Fic: Portrait
Portrait
Monaboyd
PG, except for maybe one or two curses
Dom broke his arm and is loopy on drugs. Very much in the fluff genre.
Written for
babybrothalova. Exactly 1000 words.
“Dommeh, where are you going?” Billy called shrilly from the kitchen. He could hear the faint sounds of Dom wrestling with the sheets.
“Bed,” came Dom’s mumbled reply.
“You’re in bed, Dommeh,” Billy said, sighing. He left the soup on the stove and hurried into the bedroom, where he found Dom trying to untangle his legs from the blankets with his one good arm. “You aren’t to be moving, remember?”
“But I’m hungry.”
“I’m making you some soup.”
“Oh, well… That’s okay, then.”
“Why don’t you lay down, love,” Billy said gently, pushing Dom slowly back against the pillows. Dom’s left arm curled around Billy’s neck, pulling Billy down on top of the plaster cast that lay between their bodies.
“Oh, fucking OW!” Dom moaned loudly as the pain finally hit him a few seconds later. Billy jerked backwards to take the pressure off Dom’s arm.
“Just lie down and don’t move too much,” Billy ordered, rearranging the pillows beneath the cast for a better angle. “I’ll go get your soup.”
“And pills, bring me the pills!” Dom called after him.
***
By Day 3 after the Infamous Surfing Incident of 2006, Dom was feeling better. Billy wasn’t sure if that was because his broken arm was healing or if it was because of the cocktail of pain medications Dom swallowed every two hours. He presumed the latter at least had more to do with Dom’s off-the-wall conversation topics and ramblings, which were even more random than Dom’s usual everyday babble.
He was currently sitting with a notebook in his lap, trying to… do something with his left hand. Billy couldn’t tell if the scribbles were supposed to be words or drawings. Probably a mix of both, he decided, considering the state Dom was in.
“What’s that, Dom?” he asked casually, hoping Dom wasn’t too loopy and could engage in conversation.
“It’s a bug.”
“What kind of bug?”
“A big one.”
“Which kind would that be?”
“The kind that sucks up ants through his nose. What kind is that, Bill?” Dom asked suddenly, turning his face toward Billy. His eyes were glassy.
“I think you’re thinking of an anteater, my Dommeh. S’not a bug, but it eats them.”
“Oh. I guess it’s not a dog, then.”
“No, probably not,” Billy replied, shaking his head in mock-seriousness.
“Is it a frog?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Is it a car?”
Billy was suddenly lost, but he decided to keep playing along. “I dunno, Dom, is it?”
“You said it was a surprise! How am I supposed to know?” Dom said, giggling.
“I did? I said that?”
“Didn’t you?”
“I don’t think so, Dommeh.”
“Can I have another pill? My arm hurts.”
Billy narrowed his eyes at Dom, who looked in no pain whatsoever. “Does it really hurt or do you just want the pill?”
“Um…”
“Ah ha!” Billy cried triumphantly.
“Can you tell me a story, then?”
Billy didn’t know what that had to do with the pills, so he nodded agreeably. “What kind of story would you like, Dom?”
“A fairy tale.”
“Okay. Once upon a time-"
“What time is it?”
“It’s just after three. Anyway, there was a young prince named-"
“Was he a frog?”
“No.”
“Was he a dog?”
“No.”
“Was he an anteater?”
“Would you let me tell the story?” Dom was suddenly the picture of innocence and he nodded solemnly, his expression grave. “Okay. There was a prince called… Frodo. And he had a crown made of gold. But not just any gold, no, this was special gold made by the evil king Viggo.”
“Have I heard this story before?”
“I sincerely doubt it.”
“How did king Viggo make the gold?”
“Um…”
“I’m hungry.”
“I can heat up the soup if you like.”
“Nah, I’ll just draw.”
Billy looked down at the notebook. Dom was drawing squiggles that sometimes connected into letters, but more often just made little swirls and shapes on the paper. He carefully extricated himself from Dom’s clinging limbs to put the kettle on for tea.
When he returned with Dom’s cup (a plastic kiddie-cup with a straw and lukewarm tea within) and his own mug, Dom was snoring quietly against the pillows. Billy pulled the notebook from underneath Dom’s hand, which caused Dom to blink sleepily at him.
“I brought you some tea. Did you draw something?”
“Yeah. Gotta practice for when they cut off my arm,” Dom slurred, dropping the pen to the blanket and taking the cup from Billy’s hand.
“They won’t cut off your arm. You’ll be better in no time. What did you draw, Dommeh?”
“You.”
“Really? You drew me?”
“Yeah. Billy, my Bill.”
Billy looked down at the notebook, finding nothing more than a few lazy scribbles and some indecipherable words.
“I think you’re a bit loopy, my Dom,” he said quietly, about to suggest the very sleep that claimed Dom at that instant.
He set their tea on the nightstand, out of reach of Dom’s flailing arm, and crawled carefully into the bed behind Dom. Before turning out the light, he studied the drawing again.
There was “green” written on a curve, the “pale” written beneath it. Slightly lower and to the left was the word “red,” tilted on an angle and nearly upside down in the space where Billy assumed a nose would be, remembering how often Dom had teased him about all of the pictures of the two of them when Billy’s nose had been red and stuffed up. All over the drawing there were seemingly random dots and squiggles, but decidedly more squiggles up where Billy supposed there should be hair. He giggled when he spotted the word “filtrum,” clearly printed in tiny letters. Beneath that was a loopy “wet” and also “kiss.” Then Billy saw the word “love,” barely legible amidst the heavy scribbles around the edges and written over and over again, all in Dom’s sloppy, left-handed scrawl. He smiled and kissed Dom’s hair, feather-soft.
“Love you too, my loopy loon.”