Book 3, Chapter 3: Cling to the Wreckage till You Get the Message
Title: Cling to the Wreckage till You Get the Message
Authors: kiltsandlollies and escribo
Characters: Billy, Dominic
Word count: 1905
Summary: In which one never and always learns.
Index
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
The walk between Billy's office and his usual classroom is no more than a hundred paces or so. If the halls were carpeted, he would have worn a path there long ago. But they are of course not, and every step he takes in the course of a normal day bounces off the walls to echo in his brain. It's not an entirely unpleasant sound, though; it's part of the rhythm of academic corridors, harmonizing with idle chatter, the squeak of new trainers and the shuffle of old boots.
Billy usually enjoys the short walk, not only because of that harmony, but also because he's learnt to prepare himself mentally and physically for each class as he strides, wiping clean the slate of previous classes, previous days. Today is different; today, Billy's already three and a half minutes late for his lecture and still in his office, leaning against his desk and breathing deep.
Not an hour ago, Billy had left his beloved just-off-campus bookshop with two new lurid science fiction paperbacks and one old Bertrand Russell hardcover. He'd been about as happy as he could manage lately, but still tempted toward further joy by the scent of coffee and cake wafting from the shop next door. Distracted by his purchases, he hadn't noticed anyone near him until it had been too late--until he'd found himself crouching to gather two of his dropped books and take the other from an extended and very familiar hand.
"Thank you," he'd said calmly, rising from one knee as he'd tucked the books back under his arm. Dominic's hand had reached to steady him, but Billy had stepped just enough out of his reach, just enough to give them a bit more room to breathe. Dominic hadn't moved or let him pass, and so Billy had swallowed and nodded, tried to smile and speak to him--not as he had many times before, no, and not the way he would have before he'd suffered through the decision to end their relationship before it destroyed them both, but still as one who cared. "It's good to see you, Dom."
"Is it?" Dominic hadn't blinked, either, only swallowed too and shivered when a bus passed along the street, shifting the cool air around them. Billy had tilted his head, then, and frowned, unable to hold back his not-misplaced concern.
"Where's your coat, Dom? Y'can't have given it away again--"
"Greg needed--I told you that?" Dominic had looked up sharply, but then nodded. "I did, yeah. I remember that. Didn't expect you to, but." A pause, and then Dominic had nodded again, this time at Billy's books. "Bertrand Russell."
"Have--" Billy's eyebrows had knitted, but he'd been grateful for the chance to smile again. "Have you read him? I mean beyond class; I know some of the other professors like to--"
"No." Dominic had shaken his head, but he'd been smiling, too, just a bit. "I just know his name. My mum said he was disrespectful. You know, of the church."
"My dad thought he was on the money," Billy had laughed. "Maybe they were both right. We could talk about it sometime, if you wanted to have a read and then--"
"I can't do this, Billy," Dominic had interrupted him, quietly, but he'd moved closer to Billy at the same time, trapping him a bit against the large glass window of the coffee shop. He'd taken another thick, shivery breath, and Billy had nearly broken at the sound and under Dominic's expression. He'd already known Dominic was still hurt, still angry--the silence in class, the fear in his expression on the rare occasions Billy called on him, and the absence over two scheduled advising appointments were not exactly subtle clues--but whatever he'd learned, whatever he'd understood about Dominic, he wants now to believe that he could not have been prepared for Dominic's hand to grasp his own again, hard and desperate. "I'm serious. I can't. I'm trying, Billy, you have to have seen me trying, and it's just--it's not working. I need your help, Billy, I need you--"
"Stop it," Billy had hissed, pulling his hand away and shoving it up into his hair. It had taken every bit of his strength to not turn his head this way and that, hoping they hadn't been seen and willing the rest of the world to disappear from around them for the few seconds he needed now to get clear with Dominic, as clear as they were ever going to get. "What exactly do you think I've seen you trying to do? Whatever it is you need, it's not my help, Dominic. You would have come t'your appointments if that was it--"
"'s not what I'm talking about --"
"It's the only thing you should be talking about." Billy had lowered his voice, then, taking his own deep breath. "To me. I won't apologize to you, Dom; I can't. This is what I can offer you. This is the only help I can offer you. I can get you through this school and see you walk and set you fucking free of this place to do something brilliant with your life, but--"
"Billy--"
"But I can't give you anything else knowing that doing so will take everything from you--"
Dominic had cut Billy off with a choked, violent noise, his eyes wild and dark. "From you, Billy. From you."
"Yes." It had come out in a rush, the word choking Billy, too, silencing him for several seconds. "From both of us."
"You can have it," Dominic had murmured, raising his hand again to touch the edge of the books Billy held. "Please. Whatever you want, Billy. I'll do--I'd still do anything you wanted me to."
"Clearly not." When Dominic had looked up, the hurt fresh again in his eyes, Billy had moved a safer few feet away from the window and him, too. "I meant what I said, Dom," Billy had said, more gently, even as he'd continued to step away. "it is good to see you. Just--your appointments, Dom ... whatever you've been doing with the time, it doesn't seem to have served you any better, so do me the damn courtesy and attend them."
He hadn't looked back after that--had barely looked anywhere but directly in front of him until now, in his office. Even now, removed from the situation and safe from Dominic's stare, Billy can still see and feel it, and know that he’s become party to the beginning of something he hopes won’t end still on his watch. You can’t save yourself, much less him, Billy tells himself, and while that’s true, he has more than one obligation to Dominic now, and if Dominic holds up his end, Billy will, too. If Dominic does not, then Billy’s responsibility changes-it doesn’t end, but changes, perhaps all the way back to what it should have always been, and from which it should never have progressed.
Billy looks up to the clock in his office--six and a half minutes late and counting, and Billy knows he'll be lucky if there's even one student still waiting for him in the classroom. More, he knows he'll be drinking tonight, drinking until he can't see anything, much less Dominic, and praying again to deities in whom he's not believed for decades for sleep. But before he's granted that false peace, he must take that walk from his office to the classroom. He does so empty-handed but for a stack of papers, already aware of how poorly he's going to manage this session but determined to manage it nonetheless.
The no-more-than-a-hundred-paces of that walk go on forever. Billy can hear his heart pounding in his ears even over the rest of the noise, working to allow him whatever reaction he thinks best to what will no doubt be an emptied classroom. Every step weaves him in and out of the academic rhythm and harmony, the squeaks and shuffles, and just this once the sound is deeply unpleasant, deeply unnecessary and unwanted and wrong. A march like this ought to be silent, Billy thinks, or at the very least somber; surely everyone else in this building has earned the right to share his misery, even for a little while. They don’t, though; if anything Billy notices the respectful smiles as he passes, the nods as students step out of his way. They all look tired but happy enough, and Billy forces himself to return their nods politely, all the way to the threshold of his classroom.
He’s surprised to see that the vast majority of his students have hung on and remained in their seats well after Billy would himself have left were he in their place. Still, surprise rarely moves him to kindness, and today’s no exception; instead Billy has to tamp down his vague but rising resentment at their presence-at their persistence and the fact that it’s probably fear that’s kept them in their seats more than any real desire to learn from him. Not that he feels he has much to teach them or anyone else today.
A quick glance from the corner of his eye shows Billy that there are a few final stragglers in the hallway outside his classroom, among them Dominic and the brash American boy he’s befriended. Their other friend Mr. Bloom is in his chair, foot tapping nervously but otherwise attentive, and when Billy meets his eyes Orlando offers him a hopeful smile from beneath his glasses, and then a more crooked, nervous one as they both look toward the chair most often occupied by the now fully truant Dominic. Billy straightens the papers in his hand loudly against the desk, and the restless shift of his students stops immediately, stilling as all those tired stares match Billy’s own.
But as Billy lectures, his eyes return again and again to Dominic's empty chair, until he finds himself teaching mostly to his absent audience of one. Only when his hand rests on the back of Dominic’s chair and then clenches, the wood digging into his palm, does Billy catch himself at it. His fury stays mostly contained, and he congratulates himself bitterly for not reacting inappropriately when a student innocently brings up Russell and actually uses the man’s words well. At least someone’s reading something, Billy thinks, and then swallows that bitterness, too, telling himself to get back to work and pay proper attention to those students who want to be here to learn, not to back him into corners or against the walls of coffee shops with their desire for more than what he can safely teach them. By the end of the lecture and discussions, Billy’s exhausted but grateful for it, feeling as though he’s run a marathon but able to still run just that small bit more. This is what he’s meant to do, what he’s meant to give, and to have survived the last hour and made it work when he’d been certain he couldn’t, well. He might still be drinking tonight, but not necessarily to plunge himself into darkness. He’ll take this minor victory, along with that drink and at least one of those lurid paperbacks, into his backyard until night comes, and then he’ll sleep without having to beg for it, and for what he hopes will be a good long while.
Authors: kiltsandlollies and escribo
Characters: Billy, Dominic
Word count: 1905
Summary: In which one never and always learns.
Index
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
The walk between Billy's office and his usual classroom is no more than a hundred paces or so. If the halls were carpeted, he would have worn a path there long ago. But they are of course not, and every step he takes in the course of a normal day bounces off the walls to echo in his brain. It's not an entirely unpleasant sound, though; it's part of the rhythm of academic corridors, harmonizing with idle chatter, the squeak of new trainers and the shuffle of old boots.
Billy usually enjoys the short walk, not only because of that harmony, but also because he's learnt to prepare himself mentally and physically for each class as he strides, wiping clean the slate of previous classes, previous days. Today is different; today, Billy's already three and a half minutes late for his lecture and still in his office, leaning against his desk and breathing deep.
Not an hour ago, Billy had left his beloved just-off-campus bookshop with two new lurid science fiction paperbacks and one old Bertrand Russell hardcover. He'd been about as happy as he could manage lately, but still tempted toward further joy by the scent of coffee and cake wafting from the shop next door. Distracted by his purchases, he hadn't noticed anyone near him until it had been too late--until he'd found himself crouching to gather two of his dropped books and take the other from an extended and very familiar hand.
"Thank you," he'd said calmly, rising from one knee as he'd tucked the books back under his arm. Dominic's hand had reached to steady him, but Billy had stepped just enough out of his reach, just enough to give them a bit more room to breathe. Dominic hadn't moved or let him pass, and so Billy had swallowed and nodded, tried to smile and speak to him--not as he had many times before, no, and not the way he would have before he'd suffered through the decision to end their relationship before it destroyed them both, but still as one who cared. "It's good to see you, Dom."
"Is it?" Dominic hadn't blinked, either, only swallowed too and shivered when a bus passed along the street, shifting the cool air around them. Billy had tilted his head, then, and frowned, unable to hold back his not-misplaced concern.
"Where's your coat, Dom? Y'can't have given it away again--"
"Greg needed--I told you that?" Dominic had looked up sharply, but then nodded. "I did, yeah. I remember that. Didn't expect you to, but." A pause, and then Dominic had nodded again, this time at Billy's books. "Bertrand Russell."
"Have--" Billy's eyebrows had knitted, but he'd been grateful for the chance to smile again. "Have you read him? I mean beyond class; I know some of the other professors like to--"
"No." Dominic had shaken his head, but he'd been smiling, too, just a bit. "I just know his name. My mum said he was disrespectful. You know, of the church."
"My dad thought he was on the money," Billy had laughed. "Maybe they were both right. We could talk about it sometime, if you wanted to have a read and then--"
"I can't do this, Billy," Dominic had interrupted him, quietly, but he'd moved closer to Billy at the same time, trapping him a bit against the large glass window of the coffee shop. He'd taken another thick, shivery breath, and Billy had nearly broken at the sound and under Dominic's expression. He'd already known Dominic was still hurt, still angry--the silence in class, the fear in his expression on the rare occasions Billy called on him, and the absence over two scheduled advising appointments were not exactly subtle clues--but whatever he'd learned, whatever he'd understood about Dominic, he wants now to believe that he could not have been prepared for Dominic's hand to grasp his own again, hard and desperate. "I'm serious. I can't. I'm trying, Billy, you have to have seen me trying, and it's just--it's not working. I need your help, Billy, I need you--"
"Stop it," Billy had hissed, pulling his hand away and shoving it up into his hair. It had taken every bit of his strength to not turn his head this way and that, hoping they hadn't been seen and willing the rest of the world to disappear from around them for the few seconds he needed now to get clear with Dominic, as clear as they were ever going to get. "What exactly do you think I've seen you trying to do? Whatever it is you need, it's not my help, Dominic. You would have come t'your appointments if that was it--"
"'s not what I'm talking about --"
"It's the only thing you should be talking about." Billy had lowered his voice, then, taking his own deep breath. "To me. I won't apologize to you, Dom; I can't. This is what I can offer you. This is the only help I can offer you. I can get you through this school and see you walk and set you fucking free of this place to do something brilliant with your life, but--"
"Billy--"
"But I can't give you anything else knowing that doing so will take everything from you--"
Dominic had cut Billy off with a choked, violent noise, his eyes wild and dark. "From you, Billy. From you."
"Yes." It had come out in a rush, the word choking Billy, too, silencing him for several seconds. "From both of us."
"You can have it," Dominic had murmured, raising his hand again to touch the edge of the books Billy held. "Please. Whatever you want, Billy. I'll do--I'd still do anything you wanted me to."
"Clearly not." When Dominic had looked up, the hurt fresh again in his eyes, Billy had moved a safer few feet away from the window and him, too. "I meant what I said, Dom," Billy had said, more gently, even as he'd continued to step away. "it is good to see you. Just--your appointments, Dom ... whatever you've been doing with the time, it doesn't seem to have served you any better, so do me the damn courtesy and attend them."
He hadn't looked back after that--had barely looked anywhere but directly in front of him until now, in his office. Even now, removed from the situation and safe from Dominic's stare, Billy can still see and feel it, and know that he’s become party to the beginning of something he hopes won’t end still on his watch. You can’t save yourself, much less him, Billy tells himself, and while that’s true, he has more than one obligation to Dominic now, and if Dominic holds up his end, Billy will, too. If Dominic does not, then Billy’s responsibility changes-it doesn’t end, but changes, perhaps all the way back to what it should have always been, and from which it should never have progressed.
Billy looks up to the clock in his office--six and a half minutes late and counting, and Billy knows he'll be lucky if there's even one student still waiting for him in the classroom. More, he knows he'll be drinking tonight, drinking until he can't see anything, much less Dominic, and praying again to deities in whom he's not believed for decades for sleep. But before he's granted that false peace, he must take that walk from his office to the classroom. He does so empty-handed but for a stack of papers, already aware of how poorly he's going to manage this session but determined to manage it nonetheless.
The no-more-than-a-hundred-paces of that walk go on forever. Billy can hear his heart pounding in his ears even over the rest of the noise, working to allow him whatever reaction he thinks best to what will no doubt be an emptied classroom. Every step weaves him in and out of the academic rhythm and harmony, the squeaks and shuffles, and just this once the sound is deeply unpleasant, deeply unnecessary and unwanted and wrong. A march like this ought to be silent, Billy thinks, or at the very least somber; surely everyone else in this building has earned the right to share his misery, even for a little while. They don’t, though; if anything Billy notices the respectful smiles as he passes, the nods as students step out of his way. They all look tired but happy enough, and Billy forces himself to return their nods politely, all the way to the threshold of his classroom.
He’s surprised to see that the vast majority of his students have hung on and remained in their seats well after Billy would himself have left were he in their place. Still, surprise rarely moves him to kindness, and today’s no exception; instead Billy has to tamp down his vague but rising resentment at their presence-at their persistence and the fact that it’s probably fear that’s kept them in their seats more than any real desire to learn from him. Not that he feels he has much to teach them or anyone else today.
A quick glance from the corner of his eye shows Billy that there are a few final stragglers in the hallway outside his classroom, among them Dominic and the brash American boy he’s befriended. Their other friend Mr. Bloom is in his chair, foot tapping nervously but otherwise attentive, and when Billy meets his eyes Orlando offers him a hopeful smile from beneath his glasses, and then a more crooked, nervous one as they both look toward the chair most often occupied by the now fully truant Dominic. Billy straightens the papers in his hand loudly against the desk, and the restless shift of his students stops immediately, stilling as all those tired stares match Billy’s own.
But as Billy lectures, his eyes return again and again to Dominic's empty chair, until he finds himself teaching mostly to his absent audience of one. Only when his hand rests on the back of Dominic’s chair and then clenches, the wood digging into his palm, does Billy catch himself at it. His fury stays mostly contained, and he congratulates himself bitterly for not reacting inappropriately when a student innocently brings up Russell and actually uses the man’s words well. At least someone’s reading something, Billy thinks, and then swallows that bitterness, too, telling himself to get back to work and pay proper attention to those students who want to be here to learn, not to back him into corners or against the walls of coffee shops with their desire for more than what he can safely teach them. By the end of the lecture and discussions, Billy’s exhausted but grateful for it, feeling as though he’s run a marathon but able to still run just that small bit more. This is what he’s meant to do, what he’s meant to give, and to have survived the last hour and made it work when he’d been certain he couldn’t, well. He might still be drinking tonight, but not necessarily to plunge himself into darkness. He’ll take this minor victory, along with that drink and at least one of those lurid paperbacks, into his backyard until night comes, and then he’ll sleep without having to beg for it, and for what he hopes will be a good long while.