A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Michael and Frances lay still in the sand, Frances watching the others rise from the circle around the bonfire and brush themselves off, unmoving, obviously not inclined to hurry; Michael didn't want to move without Frances' approval, so he lay quietly, too. And as Frances still had one long brown arm curled possessively around Michael's waist, pulling him up so close Michael was sure he could feel his heart beat through his rib cage, he didn't think Frances would take too kindly to Michael's attempts to Freshen Up. "Then again," he thought, feeling the slow rhythmic pressure of Frances' fingers against his side, "it's been so long he's probably not even going to care."

He was glad he'd been able to shave that morning with a real razor – Nick was nothing if not well-supplied – and glad they had fresh-water showers to use; although he was still a little sandy in spots, and slicked up with SPF 50, he knew at least he wasn't the sticky, prickly, musky guy he'd been a scant few days ago, when they'd finally left the Semi-Impermeable and slogged up the beach. And Frances, of course, was Devastatingly Attractive even WITHOUT all those toiletry accompaniments. He looked around the beach; nearly everyone had dispersed – Gimli and Doris were staying on the island; they had already claimed the big canvas hammocks; Éomer and Lottie were groping each other in the darkness behind them (Michael could hear Lottie's giggles and Éomer's muttered encouragements) and would probably sleep in the lean-to; Gandalf practically lived in his battered chaise lounge anyway; Aragorn and Arwen were making ready the dinghy, and Legolas, his pale torso glowing in the starlight, had waded out to check the motor. No one was watching … Michael nuzzled Frances' jaw; he could smell him, like clean dirt and cold stone – outdoorsy, woodsy, masculine. Frances stirred, brushed his lips across Michael's forehead, then looked down at him with a smile.

"Getting a little frisky?" he asked, his deep voice playful; Michael reached up one hand and toyed with the thick thatch of dark hair on his chest.

"Getting a little anxious," he said, giving Frances one of Those Looks – the patented Michael Wants To Get Laid Look, complete with Winsome Smile and Puppy Dog Eyes, and a little bit of Fluttering Eyelashes mixed in to drive the point home. Frances, not being an idiot, recognized the Look instantly; his gray eyes darkened as his pupils dilated, and his smile became tight and feral. He reached up to Michael's hand and flattened it against his chest; Michael could feel the sudden acceleration of his heart. He bit his lip and looked eagerly up at his lover, seeing his own reflection in those gray eyes; he could tell he looked a bit desperate, but so what? He was.

Frances ran his hand from Michael's wrist up his arm, cupping the smaller man's shoulder in his warm wide palm and pulling him closer. Michael's breath hitched; Frances' face was close now, so close Michael could feel his breath gusting around his mouth; he couldn't help looking down at Frances' lips – please, please kiss me, he wanted to say; kiss me and kiss me and kiss me – sure enough, the wet willing mouth touched his, their lips sliding together, fitting together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle; it had been so long since Michael had had a proper kiss he gave a happy moan, and when the tip of Frances' tongue brushed his lower lip he opened his mouth to the kiss, letting Frances have his Wicked Way with him. And Frances could indeed be Wicked – he knew Michael was all keyed up and restless and horny, yet he toyed with his lover's mouth, teasing his lips open, stroking his tongue with his own, refusing to take Michael's hints to be touched and simply caressing Michael's cheek, smiling slyly at Michael's agitated whimpers and wriggles. It was driving Michael crazy; why wouldn't Frances just touch him, just once –

"Patience," Frances whispered against his mouth; Michael opened his eyes and looked with excruciating longing at him. He didn't WANT to be patient; hadn't he been patient for three weeks already? Well – not really patient, he admitted; but at least he'd waited, hadn't he? With a minimum of complaining? Surely that ought to count for SOMETHING, right? Frances rubbed Michael's lower lip with his thumb and smiled. "I think we ought to get back to our stateroom before we get too excited, darling. Don't you?"

"No," said Michael, boldly throwing his leg over Frances' hip and pressing them together. To his surprise Frances didn't push him away; instead he just laughed and put his arm around Michael's waist. "I don't want to wait." He brought his lips up to Frances' ear and whispered, "I've always wanted to try sex on the beach."

Frances pulled away a little, and looked at him, eyebrows raised, smiling. "Have you really?" he asked, starting to grin. He pushed his hips up against Michael's, and Michael, feeling the physical symptom of Frances' arousal, gave a delighted little gasp. "Well, to tell you the truth I've never tried it before – "

"Gritty," said a voice above them; Michael jerked back from Frances in surprised mortification, but Frances, for a wonder, didn't seem discommoded at all; he just rolled onto his back and looked up at Éowyn, inverted above them both, her hands on her hips, smiling down at them. Her riotous curls tumbled like gold floss around her winsome face, like a halo around a saint; however no saint was ever painted like that, in a sparkling minuscule bikini, just three triangles of spangles really, her Barbie-body smooth and burnished by the firelight.

" 'Gritty'?" Frances repeated, one eyebrow climbing up into his forehead. She laughed and ran her long fingers through her hair.

"Yes, indeedy," she said, winking at Michael, who was trying to hide the tent in the front of his trunks. "It's all right for some foreplay, but when you get down to business you'll want to find a different venue – unless you want your rectum exfoliated."

Michael gave a surprised squeak at the thought; Frances grimaced fastidiously and said, "Well, we'll think about it, thank you."

"No prob," she said, grinning, and took herself on her Mile-High Legs down to the beach. She, Legolas, and the Walkers started up the outboard, and the dinghy purred off, leaving behind a foamy iridescent triangle in its wake. Michael watched them go, feeling a little angry; damn her for interrupting their sex-play! But still, the word "gritty" didn't exactly encourage him to continue – it wouldn't be THAT uncomfortable, would it? Surely with a little lubrication – he jumped a little when he felt Frances' hands on his back; as they moved around to his chest and belly he felt the slow excitement begin to build again, picking up where they'd left off.

"Now then," Frances murmured into his ear, pressing himself up against Michael's back; Michael moaned, and felt Frances' tongue, hot and questing, tracing a pattern on the back of his neck; he gave a gratified wriggle backwards, feeling the swimsuit material abrading something Very Interesting that was resting against his backside. "Where were we?"

Michael sighed and surrendered, as he knew he would anyway; as he arched his back and stretched out his throat to give Frances better access, he looked up at the stars, glimmering cold and sparkling in the velvety black, and a feeling of peace washed over him, as though they watched, and did not disapprove.

*************

Unfortunately Éowyn had been right; in addition to the fact they had no lubrication besides the leftover butter (clotted with crumbs, and greasy and cold in the discarded aluminum foil), the sand was proving itself to be a major hindrance to Michael's comfort. Reluctantly the two of them admitted their defeat at the hands of the Elements – though really, thought Michael, it had been a definite thrill to make out on a beach beneath the stars, so Romantic – and it was gratifying to know he and Frances had both made good grades in Heavy Petting 101 – Michael had been willing to give it a shot, but Frances, unwilling to hurt him, had rolled off of him and led him to the old dinghy.

Gimli had repaired it when they'd arrived at Norman Island – Michael was glad; bailing was not high on his List of Preferred Pastimes – and Frances, with that thoughtless competence that never failed to excite his lover, started it up and headed to the White Lady. Michael sat in the bow, looking back at Frances, gloating over the trim dark torso gleaming in the starlight, the way his glossy black hair tossed and ruffled in the breeze, deliciously contemplating all the hot and delectable things Frances and he could do to each other, once they made it to the Sanctum Sanctorum of their stateroom. His excitement was building almost to fever-pitch; he thought about suggesting to Frances they simply cut the engine, drift, and see where their hormones led them – but – the thought of making love in a Real Bed was an even greater temptation, and shifting uncomfortably on the hard bench he gritted his teeth and TRIED to be patient.

Climbing the ladder was made more difficult by Frances' tongue and teeth on his ass – his playful hiss of remonstration had only made Frances grin up at him and say, "You don't REALLY want me to stop, do you?" Michael had given him a giggle and hurried his pace, knowing Frances would match him; by the time they swung up on deck they were both laughing and shushing each other.

The others had been back well over an hour; Michael was sure they were asleep by now. Frances took him by his hand and lead him below, pausing every now and then to press him up against some convenient bulkhead and kiss him hard – it was getting very difficult to walk, and Michael was starting to not care whether they had any hand lotion in the stateroom or not – but then Frances broke away in the lower hallway and gave him a little push, smiling.

"Be right back," he whispered. "Need to visit the head."

Michael pouted, sticking out his lower lip; with an affectionate smile Frances grasped it lightly with his thumb and forefinger and gave it a little squeeze, then turned and went back to the bathroom. With a resigned sigh Michael headed back down the dark little hallway to their stateroom at the end.

As he passed the big door on his right he realized with a shock it was open; that wasn't their room, it couldn't be – he gave a quick glance inside, then scuttled past with a horrified, stifled gasp. He felt like covering his eyes with his hands, but it was Too Late – what he'd seen was burned on the insides of his eyelids as though it had been branded there. Two long, sinuous, graceful bodies, golden hair, shapely limbs and languid fingers, white radiant skin with the bloom of heat still on it; Éowyn, face-down, her head resting on her folded arms, Legolas straddling her, a pen in one hand, drawing something on the back of her bare shoulder. Both nude, sated, cavalier, roguish; the curve of buttocks, the bunch and play of moving muscle, the light scent of citrus and rosemary.

Michael bolted into their stateroom and shut the door, leaning against it, breathing hard. No, no, NO, he told himself; don't think about it don't think about it oh damn damn DAMN, NOW how was he going to get that picture out of his head? The sight of a beautiful naked woman was aesthetically pleasing, true enough – even Michael admitted that – but the memory of Legolas' lean sinewy form, luminous skin and shimmering hair, the crescent-curve from shoulder to knee – Michael swallowed, remembered that Frances would be coming down that passageway in a moment and surely see them too; THAT wasn't something Michael wanted – how could he compete with THAT? Frances would take one look at his Ex and have his mind full of the long taut stomach and silky hair, and Michael would be DAMNED if he'd let Frances make love to him with THAT in mind. He opened the door, prepared to rush out and close Legolas' and Éowyn's stateroom door (what were they THINKING, anyway, leaving it open like that?), but realized he was too late – Frances was standing in the hallway, one hand resting on the jamb of Legolas' door, looking into the darkness, and smiling wistfully.

Michael felt his stomach drop. He couldn't see into the other stateroom, but he could see Frances' profile; he'd removed his loose linen shirt and stood clad only in his swim trunks, watching unashamedly as the couple inside enjoyed their afterglow. Then he seemed to hear something inside, and respond; Michael listened hard – the thumping of his heart was making it very hard to hear – he could hear a voice, light but indistinguishable; Frances cocked his head and murmured a reply. Then there was a flickering white light, and Legolas came to the door.

He stood, naked, his long pale hair streaming down over his shoulders, seeming unconcerned about his unclad state; he and Frances exchanged a few bantering phrases, then Legolas grinned, swatted Frances playfully on the head, and went back into his room, closing the door behind him. Still smiling, Frances turned back to his stateroom.

Michael dashed back to the bed, not wanting Frances to know he'd seen. He'd SEEN. There his boyfriend had stood, gazing dreamily at his former lover, standing with him while he'd been NAKED, and NOW he was going to come in here and try to make love to Michael while thinking of THAT?

HELL NO!

His stomach twisted into a huge knot, and he felt like throwing up. He was breathing hard, his heart pounding, thumping painfully against his chest, and he was Angry – angry at Legolas for teasing Frances; angry at Frances for looking at Legolas and wanting to sleep with him, angry at himself for being so jealous – he couldn't help it – he WAS jealous! Frances walked in, gently shut the door behind him, and turned to the bed, still with an absent smile on his face. Michael reflected that he must look Really Upset, because his lover picked up on it immediately; the smile faded, and he looked at Michael in surprise.

"What's wrong, darling?" he asked, throwing his linen shirt in a little pile on the floor.

Michael took a deep breath. He would NOT cry. He would NOT scream. He would calmly explain his feelings to Frances and make Frances GROVEL for forgiveness. "If you have to ask, I’m not going to tell you," he heard himself say; he nearly slapped himself in frustration – where the hell had THAT come from? And with such a petulant whine, too! No wonder Frances was giving him That Look, the one that meant I Have No Idea What You're Talking About And I Don't Really Want To Deal With It Right Now. He held his breath, waiting for Cold and Unfeeling Frances to reappear, but instead his lover walked slowly over to the bed, his eyes thoughtful.

"You're jealous," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. Michael bit his lip and felt the sting of tears prick at his eyes – don't cry – don't cry, dammit! "You saw me looking in, didn't you?"

"I – " Michael's voice nearly broke, but he gritted his teeth, willing the weak and inconsequential tears away; they were ineffective on Frances anyway, and only made him colder. "You – you're – still – attracted – to your Ex," he accused, his hands clenching and unclenching on his lap. His breath was coming fast like he'd been running, and his heart felt as though it were very heavy. Frances raised his eyebrows in resignation, and with a sigh sat on the bed.

"No, not attracted," he said, laying one long brown hand on Michael's leg; he flinched but didn't move away, at once resenting and craving Frances' touch. "Just – regretful, I suppose." He smiled absently, his eyes on the floor. "I was such a sonofabitch."

"Don't SAY that," said Michael desperately; he didn’t want to hear about Frances' ability to be a sonofabitch; it was too frightening. But Frances sighed again and said,

"No – I was, I admit it. But Michael – " He turned around, his pale eyes boring into Michael's, intense, focused, present. "That was a long time ago – I was a different person." He reached up, touched Michael's cheek. "It's over," he said.

"But you still find him attractive," blurted Michael, his eyes finally glassing over; he blinked rapidly. "I don't blame you – Legolas is very Decorative – "

Frances froze, his eyes widening, then to Michael's consternation he began to laugh – not a short, bitter laugh, or an apologetic, diffident laugh, but a big belly-laugh, that seemed to start at his toes and ripple out of his mouth, filling the room and throwing Michael into a bigger State of Confusion than he was before. Angrily he said, hands balled into fists, "Stop laughing at me – " but then Frances pounced on him, flattening him on the bed beneath his body, still laughing, warm and vibrant over him, holding him down, his hands spreading Michael's arms over his head, and his hips nestled between Michael's legs. Michael squirmed, trying to get away from him – he was in no mood to be distracted – but Frances kissed him, a breathless, happy kiss, and continued to laugh as he spoke.

"You thought – Legolas – was my Ex?" he said; tears were starting to roll down his cheeks. "LEGOLAS? You – thought LEGOLAS -- ?" He dropped his forehead to Michael's collarbone, giggling madly. "Legolas – Mr. Straight-As-An-Arrow, Aggressively Heterosexual Legolas?"

"I – yes," admitted Michael, suddenly mollified; if Legolas were straight – and NOT Frances' Ex – then there was really nothing to worry about – and here he'd wasted all that jealousy on a misunderstanding. "But – you said – you liked blondes – when we were talking about your Ex – "

"Oh, lord have mercy," chuckled Frances; he drew his hands down the insides of Michael's arms, and the tickling made Michael twitch; but Frances' hands traveled further down, down his side, the long fingers hesitating on his nipples and making him twitch again, finally resting on Michael's slim hips. Michael felt him grip his pelvic bones, felt him nudge his balls, and realized Frances was still aroused. Despite himself he felt an answering thrill within him, and lowered his arms to wrap them around Frances' shoulders, still heaving with mirth.

Wait – if Legolas wasn't Frances' Ex – and the blonde comment – directed at Legolas –

Oh, shit –

"Éowyn?" squeaked Michael, appalled. "You were married to a WOMAN?"

Frances raised his head, regarded Michael with twinkling eyes. "Well, I TOLD you I came out of the closet late," he said, and rotated his hips. Michael gasped; that made sparkles bloom in front of his eyes, and the burgeoning fire was making it very difficult to concentrate. "I'm sorry, darling – I assumed someone else had told you. I thought you knew." He moved his hips again, and Michael damned his mutinous body for responding – though it did feel awfully good –

"Éowyn?" he repeated, still having a difficult time with the concept. "You were married to HER?"

"Yes," murmured Frances. He had stopped laughing, but as he was currently engaged in nibbling a line from Michael's sternum to his collarbone Michael didn't really notice. "Didn't work – this is – much better – "

"Oh … " Michael discovered to his amazement that his eyes were closed. He could feel Frances move, could feel his mouth exploring, tasting, working its way downward. Suddenly the staggering discovery that his lover had been married to a woman wasn't that important. Hell; the fact that his lover's former wife was next door wasn't that important either. What was REALLY important, Michael admitted lazily, was the trail of that warm tongue – the line of saliva cooling on his skin, bringing him out in goosebumps – yes, that felt quite nice – He opened his eyes, looking sluggishly around the room, gave a gasp when he felt Frances bite him – ever so lightly – right there – he groaned, and Frances chuckled against his thigh –

There was a white, upright bottle on the bedside table; idly Michael studied it, recognizing that its shape was familiar, but not registering at first what it was – then, to his gratified amazement, he saw the blue letters "KY" emblazoned on the front, and realizing neither he nor Frances had put it there, began to laugh as well. Then came the warm engulfing as Frances swallowed him, and he couldn't think about anything for a while.