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On Exhibit

Character study for lotruniversity. Takes place a few weeks after this conversation between Billy and Dominic.

Billy’s stood outside the fine arts building for twenty–three minutes and eleven seconds now, watching the parade of students file in and out. It’s almost seven o’clock, and the exhibition of postgraduate students will close at eight. Billy very much wants to see this exhibition, for reasons that go somewhat beyond his usual polite interest in whatever fascinating thing Miranda’s planned for her charges, but every time he reaches for the handle of the great wooden door that would lead him inside, something keeps him from taking that last step.

That something would of course actually be a someone—Dominic Monaghan, to be precise. It’s more than likely that a good proportion of the drawings in the large, well–lit studio on the fourth floor of this building will be drawings of Dom himself—his body, his face, his, well, everything—and Billy’s not sure he can handle either the idea or the actual fact of that right now.

Dominic is his student, and also one of the few Billy’s proud to advise in a general academic capacity. When he told Billy about the modeling, Billy’s reaction was awkward at best, but since then he’s tried very hard to reconcile himself to the notion that the money is good for Dominic—and the job is certainly safer than bartending on the other side of town. And Dominic does seem comfortable with posing for the students—enough to allow one postgraduate young man to sketch him privately.

Another idea that makes Billy’s head spin a little.

Seven–fifteen, and Billy takes a deep breath before reaching for the door again. He’s going inside this time, come hell or high water.

There aren’t many students left inside the building, and for this Billy is inordinately pleased. He can wander the studio at his leisure, pretending to look over each drawing critically and making appropriate “mmm” noises of understanding and appreciation. In reality, Billy’s scanning each divided section of wall space, searching for something he recognizes—the curve of Dominic’s palm, the sharp edge of a hipbone that is all too often visible over the low rise of Dominic’s jeans, the deep ridge of muscle in Dominic’s perfect forearm.

Not that Billy has ever actually found time or reason to catalogue these details in his mind.

He almost stumbles upon the first picture, a rather straightforward 8 1/2 x 14 sketch of what would appear to be Dominic’s neck and collarbones. That he recognizes the subject from the mole on the right side of Dominic’s neck doesn’t come as more than the smallest surprise to Billy, and once he moves past that moment of discomfort, he finds he can concentrate better on the lines of the drawing. There is good definition here, strong shading and a composition that suggests the artist was more interested in the strength underneath Dominic’s surface than the set of his shoulders. Billy tilts his head this way and that, peering at the drawing as it if will provide answers to questions he hasn’t even thought of yet.

The next picture is larger, an expanded version of the previous drawing, but this time with greater detail and deeper shading that makes Billy move closer in curiosity. There’s something solid about the dark shadow around Dominic’s neck, something that makes Billy’s eyes flit to the next, even larger picture above—a picture that leaves Billy just a little breathless with its implications and obvious care.

It’s not a shadow around Dominic’s neck and throat. It’s a collar, a wide but thin leather collar that looks as if it were made for Dominic. There are cracks in the leather, too, visible even in the sketch, and Billy stares at them, willing himself to focus on that one small detail so that his mind does not run screaming in a thousand other directions.

He’s lost there, for a little while, until he hears voices from the entrance to the studio. Two more students have arrived, clearly hoping to catch the exhibition before its closing as well. Billy moves quickly around the corner, looking for more of Dominic, and he is not disappointed.

At his own eye level, there are two completely finished sketches. One shows only Dominic’s hands, bound together by something as dark and smooth as that leather collar. Billy cannot tear his eyes away from this picture for some minutes, even though he knows that should he look even just to his side, there will be more.

More of what, though? More sudden, insane desire? More disturbingly beautiful pictures of a young man Billy cannot have and should not even imagine stretched out and bound so just for him? More guilt rising over Billy’s body like a weak, slow tide?

Billy looks to the blue and grey tiled floor, collecting himself before he raises his eyes again. This picture is something he is not going to forget anytime soon, but he must keep going. He has to know—has to see.

The next picture is large enough that Billy must take three steps back to fully appreciate it. The canvas is filled with the taut, perfect lines of Dominic’s nude body, running from his collarbone to the middle of his right thigh. Billy takes a breath and follows that line with his eyes, memorizing every part of Dominic presented to him this way.

But of course, it’s not really presented to him alone, and the ache in Billy’s chest—a fascinating new development, this ache he feels when he considers Dominic in a way other than as a student—is sharp and hard and everything wrong. He has no right to feel denied or anything of the sort in regard to Dominic or these pictures. He has no claim to any part of Dominic, nor should he. Nor will he, ever. But that knowledge doesn’t stop the pain from flooding him, bringing with it an ache of a different sort—one Billy recognizes immediately and with deep shame as desperate need and desire.

He should leave. He should run from this building and walk until his thoughts clear and he can breathe again without imaging Dominic in his bed and his life. And again is it the other students, advancing toward him too quickly, that keep Billy from doing anything so rash and embarrassing. He squares his shoulders and moves further down the wall, until he rounds one more corner and is faced with the last three images in the room.

It’s a smaller picture than the others, an 8 x 10, with tight, hard strokes of pen and ink outlining the sharp edges of Dominic’s cheekbones and the rounded off, imperfect line of Dominic’s jaw. His lips are parted slightly, lush and full as if he’s been all too recently kissed to the point of exhaustion and numbness, and the surge of jealousy in Billy’s veins fights with the agony he’s already suffering for supremacy. Billy searches the picture for some absurd deliverance and finds only more pain, in the form of Dominic’s eyes, hidden from him under a blindfold Billy knows instinctively is not made of leather.

Once his eyes—those striking eyes Billy has seen turn blue–black with frustration and suppressed rage and stormy grey in sadness and disappointment—are covered, Dominic’s entire face assumes a quality of impassivity Billy knows Dominic does not carry—is incapable of carrying. There is resignation there, too—something Dominic does seem to bear, and often. But he is not impassive. Even in the rest of these pictures, in such submissive poses, Dominic’s strength and simmering energy are still visible. But here, with those telling eyes hidden—it is more than Billy can stand.

He turns away from the picture and is faced with another, a drawing just as shocking in its own way as the previous one: a close–up of Dominic’s eyes. It’s the finest piece Billy’s yet seen of the series, and it is riveting. As if to compensate for the loss of only a moment ago, Dominic’s eyes challenge the viewer, narrowed slightly but still soft in their centers, a touch dilated but seeing everything. Again Billy’s breath is caught, and this time he reaches a hand out to the wall to steady himself.

It’s not the picture itself that is making Billy heart race. It’s that he’s seen that look in Dominic’s eyes before, and it’s been directed at him. In the past few weeks, Dominic’s been eager to draw out their meetings and to press Billy to argue his points harder and longer in class. And always with those same dark, narrowed eyes. Test me, Dominic seems to be saying. Test yourself.

Again Billy feels like he should run. But there is only one more picture, only one more obstacle between him and escape. He moves toward it like one condemned, and stands, hands fisted at his sides, to absorb it fully. Dominic is on his knees, his body turned one quarter toward the artist. His eyes are downcast but open, flickering even in the ashy grey of the sketch, and his hands are again bound at the wrist, caught tight at the small of his back. Theses pictures belong in a private gallery, Billy thinks suddenly, not here, not in public where anyone wandering this university can see it—or could see Dominic in daylight and dressed, matching that proud chin and those dark, lethal eyes to these works of difficult art. Billy can feel himself flushing with anger and still more desire, and the combined feeling is devastating.

“He is beautiful,” comes a voice from behind Billy, and Billy’s fists clench hard before he finds the courage to turn. He now faces a tall, smiling young man with an unfamiliar accent, extending his hand warmly. “Gianpier Barchi. Thank you for coming to my show.”

Billy shakes the young man’s hand firmly, recovering the little composure he has left. Barchi is too excited to notice Billy’s discomfort, and moves proudly among his pictures. “His name is Dominic,” he nods, raising one hand to trace in the air along Dominic’s eyes. “Very brave, very strong. A perfect subject, too—didn’t speak much and was open to suggestions. I’ve kept everything I’ve done with him; at least thirty sketches beyond what you’ve seen here.”

“Has he—“ Billy clear his throat. “Has he seen these, then? The finished works?”

“He was here a few hours ago,” Barchi smiles. “Seemed a bit overwhelmed, but also proud. You know how it is.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Billy says calmly. “I’m not an artist.”

“Ah.” Barchi’s smile widens. “Then may I offer you my card? Perhaps you’ve seen a particular sketch that appeals to you? My friends—“ Barchi nods in the direction of the two students still several feet away from Billy. “They tell me you spent a great deal of time with that one.” Barchi points toward the sketch of Dominic’s bound hands, and Billy swallows. “I can understand,” Barchi murmurs. “It’s one of his favourites as well.”

“How much?” Billy says softly, unable to bear any more of Barchi’s words.

Barchi nods again, more slowly. “I think … for you, £100?” Billy whirls to face him, and Barchi shrugs. “It took hours, you see, and he was so comfortable I could hardly let him go.”

Billy turns back to the picture, swallowing hard again. “It is beautiful, but … I can’t. Thank you, though.” Turning once more to Barchi, he meets the younger man’s eyes. “I hope you find some satisfaction from this exhibition, Mr. Barchi. I hope you find buyers who will appreciate your work and, and his. I hope,” Billy lowers his voice and nears Barchi, his expression deadly. “That you will not exploit him.”

Barchi’s eyes widen, then turn amused. “He gave his consent, sir. I don’t understand—“

“Goodnight, Mr. Barchi,” Billy grits out. “And my congratulations to you.”

Billy’s down the stairs and back into the crisp night air before he realizes what he’s done. He sinks to the concrete steps outside the building and holds his head in his hands, thinking about how to fix this, how he can pretend it never happened—how he can face Dominic in another three days while he teaches class.

Barchi will likely tell him about the older man who turned so oddly possessive and angry over the pictures. It should not take Dominic long to figure out who Barchi means, and then? And then Billy might have to confront everything he’s kept down so well inside himself for two months.

He wants Dominic. Wants him in every one of those positions Billy’s just seen drawn out in clear lines of black and grey. Wants to fuck him like that, and untie him only afterward, allowing him rest as a reward for offering himself up to Billy. It won’t happen, ever, despite every indication, every invitation Dominic seems to give with those brilliant eyes. It cannot happen, for too many reasons.

The idea of it should be enough. Has to be. Billy must content himself with his own imagination. It’s worked before—too often, lately—and it will work again now. To that end, Billy takes a shuddering breath and stands, moving as quickly as he can in the direction of the Humanities building and his own office. He’ll never make it home without breaking down, and at least in his office he can think this through. He can determine how best to apologize to Barchi, and to Dominic if necessary. He can even consider returning to purchase that one picture.

He can also do something far more dangerous—and take care of a need far more urgent.

His keys are already in his hand a hundred feet from his office. Billy’s out of breath from his trek across the darkened campus, and he rattles the door impatiently before spilling into the office and slamming the door shut behind him. The lock twists in his fingers, and then Billy rests with his back to the door, almost panting now.

Then there is a succession of metallic sounds: the crash of his keys falling to the floor, the rasp of his zipper sliding down, the grinding of his back teeth as he tries not make any noise. Billy presses the heel of his hand against his thigh, willing himself to slow down, but at this point what sense would that make? He lets out a low gasp as he frees his cock from his boxers, knowing without even looking that it’s already flushed and still more than half–erect from earlier. Billy bites down on his lip as he strokes down the length, his thumbnail scraping lightly over the tip.

His legs are weakening already, and Billy imagines it’s not helped by the stress of the evening. He would happily let his knees buckle and fall to the ground were he at home, but the idea of coming wildly all over his hardwood office floor is something just too … irresponsible for Billy to contemplate or allow.

Couch, couch, you have a couch, his mind screams, and Billy moves toward it quickly, throwing himself down and reaching again for his cock, this time with both hands and more greed. His fingernails tangle and tear in the dark auburn curls around his shaft, and Billy doesn’t even bother holding back his little cries anymore. All he can see behind his closed eyes is Dominic, his wrists and his eyes, his full lips and broad, muscled thighs.

The images flicker, as all dream–visions do for Billy, and he holds on to them desperately, his fingers tightening around his cock and moving quickly. In his mind, Billy’s hands are on Dominic’s body, pressing those wrists into his mattress and covering those lips with his own—manipulating those long, perfect muscles until Dominic is aching for release. And he can see everything the pictures did not show fully—Dominic’s cock, begging for attention Billy will only give once he’s satisfied himself.

“Dom, Dominic” Billy whispers, squeezing his shaft hard now, spinning himself out. He’s so close, and in his mind Dominic is shaking beneath him, straining against bonds Billy knows he’s placed around those strong wrists. Dominic’s hips rise, parrying against Billy’s, and Billy sees his own lips curling into something fierce before he pushes Dominic back down, makes him wait, you greedy little fuck and then pushes hard, one last time, just to hear Dominic scream.

The sound is intoxicating, and the last thing Billy hears before he’s coming, shaking himself now and spilling all over his hands and the hem of his shirt. Every curse in every language he knows falls from his lips, interspersed with Dominic’s name and those of several deities.

It hurts, in a way that confuses and terrifies Billy. He’s never felt so completely shattered after something so allegedly irrelevant and insignificant as a wank behind closed doors, and he knows now that this was something more—something dangerous and something he can never, never make real, lest he damage his good, friendly relationship with Dominic. Still, he cannot deny what he’s just done and felt, nor can he ignore the waves of jealousy and fear that swept over him just from looking at those pictures.

He should be able to distance both himself and Dominic from those sketches. They are two–dimensional, after all, not real. Dominic is more than an image captured in black and grey, framed by cold metal and given for show. He is more than a pair of hidden eyes and trapped wrists. Billy recognizes this, and it gives him a comfort less cold than he expects. He sits up slowly, feeling the adrenaline leave his body in a chilling rush.

And as his hands cover his face and slide into his hair, Billy is grateful that at least in his dream, Dominic’s eyes were open.


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