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fellowshippers2003-12-28 09:40 am
empress-wu.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-12-28 09:40 am
A Guide to Happiness EW/SA R
Title: A Guide to Happiness
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
empress_wu
Pairing: SA/EW
Rating: R for language
Summary: "All friendship is desirable in itself, though it starts from need of help." (Epicurus)
Disclaimer: This is not true, and did not happen. I was not there, they did not tell me.
Warnings: Real Person Slash, some swearing
Notes: Written for and beta'd by the lovelymirabile_dictu, the most inspirational writer I know. Sparked off by my recent trip to New Zealand, and reading an interview with SA in the magazine "Pavement," an extract from which is up at my journal here:Pavement extract
Sean is beginning to forget who he is. He wakes 10 minutes before the 4.30 a.m call, sweating in an unfamiliar body. He runs a hand slowly across the seal fat of his stomach, and then presses a finger under his jaw, feeling for the heartbeat. Each day further into the shoot, he has to press a little harder to find it. Today the pulse is rapid, faint, like a distant alarm bell.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, fumbling for the light switch, which is not in the same place as the night before, or the night before that. The contents of a hotel room may be the same the world over, but the layout is always slightly different, giving him the feeling that someone is re-arranging the furniture while he sleeps.
He pads into the bathroom and brushes his teeth in the diagonal of light from the bedroom, reluctant to face his reflection just yet. The phone goes, and he answers it, cradling it to his ear so that he can draw back the curtains and open a window. Outside it is still dark, with only the slightest hint of dawn approaching. Putting the phone down, he hears the soft 'quor-quo' cry of a hunting owl nearby, making the hairs on back of his neck stand up. Shivering, he pulls on yesterday's clothes, picks up the latest pages of script from where they have been pushed under his door and steps out into the brightly lit corridor. He crosses a small ocean of carpet and knocks on the door opposite. There is an answering groan from within.
"Time to get up, Elijah!" he says, resting his forehead against the door. It is well known that Elijah can hold a complete conversation in his sleep, and it takes more than one phone call to ensure that he is dressed and vertical by the time their driver arrives. Sean closes his eyes, and thinks of all the things he would give for a day off. The contents of his bank account. Essential body parts. An Academy award. After a few moments there is the sound of a chair being knocked over, followed by muffled swearing, then the door opens and Elijah appears, wearing a faded T-shirt and boxers.
"I thought only horses slept standing up," Elijah says, squinting at him. "You look like shit," he adds more charitably.
"Another day, another mountain to climb," Sean replies, yawning.
Off to Sean's left, there is a blur of motion down the corridor heralding the arrival of their favourite elf. "Come along, fat hobbitses!" Orlando hisses, squeezing Sean none too gently around the waist before bounding off. For a moment, just for a moment, Sean hates him.
"Fucker," says Elijah. He frowns at Sean, and then pats him gently on one arm. "Go on ahead, I'll be down in a minute," he murmurs.
"Right you are, Mr Frodo," answers Sean in Sam's deferential tones, causing Elijah to raise an eyebrow.
Orlando is already sprawled elegantly across the backseat of the mini bus when Sean gets there. Ignoring him, Sean hauls himself up into the front, next to their driver. Half the Fellowship and assorted scale doubles pile in shortly afterwards, and they set off. Today they will be filming yet more shots of the nine tramping across plains, the Southern Alps behind them. Sean pulls his script out of his pocket, but it is still too dark to read. Road signs leap out at him in the headlights – one with a black silhouette of a deer running into the road, another a grey collage of tombstones with the words "The quick are the dead." When he looks back over his shoulder everyone including Orli has gone back to sleep.
Sean turns the radio up. At this hour, the programme is tailored to farmers, with crop spraying schedules, stock prices, and weather reports rounded off by the latest story about a hapless Australian, this time a sunbather buried in sand by a giant turtle intent on courtship. Sean closes his eyes and tries to remember the last time he heard actual news, about anywhere outside New Zealand. He feels far away from his parents, his brother, his home. He is losing his sense of being American, down here at the foot of the world. He envies his wife, taking their daughter on a short trip back to the States. He tries to work out what time zone she must be in, but gives up when he realises he can't remember what day of the week it is. He feels utterly alone, in a bus full of people.
He hunkers down in his seat, and dozes, but his dreams are interrupted by the constantly repeated Civil Defence announcement – "Don't think IF, think WHEN! When disaster strikes know what to do – you could be on your own for three days! Have your B-Ready kit to hand!" No wonder he feels so anxious, when New Zealanders seem intent on pointing out that disaster can strike at any minute.
By the time they get to the set, the sun has come up. The mud is still hard underfoot, and peoples' breath mingles with cigarette smoke. Viggo arrives on his horse, already in costume. Sean suspects that he slept in it. He watches Viggo dismount gracefully and hand the reins to a nearby helper. Even before breakfast, he radiates energy. Sean wishes he had Viggo's self assurance, his sense of place in the universe. He raises a hand to wave but Viggo has disappeared in a flurry of arms and legs, fending off a full-body tackle from Orli. The sound of their laughter and curses follows Sean into his trailer.
The other hobbits are already in their places, tucking into coffee and toast while their assistants work on their feet. Dominic takes one look at Sean's face and launches into a demented impression of Gene Kelly singing, "Good morning', good mo-o-rnin'!, It's great to stay up late, good mornin', good mornin' to you!" Sean would find it funny, if it were not the fourth day that week he'd heard it. His eyes meet Elijah's in the mirror and Elijah's mouth twitches slightly, before he gets up and puts a CD on. Dominic starts to sing along to that too, and Billy joins in, more tunefully. Sean wishes that they would hurry up and put glue in his ears to deaden the noise.
Two hours later, Sean is still trying to eat breakfast while they put the finishing touches to his make up. The others are already done, and are sitting outside on the steps smoking and trading insults with Orli. A heated debate breaks out as to whether Orlando's Mohawk looks more like a dead badger or a ferret.
Sean sighs. He does not feel remotely hungry, yet he has to eat twice as much as everyone else – sausages, bacon, fried bread, and scrambled eggs. He feels like he is turning into one of those fat, flightless birds that New Zealand is so proud of, easy game for any predator.
Elijah sticks his head around the door. "Time to go," he says, and Sean nods, putting his plate down gratefully. His assistant nods and Sean gets to his feet. He does not have Viggo's addiction to walking barefoot, though he sometimes wonders if that is merely a perverse show of solidarity with the hobbits. Only the mad walk without shoes in New Zealand; this is a country so attached to sturdy footwear that it hosts the world Gumboot throwing championships.
Billy falls into step beside him as they walk across to the land cruisers. "You'll be missing Christine," he says, quietly enough that no one else can hear.
"No," says Sean, and it isn't that. Or rather it goes deeper than that; he feels as though he is on a 274-day plane journey, with only one in-flight movie and not enough legroom.
Billy pats him gently on the back. "We all have days like this, y'know," he says. "It'll pass." Sean looks at him, surprised. He forgets that Billy is older than Dominic or Elijah; he seems to fit in so well with them, especially Dominic.
"Thank you," Sean says, and means it.
They drive up as far as the cars can go, then walk the rest of the way. Today's moments of cinematic greatness require Sam to cook a frying pan full of sausages, which he does over and over until he never wants to look at a sausage again. After that he sits on a rocky outcrop in spring sunshine, watching Billy's and Dom's stunt doubles play fight with Boromir. Unfortunately they have discovered Sean Bean's dreadful secret; if they tickle him behind the knees he giggles so much they have to stop filming. Finally the sequence is done and everyone heads off for lunch, Sean Bean keeping the hobbits at bay with his sword.
Sean watches them go to the makeshift canteen tent but does not follow them; he can't face more food just yet. Instead he slopes off in the opposite direction, taking a book out of his backpack and looking for somewhere to read in peace. He finds a sheltered hollow, close enough to be within earshot when they start up again but out of sight. Gradually silence settles around him, until the wind carries only the sound of sheep bells, and the odd birdcall. He opens his book, a history of Restoration London, and disappears into its pages for a blessedly uninterrupted half hour.
After lunch they spend the afternoon filming aerial shots of the Fellowship, always walking left to right across the landscape. Sean feels bone weary, his feet sore from walking on uneven ground. Every so often he catches Elijah looking back at him, little worried glances. He does not feel like being reassuring. He feels like lying down in a ditch and letting the whole crew march over him, if only they would leave him there. There has to be more to life, something more useful he could be doing than walking across a screen.
Eventually it starts to sleet, icy rain just on the cusp of becoming snow, and they have to stop filming for the day. Sean's face feels burnt by the sun, and flayed by the wind. He rubs one cheek with a cold hand as they trudge back to the cars.
"Are you all right?" whispers Elijah as they walk up the steps to their trailer.
Sean does not know how to reply. He thinks of saying "Yes, I'm fine, I'm just having one of those days when the crushing meaninglessness of existence, and the realisation that we are all fundamentally alone renders our petty preoccupations futile," but settles for "I'm fine, really, just tired."
Elijah looks at him with something that could be disappointment, but lets it go.
Back at the hotel a few hours later, after a long bath and a brief nap, Sean feels human enough to seek the company of others. He finds his fellow inmates ensconced in the hotel restaurant, working their way through the set menu. He pulls up a chair and squeezes in between Dominic and Billy, who are arguing over the choice of wine.
"I'm not drinking the same stuff we had last night," says Dominic, pointing a ringed finger at Billy.
"Why not, it had a certain..." Billy is temporarily lost for words.
"Essence of cats' piss, under a gooseberry bush, by the light of a full moon," finishes Dom, waxing unexpectedly lyrical.
Sean experiences a sudden and rare desire to get blindingly drunk, regardless of the prospect of another day's filming.
"Give me the wine list," he says, and Dominic raises an eyebrow at the command tone, but hands it over without question.
After the first course, and the second glass of Sauvignon, the raw ache that has been dragging at Sean all day begins to fade a little. He risks a small smile at Elijah, who has been watching him across the table. For a moment there is something fierce, and protective, in Elijah's expression that catches Sean off guard. It is his role to look after Elijah; he is uncomfortable when the tables are turned. He feels blood rush to his face, and turns away, embarrassed. When he dares to look back later Elijah is deep in conversation with Orlando, their heads almost touching. He thinks, but is not sure, that Orlando has one hand on Elijah's knee, underneath the table. Something in Sean's chest contracts, and he pushes away his plate. He does not know what is wrong with him; he has been out of sorts all day, like a highly-strung horse, or a badly tuned car. He finishes his wine and stands, waving goodnight vaguely to the table before taking his leave.
In the hotel lift, he realises he has no idea what number his room is. He fishes his room key out of his back pocket and stares at it blankly. Room 302. He remembers nothing about the room at all; if anyone were to ask him, he could not tell them what colour the walls were, or what painting hung over his bed. He punches the button for the 3rd floor, leaning against the back wall of the lift as soon as the doors shut. "I am losing my way," he thinks, absurdly, staring down at his feet.
When he gets to his room, he cleans his teeth, takes off his shoes and lies down fully dressed on top of his bed in the dark. After a moment his eyes adjust and he realises that he has failed to shut his door properly. His last thought before falling asleep is that he should get up and lock the door, but he no longer cares, he is too tired to move.
He dreams that he is under water, borne down by his weight, flailing uselessly against the currents until a shaft of sunlight reaches down into the depths. He opens his eyes in time to see the light from the corridor vanish as someone shuts his door from the inside.
"What?" he says, his voice still thick with sleep. He hears the sound of someone toeing their shoes off and then feels the bed dip. Before he has a chance to panic, he smells the familiar scent of cloves and soap, and then a smaller, warmer body curls around his, head resting on his shoulder, arm stretched across his chest.
"Elijah?" he asks hesitantly, curling his left arm around the thin shoulders. Beneath his arm, Elijah moves closer, rubbing his head slowly against Sean's neck.
Sean is convinced he is still dreaming, but then Elijah starts to speak, his voice a low husky murmur.
"I can't bear it when you're not happy," Elijah whispers. "I want to fix whatever it is that is wrong in the world." He snags a handful of Sean's shirt in one hand and smoothes it again, his fingertips brushing over a nipple, making Sean catch his breath.
"Elijah," Sean sighs. "You don't have to..." but already Elijah is moving forward, propping himself up on one elbow so that his face hovers over Sean's in the moonlight. This close, his eyes look enormous, like a Disney creature drawn to endear itself to the masses.
"What if I want to," murmurs Elijah, slowly tracing the outline of Sean's cheek with his lips, working his way down to his mouth. "What if I am doing this entirely for me?" And before Sean can answer, Elijah's lips are upon his, and there is no doubt about his desire. No movie stars' kiss this; their noses bump, and their teeth clash before Elijah tilts his head, finds the perfect angle and dips his tongue into Sean's open mouth, tasting honest and desperate.
"Let me," Elijah says, sliding a hand down to unbutton Sean's shirt. "Let me take care of you."
Sean tries to resist, feels that he ought to, but Elijah's hands are so warm and his lips so soft as he slowly undresses Sean.
"I'm not," Sean manages to mutter. "You're not seeing me at my best," he finishes lamely, acutely ashamed of his heavier body. He tries to turn away, but Elijah pins him down with surprising force.
"I think you are beautiful," Elijah whispers fiercely, dipping his head to plant kisses across Sean's chest. "And I am entitled to my opinion." Elijah looks up, daring Sean to disagree, but Sean is struck mute by the strangeness of what is happening, the unexpected unravelling of all the misery of the day.
Elijah pulls his T-shirt over his head and carefully lowers himself on top of Sean's body, framing his head in his hands. "I don't know how to make it better," Elijah says. "But I do love you," and he presses their mouths together with such tenderness that it makes Sean want to cry. He runs his hands up the strong curve of Elijah's back, revelling in the feeling of skin against skin. For the first time that day, Sean feels that there may be some point to being alive, that he is not lost so long as he is known and understood by one other person. Sean's heart fills with gratitude, and a deep desire to reciprocate, to let Elijah know just how much he has come to mean to him. Unsure how to start, he rubs their noses together, making Elijah laugh softly.
"We've got a 4.30 am call tomorrow," Sean says, responsibly, but his hands slide down of their own accord to rest on Elijah's hips, pulling him closer.
"Fuck tomorrow," mutters Elijah. Then he pulls back to look at him uncertainly. "Are you chucking me out?"
"No," says Sean. "I'm asking you to stay." And the smile that Elijah gives him is brighter than any homecoming.
Author:
empress_wuPairing: SA/EW
Rating: R for language
Summary: "All friendship is desirable in itself, though it starts from need of help." (Epicurus)
Disclaimer: This is not true, and did not happen. I was not there, they did not tell me.
Warnings: Real Person Slash, some swearing
Notes: Written for and beta'd by the lovely
mirabile_dictu, the most inspirational writer I know. Sparked off by my recent trip to New Zealand, and reading an interview with SA in the magazine "Pavement," an extract from which is up at my journal here:Pavement extractSean is beginning to forget who he is. He wakes 10 minutes before the 4.30 a.m call, sweating in an unfamiliar body. He runs a hand slowly across the seal fat of his stomach, and then presses a finger under his jaw, feeling for the heartbeat. Each day further into the shoot, he has to press a little harder to find it. Today the pulse is rapid, faint, like a distant alarm bell.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, fumbling for the light switch, which is not in the same place as the night before, or the night before that. The contents of a hotel room may be the same the world over, but the layout is always slightly different, giving him the feeling that someone is re-arranging the furniture while he sleeps.
He pads into the bathroom and brushes his teeth in the diagonal of light from the bedroom, reluctant to face his reflection just yet. The phone goes, and he answers it, cradling it to his ear so that he can draw back the curtains and open a window. Outside it is still dark, with only the slightest hint of dawn approaching. Putting the phone down, he hears the soft 'quor-quo' cry of a hunting owl nearby, making the hairs on back of his neck stand up. Shivering, he pulls on yesterday's clothes, picks up the latest pages of script from where they have been pushed under his door and steps out into the brightly lit corridor. He crosses a small ocean of carpet and knocks on the door opposite. There is an answering groan from within.
"Time to get up, Elijah!" he says, resting his forehead against the door. It is well known that Elijah can hold a complete conversation in his sleep, and it takes more than one phone call to ensure that he is dressed and vertical by the time their driver arrives. Sean closes his eyes, and thinks of all the things he would give for a day off. The contents of his bank account. Essential body parts. An Academy award. After a few moments there is the sound of a chair being knocked over, followed by muffled swearing, then the door opens and Elijah appears, wearing a faded T-shirt and boxers.
"I thought only horses slept standing up," Elijah says, squinting at him. "You look like shit," he adds more charitably.
"Another day, another mountain to climb," Sean replies, yawning.
Off to Sean's left, there is a blur of motion down the corridor heralding the arrival of their favourite elf. "Come along, fat hobbitses!" Orlando hisses, squeezing Sean none too gently around the waist before bounding off. For a moment, just for a moment, Sean hates him.
"Fucker," says Elijah. He frowns at Sean, and then pats him gently on one arm. "Go on ahead, I'll be down in a minute," he murmurs.
"Right you are, Mr Frodo," answers Sean in Sam's deferential tones, causing Elijah to raise an eyebrow.
Orlando is already sprawled elegantly across the backseat of the mini bus when Sean gets there. Ignoring him, Sean hauls himself up into the front, next to their driver. Half the Fellowship and assorted scale doubles pile in shortly afterwards, and they set off. Today they will be filming yet more shots of the nine tramping across plains, the Southern Alps behind them. Sean pulls his script out of his pocket, but it is still too dark to read. Road signs leap out at him in the headlights – one with a black silhouette of a deer running into the road, another a grey collage of tombstones with the words "The quick are the dead." When he looks back over his shoulder everyone including Orli has gone back to sleep.
Sean turns the radio up. At this hour, the programme is tailored to farmers, with crop spraying schedules, stock prices, and weather reports rounded off by the latest story about a hapless Australian, this time a sunbather buried in sand by a giant turtle intent on courtship. Sean closes his eyes and tries to remember the last time he heard actual news, about anywhere outside New Zealand. He feels far away from his parents, his brother, his home. He is losing his sense of being American, down here at the foot of the world. He envies his wife, taking their daughter on a short trip back to the States. He tries to work out what time zone she must be in, but gives up when he realises he can't remember what day of the week it is. He feels utterly alone, in a bus full of people.
He hunkers down in his seat, and dozes, but his dreams are interrupted by the constantly repeated Civil Defence announcement – "Don't think IF, think WHEN! When disaster strikes know what to do – you could be on your own for three days! Have your B-Ready kit to hand!" No wonder he feels so anxious, when New Zealanders seem intent on pointing out that disaster can strike at any minute.
By the time they get to the set, the sun has come up. The mud is still hard underfoot, and peoples' breath mingles with cigarette smoke. Viggo arrives on his horse, already in costume. Sean suspects that he slept in it. He watches Viggo dismount gracefully and hand the reins to a nearby helper. Even before breakfast, he radiates energy. Sean wishes he had Viggo's self assurance, his sense of place in the universe. He raises a hand to wave but Viggo has disappeared in a flurry of arms and legs, fending off a full-body tackle from Orli. The sound of their laughter and curses follows Sean into his trailer.
The other hobbits are already in their places, tucking into coffee and toast while their assistants work on their feet. Dominic takes one look at Sean's face and launches into a demented impression of Gene Kelly singing, "Good morning', good mo-o-rnin'!, It's great to stay up late, good mornin', good mornin' to you!" Sean would find it funny, if it were not the fourth day that week he'd heard it. His eyes meet Elijah's in the mirror and Elijah's mouth twitches slightly, before he gets up and puts a CD on. Dominic starts to sing along to that too, and Billy joins in, more tunefully. Sean wishes that they would hurry up and put glue in his ears to deaden the noise.
Two hours later, Sean is still trying to eat breakfast while they put the finishing touches to his make up. The others are already done, and are sitting outside on the steps smoking and trading insults with Orli. A heated debate breaks out as to whether Orlando's Mohawk looks more like a dead badger or a ferret.
Sean sighs. He does not feel remotely hungry, yet he has to eat twice as much as everyone else – sausages, bacon, fried bread, and scrambled eggs. He feels like he is turning into one of those fat, flightless birds that New Zealand is so proud of, easy game for any predator.
Elijah sticks his head around the door. "Time to go," he says, and Sean nods, putting his plate down gratefully. His assistant nods and Sean gets to his feet. He does not have Viggo's addiction to walking barefoot, though he sometimes wonders if that is merely a perverse show of solidarity with the hobbits. Only the mad walk without shoes in New Zealand; this is a country so attached to sturdy footwear that it hosts the world Gumboot throwing championships.
Billy falls into step beside him as they walk across to the land cruisers. "You'll be missing Christine," he says, quietly enough that no one else can hear.
"No," says Sean, and it isn't that. Or rather it goes deeper than that; he feels as though he is on a 274-day plane journey, with only one in-flight movie and not enough legroom.
Billy pats him gently on the back. "We all have days like this, y'know," he says. "It'll pass." Sean looks at him, surprised. He forgets that Billy is older than Dominic or Elijah; he seems to fit in so well with them, especially Dominic.
"Thank you," Sean says, and means it.
They drive up as far as the cars can go, then walk the rest of the way. Today's moments of cinematic greatness require Sam to cook a frying pan full of sausages, which he does over and over until he never wants to look at a sausage again. After that he sits on a rocky outcrop in spring sunshine, watching Billy's and Dom's stunt doubles play fight with Boromir. Unfortunately they have discovered Sean Bean's dreadful secret; if they tickle him behind the knees he giggles so much they have to stop filming. Finally the sequence is done and everyone heads off for lunch, Sean Bean keeping the hobbits at bay with his sword.
Sean watches them go to the makeshift canteen tent but does not follow them; he can't face more food just yet. Instead he slopes off in the opposite direction, taking a book out of his backpack and looking for somewhere to read in peace. He finds a sheltered hollow, close enough to be within earshot when they start up again but out of sight. Gradually silence settles around him, until the wind carries only the sound of sheep bells, and the odd birdcall. He opens his book, a history of Restoration London, and disappears into its pages for a blessedly uninterrupted half hour.
After lunch they spend the afternoon filming aerial shots of the Fellowship, always walking left to right across the landscape. Sean feels bone weary, his feet sore from walking on uneven ground. Every so often he catches Elijah looking back at him, little worried glances. He does not feel like being reassuring. He feels like lying down in a ditch and letting the whole crew march over him, if only they would leave him there. There has to be more to life, something more useful he could be doing than walking across a screen.
Eventually it starts to sleet, icy rain just on the cusp of becoming snow, and they have to stop filming for the day. Sean's face feels burnt by the sun, and flayed by the wind. He rubs one cheek with a cold hand as they trudge back to the cars.
"Are you all right?" whispers Elijah as they walk up the steps to their trailer.
Sean does not know how to reply. He thinks of saying "Yes, I'm fine, I'm just having one of those days when the crushing meaninglessness of existence, and the realisation that we are all fundamentally alone renders our petty preoccupations futile," but settles for "I'm fine, really, just tired."
Elijah looks at him with something that could be disappointment, but lets it go.
Back at the hotel a few hours later, after a long bath and a brief nap, Sean feels human enough to seek the company of others. He finds his fellow inmates ensconced in the hotel restaurant, working their way through the set menu. He pulls up a chair and squeezes in between Dominic and Billy, who are arguing over the choice of wine.
"I'm not drinking the same stuff we had last night," says Dominic, pointing a ringed finger at Billy.
"Why not, it had a certain..." Billy is temporarily lost for words.
"Essence of cats' piss, under a gooseberry bush, by the light of a full moon," finishes Dom, waxing unexpectedly lyrical.
Sean experiences a sudden and rare desire to get blindingly drunk, regardless of the prospect of another day's filming.
"Give me the wine list," he says, and Dominic raises an eyebrow at the command tone, but hands it over without question.
After the first course, and the second glass of Sauvignon, the raw ache that has been dragging at Sean all day begins to fade a little. He risks a small smile at Elijah, who has been watching him across the table. For a moment there is something fierce, and protective, in Elijah's expression that catches Sean off guard. It is his role to look after Elijah; he is uncomfortable when the tables are turned. He feels blood rush to his face, and turns away, embarrassed. When he dares to look back later Elijah is deep in conversation with Orlando, their heads almost touching. He thinks, but is not sure, that Orlando has one hand on Elijah's knee, underneath the table. Something in Sean's chest contracts, and he pushes away his plate. He does not know what is wrong with him; he has been out of sorts all day, like a highly-strung horse, or a badly tuned car. He finishes his wine and stands, waving goodnight vaguely to the table before taking his leave.
In the hotel lift, he realises he has no idea what number his room is. He fishes his room key out of his back pocket and stares at it blankly. Room 302. He remembers nothing about the room at all; if anyone were to ask him, he could not tell them what colour the walls were, or what painting hung over his bed. He punches the button for the 3rd floor, leaning against the back wall of the lift as soon as the doors shut. "I am losing my way," he thinks, absurdly, staring down at his feet.
When he gets to his room, he cleans his teeth, takes off his shoes and lies down fully dressed on top of his bed in the dark. After a moment his eyes adjust and he realises that he has failed to shut his door properly. His last thought before falling asleep is that he should get up and lock the door, but he no longer cares, he is too tired to move.
He dreams that he is under water, borne down by his weight, flailing uselessly against the currents until a shaft of sunlight reaches down into the depths. He opens his eyes in time to see the light from the corridor vanish as someone shuts his door from the inside.
"What?" he says, his voice still thick with sleep. He hears the sound of someone toeing their shoes off and then feels the bed dip. Before he has a chance to panic, he smells the familiar scent of cloves and soap, and then a smaller, warmer body curls around his, head resting on his shoulder, arm stretched across his chest.
"Elijah?" he asks hesitantly, curling his left arm around the thin shoulders. Beneath his arm, Elijah moves closer, rubbing his head slowly against Sean's neck.
Sean is convinced he is still dreaming, but then Elijah starts to speak, his voice a low husky murmur.
"I can't bear it when you're not happy," Elijah whispers. "I want to fix whatever it is that is wrong in the world." He snags a handful of Sean's shirt in one hand and smoothes it again, his fingertips brushing over a nipple, making Sean catch his breath.
"Elijah," Sean sighs. "You don't have to..." but already Elijah is moving forward, propping himself up on one elbow so that his face hovers over Sean's in the moonlight. This close, his eyes look enormous, like a Disney creature drawn to endear itself to the masses.
"What if I want to," murmurs Elijah, slowly tracing the outline of Sean's cheek with his lips, working his way down to his mouth. "What if I am doing this entirely for me?" And before Sean can answer, Elijah's lips are upon his, and there is no doubt about his desire. No movie stars' kiss this; their noses bump, and their teeth clash before Elijah tilts his head, finds the perfect angle and dips his tongue into Sean's open mouth, tasting honest and desperate.
"Let me," Elijah says, sliding a hand down to unbutton Sean's shirt. "Let me take care of you."
Sean tries to resist, feels that he ought to, but Elijah's hands are so warm and his lips so soft as he slowly undresses Sean.
"I'm not," Sean manages to mutter. "You're not seeing me at my best," he finishes lamely, acutely ashamed of his heavier body. He tries to turn away, but Elijah pins him down with surprising force.
"I think you are beautiful," Elijah whispers fiercely, dipping his head to plant kisses across Sean's chest. "And I am entitled to my opinion." Elijah looks up, daring Sean to disagree, but Sean is struck mute by the strangeness of what is happening, the unexpected unravelling of all the misery of the day.
Elijah pulls his T-shirt over his head and carefully lowers himself on top of Sean's body, framing his head in his hands. "I don't know how to make it better," Elijah says. "But I do love you," and he presses their mouths together with such tenderness that it makes Sean want to cry. He runs his hands up the strong curve of Elijah's back, revelling in the feeling of skin against skin. For the first time that day, Sean feels that there may be some point to being alive, that he is not lost so long as he is known and understood by one other person. Sean's heart fills with gratitude, and a deep desire to reciprocate, to let Elijah know just how much he has come to mean to him. Unsure how to start, he rubs their noses together, making Elijah laugh softly.
"We've got a 4.30 am call tomorrow," Sean says, responsibly, but his hands slide down of their own accord to rest on Elijah's hips, pulling him closer.
"Fuck tomorrow," mutters Elijah. Then he pulls back to look at him uncertainly. "Are you chucking me out?"
"No," says Sean. "I'm asking you to stay." And the smile that Elijah gives him is brighter than any homecoming.
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i always adore when authors manage to really bring in other members of the fellowship with just a line or two. the tiny details you gave us here, like billy's unexpected perceptiveness, dom's description of the wine - and orlando's gollum impression, which was brilliant - said so much about who these people were to sean in almost no space at all.
the whole story just had a lovely gentle tone, from sean's growing fatigue and just-get-through-each-day desperation, which could have come straight out of those interview excerpts you posted, to the sweet eskimo-kiss at the end. you managed to take all of sean's well-known and oft-mocked insecurities (his problems with his weight, the safety thing) and create with them such a sympathetic and real character that the only thing left to do is want him to feel better.
ok, enough incoherent gushing feedback. thank you for sharing this. :)
A Guide to Happiness
Gratefully
EW
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A Guide to Happiness
EW
Re: A Guide to Happiness
Re: A Guide to Happiness
EW
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Thank you so much!
A Guide to Happiness
So... the next pairing of your choice to suffer at the hands of my pen would be??
EWx
Re: A Guide to Happiness
Whomever you'd like to see together. Orlando/Viggo, maybe? Dom/Elijah? I would be happy with anything.
Re: A Guide to Happiness
EWx
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I'm sure that there are things that I'm forgetting to mention, but oh well. In short, you've managed to appeal to both my sweet tooth and my desire for angst. :) Great job.
A Guide to Happiness
EW