Welcome to my Archipelago

[alchemywow.livejournal.com]

Title: Welcome To My Archipelago
Rating: R for language, probably. PG for intent.
Disclaimer: Not true, never happened.
Feedback: can melt the most steely of hearts.
A/N: a million thankyous to all_the_pies for her sterling work here.
Title is on loan from a My Life Story B-side.



Welcome To My Archipelago

These days, Dominic has become obsessed with the small details. He sits in cafes, counting how many people drive red cars. He stares at his sandwich, absorbed in the fibrous tears his teeth have made, in the dull glint of the olives.

Sometimes, Dominic will sit in the café with Elijah and Hannah, listening to their banter as he draws on the back of his hand.
“He had a girl once. He had a boy once.”
“He doesn’t remember. They were rain in a desert.”
“Couldn’t you live on iced coffee forever?”

Sometimes, just sometimes, Billy will be with them too, and he will pass coffee spoons to Dominic as he forms a border around the debris of lunch. He will hand him sachets of sugar to build his fort. He will steer him away from choosing bad brandy, from smashing his glass, from crying when he means to laugh.

He likes Billy, likes his hair and his smell and his eyes that crease with something that he can’t place. Once upon a time he was allowed this knowledge, but somehow this was lost to him. He goes to bars with Billy, because Billy is not American and therefore understands the need to be drunk at three in the afternoon on Guinness and bad draft beers. In these moments, Dominic remembers when it was different, when the world revolved in a way he could memorise.

It’s one of these afternoons, all too rare now, when it happens. Dominic knew it was bound to come up, he has been seeing it in the line of Billy’s jaw all afternoon, in the pulse in his wrists. Billy is going to make Dominic understand.
“Dom-”
“Don’t. Please. Let’s just drink some more, play some pool.”
“You really want another? What are we going to do with you, eh, you little alcoholic, you.” And this is said lightly, but Dominic knows that it masks real concern. He chases beads of condensation down his glass and tries to steer the conversation into safer territory.
“I’m not bad, Bill, I’m just drawn that way.”
“Oh dear lord, please tell me you didn’t just quote that.”
“Heh. Sorry.”
“No, no you’re not sorry.”
And oh, Billy has got him in the end. Billy is always there, always a dead end.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t want you to say or do anything, Dom. I rather thought that was your point.”
“Look, Bills, please, I don’t need this right now.” Shadows pool around Billy’s eyes and Dom wishes he could lick them away.
“No, ‘cause you never needed me Dom, did you? And don’t you fucking dare try telling me what you want, because if you won’t listen to me then I’m sure as hell not listening to you.” Dominic remembers this version of Billy well enough; the one who won’t meet his eyes, the one who hisses and keeps his voice low and breaks Dominic even further with reminders of his mistakes.

But Dominic cannot stop making mistakes, nor can he learn how to take them back. And so, inevitably, white ball follows yellow ball follows red ball into smooth green pockets, and he is allowed to forget for a little longer. It is only when he is draped around Billy’s neck as he is almost carrying him into his bedroom that he thinks to show some contrition.

“Billy, don’t…”
“If that sentence is going to end with ‘be a hero’ then I’m not going to be held responsible for my actions.”
“Please. For once, just… I think I’ve had too many drinks, and I can’t remember the last time anything felt as good as you Bills, I can’t remember when I lived, and I just wanted to say-”
“Hush.” And the kindness with which these words shimmer across his skin is enough to call up the lump in his throat.
“I can’t let you say it, Dom, I can’t.”
“I want to, Billy. I need to. I can’t tell anybody the things I tell you.”
“Don’t you understand? I’m not your best friend anymore Dom, I’m not… I’m not anything to you anymore.”
“Then why are you here? Why don’t you tell me to let go?” Fingers crush a leather jacket as Dominic clings hard and breathes in deeply. Quiet desperation fills him, like swallowing burning sand. Billy’s hair needs cutting; it tickles his nose as he rests his face in the damp crook of his neck.
“Because I don’t really have anywhere else to go.”
And that’s it. Dominic knows that whatever he was on the cusp of has vanished as Billy pushes him down into the smooth cotton sheets and walks out the door. The ticking of the clock lulls him into quiet, dreamless sleep.


But sleep is something all too rare these days. So he goes to parties, where Elijah dresses him in blue silk ties, sometimes more casually, and parades him around, the latest fashion accessory.
“He’s an artist. He creates. He might change the world one day.”
The girls slide polite smiles across their faces. The men stare into space beyond him. The wine is cool and grassy and heavy in his stomach as he hears voices, conversation. He feels it entirely possible that he will never talk again.

Later, when even Elijah has given up and moved to New York, Dominic learns to love the warmth of a machine. He finds beauty in the blank silence of the television screen, collecting swirls of static with his finger tips. He traces a mouth, an eye, words that he scribbled on a note that gave him a paper cut.