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[jettabug.livejournal.com]

Title: The Diary Of Dom: Part Two
Author: jettabug
Pairing: Monaboyd
Rating: R for swearing
Feedback: Please!
Author's Notes: I don't want to call this "chapter two" or a "sequel" because it's not. It's more of a continuance. I suspect there will be a continuation from this entry, as well.
Summary: Dom's journal.



The Diary Of Dom: Part Two
by Jenna

For some reason, when I woke up this morning (late, because by the time I got into bed after last night, it was nearly 2, and then I spent another hour crying and cursing God before falling into a troublesome sleep) I had this sudden urge/inspiration/overwhelming need to finish my letter.

So, in-between breaks on set (which there are a lot of, because the lighting is nearly shot to shit for some reason) I’ve been scribbling maddeningly my letter to Billy.

I haven’t read over it yet, I’m too afraid to. Scared that if I read it, I’ll be convinced to actually give it to him. Afraid that if I read it, I’ll remove half of it because the emotion is too raw, or the feeling is so strong. Petrified that if I go back, I’ll discover things about myself, about the feelings I have, that will send me into a tailspin of despair. I don’t need that right now. I need to write. But I needed to update here first.

Orlando picked me up today, and I don’t know if it’s just the sort of person he is, but he instantly asked me what was wrong. God strike me where I sit, I told him about Billy on the 25-minute ride to the studios.

And you know what? Orlando didn’t react like I would have typically assumed. He didn’t say a word till I was finished, until there were tears running down my face and pooling on my t-shirt. He didn’t “um” or “ahh” or nod like Viggo does. He just drove, but I could tell he was listening.

I finished the whole sorry story and he reached into his glove compartment and pressed a tissue into my hand, and for some reason, journal, I laughed. Actually laughed.

Here was Orlando Bloom, the good-looking, suave, romantic man, who had the reputation on set for being the most charming man ever. He could acquire a few more hours sleep in the morning, by persuading Fran to give him late starts, with those chocolate pools he calls eyes, and a sly smile.

And here he was, acting like Dr. fucking Phil.

He seemed to take my laughter as a sign of insanity, because he just looked at me with a weird look, and waited till my laughter subsided before saying anything. He told me he went through the same thing with Viggo. That for months, he internalised everything about their friendship, and even became afraid of showing up on set to be with him, because he was nearly sure he’d blow it all and throw himself into his arms.

Orlando really surprised me this morning. I had totally gotten the wrong impression of him, but I could, when he talked as he drove, about everything, his feelings, his insecurities, his love for Viggo, I could see his heart…really. It was like he walks around encased in this shell, this other persona, his charming, witty self, but as soon as you crack into him, you realise how different he really is.

Not to say he’s not charming and lovely, because he is. He just has this sense of realism to him, when he’s being himself. I think I got to know Orlando better in 15 minutes in the car this morning than I have in the past year and a half.

But the reason I’m writing this has nothing to do with Orlando, or about the type of person he is: it’s because I’ve come to a conclusion.

I’m going to open up my near-completed letter, finish it off, sign it, walk right up to Billy Boyd and stick it in his hand.

And then I’m going to walk away.

+|+

I did what I said I would do. I have finished the letter, scribbled my name on the bottom, and Billy’s name on the front flap, and just photocopied it on the copier here in the lunch tent.

(Don’t ask me why there’s a photocopier in the lunch tent, there just is.)

I now tuck the copied version between your pages, journal, so that maybe one day, ten years from now, I’ll actually read the letter I’m gonna give to Billy.

So, guard it with your life.

+|+


Dear Billy,

I think I tried to start this letter a million different ways, but I finally decided just to write with no abandon. Just to write what I feel, because in the end, it doesn’t matter how this letter starts or finishes, what matters is what it says.

So, this is what it will say: I am in love with you. Not as a friend (although you’re my best) but as a man admitting to another man, the way you make me feel makes each breath I breathe like a gift.

Now, you’ve either had a heart attack, thrown this in the bin, or still reading, but whatever the choice you make, I’ll continue, because I need to do this.

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love you. I look back on these past few years as the best of my life, because it’s the first time I’ve ever felt truly happy. But also, in admitting that, I have to reveal these years have been the worst, too. Because falling in love with you was a mistake, one I would gladly repeat again and again, but a mistake nonetheless.

But what am I saying, really? There’s not many different ways I can tell you I love you (unless I translate the words into every available language), but this letter isn’t just about telling you how I feel, it’s about just me feeling in general. I feel so much when I’m with you, it’s hard to imagine ever living without you. It’s hard to look into my future and not see you by my side.

Some days I wonder why I get out of bed, but then I stumble on set and into the make-up trailer and there you are. Sitting there, joking with Elijah, throwing pieces of prosthetic feet at Sean as he tries to read the paper and enjoy his coffee. And then you look up and me and smile and wave, and I realise why I’m alive. Why I dragged myself out of bed, why I open my eyes each morning, and why I close them every night.

I hate things like cold glue on my feet and hairline, chilly weather, my fat suit, lugging things around on set, being yelled at by Richard Taylor, but then I see you, and it’s not so bad. I would do all those horrible things all day every day, if my reward were just to catch a glimpse of you at the end of the day. I would gladly walk over broken glass and through the fires of hell to stand next to you and call you my friend.

Do you remember when I got locked out of my apartment a few months back, and was forced to walk to your place in the freezing New Zealand rain for nearly half an hour so I didn’t have to sleep on my doorstep? It was probably the shittiest night I’d had so far in Wellington, but then you opened the door, handed me a towel, and suddenly, it wasn’t so bad. It didn’t matter that I was chilled to the bone, my feet were cold and my clothes were soaking. It didn’t matter because you were there. You were there, looking after me, and treating me like glass, so fragile and delicate. The house could’ve fallen down around us, but that wouldn’t have mattered, because you were near me, hugging me tightly, trying to warm me up.

I wish for things like being able to watch you sleep at night, to hear you breathe, lying next to me. I just want to feel safe in my own skin, I want to be happy, but I’m so lonely. I get lost in you, constantly lost, that I don’t know where thoughts of you begin and end.

You make me whole and at the same time, empty. It’s like loving you draws all of my energy from my body. Like loving you is physically demanding. Like loving you is a curse.

But Billy, there are things about you I can’t live without. I can’t live without your eyes, those beautiful eyes, or your smile and your laugh. Your touch, the way your hand brushes mine after we nail a scene, or after I say something funny. Or the way you look at me when Elijah says something stupid, and we both have a bit of a laugh. I can’t live without loving you. I can’t live without needing you.

Maybe it’s a mistake to be writing this while listening to some of REM’s saddest songs, but really, I could be listening to Slutney Spears, and I would still be this melancholy. I hate feeling so much all the time. I hate waking up feeling and going to bed feeling. I hate watching TV, just feeling constantly. It’s like my heart and my head are too big, and I constantly have to think about everything, to feel everything, to internalise everything.

I’m sick of being so tortured by emotions. I’m just tortured 100% of the time now. There was a point when I wasn’t when I was around you, but now, now that every time I’m alone, thoughts of you torture me, it’s like I’m being punished for being in love. That it’s wrong to love you.

How can something that feels so right be wrong?

How come loving you seems more like a chore than a blessing?

How come loving you hurts so much?

Oh yes, that’s right. It’s so hard, and it hurts so much, because my heart and head knows that you’ll never feel the way for me as I do for you.

You’d think that I’d be so used to that idea that it wouldn’t hurt anymore, wouldn’t you? But it still hurts. All the time.

Loving you means so much. Love means so much. But loving you is special. Loving you is like a gift from God, and there are times where I wonder why I deserve such a gift. Why do I deserve something so pure and amazing? What did I do that made me worthy of feeling such an incredible emotion? But then I realised, while that yes, love is special, it’s not all happy feelings. It’s depression, it’s hurt, it’s longing, it’s desperation, it’s loneliness, it’s hollow, it’s painful, it’s never-ending, it’s complex.

Loving you has never been simple.

I used to live my life by simplicity. I used to pride myself on the fact that I was able to just live life without things affecting me too much. I never let things like being dumped by girls, or getting a C- on a test get to me. It just wasn’t important. I never believed in feeling sad, or letting things effect me so much. I didn’t get it.

But then I met you, and I fell so hard and so fast it scared me. After that, I abandoned all thoughts and all hope of living things in simplicity. Because falling in love made things complicated. No longer was something like going to bed simple, because I would lay in bed thinking about you, analysing every single fraction of our relationship. I would torture myself with thoughts of you, with thoughts of love and desire.

But I learned to get used to living life that way. It wasn’t hard, it’s wasn’t such a big adjustment, it just meant I thought a lot more, about everything. I mean, I have to credit you, because if I hadn’t fallen for you in the way I did, I would still be living life like it was meaningless.

What am I trying to say? That falling in love with you has given my life meaning. Yes, that’s it. That’s exactly where I’m going. Loving you has made my life complete.

I’ve lived with this feeling for so long, I can’t imagine living without it. So I’m really taking a gamble with this letter. I’m either making or breaking the rest of my life. I’m handing my feelings and my love over to you, and you’re either going to accept it or discard it.

But I know that I needed to write this, I know that you have to read it, that you finally have to know how I feel. It’s not fair to you. You deserve to be loved, and I can’t think of anyone else who could love you more than I do.

So, what else is there to say?

All my love,

Dom.

+|+

I just walked out of the lunch tent, letter clutched into my hand and approached Bill, where he was sitting at an outside picnic table, alone, tugging on a bottle of Coke.

Didn’t say anything, just tapped him on the shoulder, grabbed his hand and pressed the pages of my scrawl into his hand.

I gave him a shaky smile and walked away, finding solace in the empty make-up trailer (where I am now) to hastily scribble this out, as an ending to my life (possibly, but not certainly).

I wonder if he’s reading it right now. I wonder if those beautiful green eyes are drinking in my words. I wonder if he’s thrown it away already, or clutched his chest in shock and toppled off the bench.

Or maybe he’s not even reading it. Maybe he’s tucked it into his pocket to read later, because he somehow knows what it says, and he wants to read it when he’s in private?

No, that can’t be it. Billy’s not a mind reader. If he were, I wouldn’t have had to slave over that letter.

The letter.

The letter shall now be referred to as It. It that holds my life in the palm of its hand. It who could possibly end or begin my life.

I think I need to go panic now.