28 meme: 8, depressed in la dom
8. Depressed in LA Dom.
Smoke pattern
for absolutefiction
Dom/Billy
*
"It's just really hard to stay grounded, everyone telling us what a huge success it's been, talking about the exposure, making promises... you know," Orlando says.
Dom lets the phone fall away from his ear until Orli's voice goes tinny and small. Try lying on the floor, it's working for me. Hard not to stay grounded that way, he doesn't say, because he'll probably start laughing and it will sound more bitter than he'd like. His lungs are full of smoke anyway. He's become quite good at silently inhaling and holding it in while whoever's on the phone chunters on, unsuspecting.
Later Elijah comes over for an hour and they go a few rounds on the Playstation 2. Elijah compares it extensively to the X-Box while kicking Dom's guy across the screen, and then he cracks his neck and said, "God, I really needed this. Just to chill. I'm so fucking run down. Thanks, man," and he heads home.
Even Viggo leaves one of his spacy rambling messages on Dom's ansaphone saying, "It's Thursday... I've got paint on my hands for the first time in too long... I'm going away to the hills for a while, get away from all the craziness."
Dom listens to it and lies on the floor and smokes some more. He scrapes himself up off the carpet to go to another shitty do, some giveaway thing for sunglasses. He needs to meet friends with more time on their hands, people who aren't busy being more successful than him. But he gets lost somewhere in the midst of choosing the right trainers, and ends up on the floor again. His ceilings are boring; he should paint them; although if he keeps smoking like this, maybe it'll leave patterns eventually. That might be cool.
He switches to cigarettes and rings Billy, and even though Billy's heard it a hundred times, he complains again about the studios who showed an interest in their screenplay but told them they'd have to prove themselves reliable by taking little second-rate parts in Will Ferrell films, or roles as Rob Schneider's friends, and work their way up to doing their own project.
"We spent fourteen months working ourselves ragged in New Zealand, we've done every interview and every press thing New Line ever asked, doesn't that prove we're reliable?"
"You can't keep on about it, Dom--"
"I know, everyone's sick of hearing it, I'm sorry."
"It's not that, you know I'd listen, only it's not good for you," Billy's accent seems to cup the vowels warmly in every word. "You're making yourself sick in that place. You should come home, at least for a bit."
"I was all out of sorts when I went home to Manchester-- I couldn't bear it, feeling as if I don't belong in my own hometown."
More quietly Billy says, "I know, I wasn't thinking. I meant here."
Dom's breath catches, cigarette forgotten. "Oh."
"Come home."
Smoke pattern
for absolutefiction
Dom/Billy
*
"It's just really hard to stay grounded, everyone telling us what a huge success it's been, talking about the exposure, making promises... you know," Orlando says.
Dom lets the phone fall away from his ear until Orli's voice goes tinny and small. Try lying on the floor, it's working for me. Hard not to stay grounded that way, he doesn't say, because he'll probably start laughing and it will sound more bitter than he'd like. His lungs are full of smoke anyway. He's become quite good at silently inhaling and holding it in while whoever's on the phone chunters on, unsuspecting.
Later Elijah comes over for an hour and they go a few rounds on the Playstation 2. Elijah compares it extensively to the X-Box while kicking Dom's guy across the screen, and then he cracks his neck and said, "God, I really needed this. Just to chill. I'm so fucking run down. Thanks, man," and he heads home.
Even Viggo leaves one of his spacy rambling messages on Dom's ansaphone saying, "It's Thursday... I've got paint on my hands for the first time in too long... I'm going away to the hills for a while, get away from all the craziness."
Dom listens to it and lies on the floor and smokes some more. He scrapes himself up off the carpet to go to another shitty do, some giveaway thing for sunglasses. He needs to meet friends with more time on their hands, people who aren't busy being more successful than him. But he gets lost somewhere in the midst of choosing the right trainers, and ends up on the floor again. His ceilings are boring; he should paint them; although if he keeps smoking like this, maybe it'll leave patterns eventually. That might be cool.
He switches to cigarettes and rings Billy, and even though Billy's heard it a hundred times, he complains again about the studios who showed an interest in their screenplay but told them they'd have to prove themselves reliable by taking little second-rate parts in Will Ferrell films, or roles as Rob Schneider's friends, and work their way up to doing their own project.
"We spent fourteen months working ourselves ragged in New Zealand, we've done every interview and every press thing New Line ever asked, doesn't that prove we're reliable?"
"You can't keep on about it, Dom--"
"I know, everyone's sick of hearing it, I'm sorry."
"It's not that, you know I'd listen, only it's not good for you," Billy's accent seems to cup the vowels warmly in every word. "You're making yourself sick in that place. You should come home, at least for a bit."
"I was all out of sorts when I went home to Manchester-- I couldn't bear it, feeling as if I don't belong in my own hometown."
More quietly Billy says, "I know, I wasn't thinking. I meant here."
Dom's breath catches, cigarette forgotten. "Oh."
"Come home."