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monaboyd Aug. 5th, 2005 05:43 pm)
glass-moment.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Aug. 5th, 2005 05:43 pm)Title: To Dance Like That
Pairing: Monaboyd and Billy/Ali
Rating: PGish
Warnings: angst
Dom rests his chin in his hands and stares out at the dance floor. It's a nice place, if not exactly his style. There's a live band that isn't half bad (of course not- Billy would never pick a place with shite music) and only a scattering of people are still sitting down.
Dom does not feel like dancing.
He's already used up his full repertoire of glares, wistful glances, and meaningful looks for the night. As usual, none of them were noticed. Now he's just watching. Wasting time, maybe, waiting until he can get out of here, get out of the country, go home to his family and pretend that Rings never happened. Not a particularly good plan, but he doesn't have a better one.
He tries to exert his will over the crowd of swaying people so they will shift and let him see his friends. It doesn't work particularly well. While he's at it, he attempts to telepathically make them all float up to the ceiling and do the chicken dance. That doesn't work either, but they do move enough that he can see some people he knows. Orlando and Karl are dancing together, concentrating more on whatever conversation they're having over the music than on the actual movements. To Dom's left Elijah is leading a girl with a blue skirt onto the floor. She looks familiar. One of the lighting techs, maybe. He would guess that she's about Astin's age, if he had to. The song ends and the band strikes up a new one with no pause. The dancers shift and settle again, and the movement reveals exactly who Dom's been looking for- and trying not to look for- all night.
Billy.
He's right at the center of things, dancing with a little slip of a girl in white. The dancing here isn't really Dom's kind of thing, either. He likes clubs with bad lighting where "dance" means "wild gyration", where music binds an anonymous, claustrophobic mob of people together like a language for the duration of the night. It's different here. This sort of dance is less passionate, less feral. It's the sort of dance that you can do specific steps to, if you know them.
Billy knows them.
Dom watches, imagining that he can hear the measured tap-tap-tap of Billy's shoes on the floor. I could dance like that, he thinks bitterly. I could learn to dance like that, for you. Billy smiles at the girl, inclines his head to whisper something in her ear, and closes his eyes for a moment. Joy is written across his face. He looses himself in the music, in the night. His movements are confident and easy enough to look unconscious. Dom is mesmerized by the slight swaying of his hips.
He scoots his chair closer to the table, hoping it will hide him from casual observation. It's just sort of not on to get hard watching your best mate dance with his bride. He laughs a little at the futility of it all, but doesn't bother to look away.
A chair scrapes next to him and Viggo sits down. He looks strange in conventional, formal clothing, as if he's been forced into someone else's skin. Not that he doesn't wear it with ease. In fact, Dom doesn't think he's ever seen Viggo look uncomfortable or awkward in his life.
"Not dancing, then?" asks Viggo. Dom always forgets how incredibly American he sounds.
"No," he says. His own voice comes out low and indifferent. That's good, he thinks, I can deal with indifferent.
Viggo selects a fancy looking chocolate from the tray on the table, and Dom is comforted to see that the tips of his fingers are stained green. They watch the dance floor for a while. Viggo eats his chocolate meditatively, in silence. Dom approximates that it takes him a minute and a half to finish it completely. When it's gone Viggo licks his fingers, stands up, and walks slowly away. Dom is almost sorry to see him go.
The band starts another song. He runs a hand through his hair and it comes away tacky from too much gel. His hair is styled into artfully messy spikes, the only one of his usual defenses he can get away with this evening. Otherwise he's dressed as conservatively as Viggo. He wears a suit and a blue shirt, with an understated blue and silver tie that feels like it's choking him. Billy doesn't like the way he dresses anymore. It used to make him laugh, back in New Zealand. He used to smile when he looked Dom over, even as his eyes darkened. That changed along with everything else. These days Dom irritates him, no matter how hard he tries not to. Once during an argument he called Dom's wacky fashion sense embarrassing and immature. Dom wonders if at heart, this wasn't just a comment about his clothing.
Billy hasn't even noticed his attempt at conformity tonight.
Finding it suddenly hard to breathe, Dom shoves back from the table and makes for the dim patio attached to the reception room. He pauses for a moment outside. The weather is utterly unremarkable, the night sky dull gray and the air just slightly warm. Nature will not demean itself to reflect the mood of any at the gathering, whether joyous or bitter. Laughter floats through the crack in the sliding doors and the ache that's been lodged in Dom's chest all evening twists viciously. Suddenly angry, he abandons the party. It's a long walk to his car, but he doesn't particularly care. It's something to do.
He doesn't have another tie, as he'd hoped, but there is a shirt forgotten in a drycleaner's bag in his trunk. It's a deep maroon color, button-down, fancy. The sort of thing someone could pull off if they were daring and knew how to do it properly.
Dom doesn't want to do it properly.
He takes the shirt inside and skulks around the back of the room for a while. Almost everyone is dancing now; no one notices him swipe some woman's purse and spirit it off to the bathroom. For a moment he entertains a malicious hope that it's Ali's. It's probably a good thing that he doesn't know for sure, or he might drop it down the toilet.
He locks the door and inspects himself in the mirror. The face that greets him looks tired, mostly, and raw. He changes shirts, frowning when his hands won't quite obey him correctly, and tugs at his tie until it is loose and skewed to one side. It clashes which the maroon, which pleases him. He leaves his jacket unbuttoned. Finally he reaches digs through the purse and finds a make up case, from which he applies a thick layer of eyeliner. At this point he cares as much about spreading germs as he does about the casual theft. It's not as if she's ever going to know.
At the mirror again, he studies himself. The disordered clothing makes him look vulnerable and maybe a little used, but the makeup lends him the sharp, dangerous edges that he's missed all night. Armor in place, he returns to the noise of the gathering. He leaves the blue shirt crumpled on the bathroom floor.
He slips into the back of the reception hall and leaves the purse on the chair where he found it. Billy isn't dancing anymore. He has his arm around Ali's waist, back to Dom, chatting with Ali's brother. His best man.
"You know I would've asked you," he'd said, "only they're so close, and it means so much to her. Besides, it'll probably be better for you this way, in the end. Don't you think?" Billy's patronizing tone had angered him more than anything else in the entire ordeal. Dom had lashed out with a few choice obscenities that he doesn't like to think about, although he'd repeat them in an instant, given the chance. He'd come to the wedding anyway, of course, and had drunk his way through the best man toast even though the complementary wine was harsh and bitter on his throat.
Billy starts to turn and he changes his mind suddenly. He can't face rejoining the celebration. He goes outside instead, closing the glass doors all the way and turning his back on the light from the room.
Dom chain-smokes on the patio for an hour and a half. No one comes looking for him.
Pairing: Monaboyd and Billy/Ali
Rating: PGish
Warnings: angst
Dom rests his chin in his hands and stares out at the dance floor. It's a nice place, if not exactly his style. There's a live band that isn't half bad (of course not- Billy would never pick a place with shite music) and only a scattering of people are still sitting down.
Dom does not feel like dancing.
He's already used up his full repertoire of glares, wistful glances, and meaningful looks for the night. As usual, none of them were noticed. Now he's just watching. Wasting time, maybe, waiting until he can get out of here, get out of the country, go home to his family and pretend that Rings never happened. Not a particularly good plan, but he doesn't have a better one.
He tries to exert his will over the crowd of swaying people so they will shift and let him see his friends. It doesn't work particularly well. While he's at it, he attempts to telepathically make them all float up to the ceiling and do the chicken dance. That doesn't work either, but they do move enough that he can see some people he knows. Orlando and Karl are dancing together, concentrating more on whatever conversation they're having over the music than on the actual movements. To Dom's left Elijah is leading a girl with a blue skirt onto the floor. She looks familiar. One of the lighting techs, maybe. He would guess that she's about Astin's age, if he had to. The song ends and the band strikes up a new one with no pause. The dancers shift and settle again, and the movement reveals exactly who Dom's been looking for- and trying not to look for- all night.
Billy.
He's right at the center of things, dancing with a little slip of a girl in white. The dancing here isn't really Dom's kind of thing, either. He likes clubs with bad lighting where "dance" means "wild gyration", where music binds an anonymous, claustrophobic mob of people together like a language for the duration of the night. It's different here. This sort of dance is less passionate, less feral. It's the sort of dance that you can do specific steps to, if you know them.
Billy knows them.
Dom watches, imagining that he can hear the measured tap-tap-tap of Billy's shoes on the floor. I could dance like that, he thinks bitterly. I could learn to dance like that, for you. Billy smiles at the girl, inclines his head to whisper something in her ear, and closes his eyes for a moment. Joy is written across his face. He looses himself in the music, in the night. His movements are confident and easy enough to look unconscious. Dom is mesmerized by the slight swaying of his hips.
He scoots his chair closer to the table, hoping it will hide him from casual observation. It's just sort of not on to get hard watching your best mate dance with his bride. He laughs a little at the futility of it all, but doesn't bother to look away.
A chair scrapes next to him and Viggo sits down. He looks strange in conventional, formal clothing, as if he's been forced into someone else's skin. Not that he doesn't wear it with ease. In fact, Dom doesn't think he's ever seen Viggo look uncomfortable or awkward in his life.
"Not dancing, then?" asks Viggo. Dom always forgets how incredibly American he sounds.
"No," he says. His own voice comes out low and indifferent. That's good, he thinks, I can deal with indifferent.
Viggo selects a fancy looking chocolate from the tray on the table, and Dom is comforted to see that the tips of his fingers are stained green. They watch the dance floor for a while. Viggo eats his chocolate meditatively, in silence. Dom approximates that it takes him a minute and a half to finish it completely. When it's gone Viggo licks his fingers, stands up, and walks slowly away. Dom is almost sorry to see him go.
The band starts another song. He runs a hand through his hair and it comes away tacky from too much gel. His hair is styled into artfully messy spikes, the only one of his usual defenses he can get away with this evening. Otherwise he's dressed as conservatively as Viggo. He wears a suit and a blue shirt, with an understated blue and silver tie that feels like it's choking him. Billy doesn't like the way he dresses anymore. It used to make him laugh, back in New Zealand. He used to smile when he looked Dom over, even as his eyes darkened. That changed along with everything else. These days Dom irritates him, no matter how hard he tries not to. Once during an argument he called Dom's wacky fashion sense embarrassing and immature. Dom wonders if at heart, this wasn't just a comment about his clothing.
Billy hasn't even noticed his attempt at conformity tonight.
Finding it suddenly hard to breathe, Dom shoves back from the table and makes for the dim patio attached to the reception room. He pauses for a moment outside. The weather is utterly unremarkable, the night sky dull gray and the air just slightly warm. Nature will not demean itself to reflect the mood of any at the gathering, whether joyous or bitter. Laughter floats through the crack in the sliding doors and the ache that's been lodged in Dom's chest all evening twists viciously. Suddenly angry, he abandons the party. It's a long walk to his car, but he doesn't particularly care. It's something to do.
He doesn't have another tie, as he'd hoped, but there is a shirt forgotten in a drycleaner's bag in his trunk. It's a deep maroon color, button-down, fancy. The sort of thing someone could pull off if they were daring and knew how to do it properly.
Dom doesn't want to do it properly.
He takes the shirt inside and skulks around the back of the room for a while. Almost everyone is dancing now; no one notices him swipe some woman's purse and spirit it off to the bathroom. For a moment he entertains a malicious hope that it's Ali's. It's probably a good thing that he doesn't know for sure, or he might drop it down the toilet.
He locks the door and inspects himself in the mirror. The face that greets him looks tired, mostly, and raw. He changes shirts, frowning when his hands won't quite obey him correctly, and tugs at his tie until it is loose and skewed to one side. It clashes which the maroon, which pleases him. He leaves his jacket unbuttoned. Finally he reaches digs through the purse and finds a make up case, from which he applies a thick layer of eyeliner. At this point he cares as much about spreading germs as he does about the casual theft. It's not as if she's ever going to know.
At the mirror again, he studies himself. The disordered clothing makes him look vulnerable and maybe a little used, but the makeup lends him the sharp, dangerous edges that he's missed all night. Armor in place, he returns to the noise of the gathering. He leaves the blue shirt crumpled on the bathroom floor.
He slips into the back of the reception hall and leaves the purse on the chair where he found it. Billy isn't dancing anymore. He has his arm around Ali's waist, back to Dom, chatting with Ali's brother. His best man.
"You know I would've asked you," he'd said, "only they're so close, and it means so much to her. Besides, it'll probably be better for you this way, in the end. Don't you think?" Billy's patronizing tone had angered him more than anything else in the entire ordeal. Dom had lashed out with a few choice obscenities that he doesn't like to think about, although he'd repeat them in an instant, given the chance. He'd come to the wedding anyway, of course, and had drunk his way through the best man toast even though the complementary wine was harsh and bitter on his throat.
Billy starts to turn and he changes his mind suddenly. He can't face rejoining the celebration. He goes outside instead, closing the glass doors all the way and turning his back on the light from the room.
Dom chain-smokes on the patio for an hour and a half. No one comes looking for him.
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Sorry...:P
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Thanks for reading, though!
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Thanks for the feedback!
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...or something?
^_^
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Just seems to capture it all perfectly, especially Dom. And, yes, if Billy and Dom had been together, and Billy gone off another way, and Dom ended up resenting it... I could see Billy reacting back (sadly enough) in this way. Especially with a damn (*shudders*) patronizing voice!
Most of all, I like the whole spare form of this... a few moments in time that express a lot, especially Dom's alienation from Billy and how he feels alienated from everybody - because he's pushed himself away from everybody, in his pain.
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This was very realistic. Life is painful sometimes, and as much as I *love* reading fluff and happy endings - I like reading real too. Nice job. :-)
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