You wake up bathed in New Zealand sunlight, Elijah’s body wrapped around yours. Sighing, you burrow instinctively into his warmth, trailing a finger down his spine. It’s been three months since you fell from grace and into his bed, and it’s been, to paraphrase some dead British guy, the best of times and the worst of times.
When Elijah kisses you, it’s the best of times. When you kiss down his neck and across his chest, when you take him in your mouth, when he slides into you, it’s the best of times. But when he refuses to tell anyone else about your coupling, it’s the worst of times. When he turns you away, when he keeps his eyes closed during sex, when he makes you hurt so badly, it’s the worst of times.
The bad is starting to far outweigh the good. He’s taken to making you leave your shirt on during sex; he says he ‘can’t stand’ the extra pounds you’ve gained for the movie. Most nights, you have to leave right after sex. He’s never allowed you to be inside of him, only the other way around. And worst of all, you two never hang out anymore. Sure, when others are around, everything seems normal, but once the two of you are alone, it’s just sex, and nothing else.
And still, the good moments keep you hanging on, clinging by your fingernails like Gandalf in Moria. Perhaps you should heed the wizard’s warning right before he fell – “Fly, you fools!” In this case, there’s only one fool.
It’s a rare night off, and it’s being spent at a club that Orli and Elijah have insisted is worth the extravagant entrance fee. You’ve spent the entire night trying to inconspicuously watch your beloved hobbit and wonder whether tonight you’ll get to be with him.
Elijah, Billy and Orli are on the dance floor, while Bean and Dom discuss football (well, maybe ‘discuss’ is too tame a word), and Viggo is writing a poem or something in a journal. John and Ian have already left, which you realize was probably a wise move. Although you’d never admit it to the younger hobbits, this just isn’t your scene anymore.
“Enjoying yourself?” Elijah asks as he breathlessly bounds back to the table, Orli in tow.
“Completely.” You take another swig of your beer and try to focus on Billy’s somewhat frantic dancing attempts. “And you?”
“This place is bloody awesome!”
“Lij, for the seventy-thousandth time, you’re not a fucking Brit,” Orli reminds him good-naturedly.
“Come on, Sam, ask Frodo for a dance,” Elijah jokes.
“I think I’ll just have another ale,” you reply in kind.
“Man, Astin, you’re no fun,” he grouses.
You affectionately reach over and ruffle his hair, not wanting to upset him. He gives you a smile that warms you to your toes, even if there’s really nothing behind it.
“Azaradel.”
Everyone at the table stops talking and looks at Viggo curiously. It’s the first thing he’s said in over an hour.
“Say what, Vig?” Bean asks.
“Azaradel.”
He looks back down at his journal, oblivious to – or perhaps enjoying – the knitted brows that are now adorning five faces. By now, the entire Fellowship knows how maddeningly random Viggo can be (although you actually find it somewhat charming), but you all instinctively know that this is actually supposed to mean something.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Dom says. “What does that mean?”
“It’s from this apocryphal Hebraic book of mythology called the Book of Enoch.” Viggo seems to think this answers everything.
“But who was . . . what the fuck was he called?” Elijah asks.
“Azaradel,” Viggo says, the exasperation showing in his voice.
“Yeah, who was he?”
“He was an angel who was assigned by God to watch over human beings and teach them things.”
“What happened to him?” Orli asks, his curiosity genuinely piqued.
“He fell in love with a human being and fell from grace. He became a demon.”
As he says this, Viggo’s eyes flicker up to meet yours, so quickly you know that no one else could have noticed. Your throat suddenly feels horribly dry and you take a messy gulp from your beer.
“Is there a reason you chose to mention this?” Dom is evidently amused. You don’t find it very amusing.
Viggo just shrugs and continues scrawling words in his goddamned journal. You need to get outside for a minute, to get away from the table, from Elijah, especially from Viggo.
“I’m going to get a refill,” you say, hoping your voice didn’t crack. Viggo’s the only one who acknowledges your statement, which he does with a smile that contains empathy, not judgment.
The bathroom is cold and dank when you walk into it and shut yourself into a stall. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you mutter. You’re not angry at Viggo, but does the man have to be so damned perceptive? Just when you’ve gotten your wits together and think you’re okay to go back into the club, the door swings open and two people walk in, locking themselves into the stall next to you. To your horror, you realize one is Elijah – you’d know that giggle anywhere.
“Shit, Lij, someone’s gonna come looking for us.” Dom. It’s Dom with Elijah. You feel the tears coming but are powerless to prevent their fall. Just like you were powerless to prevent your own.
“C’mon, Dommie, I’ll just be fast and no one will know.” They either don’t know or don’t care that someone else is in the bathroom, so you stand there, paralyzed as you listen to Elijah suck off Dom – something he’s never done for you. The two leave as quickly as they entered, and you wipe your face on your sleeve. You can go back out there. You’re an actor, for fuck’s sake.
Later that night, you knock on a familiar door, finally trusting yourself enough to cry in front of someone. As the door to the house opens, you are met with a pair of blue eyes. A different, much friendlier pair of blue eyes.
“Azaradel,” he says simply.
You nod and sink into Viggo’s embrace.
