monaboyd | Sundays

Title: Sundays
Author:

the1elf
Pairing: Monaboyd
Rating: PG-13 for answerphone swearing
Feedback: Would be lovely and much appreciated.
Disclaimer: I am a pathological liar and this never happened.
Summary: Billy, Dom, breakfast in bed, laundry, and sex.
Warning: Total fluff.
A/N: This is what happens when I spend Sundays doing laundry and reading smut. Incidentally, this is my first attempt at slash fic, so it’s pretty short.

Sundays are the same every week. Billy will wake first in the morning, the half-light indicating another dreary, winter bare Glasgow day, Dominic still snoring peacefully in the warm bed next to him. Billy will stumble sleepily, first to the loo, then the kitchen, where he will make tea and porridge and toast. He’ll kiss Dom’s forehead, eyelids, temples, nose, and lips until he wakes, and then carefully put a gently steaming mug of Earl Grey in his hand, settling the breakfast tray on the bed and climbing back in.

After breakfast, they’ll lay under the duvet, arms and legs entwined, sharing a pillow, and talking. They never run out of things to say to one another, after years of friendship and being together, like that. Most Sunday mornings Billy will pull his guitar into bed with them and sing to Dom, and Dom lays still, eyes closed, and smiles up at Billy. Eventually, the talking and singing lead to lovemaking, and on Sundays, they always take their time about it, reveling in each other.

As the sweat cools on their bodies and their wandering hands and teeth and lips slow in their travels, Dom pulls Billy half on top of him, breathing him in, and falls back to sleep. Billy sighs in satisfaction, nimble fingers of his right hand resting on Dom’s smooth chest directly over the strong heartbeat within. Billy will rarely go to sleep again, but is content to hold Dom, completely sated, unquestionably loved.

They’ll get out of bed well after midday, pulling on various articles of clothing, depending on the season or their moods, and make their way through the flat to the kitchen that Dom painted green to remind them of New Zealand. Billy will search out chopsticks while Dom removes from the refrigerator the boxes and containers of Saturday night’s takeaway. They stand, side by side, hips brushing, eating cold Thai or Chinese, sharing a beer, even though there are always more than enough.

When the leftovers have been devoured, one of them plays back the messages on the answerphone. Usually neither has bothered to check them since Friday evening. Usually, there is a message from Elijah, drunk as a monkey, and the message is more or less the same.

“Billy! Dom! It’s Lij! Where are you bastards? Probably off shagging each other senseless. I’m in LA. Orli’s here. We’re on a blender tonight. I mean a bender! Hey, fuck off, Orli, I’m talking! I’m drunk and it’s almost tomorrow, I can’t be clever. Fuck. Alright, since you’re not going to pick up the phone, I’ll hang up. Miss you guys. In other words, put some clothes on and call me.”

Billy and Dom always laugh and erase the message. Dom will shuffle into the sitting room and turn on the telly, flipping through the channels absently until he invariably finds a footie match. Billy putters around the flat for a while, maybe reading a book, and then goes out for the newspaper and lattes, which he brings home and shares with Dom.

At half five, Dom will rise from the couch, stretching his slim body, trousers riding low if he has bothered to put any on. He’ll yawn, kiss the end of Billy’s nose, and announce that he’s going to make dinner. Billy squeezes his hand, asks him which CD he’d like to listen to, and offers to open a bottle of wine. They will have a long dinner and meandering conversation, after which Dom always does the washing up.

When the water in the kitchen sink stops running, Billy will go and begin to gather their dirty clothes and stuff them into the washing machine. He strips off the clothes he is wearing, adding them to the soapy water, and is never surprised to find Dom standing behind him. He embraces Billy from behind and inquires as to whether there is room for his clothes.

And Billy tells him yes, of course, as he does every Sunday. Dom removes his clothes as well and throws them in the wash, then turns Billy round and presses their naked bodies together, drawing Billy’s tongue into his mouth. Somehow they will make it to the bathroom and into the shower, never breaking contact, so practiced are their movements, and they stay until the hot water runs out.

By eight o’clock they are back in bed, all of the lights in the flat turned out, under the covers, watching a movie. And something, the wine or the rain or the sheer laziness of the day, has exhausted them. They fall asleep early, holding each other loosely, and wake on Monday mornings to clothes that never made it to the dryer.

Current Mood: nervous

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Date: 2005-03-24 04:26 am (UTC)

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