Metaphors
by Trianne
Dominic Monaghan/Elijah Wood.
Rating: NC17
AN: Written for the writing challenge at the Elfmoot 07, and previously posted in that community. The words I drew were Black Quick Tender
Feedback: Always appreciated - perhobfan@yahoo.co.uk
There just never was enough time. Never.
They tried to make time like an alchemist might try to make gold - out of nothing - shaving little bits of time here and there from lesser endeavours - oh, like filming - and shunting them over to the pursuit of coupling in all its myriad forms - oh, like Dom topping Elijah doggy-style, Dom topping Elijah missionary-style - but there simply was never enough time. Damned fucking feet, they moaned, often and loudly and Shaun Foot (no E) would roll his eyes and Sean Astin (not the city in Texas) would make conciliatory gestures and then both Seans would pointedly ignore the groping going on over there and put it down to youth and a deplorable excess of libido.
Dom in particular began to view Time as a foe. He wanted to do Elijah with style, with more than a quick yanking down of Hobbit britches and a fumbled tearing of a sachet of precious lube. He wanted to give Elijah the ultimate blow-job, have him experience the absolute zenith of oral pleasure. But how to do this when Time was marching on as Time was wont to do, fucking fascist Time, when there was always someone's birthday to celebrate, some baby's head to wet, some anniversary to commemorate. It wasn't that Dom and Elijah resented their friends and colleagues, and they certainly didn't begrudge filming for Peter. But if Dom could've pressed a button when they were outside the gates of Moria and the crew were busily trussing up his boyfriend, tying him up, getting him ready to be whipped about by the Watcher in the Water, then he would have pressed it and he and Elijah would've been whizzed off someplace - apparated, to borrow a term from that new and promising wizardy series the crew were reading behind their copies of Rings - where they could be truly alone AND have plenty of time for lurve.
Still, Dom prided himself on never hurting Elijah, no matter how quick their coupling had to be, never rushing him beyond the realms of enjoyment. He even offered one time to let Elijah TOP. Elijah had looked at him and there had been such appreciation in those magnificent eyes and then Elijah had laughed like the proverbial drain and got down on all fours behind the maintenance shed. Dom had been particularly tender with Elijah that time, and Elijah's backside had been particular tender with Dom.
Time stopped marching on and began to run like a mad, crazy, hyperactive mad - THING - and the months were eaten up and spat out like pips upon New Zealand's fecund soil. Elijah was constantly knackered, exhausted but still smiling. Sex became even more of a hurried affair, Dom desperate to consummate lovemaking before Elijah nodded off beneath him. All too soon principal photography was ending and words unsaid hovered above Dom's head. Elijah had offered him a place to stay if he wanted to come live in LA and Dom was going to take him up on that. He'd thought long and hard about next steps - back to England and guest spots in Casualty and maybe even Coronation Street, or sunshine and palm trees - well, long and hard meaning 0.69 seconds, and then said yes.
But would the sex continue over there? Maybe a whole raft of other boyfriends would emerge once they were in Santa Monica. Maybe he'd just been the British one. Maybe there was a dolphin trainer one, an alien-wrangler one, a hip hop artiste one. Who knew? It wasn't as if they'd ever talked about this stuff.
Emotions ran high as cast members began to drift away, parties were held and gifts and promises exchanged. Everywhere he looked, Dom saw couples embracing, illicit affairs ending. Elijah had a flushed look, born of too many long days and too many frenetic nights. To Dom, he'd never looked more beautiful. The last days were unbearably sad but exciting, too. Much as he loved New Zealand, Dom was quite ready for another adventure. But still, Santa Monica. Sleeping arrangements.
It ended. Finally. Well, that phase at least. There would be re-shoots next year, they'd all get together in Cannes THIS year, it wouldn't ever really end. But this bit had. They'd never get this back.
Elijah flew home to the States and Dom returned to England to see his family and friends. He managed to get in a few visits to Old Trafford, bought nail polish at Boots the Chemist, read a bit, drank a lot, felt somehow detached from reality as if that well-loved pub was ridiculously provincial and confining, the local TV station obsessed with things that simply no longer mattered. As for Time, the foe, the enemy that had denied him quality shagging with Elijah? Now it dragged, now it was a sloth, now it stretched out and taunted him - you could be kissing him right now, long, slow kisses, sucking his lashes, laving the contours of his perfect little nose, feasting on him, now there is plenty of time. But oh, that's right, he's not here is he? He's in AMERICA with his DJ boyfriend, his Muscle Beach boyfriend, his ebony-skinned Adonis ex-Marine boyfriend...
Dom flew into LAX and the heat hit him and the sun hurt his eyes and there was no Elijah waiting to pick him up. He checked his watch, hefted the rucksack on his shoulder and rummaged around for the address. He'd started to cross to the shuttle buses when he heard it, that familiar voice. "Sorry! Was in Amoeba and lost track of time, man," Elijah said, bounding over to Dom, ubiquitous clove dangling from his lip. They quickly embraced, Elijah slapping Dom on the back, in a close approximation to manliness.
So. This was the tone, then. Dom the afterthought, Dom the ex-friendly fuck, Dom the visitor from overseas. As he followed Elijah to the car, he almost expected to find some jock sitting in there waiting for them, buff and tanned and with shining perfect veneers in his odious perfect gob.
Needless to say, the car was empty except for a whole mess of CDs on the floor. It stank of cigarettes, the Star Wars air freshener dangling from the mirror notwithstanding. They made small talk as Elijah maneuvered the car out into traffic with only a couple of near-misses. Dom resisted the temptation to ask about Elijah's lovelife. To do so would have been caddish and unBritish, he felt, rather pompously. So he sat there and let himself be chauffered to Elijah's house in Santa Monica, a place he'd heard about for the last sixteen months and which he was now to see for himself. "Mom and Hannah had to go out of town," Elijah explained, as he parked the car on the little drive. "They're excited to meet you, though."
Dom followed Elijah around the house, admiring the flowers and shrubs and neatness of everything, admiring the curve of Elijah's arse even more. He'd missed it so. He sighed nostalgically. Okay, so New Zealand was New Zealand and this was now. He could learn to ignore the endless stream of actors and musicians, photographers and arty types that would be rolling through the house, the oversized boxers hanging from chairs and light fittings. He'd ignore it and he'd become the damned finest friend a bloke could ask for. And that would be enough. It would. Yes, it would.
The little kitchen was well-stocked. The tiny sitting area was cosy and clean. The bathroom was bijou and cute as a button. So far, Dom felt like a prospective buyer.
"And this,” Elijah said - and Dom thought for a moment that Elijah's voice changed a mite - 'this is our bedroom. That is, if you want it to be."
There were black silk sheets on the double bed, flowers in a vase by the window. An old fashioned clock ticked quietly on the dresser, its face somehow smiley and knowing, as if it shared a secret with these two. Dom smiled.
Seemed there might be time after all...
End