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monaboyd Jun. 16th, 2005 06:10 pm)
glass-moment.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Jun. 16th, 2005 06:10 pm)Title: Promises
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: Character death
Notes: This fic has been growing for quite a while. I'm rather proud of it. Thanks very much to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
laerwen for a being a fantabulous beta!
Billy dreams that he is in a choir. Everyone else has long red robes, but they won't give him one because it doesn't match his complexion. They give him yellow instead, a horrible mustardy color, which doesn't suit him either. He climbs down the risers, which are as tall as a mountain and last forever, in order to complain. When he reaches the bottom the conductor, who is also Sean Bean, turns to him and asks why it matters since no one can see him anyway. He wakes up instantly when the phone rings.
"If I ever write a book, I think I'll dedicate it to you," says Dom, then waits politely for him to collect his thoughts. It takes a considerable amount of time, and even then all he can manage is a gruff sounding,
"The fuck?" Which is actually not that bad, considering it is- he tips his head upside-down to check- 2:36 in the morning.
"If I ever write a book, I think I'll dedicate it to you," Dom repeats.
"You'll never," replies Billy, who is mostly awake by now but not at all willing to admit it.
"Never what? Write a book? Why not? If Sean can do it, so can I- and look at the reaction he got. Bet I'd sell a million times better. Especially if I included a few of these pictures I've been considering."
"You're daft."
"You noticed. C'mon Bills, haven't you always wanted to open a major literary work and see your name right there on the first page? 'For William- always a bastard, but at least he's consistent', or 'For William, who threatened to kill me if I didn't mention him here'?"
"First, there is no way you could ever write a major literary work. Second, no, I haven't, and third, consistency is highly underrated."
"You haven't? How strange. I always have."
Billy lies back and experiments with balancing the phone over his nose.
"I see what this is about," he says, steadying it with a finger when it teeters, "it's all an ill-disguised scheme to get your name in my book. Well, it won't work. I promised myself long ago that if I ever wrote a book it would be dedicated to Mr. Chain, who was my favorite primary school teacher."
"How could you! I was counting on you coming through, you know. Now I've gone and made a promise for nothing!"
"Well, how about this. If I ever win an Oscar, I'll dedicate it to you."
"Yeah, and if I'm ever elected President of the United States I'll mention you in my acceptance speech."
"You can't be elected president."
"Exactly."
"Wanker."
"Mmm."
"It's possible, you know. If I bribed enough people."
"It's a question of your acting ability versus my popularity. Or your finances versus my popularity. Either way, the book's much more likely."
"Go away," says Billy, who isn't paying very much attention to himself, "you're interrupting the plot." This produces a moment of silence.
"I'm what?"
"Interrupting the plot," repeats Billy. "There was this play I did once where the main character kept getting phone calls from his friends, but they would end after half a minute, sort of like, alright, we've established your character, now go away, you're interrupting the plot...never mind."
"Don't worry, I won't. What time is it there, anyway?"
"Late. Early." Billy twists to look, but is arrested by an alarming cracking noise from his neck. He swears.
"What is it?" asks Dom.
"Didn't you hear that?"
"No. Hear what?"
"Nothing."
"Hear what?"
"Fucking nothing! My neck. 'M getting old, Dom."
"I could've told you that."
"I appreciate your sympathy. There is a pause. Billy yawns and snuggles farther under his blankets.
"You wouldn't mind, though, if I really dedicated a book to you?"
"...Where are you, Dom?"
"I'm not drunk, if that's what you mean. I just miss you, yeah?"
Billy sighs. "Yeah," he says.
------------------------------------------
Merry and Pippin, and consequently Dom and Billy, are being separated in under a week. Meddling people intent on making travel plans have ruined the night-before-their-day-off and now they are sulking together over their drinks (Billy's choice) in a club (Elijah's choice).
"I don't think I can do that whole parting scene bit a million times," says Dom, "and you know Pete'll never be satisfied with it. Especially having to be mad at you all day. I may well just give in to your artistically tear-filled eyes after a few hours."
"Always knew you preferred Pippin to me," says Billy sadly, "I could make eyes at you all week and nothing would come of it."
"Well, Pippin is more attractive, with those beautiful curly locks..." The joke falls flat. Dom rests his head on his crossed arms and stares at Billy sideways.
"You're moping," observes Billy.
"So are you." They fall back into silence. After a while, Dom levers himself up and gets them another round. Billy smiles his thanks. "At least we have it better than those poor hobbits," he says, taking both glasses so Dom can slide back into his seat, "they didn't know if they'd ever see each other again, and we've got telephones and a timetable and everything." He hides his fear well behind his words, but Dom understands through the connection that Billy is so afraid they'll lose.
He reaches out and takes Billy's hand, looking him straight in the eyes.
"Hey," he says, "I'm never, ever going to leave you, all right?"
Billy drops his gaze. "Don't make promises you can't keep," he says roughly.
"No, you can't look at it that way. Look at it as...insurance."
"Insurance?"
"Yeah. If I'm going to be here for you, than it means I'll stay alive, at least as long as you do, see? Because I never break my promises."
Billy looks at him for a long moment. Slowly, he begins to smile.
"Come on," he says, squeezing Dom's hand briefly and standing up, "dance with me, Dominic."
---------------------
Billy has never really had anything against birthdays. He is content with his life, for the most part, and doesn't often face new years with the panicky sense that he's been wasting his time on earth, as other people seem to expect. In fact, he's never really minded getting older, just accepted it as another part of life. He has a feeling this philosophy may change when he hits forty. Still, he usually welcomes birthdays. They're a wonderful chance for gifts, after all.
He has always been afraid of turning thirty-six. Thirty-six was the age at which is father died. He remembers only a little of the funeral. It was windy, that much he knows. He can still see his sister's hair whipping wildly about her face, tangled from mixing with the salt of her tears. And he can still hear that voice so clearly, reading one more sentiment-choked remembrance. William Boyd had so much more to give the world. He was only thirty-six.
He has never known who said it, but it has haunted him ever since. Sometimes, usually late at night when it invades his thoughts and then his dreams, it sounds like his own death sentence. On the worst nights, he thinks irrationally that perhaps it is his penance to die young. He is never exactly sure for what, but he knows he is guilty of it just the same.
Several packages grace his doorstep on the morning of (and the week surrounding- his friends are not the most punctual) his birthday. He pads outside in only his pants and blinks at them for a moment. The sunlight goes a long way to putting him at ease, but there is still a little knot of disquiet in the pit of his stomach that it cannot reach. Sighing, he reluctantly goes back inside.
Once his eyes adjust he grabs a scissor and goes to work on his presents. The box from LA, which arrived the day before, is sitting temptingly on his kitchen table. He opens it to reveal a cheap black toupee wrapped in tissue paper and a note. It reads, "Sorry if this joke is wearing thin (pun intended)! Love, Dom and Elijah". Billy tosses it aside with a groan and roots through the packing peanuts. In a second he uncovers his prize- a plastic wrapped tuner, one of the
new kind that clips onto the guitar and reads the vibrations. He grins and is picking up the phone to thank them when another box catches his eye. It has no return address, but the writing on it is immediately familiar.
He reaches for it- may as well open everything before he calls them. A brief battle with the packing tape and a layer of empty egg carton padding reveals a roughly cut wooden circle about a centimeter thick. A simple design is carved in it, obviously be hand, and outlined with grey paint. It consists of a sort of four-edged star with loops instead of points, made up of one unbroken line. Billy peers at it. Confused, he flips it over. The back bears a message, seven simple words in a familiar black sharpie scrawl- an ancient celtic symbol for long life.
Billy traces the design with a finger. The world blurs quietly before his eyes, but he doesn't care.
---------------
When they first meet, Billy notices Dom in this order: hands, ears, eyes, smile. Hands, ears and smile are easy to explain- all are slightly over sized, slightly wacky, distinctive. He isn't exactly sure why Dom's eyes catch his attention. It doesn't particularly concern him.
He's more worried about the nonphysical impression he gets after an hour or two in Dom's company. The kid's funny, yes, and crazy, and passionate, and Billy has a horrible sinking feeling that those are the reasons he was hired. Merry and Pippin are comic relief, but they go a lot deeper than that. Dom doesn't have the experience. He's barely acted, and certainly not in anything like this. And he's so young.
That night Billy goes home (well, back to the hotel) and resigns himself to a fairly miserable shoot. Why, oh why does his supposed best friend have to be the one person he doesn't have confidence in? He would've loved to work with Sean, who is far more on his level (above it, actually- just look at his resume). Or Elijah, who is young enough that it makes him a prodigy instead of a liability. Billy had his doubts- everyone did- but then Elijah slipped briefly into character during an amusing anecdote about his audition and left them all speechless. And of course, Billy is stuck with Dom. Who is...funny. Great.
A few days later, when the enormity of it all begins to set in, Billy has to laugh at his own hypocrisy. Young, inexperienced, and out of his depth describes himself just as well as it does Dom. When they first act together, his world practically tilts. On their first break he systematically calls everyone on his speed dial.
"I was wrong," he tells them happily, "I've never been so wrong in my life." He returns Dom's knowing smile with a full-out grin.
Soon enough he learns to stop assuming things when it comes to Dom, whose hobby is defying expectation.
-------------
When Billy turns sixty, Dom sends him a book. It is hand-bound in some sort of convincing leather substitute, the plain cover revealing nothing. Slowly, he opens it. The first page holds a close-up of joined hands, which he easily recognizes as his and Dom's. Probably Elijah's work, from before his fascination with artsy pictures was dulled by months of starring in one. Underneath the photograph is a crookedly cut piece of lined paper that bears the words, this might really last. Staring at it, Billy realizes that it's been cut out of Dom's journal. He scans the book. It proves to be a haphazard collage of letters, magazines, photos, and computer printouts, pasted together with glue and heavily laminated. He wonders how many journals Dom destroyed for his cause. Very slowly, he turns back to the first page and begins to read.
He hasn't looked at these pictures in years, afraid of the ache that comes with seeing Dom young and healthy and full of life. Now the memories he has locked away come flooding back as he turns page after page, tracing photographs with a fingertip as if by touching them he could maybe find his way back into their world.
Towards the middle of the book a ripped piece of napkin takes up nearly half a page. It has one word- surfing- on it in Billy's own bold handwriting. The following pages are filled with photographs of blurry, indistinguishable figures far out in the waves. The middle of the spread contains close-ups of Viggo's bruise from four different angles, then a series of cast and crew, soaking wet, posing proudly with wetsuits and boards.
The last picture is one he's never seen before. In it Dom is stretched on his back in the sand with Billy draped horizontally next to him, apparently asleep. His head is pillowed on Dom's stomach, arm thrown loosely around his waist. Dom's elbow is crooked over his face for shade and he glares up at the photographer. His eyes clearly say don't you dare disturb us. Billy studies it for a long moment, marveling at Dom's sheer physicality. He'd forgotten the unconscious grace, the hidden power in golden shoulders and arms, and the constant half-wild joy in his eyes. But reality tinges memory with bitterness and suddenly Billy can't stand to look at it any longer. He turns the
page with a violent jerk.
The movement causes a small scrap of paper to flutter out of its place and into Billy's lap. Upon inspection, he finds that it is not a part of the book after all, but rather a message. It says, Never said I had to publish the thing, did I? Only write it.
He turns back to the beginning, knowing what he missed the first time around. On the inside cover there are two words in simple black lettering- for Billy.
---------------
Billy stretches luxuriously and curls his bare toes into the grass. It is dusk and the damp cool of the ground is seeping slowly into his bones. It is unbelievably nice to have his feet be simply his feet again, and he amuses himself with them for a while, twisting them on his ankles and poking the earth, ignoring the corner of his mind that is busily providing him with images of all the little crawling creatures that are quite possibly all over him right now. He walks his left foot sideways (heel, toe, heel, toe) and rests it with the arch fitted comfortably over Dom's shin. Dom turns his head slowly and smiles a little at Billy, stretched out beside him. He looks frighteningly mortal.
"D'you ever feel too small?" Asks Billy. Dom raises an eyebrow. "Not like that. As if...you're too small for everything to fit inside you. Your feelings and opinions and things. And maybe one day you won't be able to hold everything anymore and life will just explode out of you and you'll break into a million pieces or...deflate or something." Billy decides that it's worth the effort to focus his gaze on Dom's face so he can see his reaction, but Dom's expression hasn't changed. He breathes in and out a few times. Billy wonders if the world
switched into slow motion while he was daydreaming.
"Is it easier if you're taller, then?"
"No, I don't think so. Life just kind of expands and fills you up, no matter how tall you are."
"Life as a gas?"
"Mm. Sort of. Not just life, though...everything. It kind of puts pressure on you, from the inside."
Dom tugs at his arm until he grudgingly rolls over into his personal space.
"Fuck you," mutter Billy, but he relaxes gratefully into Dom's embrace.
--------------
Dom calls on Tuesday to say that he's had a relapse and is back in the hospital. His voice is rough and his thoughts meander; Billy is sure that they have him on some kind of drug.
"I'm coming to see you, all right?" he says, smiling sadly at Dom's childlike tone, "I'll be there Sunday. Come entertain you until they let you go home."
"That'd be fantastic, Bills," says Dom, sounding suddenly tired. He pauses, yawns loudly into the phone. "Sorry, mate. It's this drip thing they've got me on. Makes me sleep all the time."
"'S all right. I'll see you later, then?"
"Yeah. See you later."
He dials the airport before he forgets and books a flight for early Saturday. It'll give him a day to find a hotel and cope with the jet lag a little. To prepare himself. He hates Dom in the hospital, he always has. The sight of him so unnaturally fragile makes panic rise in Billy's throat. The chemically sterile environment tastes of metal and fear. He stays anyway, thinking of how much worse it must be to be confined there.
On Friday the phone rings while he's eating lunch.
"Billy?" inquires the voice on the other end of the line. He makes a noise of assent.
"This is Matt. Monaghan. Billy...it's over." He pauses, waiting for a response, then continues. "Dominic passed away on Wednesday. It was sudden. He...he wasn't in very much pain."
"Thank you," says Billy quietly, for he is nothing if not polite, and rings off. He stares at the phone for a long moment. Slowly, mechanically, he dials. There is a long static silence during which he can't quite get enough oxygen. Then Dom's voice clicks into life.
"Hello?" Pause. "Hey! How are you? Just kidding, actually, this is a recording. My mobile's obviously off- that or I'm mad at you. Anyway, leave a message and I may just get back to you."
Billy doesn't leave a message. He numbly dials the number again. And again. Each time there is a pause and then Dom's cheery voice. He doesn't know how long he sits there, dialing and listening, dialing and listening. Perhaps a few minutes. Perhaps an hour. Either way, he's already lost count of how many times he's heard it when it rings twice instead of the usual silence. A tinny female voice comes on the line, informing him that the number is no longer in service.
Slowly, very slowly, Billy lowers the phone from his ear. Then he curls in on himself, sobs wracking his body, echoing thinly in the empty air.
----------------------
When Billy wanders into the trailer Dom is sitting in front of the sofa, leaning against it. The telly is playing rerun footie games with the sound off. Dom is wearing a pair of faded jeans and a t-shirt, scratching idly at his ankle. Billy pauses in the doorway. It's been a long day, but then again all of them are.
"Not going out tonight, then?"
"I don't think so. Not feeling too well." Billy scrunches up his face in sympathy.
"What's wrong? Allergies again?"
"No. I'm fine, physically. It's mentally that's the problem." He offers a rueful half-smile. Billy walks over and nudges at the insides Dom's knees with his foot. When he obediently shifts, Billy settles between his legs, back to Dom's chest. Dom's arms come briefly around him, then let go.
"What's wrong?" he asks quietly. He feels Dom's shrug.
"Dunno." His voice vibrates around Billy's shoulder blades, making him smile. "You ever think that maybe...being too empty is just as bad as being too full?"
They sit in silence for a while. On the telly, someone trips someone else. Billy absently taps a rhythm with his fingertips on Dom's thigh, as if spelling out his thoughts in an unconscious, indecipherable Morse code. Only this is Dom, and he understands Billy in whatever language he might choose to speak. His hand comes up and cups Billy's cheek, turning his head so they are looking at each other.
"We can't, can we?" he whispers. Billy twists, shifts inside the circle of Dom's legs until they are facing each other fully. Dom's breath is coming quick and shallow.
"It doesn't matter," says Billy.
--------------------
Billy never does win an Oscar. The first real acting award he gets comes unexpectedly at a small but prestigious European festival. It honors his first film work after almost twenty years of theatre, the irresistible offer of the lead role in a biography of Ian McKellen pulling him out of semi-retirement. He is sixty-seven years old.
Slowly he makes his way to the front of the room, grinning at the few friends who catch his eye. Someone hands him a microphone and he waits while the applause quickly dims from enthusiastic to polite and then peters away. There, far in the back, he catches the glint of light reflecting off metal and for just a second he swears he can see a familiar, crooked smile. Then the lights change and the cameras swing around and he looses sight of the shadowy figure. Oh, well, he thinks, it's probably the closest I'll get. If he closes his eyes he can almost hear a low, laughing voice agreeing with him.
Billy smiles out over the room, raises the microphone, and says,
"This is for Dominic, who keeps his promises."
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: Character death
Notes: This fic has been growing for quite a while. I'm rather proud of it. Thanks very much to
laerwen for a being a fantabulous beta!Billy dreams that he is in a choir. Everyone else has long red robes, but they won't give him one because it doesn't match his complexion. They give him yellow instead, a horrible mustardy color, which doesn't suit him either. He climbs down the risers, which are as tall as a mountain and last forever, in order to complain. When he reaches the bottom the conductor, who is also Sean Bean, turns to him and asks why it matters since no one can see him anyway. He wakes up instantly when the phone rings.
"If I ever write a book, I think I'll dedicate it to you," says Dom, then waits politely for him to collect his thoughts. It takes a considerable amount of time, and even then all he can manage is a gruff sounding,
"The fuck?" Which is actually not that bad, considering it is- he tips his head upside-down to check- 2:36 in the morning.
"If I ever write a book, I think I'll dedicate it to you," Dom repeats.
"You'll never," replies Billy, who is mostly awake by now but not at all willing to admit it.
"Never what? Write a book? Why not? If Sean can do it, so can I- and look at the reaction he got. Bet I'd sell a million times better. Especially if I included a few of these pictures I've been considering."
"You're daft."
"You noticed. C'mon Bills, haven't you always wanted to open a major literary work and see your name right there on the first page? 'For William- always a bastard, but at least he's consistent', or 'For William, who threatened to kill me if I didn't mention him here'?"
"First, there is no way you could ever write a major literary work. Second, no, I haven't, and third, consistency is highly underrated."
"You haven't? How strange. I always have."
Billy lies back and experiments with balancing the phone over his nose.
"I see what this is about," he says, steadying it with a finger when it teeters, "it's all an ill-disguised scheme to get your name in my book. Well, it won't work. I promised myself long ago that if I ever wrote a book it would be dedicated to Mr. Chain, who was my favorite primary school teacher."
"How could you! I was counting on you coming through, you know. Now I've gone and made a promise for nothing!"
"Well, how about this. If I ever win an Oscar, I'll dedicate it to you."
"Yeah, and if I'm ever elected President of the United States I'll mention you in my acceptance speech."
"You can't be elected president."
"Exactly."
"Wanker."
"Mmm."
"It's possible, you know. If I bribed enough people."
"It's a question of your acting ability versus my popularity. Or your finances versus my popularity. Either way, the book's much more likely."
"Go away," says Billy, who isn't paying very much attention to himself, "you're interrupting the plot." This produces a moment of silence.
"I'm what?"
"Interrupting the plot," repeats Billy. "There was this play I did once where the main character kept getting phone calls from his friends, but they would end after half a minute, sort of like, alright, we've established your character, now go away, you're interrupting the plot...never mind."
"Don't worry, I won't. What time is it there, anyway?"
"Late. Early." Billy twists to look, but is arrested by an alarming cracking noise from his neck. He swears.
"What is it?" asks Dom.
"Didn't you hear that?"
"No. Hear what?"
"Nothing."
"Hear what?"
"Fucking nothing! My neck. 'M getting old, Dom."
"I could've told you that."
"I appreciate your sympathy. There is a pause. Billy yawns and snuggles farther under his blankets.
"You wouldn't mind, though, if I really dedicated a book to you?"
"...Where are you, Dom?"
"I'm not drunk, if that's what you mean. I just miss you, yeah?"
Billy sighs. "Yeah," he says.
------------------------------------------
Merry and Pippin, and consequently Dom and Billy, are being separated in under a week. Meddling people intent on making travel plans have ruined the night-before-their-day-off and now they are sulking together over their drinks (Billy's choice) in a club (Elijah's choice).
"I don't think I can do that whole parting scene bit a million times," says Dom, "and you know Pete'll never be satisfied with it. Especially having to be mad at you all day. I may well just give in to your artistically tear-filled eyes after a few hours."
"Always knew you preferred Pippin to me," says Billy sadly, "I could make eyes at you all week and nothing would come of it."
"Well, Pippin is more attractive, with those beautiful curly locks..." The joke falls flat. Dom rests his head on his crossed arms and stares at Billy sideways.
"You're moping," observes Billy.
"So are you." They fall back into silence. After a while, Dom levers himself up and gets them another round. Billy smiles his thanks. "At least we have it better than those poor hobbits," he says, taking both glasses so Dom can slide back into his seat, "they didn't know if they'd ever see each other again, and we've got telephones and a timetable and everything." He hides his fear well behind his words, but Dom understands through the connection that Billy is so afraid they'll lose.
He reaches out and takes Billy's hand, looking him straight in the eyes.
"Hey," he says, "I'm never, ever going to leave you, all right?"
Billy drops his gaze. "Don't make promises you can't keep," he says roughly.
"No, you can't look at it that way. Look at it as...insurance."
"Insurance?"
"Yeah. If I'm going to be here for you, than it means I'll stay alive, at least as long as you do, see? Because I never break my promises."
Billy looks at him for a long moment. Slowly, he begins to smile.
"Come on," he says, squeezing Dom's hand briefly and standing up, "dance with me, Dominic."
---------------------
Billy has never really had anything against birthdays. He is content with his life, for the most part, and doesn't often face new years with the panicky sense that he's been wasting his time on earth, as other people seem to expect. In fact, he's never really minded getting older, just accepted it as another part of life. He has a feeling this philosophy may change when he hits forty. Still, he usually welcomes birthdays. They're a wonderful chance for gifts, after all.
He has always been afraid of turning thirty-six. Thirty-six was the age at which is father died. He remembers only a little of the funeral. It was windy, that much he knows. He can still see his sister's hair whipping wildly about her face, tangled from mixing with the salt of her tears. And he can still hear that voice so clearly, reading one more sentiment-choked remembrance. William Boyd had so much more to give the world. He was only thirty-six.
He has never known who said it, but it has haunted him ever since. Sometimes, usually late at night when it invades his thoughts and then his dreams, it sounds like his own death sentence. On the worst nights, he thinks irrationally that perhaps it is his penance to die young. He is never exactly sure for what, but he knows he is guilty of it just the same.
Several packages grace his doorstep on the morning of (and the week surrounding- his friends are not the most punctual) his birthday. He pads outside in only his pants and blinks at them for a moment. The sunlight goes a long way to putting him at ease, but there is still a little knot of disquiet in the pit of his stomach that it cannot reach. Sighing, he reluctantly goes back inside.
Once his eyes adjust he grabs a scissor and goes to work on his presents. The box from LA, which arrived the day before, is sitting temptingly on his kitchen table. He opens it to reveal a cheap black toupee wrapped in tissue paper and a note. It reads, "Sorry if this joke is wearing thin (pun intended)! Love, Dom and Elijah". Billy tosses it aside with a groan and roots through the packing peanuts. In a second he uncovers his prize- a plastic wrapped tuner, one of the
new kind that clips onto the guitar and reads the vibrations. He grins and is picking up the phone to thank them when another box catches his eye. It has no return address, but the writing on it is immediately familiar.
He reaches for it- may as well open everything before he calls them. A brief battle with the packing tape and a layer of empty egg carton padding reveals a roughly cut wooden circle about a centimeter thick. A simple design is carved in it, obviously be hand, and outlined with grey paint. It consists of a sort of four-edged star with loops instead of points, made up of one unbroken line. Billy peers at it. Confused, he flips it over. The back bears a message, seven simple words in a familiar black sharpie scrawl- an ancient celtic symbol for long life.
Billy traces the design with a finger. The world blurs quietly before his eyes, but he doesn't care.
---------------
When they first meet, Billy notices Dom in this order: hands, ears, eyes, smile. Hands, ears and smile are easy to explain- all are slightly over sized, slightly wacky, distinctive. He isn't exactly sure why Dom's eyes catch his attention. It doesn't particularly concern him.
He's more worried about the nonphysical impression he gets after an hour or two in Dom's company. The kid's funny, yes, and crazy, and passionate, and Billy has a horrible sinking feeling that those are the reasons he was hired. Merry and Pippin are comic relief, but they go a lot deeper than that. Dom doesn't have the experience. He's barely acted, and certainly not in anything like this. And he's so young.
That night Billy goes home (well, back to the hotel) and resigns himself to a fairly miserable shoot. Why, oh why does his supposed best friend have to be the one person he doesn't have confidence in? He would've loved to work with Sean, who is far more on his level (above it, actually- just look at his resume). Or Elijah, who is young enough that it makes him a prodigy instead of a liability. Billy had his doubts- everyone did- but then Elijah slipped briefly into character during an amusing anecdote about his audition and left them all speechless. And of course, Billy is stuck with Dom. Who is...funny. Great.
A few days later, when the enormity of it all begins to set in, Billy has to laugh at his own hypocrisy. Young, inexperienced, and out of his depth describes himself just as well as it does Dom. When they first act together, his world practically tilts. On their first break he systematically calls everyone on his speed dial.
"I was wrong," he tells them happily, "I've never been so wrong in my life." He returns Dom's knowing smile with a full-out grin.
Soon enough he learns to stop assuming things when it comes to Dom, whose hobby is defying expectation.
-------------
When Billy turns sixty, Dom sends him a book. It is hand-bound in some sort of convincing leather substitute, the plain cover revealing nothing. Slowly, he opens it. The first page holds a close-up of joined hands, which he easily recognizes as his and Dom's. Probably Elijah's work, from before his fascination with artsy pictures was dulled by months of starring in one. Underneath the photograph is a crookedly cut piece of lined paper that bears the words, this might really last. Staring at it, Billy realizes that it's been cut out of Dom's journal. He scans the book. It proves to be a haphazard collage of letters, magazines, photos, and computer printouts, pasted together with glue and heavily laminated. He wonders how many journals Dom destroyed for his cause. Very slowly, he turns back to the first page and begins to read.
He hasn't looked at these pictures in years, afraid of the ache that comes with seeing Dom young and healthy and full of life. Now the memories he has locked away come flooding back as he turns page after page, tracing photographs with a fingertip as if by touching them he could maybe find his way back into their world.
Towards the middle of the book a ripped piece of napkin takes up nearly half a page. It has one word- surfing- on it in Billy's own bold handwriting. The following pages are filled with photographs of blurry, indistinguishable figures far out in the waves. The middle of the spread contains close-ups of Viggo's bruise from four different angles, then a series of cast and crew, soaking wet, posing proudly with wetsuits and boards.
The last picture is one he's never seen before. In it Dom is stretched on his back in the sand with Billy draped horizontally next to him, apparently asleep. His head is pillowed on Dom's stomach, arm thrown loosely around his waist. Dom's elbow is crooked over his face for shade and he glares up at the photographer. His eyes clearly say don't you dare disturb us. Billy studies it for a long moment, marveling at Dom's sheer physicality. He'd forgotten the unconscious grace, the hidden power in golden shoulders and arms, and the constant half-wild joy in his eyes. But reality tinges memory with bitterness and suddenly Billy can't stand to look at it any longer. He turns the
page with a violent jerk.
The movement causes a small scrap of paper to flutter out of its place and into Billy's lap. Upon inspection, he finds that it is not a part of the book after all, but rather a message. It says, Never said I had to publish the thing, did I? Only write it.
He turns back to the beginning, knowing what he missed the first time around. On the inside cover there are two words in simple black lettering- for Billy.
---------------
Billy stretches luxuriously and curls his bare toes into the grass. It is dusk and the damp cool of the ground is seeping slowly into his bones. It is unbelievably nice to have his feet be simply his feet again, and he amuses himself with them for a while, twisting them on his ankles and poking the earth, ignoring the corner of his mind that is busily providing him with images of all the little crawling creatures that are quite possibly all over him right now. He walks his left foot sideways (heel, toe, heel, toe) and rests it with the arch fitted comfortably over Dom's shin. Dom turns his head slowly and smiles a little at Billy, stretched out beside him. He looks frighteningly mortal.
"D'you ever feel too small?" Asks Billy. Dom raises an eyebrow. "Not like that. As if...you're too small for everything to fit inside you. Your feelings and opinions and things. And maybe one day you won't be able to hold everything anymore and life will just explode out of you and you'll break into a million pieces or...deflate or something." Billy decides that it's worth the effort to focus his gaze on Dom's face so he can see his reaction, but Dom's expression hasn't changed. He breathes in and out a few times. Billy wonders if the world
switched into slow motion while he was daydreaming.
"Is it easier if you're taller, then?"
"No, I don't think so. Life just kind of expands and fills you up, no matter how tall you are."
"Life as a gas?"
"Mm. Sort of. Not just life, though...everything. It kind of puts pressure on you, from the inside."
Dom tugs at his arm until he grudgingly rolls over into his personal space.
"Fuck you," mutter Billy, but he relaxes gratefully into Dom's embrace.
--------------
Dom calls on Tuesday to say that he's had a relapse and is back in the hospital. His voice is rough and his thoughts meander; Billy is sure that they have him on some kind of drug.
"I'm coming to see you, all right?" he says, smiling sadly at Dom's childlike tone, "I'll be there Sunday. Come entertain you until they let you go home."
"That'd be fantastic, Bills," says Dom, sounding suddenly tired. He pauses, yawns loudly into the phone. "Sorry, mate. It's this drip thing they've got me on. Makes me sleep all the time."
"'S all right. I'll see you later, then?"
"Yeah. See you later."
He dials the airport before he forgets and books a flight for early Saturday. It'll give him a day to find a hotel and cope with the jet lag a little. To prepare himself. He hates Dom in the hospital, he always has. The sight of him so unnaturally fragile makes panic rise in Billy's throat. The chemically sterile environment tastes of metal and fear. He stays anyway, thinking of how much worse it must be to be confined there.
On Friday the phone rings while he's eating lunch.
"Billy?" inquires the voice on the other end of the line. He makes a noise of assent.
"This is Matt. Monaghan. Billy...it's over." He pauses, waiting for a response, then continues. "Dominic passed away on Wednesday. It was sudden. He...he wasn't in very much pain."
"Thank you," says Billy quietly, for he is nothing if not polite, and rings off. He stares at the phone for a long moment. Slowly, mechanically, he dials. There is a long static silence during which he can't quite get enough oxygen. Then Dom's voice clicks into life.
"Hello?" Pause. "Hey! How are you? Just kidding, actually, this is a recording. My mobile's obviously off- that or I'm mad at you. Anyway, leave a message and I may just get back to you."
Billy doesn't leave a message. He numbly dials the number again. And again. Each time there is a pause and then Dom's cheery voice. He doesn't know how long he sits there, dialing and listening, dialing and listening. Perhaps a few minutes. Perhaps an hour. Either way, he's already lost count of how many times he's heard it when it rings twice instead of the usual silence. A tinny female voice comes on the line, informing him that the number is no longer in service.
Slowly, very slowly, Billy lowers the phone from his ear. Then he curls in on himself, sobs wracking his body, echoing thinly in the empty air.
----------------------
When Billy wanders into the trailer Dom is sitting in front of the sofa, leaning against it. The telly is playing rerun footie games with the sound off. Dom is wearing a pair of faded jeans and a t-shirt, scratching idly at his ankle. Billy pauses in the doorway. It's been a long day, but then again all of them are.
"Not going out tonight, then?"
"I don't think so. Not feeling too well." Billy scrunches up his face in sympathy.
"What's wrong? Allergies again?"
"No. I'm fine, physically. It's mentally that's the problem." He offers a rueful half-smile. Billy walks over and nudges at the insides Dom's knees with his foot. When he obediently shifts, Billy settles between his legs, back to Dom's chest. Dom's arms come briefly around him, then let go.
"What's wrong?" he asks quietly. He feels Dom's shrug.
"Dunno." His voice vibrates around Billy's shoulder blades, making him smile. "You ever think that maybe...being too empty is just as bad as being too full?"
They sit in silence for a while. On the telly, someone trips someone else. Billy absently taps a rhythm with his fingertips on Dom's thigh, as if spelling out his thoughts in an unconscious, indecipherable Morse code. Only this is Dom, and he understands Billy in whatever language he might choose to speak. His hand comes up and cups Billy's cheek, turning his head so they are looking at each other.
"We can't, can we?" he whispers. Billy twists, shifts inside the circle of Dom's legs until they are facing each other fully. Dom's breath is coming quick and shallow.
"It doesn't matter," says Billy.
--------------------
Billy never does win an Oscar. The first real acting award he gets comes unexpectedly at a small but prestigious European festival. It honors his first film work after almost twenty years of theatre, the irresistible offer of the lead role in a biography of Ian McKellen pulling him out of semi-retirement. He is sixty-seven years old.
Slowly he makes his way to the front of the room, grinning at the few friends who catch his eye. Someone hands him a microphone and he waits while the applause quickly dims from enthusiastic to polite and then peters away. There, far in the back, he catches the glint of light reflecting off metal and for just a second he swears he can see a familiar, crooked smile. Then the lights change and the cameras swing around and he looses sight of the shadowy figure. Oh, well, he thinks, it's probably the closest I'll get. If he closes his eyes he can almost hear a low, laughing voice agreeing with him.
Billy smiles out over the room, raises the microphone, and says,
"This is for Dominic, who keeps his promises."
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