Warning: Contains a spoiler for the book/movie "The Return of the King", so beware
Feedback: Yes, please, to either Trianne or to Azrhiaz
AN: Loosely inspired by the Abba song, "The Day Before You Came", but really just a story about hurt and comfort and fresh starts. Certain lines are taken directly from J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Return of the King", as there is no movie script available at this time. Originally written in April 2003, obviously before ROTK was released in cinemas. Hopefully Merry's part will be greatly restored in the extended dvd :) Thanks to Kia for the great beta.
The same chill air continued to cling to Bernard in the pub. Elijah watched him drink, nursing his Bushmills until the ice had melted and diluted the dark amber. Dom was sitting between them, chattering happily, and occasionally Bernard would manage a half-hearted smile at Dom's lurid jokes. Mostly he was silent, although he inclined his head to speak quietly with Viggo at intervals. Elijah wondered what they were talking about, unable to hear them in the boisterous atmosphere of the pub.
Finally the cumulative effect of several ales took its toll, and Elijah excused himself to take care of matters. When he returned to the table Bernard was gone.
Elijah sat down next to Dom. "What happened to Bernard?"
"Said he needed to get some air," Dom said, then took another swallow of ale. He looked at Elijah rather pointedly.
Elijah considered matters for a moment. Bernard obviously wanted to be left alone…or did he? Elijah wasn't entirely sure, but it had seemed to him that he'd seen glimpses of the hurt Dom had mentioned, showing sharp and brittle through Bernard's attempts to mask it.
He didn't consider it further. Got up, and made his way outside.
There were a couple of people standing around chatting in the warm night air and Elijah looked around. Didn't see Bernard, and thought that maybe he'd just gone home. Then he thought he heard a soft inhale of breath from the alley on the left, and walked around the corner to see.
Bernard was leaning back against the old brick, his head lowered, arms crossed. At the sound of Elijah's footsteps he looked up, and removed all doubt. Blinking back unshed tears, he turned his face away from Elijah, embarrassed.
"Is there some reason you're following me, Mr. Wood?" he asked, but his voice was resigned.
Elijah stepped closer to Bernard, determined now to help if possible. "What's wrong?"
Bernard uncrossed his arms with a sigh and opened his mouth to retort, something along the lines of none of your business, frankly, but then he saw the open, sincere concern on the young man's face and reconsidered.
"I miss her." Simple quiet admission, and Elijah thought oh. He closed the rest of the distance between them and leaned against the wall next to Bernard.
"Yeah," Elijah said, and they stood there for a long time, Elijah offering silent comfort through his presence, and Bernard accepting it.
For a moment, Elijah thought they might just remain there, leaning against the cooling brickwork and staring into space. Well, he had no pressing appointments anyplace else. Then the older man turned to regard him with eyes worn and weary.
"I don't expect you to understand. You're young. Have you ever loved anyone, Elijah? I don't mean lusted after them, or fancied them.. I mean, really loved them?" He shifted against the wall, staring down at his boots.
Elijah considered his reply. He knew the answer well enough but wanted the words to be right. Somehow, the words had to be right.
"No, no, I haven't. I thought I was in love a couple of times, but it wasn't the real thing. But I have friends who are in love, Bernard, and it's real.. and I envy them." It was true, he did envy them. Until this moment he had never really understood how much. What he didn't envy them right now was the heartache which seemed to inevitably be the price of all the good stuff.
"I met her here, you know. We didn't make a song and dance about it, wanted our privacy, well she did anyway. She's married, of course. Does that shock you?" Bernard pushed away from the wall, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. Why the hell was he confiding in this boy like this? Did he want to alienate him completely? True, they had no scenes together, but there would be publicity in the coming years and their paths were bound to cross. He should keep it casual, laugh it all off. Yes, he should laugh.
Tears unbidden slid down Bernard's cheek to mingle with his beard. God, no. This was the limit, this was too much, this loss of dignity. Now the boy would really have something to tell his mates, wouldn't he?
He turned to go, retreat down the alley and find a taxi, get away, back to his house. His empty house. It took a moment to work out that what was stopping him was Elijah; Elijah holding him, a suddenly immovable object. Bernard found himself with his arms around the boy, holding him back and sobbing. Fuck it. This wasn't supposed to happen.
Elijah had no intention of holding Bernard before his arms reached out to do it. He was shorter than Bernard, years younger, relatively inexperienced. Yet faced with such grief, what could he do? He felt Bernard's wracking sobs against his shoulder, felt his fingers clasping him through his shirt, his whiskers rasping against his throat. So this was love? This agony? Fuck it.
"Come home with me? We can talk, have a beer, you know.." Elijah said, pulling away from Bernard's embrace. He saw confusion in the older man's eyes, then he was nodding almost imperceptibly.
"Unless you'd rather I fetched Viggo? I mean, I know you're good friends. I can go get Viggo.." He should have thought of that before, it would be the sensible thing to do. But Bernard was shaking his head and there was such -- need? -- now in his eyes that Elijah stopped in his tracks. He smiled, steering Bernard out of the alley and back to the front of the pub. He had his cell phone out of his pocket, dialing the taxi firm he always used, one hand still holding Bernard's arm. The older man wiped his eyes with his fingers and breathed deeply.
Bernard watched in wonder as Elijah sorted everything out, even thinking clearly enough to ring Dom in the pub to explain discretely. This boy was, what, nineteen? Had he been as self-possessed at age nineteen? He doubted it. He hadn't known what he wanted to do with his life at age nineteen, let alone starred in countless movies.
"You don't have to do this, you know," he said, quietly. He felt he ought to offer Elijah a way out, it would be the sensible thing to do. The kid couldn't really want to spend the night listening to an old git like him wailing about a broken heart.
Elijah merely smiled. "I don't have to - no. But I do want to - yes," he said, softly. The taxi arrived before Bernard could protest. They both squeezed into the back seat and stared out of the windows at the streetlamps passing by, drops of rain starting to settle on the glass.
Bernard, recovering some of his composure, insisted on paying the taxi fare despite Elijah's protests, and then they were inside Elijah's house. Bernard had never been there before, but he saw what he expected to see. CDs of course, everywhere, and a games console in place before the TV set. What he hadn't expected was the relative order. He sank down on the couch and accepted the glass of whisky pressed into his hand. Where would they be without alcohol, he wondered? Up shit creek without a hangover, presumably.
Elijah sipped his beer whilst selecting what, for him, passed for middle of the road music, and then joined Bernard. They sat at either end of the couch, elbows on the padded arms, drinking and saying nothing.
Elijah knew he had to do something to break through the terrible silence. He knew that he couldn't make it all better with the wave of a magic wand—no, he knew he was sadly quite short of those. He ventured a question about football—the British sort, hoping against hope that his few short chats with Orli on the subject were enough to keep him from sounding like a complete idiot—but apparently Bernard, though a fan, wasn't in the mood to talk sport. He tried again with music, gently poking fun at himself, and that got the first beginnings of a smile from Bernard. Encouraged, he moved on to picking on Viggo and what passed for his singing voice. For a moment Bernard looked terribly grave, and Elijah thought oh, no, wrong move, now he's insulted on Viggo's behalf.
Then Bernard's chin trembled, and he burst out laughing. Elijah laughed, too, and then they couldn't stop, Elijah started imitating Viggo and that was all she wrote, complete and total hysterics. They laughed until the tears came, and that wasn't a bad thing anymore.
When he could breathe again Elijah got up to get Bernard another whiskey. When he came back from the kitchen he handed it to Bernard, and sat back down on the couch.
Much, much closer to Bernard.
If Bernard minded, he gave no indication. He wasn't drunk, from what Elijah could tell, but then again, Elijah wasn't precisely sober. Things were in that just-right place of pleasant warm fuzzy edges and he wanted so much to make Bernard feel better. At least that's what he told himself; staring at the laugh crinkles around handsome warm eyes had nothing to do with…well.
And so it wasn't really all that hard for Elijah to just lean in, sudden daring impulse, and brush a chaste kiss across Bernard's lips. Pulled back just a bit to gauge Bernard's reaction, and barely dared to breathe.
Bernard blinked, startled—regarded Elijah with eyes gone suddenly wide. He hadn't thought of Elijah that way before; hadn't thought of any man that way before, really. But Elijah's lips were soft, so soft, and up close his eyes were torch-blue and questioning, and in the end it wasn't really all that hard to reach up and touch Elijah's cheek.
Elijah kissed Bernard again, and this time Bernard parted his lips, only the tiniest bit, and Elijah dared a bit more, experimentally flicking with the tip of his tongue. He felt Bernard hesitate-- that's too much, Elijah thought—but then Bernard wound his hand into Elijah's hair and crushed him against his chest, claiming his mouth in a thorough kiss that tasted of whiskey and regrets.
Kissing Elijah was like kissing her, and nothing like kissing her. Olivia would yield to him, allowing him to kiss her and returning it with enthusiasm. Elijah dueled with Bernard, his tongue winding around Bernard's in just the way Bernard decided he had always liked and never realized he had missed until this moment. Maybe, he thought with that part of his brain still functioning logically, that was how it was, to kiss a man - to have sex with a man. Sex? No, they weren't having sex, weren't about to have sex, weren't anywhere close to having sex. Were they? But Elijah's cheek beneath Bernard's thumbs was silky smooth – softer even than hers, it seemed, and his mouth was full and warm and inviting. Bernard's body took responsibility for the decision: overriding any sensibilities he might be experiencing, it craved more - more touch, more skin, more tongue.
Elijah had moved automatically to straddle Bernard's lap, his cock nestling comfortably in Bernard's groin, his fingers in Bernard's hair. He thrilled to the feel of Bernard hardening beneath him, to Bernard's fingers fumbling with the buttons of Elijah's shirt. He needed the brush of the older man's beard, the short soft hairs which caressed his skin. Elijah had never kissed a man with a beard before and he determined to savor it, to store the sensation away for future reference.
Bernard had never had another man's cock so close before, actually in contact with his body, hard and evident. It should be very wrong, be horribly bad. So why did it feel so right, so good? Partly, it was the affirmation that accompanied it, the proof that Bernard Hill was not over the hill, that this beautiful young man wanted him. And he did want him, didn't he? Elijah's scent filled his senses, Elijah's nipples beneath his fingers were hard little peaks; Bernard, used to the plump fullness of breasts, found the hard chest he was exploring equally enticing, just in a different way.
Elijah, intoxicated by the warmth of Bernard's compact body, squirmed to feel more of him, to get closer to him. He was making love to Bernard Hill. Bernard was straight, yet Elijah was kissing him. Bernard was straight. He was a straight guy... in love.
The straight guy protested when the weight shifted in his arms, the lithe body pulled away and cold air rushed in to fill the vacuum. What had he done wrong?
"Elijah," he began, sitting up on the couch, reaching up to touch Elijah's arm.
"This isn't right." Elijah took a step backwards. Bernard laughed nervously, his face settling into a frown. He stood up, swaying slightly under the influence of the Bushmills, his face suffused with alcohol and arousal. He reached again for Elijah's arm, smiling now.
"Teach me, I'm old but I can learn," he said, teasingly, desperation hiding behind the humor. Elijah saw it all and wanted to die.
"It's nothing I can teach you, it's just not right. You love her. You just need - a friend." Elijah shrugged helplessly, watching in horror as Bernard's face crumpled. What had he done? It had seemed so natural, that kiss. So right. He wanted him, and Bernard didn't just not push him away, he pulled him in. He wanted him in return. But in the morning, the older man would be disgusted, angry even. Elijah couldn't face that.
"I needed... I don't know what I needed. But if what we just did wasn't it, then I don't know what the fuck is!" Bernard sat down heavily on the couch again; he pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb and began to cry, softly.
He felt Elijah join him, felt his hand on his shoulder.
"Just be sure, okay? Just be sure that this is what you want. No promises, no commitments, Bernard, just this tonight. But no recrimination, either, no cold silences tomorrow."
Bernard looked up into young eyes a-brim with wisdom. Where did that come from, he wondered fleetingly. "I promise. Just hold me tonight. To hell with tomorrow."
Elijah wasn't sure if Bernard really meant it, if he would hold to his words in the brighter, drier light of morning. He didn't want to feel like the mature one all of a sudden, hated the feeling of responsibility that settled on his shoulders when he saw again the thin film of desperation clinging to Bernard. But it was hard being selfless when Bernard's hands were stealing around his waist, and the scents of whiskey and spicy soap were warm in his nostrils. Then Bernard dipped his head to kiss Elijah, and selfless went out the window. He hesitated one more brief second, then wrapped his hands around Bernard's neck and pulled him down on top of him.
Bernard felt Elijah pause, felt too the moment when he opened to the kiss, and a shudder traced down his spine. Elijah was squirming beneath him on the couch, all wiry muscle and hard press up and Bernard groaned into his mouth. He wasn't drunk enough to forget that he'd made it a very long time indeed without ever doing anything of this sort before; even now in the heady flush of it, little doubts nibbled about his mind. He wasn't going to do…that, was he? The answer was muddled, at best. Then Elijah broke the kiss long enough to whisper "Come on," and he followed Elijah up off the couch and to the bedroom.
The light from the hall filtered in, cast long shadows across the simple white sheets on the bed. The fact that they were actually in the bedroom and then suddenly on the bed started clamoring for Bernard's attention, but he pushed the thought away. He'd deal with it later, when Elijah wasn't flipping over on top of him to trail burning kisses down his chest. Deft fingers unbuttoned his pants, sliding them down, and then there was no thought at all as Elijah's mouth closed wet and hot around him.
The bedroom ceiling of the rented house needed a lick of paint, Bernard thought, absurdly. The last person to decorate in there had missed a bit near the corner... Elijah's lips on Bernard's cock, talented lips covering those odd little teeth of his. One hand Bernard applied to Elijah's hair, resisting the temptation to push him down, though he wanted to; the other he pressed against his own forehead, knuckles to flushed skin.
It wasn't that he hadn't looked at other men before, admired them from a distance, it was just that he had never acted on any of his impulses and barely acknowledged they existed. Women attended to his sexual needs, and if they weren't available, his hand would do quite nicely. Now he had to admit that never in his life had he experienced the true artistry of the blowjob. Maybe it took a man to take a man, he thought, wryly. And while the brain of Bernard Hill was computing all this new information, the voice of Bernard Hill was starting to make itself heard, piteous little grunts and whimpers of "my god...yes" that built into full throttle keening until Elijah stopped what he was doing and stared up at him in bemusement.
"Sorry," Bernard said, gasping, bereft. Elijah smiled, his face hot and his lips glistening, then he returned to his duties between Bernard's thighs. The recipient of his efforts lay back down on the bed, biting his lip and eventually resorting to taking hold of a plump pillow and chewing its corner.
Elijah took a breath and set to once more. Blowjobs he could do -- had been doing them, giving them, receiving them, thinking about them, for a while now. But he had never taken a man's virginity from him, never been the first and here the competitive nature of Elijah Wood asserted itself; it became imperative that this be more than good. His own cock was rock hard and feeling neglected, but he didn't care. The cock in his mouth was heavy and hard and, yes, impressive for an old guy's. When Bernard tensed and then released into Elijah's mouth, Elijah was already braced for it; he swallowed some down and let the rest spurt onto Bernard's belly.
The sound of labored breathing from both men filled the room. Tissues were produced and the mopping up operation completed before Elijah lay down beside Bernard, his arm tentatively around the other's waist.
"Any good?" he asked, quietly.
Bernard turned onto his side, facing Elijah and frowned. "Good grief, Elijah, I didn't know it could be done like that... but you, you're still.." he felt Elijah's arousal against his hip. He leaned in to kiss Elijah's lips, tasting himself on the other's mouth and for a bare second he was repulsed. Few of the women he had slept with would have swallowed like that, and those that had would have been anxious to remove all traces at the earliest opportunity. Then he kissed harder, reaching down between them. Elijah stayed his hand.
"You don't have to. It's alright -" he began, but then Bernard was holding him, the grip a little unsure and uncomfortable, but the sensation wonderful. Elijah felt himself being pressed down into the mattress, his thighs parted...
"I don't have to - no. But I do want to - yes," he heard, but the sound was muffled and then sound was of no relevance at all.
Saturday dawned. Bernard opened his eyes in an unfamiliar bedroom, in a strange bed. He had been dreaming of painting; sloshing paint around in gigantic cans, the thick oily liquid covering walls and ceilings and bare skin. His practiced eye recognized the patch on the ceiling that had so offended him last night. He smiled.
Elijah opened his eyes in his own room but a room changed. He felt warm lips and soft hairs rasping against the back of his neck, a hand stroking his hip. Turning, he found himself looking into Bernard's gentle blue eyes, and he smiled. "Good morning".
"No regrets?" he asked, lazily. There was a certain matter which would demand some attention soon, indeed, two such matters, but for now he was content to lie there and bask in the warmth of the morning sun.
"Regrets? No regrets," Bernard replied. He kissed Elijah's forehead softly and closed his eyes. For the first time in days he had woken up and not thought immediately of Olivia. Now the familiar pang of pain swept through him; she was gone, not forgotten. It would take more than a fucking brilliant blowjob to erase her from his heart, but it was a bloody good start. Yesterday, pain had been the order of the day.
But that was the day before Elijah.
The End