I'm not sure how many beers we'd had by the time Orlando suggested getting matching tattoos. There was slurred argument about what it should be—argument that, in the end, gathered the opinions of half the pub patrons and both bartenders.

It seems the idea had been discussed between Viggo and Orli for weeks now. And, of course, jumping into the car and finding the nearest tattoo parlor was particularly appealing halfway through a third round of Guinness.

Dom and Billy agreed that it should be something Tolkien-ish; something that would identify us all as "The Fellowship." Getting a tattoo in English would fall short of that sentiment, but none of us could come up with a simple symbol or picture that would pull it off, either.

"No, no," Orli argued, sloshing beer on the table. "It's got to be like, something secret, you know? Something we'll only understand, man, it's got to be."

Elijah was into the idea, but less vocal about it; I think it was because he wasn't as drunk as the rest of us. I normally stayed at least halfway sober as well, but for some reason, felt like joining in on the fun that night.

Being drunk—or at least almost there, as I said—made it easier to stare at Elijah and not feel guilty about it. I sat next to him like always, my eyes turning soft circles over his body and face when he wasn't looking.

I silently grappled with the mixture of violent lust and overwhelming tenderness I felt for him; but it was guilt in my chest, finally, because thinking about that had to be wrong. Not supposed to think of the boy like that. Not supposed to think of a co-worker like that.

Tempting, though, I had to admit, doing that sort of thinking. He provided such a splash of innocent youth across the page; friendly, energetic, dedicated. And at the same time there were adult secrets behind it all—behind the buttons of his shirt, behind the stitches along the seam of his faded jeans. And those eyes, as expressive and brilliant as they were, kept things from you.

It seemed to be a natural impulse to want to take that sparkling innocence—so much like charged, fuzzy noise—and shake it and mold it and bend it to your will. And how I wanted to! I wanted to grab him and push him back into the hallway near the men's bathroom and tear his clothes off his compact, boyish body; I wanted to bruise that flushed-carnation colored mouth with mine until he begged me to stop.

The alcohol helped the fantasy along as the pub went whirling loudly around us, hazy with cigarette smoke and reeking of beer. I closed my eyes for just a moment.

My leg was touching his, simply because we sat close together in the booth, and I imagined stretching my hand over and squeezing my hand down his thigh. I imagined a ticklish reaction if I were to close my hand over his knee and press. I imagined him stiffening if, on the way back up his thigh, my fingertips would fall inward and move up the inseam of his pants.

But that was the softcore thought. In the pub's back hallway of my mind, there stood an Elijah desperate and begging for my caresses; an Elijah given to frantic groping—an Elijah I had never seen and had no proof of actually existing. I was biting and kissing my way down this Elijah’s chest. I obsessed over the part of his stomach just below his bellybutton, loving the feel of his breathing. I placed a soft bite against the fleshy side of his hip. I tried to imagine what his whimpers might sound like. Fantasy Elijah always whimpered so nicely.

When I opened my eyes, the pub was the same around me, minus a member or two of the Fellowship that had gone off to dance.

"You alright, Astin?"

I looked up at Elijah, my body throbbing from the fantasy, and smiled.

"Mm," I replied. "I think I've had too many."

He had reached the point of intoxication where he got lethargic; when the beer's effect started to wane. I loved when it got to that, because he seemed even riper for ravishing when he was drowsy.

"We should get going," I said. "It's late."

He nodded absently and started to gather his keys and his cell-phone.

My mind floated back to my urges, and particularly to the second half of them: the tenderness. I left the back hallway of my mind where fantasy Elijah was doing wickedly enjoyable things with his tongue to my left nipple. To feel that tenderness, I didn’t have to look any farther than the Elijah right in front of me.

That emotion came around times like this. When he was sitting more slumped than usual, all wide, sleepy eyes and wobbly smiles. He seemed almost sad. But I knew he was just tired from the long hours we spent shooting. I knew that, at times, our weekend excursions lasted a little longer and played out a little harder than he might have preferred.

And that feeling made me want to stroke him from head to foot; smooth back the hair from his temples, warm him up nice and slow, and watch the near-invisible changes in him as he accepted touch after touch from my roving hands.

In the end it all came down to one thing, whether the cloak thrown over it was violent or gentle: arousal. I was becoming ever more obsessed with wanting to see him aroused. I got ghostly imitations of that state when I saw what he was like when excited or angry—both on and off camera. But I wanted more. I wanted to hear my name on his lips; I wanted to feel his pulse race.

So I ran myself in desperate, mental circles—searching for these pretty descriptions of lust like winks of gold vein in rock, until the time with him ran out and the night was over. It was like coming out of a fog, leaving him or watching him leave. Every time he disappeared, he took a huge chunk of me with him. It was getting harder to say goodnight.

And of course, it never went anywhere between us. I didn't expect it to. I didn’t even expect him to notice it. I was a schoolboy chasing some unavailable classmate across the playground and around the monkey bars, all over again.

It was strange, though, that sort of de-aged feeling you get when you have an unhealthy obsession with someone. That’s the kind of attraction you abandon by the end of high school, at least. And the fact that it had nowhere to go only perpetuated it; only made it seem more and more appealing. So fucking predictable.

"Sean!"

I blinked.

"The driver's here," Elijah said, reaching for our jackets and then tossing me mine.

All around me the Fellowship was filing outside and into the waiting van. We hadn't bothered to designate a sober driver for the night and the bartender knew us by now, so he'd gone ahead and called it for us.

Elijah grinned at my dazed expression and tossed an arm around my neck, playfully laying a loud, smacking kiss on my cheek.

What a British thing to do, I thought, as I briefly entertained the idea of tackling him into the backseat of the van.

"Cheer up, Sam, me dear."

Right.

For our part, we just hoped they would get the Elvish number "9" right. Hell, we had gone to great lengths to check the books, and had even consulted Christopher Lee before going ahead with it.

I’ll admit, though, that getting a tattoo seemed like much less fun without beer in your system. I was just a little uncomfortable. I wanted to get the tattoo, though, and besides—I would never live it down if I wussed out in front of the whole gang.

We waited for them to make stencils of the shape and select the right shades of black or blue that we all wanted, and then went in pairs to get it done. (Needless to say, I went in with Elijah.)

The antiseptic smell of rubbing alcohol assaulted me as I stepped inside the brightly-lit room. A big burly guy—with a New Zealand accent so think I could barely understand him—was opening up a fresh needle.

The whole room was intimidating and spiky, and I wasn't too sure how credible it was. Who picked the place, anyway? Dom, answered Elijah. Oh dear. I tried in vain to remember the various types of diseases you could get from shoddy tattoo application.

"You look green around the edges," Elijah observed.

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Shut up, Frodo."

"Want me to go first?"

"...Yeah."

"Thought so."

I smirked and swatted his arm and he flopped into the parlor chair like it was a lazy-boy. He kept making squelchy mock-pained faces at me in between discussing the tattoo and the needle with the artist.

Oh, my God. Fuck. Holy fucking... Damnit.

I prayed for release as I stood there in the annoyingly pastel-yellow light of the tattoo parlor. My fingers were on Elijah's shoulder as he winced and twitched under the artist's needle.

Another preview, I thought dismally, while his eyelids twitched and his hips shifted at the oddest angle on the reclined chair.

That was quite possibly the sexiest place I could ever imagine a tattoo on his body. I hadn’t even thought of where he might get it. I hadn’t even thought tattoos were attractive until this very moment.

He had been under the needle for a while now, his jeans undone around his thighs, and his boxers pushed down as far as they could go on his pelvis without exposing himself.

My eyes fixed on the line of those boxers, where it cut into his pale flesh; where, if I looked hard enough, I could see the dark hair that just might be pubic hair; and if I didn't get out of the room in ten seconds, I was going to have to sit down with a magazine over my crotch.

"Ow. Ow ow ow. OW."

I snickered at him, hiding entirely my racing thoughts.

"Be brave, Ringbearer."

"Fuck you, Sean," he said sweetly.

I laughed and was tempted to say, "Name the time." But I thought better of it.

I watched his fingers grip the armrest and then sighed.

Bloody hell. Need a nap. Too old for this.

By the time it was done and the bandage had been applied, I was shaking with urges. It was all I could do to stand him getting flocked around in the waiting room by our gang, showing it off and pretending like it hadn't hurt at all. And I had no time to go over to him, because I was being tugged inside to get tattooed myself.

sean/elijah                                                                                            2/4