Elijah had known that Sean was drunk. A drunk Sean was either an entirely morose or an entirely giddy Sean, and this was also something Elijah knew. But it didn't mean Elijah couldn't accept that what Sean was saying was true; and it didn't mean that he was incapable of feeling sorry for the bastard. Sean tried so hard to satisfy every expectation that stuck to him that he very often missed the mark on every fucking one of them.

Later, when they weren't so drunk, he wondered if it was possible to love someone unconditionally and feel sorry for them at the same time. Weren't pity and love supposed to be mutually exclusive, at least in a healthier friendship?

He watched Sean run the gamut in both professional and personal relations; had seen Sean at his best and his worst and every stop in between. And despite the number of times Elijah had covered his face in embarrassment at conventions and wished Sean would just shut the hell up, he still believed in the Theory of the Necessary Existence of People like Sean Astin. He believed that the world needed them in a way, needed those guys that would blather on and embarrass themselves and say things no one wanted to hear because, no matter how vexing it seemed, they were speaking words that might as well be spoken, words that never left any long-lasting sourness.

So he guessed it was also okay to feel divided.

And he thought about the long stretches of time when Sean was busy not being a caricature of himself. He thought about Sean, sprawled across his couch at eleven-thirty in the evening.

"D'you know that I think—and this is just speculation—that, that I think, that I...have no toes."

Elijah stopped picking glue from behind his ear. "You've inhaled too many paint fumes."

"Oh," Sean moaned, flexing his ankles. "Oh, you're right. Fuck. And also, um, I think I'm lying on your car keys. Or, you know, your couch has grown some, uh, spikes."

An exhausted giggle passed Elijah's lips. The mental image of Sean being devoured by a spiky monster version of his rather worn couch amused him far more than it should've. He hobbled over and fell on top of Sean's legs, fishing around for the keys under Sean's middle.

"No-no spot," Sean squeaked, and Elijah choked on another laugh, falling sideways onto the carpet. "Elijah!"

"Oh, man," he said, bending into an impossible pretzel shape and hauling himself forward to lean against the couch cushions and Sean. "I am fucking fucked."

"Translation."

"Tired."

Sean nodded, rolling over with difficulty, and Elijah's hands and cheek pressed against his belly. "Hey."

"Mm?" Elijah closed his eyes.

"You're a good guy."

"Thank you."

"No, I mean it. I mean, you. I like this. Working with you. You make it very—"

"Sexy."

"—comfortable."

"Sweet talk me when you're awake. This isn't nearly flattering enough to keep me from hitting you."

Sean grunted and turned onto his side. "I'm not sweet talking." He blinked groggily. "I've never told you this, but. Sometimes, sometimes I'm not the most...I'm not the easiest person to work with."

That had done it. Elijah opened his eyes and watched Sean's face, just a wash of shadow in the dark living room. It happens like this, Elijah thought, almost laughing. When people start openly admitting things that are obvious anyway.

"I know," he said, smiling fondly, as if he hadn't yet noticed this. The warmth from Sean's skin bled through his sweater and heated Elijah's cheek. "It's cool."

"I'm sorry," Sean said, and fuck if he didn't sound like he might cry, and god, had they really had so little sleep, "if I ever, um, I don't know, made it harder for you to work, or."

"Astin, shut the fuck up," Elijah said, cutting him off, and buried his face in Sean's sweater. He loved Sean, of course, but when the self-depreciating bullshit started, he had to say something. In the beginning when he'd done that, Sean had winced. But months into filming, now, Sean just held his breath and his thoughts until they came to gentle stop. It was almost fucking visible to Elijah, who peeked up just in time to make eye contact with Sean. They both exhaled simultaneously. "Better?"

Sean nodded, used to the ritual by now. "Thanks."

'Cause, yeah, Elijah took care of Sean, too.

"I've got to get home," Sean said.

He had never stayed the night, nor fallen dizzily into Elijah's bed the way Dom had done Billy's. And yet it never really went away, that Thing That Never Happened But Might've.

Elijah remembered each goodbye and each hello, the sun rising and falling on their faces. Another day, another pair of hobbit feet. He remembered a soft kiss (thank you) brushed across his mouth with each parting and greeting, kisses that were not kisses even though they were. Sean had a talent for weaving regret and gratitude so tightly that the former was lost under the brightness of the latter. By the time filming ended, denial was nothing more than a myth. I've always had you.

He was okay with it even years later, celebrating the tenth anniversary of Fellowship, and still pondering the inside of Sean's skull—or, more specifically, the part of it that belonged, and would always belong, to him.