WEEKEND 1: ELIJAH

About a week and a half after the shower incident, a heat wave hit Wellington. All the cast had air-conditioned homes, but they were beginning to feel in need of flight from the city, into the gorgeous New Zealand landscapes that so far they had glimpsed only when traveling to and from locations or when in one of said locations, transformed temporarily into Middle-earth. Viggo’s announcement that he had rented a cottage on a surfing beach in Paraparaumu, a half hour’s drive up the coast from Wellington, was greeted with delight. The nine members of the Fellowship were invited for a potluck cookout the following Saturday. Sean Astin and John Rhys-Davies had other commitments, but the rest promised to come.

It turned out to be a boiling hot day, though the sea breezes helped a lot. The younger cast members were determined to pack as much sun and surf into the afternoon as possible. Elijah, his creative energies revitalised, had made yet more plans. A beach party! Everyone half naked already. Many possibilities to ogle Ian and show off his own pert little bod. The first thing he did upon arriving was excuse himself to change into his surfing pants. He lingered, checking out the cottage's amenities. He discovered that it contained a plethora of horizontal - if cluttered - surfaces that could be pressed into service if - when - the moment, and other things, arose. Of course, such activities as he had in mind were not inevitably performed horizontally, but there were only a few unadorned vertical surfaces. He cursed Viggo’s irritating habit of putting pictures up at inconvenient heights—just about where he would lean up against the wall as Ian knelt before him and pulled down his trousers and . . . The bathroom was, he admitted, a little disappointing, since it did not hold a Jacuzzi or even a large bath. The shower was little more than a coffin with see-through glass. After recent events, he still could not think of Ian in relation to showers without wincing. Oh, well, his bag full of bath oils, nubby washcloths, and other toiletries looked like it would go to waste. Perhaps the more conventional sexual venue would have to do. Best not to be TOO creative the first time. He peeked into Vig's bedroom. They were not staying the night, so if he was going to catch Ian and do all the indecent, if innovative things he had imagined he'd have to hurry. The bed was very large and firm; it had a headboard and even a footboard. He imagined himself naked and rampant, spread-eagled on that bed with Ian sucking him hungrily. A pity it had to happen so quickly, but once he had Ian’s attention, they could explore MANY more possibilities back in their own homes. He heard heavy footsteps on the landing and ducked quickly back out into the hallway. Beanie grinned at him cheerfully as he went into the bathroom and slammed the door. Elijah headed for the stairs, then realized that in all his investigations, he had forgotten to change into his surfing pants. He sighed and settled down to wait for Beanie to vacate the bathroom, trying not to compare this to his long waits in the shower room for the Ian encounter that had so spectacularly failed to bear fruit.

He glanced out the window and froze. Ian was sitting under a tree on the edge of a large, padded wooden chaise lounge, and Dom, clad in skimpy bathing trunks, was sitting pressed close up against him. Their backs were to Elijah, but they were talking in animated fashion, and from their postures, they had to be holding hands! Elijah felt a cold chill pass through him. Great, he had been frantically flirting with Ian for weeks and now this?! He clenched his teeth in determination. He would just have to try harder. There must be a way.

Once he had finally got changed and rushed to the yard, Ian was alone again, prudently sunbathing in the shade. He called out a casual "Hi" to Elijah but barely looked up from the large magazine that he was reading. Elijah was sporting the tightest surfing pants he could find after two evenings of visiting dark and dubious shops. He walked back and forth a few times from the yard to the water - apparently because he'd forgotten things - but really to give Ian adequate viewing pleasure of his butt encased in the tight lycra. Dom, he noted with pleasure, was now frolicking in the surf. Perhaps he had just somehow misinterpreted his glimpse of those two sitting together. Dom was straight, for Christ’s sake! Annoyingly, Ian’s magazine completely hid his face from Elijah’s view. Of course much of the rest of Ian was visible, below the magazine, which was all to the good. True, his obviously well-muscled torso was hidden under a strangely silly and definitely superfluous T-shirt, but the shorts held a nicely suggestive bulge at the crotch and left Ian’s long legs completely visible. He allowed himself a moment of rapt contemplation. But that damned magazine left little opportunity to catch the man’s attention.

To his utter disgust, Orli strolled across, leaned over Ian’s shoulder, smiled, and said something VERY close to one gorgeous ear. After all the times Elijah had contemplated slurping his tongue lasciviously into that ear, Orli was now far closer to it than HE ever had been. And Ian was looking up into his face—only inches away from his own—and replying in equal good humor. The surf reduced their words to an unintelligible murmur, but Ian’s dazzling smile made it apparent that they were having QUITE a delightful and intimate conversation. Shit! It even looked as though Ian might be getting a hard-on from talking to Orli! That bulge was definitely a bit larger than it had been. Elijah was torn between seething jealousy and bafflement. Ian had been so oblivious to his own flirting all this time that he had just assumed the man was oblivious by nature. He had also assumed that all he had to do was flirt harder and harder and eventually . . . But now Ian was flirting with EVERYONE. Well, not everyone, but two of the more dishy young members of the cast. And the afternoon was young. He bitterly pictured Ian luring every one of the other guys up to that oh-so-convenient bed and fucking them all in turn, while he, Elijah, sat neglected and horny as hell.

To his relief, Orli soon straightened up and strolled away toward the beach. Elijah rather desperately considered forcing Ian's interest. But how? Ian had raised the magazine, and the tight shirt and shorts again showed off a great deal of what Elijah longed for. Improvise, quick, you fool, he ordered himself. He was an actor, he could improvise. Maybe somehow Ian could rescue him from something. Nothing really dangerous, but still something that put him in need of . . . well, rescuing. After all he thought, wriggling in discomfort as his erection pressed against the lycra, Ian was a knight - if not quite in shining armour – and Elijah would be happy to play the sexy little thing in distress. He could suddenly get cramps in the water, needing to be helped to the side by his angel of mercy who would then administer mouth to mouth. And tongue to tongue. The only problem with this scenario was that one of his fellow hobbits would probably get there first. They were already on the beach, after all, and Ian was sunk deep in the mattress of that stupid chair—probably fantasizing about fucking Orli.

Perhaps he could find a helpful jellyfish to sting him. He closed his eyes, imagining the scene. Ian on his knees, holding his hands while he suffered bravely. Ian's sapphire eyes shot through with worry, Ian's mouth over the wound, sucking out the poison. Elijah groaned as he imagined the wound in question being just beside his nipple. Ian's wet tongue laving the wound . . . WAS sucking jellyfish poison out the treatment for stings? Or was that just for snakes? Well, maybe he could convince Ian it was.

"Hey, Viggo," he said brightly.

"Elijah." Viggo was painting the sea, mumbling incoherently about form and movement and arty things to Beanie, who was nodding doubtfully and staring at the canvas.

"Are there any jellyfish round here?" He tried not to look too hopeful.

"What? Why?"

Elijah couldn't help but flick a look at Ian who, he discovered, was staring back at him with a wistful look that could be interpreted as longing—but which, given his luck with Ian so far, probably wasn’t. Not for him anyway. He stuck out his butt slightly and assumed an air of innocence. "Just wondered. Do they sting?"

Viggo looked him up and down as though expecting him to be wearing a straight jacket. "There are no jellyfish."

"Oh."

Stupid jellyfish. He glanced over at Ian. The man was totally ignoring him, staring in absorption at something in his hands. A Gameboy! Ian playing with a Gameboy? Pretty childish for a gorgeous, dignified Brit like him. Speaking of dignified, he must remember to fetch a comb for Ian. The sea breezes had done terrible things to his hair. Come on, he HAD to be capable of providing Ian with something more interesting to do on a gorgeous afternoon than play games—that kind of games, anyway!

There was a hose just outside the door. Elijah frowned. Someone must have moved it because he knew it had been round the corner earlier. He had done his scouting work very thoroughly. Still, the change was all to the good - now it was in Ian's line of sight without him having to drag it there. Time to haul out the big guns. Desperate measures were called for. Ian COULDN’T ignore him after this. Adopting a provocative swagger, he strolled over and dropped his huge bottle of sun cream on Ian's chaise lounge. Ian looked up at him with wide, startled eyes.

"Will you put some cream on for me? Wait, though, I'm gonna wash off the salt first."

"You haven’t been in the water yet."

Well, glory be, Sir Knight DID pay at least a little attention to his presence. "No, I mean, uh, the salt from sweating. It’s a hot day, you know. I’m covered with sweat, you know. So will you? Put some cream on me? Huh?"

Ian stared at him with a little uncomprehending frown. Elijah gave a mental snort of exasperation. Yeah, Ian, cream, as in, I’m giving you an excuse to run your wonderful hands all over my pert little body. And if that turns you on even one little iota, then I can lure you into the house and . . .

"Oh, you mean sun block. Good idea. Lots of harmful rays down in this part of the world, sadly enough."

How clueless can a smart, wonderful guy like Ian be, Elijah wondered. Well, he would put on a good show. He strolled over to the hose. He ensured that he kept his best assets turned in Ian's direction as he sluiced himself down—slowly, thoroughly, twisting and turning. Then he returned to Ian and asked brightly:

"How do you want me?"

He winced at the double entendre. THAT was a little TOO blatant. Thankfully Ian did not wince in turn or make a smart remark but simply scooped up the bottle which was lying between his spread legs and indicated for Elijah to sit down in front of him. Elijah scrambled to obey, turning his naked back to the man. Memories of the all-too-platonic massage rushed into his mind, but he banished them. Surely this would work better. After all, maybe he had overplayed the pain angle during the massage. Maybe Ian had just avoided making mad, passionate love to him because he didn’t want to risk harming his back further. Yes, that was where he had made his mistake. Of course you don’t fuck a guy writhing in pain. Dumb idea, that fake backache. But a perfectly healthy guy asking you to smear sun cream on—that was tantamount to his walking up and grabbing your crotch, though a trifle more subtle. Surely Ian would HAVE to figure this one out.

Ian lifted the magazine, which he had put down between his shins on the lounger when he started playing with the Gameboy, and placed it across his lap. He unscrewed the cap of the sun-block bottle. Looking back over his shoulder in anticipation, Elijah wondered vaguely what in the hell Ian was doing reading PAVEMENT. Kind of a cool, youth-oriented, and mindless magazine for a smart guy like him. And what skin it showed off was mostly women. Oh, well, probably one of the other guys had brought it along. His attention was diverted from it by the sight of Ian squirting a generous dollop of the cream into his palm. Elijah gulped. He felt like he’d squirt a little cream himself if Ian would only carry through in the slightest. The first contact with Ian’s hand was like wildfire, and he surged into the touch. Yeah, it was a LOT like that massage, but this time it would lead to more. It had to. He was soon incapable of thought as Ian slathered on more cream—any thought except one. That wide, inviting bed up in Vig’s room. Finally Ian stopped and before the man could say anything, Elijah turned round and knelt on the end of the chair between Ian’s feet, presenting him with his chest.

Suddenly Ian turned his head and stared out toward the ocean. Following his gaze, Elijah saw Orli and Dom surfing.

"They’re quite good, aren’t they. Oh, look! That was a pretty impressive duck dive Orli just executed, wasn’t it? His board REALLY porpoised."

What the hell? Was Ian suddenly studying up on surfing terms to impress Orli? Elijah was about to switch back into seething mode when Ian suddenly slapped another dollop of cream against his chest and began to rub. He could collapse in a heap of whimpering desire, or he could try to make conversation.

"I bet YOU get sunburned," he piped up, his filthy mind presenting him with the wonderful image of Ian all red and peeling while Elijah played nurse and soothed his extremities with cold compresses, rubbed healing lotions into his skin, sucked his . . .

"Yes, I do. Fair skin, like yours." Ian was being very, very thorough, Elijah thought happily. He'd been applying cream to that nipple for ages. He sighed in delight as it hardened. Surely Ian would take a hint and pinch it, surely . . . and then Ian moved his hand up to Elijah’s shoulder. Damn. Finally, all too soon, Elijah was comprehensively slathered. Yeah, safe from all those harmful rays. He briefly considered asking Ian if he wanted Elijah to reciprocate, but the idea of Ian's flesh under his hands made his erection throb so painfully that he gasped. Well, there was nothing he wanted more than to have Ian notice his arousal. This could be it, finally, THE moment . . . He was desperately trying to figure out how to draw Ian’s eyes down to it when he noticed that Ian’s eyes were instead again fixed on the little group down in the surging waves!

Ian smiled briefly at Elijah as he rose. "Orli has offered to give me a surfing lesson," he said with a chuckle, and he picked up a board and walked down toward the beach. He paused and looked back. "They seem to be having fun down there. Are you coming?"

Elijah shook his head and sat looking after him in bafflement. Coming? He couldn’t come unless they got themselves up to that bedroom, and the object of his lust was headed in exactly the opposite direction. Surfing lesson? Sir Ian McKellen surfing? That made no sense . . . except for the fact that it was Orli giving him that lesson. He watched sadly as Ian made his way down to the beach. But then Ian just sat down! He wasn’t having a lesson, he had just said that to get away from Elijah and down there ogling those nearly naked guys.

Orli. And don’t forget that little cuddle-fest with Dom. They were both straight, but Ian apparently found it amusing to flirt pretty flagrantly with both of them. Yeah, them, not him. What did they have that he didn’t? He sighed, and then insight flooded over him. They were both older than he was, and they were both English. He brooded. Well, those were both differences that could be remedied.

That evening, over a few companionable drinks, Elijah studied the problem (and Ian's body, but that was a different matter) from all angles, and discovered two pertinent facts: a) Ian was obviously wary of a relationship with Elijah because of the age gap and because of Elijah's country of origin and b) Ian's ass looked mighty biteable in those shorts. The solution to a) was simple. Elijah must act older, giving the impression of wise-beyond-his-years and adopting mannerisms befitting someone raised in Good Old Blighty. Not that he thought he could pass for English, but using a British accent should work subtly on Ian. His training as an actor had included accents, and indeed he had been cast as Frodo partly because he could do an English accent. But having the accent and knowing what to say were two different things. He decided to seek expert advise on the subject of Englishness from one or more of his three other co-stars. First he tried Beanie, who gave an extensive dissertation on something called the off-side rule but was disappointingly useless when it came to English phrases and traditions.

Dom was currently passed out against Billy, and no amount of gentle nudges or not-so-gentle kicks could revive him, so Elijah, stifling his jealousy, turned to Orli. After introducing the topic with what he considered marvellous subtlety—passing it off as research for a film role he someday hoped to play--he asked: "So what typical phrases do you guys use?" Elijah, whose Ian-radar was very sensitive, caught a glimpse of his favourite Brit staring at Orli fixedly. Surreptitiously he slid the footstool upon which he was seated and leaned forward so that his body and most especially his bottom, were interposed between Ian and the object of his gaze—Orli, that disgustingly older, more English guy.

"Well, you know, we say ‘what ho' a lot," Orli said. "Then there's ‘I say, old bean' and ‘just the ticket.' ‘Talley ho!’ when we’re hunting, of course."

Fine, mock me, Elijah thought. You just want Ian all for yourself. He would have to work on this during the week. Today’s party had been so idyllic that Vig had volunteered to have another potluck the following Saturday. Despite all the long work days and early-morning make-up and costume sessions, Elijah had to grow way older and more English in seven days.

There were the history and traditions. Elijah had no time to actually go to a library or even surf the Net, but as he sat through his endless early-morning feet-application sessions, Elijah thought back on his schooling. He vaguely recalled some dude called Henry having eight wives, presumably not at the same time, and a Spanish Armadillo upsetting Queen Elizabeth. He sort of remembered being dragged through the British Museum as a child and being shown the Magna Carter, source of all modern democracy, yada yada. Well, he was bound to remember more if the occasion arose to display all this learning.

The perfect way to hone both his accent and his knowledge of English society was to watch some British films. He visited a local video shop and asked the clerk about English pics. The guy was a total geek and knew every tape in the shop. When he mentioned Alec Guiness films, Lij’s ears pricked up. Alec Guiness! Obi-Wan Kenobi? An English knight, just like Ian. He checked out every Guiness film the place had. Each night, when he was supposed to be asleep, he slipped in an old Ealing comedy and watched Alec Guiness work his magic, or a David Lean drama—and watched Alec Guiness work his magic. God, would this film industry have existed at all without that younger version of Obi-Wan? Sort of an earlier, less dishy version of Ian, too, he reflected. Oh, yeah, Christopher Lee had apparently made a lot of movies in those days, too. Weird. Every now and then he took a break from Englishness and slipped in his tape of SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION, fast-forwarding through all the non-Ian scenes and switching it off after Ian departed jauntily—and all too early—in the airport scene. At least Ian looked like Ian. Not like all those films where he put on heavy make-up and looked ugly and/or old. He was great in APT PUPIL and GODS AND MONSTERS—but it wasn’t much of a turn-on to watch those.

Really, though, impressing Ian would depend mostly on costumes and props—just like becoming a hobbit except thankfully with shoes, not fake feet. He considered his apparel very carefully. The surfing shorts of the first seaside party had clearly not lured Ian into staring lustfully at his naked torso and cupping his hands over the bulging-- No, apparently for his yummy but oblivious Ian, those shorts gave the wrong image. Tweed not lycra, that must be the key into Ian’s heart—and pants. No, not pants, he reminded himself. To the English, pants means underpants. The silly blighters (he congratulated himself on knowing that bit of British slang) called pants "trousers." Time to go shopping.

WEEKEND 2: ELIJAH

A few days later, Elijah snatched a few hours of spare time to shoot off to the nearest mall in search of a summery weekend outfit that said country-gent-and-gagging-for it. Those British films had showed him exactly what he needed. Finally, he settled on cream-coloured trousers, a virgin white shirt (the only thing that would be, he sincerely hoped) with easily rippable buttons and a light blue blazer. He briefly considered a Panama hat but took the assistant's helpless laughter as a gentle hint that he couldn't quite carry THAT off. An umbrella that he could twirl jauntily made no sense in this weather—and besides, twirling took practice.

Elijah delayed his arrival at the cottage until well after the official start-time for the party, planning to make a dramatic entrance. He heard sounds of revelry from the back yard and strolled around the house to join the group. Viggo opened the gate with a mumble of some kind about where Elijah had been and what he was wearing. Elijah suppressed the urge to ask him to repeat himself and tried to look past him to see if Ian was about. The object of his desires—okay, lusts--was chatting with Orli--again!--under the shade of the tree. He glared at the erstwhile elf and was about to storm over when he remembered his mission and settled into what he considered to be a mature gait. He regretted not having brought that umbrella. He could have accidentally poked Orli with it.

"Good afternoon," he greeted them in a British accent that could cut glass.

Surreptitiously he edged his way between the two men and proceeded to ignore the elf until Orli gave in and went away. He hefted the volume of the complete Shakespeare plays and sonnets that he had just bought and continued, "Ian, I've been reading LEAR again. I dip into it every time I feel the need to work on my deep character motivation. It’s so universal. What do you think is Lear's chief motivation?" Given the fact the he had selected a play at random and knew nothing about Shakespeare except that when he had been home-schooled he had been required to read MACBETH and had loved the witches and the moving forest, Elijah had settled on what he hoped was a generic question.

Ian looked at him in some surprise, but he smiled that Ian smile that made Elijah want to lean forward toward him . . . and lean, and lean, until . . . He assumed a look of serious, earnest, devoted attention as Ian launched into his lecture, simply revelling in that rich, resonating voice without allowing any of the actual words to penetrate his brain. He gazed into Ian's startlingly blue eyes and kept nodding sagely, occasionally adding the odd thoughtful ‘quite so’ or ‘I think you’re spot on there.’"

Ian wound up his extemporaneous essay, but he still looked thoughtful. Elijah waited, content to stare into that face forever if Ian had nothing more to say. But Ian did. He took a deep breath, as if to launch into another lecture. "You know, I quite like this recent trend toward film adaptations of the great British classics redone with modern teenaged characters. Things like the recent version of ROMEO AND JULIET by that talented Australian chap, with the Montagues and Capulets as LA gangs. You saw it, I’m sure. And Austen’s EMMA made into, um, CLUELESS. Got very good reviews. I have been meaning to catch that on videotape—but I’ve got this very fancy new VCR I can’t quite work yet. But the point is, these sorts of films make the classics relevant to young viewers, don’t you think?"

Elijah was lost in Ian’s eyes, but he recovered in time to pick up his cue. "Relevant? Oh, decidedly. Yes, spot on, Ian. Cracking good films, those." Ian smiled and nodded, and Elijah sighed inwardly in relief. Nearly dropped the ball on that one.

Ian nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose really there’s not that much difference between setting RICHARD III in Nazi Germany and making OTHELLO as a modern interracial high-school romance—apparently someone IS making a film on that premise. Do you agree?"

I’d agree to anything you like, especially if it’s asking me to come upstairs with you and . . . He snapped back to reality. He had better get them off this line of conversation. It had served its purpose. Ian was actually having a serious conversation about Shakespeare with him! If it went on much further, though, Elijah might say something totally stupid. No, crashingly stupid. That was English, wasn’t it? "Absolutely! Um, would you like a cup of tea, my dear chap? With milk, of course." The English took their tea with milk, he knew. Unbelievable, considering that they were supposed to know so much about tea. Ian accepted happily, and they walked into the kitchen. There was a small box of tea bags, still unopened, that Vig had presumably provided for his English guests—all of whom so far had been guzzling beer or, in Ian’s case, fruit juice.

Elijah ripped the package open with an annoyed air. "Dreadful things, these tea bags, what? You can always taste the bag. Loose tea, that’s the ticket." Elijah had heard some old British lady say that to his mother when he was little. It had stuck with him because it seemed so incredibly silly.

Ian chuckled. "Well, you’re more fastidious than most Brits. I hate messing around with loose tea, and I confess, I cannot taste the bag. You must have quite a sensitive tongue." Oh, man, just let me demonstrate, Elijah begged inwardly, thinking again of that convenient bed, right at the head of those very stairs.

As Elijah got a bit more accustomed to his new maturity and Englishness, he figured out how to ask Ian questions that didn’t require any knowledge on his own part. What were some of his early movie roles? What was it like to work with Patrick Stewart? Ian was a wonderful storyteller, and Elijah relaxed, sipping his tea and struggling not to grimace at each taste of the horrible concoction. He had poured a dollop of milk in his cup, just to prove his Englishness, and now he was suffering the consequences. He settled down, mostly just nodding and murmuring things like, "Ripping!" and "Oh, rollicking!" at intervals.

Soon Ian pulled out his cigarettes and held the packet out toward Elijah. "Thanks, old chum, but I’ve switched to this." He pulled out a pipe, newly purchased, and a packet of tobacco. Ian seemed most impressed.

The afternoon sped by, and Elijah was in a haze of delight. Everything was going so well. He thought Ian looked at him a bit oddly at times, but he was bound to make a few gaffes until he fully got the hang of this. But now it looked like he’d be spending a lot of time with Ian—ah, those blissful, lazy mornings in bed, chatting after having fucked each other’s brains out all night. Not on hobbit-feet mornings, of course, but once in a while. He’d pick up many more points on being English from the perfect Englishman.

After dinner, they went inside to listen to some music. Ian flipped through the stack of CDs and held one up with a tolerant little smile. "Hip-hop?" Elijah’s mind was spinning. Was this some sort of test? No, he liked serious music. What was serious? "Got any Beethoven? I love dancing to Beethoven." From Ian’s expression, he suspected that that comment might not have come off as well as he had hoped. Ian turned the choice of CDs over to Billy—who had, after all, brought them—and the place was soon quite lively and noisy.

Much later, Elijah and Ian were on the sofa. Ian told him about how he prepared for the role of Gandalf, and Elijah was frantically making mental notes—when he wasn’t distracted by the fact that Ian’s arm was resting along the top of the sofa just behind his head.

"Ian, Lij?" Orli again. "Me and Bean and Billy and Dom are off now. Want to share the cab?"

About time somebody called a halt to this, Elijah thought. We’re wasting precious time. He looked up from beneath his eyelashes at Ian, directing all his telepathic powers toward influencing his reply. Ian responded perfectly. "Oh, no thanks, Orlando. That sounds a bit crowded. I’ve got my car, you know. I'll take Elijah home." Orli gave them both a measured look, then nodded and trotted after the others with a backward wave. Elijah beamed up at Ian.

"Thanks, Ian," he said and couldn't resist giving him a peck on the cheek. They walked toward Ian's car and Elijah was just thinking happy thoughts involving Ian's bed, a silk scarf and honey when Ian touched his arm and turned to face him.

"Elijah, I must say that you are very mature for a lad your age. I’m sure your mother is very proud of you. I certainly would be, if I were your parent."

Elijah stared at him in horror. Despite all his best efforts, Ian considered him a child. And no doubt an American child at that. Mature for his age. "I think I’ll take that cab with the others after all, Ian. I . . . I have something I forgot to tell Beanie."

After a few minutes he felt himself getting a little more accustomed to the controls, and he thanked Dom. Best not be caught sitting next to this young dish when that other sexy little dish shows up, Ian thought. Dom rather reluctantly pulled himself away from the Gameboy and, in response to a shout from Billy, went back down to the beach. Ian switched off the Gameboy. No point in wasting the battery until he could show off his new skills to Elijah. Besides, it was SO boring. He pulled out another weapon in his arsenal from the bag at his feet and lay back on the lounger, opening the large magazine and holding it up prominently and perusing it in as cool and young a manner as he could manage. He made sure that it did not block a certain somebody’s view of his chest, though it was a bit of a strain on his arms to hold it that high.

Elijah! Looking simply scrumptious in a spectacularly tight garment. After his extensive perusal of such things in a beach-supplies shop the evening before, Ian recognized them as what were rather peculiarly termed "surfing pants." Silly-looking things, but what they did for Elijah’s figure was nothing short of sinful. He called out a casual "Hi," holding up the magazine and displaying the T-shirt for all he was worth. To his delight, the lad most obligingly strolled back and forth rather aimlessly, allowing Ian to catch glimpses of that amazingly small, shapely ass around the edge of his magazine. His mind started drifting in directions that soon were making his cock swell distinctly, and he struggled to drag his mind away from Elijah and concentrate on the magazine. He realized with an ironic little chuckle that the magazine had been open all this time to a "fashion" photo of a young lady with her blouse open and distinctly askew. He began to flip through to see if there were any male models treated in a similar way when, to his considerable annoyance, Orli appeared and leaned down to look over his shoulder.

"Is that the new PAVEMENT?" he asked.

"Yes, just having a look at what’s stylish in New Zealand these days."

"You know, that is an amazingly slick, large magazine for such a small country, isn’t it? Can’t fathom how the publishers make a go with it. You never see it on newsstands anywhere BUT New Zealand. Pretty good though." He grinned his dazzling Orli grin. "You know they’re planning a special issue on LORD OF THE RINGS when the first film comes out."

Ian grinned in return, staring into those perfect features and again thinking of how he would have reacted to such proximity BCE. The Mohawk detracted a bit from the effect, but still . . .

"Really? Well, I suppose every New Zealand publication that can possibly find an excuse will be running pieces on the film. From the sorts of photos they run in PAVEMENT, you young cast members will be much in demand. You in particular, I’m sure."

"Thanks. ‘Course, Lij, too, and the others. Hey, like what you did with your hair, by the way. Well, I can’t stay away from that water any longer. See you."

Ian breathed a sigh of relief. Now was the moment. He was there and Elijah was there—sitting opposite and staring most gratifyingly at him. Probably impressed that Ian even knew who Bruce Lee was, let alone had this cool T-shirt. He placed the copy of PAVEMENT, cover up, on the chair between his legs so that it would remain visible, ostentatiously pulled out the Gameboy, and turned it on. So far, so good. Problem was, now Elijah was looking everywhere BUT at him. He fiddled with the controls, trying to look like an expert in case Elijah did deign to cast a glance at him. Right now that gorgeous face was looking out to sea with a slight frown. Then his eyes closed. Fuck! Well, never mind, there was plenty of time. Aha, yes, the eyes were open again.

"Hey, Viggo."

"Elijah."

"Are there any jellyfish around here?"

Ian looked up, baffled. What the hell? Jellyfish? Was THAT why Elijah was hanging around up here with just the old coot and the distracted artist? He was afraid of jellyfish? Well, more power to the jellyfish, he thought. He stared. Elijah did have the most delectable little ass.

"What? Why?" Vig said.

"Just wondering. Do they sting?"

"There are no jellyfish."

Ian lowered his eyes quickly and assumed a frown of intense concentration. After a short pause, he realized that Elijah was standing up. He was walking. He was walking toward Ian! It had worked! Young people just couldn’t resist these electronic game gadgets. Worth every New Zealand penny it had cost, he reflected as his heart soared. Could this be it, finally? There HAD to be a bed upstairs—

A huge bottle of some light-coloured liquid thumped on the chaise-lounge cushion next to the copy of PAVEMENT. Ian looked up and stared. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t have got THAT lucky all of a sudden. That luscious, sweat-slicked torso, so at risk of sunburn. And Elijah wanted HIM to put this stuff on it. He gaped.

"Will you put some cream on for me? Wait, though, ’m gonna wash off the salt first."

"You haven’t been in the water yet."

Better and better! Elijah was making an excuse to hose himself down in front of Ian. Fuck! He shouldn’t have let on that he had seen through that ruse.

"No, uh, the salt from sweating. It’s a hot day, you know. I’ve covered with sweat, you know. So will you? Put some cream on me? Huh?"

Elijah was so cute, fumbling to explain his charming little deception. Yeah, put some cream on him. In him. Hold on, that’s a bit crude. He frowned slightly as he realized that he really should NOT be about to do what he hoped he was about to do with a young fellow like this. Well, he could at least . . .

"Oh, you mean sun block. Good idea. Lots of harmful rays down in this part of the world, sadly enough." He began to breath more heavily as Elijah walked over to the hose and gave himself a brief but incredibly sensual dousing. Well, maybe he shouldn’t be doing this, but he was going to, he realized as Elijah returned and stood facing him.

"How do you want me?"

No, no. Don’t touch that, just don’t touch it. Elijah obviously realized as soon as he said it what that could sound like. He’s embarrassed enough, just let it go by. He moved the magazine aside to make room for Elijah to sit, placing it strategically over his crotch in the very likely event of his getting a hard-on during this process. He wouldn’t mind Elijah seeing it, but there were Vig and Beanie nearby, and the others might walk past. With any luck, Elijah would soon see his cock much harder and naked and close up and personal. He squirted a generous dollop of the sun block onto his hand. Good, Elijah had turned his back, but at least he seemed to notice what Ian was reading. "Pretty good," Orli had deemed PAVEMENT. Definitely cool.

Unlike himself. He was feeling feverish all over as he smeared the cream across the flawless skin of Elijah’s back. The painful memory of furtively groping Elijah during the massage session flitted through his mind, but he dismissed it. Obviously Elijah WANTED to be groped now. Yes, he was definitely pressing back against Ian’s hand. Pity to get all this sun block on Vig’s sheets, he reflected, without really thinking it was a pity at all. Sun block was wasted out in the sun. And anyway, he would offer to change the sheets before he left. He would personally take the sullied ones to the finest cleaners in Wellington and personally return them to Vig, wrapped in a bow.

As Elijah rose and turned to kneel before him and have his front done, Ian happily reflected that his new youthful image was an enormous success. No harm in cementing it a little further. He glanced out at the surfers. "They’re quite good, aren’t they? Oh, look! That was a pretty impressive duck dive Orli just executed, wasn’t it? His board REALLY porpoised." He chortled mentally. All that time spent chatting with the fellow in the beach emporium last night had just now paid off spectacularly. He sighed blissfully as he luxuriously swiped his hand back and forth across Elijah’s chest.

"I bet YOU get sunburned," Elijah suddenly said. Not the most romantic remark in the world—but at least the fellow was thinking about Ian’s skin, which was something.

"Yes, I do. Fair skin, like yours." Yes, well done, turn it into a little implied compliment on that ivory complexion. He realized that he had nearly covered Elijah’s exposed parts by now and soon would have no excuse to go on. Very tentatively he rubbed the lovely little nipple and was rewarded by a sigh from Elijah. He went on rubbing as long as he thought he dared, but realized it was best not to be TOO obvious. Take it slowly, he warned himself, moving his hand up to finish off at the shoulder.

And he really had no choice about taking it slowly. Whatever happened between him and Elijah would have to wait, since Vig was moving in and out of the house, starting the grill and making general preparations for dinner. And some of the others might be taking showers right next to the bedroom. Still, if Elijah was so willing all of a sudden, later he could invite him back to his own bed and . . .

Might as well take advantage of the present to further enhance the new image that appealed to the boy so much. That surfing remark had clearly impressed him. He hesitated, then made a sudden decision. "Orli has offered to give me a surfing lesson." True, he had offered, many days ago, as a joke, and Ian had played along, turning it down with a laugh and a remark about being too old for that sort of thing. Too old to take up surfing. It had been true then and it was true now, but . . . He looked into Elijah’s face, took a deep breath, and picked up a surfboard. He pointed to a second board and went on, "It looks like they’re having fun down there. Are you coming?" Fuck! Now HE was making unintentionally salacious remarks again. Right now, though, he was too happy to care.

Then suddenly Elijah stunned him by shaking his head and just sitting there on the chaise lounge. Ian struggled to think. Obviously he had somehow misinterpreted everything that had just happened. He blushed to think of that sun-block session , especially the nipple . . . He managed to pull himself together somewhat. Well, he had said he was going for a surfing lesson, and he had to at least look as if he were doing just that. Feeling a bit dizzy with disappointment and guilt, he turned and carried the annoyingly heavy board toward the beach. Once there, he flung the wretched thing down on the sand and sat beside it, casting recriminations at himself until Vig called them to dinner.

That evening, as the group sat around over drinks, Ian was uncharacteristically quiet. He kept feeling Elijah’s reproachful eyes on him, and he cringed inwardly. And then, as if to rub salt in his mental wounds, Elijah started chatting up Orli. Really silly stuff, about typical English clichés and the like. Just an excuse to flirt. He scrutinized Orli’s face for any sign that he was encouraging Elijah, but fortunately the Elf didn’t seem to be taking the young fellow too seriously. Well, why would he, you old fool, he scolded himself. They’re both straight. Get that through your skull. Elijah isn’t flirting, he’s making conversation. It was enough to tempt him to break his life-long habit as a teetotaler.

WEEKEND 2 – IAN

Ian delayed his arrival at the party the following weekend. He had debated whether to go at all, but it was better to get out in the fine weather than to sit moping at home. Besides, he might get a chance to repair Elijah’s image of him as a father figure—if that were even possible, given how badly he had behaved toward the lad the week before. Most of the others were down at the beach, but he spotted Orli under the tree and wandered over to ask where Elijah was.

"Dunno. Not here yet," Orli cheerfully replied. "Oh, wait, there he is."

Ian spun and watched Elijah walk over to them. He seemed upset, and Ian’s heart sank. Not much chance of repairing that image, he feared. Elijah was wearing the most amazing get-up, too. Not that wonderfully tight surfer garment from before, but completely dressed, even in this heat. Dressed, in fact, as if he had been cast for an old Ealing comedy.

"Good afternoon." Elijah’s voice sounded different. He was speaking with a British accent, Ian realized. In his depressed state, he could only imagine that Elijah was doing something to take revenge on him for his ghastly mistake of a week ago. Mocking him. Mocking him for being British and old and . . . He couldn’t even speak.

Just as he was contemplating going back to his car and returning home and moping in earnest, Elijah stepped closer to him, shouldering Orli aside rather rudely, he thought. Orli raised his eyebrows, sighed, and departed. For once Ian rather wished he would stay. He dreaded what Elijah might say to him once they were alone.

The lad held up a thick volume that Ian hadn’t noticed and said, "Ian, I’ve been reading LEAR again. I dip into it every time I feel I the need to work on my deep character motivation. It’s so universal. What do you think is Lear’s chief motivation?"

Ian struggled to contain his astonishment. Elijah was not upset with him! Indeed, he seemed to have done precisely what Ian had hoped when he first noticed Elijah trailing around admiringly after him: studying his acting craft and looking up to him as a sort of mentor. He was greatly relieved but also suddenly touched that he had succeeded so well when all along he had thought himself a miserable failure as a father figure. Well, it was a good lesson for him. Don’t go after very young men, no matter how dishy. He smiled delightedly at Elijah. In the back of his mind he was wondering how understanding Lear’s motivation could possibly help Elijah in working out Frodo’s character. But that just proved how smart and thoughtful Elijah was. He had obviously seen some deep connection there. Maybe Ian could learn something about acting himself from this gifted young fellow.

He had never played Lear, but he had witnessed a wide range of great performances and of course read the play many times. He hoped eventually to be skilled and mature enough to finally give the character a try. He launched into a long and enthusiastic discussion of Lear, going on to other Shakespearian roles. He thought he might be talking too much, but Elijah was gratifyingly fascinated, staring at him and obviously taking it all in.

Still, as Ian spoke, his opinions began to seem a bit dry. How could he make all this more relevant to this lad’s own experience? That was how to get young people really interested in something. "You know, I quite like this recent trend toward film adaptations of the great British classics redone with modern teenaged characters. Things like the recent version of ROMEO AND JULIET by that talented Australian chap, with the Montagues and Capulets as gangs in Miami. You saw it, I’m sure. And Austen’s EMMA made into, um, CLUELESS. Got very good reviews. I have been meaning to catch that on videotape—but I’ve got this very fancy new VCR I can’t quite work yet. But the point is, these sorts of films make the classics relevant to young viewers, don’t you think?"

Elijah hesitated. Obviously he was a thoughtful young chap indeed, considering things deeply. "Relevant? Oh, decidedly. Yes, spot on, Ian. Cracking good films, those." Ian smiled and nodded. Elijah was so cute.

"Yes, I suppose really there’s not that much difference between setting RICHARD III in Nazi Germany and making OTHELLO as a modern interracial high-school romance—apparently someone IS making a film on that premise. Do you agree?"

"Absolutely! Um, would you like a cup of tea, my dear chap? With milk, of course." Ian agreed, and they strolled into the kitchen. As Ian watched Elijah fumbling to make the tea, he realized fondly that the lad was actually trying to imitate him a bit. It was touching. Of course, he’d rather have Elijah touching him in a different way, but now he realized that he was definitely still on that high pedestal--and more suited to it than he had thought, apparently.

"Dreadful things, these tea bags, what? You can always taste the bag. Loose tea, that’s the ticket."

Well, Ian thought, Elijah must know more about tea that it would appear. He remembered an aunt who always used to say that. He was impressed.

"Well, you’re more fastidious than most Brits. I hate messing around with loose tea, and I confess, I cannot taste the bag. You must have quite a sensitive tongue." Oops. He realized he must still be lusting after the boy far more than he should. Watch it, he warned himself.

Ian became more and more charmed with this new Elijah as the afternoon progressed. The boy was so curious, so intent, so . . . so very, very fuckable. Oh, well. As he had reminded himself so many times over the past weeks, you don’t get most of the people you lust after.

When it came time to choose some music later that evening, Ian sorted through Billy’s stack of CDs, sighing at the thought that there was not one there that even remotely appealed to him. Still, he was getting used to putting up with a lot of music he didn’t like when he was with the other actors. He decided to indulge Elijah, holding up one of the jewel boxes. "Hip-hop?"

"Got any Beethoven? I love dancing to Beethoven."

Ian struggled to suppress a grin. Really, Elijah was trying a bit TOO hard. But he’d learn, he was so eager to soak up knowledge like the proverbial sponge. Reluctantly Ian stepped aside and let Billy put on some music.

The rest of the evening was wonderful despite the din, sitting on the sofa and chatting with Elijah. All too soon, though, Orli came over to them.

"Ian, Lij? Me and Bean and Billy and Dom are off now. Want to share the cab?" Orli knew that Ian had his car there. Probably just being protective of Elijah—not letting him go off into the darkness alone with a gay man. Well, he needn’t worry, but it was a kind thought.

"Oh, no thanks, Orlando. That sounds a bit crowded. I’ve got my car, you know. I’ll take Elijah home." And drop him off and leave and that will be that, he thought reluctantly.

"Thanks, Ian." Elijah’s trusting little peck on his cheek made the thwarting of his lust almost bearable . . . almost.

As they walked out toward the car, Ian remembered how he had felt upon arriving—fearful that Elijah would shun and hate him. The change was just amazing. He felt he had to express his admiration for this young fellow, who had been so tolerant and understanding of all his silly, mis-guided attempts at an inappropriately intimate relationship.

He stopped the boy and stared sincerely into his eyes. "Elijah, I must say that you are very mature for a lad your age. I’m sure your mother is very proud of you. I certainly would be, if I were your parent."

The look of shock on Elijah’s face stunned him. Suddenly the young man blurted out, "I think I’ll take that cab with the others after all, Ian. I . . . I have something I forgot to tell Beanie."