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Title: Politics of Weakness
Author: Lily Elena
Pairing: SA/EW
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine; didn't happen.
Notes: For beizy, who was the main person responsible for me getting over my dislike of astin!slash. :)

He knows what he's doing.

When he lingers in your embrace long after Peter yells 'cut', his breath warm on your ear, his hand ghosting patterns on the back of your neck, he knows what he's doing.

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You know what he's doing.

When he looks at you under lowered lashes from across the table later that night, questions and invitations crystal-clear in his eyes, you know what he's doing.

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You know what you're doing.

When you both get up from the couch at the same time and stumble into each other, and your lips just happen to meet, you know what you're doing.

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You meet in secret, sneaking into empty trailers to steal kisses between scenes. You wonder briefly if this is happening because of some hidden desire to feel young again; young like you haven't felt in a long time, longer than you'd care to admit (because you don't have regrets; oh, no, not you); young like every stereotypical image of a schoolboy, going out behind the gym for a quick grope during a dance.

But when he arches his neck, baring smooth pale skin and moaning softly as you rub him through Frodo's breeches - character study, you think in the back of your mind, and it would make you laugh except this isn't the time; when he sighs into your mouth, whispers "oh, Sam," and wraps his arms around you (Tolkien, you think, may be rolling over in his grave right now, but you can't seem to care); when he shudders against you, whimpering against your shoulder, you know that this is about much more than that.

And you can't decide what you think about that, so you don't think about it at all.

And that suits both of you just fine.

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The air conditioning is never on when you're together.

One afternoon, when the heat rises off of everything in waves, making everything surreal and hazy, and your clothes are sticking damply to your back, you ask him why.

He takes care of the latter problem, divesting you of your shirt, then licks a path from your shoulder to your jaw, nipping lightly at your earlobe. "Like to see you sweat," he murmurs, tracing a line with one finger down your chest.

And you'd like to ask him where he gets his stuff, because it sounds like it's directly out of some cheap porno; but somehow, as his hands travel lower and his lips move higher, the words just won't come out.

Later, you find you don't mind the heat so much, because you like the way he glistens above you.

And at home, laying restless in your bed, Christine's arm curled around you (gently possessive, even in sleep), listening to the low hum of the fan as it blows back and forth across you, you can't help but shiver.

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One night, a night long after everything with him has ceased to be sharp and new and has instead softened into something smooth and comfortable, you come home and sit in your favorite chair - well, no, because your favorite chair is millions of miles away, in the living room you haven't seen in nearly a year; your temporary-favorite chair, then - and Ali bounds up to you and sits on your lap, chattering away about the new doll Mommy's bought her, and isn't it pretty, Daddy, look at it, isn't it pretty?

And you nod and exclaim over it, making the right responses at the right times - and I think I'm going to name it Sally, Daddy, do you like that name? Yes, sweetheart, that's a very nice name - and for the first time you understand, really understand, why Peter hired you.

Christine comes up behind you, eyes aglow and smile on her face, and hands you a brush, her knuckles grazing the back of your hand lightly, affectionately.

You know she's thinking: what a perfect picture. You know she's thinking: I'm so lucky to have this.

You take the brush from her, staring at the wall opposite you because that's the only place your eyes can bear looking, and brush Ali's hair until it shines out of the corner of your eye, golden-shimmer even in the dull light, your fingers trembling all the while.

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The next morning you pull him behind the makeup trailer with every intention of telling him that it has to end, that it just isn't working; that it was fun while it lasted but you've got a family for Christ's sake.

But when you open your mouth to speak, he crushes his lips against yours, hard and bruising, then drops down, kneeling in front of you, and fumbles with the button-fly of your jeans.

"I love you," he says, by way of greeting (as if the kiss weren't greeting enough), as he tugs on your zipper, his eyes fixed on the ground.

All the air rushes out of your body (whoosh) as you gape at him, and several moments pass before the tight feeling in your chest reminds you to breathe again.

"You -" Your mouth goes dry.

"I love you," he repeats, and looks up, eyes wide.

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He doesn't know what he's doing.

As he kneels there, leaning back, sitting on his heels, blinking vulnerably up at you, waiting for some sort of answer, he doesn't know what he's doing. He can't possibly.

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You don't know what he's doing.

As you stare at him, taking in the soft red mouth that's half-open and the eyes that are bright and so open that it hurts, you don't know what he's doing. Or what to think.

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You don't know what you're doing.

A million things flash through your mind as you lean your head back against the trailer; as you run your shaking hands through his hair, you don't know what you're doing. This was never meant to be that much.

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Almost everything in you screams no; screams  Christine; screams  fidelity; screams  father.

The part that's not screaming whispers yes in a familiar voice, sweet and boyish and heady, and the truth of it latches on to you and doesn't let go.

Agonizingly slowly, feeling something break inside you, you nod - because you can't do anything but.

"I love you too."

And what was breaking shatters at his smile.

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