Seize the Day (Sir Ian/Sir Christopher) R
Title: Seize the Day
Author: LadySunrope Pairing: Sir Ian/Sir Christopher
Rating: Light R
Disclaimer: There is no way on this planet this is true.
Author’s note: This was a fic request by someone on lotr -fqf about a year ago. Apologies it took so long!
Summary: Ian reveals to his chosen biographer his one regret.
Thanks to msilverstar for beta.
London, England, September 2027
Elijah takes the box file of papers and carries it into the study. It seemed a good idea to stay in this apartment in London so that he would be surrounded by all things English. He hadn’t realized how damp it would get so close to the Thames, how much he’d miss the sunshine of California and New Zealand. It is a good choice though because this was Ian’s last home and here he can sense his presence amongst the still untouched possessions and almost hear him talking.
Writing Ian’s biography has been hard, not just from an intellectual point of view but because of the memories that thoughts of the dead now bring. Ian was so alive, so full of the need to experience life that, two years after, Elijah isn’t entirely sure he won’t meet him round the corner, reading the Guardian and scoffing at the posturing of the great and the good.
The papers Elijah holds now are those he’s having problems with. Certainly one set in particular. He needs to sit and think. He perches on the edge of the couch and opens a well creased and faded envelope. He’s read the two letters inside many times in recent days.
*****
London, England, March 2025
My dearest Elijah,
I am so very pleased that you’ve agreed to keep hold of my personal memoirs and one day when I have passed on, I hope you will accept my challenge to write my biography. I do feel you have it in you, my dear boy -although not so much a boy now with your family almost grown!
You asked me in your last letter whether I had any regrets. Of course I have, probably too numerous to count and some of them involving you. I do hope I’ve made you blush this time. It suits you. I know, I’m an old tease.
Your eldest son called me that, the last time we met, and I think I quite like that reputation although the stamina is not what it was and teasing is about all I can manage even if I had the chance, which these days seems unlikely. As they say, where there’s life, there’s hope. I have the hope but there’s not much life there. Such is the lot of the ageing man!
Years ago, if you had asked me about regrets, I would have denied I had any. Yet even then, I had one I never spoke of and swore I never would until the recipient of that hope was gone from this world. It has been many years since his death and now I feel I can write about this to you.
It happened after we had filmed Lord of the Rings. I was busy at that time with film after film, and, of course, I didn’t want my theatre work to slide. However, I kept my diary open for those speaking engagements I was quite fond of. Nothing like an adoring audience, and sometimes I found it far easier than theatre. Turn up, say something and get paid. It took me around the world and I met some wonderful people -and some awful types too but then, don’t we all in our profession?
I was in Liverpool, speaking at the Adelphi Hotel and as my relatives lived nearby in Wigan, I resolved to visit them the next day. The Adelphi was a little past its prime but nevertheless I’d always thought of it as a decent hotel and I decided to stay the night. My speaking engagement was done and nothing was more important to me than finding my way through this maze of a hotel to get to my bed.
I walked down the carpeted corridors, passed a set of half open double doors and heard a voice I knew. I stopped, wondered and allowed my curiosity to get the better of me. It was Sir Christopher Lee and he was giving a talk on some worthy film he was making. I stood at the back, much to the chagrin of a pipsqueak of a man who wanted to charge me for the privilege. I ignored him and closed my eyes and listened.
Did I ever tell you about my propensity for voices? The tone of a man’s voice can be the most erotic of things. Viggo had it, you know, well of course you do. Dominic too when he was using that husky ‘come hither’ voice which from what he told me made you laugh at entirely the wrong times. As for Billy, my word, his voice made my toes curl with pleasure. Christopher had the most marvellous voice. The timbre of it reached into my bones, the way he mouthed words, enunciated them like precious jewels -it made me shiver. So, naturally, I stayed.
At the end of the talk, I watched him mingle amongst the audience and shake hands. To be honest, I was quite shaken by the experience of seeing him again. You all made fun of me when I watched Christopher on the Lord of the Rings set. Orlando, in particular, used to say I was indulging in my crush and do you know, I think he was right? The trouble was, I’d convinced myself that this crush was merely a passing fancy and once I left New Zealand it would wither away. I thought it had - until that moment.
I made my way to the bar and I admit I drank more heavily than I was used to. I wasn’t squiffy by any means, just loose and maybe less guarded. When he came into the bar, he spotted me and, I’m pleased to say, seemed gratified at my enthusiastic greeting. I complimented his talk -he always did have a soft spot for hearing his own performances praised and that night was no exception. We found ourselves falling into this mano e mano comparison. Which one of us had acted with the most worthy of actors, which one of us had had the most successful stage runs. It was faintly ridiculous; the two of us preening and parading our craft like some feathered display. Two scrawny eagles pecking at each other.
I was getting fed up of it by then. I had never felt I got to know the real Christopher, because to me, watching him on set, he always seemed to promote that distance between him and lesser mortals. I was suddenly determined to break that barrier, but I had no idea how. I know, I can imagine your disbelief. You’ve always seen me as a man sure of who he was but Christopher had that ability to make me feel like some ingénue. I have no doubt he knew that, but he was a courteous man and would never have admitted it- until, warmed as I was by a couple of decent brandies, I told him. I told him I thought he did it deliberately and enjoyed the effect on others. He didn’t fool me though. I thought it was a defence against becoming too close to a person or that person getting too close to him.
Now, do not misunderstand me, this boldness was not my plan to break that barrier I mentioned. My plan had been to turn on the charm -yes, that charm, the one that enchants your children- and wear him down but there I was, practically insulting the man. His reaction amazed me. He laughed!
He gave out one of those laughs that comes from deep within and he leaned forward and said, “My dear Ian, you are priceless. All this time spent thinking about my character. I’m flattered.”
“Ah,yes,” I countered, “but is it true?”
Can you recall Sir Christopher as Saruman? That hooded look he wore to emphasise the wizard’s aloofness? I swear I saw it then. I was dumbfounded at the change. To say the temperature dropped in that bar was an understatement. He stood up, thanked me for my company and left. Now normally, I wouldn’t have bothered following the man. I would have gone to my room, written a note of apology for whatever offence I had caused, and that would have been that. This time, though, I needed to say it face to face and so I followed him to his room.
I watched him enter, then close the door. I counted to twenty -yes, like some child waiting to play a game and in a way it was, for I’d determined I was going to try to seduce him the moment I got up to follow him. I had had no overt encouragement, but there was a voice inside me that kept telling me I had a chance.
Sometimes I was predatory in my sexual behaviour, Elijah. In fact, most times, now I think about it!
This time, I knocked on the door and he opened it, wearing a robe and a very surprised expression. He asked what I wanted, and I told him I wanted to express my apologies. I remember his reply vividly and the way his mouth curved in amusement.
“And how exactly, are you going to express your apologies?”
I pushed past him, taking the balloon glass from his hand and drinking the brandy from it with a flourish. He laughed, shook his head and poured himself another. My reply wasn’t very original, I’m afraid.
“Any way you’d prefer me to.”
Yes, it’s not the best of lines. Nothing else came to mind. He sat down on one of those ghastly rattan type chairs.
“Then take off your clothes.”
I stood in front of him, eyeing him with what you call my patented ‘don’t fuck with Sir Ian’ looks. I do like that expression, for that’s exactly how I felt. He was toying with me and I don’t accept that from anyone.
I turned to go and he said “That’s right. Go. All talk, your kind.” It was my turn to show my disgust at the words he used. I suspected he had issues but not that he was a bigot.
His reply was not something I expected.
“Yes, your kind. And perhaps, mine too.”
His voice cracked on that last part, and I saw he was afraid. Afraid of what he wanted, needed.
He gulped more brandy.
“I’m too old for this but I want to know. How it is…”
I did as he asked. I took my clothes off for him. I didn’t perform or even try to make it suggestive in any way. I stood before him naked and was delighted to see the admiration in his face.
I was so used to admiring younger men, the ones who sleep with me because I am famous, I’m an actor, I’m an activist, I’m a knight of the realm, I’m Gandalf. Endless reasons. Some have wanted sex. Some have wanted release. I can’t recall one in my later years who has slept with me because they admired my body. Yet here I was, naked, in front of a man who plainly liked what he saw.
I walked up to him and asked him to put his hands on me. I wanted to feel the heat from his fingers. He dropped the brandy glass without a thought. For such a precise man -to be so careless - it thrilled me. He touched my skin, stroked my arse, cupped my genitals as if they were gifts he didn’t deserve. His eyes never left my body. He drank me in.
One of my friends once commented about a failed relationship -‘there was no awe and wonder in bed’- I didn’t know what he meant. That night I did. I was wondrous in Christopher’s eyes. His touch and the moans he made as he did so, told me that. I was so ready I ached, but rather than scare him, I kissed him fiercely and he groaned, pulling me towards him. I didn’t know what he could take. He was older, I had to be gentle but I could show him all things were possible.
I knelt down before him and took him in my hands, stroking him, slow, rhythmic. He seemed surprised how erect he was and when I kissed the tip his eyes widened. Awe and wonder indeed. I took him in my mouth and he arched instinctively. By the time I’d finished he had his hands in my hair and was crying out with pleasure.
I expected some embarrassment but there was none. He seemed shy more than anything, touching my face with his fingers.
“There is something wrong?” I asked gently but he shook his head.
“Nothing wrong. I had such thoughts about this. So many stupid and unreasonable thoughts. I feel ashamed.”
“Don’t be”, I said, “Or I’ll have to make sure you stop thinking so much. It’s very disconcerting.”
He laughed at that and to my complete and utter amazement, proceeded to pull me up, lay me on the bed and see to my needs. I was touched that this man, struggling to make sense of his own feelings, had enough about him to think of mine.
I remember feeling surprise at the pressure of his mouth on me, the way his lips and tongue teased me until I was helpless. His hands on my hips, pressing me down into the bed, burned or so it seemed to me. He paused and asked me to beg for completion. Again, I was stunned. I was so close, so close and he knew and yet still wanted me to submit. This wasn’t something I had a great deal of experience with. It was new and damn, I’ll admit, I was so turned on I begged like never before. His mouth enveloped me and I came so hard I saw stars.
He didn’t stop there. His tongue lapped at my body, tasting me and his groans as he did so with such eagerness reduced me to a mass of sensations I hadn’t had for years. His eagerness to finish me off, the speed at which he began to lose himself -all made me realise that underneath this façade, this repressed human being, was a very passionate man.
We talked then. He told me of the things he had suspected about himself and the difficulties he’d thought he would face. He’d made decisions about his life and now regretted them. I was so moved by his trust in me. We kissed and promised to talk further. We slept in each other’s embrace and the very last thing I remember from Christopher was the quiet ‘thank you’ as he kissed the back of my neck.
I confess I had hopes of this. It seemed to be the start of something. As I say, I wasn’t used to being the younger man. I wasn’t used to my body being appreciated like that. It was new and different and there’s no denying it excited me. It took a while before I slept but in that time, I made plans. I broke my cardinal rule for a first experience. I should have known.
The next morning I woke to find my lover of the night before had gone. Instead, Christopher was fully and impeccably dressed, every inch Sir Christopher, standing looking out of the window with his back to me. I called his name but it made no difference. It was only when I asked him what was wrong did he seem startled enough to answer me.
“What happened last night, I’ve decided must not happen again. I was foolish and fuelled by alcohol. Whatever impression I gave you last night must be viewed in that light. I’m a religious man and under normal circumstances, such behaviour would never have happened.”
This type of reasoning wasn’t unknown to me. I’d heard it before and frankly, any person I’d slept with using those comments would have soon felt the hard edge of some very pointed and well aimed words. This was different. I couldn’t help remembering the previous night. The look of joy on his face, the peace he’d found knowing that what he had dreaded was no longer something to be afraid of. I came up behind him and wrapped my arms round his waist. I asked him to come back to bed. He shook me off and curtly told me to leave.
I dressed hurriedly, mumbled something about getting an early start and left. I felt humiliated and angry that he was giving me this religious nonsense as an excuse instead of dealing with those feelings that had surfaced the night before. He never turned from the window to see me go and all I remember is the way his hands were clasped behind his back, white knuckled with strain.
I never spoke to him again.
I don’t know what more to say. I don’t regret that night at all, even though for a while I felt I’d been dismissed like a cheap whore, an experience that was wholly new, believe me. Yet in time, I came to a more rounded view of the matter. I found pleasure in his arms and I know now I touched him more deeply than I realised at the time. I know this, dear friend, because after his death some years ago, I received this communication from him. The executor of his estate had kept it till his death as instructed.
Ian,
Perhaps now I’m dying, I can say those words I could not say that night in Liverpool.
I was terribly lacking in any graciousness towards you. Forgive me for my lack of courage. What you gave me was precious beyond words. You asked for nothing, yet gave me comfort and a great deal of joy.
We all have our demons. We all have things we will not face or acknowledge. Mine was my refusal to see what I was. My preference for what I ought to be over what I could have been. Not professionally for I have no complaints in that area but personally.
I left it too late but at least, through your kindness, I was allowed a glimpse of what I could have had. Just imagine, dear friend, if I had accepted what I was and then we had met? Just imagine it! We would have had such a time of it. I like to think we would have been glorious.
For that glimpse alone, I thank you and wish you great happiness.
Think of me once in a while and remember me as a friend,
Yours,
Christopher.
He left me the watch he’d been wearing that night. Not my taste. I was about to put it away when I saw what was engraved on it. It had been given to him for his thirtieth birthday as far as I could tell from the date. The inscription said ‘Carpe diem’. Seize the day
Oh Christopher. Even now, the irony of it frustrates me.
I held that watch to me that night, Elijah, and I cried like a baby. Not for his death but for all the things left unsaid between us. The burden that he carried through life, the chances he missed to be true to what he really wanted.
I blamed myself. I should not have left him alone in his room when he ordered me to leave. I should have stayed and battered down his defences. I could have done. For you see, I have neglected up till now to tell you all of the truth.
As I left, later that morning, the clerk at the desk called me and gave me a small folded note. It was from Christopher and it asked me to forgive him and please, to meet him for lunch that day. No more than that, but I knew. He wanted to find out more about himself, more about what could happen between us. I was irritated with him then. Who did he think he was? Cold one minute and asking for a second chance the next? I had plenty of offers from those who appreciated me at the time, rather than hours after they’d had to convince themselves they were not in mortal sin. Oh yes, I was so sure of myself then.
So much so, I paid the clerk £20 so he would say that he had missed me and the note had remained unread. I never heard from Christopher again until that letter from beyond the grave. So, yes I have that regret and the thought that perhaps if only I had tried harder to reach what I knew was there, allowed him to share once more in the joy that two men of like mind can experience, then I too would have known great happiness and a chance for something long lasting. I was too proud, too sure that I was right.
Yes, dearest Christopher, perhaps we would have been glorious.
It is my one regret that I walked away from you.
Should you include this in my biography, Elijah? That, I will leave to you to decide. I include his letter for your records. I have unburdened myself and placed that burden into your capable hands. I feel so much better for it. Call it the privilege of age, or perhaps it’s the capricious nature of an awkward knight of the realm who believes he should share all his woes and follies before he dies. Ha! I can imagine the expression on your face this minute!
Call me, dear boy! It’s been far too long since I heard that accent of yours,
Yours,
Ian.
********
Elijah remembers the day he got that letter. The shock of reading that Ian and Sir Christopher Lee had been love...and then the sadness of Ian’s regret. He shakes his head. Who would have thought?
The raw details don’t shock him at all - Ian’s recollections of his sexual encounters were always more detailed than most and more amusing, especially his diaries. This was different. Heartfelt.
He tries to picture the two of them as a couple but fails. It might never have worked out and he smiles to himself as he imagines the clashes that could have taken place. They both had been stubborn and opinionated men.
As a biographer, he should be pleased Ian has left him this choice but as a friend to one and an acquaintance to the other, he is torn, knowing what this information could do. If he included it, the interest would be intense. Newspapers, TV, radio. His editors would be ecstatic and book sales…
He sits back and stares out of the window, watching the evening pleasure cruises on the river, the sounds of music drifting across.
Sir Ian has no family left alive and Elijah knows that such is his reputation, his popularity even after his death, that no amount of scandal can touch him. Yet Sir Christopher was Establishment through and through. Elijah imagines the shock and distress his relatives will feel especially when the tabloids get their hands on it. Whatever the truth that lies in Ian’s letter, maybe it is truth that needs to be left unsaid.
He winces. As a biographer and as a friend to Ian, who was very open and honest about what he was, Elijah’s making a lousy choice but he can’t see a way out of it unless he hides this letter amongst his own papers, carefully guarded with a legal codicil that states they cannot be touched until the death of the last person on the list he has given to his attorney. That solution seems to be the fairest of all.
He folds the letters carefully and slips them back into the envelope. He gets beer from the fridge and walks out to the balcony. The breeze from the Thames is chilly.
He raises the bottle to the line of lights twinkling on the far side of the river.
“Cheers, to both of you. I hope wherever you are, you found what you wanted.”
Author: LadySunrope Pairing: Sir Ian/Sir Christopher
Rating: Light R
Disclaimer: There is no way on this planet this is true.
Author’s note: This was a fic request by someone on lotr -fqf about a year ago. Apologies it took so long!
Summary: Ian reveals to his chosen biographer his one regret.
Thanks to msilverstar for beta.
London, England, September 2027
Elijah takes the box file of papers and carries it into the study. It seemed a good idea to stay in this apartment in London so that he would be surrounded by all things English. He hadn’t realized how damp it would get so close to the Thames, how much he’d miss the sunshine of California and New Zealand. It is a good choice though because this was Ian’s last home and here he can sense his presence amongst the still untouched possessions and almost hear him talking.
Writing Ian’s biography has been hard, not just from an intellectual point of view but because of the memories that thoughts of the dead now bring. Ian was so alive, so full of the need to experience life that, two years after, Elijah isn’t entirely sure he won’t meet him round the corner, reading the Guardian and scoffing at the posturing of the great and the good.
The papers Elijah holds now are those he’s having problems with. Certainly one set in particular. He needs to sit and think. He perches on the edge of the couch and opens a well creased and faded envelope. He’s read the two letters inside many times in recent days.
*****
London, England, March 2025
My dearest Elijah,
I am so very pleased that you’ve agreed to keep hold of my personal memoirs and one day when I have passed on, I hope you will accept my challenge to write my biography. I do feel you have it in you, my dear boy -although not so much a boy now with your family almost grown!
You asked me in your last letter whether I had any regrets. Of course I have, probably too numerous to count and some of them involving you. I do hope I’ve made you blush this time. It suits you. I know, I’m an old tease.
Your eldest son called me that, the last time we met, and I think I quite like that reputation although the stamina is not what it was and teasing is about all I can manage even if I had the chance, which these days seems unlikely. As they say, where there’s life, there’s hope. I have the hope but there’s not much life there. Such is the lot of the ageing man!
Years ago, if you had asked me about regrets, I would have denied I had any. Yet even then, I had one I never spoke of and swore I never would until the recipient of that hope was gone from this world. It has been many years since his death and now I feel I can write about this to you.
It happened after we had filmed Lord of the Rings. I was busy at that time with film after film, and, of course, I didn’t want my theatre work to slide. However, I kept my diary open for those speaking engagements I was quite fond of. Nothing like an adoring audience, and sometimes I found it far easier than theatre. Turn up, say something and get paid. It took me around the world and I met some wonderful people -and some awful types too but then, don’t we all in our profession?
I was in Liverpool, speaking at the Adelphi Hotel and as my relatives lived nearby in Wigan, I resolved to visit them the next day. The Adelphi was a little past its prime but nevertheless I’d always thought of it as a decent hotel and I decided to stay the night. My speaking engagement was done and nothing was more important to me than finding my way through this maze of a hotel to get to my bed.
I walked down the carpeted corridors, passed a set of half open double doors and heard a voice I knew. I stopped, wondered and allowed my curiosity to get the better of me. It was Sir Christopher Lee and he was giving a talk on some worthy film he was making. I stood at the back, much to the chagrin of a pipsqueak of a man who wanted to charge me for the privilege. I ignored him and closed my eyes and listened.
Did I ever tell you about my propensity for voices? The tone of a man’s voice can be the most erotic of things. Viggo had it, you know, well of course you do. Dominic too when he was using that husky ‘come hither’ voice which from what he told me made you laugh at entirely the wrong times. As for Billy, my word, his voice made my toes curl with pleasure. Christopher had the most marvellous voice. The timbre of it reached into my bones, the way he mouthed words, enunciated them like precious jewels -it made me shiver. So, naturally, I stayed.
At the end of the talk, I watched him mingle amongst the audience and shake hands. To be honest, I was quite shaken by the experience of seeing him again. You all made fun of me when I watched Christopher on the Lord of the Rings set. Orlando, in particular, used to say I was indulging in my crush and do you know, I think he was right? The trouble was, I’d convinced myself that this crush was merely a passing fancy and once I left New Zealand it would wither away. I thought it had - until that moment.
I made my way to the bar and I admit I drank more heavily than I was used to. I wasn’t squiffy by any means, just loose and maybe less guarded. When he came into the bar, he spotted me and, I’m pleased to say, seemed gratified at my enthusiastic greeting. I complimented his talk -he always did have a soft spot for hearing his own performances praised and that night was no exception. We found ourselves falling into this mano e mano comparison. Which one of us had acted with the most worthy of actors, which one of us had had the most successful stage runs. It was faintly ridiculous; the two of us preening and parading our craft like some feathered display. Two scrawny eagles pecking at each other.
I was getting fed up of it by then. I had never felt I got to know the real Christopher, because to me, watching him on set, he always seemed to promote that distance between him and lesser mortals. I was suddenly determined to break that barrier, but I had no idea how. I know, I can imagine your disbelief. You’ve always seen me as a man sure of who he was but Christopher had that ability to make me feel like some ingénue. I have no doubt he knew that, but he was a courteous man and would never have admitted it- until, warmed as I was by a couple of decent brandies, I told him. I told him I thought he did it deliberately and enjoyed the effect on others. He didn’t fool me though. I thought it was a defence against becoming too close to a person or that person getting too close to him.
Now, do not misunderstand me, this boldness was not my plan to break that barrier I mentioned. My plan had been to turn on the charm -yes, that charm, the one that enchants your children- and wear him down but there I was, practically insulting the man. His reaction amazed me. He laughed!
He gave out one of those laughs that comes from deep within and he leaned forward and said, “My dear Ian, you are priceless. All this time spent thinking about my character. I’m flattered.”
“Ah,yes,” I countered, “but is it true?”
Can you recall Sir Christopher as Saruman? That hooded look he wore to emphasise the wizard’s aloofness? I swear I saw it then. I was dumbfounded at the change. To say the temperature dropped in that bar was an understatement. He stood up, thanked me for my company and left. Now normally, I wouldn’t have bothered following the man. I would have gone to my room, written a note of apology for whatever offence I had caused, and that would have been that. This time, though, I needed to say it face to face and so I followed him to his room.
I watched him enter, then close the door. I counted to twenty -yes, like some child waiting to play a game and in a way it was, for I’d determined I was going to try to seduce him the moment I got up to follow him. I had had no overt encouragement, but there was a voice inside me that kept telling me I had a chance.
Sometimes I was predatory in my sexual behaviour, Elijah. In fact, most times, now I think about it!
This time, I knocked on the door and he opened it, wearing a robe and a very surprised expression. He asked what I wanted, and I told him I wanted to express my apologies. I remember his reply vividly and the way his mouth curved in amusement.
“And how exactly, are you going to express your apologies?”
I pushed past him, taking the balloon glass from his hand and drinking the brandy from it with a flourish. He laughed, shook his head and poured himself another. My reply wasn’t very original, I’m afraid.
“Any way you’d prefer me to.”
Yes, it’s not the best of lines. Nothing else came to mind. He sat down on one of those ghastly rattan type chairs.
“Then take off your clothes.”
I stood in front of him, eyeing him with what you call my patented ‘don’t fuck with Sir Ian’ looks. I do like that expression, for that’s exactly how I felt. He was toying with me and I don’t accept that from anyone.
I turned to go and he said “That’s right. Go. All talk, your kind.” It was my turn to show my disgust at the words he used. I suspected he had issues but not that he was a bigot.
His reply was not something I expected.
“Yes, your kind. And perhaps, mine too.”
His voice cracked on that last part, and I saw he was afraid. Afraid of what he wanted, needed.
He gulped more brandy.
“I’m too old for this but I want to know. How it is…”
I did as he asked. I took my clothes off for him. I didn’t perform or even try to make it suggestive in any way. I stood before him naked and was delighted to see the admiration in his face.
I was so used to admiring younger men, the ones who sleep with me because I am famous, I’m an actor, I’m an activist, I’m a knight of the realm, I’m Gandalf. Endless reasons. Some have wanted sex. Some have wanted release. I can’t recall one in my later years who has slept with me because they admired my body. Yet here I was, naked, in front of a man who plainly liked what he saw.
I walked up to him and asked him to put his hands on me. I wanted to feel the heat from his fingers. He dropped the brandy glass without a thought. For such a precise man -to be so careless - it thrilled me. He touched my skin, stroked my arse, cupped my genitals as if they were gifts he didn’t deserve. His eyes never left my body. He drank me in.
One of my friends once commented about a failed relationship -‘there was no awe and wonder in bed’- I didn’t know what he meant. That night I did. I was wondrous in Christopher’s eyes. His touch and the moans he made as he did so, told me that. I was so ready I ached, but rather than scare him, I kissed him fiercely and he groaned, pulling me towards him. I didn’t know what he could take. He was older, I had to be gentle but I could show him all things were possible.
I knelt down before him and took him in my hands, stroking him, slow, rhythmic. He seemed surprised how erect he was and when I kissed the tip his eyes widened. Awe and wonder indeed. I took him in my mouth and he arched instinctively. By the time I’d finished he had his hands in my hair and was crying out with pleasure.
I expected some embarrassment but there was none. He seemed shy more than anything, touching my face with his fingers.
“There is something wrong?” I asked gently but he shook his head.
“Nothing wrong. I had such thoughts about this. So many stupid and unreasonable thoughts. I feel ashamed.”
“Don’t be”, I said, “Or I’ll have to make sure you stop thinking so much. It’s very disconcerting.”
He laughed at that and to my complete and utter amazement, proceeded to pull me up, lay me on the bed and see to my needs. I was touched that this man, struggling to make sense of his own feelings, had enough about him to think of mine.
I remember feeling surprise at the pressure of his mouth on me, the way his lips and tongue teased me until I was helpless. His hands on my hips, pressing me down into the bed, burned or so it seemed to me. He paused and asked me to beg for completion. Again, I was stunned. I was so close, so close and he knew and yet still wanted me to submit. This wasn’t something I had a great deal of experience with. It was new and damn, I’ll admit, I was so turned on I begged like never before. His mouth enveloped me and I came so hard I saw stars.
He didn’t stop there. His tongue lapped at my body, tasting me and his groans as he did so with such eagerness reduced me to a mass of sensations I hadn’t had for years. His eagerness to finish me off, the speed at which he began to lose himself -all made me realise that underneath this façade, this repressed human being, was a very passionate man.
We talked then. He told me of the things he had suspected about himself and the difficulties he’d thought he would face. He’d made decisions about his life and now regretted them. I was so moved by his trust in me. We kissed and promised to talk further. We slept in each other’s embrace and the very last thing I remember from Christopher was the quiet ‘thank you’ as he kissed the back of my neck.
I confess I had hopes of this. It seemed to be the start of something. As I say, I wasn’t used to being the younger man. I wasn’t used to my body being appreciated like that. It was new and different and there’s no denying it excited me. It took a while before I slept but in that time, I made plans. I broke my cardinal rule for a first experience. I should have known.
The next morning I woke to find my lover of the night before had gone. Instead, Christopher was fully and impeccably dressed, every inch Sir Christopher, standing looking out of the window with his back to me. I called his name but it made no difference. It was only when I asked him what was wrong did he seem startled enough to answer me.
“What happened last night, I’ve decided must not happen again. I was foolish and fuelled by alcohol. Whatever impression I gave you last night must be viewed in that light. I’m a religious man and under normal circumstances, such behaviour would never have happened.”
This type of reasoning wasn’t unknown to me. I’d heard it before and frankly, any person I’d slept with using those comments would have soon felt the hard edge of some very pointed and well aimed words. This was different. I couldn’t help remembering the previous night. The look of joy on his face, the peace he’d found knowing that what he had dreaded was no longer something to be afraid of. I came up behind him and wrapped my arms round his waist. I asked him to come back to bed. He shook me off and curtly told me to leave.
I dressed hurriedly, mumbled something about getting an early start and left. I felt humiliated and angry that he was giving me this religious nonsense as an excuse instead of dealing with those feelings that had surfaced the night before. He never turned from the window to see me go and all I remember is the way his hands were clasped behind his back, white knuckled with strain.
I never spoke to him again.
I don’t know what more to say. I don’t regret that night at all, even though for a while I felt I’d been dismissed like a cheap whore, an experience that was wholly new, believe me. Yet in time, I came to a more rounded view of the matter. I found pleasure in his arms and I know now I touched him more deeply than I realised at the time. I know this, dear friend, because after his death some years ago, I received this communication from him. The executor of his estate had kept it till his death as instructed.
Ian,
Perhaps now I’m dying, I can say those words I could not say that night in Liverpool.
I was terribly lacking in any graciousness towards you. Forgive me for my lack of courage. What you gave me was precious beyond words. You asked for nothing, yet gave me comfort and a great deal of joy.
We all have our demons. We all have things we will not face or acknowledge. Mine was my refusal to see what I was. My preference for what I ought to be over what I could have been. Not professionally for I have no complaints in that area but personally.
I left it too late but at least, through your kindness, I was allowed a glimpse of what I could have had. Just imagine, dear friend, if I had accepted what I was and then we had met? Just imagine it! We would have had such a time of it. I like to think we would have been glorious.
For that glimpse alone, I thank you and wish you great happiness.
Think of me once in a while and remember me as a friend,
Yours,
Christopher.
He left me the watch he’d been wearing that night. Not my taste. I was about to put it away when I saw what was engraved on it. It had been given to him for his thirtieth birthday as far as I could tell from the date. The inscription said ‘Carpe diem’. Seize the day
Oh Christopher. Even now, the irony of it frustrates me.
I held that watch to me that night, Elijah, and I cried like a baby. Not for his death but for all the things left unsaid between us. The burden that he carried through life, the chances he missed to be true to what he really wanted.
I blamed myself. I should not have left him alone in his room when he ordered me to leave. I should have stayed and battered down his defences. I could have done. For you see, I have neglected up till now to tell you all of the truth.
As I left, later that morning, the clerk at the desk called me and gave me a small folded note. It was from Christopher and it asked me to forgive him and please, to meet him for lunch that day. No more than that, but I knew. He wanted to find out more about himself, more about what could happen between us. I was irritated with him then. Who did he think he was? Cold one minute and asking for a second chance the next? I had plenty of offers from those who appreciated me at the time, rather than hours after they’d had to convince themselves they were not in mortal sin. Oh yes, I was so sure of myself then.
So much so, I paid the clerk £20 so he would say that he had missed me and the note had remained unread. I never heard from Christopher again until that letter from beyond the grave. So, yes I have that regret and the thought that perhaps if only I had tried harder to reach what I knew was there, allowed him to share once more in the joy that two men of like mind can experience, then I too would have known great happiness and a chance for something long lasting. I was too proud, too sure that I was right.
Yes, dearest Christopher, perhaps we would have been glorious.
It is my one regret that I walked away from you.
Should you include this in my biography, Elijah? That, I will leave to you to decide. I include his letter for your records. I have unburdened myself and placed that burden into your capable hands. I feel so much better for it. Call it the privilege of age, or perhaps it’s the capricious nature of an awkward knight of the realm who believes he should share all his woes and follies before he dies. Ha! I can imagine the expression on your face this minute!
Call me, dear boy! It’s been far too long since I heard that accent of yours,
Yours,
Ian.
********
Elijah remembers the day he got that letter. The shock of reading that Ian and Sir Christopher Lee had been love...and then the sadness of Ian’s regret. He shakes his head. Who would have thought?
The raw details don’t shock him at all - Ian’s recollections of his sexual encounters were always more detailed than most and more amusing, especially his diaries. This was different. Heartfelt.
He tries to picture the two of them as a couple but fails. It might never have worked out and he smiles to himself as he imagines the clashes that could have taken place. They both had been stubborn and opinionated men.
As a biographer, he should be pleased Ian has left him this choice but as a friend to one and an acquaintance to the other, he is torn, knowing what this information could do. If he included it, the interest would be intense. Newspapers, TV, radio. His editors would be ecstatic and book sales…
He sits back and stares out of the window, watching the evening pleasure cruises on the river, the sounds of music drifting across.
Sir Ian has no family left alive and Elijah knows that such is his reputation, his popularity even after his death, that no amount of scandal can touch him. Yet Sir Christopher was Establishment through and through. Elijah imagines the shock and distress his relatives will feel especially when the tabloids get their hands on it. Whatever the truth that lies in Ian’s letter, maybe it is truth that needs to be left unsaid.
He winces. As a biographer and as a friend to Ian, who was very open and honest about what he was, Elijah’s making a lousy choice but he can’t see a way out of it unless he hides this letter amongst his own papers, carefully guarded with a legal codicil that states they cannot be touched until the death of the last person on the list he has given to his attorney. That solution seems to be the fairest of all.
He folds the letters carefully and slips them back into the envelope. He gets beer from the fridge and walks out to the balcony. The breeze from the Thames is chilly.
He raises the bottle to the line of lights twinkling on the far side of the river.
“Cheers, to both of you. I hope wherever you are, you found what you wanted.”