It happens.

And I have to explain why it happens, because if I don't—if I let the silence sink in—the guilt will come in with it—the what's and why's and how's—and deep down those things just don't matter, even if they do hurt. Because it happens for perfectly natural reasons and within a space that is consumed by borders of why-this-occurs. Because blame is sticky-dark and doesn't wash off and I can't.

It happens because we're in Middle Earth. (I can't remember what California feels like.) The air here has altered me by way of my lungs and I can't think of breathing anything else. It's nearly the same as the catch in my chest when he's standing just to my right.

It happens because I feel too much and see too much and offer too much. I cracked down the center and had all the gooey wealth of my insides exposed in a hotel lobby in California when that messy-haired five feet and six inches of insanity came barreling at me with all the intensity and persistence of a bullet. I see too much because he's always there and it's always us or me-watching-over-him and because I'm not terribly good at looking away. I offer too much because that's my chosen path to love and because it creates a warmth inside me.

It happens because he's everything I expected him to be—with a liquid, cherry center of everything else that I could have never, ever prepared myself for. And they say it's the beauty and the eyes, but honestly, those are just surface tremors when compared to the earthquake that is the rest of him. In the end, I guess, it's the fact that the beauty and personality exist in the same individual that is the most scandalous.

"Hello?"

"Sean? You asleep?"

"Yeah," I answer, clearing my throat and voice of sleep as best I can.

"I didn't leave my keys in your car, by any chance, did I?" he asks, sounding apologetic.

"Don't think so," I say, feeling the déjà vu, because we've had this conversation before, and also smiling, because I know what's coming and I can see the furrow of God-I-must-be-such-a-bother between his eyebrows.

"Could you...?"

"I'll look around. Call you back in five?"

"Thanks, man."

"No problem."

It should be strange climbing out of bed and pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt to search my living room and car for someone else's keys. But it's not. And come to think of it, it wasn't even strange the first time it happened.

I find the glittery, cold jumble of keys on the driveway near the car, just next to the passenger side door. Smiling, I pocket them, and straighten out my own keys while sinking into the driver's seat and starting up the engine. The world is a silent, cold blue-black all around me and I feel as if it's pressing down on the outside of the car.

My head's sort of floating with waking up from the temperature and the odd rumble of the car under my body that was relaxed in sleep ten minutes before. For a few seconds, it seems truly unreal, and I watch myself in the third person—how insane he looks, this guy sloppily dressed with sleep in his eyes, going to his co-star's house on what is no more than an errand-favor. How thoroughly unglamorous.

But it can't be any other way, can it? And if you were to ask me to tell you why in a phrase or two, I couldn't.

He's curled up knees-to-chest outside his door when I pull my car into his driveway. Already toting a huge smile, I feel his presence slide firmly under my skin, and it touches me in different ways—making my head fill up with empty noise, making my body warm, making me feel self-conscious.

The night all around is heavy and cold in a way that only the late hour can make it. I feel for a silly second that we're the only two people in the whole of New Zealand. The silence seems to extend straight through to every house and street around us.

The moonlight illuminates vast patches of space in contrast to the dark corners and shadows where it can't go. And, sure, I notice it on my arms, and I've always sort of liked that, how it changes your skin's tone and makes you feel different. But what it does to him? Fuck, you just cannot compare. He literally glows in the dark, with his hair all in different directions, sweater sleeves tugged down around his hands and several cigarette butts littering the ground at his sneaker-covered feet.

He hops up as soon as I kill the engine, jogging his little boy jog over to my side of the car and tackling me, throwing his arms around my neck. I've lost track of how many times he's greeted me this way.

"You're completely insane! You didn't have to..."

"Tssch, it's nothing. I was already so awake that I figured what the hell."

"Come inside? It's freezing." He tugs my sleeve and takes a step towards the house.

My hesitation is embarrassing in that every-day way. "It's late..."

"Exactly," he says. "We've only got a few hours before our call anyway. Crash here."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," he says, to the tune of duh, you big insane type person, and hangs on my sleeve all the way into the warmth of the house.

I'm not thinking much about this as I file in behind him. Sort of numb to these things until after they happen and tonight's no exception. I watch the silver lump of keys wink at me even after I can't see him in the dark—he's gone down the hall to change.

Shrugging my jacket off, I wander towards the living room. The house is still tinged with the feel of having not been occupied for a full day. There are no lights on, so everything is blue-black just like the outside, only there's more black than blue because of the half-drawn curtains on every window. It feels as quiet and isolated as the driveway.

I lapse into third person again—and in that frame of mind, things come to me that maybe wouldn't if I was still thinking narrowly. Thinking that way, I can see all the setup for a night that holds promise. Things happen in moonlit, near-empty houses when two people who react strongly to each other are alone. When those people are tired and unguarded at the end of the day, when they're maybe a little cold and a little lonely and a little in tune to each other. When the married person's wife is visiting family back home for the next two weeks.

It's like a movie, I think, and then I lapse back.

But that's just an excuse, isn't it? Because I started having those thoughts the moment I heard his boyish voice on the phone. Gathered strength all through the drive. And consequently seeing him and touching him kept it rolling. The aloneness is just an excuse for the fact that I've never been able to control my thoughts about Elijah when he and I are together like this.

So it is your fault, I accuse myself, and I accept that. But accepting it doesn't make it stop. In fact, it just may make it worse.

Elijah comes back, sweat-pants and t-shirt clad, and falls over onto his couch.

Yeah, I think. Makes it worse.

A slow inhale and a quick redirection of my eyes away from his body and I'm in the armchair just to the side of the couch, watching him fiddle with the buttons of the small stereo on the end table.

We sit in mutually enjoyable silence for a while. Elijah flicks a CD case at me and it hits me in the middle. Blinking, I look at it.

"Yours," he explains.

"Ah."

"Christine call?"

"This afternoon."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She's gonna stay the full two weeks. Take Alex shopping. Girl time, she says."

He sprawls out on his stomach, smiling at that, hooking the fronts of his ankles over the far armrest of the couch, white-socked toes making slow, idle curls before settling. Why the image is sexual to me, I have no idea. Then there's the way his ankles move and the way his sweatpants sink around his calves and the way the cloth tightens over his backside—and I feel myself gradually forgetting what I was saying.

"We should get some sleep," I say, trying at least to keep my surface thoughts hidden.

"We should," he agrees, but he doesn't move.

The music coming from the stereo is surprisingly low—I can't even make out what it is, exactly, besides the fact that it has a hard bass line. The beat-and-silence combination goes on for a while longer. When he finally pops up and disturbs the stillness, I'm startled.

"Get some blankets," he murmurs, and disappears again into the hall.

I push all the air out of my lungs, force myself to look away from his retreating form, and lay my head back against the chair. When he appears again with an armful of blankets and a couple pillows, I move to help. Together we sort out the bedding.

He grabs a hold of the blanket on one corner and I accidentally take the other—tugging at the same moment. Grinning, he tugs back. I look up at him, which I was trying very hard not to do, because of the heart-shaped, shocking beauty of his face and how his eyes wink like shiny black marbles in the darkness of the room. I could stare for hours at his boyish cheeks, the pink smudge of his mouth, and the way his eyelashes cast half-moon shadows down his face. Frightened longing.

When Elijah Wood blushes, it's all at once; the blood comes up and softly floods his face and neck like watery, carnation-pink ink. And I'm so distracted by it that I forget to wonder why he's blushing.

Grinning back at him, I tug the blanket.

"Gimme."

(How long has it taken for me to fall back to acting like a teenager? The boys demand it with the way they act, and I'm dragged along with it, all the while thinking I'll never be able to act cool enough for them, and yet here I am, acting just the way they do. I sort of love them for it.)

He yanks back.

"You're the guest. I'll do it."

"Elijah."

Tug.

"Sean."

Tug tug.

Giggling, he tosses the sheet up suddenly around my head and shoulders and drags me forward with it. Scrambling and disoriented in the sudden second layer of darkness, I flop over onto the couch and he falls next to me. Smirking, he lifts the sheet and peeks at me over its edge.

"Where are the cat-like reflexes, Mister Hobbit?" he asks, left eyebrow up, sheet over the lower half of his face, all teasing.

"You're the kitten here," I blurt out.

Ah, fuck.

The other eyebrow goes up along with an incredulous expression.

"What?" I ask, trying to sound defensive.

"Right," he says, dropping the sheet entirely and falling across my lap.

As usual, I sit back; watching him and making sure my hands don't touch him. He treats me exactly as he would treat Billy or Dom or Orli, and I like that. I'd love to return the affection the way the other guys do. But I know that if I were to start doing that, it would be a lie, from the off. Because touching him is so much more than a friendly gesture and I don't think I could hide that.

Oh, but staring? Staring is another thing entirely. Staring has taken on a new meaning in the past six months. I just may have perfected it.

I move my hand from where it's sunk into the couch cushion and my fingers brush the top of his head accidentally. His eyes are closed and he tilts his head a bit, bringing my hand further against the spot. Lightly I pet back the ruffled hair, noticing that his scalp is very hot.

"You okay?" I ask.

Daddy Astin, yep. That's me. Paternal. Dad. Father type figure with the—

Okay. Not working. Note to self: get new angle.

"Mm."

Which is a yes, right?

"You have a fever? You're hot."

"Mm-mm."

It's my turn to raise an eyebrow this time.

"Elijah..."

"Yeees?"

"You're weird."

He giggles again.

"Thanks," he mutters, and his voice is sort of husky. His face turns in the direction of my stomach.

It's annoying how aware I become of my breathing. Of the movement that it makes in my stomach and chest; of how I can't seem to sit still when I need to sit still or otherwise I'd go bumping against parts of him that I just can't afford to get familiar with. And becoming aware of all that and trying to stop the reaction that follows only makes it more obvious. Which is sort of the ultimate kick in the ass, when you think about it.

My fingers keep lightly moving over the same spot on his head, no doubt annoying him, but I feel trapped and bound by the repetitiveness of the motion. Subtly, after steeling myself against a thump of heartbeat, I splay my palm just a little farther, pushing the pieces of hair back from his forehead.

His eyes are closed and the blush is happening again—that sudden, obvious highlight of pink now bordering on red. I see a tiny tick of muscle in his forehead and then near the corners of his eyes and his eyelids tremble before he tucks his cheek firmly against my sweatshirt. His skin is still fevered against my fingertips.

Think.

No. Go away. It's a protective thing. I mean, I'm allowed—

Think!

Damnit.

I lower my hand back to the couch after shifting all the hair back away from where it flopped. He shifts around sleepily, as if already dozing, though the tense awareness in him is obvious and I know he's no where near sleep.

"Feels nice," he breathes.

Shit.

Feeling stupid, I lift my hand again, stroking over already memorized paths. Praying his eyes stay closed because I can't resist looking now. Staring intently and wishing there was more light so I could see the color in his cheeks better. Shivering slowly from the sensation that goes up through the pads of my fingertips.

Near his brow again, I pause, and watch disconnectedly as my fingers pass along the ridge there and smooth down an eyebrow. His chest rises with a slow breath; and he has the stillness of a cat before it starts to purr; and I begin to lose all sense of conscious control.

There's a tiny patch of very soft skin to the side of his eye. I have a brief love affair with it, turning feather-light circles there before daring to sweep an arch along the side of his cheek.

And then I realize that I'm shaking and what the hell am I doing and the urge to think comes over me again.

Just as three of my fingertips have come to rest on the upward curve of his cheek, his eyes open. I get caught in the split-second of eye contact that we share; that wet, needy gaze of his shooting barbs straight through to the center of me. A second later the look is gone and he's just plainly staring, but my shaking redoubles anyway and panic floods in with it and suddenly I need to be far, far away from him.

"I—I need to—" My body begins to squirm, hands and feet trying to find holds to hoist myself up and out of this house. He fucking knows. God, how else—but do I really think that? Not so sure now.

"What's wrong?" Rushed, worried, and the spell is broken, because the sleepy kitten is replaced by a very, very real Elijah, who isn't helping much by refusing to move.

"Can't do this," I mumble, and he sits up finally, but instead of bolting I sit forward on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, shoulders hunched.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him run a hand through his hair. Some of the pink fades from his brow and he scoots to the edge of the couch with me, looking guilty and disappointed and beautiful.

"'M'sorry, Sean, I—yeah. Forget it."

"It's okay." Mumbled again. It doesn't matter whether I mean that or not, because I don't know what I'm declaring okay in the first place. I'm frozen where I sit.

He looks at me for a long moment; I'm forced to look back. I start to say something, then stop, and finally settle for bracing myself. Something knotted and pulsing does a flop in my chest.

I don't want to go...

Please stay with me.

God, I can't. There are eight million reasons why I can't...

Need you, Sean.

You always need me, Elijah.

It aches at night, Sean.

I know.

It aches all over. Please...

Blinking, I break the eye contact, panic and trembling now firmly settled in my stomach.

Is it about comfort? Is it the sturdy person he sees me as that makes him cling the way he does? Does he know that when we brush like this that I can't breathe?

"You left your keys on purpose."

Silence.

"And last Friday. You locked yourself out. You knew I'd be there."

Anxious shift from his side of the couch.

"I didn't know how else to—"

"To what? Corner me? Christ, Elijah, we're together all day long."

I stand, feeling indignant, and that's good—I can avoid everything else. And the fact that I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to be angry about makes it easy to be vague and not care one bit.

What are we talking about?

Damned if I know.

So I look at him but I don't let myself see him. If I did that, my heart would break around the gentle sadness and the youth in him. He sighs, chews his lip, and stares at the coffee table.

"Won't happen again," he says very quietly, and I feel terrible.

But it's not—I mean, I'm not saying...

Well, what else would he think you're saying, you moron?

I'm scared of this. I don't know what else to say.

And on a swell of strength and numbness I decide that I'm going to leave. I grab my jacket, sidestep the coffee table, and stick a hand into my pocket to grip my keys. He says nothing and does nothing and the leaving makes me dizzy and fills me with regret.

I barely hear the door close behind me. I stand there in the New Zealand nighttime, shaking and nervous, cold and hot—torn between the warm promise of the house behind me and the empty drive back home.

It processes in my mind that I'm on the sharp and narrow edge between two radical decisions. One string of steps in either direction will take me to two very different ends. I feel unstable enough to lunge for the car and drive off in a rage. I feel unstable enough to kick the door in and grab him. Both are exaggerations of the discomfort (excitement) my feelings for him cause me.

So I stand there, letting the cold in deeply through my nostrils, and waiting for the anxious need to make a decision go away. It gets better, a little, when I put it all in perspective.

But it doesn't make going or staying any easier.

The door opens—a single, soft creak from its hinges falls on me like a shiver, though it feels as if it's miles behind me—and I hear him come up behind me, stepping lightly. I close my eyes, dreading whatever he has to say. Frightened that if we actually put into words what has always been there silent between us, that I'll crumble.

Hands in the pockets of a hastily thrown on sweatshirt, he comes to a stop in front of me, head bowed against the breeze.

"You must think I'm even more immature now."

I chuckle. Can't help it. Because I should think that, really. But I don't.

"Never thought you were immature to begin with."

I can't look at him. The line between my two options keeps getting more and more threadbare. I can feel the itch in my hands now to reach out and touch him.

"Forget this," he says; and his tone is casual and plain to balance out the serious weight behind the words. "It's a waste of your time to worry about it."

Meaning: Whatever feelings I have for you are unimportant when put up in comparison to the life you already have. The shear honesty in him makes me feel worse. And there it is again, that attempt to be decades older and more responsible than he should have to be. That thing that only captivates me more. That thing that makes me want to burrow further into his head.

"If you mean what you're saying, then that's it. I mean. The visits, the extra stuff. The nights...the—" Am I actually saying this?

"I know."

"Why is this coming up now?"

"It's...getting harder."

I sigh. Outwardly it's all silence but inwardly my brain pounces on those four words and tears them apart looking for clues or meaning or indication. And if I were to follow that through to the end, it would take me to a place that I've never been. So I stop.

"Didn't want this for us."

"Neither did I," he says, scuffing his toe against the line between two cement blocks.

"We can't. Avoid this, I mean. The time we spend together is only going to double—"

"I've thought plenty about it, Sean."

"It's not just—"

"I know. If it was just that, we could take it out on other people."

"But you can't." Flat, but also implying a further explanation is wanted.

"I've tried," he says, darting a look up at me and then quickly away again.

I'm not going to ask with whom he's tried it. I don't want to know. But images come anyway: Billy's hands around Elijah's waist, Dom's mouth on Elijah's neck, Orlando's legs tangled with Elijah's. It could be any one of them. I definitely don't want to know.

I exhale slowly.

"This is..."

"Too fucking much."

"Yeah." Another exhale.

He takes a step forward. I can feel his body heat and that's enough to set the warning bells off. I look at him and the whole of what he is tumbles cartwheels all up and down my center.

"Ever think about it?" he asks softly, his large eyes on mine taking a gradual path downward that stops dead on my mouth.

I say yes, but nothing comes out. So I clear my throat and try again.

"Yes." Low, barely audible—an attempt at clarity. My breathing has stopped working correctly again; can't possibly stay steady when he's looking at me like this. A violent trembling takes over my thoughts more than my body and I'm struck by it, wondering if I even have the strength to step away again.

"Kind of fucked up to end something...that never started." Inch closer. "Don't you think?"

Shiiit.

"What do you think about?" he asks, and his breath is on my mouth, and I just realize now that my eyes are closed.

"I... Lijah—"

And when there's just breath and air and the blinding dark behind your eyelids, you can say pretty much anything. The inches of space and reason that seem to form a complete barrier between one thing and the next become unimportant. There's nothing at all to simply leaning forward and letting the consuming urge melt upwards from your toes to your hair.

I open my eyes and we're toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye. Shocks like electricity, subsumed under layers of skin, tripping and stumbling, opposing rhythms of heartbeat, one chasing the other frantically—wait for me—and it's funny how it can be that fucking much and it doesn't show at all.

If he says something, this is going to shatter. I know that. I know he won't.

I see him start that split-second motion forwards and I inhale deeply, my personal space sweetly invaded—closer-closer-too close. I let my eyes close again.

Break it down: three parts to it. Top lip, breathy warm void, and bottom lip—parted mouth. I feel it disturb the space in front of my mouth before I feel it on my mouth. And it touches a moment later, softly brushing back and forth, whispering its secrets and promises left to right, right to left in a graze so perfectly placed that it sends more tingling down my body than anything else he could've done.

My mouth parts in response, though I can't move. My fingers are trembling noticeably at my sides. And it feels awfully lame of us, standing there with just our mouths pressing, like little boys sneaking time behind the slide at recess.

His top lip is between my lips, and the empty space that was his parted mouth closes in a soft, slow kiss, my bottom lip caught between his. There's the lightest noise of suction when the kiss completes itself—my lips closing around his top lip in a pucker.

Pause. Oh God. Low noise; quick breath; again. More sure this time, our lips pushing further into the space between parted lips. Like a shock through the experience I feel a sudden freezing touch on either cheek and I realize he's brought his cold palms up to cup either side of my face. Oh God.

Something dangerous and explosive snowballs down my spine, gathering force.

His mouth is small and delicate and I can feel the fear in him and the hesitation. He probably expected to be smacked from the moment he stepped towards me.

He pulls back a bit and when he sinks forward again, I feel the slow, sensual tickle of his tongue fill the space between my lips—a mesmerizing imitation of a thrust: in and out, achingly slow. Oh God. I can feel the ghostly disturbance of his eyelashes.

The column of tongue retreats, drawing a soft lick just along the inside of my upper lip—the jagged pleasure trickles down the back of my neck—and he seals the gesture with a kiss—a slow-motion kiss for a slow-motion moment. Oh God.

The world comes to a grinding halt when I feel the wet pressure of his mouth lift. I stand there, fingernails digging into my palms, so unsettled that I have no doubt I'm a moment away from falling over.

I open my eyes again. His are still closed. He hovers there where he is. The dampness on his bottom lip shines in the light of the moon and there are red blotches across his cheeks and nose and forehead. I watch him swallow slowly. He licks his bottom lip—Oh God—and I realize his hands have fallen to my shoulders.

He opens his eyes, letting out a pent-up breath. We stare at each other, chests rising unevenly, drawn to the sight of each other's mouths again, obsessed with the barest remainder of the kiss there—dampness, pink shading round the lips.

If this were a fairy tale or a movie, my next cue would be to wrap my arms around him or cup his face in my hands or drag him in for another, more thorough kiss. But this isn't scripted and it isn't perfect. I'm numb and devastated and worried and madly in love with what has happened. Complication.

"I'm...going to—"

He nods quickly as we take half steps back away from each other—unsettled.

"You should."

"Feet tomorrow. We'll talk before the set call?"

Another nod; breathy, nervous, accommodating, still recovering. "Yeah."

My only thought on the drive home:

I won't feel a single goddamn thing until I'm with him again.

sean/elijah                                                                                            2/3