Book 2, Chapter 9: Getting Ready to Leave the Ground
Title: Getting Ready to Leave the Ground
Author: kiltsandlollies
Characters: Billy
Word count: 4739
Summary: An expedition also provides a bit of an escape.
Index
Note: Both Dani and I are under serious work and RL deadlines (and we're going on holiday in a very little while), so we're taking a short hiatus after this chapter. We'll return in June-with the reworked version of what longtime readers will remember as the "Acquiescence" thread-and we hope you will, too. We're very excited about what's coming next, pleased that you're enjoying the story, and thrilled by your feedback. Thank you.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
The first night, Billy had made the strong effort to not make any effort at all, which is to say he’d forced himself not to think, much less to dwell, on the implications of what he and Dominic had discussed-what they’d said and done and felt-high in that copse of trees Billy so loves on the Baskerville campus. And it had worked, too; he’d turned his attention for the most part on marking papers and manuscripts instead of letting his mind wander back to that tree.
The second day had proved his undoing, however. Trapped in an early morning meeting during which the only coffee served had been some vile, rapidly-cooling decaffeinated mess that tasted of syrup and pencil shavings, Billy had only just kept himself quiet and seated by scratching first geometric lines in his notepad, then elaborate plans for his back garden’s shed, a structure that appears to him one day sturdy and handsome, and the next ready to collapse. It’s not the first incidence of architecture mirroring life, Billy thinks as he smirks at his tablet, but at least in this case, he can try to help the structural cause. The arguments of a general academic day swirl around and above his head, but Billy honestly cannot be bothered for once to join in; not even when prompted can he offer more than a few words of resigned agreement to some grant proposal he’d only half-heard.
The morning had not improved afterward. With no classes and no appointments, Billy hadn't felt terribly compelled to work at his desk, and so he’d wandered instead around the campus, avoiding the lure of his beloved trees in favour of proper coffee at the mostly abandoned student union and proper eavesdropping on the steps of the library. What Billy had heard from the two senior members of the administration-too absorbed in conversation to notice Billy’s sharp little inhales behind them-had convinced him further of a rumour’s truth: that Baskerville’s funding for the humanities will be drastically cut over the next two years, and that the new buildings Billy dreads, the buildings that will rise in place of the downed trees he'd pointed out to Dominic months ago now, may indeed become corporate shrines thinly disguised as scientific research facilities. One will even serve as what Billy imagines is the equivalent of a hive, with two hundred students working diligently to further the research and work of one noted physicist, whose offices will reside on the top floor. The basement floor of the current science building had already been vacated, one of the women had noted, and the professors were looking forward to the transition while at the same time showing requisite if not very vocal concern about the disruption it would cause to Baskerville's physical environment.
That news, while upsetting, had not in itself provoked a visible reaction from Billy. But as one of the Assistant Chairs had risen from her perch on one of the wide concrete steps, she’d said something that had made heat rise in Billy’s face and his fingers curl tightly into his palms. Baskerville’s resources for the humanities had always been stretched, she had assured her friend, and the first program to be eliminated would be the foreign language honours program-and with it, the fellowships allotted to students in the program. Billy had walked away from the women before he could hear more, concerned for his own ability to keep quiet under the circumstances, he'd heard enough to leave him in fear for the little funding Dominic receives from Baskerville, and in more, in fear for Dominic's future at the school.
That his immediate concern is for Dominic comes as no surprise to Billy. His thoughts have constantly led back to Dominic by way of one path or another lately, and there are times when Billy has to force himself to focus on his work rather than on the next time he can take a full breath in company he wants to keep. There will be something different about this particular next time, though, Billy tells himself, and he has reason to let anticipation fill his mind along with more than the usual measure of caution he'd almost completely abandoned only a few days before high in one of the few and very fantastic trees not in danger on this campus. Billy's pace quickens as sense memory takes over, recalling back to him everything he and Dominic had done in that tree, and he blinks away the prickling sensation of having felt momentarily trapped in Dominic's hands and not fighting it, of hearing Dominic ask him for something new, something different, something Billy's certain he remembers how to give even though he hasn't had opportunity to do so in years.
Memory alone can't provide Billy with what he needs to follow through on his plans for Dominic on Friday evening, however, and that recognition is what leads him to drive off the campus and in the direction of Baskerville's small rail station. It's still early enough in the morning that Billy feels comfortable bagging the rest of the day and heading for the city and what he knows he'll find there, for Dominic and for himself, too. If his destination were anyplace else, Billy knows he'd sooner remain behind the wheel, but he has no interest in navigating around the city looking for somewhere to park or practically inviting damage to his beloved but already somewhat worn down car. The train's an easy, comfortable alternative, and the moment he settles into his seat Billy’s grateful for the opportunity to let his mind wander without risk to himself or anyone else on the roads.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it-risk. He and Dominic have taken nearly every risk presented to them and came out on the other side for the most part unscathed. Why should the fulfillment of Dominic’s murmured fantasy turn out any different, Billy wonders as the train speeds up on its journey. Why should he waste this time-time he’s granted himself and Dominic to think this through and prepare themselves on several levels-dwelling on the potential damage he might work on what is still a relatively new relationship, instead of allowing himself to revel a little in the potential good?
The answer presents itself as Billy tilts his head to watch the scenery change outside, from the noble buildings and bridges in and around Baskerville to the sudden waves of grey-green grass and tired runs of grey-green houses further out. It’s because this relationship is still new-perhaps too new-that he feels this particular risk might be worth overthinking. It’s one thing to indulge in a fantasy behind one’s eyes, to dream of the soft, curious touch of another suddenly turning hard and sure, but something else entirely to make that fantasy real. Especially-and Billy feels no shame in laughing at himself here, leaning forward in his seat and staring at his hands, at the restless flex of his fingers-when one’s barely acknowledging reality behind closed doors, much less heavier, headier fantasy.
Dominic is not new to these games-this sort of play, as Billy has always categorized it in his mind-and they both know it, and not solely because of Dominic’s admissions up in the tree and elsewhere. What Dominic doesn’t know, and what Billy would have never found reason to share or make evident to him before now, is that neither is Billy. Dominic’s experience is more recent, to be sure, and Billy’s has been different, but it’s experience nonetheless, and Billy closes his eyes for a moment and remembers-with something he can't honestly call pleasure; it's both more and less than a weight one word could hold-the last time he’d been involved in such play. It’s a memory that takes longer to recall than to enjoy, but Billy lets it inform him, lets it unfold and remind and warn and comfort him all at once until he realizes the train is slowing again, and the present becomes a more comfortable place than the past. He's among the last to leave the train, but one of the first to raise his eyes to the sun once outside.
For all that Billy will sometimes loudly proclaim that he dislikes the city, he can’t deny that there are parts of it he loves, too, not least of which is the easy, instant cloak of anonymity that’s thrown over him the moment he merges into the crowds of people making their quickstep, certain rounds with briefcases, shopping bags, and rucksacks. Billy’s no professor here; he’s no one’s friend or colleague worth even a nod from across the street. He’s no one and everyone at once, turning sideways to slip between doorways and slow-moving housewives like a polite ghost and throwing half-smiles over his shoulder in apology when he brushes against tourists or children mad enough to stop short in the middle of the pavement. Everything about Billy quickens a little here, sometimes to the point that upon his return to Baskerville, he feels as if he’s been thrown onto the world’s slowest treadmill, walking through treacle and tar just to get a fucking pint.
He’s not thinking about that now, though; for now he’s thinking of little else but the scratched out shopping list in his pocket and the more considered one in his head. Among its many other charms, the city also affords Billy the chance to make purchases he couldn’t elsewhere, unless and until he finally throws up his hands in resignation and then lowers them back down again to his computer and the wonders of the internet. Billy’s not quite reached that point, however, and some of the things he’s here to find need to be held before they’ve earned Billy’s consideration and cash; some of those things need to be judged and found worthy of the trip and the tests he’ll make of them.
His first stop is the wine shop, an old favourite from the long year Billy spent living in this city, during which he might have been the shop’s most devoted customer, judging from the looks he received from the clerks and the rapid decline in his bank account. None of those clerks can be found this day, though; Billy supposes they’ve long since moved on to jobs that don’t require them to make conversation with researchers walking in the calm between stormy desk-bound benders. After a long search of the walls and shelves, Billy leaves the shop with only one bottle, but it’s a good one, a German red he knows makes his blood run hard and hot over the first half-glass but by the finish leaves him at the sort of simmer he loves. He’s smiling at the thought of its taste when he turns a corner and finds himself at his next destination, and that smile tightens but remains intact as he jogs up four steps and then down another six to push open the old, polished but signless brown door and walk into a world he’s not visited in quite some time.
Two clerks look up from a book they're sharing at the till as Billy makes his way around pretty displays of pretty pieces geared to soothe a casual customer into a sense of safety here, but they don't offer Billy anything other than a quiet greeting he returns with half a smile and a curt nod. He remembers that this is how things work in this shop; the staff is as discreet as the outer decor, helpful when called upon to be so but content to let their clientele find their own way until then, and since he'd been introduced to the shop years ago, Billy's been grateful for that discretion. Left to his own devices, Billy will happily peruse those of others, but he can't help frowning his way past the cheap, quick-release party favours the shop keeps in supply almost solely for hen and stag night parties. Billy's certain he could manage something better than those contraptions with a handful of items from his hall closet and the second drawer on the left of his desk, but while he's looking for something handmade, he’d prefer that the hands in question be someone else’s. He wants something unique, something he can give Dominic in return for the gift of Dominic’s trust and something that Dominic is not likely to expect.
Well beyond the plastic and pleather, Billy finds the first of his intended purchases here. There are four rows of leather wristcuffs, each set a different weight and design, each bearing the mark of a different and clever maker. Billy has his choice of buckles, of straps and weights, of rings and locks and liners, and for a moment he indulges in the fantasy of them all before he reaches for two in particular. The first pair rests heavily in his hands, and Billy works open the two buckles on each cuff slowly before getting the feel of what it would take to do so quickly should he need to. Not that the cuffs are that terribly panic-inducing, he thinks; it's more a matter of his own responsibility for Dominic's safety, tempered with curiosity on his own part. And the cuffs are beautiful, as these things go, Billy decides; they're a deep brown with reddish undertones, the leather rubbed to a good shine but not irritatingly slick, and the two buffed-silver rings on each are sturdy, allowing precious little give at Billy's tug. After a pleased, quiet exhale, Billy turns the cuffs on their backs, opening them carefully but fully to stroke his fingers over the rougher lining. His mind works more quickly than his hands, providing Billy with ideas he'd already half-formed about how to make these cuffs both more and less comfortable, and after a moment Billy returns the cuffs to their case, lifting the box to the shelf beside him and taking up the other pair.
These are softer things, kind enough, Billy supposes, for everyday use or wear and not obvious enough to attract unwanted attention. Beyond their flexibility and ease, they're beautiful, too, in a much different way from the others; the leather's been hand-tooled and conditioned well, and the clasps are thinner and flatter, without locks. Everything about these cuffs speaks of Dominic to Billy's mind, and he pushes away any question of cost when he turns to face the clerk making his way toward Billy, his hands already outstretched for the two boxes. The exchange he shares with Billy is silent but smiling, and Billy nods again in thanks before he returns to the rest of his errand here, wandering to the very back of the store.
There are several instruments of discipline on display; floggers, canes, proper whips and paddles of some variation, from the streamlined sublime to the absolute rounded ridiculous. Billy gives the wall a cursory scan, but finds nothing to persuade him away from what he’d had in mind the moment he’d set foot back on the ground underneath that spreading tree on campus. Dominic’s skin has already felt more than its share of Billy’s touch, but something else is required here, something more refined but also something more detached, something that will deliver the sort of punishment as gift that Dominic wants without allowing Dominic all the pleasure of it. Even a thoroughbred trained to near perfection earns itself the taste of a crop once in a while, and Dominic can’t be any exception.
None of the crops on offer is of the English style, the only kind Billy’s ever handled. He’s not willing to write off the idea, however, and so he determines to make the best of what he can have, and he pulls down three of the most enticing crops from what remains available. He weighs them in his hands, learning the flex and return of each, gauging how quickly the leather warms in his palm and judging the form and art of the handles. It would be inappropriate to choose only the prettiest piece of work here, Billy knows; he wants something beautiful but also up to the task, something that will give him strength even as it draws strength from him as well.
Another sense memory forces its way to the surface of Billy’s skin as he replaces two of the three crops, settling for the one that feels most right. The muscles in his upper arm and behind his right shoulder burn slightly as if to prompt him to test the crop now, but Billy catches his smirking reflection in an off-centered mirror to his left and thinks better of it; even the knowledge that there’s a small space here behind closed doors in which he could have a go or two doesn’t make the idea any more appealing. He’d just as soon take all of these things home and study their give and take there. It’s not as if he expects to fumble or have forgotten the most comfortable turn of wrist or hand, and if he has, well, then, practice will make perfect. Billy’s not quite convinced that perfection's mandatory in this case to begin with; it may not even be any kind of goal.
When Billy turns this time, it’s the other clerk’s eyes he meets, and she advances with an easier smile than the young man had worn earlier. She’s older, though, and Billy imagines she’s seen all sorts come through here and make their purchases. She replaces the crop Billy’s chosen with a new one of the same, opening the box with some brisk ceremony to make sure Billy’s happy with his selection before she takes it to a different till from the one in the front of the store. Billy follows her, already digging out his wallet, and he’s pleased but not very surprised to see that the cuffs have already been wrapped and are waiting as this new till as well.
Looking down the length of the store, Billy can understand why. Near the door stands a group of four friends, quiet bar their nervous laughter and curious murmurs as they point to and pick up the small items on display in front. When Billy looks back at the clerk totting up his own purchases, they share another smile, and Billy’s again grateful that this place exists, for his benefit and for those who are as nervous and curious as the casual shoppers up front. One has to start somewhere, Billy supposes, and as if she’s read his mind, the clerk nods and widens her smile. As he leaves the building, Billy feels none of the shame or shock he’s supposed to bear now; rather, he thinks that the only thing obscene about the entire process had been the amount of money he’d just handed over, but he can live with that.
The last of Billy’s errands is perhaps the most pleasurable of all. He meanders down streets that have changed little since he walked them regularly, and ends his trail at the doors of a coffee shop run and frequented by university students and few others. The population lends the atmosphere a certain warmly scented air of nerves and nicotine, of chitchat and chicory, and Billy’s extremely fond of that heady mix, different somehow from the air back there, back in Baskerville. He checks his watch to reassure himself that he has time for coffee and a cigarette in the back garden before he orders the former from a cheerful young man behind the counter. Another students, and Billy can just about feel the boy sizing him up in between pulls and pours off the noisy machines. Billy imagines himself being measured as unfamiliar around here but not too hard to look at, but when the boy makes proper eye contact, Billy raises his own eyebrows and tilts his head in acknowledgment but not quite enough mutual admiration to encourage anything more. Only a few months ago, Billy would have never noticed the attempt, much less acknowledged it, though if it had been four or five years ago, who’s to say what worse Billy could and likely would have done.
Not with a student, he reminds himself sharply as he leans to light the cigarette outside. He’s copped a table to himself, all the better to wait out these last few minutes before he has to return to the train station and the life he’s carved out in what is supposed to feel like a much quieter place and time, but rarely does. Several inhales into the cigarette, Billy’s laughing again, laughing at the audacity of scolding himself for entertaining such filthy, lovely little thoughts about fucking a student when he’s in truth doing just that, as often and as well as possible in that much quieter place. It takes a special level of disconnect to frown on an idea he’s already made it real, a disconnect Billy can’t even pretend to have anymore but might prove helpful if he can ever get it back.
After another check of his watch, Billy swallows down the rest of his coffee along with his concerns. He has a pleasant enough walk back from here, but a moment’s detour in thought and practice leads him down an alley not far from the station and straight to the door of a tobacconist who greets him more familiarly than anyone else in this city has reason to; this shop is possibly the one place Billy always visits when he makes the trip here. Another-and blessedly smaller-outlay of cash, and Billy continues on his way laden down with another package, this one sweet-smelling and possibly more dangerous than any other he’s made today.
He catches the train in good enough time to cadge a window seat, but as the journey home begins, he’s just irked enough with himself for not buying a book that he reaches for two abandoned newspapers on the shelf above him, reading line after line as if the prose were magnificent and not the usual crap, just to avoid falling into a bored, sleepy trance. Not that he could find real rest anyway; there are enough chattering daytrippers and commuters on mobiles to keep Billy from finding quiet to go with any peace.
Most of the other passengers disembark long before Baskerville, and when the train arrives at his own stop, Billy finds the platform nearly deserted and the area around the station quiet. He's happy enough to be back, and happier still to climb into his car and control the last leg of his daylong journey, but the city still rings in his ears a little in a way that neither thrills nor irritates him. It's just there, and will eventually recede to a hum and then nothing at all. Billy reaches for the car's CD player purely out of instinct, then shuts it off almost before the music's started; he's not ready to let anything else add to the noise in his head just yet. The ride's a short one at this hour in any case, and Billy's on his own street before he has time to be bored again or want the company of David Gilmour's guitar.
Billy's house looks and feels darkened in a way that almost surprises him, but then he reminds himself that in the course of a normal week he would have already been home for a few hours by now, provided he hadn’t stopped at the pub or the bookstore. He leaves the wine in the kitchen, but the rest of his purchases come with him and the mail into the front room and onto the battered couch. It’s some minutes before Billy’s finished scanning the mail and the paper, but he can’t quite engage with any of the material in his hands; he’s made irritable by the first article he tries to read, and not even the lure of air mail stamps and familiar handwriting can persuade him to open the little personal mail he’s received. Billy leans slightly and tosses the pile to his desk, watching the arc of papers and pages in the air and nodding in approval when everything lands as it rightfully should: in a small mess on top of others, as another layer of foundation in a shabby monument to Billy’s distraction, another crumbling altar.
Billy’s too tired to unwrap everything he’s brought home, even just to admire the things, but no so tired that he can’t reach underneath the table in front of his couch and retrieve the box that holds pens, his smoker’s knife, and other odds and ends. Pushing items from one side to another, Billy finds a small penknife and frees it from the mess, dropping the box back to the table before he leans back into the cushions and flicks the knife open and closed distractedly, touching the blade’s curve to his finger, just testing, just thinking. He’ll work on the cuffs over the next few nights, he decides; he wouldn’t dream of trying anything now when his eyes are nearly closing by themselves. The thought of dinner occurs to him, and he considers it briefly before shrugging and leaning back more, pushing the bags to the far end of the couch gently with one foot and stretching out fully, the little knife still in his hands.
Billy turns the tool over and over in his fingers, telling himself again and again that this is Dominic’s fantasy he’s working to make real, not his own, though certainly the thought’s occurred to him more than once, rushing under his skin beginning that night in St. Andrews and surfacing wildly the night he’d attended Barchi’s exhibition. He has to be careful, even more so than cautious, and he has to know what to do if things go horribly wrong, as they could and might do. Billy has no trouble with the kind of responsibility expected of him from day to day at the school and in his more public life, but he’s never been a shining example of personal ethics or kindness behind his own doors, sometimes not even behind those of others. This is different, and he feels it intensely; this is possibly the most important thing he’s done with or to another person since arriving at Baskerville, and has just as much potential to be brilliant as it does to bring a shaky little world down in sharp pieces around his feet.
Pushing out a long, tired exhale, Billy rises from the couch and leaves the knife behind, gathering books and a drink before he pads back to the bedroom. The bed’s been unmade for days now, and Billy falls into his sheets as happily as if they’d been straightened by a legion of household staff. On the very edge of sleep, Billy’s thoughts lead his hand down his chest and stomach idly, and he laughs into the darkness of his room, quite aware that he’s not placed the same demands on himself as he had on Dominic. There’s no denying he likes the idea of Dominic struggling tonight and every night this week, but Billy’s under no such restriction, and if he weren’t so suddenly exhausted, he could easily bring himself off to an energetic, more than appropriate end to this day. Nothing wrong with a leisurely go at it, though, he decides, and it’s an easy few moments’ work to stroke and pull and curve his hand gently, twisting his wrist and letting go of murmur after murmur until he can’t speak any words at all, too caught up again in the slow release of tension. Billy doesn’t need to imagine Dominic restrained in any way to love the thought of him now, and a part of Billy wonders if he ever did. Whatever happens Friday evening, Billy determines that he will not let it change him or the strange, nameless but warm, comfortable, strong and deep way he’s come to feel for Dominic. Surely they’ve earned that if nothing else; surely he can make that happen. Surely he can make this work, and he will.
It’s not long afterward that Billy turns over and surrenders to his own exhaustion. Tomorrow he’ll find reason to curse that school, traffic, and general fate again, but for now he sleeps, dreaming for the first time in a long while of nothing at all.
Author: kiltsandlollies
Characters: Billy
Word count: 4739
Summary: An expedition also provides a bit of an escape.
Index
Note: Both Dani and I are under serious work and RL deadlines (and we're going on holiday in a very little while), so we're taking a short hiatus after this chapter. We'll return in June-with the reworked version of what longtime readers will remember as the "Acquiescence" thread-and we hope you will, too. We're very excited about what's coming next, pleased that you're enjoying the story, and thrilled by your feedback. Thank you.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
The first night, Billy had made the strong effort to not make any effort at all, which is to say he’d forced himself not to think, much less to dwell, on the implications of what he and Dominic had discussed-what they’d said and done and felt-high in that copse of trees Billy so loves on the Baskerville campus. And it had worked, too; he’d turned his attention for the most part on marking papers and manuscripts instead of letting his mind wander back to that tree.
The second day had proved his undoing, however. Trapped in an early morning meeting during which the only coffee served had been some vile, rapidly-cooling decaffeinated mess that tasted of syrup and pencil shavings, Billy had only just kept himself quiet and seated by scratching first geometric lines in his notepad, then elaborate plans for his back garden’s shed, a structure that appears to him one day sturdy and handsome, and the next ready to collapse. It’s not the first incidence of architecture mirroring life, Billy thinks as he smirks at his tablet, but at least in this case, he can try to help the structural cause. The arguments of a general academic day swirl around and above his head, but Billy honestly cannot be bothered for once to join in; not even when prompted can he offer more than a few words of resigned agreement to some grant proposal he’d only half-heard.
The morning had not improved afterward. With no classes and no appointments, Billy hadn't felt terribly compelled to work at his desk, and so he’d wandered instead around the campus, avoiding the lure of his beloved trees in favour of proper coffee at the mostly abandoned student union and proper eavesdropping on the steps of the library. What Billy had heard from the two senior members of the administration-too absorbed in conversation to notice Billy’s sharp little inhales behind them-had convinced him further of a rumour’s truth: that Baskerville’s funding for the humanities will be drastically cut over the next two years, and that the new buildings Billy dreads, the buildings that will rise in place of the downed trees he'd pointed out to Dominic months ago now, may indeed become corporate shrines thinly disguised as scientific research facilities. One will even serve as what Billy imagines is the equivalent of a hive, with two hundred students working diligently to further the research and work of one noted physicist, whose offices will reside on the top floor. The basement floor of the current science building had already been vacated, one of the women had noted, and the professors were looking forward to the transition while at the same time showing requisite if not very vocal concern about the disruption it would cause to Baskerville's physical environment.
That news, while upsetting, had not in itself provoked a visible reaction from Billy. But as one of the Assistant Chairs had risen from her perch on one of the wide concrete steps, she’d said something that had made heat rise in Billy’s face and his fingers curl tightly into his palms. Baskerville’s resources for the humanities had always been stretched, she had assured her friend, and the first program to be eliminated would be the foreign language honours program-and with it, the fellowships allotted to students in the program. Billy had walked away from the women before he could hear more, concerned for his own ability to keep quiet under the circumstances, he'd heard enough to leave him in fear for the little funding Dominic receives from Baskerville, and in more, in fear for Dominic's future at the school.
That his immediate concern is for Dominic comes as no surprise to Billy. His thoughts have constantly led back to Dominic by way of one path or another lately, and there are times when Billy has to force himself to focus on his work rather than on the next time he can take a full breath in company he wants to keep. There will be something different about this particular next time, though, Billy tells himself, and he has reason to let anticipation fill his mind along with more than the usual measure of caution he'd almost completely abandoned only a few days before high in one of the few and very fantastic trees not in danger on this campus. Billy's pace quickens as sense memory takes over, recalling back to him everything he and Dominic had done in that tree, and he blinks away the prickling sensation of having felt momentarily trapped in Dominic's hands and not fighting it, of hearing Dominic ask him for something new, something different, something Billy's certain he remembers how to give even though he hasn't had opportunity to do so in years.
Memory alone can't provide Billy with what he needs to follow through on his plans for Dominic on Friday evening, however, and that recognition is what leads him to drive off the campus and in the direction of Baskerville's small rail station. It's still early enough in the morning that Billy feels comfortable bagging the rest of the day and heading for the city and what he knows he'll find there, for Dominic and for himself, too. If his destination were anyplace else, Billy knows he'd sooner remain behind the wheel, but he has no interest in navigating around the city looking for somewhere to park or practically inviting damage to his beloved but already somewhat worn down car. The train's an easy, comfortable alternative, and the moment he settles into his seat Billy’s grateful for the opportunity to let his mind wander without risk to himself or anyone else on the roads.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it-risk. He and Dominic have taken nearly every risk presented to them and came out on the other side for the most part unscathed. Why should the fulfillment of Dominic’s murmured fantasy turn out any different, Billy wonders as the train speeds up on its journey. Why should he waste this time-time he’s granted himself and Dominic to think this through and prepare themselves on several levels-dwelling on the potential damage he might work on what is still a relatively new relationship, instead of allowing himself to revel a little in the potential good?
The answer presents itself as Billy tilts his head to watch the scenery change outside, from the noble buildings and bridges in and around Baskerville to the sudden waves of grey-green grass and tired runs of grey-green houses further out. It’s because this relationship is still new-perhaps too new-that he feels this particular risk might be worth overthinking. It’s one thing to indulge in a fantasy behind one’s eyes, to dream of the soft, curious touch of another suddenly turning hard and sure, but something else entirely to make that fantasy real. Especially-and Billy feels no shame in laughing at himself here, leaning forward in his seat and staring at his hands, at the restless flex of his fingers-when one’s barely acknowledging reality behind closed doors, much less heavier, headier fantasy.
Dominic is not new to these games-this sort of play, as Billy has always categorized it in his mind-and they both know it, and not solely because of Dominic’s admissions up in the tree and elsewhere. What Dominic doesn’t know, and what Billy would have never found reason to share or make evident to him before now, is that neither is Billy. Dominic’s experience is more recent, to be sure, and Billy’s has been different, but it’s experience nonetheless, and Billy closes his eyes for a moment and remembers-with something he can't honestly call pleasure; it's both more and less than a weight one word could hold-the last time he’d been involved in such play. It’s a memory that takes longer to recall than to enjoy, but Billy lets it inform him, lets it unfold and remind and warn and comfort him all at once until he realizes the train is slowing again, and the present becomes a more comfortable place than the past. He's among the last to leave the train, but one of the first to raise his eyes to the sun once outside.
For all that Billy will sometimes loudly proclaim that he dislikes the city, he can’t deny that there are parts of it he loves, too, not least of which is the easy, instant cloak of anonymity that’s thrown over him the moment he merges into the crowds of people making their quickstep, certain rounds with briefcases, shopping bags, and rucksacks. Billy’s no professor here; he’s no one’s friend or colleague worth even a nod from across the street. He’s no one and everyone at once, turning sideways to slip between doorways and slow-moving housewives like a polite ghost and throwing half-smiles over his shoulder in apology when he brushes against tourists or children mad enough to stop short in the middle of the pavement. Everything about Billy quickens a little here, sometimes to the point that upon his return to Baskerville, he feels as if he’s been thrown onto the world’s slowest treadmill, walking through treacle and tar just to get a fucking pint.
He’s not thinking about that now, though; for now he’s thinking of little else but the scratched out shopping list in his pocket and the more considered one in his head. Among its many other charms, the city also affords Billy the chance to make purchases he couldn’t elsewhere, unless and until he finally throws up his hands in resignation and then lowers them back down again to his computer and the wonders of the internet. Billy’s not quite reached that point, however, and some of the things he’s here to find need to be held before they’ve earned Billy’s consideration and cash; some of those things need to be judged and found worthy of the trip and the tests he’ll make of them.
His first stop is the wine shop, an old favourite from the long year Billy spent living in this city, during which he might have been the shop’s most devoted customer, judging from the looks he received from the clerks and the rapid decline in his bank account. None of those clerks can be found this day, though; Billy supposes they’ve long since moved on to jobs that don’t require them to make conversation with researchers walking in the calm between stormy desk-bound benders. After a long search of the walls and shelves, Billy leaves the shop with only one bottle, but it’s a good one, a German red he knows makes his blood run hard and hot over the first half-glass but by the finish leaves him at the sort of simmer he loves. He’s smiling at the thought of its taste when he turns a corner and finds himself at his next destination, and that smile tightens but remains intact as he jogs up four steps and then down another six to push open the old, polished but signless brown door and walk into a world he’s not visited in quite some time.
Two clerks look up from a book they're sharing at the till as Billy makes his way around pretty displays of pretty pieces geared to soothe a casual customer into a sense of safety here, but they don't offer Billy anything other than a quiet greeting he returns with half a smile and a curt nod. He remembers that this is how things work in this shop; the staff is as discreet as the outer decor, helpful when called upon to be so but content to let their clientele find their own way until then, and since he'd been introduced to the shop years ago, Billy's been grateful for that discretion. Left to his own devices, Billy will happily peruse those of others, but he can't help frowning his way past the cheap, quick-release party favours the shop keeps in supply almost solely for hen and stag night parties. Billy's certain he could manage something better than those contraptions with a handful of items from his hall closet and the second drawer on the left of his desk, but while he's looking for something handmade, he’d prefer that the hands in question be someone else’s. He wants something unique, something he can give Dominic in return for the gift of Dominic’s trust and something that Dominic is not likely to expect.
Well beyond the plastic and pleather, Billy finds the first of his intended purchases here. There are four rows of leather wristcuffs, each set a different weight and design, each bearing the mark of a different and clever maker. Billy has his choice of buckles, of straps and weights, of rings and locks and liners, and for a moment he indulges in the fantasy of them all before he reaches for two in particular. The first pair rests heavily in his hands, and Billy works open the two buckles on each cuff slowly before getting the feel of what it would take to do so quickly should he need to. Not that the cuffs are that terribly panic-inducing, he thinks; it's more a matter of his own responsibility for Dominic's safety, tempered with curiosity on his own part. And the cuffs are beautiful, as these things go, Billy decides; they're a deep brown with reddish undertones, the leather rubbed to a good shine but not irritatingly slick, and the two buffed-silver rings on each are sturdy, allowing precious little give at Billy's tug. After a pleased, quiet exhale, Billy turns the cuffs on their backs, opening them carefully but fully to stroke his fingers over the rougher lining. His mind works more quickly than his hands, providing Billy with ideas he'd already half-formed about how to make these cuffs both more and less comfortable, and after a moment Billy returns the cuffs to their case, lifting the box to the shelf beside him and taking up the other pair.
These are softer things, kind enough, Billy supposes, for everyday use or wear and not obvious enough to attract unwanted attention. Beyond their flexibility and ease, they're beautiful, too, in a much different way from the others; the leather's been hand-tooled and conditioned well, and the clasps are thinner and flatter, without locks. Everything about these cuffs speaks of Dominic to Billy's mind, and he pushes away any question of cost when he turns to face the clerk making his way toward Billy, his hands already outstretched for the two boxes. The exchange he shares with Billy is silent but smiling, and Billy nods again in thanks before he returns to the rest of his errand here, wandering to the very back of the store.
There are several instruments of discipline on display; floggers, canes, proper whips and paddles of some variation, from the streamlined sublime to the absolute rounded ridiculous. Billy gives the wall a cursory scan, but finds nothing to persuade him away from what he’d had in mind the moment he’d set foot back on the ground underneath that spreading tree on campus. Dominic’s skin has already felt more than its share of Billy’s touch, but something else is required here, something more refined but also something more detached, something that will deliver the sort of punishment as gift that Dominic wants without allowing Dominic all the pleasure of it. Even a thoroughbred trained to near perfection earns itself the taste of a crop once in a while, and Dominic can’t be any exception.
None of the crops on offer is of the English style, the only kind Billy’s ever handled. He’s not willing to write off the idea, however, and so he determines to make the best of what he can have, and he pulls down three of the most enticing crops from what remains available. He weighs them in his hands, learning the flex and return of each, gauging how quickly the leather warms in his palm and judging the form and art of the handles. It would be inappropriate to choose only the prettiest piece of work here, Billy knows; he wants something beautiful but also up to the task, something that will give him strength even as it draws strength from him as well.
Another sense memory forces its way to the surface of Billy’s skin as he replaces two of the three crops, settling for the one that feels most right. The muscles in his upper arm and behind his right shoulder burn slightly as if to prompt him to test the crop now, but Billy catches his smirking reflection in an off-centered mirror to his left and thinks better of it; even the knowledge that there’s a small space here behind closed doors in which he could have a go or two doesn’t make the idea any more appealing. He’d just as soon take all of these things home and study their give and take there. It’s not as if he expects to fumble or have forgotten the most comfortable turn of wrist or hand, and if he has, well, then, practice will make perfect. Billy’s not quite convinced that perfection's mandatory in this case to begin with; it may not even be any kind of goal.
When Billy turns this time, it’s the other clerk’s eyes he meets, and she advances with an easier smile than the young man had worn earlier. She’s older, though, and Billy imagines she’s seen all sorts come through here and make their purchases. She replaces the crop Billy’s chosen with a new one of the same, opening the box with some brisk ceremony to make sure Billy’s happy with his selection before she takes it to a different till from the one in the front of the store. Billy follows her, already digging out his wallet, and he’s pleased but not very surprised to see that the cuffs have already been wrapped and are waiting as this new till as well.
Looking down the length of the store, Billy can understand why. Near the door stands a group of four friends, quiet bar their nervous laughter and curious murmurs as they point to and pick up the small items on display in front. When Billy looks back at the clerk totting up his own purchases, they share another smile, and Billy’s again grateful that this place exists, for his benefit and for those who are as nervous and curious as the casual shoppers up front. One has to start somewhere, Billy supposes, and as if she’s read his mind, the clerk nods and widens her smile. As he leaves the building, Billy feels none of the shame or shock he’s supposed to bear now; rather, he thinks that the only thing obscene about the entire process had been the amount of money he’d just handed over, but he can live with that.
The last of Billy’s errands is perhaps the most pleasurable of all. He meanders down streets that have changed little since he walked them regularly, and ends his trail at the doors of a coffee shop run and frequented by university students and few others. The population lends the atmosphere a certain warmly scented air of nerves and nicotine, of chitchat and chicory, and Billy’s extremely fond of that heady mix, different somehow from the air back there, back in Baskerville. He checks his watch to reassure himself that he has time for coffee and a cigarette in the back garden before he orders the former from a cheerful young man behind the counter. Another students, and Billy can just about feel the boy sizing him up in between pulls and pours off the noisy machines. Billy imagines himself being measured as unfamiliar around here but not too hard to look at, but when the boy makes proper eye contact, Billy raises his own eyebrows and tilts his head in acknowledgment but not quite enough mutual admiration to encourage anything more. Only a few months ago, Billy would have never noticed the attempt, much less acknowledged it, though if it had been four or five years ago, who’s to say what worse Billy could and likely would have done.
Not with a student, he reminds himself sharply as he leans to light the cigarette outside. He’s copped a table to himself, all the better to wait out these last few minutes before he has to return to the train station and the life he’s carved out in what is supposed to feel like a much quieter place and time, but rarely does. Several inhales into the cigarette, Billy’s laughing again, laughing at the audacity of scolding himself for entertaining such filthy, lovely little thoughts about fucking a student when he’s in truth doing just that, as often and as well as possible in that much quieter place. It takes a special level of disconnect to frown on an idea he’s already made it real, a disconnect Billy can’t even pretend to have anymore but might prove helpful if he can ever get it back.
After another check of his watch, Billy swallows down the rest of his coffee along with his concerns. He has a pleasant enough walk back from here, but a moment’s detour in thought and practice leads him down an alley not far from the station and straight to the door of a tobacconist who greets him more familiarly than anyone else in this city has reason to; this shop is possibly the one place Billy always visits when he makes the trip here. Another-and blessedly smaller-outlay of cash, and Billy continues on his way laden down with another package, this one sweet-smelling and possibly more dangerous than any other he’s made today.
He catches the train in good enough time to cadge a window seat, but as the journey home begins, he’s just irked enough with himself for not buying a book that he reaches for two abandoned newspapers on the shelf above him, reading line after line as if the prose were magnificent and not the usual crap, just to avoid falling into a bored, sleepy trance. Not that he could find real rest anyway; there are enough chattering daytrippers and commuters on mobiles to keep Billy from finding quiet to go with any peace.
Most of the other passengers disembark long before Baskerville, and when the train arrives at his own stop, Billy finds the platform nearly deserted and the area around the station quiet. He's happy enough to be back, and happier still to climb into his car and control the last leg of his daylong journey, but the city still rings in his ears a little in a way that neither thrills nor irritates him. It's just there, and will eventually recede to a hum and then nothing at all. Billy reaches for the car's CD player purely out of instinct, then shuts it off almost before the music's started; he's not ready to let anything else add to the noise in his head just yet. The ride's a short one at this hour in any case, and Billy's on his own street before he has time to be bored again or want the company of David Gilmour's guitar.
Billy's house looks and feels darkened in a way that almost surprises him, but then he reminds himself that in the course of a normal week he would have already been home for a few hours by now, provided he hadn’t stopped at the pub or the bookstore. He leaves the wine in the kitchen, but the rest of his purchases come with him and the mail into the front room and onto the battered couch. It’s some minutes before Billy’s finished scanning the mail and the paper, but he can’t quite engage with any of the material in his hands; he’s made irritable by the first article he tries to read, and not even the lure of air mail stamps and familiar handwriting can persuade him to open the little personal mail he’s received. Billy leans slightly and tosses the pile to his desk, watching the arc of papers and pages in the air and nodding in approval when everything lands as it rightfully should: in a small mess on top of others, as another layer of foundation in a shabby monument to Billy’s distraction, another crumbling altar.
Billy’s too tired to unwrap everything he’s brought home, even just to admire the things, but no so tired that he can’t reach underneath the table in front of his couch and retrieve the box that holds pens, his smoker’s knife, and other odds and ends. Pushing items from one side to another, Billy finds a small penknife and frees it from the mess, dropping the box back to the table before he leans back into the cushions and flicks the knife open and closed distractedly, touching the blade’s curve to his finger, just testing, just thinking. He’ll work on the cuffs over the next few nights, he decides; he wouldn’t dream of trying anything now when his eyes are nearly closing by themselves. The thought of dinner occurs to him, and he considers it briefly before shrugging and leaning back more, pushing the bags to the far end of the couch gently with one foot and stretching out fully, the little knife still in his hands.
Billy turns the tool over and over in his fingers, telling himself again and again that this is Dominic’s fantasy he’s working to make real, not his own, though certainly the thought’s occurred to him more than once, rushing under his skin beginning that night in St. Andrews and surfacing wildly the night he’d attended Barchi’s exhibition. He has to be careful, even more so than cautious, and he has to know what to do if things go horribly wrong, as they could and might do. Billy has no trouble with the kind of responsibility expected of him from day to day at the school and in his more public life, but he’s never been a shining example of personal ethics or kindness behind his own doors, sometimes not even behind those of others. This is different, and he feels it intensely; this is possibly the most important thing he’s done with or to another person since arriving at Baskerville, and has just as much potential to be brilliant as it does to bring a shaky little world down in sharp pieces around his feet.
Pushing out a long, tired exhale, Billy rises from the couch and leaves the knife behind, gathering books and a drink before he pads back to the bedroom. The bed’s been unmade for days now, and Billy falls into his sheets as happily as if they’d been straightened by a legion of household staff. On the very edge of sleep, Billy’s thoughts lead his hand down his chest and stomach idly, and he laughs into the darkness of his room, quite aware that he’s not placed the same demands on himself as he had on Dominic. There’s no denying he likes the idea of Dominic struggling tonight and every night this week, but Billy’s under no such restriction, and if he weren’t so suddenly exhausted, he could easily bring himself off to an energetic, more than appropriate end to this day. Nothing wrong with a leisurely go at it, though, he decides, and it’s an easy few moments’ work to stroke and pull and curve his hand gently, twisting his wrist and letting go of murmur after murmur until he can’t speak any words at all, too caught up again in the slow release of tension. Billy doesn’t need to imagine Dominic restrained in any way to love the thought of him now, and a part of Billy wonders if he ever did. Whatever happens Friday evening, Billy determines that he will not let it change him or the strange, nameless but warm, comfortable, strong and deep way he’s come to feel for Dominic. Surely they’ve earned that if nothing else; surely he can make that happen. Surely he can make this work, and he will.
It’s not long afterward that Billy turns over and surrenders to his own exhaustion. Tomorrow he’ll find reason to curse that school, traffic, and general fate again, but for now he sleeps, dreaming for the first time in a long while of nothing at all.