monaboyd | Entire Worlds, Chapter 7

Author: Semaphore
Pairing: Billy/Dom
Rating: PG-13, mostly for language
Feedback: makes me do the happy dance, just like Snoopy!
Summary: Sequel to At Your Most Beautiful. Dom and Billy have had some hard times, but the process of healing is beginning. The problem is, it's easy to get better in paradise, but how does that translate to the real world? In which Dom takes a run, makes a bad choice and has an encounter that may change his future.
Disclaimers: Fiction. Fictional. As in, completely untrue. Chapter title is a Led Zep song.
Previous chapters and my other writings can be found here: Caraidean

Chapter 7: Down By the Seaside

The moment he rang off, Dom missed his mum’s voice, the hopefulness she’d built in him slowly ebbing until the familiar, inescapable flatness took its place once more, and though he supposed that was better than the raw pain of a few weeks past, it didn’t feel better. It was like the way his stomach and his head always hurt: it wore at him and made it feel tired, unable to really rest but at the same time so leaden it made every movement seem difficult.

He knew the powers-that-be probably wanted the element of surprise, to see how he thought on his feet, but at the same time he wished they’d tell him more about the part. The part he’d dragged himself back here for, that he wasn’t going to get anyway, because there was always someone taller, better, more American—or perhaps just hungrier. Dom was afraid the directors and producers he read for were beginning to read the hurt and defeat in his eyes, to cull him out of the herd the way wolves would cull out a sick or wounded caribou.

Goddamn nature shows. What good did they fucking do him anyway? Just a load more bollocks shoved into his head, wasting space.

Dom leant forward in his chair and pressed his forehead to the cold, cast-iron balcony railing.

He wished there was some activity he could be arsed to pursue, put on a film or some music, eat something, paint his nails. In normal days he’d have gone for a run, but this morning he felt fragile, frail. Just as good a reason, he supposed, to go out anyway, working off some of his tension in the slap of trainers on dew-wet pavement. He’d time enough, really, that if he wanted he could run all the way down to the beach, maybe stand on the shore and watch the sunrise reflected in the water, then run back before it was time to prepare for his audition.

Dom knew he ought to prepare. This was his big day, after all. His big fucking opportunity.

Not wanting to wake Billy, he ducked into Mackenzie’s room to borrow a t-shirt and socks. His trainers, the good-but-not-very-fashionable ones, were underneath the small bench just inside the door, where he and Mac dumped everything.

Dom dressed quietly, scribbled a note to Billy and left, zippering his door-key inside a side pocket of his trackies, his packet of Parliaments and lighter in the other—because, after all, nothing went so well together, healthwise, as running and fags.

Dom set off fast, not bothering to stretch, not listening to his body, just pushing it, because it didn’t really want to obey his commands. It had been weeks, anyway, since he’d been anything but a lazy sod, and he’d put his system through all sorts of abuse, from the ciggies to the drink to certain substances he’d rather not think about now, or mention.

He’d push himself harder, as punishment for all that shite, the rhythm of trainers on tarmac in counterpoint to the pounding in his head.

Dom ran in a fugue of driven pain until the ocean appeared.

In the night the tide had come up to smooth out the sand, and the dark water reflected some of the odd colours of the sky, the surf curling and breaking off-shore with a sort of humming roar.

Dom stood panting raggedly, hugging the stitch in his side, feeling empty and shaken and more than a little sick. The ocean helped him feel better, usually, but today this wasn’t the ocean he wanted, it was the Pacific viewed from the wrong direction. He didn’t want to be in Los Angeles, even with Billy here. He wanted to be in New Zealand, or Hawaii, or Scotland if that was what Billy chose for them, with the Atlantic stretching before him, and the chilly, rocky shore beneath his feet.

“Ah, Bills, I wish you were here with me,” Dom said, but just then he wasn’t sure even that would be enought to change him.

And there, as if in cue, he saw the water begin to turn red, the sky to go pink, though all the air around him remained thick and harsh and dull, telling Dom in no uncertain terms there’d be nothing much to view today, that he might as well turn round for home and make himself presentable.

Instead, he kicked off his trainers, picking up his feet one after another to tug off his socks. The sand felt chill and damp beneath his soles. Shivering, Dom curled his toes, wrapping his arms around his chest.

Despite the cold, he felt the sudden urge for a swim, and it wasn’t until he’d pulled off his shirt, leaving it in a heap with his socks and shoes and plunged on in that he realized he’d come close to deceiving himself, because he was swimming, yes, but he was swimming out to sea, all alone in a place he’d never been before—someone’s private beach, from the look of it--at a point where he knew nothing of the tides before him.

The salt water stung his hands and his eyes, burning in a small point of fire at the point of his new piercing. Dom thought of Billy, back in his bed, who’d wake, read his note, and be expecting him. He thought of his mum who’d told him never to feel alone, his dad, the rest of his family, his friends, most of whom would be just as bloody pissed at him for going through with what he hadn’t meant to plan as Orlando had been.

He had to turn around. Had to. Wasn’t fair to do this to Bill. To anyone who’d made the mistake of loving him.

He had to turn around—but Dom realized, then, that the current here was strong, stronger at the moment than he was equal to. Though he stopped himself, it kept pushing him on, out past where he’d ever in his right mind go, to where the breakers arched, pounding down into the sea. If they happened to catch him, Dom knew, his chances were slim.

His first impulse was to panic, though he forced his head to remain clear. The sea, he was part of the sea--the cradle of life, that was, not death.

Except that it could be both life and death, Dom knew, mother and destroyer, balanced on a point.

God, he had to get himself out of this.

Dom’s muscles were already spongy from inactivity and the run, but fighting and fighting, finding something inside him he hadn’t known he’d possessed, exerting every last bit of his strength, he managed to flip, to turn himself toward shore. He tried swimming at an angle, searching for one of those points where the current slowed.

By dint of effort he found one at last, managed to reach the place where the waves, finally, helped to push him in more than out again, although they were strong here still, choppy, breaking over his head continually, rushing at him

By the time he’d reached water shallow enough to stand, he couldn’t do so, he could only crawl his way to shore weakly.

Dom pulled himself up from the waterline enough that he wouldn’t get sucked in again. He lay face down, panting, on the sand, nauseated with salt water and the aftermath of fear, feeling as if he’d been beaten with clubs over every inch of his body.

He knew he had to get up again, and make his way from the shore, but he couldn’t, not then. His stomach rejected the gallon of ocean he’d swallowed, making Dom grateful it had been empty of other contents. For a long time after he lay coughing, head on his folded arms, feeling weak and sick in an odd, vague way, as if those sensations belonged to some other person, not himself.

He didn’t move until a cold nose pressed the back of his neck, then his ear, wafting over him the hot, meaty smell of dog-breath. Claws scratched against his back.

“Hey, Dingo!” a man’s voice said, and then the same voice. “Hey, you, you can’t sleep here!”

Let me alone with my near-drowning experience, wanker, Dom thought but, instead, he lifted his head, with supreme effort.

“Damn kids!” the man muttered, then raised his voice again. “Did you hear me? This is a private beach. You can’t sleep here.”

“Not. Asleep,” Dom mumbled, half to himself. There was sand in his mouth, gritting in his teeth, and he spat to clear it out again. “Sorry,” he added as an afterthought, then, “Ow!” because the claws were digging into his back fairly viciously, as if Dingo was trying to bury a bone beneath his skin.

Dom forced himself more or less upright, though he still felt so sick, dizzy and shaky that it was beyond his power to really sit up straight. All he could do was pull up his knees and rest his head upon them, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t spew again.

“Is that vomit?” the man said, in outraged tones. “Did you actually vomit on my beach, kid?”

Yeah, you heartless bastard, Dom thought, and I’d do it again.

But instead he merely muttered, “Sorry,” a second time, wishing the throbbing and rushing would stop in his head. “Didn’t mean it. Didn’t mean to be here.”

Dom looked up a fraction, seeing muscular, tanned legs covered in silver-grey hair, the hem of the kind of shorts that looked casual but were expensive as hell. He glanced a little higher and realized he knew this man, or thought he did—sometimes he’d a hard time keeping all these Hollywood executive-types straight in his head. This one had that ex-college-athlete look, muscular and tan, softening a little at the waist from a few too many three-cocktail lunches (but not too much because he employed a damn good personal trainer) the mat of greying chest hair, the hard-jawed, narrow-eyed American face. “Aren’t you…?” he began.

The bloke was looking at him too, eyes going even narrower. “You’re…” His lips thinned. “You look a hell of a lot like one of those hobbits from Lord of the Rings. Not the Scottish one. The other.”

“Dom.” This was getting surreal. He stretched out his hand. “Monaghan. Merry.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” The man shook his hand. His own was huge, with one of those crushing grips, and Dom couldn’t entirely help but wince as his burns were compressed within it. “Don’t we have a meeting sometime today? You know—about J.J.’s thing?”

“Fuck.” Dom hadn’t meant to say that aloud, it just seemed to have slipped out somehow, and what could he do after that but take refuge in his natural cheekiness? “We were meant to—before all this, I suppose.”

The man laughed suddenly. “Aw, don’t sweat it,” he said, shifting his grip to pull Dom to his feet. “What happened to you, kid?”

“Went for a run, and then thought I fancied a swim. Current got the better of me.” He was shaking hard now from reaction and cold, trying to hide it, staying on his feet by force of will alone.

“Yeah, it’s a killer here. Have to be on top of your game to handle it.” His tone seemed to say that he was one who could, despite what mere mortals managed. His fingers wrapped around Dom’s upper arm, meeting completely and then some. “If J.J.’s bringing you in for the part I think he wants you for, you’ll be perfect, kid. British rock star junkie. I can see it.”

At any other time, the words would have struck Dom as interesting. He’d have made a note, found them encouraging. Soon enough he’d most likely find them interesting again. Just now, though, all he wanted to do was get home, use Mac’s shower and curl up in bed beside Billy.

Still, some sense of self-preservation took over, making him smile and answer, “Well, I am British,” in a way that almost made him sound like himself.

The man laughed. “Fair enough! Okay, Dom Monaghan, are you gonna be all right on your own? Because Dingo here’s a bastard if he doesn’t get his morning walkies.”

“Yeah,” Dom answered, still smiling. “I’ll be fine, I reckon.”

“Great.” He was given another crushing handshake. “See ya later, then, Dommie.”

“See you,” Dom said, vaguely, but the man and Dingo were already gone, moving down the beach briskly, without a glance backward, half making Dom wonder if he’d dreamed the whole encounter.

Slowly, he made his own way back to where his shirt and trainers lay, sand-covered.

Dom tugged the shirt over his head, though he thought if he attempted the shoes in his present state he might never get up again. As he made his way back up the slope of the beach to the street his legs felt like overcooked pasta, but he sat on a convenient kerb to put on his shoes and socks again.

He wasn’t sure if the chance meeting had been a good thing or a bad thing, or even what it meant for him, really.

Dom let himself into the flat as silently as he could, because he'd shut off the alarm clock and he knew Billy was still sleeping.

He stripped off his wet clothes in Mackenzie’s shower and let the hot water course over him. The bandages loosened and his hands stung, so Dom stripped them off too, exposing the raw skin of his palm. Shite, but it hurt.

All of him hurt, from not stretching and from running too far and nearly drowning and fear, and when he was done showering he was still cold and even more alarmed with himself. Christ, now he’d probably shot down the last chance he have in Los Angeles.

Dom twisted the tap to “off” savagely. Well, what is it Andy Warhol said about everyone receiving fifteen minutes of fame? Soon enough now it wouldn’t even be people shouting “Pippin!” at him or calling him “Billy” or, worst of all, saying, “You know--the Scottish one and the other one.”

That’s all he was. The other one.

Maybe, on some level, it was for the best. He’d had his bit of a run. Maybe he should just leave acting to Bill, go back to school and become an entomologist. Maybe…

Maybe, nothing. It wasn’t even what he’d been upset about, really—not getting the career he’d wanted. What truly bothered him was that he’d come so close, so bloody close to... nothing. Without even brooding about it, or thinking, or planning, as if he’d been altogether divided from himself, and his body or some other part of his mind were playing tricks upon him.

He leaned against the tile. Shite, he was crying again, and thank God he was at the other end of the flat, where Billy couldn’t hear him.

He needed to toughen up, to get himself under control. He needed to keep this poison in him away from Bill. He needed…

He backed into the far end of the shower enclosure, half sat and half fell onto the cold tile floor, weeping bitterly, bitterly, until he was so cold and miserable and wrung-out he’d lost all coherence.

And then there was a hand pressed briefly to the top of his head, warm and comforting. There was a thick toweling robe wrapped around his shoulders, small, strong arms embracing him and Billy’s voice warm and sweet and thick with morning. “Och, m’ wee daftie, what is it you think you’re doing?”

It came to Dom then what he truly needed: he needed to be honest for once in his life, with himself and with Billy. He needed to tell Bill everything, because he was mad to think Billy would hear that and leave him.

He couldn’t do this alone, he couldn’t. He had to have Billy to help him.

Dom slipped his arms in around Bill’s waist, holding him in return, his face pressed against the beat of Billy’s heart as Billy’s cheek rested atop his wet hair tenderly. Billy’s hand rubbed gentle circles on his back, his shoulders.

“You’re so cold, Dommie, you’re so cold. What have you been doing?”

In a hushed voice then, in fits and starts, Dom confessed to him.

Current Mood: calm
Current Music: RotK Soundtrack

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Date: 2004-05-21 05:45 pm (UTC)

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