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Title: Lose You Now
Author: kiltsandlollies
Pairing: BB/DM
Rating: NC-17
Note: A bit of untitled, angry NC-17 BB/DM. No idea where this came from. Finally named "Lose You Now", from a Chalk Farm song of the same name that exists on my current writing mix.

Part 1 | Part 2


Part 1

Billy imagines that no one ever considers the issues of laundry when first taking a lover. No one spends their quiet moments thinking of dishes and taking the garbage out. Yes, of course he understood long before sleeping with Dominic that Dom’s made an art form of laziness, and that his slovenly habits are only matched by Elijah’s. Billy rolls his eyes now to think of what their shared home in Los Angeles must look like—a perfect complement, no doubt, to Dominic and Elijah’s already–quite–messy–enough relationship.

It’s not that Billy’s even that tidy, really. But he’s worked long and hard for this vacation, and he has no further intention of spending it hoovering behind Dominic and the trail of filth that seems to follow him from room to room. Billy’s been patient enough with the game controllers all over the floor, the CD wrappers he finds in the bathroom because Dominic’s too impatient not to open them the moment he gets home from the HMV, and the empty glasses and bottles everywhere. But he cannot, will not abide food in his bedroom, in his sheets, on his—

“Fucking pillows, Dom. Pillows.”

Dominic stops eating only long enough to raise surprised eyebrows, and Billy throws his hands up in irritation.

“Lazy fucking bastard,” Billy snarls, yanking at the duvet and tossing it to the floor. “Dirty git. Greedy, slutty little Manc—”

Dominic finally speaks, hoots more like in wild, dramatically offended fury. “I’m not a slut—”

“Shut it, just fucking shut it and get y’self out of my bed and into a shower and fucking do the fucking laundry or go the fuck home, Dominic, where you can wallow in this as much as you like—”

“Christ, Billy, I could stay home with Elijah to listen to this—”

“Over the sound of your own voice? Not fucking likely.” Billy grabs Dominic’s plate and spins on one foot to leave the room, but Dominic’s hand wraps, wraps hard around Billy’s bicep, keeping him from moving another inch. Billy struggles, and the plate falls, breaking into five large, oddly symmetrical pieces on the floor. Billy stops moving, watches it fall and stares at the mess he’s made—less important now than the damage he’s done with his mouth. The only sound in the room is Dominic’s controlled, calm breathing, loud against Billy’s right ear.

“That was ... healthy,” Dominic murmurs, with only the vaguest hint of a smirk. Billy tries once more to turn, the anger rising up again, but Dominic is quicker, catching Billy’s other arm and rendering him effectively still in Dominic’s grip. Billy’s forehead furrows and his mouth works, lips forming words that will never see light or air, not if Dominic can do anything about it.

“Must have been worth it,” Dominic muses, turning Billy to face the rumpled, crumb–dotted bed. Billy knows where this is going and only half–resists, still quite furious but suddenly willing to negotiate their current domestic situation. Willing to be convinced that Dominic will, for want of a better phrase, clean up his act once Billy makes it worthwhile for him to do so.

“Breaking the china and we haven’t even made it five years yet,” Dominic snorts, sliding one leg between Billy’s and nudging firmly, pressing Billy down and making his knees bend, his body fold and fall to the sheets. Billy inhales, flattening his palms to take his weight on the yielding mattress. Dominic follows him down, his chest warm on Billy’s back, warm like Dominic’s body always, always is, and Billy shivers, letting his fingers curl, fisting the sheets. He can feel tiny, sharp remnants of breakfast pastry in between the fabric and his palms, can see a rusty smudge that is more than likely some kind of crap organic tea spill, can breathe in the scent of what Billy sincerely hopes is not an orange peel. His senses are in small overdrive, and Billy closes his eyes to fight it, knowing he’s in for something both better and worse if Dominic keeps this up.

“Now this, Bill,” Dominic sighs, his hands tugging sharply at Billy’s sweatpants, pulling them down past his hips. “This is healthy. You’re wound tighter than fucking Princess Leia, mate, and I’ve gotta think it’s not me you’re really talking to. So, yeah, I think—” Billy hears Dominic’s breath catch, hears the zipper of Dominic’s jeans open, and he squirms, unsure exactly what he’s meant to be doing here. After all, it’s not often Dominic does this—and hardly ever does Billy want it so much as he does right now, but catch him admitting it and you’ll win fabulous cash and prizes—and he’s never quite done it this way, with Billy unable to see him, unable to control what’s happening as he takes it.

“I think,” Dominic continues, relaxed again, “we’re going to have to compromise here. Last time I checked, we were on holiday. Remember those, Bill? Holidays. They come with fire, they come with axes, they come with maid service. And ours comes tomorrow.” Dominic’s hand moves to Billy’s ass, circling the flesh there gently, and Billy releases a little breath. Dominic traces his hand down Billy’s cleft, and his thumb brushes Billy’s opening once, three times before Billy slides backward and into the touch. He’s hard, painfully so, and Dominic’s not in much better shape, from what Billy can feel now pressing against him urgently.

“Don’t know who or what’s giving you the fantods today, mate ...” Dominic breathes, warm and wet now near Billy’s ear. “But don’t you fucking take it out on me over something like this. Let me give you something to work with, right? ‘S all about give and take, yeah? Compromise? So let me give you this—” Billy gasps, nearly tears the sheets as Dominic’s fingers push inside and twist, and Dominic’s laughter raises the temperature on Billy’s neck to such a shocking degree that Billy actually tries to move away from it—

Not that that is an option, no, not when Dominic’s free hand holds him to the mattress. Another finger, and Billy’s sucking in breath between his teeth, trying desperately hard to hold on to the sheet and to not—most definitely not arch up and back into Dominic’s hand. “Mmm,” Dominic purrs, turning his wrist again until Billy finally cries out, finally rises from the bed and grinds down on Dominic, his legs shaking. Dominic pushes back, one hand gentle but firm on Billy’s neck, and Billy falls again. “There, fucking yes, Billy ...” Dominic whispers, and Billy’s eyes fall shut again. He’s close, so close that it takes long, terrible seconds for him to realize that Dominic’s left him this way, pulling sharply away from Billy and standing behind him, breathing hard and angry.

“No ...” Billy whispers, and Dominic is there again, turning Billy so he’s on his back, still aching, his legs still open and shaking and moving of their own volition to trap Dominic, to bring him down to Billy with a force Dominic never seems to remember. He fights it, though, this time, granting Billy nothing more than a low, petulant laugh, and Billy is too confused, too needy to understand.

“Dominic—”

“Could go home to Elijah for this, too,” Dominic hisses, and Billy swallows, his face flushing unpleasantly. “Because I’m a lazy fucking bastard and a dirty git. Because I’m a slut. Because I came here to rest and be with you and know that I’m not supposed to be anywhere else but with you, wherever that is, thinking that of all fucking people you’d leave off and let me just—” Dominic inhales and leans against the wall. “And it’s obviously not working.”

“Stop,” Billy whispers, and Dominic is upon him again, inching them both up the bed.

“I,” Dominic growls as he pushes, pinning Billy hard into the mattress. “Fucking love you. Love you pent–up, caustic and fucking cruel. Love you happy, pissed and everything in between. Love you covered in tree sap and sand and salt and love you half a minute from the shower. Love you with dirty fingers and toes. Love you—” Dominic’s voice catches, and he thrusts hard, making Billy gasp again, his hands scrabbling all over Dominic’s back. “And it’s your fucking turn to give me all that back, Billy. Your—” a breath, a push—“Fucking—” another— “Turn.”

Billy cries out again, coming so hard he loses his grip on Dominic’s back, on himself, on everything, and Dominic finally stops talking, finally pushes one last time until he too is coming, but silently, gritting his teeth as if it’s the most painful thing he’s ever experienced. He falls, but not quite, catching himself still inches above Billy, and before Billy can stop him, Dominic is pulling away, his face sweaty and shamed, and, Billy notices for the first time, tear–stained.

“Dominic,” Billy whispers again, and Dominic holds up one hand, the other running through his matted hair.

“Must have been worth it,” Dominic repeats, his voice again calm. “Be in the shower if you need me.”


Part 2

It hurts this time. It doesn’t usually; Billy’s accustomed to the fits and storms of Scottish waves, and he compensates for the eternally vindictive waves and cold—too–cold—water with a better wetsuit and more caution than he usually takes in kinder seas. But today has been ... different. Today Billy has felt every thundering crash of white and grey–blue fury, has been beaten and bruised everywhere by waves offended by his cheek in attempting to surf on such an ugly day.

Billy scrambles away from the water like a child, hands and knees leaving wide, messy prints in the sand. He’s breathing hard, puffy breaths of wet heat in the cold—too–cold—air, and he’s only just cognizant enough of the surfboard washing up next to him that he can reach for it, yank it further up and onto the sand before it drifts back into the water, a sacrifice for his conceit and nerve.

Billy knows there is more at work here than rough seas. His body aches with the agonies of poor surfing, yes, but there’s also the bruises he’s suffered since late yesterday afternoon, when he flayed Dominic mercilessly with his tongue, calling him a bastard, calling him dirty—

Calling him a slut.

And yet Dominic did not retaliate as Billy had first expected him to. Dominic’s never backed down from a good fight, and is far more prone to screaming callouts and tantrums and eventual (occasionally weak) bouts of more physical aggression. He might be a bitch, but Dominic never simply takes it. Never simply allows someone to throw insult after insult at him without returning (occasionally weak) fire.

But Dominic didn’t really say anything back this time. Nothing hurtful, anyway. Nothing really meant to be hurtful. No, instead Dominic turned Billy to his stomach and then his side and then his back and fucked him blind, all the while confessing his real reason for showing up on the second night of Billy’s vacation, all the while professing—love?—love for Billy and all his many, harder faults, all the while holding back tears and something worse.

Billy had fought long and hard not to fall asleep after Dominic left their room. He could still feel crumbs under his back and assorted wrappers in the sheets, could still smell that fucking (ohChristpleaseno) orange peel. And when Dominic returned, the air around him fragrant and soapy–warm, Billy allowed himself to be moved gently, silently, to sit and rest against the wall while Dominic stripped the bed and remade it with sheets so crisp they almost hurt.

Billy remembers all of this—not as vividly as he would like to, certainly, because Billy remembers the difficult, bad things better and more clearly than he does the simple and good—as he sits, sinks, falls to his back on the sand. He’s exhausted, more so than last night even, and though he knew before stepping foot from the house that surfing today would be a mistake, he also knew that he couldn’t spend one more minute inside with a silent, eggshell–walking Dominic. Still, he regrets it now, leaving Dominic alone when they need to talk. They must talk; there’s no way around it.

But not right now, Billy thinks, and closes his eyes.

It’s not even a full hour later when Dominic finds him, still on his back and asleep in the nearing darkness. Dominic kneels down beside him and waits several beats, just breathing softly before he rests one large, warm hand on Billy’s cheek, startling him awake.

“Dom, Dom—”

“S’alright,” Dominic says, very quietly. “Think it’s time to come in now, Billy.”

Billy swallows and nods, trying to rise from the sand. But it’s hard, and Dominic knows this. He slides his hand down to Billy’s bicep again, curling fingers around the bruise he made last night before he moves, pulling Billy up with less effort than seems fair. Billy’s answering frown is deep and shallow at once, meaningful and meaningless in the greater scheme of things. Dominic laughs, the sound guttering and soft underneath the noise of the lapping, eternally–irritable waves.

“Can you walk? I mean—”

“Yes, I can fucking walk,” Billy hisses, wrenching himself free of Dominic’s grip. “Don’t need you. To help me. Walk.” Billy steps away, breathing harder than before now, and turns back to the water, squinting, looking for white and orange against all the dark blue and grey. He leans, peering into the darkness, and nearly pitches forward into the sand again.

“Clearly you do” Dominic murmurs, catching Billy’s arm one more time. “I put it away, Bill, in the garage. Before you woke—before I woke you up.”

Billy mouth works again, different from last night but still tight, still moving with words he cannot quite say. Dominic takes a deep breath and loosens his hold on Billy, just a touch, just enough so that Billy’s not quite caught, and pulls him gently along, walking back to the house. The sand feels cold and gritty, unyielding, between Billy’s toes, and what was already an uncomfortable walk becomes more so in the silence between him and Dominic.

The house looks warm from here, a good two hundred paces away. The light inside is low, and Billy can see the front room almost glowing through the glass doors leading outside to the beach. He’s distracted enough to register surprise when Dominic stops them at those doors and falls to his knees in front of Billy.

“Dom—”

Dominic snorts, but not unpleasantly, and raises Billy’s right foot carefully with one hand, a soft, bristled brush with the other. “You’re not that lucky tonight, mate. Your house is clean now. Let’s keep it that way.”

Billy stares with half–lidded eyes down at Dominic, brushing sand and dirt from Billy’s feet with a touch that should either tickle or almost hurt but does neither. Dominic’s fingers are long and, well, clean for some reason—devoid of ink and dirt and everything else that Billy’s come to expect to see—and Billy stares some more, watching the muscles of Dominic’s hand as he turns his wrist, cradling Billy’s ankle in his warm, curved, soft—very soft, if Billy thinks about it, softer than it should be—palm. Dominic’s thumb grazes the tattoo, rubs it lightly, and Billy almost speaks. Almost.

But then Dominic stands suddenly, and this smallest of spells is broken. It’s only when Dominic does this—rises up tall from a position low on the ground before Billy—that Billy remembers how much bigger Dominic is in comparison to Billy. Yes, Dominic has a few inches on him, but there are other dimensions in which Billy’s bested by Dominic, and they come into full play—are made startlingly vivid—when they’re standing this close but not yet touching.

Dominic’s takes Billy’s arm again, and for the first time Billy wonders why not his hand, why not, when Dominic’s so prone to doing just that, grabbing hands of even perfect strangers to pull them forward or closer or both. It’s not as if Billy’s going to stop him, or squirm away, or say something—

Billy swallows, and follows Dominic inside.

“Hungry, Bill?” Dominic asks, releasing Billy completely now and walking into the small kitchen. Billy shakes his head no and wanders further into the room, peering around at the now–immaculate shelves, the game controllers neatly stored beneath the television, the absence of anything that would speak of Dominic’s presence.

“Billy?” Dominic asks again, his head poking out from around the corner. Billy looks up and nods yes, watching the first smile he’s seen cross Dominic’s face since yesterday afternoon. And of course Dominic would smile—cooking is something he can do better than Billy, something he can do for Billy, rather. Billy can’t quite muster the strength to smile back, though, and Dominic takes it well, doesn’t question anything. Instead he watches Billy turn around again in the middle of the room, eyes flitting everywhere but back to Dominic.

“You should change,” Dominic says, again so calmly. “You’re cold. Maybe a shower, too, get yourself feeling a little better.” Billy nods again, this time letting his eyes fall to the carpet. “Billy,” Dominic whispers, a little less calmly, and Billy finally looks up.

“I don’t think I can move.”

Dominic’s there in no little hurry, hands on either side of Billy’s face, eyes peering into Billy’s, searching, searing. “Did you fall? Did you hurt yourself? Dammit, Billy, what did you—” Dominic inhales and stops himself the moment Billy starts shivering. “It’s too fucking cold to be out there surfing, you stubborn cunt,” he hisses. “Anything to get away from me, right? You’ll do fucking anything to keep away.”

“No, no—” Billy’s hands bat weakly in the air around Dominic, landing nowhere until Dominic catches them.

“You shut it,” Dominic whispers, and it sounds so much harder coming from his lips. “You shut it and come with me.”

There’s something impatient, something harsh about Dominic’s hands now, pulling at the wetsuit. But Billy only flinches when he catches sight of Dominic’s face in the bathroom mirror—half of it, to be precise, behind Billy’s pale, freckled shoulder—reflecting frustration, anger, and everything else they’ve handed back and forth to each other in the last twenty–four hours. Dominic turns the shower on and shucks his own clothes quickly, and Billy looks down at the floor again, his heart racing even as his body continues to shake from cold and something else Billy can’t name just yet. The mirror is beginning to steam up already, and Billy wonders how hot the water’s going to be, how good it’s going to feel—

How much it’s going to hurt.

“Come with me,” Dominic says, his eyes dark in the mirror, his mouth warm on Billy’s neck and hands soft at Billy’s waist. He’s pulling Billy back to the shower, to the warmth, and it’s not as if Billy’s going to stop him, or squirm away, or say something—

Billy swallows, and follows Dominic inside.


TBC

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