Sometimes he just wants to be sad.
Those are the nights when he watches TV for three hours and has no memory of what was on. He might open a beer; he finds it sometime later, with perhaps a quarter gone and the rest flat and stale.
He goes to bed early, wishes for warmth. Someone curled behind him, or someone to curl around. Both. To feel warm skin under his cheek and hands, and an angular, smooth chest pressed to his back, a heavy arm thrown over his waist.
He burrows as far into the mattress as he can, builds bulwarks and redoubts of pillows around himself. Tries to fool himself into the illusion of being held. It never works. He falls asleep feeling unsatisfied, wakes logy and irritable, with the sheets in knots and pillows pushed onto the floor. He mopes around the house, barefoot; pours the flat beer down the drain and looks into the refrigerator. Nope. No one in there.
Sometimes he just wants to be sad.
~*~*~*~
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing. Just sitting around."
"You sound like shite." Billy doesn't sound any too fantastic himself, but Dom doesn't want to point that out. Firstly because he is the depressed one, let's not forget, and secondly because it is just too much to think that Billy, too, might be low. Because if Billy is in Glasgow and low, then Dom has to figure out why Billy isn't in Los Angeles, with him, not being low. Which leads to the thought (traitorous, niggling, irresistable) that Billy would rather be low in Glasgow than be happy--unhappy?--with Dom in L.A... and who wants to think that?
"Thank you, Miss Mary Sunshine." Dom fidgets. "I wish I had a phone with a cord."
"Dominic. Where are you sitting right now?" Billy's voice sounds tinny and amused. Dom can hear lots of noise behind him. A shopping centre, maybe, or a train station. Crowds.
"On my couch."
"Could you do that with a phone with a cord on?"
Dom swings his feet. He is lying flat on his back, his knees hanging over the arm of the couch. "Prolly not." The ceiling is flat and dull. Needs something. Art. He could put a big poster of Orlando up there. Think of Billy's double-take next time he comes to L.A. Dom snorts to himself.
"What are you laughing at? And why do you want a phone with a cord?"
"Nothing. Because if I had a phone with a cord I could wrap it all around myself while I talked. Give me something to do with my hands." Dom is, in fact, fiddling with his hair.
"God, you're such a girl." Billy sighs.
"You could give me something better to do with my hands," Dom says with vague hope. Vague because he knows Billy will not engage in phone sex behavior in public. Except that one time... which explains the hope.
"Not right now, Dom, I'm out." Dom's turn to sigh, but Billy is going on. "Listen, do me a favor."
"What is it?" Dom pulls one knee up, picks at his toenails and then studies the callouses on the ball of his foot, the phone clamped firmly to his ear by the opposite shoulder.
"Don't, ah... don't do any of that until tomorrow night."
"Any of--" Dom lets his foot drop. "Why?"
"I have a surprise for you." Billy sounds... sneaky.
"What is it?"
A pause, and Dom feels less depressed.
"Let's just say, I think you'll be getting a phone call you'll appreciate, sometime tomorrow night."
"Oh?" Dom is smiling, can hear Billy's smile. "And what should I be wearing for this phone call?"
"Hmm." Billy hums a little tune. "Something nice. But not too nice. Cargo pants or khakis. Nice shirt."
"And underneath the khakis?"
"Use your own discretion." A pause, and then Billy speaks again. "I have to go."
"You have to?" Dom can't help but say it.
"Yes, I have to." Billy is firm. "Be good, Dom. No wanking."
"Well now you've said it right out--"
"Dominic. Be good."
"You better make it worth my while, tosser."
"I will. Love you."
"You, too. Git."
"Goodbye, Dom." And Billy is gone from the other end, just like that.
Dom clicks the little button on the phone and sighs. Stares at the ceiling again, thinks about jerking off. No. Billy will make it worth the while. Phone sex with Billy is better than wanking off to thinking about phone sex with Billy, Dom is sure. Pretty sure. Almost completely sure.
Yeah. Okay.
~*~*~*~
Later he feels sad again, but at least this time there is some relief in sight. He shifts, trying to get comfortable. Impossible, and so he retreats into that place in his head, where at least it is quiet. Turns off the screen, pulls the blanket up higher. Wishes he could push his head sideways into someone's neck, into that bony place that is somehow perfectly comfortable, the scent of someone he loves breathed into his mouth, the hard knob of shoulder against his cheekbone, his nose laid along one prominent collarbone. Can't have that right now, so he draws breath in, lets it out in a soft shudder and keeps his eyes resolutely closed.
~*~*~*~
Dom spends the next day on his back on the couch. Playing games, ignoring the smoggy spring day outside. He plays with his pets for a while, but honestly, praying mantises are lousy company when you just want to be touched. He would never admit this aloud, but something furry and warm would be nice--hard to cuddle insects and snakes, though they're much more fascinating.
Around four he showers. At five he forces himself to eat something and six o'clock finds him sitting on the couch with the phone one foot away and something completely mindless on the television.
~*~*~*~
It's not about sex, really. Okay, it's not all about sex. It is just as much about sensuality as sexuality, innit? Yes. Touch. He misses being touched, misses it on a level that is at once sunk so deep in his subconscious as to be unmineable and so vivid, such an everyday desire as to be at the top of what he is thinking every second of every day. When he sees people holding hands he misses the feel of long, nimble fingers in his hand; when he sits down to watch the telly he feels the absence of body heat and weight beside him like a tangible ache. So stupid. Such a great softie he has become, but god, he just wants to be touched, all over, and so he goes to insane amounts of trouble and bother and discomfort just for the hope. The hope of it, of someone who wants to touch him as badly as he wants to be touched.
Intersection--two people meet and something happens. All the exciting things happen at crossroads, don't they? Wars and treaties and peace. He hopes his path will meet with someone else's soon. That person, there. Him. Yeah, the one with the eyes that squinch up with laughter and the grin that can turn the room on its end, the untameable hair and the glint in his eye. Him. Where is his road going? Because maybe my feet could meander over that way.
~*~*~*~
The phone rings at 8:12 p.m.
"What took you so long?"
"Turbulence over the Rocky Mountains."
Some part of Dom's brain is processing this, and another part is grabbing his wallet and his keys and a jacket, running all over the house (thank god for cordless phones) and pausing by the door. "Which gate are you at?"
"I dunno, American Airlines, from Heathrow, landed just a few minutes ago. I'm in line for customs."
"Wait for me at the baggage claim." Dom stabs at the button and throws the phone over his shoulder into the house as he slams the door. Never in his life has he gotten to the airport so quickly, and he keeps up a running monologue as he parks: "Bloody fucking bastard cunting parking garages, which fucking level--where--fuck! Fuckfuckfuck motherfucker goddam idiots designed by gimps with shite for brains dammit--" and so on.
Parked, then trotting quick down concrete stairs that smell of urine and gasoline, and he would run but really, that would just be pathetic. Then he thinks of Billy, waiting patiently by the baggage carousel, and he does run, a sprint into the terminal. He skids to a halt to check the "Arrivals" board, bouncing from foot to foot. There, okay, four fucking gates down from where he parked, naturally, so off he goes. It's nine o' clock on a Tuesday, LAX isn't empty but it isn't swarming and he lopes along, past McDonald's and Starbucks and bars and ice cream places and duty-free shopping.
Down a level to the baggage claims and hey. There's Billy.
He looks tired, he has that look on his face that says he hasn't slept enough. His hair is in disarray as usual, he has on his ugly brown jacket and jeans and trainers. His guitar case is in one hand and there's a duffle beside him. He's gazing at the window--at his own reflection? Maybe, the dark outside means there's nothing to see except reflections. But maybe he is watching the people behind him, walking to and fro.
Dom slows, slows his breathing. "So why am I dressed nicely when you look like something the cat threw up?"
"It's lovely to see you, too, Dominic," says Billy, and then they are both grinning, Billy's set his guitar case down and Dom's arms are around him.
Ah. Home, yeah, that's what that feels like, strange and yet familiar, a place you haven't been a while, but still--home. The hub.
Dom can feel Billy's arms, tight around his waist, and his breath warm against his neck.
Billy can feel Dom's muscular back with his arms and the palms of his hands, and Dom's chest tight to his own, and his breath warm against his cheek.
Dom picks up the duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder. "C'mon, Billy Boyd, let's get you somewhere quiet, where you can sleep." He sets off at a jaunty pace and Billy strides along beside him. Even tired, the older man walks lightly, he has such energy in all of him, Dom tries not to but always forgets how springily Billy walks.
The aluminum guitar case thumps against Billy's leg over and over, and he feels Dom's shoulder brush his several times as they make their way down the concourse. "Sleep comes after sex comes after food," Billy says, feeling the insistent heat of the touches radiate through his entire body. "What are you wearing under the khakis?"
"You'll have to explore and discover." Dom's face wants to split with his delight.
"And conquer." Billy answers the grin.
In the car he will thread his fingers through Dom's and lean to kiss him, a kiss as tender as it is hungry. Back at Dom's little house they will eat and laugh and make love at least twice, and then Billy will fall asleep with warm skin under his cheek and hands, or an angular, smooth chest pressed to his back, a heavy arm thrown over his waist. He will wake alert and cheerful, swathed in linen and cotton and smooth, sleep-heavy limbs, and he will kiss Dom's mouth four times before the sea-blue eyes drag open and blink at him in the muted light of morning behind heavy curtains.
Sometimes he just wants to be happy.