monaboyd | Home, Chapter 7

Author: Semaphore
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The third volume of the trilogy (Part One: Lost and Part Two: Found, as well as the first four parts of this story can be read at Caraidean thanks to the much-appreciated

jesslotr). In which Billy and Dom finally leave New Zealand, but there is much Fear of Flying.
Feedback: is the loveliest of all lovely things. Many thanks to all who’ve commented recently! *showers you with hugs and virtual cookies (flavor of your choosing)*
Disclaimer: As usual, none of this is real, and I make no profits.

Ch. 5 Ch. 6

Home, Chapter 7

It’s strange, leaving a house that isn’t home, watching an anonymous driver stow a bag of things that don’t really seem to belong to him in the boot of a limousine. It’s stranger to have Billy disappear inside the car and suddenly seem far, far away from him, and to bite back that moment of panic until the driver’s saying gently, “Here, sir, let me help you.”

It’s strange to need the help, actually need it, and to still feel so uncomfortable even after he’s settled into a passenger seat that’s designed for nothing but comfort. The car smells very clean inside, but he misses suddenly Billy’s old car, the one that always smelt of seaweed, and of the sea itself. It’s hard to look across to where Bill is and have the sun dazzle his eyes, but to still be able to tell, from Billy’s silhouette, that he’s hunched over, looking small and tired and a little lost.

“Love you,” Dom mouths, then, when the driver’s put up the privacy barrier between the front and the back, he says the words aloud. “Love you, Bills. You going to be okay?”

“Aye,” Billy answers, soft-voiced. He doesn’t say “love you” back, but Dom doesn’t hold that against him. He knows Billy’s frightened. He’s frightened himself, in a way that makes him feel as if his stomach’s perpetually bunched up just at the back of his throat. He wasn’t able to manage any of his pills this morning, or more than a sip of two of water.

“Billy?” Dom wants to reach out, to take Billy’s hand and hold it firmly, consoling him, consoling both of them, but Billy’s sat to the wrong side, to Dom’s left rather than his right. Dom would have to twist round awkwardly, and that would hurt—not to mention that Billy’s gone a bit odd about touching in the last day or so, ever since…

Why not put it bluntly? Ever since he himself was such a stupid bleeding wanker.

“I’m sorry,” Dom says miserably, down toward his own lap, and doesn’t look up again until they’re out into that distant, flat area of cargo planes and warehouses and landing strips that could belong to any smallish airport, anywhere in the world. Dom’s arm is throbbing inside its cast and he wishes he’d been able to take the tablets Dr. Rider gave him yesterday. He wishes, if Billy’s feeling frightened or upset, that he’d slide over across the seat, lean against him and share some of his warmth, because Dom’s cold all the time now, but he’s coldest of all when Billy’s not touching him.

Dom tries again, twisting (and, yes, it does hurt, oh, God, it hurts), brushing Billy’s shoulder, then his cheek with his fingertips. Billy’s face turns toward him then and Dom realizes that Billy hasn’t been avoiding him after all, it’s just that he must have been very, very frightened, because he now appears very, very stoned, his pupils large and languid, his face bearing that sleepy, satisfied, nearly-drifting-off look it often bears just after they’ve made love.

“You daft twat.” Far from being angry, Dom feels a fierce protectiveness surge through him. He clings to the feeling as something to get him through the hours ahead, which he expects will be hellish in the extreme. Important, though, to keep a clear head for Bill. Important to be the adult for once in his life. “Come over here, won’t you?”

Billy slides slowly across the expanse of seat and slumps against Dom’s shoulder. “You’ve gone all bony,” he says, in mild surprise.

Dom can’t help but laugh. “That’s the cast, Bills. Let’s say, on the plane, you give me the window seat and you take the aisle, that way you can lean on my good side all you need to.”

“Aye,” Billy answers vaguely. “Lean on m’Dommie.”

“That’s it,” Dom says, kissing the top of his head. It’s hard to have Billy’s weight against him, weighing down his arm even further, but it would be harder not to have him there, especially as the driver’s pulled up at the kerb, and their luggage is being unloaded and checked through. He’s aware that his heart’s pounding in hard, rapid taps and he’s afraid he’ll be sick right there on the pavement, only he won’t be, because Billy needs him not to be. It’s exactly like when he was swimming: Billy needed him to remain strong, and so there was no other option.

Their driver must have rung ahead, because there’s a friendly woman in a cobalt-blue uniform and a friendly man in another version of the same uniform, with a push chair. Dom’s vaguely embarrassed, but he introduces himself, waits for Billy to do the same, then does it for him. Billy’s looking at the uniformed pair with his head tilted a bit too far back, as if they’re both very small and a long way away from him, which gives Dom definite doubts as to Billy’s fitness to navigate safely for any sort of distance.

“Sit down, Billy,” he says. “Time to go for a ride.”

“Oh, aye?” Billy answers, with a certain vague curiosity, but he sits with no argument, smiling blandly.

“Is he…” the friendly woman begins.

“Anti-anxiety drugs,” Dom answers. He looks at her steadily, not meaning anything by it, really, but her eyes drop and he feels rotten, suddenly, to have embarrassed her. It’s not her fault. None of this is her fault.

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I…”

“It’s all right.” She lays her hand gently, just for a moment, over Dom’s right wrist. “Are you going to be okay?”

“My doctor told me I’d have a miserable flight.” Dom shrugs. “But since I’m more or less miserable twenty-four hours a day on all days ending in ‘y,’ that’s no great change. I’ll be okay.”

“We’ll take good care of you,” the friendly woman says. What she doesn’t add, but he reads in her eyes, are the words, “This time.”

Dom has a sudden memory of flying kites with Matt and his dad, out on a hill, in a park, in whatever German city they happened to live in at that time—he’ll remember later, Dom knows he will, but just now all the different cities just seem to flow together, like watercolours left in the rain. He remembers when the kites had come down for the day, winding the string back up onto his reel, winding and winding until everything was tidy and secure. He wishes he could do that with time—just roll it up, put it back the way it was meant to be, so that it’s not jagged anymore, full of hidden traps and snares to catch at him and Billy, only smooth and neat once again.

“Everything’s taken care of,” the woman tells him, and she must be right, because they’re able to go straight to customs, where nothing more happens than that they’re waved through. Dom’s tired by this time, achingly tired, staggering with tiredness, and the friendly woman slips her arm in beneath his, helping to support him in a way Dom finds simultaneously touching and a bit annoying. He’d pull away, if he didn’t need someone to lean on so badly.

The friendly man parks Billy in some sort of lounge and leaves them. Billy’s head’s nodded forward. He really can sleep anywhere, still, and Dom envies him the ability, because it seems, these days, that he himself can sleep exactly nowhere. He tries to slouch back in the well-padded chair, but can’t seem to find a position that’s comfortable, and so he leans forward again, propping the cast on his knee, rubbing his shoulder, which aches constantly now, all around the joint and deep into the muscle. There’s a moment of dizziness and a moment of nausea, a moment his chest hurts him, but then those feelings ebb, leaving him more or less on an even keel again.

He’s to have the cast off once they reach Hawaii, some new species of brace put on instead. Dr. Rider and the Orthopedics men, the cardiologists and pulmonologists have made special arrangements with their Hawaiian counterparts. He’ll be well looked after, Dr. Rider told him, amongst other things.

Mostly what Dr. Rider gave him were warnings. “It’s a long flight,” he said “You’ll be damned uncomfortable.”

“But I’ll make it, right?” Dom had asked him. “As far as Hawaii.”

“You’ll be miserable.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dom answered. “’s only a few hours.”

“P’rhaps I shouldn’t say this, but I could make the time pass quickly for you.”

Dom had been tempted, God he’d been tempted—a little chemical joy to get him through the hard times. He had every excuse in the world, and Dr. Rider meant well…

“Cheers, mate,” Dom said. “I mean it. Ta very much, it’s just that…” He’d lifted a shoulder. “There’s Bill…”

Dr. Rider’s face had gone very kind, not at all mocking, the way it normally seemed to be, and more than a bit concerned. He’d asked, “He’ll be able to help you, won’t he, should you get into difficulties?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dom answered, very off-handed. “Bill’s the best—and anyway, I won’t.”

“But you might.” Dr. Rider gave his shoulder a bit of a tap with a file folder. “Dominic, I want you to listen to me for once. Will Billy be able to look after you, should you get into difficulties?”

Dom had turned on him his Hobbit-smile, cheeky and radiant and with sparkling eyes. He knew from experience how damned effective that smile could be. “Yeah, yeah,” he’d said, “Why wouldn’t he?”

Only he’d gone cold inside for a moment, and a moment beyond that he’d wanted with all his heart to tell Dr. Rider about his difficulties two nights before, and how much he hurt, and how frightened he was.

But all Dr. Rider saw was the Hobbit-smile, and so he’d tapped Dom’s shoulder again, telling him to put his shirt back on. He passed to him a fair-sized stack of blue and white prescription forms. “Some of these are new,” Dom said.

“Some of them are new,” Dr. Rider answered, but didn’t elaborate.

The moment passed, Dom getting himself tangled up in the sleeves of his shirt, and the neck-hole, then setting himself to rights again.

“It’s because I don’t need the really strong ones anymore, innit?”

“You tell yourself that, old son,” Rider answered. He seemed about to say something else but instead shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, calling out, “Cheers,” just before he ducked out the door. “Best of luck to you, Dominic. Sincerely.”

“Thanks,” Dom answered. “To you as well—I mean, thanks for everything, and I say that with equal sincerity. Happy Christmas.”

Dr. Rider gave him a long look, until Dom’s smile began to turn a little desperate. “Happy Christmas to you. Be well, Dom.”

Then he’d been gone and Dom didn’t have to pretend anymore. All he had to do was slide down from the examination table, which took an eternity, put the prescription slips in his pocket and go out to look for Billy in the waiting area.

“Clean bill of health?” Billy asked.

Dom smiled again.

“Slowly but surely, Bills. I’m fine to fly tomorrow.” He passed the prescription forms into Billy’s hand, saying casually, “Got more of this shite to fill. Have we time to drop by the chemists?”

Billy gave him an odd look, but it was followed by a bit of a smile, so that was all right, and when they were finished at the chemists they went off to dinner at Peter and Fran’s, with Phillipa and a great many other old friends. There was wine (which Dom didn’t drink) and good food (which he managed a bit of), laughter and conversation (in which he tried to take part, though he kept finding himself falling silent, perhaps because there was so much silence inside his head). He teased Katie a bit and had his arse firmly kicked at a video game by Fran and Peter’s Billy. His own Billy sang a song, which was nice, then another, which was nicer. The kids went to bed, and there was more talk, of a slightly rougher sort, more laughter, more wine.

When it all got too much, Dom slipped away into the back garden, to a place he remembered where there was a little bench in the shelter of some shrubbery. He watched the moon, he watched the stars and he felt the summer breeze of Wellington, fresh off the ocean, move across his face, and then he cried and cried until he felt ragged inside, worn and ragged and of no use to anyone, with no idea who he was or how he’d ever be of any sort of use again.

He was crying too hard to hear Fran approach, but he felt her, he thought, before she’d been there very long. All she said, softly, was, “Darling?” and then she was sitting beside him, warm and soft and small beside him, and Dom wanted to press his face into her lap, weeping and weeping until he’d gone numb and couldn’t feel anything anymore.

After a time, Fran’s hand, her gentle, warm hand, went to his back, resting between Dom’s shoulders.

He thought, with a kind of muddled desperation, I should have gone with you, I should have gone with you, only that was another Fran, one that came from a far more distant place than New Zealand.

When he could speak again, Dom said to her, “I love you,” though he meant something different by it than when he said those same words to Billy. Then he said, “I hurt so much, Frannie, and it never stops.”

Her hand rubbed softly over that hard, vulnerable space between his shoulderblades. She smelt wonderful, like nighttime in Hawaii, tropical and mysterious. Like nighttime when he’d go outside and stand in the dark with his face turned up to the sky, just breathing.

That was the key to it all, just breathing.

Fran said, “I love you too, darling,” and it came to Dom that what she meant by it was very close to what his mum meant when she said those same words to him, but that was all right. Dom dried his eyes on his sleeve, then wished he had a handkerchief or a tissue to blow his nose on, only Fran produced a fresh one out of her pocket, because she was, after all, a mum in her own right.

Dom laughed a little then, cried a bit more, accepted another tissue and was all right again for the moment. He took Fran’s hand in his, her fingers shortish and plump inside his own much longer, bonier ones. They stared together down the garden and over the fence, to where the back neighbors seemed to be doing something extremely dodgy with all the lights on and the shades up.

“I may go blind,” Dom said.

“I’d like to go blind,” Fran answered.

They glanced at one another, neither really able to see the other’s face, but that wasn’t enough to prevent a fit of giggles from coming over them. Dom laughed and laughed until his chest hurt and his breathing went funny, and even then had a hard time stopping himself.

He wished Fran had been his sister and that he’d known her his entire life, and he wished he could see her, and talk to her, every single day, only he couldn’t make himself wish it enough to remain here in New Zealand, not just now.

“I wish I’d known you forever, Frannie,” he said.

To which she answered, “Perhaps you have.” There was something in the way she touched his shoulder then, and after took his hand again, that was like permission given to feel all he was feeling, and to show it in ways he wouldn’t do in front of Billy, because however bad he was, he always wanted to keep Billy safe, to keep the darkness away from him. But Fran didn’t have her own darkness, and so he cried more, Fran holding him gently, her silken hair wafting across his cheek.

I could fall asleep like this way, Dom thought, Just held like this, inside the warmth and acceptance and safety.

He cried until there really was nothing left, until he could be still again, no tremours, no aftershocks.

“Better now?” Fran asked, after a time, but Dom knew she didn’t need him to answer, and so he didn’t say anything.

“Better now?” It’s a woman’s voice, but not Fran’s voice, and Dom has to shake himself out of wherever he’s been.

“Pardon?”

“Are you better now?” It’s the friendly woman. She doesn’t look impatient with him, not in the least. “Ready to go on? Because I think they’re ready to board you.”

It’s an odd verb, and makes him feel a bit like an unsuspecting merchantman about to be overrun by pirates, but Dom smiles and nods. “Sorry. Must have nodded off for a moment.” He leans forward, touching Billy’s knee gently. “Billy. Bills. Wakey wakey. Ready to walk down the aisle with me?”

Billy laughs a bit drunkenly, mumbling something that sounds a bit like, “Y’ daft wanker.”

“Honest, Bills. It’s time to get on the plane.”

“Donnae wan’ tae go,” Billy slurs, but a moment later he’s on his feet, the friendly woman’s hand beneath his elbow. Seconds later, there’s a flight attendant on the other side, and one by Dom’s side too, taking their carryons, leading them down the ramp toward the 747 they’ll be flying on.

It looks very big, close to, and very secure. “Safe as houses,” the saying goes, and yet Dom’s heart is beating too fast and there’s a horrible feeling as if his throat is closing off, yet at the same time he’d very much like to be sick right there on the industrial-grey airport carpeting.

Only the next moment he’s sitting in his comfortable First Class seat beside the window and the flight attendant’s asking him what he’d like from his carryon, bringing out his water and his iPod, a paperback book and the pills for pain and the pills for nausea. She’s asking him if there’s anything else he needs before she puts the bag up, and Dom would like to say, “A fucking Star Trek transporter, ta very much, so that we don’t have to do this,” but he says, “Nothing, thank you,” instead.

Billy’s dropping into the seat beside his, then, limp as a rag doll. He’s being strapped in gently, a pillow’s tucked beneath his head and a warm blue blanket wrapped around him. Dom realizes that he himself is shivering in short, convulsive bursts, his hand clamped so tightly round the end of the armrest that his knuckles stand out like small, white eggs.

“Wait, wait,” Dom says, so cold his teeth are nearly chattering. “I’d like my jumper, please.”

The flight attendant’s American and she looks at him blankly and there’s a long, long moment during which Dom can’t remember for the life of him what it is Elijah and Viggo and Sean and every other damn American calls a jumper, which is just stupid, because it’s something he knows perfectly well. He can’t seem to breathe and there are spots of different-coloured lights flashing before his eyes and he thinks maybe, just maybe, he might be having a panic attack and he’s never known what those felt like before but by God he knows now.

“My sweater, please,” he says then, in a perfectly calm voice. “It’s grey. Down in the bottom of my bag.”

She fetches it out for him. Dom sits holding the jumper to his chest, like a child holding a security blanket. “Wake up, Bills,” he’d like to say. “Wake up, Billy, I’m scared. Billy, I’m so terribly scared.”

What he says instead is, “Ta very much.”

Dom somehow manages to get the jumper over his head and the sleeves fitted over his arms, then scrunches down as much as the safety belt will allow, putting his face as close to Billy’s as he can, breathing in the warm, clean scent of Billy and pretending to himself that Billy’s only sleeping, that they’ve been up late (which is true) and Billy’s doing the practical thing and catching a bit of a kip whilst he can (which is patently not true—Billy’s drugged himself to the eyeballs and most likely wouldn’t wake if a herd of elephants tap-danced through the First Class cabin.

He’s an actor, though, and pretending is what he does. Dom can do it so well he’ll sometimes even believe himself.

“Night, Bills,” he murmurs. “G’night. See you soon.”

Dom keeps his eyes closed as the jet backs away from the gate, as it makes its slow, turning way to the outskirts of the airport proper, as it pauses, awaiting takeoff. There’s the familiar sensation of building up speed, gathering and gathering, until it’s a little as if he’s being pushed back into his seat by some giant’s hand, with everything in the world out of his control for just now. In another moment things will be calm again, but at this moment there’s noise and pressure and a taste of damp wool in his mouth, which Dom can’t understand until he realizes that he’s pushed his jumper-clad arm up against his mouth and that he’s screaming and screaming into the rough, woolen fabric.

Worst of all, screaming aside, Dom realizes he is, absolutely, about to be sick, and it’s all he can do to fumble the tidy little bag out of his seat-pouch and get it open before his whole body twists inside out three, or four--or maybe five times. Until he’s so spent he doesn’t even feel like screaming anymore. His stomach gives another little sideways lurch and he’s sick again but it strikes him as funny, suddenly, that for all that activity, his bag is nearly empty, and that the jet is now cruising along quite smoothly above the clouds, clear blue above, fluffy white below.

Dom breathes slowly, carefully, forcing his stomach back down where it belongs. A very attractive flight attendant comes along to collect the bag, and Dom can’t help but contemplate that there’s nothing quite so belittling as having to hand a pretty girl a bag of one’s sick, however discrete it might be.

The attendant’s kind about it, though, asks him if he’s feeling better and brings him a warm, moist cloth to tidy up with, followed by a glass of water to sip.

Dom is feeling a little better now, more ashamed than anything else, well enough, at least, to swallow two of the anti-nausea tablets, then to turn and look at Billy’s face, the way it’s so peaceful, half-outlined in gold by the sun. Dom can’t help but think what a lovely face Billy has—if that’s a word one’s allowed to apply to another man—the way there are scarcely any lines on it until Billy laughs or smiles and then those lines only make the most wonderful shapes imaginable. The way, sleeping, Billy’s lashes lie dark and still against his fair skin and his nose has that perfect slope and there’s a gentle swoop to the line of his jaw and a smile that’s always hiding somewhere around his lips, even if it’s not out there in the open to be plainly seen. Dom would like to bend forward and kiss that mouth softly, just brushing his own lips against Billy’s, the slightest pressure and away again, only he’s been sick and he’s disgusting and he wouldn’t want to pollute Billy that way, so instead he touches Billy’s mouth, very softly, with just a fingertip, as if saying, “Ssh, don’t tell the secret.”

Dom’s not even certain what the secret might be, only that he loves Billy so much that sometimes his body doesn’t feel large enough to contain the emotion.

The anti-nausea pills make him a bit sleepy, the way they always do. Dom would like to stare out at the fluffy white layer of cloud beneath the jet, which looks dense enough to walk on, only he’s afraid of the light shining in and waking Billy, so he pulls down the shade instead, making their little part of the plane go dim and grey. Billy murmurs something, turning so that he’s no longer facing Dom.

Dom feels, in that instant, utterly alone, utterly lonely.

He understands Billy’s fear, understands it perfectly, but he wishes it had been something they’d spoken of, something Billy had confessed to him, trusted him with, but perhaps it’s just something Billy hadn’t known was going to happen until it did happen. He supposes that’s understandable. He knows it’s not up to him to forgive or not forgive, only to understand.

“It’s all right, Bills,” he murmurs, laying his hand gently over Billy’s hand. “It’s all right. I don’t mind, céile.”

Which he doesn’t, he truly doesn’t. He only wishes he didn’t feel so absolutely fucking forsaken at this moment, surrounded by strangers high above the ground, with the person he loves and trusts best in the world gone too far away for him to reach.

He turns the silvery band on his finger, remembering the words inside, so foreign to him, so full of meaning for Billy. The metal’s cool and slippery under his thumb, and touching it makes him feel better. A little better, anyway.

“It’s all right, Billy,” Dom says again. “I understand.”

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Date: 2004-09-27 07:34 pm (UTC)

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