" Given the fact the he had selected a play at random and knew nothing about Shakespeare except that when he had been home-schooled he had been required to read MACBETH and had loved the witches and the moving forest, Elijah had settled on what he hoped was a generic question. Ian looked at him in some surprise, but he smiled that Ian smile that made Elijah want to lean forward toward him . . . and lean, and lean, until . . . He assumed a look of serious, earnest, devoted attention as Ian launched into his lecture, simply revelling in that rich, resonating voice without allowing any of the actual words to penetrate his brain. He gazed into Ian's startlingly blue eyes and kept nodding sagely, occasionally adding the odd thoughtful ‘quite so’ or ‘I think you’re spot on there.’” Ian wound up his extemporaneous essay, but he still looked thoughtful. Elijah waited, content to stare into that face forever if Ian had nothing more to say. But Ian did. He took a deep breath, as if to launch into another lecture. “You know, I quite like this recent trend toward film adaptations of the great British classics redone with modern teenaged characters. Things like the recent version of ROMEO AND JULIET by that talented Australian chap, with the Montagues and Capulets as LA gangs. You saw it, I’m sure. And Austen’s EMMA made into, um, CLUELESS. Got very good reviews. I have been meaning to catch that on videotape—but I’ve got this very fancy new VCR I can’t quite work yet. But the point is, these sorts of films make the classics relevant to young viewers, don’t you think?” Elijah was lost in Ian’s eyes, but he recovered in time to pick up his cue. “Relevant? Oh, decidedly. Yes, spot on, Ian. Cracking good films, those.” Ian smiled and nodded, and Elijah sighed inwardly in relief. Nearly dropped the ball on that one. Ian nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose really there’s not that much difference between setting RICHARD III in Nazi Germany and making OTHELLO as a modern interracial high-school romance—apparently someone IS making a film on that premise. Do you agree?” I’d agree to anything you like, especially if it’s asking me to come upstairs with you and . . . He snapped back to reality. He had better get them off this line of conversation. It had served its purpose. Ian was actually having a serious conversation about Shakespeare with him! If it went on much further, though, Elijah might say something totally stupid. No, crashingly stupid. That was English, wasn’t it? “Absolutely! Um, would you like a cup of tea, my dear chap? With milk, of course.” The English took their tea with milk, he knew. Unbelievable, considering that they were supposed to know so much about tea. Ian accepted happily, and they walked into the kitchen. There was a small box of tea bags, still unopened, that Vig had presumably provided for his English guests—all of whom so far had been guzzling beer or, in Ian’s case, fruit juice. Elijah ripped the package open with an annoyed air. “Dreadful things, these tea bags, what? You can always taste the bag. Loose tea, that’s the ticket.” Elijah had heard some old British lady say that to his mother when he was little. It had stuck with him because it seemed so incredibly silly. Ian chuckled. “Well, you’re more fastidious than most Brits. I hate messing around with loose tea, and I confess, I cannot taste the bag. You must have quite a sensitive tongue.” Oh, man, just let me demonstrate, Elijah begged inwardly, thinking again of that convenient bed, right at the head of those very stairs. As Elijah got a bit more accustomed to his new maturity and Englishness, he figured out how to ask Ian questions that didn’t require any knowledge on his own part. What were some of his early movie roles? What was it like to work with Patrick Stewart? Ian was a wonderful storyteller, and Elijah relaxed, sipping his tea and struggling not to grimace at each taste of the horrible concoction. He had poured a dollop of milk in his cup, just to prove his Englishness, and now he was suffering the consequences. He settled down, mostly just nodding and murmuring things like, “Ripping!” and “Oh, rollicking!” at intervals. Soon Ian pulled out his cigarettes and held the packet out toward Elijah. “Thanks, old chum, but I’ve switched to this.” He pulled out a pipe, newly purchased, and a packet of tobacco. Ian seemed most impressed. The afternoon sped by, and Elijah was in a haze of delight. Everything was going so well. He thought Ian looked at him a bit oddly at times, but he was bound to make a few gaffes until he fully got the hang of this. But now it looked like he’d be spending a lot of time with Ian—ah, those blissful, lazy mornings in bed, chatting after having fucked each other’s brains out all night. Not on hobbit-feet mornings, of course, but once in a while. He’d pick up many more points on being English from the perfect Englishman. After dinner, they went inside to listen to some music. Ian flipped through the stack of CDs and held one up with a tolerant little smile. “Hip-hop?” Elijah’s mind was spinning. Was this some sort of test? No, he liked serious music. What was serious? "Got any Beethoven? I love dancing to Beethoven." From Ian’s expression, he suspected that that comment might not have come off as well as he had hoped. Ian turned the choice of CDs over to Billy—who had, after all, brought them—and the place was soon quite lively and noisy. Much later, Elijah and Ian were on the sofa. Ian told him about how he prepared for the role of Gandalf, and Elijah was frantically making mental notes—when he wasn’t distracted by the fact that Ian’s arm was resting along the top of the sofa just behind his head. “Ian, Lij?" Orli again. "Me and Bean and Billy and Dom are off now. Want to share the cab?" About time somebody called a halt to this, Elijah thought. We’re wasting precious time. He looked up from beneath his eyelashes at Ian, directing all his telepathic powers toward influencing his reply. Ian responded perfectly. "Oh, no thanks, Orlando. That sounds a bit crowded. I’ve got my car, you know. I'll take Elijah home." Orli gave them both a measured look, then nodded and trotted after the others with a backward wave. Elijah beamed up at Ian. "Thanks, Ian," he said and couldn't resist giving him a peck on the cheek. They walked toward Ian's car and Elijah was just thinking happy thoughts involving Ian's bed, a silk scarf and honey when Ian touched his arm and turned to face him. “Elijah, I must say that you are very mature for a lad your age. I’m sure your mother is very proud of you. I certainly would be, if I were your parent.” Elijah stared at him in horror. Despite all his best efforts, Ian considered him a child. And no doubt an American child at that. Mature for his age. “I think I’ll take that cab with the others after all, Ian. I . . . I have something I forgot to tell Beanie.” Weekend 1 – Ian Ian turned off the engine and sat in his car for a few moments, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Was this really such a good idea, he wondered. From the moment when Vig had issued the invitations for this party, he had been obsessed by the idea that it would be a perfect opportunity to flirt with Elijah—finally to give in to his lust for his young cast mate, which was by now occupying every waking minute when he wasn’t actually performing on-set. He did NOT want to be a father figure! The problem was, he had concluded, that Elijah thought of him as old. He WASN’T old! Middle-aged tending toward old maybe, but he had a few years before he would make that final transition. He had realized, however, that much of what he did and wore and said marked him as an antique in the eyes of most of the cast. (Thank God for Christopher Lee, he thought with a wry smile.) And Elijah was from America, that land of youth-obsession. Well, he could do something about that. He was a cool guy, after all, with his own Website. He had been in a film based on a popular comic-book series. That was a start. And Sir Ian McKellen went shopping. Now, sitting in his car, the whole plan seemed a bit daft. He twisted the rearview mirror to study the effect of his recent visit to the hairdressers. He had promised himself that he would not sink so low as to use hair- colouring, but a new style was surely not going too far. Still, the spiky, tousled look that was so in fashion seemed distinctly peculiar atop his face. Never mind, nothing to be done now. Between the mousse and the blasts of the hair dryer, his stiff locks were impossible to return to their normal state without a thorough washing. He sighed and glanced down at the rather garish T-shirt, with its large photo of Bruce Lee grimacing and making a kung-fu kick toward anyone facing the wearer. Kids loved Hong Kong movies, didn’t they? Sure. Sighing, he picked up his bag of new-bought props and his large, elegant plate of roasted vegetables and headed around the house for the beautiful yard overlooking a spectacular view of the surfing beach. The party was in full swing, with Vig painting a seascape, Billy waxing his surfboard (why wax them, he wondered, they looked quite slick enough to make standing on them quite impossible), Orli and Dom were just returning from a first swim, Beanie was digging a beer out of a well-stocked thermal cooler, and . . . and where was Elijah? His heart sank, picturing a last-minute call announcing illness. He went over to Vig. “Oh, hi, Ian,” Vig said with a casual glance over his shoulder. He then executed a double-take that would have earned any director’s accusation that he was over-acting. He stared at Ian for a moment, eyes moving from his chest up to the crown of his head. Vig clenched his teeth, obviously suppressing a grin or a rude comment, and Ian’s self-conscious nervousness soared. He had expected a few curious looks and maybe some kidding about his transformation, and now if the object of all these endeavours was not even there . . . “Hi, Vig. Great of you to have this party. Um, I see everyone is here but Elijah. Ill?” “Nope. In the house changing into his suit. I got some fruit juice for you. In the cooler—probably buried under the beer.” “Thanks.” “Does that need refrigerating? It looks great.” “No, I’ll just set it in the kitchen out of the sun.” “OK. Don’t, whatever you do, open the fridge. It’s full of great dripping chunks of raw meat, and I don’t want to find you passed out on the floor from shock.” In the kitchen Ian set his veggie plate next to the heaps of chips and bakery-bought desserts that the other cast members had contributed to the feast. Great. The old duffer brings the nice healthy dish for the youngsters. Tearing his mind from the menu, he returned to the subject of Elijah, or more specifically the news that Elijah was even now upstairs changing into a swimming suit. Even that brief and embarrassing moment in the shower the week before had been enough to emblazon the details of that delectable naked body in his memory. He pictured himself opening the bathroom door and “accidentally” finding Elijah in mid-change, sweeping him into his arms, and . . . He closed his eyes for a moment. You don’t learn, do you, he chastised himself. After dithering for a moment, he made a move to go upstairs, but Beanie burst into the kitchen and moved quickly in the same direction. He stopped abruptly, his stare sweeping down from Ian’s hair to his chest. “Oh, hi, Ian. Didn’t see you arrive. Sorry, I REALLY need a piss.” He bounded up the stairs. Ian paused, then went back outside. Come to think of it, Elijah’s temporary absence gave him the opportunity he had been hoping for. Dom had dried off and was chatting with Billy. Ian sidled up to him. “Dom, I just . . . um, I just got a new Gameboy, and I can’t quite figure out some of the—“ He held up the little device. Dom’s eyes lit up. “That’s the latest model, isn’t it? Cool shirt, by the way. Yeah, I can give you some pointers. Let’s sit in the shade.” They moved to the chaise lounge in the shade of the one large tree in the yard, Ian smiling more confidently in the wake of Dom’s little compliment. At least the younger members of the cast appreciated his new look, and that was, after all, the point. Vig. Beanie. Let them smirk if they wanted to. He plunked down on the seat, and and Dom sat down next to him, right next to him indeed, pressing against his side and eagerly leaning over the silly little machine. Ian was a bit startled. He didn’t imagine that ordinarily Dom would sit, in a state of near total undress, beside a gay man, but the fascination of the new toy obviously banished all such thoughts. Dom glanced down at their juxtaposed torsos, and Ian expected him to scoot away, but he just said a bit apologetically, “Sorry, Ian, but I think the sun and wind have pretty much dried my suit already,” and switched on the Gameboy, expertly flicking his fingers over the controls. Under ordinary circumstances, back in the BCE age (Before the Crush on Elijah), he would have been quite taken with the idea of so intimately cuddling against this handsome young fellow. Even now, he realized, it was QUITE pleasant. Still, his main thought remained on that image of Elijah, upstairs, naked. Damn Beanie. Ian had managed to read the instructions for the Gameboy the night before and even played a couple of simple games, but he wanted to look a bit less the novice. He tried to focus on Dom’s explanation of the more elaborate possibilities of the expensive, fiendishly complicated, and totally uninteresting little gizmo. “Gizmo.” Did young people even say that any more? Probably not. This was going to be difficult. He began to manipulate the buttons, and Dom reached over and pointed out the best strategies. After a few minutes he felt himself getting a little more accustomed to the controls, and he thanked Dom. Best not be caught sitting next to this young dish when that other sexy little dish shows up, Ian thought. Dom rather reluctantly pulled himself away from the Gameboy and, in response to a shout from Billy, went back down to the beach. Ian switched off the Gameboy. No point in wasting the battery until he could show off his new skills to Elijah. Besides, it was SO boring. He pulled out another weapon in his arsenal from the bag at his feet and lay back on the lounger, opening the large magazine and holding it up prominently and perusing it in as cool and young a manner as he could manage. He made sure that it did not block a certain somebody’s view of his chest, though it was a bit of a strain on his arms to hold it that high. Elijah! Looking simply scrumptious in a spectacularly tight garment. After his extensive perusal of such things in a beach-supplies shop the evening before, Ian recognized them as what were rather peculiarly termed “surfing pants.” Silly-looking things, but what they did for Elijah’s figure was nothing short of sinful. He called out a casual “Hi,” holding up the magazine and displaying the T-shirt for all he was worth. To his delight, the lad most obligingly strolled back and forth rather aimlessly, allowing Ian to catch glimpses of that amazingly small, shapely ass around the edge of his magazine. His mind started drifting in directions that soon were making his cock swell distinctly, and he struggled to drag his mind away from Elijah and concentrate on the magazine. He realized with an ironic little chuckle that the magazine had been open all this time to a “fashion” photo of a young lady with her blouse open and distinctly askew. He began to flip through to see if there were any male models treated in a similar way when, to his considerable annoyance, Orli appeared and leaned down to look over his shoulder. “Is that the new PAVEMENT?” he asked. “Yes, just having a look at what’s stylish in New Zealand these days.” “You know, that is an amazingly slick, large magazine for such a small country, isn’t it? Can’t fathom how the publishers make a go with it. You never see it on newsstands anywhere BUT New Zealand. Pretty good though.” He grinned his dazzling Orli grin. “You know they’re planning a special issue on LORD OF THE RINGS when the first film comes out.” Ian grinned in return, staring into those perfect features and again thinking of how he would have reacted to such proximity BCE. The Mohawk detracted a bit from the effect, but still . . . “Really? Well, I suppose every New Zealand publication that can possibly find an excuse will be running pieces on the film. From the sorts of photos they run in PAVEMENT, you young cast members will be much in demand. You in particular, I’m sure.” “Thanks. ‘Course, Lij, too, and the others. Hey, like what you did with your hair, by the way. Well, I can’t stay away from that water any longer. See you.” Ian breathed a sigh of relief. Now was the moment. He was there and Elijah was there—sitting opposite and staring most gratifyingly at him. Probably impressed that Ian even knew who Bruce Lee was, let alone had this cool T-shirt. He placed the copy of PAVEMENT, cover up, on the chair between his legs so that it would remain visible, ostentatiously pulled out the Gameboy, and turned it on. So far, so good. Problem was, now Elijah was looking everywhere BUT at him. He fiddled with the controls, trying to look like an expert in case Elijah did deign to cast a glance at him. Right now that gorgeous face was looking out to sea with a slight frown. Then his eyes closed. Fuck! Well, never mind, there was plenty of time. Aha, yes, the eyes were open again. “Hey, Viggo.” “Elijah.” “Are there any jellyfish around here?” Ian looked up, baffled. What the hell? Jellyfish? Was THAT why Elijah was hanging around up here with just the old coot and the distracted artist? He was afraid of jellyfish? Well, more power to the jellyfish, he thought. He stared. Elijah did have the most delectable little ass. “What? Why?” Vig said. “Just wondering. Do they sting?” “There are no jellyfish.” Ian lowered his eyes quickly and assumed a frown of intense concentration. After a short pause, he realized that Elijah was standing up. He was walking. He was walking toward Ian! It had worked! Young people just couldn’t resist these electronic game gadgets. Worth every New Zealand penny it had cost, he reflected as his heart soared. Could this be it, finally? There HAD to be a bed upstairs— A huge bottle of some light-coloured liquid thumped on the chaise-lounge cushion next to the copy of PAVEMENT. Ian looked up and stared. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t have got THAT lucky all of a sudden. That luscious, sweat-slicked torso, so at risk of sunburn. And Elijah wanted HIM to put this stuff on it. He gaped. “Will you put some cream on for me? Wait, though, ’m gonna wash off the salt first.” “You haven’t been in the water yet.” Better and better! Elijah was making an excuse to hose himself down in front of Ian. Fuck! He shouldn’t have let on that he had seen through that ruse. “No, uh, the salt from sweating. It’s a hot day, you know. I’ve covered with sweat, you know. So will you? Put some cream on me? Huh?” Elijah was so cute, fumbling to explain his charming little deception. Yeah, put some cream on him. In him. Hold on, that’s a bit crude. He frowned slightly as he realized that he really should NOT be about to do what he hoped he was about to do with a young fellow like this. Well, he could at least . . . “Oh, you mean sun block. Good idea. Lots of harmful rays down in this part of the world, sadly enough.” He began to breath more heavily as Elijah walked over to the hose and gave himself a brief but incredibly sensual dousing. Well, maybe he shouldn’t be doing this, but he was going to, he realized as Elijah returned and stood facing him. “How do you want me?” No, no. Don’t touch that, just don’t touch it. Elijah obviously realized as soon as he said it what that could sound like. He’s embarrassed enough, just let it go by. He moved the magazine aside to make room for Elijah to sit, placing it strategically over his crotch in the very likely event of his getting a hard-on during this process. He wouldn’t mind Elijah seeing it, but there were Vig and Beanie nearby, and the others might walk past. With any luck, Elijah would soon see his cock much harder and naked and close up and personal. He squirted a generous dollop of the sun block onto his hand. Good, Elijah had turned his back, but at least he seemed to notice what Ian was reading. “Pretty good,” Orli had deemed PAVEMENT. Definitely cool. Unlike himself. He was feeling feverish all over as he smeared the cream across the flawless skin of Elijah’s back. The painful memory of furtively groping Elijah during the massage session flitted through his mind, but he dismissed it. Obviously Elijah WANTED to be groped now. Yes, he was definitely pressing back against Ian’s hand. Pity to get all this sun block on Vig’s sheets, he reflected, without really thinking it was a pity at all. Sun block was wasted out in the sun. And anyway, he would offer to change the sheets before he left. He would personally take the sullied ones to the finest cleaners in Wellington and personally return them to Vig, wrapped in a bow. As Elijah rose and turned to kneel before him and have his front done, Ian happily reflected that his new youthful image was an enormous success. No harm in cementing it a little further. He glanced out at the surfers. “They’re quite good, aren’t they? Oh, look! That was a pretty impressive duck dive Orli just executed, wasn’t it? His board REALLY porpoised.” He chortled mentally. All that time spent chatting with the fellow in the beach emporium last night had just now paid off spectacularly. He sighed blissfully as he luxuriously swiped his hand back and forth across Elijah’s chest. “I bet YOU get sunburned,” Elijah suddenly said. Not the most romantic remark in the world—but at least the fellow was thinking about Ian’s skin, which was something. “Yes, I do. Fair skin, like yours.” Yes, well done, turn it into a little implied compliment on that ivory complexion. He realized that he had nearly covered Elijah’s exposed parts by now and soon would have no excuse to go on. Very tentatively he rubbed the lovely little nipple and was rewarded by a sigh from Elijah. He went on rubbing as long as he thought he dared, but realized it was best not to be TOO obvious. Take it slowly, he warned himself, moving his hand up to finish off at the shoulder. And he really had no choice about taking it slowly. Whatever happened between him and Elijah would have to wait, since Vig was moving in and out of the house, starting the grill and making general preparations for dinner. And some of the others might be taking showers right next to the bedroom. Still, if Elijah was so willing all of a sudden, later he could invite him back to his own bed and . . . Might as well take advantage of the present to further enhance the new image that appealed to the boy so much. That surfing remark had clearly impressed him. He hesitated, then made a sudden decision. “Orli has offered to give me a surfing lesson.” True, he had offered, many days ago, as a joke, and Ian had played along, turning it down with a laugh and a remark about being too old for that sort of thing. Too old to take up surfing. It had been true then and it was true now, but . . . He looked into Elijah’s face, took a deep breath, and picked up a surfboard. He pointed to a second board and went on, “It looks like they’re having fun down there. Are you coming?” Fuck! Now HE was making unintentionally salacious remarks again. Right now, though, he was too happy to care. Then suddenly Elijah stunned him by shaking his head and just sitting there on the chaise lounge. Ian struggled to think. Obviously he had somehow misinterpreted everything that had just happened. He blushed to think of that sun-block session , especially the nipple . . . He managed to pull himself together somewhat. Well, he had said he was going for a surfing lesson, and he had to at least look as if he were doing just that. Feeling a bit dizzy with disappointment and guilt, he turned and carried the annoyingly heavy board toward the beach. Once there, he flung the wretched thing down on the sand and sat beside it, casting recriminations at himself until Vig called them to dinner. That evening, as the group sat around over drinks, Ian was uncharacteristically quiet. He kept feeling Elijah’s reproachful eyes on him, and he cringed inwardly. And then, as if to rub salt in his mental wounds, Elijah started chatting up Orli. Really silly stuff, about typical English clichés and the like. Just an excuse to flirt. He scrutinized Orli’s face for any sign that he was encouraging Elijah, but fortunately the Elf didn’t seem to be taking the young fellow too seriously. Well, why would he, you old fool, he scolded himself. They’re both straight. Get that through your skull. Elijah isn’t flirting, he’s making conversation. It was enough to tempt him to break his life-long habit as a teetotaler. Weekend 2 – Ian Ian delayed his arrival at the party the following weekend. He had debated whether to go at all, but it was better to get out in the fine weather than to sit moping at home. Besides, he might get a chance to repair Elijah’s image of him as a father figure—if that were even possible, given how badly he had behaved toward the lad the week before. Most of the others were down at the beach, but he spotted Orli under the tree and wandered over to ask where Elijah was. “Dunno. Not here yet,” Orli cheerfully replied. “Oh, wait, there he is.” Ian spun and watched Elijah walk over to them. He seemed upset, and Ian’s heart sank. Not much chance of repairing that image, he feared. Elijah was wearing the most amazing get-up, too. Not that wonderfully tight surfer garment from before, but completely dressed, even in this heat. Dressed, in fact, as if he had been cast for an old Ealing comedy. “Good afternoon.” Elijah’s voice sounded different. He was speaking with a British accent, Ian realized. In his depressed state, he could only imagine that Elijah was doing something to take revenge on him for his ghastly mistake of a week ago. Mocking him. Mocking him for being British and old and . . . He couldn’t even speak. Just as he was contemplating going back to his car and returning home and moping in earnest, Elijah stepped closer to him, shouldering Orli aside rather rudely, he thought. Orli raised his eyebrows, sighed, and departed. For once Ian rather wished he would stay. He dreaded what Elijah might say to him once they were alone. The lad held up a thick volume that Ian hadn’t noticed and said, “Ian, I’ve been reading LEAR again. I dip into it every time I feel I the need to work on my deep character motivation. It’s so universal. What do you think is Lear’s chief motivation?” Ian struggled to contain his astonishment. Elijah was not upset with him! Indeed, he seemed to have done precisely what Ian had hoped when he first noticed Elijah trailing around admiringly after him: studying his acting craft and looking up to him as a sort of mentor. He was greatly relieved but also suddenly touched that he had succeeded so well when all along he had thought himself a miserable failure as a father figure. Well, it was a good lesson for him. Don’t go after very young men, no matter how dishy. He smiled delightedly at Elijah. In the back of his mind he was wondering how understanding Lear’s motivation could possibly help Elijah in working out Frodo’s character. But that just proved how smart and thoughtful Elijah was. He had obviously seen some deep connection there. Maybe Ian could learn something about acting himself from this gifted young fellow. He had never played Lear, but he had witnessed a wide range of great performances and of course read the play many times. He hoped eventually to be skilled and mature enough to finally give the character a try. He launched into a long and enthusiastic discussion of Lear, going on to other Shakespearian roles. He thought he might be talking too much, but Elijah was gratifyingly fascinated, staring at him and obviously taking it all in. Still, as Ian spoke, his opinions began to seem a bit dry. How could he make all this more relevant to this lad’s own experience? That was how to get young people really interested in something. “You know, I quite like this recent trend toward film adaptations of the great British classics redone with modern teenaged characters. Things like the recent version of ROMEO AND JULIET by that talented Australian chap, with the Montagues and Capulets as gangs in Miami. You saw it, I’m sure. And Austen’s EMMA made into, um, CLUELESS. Got very good reviews. I have been meaning to catch that on videotape—but I’ve got this very fancy new VCR I can’t quite work yet. But the point is, these sorts of films make the classics relevant to young viewers, don’t you think?” Elijah hesitated. Obviously he was a thoughtful young chap indeed, considering things deeply. “Relevant? Oh, decidedly. Yes, spot on, Ian. Cracking good films, those.” Ian smiled and nodded. Elijah was so cute. “Yes, I suppose really there’s not that much difference between setting RICHARD III in Nazi Germany and making OTHELLO as a modern interracial high-school romance—apparently someone IS making a film on that premise. Do you agree?” “Absolutely! Um, would you like a cup of tea, my dear chap? With milk, of course.” Ian agreed, and they strolled into the kitchen. As Ian watched Elijah fumbling to make the tea, he realized fondly that the lad was actually trying to imitate him a bit. It was touching. Of course, he’d rather have Elijah touching him in a different way, but now he realized that he was definitely still on that high pedestal--and more suited to it than he had thought, apparently. “Dreadful things, these tea bags, what? You can always taste the bag. Loose tea, that’s the ticket.” Well, Ian thought, Elijah must know more about tea that it would appear. He remembered an aunt who always used to say that. He was impressed. “Well, you’re more fastidious than most Brits. I hate messing around with loose tea, and I confess, I cannot taste the bag. You must have quite a sensitive tongue.” Oops. He realized he must still be lusting after the boy far more than he should. Watch it, he warned himself. Ian became more and more charmed with this new Elijah as the afternoon progressed. The boy was so curious, so intent, so . . . so very, very fuckable. Oh, well. As he had reminded himself so many times over the past weeks, you don’t get most of the people you lust after. When it came time to choose some music later that evening, Ian sorted through Billy’s stack of CDs, sighing at the thought that there was not one there that even remotely appealed to him. Still, he was getting used to putting up with a lot of music he didn’t like when he was with the other actors. He decided to indulge Elijah, holding up one of the jewel boxes. “Hip-hop?” “Got any Beethoven? I love dancing to Beethoven.” Ian struggled to suppress a grin. Really, Elijah was trying a bit TOO hard. But he’d learn, he was so eager to soak up knowledge like the proverbial sponge. Reluctantly Ian stepped aside and let Billy put on some music. The rest of the evening was wonderful despite the din, sitting on the sofa and chatting with Elijah. All too soon, though, Orli came over to them. “Ian, Lij? Me and Bean and Billy and Dom are off now. Want to share the cab?” Orli knew that Ian had his car there. Probably just being protective of Elijah—not letting him go off into the darkness alone with a gay man. Well, he needn’t worry, but it was a kind thought. “Oh, no thanks, Orlando. That sounds a bit crowded. I’ve got my car, you know. I’ll take Elijah home.” And drop him off and leave and that will be that, he thought reluctantly. “Thanks, Ian.” Elijah’s trusting little peck on his cheek made the thwarting of his lust almost bearable . . . almost. As they walked out toward the car, Ian remembered how he had felt upon arriving—fearful that Elijah would shun and hate him. The change was just amazing. He felt he had to express his admiration for this young fellow, who had been so tolerant and understanding of all his silly, mis- guided attempts at an inappropriately intimate relationship. He stopped the boy and stared sincerely into his eyes. “Elijah, I must say that you are very mature for a lad your age. I’m sure your mother is very proud of you. I certainly would be, if I were your parent.” The look of shock on Elijah’s face stunned him. Suddenly the young man blurted out, “I think I’ll take that cab with the others after all, Ian. I . . . I have something I forgot to tell Beanie.” Chapter 4 1 Elijah Elijah had decided to stop flirting with Ian. It would be difficult. The older man still held an enormous appeal for him--BUT one could only take so much frustration. How strange. He had assumed that an openly gay actor with no apparent current attachments would jump at the chance to have a young, gorgeous fellow like himself. He knew he was gorgeous--it wasn’t some weird self- delusion. Everybody said he was gorgeous: the fan magazines, his agent, movie reviewers, casting directors. Everybody but Ian, it seemed. No, it must be what he had figured. He was just too young. Too callow and inexperienced. The phone rang, and he checked the ID readout. Ian. His heart leapt, but he took a deep breath as he quickly picked up. Nope, he reminded himself, not going down THAT road again. No plan, no timing, no nothing. “Hi, Ian,” he said as cheerfully as he could. “How—? Oh, right, I keep forgetting you have caller ID. I was wondering if you’d like to take a little drive, get some ice cream. Seems like the perfect thing for a hot, gorgeous day like this.” This day is not half as hot and gorgeous as you are, Ian. Whoa! We’re not thinking like that any more, Elijah scolded his overactive libido. Ian’s just a great guy, a pal, an amazing actor. Before he could reply, Ian went on with a friendly chuckle, “We Brits, you know, we revel in this sort of weather.” “Yeah, you Brits,” he said, daring his dirty little mind to make something of that. Luckily, it failed, and he was able to add, “Sure, Ian, that’d be great.” “Half an hour long enough for you to get ready?” I’m ready now, ready to be stripped and thrown into bed and have your hot, throbbing-- Man, this was going to be even more difficult than he expected. “Fine. You’ll pick me up?” Pick me up and throw me into bed and shove your hot, throbbing-- “Yeah, no problemo.” “Right. It’s a date! Half an hour, then,” Ian said cheerfully. The phone went dead. Elijah stood there for a moment, his eyes closed. A date? If only! Half an hour? Half an hour wouldn’t be nearly enough time in bed with Ian, but it would be a GREAT start. Without looking, he fumbled until the phone slid back into its cradle. He thought about a cold shower, but remembered the time he had actually had one by accident when the water heater died. NOT fun. He walked over to his closet. No point in dressing to look fuckable. He chose a pair of flowered, loose-fitting shorts that were hilarious and a faded T-shirt from the Taipei Film Festival that Ang had given him when THE ICE STORM wrapped. Examining himself in the mirror, he realized that the outfit made him look like a total dork. Who cares, anyway, he mused. Still twenty minutes left. He switched on the TV to distract himself. Five minutes later he realized that he was staring mindlessly at a 24-hour weather channel reporting floods in Europe. He switched it off and picked up a stack of magazines from the end table. Oh, great, his Ian collection! From every cover and folded over article some variant of that dishy face stared out at him—sometimes dignified and somber, sometimes smiling in the way that made his stomach hurt with longing. Well, that smile had made his stomach feel that way in the past. Not any more. His resolve was like a solid granite mountain. Yeah, sure it was. The blue eyes of his very favorite photo stared up tauntingly at him. He tossed the magazines down and just sat feeling sorry for himself until he heard Ian’s car honk in the driveway. He got up and went out, thinking, No, this isn’t going to be easy at all, but at least a bit of ice cream should cheer me up. 2 Ian Ian had decided to stop lusting after Elijah. It would be difficult. The younger man still held an enormous appeal for him--BUT one could only take so much frustration. It wasn’t so strange, after all, that Elijah would not be attracted to him. Ian knew that to some extent he was still considered sexy. Certainly gay magazines had been running stories about him ever since he started getting famous, including pictures that made him look like some sort of fashion model. The same thing occasionally happened in the more mainstream press. The publicity machines for both the LORD OF THE RINGS and X- MEN films were trying to package him as attractively as possible for the younger audience. His role as Magneto and his Website seemed, oddly enough, to be giving him a higher profile among teenagers than most of the other cast members enjoyed. All this was beside the point, though. Elijah wouldn’t think of him as sexy. Elijah was straight. And young. Ian had to face it, he was about three times as old as the young fellow, and no amount of trying to act young and be “cool” could change that. A father figure, he reminded himself. Closer to being a grandfather figure, he added bitterly. All right, so he was not lusting after Elijah, he was being a father figure. What did father figures do? Presumably more-or-less what fathers did. After a moment’s thought he steeled his resolve and picked up the phone. After only one ring, Elijah’s voice was in his ear. “Hi, Ian.” Ian started. “How--? Oh, right, I keep forgetting you have caller ID. I was wondering if you’d like to take a little drive, get some ice cream. Seems like the perfect thing for a hot, gorgeous day like this.” He paused and grimaced, pounding his fist none too lightly on top of his skull. Right. Hot, gorgeous. Nice going, Sir Ian. Get a grip. He added with a nervous little chuckle, “We Brits, you know, we revel in this sort of weather.” “Yeah, you Brits.” Yeah, we Brits, Ian reflected. We middle-aged duffers with soggy umbrellas and tea cozies and hot-water bottles cuddled against us as we read our scrapbooks about our theatrical triumphs in decades past. “Sure, Ian, that’d be great.” Ian sighed with relief. He realized that if Elijah had said no, he would have ended up sitting inside on this gorgeous--yes, gorgeous day (days could be gorgeous, not just captivating young dishes), becoming depressed and downright maudlin. Good thing his theatrical scrapbooks were all back in London. “Half an hour long enough for you to get ready?” He was so used by now to watching for double meanings in every word and phrase he spoke to Elijah that his mind now automatically bounced back, Yeah, Ian, half an hour should be long enough to run down to the chemists--no, Elijah would say “drug store”--and pick up a packet of condoms and pop into bed. I’ll definitely be ready for you, with a hard-on like you wouldn’t believe. Ian gritted his teeth. Was he going to keep on thinking like that for the remaining fourteen months of the shoot? “Fine. You’ll pick me up?” Ian had to pinch his arm hard to keep his mind from fixating on that innocent little question. In the car, you fool, he’s talking about you picking him up in the car! NOT about picking him up preparatory to throwing him in bed and shoving your hot, throbbing-- “Yeah, no problemo,” Elijah added, dragging him back to the issue at hand. “Right. It’s a date! Half an hour then,” he said with what enthusiasm he could muster and quickly jabbed the phone’s off button. NOT a date, he quickly reminded himself. People of reasonably compatible ages and sexual preferences go on dates. This is going to be . . . what? An outing. That’s it. Father figures took their son figures on outings. For ice cream. 3 Elijah and Ian Elijah slammed the car door and looked at Ian expectantly. “Where we going?” “Well, what about some of the tourist sites that everyone in the cast keeps saying they want to visit and never get a chance to. Take a look in this guidebook. I was thinking possibly the Mount Bruce National Wildlife Centre. That’s where that bookmark is. It’s apparently a lovely sixty- kilometer drive. Very educational, with lots of endangered species of birds.” “Oh, yeah. Sounds really . . . interesting. But hey, there are lots of things in this area. Oh, wow! The Southward Car Museum. That’s in Paraparaumu—remember, we saw signs for it when we were out there for Vig’s parties. And it’s lots closer. Listen to this: ‘Marlene Dietrich’s limousine . . . more than 250 classic and quirky vehicles . . . Racing boats . . . motor cycles, early motoring curios . . . A highlight is a 1950 Cadillac Gangster Special once owned by an employee of Al Capone and Lucky Luciano. It boasts a bomb-proof floor, armour-plated doors, bulletproof windows, and a hinged windscreen for firing from inside.’ Man, sounds like something we could use to ride in to the New Zealand premiere of the film.” “You are assuming it will be so successful that we shall need to hold the fans off with machine guns?” “Yeah, sure. Everybody loves Tolkien, right? Oh, come on, I’m just kidding. But seriously, Ian, can we go there? Pleeeeeeease!” Ian considered for a moment. “Well, I suppose that would be educational in a different sort of way.” “What’s all this stuff about educational? This is our day off, the weather’s great, we’re here to have fun. Fun, you know, Ian?” “All right, fine. How are you on navigating? There’s a map in this map- holder right between our elbows.” “I’m great at reading maps. Let me just get oriented . . . yeah, I see where we are. Keep going here, but get ready to hang a left in about half a mile.” ____________________________________________________________ ________ The museum proved both entertaining and educational as the pair spun out hypothetical film scenes that could be shot using some of the picturesque old vehicles. They continued to discuss these most of the way back to Wellington. Then, as they drove through the outskirts, they turned to the all-important topic of where to find ice cream. They settled on a well-known ice-cream parlor down by the harbor, with a spectacular view. Despite the weather and the crush of tourists in the area, it was getting late in the afternoon, and luckily a few spaces were available at a nearby carpark. Finally they found themselves standing at the counter of the crowded ice-cream parlor. Although a few curious looks were cast their way, the shoot had begun too recently for many people to recognize them. Ian settled on a modest cone with a scoop each of banana and strawberry, while Elijah insisted on three scoops, all of rich yellow French vanilla. “I LOVE real vanilla, and the menu says this is not artificial, and I don’t like it when the flavors all melt together,” he insisted when Ian questioned this lack of variety. The tables were all occupied, and they stood leaning on a shallow countertop that ran the width of the front window, admiring the view. Elijah began to feel distinctly melancholy. The excursion out to Paraparaumu and the museum had been fun, but now he felt such a sense of loss. Standing next to Ian in the crowd along the countertop, he realized that their faces had seldom been this close together for so long. His eyes ran over the light lines in the forehead, the wonderfully chiseled cheekbones drifting down into slightly hollow cheeks, the friendly blue eyes, the mop of somewhat graying hair. The hands, too, one holding the cone and one resting lightly on the countertop, were so beautiful and expressive. He had wanted all these for so long, and yet he would never have them. Well, ice cream was comfort food, and he needed comfort. He licked his cone like a connoisseur. Very nice, he thought. That’s definitely real vanilla and cream with lots of butterfat. It was one of the best cones he had had in a long time, and he realized that he would have to eat it quickly and carefully, because this place wasn’t air conditioned, and the triple stack of scoops was already starting to become a bit runny. He licked up and down the sides to catch the drips. Ian stood nipping little chunks of ice cream off the top of his cone and congratulating himself on how well the outing had gone. Educational, yes, and now with a little reward for both of them at the end. He could deliver Elijah back to his home with a completely clear conscience. It was in some ways, he had to admit to himself, more relaxing to be with Elijah now that he had finally convinced himself to give up all vain hope of ever taking the enticing young fellow to bed. Exerting so much self-control to hide any sign of his desire had begun to wear him down. Still, devising this kind of innocent excursion was not exactly easy for him either. Maybe he should stop spending so much time with the lad. Let him find another father figure. Ian realized he had been right to begin with. He just wasn’t cut out to balance atop the high pedestal provided by Elijah. He wished he could just enjoy Elijah’s company for its own sake, but he had lusted after him for so long that he could barely think of his cast mate in any other way. Yes, he concluded sadly, he should just give up socializing with Elijah except in groups. Large groups. He glanced sadly at the beautiful young man beside him, and every bit of motion in his body ceased. Elijah was flirting with him! It was so amazingly obvious! As he watched, almost forgetting to breathe, Elijah’s tongue swirled around the tall stack of three French Vanilla scoops, which by now had become a single upright, thin column. It was even slightly larger and bulbous at the top, since Elijah was concentrating on catching the drips that were running down and threatening to spill over the cone and his fingers. It looked exactly like-- Ian gasped. And that wet little tongue, so dexterously pulling little gobs of white, shiny, melting cream into his mouth. The young man’s blue eyes were gazing at Ian, half-closed with longing, and his mouth was lapping around that increasingly phallic cone in the most lascivious, arousing, exhilarating, crude, moist, obscene, messy, and delightful act of flirting ever committed in the history of the universe! Elijah wanted him, suddenly, inexplicably! Why now? he wondered vaguely, brushing the question aside mentally the way his hand discarded his own half-eaten cone by the simple expedient of letting it drop unnoticed to the floor. Elijah’s own cone flew in a more dramatic arc before hitting the cash register with a splat as Ian stood up and threw his arms around Elijah and pulled him into a frantic, deep kiss that lifted the young man briefly up off the floor and threatened to deprive him of all breath. After a moment of stunned surprise, Elijah’s arms went around Ian’s waist and threatened in revenge to cut him in two. The murmur of holiday ice-cream eaters at the tables in the little shop went suddenly silent, though this fact was noted not at all by either Ian or Elijah, who seemed to have mistaken each other for particularly luscious chunks of ice cream and were supplying the only slurping sounds audible in the room--as well as little moans and whimpers that went beyond even the enjoyment that would be appropriate to the rocky-road/crumbled-Oreo/praline triple-scoop sundae that was the special of the day. At last the owner of the establishment leaned across the counter and said loudly and with a distinct mixture of annoyance and amusement, “Could you two perhaps find someplace else to carry on? I think you’re melting my entire stock.” Ian reluctantly dragged his tongue up from the region of Elijah’s vocal chords and looked at the owner in a dazed, uncomprehending fashion. Elijah recovered more quickly, laughing as he plucked at Ian’s sleeve. “Let’s go, Gandy,” he said breathily, coaxing his stunned companion out onto the sidewalk. “Where?” Ian said, still clearly dizzy with bewilderment and arousal. Without waiting for an answer, he suddenly seized Elijah’s arm and dragged him along the street until they found the carpark and the car and were inside the blazingly hot interior. Elijah fumbled with one hand to roll down the window on one side as Ian, in the driver’s seat, seized him and resumed his extremely deep exploration of Elijah’s mouth. He struggled to pull the young man’s body against his own, but a vast barrier of various cup-holders, change- holders, map-holders, brake and gear-shift handles and other hard plastic contrivances came between them. Ian surfaced again, frustrated and panting. Elijah was doing a bit of panting himself, but he managed to say, “Ian, maybe you should cease the mega-snogging for a while and drive us someplace where we can . . .” Ian’s blue eyes stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. “Someplace?” “Yeah. Like your house. You know, where there’s a bed? I don’t think we can do it right here in the middle of a parking lot. And I wanna do it, Ian, I really wanna do it. If we don’t do it soon, I’m gonna start screaming in total sexual frustration. So let’s get going! Assuming you can tell the gear-shift from that,’ he added with a giggle, pointing to Ian’s very, very hard erection. “Bed, yes, bed,” Ian mumbled, straightening up with a new sense of focus and purpose. He squirmed in his seat, fitting the key into the keyhole after about a dozen tries and starting the engine. “I just hope there are no cars on the road between here and my bed--uh, house.” He maneuvered the car up to the ticket booth of the carpark and shoved an absurdly large bill at the attendant, peeling out before the pimply-faced youth within could even begin counting out his change. Miraculously, Ian’s car remained undamaged until it came to an abrupt stop in his driveway. Ian took a moment to turn and smile in a still somewhat dazed way at his lovely young companion. Elijah batted his eyelashes. “Ian, let’s get in there and fuck like crazed weasels!” Ian gave a snort of laughter and threw open his door. “Better turn off the motor. For one thing, you’re gonna need the key to get in the door,” Elijah said with a giggle as Ian began to get out. He paused and turned the key, then jumped out and went up to the door at a brisk pace, as Elijah scrambled from the car and ran to catch up. He threw his arms around Ian’s waist as the Brit tried unsteadily to negotiate this second key-hole. Elijah thrust against Ian’s butt until the older man groaned and threw the door open, moving inside and turning immediately toward him. Elijah kicked the door closed - he'd never actually done that, only seen it in ridiculous films but, boy, was it fun! - and pressed Ian up against the nearest wall, feeling how sweaty his hands were on the cool surface. No matter, he intended to get a lot more hot and bothered in the next few minutes - in fact, if things went to plan, the wallpaper would be peeling off from all the steam their bodies gave off. He giggled again, and Ian removed his mouth from Elijah's throat to spare him a look—a very pleased look. Elijah grinned impishly. "Why, Sir Ian, you didn’t let me finish my ice- cream cone." Ian smirked. "Don’t worry, in a very short time you’ll get the real thing.” Ignoring Elijah’s baffled look, he returned his attentions to the young man’s throat. Elijah jammed his body harder still against Ian, feeling the man's erection against his own. It would appear that Ian was now very willing to play ball and cock . . . Ian's hands were moving, snaking between their bodies to fumble at belts and zippers. Elijah hissed in pleasure as Ian finally released him. He was so fucking hard! Surely he'd had this hard-on for weeks, ever since he'd first had fantasies about Ian. His mind was starting to spiral. He opened his mouth as Ian slid his tongue up over his chin and between his lips, leading to a replay of the kiss at the ice-cream shop. Elijah pressed and thrust against Ian, who grasped his ass and pulled him even closer. The friction of cock against cock was enough, and within minutes, with no finesse whatsoever, they reached climax. Elijah distinctly felt his mind turn inside out. Feeling unutterably smug he opened his eyes at length and saw Ian smiling indulgently at him. The older man flipped a damp tendril of Elijah's hair back behind his ear, and Elijah caught the wrist and licked at the pulse point, then flicked his tongue into Ian’s ear, moving immediately to his throat—hardly knowing which of the many places he had fantasized about for so long to try next. The man groaned and pushed him away, albeit gently. "Let us adjourn to the lounge," Ian suggested. "Good idea. I've got lube in my bag. I’ve been carrying it around for weeks, unopened, just waiting for this moment." Elijah frowned at him accusingly. Ian froze, staring at him as the young man turned and headed for the kitchen. “Weeks?” “Yeah, sure, weeks. I’m going to get some paper towels. We’re a bit of a mess, you know.” He grinned back at Ian over his shoulder. Ian followed with a puzzled frown and vacantly accepted the wad of paper towels that Elijah thrust toward him. “But I thought . . . I thought it was only today that you decided you wanted me.” He wiped himself off as best he could and fastened his trousers as Elijah did the same with his floral shorts. Elijah snorted. “Ian! I have been frantically flirting with you for weeks now.” Ian stared at him again. “Just when did that start, may I ask?” Elijah pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, and pretended to think back carefully. “Oh, I’d say about two . . . or maybe it was three seconds after I first saw you. I couldn’t believe it when you ignored it! You could have at least said that you weren’t interested—that you were getting over a break-up or thought I was too young or something.” Ian sagged against the counter. “But Elijah, I thought you looked up to me as a father figure.” Elijah rolled his eyes. “Ian, I didn’t like my father a whole lot, and I certainly didn’t want another one. Plus I’m a grown-up guy and all. Pubic hair, as you may have noticed during that shower incident. I’ve even been shaving for a little while, you know.” Ian blinked in bafflement. “But if I wasn’t influencing you, why did you imitate me—learning so much about Shakespeare and so on?” Elijah pounded one fist on the counter in pent-up exasperation. “Jesus, Ian! I don’t know more than maybe two little facts about Shakespeare. I was just trying to seem older and sophisticated to impress you. I suppose you didn’t notice because you were so busy making a fool of yourself trying to impress your precious Orli.” “Orli!? What—“ Ian stared at him yet again, trying to adjust to this new concept. “I was doing all that—making a fool of myself as you so accurately state—for YOU, you young twit. And what with that sun- cream business, I thought I was succeeding until . . .” He paused, realization dawning in his face. “Oh, THAT’S why you didn’t want to go surfing with me . . . and Orli.” Elijah gaped at him throughout this, shocked briefly into silence. “You mean . . . you’ve wanted me all along? Since before the parties? Before the shower? Before the massage? From the beginning?” “Well, not quite. For me it started at Peter and Fran’s barbeque.” Elijah nodded, thinking back. “That was pretty close to the beginning. Before the massage.” They stared at each other in mingled embarrassment, amusement, and lust. Finally Elijah shook his head. “We have wasted so much fucking time.” “Fucking time is exactly what we’ve wasted. Well, I for one do not intend to waste any more.” “Neither do I.” On common impulse, they exited the kitchen. Elijah walked on ahead and stopped by his bag where he had dropped it just inside the door. He turned and saw Ian watching him in fascination. With a grin Elijah slowly unzipped his shorts and stepped out of them, then slid his underpants off. The long, loose, one-size-fits-all T-shirt hung frustratingly far down, nearly to the middle of his thighs. Ian was distinctly panting and about two shades pinker by the time he finished. “NOW let us retire to the lounge,” the young man purred, picking up the bag. He sauntered through the door. Ian followed, watching him wiggle - definite wiggling going on under the trailing hem of that shirt. His fingers itched. Once in the lounge, Elijah dumped the bag on the coffee table, causing the contents to slide partway out as he searched for and found the lube. He placed the tube prominently on the table and turned to face Ian. *** Having recovered much of his customary urbanity, Ian settled himself on the sofa and said, "Now, take that shirt off for me." "Why, what are you gonna do?" Elijah turned big Frodo eyes at him. "Throw you on your back and fuck you cross-eyed. First, however, I am going to give you a massage. The one you wanted." "Ian." Elijah wriggled uncomfortably and just for the fun of it, Ian snaked his hand under the lower edge of the shirt to cup him. Elijah gave a squeal of delight. He grinned his trademark grin and actually dared to turn his back on Ian. He lifted his hands and the movement caused the shirt to hike up, ever so slightly revealing shapely thighs and just a hint of a peachy- perfect ass. Ian had to swallow hard - either that or start drooling. Elijah cast him a look over his shoulder and raised his arms above his head, interlocking his fingers. The view was heavenly; even more so when the American flexed each cheek. Ian had a sudden vision of himself parting Elijah's lean thighs without ceremony and plunging into him. He gave a strangled moan and reached out, stroking across the peachy firmness, digging his fingers in, watching the flesh dimple and bounce back. He lifted the shirt and grazed his lips up one ass cheek, then licked the sweat from the small of his back. He felt something tickle his face and realized that Elijah had finally pulled the shirt off and let it fall backwards. Ian tugged it off his head and tossed it onto the floor. "Here, lie down. Massage time." Elijah pouted, but Ian heroically ignored this. With ill grace Elijah flopped back onto the sofa, spreading his legs in obvious invitation. Ian let his hot gaze travel down his body. He caressed his chest with light fingers before moving to lie not quite on top of the other man, keeping a pillow of air between their bodies. Elijah bucked his hips, trying to pull Ian closer to his straining torso. Ian smiled devilishly, holding himself just out of contact. He lowered his mouth, flicking his tongue at Elijah’s lips but retreating when the mouth obligingly opened. At Elijah's hiss of frustration Ian scraped his finger along the underside of his hardening cock and then again withdrew, this time sitting up properly. "You bastard!" Elijah said and kicked out at him. "Calm yourself," Ian lectured. "Now, let me see if I understand more precisely the circumstances leading up to our present situation." "Crazed-weasel sex now," Elijah whimpered, "Talk later." "So, you provoking little imp, that massage session was the first abortive seduction, was it not?" "If you mean," Elijah grated out, curling his hand round his own shaft until Ian stopped him, "was it the first time I tried to jump your bones, yeah." Ian laughed suddenly and planted a smacker of a kiss on Elijah's lips. "Have you any idea how frustrating that massage was?" "Every idea, believe me!" "Then why the hell didn't you make your intentions more obvious?" "I invited you to get your hot sticky paws on me. Short of putting up a sign saying ‘get it here' - what more did you expect? You never batted an eyelid." “Never batted--! I was in agony! I had a massive hard-on. I had to use more self-control than I thought I possessed. You seemed SO innocent. And you had a bad back . . . Oh.” He smiled ominously and waggled his eyebrows. "All right, you maddening, gorgeous little . . . this - to use a filthy American expression - is payback time." *** Ian started at Elijah's wild hair before drifting his fingers across his face, brushing his lids closed over the ridiculously beautiful eyes, lightly rubbing at the vertical line of concentration on his forehead. His fingers moved down the straight nose, caressing his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. He feathered a touch across Elijah's full, sensual lips, and they parted to close warmly and wetly on his fingers. Elijah's tongue glided across his fingertips, and Ian withdrew them quickly, fighting to control his incipient orgasm. It was almost as if they hadn’t come only a short time before—as if the frustration of the past weeks was still aching in his cock. He could tell that Elijah felt the same way. "Ian," Elijah gasped, his hips lifting involuntarily. Ian grinned wickedly and withdrew his hand altogether. With a fretful moan, Elijah quieted and, as a reward, Ian drifted his fingers gently down his throat until they rested on Elijah's chest. The skin was like silk under his hand. Elijah's body was singing like a bowstring. He had yearned for this for so long, and all he'd wanted to do was throw himself on Ian. Surrendering control like this was pure torment - much worse than the first massage even - but it quickly became the most erotic experience of his life. His focus was completely centred on what Ian's hands were doing to him, and the lightest touch ignited his senses. He remembered fantasizing about Ian as his doctor examining his body intimately. It would appear that the reality was even better. Ian's fingertips burned hot on his chest, like five little brands, and Elijah moaned, begging for more. Ian leaned forward to flick at his nipple with his tongue, over and again, teasing it into a hard peak and then circling both nipples with his fingers. Elijah was going crazy. There was nothing else in the world but his nerve endings and Ian's maddening touch. Ian swept his hand briefly down his body, giving his cock a good pump before returning to his chest. Elijah bucked again, tossing on the couch. The trail of fire continued across his flat stomach with Ian's hands digging into muscle and fat before cupping his prominent hipbones. Elijah made an incoherent sound as Ian stroked the tender skin that joined hip to thigh. He parted his legs further, wild for Ian's touch to continue. He gave a groan that was half delight, half despair when Ian, with a definite smirk, avoided his