FIC: LIFE IN TRANSITIVE
First thing: I think Dom (the fictional one and the real one) would want me to remind everyone that today is Earth Day. Happy Earth Day! Do something nice for the Earth today. Say, buy her roses... that you can plant. :)
The following has nothing to do with that. But still.
Life in Transitive
PG-13
Summary: Billy is Dom’s direct object.
Word Count: 1,339
Disclaimer: Only telling lies, lies, lies.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies.
Beta: Big, squishy thank you to raynemaiden.
Life in Transitive
There's no one to talk to now. That's the first thing he misses.
He can waste hours playing Six Degrees of Radiohead with Lij, lose days to a helical conversation with Viggo, add years to his acting know-how after one 5 minute phone call to Ian. And who can economize language, eliminate verbs and adjectives, and construct whole dialogues out of variations on the word "dude"-who else but Jorge? And who else bullshits like Shox?
But when Dom talks to Billy, there's no explaining, no waiting for the catch-up of comprehension, no backstory necessary. It sounds like new age shit, like a bit of weed-induced wisdom, but the thing is? It's like Billy is in his head. Or might as well be. He's there, following every detail, on top of every beat. Sometimes he knows what Dom's going to say before Dom knows himself. Sure, it's not the first time that has happened. But it's the second, third, fifteenth, seventy-sixth that make Billy stand out from the rest. They can banter about nothing, blather about everything, compare exes, contrast the same, celebrate triumphs, grieve over losses, discuss philosophy better than Plato and Aristotle (well, it happened once, and so what if there was whiskey involved?) and re-plot and re-cast Star Wars so that it's practically a mirror image of Rings (though Billy still won't agree to be Leia, and Dom won't accept being Wicket the Ewok either). Sometimes all in one sentence. A run-on sentence, maybe, but it still counts.
And the silences? Yeah, they're there. But never uncomfortable. Even that first time: Elijah running off to the toilet and them left with their wigs in their hands, Dom twirling the curls under his fingers because it felt funny and soft and reminded him of this girl back home, when he was a kid-more of a kid and more stupid-and Billy asked him if he was nervous, and Dom told him no, told him everything he'd been thinking, just running off at the mouth, sounding every bit as nervous as Billy suspected him of being and more. And Billy just nodded and sighed and sat down. On the cold, dusty, concrete floor. Just sat, cross-legged like. And Dom sat too, and shut up. Not shutting really, though, just stopping. Quieting. The buzz in him buzzed quieter, the ring in his ears fell a few rungs lower.
He might not admit it (though he probably would), but that's when everything fell into place.
The problem with things "falling into place" is that, if they can fall into, they can fall out too. Get kicked around, hoovered up, blown away and scattered. Like dust in the wind, or some other crap song lyrics.
Now being with Billy is much less quieting.
Dom stands in Billy's kitchen, a guest, an adopted uncle, counting Jack's toes again just to be certain they're still all there, even though his birth has passed into birthdays.
"Has one fallen off yet?" Ali asks over the rim of her cup.
"Not yet."
"Oh, that's good."
Billy smiles for her.
"But," Dom says, wiggling another toe. "This little piggy went to the slaughterhouse, which is why your daddy's breakfast tastes so good."
Jack giggles, possibly because Dom's tongue is sticking out and his eyes are crossing, and less because of what he says. But he'll grow to appreciate his humor, Dom's sure.
"When are you gonna have kids of your own, Dom?” Billy says, turning away from the stove. “I ask this out of concern for the mental stability of my boy, and not in a mother-in-law type way, mind you."
"What, me?" Dom scratches the back of his neck.
"Well, with Evi's help. Most likely." Billy rests his back against the jutting angle of the refrigerator.
Dom turns. "By 'kids' you of course mean baby goats."
"Ah, the pitter patter of little cloven feet."
"Are you saying I'd give birth to the Devil's spawn?"
"Again, with Evi's help, yes."
While Billy smirks at him, Dom darts forward and steals a still-sizzling piece of bacon from the plate beside him on the counter, narrowly missing a smack from the spatula in Billy's hand. He munches it down by the safety of Jack's chair, mouth only partially closed, noisy. Dom knows it's a bad influence on the boy, who emulates him more than he emulates his own dad.
"I don't think now's the right time to start," Dom says around a final swallow.
"Well, no, you two ought to be in the same time zone," Billy says.
"That's not what I meant," Dom begins. But what he means to say he can't say here, can't say in front of Jack or Ali. He can make jokes, he can be quiet and comfortably so, all morning into afternoon into evening, just sharing their space. But it doesn't change the fact that he's sharing it. That he can't tell Billy what he means to say at all, even when they're alone in a room. That Ali's still there, always there. A silent moderator, translating their language into broken English.
So Dom says what I mean is with a deliberately absent finger along the back of Jack's chair.
And he says I remember you with a glance so brief only Billy would know it's too brief, would know that not catching his eyes is Dom's way of catching all of him.
The way Dom touches the handle of his cup says and I can't forget.
Everything Dom doesn't say is so loud in the room, he doesn't know how Ali can't hear.
When she leaves, takes Jack for his bath, the words still echo in Dom's ears. He stares at his own reflection in the window, sliced through with the wind-cut rain. Billy does the dishes and Dom takes them from his pruned fingertips, drying them with the terry cloth towel that brushes over Billy's wrist and forearm the way Dom's own fingers once did, years ago, pruned from sweat and other wetness that wasn't dishwater. He envies the dishtowel, envies the jeans that hang around Billy's waist where Dom cannot, envies the shirt collar that circles clavicles Dom once circled with his tongue. He envies the water that dries out Billy's skin and the cupboard that gives his hip a place to rest. But he won't envy Ali, and he won't envy Jack. He knows what it is to love Billy, and won't deny anyone that.
But it's hard to deny himself. When they're done, and everything's put away, there's still so much to be said. But Dom says nothing, just: if you want with his body close alongside Billy, and later with his fingers barely tugging a string at the base of Billy's shirt, and I'll be waiting in my room with the backs of his nails pressing the seam into the side of Billy's leg. I'll be quiet he adds with a fluttering touch to his own throat, falling under his Adam's apple, and bites his lip when he has Billy's eye.
He leaves the kitchen, not waiting to hear what Billy might say, not waiting to hear what he doesn't.
That night, Dom's door stays shut. Not shut, but stopped from opening. He could turn the knob and pull it wide or leave a thin crack, thin as a whisper, and it would still be there. A barrier blocking, a threshold uncrossed. There are footsteps creaking the floor, and a familiar sigh down the hall. Billy goes to his room, the one he tucks Jack into, the one he shares with Ali. And later, though very much later, Dom will sleep. And he'll dream of a woman who loves him, somewhere across the vast oceans and a continent between. And he'll dream of a man whose love is beyond distance and travel, not through a thin wall, but through the thicker space of time that weighs heavy on your tongue and lays heavy on your heart.
But tonight, it will be fine. For a while.
This fic was significantly inspired by Leonard Cohen's song: "Tonight Will Be Fine." Or, more specifically, by Teddy Thompson's cover of it.
The following has nothing to do with that. But still.
Life in Transitive
PG-13
Summary: Billy is Dom’s direct object.
Word Count: 1,339
Disclaimer: Only telling lies, lies, lies.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies.
Beta: Big, squishy thank you to raynemaiden.
Life in Transitive
There's no one to talk to now. That's the first thing he misses.
He can waste hours playing Six Degrees of Radiohead with Lij, lose days to a helical conversation with Viggo, add years to his acting know-how after one 5 minute phone call to Ian. And who can economize language, eliminate verbs and adjectives, and construct whole dialogues out of variations on the word "dude"-who else but Jorge? And who else bullshits like Shox?
But when Dom talks to Billy, there's no explaining, no waiting for the catch-up of comprehension, no backstory necessary. It sounds like new age shit, like a bit of weed-induced wisdom, but the thing is? It's like Billy is in his head. Or might as well be. He's there, following every detail, on top of every beat. Sometimes he knows what Dom's going to say before Dom knows himself. Sure, it's not the first time that has happened. But it's the second, third, fifteenth, seventy-sixth that make Billy stand out from the rest. They can banter about nothing, blather about everything, compare exes, contrast the same, celebrate triumphs, grieve over losses, discuss philosophy better than Plato and Aristotle (well, it happened once, and so what if there was whiskey involved?) and re-plot and re-cast Star Wars so that it's practically a mirror image of Rings (though Billy still won't agree to be Leia, and Dom won't accept being Wicket the Ewok either). Sometimes all in one sentence. A run-on sentence, maybe, but it still counts.
And the silences? Yeah, they're there. But never uncomfortable. Even that first time: Elijah running off to the toilet and them left with their wigs in their hands, Dom twirling the curls under his fingers because it felt funny and soft and reminded him of this girl back home, when he was a kid-more of a kid and more stupid-and Billy asked him if he was nervous, and Dom told him no, told him everything he'd been thinking, just running off at the mouth, sounding every bit as nervous as Billy suspected him of being and more. And Billy just nodded and sighed and sat down. On the cold, dusty, concrete floor. Just sat, cross-legged like. And Dom sat too, and shut up. Not shutting really, though, just stopping. Quieting. The buzz in him buzzed quieter, the ring in his ears fell a few rungs lower.
He might not admit it (though he probably would), but that's when everything fell into place.
The problem with things "falling into place" is that, if they can fall into, they can fall out too. Get kicked around, hoovered up, blown away and scattered. Like dust in the wind, or some other crap song lyrics.
Now being with Billy is much less quieting.
Dom stands in Billy's kitchen, a guest, an adopted uncle, counting Jack's toes again just to be certain they're still all there, even though his birth has passed into birthdays.
"Has one fallen off yet?" Ali asks over the rim of her cup.
"Not yet."
"Oh, that's good."
Billy smiles for her.
"But," Dom says, wiggling another toe. "This little piggy went to the slaughterhouse, which is why your daddy's breakfast tastes so good."
Jack giggles, possibly because Dom's tongue is sticking out and his eyes are crossing, and less because of what he says. But he'll grow to appreciate his humor, Dom's sure.
"When are you gonna have kids of your own, Dom?” Billy says, turning away from the stove. “I ask this out of concern for the mental stability of my boy, and not in a mother-in-law type way, mind you."
"What, me?" Dom scratches the back of his neck.
"Well, with Evi's help. Most likely." Billy rests his back against the jutting angle of the refrigerator.
Dom turns. "By 'kids' you of course mean baby goats."
"Ah, the pitter patter of little cloven feet."
"Are you saying I'd give birth to the Devil's spawn?"
"Again, with Evi's help, yes."
While Billy smirks at him, Dom darts forward and steals a still-sizzling piece of bacon from the plate beside him on the counter, narrowly missing a smack from the spatula in Billy's hand. He munches it down by the safety of Jack's chair, mouth only partially closed, noisy. Dom knows it's a bad influence on the boy, who emulates him more than he emulates his own dad.
"I don't think now's the right time to start," Dom says around a final swallow.
"Well, no, you two ought to be in the same time zone," Billy says.
"That's not what I meant," Dom begins. But what he means to say he can't say here, can't say in front of Jack or Ali. He can make jokes, he can be quiet and comfortably so, all morning into afternoon into evening, just sharing their space. But it doesn't change the fact that he's sharing it. That he can't tell Billy what he means to say at all, even when they're alone in a room. That Ali's still there, always there. A silent moderator, translating their language into broken English.
So Dom says what I mean is with a deliberately absent finger along the back of Jack's chair.
And he says I remember you with a glance so brief only Billy would know it's too brief, would know that not catching his eyes is Dom's way of catching all of him.
The way Dom touches the handle of his cup says and I can't forget.
Everything Dom doesn't say is so loud in the room, he doesn't know how Ali can't hear.
When she leaves, takes Jack for his bath, the words still echo in Dom's ears. He stares at his own reflection in the window, sliced through with the wind-cut rain. Billy does the dishes and Dom takes them from his pruned fingertips, drying them with the terry cloth towel that brushes over Billy's wrist and forearm the way Dom's own fingers once did, years ago, pruned from sweat and other wetness that wasn't dishwater. He envies the dishtowel, envies the jeans that hang around Billy's waist where Dom cannot, envies the shirt collar that circles clavicles Dom once circled with his tongue. He envies the water that dries out Billy's skin and the cupboard that gives his hip a place to rest. But he won't envy Ali, and he won't envy Jack. He knows what it is to love Billy, and won't deny anyone that.
But it's hard to deny himself. When they're done, and everything's put away, there's still so much to be said. But Dom says nothing, just: if you want with his body close alongside Billy, and later with his fingers barely tugging a string at the base of Billy's shirt, and I'll be waiting in my room with the backs of his nails pressing the seam into the side of Billy's leg. I'll be quiet he adds with a fluttering touch to his own throat, falling under his Adam's apple, and bites his lip when he has Billy's eye.
He leaves the kitchen, not waiting to hear what Billy might say, not waiting to hear what he doesn't.
That night, Dom's door stays shut. Not shut, but stopped from opening. He could turn the knob and pull it wide or leave a thin crack, thin as a whisper, and it would still be there. A barrier blocking, a threshold uncrossed. There are footsteps creaking the floor, and a familiar sigh down the hall. Billy goes to his room, the one he tucks Jack into, the one he shares with Ali. And later, though very much later, Dom will sleep. And he'll dream of a woman who loves him, somewhere across the vast oceans and a continent between. And he'll dream of a man whose love is beyond distance and travel, not through a thin wall, but through the thicker space of time that weighs heavy on your tongue and lays heavy on your heart.
But tonight, it will be fine. For a while.
This fic was significantly inspired by Leonard Cohen's song: "Tonight Will Be Fine." Or, more specifically, by Teddy Thompson's cover of it.