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monaboyd Feb. 10th, 2004 12:19 am)
annakovsky.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Feb. 10th, 2004 12:19 am)Title: Mourning
Author: Annakovsky
Rating: PG for language.
Pairing: Billy/Dom. Sorta. It's either slash or they're just good friends - you be the judge.
Disclaimer: All lies.
Summary: Dom is alone for his grandmother's funeral. Almost.
AN: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gentle_thorns for her enormous help beta'ing this so that I don't sound more American than a 1950s fighter pilot.
It is dim in the hotel room where Dom sits, leaning against the wall between the TV and the bed, staring at the blank page in front of him. He wants to write how his grandma's house smelled in the winter, very early in the morning. Wants to map out in words the wrinkles on her face, the skin stretched thin over the delicate bones in her hands, her wavery voice singing in the kitchen. The way she'd smile when she saw him so that it looked like her face might split into pieces, love flowing out so strong you could feel it brushing against your face, wrapping around your fingers, ruffling your hair.
Grief has taken up residence behind his left shoulder blade, a painful knot he can't relax. Orlando insisted on trying to massage it out, said he was tired of watching Dom rub at it, but he couldn't fix it. Dom doesn't know if he even wants it fixed.
The funeral is gathering his family in Manchester, everyone together to say goodbye. Everyone but him, because he is as far away as it is possible to be without leaving the planet. He is small and alone, in a hotel in New Zealand in the middle of the night, a cheap ballpoint pen in his hand, keeping watch. He moves to write on the paper, to record this loneliness and somehow make the room less empty, fill it with words. But for maybe the first time in his life, he finds that he has nothing to say. He looks at his hand, the curve of the knuckles, how they turn white if he clutches the pen hard. The knot of grief in his shoulder enjoys this, gripping harder and harder until his hand aches and the plastic of the pen begins to creak.
He lets his head fall back against the wall for a moment. The funeral will start in ten minutes - 2 am his time, 2 pm in Manchester. They are all gathering together, dressed up awkwardly, waiting for the service to begin. Holding hands, probably, some of them. It's summer there, not cold and icy with a nasty wind. He's not even in the same season as they are, and though he was there just over a week ago, summer seems very far away. His bare feet are cold and there's a draft from the window.
He deliberately puts his pen to paper, writing in bold, clear print, as neat as he can make it, I hate New fucking Zealand. He marks the full stop at the end of the sentence carefully, then sits back and looks at it, there in his journal, alone on the white page. After a moment he adds, on the line below, Nothing personal.
The clock on the bedside table flips from 1:58 to 1:59 and Dom stares at it, red numbers luminescent in the darkened room. One minute to go, one minute and they close the coffin, begin the service, end it.
He's so tense he jumps about a foot when someone knocks gently on the door. Hauling himself to his feet, he walks cautiously across the room, running his hand through his hair as he pulls it open.
Billy is standing in the hallway holding bottles of beer, looking solemn and a little sleepy. His eyes are squinting a bit against the garish fluorescence of the hallway's bright light, and his hair is flat on one side, like he'd been sleeping on it funny. "Bill," Dom says, surprised.
Billy smiles quickly, just a flash, before his face again becomes quiet and attentive. "Thought you'd be awake," he says. He looks at Dom directly for a moment, his eyes kind, before glancing away and rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He gestures with the beer. "D'you want company, then?"
Dom looks at him for a bit, taken aback. "Yeah," he says finally. "All right." He opens the door wider and Billy slides through, feet padding on the carpet.
Dom thinks Billy maybe wants him to talk or something, but Bill just sinks into the couch with a soft sigh, holding out one of the beers to Dom without looking right at him. Dom takes it and curls up, his feet underneath him, knowing he is sitting like a little boy and somehow unable to uncurl anyway. They are sitting close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off Billy's body, but they don't touch. Just sit in silence, drinking the beer slowly.
He spends five minutes waiting for Billy to speak, waiting for the talk about feelings or grief or what-the-fuck-ever to begin, but Billy just sits. Drinking, and breathing, and looking thoughtful, his face calm and still in the dim room. Suddenly he's turned into Zen master William Boyd or something, just sitting there, existing, and it's a little disconcerting. Dom watches him from the corner of his eye.
This, Dom thinks, is the first time they have ever been in the same room and been quiet, not cracking jokes or taking the piss. It's... different.
And finally Dom begins to relax into it, the silence, the calm. This being with Billy without performing, without entertaining. Just sitting. He feels his muscles loosen, his breathing slow. He thinks that he and Bill are breathing in tandem, chests rising and falling to the same rhythm, synchronized in the sips of beer they take. A few more minutes and he realizes that his eyes are closed, but he still knows how Billy is breathing, feels the heat coming off him, beating back the winter. He is warm all over now, because they're Merry and Pippin. Pippin and Merry. Half and half and not alone, a matched pair, pair of ears and furry feet and hobbit curls and can't go nowhere without the other 'cause that's what hobbits do or don't do really....
When he wakes up the next morning, he is still on the couch, but a blanket is draped over him, and Billy snores inelegantly at his feet, head thrown back. Dom stretches, full body, torso and arms and all, and feels the muscles pull easily. Nothing aches.
When he gets up to walk to the toilet, his left foot slides on the pages of his journal, scrunching the paper slightly. He reaches down to pick it up, smoothing out the wrinkles. Reads what he wrote the night before.
He rubs his face, thinking, just for a minute. Then rips the page with its heavy black letters out of the notebook and crumples it into a ball.
It bounces slightly when it hits the bottom of the waste paper bin.
***
END
x-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fellow_shippers
Author: Annakovsky
Rating: PG for language.
Pairing: Billy/Dom. Sorta. It's either slash or they're just good friends - you be the judge.
Disclaimer: All lies.
Summary: Dom is alone for his grandmother's funeral. Almost.
AN: Thanks to
gentle_thorns for her enormous help beta'ing this so that I don't sound more American than a 1950s fighter pilot. It is dim in the hotel room where Dom sits, leaning against the wall between the TV and the bed, staring at the blank page in front of him. He wants to write how his grandma's house smelled in the winter, very early in the morning. Wants to map out in words the wrinkles on her face, the skin stretched thin over the delicate bones in her hands, her wavery voice singing in the kitchen. The way she'd smile when she saw him so that it looked like her face might split into pieces, love flowing out so strong you could feel it brushing against your face, wrapping around your fingers, ruffling your hair.
Grief has taken up residence behind his left shoulder blade, a painful knot he can't relax. Orlando insisted on trying to massage it out, said he was tired of watching Dom rub at it, but he couldn't fix it. Dom doesn't know if he even wants it fixed.
The funeral is gathering his family in Manchester, everyone together to say goodbye. Everyone but him, because he is as far away as it is possible to be without leaving the planet. He is small and alone, in a hotel in New Zealand in the middle of the night, a cheap ballpoint pen in his hand, keeping watch. He moves to write on the paper, to record this loneliness and somehow make the room less empty, fill it with words. But for maybe the first time in his life, he finds that he has nothing to say. He looks at his hand, the curve of the knuckles, how they turn white if he clutches the pen hard. The knot of grief in his shoulder enjoys this, gripping harder and harder until his hand aches and the plastic of the pen begins to creak.
He lets his head fall back against the wall for a moment. The funeral will start in ten minutes - 2 am his time, 2 pm in Manchester. They are all gathering together, dressed up awkwardly, waiting for the service to begin. Holding hands, probably, some of them. It's summer there, not cold and icy with a nasty wind. He's not even in the same season as they are, and though he was there just over a week ago, summer seems very far away. His bare feet are cold and there's a draft from the window.
He deliberately puts his pen to paper, writing in bold, clear print, as neat as he can make it, I hate New fucking Zealand. He marks the full stop at the end of the sentence carefully, then sits back and looks at it, there in his journal, alone on the white page. After a moment he adds, on the line below, Nothing personal.
The clock on the bedside table flips from 1:58 to 1:59 and Dom stares at it, red numbers luminescent in the darkened room. One minute to go, one minute and they close the coffin, begin the service, end it.
He's so tense he jumps about a foot when someone knocks gently on the door. Hauling himself to his feet, he walks cautiously across the room, running his hand through his hair as he pulls it open.
Billy is standing in the hallway holding bottles of beer, looking solemn and a little sleepy. His eyes are squinting a bit against the garish fluorescence of the hallway's bright light, and his hair is flat on one side, like he'd been sleeping on it funny. "Bill," Dom says, surprised.
Billy smiles quickly, just a flash, before his face again becomes quiet and attentive. "Thought you'd be awake," he says. He looks at Dom directly for a moment, his eyes kind, before glancing away and rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He gestures with the beer. "D'you want company, then?"
Dom looks at him for a bit, taken aback. "Yeah," he says finally. "All right." He opens the door wider and Billy slides through, feet padding on the carpet.
Dom thinks Billy maybe wants him to talk or something, but Bill just sinks into the couch with a soft sigh, holding out one of the beers to Dom without looking right at him. Dom takes it and curls up, his feet underneath him, knowing he is sitting like a little boy and somehow unable to uncurl anyway. They are sitting close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off Billy's body, but they don't touch. Just sit in silence, drinking the beer slowly.
He spends five minutes waiting for Billy to speak, waiting for the talk about feelings or grief or what-the-fuck-ever to begin, but Billy just sits. Drinking, and breathing, and looking thoughtful, his face calm and still in the dim room. Suddenly he's turned into Zen master William Boyd or something, just sitting there, existing, and it's a little disconcerting. Dom watches him from the corner of his eye.
This, Dom thinks, is the first time they have ever been in the same room and been quiet, not cracking jokes or taking the piss. It's... different.
And finally Dom begins to relax into it, the silence, the calm. This being with Billy without performing, without entertaining. Just sitting. He feels his muscles loosen, his breathing slow. He thinks that he and Bill are breathing in tandem, chests rising and falling to the same rhythm, synchronized in the sips of beer they take. A few more minutes and he realizes that his eyes are closed, but he still knows how Billy is breathing, feels the heat coming off him, beating back the winter. He is warm all over now, because they're Merry and Pippin. Pippin and Merry. Half and half and not alone, a matched pair, pair of ears and furry feet and hobbit curls and can't go nowhere without the other 'cause that's what hobbits do or don't do really....
When he wakes up the next morning, he is still on the couch, but a blanket is draped over him, and Billy snores inelegantly at his feet, head thrown back. Dom stretches, full body, torso and arms and all, and feels the muscles pull easily. Nothing aches.
When he gets up to walk to the toilet, his left foot slides on the pages of his journal, scrunching the paper slightly. He reaches down to pick it up, smoothing out the wrinkles. Reads what he wrote the night before.
He rubs his face, thinking, just for a minute. Then rips the page with its heavy black letters out of the notebook and crumples it into a ball.
It bounces slightly when it hits the bottom of the waste paper bin.
***
END
x-posted to
fellow_shippers![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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<3
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Wow. That was so brillant and just so pretty.
My favorite part was:
He deliberately puts his pen to paper, writing in bold, clear print, as neat as he can make it, I hate New fucking Zealand. He marks the full stop at the end of the sentence carefully, then sits back and looks at it, there in his journal, alone on the white page. After a moment he adds, on the line below, Nothing personal
It just seemed to work so well.
That was turly amazing. *showers you with gifts*
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I love this. The detail gives it such a deeper meaning.
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I'm so glad that part worked. :-)
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