Ian sat warm and dry under the pavilion as the rain pattered down fiercely about him. He was warmly wrapped in his 100% all-natural New Zealand wool coat and sheltered in a small park across the road from a strip of seedy shops. Armed with his copy of Nietzsche and a packed lunch of sandwiches and coffee this particular spot had become a favorite haunt.

The reason was currently huddled underneath the short eaves out the front of Rick’s Public House. He wasn’t perfect, but he was close, finely featured with brown hair, brown eyes and a handsome set of teeth. And although the resemblance was only passing, he found the more he observed the more pleasing the boy became.

There were many boys renting along the strips of nightclubs in downtown Wellington. But the problem was finding the combination of features he was looking for coupled with a sense of discretion. There were other boys he’d seen, who were a closer match in coloring and body type, but whose general dress and uncouth behavior signposted them as rentals.

Discretion was of the highest import, and of great difficulty. If they were in a larger country, a larger city, if they had less publicity it would be easier. But all of New Zealand knew they were here, in reality the movie was hiring a significant proportion of the populace. Even a suspicion that the great Sir Ian Mckellen was entertaining local boys in his spare time would incite the press. The last thing he wanted for PJ and his hardworking crew was to bring negative attention to the Lord of the Rings.

Even if he was not recognized himself, a well known working boy might be, or he might sell the story to avoid more work. He had long ago accepted that any indulgence of his sexual desire was going to be risky. But after many months of intensive work and self denial coupled with a particularly attractive cast had weakened his resolve. The open hearted glee of a particular elvish cast member had pretty much driven him to distraction with his casual contact and innocent closeness.

After observing more than a couple of rents that resembled Orlando in passing an idea was conceived that he could not ignore. Orlando had been a constant source of joviality and laughter who had developed into a friend and confidant after getting over his extreme awe of being with an A list actor. Ian could not in good conscience press the advantage of experience and admiration, and in truth he feared that such a move would permanently damage their camaraderie and potentially spill over to the rest of the cast, unbalancing their relationships. So he had began his search for the right boy.

It was amusing that his first sight of this particular boy had been in an ice cream parlor. He was seated at an upright piano on a humid Thursday night playing a variety of Joplin tunes for tips. He was keeping the crowd seated in the garden out front the parlor with a rousing rendition of the Maple Leaf Rag. The jaunty tune was punctuated and staccatoed by bright smiles, suggestive brow waggling, and a few sly winks all put on for show. And really it had been his smile that was most reminiscent of Orli.

If asked to be critical he would have to admit that his hair was too straight (though charmingly unkempt) and too dark, being closer to black than the chocolate brown of Orlando. He was also younger, more tanned and a little wider across the shoulders. However the height and body type were close. He had the same lean muscular stature that tapered at his waist and if side by side with the original would be but an inch in difference.

He had tipped him a twenty just to hear him speak. ‘Ta, old man,’ he’d replied with a nod of his head. Not a New Zealander. Cocky, but educated. More importantly, not local. Disappointingly he did not seem to be renting.

Then Ian made a discovery about the nature of New Zealand. When he had met the substitute it was high tourist season, lots of cash in hand jobs hanging around. And in the next couple of weeks he spotted him busing tables, cleaning dishes, and playing piano for several cafes spotted along the coast of New Zealand.

Then the seasons changed, the tourists’ left, the cafes shortened their hours and he spotted the boy climbing into an executive Holden close to the parliament houses. The fact that he had not picked him as a possible rent convinced him that he was the one to choose. As the weather got cooler his rents, though still scarce, became more frequent and the quality of client was diminished. He was a reluctant rent, but it became obvious that the pickings on parliament hill were thinning out, and his quest for nightly shelter became more important with the dropping temperatures.

Until, finally, here he was. Caught out in the rain outside Rick’s Public House, the sky dark and threatening a cold night, with no rent or shelter in sight. Except for him. He could feel it, in the same way that he could feel a great performance, that today his timing was perfect and all conditions had accumulated for his purpose.

The substitute leant back against the brick wall, arms crossed in defense of the wet wind, attempting to warm himself. His backpack slouched mostly deflated at his feet. It was obvious he had no jacket; he wore only a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. The blue of his jeans was darkened in patches where the lashing rain had caught him. Every once and a while Ian could feel the boys eyes rest on him. He was obviously chewing at his current predicament. Ian let him chew, certain that his decision was close. It would not take much longer, and to his glee the wind picked up its whipping pace, pitching the heavy rain at an angle aimed to soak everything. He felt the rest of the boy’s attention on him again, and this time he looked up to catch his gaze, holding it until the boy looked away.

Ian calmly pulled out his mobile and phoned the cab company. The metaphorical hook if you will. A dry, heated, comfy cab, which could take him wherever he desired. The boy’s gaze rested on him more often now, and he slyly smiled into his book. There was not another soul on the street when the cab came around the corner. Monday night, shops were closing, lights were dimming, and the empty weeknight in a small city was encroaching.

Ian opened his umbrella and stepped out into the beating rain, walking towards the cab. The boy hadn’t moved yet. He opened the back door and slid into the warm interior. Perhaps he had mistimed the cab call. Perhaps he needed longer. He took his time closing and shaking out his umbrella and was rewarded with a drowned curse and the slap of running feet on wet asphalt.

With a contained smile he leaned over to unlock the roadside door. His wet bag was tossed to the cab floor and his shivering body slid into the seat beside him. Ian quickly spoke before he had time to say anything. ‘You’re late, I almost left without you,’ Ian slightly inclined his head towards the driver.

The boy nodded and the corner of his mouth quirked. ‘Sorry,’ he replied with a wide smile.

Ian silently exalted at the quick response to his silent request. Obviously previous politicians had requested discretion as well. ‘Regent Hotel, please.’

The cab ride passed in silence. The boy ran his hands through his hair, squeezing out the excess water and spent the rest of the ride picking uncomfortably at his clinging damp jeans. Ian was happy for him to be silent, in public anyway, there was less chance of him drawing attention to himself.

The cabby pulled into the elegant driveway of the Regent, stopping under the canopied entrance to let them out. The concierge opened his door and paid the cab driver, passing a brief but curious glance over the wet boy.

He dropped back into step with Ian and leant in to whisper. ‘They’re not going to let me in here.’

‘Of course they will,’ Ian removed his three quarter length jacket. ‘But you have to look like you belong here. Put this on.’ He pushed the jacket into the boys’ arms, who quickly slipped into the pre-heated coat. Casually, and in a fraternal way, he slung his arm across the boy’s shoulder and directed him into the lobby of the hotel up to the desk.

‘Ah, Mr. Mckellen. I hope you did not get too wet.’ The manager on duty, George, greeted him cordially. ‘You have three telephone messages and a fax waiting for you.’ George handed a closed folder over the counter towards him. ‘And your guest?’ he vaguely gestured towards the boy.

‘Nephew,’ he smoothly replied.

‘Of course. He will be staying with you?’ George notated a guest against his hotel account.

‘Until his mother demands his return,’ he replied vaguely.

‘Very good, sir. Would you like the desk to continue holding your calls?’

‘Please.’

‘Very good, have a pleasant evening.’

Ian smiled triumphantly at the ease and lack of suspicion. Perhaps it was just the refreshing naïveté of the New Zealanders untouched by the gossip mongering of LA and London.

Safely concealed in the elevator he regarded the boy. ‘That went well, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Nephew? That’s a little far fetched don’t cha think?’ he causally leaned up against the mirrored wall, one foot resting against the wall.

‘I don’t know. There’s a faded grandeur about me that could be seen as a reflection of your beauty,’ he gently teased.

‘Sure,’ he snorted. ‘Look, whatever you say goes, so I’m your nephew if anyone asks.’ He exited the elevator, Ian followed close behind directing him to the correct room.

‘Whoa,’ he exclaimed. The hotel door swung open to display a well lived in sitting area complete with TV and DVD. The coffee table scattered with Tolkien and script notes. ‘Very nice. Nicer than I expected, though what I expected was pretty nice too.’ He smiled, flashing a set of white teeth. Ian watched him wander into the hotel room, delighting at his little exclamations of surprise or appreciation. ‘Hey, cool bar. But your fridge has no food,’ he said passing on his way to the bathroom. ‘Mini Jacuzzi…eh? What’s…oh, bidet, freaky that is…’ He nosed his way through the public areas of the hotel room, avoiding the bedroom, but thoroughly examining the features of every other area ending with a slump and a sigh in the comfy armchair. ‘Cool place you have. Do they pay for it?’ he asked.

‘Sorry, who are they?’

‘You know the movie people,’ he replied a little self-consciously.

Ian smiled. A clever revelation, a way to say, ‘I know who you are.’ The only question remaining, what was the purpose of his cleverly crafted revelation?

‘No, of course not. The movie people, as you say, pay me to act for them. However, in situation where we are on location in a remote area for several days, they will provide accommodation. But before you get too excited at the thought, I’m telling you to think trailer park rather than luxury suite.’

He nodded thoughtfully at his comments, and then broke out into a cheeky smile. ‘But, you get your own trailer right?’

‘Yes, I get my own trailer. Why don’t you get out of your wet clothes,’ he suggested.

Ian noticed a slight start of surprise, but he nodded and began to shed his shirt. ‘Don’t you want to talk price first? Get the business out of the way?’ he enquired.

Ian hid his small smile by turning and walking towards the bar. ‘You’ve misinterpreted me.’ In the mirrored wall of the bar Ian could see his confused expression, which again reminded him of Orlando. ‘Wine?’

‘Um… sure.’

‘I meant that you should maybe take a shower or something, before you catch pneumonia. Put on one of the complementary robes.’ He popped the cork on a red, as the boy padded up behind him barefoot.

‘Morris Valley Muscat. Where’d you get that from?’ he enquired of the wine.

Ian regarded him with some surprise and amusement. It was always a bonus when they were amusing as well as pretty. ‘From a specialty wine shop in Wellington. Why? Is it a good red?’

‘Sure, just surprised me. Muscat’s not a popular red. It’s usually made from white grapes. When you make it with red it’s called rose, it also contains grain liquor…’ he trailed off at Ian’s quizzical look. ‘I’m from the Yarra Valley in Victoria, it’s a grape growing region,’ he supplied with a shrug.

‘And is this a Yarra Valley wine?’

‘Nope. High country, King Valley prob’ly. Aussie wines are pretty good…and um… I’m going to take that shower.’ He quickly escaped further scrutiny by escaping into the bathroom.

Well, it was turning out to be more interesting than expected. In some ways he regretted letting the boy tell him where he was from. It ruined the illusion of Orlando. But then again his company, so far had turned out to be rather charming. The delight, straightforward innocence, and easy embarrassment reminded him of Orli, without replacing him. In other words he had the gist. Although each moment was revealing him to be less and less similar to Orlando, the general atmosphere created had the same dynamic. He had certainly been surprised by the wine comments and that had an unpredictability that was fun.

Filling two wine glasses he cleared away some of his script notes into a tidy pile and placed the glasses on the coffee table. Settling into the comfortable armchair, recently abandoned, he took a slow sip of his Muscat. He held the wine in his mouth for a moment attempting to divine the subtleties that wine tasters always spoke of. With a shrug he swallowed. It would only ever be a nice red to him. Maybe smoking in his late twenties had ruined any latent ability he might have had for wine tasting.

The steam and smell of wet boy wafted past, with the opening of the bathroom door. It incited in him a warm feeling of tenseness and desire. Not the forceful lust of his youth, but the slow burn of passion. Wrapped in the white terry toweling robe of the Regent hotel the boy sat cross-legged on the floor between the couch and the coffee table and took a sip of his wine. ‘Nice,’ he commented.

Yes very, he thought. The boy’s skin was damp and still radiated the heat from the shower. His dark hair trailed droplets down his sun browned neck to be absorbed by the robe. His legs were long and browned showing a nice definition of muscle without being built. ‘Are you warm enough?

‘Yes, fine thanks. So, what should I call you?’ he took another sip from his wine glass.

‘Ian is fine. I would like to call you Orli. Is that okay?’ Orli nodded, not seeming put off by the request.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

Surprisingly the majority of Ian’s scheming had revolved around the finding and securing of a substitute, and not really around the actual sex. And now that he had him here he wasn’t really sure exactly what he wanted to do beyond a vague desire for sex. ‘What do you do?’ He decided to let Orli open the parameters of their encounter.

‘It’s forty for head a hundred for a fuck, I don’t do bareback and I don’t like medical bills.’ He said this all into his wine glass without turning to look at him.

‘You are aware that I require you to be silent on all particulars of our arrangements?’ It was always difficult to judge trustworthiness, but he felt that Orli could keep his mouth shut. He’d already given him several dangerous details, but it was difficult to judge his reaction, emotions he hid well betraying little to no surprise. As if famous people picked him up off the streets everyday.

‘I understand. On the same note, I’d appreciate if we stuck with the nephew story both ways. You know, for consistency,’ he vaguely gestured at some greater concept.

‘Good, fine.’ But what did he want? ‘How much for you to stay the night?’ Orli raised his eyebrows at the request. It was obviously not a common one.

He shrugged. ‘Um… two hundred I guess. No tie me up tie me down, but I’ll go as many times as you can manage,’ he smirked a little at the last bit.

‘Brat,’ he exclaimed. And Orli smiled widely. ‘Fine, deal. But don’t but surprised if this old man is more virulent then you’d expect.’ Now that the business side was dealt with he felt more at ease with Orli. ‘I want you to come over here,’ he requested.

Orli climbed to his feet and walked over placing his glass on the table. Ian was a little surprised when the weight of damp boy settled firmly in his lap. It was a creative interpretation of his request that effectively skipped over the awkward small talk and left him with a lapful of boy. This pleased him.

Orli gently slid his hands up his chest and undid the top two buttons on his shirt. ‘This okay?’ he quietly asked. Ian nodded assent and gently slipped his hands into the front of Orli’s robe, caressing his soft naked skin. Orli’s fingers gently played through his hair. Ian let his head roll into the pressure of his gently kneading fingers, remembering their dexterity when he played the piano.

‘That feels nice,’ he encouraged.

‘Yeah?’ Ian nodded as Orli shifted in his lap, moving closer to him. Ian took the opportunity to slide his arm around his back, supporting him. One hand firmly splayed in the small of his back Ian let his other hand rest high on Orli’s thigh, just under the hem of his robe and kneaded gently at the muscled leg.

His palms were sweaty, slick against Orli’s smooth thigh. Slowly his hands sliding higher, his breath hitched and hard from behind his teeth. At any moment he was sure to protest, pull back. Maybe in disgust; maybe with callus laughter. He should not be touching one so young, his hand stilled at the hot juncture of Orli’s hip.

‘Ian?’ he softly enquired ducking his head to look into his face.

Ian turned from the doe eyed gaze. ‘What’s wrong?’ he pressed.

‘Up. Get up.’ He demanded suddenly desperate. Orli practically tumbled to the floor in his haste to stand, his expression confused and a little angry. And in that exact moment Ian could not reconcile the boy with Orli at all.

Orlando would never act in this way. He would not press eagerly into his hands. Nor run his slender fingers through his grizzled and graying hair. The boy. He was all wrong. How could he ever think it would be enough? Ian turned his back on the sprawled boy, went to the bar and got himself a whiskey. Neat.

Orlando’s touches were innocent of insinuation if teasing. The hug of a true friend. The sprawl of a young man, body confident and raised in a generation of declining taboo and rising acceptance.

The boy had artifice, his touches were meant to tease just as his well placed winks riled the crowds as he played the piano. It struck him as strange that a rising actor from London should have less artifice then a boy living in Wellington, New Zealand.

Perhaps that was what made Orlando so unique.

‘ What’s the problem, mate?’ Ian was startled that the voice was so close, and sounding a little pissed.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered quickly swallowing his whiskey. ‘Sorry.’

He turned to observe the boy, robe half pushed off his shoulders, hair wildly mussed, and arms defensively crossed in front of his chest. ‘Sorry, huh? Care to explain that one?’

Ian offered the boy a whiskey and he accepted with an acknowledgement that it eased the pain of being tossed on his arse. ‘Perhaps, I did not think this through well enough. I’m beginning to think it has been a bad idea all along.’

‘Oh.’ Ian was gratified to note that the boy actually did look disappointed. He also noticed that his attention rested on the balcony doors that were trembling under the hard pelt of the rain. But he wanted to think that some part of that crestfallen look was due to him.

‘Don’t worry I won’t kick you out into the rain. You can stay, watch some movies or something.’ He vaguely gestured to the sitting room. ‘How about we order some food?’ The change of expression on his face was such a rapid flash from disappointed to gleeful, that Ian very nearly suspected him of a bipolar disorder.

The smile he flashed was one tinged with devilry. ‘Ah, lucky for you, watching me eat is a service I provide for all my clients free of charge,’ he slyly replied, then paused with consideration and amended. ‘Beyond the charge of the actual food anyway, cause you’re paying.’

‘Of course,’ he replied highly amused at his forthrightness. ‘Although it’s always good to back yourself up with policy.’

He was positive that they had ordered too much food. The amount of food that rolled in on the trolley was surely too much for the two of them. And yet here he sat observing a miracle, for the food must be disappearing into thin air. It was not possible, within the realm of physics that all the food had gone into such a skinny individual.

The boy had absolutely crowed with delight when his noodle box arrived. He had announced his craving for a rice noodle satay hot box, so Ian had ordered him one. And surely enough the hotel staff had trotted down to the Noodle Canteen to get him one, which seemed to bring and endless stream of chuckling glee from him.

Sprawled on the floor with his noodle box and the duvet from the hotel bed (which he’d called a doona) he proceeded to watch the cable TV with absolute ferocity and an intenseness of concentration that it hardly deserved. The things he watched were incomparable. A bizarre Japanese marathon was on, that he thrilled and chortled his way through, and thought he was generally clueless on what was happening, he enjoyed watching him.

He was a fidget. He started on his stomach propped up on his elbows. Then scrunched the blanket into a pillow and lay on his back. Cross legged, splay legged, and knees tucked he only sat in the same position for ten minutes before moving. He never seemed to reach that state of relaxed calm that he and Orlando had spent many hours in. Plus he disliked tea. The turn of nose when he offered was of such dislike, he shortly expected the boy to stick his tongue out at him. Though it never happened, the sentiment was there.

Then he noticed the silence. The TV had been turned off. ‘I like this book.’

‘Sorry?’ Ian replied.

‘Oliver Twist. I like it too.’ The boy had Ian’s small leather bound Dickens clasped in his hand.

‘Most find him a little too detailed,’ he replied.

‘Yeah, he can be I guess… Bleak House and what not. But I liked Oliver Twist. He was lucky.’

‘Lucky? I wouldn’t see the fate of a workhouse as very lucky.’

‘No, but still, there were people who wanted him. His family missed him and wanted him back. The workhouse wasn’t his real life just this big mistake, a moment in history before he could take back the life that really belonged to him. The rest of them…’ he trailed off and gently placed the book back onto the coffee table with a shrug. ‘I liked it, anyway.’

‘You like to read then?’ Ian hoped the question would lift the slightly strange moment that had settled between them.

‘Sure,’ he rallied. ‘Library’s open until 9.30 at night Tuesdays to Fridays.’ He said this with an overly forced sense of glibness, but Ian did not push. They were comfortable. The truth could make them uncomfortable.

‘You like music too, don’t you? I saw you playing the piano at a few places.’

‘I saw you too. Tipping me twenty dollars and all. I hope that wasn’t an attempt at subtlety, cause it failed miserably,’ he smiled.

‘Well in that case I’ll discount myself twenty dollars for the night’s proceedings.’

‘Ha, as if I’d let you get away with that.’ The boy dropped to the floor close beside Ian’s legs, back resting against the chair. ‘I like the cello. I mean better then the piano… I play it better.’

‘Where did you learn to play cello?’ He hadn’t meant to sound so disbelieving, and immediately regretted it at the offended look on the boy’s face. ‘Sorry,’ he quickly amended. ‘But, I am surprised.’

There was still bitterness when he spoke. ‘It’s okay. No one expects it of me. But just to let you know, I haven’t spent my whole life doing this,’ he vaguely gestured between them. ‘I’m screwed anyway, my cello’s busted. It was like fifty years old or more. My father left it behind. My mother said he was a great concert cellist.’

‘That’s impressive,’ he replied.

‘Don’t be too impressed. She’s also told me that my father was Burt Reynolds, Martin Rothschild, and the King of a small principality in Eastern Europe. She’s a pathological lair. Only, the cello in the closet makes it seem real. It doesn’t mean anything.’ The boy gently rested his head on Ian’s thigh.

Ian tentatively placed his hand on the boys’ head, trailing his fingers through the silky brown locks. ‘No I suppose not, but it doesn’t hurt anyone for you to think your father was a concert cellist. As an actor I indulge all the time,’ he replied closing his eyes to the sensuous trial of hair sliding across his hands.

‘Oh thank you Gandalf for your wise words,’ he snarked.

‘Hey’ he lightly clipped the boy up the back of his head. ‘None of that now.’

‘Going the right way for a spanking am I?’ he smiled into the fabric of Ian’s pants and gently pressed his face to his leg. Ian relaxed into the sensation. Brown hair trailing lightly over the back of his hands, the hot press of a boy against his leg, and the gentle rub of his questing nose. ‘Is this okay?’ Ian felt the boys’ hands at his belt. Without opening his eyes he nodded languidly.

The fumble of hands brushed against his stirring cock. Sensation deadened by the layers of fabric. A gentle moan escaped his mouth as his hot hands grasped his girth and freed it from the constraints of his slacks. He firmly stroked him… one…two… a gentle rocking motion. Soft wet butterfly kisses were trailed along the shaft, hot and wet, and then cool as the air drifted over. His hip involuntarily bucked as he closed his mouth over the head of his penis. Then gently began to suckle.

‘Oh… god, Orli.’ Ian’s hands grasped the boy’s head more firmly and tried to increase the intensity. The boy firmly pressed his hips back into the chair, continuing with the gentle suckle, his tongue firmly stroking the underside of his head. Ian opened his eyes the merest slit.

He knelt between his legs, white robe slightly askew, his brown head lowered over him, hair gently tickling the exposed skin of his hips. He gently grasped the boys’ shoulders, petting and kneading as he went. One gentle thrust into his wet mouth was met with out resistance, two thrusts and he quickly increased the pace. The boy began a low hum in the back of his throat that quivered right down to his balls, which he’d gently begun to massage.

It was a slow build up of tension that gathered and tensed waiting for a catalyst. Hands caressing the boys’ hair, he looked up to meet Ian’s intense gaze. Ian groaned at the expression on his face and begun to move faster into his mouth. That expression, an eagerness to please him, vulnerability that he hadn’t before exposed. Desperation to be approved of, that all his pleasing antics aimed to cover. A puppy that wags his tail too hard. He made a small whimper as Ian pushed farther into his mouth and came to release. With a swallow and an exaggerated lick of his lips, he gently rested his head on Ian’s leg.

‘Can I kiss you?’ Ian asked.

‘You want to?’

‘Yes.’

The boy straddled his legs, one knee resting on the chair and leaned in. The kiss was a sweet gentle pressure. His lips parted readily when Ian flicked along them with his tongue. He tasted himself strong and saltly, and wrapped his arms around the boy. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Orli,’ he replied lips flushed and wet.

‘No. No, what is your name? I want to know.’ He carefully looked at the boy before him. Dark haired and tanned, his cheekbones were higher and wider, with a square jaw line. Not Orlando. Different, maybe someone he could enjoy being with. He nodded at his uncertainty.

‘Hunter,’ he replied simply.

‘Hunter. Would you like to join me in the bedroom?’ Trying to replace Orlando had been unfair and unrealistic; the illusion had not lasted above an hour. And it couldn’t.

Hunter replied by striding of towards the bedroom door. Cheekily dropping his robe before entering the room.