Slipstream (slipstreamborne) wrote in slashababy,
Slipstream
slipstreamborne
slashababy

Title: Wallet Sized Photographs
Author: slipstreamborne
Pairing: Andy/Sean A. (G)
Summary: Andy wants what he can’t have.
Disclaimer: Very much an untruth.
Notes: Slasha, Baby… Andy/Astin (well…maybe it came out more Andy/Astin/Elijah, but it started out A/A) angst for marginalia. Merry Christmas, dear! This was a challenge to write, but certainly fun! Enjoy!


“And thus I clothe my naked villainy
with old odd ends, stol’n forth of holy writ;
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.”
-William Shakespeare, King Richard III





Someone stole Andy’s wallet while he was milling around the baggage claim at the New Zealand airport. Slipped it right out of his back pocket—-took his ID, cash, everything. Andy had about a hundred dollars worth of traveler’s checks, one credit card that he spent the next day trying to get canceled, and pictures of Lorraine and Sonny in his billfold. They’re all gone now. The cash, the credit, the family… All gone. Out of sight, out of mind.

New Zealand feels like starting over, like an alien world where the stakes are kicked up about ten notches. B.N.Z. (Before New Zealand), Andy had thought of himself as a pretty healthy guy. He was fit, in shape. He ate well (hell, he was a vegetarian!), rock climbed, drank seven glasses of water a day… In the theater he was ideal—-solid, stocky, a man not to be trifled with.

Then came the Lycra suit.

Andy has never felt so fully conscious of his tomfoolery as he does in those damn tights amongst all those skinny elves and Americans. And hobbits. Dom and Billy and Elijah, all fey and tangling limbs and girls and booze and interviews. Our Boys. Their faces will go on billboards and buses and airplanes. Andy’s will be digitally erased, frame by frame, a Cheshire Cat disappearing act.

But Sean is different. Yes, he’s a hobbit and yes, none of the film with his performance is getting the big digital eraser treatment, but he’s solid and stocky and as uncomfortable in his skin at the moment as Andy is. Andy can’t help but measure the similarities between them, spends hours calculating the possible implications of such a thing. He doesn’t know exactly what it is he’s feeling, whether its love or lust or longing or loneliness, but its there, he’s greedy for it, and he’s surprised that it’s Elijah that comes between him and his imaginary Sean instead of the anticipated Wife and Children.

Christine and Ali hadn’t been on set when Andy arrived, so sometimes he forgets that they exist. Erases them from the universe, zip!, like that. He doesn’t feel too bad about it, because the way that Sean looks at Elijah sometimes, the way he holds him when he’s drunk, the way SamSean sometimes slips into SeanSean and he glares at Andy over Elijah’s exhausted form, the way they sit together in bars, hands slipping over iced beers, Elijah’s lips inching closer and closer…closer and closer…

They way they are together, Andy knows that Sean sometimes forgets them, too.

Or maybe it isn’t what Andy thinks it is. Sean’s the kind of guy that one feels an instant bond with. Andy knows this from experience. He’s the fatherly type, too, and all this Sam nonsense has him being extra cautious and paranoid and overprotective and irresistible. Elijah doesn’t get along with his father. Elijah gets along with Sean. Andy uses this excuse to quiet the greed a little, and from the way Elijah and Sean look at each other he knows that they want to use that excuse, too.

Andy doesn’t like having to tiptoe around the two of them while they figure it out. He doesn’t like tiptoeing at all. Doesn’t like slinking, crawling, rolling in the dirt in that damn green Lycra suit while they moon at each other in their heroic garb. He doesn’t like doing one take with the three of them and then stepping out of frame so that the two of them can have their nice, intimate film moment without him.

He doesn’t like it at all, but he hides it well.

It’s a hot night and inside the bar is dark and warm with low lighting and just enough fans twirling to keep the air from becoming too close. It’s just the three of them out drinking tonight: Andy, Elijah, and Sean. Elijah’s drinking habits are less frantic when he’s away from the other hobbits and the elf, but he’s still downed enough over a short enough period of time that the alcohol combined with four days worth of rock-climbing shots has welded his eyelids shut, his head propped up on two weakly wobbling arms.

Andy gets some perverse sort of joy out of the kid’s exhaustion, but there’s another part of him that got stolen at the airport with his wallet and his cash and his family photographs that twinges a little as the dark brush of Elijah’s lashes over alcohol-flushed cheeks reminds him suddenly, achingly of Sonny. Andy watches Sean watch Elijah’s elbows slide slowly across the polished table-top, the dark-haired youth jerking out of sleep as his chin slips the last few inches and hits the wood with a hollow thock. He sits there, blinking in surprise, rubbing at his chin absently, and when Sean meets Andy’s eyes across the booth and mouths softly “I think its time to go” Andy just nods and drains his mug while Sean fishes out his wallet to pay.

Sean’s wallet is a beautiful thing. Simple. Clean. Sean. The leather is old and worn from much handling, bulging here with driver’s licenses and credit cards, curving there from a life spent in Sean’s back pocket. But Sean’s wallet is made for American dollars, and New Zealand currency just doesn’t fit quite right into the folds of honey-colored leather molded to the curve of Sean’s ass, so he folds them into quarters. Now he’s standing there rifling through origami rectangles of colored paper while a drunk Elijah slides falls in slow motion down the booth until his head is resting on Sean’s thigh, and Andy’s surprised at the sudden hole that’s been unexpectedly punched in his chest. Andy looks away when the plastic sleeve with pictures of Chris and Ali tumbles accidentally onto the tabletop and doesn’t look back until Sean puts them away.

They dump Elijah into the back seat, Sean fussing like a mother hen and waiting to make sure he has his seatbelt buckled while Andy goes around and climbs into the passenger side. Sean has had the least to drink, sipping at one beer the whole evening, so he drives. He gets in with the keys in his right hand, fumbling in the dark of the foreign car, and before Andy can say anything—chide him quietly, make a joke, make him his—, a groggy voice from the back seat calls out “Ignition’s on the other side, Sean,” and Sean says that he knows that but not without a smile and the look he and Elijah share in the rearview mirror makes the alcohol in Andy’s stomach turn sour in disagreement.

The next day, Andy buys a new billfold to replace the one that was stolen from him.



-Fin
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