Good Enough

[dylan-dufresne.livejournal.com]

Title: Good Enough
Author: dylan_dufresne
Pairing: BB/DM
Rating: R, I guess. For dark themes.
Summary: A few moments of reflection. Sortof.
Feedback: Would be appreciated, but unbeta'd so please forgive my errors.
Disclaimer: Not at all true in reality.
A/N: I’m in a mood. Darkness and angst are under the cut. Inspired by two lines of the song ‘Good Enough’ by Sarah McLachlan.

Setting the tumbler back down on the scratched and scarred table, Dom focuses his attention on the cigarette in his other hand. Curling his vertebrae over until he’s nearly sprawled on the surface, he watches the tip of the white paper and tobacco cylinder smolder, growing ever closer to the chipped black varnish decorating his fingertips. Silently watches it burn.

The bar, that’s what they’re called in America, is nearly deserted as it’s barely past noon on a Wednesday. Normal birds and blokes are working, like he used to, back when he was somebody. Like during Rings. He’s here at the bar so often now, the booth in the back corner practically has his name on it. Nobody bothers him here. No fans seeking autographs. No cameras blinding him with flashbulbs. Nobody cares who he is, as long as he pays his tab before he leaves. It suits him perfectly these days.

Endless months in LA now, and not a word. Not that he really expected anything. Billy made his choice back in New Zealand, long before filming ended. Denial was a welcome reprieve, but eventually real life set in and he couldn’t hide from the cold hard facts. That’s when it really hit him. How over it really was. Everyone got the memo. Just because he didn’t read it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

don't tell me why nothing is good enough

He’s seen the pictures. Arm in arm with her. Nuzzling and smiling for the photographers. Look up ‘bliss’ in the dictionary and there it is. Elijah and Sean do their best to shield him from it as best they can, but they have their own lives, and families beyond the Fellowship. There are films to shoot; successful careers to have. Orli rings him every once in a while, at odd hours from exotic locations, or at least he did until Dom started avoiding his calls. His mobile is quiet these days. Achingly quiet.

Rubbing at his burning and bloodshot eyes, Dom coughs and then downs the rest of the amber liquid in his glass, now covered in smudged fingerprints. Fire sears a trail down his throat and spreads through his belly, bringing the blessed numbness that he craves more than air. Anything so he doesn’t have to feel. Shoving the now empty glass to the side, he reaches for it’s twin, waiting patiently for him, knowing that it was only a matter of time.

It’s the drowning and not caring that surprises Dom. How he could go from being full of life and joy, the greatest natural high he’s ever experienced - if you can call Hollywood natural - to the lowest, darkest tunnel, where nothing can escape. Sharp, icy fingers clawing at his body and soul, dragging him under, further and further away from the light, and he can’t be arsed to even try to fight it.

Somehow, there’s a strange, albeit cold comfort in accepting that things will never be as they should have been. That Billy never was his, not even in the quiet moments when nobody was looking. Best mates. That’s all they were. That’s all they would ever be. Past tense, of course. Can’t be best mates with someone he hasn’t spoken to in months, right?

don't you know that why is simply not good enough

Pain pushes past Dom’s dulled senses, reminding him of the lit cigarette in his hand. Burning his fingers. Stubbing the filter it out in a cheap and an overflowing metal ashtray, he watches the last wisp of smoke disappear into the large, hazy cloud hanging above him. Smoggy, like it is outside where the world continues without him. So much for sunny California. What a load of shite. Earthquakes that come almost daily and polluted air that makes him ache for the fresh oxygen of New Zealand. Back when it didn’t hurt to draw breath.

Raising the glass to his chapped and dry lips, Dom takes a long swallow before resting the drink back on the table and stretching to loudly crack his back. Scrubbing a hand through his messy hair, Dom pulls at the stray strands hanging in his eyes until the pain nerves fire, giving him a jolt. It needs cutting and some color as the dark roots are really starting to show, but Dom really doesn’t care. It’s not like anybody notices.

It’s the pain that reminds Dom that he’s still alive. Waiting for what, he doesn’t know. This isn’t how it was supposed to be, but then again, things rarely are. Fairy tales are for wee ones; bedtime stories to lull them into false hopes and dreams. And why not? Reality will crash in soon enough.

Nodding at the bartender to pour him another drink, Dom slouches back down in the booth and draws a fresh cigarette out from the crumpled package laying on the table, bringing it to his slack lips. A hiss of a lighter and then his lungs fill with smoke, scorching his already raw throat.

Settling the cigarette between his knuckles, Dom exhales a long jet of smoke and cradles the glass of amber liquid in his other hand. Watches the tip of the cigarette glow and ashes form.

Silently watches it burn.

* * *

Part 2-Hold On