Door
Title: Door (1/1)
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: R
Warning: a little angsty, because that's what I do.
Summary: Set during Billy's September '12 visit to Dom now infamously pictorially documented on Twitter.
Notes: Something I wrote and didn't like enough to post at the time, but dusted off and cleaned up quite a bit. I meant to post it for Xmas/New Year, but as usual there is too much RL going on. Happy belated whatever you celebrate, readers.
The house is quiet now, with mutual LA friends having stumbled out into the warm night. They'd come to see Billy, mostly, the few times in a year one could see him in the states, and Billy'd been in fine form, endlessly entertaining as always. Dom fishes a rogue Scrabble tile from beneath the sofa, pops it back into the box and tosses the pillow at Billy, sprawling with the tail end of a glass of whiskey making his eyelids droopy.
He rumbles a laugh at how predictable Billy can be-he'd dropped right off last night around this same time too. Meandering over under the pretext of having finished straightening the room, he offers a hand up, "Come on, old man. Bed."
Billy takes it with a grin, letting himself be hauled up and doing an experienced job of not spilling the rest of his drink on the way to vertical. He giggles and finishes the last swallow, letting Dom liberate the glass from him and leave it on the coffee table.
He also allows Dom to keep an arm around his waist, as if he's more pissed than he is. Billy does this often, makes company believe he's in his cups, so he can get away with the bad jokes and silliness and cuddles, not unlike the staged photo on the carpet earlier. Dom knows him better than that, though, and takes pride in it. Billy's been slow about his whiskey tonight; Dom had shelled out for a bottle that cost more than most of Billy's wardrobe put together, and he's nursed about three tumblers worth over the course of several hours. Not nearly enough to do more than get him loose and tactile.
But it doesn't mean Dom won't use it to his own advantage, and maybe that's selfish, but at this point he doesn't give a shit; it's a rare and special thing to have Billy all to himself. Up the staircase and on the threshold of the guest room and his own, he'll use Billy in his cups to further the snuggling, which is also few and far between these days. He turns in for a final hug for the night, bringing his other arm around Billy's waist and pushes his face into his neck. His weight thumps Billy audibly back against the wall, pushing a grunt of a laugh from both of them. Billy smells like soap and whiskey and himself, a smell equated to the most comforting nights from a million years ago.
He feels Billy take a big breath, feels his chest expand with it, as his hands rub at Dom's back and up to his neck. It won't be long before Billy's standard duration for a hug is up, so he squeezes tighter, nuzzling like he had earlier for the photo. He's nothing if not a snuggler, and Billy knows it, tolerates it, even after all this time, especially when they're alone. A harmless kiss on the cheek used to be par for the course, a goodnight or good morning. Occasionally, it used to mean I'm tired or I want. Of the four, he isn't quite sure which one he's aiming for now. From Billy, it used to mean be good or later, but mostly these days it means goodnight, or goodbye.
Tonight it seems to mean goodnight, combined with the forehead/nose touch, something they'd picked up in New Zealand and for the most part left there. Hongi, sharing breath, Billy's whiskey tinged and Dom's with wine. Billy's hands cup his face, another long gone gesture, and Dom isn't sure what it means, but knows better than to read too much into it.
"Dom," Billy murmurs, and Dom knows what that means, it means enough, so he begins to pull back and away and set his body for the goodnight, but Billy follows, pushes, backwards into Dom's bedroom, back against the bed until the mattress gently takes his legs out from under him.
Billy slowly kneels, tugging off one of Dom's sneakers, and then the other, their eyes meeting in a mutual smile of remembrance. How many drunken nights had there been back in the old days that ended this way? It had been one of those, in fact...
Dom sees it flash past Billy's memory as well, and shifts his eyes away, to the books he has piled on his nightstand, because of all the talks, all the arguments, all the years. It isn't supposed to matter anymore. Billy stands, one thumb hooking in his denim pocket and the other hand ruffling Dom's short hair. Affection, yes, love, yes. That's what they'd settled on, settle for, because it is good and whole.
But Billy's hand doesn't leave, his fingers linger and fall and cup, bringing Dom's chin back up and center, his own face unreadable and older now, another birthday flown right by, another few lines beside those beloved eyes.
His mind almost can't comprehend Billy's closeness, his touch, his knees coming to one side and then on the other of his own. But Billy's mouth he understands, Billy's lips and teeth and tongue, and this kiss means far more than just goodnight. He gasps to feel Billy's hands tugging his shirt up and off. It takes that long for his own hands to get with the program, to push off that blue plaid button down and rip at the white cotton beneath, to remember and rejoice at the feeling of being pressed down into the mattress by Billy's strength and intensity.
He scrambles backwards to the pillows, Billy following on eager hands and knees. The full weight of him over his body brings a whimper, biting and soothing patterns over his neck and shoulder that felt insufficient from anyone else, no one did it in such a way to leave him peppered with bright fiery marks that turned to dark reminders later. One of many things he got from only one person, and he could take it in ways Billy'd never got from her.
The flash of Ali and Jack comes with residual guilt, because Dom loves them both like the family they are at this point. Anyway, she knows everything now; there had been awkward conversations and discussions years in the making that left Dom drinking heavily and paying for it in the morning, namely after the wedding. Dom harbours no ill-will for her, and she insists she has no resentment of him, and whatever happens, happens-past, present, and even future. Bless her, Ali is so zen about everything in her life that Dom might envy Billy's luck with the ladies if Billy's own enormous presence didn't evaporate that side of him entirely. She may not have entirely understood, but she saw herself forming a wall between something profound, and so figuratively removed the barrier.
There's a door to a room with no lock, no keyhole, She'd told them, Billy specifically, It's yours. If you want to go through it, then go. Just come back afterwards.
That's the arrangement, and it's dictated by Billy's moods. Dom knows where the door is and daren't open it himself, but oh, how he hovers, ever hopeful on its threshold. It had been very firmly shut in Scotland this summer, but then, she and their boy had been home, and some thread of propriety kept him from toeing it then. Nor had he in San Jose, or the previous fall, when the other hobbits had been around. Not that that should've mattered, Sean and Lij both knew how things had been back in New Zealand. But they don't know now, and the more traditional half of them certainly wouldn't understand, not with kids and marriages involved.
Billy comes to Dom's cargos and pulls them apart like he's tearing paper, making Dom's fingers scramble for purchase in the duvet. Billy knows Dom's vices and secrets, knows what lights his fuse and what sets him off. He knows that Dom doesn't get laid near as much as he'd like and knows damn well that he's never satisfied with the people that weave in and out of his daily life. So he knows that Dom will give him anything and everything in these encounters, and let him take it all.
His trousers slither off with a lewd whoosh and soft thunk, the louder jingle of Billy's thick belt unbuckling and whipping through his belt loops like well-known song. Familiar sounds, sounds of fucking. Dom has been around the block in the last decade, seen and done it all, to a point where not much surprises him anymore. Still, Billy can wind him up with the tilt of a head, his neat hands lifting and pushing his legs up and back, the flash of wet tongue between his perfect lips. With these simple looks and gestures, Billy can undo him like no one else.
His voice erupts from his chest in a wordless plea at the first hint of breath between his thighs, and one hand dives to push through Billy's hair. Finer now, and thinner than he remembers, and greyer too, though he can't see that in the dim halo of the hallway light. The idea of Billy aging is as foreign as doing so himself. In his head, they are as they were in Middle-Earth, always, forever.
But all these thoughts fade to nothing for Billy's mouth, Billy's strong arms, folding and lifting him like a toy, his tongue driving fire through his veins and sounds from his throat until he feels like a maelstrom of chaos trapped inside a tiny box.
He whimpers when he can barely take any more, slapping the backs of his knuckles at the nightstand drawer, pain that he can't feel as he struggles to work it open by a corner. Billy crawls up and pushes him away, plucking out supplies and making quick work of them in the dark.
The first push is exquisite agony, but that's fine, because Billy knows he wants it that way, wants the pain to match the lack between however many years have passed since last time. But it still makes him groan and grit his teeth, and Billy still shushes and brushes his face with fingertips and kisses, and he wants that too.
Gradually it subsides as Billy begins to move, slow at first, ever careful not to injure. Then all of it peels back, the physical pain and the emotional, swelling and unfolding to something else entirely. Sex itself is good fun, a release, but that's not what this ever is, or was. This is a connection, the connection. A singularity of two bright stars circling and circling until they finally collide into one.
The momentum builds between them, Billy lifting up and getting him by the wrists, his hands making the bits of string and plastic and beading bite into his skin. It isn't a power-play, as it might have been once upon a time. It isn't play at all anymore; Billy knows he needs to be held, contained, controlled, and knows that he's the only person who can. There's no power involved in this, but compassion, necessity, containing something as precious as water in the driest desert, lest it run over and be lost in the sand.
It builds and swells inside, a heavy mass below blood and skin and sweat and air, between kisses and bites and the vulgar sounds, gathering and dropping low and condensing tight, making his voice go wide and high, his hands fighting and struggling until it erupts, as near to pain as ecstasy can be. Billy keeps on, uninterrupted as Dom struggles free, grabs for him, clutches him close until he tenses, no breath into Dom's skin, no sound, just intense quiet vibration, and then the near meltdown of his welcome weight releasing him.
Tears suddenly boil over in the quiet aftermath, streaming down to fill his ears and run into his hair. Billy lifts his head, blinking in surprise, still panting for breath as his thumb and knuckles wipe them away, only more come up to thwart him. Billy's arm grips his head, a headlock of affection, pressing his face to Dom's cheek despite the wet. "Don't cry," he whispers ardently.
Dom sniffles, shaking his head, denying what? The existence of tears, the emotion? Them? This thing that had begun so very long ago and never exactly ended, as copiously as that word had been applied? Dom cries at will, never one to deny himself like a macho-man, because he knows he isn't one. He isn't sure what this is, but it demands release, and so he lets it run its course. Billy understands, and he kisses the tears gently away. If every now and again they cross paths around this planet when the blast wave hit, they might just survive this compromise.
When he is done, Billy leans over for the tissue box and wipes away the evidence of both acts before he settles back down, pulling blankets over both of them, a mirror image of earlier in the evening, this time with his ear to Dom's heart. There had been times when Billy had shouted, blamed, when he'd moved flights up and ignored texts and emails, when they'd gone months before speaking again. Dom wonders if those things still swirl in Billy's head, the rage and the guilt and the blame. But it seems that he's finally decided that the loss has been too great.
When Billy scoots up to share the pillow, he presses a kiss to Dom's still salty cheek, and Dom reaches around to squeeze him tight. He knows what that means too.
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: R
Warning: a little angsty, because that's what I do.
Summary: Set during Billy's September '12 visit to Dom now infamously pictorially documented on Twitter.
Notes: Something I wrote and didn't like enough to post at the time, but dusted off and cleaned up quite a bit. I meant to post it for Xmas/New Year, but as usual there is too much RL going on. Happy belated whatever you celebrate, readers.
The house is quiet now, with mutual LA friends having stumbled out into the warm night. They'd come to see Billy, mostly, the few times in a year one could see him in the states, and Billy'd been in fine form, endlessly entertaining as always. Dom fishes a rogue Scrabble tile from beneath the sofa, pops it back into the box and tosses the pillow at Billy, sprawling with the tail end of a glass of whiskey making his eyelids droopy.
He rumbles a laugh at how predictable Billy can be-he'd dropped right off last night around this same time too. Meandering over under the pretext of having finished straightening the room, he offers a hand up, "Come on, old man. Bed."
Billy takes it with a grin, letting himself be hauled up and doing an experienced job of not spilling the rest of his drink on the way to vertical. He giggles and finishes the last swallow, letting Dom liberate the glass from him and leave it on the coffee table.
He also allows Dom to keep an arm around his waist, as if he's more pissed than he is. Billy does this often, makes company believe he's in his cups, so he can get away with the bad jokes and silliness and cuddles, not unlike the staged photo on the carpet earlier. Dom knows him better than that, though, and takes pride in it. Billy's been slow about his whiskey tonight; Dom had shelled out for a bottle that cost more than most of Billy's wardrobe put together, and he's nursed about three tumblers worth over the course of several hours. Not nearly enough to do more than get him loose and tactile.
But it doesn't mean Dom won't use it to his own advantage, and maybe that's selfish, but at this point he doesn't give a shit; it's a rare and special thing to have Billy all to himself. Up the staircase and on the threshold of the guest room and his own, he'll use Billy in his cups to further the snuggling, which is also few and far between these days. He turns in for a final hug for the night, bringing his other arm around Billy's waist and pushes his face into his neck. His weight thumps Billy audibly back against the wall, pushing a grunt of a laugh from both of them. Billy smells like soap and whiskey and himself, a smell equated to the most comforting nights from a million years ago.
He feels Billy take a big breath, feels his chest expand with it, as his hands rub at Dom's back and up to his neck. It won't be long before Billy's standard duration for a hug is up, so he squeezes tighter, nuzzling like he had earlier for the photo. He's nothing if not a snuggler, and Billy knows it, tolerates it, even after all this time, especially when they're alone. A harmless kiss on the cheek used to be par for the course, a goodnight or good morning. Occasionally, it used to mean I'm tired or I want. Of the four, he isn't quite sure which one he's aiming for now. From Billy, it used to mean be good or later, but mostly these days it means goodnight, or goodbye.
Tonight it seems to mean goodnight, combined with the forehead/nose touch, something they'd picked up in New Zealand and for the most part left there. Hongi, sharing breath, Billy's whiskey tinged and Dom's with wine. Billy's hands cup his face, another long gone gesture, and Dom isn't sure what it means, but knows better than to read too much into it.
"Dom," Billy murmurs, and Dom knows what that means, it means enough, so he begins to pull back and away and set his body for the goodnight, but Billy follows, pushes, backwards into Dom's bedroom, back against the bed until the mattress gently takes his legs out from under him.
Billy slowly kneels, tugging off one of Dom's sneakers, and then the other, their eyes meeting in a mutual smile of remembrance. How many drunken nights had there been back in the old days that ended this way? It had been one of those, in fact...
Dom sees it flash past Billy's memory as well, and shifts his eyes away, to the books he has piled on his nightstand, because of all the talks, all the arguments, all the years. It isn't supposed to matter anymore. Billy stands, one thumb hooking in his denim pocket and the other hand ruffling Dom's short hair. Affection, yes, love, yes. That's what they'd settled on, settle for, because it is good and whole.
But Billy's hand doesn't leave, his fingers linger and fall and cup, bringing Dom's chin back up and center, his own face unreadable and older now, another birthday flown right by, another few lines beside those beloved eyes.
His mind almost can't comprehend Billy's closeness, his touch, his knees coming to one side and then on the other of his own. But Billy's mouth he understands, Billy's lips and teeth and tongue, and this kiss means far more than just goodnight. He gasps to feel Billy's hands tugging his shirt up and off. It takes that long for his own hands to get with the program, to push off that blue plaid button down and rip at the white cotton beneath, to remember and rejoice at the feeling of being pressed down into the mattress by Billy's strength and intensity.
He scrambles backwards to the pillows, Billy following on eager hands and knees. The full weight of him over his body brings a whimper, biting and soothing patterns over his neck and shoulder that felt insufficient from anyone else, no one did it in such a way to leave him peppered with bright fiery marks that turned to dark reminders later. One of many things he got from only one person, and he could take it in ways Billy'd never got from her.
The flash of Ali and Jack comes with residual guilt, because Dom loves them both like the family they are at this point. Anyway, she knows everything now; there had been awkward conversations and discussions years in the making that left Dom drinking heavily and paying for it in the morning, namely after the wedding. Dom harbours no ill-will for her, and she insists she has no resentment of him, and whatever happens, happens-past, present, and even future. Bless her, Ali is so zen about everything in her life that Dom might envy Billy's luck with the ladies if Billy's own enormous presence didn't evaporate that side of him entirely. She may not have entirely understood, but she saw herself forming a wall between something profound, and so figuratively removed the barrier.
There's a door to a room with no lock, no keyhole, She'd told them, Billy specifically, It's yours. If you want to go through it, then go. Just come back afterwards.
That's the arrangement, and it's dictated by Billy's moods. Dom knows where the door is and daren't open it himself, but oh, how he hovers, ever hopeful on its threshold. It had been very firmly shut in Scotland this summer, but then, she and their boy had been home, and some thread of propriety kept him from toeing it then. Nor had he in San Jose, or the previous fall, when the other hobbits had been around. Not that that should've mattered, Sean and Lij both knew how things had been back in New Zealand. But they don't know now, and the more traditional half of them certainly wouldn't understand, not with kids and marriages involved.
Billy comes to Dom's cargos and pulls them apart like he's tearing paper, making Dom's fingers scramble for purchase in the duvet. Billy knows Dom's vices and secrets, knows what lights his fuse and what sets him off. He knows that Dom doesn't get laid near as much as he'd like and knows damn well that he's never satisfied with the people that weave in and out of his daily life. So he knows that Dom will give him anything and everything in these encounters, and let him take it all.
His trousers slither off with a lewd whoosh and soft thunk, the louder jingle of Billy's thick belt unbuckling and whipping through his belt loops like well-known song. Familiar sounds, sounds of fucking. Dom has been around the block in the last decade, seen and done it all, to a point where not much surprises him anymore. Still, Billy can wind him up with the tilt of a head, his neat hands lifting and pushing his legs up and back, the flash of wet tongue between his perfect lips. With these simple looks and gestures, Billy can undo him like no one else.
His voice erupts from his chest in a wordless plea at the first hint of breath between his thighs, and one hand dives to push through Billy's hair. Finer now, and thinner than he remembers, and greyer too, though he can't see that in the dim halo of the hallway light. The idea of Billy aging is as foreign as doing so himself. In his head, they are as they were in Middle-Earth, always, forever.
But all these thoughts fade to nothing for Billy's mouth, Billy's strong arms, folding and lifting him like a toy, his tongue driving fire through his veins and sounds from his throat until he feels like a maelstrom of chaos trapped inside a tiny box.
He whimpers when he can barely take any more, slapping the backs of his knuckles at the nightstand drawer, pain that he can't feel as he struggles to work it open by a corner. Billy crawls up and pushes him away, plucking out supplies and making quick work of them in the dark.
The first push is exquisite agony, but that's fine, because Billy knows he wants it that way, wants the pain to match the lack between however many years have passed since last time. But it still makes him groan and grit his teeth, and Billy still shushes and brushes his face with fingertips and kisses, and he wants that too.
Gradually it subsides as Billy begins to move, slow at first, ever careful not to injure. Then all of it peels back, the physical pain and the emotional, swelling and unfolding to something else entirely. Sex itself is good fun, a release, but that's not what this ever is, or was. This is a connection, the connection. A singularity of two bright stars circling and circling until they finally collide into one.
The momentum builds between them, Billy lifting up and getting him by the wrists, his hands making the bits of string and plastic and beading bite into his skin. It isn't a power-play, as it might have been once upon a time. It isn't play at all anymore; Billy knows he needs to be held, contained, controlled, and knows that he's the only person who can. There's no power involved in this, but compassion, necessity, containing something as precious as water in the driest desert, lest it run over and be lost in the sand.
It builds and swells inside, a heavy mass below blood and skin and sweat and air, between kisses and bites and the vulgar sounds, gathering and dropping low and condensing tight, making his voice go wide and high, his hands fighting and struggling until it erupts, as near to pain as ecstasy can be. Billy keeps on, uninterrupted as Dom struggles free, grabs for him, clutches him close until he tenses, no breath into Dom's skin, no sound, just intense quiet vibration, and then the near meltdown of his welcome weight releasing him.
Tears suddenly boil over in the quiet aftermath, streaming down to fill his ears and run into his hair. Billy lifts his head, blinking in surprise, still panting for breath as his thumb and knuckles wipe them away, only more come up to thwart him. Billy's arm grips his head, a headlock of affection, pressing his face to Dom's cheek despite the wet. "Don't cry," he whispers ardently.
Dom sniffles, shaking his head, denying what? The existence of tears, the emotion? Them? This thing that had begun so very long ago and never exactly ended, as copiously as that word had been applied? Dom cries at will, never one to deny himself like a macho-man, because he knows he isn't one. He isn't sure what this is, but it demands release, and so he lets it run its course. Billy understands, and he kisses the tears gently away. If every now and again they cross paths around this planet when the blast wave hit, they might just survive this compromise.
When he is done, Billy leans over for the tissue box and wipes away the evidence of both acts before he settles back down, pulling blankets over both of them, a mirror image of earlier in the evening, this time with his ear to Dom's heart. There had been times when Billy had shouted, blamed, when he'd moved flights up and ignored texts and emails, when they'd gone months before speaking again. Dom wonders if those things still swirl in Billy's head, the rage and the guilt and the blame. But it seems that he's finally decided that the loss has been too great.
When Billy scoots up to share the pillow, he presses a kiss to Dom's still salty cheek, and Dom reaches around to squeeze him tight. He knows what that means too.