See-saw
Title: See-saw
Author: valerienne
Beta: matildabj
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Disclaimer: Only as real as Shirtgate :)
Warning: Happy. Mostly. I think. Not fluff, but certainly I’d call it happy. For me.
Notes: Written for the Free Verse Challenge. My bit of assigned poetry is below the cut tag. I did some research into when Ellen and Kimmel are filmed, so I hope the timing of things works out. Mea culpa, if I got it wrong. Sorry.
Slip off your sandals. You may need
to unbutton your sleeves, or admit
the weakness that is your art.
Take refuge in the window[.]
“Dom.”
It resonates through his mind, the sound of that name, a round rolling sort of sound that’s cut off by the em at the end. The closing of the lips, the cutting off of breath. It doesn’t really matter anyway, because he can still hear it rolling around in his head, echoing in the empty spaces, like a church when all the people have gone home. Wrong analogy, he thinks weirdly, as the sound bounces off the walls of his skull shooting little sparks of light, of pain, as it goes. It’s fucking funny, really, his thinking anything at all. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t quite help it.
“Dom, you gobshite, if you don’t move, I’m coming in to get you.”
And that makes him smile, the thought of Billy wading through his discarded room, into his discarded bed, tossing unwanted detritus as he goes. He likes the thought of Billy in his bed again, even if it is fully dressed in neat shirt and jeans, it’s still Billy lying next to him, even touching him maybe, and that’s good, isn’t it? And then as Dom becomes more self-aware, enough to realise he’s bloody hung-over, with his head feeling much worse than his half-awake state had previously cared to inform him, he realises he’s gone there again. The forbidden place. The Place That Shall Not Be Named. The bloody-well-leave-it-alone-Monaghan-or-you’ll-get-hurt place. And he turns his realisation into a groan, and cracks open his eyes.
He groans again, more theatrically this time, as a pair of boxers sail towards him from the open door, where Billy is framed by the faint illumination from the hall. Dom likes that he can see Billy’s eyes, all weirdly pale in the dim and blinded light, he likes that he has woken up and they are the first thing he has seen this morning. He likes that, it trickles through his hangover like a tiny dose of paracetamol, but he’s not going there, really he isn’t, he doesn’t go there anymore. They’ve both moved on. They’re mates, that’s it. They’re comfortable with each other. It’s not a problem any more.
::
He’s signing again. Sometimes it comes to him that this is all he does now. Sign one scrawl after another, on t-shirts, on napkins, on photos like now, outside the lot they’re using for Lost this week. He’s glad he doesn’t have any primitive beliefs about the camera stealing his soul, or each signature taking away a little part of him forever. Because that would be stupid, right? Since he’s an actor and everything, and that’s what he does. Except that this time he’s not the only one signing, this time he has Billy with him because Dom’s going to show him round the set, and Billy’s signing as well. Although not on his own photos, because he’s a surprise, is Billy, he’s a surprise to the crowd, and as Dom watches him neatly write his name on pictures of Dom’s face, he finds he feels weird about that too, as though they’re interchangeably Merry and Pippin again, like they used to be. And that inevitably leads his thoughts back to the Bad Place, to thoughts of New Zealand mornings with toast in bed, and scratchy crumbs that Billy used to moan about, and… So he stops and looks at the crowds instead, fluttering hands, and round flesh, and shivering smiles. The girls clustered round Billy look sort of dazed, they look as though they can’t believe their luck, and Dom thinks, he knows exactly how that feels.
They walk on, through the fence, and Dom nods to the security guard - Brett, who has a baby on the way, and has worries that his mild epilepsy might affect his job, but Dom’s not going to tell - and he gets a smile in return. There’s a whispered invite to the poker game on Friday night, which Dom has to shrug and turn down, as he waggles his eyebrows in Billy’s direction and mentions the interviews, and Brett looks professional and understanding for a moment, then says that it’s fine, and that Mr Boyd can visit anytime, he’s on the List, Brett’s made sure of that. Dom laughs and throws up his hands in mock awe, stretching his eyes wide, and the professional mask drops a bit as Brett starts giggling like a child. Billy looks thoughtful, as Brett lets them go with one last hand clasping Dom’s shoulder reassuringly, and it comforts Dom, as always, because Brett’s nice, Brett’s normal, and he likes his wife, who makes lovely chocolate brownies, and he likes to play poker sometimes, when he has time, with the boys.
So they walk on, and Dom finds Billy looking at him, and that’s a bit weird too, the way he’s looking, all intense, so Dom sticks out his tongue, and Billy laughs, and that’s all right then.
::
There’s a holiday atmosphere on set, and Dom has warned Billy about that, last week of filming and all that jazz, but Billy knows the score. There are balloons hanging from the trees, and paper aeroplanes littering the ground, each more colourful and larger than the last. Billy looks a question and Dom answers,
“Competition. Winner gets to pick the next character to get blown up. Only trouble is, we haven’t got any rules, so we don’t know what’ll win. Or who’ll judge them.”
Dom stares with new eyes at the monstrosity made of orange crêpe paper lying at his feet, flapping half-heartedly in the breeze.
He looks up and grins at Billy, “Wait ’til you see mine. Ugly, is not the word. I’ve tried to leave taste completely behind, in the interests of fair play.”
And Billy grins back, and Dom blinks a bit, because the sun is strong today, and he forgot his sunglasses, despite his hangover. But then he sees little Kate past Billy’s shoulder and runs and throws his arms round her, because she’s been off sick this past week, and he’s missed her touch in the make-up chair. She hugs him back and Dom can smell roses as he bends down, and her hair is soft against his cheek. He likes Kate, she’s sweet, and he really likes that she’s a little tiny slip of a girl, and that her surname’s Shorter, although he doesn’t make the joke, because she can have a wicked temper when she’s roused, and she’s heard it a thousand times before. Never fails to give his stupid schoolboy sense of humour a snigger though.
And then Billy wanders over and Dom introduces him, and watches Kate’s smile go nearly as dazed as the fans on the gate, as Billy makes some kind of quip, and shakes her hand, and Dom remembers that Billy’s always had a way about him, even in New Zealand. Then there’s a pain in his chest as Billy cocks his head slightly as he listens to Kate, as though there’s no-one else in the world but her, and Dom remembers that look in Billy’s eyes so well, except he wasn’t chatting up some girl then, was he? But Dom puts that memory away in the Bad Place too - the place where he’s not going, remember? - and coughs a bit, to loosen his chest, where a bit of sand from the beach has crept in, and given him an ache.
They carry on then, and Dom gives Billy the tour, because he hasn’t seen this set before, and it’s smaller than the last one, but even though they don’t have all the plane pieces any more, it still feels wider and emptier than it used to do, Dom thinks.
::
“And then, Dom’s crawling around on the ground, and he doesn’t even notice that he’s reached Maggie - and of course, she’s wearing one of those itty-bitty Shannon skirts isn’t she? - and poor Mags doesn’t know what Dom’s doing, she thinks he’s checking her out, like it’s some insane Brit mating ritual or something, and she doesn’t know whether she should be flattered, or tell him she’s taken, or what…”
And Josh’s voice is all high-pitched and excitable, and Foxy’s laughing so hard that there’s drink coming from his nose, and Dom’s vibrating in the chair. He doesn’t know if it’s embarrassment or happiness, but he knows he loves these guys, and he knows what’s coming in the story, and he’s smiling because it’s a nice feeling to have stories like these to tell, after all these months together.
“And then Maggie looks down, and what does she see? A bug! A massively creepy-crawly bug, and it’s run over her shoe, and Dom’s trying to catch it, isn’t he? He hasn’t even noticed Mags and her itty-bitty skirt, and what happens? Well, Maggie screams, doesn’t she? And then Dom looks up, all startled, and he gets a very pretty eyeful - isn’t that right? - and that’s when Mags slaps him, and she swears blind that she didn’t mean to, but in the heat of the moment, you know…?”
And Foxy reaches over the sofa and pulls Dom into a big one-armed hug, and then ruffles his hair with his other hand. Dom falls into Foxy, all loose-limbed from alcohol and sun, collapsing bonelessly, smelling a hint of musk, and the sharp greasy scent of tequila. He giggles as Foxy rubs his head, and then leans back to hear the last drops of laughter to be wrung from the story. Josh is still talking, his hands waving excitedly, and Billy’s listening, with a tiny little grin on his face.
“So Mags was pretty pissed, but the funniest thing? Do you want to know the funniest thing? She couldn’t decide whether to be madder that Dom’d chased a bug up her legs, or that he hadn’t even noticed her legs in the first place..! Maggie Grace taking second place to a bug! We’ve never let her forget it.”
And Dom ducks his head a little in embarrassment, and thinks, it wasn’t quite like that. But try telling these guys. He’d been trying to get a look at a really cool beetle, and he’s almost sure it had been a species of endangered tiger beetle, but Maggie had scared it away. But there’s been others since, lots of others. Hawaii is chock full of gorgeous insects and, by now, the whole crew knows of his interest. He’s always being called across to look at some specimen or another, it’s fun.
Billy looks over then, and catches his eye, and Dom can feel his heart thump, as he grins back, from under Foxy’s arm. And Billy’s eyes are as green as the wings of a callophrys rubi. Stupid analogy but Dom doesn’t care. He loves butterflies too, he does, he thinks they’re beautiful.
::
The sun presses down on his body with all the inconsequential knowledge of a lover. It nuzzles into all the cracks and crannies, licking and caressing until Dom lies somnolent under the attention, his mind stuporous with pleasure. He lies on the beach, his wetsuit half peeled from his back, salt drying in little white residues on the neoprene, and on his skin. Through half-slit eyes, he watches Billy as he paddles out, his board held firmly, his head glowing blond and pink, and Dom thinks, sun-cream, Boyd, you idiot. He’ll remind Billy when he comes in from catching this last wave, or the next. He hasn’t needed to remind Billy about such things in a long while, and the knowledge that he can, that Billy needs the reminder, that feels good, in a strange sort of way.
He picks up his foot, and rubs absently at an itch on his ankle, sand falling in little cascades from the arch as he flexes it. He feels the sand scratch at his skin, roughness that almost tickles, and as he moves, he feels the neoprene stretch around him, and his muscles tighten and relax. He aches a bit, but he’s hit some big ones today, and the satisfaction stretches in him like toffee, thick and sweet, as he remembers. Dom shuts his eyes, and lets the sun pour down, his vision red and bright behind his eyelids, and thinks, this is like meditating. This peace, this warmth. And it occurs to him that he is happy. Almost completely happy. And that’s something so rare he smiles up blindly into the sun, and lets the blood warm under his skin.
It is minutes later, or it could even be hours, when Dom feels a shadow on his legs, the cool of it a refreshing contrast after his basking, and he blinks up through his happiness at Bills, back from his wave. Dom is so glad Billy is here, his best mate, so glad they’ve got past all their issues in the end, into this perfection, into this perfect holiday, that he lets the happiness spill out, lets it roll out into his smile. He wants Billy to feel it too.
And when Billy lifts a hand to shield his eyes, Dom thinks he understands. They’re so lucky. They’ve always been so bloody lucky. And he’s grateful for that, always.
::
“Parrot sketch?”
“Nope. Too obvious.”
“Mr Creosote?”
“Too disgusting.”
“Yeah, but you love disgusting, Bill.”
“Not as much as you do, you wanker.”
“Spam!”
“Better not say that too loudly on this airline…”
Dom leans over the check-in desk and appeals to the stewardess, “How can anyone not like spam, spam, spam, egg and spam..?”
She laughs nervously, her cheeks flushing, and Dom takes their checked tickets and throws an arm round Billy’s shoulders.
“I don’t think she understood you, Dommie. Wrong country.”
Billy’s voice is low and rich with laughter, and Dom makes a sound redolent of his disgust. At least two other passengers turn round. Billy steers them off towards the passenger lounge as Dom continues,
“How can anyone not like Monty Python - it’s an international bloody language! And I can’t believe I don’t know your favourite sketch, so come on, spill it, Bills.”
“We’ve got a five hour flight to LA ahead of us - surely you’re not giving up that easily…”
Dom throws himself down into one of the uncomfortably hard chairs, and thinks that airports are getting entirely too familiar. But Billy being there makes it comfortable again, it makes him feel complete somehow, and he really wants to know. It’s one of the stupid things they must have talked about at some time or another, but Dom can’t remember it, and that’s just not acceptable. He wants the contentment of knowing this small silly fact, it’s important, it just is. He flicks a glance at Billy and he’s being looked at, in pretend exasperation. It makes him smile. Five hours, he’ll give him five hours…
“Cheese shop.”
“No.”
“Sit on my face…”
::
It’s late, although not that late, but it’s been a long day. Interviews are tiring, but Dom does love them, and Ellen’s nice, professional, it’s a pleasure to be interviewed by her. He likes someone he can spark off, and she’s quick, very quick. Perhaps too quick, and Dom cracks a yawn large enough to split his face. He wonders if he should have smiled more, laughed even, when she joked about not wanting anything that needs him. Because it’s true, of course it is, but it’s not uncommon, lots of people have barriers, have been hurt enough that it’s scary to let anything else in. He’d come back with a crack about commitment, hadn’t he? Was that enough? Casual enough? Too casual? Then lots of talk about the ladies. Dom rubs a hand up through his hair. He’s over-analysing again.
He opens the door to Billy’s hotel room - which Billy insisted on, even though Dom offered his apartment, although he can sort of see why, and it’s not like he’s lived there properly for months himself either, so he can’t blame Billy really - he opens the door and then the smile on his face falters a bit, as Elijah shouts a cheerful hey from the one armchair.
Lij’s shoes are off and he’s got a drink from the mini-bar; Dom can see the little bottle discarded on the coffee table, together with some free leaflet or other folded up as a makeshift ashtray. Lij looks comfortable and happy, his toes are digging into the carpet like an eager child’s. Dom’s glad to see him, he is, but he wonders why the sight of someone else’s happiness feels like such a weight.
Billy is stretched on the bed, on his stomach, his shirt is riding up a little, to show a thin slice of palely freckled back. He’s got another drink, and he’s smiling at Lij, and his chin is propped on his hand. Dom takes a breath, and lets it out, quickly, reaching for equilibrium, for the peace of the beach. But this is LA, not Hawaii, and equilibrium seems elusive as Lij bounces up and wraps him in a hug. It’s been a while since Dom’s seen Lij either, and he tries to relax into his touch, as he breathes in cloves and the metallic hint of hot LA air.
Lij and Billy want to go out, and Lij enthuses about the new clubs he’s found and this great little sushi bar that they’ve got to try. There’s that show they’ve promised to get to as well, Lij reminds him, while Dom laughs, and nods, and tries to sparkle, but he’s not sure that it’s working. He loves being with both of them and he’s happy to be going out. Of course he is. He can’t help it that he’s tired. He feels off-kilter somehow, out of step, but he won’t let it spoil the fun. He’ll prove that he does want things that need him. He’ll prove that going out with the hobbits is just as fun now as it’s ever been. He’ll prove that they need him too.
::
Billy’s late coming down, and Dom doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t want to go up and hurry him along by shouting obscenities through the bathroom door, like he might have done once. A long time ago. Or just yesterday.
He kicks about in the hotel lobby, and scratches at his eyes. The air-con is making them dry, and they prickle and sting. He should stop, he knows he should, but they are so fucking itchy that it’s impossible. He rubs his nose, remembering the way his skin would redden and irritate when he wore his Lothlórien cloak, remembering the way Billy would whip it off his shoulders as soon as they’d finished each take. His mouth curves in a smile and he kicks a little at the edge of the front desk. The concierge looks up and Dom smiles a bit wider, in apology.
It turns out the concierge is called Francine, and has a kid in high school who really deserves college, but she’s worried they haven’t got enough saved. Dom umms and ahhs in the right places and thinks the kid is lucky to have Francine, and they’ve just had a laugh at Dom’s impression of a New York taxi driver, when there’s the sharp staccato sound of someone crossing the marble floor of the lobby. Dom almost jumps and starts to spin, and his heart is thumping because, well, he was surprised, wasn’t he? That’s all. Surprised. But it doesn’t surprise him to see Billy closer than he expects, that it looks like he has stepped off the carpeted areas deliberately, and Dom wonders how long he’s been there, waiting quietly, as Francine was telling him the best way to make pot roast, and Dom was explaining how in Manchester you boil meat for five hours, the really British way, just to make her laugh.
Then Billy apologises for him, and that makes Francine laugh some more, but all Dom can do is breath through his mouth in little jerky whispers, because Billy has put his hand on the small of his back, just resting it quietly as he talks, and Dom is utterly conscious of the pressure, and the warmth. Because he’s been known to throw an arm around Billy, or grab his chin, or even leap out at him howling like a banshee on occasion, but Billy doesn’t touch Dom. Not any more. It’s just part of the Billy and Dom Are Just Mates school of thought, part of what he shoves into the Bad Place, when he remembers when it was different. He’s used to it. Has been for a long time.
Dom remembers to close his mouth and say goodbye to Francine as they move off, but he’s woozy, and it must be that he’s still drunk from the night before, from Lij’s new club. He needed that hand on his back, obviously. And he doesn’t look at Billy, he counts his heartbeats instead, and he hums, and he rolls his ring around his thumb. Round and round. Round and round, but he doesn’t look at it at all. He knows where it is, he knows that ring as well as his own hand. So he doesn’t need to look, does he?
::
It’s the last interview for a while. The end of this round of publicity for the series finale that’ll be shown soon, and it’s late again. But it would be late, because it’s Jimmy Kimmel Live, at bloody midnight no less; Dom’s done Kimmel before, not disgraced himself, been asked back. He jokes about that with the bloke at the reception desk, who’s almost half familiar, and then stops short, conscious of Billy at his elbow, and thinking of Francine, and the feel of Billy’s hand through the thin cotton of his shirt.
Up to the dressing room, and the make-up girl clicks her tongue and stares at him with narrowed eyes, staring at his chest. It’s late and Dom’s tired. Too little sleep the night before, restless and strange in a familiar bed, and yet not, his apartment too-long unused, odd weekends through shooting notwithstanding. Scratchy eyes and an antihistamine this morning, just in case, and he’d grabbed his black shirt from the top of the pile, and his black jacket, and he’d left to get Billy. He runs a slightly self-conscious hand down his chest as the girl stares.
He’s aware of Billy again, as he fingers the thin material, he’s aware the fragile peace of this holiday is teetering, is falling, but he doesn’t know where it’ll land, and he’s terribly conscious of Billy’s stare as he stands in the frame of the window, out of the way. It won’t do, says the girl, and he flips his attention back to her, confused. Ellen, she says. Didn’t you realise, she says. And Dom remembers. This shirt, black with faint flowers in patterns round the neck, this is what he wore on Ellen, just filmed yesterday, shown today, it would be too soon to wear it again, even if it wasn’t unforgivably rude to the Kimmel show. No wonder the girl is looking distant, is looking disapproving. Dom can feel his ears begin to warm, they always do when he’s embarrassed, and he opens his mouth to apologise but Billy beats him to it.
“It’s all right,” he says, “Dom’s got something else to wear. If you’ll excuse us, he’ll be with you in just a moment.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but her pager goes off and she goes away muttering about coming back in five minutes, and the door clicks shut behind her. The air-con hums unnaturally loudly and Dom wants to rub his eyes again, but he doesn’t dare, he doesn’t dare to even breathe as he watches the door, where the girl has gone. He doesn’t look at Billy.
He hears rustling. Soft susurration of cloth falling to the floor, and he still doesn’t move, he’s numb, disbelieving, his mind blank. He hears footsteps, sharp, precise, each one measured and deliberate. Then there’s a hand on his arm, and Dom jerks, and tips his head a little sideways as Billy moves to face him. He’s taken off his jacket, and the pale hair on his arms glimmers in the frosted sodium light.
Dom starts to say something, some insult, some joke, but Billy holds up his hand and the words die stillborn. He can feel his pulse racing, and he doesn’t know why, not really, he doesn’t let himself know. Billy is so close now, just a step away, and Dom can hear his own shaky breaths echo into the space between them. Then Billy raises his hands and reaches for the top of Dom’s shirt, his wrists lightly brushing the fabric as he slips the button free. Dom stares at the tilted planes of Billy’s face, the concentration writ there, the tiny frown between pale brows. He realises Billy has paused, is hovering over the next button, and Dom moves, his numbness gone in a flooding rush. He lifts his own hands to lie at Billy’s waist, the t-shirt warm from Billy’s skin, and he tucks his fingers in under the waistband of his jeans, the t-shirt fabric folding into little wrinkles that tug and pull the cloth taut across Billy’s chest.
It seems enough, and Billy moves on. Each button sliding precisely through its hole, the shirt falling open as he works, and the insistent press and almost-touch of Billy’s fingers makes Dom swallow hard. He’s cold, no, he’s too hot. The air is too close. Goosebumps flow around his body and under the waistband of his boxers, and he shivers.
Billy finishes his careful work and takes hold of the wings of fabric, holding on as though he needs to cling to something solid. As though the ground is shifting beneath his feet, as though he is fighting through a storm. His back is bent, and it gives Dom his breath back, he can feel his heart beating in his throat like trapped wings, but he can see the pulse in Billy’s neck too as it throbs. He leans forward, so slowly, so carefully, and Billy can pull back, he can turn, or move away, or any one of a dozen things, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t, and Dom leans in until his lips are warm and solid against Billy’s forehead.
He traces the skin there, lightly moving his lips as he tastes salt, and feeling the delicate velvety surface, as thin as vellum, and as fine. He moves on, his lips whispering once more against familiar flesh, against Billy’s closed eyelids, against his cheeks, slow and feather soft. He wants to remember this moment, he wants to treasure it, the beautiful aching surprise of it, the sweetness, and the pain of it. When Billy jerks his head up, Dom is ready for that too. He already knows he has only been gifted these few seconds, and it was more than he has dared to hope for, so he makes to pull away, his apology already in his throat. But instead Billy mashes his mouth to Dom’s, seeking demanding entrance, and Dom can’t deny Billy, has never wanted to deny Billy, and offers himself, delving deep in return, both their tongues easily remembering the dance, plundering at each others mouth as though starved. As we were, Dom thinks, as indeed we were.
They separate at last, with a jerk, as a thunderous-sounding knock on the door indicates that Dom has two minutes, and Dom laughs a little ruefully, a little wryly, as his heart slows. He wonders what is meant to happen next.
Billy looks up at him finally, stretches his shoulders, and stares him right in the eye. There’s a light in his eyes, a manic fey light that makes Dom’s stomach flutter. His grin shows his teeth. Dom feels the swing of the seesaw, as it shifts beneath their feet.
“I couldn’t take it,” Billy says, his voice deeper than usual, broken-sounding, “It was too much in the end. Sorry.”
Billy licks at his teeth, and Dom feels a stab of want spike through him, with a pleasant sort of pain. He watches Billy’s eyes flicker now, butterfly quick, as he looks everywhere but Dom’s face.
“You see them all, Dom, every one. You love them. You love everyone, and they love you back. All of them. That’s your art. That’s you.”
And Dom’s hands are climbing Billy’s sides, feeling his way up the staircase of his ribs, moulding every inch with fingers that have never forgotten their path.
“All of them but me. Fuck. No, that’s not true. Me as well. I know that.”
Billy almost pauses in his tumbling rush of words, so unlike Billy when he’s being serious. So like Billy if he’s arsing around. But this isn’t funny.
“But I don’t want to be an ‘as well’, Dom. Not any more. It’s fucking selfish of me but I don’t.”
And Dom’s hands have reached their goal, as he holds the pads of his fingers across that sweet mouth, and leans in to kiss Billy through them, licking between them and stifling all noise.
Billy’s hands flutter at Dom’s chest, pushing the shirt off and down, and with a rippling motion Dom shrugs it off, leaving his skin bare and tingling. The cool of the air-con brushes across him, brushes across Billy too, and Dom watches him shudder in its wake.
But he’s strong now, he’s certain. There are little bubbles making their way up his spinal column like champagne in a flute. The see-saw has tipped, and the Bad Place has cracked and spilled open like an egg on Easter morning. It’s going to be a great interview, he thinks. The very best. He doesn’t need to worry about wanting things that don’t need him, it seems, any more. How cool is that? But there is just one more thing he does still need, that Billy’s forgotten, that Billy’s let slip, and won’t it be fun to remind him of that some day soon.
He steps back abruptly, and Billy sways, and it’s all Dom can do not to lean in again properly to steady him, to taste him again. To follow his inclination which is to throw Billy down onto the overstuffed sofa behind them and see if he remembers other things as well. Lots of other things. But instead he takes a hold, and Billy realises in time and raises his arms, until with a smooth efficient movement Dom strips Billy too, his chest pale and luminous in the artificial light.
He grins then, as Billy looks dazed; a cheeky grin, he can feel it. It stretches his face until he wants the ache of it to never go away. To never go away.
Instead, quickly, he turns it right-way-round and puts it on. Billy’s t-shirt, that he’ll wear on Kimmel, and it smells of Billy, which is bloody glorious, and it’s his Beatles one, and just how fucking great is that?
And there’s another knock on the door, impatient, demanding, and Dom thinks, you have no idea. Absolutely none at all. And Billy is still standing there, a delicate flush of pink staining his neck, his mouth all open and still wet, as Dom grabs his jacket, and runs a hand through his hair. He gives in to his want then, his need, just for a second, and his tendons all seem pulled taught, as if every fibre in him strains towards Billy, but he only kisses him again, suckling on him, eating him like fruit.
And it’s weird, Dom thinks, as he hangs there. How some certainties click into place as though they’ve never been away, and how strange that is. How amorphous his life has been for so long.
And he whispers in Billy’s ear, as he pulls away, how he feels.
“There’s only you, Bills,” he says. “Only ever you.”
Framed. Central. Omnipresent.
“I’ve missed you,” says Dom.
Author: valerienne
Beta: matildabj
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Disclaimer: Only as real as Shirtgate :)
Warning: Happy. Mostly. I think. Not fluff, but certainly I’d call it happy. For me.
Notes: Written for the Free Verse Challenge. My bit of assigned poetry is below the cut tag. I did some research into when Ellen and Kimmel are filmed, so I hope the timing of things works out. Mea culpa, if I got it wrong. Sorry.
Slip off your sandals. You may need
to unbutton your sleeves, or admit
the weakness that is your art.
Take refuge in the window[.]
“Dom.”
It resonates through his mind, the sound of that name, a round rolling sort of sound that’s cut off by the em at the end. The closing of the lips, the cutting off of breath. It doesn’t really matter anyway, because he can still hear it rolling around in his head, echoing in the empty spaces, like a church when all the people have gone home. Wrong analogy, he thinks weirdly, as the sound bounces off the walls of his skull shooting little sparks of light, of pain, as it goes. It’s fucking funny, really, his thinking anything at all. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t quite help it.
“Dom, you gobshite, if you don’t move, I’m coming in to get you.”
And that makes him smile, the thought of Billy wading through his discarded room, into his discarded bed, tossing unwanted detritus as he goes. He likes the thought of Billy in his bed again, even if it is fully dressed in neat shirt and jeans, it’s still Billy lying next to him, even touching him maybe, and that’s good, isn’t it? And then as Dom becomes more self-aware, enough to realise he’s bloody hung-over, with his head feeling much worse than his half-awake state had previously cared to inform him, he realises he’s gone there again. The forbidden place. The Place That Shall Not Be Named. The bloody-well-leave-it-alone-Monaghan-or-you’ll-get-hurt place. And he turns his realisation into a groan, and cracks open his eyes.
He groans again, more theatrically this time, as a pair of boxers sail towards him from the open door, where Billy is framed by the faint illumination from the hall. Dom likes that he can see Billy’s eyes, all weirdly pale in the dim and blinded light, he likes that he has woken up and they are the first thing he has seen this morning. He likes that, it trickles through his hangover like a tiny dose of paracetamol, but he’s not going there, really he isn’t, he doesn’t go there anymore. They’ve both moved on. They’re mates, that’s it. They’re comfortable with each other. It’s not a problem any more.
::
He’s signing again. Sometimes it comes to him that this is all he does now. Sign one scrawl after another, on t-shirts, on napkins, on photos like now, outside the lot they’re using for Lost this week. He’s glad he doesn’t have any primitive beliefs about the camera stealing his soul, or each signature taking away a little part of him forever. Because that would be stupid, right? Since he’s an actor and everything, and that’s what he does. Except that this time he’s not the only one signing, this time he has Billy with him because Dom’s going to show him round the set, and Billy’s signing as well. Although not on his own photos, because he’s a surprise, is Billy, he’s a surprise to the crowd, and as Dom watches him neatly write his name on pictures of Dom’s face, he finds he feels weird about that too, as though they’re interchangeably Merry and Pippin again, like they used to be. And that inevitably leads his thoughts back to the Bad Place, to thoughts of New Zealand mornings with toast in bed, and scratchy crumbs that Billy used to moan about, and… So he stops and looks at the crowds instead, fluttering hands, and round flesh, and shivering smiles. The girls clustered round Billy look sort of dazed, they look as though they can’t believe their luck, and Dom thinks, he knows exactly how that feels.
They walk on, through the fence, and Dom nods to the security guard - Brett, who has a baby on the way, and has worries that his mild epilepsy might affect his job, but Dom’s not going to tell - and he gets a smile in return. There’s a whispered invite to the poker game on Friday night, which Dom has to shrug and turn down, as he waggles his eyebrows in Billy’s direction and mentions the interviews, and Brett looks professional and understanding for a moment, then says that it’s fine, and that Mr Boyd can visit anytime, he’s on the List, Brett’s made sure of that. Dom laughs and throws up his hands in mock awe, stretching his eyes wide, and the professional mask drops a bit as Brett starts giggling like a child. Billy looks thoughtful, as Brett lets them go with one last hand clasping Dom’s shoulder reassuringly, and it comforts Dom, as always, because Brett’s nice, Brett’s normal, and he likes his wife, who makes lovely chocolate brownies, and he likes to play poker sometimes, when he has time, with the boys.
So they walk on, and Dom finds Billy looking at him, and that’s a bit weird too, the way he’s looking, all intense, so Dom sticks out his tongue, and Billy laughs, and that’s all right then.
::
There’s a holiday atmosphere on set, and Dom has warned Billy about that, last week of filming and all that jazz, but Billy knows the score. There are balloons hanging from the trees, and paper aeroplanes littering the ground, each more colourful and larger than the last. Billy looks a question and Dom answers,
“Competition. Winner gets to pick the next character to get blown up. Only trouble is, we haven’t got any rules, so we don’t know what’ll win. Or who’ll judge them.”
Dom stares with new eyes at the monstrosity made of orange crêpe paper lying at his feet, flapping half-heartedly in the breeze.
He looks up and grins at Billy, “Wait ’til you see mine. Ugly, is not the word. I’ve tried to leave taste completely behind, in the interests of fair play.”
And Billy grins back, and Dom blinks a bit, because the sun is strong today, and he forgot his sunglasses, despite his hangover. But then he sees little Kate past Billy’s shoulder and runs and throws his arms round her, because she’s been off sick this past week, and he’s missed her touch in the make-up chair. She hugs him back and Dom can smell roses as he bends down, and her hair is soft against his cheek. He likes Kate, she’s sweet, and he really likes that she’s a little tiny slip of a girl, and that her surname’s Shorter, although he doesn’t make the joke, because she can have a wicked temper when she’s roused, and she’s heard it a thousand times before. Never fails to give his stupid schoolboy sense of humour a snigger though.
And then Billy wanders over and Dom introduces him, and watches Kate’s smile go nearly as dazed as the fans on the gate, as Billy makes some kind of quip, and shakes her hand, and Dom remembers that Billy’s always had a way about him, even in New Zealand. Then there’s a pain in his chest as Billy cocks his head slightly as he listens to Kate, as though there’s no-one else in the world but her, and Dom remembers that look in Billy’s eyes so well, except he wasn’t chatting up some girl then, was he? But Dom puts that memory away in the Bad Place too - the place where he’s not going, remember? - and coughs a bit, to loosen his chest, where a bit of sand from the beach has crept in, and given him an ache.
They carry on then, and Dom gives Billy the tour, because he hasn’t seen this set before, and it’s smaller than the last one, but even though they don’t have all the plane pieces any more, it still feels wider and emptier than it used to do, Dom thinks.
::
“And then, Dom’s crawling around on the ground, and he doesn’t even notice that he’s reached Maggie - and of course, she’s wearing one of those itty-bitty Shannon skirts isn’t she? - and poor Mags doesn’t know what Dom’s doing, she thinks he’s checking her out, like it’s some insane Brit mating ritual or something, and she doesn’t know whether she should be flattered, or tell him she’s taken, or what…”
And Josh’s voice is all high-pitched and excitable, and Foxy’s laughing so hard that there’s drink coming from his nose, and Dom’s vibrating in the chair. He doesn’t know if it’s embarrassment or happiness, but he knows he loves these guys, and he knows what’s coming in the story, and he’s smiling because it’s a nice feeling to have stories like these to tell, after all these months together.
“And then Maggie looks down, and what does she see? A bug! A massively creepy-crawly bug, and it’s run over her shoe, and Dom’s trying to catch it, isn’t he? He hasn’t even noticed Mags and her itty-bitty skirt, and what happens? Well, Maggie screams, doesn’t she? And then Dom looks up, all startled, and he gets a very pretty eyeful - isn’t that right? - and that’s when Mags slaps him, and she swears blind that she didn’t mean to, but in the heat of the moment, you know…?”
And Foxy reaches over the sofa and pulls Dom into a big one-armed hug, and then ruffles his hair with his other hand. Dom falls into Foxy, all loose-limbed from alcohol and sun, collapsing bonelessly, smelling a hint of musk, and the sharp greasy scent of tequila. He giggles as Foxy rubs his head, and then leans back to hear the last drops of laughter to be wrung from the story. Josh is still talking, his hands waving excitedly, and Billy’s listening, with a tiny little grin on his face.
“So Mags was pretty pissed, but the funniest thing? Do you want to know the funniest thing? She couldn’t decide whether to be madder that Dom’d chased a bug up her legs, or that he hadn’t even noticed her legs in the first place..! Maggie Grace taking second place to a bug! We’ve never let her forget it.”
And Dom ducks his head a little in embarrassment, and thinks, it wasn’t quite like that. But try telling these guys. He’d been trying to get a look at a really cool beetle, and he’s almost sure it had been a species of endangered tiger beetle, but Maggie had scared it away. But there’s been others since, lots of others. Hawaii is chock full of gorgeous insects and, by now, the whole crew knows of his interest. He’s always being called across to look at some specimen or another, it’s fun.
Billy looks over then, and catches his eye, and Dom can feel his heart thump, as he grins back, from under Foxy’s arm. And Billy’s eyes are as green as the wings of a callophrys rubi. Stupid analogy but Dom doesn’t care. He loves butterflies too, he does, he thinks they’re beautiful.
::
The sun presses down on his body with all the inconsequential knowledge of a lover. It nuzzles into all the cracks and crannies, licking and caressing until Dom lies somnolent under the attention, his mind stuporous with pleasure. He lies on the beach, his wetsuit half peeled from his back, salt drying in little white residues on the neoprene, and on his skin. Through half-slit eyes, he watches Billy as he paddles out, his board held firmly, his head glowing blond and pink, and Dom thinks, sun-cream, Boyd, you idiot. He’ll remind Billy when he comes in from catching this last wave, or the next. He hasn’t needed to remind Billy about such things in a long while, and the knowledge that he can, that Billy needs the reminder, that feels good, in a strange sort of way.
He picks up his foot, and rubs absently at an itch on his ankle, sand falling in little cascades from the arch as he flexes it. He feels the sand scratch at his skin, roughness that almost tickles, and as he moves, he feels the neoprene stretch around him, and his muscles tighten and relax. He aches a bit, but he’s hit some big ones today, and the satisfaction stretches in him like toffee, thick and sweet, as he remembers. Dom shuts his eyes, and lets the sun pour down, his vision red and bright behind his eyelids, and thinks, this is like meditating. This peace, this warmth. And it occurs to him that he is happy. Almost completely happy. And that’s something so rare he smiles up blindly into the sun, and lets the blood warm under his skin.
It is minutes later, or it could even be hours, when Dom feels a shadow on his legs, the cool of it a refreshing contrast after his basking, and he blinks up through his happiness at Bills, back from his wave. Dom is so glad Billy is here, his best mate, so glad they’ve got past all their issues in the end, into this perfection, into this perfect holiday, that he lets the happiness spill out, lets it roll out into his smile. He wants Billy to feel it too.
And when Billy lifts a hand to shield his eyes, Dom thinks he understands. They’re so lucky. They’ve always been so bloody lucky. And he’s grateful for that, always.
::
“Parrot sketch?”
“Nope. Too obvious.”
“Mr Creosote?”
“Too disgusting.”
“Yeah, but you love disgusting, Bill.”
“Not as much as you do, you wanker.”
“Spam!”
“Better not say that too loudly on this airline…”
Dom leans over the check-in desk and appeals to the stewardess, “How can anyone not like spam, spam, spam, egg and spam..?”
She laughs nervously, her cheeks flushing, and Dom takes their checked tickets and throws an arm round Billy’s shoulders.
“I don’t think she understood you, Dommie. Wrong country.”
Billy’s voice is low and rich with laughter, and Dom makes a sound redolent of his disgust. At least two other passengers turn round. Billy steers them off towards the passenger lounge as Dom continues,
“How can anyone not like Monty Python - it’s an international bloody language! And I can’t believe I don’t know your favourite sketch, so come on, spill it, Bills.”
“We’ve got a five hour flight to LA ahead of us - surely you’re not giving up that easily…”
Dom throws himself down into one of the uncomfortably hard chairs, and thinks that airports are getting entirely too familiar. But Billy being there makes it comfortable again, it makes him feel complete somehow, and he really wants to know. It’s one of the stupid things they must have talked about at some time or another, but Dom can’t remember it, and that’s just not acceptable. He wants the contentment of knowing this small silly fact, it’s important, it just is. He flicks a glance at Billy and he’s being looked at, in pretend exasperation. It makes him smile. Five hours, he’ll give him five hours…
“Cheese shop.”
“No.”
“Sit on my face…”
::
It’s late, although not that late, but it’s been a long day. Interviews are tiring, but Dom does love them, and Ellen’s nice, professional, it’s a pleasure to be interviewed by her. He likes someone he can spark off, and she’s quick, very quick. Perhaps too quick, and Dom cracks a yawn large enough to split his face. He wonders if he should have smiled more, laughed even, when she joked about not wanting anything that needs him. Because it’s true, of course it is, but it’s not uncommon, lots of people have barriers, have been hurt enough that it’s scary to let anything else in. He’d come back with a crack about commitment, hadn’t he? Was that enough? Casual enough? Too casual? Then lots of talk about the ladies. Dom rubs a hand up through his hair. He’s over-analysing again.
He opens the door to Billy’s hotel room - which Billy insisted on, even though Dom offered his apartment, although he can sort of see why, and it’s not like he’s lived there properly for months himself either, so he can’t blame Billy really - he opens the door and then the smile on his face falters a bit, as Elijah shouts a cheerful hey from the one armchair.
Lij’s shoes are off and he’s got a drink from the mini-bar; Dom can see the little bottle discarded on the coffee table, together with some free leaflet or other folded up as a makeshift ashtray. Lij looks comfortable and happy, his toes are digging into the carpet like an eager child’s. Dom’s glad to see him, he is, but he wonders why the sight of someone else’s happiness feels like such a weight.
Billy is stretched on the bed, on his stomach, his shirt is riding up a little, to show a thin slice of palely freckled back. He’s got another drink, and he’s smiling at Lij, and his chin is propped on his hand. Dom takes a breath, and lets it out, quickly, reaching for equilibrium, for the peace of the beach. But this is LA, not Hawaii, and equilibrium seems elusive as Lij bounces up and wraps him in a hug. It’s been a while since Dom’s seen Lij either, and he tries to relax into his touch, as he breathes in cloves and the metallic hint of hot LA air.
Lij and Billy want to go out, and Lij enthuses about the new clubs he’s found and this great little sushi bar that they’ve got to try. There’s that show they’ve promised to get to as well, Lij reminds him, while Dom laughs, and nods, and tries to sparkle, but he’s not sure that it’s working. He loves being with both of them and he’s happy to be going out. Of course he is. He can’t help it that he’s tired. He feels off-kilter somehow, out of step, but he won’t let it spoil the fun. He’ll prove that he does want things that need him. He’ll prove that going out with the hobbits is just as fun now as it’s ever been. He’ll prove that they need him too.
::
Billy’s late coming down, and Dom doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t want to go up and hurry him along by shouting obscenities through the bathroom door, like he might have done once. A long time ago. Or just yesterday.
He kicks about in the hotel lobby, and scratches at his eyes. The air-con is making them dry, and they prickle and sting. He should stop, he knows he should, but they are so fucking itchy that it’s impossible. He rubs his nose, remembering the way his skin would redden and irritate when he wore his Lothlórien cloak, remembering the way Billy would whip it off his shoulders as soon as they’d finished each take. His mouth curves in a smile and he kicks a little at the edge of the front desk. The concierge looks up and Dom smiles a bit wider, in apology.
It turns out the concierge is called Francine, and has a kid in high school who really deserves college, but she’s worried they haven’t got enough saved. Dom umms and ahhs in the right places and thinks the kid is lucky to have Francine, and they’ve just had a laugh at Dom’s impression of a New York taxi driver, when there’s the sharp staccato sound of someone crossing the marble floor of the lobby. Dom almost jumps and starts to spin, and his heart is thumping because, well, he was surprised, wasn’t he? That’s all. Surprised. But it doesn’t surprise him to see Billy closer than he expects, that it looks like he has stepped off the carpeted areas deliberately, and Dom wonders how long he’s been there, waiting quietly, as Francine was telling him the best way to make pot roast, and Dom was explaining how in Manchester you boil meat for five hours, the really British way, just to make her laugh.
Then Billy apologises for him, and that makes Francine laugh some more, but all Dom can do is breath through his mouth in little jerky whispers, because Billy has put his hand on the small of his back, just resting it quietly as he talks, and Dom is utterly conscious of the pressure, and the warmth. Because he’s been known to throw an arm around Billy, or grab his chin, or even leap out at him howling like a banshee on occasion, but Billy doesn’t touch Dom. Not any more. It’s just part of the Billy and Dom Are Just Mates school of thought, part of what he shoves into the Bad Place, when he remembers when it was different. He’s used to it. Has been for a long time.
Dom remembers to close his mouth and say goodbye to Francine as they move off, but he’s woozy, and it must be that he’s still drunk from the night before, from Lij’s new club. He needed that hand on his back, obviously. And he doesn’t look at Billy, he counts his heartbeats instead, and he hums, and he rolls his ring around his thumb. Round and round. Round and round, but he doesn’t look at it at all. He knows where it is, he knows that ring as well as his own hand. So he doesn’t need to look, does he?
::
It’s the last interview for a while. The end of this round of publicity for the series finale that’ll be shown soon, and it’s late again. But it would be late, because it’s Jimmy Kimmel Live, at bloody midnight no less; Dom’s done Kimmel before, not disgraced himself, been asked back. He jokes about that with the bloke at the reception desk, who’s almost half familiar, and then stops short, conscious of Billy at his elbow, and thinking of Francine, and the feel of Billy’s hand through the thin cotton of his shirt.
Up to the dressing room, and the make-up girl clicks her tongue and stares at him with narrowed eyes, staring at his chest. It’s late and Dom’s tired. Too little sleep the night before, restless and strange in a familiar bed, and yet not, his apartment too-long unused, odd weekends through shooting notwithstanding. Scratchy eyes and an antihistamine this morning, just in case, and he’d grabbed his black shirt from the top of the pile, and his black jacket, and he’d left to get Billy. He runs a slightly self-conscious hand down his chest as the girl stares.
He’s aware of Billy again, as he fingers the thin material, he’s aware the fragile peace of this holiday is teetering, is falling, but he doesn’t know where it’ll land, and he’s terribly conscious of Billy’s stare as he stands in the frame of the window, out of the way. It won’t do, says the girl, and he flips his attention back to her, confused. Ellen, she says. Didn’t you realise, she says. And Dom remembers. This shirt, black with faint flowers in patterns round the neck, this is what he wore on Ellen, just filmed yesterday, shown today, it would be too soon to wear it again, even if it wasn’t unforgivably rude to the Kimmel show. No wonder the girl is looking distant, is looking disapproving. Dom can feel his ears begin to warm, they always do when he’s embarrassed, and he opens his mouth to apologise but Billy beats him to it.
“It’s all right,” he says, “Dom’s got something else to wear. If you’ll excuse us, he’ll be with you in just a moment.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but her pager goes off and she goes away muttering about coming back in five minutes, and the door clicks shut behind her. The air-con hums unnaturally loudly and Dom wants to rub his eyes again, but he doesn’t dare, he doesn’t dare to even breathe as he watches the door, where the girl has gone. He doesn’t look at Billy.
He hears rustling. Soft susurration of cloth falling to the floor, and he still doesn’t move, he’s numb, disbelieving, his mind blank. He hears footsteps, sharp, precise, each one measured and deliberate. Then there’s a hand on his arm, and Dom jerks, and tips his head a little sideways as Billy moves to face him. He’s taken off his jacket, and the pale hair on his arms glimmers in the frosted sodium light.
Dom starts to say something, some insult, some joke, but Billy holds up his hand and the words die stillborn. He can feel his pulse racing, and he doesn’t know why, not really, he doesn’t let himself know. Billy is so close now, just a step away, and Dom can hear his own shaky breaths echo into the space between them. Then Billy raises his hands and reaches for the top of Dom’s shirt, his wrists lightly brushing the fabric as he slips the button free. Dom stares at the tilted planes of Billy’s face, the concentration writ there, the tiny frown between pale brows. He realises Billy has paused, is hovering over the next button, and Dom moves, his numbness gone in a flooding rush. He lifts his own hands to lie at Billy’s waist, the t-shirt warm from Billy’s skin, and he tucks his fingers in under the waistband of his jeans, the t-shirt fabric folding into little wrinkles that tug and pull the cloth taut across Billy’s chest.
It seems enough, and Billy moves on. Each button sliding precisely through its hole, the shirt falling open as he works, and the insistent press and almost-touch of Billy’s fingers makes Dom swallow hard. He’s cold, no, he’s too hot. The air is too close. Goosebumps flow around his body and under the waistband of his boxers, and he shivers.
Billy finishes his careful work and takes hold of the wings of fabric, holding on as though he needs to cling to something solid. As though the ground is shifting beneath his feet, as though he is fighting through a storm. His back is bent, and it gives Dom his breath back, he can feel his heart beating in his throat like trapped wings, but he can see the pulse in Billy’s neck too as it throbs. He leans forward, so slowly, so carefully, and Billy can pull back, he can turn, or move away, or any one of a dozen things, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t, and Dom leans in until his lips are warm and solid against Billy’s forehead.
He traces the skin there, lightly moving his lips as he tastes salt, and feeling the delicate velvety surface, as thin as vellum, and as fine. He moves on, his lips whispering once more against familiar flesh, against Billy’s closed eyelids, against his cheeks, slow and feather soft. He wants to remember this moment, he wants to treasure it, the beautiful aching surprise of it, the sweetness, and the pain of it. When Billy jerks his head up, Dom is ready for that too. He already knows he has only been gifted these few seconds, and it was more than he has dared to hope for, so he makes to pull away, his apology already in his throat. But instead Billy mashes his mouth to Dom’s, seeking demanding entrance, and Dom can’t deny Billy, has never wanted to deny Billy, and offers himself, delving deep in return, both their tongues easily remembering the dance, plundering at each others mouth as though starved. As we were, Dom thinks, as indeed we were.
They separate at last, with a jerk, as a thunderous-sounding knock on the door indicates that Dom has two minutes, and Dom laughs a little ruefully, a little wryly, as his heart slows. He wonders what is meant to happen next.
Billy looks up at him finally, stretches his shoulders, and stares him right in the eye. There’s a light in his eyes, a manic fey light that makes Dom’s stomach flutter. His grin shows his teeth. Dom feels the swing of the seesaw, as it shifts beneath their feet.
“I couldn’t take it,” Billy says, his voice deeper than usual, broken-sounding, “It was too much in the end. Sorry.”
Billy licks at his teeth, and Dom feels a stab of want spike through him, with a pleasant sort of pain. He watches Billy’s eyes flicker now, butterfly quick, as he looks everywhere but Dom’s face.
“You see them all, Dom, every one. You love them. You love everyone, and they love you back. All of them. That’s your art. That’s you.”
And Dom’s hands are climbing Billy’s sides, feeling his way up the staircase of his ribs, moulding every inch with fingers that have never forgotten their path.
“All of them but me. Fuck. No, that’s not true. Me as well. I know that.”
Billy almost pauses in his tumbling rush of words, so unlike Billy when he’s being serious. So like Billy if he’s arsing around. But this isn’t funny.
“But I don’t want to be an ‘as well’, Dom. Not any more. It’s fucking selfish of me but I don’t.”
And Dom’s hands have reached their goal, as he holds the pads of his fingers across that sweet mouth, and leans in to kiss Billy through them, licking between them and stifling all noise.
Billy’s hands flutter at Dom’s chest, pushing the shirt off and down, and with a rippling motion Dom shrugs it off, leaving his skin bare and tingling. The cool of the air-con brushes across him, brushes across Billy too, and Dom watches him shudder in its wake.
But he’s strong now, he’s certain. There are little bubbles making their way up his spinal column like champagne in a flute. The see-saw has tipped, and the Bad Place has cracked and spilled open like an egg on Easter morning. It’s going to be a great interview, he thinks. The very best. He doesn’t need to worry about wanting things that don’t need him, it seems, any more. How cool is that? But there is just one more thing he does still need, that Billy’s forgotten, that Billy’s let slip, and won’t it be fun to remind him of that some day soon.
He steps back abruptly, and Billy sways, and it’s all Dom can do not to lean in again properly to steady him, to taste him again. To follow his inclination which is to throw Billy down onto the overstuffed sofa behind them and see if he remembers other things as well. Lots of other things. But instead he takes a hold, and Billy realises in time and raises his arms, until with a smooth efficient movement Dom strips Billy too, his chest pale and luminous in the artificial light.
He grins then, as Billy looks dazed; a cheeky grin, he can feel it. It stretches his face until he wants the ache of it to never go away. To never go away.
Instead, quickly, he turns it right-way-round and puts it on. Billy’s t-shirt, that he’ll wear on Kimmel, and it smells of Billy, which is bloody glorious, and it’s his Beatles one, and just how fucking great is that?
And there’s another knock on the door, impatient, demanding, and Dom thinks, you have no idea. Absolutely none at all. And Billy is still standing there, a delicate flush of pink staining his neck, his mouth all open and still wet, as Dom grabs his jacket, and runs a hand through his hair. He gives in to his want then, his need, just for a second, and his tendons all seem pulled taught, as if every fibre in him strains towards Billy, but he only kisses him again, suckling on him, eating him like fruit.
And it’s weird, Dom thinks, as he hangs there. How some certainties click into place as though they’ve never been away, and how strange that is. How amorphous his life has been for so long.
And he whispers in Billy’s ear, as he pulls away, how he feels.
“There’s only you, Bills,” he says. “Only ever you.”
Framed. Central. Omnipresent.
“I’ve missed you,” says Dom.