As soon as the cab had vanished, Ian closed the door and locked it.
He moved quietly around the room, picking up the coffee cups and
straightening the cushions on the couch. He smiled as he did so,
letting his hand linger as he thought of Elijah sitting on his lap,
as trusting as a child.

"It's still a mad thing you're doing," he said aloud as he took the
glasses into the kitchen. "That boy could take your heart and crush
it without even knowing what he was doing."

As he turned the light out in the kitchen and made his way towards
the stairs, he paused, listening to the silence of the deep night.
After a second, he shook his head, and made his way slowly up the
stairs to his bed.

*

Elijah woke surprisingly early, bearing in mind it was a day off, and
the first thing he did was swear. He was definitely getting into a
habit of waking early, and after the 1,500th time a sunrise was still
just a big ball of fire in a pink sky.

He turned over onto his side and curled his knees up to his chest,
grimacing slightly at the rather disgusting sensation of dry
flakiness on his skin, and then lay quietly, thinking about what had
happened. It had gone better than he could ever have imagined even
in his wildest dreams. He put his fingers against his lips, thinking
again about the feel of Ian's mouth on his, of Ian's fingers stroking
along his face and neck., and to his amusement he felt his usual
morning erection harden slightly. He buried his face in the pillow
and muttered, "tart," to himself, before dragging himself out of bed
and making for the shower.

He was halfway through his second cup of coffee when the phone rang,
and he was surprised at how his stomach clenched in anticipation as
he picked it up, and how disappointed he was when he heard Billy's
distinctive voice inviting him to go surfing. It was on the tip of
his tongue to refuse, but he caught himself before he said it. He
was not going to sit about like some lovesick fool waiting for the
phone to ring; he was going to enjoy himself with his friends, just
the same as usual.

*

So when he got home late that afternoon, his hair achieving new
heights of strangeness as the salt did its worst, and his body
feeling pleasantly tired and sore, he pointedly refused to look at
his machine to check for messages. He lasted through the shower and
hair wash and was on his way to the refrigerator to look for food
when the flashing light distracted him. Otherwise he would have
ignored the machine all night. Obviously.

"Dear boy," Ian's voice rang across the room. "You must be off
gallivanting on your day off, such a shame. I thought I could take
you to a museum and amaze you with my knowledge of ancient
artefacts. Which reminds me, I've got a marvellous story about
Laurence Olivier… if you would like to ring me when you get in, we
can perhaps arrange something slightly less fascinating."

"Bet we couldn't," Elijah muttered, picking up the phone and dialling
Ian's number. It only struck him as Ian picked up that he should
perhaps have left it until after he had eaten. It would have been
infinitely cooler, even if it was only in his own mind. "Hey," he
said. "It's me. Elijah."

"Oh hello you. Elijah." Ian paused. "I have to say, you have a
dreadful telephone manner. You do like to state the obvious, don't
you?"

"I just thought I'd better make it clear, in case you thought I was
another pupil." Elijah grinned in triumph. *Ha! Beat that! *

"At my age, one pupil at a time is quite enough, especially if they
are as – unfinished – as you." Ian paused. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No, not yet. Why? Do you want to go out?"

"Not at all. I thought maybe you would like to come over here.
Amongst my many talents is an ability to cook – which is to say that
I can throw pasta in a pan. What do you think?"

"I think that would be really – excellent." Elijah winced; why
had `neat' suddenly become his favourite word? It was just plain
embarrassing. "Should I come over now?"

"Yes, do." Ian's voice softened. "I look forward to seeing you."

Elijah hung up the phone and turned to look for his car keys. At
which point he decided that perhaps going to Ian's wearing nothing
but a towel around his waist would perhaps be giving off signals
which were a little too eager. Ian didn't strike him as the kind of
person who would approve of jeans to dinner, so he dug through his
closet until he found a pair of halfway decent pants, found a shirt
to go with them, thought about ironing them, then remembered he
didn't know how to iron, put them on, and *then * went to look for
his car keys. The whole slightly panic-stricken operation took him
less than 5 minutes.

*

Ian had spent the day restless and unsettled, which was most unlike
him. Normally a day off would be filled with learning lines, taking
a walk, and maybe finding a café where he could sit with a coffee and
a newspaper, before walking back to the house and having an early
night. But he had woken later than usual, out of sorts, after a
night of strange, fractured dreams. Dreams which seemed to involve
soft flesh and softer touches; huge, unreal eyes closing in pleasure
and a young body arching against his own.

He had phoned Elijah as soon as seemed reasonable, but the answering
machine had picked up. Ian had left an urbane message and had then
sat quietly with his script in front of him. By the time Elijah had
rung, he had taken in nothing of what he was supposed to know by the
next day.

He had finally flung the script across the room in an atypical show
of anger, and sat back, taking a deep, calming breath, refusing to
acknowledge the constant itch at the back of his mind. The itch
called Elijah.

*

As soon as the door was opened, Elijah held up a bottle of wine.

"Brought this!" he announced. "But then I remembered that you don't
drink. But it might look pretty on a shelf somewhere."

"I'm sure it will," Ian agreed placidly. "Stop waving it about like
it's some kind of flag and come in." Every bit of restlessness had
now vanished, and that worried Ian more than he cared to admit.

"Can't smoke in here, can I?" Elijah asked.

"No."

"Okay. I should warn you that I'm the next in line to a chain
smoker. I will have to make regular trips to the back yard."

"Elijah, dear heart, it's a garden, not a yard. A yard is something
attached to a little terraced house. A garden has grass. It's a
giveaway every time."

Elijah giggled, but didn't reply. His nerves were still pulled taut,
and he was unsure what he should be feeling at this point. Was this
going to be a lesson, or was it just dinner between colleagues?
Surely after last night they couldn't just go back to that?

"Am I allowed to kiss you?" he asked, surprising himself.

"You don't have to ask permission," Ian replied, taking a step
towards Elijah..

"Good." Elijah met Ian halfway, lifting his head for a kiss, looking
so perfect in his beauty that Ian actually felt his stomach clench.

"Dear boy." The kiss was brief, but warm and kind, lips slightly
parted. As Ian pulled away, he was surprised to find his arms full
of Elijah.

"Don't go," Elijah muttered, his face against Ian's shoulder. "Just
for a second."

Ian opened his mouth to say something, but then changed his mind,
instead wrapping Elijah in his arms and pulling him close, letting
his face drop briefly against the thick dark hair.

"I like this," Elijah whispered. "I like the way you feel."

"Come on." Ian pulled away after dropping a gentle kiss on the top
of Elijah's head. "My marvellous creation will be burning."

So many aspects to one personality, he mused as he quickly drained
the pasta and stirred in the sauce. From the tempting, seductive boy
of last night, to the boy who just wants comfort. There's a lot this
one keeps hidden.

*

Dinner was a pleasant affair, the talk small and silly; Ian told his
Laurence Olivier anecdote, and was so shamelessly scandalous in what
he said that Elijah almost fell off his chair laughing.

"He really was the most dreadful ham," Ian finished. "My career was
just starting as his was coming to its less than glorious end, but he
was legendary for all kinds of reasons. I went to his house in
Cheyne Walk once, you know – a lot of us from RADA were invited over –
and it was like a cavern! Echoing and dark – I kept expecting all
kinds of beasts to jump out at me from the shadows. If ever a place
was made for lurking…"

"And did anything ever leap out at you?" Elijah asked.

"Ah, young man, one of the great tragedies of my life is that I have
not been leaped upon more often."

"Did he ever leap on you? You know, Laurence?" Elijah was
fascinated; these stories of people who had died before he was born
seemed almost like ancient history, and yet here was his direct link
back to people who were making films in the 1930s! He didn't think
Ian would like it if he was referred to as `living history', so he
kept quiet.

"My dear, when I knew him, he couldn't have moved fast enough to
leap. To escape him all you had to do was climb the stairs." Ian
paused. "A shame really. He had been a great athlete in his time.
It's terrible, what age does to you."

"Still, better than the alternative," Elijah piped up, with all the
confidence of a 19 year old, and Ian smiled a little sadly, not
answering.

"Come," he said, changing the subject. "Let's take our coffee into
the lounge."

Ian sat on the sofa and looked at Elijah, who was standing, very
nearly hovering, in the doorway, obviously a little unsure of just
where to go. Ian held out one hand, and with a smile, Elijah took it
and sat next to him, tucked against his side, head on his shoulder.

"We loving the silence again?" Elijah took a mouthful of coffee.

"Just until we've finished our coffee," Ian replied. The hand around
Elijah was moving, very slowly, his fingers rubbing Elijah's neck,
sliding under his collar and fanning out on the warm flesh.

"Then what do we do?" Elijah relaxed against Ian's shoulder, his
head drooping until it was almost tucked under Ian's chin. He sighed
as Ian's hand moved again, his fingers sliding softly.

"We'll see."

By the time Elijah finished his coffee, he felt as if he was melting
in some kind of weird pleasure zone, and it was all he could do to
hold his cup up so that Ian could take it and put it, along with his
own, on the small table next to him.

"Lie still," Ian whispered as Elijah shifted position. "Just lie
still." Elijah slid lower until his head was in Ian's lap, and then
lay quiet as Ian's fingers continued to stroke his body, running up
his back, across his neck, through his hair, making him sigh his
pleasure into the quiet room.

"You are a beautiful boy," Ian whispered, hardly aware he was
speaking. "Such a heartbreaker." He paused. "Tell me what you did
today. Did you see your friends?"

So Elijah told him about the day's surfing, his voice muffled and
slurred with tiredness. He told Ian about the drive to the beach and
the argument he had with Orlando who seemed to have forgotten how to
tell his left from his right; about Dominic and Billy, who had been
in the middle of some long running dirty joke which nobody else
understood. Of Sean, who spent the whole journey bemoaning the fact
that he had to sit in the back with Dom and Billy when really he
would rather be in the passenger seat.

And all the time Ian's hand moved, ranging down Elijah's body,
comforting more than anything else. He let his hand slide under the
bottom of Elijah's shirt, his hand resting on the smooth flesh of his
back, and Elijah made a small, contented sound, before pulling away
and turning over. He took hold of one of Ian's hands and gently
kissed each finger in turn before placing it on his belly.

"Keep going," he said softly, and Ian continued his silent worship of
Elijah's body, fingers tracing the shape of his mouth, his throat,
his chest.

Time and again Ian found himself returning to Elijah's mouth,
marvelling over the shape of it, the softness of it, remembering the
taste of it. When Elijah hesitantly parted his lips, Ian slipped a
finger inside, his eyes closing briefly as the heat and warmth
enveloped it, a soft, wet tongue slowly sliding up and down its
length. Then Elijah laughed, and pulled away, and whatever had been
building was lost.

"Touch is important," Ian said eventually, slowly unfastening the
bottom button on Elijah's shirt. "You have to be comfortable with
someone, be willing to let them touch you without tensing or
starting. You're good at being touched, you're used to it. But you
have to get used to being touched like this …" He opened another two
buttons of Elijah's shirt. "Tell me about the girls you've had. How
many?"

"Not so many," Elijah admitted. "This is the first shoot where I
haven't had my mom with me, and where else am I going to meet them?"
He put one of his hands on Ian's, stopping the movement. "This is
nice. This feels right."

With his free hand, Ian stroked Elijah's hair, smiling as Elijah's
eyes closed and he pushed into the touch like some kind of favoured
pet looking for affection..

"Keep going," Elijah whispered, letting his hand slide away, sighing
again as Ian continued his gentle stroking. The last two buttons
were unfastened and Ian pushed the material aside, aware that Elijah
had tensed slightly.

"It's nothing," Ian said. "If you want me to stop, I'll stop. This
is all for you, Elijah. I just want to touch you."

Elijah stretched and huffed out a huge breath, then half opened his
eyes and grinned. "And I want to be touched."

As Ian softly stroked Elijah's chest and belly, Elijah raised his
hand to Ian's mouth, tracing the shape of his lips, echoing Ian's
movements of earlier, and Ian, in his turn, echoed Elijah by opening
his mouth and letting Elijah's thumb slide in, then he captured
Elijah's wrist in his free hand, turning his head to kiss the soft
skin..

"Can I stay?" Elijah whispered. "Will you let me stay?" He levered
himself up and let his lips brush against Ian's. "Let me stay." He
tilted his head slightly and kissed Ian. "Just stay, that's all."

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea," Ian said, not without a trace
of regret, wrapping his arms around Elijah and pulling him close,
letting his hands stroke over the skin of his back.

"It is," Elijah said. "It is a good idea.. And think of all that
wine I drank…" he leaned back and grinned mischievously. "You
wouldn't want me to drink and drive, would you?"

"You are incorrigible," Ian said.

"No, it's just the way I walk."

"What about getting picked up for Feet tomorrow?"

"They can come here." Elijah shifted so that he was sitting on Ian's
lap, his arms tight around his neck. "There's no big scandal is
there? The car has had to pick me up from all kinds of places." He
rested his head against Ian's shoulder. "Please."

"You, young man, are playing me." Ian smiled. "And whilst part of
me thinks you deserve a good spanking, a great deal of me feels
something entirely different."

"Kiss me now," Elijah said. "Kiss me and tell me I can stay."

And that's what Ian did.

*

Elijah lay in Ian's bed, wearing only boxers and a t-shirt Ian had
thrown at him ("For heaven's sake, dear boy, decorum!"). His arms
were around Ian's neck and his tongue was in Ian's mouth. The little
breathy grunts he was making were coming very close to undoing all
Ian's good intentions.

"When do we move on?" Elijah asked, finally breaking the kiss since
he needed air. "Was this a lesson?"

"Yes it was. It was about learning to be touched, learning to take
your time." Ian gathered Elijah into his arms. "Now sleep, hobbit
boy." He kissed Elijah's temple. "Your next lesson will be along
soon enough."

Despite protesting that he wasn't tired, Elijah, lulled by the warmth
of Ian's arms and the comfort of his bed, was soon dozing, his head
cradled on Ian's shoulder, completely unaware that Ian was watching
him avidly.

"Dear boy," he whispered. "Dear Elijah." Elijah grunted at the
sound of his name and half turned away, his profile outlined by the
soft light coming from the landing. Ian closed his eyes, then with a
sigh, he lay down and gathered the young man close.

After a long time, he slept.