paint it black (1/1)

[evien.livejournal.com]

Title: paint it black
Pairing: DM/BB
Rating: R for sexual depictions and language.
Author: evie at itsjustlikewater@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: This story is purely fictional, yes.
Summary: Random thoughts from the great mind of Dominic Monaghan.
Feedback: will be gratefully appreciated.

Notes: Written for leah_chan for the Monaboyd FlashFic challenge. Requirements- a kitchen sink and someone leaning against said sink. I had fun writing this; I hope you like it. *wrings hands nervously* Story inspired by The Meticulous Grove of Black and Green by Michael Grove. Title and lyrics from Paint It Black by Rolling Stones. Dialogue in 'Writer's Block' and line in 'Reading' taken from Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.


Film Study: Paint it Black written by Dominic Monaghan
The film opens on a medium close-up of two men driving down Santa Monica. It's a real piece of shit, this car: chipping paint, squealing brakes, a license plate that barely holds up. The men manage to look grim and bored at the same time, sporting ridiculous multicolored shades and vintage Paul Smith suits. Slip some Rolling Stones in the background: modern-day Sherlock Holmes and Watson are wading through urban landscapes like relics from a faraway past. Billy wears a fedora when the sun isn't too hot and pokes a magnifying glass about with endearing charm. Dominic curses a lot and keeps a .44 magnum in his glove compartment, but his primary role is chauffeur.

Bad luck and forgone superstitions enlist the duo amidst a throng of woefully amateurish FBI agents and Colombian drug lords. This is a black comedy, a film noir, everything Quentin Tarantino and Guy Ritchie wanted to be but better. Smarter. Maybe even too smart for some. For now they'll drive, Dominic's eyebrows furious against the wind, Billy's fingers tapping unceremoniously against the glass. I wanna see it painted, painted black, black as night, black as coal, I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky, I wanna see it painted, painted, painted, painted black yeah...

Character Study: Self
My nose makes me look young for my age and my ears stick out on the sides of my head, but if I cared for those things I won't be sitting plumb on my arse right here right now, watching the sun swoop below the skyline as I whistle.
Billy says that the reason I don't get so many offers in Hollywood is that they want all their British male protagonists to be dark and tall and suave with a sexy cling to their accent. If they wanted some of this cheeky bastard shit, Billy tells me as he rolls up his sleeves to do the dishes, "they might as well crash a keg party in the midwest and pick up the next Johnny Knoxville."
I'm inclined to disagree, but the preview for that new Clive Owen movie is on TV. He plays a doctor saving lives with Angelina Jolie but looks more like your average bounty hunter with bronzed biceps and a perpetual crease between thick brows.
"Bloody wankers," I surrender, and watch Billy's lashes flutter when the water splashes dangerously close to his face.

Sometimes my mouth comes out crooked on pictures. It gives me a wicked smirk, like I have a secret to be shared with no one. I do have secrets, things in my head that I keep to myself. Like the way I sometimes sneak a quick look at the fly of Billy's jeans and wonder which way his penis will curve when he's about to stick it into an eager mouth. A penis limp and a penis erect (as most lads will agree) is never quite the same thing. When a girl is doing him I expect his lips would fall apart. His eyes a little glassy, beerbottle green. Locks of hair entangled in his fingers. While I would give anything to see this, what I really want to do is place my hand on the base of his throat while he struggles to catch his breath. Feel his life tremble under spread fingers. It's a power thing; blame the hormones.

"'Course, you're just sexy as Clive Owen, Dom. Never tell yourself otherwise." Billy throws a grin over his shoulder. His smile keeps people guessing his age, which remains undecipherable most of the time. I myself forget about it until I see it in his eyes, flickering raw on rare occasions. Then it separates us like rivers: the eight years between him and I. I have learned to swim across.
"Don't I know it," I say and place my fingers on strategic places of the keyboard, the 'a s d f' and 'j k l ;'. Thumbs upon the space bar. It's awkward, like I'm trying to remember moves from a dance I've never learned. "It must be the...elbows."
"Definitely," Billy nods wisely. "Exquisite, those elbows of yours."
I scowl back at him before squinting to read his handwriting on the looseleaf paper.
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know I love Billy Boyd. But that doesn't mean I'd like to expand on the subject. The fact is I do spend a fair amount of time with him on the brain. I imagine myself pushing him against that sink, the tap still running and his hands slick with soap while I run my tongue on his neck. Grabbing at his pelvis as I exhale on his cheekbone.
Right, it's not my duty to make it publicly known that I beat off to fantasies inspired by Billy's very existence. Not that I think it makes me a sick bastard. But, you might.

Plagiarism
Billy says all the great things in the world must have been created already. What the rest of us can do is make variations, adaptations, things that overlap but will diverge into other dimensions. That's why people keep adapting comic book characters and old classics into movies. According to Billy, all the movies today have some sort of subplot that can be related back to the Brothers Grimm stories: is this not evidence to his claim? Viggo disagrees; he says similarity does not necessarily counter originality. The bones of the story may coincide, but coming from different people it can't ever be the same thing. I down pints with Elijah in a silent race while the two enter a heated debate.
Of course I want to do what I want without giving a flying fuck about what anyone thinks. But unlike Viggo I am apprehensive about my art and in the end, I want to be loved by the masses. I do not want a list of appearances in little-known indie flicks and art house films. Because what use is a fantastic movie if nobody's seen it? And how many of those can you make before you start aching for things that people would actually line up to watch?
I read script after script but I seldom come across one that's any good. I could write my own, but this option has its risks. How would I know if it's good or just pretentious rubbish? If I write things inspired from a certain film, does this make me a rip-off, a poser, a wannabe? It's the perfect ground for constant frustration.
Elijah burps, then attempts a stern look. "Drink up."

Film Study: Untitled Scuba Diving flick written by Billy Boyd and Dominic Monaghan
The film seems to be a buddy comedy but it's really a tribute to the ocean. There are numerous gaping frames, extreme long shots of the sea. They are gratuitous in every sense but insisted upon by Billy. When they were on the beaches of Florida, Billy made a square with his index fingers and thumbs and peered far out into the blue. It made him happy.

Two guys wind up here and get involved with a scuba-diving school. Of course, the strangest of students and situations must be encountered. The movie is sprawling with wit and feathered at the edges with canny self-deprecation. Dominic sees other things stand out, however. These blokes, they'd had other goals, dreams, aspirations— how did they wind up there? It's not certain. But they're there, and now it's sort of difficult to leave. Besides they love being beach bums, doing nothing useful in particular and spending all day in the water. It's a little like how Dominic got to Hollywood.

Notes
Dominic steps into the house while he shakes the water from his hair. The first thing he sees when he raises his head is a rumpled Billy watching taped episodes of Big Brother.

"You went surfing," accuses Billy when Dom plops down on the couch. "How come you didn't get me up?"
He denies it, but Billy catches hold of his wrist and takes a lick right inside his elbow.
"Salty," he breathes with an easy smile. “Now try and lie again, traitor."

Dominic wants to grab Billy's head right then and there and thrust his crotch into his face. Growl his name through closed teeth like nothing he's ever said before.

He manages to get by with a sheepish grin, a shrug.

Writer's Block
Billy frowns. He's pretending to read the business section of the LA Times.
"Is it me or is it cold in here? I feel a breeze."
Dominic looks up from the keyboard and raises his eyebrows. " 'Coming up through the floor. That can't be south, can it?' "
Billy cocks his head and sets the paper down. This is a favorite among their games. " 'That's not a direction. Lick your toe and wave it around a bit.' "
Dominic looks down at his toes and considers the distance. " 'I think you'd have to lick it for me.' "
Billy pauses for a moment, stirs his espresso. "I'm prepared to let the whole matter drop."
"Or I could lick yours, of course,"
"No thank you."
"I'll even wave it around for you."
Billy scrunches up his face. "What in God's name is wrong with you!?"
They stare at each other, a staring contest that erupts in fits of laughter.
"Just being friendly." Dominic recites solemnly.
Billy shakes his head, grinning. Dominic turns back to his laptop.

Reading
What no one knows is that Billy is addicted to reading things, clutching a cereal box and reading the ingredients while eating breakfast. He reads magazines when he's brushing his teeth or taking a piss. He watches foreign films just so he can read the subtitles.
To cure this addiction, Billy keeps himself busy interacting with others. Billy likes people; he says they make good distractions. Dominic thinks maybe he's a bit lonely at heart, and he cannot stand the voids and lulls while performing the tired routine of daily life. He keeps this to himself.

Billy calls it reading but his eyes just race down lines and lines, consuming without comprehending. He gobbles up scripts and books; if they're interesting enough he'll take the time to sit down and really read, all the way from the beginning. The night before they start shooting with Treebeard, Dominic spends hours with a Bic ballpoint copying down lines from their favorite screenplays on the insides of his arms. All your life you live so close to the truth, it becomes a permanent blur in the corner of your eye, and when something nudges it into outline it is like being ambushed by a grotesque.

When shooting pauses for the first time the following day, though, Billy pulls out The Worst-Case Scenario Handbook and reads "How to Wrestle Free from an Alligator" aloud to the crew. Dominic doesn't say a word, but laughs along and rubs his arms— like he's cold, but really just hoping that the ink would smudge away.

The Game That Would Really Suck If They Weren't Drunk (true or false, take your pick)
"Disoriented," Dominic slurs out, raising his head to take a swig from the bottle. Some of it spills down the corner of his mouth and trickles down his jawline.
"Disheveled."
"Disarmed?"
"Dissatisfaction."
"Is that a word?" Dominic wonders aloud.
"Don't be stupid." Billy kicks at Dominic's ankles, then joins him on the floor, his head inches from Dom's bare feet. "Your turn."
"Disturb," Dominic brushes his hand against Billy's thigh. He fingers his belt buckle. Everyone gets horny when they're drunk. Any sort of valid excuse must be accepted in the morning after. "D'you reckon this game will get any better if we get naked?"
"Nah." Billy swats at his hand. "Dismissed."
"Huh...disillusion. You sure?"
"Positive." Billy pauses while Dominic reaches around snaps his buckle open carefully. "Ah, dispassionate."
"Disclose."
"Dis-" Billy swallows as his zipper sneaks down. "Disapprove."
"Disconsolate."
"Remember, you're the one who started this," murmurs Billy as he draws closer.
"Disaster," Dominic whispers.