mirabile_dictu

Title: Timor Mortis Conturbat Me (The Fear of Death Troubles Me)
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: SA/EW
Rating: R
Summary: The fear of death troubles me
Disclaimer: Complete codswallop. Not only is this not true, it isn't ever going to be true. It's really really really not true.

Warnings: Set in 2011, the tenth anniversary of the release of FOTR. I have wrought significant havoc with the personal and professional lives of the LOTR cast and crew. I've also made some changes to the City of Wellington. I don't know if the story is "dark," but readers should expect that shit will happen to all of us in the next decade. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

A/N: Title taken from William Dunbar's poem "Lament For The Makers." Written for the sister of my heart, empress_wu.


The Fellowship was breaking. First, nearly six years ago, when John, his battered body exhausted by injuries and illness, had died in his sleep while filming in Romania. His family had buried him in Wales, and the remaining Fellowship and many of the cast and crew had gathered in respect, sharing the family's grief.

Shockingly, the next to break faith was Sean Bean, lost in a helicopter accident. He, too, had died in harness, filming in New York. The copter had gone down on a perfectly clear, perfectly still spring day. Equipment failure or pilot error, no one was ever sure why; it had simply plummeted to earth over Central Park. The Fellowship had gathered again, this time in Sheffield, to say goodbye to another of its own.

And now there were only seven to gather in Wellington for the tenth anniversary of the release of Lord of the Rings. Peter had worked for years creating his ultimate vision of the Rings cycle, combining all three movies into one massive extended version, culling from the millions of feet of film he'd kept safely stored in temperature- and humidity-controlled facilities. Howard had finally been able to use the entire opera he'd created, and WETA had polished the various versions of Gollum into one seamless, brilliant performance.

It was to be a very special time in Wellington. The Return of the Kings, a local paper had dubbed the occasion, and Sean thought that true. He had been royally greeted at the airport, chauffeured to a luxurious hotel built on a manmade island in the harbor, and housed in an enormous suite full of fruit baskets and boxes of candy. An itinerary, heavily embossed and framed, sat on the desk, and his minder, a nice Kiwi named Nancy, had promised to pick him up just before noon the next day to bring him to Peter's much-enlarged studio, where he would be reunited with the remaining cast and crew for the first of a series of parties, some private, most public.

He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window and tugged back the sheer white curtain to peer out at the harbor gleaming in the moonlight. The South Island ferry chugged away, its wake rippling the surface and shattering the moon's reflection into chips of silver. Like Earendil's star scattered over the sea, he thought, and rested his forehead against the cool glass.

He was here alone. He'd left Thom back in LA, preparing to move out of their apartment. They'd been together nearly three years, his longest relationship since the breakup with Christine. They'd kissed goodbye at the airport with genuine sorrow, but Sean knew it was for the best. Thom was a good friend and a pleasing lover, but he wasn't what Sean was looking for. Or what he needed.

He sighed and turned away from the silver beauty of the night to unpack, wondering what would happen tomorrow. He hadn't seen many of the Fellowship since the other Sean's funeral, and they'd all been too heartbroken to do more than hug and weep in each other's arms. That hadn't been the time or place for long confidences, not with anyone.

Ian had spoken at the funeral. Sean still remembered his beautiful voice, now a bit quavery, expressing his grief at losing not just a friend but an artist of Sean's abilities. "I am too old," he had said, "we are all too old to leave undone that which should have been done. Sean lived fully, completely, a big man with a big life, doing that which he feared so he might do that which he loved. We should emulate him."

No one, Sean reflected, could say that about him. On bad days, he sometimes wondered if the wrong Sean had been killed. He'd been in New York that day, giving a talk at a high school for the creative arts and appearing at a benefit for dyslexia, something his daughter Lizzie struggled with. Sean had felt so helpless when he'd heard the news from a breathless fan, almost ecstatic to be the first to tell him. What could he do? Go to the hospital? Call the police? There was no need to identify the body; everyone knew.

So Sean had assumed the expression of public grief that men in his position must, thanked the fan for the news, and returned to his work. He didn't permit himself to really think about Sean until he was back in LA for yet another talk and another benefit, and even then only after Dom had called, asking when he was leaving for the funeral in England.

When he'd hung up the phone, Sean had gone quietly into his bedroom, shut the door even though Thom was at work, knelt next to the bed, and cried. Silently, as if his mother would hear and chastise him; privately, as if make-up would scold him for ruining their work; and desperately, more than he had for poor John, more than he had when his mother had passed away. He cried until his temples throbbed and he couldn't breathe, until the bedspread was wet with his tears, and his hands were trembling.

He hadn't been that much younger than Sean; that was part of the reason. And he'd genuinely liked and respected Sean, even as he'd envied him his success. He envied Sean his life, too; four marriages, three children, and a wonderful legacy of film and theatre.

He couldn't help but wonder why someone as full of life as Sean had died, when he, the other Sean, lived a shadow life, tobogganing on past glories, struggling to make his alimony and child support, worried at every turn. Sean Bean had just lived, fully immersed in the moment.

Viggo had cried at the funeral. Sean had stood next to him, wondering what to do as he felt his castmate shiver and shake in grief. He'd put a hand on Viggo's elbow, poor comfort, but all he could do. Henry had wrapped his father in an enormous hug; Henry had grown into a big man, as tall as his father and much broader, with Viggo's quiet confidence and the same stillness, the stillness now so horribly shattered.

Sean had cried that night, too, alone in his tiny room. The others had gone out, a wake, they called it, and had, by all accounts, drunk themselves absolutely shit-faced. Billy had played his guitar while he and Dom sang, their hobbit drinking song, of course, and many others as well. When Sean had bumped into Billy the next morning, he'd been bleary eyed and still stinking of drink, hoarse from singing all night. "You shoulda come," he whispered into Sean's ear, hugging him right there in the breakfast room of the little B&B some of them had stayed in. "Brilliant night. Everyone shoulda been there." Billy had cried a bit at that, too; Sean knew that he meant John as well as Sean Bean.

He'd patted Billy's narrow shoulders, kissed his cheek, and suggested he go to bed. Then he'd gotten himself a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of decaffeinated coffee.

He hadn't seen any of them but Dom since.

Dom was an agent in LA now. He'd grown sick of his own agent's inability to find him parts and had started networking on his own. To no one's surprise, he was a genius at shmoozing people, charming them into handing over work, first for himself and later for his clients. Now a dozen agents worked for him, and it really meant something to be handled by DM Artists, Inc. Of all Sean's friends, he kept the closest track of Sean, too, insisting they meet for lunch several times a year, calling him regularly, sending work Sean's way, and never a Viagra commercial or Lifetime movie.

So from Dom he knew that everyone would be in Wellington for the premiere of the final Rings movie. Sean hadn't considered not going; Rings was the biggest thing in his career. Hell, he thought, brushing his teeth, staring into the mirrored wall, it was the biggest thing in his life. As much as he'd treasured those months in New Zealand, he should have held tighter to each experience.

And in all honesty, he was anxious to flee LA. So many bad memories there. But the work was there, he heard the Dom in his head say, and that was true. He got enough work there that he could struggle by. As long as his girls didn't suffer, he'd stay. Once they were a little older and on their own, he could do anything. Sometimes he wondered what "anything" would look like, but that was beyond his imagination.

Nancy arrived exactly when she said she would the next day. Sean had been waiting in his room, sitting in front of the windows staring out at the sparkling harbor, now filled with sailboats and yachts and sprinkled with kayaks and sailboarders. He was dressed in a quiet, very dark brown suit. His hair -- still thick, thank god; he wasn't losing it like Dom and Billy were -- had been recently trimmed. He'd tried wearing a mustache, but always felt foolish, worried that something would be caught in it, so he was clean shaven again these days. He looked, he knew, not too much different than when he'd first set foot onto New Zealand nearly thirteen years earlier.

Nancy took him to Peter's studio, larger and more elaborate than when Sean had first seen it. Dom was already there, a glass of something in his hand. "Seanie!" he shouted, and Sean hugged him tightly. He loved Dom; that's all there was to it. He'd been a good and faithful friend to Sean over the years, and was still an honorary uncle to Sean's daughters.

Dom kissed him, squeezed him again, and then released him. "You okay?" he asked quietly, his grey eyes seeing more than Sean wanted him to.

"Of course," Sean answered, and heard the cheery, bouncy voice he used for strangers. Dom stared at him, and Sean felt himself blush. "Yeah. Little tired from the flight, and kind of apprehensive."

Dom shook him gently and kissed him again. "It'll be okay," he promised. "And look who's here." He turned so he stood next to Sean, and behind him beamed Billy.

"Sam!" he cried in his Pippin-voice. "For the Shire!" He chest-bumped Sean, who couldn't help but seize him and hug him fiercely.

"Pippin," he finally said, embarrassed by his pleasure. Almost three years it had been since he'd seen Billy other than on a movie screen. "Jesus, but you're packing it on like Sam did."

"Arse," Billy told him, and thumped his shoulder with his fist. "But aye, yeh're sadly accurate." He looked down at himself, a sort of miniature John Rhys-Davies from his Indiana Jones period. For a moment, Sean considered doing his impression of Sallah, but it was too sad a reminder of what they'd lost.

"I'm only teasing," Sean reassured him. "You look wonderful." That was an exaggeration; Billy looked like he and Dom had spent the night carousing, and knowing them as he did, Sean was sure that's exactly what they'd done. He'd often wondered at their relationship; both had married and divorced, Dom more than once. But to Sean, they seemed married to each other, and certainly they were more faithful to each other than they'd ever been to their wives.

"Have some coffee or juice," Dom encouraged him, gently pushing Sean forward into the room. Nancy hovered nearby, clustered with the other minders, and he smiled apologetically at her but permitted Billy and Dom to shepherd him deeper into the already-gathered crowd.

Andy was there, looking much the same, as were the Hennas, still together after all these years and still working for Peter. To Sean's pleasure, Philippa Boyens was there; she caught his eye from across the room and made a just-a-minute gesture at him before returning to her conversation with a tiny man. One of the size doubles? Sean wondered, but then Henry Mortensen was at his side.

"Dad wants to say hi," he told Sean, hugging him, then leading him to Viggo.

"Sean," was all Viggo said, and they embraced. Sean remembered Viggo trembling next to him at Sean Bean's funeral and hugged him even tighter. They'd been through so much, too much. "My god, I haven't seen you in so long, and we live in the same city."

"Well, some of the time we do," Sean felt compelled to point out. Viggo was often away, either filming or at his place in Idaho.

"Still." Viggo looked into Sean's face, his composure scarily similar to Strider's all those years ago: a bit stern, a bit forbidding, yet a comfort in his severity.

"You still have that purity about you," Sean said, and blushed. Why was he always saying shit like that? All these years and he still couldn't control his mouth.

Viggo smiled then, and to Sean's surprised, kissed him. A week full of kisses, he thought, smiling back. "You do, too," he said, surprising Sean. More seriously, he added, "You've been through some hard times."

Sean blushed again and looked away. "No more than many," he said honestly.

"More than you deserve," Viggo told him, but then Philippa was at his side, and he gratefully turned away from Viggo's intensity into Philippa's loving embrace.

"Don't embarrass him," he thought he heard Henry scold Viggo.

"You look wonderful," Philippa said, smiling so hard at him that her eyes narrowed to slits. She looked incredible. Voluptuous and smart and very well dressed.

"Not as wonderful as you do." He held her arms but stepped back to admire her. "My god. Is this my Phil?"

She laughed in delight. "It is. And more." She put her hand on her abdomen. "You'll never guess."

"Oh my god," he said, shocked. He lightly put his own hand on top of hers. "A baby," he whispered. "Oh, Philippa." He couldn't say more or he'd cry. What an idiot he was. So he hugged her again, but gently this time. "Congratulations, congratulations,'' he finally got out. "I'm so happy for you."

"So you've heard the news," Dom said, putting his arms around them both. "Did you ask her who the father was?"

"No," Sean said shortly, pretending affront. "It's none of my business."

"Well, it's none of mine, either, but that didn't stop me. Tell him, Phil."

She blushed and swatted at Dom. "It isn't a secret. But it's Peter. Artificial insemination," she added quickly at the look on Sean's face. "Fran and I had been talking about it for years. Yes, years." She smiled fondly. "I love her like a sister, and I adore Billy and Katie. Who are over there, by the way," and she pointed behind Sean. "Anyway. It really isn't a secret. Just. Well."

"Embarrassing?" Dom suggested, and she swatted him again.

"You're jealous," Sean guessed, and thought he might be right, despite Dom's insistence that he didn't want to bring any children into the world. "I've got your girls," he told Sean, "and maybe I can be an uncle to this one, too."

"Boy or girl?" Sean asked suddenly.

"We're going to be old fashioned about this and wait and see."

"Um, is 'old fashioned' really the right word?"

"Dom," Sean and Philippa said simultaneously. "Come on, let's talk," Philippa said to Sean, and pulled him to the side of the room lined with chairs. "My back is killing me," she sighed as she sank down into one. Sean saw Dom turn his head, looking for Billy, and watched as his face lit up when he found him. Then he looked down at Philippa, glowing with happiness. Creating a new family. A new kind of family, although Sean's own family was certainly avant-garde enough he shouldn't feel uncomfortable.

He sat next to her, sipping the orange juice Dom had forced into his hand, and they chatted about their excitement for seeing this monstrous film they'd helped create, and her plans for the baby.

After a pause, she said quietly, "Sean. If this baby is a boy, I want to name him Sean. Because there were two Ians, two Seans, and John. Such an odd coincidence, that all are variants of the name John. Do you mind? To honor all of you?"

He stared at her in amazement. "Mind? My god, no. No. It's a wonderful thing to do, Philippa." He hugged her again, embarrassed by how close to the surface his emotions were running today; how many more times would he find himself near tears?

Eventually Peter arrived, still wearing shorts and still barefoot, making Sean regret his choice of a conservative suit, and behind him towered Richard, booming his pleasure at seeing everyone. Fran came in a moment later, working her way straight to Philippa. "How are you?" she asked her in her nasal accent before hugging Sean. "My god, but you haven't changed."

"I hope I've changed," he said with dignity. "I've lost all of Sam's weight and then some."

She stared at him critically. "Too much," she finally said. "I like my men well nourished. More hobbit-like." She patted his flat stomach. "You need Merry's belly."

"Fran, I love you, but you're full of shit." Fran and Philippa's laughter pealed out above the din, and others turned to watch them. They were beautiful together, he thought, and not in a Hollywood underfed, collagen-injected starlet way, but with life and love. Sean thought they gleamed together.

Finally he reached Pete, who was breathlessly explaining a difficult shot to Henry, the aspiring director. Without interrupting himself, Pete reached an arm around Sean and pulled him near. Henry smiled at him but leaned toward Peter, anxious to learn. Sean had directed a little and was happy to eavesdrop on their discussion, relaxing against Pete's solid body, watching his bare toes wiggle with pleasure as he revealed his secrets.

"So how many days long is this movie, anyway," he asked when Henry had gone in search of more coffee.

"Days," Pete scoffed. "It could be days. I might still do that. We filmed practically every step of the way, you know."

"No, seriously."

"Well, seriously, it's twelve hours."

"Pete --"

"No, you don't have to watch it all at once. We're going to break it into four parts."

"Not three?"

Pete shook his head, curls flying. "Such a literalist. Just because the book's in three parts doesn't mean the film should be. Tolkien never intended it to be a trilogy, you know that."

"I know, I know. Still. Jesus. Twelve hours. So three hours a pop."

"That's enough for any arse, I think. Two days of sitting, each with a big lunch break between the morning and afternoon showings."

"How did you decide where to cut? Surely you didn't say, well, three hours, that's it."

"My god, no. It took such work to bring each three hours to a logical conclusion. I've been editing this for years, you know."

"I know. And I can't wait. So this'll be a new DVD?"

Pete smiled. "Do you know how many times people will buy the same DVD?"

"You are evil," Sean said, but he'd buy the damn thing, too.

"You did right by Sam," Peter said quietly, surprising Sean. "You should have won that award." By "that award," Sean knew he meant the Academy Award, one of the few awards he hadn't won for Sam.

He shrugged. "I got others. And the memories. At least you got Best Director."

Pete smiled sadly at him, and Sean wondered how many others felt sorry for him. What a loser, he told himself again, and slapped Pete's chest. "I need a breath of air. Back in a few."

"Sean," he heard Pete call, but just smiled and raised a hand before wending his way through the thickening crowd. He had to stop a dozen times to shake hands with old friends, some of whom he barely recognized. He saw Bernard Hill laughing with Dom; they'd always had a special relationship. And there was Dave Wenham, bearded and hair grown shaggy for a movie, with Karl Urban, talking intently and gesturing with abandon; they were probably showing off for Miranda Otto. And in the center of everything, surrounded by women, stood Orlando, as beautiful as ever. Then he found the door and was in a long hallway he thought he remembered.

He walked for a long time, down corridors, past offices, people smiling at him and saying hello, welcome back. Eventually, he found the door he'd been hunting, one that led to a back lot. It was here, he thought, that Billy and Ian had filmed some of the Minas Tirith scenes, but now it just looked like a parking lot, a big empty space covered in asphalt.

But at least it was outside. He took out a pack of cigarettes, a vice learned from Thom, and lit up, inhaling hungrily. Filthy habit, he remembered scolding Elijah, but god, it tasted good.

He hadn't seen Elijah yet. He remembered him from Sean's funeral, standing quietly next to Billy and Dom, dressed soberly in a dark suit, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Elijah had been very fond of Sean. They'd worked together on a movie a few years after Return of the King, a troubled set by all accounts, and had grown close again there. So Sean hadn't bothered Elijah at the funeral, but had only observed him: the grief on his face, his nose red and watery, his fingernails even more bitten back.

He sighed and watched the smoke float away on the warm Wellington breeze. Overhead, a jet screamed by impossibly low, reminding Sean of the difficulties of filming the Rivendell scenes. He smiled to himself and inhaled again, letting the smoke trickle down his throat. First cigarette of the day; Thom had taught him what a good high that was. He exhaled heavily.

The door behind him opened and, as he'd expected, Dom stuck his head out. "Hey, you," he said. "Bad for your health, you know."

Sean dropped the cigarette and ground it out under his heel. "Yes, mother," he said.

Dom reached for him. "It's too hot out here, and there are a lot of people who want to say hello to you." Sean took Dom's hand and let him draw him back into the studio, full of people working hard at building Peter's dreams for all to share. "I know it's a bit overwhelming," Dom added almost under his breath.

"I'm okay, Dom," Sean said firmly. They'd had this conversation before. Somehow, over the years, they'd switched places, and now Dom was Sean's big brother, looking out for him, chastising him, comforting him. Dom had been the first person he'd told when Christine left him, and the first person he'd come out to, even before Mac. Some nights, Sean woke up in a cold sweat wondering what would have become of him if Peter hadn't, out of a world of actors, cast Dom to play Meriadoc Brandybuck. Sean's life would have been so much emptier without him.

"I know you're okay," Dom said mildly. "But other people aren't. We're here for them as much as ourselves."

"Dom," Sean said, a little cross at being scolded.

"I'm just sayin', dude," Dom interrupted him, using a flat Valley accent. Sean rolled his eyes, but nodded in agreement. "If you need to get out, you see me, 'kay? Don't just arse off like that."

"Yes, Dom," he said, trying to sound bored, but Dom was never fooled by Sean. Never for one minute had he been fooled by Sean, unlike ninety-nine percent of the rest of the world.

The room was even more crowded when they returned; doors had been opened and the party spread out into the corridors. The volume was incredible. "I think they spiked the orange juice," Dom joked as they surveyed the chaos.

The room had been beautifully decorated, like something out of an Alan Lee illustration. Sean had been too busy greeting people earlier to really notice, but as he and Dom stood by the door, he took a moment to really study the elaborately painted walls and ceiling. In one corner, silver stars gleamed from a twilight sky, and an Elven ship sailed across the ceiling. "Earendil," Sean murmured.

Dom left him there, tugged back into the thick of things by his own curiosity and excitement, by everything that made him a great agent and friend. He turned his head to grin at Sean and mouthed "Stay!" Sean nodded, unable not to smile back. He felt better, both from the cigarette and his little break from all this; he'd had time to adjust the shock of actually seeing these people again, changed but essentially the same.

I don't believe in essences, he reminded himself. There is no essential self; only that which we construct. But he didn't really believe that either. He'd constructed the perfect life for himself, with a wife and children and dogs and cats and a beautiful home, and now it was all gone. He lived in a one-bedroom apartment, begrudging every penny not spent on his daughters, because the life he'd constructed had been impossibly flawed. At least his mother had died before Christine left him. He'd been spared the humiliation of telling her. And he knew he could never have come out had she been alive.

"Be true to yourself," Mackie had advised him at the time, but Sean was so lost. He'd thought he was being true to himself, but how could he tell? If you're neither constructed nor essential, what are you? What was left?

"Sean," someone said in quietly in his ear, and he looked up to find Ian smiling at him. "I have missed you."

They hugged, Sean despairing at Ian's frailty. In Sean's arms, Ian felt as light and fragile as a bird. He was completely bald, and his cheekbones stuck out sharply.

"These reunions are difficult, are they not?" Ian said when they released each other, and Sean laughed when they simultaneously dabbed at their eyes. "We're all getting on, but only when we see old friends after long absences do we realize it."

"That's it exactly," Sean agreed. "I see me everyday. Well, and Dom pretty often. But Billy."

Ian burst out laughing. "The littlest hobbit," he said, face crinkling in pleasure. "Such a healthy-looking man, don't you think? He should play Falstaff. He would be perfect." They watched Billy, his face red from laughing; Sean had no idea what Billy was pantomiming, but his audience screamed with laughter and Dom was bent over, clutching his belly. "Bless them," Ian said quietly, and Sean sent his own prayer to heaven for them.

"Bless us all," he added, and Ian nodded, his gaze returning to Sean. The kindly grandfather look that Sean remembered too well.

"Oh, no," he said, and put his hands out. "I'm not confiding in you, because there's nothing to confide."

"My dear boy," Ian said. "That's codswallop."

Sean burst out laughing. "Say that five times fast and I will confess."

Someone barged into the room at that moment, nearly knocking over Ian, and the moment was lost in apologies and much dusting off of clothing. "A drink, Sir Ian?" the stranger said, and Sean realized it was Nick, from all those years ago. He remembered Ian and Nick dancing, how beautiful they'd been together, and stepped back to watch them slip through the crowd to the drinks table.

It was a day to get drunk, he decided, and began to follow them when he felt a tug on his sleeve and turned back.

"Elijah," he said blankly. "Oh, my god. Elijah." Stupid, stupid, he told himself as he felt his eyes fill again.

"Shh," Elijah told him, and enfolded him. "I'm here now."

"I'm gonna lose it," Sean whispered to him, and Elijah led him into a different corridor, around several corners, and finally into an empty office. He pulled out a handkerchief for Sean to use and perched on a desk, watching Sean, one hand still on Sean's arm. "Sorry," Sean said once he'd wiped his eyes and blown his nose. "Just a bit much, seeing everybody after all these years."

"Yeah," Elijah said, studying him. Sean hadn't spoken to Elijah at any length since John's funeral. He'd come out to his friends shortly afterwards and had been a little afraid of Elijah's reaction, so he'd held back, hiding as much as possible, and excusing himself from any gatherings that might include Elijah.

"You're looking well," he finally said, and it was true. Elijah looked terrific. Like Sean, he was wearing a suit. Unlike Sean's, it was black, made of fine silk, and tailored perfectly. The shape of his face had changed considerably over the years, and there were lines bracketing his mouth that Sean had never seen before. But his complexion was just as fresh as it had been at seventeen, and his eyes just as disconcerting. The color of water, Sean had often thought. Not blue, not cerulean, not grey, but nearly clear.

He would turn thirty in a month, Sean knew, but he looked both older and younger. He looked, Sean thought, staring avidly at him, like the crescendo of a soundtrack: rich and swelling and impossible to hold on to.

"No," Sean corrected himself. "You look wonderful." Elijah smiled at that and, as Fran had, patted his stomach.

"You look too thin," he said, and drew Sean to him. "Your face is drawn, and you look too tired and too sad. I've missed you."

Sean looked away from that difficult gaze. "You've been busy," he said, but Elijah gently shook his arm.

"Not that busy." He paused, and in a different tone of voice said, "I see Dom pretty regularly. He's representing me now."

"You've got a great agent," Sean said honestly, and Elijah nodded.

"He's also a terrible gossip."

Sean shrugged. Really, there wasn't much to gossip about in his life.

"So Thom left you?"

"Dom is a terrible gossip." Another tug on his sleeve. "It was mutual. We weren't going anywhere."

"Where do you want to go?"

Sean finally looked up. That was the question; trust Elijah to get right to the heart of it. He shrugged again.

"Fuck, Sean. Talk to me. I'm sick of you avoiding me. I hear all my news second- or third-hand." He paused, and then asked, "Are you mad at me?"

"No, Jesus. Come on, Elijah. Just, you know. Embarrassed."

"Cunt."

That made Sean laugh. He hadn't heard that word in that voice in nearly a decade. "I can't believe your language hasn't improved yet."

"Wanker. Fucker. Arsehole." But Elijah was smiling at him, really smiling.

"Okay, okay." Sean sighed. "Honestly, then. I was embarrassed. I was such a, a." He pursed his lips. He didn't know what he was; that was the problem.

"You were a nice guy, but a bit confused," Elijah finished for him.

"Cunt."

"That's my line." They smiled at each other, and Sean relaxed a little.

"We used to be friends," he said in wonderment, and Elijah nodded.

"I still want to be friends," he said. "If you'll let me."

"Fuck, Elijah. Of course. It's just, you know. You're a big star now. A busy man."

"I'm going to kill you now."

"It's true! Don't pretend. I see you in the paper, on the TV. E! practically builds its schedule around your movies and love affairs and investments. You're in the big time, Elwood."

"I really am going to kill you. Sean, you jerk. Just come here, okay?" He reeled Sean to where he sat on the desk until Sean stood between his legs, their arms around each other. "I think you have something to tell me."

"Ah, Elijah, come on."

"I'm not trying to embarrass you. You're a proud man; I get that. But we had something." He put one hand on Sean's hot face. In a softer voice, he said, "You're my Sam."

Sean looked down, at himself standing in the vee of Elijah's black-clad legs, at his own legs, awkward and stiff. "Frodo left Sam," he reminded Elijah.

"But Sam came to him eventually. After Rosie died."

Well, that was undeniable. "You suggesting a happily-ever-after for Frodo and Sam?"

"Read the book, Sean. The Appendices. It's all there. Sam so loved Frodo that he forsook his beloved Shire and sailed West. Did you read the Epilogue? Do you remember what Elanor called Frodo?"

Sean nodded. Sam's treasure; even Sam's daughter had recognized that.

"We're not strangers meeting in a bar, Sean. We're not a one-night stand. We've been friends a long, long time. All our friends are friends." He pulled Sean even closer, so their upper bodies pressed against each other. Directly into Sean's ear, he whispered, "What did Sam call Frodo?"

Sean sighed, and resisted the temptation to rest his head on Elijah's shoulder. "Me dear," he finally said, his voice a mere breath. "Frodo, me dear."

They remained entwined like that, Elijah stroking one of Sean's arms, comforting him, Sean thought, and then he slid both hands to the small of Sean's back and pulled him even closer. Their embrace was unmistakably intimate, deeply sexual, and Sean trembled. "I'm afraid," he whispered, and Elijah nodded.

"Me, too. But fuck it all, we waited how many years? We've gone through how many people? Have a little courage, Sean. For me, have a little courage."

Sean rolled his head very slightly, and their faces touched. He kissed Elijah's cheekbone, his jaw, and finally his mouth. Elijah opened his mouth and sucked in Sean's tongue. It took more courage than Sean knew he possessed to lean into that embrace, to tighten his arms and lean his hips into Elijah's, whose legs wrapped around him, urging him even closer. "God," Elijah breathed. "How I have wanted this."

"I'm sorry," Sean began, but Elijah kissed him again and then said, "Just shut up, Sean."

"Then shut up and kiss me," Sean said, and Elijah did just that.

They'd kissed before, of course. Many times. In fun and in earnest, to say hello, goodbye, I'm sorry. In character and out, they'd kissed. And one night, long ago, they'd kissed just like this, Sean opening to Elijah in a way he never had to anyone else, not even Christine. He remembered that night, treasured it like the love letter it had been, one silent night, full of grace and unexpected tenderness.

And then he'd fled, frightened by his actions and thoughts and impulsively acted-upon desires that he'd never acknowledged before. It was the end, he knew now, and not the beginning it had seemed. That night had ended his ability to lie to himself, and he'd spent the next day playing with Ali and holding baby Lizzie, staring down into her tiny, fragile face, horrified at how the world swirled around him, a maelstrom of fear.

For Sean was, he knew, a frightened man. A legacy from his childhood perhaps, or maybe it was genetic, like his mother's bipolar disorder. Or from over-intellectualizing things. Did it matter? Dom said it didn't. Dom said the only way to overcome fear was to meet it, the way he'd met his fear of heights by bungee jumping with Orlando, and later by hang-gliding off cliff faces, and most recently by celebrating each birthday by parachuting.

So this is what free-fall feels like. He kissed Elijah. Yes, this was falling all right. From thirty thousand feet he fell, and Elijah was the angel that would carry him safely home. He had to believe that or he'd never find the courage to kiss him again.

Elijah was a magician, Sean decided a while later, his jacket off and tie loosened. Only he knew what he would pull from his hat, and Sean could but trust in his rough magic. The door behind them was still open, but no one disturbed them; this area seemed deserted for the luncheon they were missing. Elijah had his hand down Sean's trousers, urging him on, to meet him more than half way, and Sean wanted to, wanted nothing more. The Dom-voice that lived in Sean's head was happy for him, approving this wanton behavior, and Sean loved Dom and wanted to please him; more than that, he loved Elijah and wanted to please him, so he gave himself to Elijah, leaving the world behind him, and entering the heaven where he believed Elijah lived.

He was still trembling in Elijah's hand when he opened his eyes. Elijah's smile filled his vision, and he kissed that tender mouth, smoky and moist. "Let me," he murmured, and slid to his knees, opening Elijah's trousers to take him into his mouth. On his knees; that's what he'd wanted for so many years. He wanted the cold floor hard under him, his hands on Elijah's open thighs, his mouth on Elijah's body. This was safety, this was home. Elijah didn't last very long, which pleased Sean; maybe he was desired, too, the way he desired Elijah.

When Sean stood again, feeling dissolute and a bit proud of himself, Elijah was still smiling, his sticky hand on Sean's face to pull him in for more kisses.

"Isn't this better than running away?" Elijah asked him between kisses, and he nodded. He knew better than to believe that he'd shed all his doubts along with his inhibitions, but for a moment, he was at peace. "You know I have a place here, in Wellington?" Elijah asked.

"Mmm."

"Stay with me. Stay with me."

"Oh, me dear." Sean closed his eyes. He was terrified; this was really what free-fall felt like, not the blinding pleasure of a moment ago. But he was in New Zealand, the other side of the world. The release of the expanded Rings and subsequent sales of the DVD would keep his daughters for a while longer; he could, he knew, relax for a few weeks, maybe months. He'd talk to Dom; he'd know what was best.

"Sean," Elijah said sharply, and he opened his eyes. "Stay with me. In all senses of the word. Where were you?"

"Worrying about my girls," he admitted.

Elijah's face softened. "They're fine. I talked to them last week."

"You're kidding." Sean was genuinely shocked. "They never said a word."

"I asked them not to, until after I saw you. They're fine. But they're worried about you. They don't want you to be alone. They don't want to be burdens."

"Lizzie never said that. She's too young."

"Lizzie's her father's daughter, Sean. Of course she said that."

Sean was disconcerted by this information; he'd had no idea that he worried them. "I never tell them --" Well, he wasn't going to tell Elijah, either.

"That's just it. You never tell them. You're not there for them emotionally, Sean. You've barricaded it off for years. That's what Ali and Dom tell me."

"Shit."

"Shit, fuck, and damn. Is it my fault? That night -- was that when it started?"

"No, god, Lijah, no. That night, that's what's kept me going all these years. One fucking night --" the inadvertent pun was too much for Elijah, who laughed that high-pitched giggle that always made Sean laugh, too.

"And what a fuck," Elijah growled and bit Sean's throat.

"The girls don't know about us," Sean said with difficulty.

"Well, fucking tell them. They know I love you. Christ, they're not idiots. Stop treating them as if they were babies."

"Don't tell me how to raise my children."

Elijah leaned back and stared coolly into his face. "If I can't tell you, then ask them. I'm serious, Sean."

Sean was abashed. He knew Elijah was right; Ali had tried to initiate many discussions about Sean's life, but he'd always turned her attempts aside. Embarrassed, as usual, and tongue-tied by his embarrassment, he'd pushed her away, despite his best intentions, rambling on about inconsequential things instead of what really mattered. He nodded.

"Good man." Elijah kissed him again. "Okay, here's what we're gonna do. One, get cleaned up, 'cause, eeuww. Two, go back to the party, because I haven't seen some of these people in, like, for-fucking-ever. And three, get your shit at the hotel and bring it back to my place. Are we in agreement?"

"We are in agreement."

"Cool."

"Except add one additional point: I'd like a cigarette before we go back to the party."

"No argument." Elijah grinned at him. "Was it good for you?" he whispered.

"The earth moved," Sean assured him, and they kissed again, moving in tandem as if they'd done so regularly for the last ten years.

When they slipped apart, Elijah said, "Besides, I heard they're gonna play shitty music at the big party tonight. Gotta get in and save Pete's ass." As Elijah said "ass," he leaned forward and kissed Sean again, passionately, winding his arms around Sean's back and pulling their bodies together. One hand slid down and cupped Sean's ass, and Sean shivered with pleasure.

"I missed you," he murmured. I've been so miserable without you. He didn't say that out loud; it would hurt Elijah and maybe anger him. But it was true, horribly true. True and stupid and, apparently, unnecessary. Except not. Without Sean's experiences of these past years, he knew that wouldn't be able to meet Elijah like this; the first time, all those years ago, had been too overwhelming and had set the standards far too high.

"What are you thinking about?" Elijah asked him, looking genuinely curious and not offended.

"I'm sorry," he started, but Elijah put a hand over his mouth. He tasted and smelt himself on that hand, and kissed it. "Of you," he admitted. "The time apart from you. I needed that."

"I know. I know you." Elijah sighed. "You're a mess. But now you're my mess?"

Sean nodded, and they rested their foreheads together, still holding hands.

"There's a bathroom down the hall," Elijah said, and Sean stood up, straightening his clothing and zipping closed.

"You're a mess, too," he said, studying Elijah critically, but again felt a flush of pride that he had debauched him.

"And at a party," Elijah said in a prissy voice. "What would our hosts think?"

"What took you so long?" Sean guessed. Elijah jumped down from the desk and put his clothes back together, then took Sean's hand and led him from the room. He glanced back; it was room 23C. A favorite of his henceforth, he thought, smiling.

But then the reality of what had happened, of what might be about to happen, crashed back down on him. "I'm scared," he said again, and Elijah looked at him.

"I know. I won't say don't be, 'cause that's not possible. I will say: Trust me. Can you do that?"

Sean nodded. They paused outside the door to the men's room. Sean studied his old friend. "My god," he said. "You've got a grey hair." He stroked Elijah's temple, then trailed his hand down his face. "You grew up."

"It's silver, not grey," Elijah said firmly, and then shrugged. "Had to happen some time. Does it bother you?"

"No. No."

"I'll get old, too. As old as Ian, if I'm lucky."

"We should stop smoking."

"I will if you will."

Sean leaned forward and kissed Elijah. "I should say something like: Grow old along with me. The best is yet to be."

"Do you think that's true?" Sean shrugged, uncomfortable at the question. Elijah dropped his hand and hugged him. "Of course it's true."

"Well, it's possible," Sean said doubtfully.

"I keep saying the wrong thing," Elijah said regretfully, stroking Sean's face. His hand was warm and sticky; Sean opened his mouth and Elijah popped a finger in for him to suck on. "Oh, god, and you keep turning me on. Sean, please."

He released Elijah's finger and they kissed, right there in the hallway by the men's room. Elijah's grasp was tight and possessive. Sean knew that, at his age, it would be hours before he could act on his feelings again, but being held and kissed was so nice. He'd missed being desired, had despaired of being desired again. Elijah's warm body was as familiar as his own, despite their long separation; he'd held Elijah, on camera and off, for hours and hours during the amazing time they'd spent here before. And now, finally, he was holding him again, and being cradled in Elijah's arms the way Sam had cradled Frodo.

"There are so few of us left," he said into Elijah's shoulder, meaning more than the Fellowship.

"All the more reason to remain together," Elijah said comfortingly. "But I need to pee right now, okay?"

Sean laughed and opened the door to the men's room. "I think I can spare you for that long."

"Thank christ. Though I like your attitude."

"I like your ass," he said, and squeezed Elijah's bottom. He giggled, and tugged on Sean again.

"Don't make me wet my pants. That is so unprofessional."

"Anti-star behavior."

"My agent would laugh himself sick."

Sean nodded; Dom would. Dom would also, he thought, surveying himself in the mirror, approve heartily of what they'd done. He'd want to hear everything, the voyeur. As he stared into the mirror, he remembered looking into the mirror in his hotel last night. A night that seemed so long ago.

"You're still alone," he told his reflection, and then glanced guiltily at Elijah's back. Not entirely, it was true. Sean was too battle-scarred to trust in the future. He would trust in Elijah; he'd promised him that, and Sean kept his promises.

He was flattered by Elijah's attention. Gratified at his passion. Excited by his body. And he would be hopeful for the future. For Elijah and for his daughters' sake, he would be hopeful. One could decide to hope, and he would do so.

The Fellowship was breaking. Two of them were gone. Ian would probably go next, unless something happened to Orlando or one of the hobbits. Life was so brief, so fragile. He could remain as he had been, afraid and embarrassed, or accept who and what he had become. Not an A-list actor or director, and unlikely ever to be one. But he worked hard and honestly at what he did. He loved his family and friends, and he took the best care of them he could.

And, he comforted himself, most of the Fellowship still lived. The ones who were gone lived on in the films, and in the hearts of the remaining members. Moreover, Philippa was pregnant, and maybe Sean and John would live on through her child, just as Sean did through his own children, who loved and worried about him.

And Elijah. Elijah was here.

He looked again at Elijah, now shaking himself and zipping up. A man he'd loved from the minute they'd met and who, against the most amazing odds, loved him back. Who wouldn't put up with his fears and hesitation but who would force him to be brave. Find a little courage for me, he had said to Sean, and Sean thought he might be able to.

"Ready to head back?" Elijah asked him, and he nodded. As ready as he'd ever be. "Let's forego the cigarette. We can stop together."

Sean smiled. They could stop together, for a while.