fox_confessor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fox_confessor) wrote2008-04-15 07:36 am
fox_confessor) wrote2008-04-15 07:36 am
Entry tags:
Case of You, 6/7
Title: Case of You, Chapter 6
Author: Dani
Fandom: Lotrips
Pairing: Billy/Dom
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: 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.
Notes: see chapter one two three, four, five
end of July 2000
Billy wakes up alone to the dull bleating of the hotel alarm clock, his head throbbing. The bed is hard, the sheets scratchy. The comforter has a stain of dubious origin but he has it pulled to his chin because he'd forgotten to turn off the air conditioner--can't even remember why he turned it on in the first place--and even now, he only snakes out one hand to beat at the snooze button before rolling over and shoving his head beneath his pillow. He remembers drinks out with the cast, staggering back to his room and ... nothing. It's almost become routine on the South Island shoots, as close to comforting as anything else.
The phone is an old rotary, a museum piece--heavy and black, with a coiled cord that Billy would stretch on his toes as he talked--and he wonders how he managed to dial last night. He imagines he must have called Dominic; it's part of the routine to stumble through a conversation that begins and ends with I miss you. Muscle memory, he supposes, or maybe Dominic had called him. Or maybe they hadn't talked at all. Their conversations since Billy had left have devolved into a kind of dull refrain with Billy philosophizing on all the reasons why they shouldn't be together--how hard it would be, how frequently they'd be apart like this--or to ignore it altogether and just talk, joke, plot and plan. Rolling out of bed, feeling damaged and bruised, Billy supposes he can tell what they talked about last night--Billy pissed and pissy and Dom bearing it all without a word beyond what he could say to let Billy know he wasn't ranting down a dead line.
Billy stumbles out of bed, along with the sheets and the comforter, over to the window and its air unit, where he pushes buttons until he finally gives up and just yanks the cord from the wall. The machine stops suddenly, deprived of power, and deep in its workings, Billy can hear drips against metal. He listens to them as he pushes back the curtain to look at the parking lot below. It's still dark out but there's a lot of activity, more than usual, and he stands until his alarm goes off a second time, watching cars being packed up, gear being shifted. He watches the crew make footprint paths in the snow, wiping his hand to clear the fog his breath makes on the window, until his head throbs in time to the alarm and he stumbles back across the room to turn it off.
In the shower, he decides he'll call Dominic and apologize, but while getting dressed, he decides there's really no need for an apology after all. He'll lay off the drinking, or at least be sober when he calls later that night. He leaves the room with nothing more than his room key to head down to the cafe for coffee and a bowl of porridge. His stomach rolls at the thought of food and he thinks maybe just the coffee. Inside the restaurant, it's hot--steamy--and he thinks maybe not even the coffee, turns to leave and runs into one of the production managers, her mouth open in a bellow before he can take a step back.
"We're shutting down. Going home."
Billy winces at the volume of her voice, not sorting out the words until several seconds later, and even then he's not sure of what he's heard. "Shutting down," he repeats, the taste foreign, and he remembers back in Glasgow, losing out on a job a week after he'd signed on for it, when the plant had suddenly shut down. There'd been men there who'd been on the job for thirty years, some of them, and they had cried. He'd just tossed his jacket over his shoulder and walked out again. He believes for a moment that he knows now how they must have felt, and a second later realizes the feeling's not even close, because around him the others are shouting in joy, banging their cups against the counter. Everyone wants to go home except Billy.
"I thought we had another week down here," he finally says, feeling ridiculous to be complaining.
"We've got what we need and the crew is needed elsewhere. Maybe you could stay another couple of days to see the sites." Billy recognizes the woman's voice is bordering on sarcasm, but he can't quite shake himself out of this, whatever it is, and he raises an eyebrow in question. The woman immediately backs down, reaches out to pat his arm in apology, Billy supposes. "Pack your things," she says. "Someone'll be around to take you to the airport."
Back in his room, still without coffee, Billy sits on the edge of the bed again. He's turned the heat on but the room's still cold enough that he puts on his coat, a hat, and his scarf. He'd never really unpacked, so it was easy enough to just stuff whatever was laying around into his bag and zip it closed. The book next to the alarm clock is his, half the pages torn from it, but he doesn't think he'll take it, deciding instead to leave it as an offering, along with his toothbrush and a pair of socks that he had never fished out from their untimely fall behind the dresser.
He picks up the phone to call Dominic, then sets it back in the cradle. He imagines he must have sounded and behaved particularly bad last night, otherwise the taste that rises in his mouth as he tries again to dial Dominic's number wouldn't be nearly so acrid. He sets the receiver down once more and rubs his sweaty palms over his jeans, remembering a conversation he'd had in drama school with fellow students, during which he'd insisted that he would never do this--never become involved with a cast mate, never turn things awkward and threaten a performance, and he hadn't, until now. He wishes he could remember what he'd said last night. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Finally, he dials, telling himself to man up.
"Dom. It's Billy. We're apparently done filming here. Didn't feel like an end, and we'll probably all be back in a month's time, but for now they say I'll be home tonight." Billy pauses, wondering if he should clarify which home--whose home. "I'm packing and finding myself transport out. I'm sick of being here." Another pause, this one longer. "I think I've developed a slosh when I walk. Let's, ehm. Let's do something. Maybe have some people 'round tomorrow. Cook. Pretend we're posh. I'll bring the candlesticks and I'll let you--" There's a long beep and then a mechanical voice asking if he was satisfied with his message, to press three to send now. He stares at the rotary dial for a moment, not sure what to do to take it all back, and finally just hangs up the line.
***
The dinner party had been Billy’s idea; the menu, Dominic’s. And so now they stood in a grocery store in Wellington arguing over whether to buy jumbo or wild white shrimp, spinach or arugula. Billy watched Dominic’s facial expressions as he let Dominic run through passionate explanations of the benefits of one crustacean over another, cocking his head to the side, trying not to laugh. When he'd finally arrived home last night, he'd been relieved rather than annoyed to find Dominic in his bed. They'd both been too tired to talk then, and it hadn't been until the morning that Billy found out they hadn't even argued the other night.
“You’ve stopped listening, haven’t you,” Dominic says, leaning against the seafood counter with the fishmonger standing near, waiting for them to decide.
“Long ago.”
Dominic pretends to be hurt, dusting imaginary lint from his t-shirt and sniffing at the air. “May I remind you that this was your idea?”
Billy rolls his eyes and goes on looking at the selection of fish. “I would have had it catered.”
“Of course you would have. It'd have been easier.”
“You wanted to cook.”
“You don’t want me to?”
“I love your cooking,” Billy says. It had been his idea, of course, but as the day--and preparations--wore on, he's beginning to doubt how good of an idea it was. The Hobbits would be there, Orlando and Viggo, too. No women, Dominic had insisted, as he called around to pass out invites while Billy piled beer into their cart. Billy hadn't mentioned that there wasn't a woman on or off set who would have wanted any part of what Dominic had planned. That doubts are settling in Billy's mind no longer even surprises him. "I don't love all the work."
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Dominic is tapping his shoulder now, his mouth screwed up in a funny kind of smile.
“I think it’s a great idea.” Billy thinks that the famous Monaghan patience is actually just a myth, like the one Dominic had told him so long ago that it seemed a different lifetime. He can see in Dominic's eyes all that he wants, and it goes far beyond entertaining a few friends together for an evening. Billy marks it, refuses his own reaction, and clarifies what he's said. "Your cooking. It's a good idea, and I wholeheartedly want to be a part of that."
“So you’ll help?”
“I’ll do my best.”
For a long minute more, Dominic stares at Billy and Billy keeps his chin up, stiff, waiting to pass the scrutiny Dominic levels at him, afraid of what his own eyes reveal. They'll cook and entertain, have the same conversations--the same jokes. They'll kiss and go to bed to sleep, both wound up and frustrated--Billy afraid sex will commit it more than he's ready, Dominic believing--forever believing--that it's physical discomfort Billy worries over. They'll fight and make up and begin the cycle again.
"Really," Billy says, when Dominic still keeps quiet. Billy wants to pass muster, but more, he finds that what he really needs is for Dominic to keep believing that things will work.
“Jumbo or wild white?”
Billy laughs and it only feels forced for the first few seconds. Back at Dominic's house, with the wild white shrimp and the baby spinach, Billy keeps his promise, washing the greens and massacring the shrimp in an attempt to shell and devein them. Dominic lets him keep at it for nearly an hour before shooing him off in the name of protecting his secret recipe for the mango relish and telling Billy to go straighten the house.
For nearly an hour, Billy swipes at tabletops and shoves piles of things beneath the furniture and into closets before he heads upstairs. He knows that it's unlikely that anyone will venture up here, but he's driven partially by the urge to clean from top to bottom and in all the corners before visitors come that he's imperfectly inherited from his grandmother, and partially because he knows he can hide out of sight from Dominic up here, and maybe have a nap. He stands at the edge of the bed, wiping the rag in his hand over the top of the bed and half-heartedly pulling up the sheets and comforter to make it appear the bed is made.
Dropping the rag and the pretense, Billy lays down and kicks off his shoes. There's a stack of magazines and unread newspapers on the bedside table and he picks up the first, flips through it, grabs another. The house has gone quiet except for the soft clicks and scrapes of Dominic in the kitchen below him. It's soothing, comforting--domestic--and before long he's nearly asleep.
"Billy?"
"Yeah?" Billy sits up, startled, and grabs for his rag again only to find it's fallen to the floor. Dominic's voice is near--down the hall, down the stairs, maybe--and he stands again, remembering he's meant to be helping, not napping.
"You're not sleeping, are you?"
Dominic still downstairs, but at the bottom of the steps, calling up. "No," Billy says, and forces himself not to add gran to the end. "Putting your laundry away. Do you never fold, then?"
Dominic's laugh carries down the hall as his footsteps move back into the kitchen. Billy sighs, bends to pick up the magazine he had dropped. He debates with himself for a moment between shoving the whole stack beneath the bed or into the drawer. Opening the drawer to see if there's room, he spots something he wasn't looking to see at all. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he turns on the lamp and picks up the bottle of lube, staring at it. He turns the bottle in his hand, reads the label, counts and subtracts the number of condoms in the box.
“I remembered what I was--Billy?” Dominic stands at the door, his voice quiet and low. His first step inside the room makes the floorboard creak and he stops. “Not for us. I had it from before.”
“Before what?”
“We. Us. You and me, together.”
Billy lets that sink in, the realization coming to him slowly. Before us means someone else, and he's shocked at the surge of jealousy that prickles at his skin. “Who?”
“It’s not important, is it?”
“Orlando?”
“Before us. Long before us.”
“Can’t be that long before us. There hasn’t been an us for that long--an any of us.”
Dominic sighs and comes further into the room. "It's condoms and lube. I had sex before we started seeing each other. Other than that, I have no idea what you're talking about."
“Yes, you do. We’ve only known each other since September. You kissed me in October. There was only a few months of not us and you slept with him--”
“Billy. You told me you weren’t interested in October. There’s only been an us since April and technically not even then. June. This was before us. Possibly when there was a you and Melanie.”
Billy jerks his head up, having forgotten about Melanie completely. Another part of his life that seems like ages ago, in the time marked B.D., before Dominic. He realizes instantly how ridiculous his argument is, how quick he is to grab onto anything that would make this seem easy--easy to be together, easier to be apart. It doesn't matter, and that seriously disturbs Billy and how he thinks of himself that he tries, even knowing he's being ridiculous, to make it more. He's ashamed of himself, and he puts the box and bottle back into the drawer.
"I do love you, Dom," Billy says quietly. He offers it as he always does, without much feeling, expects the same answers and isn't disappointed. "But you have to understand that I have to think about these things, because you’re unwilling to."
"Unwilling? I’m not unwilling. I just don’t see the point.”
“The point is that I have a life in Glasgow.”
“You have a life here," Dominic says. He means it gently but Billy can hear the exasperation. It's still not enough to turn him off this path.
“It’s not just that. How do I explain you? Us? There. When we go back home.”
“Why do you have to explain anything?" Dominic's voice sounds numb, deadened when months before he had made his answers sound almost convincing. "Why can’t it just be?”
“I don’t even know why I bother.”
“Because you love me and--”
“But you won’t listen to reason.”
“I never hear reason in your argument." Dominic further moves into the room, his hands on his hips. "I hear fear.”
"I’m not afraid.”
“You are afraid. I can’t put restrictions on how and why I love you. I won’t.”
Billy thinks about that for a moment, wishes he could say the same. There are always restrictions, barriers. Since he was not much more than a boy, Billy's not been able to love as freely as Dominic seems to always have done. He tries another tactic, another that never works. “And what about your career?”
“What about it?”
“You’re not Ian. I’m not Ian. We’d never survive.”
“It’s nobody’s business what’s in our hearts.”
“They’ll make it their business, and they’ll tear us apart.”
“If you let them.”
Billy moves his hands over his face and pushes his fingers through his hair, not even believing his own words. "It isn’t that simple."
“It can be.” The bed dips beneath Dominic's weight as he crawls slowly to where Billy lays back on the bed. Dominic draws his finger down Billy's nose and over his chin. Bends his head to kiss Billy's nose. I'm glad you've got such a lovely profile."
“Dominic," Billy says, not willing to give up quite yet. “We need to talk about this.”
Dominic kisses Billy's nose again, then carefully moves so that he can look at Billy right side up. “So talk.”
Dominic's moved his kisses over Billy's cheek, down his neck, his tongue dipping into the hollow of his throat. Billy means to lay there but he can't quite resist reaching up to hold Dominic steady, to keep his still while Dominic nips and sucks gently so as not to leave marks. “You can’t distract me with sex every time I try to have a serious conversation with you,” Billy says finally. There's no resistance in him now, though.
“It’s worked so far.” Dominic moves again to start nibbling on Billy’s earlobe while slipping his hand beneath Billy’s shirt, going for a spot on Billy’s ribs that always makes him squirm.
“Not this time.” Billy tries to make it sound as though he means it. Tells his arms to push Dominic away, tells his legs to carry him someplace safer, but his body betrays him, responding to each of Dominic's touches.
“Of course this time.”
***
"Elijah and Orlando seemed pretty cozy tonight." Dominic doesn't answer Billy, focused as he is on balancing his wine glass in the palm of his hand. Billy stretches his toe and pokes Dominic's leg, trying and failing to get his attention. "Are they sleeping together?"
"No. Nobody's having sex among the hobbits."
"I bet Sean is."
"That's just so unfair, that Sean should have more sex than me."
"Define sex. You gave me a lovely blowjob just this afternoon." Billy pulls his legs up against his chest, trying to gauge how drunk Dominic really is, and how seriously he should take the conversation, a switch from earlier when everything had seemed so dire and important. Tonight, he had limited himself to just two bottles of beer, loudly proclaiming that he'd made a pact with his liver, afraid of doing or saying more, either good or bad. Since he'd kept topping up the rest of the glasses and bottles, no one had complained too much. "Are you sure they're not sleeping together?"
"Elijah would have told me. He can't keep a secret." Dominic's lips twist, knowing it's not exactly the truth. Elijah's better at keeping secrets than anyone he knows, except for Billy. "I think he thinks about it a lot."
"He's nineteen. He's supposed to."
"I think about it a lot."
"I did at your age, too."
Dominic laughs at Billy then lifts his cup to balance it on his head. The sound comes to Billy as mocking and he sniffs at it, sniffs at the air between them. Billy watches Dominic closely but there is no shakiness in his hands, no unsteadiness. The glass, half filled with a dark red wine that Viggo had brought along, sits without tipping until Dominic brings it down for another sip.
"You're never as drunk as I think you are, are you?" Billy asks.
"I made a pact with your liver, too." Dominic's eyes are ringed with smudged eyeliner and they stare through Billy. "I made a pact with all your vital organs that said just let us get through this night."
"And did we?"
"Nearly."
"Let's go to bed then. Clean up in the morning."
Dominic shakes his head, takes another sip. "I didn't sleep with Orlando. I thought about it, but I never did."
"Okay."
"I'm also perfectly fine with having serious conversations with you, as long as they lead somewhere."
Billy sits up straight now, aware that his script has finally changed. He's used to it; it happens on set all the time, he tells himself. He searches for some clue to stage direction, some hint at to what he's meant to say or do now as he tries to figure out how they'd gone from blowjobs and dinner parties to what he only just now realizes is a slow burn on Dominic's part. "I'm afraid of where they'll lead, Dom."
“Goddammit." Dominic stands and crosses the room, puts his glass on the mantle, afraid that otherwise he would throw it, possibly at Billy's head. "What the fuck do you want from me? I’ve given you everything. Just decide what you want to do.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t know how. I mean I can’t." Billy finally finds his thread of the conversation only to feel it unraveling in his hands. Pushed like this, he can't place the words in the right order, can't tell all the nice lies that have got them this far. "I can’t do this.”
“Don’t say that.”
Dominic looks stricken suddenly, pale as ash and shaking. For a moment, Billy sees clean through him. Sees what he had tried to do, and wonders if maybe someone had given him advice. Dominic's mouth works as if he's trying to take everything back, but he can't. Neither of them can. “I’m sorry, Dom. I’m so sorry. I do love you, but I can’t do this. It’s too hard. It’s not fair.”
“Fair to who?”
“To you. To me. To our families. To anybody.”
“Fuck them. Fuck them." Dominic sweeps his hand and finally knocks over the glass. It shatters at his feet, the red liquid spraying everything before it seeps into the rug. "I fucking love you. You want to talk fair? I’m ready to give anything to be with you, and you’re just going to walk away.”
“What do you want from me?”
“You! I need you!”
“I’m sorry--”
“Don’t fucking tell me you’re sorry.”
“I don’t deserve you," Billy says. He's found himself on the easy path and sets himself along it. "And you don’t deserve this. I do love you, but--”
“Don’t. Don’t ever fucking say that to me again.”
“Dom--”
“So what was it? You were curious? You thought it might help us on screen if I sucked your fucking dick?”
“Stop. Please stop.”
“Tell me how unfair it is. Tell me how un-fucking-fair I’m being. I fucking love you. I love you Billy.” Dominic crosses the room quicker than Billy would have given him credit for and grabs Billy by the shoulders. Shakes him, pushing him away and back into the chair. Billy doesn’t fight back, just sits, covering his face and shaking his head, unwilling or unable to answer Dominic.
“Goddammit.” Dominic turns and grabs his keys and wallet from the table beneath the window by the door. “Be gone when I get back.”
The door slams shut hard, rattling the panes of glass until Dominic is sure one will break. He stops and waits--for the sound of glass breaking, for the door to open, for Billy to follow him--but there's nothing. Dominic gets into his car and beats at the dashboard and steering wheel, the sound of the horn startling him. He curses it and himself, then yells, mostly at Billy, who can neither hear him nor really listen. Finally he stops and rests his forehead on the steering wheel, catching his breath before he starts the car and drives away.
***
“Where were you?”
The shattered bits of the glass are gone but the wine stain remains, faded. Dominic imagines Billy scrubbing it out, wanting to wipe away all the bad bits of the night and return everything to just as it was. He bites his lip rather than say anything about it and instead sits down next to Billy on the couch. “Nowhere. Just drove around.”
“Oh.”
“I thought you’d be gone.” There's no anger left inside him.
“Yeah. Well.”
They sit in silence. Billy wants to say something but he's tired of talking, even more tired of fighting. It's over, he knows it, and Dominic does, too.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you, Billy.”
“Don’t be. I deserved it and more.”
“No. I knew in my heart, this wasn’t going to last forever.” Billy flinches but says nothing, and Dominic continues. “I wanted it to be. Desperately wanted it to be, but I knew.”
“I do love you, Dom.” Billy's voice catches, and Dominic rubs Billy's shoulder then pulls him into his arms, holding Billy tightly against him. “I'm just not ready for this.”
“I know, Billy. I know.”
Author: Dani
Fandom: Lotrips
Pairing: Billy/Dom
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: 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.
Notes: see chapter one two three, four, five
end of July 2000
Billy wakes up alone to the dull bleating of the hotel alarm clock, his head throbbing. The bed is hard, the sheets scratchy. The comforter has a stain of dubious origin but he has it pulled to his chin because he'd forgotten to turn off the air conditioner--can't even remember why he turned it on in the first place--and even now, he only snakes out one hand to beat at the snooze button before rolling over and shoving his head beneath his pillow. He remembers drinks out with the cast, staggering back to his room and ... nothing. It's almost become routine on the South Island shoots, as close to comforting as anything else.
The phone is an old rotary, a museum piece--heavy and black, with a coiled cord that Billy would stretch on his toes as he talked--and he wonders how he managed to dial last night. He imagines he must have called Dominic; it's part of the routine to stumble through a conversation that begins and ends with I miss you. Muscle memory, he supposes, or maybe Dominic had called him. Or maybe they hadn't talked at all. Their conversations since Billy had left have devolved into a kind of dull refrain with Billy philosophizing on all the reasons why they shouldn't be together--how hard it would be, how frequently they'd be apart like this--or to ignore it altogether and just talk, joke, plot and plan. Rolling out of bed, feeling damaged and bruised, Billy supposes he can tell what they talked about last night--Billy pissed and pissy and Dom bearing it all without a word beyond what he could say to let Billy know he wasn't ranting down a dead line.
Billy stumbles out of bed, along with the sheets and the comforter, over to the window and its air unit, where he pushes buttons until he finally gives up and just yanks the cord from the wall. The machine stops suddenly, deprived of power, and deep in its workings, Billy can hear drips against metal. He listens to them as he pushes back the curtain to look at the parking lot below. It's still dark out but there's a lot of activity, more than usual, and he stands until his alarm goes off a second time, watching cars being packed up, gear being shifted. He watches the crew make footprint paths in the snow, wiping his hand to clear the fog his breath makes on the window, until his head throbs in time to the alarm and he stumbles back across the room to turn it off.
In the shower, he decides he'll call Dominic and apologize, but while getting dressed, he decides there's really no need for an apology after all. He'll lay off the drinking, or at least be sober when he calls later that night. He leaves the room with nothing more than his room key to head down to the cafe for coffee and a bowl of porridge. His stomach rolls at the thought of food and he thinks maybe just the coffee. Inside the restaurant, it's hot--steamy--and he thinks maybe not even the coffee, turns to leave and runs into one of the production managers, her mouth open in a bellow before he can take a step back.
"We're shutting down. Going home."
Billy winces at the volume of her voice, not sorting out the words until several seconds later, and even then he's not sure of what he's heard. "Shutting down," he repeats, the taste foreign, and he remembers back in Glasgow, losing out on a job a week after he'd signed on for it, when the plant had suddenly shut down. There'd been men there who'd been on the job for thirty years, some of them, and they had cried. He'd just tossed his jacket over his shoulder and walked out again. He believes for a moment that he knows now how they must have felt, and a second later realizes the feeling's not even close, because around him the others are shouting in joy, banging their cups against the counter. Everyone wants to go home except Billy.
"I thought we had another week down here," he finally says, feeling ridiculous to be complaining.
"We've got what we need and the crew is needed elsewhere. Maybe you could stay another couple of days to see the sites." Billy recognizes the woman's voice is bordering on sarcasm, but he can't quite shake himself out of this, whatever it is, and he raises an eyebrow in question. The woman immediately backs down, reaches out to pat his arm in apology, Billy supposes. "Pack your things," she says. "Someone'll be around to take you to the airport."
Back in his room, still without coffee, Billy sits on the edge of the bed again. He's turned the heat on but the room's still cold enough that he puts on his coat, a hat, and his scarf. He'd never really unpacked, so it was easy enough to just stuff whatever was laying around into his bag and zip it closed. The book next to the alarm clock is his, half the pages torn from it, but he doesn't think he'll take it, deciding instead to leave it as an offering, along with his toothbrush and a pair of socks that he had never fished out from their untimely fall behind the dresser.
He picks up the phone to call Dominic, then sets it back in the cradle. He imagines he must have sounded and behaved particularly bad last night, otherwise the taste that rises in his mouth as he tries again to dial Dominic's number wouldn't be nearly so acrid. He sets the receiver down once more and rubs his sweaty palms over his jeans, remembering a conversation he'd had in drama school with fellow students, during which he'd insisted that he would never do this--never become involved with a cast mate, never turn things awkward and threaten a performance, and he hadn't, until now. He wishes he could remember what he'd said last night. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Finally, he dials, telling himself to man up.
"Dom. It's Billy. We're apparently done filming here. Didn't feel like an end, and we'll probably all be back in a month's time, but for now they say I'll be home tonight." Billy pauses, wondering if he should clarify which home--whose home. "I'm packing and finding myself transport out. I'm sick of being here." Another pause, this one longer. "I think I've developed a slosh when I walk. Let's, ehm. Let's do something. Maybe have some people 'round tomorrow. Cook. Pretend we're posh. I'll bring the candlesticks and I'll let you--" There's a long beep and then a mechanical voice asking if he was satisfied with his message, to press three to send now. He stares at the rotary dial for a moment, not sure what to do to take it all back, and finally just hangs up the line.
***
The dinner party had been Billy’s idea; the menu, Dominic’s. And so now they stood in a grocery store in Wellington arguing over whether to buy jumbo or wild white shrimp, spinach or arugula. Billy watched Dominic’s facial expressions as he let Dominic run through passionate explanations of the benefits of one crustacean over another, cocking his head to the side, trying not to laugh. When he'd finally arrived home last night, he'd been relieved rather than annoyed to find Dominic in his bed. They'd both been too tired to talk then, and it hadn't been until the morning that Billy found out they hadn't even argued the other night.
“You’ve stopped listening, haven’t you,” Dominic says, leaning against the seafood counter with the fishmonger standing near, waiting for them to decide.
“Long ago.”
Dominic pretends to be hurt, dusting imaginary lint from his t-shirt and sniffing at the air. “May I remind you that this was your idea?”
Billy rolls his eyes and goes on looking at the selection of fish. “I would have had it catered.”
“Of course you would have. It'd have been easier.”
“You wanted to cook.”
“You don’t want me to?”
“I love your cooking,” Billy says. It had been his idea, of course, but as the day--and preparations--wore on, he's beginning to doubt how good of an idea it was. The Hobbits would be there, Orlando and Viggo, too. No women, Dominic had insisted, as he called around to pass out invites while Billy piled beer into their cart. Billy hadn't mentioned that there wasn't a woman on or off set who would have wanted any part of what Dominic had planned. That doubts are settling in Billy's mind no longer even surprises him. "I don't love all the work."
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Dominic is tapping his shoulder now, his mouth screwed up in a funny kind of smile.
“I think it’s a great idea.” Billy thinks that the famous Monaghan patience is actually just a myth, like the one Dominic had told him so long ago that it seemed a different lifetime. He can see in Dominic's eyes all that he wants, and it goes far beyond entertaining a few friends together for an evening. Billy marks it, refuses his own reaction, and clarifies what he's said. "Your cooking. It's a good idea, and I wholeheartedly want to be a part of that."
“So you’ll help?”
“I’ll do my best.”
For a long minute more, Dominic stares at Billy and Billy keeps his chin up, stiff, waiting to pass the scrutiny Dominic levels at him, afraid of what his own eyes reveal. They'll cook and entertain, have the same conversations--the same jokes. They'll kiss and go to bed to sleep, both wound up and frustrated--Billy afraid sex will commit it more than he's ready, Dominic believing--forever believing--that it's physical discomfort Billy worries over. They'll fight and make up and begin the cycle again.
"Really," Billy says, when Dominic still keeps quiet. Billy wants to pass muster, but more, he finds that what he really needs is for Dominic to keep believing that things will work.
“Jumbo or wild white?”
Billy laughs and it only feels forced for the first few seconds. Back at Dominic's house, with the wild white shrimp and the baby spinach, Billy keeps his promise, washing the greens and massacring the shrimp in an attempt to shell and devein them. Dominic lets him keep at it for nearly an hour before shooing him off in the name of protecting his secret recipe for the mango relish and telling Billy to go straighten the house.
For nearly an hour, Billy swipes at tabletops and shoves piles of things beneath the furniture and into closets before he heads upstairs. He knows that it's unlikely that anyone will venture up here, but he's driven partially by the urge to clean from top to bottom and in all the corners before visitors come that he's imperfectly inherited from his grandmother, and partially because he knows he can hide out of sight from Dominic up here, and maybe have a nap. He stands at the edge of the bed, wiping the rag in his hand over the top of the bed and half-heartedly pulling up the sheets and comforter to make it appear the bed is made.
Dropping the rag and the pretense, Billy lays down and kicks off his shoes. There's a stack of magazines and unread newspapers on the bedside table and he picks up the first, flips through it, grabs another. The house has gone quiet except for the soft clicks and scrapes of Dominic in the kitchen below him. It's soothing, comforting--domestic--and before long he's nearly asleep.
"Billy?"
"Yeah?" Billy sits up, startled, and grabs for his rag again only to find it's fallen to the floor. Dominic's voice is near--down the hall, down the stairs, maybe--and he stands again, remembering he's meant to be helping, not napping.
"You're not sleeping, are you?"
Dominic still downstairs, but at the bottom of the steps, calling up. "No," Billy says, and forces himself not to add gran to the end. "Putting your laundry away. Do you never fold, then?"
Dominic's laugh carries down the hall as his footsteps move back into the kitchen. Billy sighs, bends to pick up the magazine he had dropped. He debates with himself for a moment between shoving the whole stack beneath the bed or into the drawer. Opening the drawer to see if there's room, he spots something he wasn't looking to see at all. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he turns on the lamp and picks up the bottle of lube, staring at it. He turns the bottle in his hand, reads the label, counts and subtracts the number of condoms in the box.
“I remembered what I was--Billy?” Dominic stands at the door, his voice quiet and low. His first step inside the room makes the floorboard creak and he stops. “Not for us. I had it from before.”
“Before what?”
“We. Us. You and me, together.”
Billy lets that sink in, the realization coming to him slowly. Before us means someone else, and he's shocked at the surge of jealousy that prickles at his skin. “Who?”
“It’s not important, is it?”
“Orlando?”
“Before us. Long before us.”
“Can’t be that long before us. There hasn’t been an us for that long--an any of us.”
Dominic sighs and comes further into the room. "It's condoms and lube. I had sex before we started seeing each other. Other than that, I have no idea what you're talking about."
“Yes, you do. We’ve only known each other since September. You kissed me in October. There was only a few months of not us and you slept with him--”
“Billy. You told me you weren’t interested in October. There’s only been an us since April and technically not even then. June. This was before us. Possibly when there was a you and Melanie.”
Billy jerks his head up, having forgotten about Melanie completely. Another part of his life that seems like ages ago, in the time marked B.D., before Dominic. He realizes instantly how ridiculous his argument is, how quick he is to grab onto anything that would make this seem easy--easy to be together, easier to be apart. It doesn't matter, and that seriously disturbs Billy and how he thinks of himself that he tries, even knowing he's being ridiculous, to make it more. He's ashamed of himself, and he puts the box and bottle back into the drawer.
"I do love you, Dom," Billy says quietly. He offers it as he always does, without much feeling, expects the same answers and isn't disappointed. "But you have to understand that I have to think about these things, because you’re unwilling to."
"Unwilling? I’m not unwilling. I just don’t see the point.”
“The point is that I have a life in Glasgow.”
“You have a life here," Dominic says. He means it gently but Billy can hear the exasperation. It's still not enough to turn him off this path.
“It’s not just that. How do I explain you? Us? There. When we go back home.”
“Why do you have to explain anything?" Dominic's voice sounds numb, deadened when months before he had made his answers sound almost convincing. "Why can’t it just be?”
“I don’t even know why I bother.”
“Because you love me and--”
“But you won’t listen to reason.”
“I never hear reason in your argument." Dominic further moves into the room, his hands on his hips. "I hear fear.”
"I’m not afraid.”
“You are afraid. I can’t put restrictions on how and why I love you. I won’t.”
Billy thinks about that for a moment, wishes he could say the same. There are always restrictions, barriers. Since he was not much more than a boy, Billy's not been able to love as freely as Dominic seems to always have done. He tries another tactic, another that never works. “And what about your career?”
“What about it?”
“You’re not Ian. I’m not Ian. We’d never survive.”
“It’s nobody’s business what’s in our hearts.”
“They’ll make it their business, and they’ll tear us apart.”
“If you let them.”
Billy moves his hands over his face and pushes his fingers through his hair, not even believing his own words. "It isn’t that simple."
“It can be.” The bed dips beneath Dominic's weight as he crawls slowly to where Billy lays back on the bed. Dominic draws his finger down Billy's nose and over his chin. Bends his head to kiss Billy's nose. I'm glad you've got such a lovely profile."
“Dominic," Billy says, not willing to give up quite yet. “We need to talk about this.”
Dominic kisses Billy's nose again, then carefully moves so that he can look at Billy right side up. “So talk.”
Dominic's moved his kisses over Billy's cheek, down his neck, his tongue dipping into the hollow of his throat. Billy means to lay there but he can't quite resist reaching up to hold Dominic steady, to keep his still while Dominic nips and sucks gently so as not to leave marks. “You can’t distract me with sex every time I try to have a serious conversation with you,” Billy says finally. There's no resistance in him now, though.
“It’s worked so far.” Dominic moves again to start nibbling on Billy’s earlobe while slipping his hand beneath Billy’s shirt, going for a spot on Billy’s ribs that always makes him squirm.
“Not this time.” Billy tries to make it sound as though he means it. Tells his arms to push Dominic away, tells his legs to carry him someplace safer, but his body betrays him, responding to each of Dominic's touches.
“Of course this time.”
***
"Elijah and Orlando seemed pretty cozy tonight." Dominic doesn't answer Billy, focused as he is on balancing his wine glass in the palm of his hand. Billy stretches his toe and pokes Dominic's leg, trying and failing to get his attention. "Are they sleeping together?"
"No. Nobody's having sex among the hobbits."
"I bet Sean is."
"That's just so unfair, that Sean should have more sex than me."
"Define sex. You gave me a lovely blowjob just this afternoon." Billy pulls his legs up against his chest, trying to gauge how drunk Dominic really is, and how seriously he should take the conversation, a switch from earlier when everything had seemed so dire and important. Tonight, he had limited himself to just two bottles of beer, loudly proclaiming that he'd made a pact with his liver, afraid of doing or saying more, either good or bad. Since he'd kept topping up the rest of the glasses and bottles, no one had complained too much. "Are you sure they're not sleeping together?"
"Elijah would have told me. He can't keep a secret." Dominic's lips twist, knowing it's not exactly the truth. Elijah's better at keeping secrets than anyone he knows, except for Billy. "I think he thinks about it a lot."
"He's nineteen. He's supposed to."
"I think about it a lot."
"I did at your age, too."
Dominic laughs at Billy then lifts his cup to balance it on his head. The sound comes to Billy as mocking and he sniffs at it, sniffs at the air between them. Billy watches Dominic closely but there is no shakiness in his hands, no unsteadiness. The glass, half filled with a dark red wine that Viggo had brought along, sits without tipping until Dominic brings it down for another sip.
"You're never as drunk as I think you are, are you?" Billy asks.
"I made a pact with your liver, too." Dominic's eyes are ringed with smudged eyeliner and they stare through Billy. "I made a pact with all your vital organs that said just let us get through this night."
"And did we?"
"Nearly."
"Let's go to bed then. Clean up in the morning."
Dominic shakes his head, takes another sip. "I didn't sleep with Orlando. I thought about it, but I never did."
"Okay."
"I'm also perfectly fine with having serious conversations with you, as long as they lead somewhere."
Billy sits up straight now, aware that his script has finally changed. He's used to it; it happens on set all the time, he tells himself. He searches for some clue to stage direction, some hint at to what he's meant to say or do now as he tries to figure out how they'd gone from blowjobs and dinner parties to what he only just now realizes is a slow burn on Dominic's part. "I'm afraid of where they'll lead, Dom."
“Goddammit." Dominic stands and crosses the room, puts his glass on the mantle, afraid that otherwise he would throw it, possibly at Billy's head. "What the fuck do you want from me? I’ve given you everything. Just decide what you want to do.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t know how. I mean I can’t." Billy finally finds his thread of the conversation only to feel it unraveling in his hands. Pushed like this, he can't place the words in the right order, can't tell all the nice lies that have got them this far. "I can’t do this.”
“Don’t say that.”
Dominic looks stricken suddenly, pale as ash and shaking. For a moment, Billy sees clean through him. Sees what he had tried to do, and wonders if maybe someone had given him advice. Dominic's mouth works as if he's trying to take everything back, but he can't. Neither of them can. “I’m sorry, Dom. I’m so sorry. I do love you, but I can’t do this. It’s too hard. It’s not fair.”
“Fair to who?”
“To you. To me. To our families. To anybody.”
“Fuck them. Fuck them." Dominic sweeps his hand and finally knocks over the glass. It shatters at his feet, the red liquid spraying everything before it seeps into the rug. "I fucking love you. You want to talk fair? I’m ready to give anything to be with you, and you’re just going to walk away.”
“What do you want from me?”
“You! I need you!”
“I’m sorry--”
“Don’t fucking tell me you’re sorry.”
“I don’t deserve you," Billy says. He's found himself on the easy path and sets himself along it. "And you don’t deserve this. I do love you, but--”
“Don’t. Don’t ever fucking say that to me again.”
“Dom--”
“So what was it? You were curious? You thought it might help us on screen if I sucked your fucking dick?”
“Stop. Please stop.”
“Tell me how unfair it is. Tell me how un-fucking-fair I’m being. I fucking love you. I love you Billy.” Dominic crosses the room quicker than Billy would have given him credit for and grabs Billy by the shoulders. Shakes him, pushing him away and back into the chair. Billy doesn’t fight back, just sits, covering his face and shaking his head, unwilling or unable to answer Dominic.
“Goddammit.” Dominic turns and grabs his keys and wallet from the table beneath the window by the door. “Be gone when I get back.”
The door slams shut hard, rattling the panes of glass until Dominic is sure one will break. He stops and waits--for the sound of glass breaking, for the door to open, for Billy to follow him--but there's nothing. Dominic gets into his car and beats at the dashboard and steering wheel, the sound of the horn startling him. He curses it and himself, then yells, mostly at Billy, who can neither hear him nor really listen. Finally he stops and rests his forehead on the steering wheel, catching his breath before he starts the car and drives away.
***
“Where were you?”
The shattered bits of the glass are gone but the wine stain remains, faded. Dominic imagines Billy scrubbing it out, wanting to wipe away all the bad bits of the night and return everything to just as it was. He bites his lip rather than say anything about it and instead sits down next to Billy on the couch. “Nowhere. Just drove around.”
“Oh.”
“I thought you’d be gone.” There's no anger left inside him.
“Yeah. Well.”
They sit in silence. Billy wants to say something but he's tired of talking, even more tired of fighting. It's over, he knows it, and Dominic does, too.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you, Billy.”
“Don’t be. I deserved it and more.”
“No. I knew in my heart, this wasn’t going to last forever.” Billy flinches but says nothing, and Dominic continues. “I wanted it to be. Desperately wanted it to be, but I knew.”
“I do love you, Dom.” Billy's voice catches, and Dominic rubs Billy's shoulder then pulls him into his arms, holding Billy tightly against him. “I'm just not ready for this.”
“I know, Billy. I know.”