"So because of that she packs it up and takes it back to where she bought it and I'm thinking to myself, oh, c'mon, now, let's not even bring the topic up, because I told her when she first asked that I didn't care, you know? And I know she's gonna mention it later when I've forgotten, you know how that is, too. Yeah, so it's been absolute madness and all 'cause of some stupid set of washrags."

"Billy," Dom intones, blinking sleepily. "You realize you've rambled about your old lady doin' up your house for about an hour now?"

"Oh," Billy says. "Sorry 'bout that. Don't ask me about it, then. I can never tell her..."

"Mm?" Dom hums quizzically into the silence.

"Nah." Billy wraps a fist around his beer bottle, shifting it against the table.

Dom wonders if Billy has picked up on it yet. Because Dom has. And it feels good for just a little while to be in the know. To harbor it and develop it and never think twice about what's going on. It's been four and a half years now; why does this urge to be silent even exist between them still. Rather silly that Billy hasn't said anything yet, in Dom's not-so-humble opinion.

"You look ridiculous," Billy says, breaking the silence. His mouth is curved into a dramatic grin.

"I'm a rock star, and don't you forget it," Dom mumbles, eyelids drooping. He feels one of Billy's thumbs pass over his left eyelid. "In fact, you may want to stock up on my autograph now, because in thirty years after I've drowned m'self in whiskey and Playboy models and died a glorious death in a fireball inferno involving my Jaguar and a telephone pole, they'll be sellin' on Ebay like hotcakes."

Billy's hand fusses with the hair that clings to Dom's forehead. "At least you cut your hair."

"In fact, I've a stack of five by seven glossies that I'm sure all the wee Boyds would—"

"Dom, shut it for five seconds. You ramble worse than I do when I'm knackered. And since when d'you get there before I do?"

Dom grins, grabbing for Billy's hand and bringing it back to his face. "I always get there before you do, gorgeous..."

Billy laughs before he remembers he's not supposed to be amused by that sort of humor from Dom anymore. "I'll be right back."

The room is very, very quiet without Billy.

"Here we go," Billy says, popping back in several seconds later with a damp cloth in his hand. He stands next to Dom's chair, pokes Dom to sit up straight, and then begins to gently swipe the eyeliner and sweat from Dom's face with slow passes of the towel.

Dom mumbles or whines or something distracting and Billy pauses just long enough for Dom to plant his face against Billy's stomach. Hot exhale of breath, and Billy brings up his hands, lightly petting the back of Dom's head. "How long has it been since you've slept a night through?"

"Mmm." Dom turns, pushing his cheek into Billy's shirt. "Eight...seventy-three ...ehm...two."

"Very good. And next we'll do colors, Dommie," Billy says, voice an octave higher.

"Bed, I think, 's'what you're saying?"

"I knew there was a reason I kept you around. Your amazing intuitive skills."

Dom tilts his face up, and opens his eyes. "That's right." He stands up shakily, right into Billy's body and Billy takes a step back, only to be caught by Dom's hands and tugged forward. "Careful there, Bills. You may slip up."

"One of my many talents," Billy admits grandly, and they take a weak steps toward the back of the house.

They untangle and Dom bumps into his bedroom door. Exhaustion saps the focus from his eyes and makes his head float, but his fingers burn with untold sensitivity as they clutch Billy's sleeve. He feels almost high off the threatening about-to-fall-over sensation that floods his brain in soft waves: lucid, not, lucid, not. He turns and pushes his back into the door and Billy doesn't move. And when he does, it's to turn the doorknob. His arms brush Dom's sides.

Billy's eyes close briefly. "Can we..."

About time.

"Yeah," Dom answers, unintentionally whispering. He pushes, and the door creaks open.