Ian pulls at the front of his shirt, feeling the lukewarm beer sticking the cotton to his skin. He stalks the hallway quietly, the sounds of the party downstairs growing fainter as he progresses, and mutters a few choice threats aimed at a certain Orlando Bloom and his deplorable lack of coordination when inebriated. Ian figures he just needs to pop by his bedroom to regroup (and change shirts) before returning to the festivities and doling out the appropriate vengeance.

Ian snickers in the dark, and deftly sidesteps the small table against the wall between the washroom door and his bedroom.

It is by sheer coincidence that he happens to glance to his left and into the shadowed depths of the guest bedroom. He stops and cocks his head to study what he thinks he can see through the pleasant haze of a few too many scotches. Standing by the commode in the semi-darkness is the quietest of the hobbits, clutching the cordless phone to his chest and staring intently into the mirror before him--the perfect picture of misery.

Ian wanders in, quiet but not particularly stealthy. Yet Sean doesn't notice his presence until their eyes meet in their reflection. Sean jumps, looking unnaturally disheveled.

"Are you okay, Sean?" Ian tries, but his voices sounds too loud in the quiet upstairs. His lips feel numb and he can taste the fragrance of the liquor on his tongue, a bit like perfume. He makes a conscious effort to keep his eyes open and focused.

Sean inhales sharply. "Y--Yeah. I just... I hope you don't mind, I used your phone to call home. My cel died."

"S'quite alright. Family's good, yeah?"

Sean rubs the sole of his shoe against the plush carpeting. "Actually, I don't know. I dialled the number wrong. I--I was going to try again."

But Ian sees the death grip Sean has on the phone, and he doubts the task is as simple as it sounds. Ian can't remember how long it's been since he last saw Sean downstairs with the others, and wonders just how long he's been standing there in the dark, staring at himself.

Ian's eyes softens. "How long have you been up here hiding from them?"

Sean's head shoots up and his eyes meet Ian's, weary and defensive. "I wasn't--"

Ian says nothing. Sean is a damn good actor--but he can't lie to save his life.

Sean looks back down at his shoes and tries again. "I was just... I called Christine," he says, this time with faltering conviction.

"And you dialled wrong."

"Right."

Sean blushes--Ian can tell even in the dark--as though the trivial incident tells volumes about his true reasons for hiding. Perhaps it does.

"It's okay, you know," Ian lets out quietly, hoping his deliberate vagueness might dredge something out. He thinks he might be seeing a sheen in Sean's eyes when Sean looks up.

"It shouldn't be this hard." Sean's voice is breaking, thick and wet, and a shuddering sigh escapes his lips when Ian reaches out and slides a hand down his arm to his fingers.

"Do you even know what you want?"

"I do." Sean nods resolutely, and it seems genuine to Ian.

"And do you know for sure that you don't want any of the rest?"

Sean hesitates, and his gaze wanders away from Ian's again, drifting back to his reflection. His eyes linger there a moment, as though trying to find something there he hadn't noticed before.