They take the northeastern trail through low country and Billy talks. It may have something to do with the open space or the crisp blue overhead, or it may simply be that Dom had asked. Why, though, hadn't he thought it through? When he had said, softly, carefully, "Tell me about your parents," why hadn't he prepared himself for the answer that he might receive?

He isn't sure.

He'd asked because he was curious, if the truth were told. He'd asked because Billy had mentioned the loss in passing several weeks ago between a crack about Dom's bald head and a swallow of beer.

Something so tragic was the last thing Dom had expected to tumble out of Billy's mouth. It's uncommon to hear that from a young man; but even less common than the reality, had been the ease of the confession. Dom wondered if the slippery nature of his words were the result of time-healed-grief or a stiff upper lip.

So they slow, now, grass underfoot and sun overhead, and Dom feels sandwiched and curious and young. He watches Billy's trainers out of the corner of his eye and memorizes the way Billy's toes turn slightly inward when he hesitates over a step.

He supposes what he's looking for is the truth. Why does he want that so badly? Time will offer up the story, and we have a year and a half for the telling. But he has yet to learn patience.

At any rate, Billy talks; answers Dom's question with candor and little pause besides. Dom does his part and refuses to flinch, even when Billy reaches the end of the tale. He senses that he's been given a true portrait and not some watered down memory. It's a gift that smarts, and he is grateful for it.

And then silence falls, heavy and thick, and he buries his hands in his pockets and murmurs, "That's rough, man. Jesus. Fucking rough." He hopes that his tone makes up for the lack of complexity inherent to his words.

There is a smile and a nod.

Later, Dom will be able to paint the curve of that smile on canvas with the tip of his finger from nothing but memory; now, he is just beginning to notice it.

He falls back again, pace slowing, his chest full of some yet unshared sentiment.

"Dom," Billy calls, turning around. He sees the look on Dom's face and smiles. "All right?"

When Dom allows himself to catch up, he can only shrug and confess. "I'm getting the feeling that this isn't going to be as simple as I reckoned."

"Daft of you to've thought that." Billy chuckles, loops an arm around Dom's neck, and hauls them closer together. "We'll be good."

Bolstered and centered, Dom smiles. "We are good."

This guy's not bad at all and—maybe, just maybe—not such a mystery, either.