Baby Steps
[Lotrips] [Dom/Elijah] [PG]
Baby Steps
Author's Note: For Scott. *mwah*
Dom smiles brightly, and Elijah looks at him, wearily wary. "What?" It feels like Dom's been acting like a radio on repeat, asking him the same fucking question every other day.
"I'm woozy, and I want a ride home."
Elijah can't even protest that he's not the only one sober enough to drive. That would be missing Dom's point completely. Their feet crunch on fallen leaves as they step out of Karl's house into the cool nighttime air, away from the where the car is parked.
Then Dom's hands are warm on Elijah's skin, and his mouth is warmer still.
*
"He's decided he hates filming," Dom declares, settling himself at the makeshift table, beside Orlando. "And that he was crazy to ever think that acting was a glamorous occupation."
Elijah stalks into the room, glaring at Orlando, who's snorting. "It's not funny." He's dripping wet, and his hair is in a mess. "It's three am, and it's fucking pouring, and I have to be out there pretending I want to be gutted by a giant bird!"
"Poor baby," Dom grabs Elijah and sits him down in his lap. "Make it up to you when we get home?"
Elijah's pout vanishes.
*
Elijah knows a lot of things. Like how standing here today, listening to all the screaming and whistling around them, like a low, dull roar in his ears, would be worth it, - all the mornings he felt like he never wanted to get up, and all the retaken scenes shot in the harsh cold of the night.
A warm palm slides into his own, familiar and comforting. “Dom,” Elijah says, almost reprimanding, but there's a soft squeeze of fingers and a cheeky wink, and Elijah knows a lot of things, but saying no to that look isn’t one of them.
*
Sometimes he listens to the non-ringing of the phone. Sometimes he goes on walks with a non-existent body pressed up close to his own. Sometimes he lies in bed, and ignores the silence, weighting him down so he can't breathe.
It's hard, getting used to being alone again, and when he sits in the kitchen in the morning it takes a while for him to realize no one's going to bring coffee out to him anymore, no one's going to know to put two sugar lumps and no creamer.
But Elijah's a fighter. And he's better off without Dom, anyway.
*
Elijah hates parties, he really does. Especially when Dom's invited to said parties, because Elijah somehow always finds his way to the martinis at those parties, and he almost never makes it home without an extra dent or two on his car.
All he'll be able to see in his head is the way Dom bends over to whisper something in someone-not-him's ear. "I love you, fucker," he'll want to say, but he never does. He never will.
And he still can't stop his head from turning every time he hears Dom say, "I'm woozy. I want a ride home."
*
It hasn't hurt for a while now - hasn't hurt to breathe, hasn't hurt to think, hasn't hurt to wonder about the 'what if's and 'maybe's'. He still wakes up disoriented, sometimes, in the middle of the night, but now it doesn't matter so much that he's alone. It doesn't matter that Dom leans against Billy like he used to lean against Elijah. And it's taken a while, but now he thinks 'I loved him' every time he sees a picture, and doesn't think about the change of tenses.
It's been a long time coming. But at least it's here, now.
Baby Steps
Author's Note: For Scott. *mwah*
Dom smiles brightly, and Elijah looks at him, wearily wary. "What?" It feels like Dom's been acting like a radio on repeat, asking him the same fucking question every other day.
"I'm woozy, and I want a ride home."
Elijah can't even protest that he's not the only one sober enough to drive. That would be missing Dom's point completely. Their feet crunch on fallen leaves as they step out of Karl's house into the cool nighttime air, away from the where the car is parked.
Then Dom's hands are warm on Elijah's skin, and his mouth is warmer still.
*
"He's decided he hates filming," Dom declares, settling himself at the makeshift table, beside Orlando. "And that he was crazy to ever think that acting was a glamorous occupation."
Elijah stalks into the room, glaring at Orlando, who's snorting. "It's not funny." He's dripping wet, and his hair is in a mess. "It's three am, and it's fucking pouring, and I have to be out there pretending I want to be gutted by a giant bird!"
"Poor baby," Dom grabs Elijah and sits him down in his lap. "Make it up to you when we get home?"
Elijah's pout vanishes.
*
Elijah knows a lot of things. Like how standing here today, listening to all the screaming and whistling around them, like a low, dull roar in his ears, would be worth it, - all the mornings he felt like he never wanted to get up, and all the retaken scenes shot in the harsh cold of the night.
A warm palm slides into his own, familiar and comforting. “Dom,” Elijah says, almost reprimanding, but there's a soft squeeze of fingers and a cheeky wink, and Elijah knows a lot of things, but saying no to that look isn’t one of them.
*
Sometimes he listens to the non-ringing of the phone. Sometimes he goes on walks with a non-existent body pressed up close to his own. Sometimes he lies in bed, and ignores the silence, weighting him down so he can't breathe.
It's hard, getting used to being alone again, and when he sits in the kitchen in the morning it takes a while for him to realize no one's going to bring coffee out to him anymore, no one's going to know to put two sugar lumps and no creamer.
But Elijah's a fighter. And he's better off without Dom, anyway.
*
Elijah hates parties, he really does. Especially when Dom's invited to said parties, because Elijah somehow always finds his way to the martinis at those parties, and he almost never makes it home without an extra dent or two on his car.
All he'll be able to see in his head is the way Dom bends over to whisper something in someone-not-him's ear. "I love you, fucker," he'll want to say, but he never does. He never will.
And he still can't stop his head from turning every time he hears Dom say, "I'm woozy. I want a ride home."
*
It hasn't hurt for a while now - hasn't hurt to breathe, hasn't hurt to think, hasn't hurt to wonder about the 'what if's and 'maybe's'. He still wakes up disoriented, sometimes, in the middle of the night, but now it doesn't matter so much that he's alone. It doesn't matter that Dom leans against Billy like he used to lean against Elijah. And it's taken a while, but now he thinks 'I loved him' every time he sees a picture, and doesn't think about the change of tenses.
It's been a long time coming. But at least it's here, now.