Ian was sitting in the trailer after a long day on the set. Not that he had done much, since there had been more than the usual number of long waits between takes. More frustrating than tiring, but the rushes seemed to prove that they were, implausibly enough, accumulating considerable footage that would eventually fit together into nine or so hours of three feature films. Most of the films he had acted in previously were relatively small-budget affairs, where directors were inclined to push through as many scenes as possible each day, and the small casts made that easier. He was still getting used to life on the set of a multi-hundred-million-dollar epic.

There was no real reason for him to go on sitting there. He had checked quite carefully, but none of the annoying glue that held his Gandalf beard on was still adhering to his face. He was washed and dressed and free to go. Yet he lingered on. Three of the hobbit actors who occupied the other end of the trailer had come and gone, and he was wondering with more than idle curiosity where the fourth was. That ridiculously beautiful, ridiculously young . . .

He shook his head. If anyone was ridiculous, it was he himself. Lusting after this unattainable young man. When had it all started? Not when he first arrived, he reflected. Most of his fellow cast members had come to New Zealand before he had, and he recalled with an ironic smile how at first he simply felt extremely fortunate to be among such a bevy of male beauties. A broad range of pulchritude, from Elijah’s delicate, ethereal looks to Sean Bean’s athletic physique. He was in seventh heaven during those early days of shooting, flirting away to his heart’s content. Nothing serious, since to his disappointment none of the other actors seemed to be gay. Pity. But he could always look.

Of course he had noticed when Elijah began to trail him about. Trying to learn from him, he had said. Well, Ian was used to that. Other actors that he had worked with often remarked that he had taught them a great deal about the craft. If so, he was delighted. Elijah had been so sweet about it, too. "Learn from the best, I always say." But Elijah’s constant presence and idolizing stares had begun to spook him a bit. The fellow was a trifle too intense, too worshipful. Ian had heard that Elijah’s parents had divorced when he was 15 and that his father had never paid the boy much close attention. Elijah had apparently been raised largely by his mother, and his early success as a child actor had left him isolated in the rarefied atmosphere of Hollywood studios. Having never been a father, or even contemplated becoming one, Ian felt a bit panicky at being expected to step in as a paternal figure for Elijah. What a responsibility! He sincerely hoped that the young man did not become emotionally dependent upon him. At the same time, he could only strive to grace that high pedestal onto which the lad had clearly elevated him.

After having become fairly resigned to being a father figure to Elijah, Ian had felt as if he had been struck squarely between the eyes when he suddenly found himself lusting after the young man one day. It had been a rare Sunday of complete leisure, when Peter and Fran had held a barbeque for the principal cast and crew members. (How convenient that February should be the height of summer down in this part of the world!) From the start, Elijah had been following him about like a little puppy, even, he noted with amusement, sitting at his feet to gnaw on those hideously charred lamb chops that everyone was praising to the skies. The smokers had been exiled to their own section of the large backyard—ironically, since the fumes from the grill were billowing all over the neighbourhood. He had just finished telling one of his favourite anecdotes when he looked down to take out a cigarette and saw Elijah’s admiring expression and . . . and suddenly he found himself imagining taking this gorgeous young fellow to bed, stripping his clothes off frantically—or no, perhaps at a slow, controlled, romantic pace—no, frantically. And making love to him and . . . Fuck! and shattering the lad’s fatherly image of him forever! With a great effort he pulled his gaze away to survey his other companions and force a smile as the talk turned in other directions. Fortunately, he thought, looking down at Elijah out of the corner of his eye, the lad was still gazing at him cheerfully, seeming not to have noticed anything. That was when Ian began to have serious doubts about his own suitability for that high pedestal.

The rest of the afternoon was a maddening dance, with him moving away from Elijah, taking himself out of temptation’s way, and yet constantly finding himself face to face with the boy—and having to admit that that was exactly where he longed to be. Face to face . . . mouth to mouth . . . torso to sweaty torso . . . Each time it was more difficult to tear himself away, and his fantasies about the boy were running riot. He thought of luring the young fellow inside, finding a bedroom with a lock on the door, or of suggesting a walk, perhaps through one of the belts of woodland that New Zealanders so wisely preserved in their cities. Finally he made an excuse to leave the party early.

The intervening weeks had not brought an abatement of his obsession. Quite the contrary. He had to face up to the fact that he would be working for nearly two years—and at intervals after that--with a young man whom he wanted to ravish. A young man who idolized him. And he was not resisting very well. In fact, here he was, sitting alone in his trailer for no reason except in the hope of exchanging a quick greeting as Elijah passed through, or, ideally catching a glimpse of skin as the lad changed clothes.

Stop it and get yourself out of here, he thought, these are dangerous waters you’re sailing. He was about to gather his belongings and go when there was a knock on the door. His heart leapt once, hard, but he tried to convince himself that it was most likely someone delivering one of the endless rewrites that had gone past being a running joke among the cast. He called out for whoever it was to come in.

Ian turned and did mental handsprings as the door opened to reveal the very person he had just been longing to see. He put on as ordinary and friendly a smile as he could muster and said, "Hello, Elijah, what can I do for you?" Apart from flinging you onto that sofa and having my way with you for the next few hours, he thought wistfully. He wondered why Elijah had not been with the three other young actors; ordinarily they seemed inseparable at the end of the day, going pub-crawling together. And how could he make an excuse to keep this young angel here for a little while?

"I’m not disturbing you?" Elijah asked with a strangely diffident manner.

Was this leading up to some sort of practical joke, Ian wondered vaguely. Disturbing? Definitely. Disturbingly gorgeous, disturbingly sensual, disturbingly innocent-looking with those wide eyes . . . He pulled himself together and replied calmly, "Not at all. Gandy’s gone to bed for the night." Inwardly he flinched at the unintended implications of that silly line—for himself, at any rate. Pity Gandy couldn’t take Frodo with him. "I’m all yours." Fuck! Another casual statement that was all too true. He WAS all too much Elijah’s for the taking at this point—if only the young fellow wanted to take him. Feeling flustered by this simple conversation, he recovered by pouring Elijah a cup of tea from the pot he had under a proper English tea-cozy. A nice, innocent, calming cup of tea.

The American accepted it and sat on the chair opposite him. Elijah had the most amazing blue eyes, Ian noted for about the hundredth time, though there seemed to be a hint of worry or pain on the young man’s face. He waited.

"It’s nothing important, Ian. Kinda personal."

Before he could stop himself, Ian grinned delightedly and said, "Really?" His thoughts about Elijah had been of a most personal sort, but he realized immediately that whatever Elijah had to tell him was more likely about some little romance that had sprung up between him and someone his own age. A young lady, no doubt. As he watched Elijah’s hands grip the armrests, he worried that he had reacted too cheerfully to what might be a difficult revelation by the young fellow. Elijah did indeed seem somewhat upset about something, to judge from his face.

Elijah finally spoke reluctantly, but all he said was, "O-kay. My back is killing me, Ian. I guess the harness for the Watcher scene pulled something it shouldn’t have."

Ian was torn between concern over the lad’s pain and relief that his revelation had nothing to do with a crush on someone else. He really did not feel up to listening to Elijah spilling out his love life and expecting sympathy. But a bad back. He should offer something—a massage, most obviously, and yet the prospect of touching that extraordinary body without being able to caress it seemed almost too much to contemplate. And would Elijah be upset at a gay man offering a massage? No, surely it would not occur to Elijah that Ian had any motives beyond his health and comfort. Again he steeled himself to acting casually. He held up his fingers—which seemed all too obviously to be itching to touch his visitor VERY intimately—and said, "Poor boy. Would you like a massage?" He half expected a suspicious look from Elijah, but the dear fellow winced, and Ian cursed himself for even thinking about sex at a time when the object of his lust was in such pain.

Elijah looked at him pathetically and answered, "I’m due back for a few more shots yet. Can I come round later? You’re not busy, are you?"

For you, I could drop anything, Ian thought sadly. Anything at all. He tried to speak lightly. "I think I can fit you in." Fuck! Another unintended double entendre. He could certainly fit Elijah’s cock comfortably into his throat, and there were other things that would fit well—stop it! He turned and dug in a drawer—pausing for a tiny moment as his hands brushed aside a packet of condoms to find the aspirin bottle he was looking for. He turned and extended his hand to Elijah. "Here."

The side of Ian’s hand brushed Elijah’s palm as he deposited the two aspirin there. This is ridiculous, he reflected. I’m used to touching other actors—very attractive ones, too—in the course of my work. Why should this casual little contact throw me into such a state? He realized with a shock that he was becoming distinctly hard and hoped against hope that Elijah would not notice. The young man’s groan of pain made him feel guiltier than ever. How disgusting was it to get a hard-on when the focus of your desire is so clearly suffering? He gritted his teeth and deliberately reached out to comfort Elijah. He put his hands on either side of his head and murmured, "My poor hobbit. A long massage and a good soak is what you need." And that’s all. Absolutely all.

Elijah was looking quite pathetic by this point. He left the trailer so abruptly that Ian wondered if the young man had noticed his arousal or sensed something in his voice. Well, if he had, he simply would not show up for the massage. Sir Ian McKellen went home feeling more dejected than he had in a long time.

____________________________________________________________________

He had recovered somewhat by the time the doorbell rang that evening. He had deliberately made himself a complete dinner, fussing over it a bit to occupy his mind. Elijah was coming over, fine, and he was going to touch him in fairly intimate ways, but . . . that was all. He was a mature, dignified man, and over the years there inevitably had been many beautiful men , straight and gay, for whom he had lusted without result. This was just another one of those times. Fuck!

Ian opened the door and was somewhat appalled to discover Elijah looking more ravishing than ever. His eyes dropped momentarily to the slight bulge in the very tight jeans. Those blue eyes were simply devastating. And there was one part of Elijah that he would very much like to massage right now, he thought, watching the tight little ass as the lad brushed by him into the room. He followed, his former dejection fast returning. And he sighed as he suddenly realized that the soft music and candles, set up to simulate the relaxing atmosphere of a typical therapeutic massage salon, seemed remarkably like the trappings of a typical seduction as well. He could only hope that Elijah didn’t notice this. He would have to be very, very careful. Very careful. He started off with an innocent statement that he thought could not be misinterpreted in any way. "I’ve made you some camomile tea. It’s supposed to be a muscle relaxant. Here."

And hence anything but an aphrodisiac, he thought. Maybe he should have a pot or two himself. As Elijah sniffed and sipped the tea, Ian sat down. He was shocked when suddenly Elijah sat down right next to him—so close that their bodies were touching. The young man squirmed slightly against him, and his trusting, friendly look cut Ian to the quick. Really, Elijah is enough to corrupt a saint, he thought distractedly. Before he could stop himself, he leaned down and kissed that glowing cheek, then sat desperately thinking how he could get himself out of this situation. That had just been a friendly kiss. Of course. Elijah would take it to be that. It WAS that. "Did the aspirin help?" he asked, but his throat was hoarse.

"What? I mean pardon?"

Ian cleared his throat and repeated his question.

Elijah sighed and looked very solemn. "Oh yeah. A bit. I just feel tense and stressed. I’ll probably be better soon." He looked so sweet and delectable that Ian found himself almost leaning over to kiss the lad again—and this time not on the cheek. He quickly turned his face away, taking a deep breath and swallowing hard. Summoning all his self-control, he turned back and offered as calmly as possible, "Come on, then, let’s see what the magic fingers can do." He immediately grimaced inwardly and hoped that that had not come across as suggestively as it might. Fuck! Everything he said to Elijah today seemed to have a salacious overtone. Fortunately the boy seemed too innocent to notice. Let me just get through the next half hour, he prayed to no one in particular.

He positioned Elijah face down on the sofa, using a pillow to support his shoulders. Pressing his lips together, he placed one knee by the slim hips and swung the other leg over to rest on the far side. Thankfully his crotch was several inches above the soft curves of the fetching buttocks, and his tight briefs would, he fervently hoped, keep his rapidly swelling cock from pressing into them. Elijah did indeed seem tense, and Ian was dead sure that the boy was thinking, oh, fine, I’ve let myself get into this position with a notoriously gay man on top of me. No wonder he was tense. Ian determined to be absolutely as objective as he could manage, or at least to seem so.

"Where abouts is the pain?" he asked, reflecting that his throbbing cock would soon be getting quite painful—and no massage would be forthcoming for that. Focus! he ordered himself.

"Kind of everywhere," Elijah responded, and his tight voice bespoke his nervousness and embarrassment at having Ian in such intimate contact with him. Ian did not trust himself to speak but made a sort of sympathetic grunt and started very tentatively to knead Elijah’s shoulders. It felt marvelous. Absolutely, bloody marvelous. Despite all his caution, his delight in having this beautiful young man under him resurfaced all too forcefully. Surely it wouldn’t be going too far if he just . . .

"This would be a lot easier if you took your shirt off," he blurted and then regretted having spoken when Elijah’s sweet, trusting eyes looked up at him.

"Are you sure?"

Ian felt like a worm, taking advantage of such innocence to get a look at a beautiful young body. But he could hardly back off now and say, No, actually I suppose it’s easier to rub you with this tight shirt on, or Well, I just wanted to see what color your nipples are and how flat your belly is. In for a penny, he thought, and stroked the lovely cheek once.

Retreating instinctively into humor, he said teasingly, "Of course. I’m not going to faint away at the sight of a hobbit without his shirt." No, of course not. Of course I’m going instead to push you down onto your back and suck on every exposed inch of your smooth skin and—

He smothered a gasp as Elijah rose and accidentally leaned briefly against him. He tried not to watch as the young man slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Doesn’t he realize what he’s doing to me, Ian groaned inwardly. But of course Elijah didn’t. He could hardly be thinking about such things, for from his expression he was obviously still in pain. Feeling more guilty than ever, Ian hastened to help him off with the shirt. He hesitated only briefly before putting his hands on the stunning, smooth torso and lowering it down onto the sofa again. Determined to stick to the job at hand, he again straddled Elijah and began to massage him in earnest, applying more and more pressure in a way quite different than he would have used if he were making love to the boy. The muscles were decidedly clenched, and he worked hard at relaxing them. After a while he realized that he was settling into this as a real massage, not an attempt to grope a frighteningly beautiful young body. He heard Elijah give a little groan and felt genuinely pleased that the therapy was working. It WAS just a massage, and perhaps the young man would leave feeling it had been just that. He chuckled briefly, feeling more confident. "That’s it. Just relax."

Soon Elijah’s muscles felt more supple, and Ian realized that further massaging would probably do no additional good. With an enormous sense of relief, he rose quickly and stood looking down at those tight jeans and going back to his earlier thought of how easy it would be to cup those little buttocks or to unfasten the fly and pull—

As Elijah sat up, Ian’s eyes snapped quickly to his face. "Any better?"

"Yeah, thanks." The poor lad must be exhausted, between the long day’s shooting and the back problem. He sat quietly, making no attempt to dress and prepare to leave. Ian earnestly wished he would. Offering to help put the shirt back on might seem like he was rushing Elijah away. And it would deprive him of a superb view. He blushed as the young man caught him staring at his chest.

Quickly he picked up the shirt. "You look as if you’re getting cold. Here." He didn’t trust himself to help Elijah put it on, and perhaps the lad thought that rude, for he seemed rather miffed as he grabbed it and silently put it on. Ian tried to make up for it by taking Elijah’s hands in his to stop his clumsy attempts to fasten the buttons. "You’re getting your shirt all higgledy piggledy. Let me." Ian undid the badly aligned buttons, realizing that once again he had put himself in a position where his intentions could be badly misinterpreted. Or correctly interpreted, he admitted to himself. He was keenly aware of every tiny contact between his fingers and the soft skin beneath the cloth as he did the buttons up correctly. His thumb accidentally touched one of those little pink nipples, and he winced. Apparently Elijah noticed it, for he gasped softly and looked suspiciously up into Ian’s face.

Only natural, Ian thought bitterly. Naturally a beautiful young man WOULD suspect any gay man of trying to take advantage, cop a feel. But Elijah handled it well. "Thanks, Ian," was all he said.

"You’re welcome." It was more than he could resist. He smiled and kissed Elijah’s cheek again, very softly. I deserve that, he thought. He had gotten through this reasonably well. If only the young man, so unconscious of his own tempting body and face, would GO now. But Elijah looked at him with such a friendly expression that he felt a bit silly about his doubts of a moment ago. Surely the young fellow did not suspect his lustful feelings. He had hidden them rather well, he concluded, and he offered Elijah another cup of tea.