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calm

Title: Boys’ Night In (part four)
Author: mirith
Group: Dom/Billy/Elijah
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Elijah has lost control. Has Billy lost Dom?
Disclaimer: I don’t own them; they own me. This is completely fictional, but there's a crispy five-dollar bill in it for them if they make it happen.
Warning: Reading is bad for your eyes.
Feedback: The people who write it rule my universe.
Written: 10/12/05
For: snoopydance4me, with apologies. You are so important to me. I promise your birthday story will have sex.


Even in the dark, Billy knows upon waking that Dom is missing. The sleeping form huddled next to him in the hotel bed is Elijah’s. Billy doesn’t have to even touch him to know he’s not Dom. He just knows, before his pupils have a chance to dilate enough to look at him or his lungs have a chance to inhale his scent. And the roots of his knowing are in the fact that, three months ago, his best friend had handed him an unsolicited handkerchief.

They were sitting on Billy’s couch, watching some cheesy flick about evil dolls on a rampage, when Dom had pulled a crumpled tissue out of his right jeans pocket and handed it to him.

“What’s this for?” Billy asked, already pegging it as some sort of masturbation reference. Leave it to Dom to find psychotic puppets erotic.

“Cold,” Dom said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Billy was cold, probably from staying still so long, but he didn’t see how the tissue was going to provide much warmth. A blanket, sure; a tissue, no. The only part of him that was warm, in fact, was where Dom’s denim-clad thigh was pressed up against his. He was about to explain some part of this when the kickback from his sneeze propelled his head against the back of the couch. Until then, he hadn’t known he was sick.

“How do you do that?” Billy asked, once the fit had passed. He dabbed gingerly at his nose.

“What?” asked Dom.

“Know what people want. What they … need.”

“People? I don’t know what people want. I just know you.” Dom fished around in the bowl of crisps in Bill’s lap and brought out a handful. He crammed them into his mouth and began crunching with gusto.

“All right, but how do you know? How do you know things about me that I don’t know?”

“Waves,” said Dom, in between crunches. “You give off waves, like.”

“I give off waves. Like the ocean.”

“No. More like the radio. But with color.”

Billy smacked his own forehead with the heel of his palm. “It makes soooooo much sense now. That’s why half the shoot keeps asking me, ‘Could you stand over there, Bill? Your waves are blocking my shot.’”

Dom licked the salt from his fingers, and Billy did not perve on the slender digits disappearing into the warm, wet mouth. Really, he didn’t. Because at that time, he and Dom were just mates, best mates, in the friendly sense of the word. Not, say, in the sense of the word as it’s used in the nature documentaries on BBC Four.

“Most people aren’t wired to sense the sound waves from dog whistles either,” Dom pointed out. “Doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“And you are,” said Billy, making an effort to understand. “You’re sort of a two-legged dog.”

“Please,” said Dom. “My ex-girlfriend would say ‘three.’” Eyes still fixed to the television screen, Dom reached again for the bowl of crisps, but Billy yanked it out of reach. Dom’s refusal to give a proper explanation for what had happened was beginning to get on his nerves.

“Dom, I lied. This thing with waves makes no sense at all.”

“It does to me,” said Dom. “Give.”

Billy braced himself in expectation of a scuffle. Dom was stronger than he, and his fight style, a masterful blend of tickling, nipple tweaks, and power yoga, tended to trump his Billy’s defense skills, which devolved into whooping, flailing, and inadvertent kicking whenever Dom’s hands were in his armpits. Usually, a moment’s combat would have left Billy panting and crispless, but this time, Dom was content to lay his hand palm-up in Billy’s lap, his eyes still focused on the oh-so-fascinating telly. And because they were friends, nothing more, Billy didn’t raise his hips to meet Dom’s hand as it nestled against his crotch. He didn’t even twitch.

“Fine, then. Tell me what I’m giving off right now.”

Billy relaxed his arms and legs and leaned back into the couch, imitating Dom’s sprawling posture. He gazed at the screen with bovine absorption. This was not to make a point about Dom’s zombified nonchalance, because it didn’t bother him that Dom was paying much more attention to the television than to him. Not at all. No, it was just to prevent Dom from looking directly into his eyes, in case that facilitated the transmission of the waves. Which didn’t even exist, because Billy would know if they did.

“Right,” said Dom, finally looking him over. “I do this for you, and I can go back to watching a knife-wielding doll in a corset.”

“It’s a bodice.”

“Since when are you an expert on women’s undergarments?”

“Never you mind, and, yes, yes, you can.”

“And you will give me back my crisps.”

“You got them out of my cupboard, daft git, but yes.”

“You’re on.” Billy shifted in his seat, his skin fairly prickling as Dom’s gaze traversed the side of his face.

“Quit wriggling,” said Dom.

“Then hurry.”

“It can’t be hurried. It’s like love in that Supremes song. You… your back hurts.”

“That’s a given. This couch is crap, ergo my back hurts. Your back probably hurts too.”

“And you wouldn’t mind putting away a shot of whiskey. With ice.”

“That’s like telling me I wouldn’t mind breathing air. With oxygen. Tell me something that isn’t obvious.”

“And you…oh. Jesus. Oh.” Dom looked away, coughed, and looked back. His right hand fidgeted for a moment, then came to rest high up on Billy’s thigh.

And Billy looked into Dom’s grey eyes and suddenly the things Dom was not saying were rolling out of them in waves.

Billy, you want me on top of you.

You want our bodies to tangle until they’re as jumbled and incestuous as our shucked clothing, lying in a pile on your bedroom floor. You want to moan and whimper and sob while our hipbones shake hands. You want to rake those once-tidy fingernails through the sweat that slicks my rising, falling back. You want me to map the interior of your sweet, desperate arse until you scream with the pleasure of it. You want to dissolve in an apocalypse of burning flesh, demanding teeth, relentless cock. You want to roll in my scent, wear my saliva, drink my cum. You want me to have you until there’s nothing left of you to have, and then you want to have me.

The unsaid things were like the sneeze, something Billy should have known first but didn’t, an explosion of discomfort and release that lifted and shook him before he had any inkling it was coming. He felt light, so light that Dom was able to yank him off the couch with just a flick of the wrist, and then they were upstairs, before Billy could even open his mouth to tell Dom that he was full of shite. And there, Billy got everything he wanted. Whether he had known he wanted it or not.

----------------------------------

Billy worries that Dom has left him. That he has gotten sick of the evening’s three-way, sick of games, sick of tickle fights, sick of Billy.

Then he finds Dominic nestled in a duvet on the balcony of their hotel room, and when he asks him what he is doing there, he says, “Waiting for you. Pining, actually.”

And Billy says, “You could at least play hard to get.”