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Of the few things Aidan Turner knew as facts, he knew the earth went around the sun, there was no such thing as ghosts, and he was pathetically, irrevocably in love with Dean O’Gorman.
He would of course never admit to that aloud.
The simple boyhood crushes (“boyhood crush”? Aidan was in his late twenties, well beyond the “boyhood” stage) began almost immediately. Unlike Rob, there was an instant connection with Dean, beyond the physical. Yes, Aidan and Rob got along well enough, but Dean and Aidan got along like a house on fire. There was no denying the deep friendship between the two.
“A bromance above bromances, and trust me, I know bromances.” Martin decreed one day to James in the cafeteria.
“No, you know bromances that get taken as the two fucking each other,” Jimmy ribbed with a wink. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling us about you and Cumberbatch, eh?”
Martin distracted himself by watching as Aidan and Dean, dressed as Kili and Fili, came into the cafeteria for a quick bite. Attached at the hip, and always shooting smiles, jokes, and lewd remarks back and forth, they picked up their trays in unison, and drifted among the actors, crew, and extras to a table far removed from everyone where they could sit as close as possible while still maintaining a semblance of boundaries.
~~~
Every night, as Dean slept only a few trailers away, or down the road in his apartment, Aidan thought of Dean. He didn’t have lube slicked over his cock as his hand worked, Dean did. Or it was wet because Dean just pulled off his cock to smile up at him; blue eyes alight with mischief as his slicked fingers teased at the tight muscle of his ass, or pressed a knuckle to his perineum. When Aidan’s stomach muscles bunched, his toes curled, his hand flung out to grasp at the pillows and sheets, and he painted his hand and abdomen, he panted his secret lover’s name.
During the day, it was hard to keep the line between on-screen brother and lover. All the small touches, hugs, whispered words; the longing looks, missed by Dean and the rest of the cast. Aidan had to work hard to keep himself on the line of professionalism.
Aidan’s small attentions didn’t go unnoticed on Dean’s end. He waited every day for the small touches, the hugs, the laughs, and seeing Aidan’s face melt into that perfect smile. When Aidan was calling his name to himself, Dean was doing the same: bringing himself to the brink and stopping before he came, thinking it was Aidan’s hand, the brunet above him, his long fingers working deftly. A devilish grin on his face. Dean could picture it, he always pictured things well, the gift of an artist’s mind. And when he came, his body arching taut, Aidan’s name babbled from his lips, disappearing into the night, morning, or afternoon light.
~~~
Being called before the sun came up to sit in a make-up chair, half-awake and being fussed over by people entirely too chipper for their own good this early was not Dean’s idea of fun. But when Aidan crawled into make-up, similarly barely awake, he tracked the movement of the taller man, careful not to make himself obvious. Aidan grinned when he saw Dean in the chair already, clapping his hand on his shoulder amiably, squeezing gently, leaving his fingers to linger longer than necessary. A rough throat clearing from impatient artists snap Aidan back to reality, away from his daydream of what Dean looks like when he sleeps. Does his already tousled hair get even more mussed in sleep? Does he look as beautiful asleep as he does when he’s awake; when all the stress and laugh lines melt and his skin smoothes? They affix his wig, and he feels Dean’s eyes on him, looking at him through the mirror in front of them. He’s half-way to being Fili: the prosthetics to plump out his face are on, as well as the fake nose. His moustache, that ridiculous thing, is being glued down over his lips. Plump lips that would look beautiful if he left them kiss-bruised. Dean arches a single eyebrow in the mirror, catching Aidan’s daydreaming look.
“Wake up dreamer,” Fili tells his little brother.
“I’m wide awake, what about you?” Kili replies with a smirk, glad for the make-up needed to counteract the Epic Red cameras; he’s blushing beneath the layers. “See you on set.” Dean says, mostly transformed into Fili. (He’s missing his costume)
Dean returns the lingering shoulder squeeze before being shooed out so Adam could be transformed into Ori. Aidan bumped fists with Adam, but there are no lingering touches or looks.
~~~
Aidan finds Dean trying to eat his breakfast without eating his moustache. And failing. He’s bitten down on one of the metal caps on the end of Fili’s ‘stache, and he’s looking at it mournfully.
“Good thing wardrobe has a drawer full of these, but make-up might be a little annoyed with me.” He holds the end out for Aidan to look over.
His lips are dangerously close. How easy it would be to close that gap and give him a chaste kiss. Dean’s eyes are saying the same thing: “you’re my best friend, but I love you more than just friends. Why won’t you kiss me?”
Aidan rolls the bead between his fingers. Dean thinks how easy it would be to lean in and brush his lips against the knuckles. Or to suck a digit into his mouth and show Aidan how much he wants him.
But they’re just friends, right?
Never has a mutual thought been so wrong, and they’re the only ones who can't see it.
Graham’s imposing bulk of Dwalin shocks the boys out of their surprisingly intimate reverie.
“Bite your moustache again, lad?” he asks, dropping into the seat next to Dean.
“Doesn’t look like its dented this time,” Aidan chuckles and drops the end of the moustache. Dean has to catch it before it rips off and falls in his breakfast.
“Toss the health risks; I’ll deal with a raw upper lip if it means they can keep this thing on my face.” Dean grouses.
“You know, I’m sure Peter could get the digital artists to just Photoshop the damn thing on when we finish filming.” Aidan suggests less than helpfully, taking his own seat on the opposite side of Dean.
Dean wonders if he could clandestinely brush his knee against Aidan’s and it could be called friendly or “just stretching my legs.”
They still have a long way to go with the shoot. If Dean blows it, the tension between them might make filming unbearable. Dean was not going to lose this opportunity, so he kept his knees and hands to himself.
~~~
Aidan is lost to his own world, headphones plugged in beneath the wig, draped on the sofa, waiting for his call to set. Stephen is already on set, so Aidan hasn’t turned on the Xbox. Dean pushes the door to Aidan’s trailer open and his caught breathless. He stands in the doorway, watching as Aidan drums on his thighs, draped across the sofa, one foot on the floor, one leg draped across the back of the sofa, Kili’s boot kicking the air in time with his music. Aidan is in his own world, eyes closed, face turned up, dark hair of the wig spilling over the edge, a brunet waterfall. His mobile sits on his chest, rising and falling with his even breaths. Damnit that man is gorgeous. Dean wants to rush to him, to slot himself in the space left between his legs, press their groins together, lean over him and kiss him breathless. He wants to feel Aidan’s arousal rub against his own. He wants to runs his fingers over the sharp angles of his face. He wants…
He wants…
“Hey, how long have you been there?” Aidan’s dark Dublin accent snaps Dean out of his daydream. He surreptitiously scratches his beard to make sure he was not drooling.
He’s also very thankful for so many layers. Very good at hiding half-hard cocks.
“Not long. You looked completely lost in the music, thought it’d be better not to disturb you.” Dean smiles.
Aidan is pushing himself up into a sitting position.
“Why can’t you come and sit between my legs and kiss me?” Aidan couldn’t keep the thought from his mind.
He watched Dean, dressed as Fili, shift slightly in place. Even under the make-up, the prosthetics, the bulky costume, the thick boots with the lifts, under everything that transformed Dean into Fili, Aidan found the man mesmerizing. He wanted everything Dean could offer. He wanted his arms around him, his lips on his skin, his flesh pressed against his own.
He wanted Dean.
He wanted Aidan.
A few beats of unspoken pining passed, and Dean was dropping onto the sofa next to Aidan with a grin wide enough to deepen his dimples. He bumped Aidan’s shoulder good-naturedly, leaning a little too long to be friendly.
They were halfway through the shoot. He could wait.
They could wait.
~~~
“Dean, can I talk to you,” Aidan said, raiding the refrigerator at Dean’s apartment.
“When have you ever needed to ask?” Dean laughed, but his stomach sank.
“Dean, you’re touching me too much, you need to back off. I don’t like your attention. Please stop.” Dean’s mind shot through the worst possible things that could come out of Aidan’s mouth.
He wasn’t expecting Aidan to step into his personal space.
Did he have personal space when it came to Aidan Turner?
The first kiss was short and chaste. Enough to get his blood flowing, fire chasing his veins and nerves. Aidan’s eyes are watching Dean’s for a reaction. The light of hope begins to flicker and fade as Dean stands in utter shock.
The man he’d been pining over since day one just kissed him. His dreams were coming true, he heard birds singing somewhere (or maybe it was his neighbor with all the finches, lovely old woman if a little batty) and perhaps an angelic chorus.
Aidan stepped back out of Dean’s space, dropping his eyes to his shoes, mumbling something that was swallowed in his accent. The word sounded vaguely like “sorry.”
The second kiss was by far much better. Dean grabbed Aidan’s shoulders and pulled him in, slotting their lips together. Aidan’s arms wrapped around Dean’s shoulders, Dean’s arms around Aidan’s waist and they stayed like that, breaking slightly when they needed to breathe, resting foreheads together.
How long has the other wanted this?
A mutual thought lost to the simple joy of finally being with the one you’ve wanted for months; the one you’ve thought about late at night or during the day; the one for whom you’ve waited and wished and hoped.
Simple joy, simple love.
They fell together into the bed, to the sea of dark sheets, the beer warming on the counter, the condensation pooling on the tile. Like the sweat pooling in the small of Dean’s back as Aidan worked, Dean every bit the mortal god he portrayed on television.
Marked, exhausted, and laughing in the afterglow, they lay together and admitted how long they’ve waited for the other, and how long they would wait.
But now…
Now there was no more waiting.
Aidan was pathetically, irrevocably in love with Dean O’Gorman.
And he slept better knowing that Dean felt the same.