A True Gentleman
Title: A True Gentleman (6/?)
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: PG-NC17
Warnings: AU, angst, art geekery
Summary: Uni fic.
The end bell rang, and Billy blinked as Prof. Boyens stopped the DVD they’d been watching. Billy had seen it already, and had been trying to use the time to catch up on some grading, but he’d become distracted in the documentary anyway, leaning cheek on hand as he took in the geometry and the majesty of France’s Renaissance Gothic architecture, the differences between the various regions, from Champagne to Loire to the Midi-Pyrenées, the unbelievable interior paintings he so longed to see in person one day.
“Professor,” he called as the classroom cleared out, digging through all the papers in his briefcase before he found the bound report he was looking for, handing it over to her. “’S the essay on influential seventeenth century architects. Inigo Jones, this time around.”
She flipped through the pages, her brows knitting, “Billy, this isn’t due for weeks yet.”
“I know.”
She sighed, looking at him with that motherly sort of worry. “Are you sure you’re not spreading yourself too thin?”
“No, I can do it,” he insisted. “I just… If I finish coursework within the month, I can spend time preparing for Quals, and get them out of the way almost on the same timeline as I originally planned before my gran died. Once I’m ABD, everything will be smooth sailing.” He tried for a confident smile.
“Yes, but you’re trying to fit four or five months worth of work into one,” she said.
“It’s only three classes,” he insisted. “And research.”
“And you’re working,” she fired back, putting a hand on his shoulder and shaking her head, “There aren’t that many students here holding down two jobs, a TA position and trying to finish off a PhD, you know.”
“Well, they aren’t me, either,” Billy remarked with a grin, even though that very thing irked the hell out of him. Boyens was one of his favorite professors, not least because she taught the Renaissance courses and was just as enthusiastic about them as he was, but she didn’t understand his work ethic. “I can do it. I arranged it all with Mort and the committee. It’s only crazy for another month or so.”
“Alright,” she said, gesturing with the report in her hand. “I’ll see if my TA can get this graded for you in a decent timeframe. Don’t work so hard, though, hm? It’s college, you know, you’re allowed to have a little fun.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” he muttered, hitching up his rucksack and making his way out. He knew she meant well, but he’d been pounding through this semester’s work, most of which he’d done once already, the last three courses his needed in order to start writing his dissertation in earnest and get that big step closer to moving back home and getting a real job in a museum someday. That would be fun.
Thursdays were his favorite day, as he only had HAA 129 class to sit through (Mort only made him teach on alternate Mondays and Tuesdays) and Boyen’s Renaissance Architecture and Western Influence, after which he had several hours worth of solid free time before he went to work for the evening. Time in which he was usually his most productive, grinding through coursework, Mort's shitwork, studying, and fine-tuning his proposal to a point where not a single letter was out of place. Even with Dominic around with his fidgeting and inane questions, he normally got a fair amount done.
“Bill,” Mort’s voice called through his office door as Billy shuffled by, gesturing him in. “Have you checked your email today?”
“Not since the morning,” Billy entered Mort’s office and slipped his bag off to the floor beside the chair. “Why?”
Mort closed the office door behind him and shifted through the papers on his desk. Finding the one he was looking for, he sat down opposite Billy, looking over the paper again before handing it across the desk. “We’ve got a little hiccup, here. I’m sure you’ve got a duplicate of this in your inbox.”
Billy took the paper, a printout of an email, his heart dropping through the floor as his eyes skittered over words like applicant, Doctorate, incomplete and cannot be approved.
“What is this?” Billy murmured, “Professor? They don’t mean…They can’t mean…”
“Now, don’t get upset,” Mort held up a pacifying hand, “It’s probably just a mistake. There’s some question about the incompletes from last semester that should have been taken off your record. The committee just got wind of it.”
“But I wrote the committee myself, I explained the situation,” Billy stuttered, his voice rising, “They know I’m retaking those classes, the incompletes are meant to be stricken, you said-”
“I know what I said. Just calm down,” Mort interrupted, too calmly for the rising panic in Billy’s gut, “It’s a mistake, and trust me, I am looking into it. It might not be anything but a simple clerical error.”
“A clerical error?” Billy nearly squeaked, “My fucking doctorate is on the line because some idiot office assistant checked the wrong fucking box? How can you expect me to calm down!”
He glanced down at the print again, looking for an anomaly, a joke, and not finding one. It said the same thing he feared he’d misunderstood, that the committee would not formally approve the date for his exam and proposal because of the incompletes still on his record. Classes he was retaking specifically to avoid this problem, and working through the syllabi at an accelerated pace ahead of the other students in order to meet his deadline. Never mind that he’d had to pay another semester’s non-resident tuition to do it. “But I’m this close to being done with everything. I’ve had that proposal nearly ready since last semester-you’ve read it. They can’t do this to me, not now…” He slumped into the chair across from the professor.
“I know,” Mort rubbed his forehead and sighed, “I’ve already sent emails out to everyone I can think of to correct this, and I’ve tried to reach the committee chair by phone, but only got her voicemail. It’s a mistake, and we’ll just have to fix it.”
“What should I do?” Billy asked blindly, “What can I do? Who should I call, what-”
“I’ve already done whatever I could. There’s not a lot to do but wait, I’m afraid,” Mort shook his head. “Go to your professors. Have them confirm in writing that those courses are being retaken and your current grades in them. That should help. If we have to get a meeting with someone, I’ll let you know.”
Billy blinked and then gave a hysterical giggle, “Fucking Christ. Why are you doing this to me?”
“Hey. I’m on your side, Bill,” Mort shook his head. “I don’t know what else to tell you. The committee members’ emails are there, write them yourself, if you want. But they won’t take well to anything less than tight-assed formality, you know that. Go home, get some sleep, and then tackle it in the morning when you’ve calmed down. It isn’t the end of the world.”
“No, just the end of mine,” Billy quipped with little humor.
Mort sighed, “We’ll work it out.” There was a knock on the door, a student peering anxiously through the half-closed blinds. “We’ll talk more in your next session, alright? Next week. By then this might even be smoothed over.”
“Right,” Billy snorted with bitter sarcasm, “On the swift wings of university organization.”
Billy’s rucksack pressed down on him with a new weight as he left the office, stunned, enraged, terrified. He’d spent all this time working so hard, years and ridiculous amounts of money, and now someone was having a joke at his expense.
“Oi, there you are,” called a very familiar voice, the sound of feet jogging to catch up to him.
Billy groaned, “Oh, Christ, just kill me now.”
“Lamont’s open again, did you see?” Dom grinned, “I have a couple of chapters to read and a worksheet to finish, but after that I can type something up or whatever, if you want me to.”
“Not today, Dom.”
“No?” Dom pushed open the door to a stiff frigid breeze, holding it open for Billy, “Hey, I was thinking, we can go to my house. I promise I’ll get Orli and Lij to fuck off. They may not even be there. I want to show you some of my-”
“Not today, okay?” Billy stopped, glaring at Dom’s stupid earnest mug, and his anger boiled over. “Who is it you know that works in the offices, eh? How much did you pay them to go into my record and fuck up my entire life?”
The cheek dropped right off Dom’s face, “What?”
Billy strode off, heading for his house rather than the library, shaking his head.
“What are you talking about? Bills, what happened?” Dom caught up again, matching Billy’s pace.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” Dom said promptly, “Tell me. Whatever it is, I don’t think I had anything to do with it.”
“Someone decided I’ve been wasting all my fucking time and money here. How’s that for hilarious, Dominic? Now go away.”
Dom stared at him through several paces. “Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?” Billy exploded, glaring hotly at him before striding onward, “Get the fuck away from me, I can’t deal with you. Not today.”
He left Dom standing frozen on the sidewalk, and was glad the bastard listened for once.
Dom switched the case of beer to his other hand and shifted on his feet outside the ivy covered Victorian. He was pushing his luck and he knew it, inviting himself over when Billy clearly was in a mood and had already told him to fuck off more than once. Worst case scenario, he’d get the same response, so he strode round to the back and down the stairwell, tapping out shave and a haircut with his free hand.
It took a minute for Billy to crack the door. When he saw who it was, he drew an aggravated breath and clenched his jaw.
“Don’t yell at me yet, I brought you beer,” Dom said before Billy could start, smiling sweetly.
“Dominic,” Billy said tightly, pulling the door open a little more. “I can’t do this today.”
“We don’t have to study, then, let’s just have a drink and verbally abuse whoever deserves it,” Dom lifted the case of Killian’s as a peace offering. “I’ll take whatever side you’re on, I promise.”
Billy’s eyes dropped to the case for a moment, shifting the door back and forth on its squeaky hinge, then he pushed it open and strode back into the room, rubbing the back of his damp hair with a threadbare towel.
Dom followed, eyes skirting up Billy’s back, clad in a fitted white under-vest; he’d obviously just come out of the shower. He could see now that under all those silly sweater vests and dress shirts, Billy had fantastic shoulders and upper arms, not purposefully sculpted but still built, probably from lugging that ridiculous rucksack full of books. Their broadness only accentuated his slender little waist, disappearing into tracksuit bottoms.
But to Dom’s dismay, he quickly pulled on a shapeless oversized sweatshirt emblazoned with a faded and peeling Glasgow University emblem and tucked the threadbare towel back over the bar in the bathroom. He came back to the ironing board set up in the tight space between the sofa and the kitchenette, where he was spreading out a white dress shirt to be ironed. Behind him hung a pair of black dress slacks.
Dom busied himself putting the beer in the fridge, and cracking two to bring to the living room. “What’s with the fancy get-up?” he asked, quirking up a corner of his mouth, “Got a hot date tonight?”
Billy’s eyes darted briefly up at him as he huffed, inadvertently putting a crease where he didn’t want one. “Yeah, with my $3.25 an hour.”
“Where’s that?”
“Morton’s.”
“Oh yeah? The Back Bay one?”
Billy nodded.
“We go there with the Greeks and GSA sometimes. I’ve never seen you there.”
“Don’t know why,” Billy said, struggling to straighten the shirt out one-handed to press the collar properly, “I might as well kip there.”
Dom watched him for a moment. “Only a few times a week though, right?”
“Every night but Saturday,” Billy said crisply, the iron spitting water on the sleeve he’d just done.
“Let me do that,” Dom offered, holding out one of the bottles to him, “You’re making a mess of it.”
Billy snorted, fussing again with the collar.
“Mate, I know how to iron a shirt, alright?” Dom laughed, “I’m probably better at it than you. In fact, I know I am, give it here.”
“By all means, then,” Billy set the iron down and reached for the beer, gesturing to the board, “You can do my trousers as well. I fucking hate ironing.”
“Who doesn’t?” Dom grinned, switching places, fiddling with the settings on the press and straightening the shirt out properly. Billy flopped down on the couch and flicked on the telly, finding only early news and game shows on the few channels he got.
“So, what is it, Bills,” Dom tried quietly after some minutes ironing. “What put your shorts all in a twist today?”
Billy gave a heavy sigh and took a long swallow from his bottle, pulling his briefcase toward him and eyeballing the stack of ungraded discussion worksheets in it disdainfully. “The death of my academic career. Death by student office assistant.” He gave a bitter humorless laugh, closing his eyes for a moment and pressing the bottle to his forehead.
Dom flipped the shirt to the back and looked up, waiting for Billy to elaborate.
“The committee won’t approve my dissertation proposal because I had incompletes last semester, when I had to leave. I’m retaking those courses, obviously, but the incompletes are still fucking there.” Billy slid farther down against the sofa arm, looking completely defeated now, “They shouldn’t be, but they are.”
“That’s shite,” Dom said, “If you’re retaking them, it should all be square.”
Abruptly a knock sounded at the door, and Billy lifted his head from the cushion looking very confused. Dom worked the finished shirt onto a hanger quickly, “That’s for me, hang on.”
He went to the door, accepting a carrier bag and divvying out a few extra bills from his wallet for the delivery boy. Shutting the door, he plunked the bag on the coffee table in front of Billy. “I didn’t know if you liked Thai, so I got Vietnamese too. It’s milder, if you don’t like it spicy.”
“Dom, what is this?” Billy asked, now standing dumbly between the couch and the coffee table.
“Dinner,” Dom grinned as he pulled out cartons. “I phoned it in before I got here. I figured if you kicked me out you’d still get a free meal out of me. You haven’t eaten, right?”
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“You’re right, I didn’t,” Dom grinned, pushing Billy back down on the sofa, stripping the plastic from a pair of chopsticks and hand them to him. “Dig in, Bills. It’s the best Thai in town.”
Billy’s eyes grew round as Dom opened the steaming cartons and finally gave in, eating like a horse while Dom ironed out the black dress trousers and folded them neatly over the hanger when he finished. He brought out two more bottles and settled in to a couple of cartons himself, degrading Harvard’s politics and shoddy office practices while the food was consumed and the telly cycled through a sitcom. Soon, a forest of empty food cartons littered Billy’s secondhand coffee table and the conversation turned and turned again.
“See, I just don’t get your quasi-prep look, that’s all,” Dom was saying. “I mean, you dress like you pay attention to what you put on in the morning, which is more than some guys do, by the way. But at the same time it just looks like you’re trying too hard to be the collegiate wunderkind.”
“Really,” Billy smirked, cracking another beer and resting it on his full belly. “Enlighten me then, with your clearly sublime fashion sense, Dominic, what do you think I should wear that would make me appear to be less of a card carrying geek than I am?”
Dom looked at him, taking a gulp of his own beer, then shrugged, “Sometimes less is more, my friend. You don’t have to look like an old-fashioned golfer. Plain old comfy Levi’s are a good start. You could wear t-shirts over thermals if it’s cold, or a nice button down shirt in a dark color.”
Billy scrunched up his nose. “Dark colors?”
“Yeah,” Dom encouraged. “You’re fair, you know, you’re a bit ginger”-Billy shot him a look for that-“I’m just point out facts, man. Boyd is Gaelic for fair after all, so you weren’t the postman’s kid. Fair people look good in bold colors. You’d certainly catch the girls’ attention. They go all wet in the knickers over your accent anyway, but you throw them all off course with how much of a dork you are.”
“M’not really after the girls’ attention,” Billy muttered, staring at the telly and taking another long pull on his beer. He tucked the bottle between his thighs and rolled his head on the back of the sofa to look at Dom. “That’s what you want to hear, eh?”
Dom’s mouth hitched up at a corner and he took another swig himself. “You coming out, then?”
“Was I ever in?” Billy made a silly pfft noise, turning back to the TV. “No. M’not after anything. I don’t have time. Never had time.”
Dom stared at the telly himself. The confirmation had him mentally congratulating himself for finally managing to crush on a bloke who might at least appreciate the attention, although this particular one was just about as unlikely as the rest to return it. But he arched his brows as he processed Billy’s words. “Never had time? Did I hear you right, mate?”
Billy blinked at him, a flare of the old vitriol crossing his features that he’d let such a secret slip. He huffed a hard-edged laugh, “There you go, then, another wee anecdote to have a laugh with your lads about. Boyd had to work his way up to get here, Boyd shops at the bargain bin, Boyd’s a thirty year old virgin, ha ha, it’s funny. Laugh it up, Dom, go on.”
Dom looked back at him. “I’m not laughing,” he said quietly.
Billy glared back, full of distrust and dislike once again. He tsked and brought his beer to his lips, looking back at the telly.
Dom plucked up a pair of chopsticks and the rest of his spicy chicken and rice, scooping up another several bites, trying to digest this. Billy could be fucking with him. Really, he was a complete nerd, a genius, a bit obsessive compulsive and just so square, but he was still a man, and men have needs, whichever team they play for. That he could actually still be a virgin was intimidating, nearly enough to turn Dom right off.
“You’ve been stateside too long, Bills,” He said, scraping the bottom of the carton to collect the rest of the sticky rice.
“How d’you figure?”
“I don’t take the piss out of you because you’re easy to pick on, you know, and neither does anyone else,” Dom clarified. “You know we’re all a bit jealous.”
Billy snorted, his eyes still on the sitcom.
“We are, man,” Dom sat back, turning to look at him, “I mean you’re Prof Mort’s favorite, you’re smart as fuck-all, you know the material back to front. I wouldn’t keep on your arse if I didn’t like you a little bit. You just need some people skills.”
“Look, I don’t really need a pep talk, alright?” Billy grumbled. “You and I, we study together. We aren’t mates, and we’re not likely to be. So let’s just… leave it there, okay?” He stood, glancing at the clock in the kitchen and stripping off the sweatshirt again, shrugging into the shirt Dom had so nicely pressed earlier. “I’ve got to go to work.”
Dom nodded, nesting up the empty cartons as Billy folded up the ironing board and wrangled it into the tiny space by the fridge. Billy muttered an awkward thank you for the food and beer as he saw Dom out the door. Dom dumped the cartons in one of the bins and strode to his car, rubbing his hands in the cold. He had half a mind to go across the river to Mortons, but that would definitely be pushing his luck.
Back at home, he entered the loft to Elijah’s music filling the entire flat, grabbed another beer from the kitchen and headed up to his bedroom, dropping his bookbag and flopping onto the bed. The volume went down abruptly, and Elijah appeared in his doorway a few moments later.
“Another hard day with the librarian, huh?” he grinned, leaning in the threshold. Dom nodded. He hadn’t told Lij or Orli that he’d been to Billy’s house. Elijah strode in, poking at Dom’s design project with stubby fingers. “Why are you still doing this with him?”
“Mort wants me to,” Dom gave him a canned answer, to which Elijah quirked an eyebrow. He knew him too well to know that even if someone told Dom to do something he’d make the decision whether to do it or not on his own. Dom shrugged taking another gulp and wiping his lip on a knuckle, “He keeps me focused. I get shit done when I work with him, at least.”
Elijah wandered over casually, sitting crossed-legged on the foot of Dom’s bed. “Orlando not here?” Dom asked, and Lij nodded, crawling up to lie beside him.
Dom also knew Elijah too well. He waited, pulling off the bottle now and then as Elijah’s eyes crawled over him, occasionally reaching out to touch the muscles in his arm or brush over the tendons in his hand. Sometimes, Elijah would be bold enough to cuddle up, push his nose into Dom’s shirt and inhale. Once, they’d made out a little bit until, flushed and hard, Lij abruptly ran off to his room, presumably to bring himself off in private. Today Elijah just lay there exploring exposed skin until he sighed, ruffled Dom’s hair, took a pull of his bottle and left.
It had been this way since Elijah had moved in with him and Orlando, these occasional bouts Elijah went through. Dom let him and called it progress, Elijah trying like hell to work out who he was and not who his family expected him to be. Dom had long since stopped pursuing him, like all the guys he’d gone for and been rejected.
It had started in the SAE house when Dom had, yet again, assumed the wrong thing and been punched so hard his eye was blacked for a month, among the more extreme of reactions under his belt. Surprisingly, Elijah had not been one who simply avoided him at all costs afterward, but had continued to provoke confrontation with any number of bigoted statements to which Dom easily mouthed him down, and somewhere in this extended machismo match, Elijah’d become a friend, even though it had taken him ages to realize Dom would never so much as touch him again. That ball was in Elijah’s court, and he didn’t think the kid would ever really go for it, he’d just keep to the women he often brought home, mining from the friends of Orlando’s girl or the ones in their photography class. Dom had lines to several guys he often slept with casually, arrangements that were purely fun, but nothing more than that. Not people he really wanted to know more about or make time for, in a platonic sense or otherwise.
He and Billy had spent two hours simply eating and talking, and the more Billy had eaten and talked, the more human he had become, from the miserable bastard who had answered the door to the one who had somewhat awkwardly thanked him for buying him Thai.
He smiled, draining the beer. Billy had in the space of an hour, told him unceremoniously to fuck right off, then invited him in for nothing more than beer, food and someone to unload the weight of the world on, without worksheets, that clunky laptop, those reading glasses and a red pen in between them. Billy had, in a roundabout sort of way, given Dom a little of that time he insisted he never had.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: PG-NC17
Warnings: AU, angst, art geekery
Summary: Uni fic.
The end bell rang, and Billy blinked as Prof. Boyens stopped the DVD they’d been watching. Billy had seen it already, and had been trying to use the time to catch up on some grading, but he’d become distracted in the documentary anyway, leaning cheek on hand as he took in the geometry and the majesty of France’s Renaissance Gothic architecture, the differences between the various regions, from Champagne to Loire to the Midi-Pyrenées, the unbelievable interior paintings he so longed to see in person one day.
“Professor,” he called as the classroom cleared out, digging through all the papers in his briefcase before he found the bound report he was looking for, handing it over to her. “’S the essay on influential seventeenth century architects. Inigo Jones, this time around.”
She flipped through the pages, her brows knitting, “Billy, this isn’t due for weeks yet.”
“I know.”
She sighed, looking at him with that motherly sort of worry. “Are you sure you’re not spreading yourself too thin?”
“No, I can do it,” he insisted. “I just… If I finish coursework within the month, I can spend time preparing for Quals, and get them out of the way almost on the same timeline as I originally planned before my gran died. Once I’m ABD, everything will be smooth sailing.” He tried for a confident smile.
“Yes, but you’re trying to fit four or five months worth of work into one,” she said.
“It’s only three classes,” he insisted. “And research.”
“And you’re working,” she fired back, putting a hand on his shoulder and shaking her head, “There aren’t that many students here holding down two jobs, a TA position and trying to finish off a PhD, you know.”
“Well, they aren’t me, either,” Billy remarked with a grin, even though that very thing irked the hell out of him. Boyens was one of his favorite professors, not least because she taught the Renaissance courses and was just as enthusiastic about them as he was, but she didn’t understand his work ethic. “I can do it. I arranged it all with Mort and the committee. It’s only crazy for another month or so.”
“Alright,” she said, gesturing with the report in her hand. “I’ll see if my TA can get this graded for you in a decent timeframe. Don’t work so hard, though, hm? It’s college, you know, you’re allowed to have a little fun.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” he muttered, hitching up his rucksack and making his way out. He knew she meant well, but he’d been pounding through this semester’s work, most of which he’d done once already, the last three courses his needed in order to start writing his dissertation in earnest and get that big step closer to moving back home and getting a real job in a museum someday. That would be fun.
Thursdays were his favorite day, as he only had HAA 129 class to sit through (Mort only made him teach on alternate Mondays and Tuesdays) and Boyen’s Renaissance Architecture and Western Influence, after which he had several hours worth of solid free time before he went to work for the evening. Time in which he was usually his most productive, grinding through coursework, Mort's shitwork, studying, and fine-tuning his proposal to a point where not a single letter was out of place. Even with Dominic around with his fidgeting and inane questions, he normally got a fair amount done.
“Bill,” Mort’s voice called through his office door as Billy shuffled by, gesturing him in. “Have you checked your email today?”
“Not since the morning,” Billy entered Mort’s office and slipped his bag off to the floor beside the chair. “Why?”
Mort closed the office door behind him and shifted through the papers on his desk. Finding the one he was looking for, he sat down opposite Billy, looking over the paper again before handing it across the desk. “We’ve got a little hiccup, here. I’m sure you’ve got a duplicate of this in your inbox.”
Billy took the paper, a printout of an email, his heart dropping through the floor as his eyes skittered over words like applicant, Doctorate, incomplete and cannot be approved.
“What is this?” Billy murmured, “Professor? They don’t mean…They can’t mean…”
“Now, don’t get upset,” Mort held up a pacifying hand, “It’s probably just a mistake. There’s some question about the incompletes from last semester that should have been taken off your record. The committee just got wind of it.”
“But I wrote the committee myself, I explained the situation,” Billy stuttered, his voice rising, “They know I’m retaking those classes, the incompletes are meant to be stricken, you said-”
“I know what I said. Just calm down,” Mort interrupted, too calmly for the rising panic in Billy’s gut, “It’s a mistake, and trust me, I am looking into it. It might not be anything but a simple clerical error.”
“A clerical error?” Billy nearly squeaked, “My fucking doctorate is on the line because some idiot office assistant checked the wrong fucking box? How can you expect me to calm down!”
He glanced down at the print again, looking for an anomaly, a joke, and not finding one. It said the same thing he feared he’d misunderstood, that the committee would not formally approve the date for his exam and proposal because of the incompletes still on his record. Classes he was retaking specifically to avoid this problem, and working through the syllabi at an accelerated pace ahead of the other students in order to meet his deadline. Never mind that he’d had to pay another semester’s non-resident tuition to do it. “But I’m this close to being done with everything. I’ve had that proposal nearly ready since last semester-you’ve read it. They can’t do this to me, not now…” He slumped into the chair across from the professor.
“I know,” Mort rubbed his forehead and sighed, “I’ve already sent emails out to everyone I can think of to correct this, and I’ve tried to reach the committee chair by phone, but only got her voicemail. It’s a mistake, and we’ll just have to fix it.”
“What should I do?” Billy asked blindly, “What can I do? Who should I call, what-”
“I’ve already done whatever I could. There’s not a lot to do but wait, I’m afraid,” Mort shook his head. “Go to your professors. Have them confirm in writing that those courses are being retaken and your current grades in them. That should help. If we have to get a meeting with someone, I’ll let you know.”
Billy blinked and then gave a hysterical giggle, “Fucking Christ. Why are you doing this to me?”
“Hey. I’m on your side, Bill,” Mort shook his head. “I don’t know what else to tell you. The committee members’ emails are there, write them yourself, if you want. But they won’t take well to anything less than tight-assed formality, you know that. Go home, get some sleep, and then tackle it in the morning when you’ve calmed down. It isn’t the end of the world.”
“No, just the end of mine,” Billy quipped with little humor.
Mort sighed, “We’ll work it out.” There was a knock on the door, a student peering anxiously through the half-closed blinds. “We’ll talk more in your next session, alright? Next week. By then this might even be smoothed over.”
“Right,” Billy snorted with bitter sarcasm, “On the swift wings of university organization.”
Billy’s rucksack pressed down on him with a new weight as he left the office, stunned, enraged, terrified. He’d spent all this time working so hard, years and ridiculous amounts of money, and now someone was having a joke at his expense.
“Oi, there you are,” called a very familiar voice, the sound of feet jogging to catch up to him.
Billy groaned, “Oh, Christ, just kill me now.”
“Lamont’s open again, did you see?” Dom grinned, “I have a couple of chapters to read and a worksheet to finish, but after that I can type something up or whatever, if you want me to.”
“Not today, Dom.”
“No?” Dom pushed open the door to a stiff frigid breeze, holding it open for Billy, “Hey, I was thinking, we can go to my house. I promise I’ll get Orli and Lij to fuck off. They may not even be there. I want to show you some of my-”
“Not today, okay?” Billy stopped, glaring at Dom’s stupid earnest mug, and his anger boiled over. “Who is it you know that works in the offices, eh? How much did you pay them to go into my record and fuck up my entire life?”
The cheek dropped right off Dom’s face, “What?”
Billy strode off, heading for his house rather than the library, shaking his head.
“What are you talking about? Bills, what happened?” Dom caught up again, matching Billy’s pace.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” Dom said promptly, “Tell me. Whatever it is, I don’t think I had anything to do with it.”
“Someone decided I’ve been wasting all my fucking time and money here. How’s that for hilarious, Dominic? Now go away.”
Dom stared at him through several paces. “Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?” Billy exploded, glaring hotly at him before striding onward, “Get the fuck away from me, I can’t deal with you. Not today.”
He left Dom standing frozen on the sidewalk, and was glad the bastard listened for once.
Dom switched the case of beer to his other hand and shifted on his feet outside the ivy covered Victorian. He was pushing his luck and he knew it, inviting himself over when Billy clearly was in a mood and had already told him to fuck off more than once. Worst case scenario, he’d get the same response, so he strode round to the back and down the stairwell, tapping out shave and a haircut with his free hand.
It took a minute for Billy to crack the door. When he saw who it was, he drew an aggravated breath and clenched his jaw.
“Don’t yell at me yet, I brought you beer,” Dom said before Billy could start, smiling sweetly.
“Dominic,” Billy said tightly, pulling the door open a little more. “I can’t do this today.”
“We don’t have to study, then, let’s just have a drink and verbally abuse whoever deserves it,” Dom lifted the case of Killian’s as a peace offering. “I’ll take whatever side you’re on, I promise.”
Billy’s eyes dropped to the case for a moment, shifting the door back and forth on its squeaky hinge, then he pushed it open and strode back into the room, rubbing the back of his damp hair with a threadbare towel.
Dom followed, eyes skirting up Billy’s back, clad in a fitted white under-vest; he’d obviously just come out of the shower. He could see now that under all those silly sweater vests and dress shirts, Billy had fantastic shoulders and upper arms, not purposefully sculpted but still built, probably from lugging that ridiculous rucksack full of books. Their broadness only accentuated his slender little waist, disappearing into tracksuit bottoms.
But to Dom’s dismay, he quickly pulled on a shapeless oversized sweatshirt emblazoned with a faded and peeling Glasgow University emblem and tucked the threadbare towel back over the bar in the bathroom. He came back to the ironing board set up in the tight space between the sofa and the kitchenette, where he was spreading out a white dress shirt to be ironed. Behind him hung a pair of black dress slacks.
Dom busied himself putting the beer in the fridge, and cracking two to bring to the living room. “What’s with the fancy get-up?” he asked, quirking up a corner of his mouth, “Got a hot date tonight?”
Billy’s eyes darted briefly up at him as he huffed, inadvertently putting a crease where he didn’t want one. “Yeah, with my $3.25 an hour.”
“Where’s that?”
“Morton’s.”
“Oh yeah? The Back Bay one?”
Billy nodded.
“We go there with the Greeks and GSA sometimes. I’ve never seen you there.”
“Don’t know why,” Billy said, struggling to straighten the shirt out one-handed to press the collar properly, “I might as well kip there.”
Dom watched him for a moment. “Only a few times a week though, right?”
“Every night but Saturday,” Billy said crisply, the iron spitting water on the sleeve he’d just done.
“Let me do that,” Dom offered, holding out one of the bottles to him, “You’re making a mess of it.”
Billy snorted, fussing again with the collar.
“Mate, I know how to iron a shirt, alright?” Dom laughed, “I’m probably better at it than you. In fact, I know I am, give it here.”
“By all means, then,” Billy set the iron down and reached for the beer, gesturing to the board, “You can do my trousers as well. I fucking hate ironing.”
“Who doesn’t?” Dom grinned, switching places, fiddling with the settings on the press and straightening the shirt out properly. Billy flopped down on the couch and flicked on the telly, finding only early news and game shows on the few channels he got.
“So, what is it, Bills,” Dom tried quietly after some minutes ironing. “What put your shorts all in a twist today?”
Billy gave a heavy sigh and took a long swallow from his bottle, pulling his briefcase toward him and eyeballing the stack of ungraded discussion worksheets in it disdainfully. “The death of my academic career. Death by student office assistant.” He gave a bitter humorless laugh, closing his eyes for a moment and pressing the bottle to his forehead.
Dom flipped the shirt to the back and looked up, waiting for Billy to elaborate.
“The committee won’t approve my dissertation proposal because I had incompletes last semester, when I had to leave. I’m retaking those courses, obviously, but the incompletes are still fucking there.” Billy slid farther down against the sofa arm, looking completely defeated now, “They shouldn’t be, but they are.”
“That’s shite,” Dom said, “If you’re retaking them, it should all be square.”
Abruptly a knock sounded at the door, and Billy lifted his head from the cushion looking very confused. Dom worked the finished shirt onto a hanger quickly, “That’s for me, hang on.”
He went to the door, accepting a carrier bag and divvying out a few extra bills from his wallet for the delivery boy. Shutting the door, he plunked the bag on the coffee table in front of Billy. “I didn’t know if you liked Thai, so I got Vietnamese too. It’s milder, if you don’t like it spicy.”
“Dom, what is this?” Billy asked, now standing dumbly between the couch and the coffee table.
“Dinner,” Dom grinned as he pulled out cartons. “I phoned it in before I got here. I figured if you kicked me out you’d still get a free meal out of me. You haven’t eaten, right?”
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“You’re right, I didn’t,” Dom grinned, pushing Billy back down on the sofa, stripping the plastic from a pair of chopsticks and hand them to him. “Dig in, Bills. It’s the best Thai in town.”
Billy’s eyes grew round as Dom opened the steaming cartons and finally gave in, eating like a horse while Dom ironed out the black dress trousers and folded them neatly over the hanger when he finished. He brought out two more bottles and settled in to a couple of cartons himself, degrading Harvard’s politics and shoddy office practices while the food was consumed and the telly cycled through a sitcom. Soon, a forest of empty food cartons littered Billy’s secondhand coffee table and the conversation turned and turned again.
“See, I just don’t get your quasi-prep look, that’s all,” Dom was saying. “I mean, you dress like you pay attention to what you put on in the morning, which is more than some guys do, by the way. But at the same time it just looks like you’re trying too hard to be the collegiate wunderkind.”
“Really,” Billy smirked, cracking another beer and resting it on his full belly. “Enlighten me then, with your clearly sublime fashion sense, Dominic, what do you think I should wear that would make me appear to be less of a card carrying geek than I am?”
Dom looked at him, taking a gulp of his own beer, then shrugged, “Sometimes less is more, my friend. You don’t have to look like an old-fashioned golfer. Plain old comfy Levi’s are a good start. You could wear t-shirts over thermals if it’s cold, or a nice button down shirt in a dark color.”
Billy scrunched up his nose. “Dark colors?”
“Yeah,” Dom encouraged. “You’re fair, you know, you’re a bit ginger”-Billy shot him a look for that-“I’m just point out facts, man. Boyd is Gaelic for fair after all, so you weren’t the postman’s kid. Fair people look good in bold colors. You’d certainly catch the girls’ attention. They go all wet in the knickers over your accent anyway, but you throw them all off course with how much of a dork you are.”
“M’not really after the girls’ attention,” Billy muttered, staring at the telly and taking another long pull on his beer. He tucked the bottle between his thighs and rolled his head on the back of the sofa to look at Dom. “That’s what you want to hear, eh?”
Dom’s mouth hitched up at a corner and he took another swig himself. “You coming out, then?”
“Was I ever in?” Billy made a silly pfft noise, turning back to the TV. “No. M’not after anything. I don’t have time. Never had time.”
Dom stared at the telly himself. The confirmation had him mentally congratulating himself for finally managing to crush on a bloke who might at least appreciate the attention, although this particular one was just about as unlikely as the rest to return it. But he arched his brows as he processed Billy’s words. “Never had time? Did I hear you right, mate?”
Billy blinked at him, a flare of the old vitriol crossing his features that he’d let such a secret slip. He huffed a hard-edged laugh, “There you go, then, another wee anecdote to have a laugh with your lads about. Boyd had to work his way up to get here, Boyd shops at the bargain bin, Boyd’s a thirty year old virgin, ha ha, it’s funny. Laugh it up, Dom, go on.”
Dom looked back at him. “I’m not laughing,” he said quietly.
Billy glared back, full of distrust and dislike once again. He tsked and brought his beer to his lips, looking back at the telly.
Dom plucked up a pair of chopsticks and the rest of his spicy chicken and rice, scooping up another several bites, trying to digest this. Billy could be fucking with him. Really, he was a complete nerd, a genius, a bit obsessive compulsive and just so square, but he was still a man, and men have needs, whichever team they play for. That he could actually still be a virgin was intimidating, nearly enough to turn Dom right off.
“You’ve been stateside too long, Bills,” He said, scraping the bottom of the carton to collect the rest of the sticky rice.
“How d’you figure?”
“I don’t take the piss out of you because you’re easy to pick on, you know, and neither does anyone else,” Dom clarified. “You know we’re all a bit jealous.”
Billy snorted, his eyes still on the sitcom.
“We are, man,” Dom sat back, turning to look at him, “I mean you’re Prof Mort’s favorite, you’re smart as fuck-all, you know the material back to front. I wouldn’t keep on your arse if I didn’t like you a little bit. You just need some people skills.”
“Look, I don’t really need a pep talk, alright?” Billy grumbled. “You and I, we study together. We aren’t mates, and we’re not likely to be. So let’s just… leave it there, okay?” He stood, glancing at the clock in the kitchen and stripping off the sweatshirt again, shrugging into the shirt Dom had so nicely pressed earlier. “I’ve got to go to work.”
Dom nodded, nesting up the empty cartons as Billy folded up the ironing board and wrangled it into the tiny space by the fridge. Billy muttered an awkward thank you for the food and beer as he saw Dom out the door. Dom dumped the cartons in one of the bins and strode to his car, rubbing his hands in the cold. He had half a mind to go across the river to Mortons, but that would definitely be pushing his luck.
Back at home, he entered the loft to Elijah’s music filling the entire flat, grabbed another beer from the kitchen and headed up to his bedroom, dropping his bookbag and flopping onto the bed. The volume went down abruptly, and Elijah appeared in his doorway a few moments later.
“Another hard day with the librarian, huh?” he grinned, leaning in the threshold. Dom nodded. He hadn’t told Lij or Orli that he’d been to Billy’s house. Elijah strode in, poking at Dom’s design project with stubby fingers. “Why are you still doing this with him?”
“Mort wants me to,” Dom gave him a canned answer, to which Elijah quirked an eyebrow. He knew him too well to know that even if someone told Dom to do something he’d make the decision whether to do it or not on his own. Dom shrugged taking another gulp and wiping his lip on a knuckle, “He keeps me focused. I get shit done when I work with him, at least.”
Elijah wandered over casually, sitting crossed-legged on the foot of Dom’s bed. “Orlando not here?” Dom asked, and Lij nodded, crawling up to lie beside him.
Dom also knew Elijah too well. He waited, pulling off the bottle now and then as Elijah’s eyes crawled over him, occasionally reaching out to touch the muscles in his arm or brush over the tendons in his hand. Sometimes, Elijah would be bold enough to cuddle up, push his nose into Dom’s shirt and inhale. Once, they’d made out a little bit until, flushed and hard, Lij abruptly ran off to his room, presumably to bring himself off in private. Today Elijah just lay there exploring exposed skin until he sighed, ruffled Dom’s hair, took a pull of his bottle and left.
It had been this way since Elijah had moved in with him and Orlando, these occasional bouts Elijah went through. Dom let him and called it progress, Elijah trying like hell to work out who he was and not who his family expected him to be. Dom had long since stopped pursuing him, like all the guys he’d gone for and been rejected.
It had started in the SAE house when Dom had, yet again, assumed the wrong thing and been punched so hard his eye was blacked for a month, among the more extreme of reactions under his belt. Surprisingly, Elijah had not been one who simply avoided him at all costs afterward, but had continued to provoke confrontation with any number of bigoted statements to which Dom easily mouthed him down, and somewhere in this extended machismo match, Elijah’d become a friend, even though it had taken him ages to realize Dom would never so much as touch him again. That ball was in Elijah’s court, and he didn’t think the kid would ever really go for it, he’d just keep to the women he often brought home, mining from the friends of Orlando’s girl or the ones in their photography class. Dom had lines to several guys he often slept with casually, arrangements that were purely fun, but nothing more than that. Not people he really wanted to know more about or make time for, in a platonic sense or otherwise.
He and Billy had spent two hours simply eating and talking, and the more Billy had eaten and talked, the more human he had become, from the miserable bastard who had answered the door to the one who had somewhat awkwardly thanked him for buying him Thai.
He smiled, draining the beer. Billy had in the space of an hour, told him unceremoniously to fuck right off, then invited him in for nothing more than beer, food and someone to unload the weight of the world on, without worksheets, that clunky laptop, those reading glasses and a red pen in between them. Billy had, in a roundabout sort of way, given Dom a little of that time he insisted he never had.
CHAPTER SEVEN