(no subject)

[jilly-anne.livejournal.com]

Yet another un-beta'd, un-read-through, short angsty piece by me.

Enjoy.






Dear Billy, …

No. That wasn’t right. ‘Dear’ wasn’t right. ‘Billy’ wasn’t right. Dom crossed out the two words, inwardly berating himself for using pen instead of pencil.

Bills,…

Much better. But what should come next? A heartfelt apology? An explanation?

By the time you read this, I’ll be on the plane to…

No, that wasn’t the way to do it. So cliqued, that line, like something out of a bad movie. Dom scribbled out that line as well.

I’m going back to LA. Sorry.

That was good. Less personal. Less emotional. Just the way this letter should be.

It’s not your fault, I just think it’s time I left. Actually, to hell with it, it is your fault.

Dom was on a roll now. His pen flew across the paper, his handwriting becoming messier and messier as months of pent-up feelings flowed into his words. Bugger the ‘no emotion’ rule.

You never really loved me, did you? I forced it onto you, I know, but that was only because you didn’t seem to mind. Back in fucking New Zealand you were a fucking different person, Bill. You acted young, you were fun to be with. And yeah, I fucking fell in love with you. Sounds crappy, doesn’t it?, but I don’t know any other fucking words to explain it. I loved you. And then when I said I loved you, you fucking laughed at me, Bill! Laughed! You thought it was a big fucking joke. Then I shagged you fucking senseless and you finally realized I was serious. But you fucking weren’t. You were just in it for the fucking sex, right? You just told me all this stuff that fucking wasn’t true, and made me feel so fucking happy that I couldn’t keep my fucking hands off you.

It was hard for Dom to keep writing, while memories of those times played about in his head. Happy, happy times, back in New Zealand, before all the premieres and awards ceremonies. Back when half the fucking world didn’t know their names.

Then all those fucking events and crap started, and you were such a fucking wanker! I wanted to kiss you, and muck around with you for the cameras, like everyone else did, but you fucking wouldn’t do that, you bastard. So then I went off and hugged, and kissed all the other guys, and you weren’t even fucking jealous. You pulled away practically every time I tried to touch you in public, and then later when I wanted to talk about it, you fucking laughed at me again.
Sadder memories. The public eye had been fixed firmly upon them, but separately, not together, as Dom would have liked.

And now, here I am in you fucking house. Just your secret, very secret, little sex toy. And we don’t even have sex any fucking more. You said that Ali chick was just a cover up for the press, but I know you’ve been shagging her, wanker. And when was the last fucking time you ripped my fucking clothes off? Hope you remember, because I sure can’t.

I’m young, Bill. In New Zealand, I thought you were too, but now I see you’re just a fucking old, middle age man who wants to settle down with a nice girl and have babies. Good for you. I don’t want that. I want you to love me, and I want things back the way they were when we were filming. Since I can’t have that, I supposed I’ve settled for what I’ve got now; the honorary title of your Live-In Best Mate.

Well, no fucking more, Bill. I’m pissing off. Don’t call me or anything, I suppose we’ll see each other around.

D.

Dom stared at the letter for a while. The end was hardly legible, but Billy would know what it meant. He would know, he would realize, and then he would catch the next plane over to LA, searching for Dom so he could…

Aw, fuck. Life wasn’t a bad movie. Dom had already established that. He screwed up the letter, and pushed it deep down into the bin. Then he scrawled ‘Fuck you, Boyd’ on a half-full milk carton in the fridge, got his bags, and left Billy’s house for good.