…and one

"Fuck this shit!"

He got as far as the end of the receiving ramp this time before turning back. The cigarette he had been smoking soon joined the others in the pile made over the last hour and a half of his standing in the back of the Kodak Theatre, too scared to go and petrified not to.

This should happen in a less public place; something intimate, a little more personal. *What? So you can be all alone when he tells you no, when he shouts that he told you all of this 7 years ago on that fucking beach, and the sick hope you've been carrying with you like that goddamn Ring is as false as the happy camper act you put on every damn day of your life!*

No, public was better. He would never shout like that, lose his composure in front of Jack Nicholson and everybody. He had changed, but not that much. It had to be public. But, at the Oscars, for Christ's sake? Well, where else?

*Too much of a wanker to say anything to him at the Isaac premiere. No, you just stood in the shadows, watching him, devouring him, until it got to be too much and you had to rush back to your car and whack off in tears and shame.* Besides, SHE had been there; still standing beside him, still kissing his cheek, still married to him. But, she wasn't anymore, or wouldn't be soon.

That email from a concerned friend had shown him all the nasty details of the break up, and try as he might to be sad that another marriage had bitten the dust, he just couldn't. The tears had come over the pain he must be feeling, but the dance of joy over his freedom, (FINALLY!), had been so loud the upstairs neighbors had called the cops. Or gendarmes, he should say.

Didn't think about what he was doing, didn't pack or even turn off the computer; just grabbed his passport, CD player and what was left of his hope and hailed the first cab he could find to the airport. The idea of the Oscars had come to him while in New York. He had stopped there to say hello to his sister and snatch a much needed nap, (not to mention shove some clothes into a bag), before he was skyward again and headed in the right direction.

It wasn't until he found himself standing in his hotel room with three pairs of dirty jeans, six rumpled t-shirts, one pair of mismatched socks and only the boxers he had on did he stop and think about what he was really doing.

How long had it been? The circus over the anniversary, a little over three years ago. A constant stream of interviews, parties, photo sessions with something or someone always standing between them. *As if the breach created on that beach seven years ago wasn't enough.* He knew then the marriage was over, could tell by the little things: the place of a hand, a turn of the head, and the lack of love in those beautiful eyes. He just knew by watching him, but had been too much of a coward to corner him and say so. Besides, it wasn't his right, wasn't his place to be concerned anymore.

From project to appearance, from rally to cause, he had watched it all, everything he was involved in, from the high profile, (political rallies), to the obscure, (reading "The Hobbit" to inner-city kids). He was a non-stop flurry of motion, working and speaking, constantly moving. Their paths never crossed, though; he had made sure that they wouldn't.

Refused to be that pathetic, throwing himself out there just to see it there was the tiniest spark left. No, he had been told to go away, and like the good little boy he was, he did, never looking back, never stopping to put up a fight, never standing his ground and demanding that he be heard.

He had tried to dump that guileless child in the garbage behind some skanky dive in the bowels of what passes for celebrity life. He was a man now, all grown up at 33, a man who only had to snap his fingers and 12 choices were presented to him on a silver platter. A force to be reckoned with, but not when it came to him. The opportunity to have his voice heard had long since past; he had let his last chance flow out with the tide.

The child did not go quietly into the good night, however. He would pop up, squeezing out the mature adult at the most inopportune moments. And when the world grew dark, the walls of yet another hotel room closed in, or keys were left abandoned somewhere, that child's first response was to hit speed dial #1 and wait to hear that comforting voice.

He never allowed it to ring for more than 2 times before hanging up. And the world grew darker, the walls crushed him, and those keys were never found. Once while in Singapore, on a shoot that had gone from bad to worse, and he lay huddled in the corner of his dismal room sick as a dog for 3 days over some bad sushi that he never would have allowed him to eat in the first place, speed dial #1 had rung for 5 times before it was answered. The automated voice very politely told him that number was no longer in service. His last tangible link was gone.

So what makes you think he wants to see you now, dickweed?

The sales lady at the Gucci store had very coyly asked him for his autograph and, by rote, he agreed. Anything to make things go faster. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and suddenly realized the color of the shirt he was wearing. He had bought the maroon thing out of reflex; it was the one color that brought out the blue in his eyes the best, and it was his favorite color. As if that won't be obvious. He angrily changed into the plain white one.

After Singapore, he threw himself into everything and everybody regardless of the consequences or danger. He didn't have a death wish, really. How can you when you were already dead? Flying lessons, shark diving, rally racing, anything that had an edge to it, anything that would pump up his natural self-preservation instinct and leave him panting and tingling with life.

He sought out projects that would allow him to do his own stunts, that were shooting in the remotest of locations. And, so what if his soul still cowered in the corner of that room, desperately afraid and lost. If his body was racked with aches and bruises, he was still alive, right?

Soon even that was not enough proof of his existence. When the thrill of his days stopped following him home, when the nights became one long diatribe of his failure so loud even Jack Daniels couldn't shut it up, his bed became the new battleground against the emptiness.

One flash of those baby blues and he could have anybody he wanted; anybody except the one he had walked away from. Times being what they were, his career as one of the industry's leading men could weather a few hits regardless of whether his playmates had dicks or not, and he enjoyed them with equal abandon. Even the HIV scare didn't slow him down.

The broken nose and cracked jaw he received after calling out someone else's name at the wrong moment finally put an end to his thrill seeking days. In his hospital bed he welcomed back the scared, little boy from the corner, embracing the inevitable: his soul was not his own, and hadn't been since New Zealand.

Finagling a last minute ticket to the show had been easy compared to grabbing a cab. He eventually had to call in another studio favor to have a car sent. Sitting still did not last long, though, especially when he was forcibly told that this was a non-smoking car and his nails had been chewed to beyond recognition. He was let out five blocks from the Theatre. No worries over being recognized haunted him, though. He had perfected the art of blending in, not being seen, over the past 7 years.

His unsuccessful attempt to banish his memory from his heart had taught him to accept his fate. That he had once had true love, but, through his weakness, had allowed it to slip through his fingers. That's when he became a watcher. Publicity shots, video clips, everything he could get his eyes on, he devoured.

For seven years, through the magic of those studio PR machines, he watched his lost love go from second fiddle hobbit, to A-list actor, to Oscar nominated best director.

He had always hated wearing glasses. As if his geeky body frame and stupid grin were not enough; plop glasses on top and you've got the poster child for dorkiness. He NEVER went out in public with them on until he discovered, while recuperating in the hospital, they became his ticket anonymity. Once, when he was in LA for contract negotiations, he slipped on his glasses and went to a speech he was giving about the protection of the state's natural wildlife.

Even from the back row he could see past the concerned citizen veneer to the unhappy man underneath. Arms were aching to hold him, but he knew that possibility was not his. He left the hall vowing not to be that stupid again. In the future he would have to be more careful. In his desperation, he had almost cried out his name.

By the time he arrived at the Kodak, the focus had shifted to inside and the California sun had plastered his shirt to his back. Pushing aside thoughts of the men's room, he found shade out back by the loading docks. A much better solution to his nervousness; the bathroom would be crowded and the last thing he wanted right now was forced small talk.

*Well, I'm here now. What's next? In the press room? By the limos? The after party?* All of those were public, but he so wanted to be there when he won, (and he would win), wanted to be there when all those snide Goonie and hobbit remarks got shoved down those smirking throats as his name was read as the winner. Not as a part of his personal life, no, that had been forfeited 7 years ago. But, as one of the professionals he had touched on his journey to film history. The Theatre, then. He would sneak in during a commercial break and watch him win. Just like the last time.

He had missed his win at the Golden Globes, (filming in London), and the SAG awards, (recovering in the hospital), but he had made it to the DGA ceremony. Had stood right beside PJ in the wings and listened to him ramble on about integrity, honesty and the Teamster's union.

Peter noticed it. He was wearing his goofy child-like grin. It was something about being that close to him again, and for that brief moment the old fire had come back into those hazel eyes and he could almost believe that he would say one more thank you, walk off the stage and run right into his arms.

It passed quickly, though, and he was watching him again from the shadows. He so wanted to see those eyes glow again, another reason to be in the Theatre. They had been too long blank and dull. And if the fire wasn't for him, at least they would be shining.

He had no more excuses; his last cigarette had been smoked and according to the stage door guard, they were on the last commercial break before the director Oscar. It was now or never.

Straightening his tie, slicking back his unruly hair, and popping 3 cinnamon Altoids, he walked around the building and reached the red carpet. No one was expecting to see a celebrity of his caliber this way, so he caught the press crew off guard. After a few off-handed remarks about time zones and his knack for showing up late for everything, he came to the front doors of the Theatre.

He hadn't realized how nauseous with worry he had become until a blast of AC hit him square in the face. Walking across the lobby, he almost ran back outside three times. Something kept him walking across that incredibly thick carpet to the auditorium, made him stand in the back of the house, searching over the sea of overly made-up and under dressed people. He was finally going to walk back onto that beach and stay.

He knew what was coming, could feel the end emanating from his body the moment he was greeted at the door by two flying bundles of girl. The very air reeked of goodbye as dinner was served and he refused to look anywhere but his plate. She had left with the girls immediately, never acknowledging his presence. Turning around from clearing the table, he had noticed the dining room empty and the deck door open.

He was standing down by the water, just staring, shoulders heaving, silent. He wanted to stay put, right there in the house, didn't want to hear what had to be said. But, he couldn't leave his love in such pain. So, he walked down to the surf, each step more difficult then the last. No words were said, only the note, a defeated shake of a head, and his world came crashing down.

He had given up that night had walked back into the house, out to his car and away without a word. He should have said something then, but didn't. And for 7 long, lonely years that little boy had continued to walk away in silence.

He had understood why; he loved the girls, too. Through unsigned birthday cards, notes and gifts he had remained a part of their lives: the absent `uncle' ever watching. It could not have been a fairy tale childhood, living in a house with two people and the lack of love between them so apparent. Perceptive things, those girls. And sneaky. The email received from the oldest had been deleted immediately unanswered. The banishment continued.

Well, it was over now, one way or the other. After several anxious moments, *What if the wanker hadn't shown up?*, his eyes spotted him bouncing nervously in the 5th row. All obstacles had disappeared now. She had walked away this time. He didn't move at first, so much practice at just watching, probably. He secretly wished he had taken the time to come up with something to say, some witty repartee; or maybe something poignant.

He would have even settled for a Tolkien quote at this point. The only one that came to his mind was not even his, but Sam's: "Whether or no…" *How ironic is that?* That was happening to him a lot lately, his inability to form coherent sentences.

3 o'clock in the morning and he was sitting in the front office of his hotel staring at the compose page of Yahoo mail. His own laptop was a continent away, and it had taken a little charm, (those baby blues, remember?), to convince the 40ish desk clerk access to the internet. It had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to just appear in his face without any warning.

He didn't like to be surprised like that; everything, right down to the time he brushed his teeth in the morning, was planned out and scheduled. His impetuous visit might have a negative reaction. He knew this was a last chance here, and he wanted nothing to screw it up. The blank message was making him crazy! *Since when are you at a loss for words?* Never, unless it came to him. Nothing had come to him on that beach, and nothing was coming now.

"Having trouble?"

He nearly jumped out of his chair at the voice.

The desk clerk handed him an unasked for, but greatly appreciated cup of coffee. She stole a glance at the monitor. "Email is so impersonal, don't you think? Oh, I know its convenient and all. Just prefer to look in the other person's eyes when I talk to them, ya know?"

The caffeine helped to calm his nerves and clear his head. "Want to give someone the heads up about my being somewhere. Just don't know how to say it."

"If you're asking my opinion…" Her eyebrows raised, and he nodded his assent. "Then, I'd say, nothing fancy. You're going to be seeing this person later, right? Leave the heavy stuff `til then.. Make it short and sweet. With no mystery. I hate getting messages like that, from folks who think they're being clever. If I want clever, I'll read Jane Austen."

"Short and sweet," he repeated as he turned back to the monitor. "Just the facts."

"And, not that it's any of my business, mind you," she said in a motherly tone, "But, I would suggest something a little less casual in the clothes department. Want to make a good impression, no?"

Looking down, he realized he had been wearing the same t-shirt and jeans for the past two days as he skulked about the hotel waiting for February 23rd to arrive. He smiled his best boyish grin. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

The front desk telephone buzzed and the desk clerk turned to leave the tiny back office. He called his thanks for all her help. "No problem. Anything to help The Ringbearer."

*Like I haven't heard that one before.*

Fishing a crumpled scrap out of his pocket, he typed the address in the top box. He had carried that piece of paper, the corner of a script page torn out, for over a year. A concerned friend had sent it to him, but he had never had the guts to use it. That was until now.

The subject line was easy. "For You." Because everything was.

"Short and sweet," he mumbled as he typed.

*Sean,
See you at the Oscars.
Lij*

He toyed with the idea of using the pet name `Doodle', but didn't want to push it. His diminutive was enough. The little arrow icon hovered over the send box for just a second before one minute flick of his index finger pushed his message out into cyberspace. It was sent and he would be going to the Oscars. Now all he had to do was find something to occupy his time for the next 13 ˝ hours before he confronted both his dream and his nightmare.

The new pants chaffed as he walked down the aisle. *Paid too much for this fucking straight jacket.* And he could feel his nervous perspiration pooling under his arms. His unorthodox entrance garnered a few shocked stares and quite a number of whispered comments. He really didn't give a flying fuck right about now. His eyes were on the head of wavy brown hair in the fifth row.

PJ lumbered on to the stage. *In shoes AND a tie, no less!* Now that he had traveled the long trek, 7 years in the making, down the aisle, he realized he had no where to sit. A silent flurry of activity and he found the seat directly behind him graciously vacated by a tastefully dressed woman clutching an Oscar. He was still bouncing, totally oblivious to the row behind.

Which was a good thing because now that he was here, he found this recent affliction with words had followed him into the Theatre. They would come to him. He desperately wanted to say something, anything. Words of encouragement, praise, love. But, he had zilch. PJ's scripted preamble over, he launched into the nominees.

His name was the first one announced, it starting with `A', and that's when the scared little boy, who had walked off that beach 7 years ago, who had cowered in the corner ever since, rescued him by reaching out to the one person he had been hoping would find him. His hand lay lightly on his shoulder, imbuing his spirit with the balm of cool peace. It was the barest of squeezes in response, but more than enough for him. He need not be afraid anymore.

PJ's announcement was almost missed, so enraptured by their touch. Nevertheless, there he was, being pushed out into the aisle by his brother. Everyone was sheering, applauding, crying around him and he couldn't help himself. The little boy had been set free of his burdens, and before his hard won maturity could tell him otherwise, he jumped on his back, giggling like an idiot. *So unbecoming of a leading man.*

He didn't care. He cared even less when he was crushed against that broad chest. The curious stares of the Oscar audience were ignored when he saw in those hazel eyes, which were indeed shining, by the way, the question he had been waiting to answer. Love? A simple nod.

And everyone else in the entire world could go take a fucking leap off the tallest place they could find on such short notice when warm, never forgotten lips were pressed to his. The kiss was brief; not passionate at all. Yet, it certainly sent a message out across the completely dead, absence of air silent auditorium. He is mine, that's what the kiss said. He is mine.

He would be forced to admit later that he hadn't really been listening to all of that acceptance speech. Too busy watching, you know? He did catch PJ's wink in his direction, though, and the last part he would demand to be repeated to him again and again.

"I'm sorry, the wait is over, it begins here, and I love you, Elijah Jordan Wood."

Read Part 3 of 3