FIC: Dark Side of the Moon (3rd in 'Eclipse' series) - Rated R

[flybynite29.livejournal.com]

Title: Dark Side of the Moon (3rd in 'Eclipse' series)
Author: flybynite29
Pairing: DM/BB, BB/Ali (in retrospect), brief DM/anonymous bloke
Rating: Series PG-13-NC17, this part R for remembered sex, drug use, language
Warnings: Drug use, Heavy angst
Summary: Dom’s gone out of the blue and into the black.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The author does not know, and is in no way affiliated with the persons mentioned in this work. No disrespect is intended to the persons mentioned in this work. No money is being made from this in any way.
Feedback: I’d absolutely love it. ; )

A/N:This is the third entry in a series- which I've come to think of as the 'Eclipse' series, since all but the first part are based off of - and named after - Pink Floyd tunes and/or albums. I posted the first two parts somewhere (I'm almost sure it was here, but I can't for the life of me locate the damned things *facepalm*) nearly two years ago under a different sn- docdakota- so it's possible some of you have read them before. I edited them up a bit, and reposted them in my current lj, but mostly they're the same. This third part is brand spanking new, though. This series was, and still is, way heavy on the angst, at least for the moment ... but I am going for a happy ending. : ) May be a bit rough getting there, however. I'll reiterate my warning of drug use here, because Dom's pretty much pulling a Charlie, and I haven't pulled any punches in my descriptions.


Part 1 Part 2












All that is now
All that is gone
All that's to come
and everything under the sun
is in tune

But the sun is eclipsed by the moon.













Dom groaned and reluctantly opened his eyes. Harsh morning sunlight pierced his vision, making him wince and burrow quickly back into what he at first thought was his pillow. On closer inspection, he found he had his face buried in a horridly manky pair of ripped denims which smelled as if they had been pickled in a mixture of pot smoke and mouldy peach schnapps. He flung them aside with a grimace, fighting the urge to be sick. His head was a pounding maelstrom of broken glass, his gut churning alarmingly. Both sensations had become all too familiar over the last few days. He ran his fingers along the mattress and discovered it was not a mattress at all, but the nap of his bedroom carpeting. He vaguely remembered downing obscene amounts of alcohol the night before, but all other details were lost to him. He could not recall what other activities he might have participated in, how he had gotten home, or how he had wound up crashed out on the floor. Ah well, could have been much worse; yesterday morning he had awakened in the bath, half-drowned in a tub of ice-cold water.

Dom's right arm was wrapped around something soft, and he very carefully turned his head to investigate. Sergeant Slinky. Hot tears blurred Dom's vision at the sight of the ridiculous stuffed periwinkle-coloured turtle. Billy had won him for Dom at a carnival, knocking down milk bottles. They had both howled over the absurdity of it, Bill winning a stuffed toy for his 'girl', but Dom had loved the goddamn thing, and Billy had loved that Dom loved it. Billy used to leave little notes for Dom, tucked down into the top of Slinky's shell- sometimes song lyrics, other times poems or snatches of dreams, dozens of scraps of paper, thousands of words, all boiling down to the only three that mattered. Sergeant Slinky had occupied a place of honor on their bed - dead-center between their two pillows - until the terrible day last autumn when it had become Dom's bed alone. He had moved the turtle to the dresser that day, unable to keep him on the bed but just as unable to put him out of sight. Just last week, after one full year, he had finally found the courage to store him away, thought he had at long last let the memory go. Apparently not. Drunk and lonely, he must have rooted him out of the closet in the night and cuddled up to him, desperate for some small piece of Billy to hold on to.

Dom gave the toy one last squeeze then set him aside and wiped a trembling hand over his eyes, willing himself to get under some semblance of control. As he lay there, sprawled naked on the rug, he realized that his head and stomach were not the only things giving him trouble. His mouth was desert-dry, his thoughts jumbled and unfocused, and all the rest of him oddly jittery. He tried to blame the feelings on the hangover, but in his heart he knew the truth. His body was protesting the lack of the heroin he had recently been plying it with. He was getting hooked, so fast it was terrifying. He was still at the point where taking the drug was a choice ... but he would not be there for much longer.

It was so bloody cliché it was hilarious, really. Life imitating art. The epitome of method acting gone bad. Only, Charlie had kicked his habit ... Dom was just getting started. He still had brief bouts of sanity, seconds when he would remind himself how very fortunate he was, how very much he had to lose; biggest trilogy in history on his portfolio, hit t.v. show, adoring fans, fat pocketbook. But those moments of lucidity were growing fewer and farther between. For the most part, Dom no longer gave a fuck. He had all of those things, yes, but not the only thing in the world that truly mattered to him. That had walked down the aisle the day before with someone else and Dom's will to live had walked away at the same moment.

And he was not expecting a return visit from either any time soon.

He groaned again and forced himself up on his feet. What was that rule the business-types had? No drinks before cocktail hour? Just to put on a pretense of self-control he'd adopt his own version: No smack before noon. That much he could do.

He compromised and pawed a chemist's bottle off of the dresser, fishing out two of the small white pills and popping them dry. The drug had a morphine base and it would suffice for now, at least calm some of the jitters. And if it didn't do the trick, well ... rules were made to be broken. Dom glanced into the mirror above the bureau for only a brief second, deciding the pale, bloodshot, haggard man staring back at him was no one he wanted to know.

He turned to the bed, thinking he'd have a wee kip before trying to face the day in earnest, and for the first time realized he was not alone. There was a tall, lean, long-haired bloke asleep on the far side of the mattress. For one horrible moment, Dom thought he had brought Josh Holloway home with him, but then the guy moved a bit and Dom's heart resumed its normal beat. It was only a Sawyer look-alike. Look-alikes were acceptable- the real thing was not. That was one rule Dom had stuck to, hard and fast: no shagging of the castmates. That would be too much like actual feeling, and feeling was something Dom wanted to avoid at all costs.

The long-haired bloke opened his eyes and smiled. Dom tried to smile back, but it felt more like a grimace. Christ ... where had he come up with this one? The pub? A party? And did it really fucking matter? Dom went ahead and slipped naked under the covers; a stranger in his bed was nothing new.

The man scooted close, trailing his fingers slowly over Dom's bare bum. "Mmm ... good morning."

"Morning.", Dom mumbled back, still trying to decide if he wanted the touch. Things done under the influence in the dead of night were one thing- the unforgivingly honest light of day was something else entirely.

"Sleep well?", the man asked, not waiting for an answer before moving in to capture Dom's lips in a kiss.

Dom turned his head away at the last second and the man's lips brushed across his stubbly jaw instead. The bloke didn't seem to mind the change in plans, just went to work kissing and nibbling at Dom's neck. Dom frowned down at the top of his head. "What was your name again, mate?” He only realized after he had asked how insufferably rude the question really was.

The man only smiled, however, and kept on with the nibbling. “Bill.", he murmured against Dom's throat. "Thought you knew that, kept calling it out last night.”

All of the remaining color drained from Dom’s face, his body went rigid, and when he spoke again his voice was low and dangerous. "Get out."

The man raised his head, an unsure half-smile on his face. "Hey, what ..."

Dom bolted upright, knocking 'Bill' aside, screaming in a rage so profound he frightened even himself. “Get out! Get the fuck out!! Get the bloody fuck out of my fucking house NOW!!!"

The stranger gathered up his clothes at lightening speed and hightailed it from the house, not even stopping to dress.

The rage died as abruptly as it had started and Dom put his hands over his face and sobbed, rocking back and forth on the bed miserably. The squall was violent but brief and when it ended, Dom -pausing only to pull on a pair of shorts and lovingly place Sergeant Slinky back on the dresser- made his way to the living room.

Rules were made to be broken.

Before grabbing for the baggie within easy reach, Dom first took hold of the Gibson lying by the sofa and sat down, pulling the guitar into his lap and testing a few chords. Oddly enough his voice, though broken by tears, was the best he had ever heard it, and he sang out strongly into the sun-drenched room.




***********************************************************************************************




Billy made the final turn of his long journey and parked the rental Ford in Dom's driveway - though Billy still thought of it as their driveway and supposed he always would. He had rung Dom dozens of times between Scotland and Hawaii, and kept coming up blank, so he was popping up here unannounced. (Though Billy had no way of knowing it, he could call Dom until kingdom come and not get an answer- the ringers were turned off on all of Dom's land lines and his mobile was currently serving as a new toy for the tetras in the fish tank.)

Billy had just started to get out of the car when a half-naked man shot from Dom's front door, trying to tug his trousers up while fleeing down the lawn as if all the hounds of hell were after him. The scene shocked Billy back to reality like a sledgehammer between the eyes.

All the way from Glasgow, he had been busily and happily deluding himself. He had woven a wee fantasy in his mind, had replayed it so many times that he had begun to take it for fact. He was only now realizing how absurd it truly was.

In his rose-colored universe, he would go up to Dom's door and let himself into the house, where Dom would be waiting with open arms, would take him back without a single question, word of protest, or merest hint of anger. No matter that Billy had been the one to walk out a whole year before, to not write, not phone. He wanted Dom, he needed Dom ... and therefore, they would live happily ever after.

Billy was not sure exactly when he had begun channeling the spirit of Hans Christian Andersen, but he had better shed himself of the fairy-tale notions before he took another fucking step.

Dom had undoubtedly moved on with his life by now, and his love, given up hope on Billy, most likely loathed Billy for what he had done. Just as he should. At this point, it would be a miracle if Dom even wanted to maintain their friendship- something Billy had given away so very easily himself. Even considering a relationship was the height of insanity. Billy would be lucky if Dom didn't toss him right out on his arse.

Billy walked a ways onto the lawn, then froze once again in indecision. Perhaps this impromptu visit was not the best way to go about things. He owed Dom time to prepare himself ... time to decide if he wanted to see Billy again at all. Billy wondered why Dom's (their) house had gone blurry all of a sudden, and finally realized he was trying to look at it through a thick film of tears.

He was about to turn away, go find a hotel room and simply try calling again before bursting in, when the sound of a guitar and Dom's singing drew him forward like a moth to a flame.

Billy pushed his way in through the already-ajar door and followed the sounds to the living room. What he saw when he got there nearly stopped his heart.

Someone was sitting on Dom's couch, playing Dom's guitar and singing in Dom's voice. But that someone was not Dom. At least no Dom that Billy had ever known. This stranger was a gaunt, badly-made imitation of the man Billy loved. His hands trembled on the strings and his red-rimmed, haunted eyes leaked a steady stream of tears. His voice was beautiful, but in the cold, final way that a funeral dirge is beautiful. His sung words, though familiar, seemed more plea than lyric:

“And if the cloud bursts thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear
And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.”

Last note still hanging in the air, Dom let the guitar drop carelessly onto the couch, then picked up a small baggie off of the coffee table. Billy watched in dull horror as he took a pinch of powder from it, lowered his head and inhaled; body tensing, shaking, then slumping back in a boneless heap against the cushions.

Billy could not believe what his eyes were telling him. He tried every way he could to get around it, to explain it away, but there was no other explanation than the one right in front of him. His beautiful boy, his Merry, was snorting heroin.

Billy had noticed something else as Dom had gone to pick up the baggie, a familiar glint of silver on the third finger of his left hand, and that sight wrenched at his heart in a way even the heroin had not been able to. After all of this time apart, after everything that had been said and done, Dom was still wearing his ring.

Billy knew in that moment that nothing would ever be the same.

He’d broken his Dommie, and hadn't a clue in the world how to begin putting him back together again.






tbc .....