An arm snakes out of the tumble of sheets, a hand gropes – and connects. A hush falls
over the room as the alarm is strangled in mid-shriek and the lump on the bed flops over
with a groan …
He kicks the covers away and scurries for the bathroom, the grin of anticipation on his
face fighting for supremacy over a jaw-cracking yawn. His head is full of odd bits of
music this morning, and he sings in the shower, his light voice rising over the puffs of
steam and the hiss and burble of falling water…
And they called it puppy looooove
Oh I guess they’ll never know
How a young heart really feeeeels
And just how I love him soooo-o…
There’s laughter woven into the melody too, because the old song really isn’t his thing - but
the buzz fizzing through his blood is better than that of caffeine, and it amuses him
somehow. And then there are the thoughts that go hand in hand with the day, memories
that make him harden and arch against the spray. Pretty soon another song is heard, an
arpeggio of soft moans that ends in a gasping sigh. And a name – drowned in the rush of
water.
The mirror is beaded with moisture, and he swipes it clear before leaning forward to peer
short-sightedly at his reflection. His short, dark hair stands up in damp spikes, and he
grimaces at his hairline, shrugs and decides to leave his scanty morning stubble alone.
He doesn’t particularly care about what he looks like, perhaps because he knows it won’t
matter. His guest has seen him at his worst – dead on his feet after a day of filming,
stinking of puke after a night out on the town. Stripped of his defences after… No. He
turns away from the mirror and reaches for the towel. That was over and done with. Best
not to think of that today.
But he’s smiling as he heads for the kitchen, and he stops in the living room on the way,
retrieves the remote from where it’s buried under the cushions of the soft leather couch,
and thumbs the sound system on. The mellow voices of the Velvet Underground fill the air
as he turns to survey his domain. Not for him the brittle sterility of metal and glass -
sunlight filters through the half-open blinds and gleams on burnished wood and the satiny
surface of stone. Packing cases still line the walls, but there’s enough of him already
scattered about to make the room his own, although some of it, to be sure, isn’t fit to be
seen. He stuffs a dirty sock deeper under the couch with his bare toes and snags a beer
can from the coffee table as he leaves. He isn't usually this domesticated and this is the
cleanest it’s likely to be until he gets a service to come in, but he’s proud of his efforts
nonetheless. He knows they’ll be appreciated.
The kitchen is an oasis of relative neatness amid the clutter – evidence of his mother’s
touch. Although he isn’t exactly sure where everything is, he’s familiar enough with her
habits to know where to find what he needs. So it’s a matter of minutes till he assembles
the makings of two western omelettes, and the pan is greased with melted butter and
waiting on the stove.
After he slips the rolls into the oven to warm and starts the coffee going, there isn’t much
else to do beyond setting the table in the breakfast nook for two. He pokes his nose into
the fridge, retrieves the glass bowl of fruit salad he’d made the evening before, and tests
its freshness by the simple expedient of popping a whole strawberry into his mouth. Bliss.
It’s perfect, and the yogurt dressing will make it better still.
Then the oven pings, and he searches the kitchen for the bread basket with the blue and
white checked lining. It isn’t where it's supposed to be, and he’s about to settle for a plate
when he spies it – way up above the sink in the space between the ceiling and the
rosewood cabinets, wedged in with a bunch of fancy baskets. He curses softly, but he’s
gotten his dander up now, and nothing else will do.
He boosts himself up on the counter with his usual fluid grace and edges carefully along it
– then, as he steps forward to grab his prize, the buzz of the doorbell echoes down the
hallway, and he turns, startled. The egg whisk lurking under the crumpled dishcloth
flattens under his weight and its tines skid sideways across the wet metal of the draining
board with a screech, taking his errant foot with it. His eyes widen and the room tilts
sickeningly as his balance deserts him. His flailing hand finds the edge of a cabinet, and
his fall is arrested for a moment - then he loses his uncertain grip, and not all his vaunted
agility can save him.
There's a burst of white light in his head, and then darkness.
He slides bonelessly down to the floor. And he hasn't made a sound.
*****
Sean leaned on the bell again; then he propped his package against the doorframe and
fished his keys out of his pocket with a sigh. There was a shiny new key on the ring, and
he smiled as he inserted it into the lock, remembering the note that had accompanied its
advent some weeks before.
The hobbit's got his own digs yay!!!
Come for second breakfast?
Call me!
E.
He wondered if Bill or Dom had been to wet the baby’s head, metaphorically speaking,
and winced a little at the thought. It had been a year and some since he’d seen either of
them – they didn’t always call when they were in LA, and he didn’t blame them; he had
responsibilities that didn’t fit in with their frenetic lifestyles anyway. Even Elijah, he saw
seldom, though they did talk on the phone and texted each other when one of them
wanted to share something he thought the other man would enjoy.
Bill and Dom must’ve gotten keys too, he thought, as he shouldered the door shut and
maneuvered himself and his unwieldy burden through the foyer and into the living room.
It would be just like Lij – so generous with his privacy and possessions toward the friends
he loved. He looked around with interest as he leaned his house-warming gift carefully
against the wall and immediately liked what he saw. The room was a pleasing melange
of antique and modern and the half-expected detritus of empty beer cans and crumby
pizza boxes was nowhere to be seen.
"Elijah? Hey, Elwood!" he yelled, slinging his messenger bag on the couch as he went to
turn the music down. The boxes ranged along the wall had "CDs" and numbers marked
on them in a feminine hand, and the last one he passed sported a plaintive "last CDs
thank GOD" in straggling letters. He grinned at the sentiment and then frowned, realizing
belatedly that there had been no response to his shout. Which was strange – the house
wasn't so big that Elijah wouldn't have heard him or missed the sound of the doorbell
completely. Sean glanced out the window at the mini cooper sitting in the driveway and
went to find his host.
The layout of the place was similar to others he had visited before, and he stuck his head
into the silent kitchen, took note of the obvious breakfast makings and decided to brave
the master bedroom. But all he found there was an unmade bed and wet towels on the
bathroom floor - no giggling, squirming armful nor welcoming gap-toothed grin. No
Elijah. Sean tried to quash the niggle of worry under his breastbone and returned to the
kitchen, trying all the doors he could find on the way and scanning likely surfaces for a
note that would explain where the hell his friend was.
"Elijaaaah!" he yelled again. Somewhere in the kitchen, a warning bell pinged, startling
him, and the tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee enlivened the air. Suddenly he needed a
cup badly, and as he moved forward, a flash of something pale caught his eye. His heart
lurched and began to pound. There was a butcher-block-topped pedestal island set
squarely in the middle of the floor and just visible around its corner, part of a denim-clad
leg and a slim, bare foot.
It took Sean an eternity to reach the spot. The sunlight slanting in through the large
window above the sink netted shadows that pooled below it, dense and impenetrable.
His heartbeat roared in his ears and filled the world around him, and he was gasping for
breath as he rounded the corner and stumbled to a halt.
Oh god…oh please…
Elijah's body lay sprawled in the narrow aisle between the counter and the island, still
face obscenely haloed by a spreading dark pool, stark against the lightness of the grey
slate floor. Sean sank down beside him on knees that suddenly seemed to turn to water,
his eyes riveted on Elijah's bloodless lips.
"Lij…", he whispered, blinking back the tears that obscured his vision. Long lashes like
inky crescents against skin that seemed bone-white in the gloom fluttered at the sound of
his voice, and Sean clutched at a limp hand and clung to it fiercely.
"Sean?" It was a mere thread of sound and the sweetest music that Sean had ever
heard. He sagged against the counter as some of the awful tension left him, then
fumbled his phone from its clip on his belt and punched 911 with trembling fingers.
Giving directions to the operator and trying to muster coherent replies to the inevitable
questions tried his endurance sorely, and when Elijah's fingers tightened in his grip,
horrifying eventualities crowded into his mind and the phone clattered to the floor.
"Don't you dare move," he gritted, splaying his palm hard against Elijah's chest. "Don't
you fucking dare try to move. You've taken years off my life, you bastard. Goddamnit,
Lij…"
"'M sorry…" The ghost of a giggle made Sean smile shakily and his anger, born of fright,
faded. "M head hurts. Whacha doin' here?" The whispered question brought Sean up
short and he realized that Elijah didn't remember. Shit. That was probably something
the paramedics should know. The tinny bleating of the operator caught up with his ears
and he released Elijah's hand and reached out to retrieve his cellphone.
"Don’t… leave me…"
Sean flinched and a strange expression crossed his face. Then he took the restless hand
again and pressed his lips against it gently.
"I’m here. I won't leave you."
Trust me.
*****
The skittering of the vibrating phone across the polished desktop echoed the state of his
mind. He was a bundle of raw nerves – starting at the slightest sound, easily distracted
and restless. He stared at the readout, and thumbed it on quickly.
"Is anything wrong? Is he okay?" he asked without preamble.
"He's fine, Sean," Elijah's mother sounded tired, and Sean wished he could do something
to help. "The last MRI was good – the swelling's gone down and he isn't seeing double
anymore. And most of his short-term memory's back, too. Good thing the table was
wooden and it was a glancing blow - or his concussion would've been much worse." She
didn't elaborate further, and Sean was grateful. It could have been worse had been his
mantra for the last four days.
"But the reason I called… Well, I need a favor, and I didn't know who else to ask. You
know Lij – he hates fuss - but the internet's already buzzing with the news and at least
you were there, you know?"
Sean kneaded his forehead and tried to concentrate. "Anything I can do, Debbie – you
know that."
"He can't be left alone for at least a week, but I've got an inner-city charity do tonight – I'm
chairing it, and with all that's happened, I sort of forgot," Debbie began tentatively.
"We're short of volunteers, and now it's too late to get someone to stand in for me. The
thing is - Hannah won't arrive till tomorrow afternoon, and Jason's got a gig and I don't
want him to cancel, so I was wondering…"
Sean pulled his appointment book to him and scanned it briefly. "He's staying at the
guesthouse, right? What time do you want me there?"
"Right. Someone's filling in for me now, so would seven o'clock be okay? I'll leave dinner
on the table for you and I'll try to get home…"
"No – don't worry about dinner. I'll grab a bite here," and then he added, surprising even
himself. "And don't worry about getting home early either. I'll stay the night."
"Are you sure?" he could hear the relief in her voice. "What about the family?"
"The nanny takes care of everything. Don't bother about me." He prayed that she
wouldn't wonder why he hadn't mentioned his wife and was thankful when she let the
omission pass. Not that Chris would make any waves, though. She probably wouldn't
even care. "Just go straight to bed and make sure you get a good night's sleep,” he
urged. “You sound like you need it."
"I'll see you in a couple of hours then. Thank you, Sean – it's a load off my mind," she
paused and made a sound of annoyance. "And I almost forgot to thank you for cleaning
everything up – it was you, wasn't it? Of course it was."
"I had to go back for my stuff anyway, and since I was there…" He sank back in his chair
and shut his eyes, trying to ignore the roiling in his gut. "Just something I had to do."
Sean turned the phone off with a sigh and allowed his mind to go blank. He had a
moment of deceptive peace, and then images started to flood in again, breaching with
ease the fragile barriers he tried to erect.
Elijah's body on the floor. Sometimes he saw a chalked outline drawn around it, along
with everything the stark white line implied. Either he was watching too much CSI, or his
subconscious was showing him something he refused to acknowledge. Elijah gone. Elijah
missing from his life.
Elijah asleep, looking frighteningly insubstantial. His slight form had hardly creased the
tightly tucked white sheets – it was easy to imagine that he wasn't there at all.
After leaving the hospital, Sean had driven aimlessly, his mind strangely numbed, his
reactions at odds with the severity of the accident, which yeah – could have been worse,
really. Finally his sense of time and responsibility had reasserted itself; he reached for his
bag and realized with a start that he'd left it behind at Elijah's house.
He'd intended to just grab his things and run, but when he thought of the mess he was
leaving behind, of the remains of the breakfast that he had so been looking forward to,
he had changed his mind. It had been the work of a few minutes to bundle everything
into the trash, make sure the oven and coffee-maker were turned off and the sink
cleared. Then he found a rag and a bottle of cleaner in the laundry room and got down
on his knees beside the rusty stain on the floor. It was fairly difficult – the blood had
dried fast and the slate was textured - but he clung grimly to his task and scrubbed
mechanically until it was gone.
Then he rolled off his knees, sat limply back against the counter and allowed his
memories to take shape in the gathering gloom. Memories he had held at bay for five
long years.
Elijah – his naked body silvered by the Antipodean moonlight. The open desire in the
beautiful eyes; desire Sean had never quite understood or felt he deserved. The feel of
Elijah in his arms; of being buried in Elijah's heat, surrounded by it, burning in it. He tasted
again the richness of that soft mouth, recalled the musky scent of that secret place
between the pale, strong thighs. Remembered silky hardness gliding under his tongue.
Sean had accepted their love as part of the fantasy they were creating – something over
which he had little or no control. But you couldn't live in a dream forever, could you? Not
and let go of everything you thought you were and the life you’d planned out for yourself.
Elijah had said he understood. He’d never expected anything else.
There had been something desperate in their lovemaking, that last night. Sean had
woken up to the rattling of the cranky hotel air-conditioner and no one beside him in the
rumpled bed. The scent of cloves had drawn him to the balcony's half-open door, and he
had heard the futile words whispered to the uncaring New Zealand dawn.
Don't leave me…
At the airport two mornings later, Elijah had caught Sean’s daughter up in his arms,
looked at Sean, and smiled.
*****
“There’s something I forgot to tell you.” Suddenly Debbie looked uncertain and Sean felt
his overstrained nerves twang.
"Oh?" he raised his brows.
"The knock on the head was trauma enough to give him post-concussive syndrome," she
began, and paused when she saw Sean's face change. "Oh no, Sean – it isn't too bad,
and it won't last long."
"Okay. So what is it?"
"The nausea and headache – they're part of it. But his personality's changed too - he's
irritable, bored and very short on patience; he's being a brat, really. But I'm sure you can
handle him." Debbie grinned impishly. "Just pretend he's one of your girls."
Sean laughed. "Don't worry. Your precious boy will be safe with me."
Debbie kissed him goodbye, and prepared to go. "Elijah's very lucky to have such good
friends," she said.
"He's worth it," Sean returned, his voice unaccountably gruff.
"Yes," Debbie looked pensive for a moment. "He is." He watched as she walked to the
car, then shut the door.
*****
It started badly, and went downhill from there.
Sean's arrival in the bedroom was greeted with a sneer. "Well, if it isn't the safety hobbit.
Adding nursemaiding to your many virtues, Sean?"
"Who’s a nursemaid?” Sean replied equably. “Just making sure your poor mother gets an
evening off, that’s all.”
That didn’t go down well, and Sean suspected that it could be because Elijah knew that
he was being a handful, and was pissed off at himself for not being able to control it.
Nothing Sean said or did pleased him – the air-conditioning made his head hurt, the light
made his eyes hurt, Sean’s conversation annoyed him, and music was supposed to
fucking soothe, damnit, not sink red-hot needles into a fellow’s skull. Finally, Sean
decided that he had had enough. He looked at his friend, seeing the furrows of pain on
the smooth forehead, and the shadows that bruised the blue eyes and seemed to deepen
as he watched.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t mind being your whipping boy, and you can insult me as much
as you like – I know I deserve it. But I’m not going to let you make yourself worse, you
know, so you may as well give in and behave yourself. You won't drive me away.”
Elijah stared at him and suddenly seemed to deflate – the anger that had energized him
disappeared and he sank back against the pillows, looking desperately tired.
“Good,” Sean breathed a secret sigh of relief. “Now let’s get you into the bathroom for a
wash, and I can change the sheets while you’re at it. To put it mildly, Doodle, you stink."
He left the door ajar and listened with half an ear as he freshened the bed, and he was
almost done before he realized that the sound he had heard had nothing whatsoever to
do with getting clean at all.
Elijah clutched at the marble countertop with white-knuckled fingers, his face pale as
milk. He had tried to wash – his t-shirt lay crumpled on the tiled floor, the soap just
spinning to a stop beside it. He looked at Sean with red-rimmed eyes and moaned, "I
don't feel so good, Seanie. The fucking room won't stay still."
Sean was tempted to bundle him back into bed willy-nilly, but he knew from experience
that the sensation of being clean would do more for his patient's disposition than any
amount of pill-popping would achieve – so he lowered the toilet seat and threw a towel
over the cistern.
"Okay," he said, ignoring the tremor of uneasiness in his gut. "Sit down – I'll give you a
bath."
He ran the damp washcloth over Elijah's hair, parting the sweat-slicked strands and
rubbing gently at his scalp, avoiding the clotted red gash behind his left ear. They hadn't
shaved off much, and seemed to have used skin glue to close it. The wound looked to be
healing cleanly, and might not even leave a scar at all.
"Feels good," Elijah murmured. "Head doesn't hurt so bad anymore." He rubbed his
cheek against Sean's wrist, and Sean swallowed hard and moved away to soap the
washcloth up.
"Shut your eyes and hold still." He cupped Elijah's jaw in his hand and went over his face
and ears, then washed his neck, arms, and torso quickly. He could see gooseflesh rising
on the porcelain skin, and a chill was the last thing his patient needed. He rinsed Elijah
off and draped a dry towel around his shoulders, and then he hesitated, his hand on the
waistband of Elijah's boxers.
Elijah looked down at him and remarked, his face devoid of all expression, "It isn't as if
you haven't seen me naked before." He arched against the cistern, lifting his buttocks off
the seat, and Sean steeled himself and pulled the boxers down.
Elijah's cock was half-hard, flushed pink against the ivory skin of his thigh, so familiar
and beautiful. Sean felt the prickling heat of arousal eddy through his body, and knew
that for the last five years, he had been living a lie. With a kind of despair, he divorced
his hands – made them independent of the rest of him. They soaped, washed and dried
mechanically, and he papered his mind with images of his children, walling it away. If he
hadn't done so, they would surely have caressed.
And Elijah stared right over his head and gave no indication that he had noticed anything
at all. By the time Sean had gotten him tucked into bed, Elijah's headache was back in
full-force, and their incipient hard-ons were a memory.
****
Despite his fatigue, Sean found it impossible to sleep. He wasn’t surprised. How could he
rest, with all the questions and admonitions roiling in his brain and the lingering flickers
of his arousal troubling his body? It wasn't as if he didn't make the choices that led to
where he was, but he didn't know what the hell he was going to do now. He knew he was
at a crossroads in his life, and if he couldn't chose which way to go, he might as well be
buried in it with a friggin' stake through his heart.
Finally he gave up and wandered out to the living room in search of something to occupy
his mind and derail the relentless train of his thoughts. He’d been standing in front of the
TV for some minutes, flicking through the channels and staring with blank eyes at the
shifting patterns on the screen, when something, perhaps the sensation of being watched,
made him turn and search the shadows behind him.
Elijah leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed tightly against his chest, his face
composed and his gaze unwavering. Sean raised his brows and opened his mouth – and
Elijah pushed away from the door unsteadily and disappeared into the darkness of the
hallway. After a moment, Sean followed.
"You shouldn't be out of bed, you know," he said. "What if you had fallen again? Debbie
would never forgive me."
Elijah looked up from his perch on the bed and shrugged. "I couldn't sleep," he answered,
and looked away.
"Are you hungry? Can I get you something? Water? What?" Sean knew his mouth was
running away with him again, and he couldn't stop it.
"No." Elijah lifted his legs and slid under the covers. Then he met Sean's eyes and let his
hand fall on the bed beside him. "Stay with me."
Sean's stomach immediately went into free fall, and he clasped his hands behind him,
trying to still their trembling.
"Lij…"
"Please," Elijah whispered. His eyes were bottomless pools of warmth, and Sean tried to
resist the urge to fall into them and drown. "I just want to talk – nothing else, I promise.
Please."
Backlit by the shaded bedside lamp, Elijah's profile on the pillow was a marvel of
perfection, and Sean rolled onto his side to fully appreciate it. "How's the headache?" he
asked, trying to quell the fluttering in his belly.
"Not too bad. But it fucking sucks that I've got you in bed and I can't do shit about it."
The fluttering turned into a whole swarm of butterflies. "Behave yourself," Sean said
sternly. "Now - what did you want to talk about?"
Elijah made a face. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk," he confessed. "You were right, actually
– I was mad at you for... well, you know. I think I've been for years. But I couldn't admit
it to myself. I buried it so deep that I didn't recognize the anger for what it was." He
paused reflectively. "When something is buried that deep, it doesn't get any air. And it
starts to stink. I'm kinda glad I let it out..."
He left off studying the ceiling and turned his head. "I'm not angry anymore." He laughed
softly, "Poof – it's gone. Just like that. Life's too short, Sean."
"Yeah," Sean murmured in response. "That it is."
A companionable silence fell between them, the kind that didn't need filling up with
noise. Life's too short. Sean studied the crossroads, smiled and chose his path.
"Sorry about breakfast," Elijah said presently. "I was really looking forward to it."
"So was I." Sean stuck out his lower lip and allowed a whine to creep into his voice. "It
looked delicious, Lij."
"Want a rain check?"
"Only if we prepare it together. Any monkeying around, I'm doing myself, thank you."
Sean grinned to himself, thinking about the house-warming gift he had left behind. He
figured Elijah would know what to do with a metal-and-wood palm tree carved with
cavorting monkeys. Use it as a coatrack, perhaps.
"Deal," Elijah giggled. "Thank you for everything, Sean. Mom was quite impressed, you
know. She called you my "knight in shining armor" and told me how lucky I was."
Sean snorted. "Some knight – traipsing all over the damned house while you were lying
there bleeding…
Elijah laid a finger against his lips. "No. You are my knight. And still my Sam, after all
these years. Funny, isn't it?"
They lay looking at each other for a long moment, and Sean thought, A knight without
armor, you mean. Because I have none against you. Suddenly all Sean wanted to do was
give comfort, and take a little for himself as well. "Come here," he said gruffly, and held
out his arms.
Elijah scooted backward gingerly, snuggling into the curve of Sean's body with a
contented sigh. "I've missed this," he murmured, pulling Sean's arm close around his
chest.
Sean nuzzled the dark hair and took a deep breath of antiseptic-laced Elijah. "So have I."
And he smiled, thinking that if their lives were written in a Book, he would have heard the
sea.
End
over the room as the alarm is strangled in mid-shriek and the lump on the bed flops over
with a groan …
He kicks the covers away and scurries for the bathroom, the grin of anticipation on his
face fighting for supremacy over a jaw-cracking yawn. His head is full of odd bits of
music this morning, and he sings in the shower, his light voice rising over the puffs of
steam and the hiss and burble of falling water…
And they called it puppy looooove
Oh I guess they’ll never know
How a young heart really feeeeels
And just how I love him soooo-o…
There’s laughter woven into the melody too, because the old song really isn’t his thing - but
the buzz fizzing through his blood is better than that of caffeine, and it amuses him
somehow. And then there are the thoughts that go hand in hand with the day, memories
that make him harden and arch against the spray. Pretty soon another song is heard, an
arpeggio of soft moans that ends in a gasping sigh. And a name – drowned in the rush of
water.
The mirror is beaded with moisture, and he swipes it clear before leaning forward to peer
short-sightedly at his reflection. His short, dark hair stands up in damp spikes, and he
grimaces at his hairline, shrugs and decides to leave his scanty morning stubble alone.
He doesn’t particularly care about what he looks like, perhaps because he knows it won’t
matter. His guest has seen him at his worst – dead on his feet after a day of filming,
stinking of puke after a night out on the town. Stripped of his defences after… No. He
turns away from the mirror and reaches for the towel. That was over and done with. Best
not to think of that today.
But he’s smiling as he heads for the kitchen, and he stops in the living room on the way,
retrieves the remote from where it’s buried under the cushions of the soft leather couch,
and thumbs the sound system on. The mellow voices of the Velvet Underground fill the air
as he turns to survey his domain. Not for him the brittle sterility of metal and glass -
sunlight filters through the half-open blinds and gleams on burnished wood and the satiny
surface of stone. Packing cases still line the walls, but there’s enough of him already
scattered about to make the room his own, although some of it, to be sure, isn’t fit to be
seen. He stuffs a dirty sock deeper under the couch with his bare toes and snags a beer
can from the coffee table as he leaves. He isn't usually this domesticated and this is the
cleanest it’s likely to be until he gets a service to come in, but he’s proud of his efforts
nonetheless. He knows they’ll be appreciated.
The kitchen is an oasis of relative neatness amid the clutter – evidence of his mother’s
touch. Although he isn’t exactly sure where everything is, he’s familiar enough with her
habits to know where to find what he needs. So it’s a matter of minutes till he assembles
the makings of two western omelettes, and the pan is greased with melted butter and
waiting on the stove.
After he slips the rolls into the oven to warm and starts the coffee going, there isn’t much
else to do beyond setting the table in the breakfast nook for two. He pokes his nose into
the fridge, retrieves the glass bowl of fruit salad he’d made the evening before, and tests
its freshness by the simple expedient of popping a whole strawberry into his mouth. Bliss.
It’s perfect, and the yogurt dressing will make it better still.
Then the oven pings, and he searches the kitchen for the bread basket with the blue and
white checked lining. It isn’t where it's supposed to be, and he’s about to settle for a plate
when he spies it – way up above the sink in the space between the ceiling and the
rosewood cabinets, wedged in with a bunch of fancy baskets. He curses softly, but he’s
gotten his dander up now, and nothing else will do.
He boosts himself up on the counter with his usual fluid grace and edges carefully along it
– then, as he steps forward to grab his prize, the buzz of the doorbell echoes down the
hallway, and he turns, startled. The egg whisk lurking under the crumpled dishcloth
flattens under his weight and its tines skid sideways across the wet metal of the draining
board with a screech, taking his errant foot with it. His eyes widen and the room tilts
sickeningly as his balance deserts him. His flailing hand finds the edge of a cabinet, and
his fall is arrested for a moment - then he loses his uncertain grip, and not all his vaunted
agility can save him.
There's a burst of white light in his head, and then darkness.
He slides bonelessly down to the floor. And he hasn't made a sound.
*****
Sean leaned on the bell again; then he propped his package against the doorframe and
fished his keys out of his pocket with a sigh. There was a shiny new key on the ring, and
he smiled as he inserted it into the lock, remembering the note that had accompanied its
advent some weeks before.
The hobbit's got his own digs yay!!!
Come for second breakfast?
Call me!
E.
He wondered if Bill or Dom had been to wet the baby’s head, metaphorically speaking,
and winced a little at the thought. It had been a year and some since he’d seen either of
them – they didn’t always call when they were in LA, and he didn’t blame them; he had
responsibilities that didn’t fit in with their frenetic lifestyles anyway. Even Elijah, he saw
seldom, though they did talk on the phone and texted each other when one of them
wanted to share something he thought the other man would enjoy.
Bill and Dom must’ve gotten keys too, he thought, as he shouldered the door shut and
maneuvered himself and his unwieldy burden through the foyer and into the living room.
It would be just like Lij – so generous with his privacy and possessions toward the friends
he loved. He looked around with interest as he leaned his house-warming gift carefully
against the wall and immediately liked what he saw. The room was a pleasing melange
of antique and modern and the half-expected detritus of empty beer cans and crumby
pizza boxes was nowhere to be seen.
"Elijah? Hey, Elwood!" he yelled, slinging his messenger bag on the couch as he went to
turn the music down. The boxes ranged along the wall had "CDs" and numbers marked
on them in a feminine hand, and the last one he passed sported a plaintive "last CDs
thank GOD" in straggling letters. He grinned at the sentiment and then frowned, realizing
belatedly that there had been no response to his shout. Which was strange – the house
wasn't so big that Elijah wouldn't have heard him or missed the sound of the doorbell
completely. Sean glanced out the window at the mini cooper sitting in the driveway and
went to find his host.
The layout of the place was similar to others he had visited before, and he stuck his head
into the silent kitchen, took note of the obvious breakfast makings and decided to brave
the master bedroom. But all he found there was an unmade bed and wet towels on the
bathroom floor - no giggling, squirming armful nor welcoming gap-toothed grin. No
Elijah. Sean tried to quash the niggle of worry under his breastbone and returned to the
kitchen, trying all the doors he could find on the way and scanning likely surfaces for a
note that would explain where the hell his friend was.
"Elijaaaah!" he yelled again. Somewhere in the kitchen, a warning bell pinged, startling
him, and the tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee enlivened the air. Suddenly he needed a
cup badly, and as he moved forward, a flash of something pale caught his eye. His heart
lurched and began to pound. There was a butcher-block-topped pedestal island set
squarely in the middle of the floor and just visible around its corner, part of a denim-clad
leg and a slim, bare foot.
It took Sean an eternity to reach the spot. The sunlight slanting in through the large
window above the sink netted shadows that pooled below it, dense and impenetrable.
His heartbeat roared in his ears and filled the world around him, and he was gasping for
breath as he rounded the corner and stumbled to a halt.
Oh god…oh please…
Elijah's body lay sprawled in the narrow aisle between the counter and the island, still
face obscenely haloed by a spreading dark pool, stark against the lightness of the grey
slate floor. Sean sank down beside him on knees that suddenly seemed to turn to water,
his eyes riveted on Elijah's bloodless lips.
"Lij…", he whispered, blinking back the tears that obscured his vision. Long lashes like
inky crescents against skin that seemed bone-white in the gloom fluttered at the sound of
his voice, and Sean clutched at a limp hand and clung to it fiercely.
"Sean?" It was a mere thread of sound and the sweetest music that Sean had ever
heard. He sagged against the counter as some of the awful tension left him, then
fumbled his phone from its clip on his belt and punched 911 with trembling fingers.
Giving directions to the operator and trying to muster coherent replies to the inevitable
questions tried his endurance sorely, and when Elijah's fingers tightened in his grip,
horrifying eventualities crowded into his mind and the phone clattered to the floor.
"Don't you dare move," he gritted, splaying his palm hard against Elijah's chest. "Don't
you fucking dare try to move. You've taken years off my life, you bastard. Goddamnit,
Lij…"
"'M sorry…" The ghost of a giggle made Sean smile shakily and his anger, born of fright,
faded. "M head hurts. Whacha doin' here?" The whispered question brought Sean up
short and he realized that Elijah didn't remember. Shit. That was probably something
the paramedics should know. The tinny bleating of the operator caught up with his ears
and he released Elijah's hand and reached out to retrieve his cellphone.
"Don’t… leave me…"
Sean flinched and a strange expression crossed his face. Then he took the restless hand
again and pressed his lips against it gently.
"I’m here. I won't leave you."
Trust me.
*****
The skittering of the vibrating phone across the polished desktop echoed the state of his
mind. He was a bundle of raw nerves – starting at the slightest sound, easily distracted
and restless. He stared at the readout, and thumbed it on quickly.
"Is anything wrong? Is he okay?" he asked without preamble.
"He's fine, Sean," Elijah's mother sounded tired, and Sean wished he could do something
to help. "The last MRI was good – the swelling's gone down and he isn't seeing double
anymore. And most of his short-term memory's back, too. Good thing the table was
wooden and it was a glancing blow - or his concussion would've been much worse." She
didn't elaborate further, and Sean was grateful. It could have been worse had been his
mantra for the last four days.
"But the reason I called… Well, I need a favor, and I didn't know who else to ask. You
know Lij – he hates fuss - but the internet's already buzzing with the news and at least
you were there, you know?"
Sean kneaded his forehead and tried to concentrate. "Anything I can do, Debbie – you
know that."
"He can't be left alone for at least a week, but I've got an inner-city charity do tonight – I'm
chairing it, and with all that's happened, I sort of forgot," Debbie began tentatively.
"We're short of volunteers, and now it's too late to get someone to stand in for me. The
thing is - Hannah won't arrive till tomorrow afternoon, and Jason's got a gig and I don't
want him to cancel, so I was wondering…"
Sean pulled his appointment book to him and scanned it briefly. "He's staying at the
guesthouse, right? What time do you want me there?"
"Right. Someone's filling in for me now, so would seven o'clock be okay? I'll leave dinner
on the table for you and I'll try to get home…"
"No – don't worry about dinner. I'll grab a bite here," and then he added, surprising even
himself. "And don't worry about getting home early either. I'll stay the night."
"Are you sure?" he could hear the relief in her voice. "What about the family?"
"The nanny takes care of everything. Don't bother about me." He prayed that she
wouldn't wonder why he hadn't mentioned his wife and was thankful when she let the
omission pass. Not that Chris would make any waves, though. She probably wouldn't
even care. "Just go straight to bed and make sure you get a good night's sleep,” he
urged. “You sound like you need it."
"I'll see you in a couple of hours then. Thank you, Sean – it's a load off my mind," she
paused and made a sound of annoyance. "And I almost forgot to thank you for cleaning
everything up – it was you, wasn't it? Of course it was."
"I had to go back for my stuff anyway, and since I was there…" He sank back in his chair
and shut his eyes, trying to ignore the roiling in his gut. "Just something I had to do."
Sean turned the phone off with a sigh and allowed his mind to go blank. He had a
moment of deceptive peace, and then images started to flood in again, breaching with
ease the fragile barriers he tried to erect.
Elijah's body on the floor. Sometimes he saw a chalked outline drawn around it, along
with everything the stark white line implied. Either he was watching too much CSI, or his
subconscious was showing him something he refused to acknowledge. Elijah gone. Elijah
missing from his life.
Elijah asleep, looking frighteningly insubstantial. His slight form had hardly creased the
tightly tucked white sheets – it was easy to imagine that he wasn't there at all.
After leaving the hospital, Sean had driven aimlessly, his mind strangely numbed, his
reactions at odds with the severity of the accident, which yeah – could have been worse,
really. Finally his sense of time and responsibility had reasserted itself; he reached for his
bag and realized with a start that he'd left it behind at Elijah's house.
He'd intended to just grab his things and run, but when he thought of the mess he was
leaving behind, of the remains of the breakfast that he had so been looking forward to,
he had changed his mind. It had been the work of a few minutes to bundle everything
into the trash, make sure the oven and coffee-maker were turned off and the sink
cleared. Then he found a rag and a bottle of cleaner in the laundry room and got down
on his knees beside the rusty stain on the floor. It was fairly difficult – the blood had
dried fast and the slate was textured - but he clung grimly to his task and scrubbed
mechanically until it was gone.
Then he rolled off his knees, sat limply back against the counter and allowed his
memories to take shape in the gathering gloom. Memories he had held at bay for five
long years.
Elijah – his naked body silvered by the Antipodean moonlight. The open desire in the
beautiful eyes; desire Sean had never quite understood or felt he deserved. The feel of
Elijah in his arms; of being buried in Elijah's heat, surrounded by it, burning in it. He tasted
again the richness of that soft mouth, recalled the musky scent of that secret place
between the pale, strong thighs. Remembered silky hardness gliding under his tongue.
Sean had accepted their love as part of the fantasy they were creating – something over
which he had little or no control. But you couldn't live in a dream forever, could you? Not
and let go of everything you thought you were and the life you’d planned out for yourself.
Elijah had said he understood. He’d never expected anything else.
There had been something desperate in their lovemaking, that last night. Sean had
woken up to the rattling of the cranky hotel air-conditioner and no one beside him in the
rumpled bed. The scent of cloves had drawn him to the balcony's half-open door, and he
had heard the futile words whispered to the uncaring New Zealand dawn.
Don't leave me…
At the airport two mornings later, Elijah had caught Sean’s daughter up in his arms,
looked at Sean, and smiled.
*****
“There’s something I forgot to tell you.” Suddenly Debbie looked uncertain and Sean felt
his overstrained nerves twang.
"Oh?" he raised his brows.
"The knock on the head was trauma enough to give him post-concussive syndrome," she
began, and paused when she saw Sean's face change. "Oh no, Sean – it isn't too bad,
and it won't last long."
"Okay. So what is it?"
"The nausea and headache – they're part of it. But his personality's changed too - he's
irritable, bored and very short on patience; he's being a brat, really. But I'm sure you can
handle him." Debbie grinned impishly. "Just pretend he's one of your girls."
Sean laughed. "Don't worry. Your precious boy will be safe with me."
Debbie kissed him goodbye, and prepared to go. "Elijah's very lucky to have such good
friends," she said.
"He's worth it," Sean returned, his voice unaccountably gruff.
"Yes," Debbie looked pensive for a moment. "He is." He watched as she walked to the
car, then shut the door.
*****
It started badly, and went downhill from there.
Sean's arrival in the bedroom was greeted with a sneer. "Well, if it isn't the safety hobbit.
Adding nursemaiding to your many virtues, Sean?"
"Who’s a nursemaid?” Sean replied equably. “Just making sure your poor mother gets an
evening off, that’s all.”
That didn’t go down well, and Sean suspected that it could be because Elijah knew that
he was being a handful, and was pissed off at himself for not being able to control it.
Nothing Sean said or did pleased him – the air-conditioning made his head hurt, the light
made his eyes hurt, Sean’s conversation annoyed him, and music was supposed to
fucking soothe, damnit, not sink red-hot needles into a fellow’s skull. Finally, Sean
decided that he had had enough. He looked at his friend, seeing the furrows of pain on
the smooth forehead, and the shadows that bruised the blue eyes and seemed to deepen
as he watched.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t mind being your whipping boy, and you can insult me as much
as you like – I know I deserve it. But I’m not going to let you make yourself worse, you
know, so you may as well give in and behave yourself. You won't drive me away.”
Elijah stared at him and suddenly seemed to deflate – the anger that had energized him
disappeared and he sank back against the pillows, looking desperately tired.
“Good,” Sean breathed a secret sigh of relief. “Now let’s get you into the bathroom for a
wash, and I can change the sheets while you’re at it. To put it mildly, Doodle, you stink."
He left the door ajar and listened with half an ear as he freshened the bed, and he was
almost done before he realized that the sound he had heard had nothing whatsoever to
do with getting clean at all.
Elijah clutched at the marble countertop with white-knuckled fingers, his face pale as
milk. He had tried to wash – his t-shirt lay crumpled on the tiled floor, the soap just
spinning to a stop beside it. He looked at Sean with red-rimmed eyes and moaned, "I
don't feel so good, Seanie. The fucking room won't stay still."
Sean was tempted to bundle him back into bed willy-nilly, but he knew from experience
that the sensation of being clean would do more for his patient's disposition than any
amount of pill-popping would achieve – so he lowered the toilet seat and threw a towel
over the cistern.
"Okay," he said, ignoring the tremor of uneasiness in his gut. "Sit down – I'll give you a
bath."
He ran the damp washcloth over Elijah's hair, parting the sweat-slicked strands and
rubbing gently at his scalp, avoiding the clotted red gash behind his left ear. They hadn't
shaved off much, and seemed to have used skin glue to close it. The wound looked to be
healing cleanly, and might not even leave a scar at all.
"Feels good," Elijah murmured. "Head doesn't hurt so bad anymore." He rubbed his
cheek against Sean's wrist, and Sean swallowed hard and moved away to soap the
washcloth up.
"Shut your eyes and hold still." He cupped Elijah's jaw in his hand and went over his face
and ears, then washed his neck, arms, and torso quickly. He could see gooseflesh rising
on the porcelain skin, and a chill was the last thing his patient needed. He rinsed Elijah
off and draped a dry towel around his shoulders, and then he hesitated, his hand on the
waistband of Elijah's boxers.
Elijah looked down at him and remarked, his face devoid of all expression, "It isn't as if
you haven't seen me naked before." He arched against the cistern, lifting his buttocks off
the seat, and Sean steeled himself and pulled the boxers down.
Elijah's cock was half-hard, flushed pink against the ivory skin of his thigh, so familiar
and beautiful. Sean felt the prickling heat of arousal eddy through his body, and knew
that for the last five years, he had been living a lie. With a kind of despair, he divorced
his hands – made them independent of the rest of him. They soaped, washed and dried
mechanically, and he papered his mind with images of his children, walling it away. If he
hadn't done so, they would surely have caressed.
And Elijah stared right over his head and gave no indication that he had noticed anything
at all. By the time Sean had gotten him tucked into bed, Elijah's headache was back in
full-force, and their incipient hard-ons were a memory.
****
Despite his fatigue, Sean found it impossible to sleep. He wasn’t surprised. How could he
rest, with all the questions and admonitions roiling in his brain and the lingering flickers
of his arousal troubling his body? It wasn't as if he didn't make the choices that led to
where he was, but he didn't know what the hell he was going to do now. He knew he was
at a crossroads in his life, and if he couldn't chose which way to go, he might as well be
buried in it with a friggin' stake through his heart.
Finally he gave up and wandered out to the living room in search of something to occupy
his mind and derail the relentless train of his thoughts. He’d been standing in front of the
TV for some minutes, flicking through the channels and staring with blank eyes at the
shifting patterns on the screen, when something, perhaps the sensation of being watched,
made him turn and search the shadows behind him.
Elijah leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed tightly against his chest, his face
composed and his gaze unwavering. Sean raised his brows and opened his mouth – and
Elijah pushed away from the door unsteadily and disappeared into the darkness of the
hallway. After a moment, Sean followed.
"You shouldn't be out of bed, you know," he said. "What if you had fallen again? Debbie
would never forgive me."
Elijah looked up from his perch on the bed and shrugged. "I couldn't sleep," he answered,
and looked away.
"Are you hungry? Can I get you something? Water? What?" Sean knew his mouth was
running away with him again, and he couldn't stop it.
"No." Elijah lifted his legs and slid under the covers. Then he met Sean's eyes and let his
hand fall on the bed beside him. "Stay with me."
Sean's stomach immediately went into free fall, and he clasped his hands behind him,
trying to still their trembling.
"Lij…"
"Please," Elijah whispered. His eyes were bottomless pools of warmth, and Sean tried to
resist the urge to fall into them and drown. "I just want to talk – nothing else, I promise.
Please."
Backlit by the shaded bedside lamp, Elijah's profile on the pillow was a marvel of
perfection, and Sean rolled onto his side to fully appreciate it. "How's the headache?" he
asked, trying to quell the fluttering in his belly.
"Not too bad. But it fucking sucks that I've got you in bed and I can't do shit about it."
The fluttering turned into a whole swarm of butterflies. "Behave yourself," Sean said
sternly. "Now - what did you want to talk about?"
Elijah made a face. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk," he confessed. "You were right, actually
– I was mad at you for... well, you know. I think I've been for years. But I couldn't admit
it to myself. I buried it so deep that I didn't recognize the anger for what it was." He
paused reflectively. "When something is buried that deep, it doesn't get any air. And it
starts to stink. I'm kinda glad I let it out..."
He left off studying the ceiling and turned his head. "I'm not angry anymore." He laughed
softly, "Poof – it's gone. Just like that. Life's too short, Sean."
"Yeah," Sean murmured in response. "That it is."
A companionable silence fell between them, the kind that didn't need filling up with
noise. Life's too short. Sean studied the crossroads, smiled and chose his path.
"Sorry about breakfast," Elijah said presently. "I was really looking forward to it."
"So was I." Sean stuck out his lower lip and allowed a whine to creep into his voice. "It
looked delicious, Lij."
"Want a rain check?"
"Only if we prepare it together. Any monkeying around, I'm doing myself, thank you."
Sean grinned to himself, thinking about the house-warming gift he had left behind. He
figured Elijah would know what to do with a metal-and-wood palm tree carved with
cavorting monkeys. Use it as a coatrack, perhaps.
"Deal," Elijah giggled. "Thank you for everything, Sean. Mom was quite impressed, you
know. She called you my "knight in shining armor" and told me how lucky I was."
Sean snorted. "Some knight – traipsing all over the damned house while you were lying
there bleeding…
Elijah laid a finger against his lips. "No. You are my knight. And still my Sam, after all
these years. Funny, isn't it?"
They lay looking at each other for a long moment, and Sean thought, A knight without
armor, you mean. Because I have none against you. Suddenly all Sean wanted to do was
give comfort, and take a little for himself as well. "Come here," he said gruffly, and held
out his arms.
Elijah scooted backward gingerly, snuggling into the curve of Sean's body with a
contented sigh. "I've missed this," he murmured, pulling Sean's arm close around his
chest.
Sean nuzzled the dark hair and took a deep breath of antiseptic-laced Elijah. "So have I."
And he smiled, thinking that if their lives were written in a Book, he would have heard the
sea.
End
KNIGHT WITHOUT ARMOR
