"They're duckies," Dom had said earlier, halfway through a six pack and mouth full of chewed crisps. "It's a fine purchase, I support it completely."

"They're not duckies, they're patterns on my pajama trousers, and if you'd please move your bloody ashtray from my—for fuck's sake, Dom, put some clothes on!"

Billy is a terrible liar, but it's one of the things Dom loves about him. Who else would try to imply that they don't enjoy Dom's splendid Greek-like nude form and think Dom would be convinced?

Now, with moonlight and nighttime striped black blue across the house and a layer of daytime Mexican heat stripped away, Dom can breathe. Billy's been asleep for hours—they don't share sleeping patterns in common and never have—and Dom sips a mug of tea and wanders the house, rifling Billy's things between bouts of Playstation.

He stops outside Billy's bedroom at some point, switching mug from hie right to his left hand. His plan, such as it is, is to say goodnight or maybe see if Billy's up for some last minute gaming or a snack, but what happens is that he walks in on something that's none of his business.

He's lost track of the number of times that he's accidentally walked on a Rings co-star wanking—they were all red-blooded boys, after all, and the close quarters and long days did not make for healthy privacy. They developed a cheerful, shameless way of brushing it off when one would in on another. But this, well...

This seems different. Elijah's been gone since yesterday and the house takes on a different quality when it's just Billy and Dom. Reminds them of the Lost Weekend, reminds Dom of the chemistry and how easy it was for them to live together, even for a short while. BillyandDom is not BillyandDomplushobbits, and that is something they've been aware of since the start.

He finds himself staring, blank, somewhat curious, and realizes he's thinking duckies. Well. They're not duckies, they are sort of vague animal shapes, and—huh. When Billy's hand pops free of the waistband and the pattern-covered bulge is tugged straight against the fabric, a dollop of warmth plops heavily into Dom's belly.

Fuck.

Billy turns his head, and Dom can see the tensing of his cheek muscle as he presses his lips together. A tiny noise still manages to get through them, and that's when Dom's cock twitches. He makes the mistake of rearranging his weight onto his other foot, forgetting the beat up doorframe that had splintered earlier in the day.

All at once a pain shoots up his ankle and he realizes he's stepped on something sharp—a muffled curse clashes with the noise of his mug hitting the floor, and the bed creaking loudly, and there he is clutching his toes, standing in a puddle of tea, with Billy and those damned duckies staring at him wide-eyed.

"I," Dom blurts, "dropped my tea."

Oh, fucking brilliant, Monaghan. Especially pointless in light of the fact that Dom's eyes can't help but tick downward. Fuckfuck.

"It's all right," Billy says, calmly, tugging the blankets up around his waist. "Did you need something?"

"Just wanted to see if you were—asleep."

Billy watches him for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The blankets rustle. Dom's heart does the samba in his temples.

"They're not duckies," he says. "You were right."

"Of course I was."

"Don't know why I doubted you."

"You are forgiven."

Dom shifts. He actually feels a bit chilly standing there, and the light blankets on the bed look awfully inviting. Something twitchy on his skin encourages him forward, though he doesn't move. He craves warmth of the Billy kind.

"I don't mind," Billy says.

Dom's stomach cramps, but he's off like a shot and next to Billy in seconds, mumbling.

"You all right? It's not a splinter, is it?"

Smirking, Dom puts on a high-pitched voice, "I'm fine, old man."

They lie in silence, and Dom addresses the ceiling when he says, "I interrupted you. Sorry."

"I'll live."

"I'm going to buy you real duckie pajamas," Dom sighs, moving closer.

"Is that part of the essential male wardrobe? Dress shirts, trousers, ties, duckie pajamas?"

"And kilts. Don't forget kilts."

"Right." Billy leans into Dom's side.

"Your leather's all caught on my hairs," Billy complains, writhing so much that they end up even more squished. Somehow, Dom's hand also lands on Billy's thigh.

"Your leg's all caught on my fingers, you great slut," Dom giggles, mimicking Billy's writhing in an exaggerated fashion. They bounce harder to try and top each other, giggling takes over, and by the time they're out of breath Dom's half over Billy's chest and getting quite cozy with the front of his body.

In the moonlight, Billy's blush is almost like a bruise painted across either of his cheekbones. It's so fucking warm, his skin, that Dom doesn't want to move away. Absently, Dom's fingertips scratch at Billy's belly, and the goosepimples that pop up in response cue a shiver in his own body.

"Bill..."

"Don't mind," Billy whispers, and that tone should be fucking illegal, because the next thing Dom knows he's run a palm down the flat of Billy's thigh.

"All right?"

A nod, faint and barely noticeable, but enough. Dom shifts onto his side, fingers trailing, leaving shadow and heavy spots across the front of Billy's trousers. Billy's knees tent the blankets a bit and the muscles down the backs of his thighs are tight. Dom's pulse is racing, but what nearly draws a whimper is Billy's hand darting up to cover his—it shifts Dom's palm between his legs so quickly that he doesn't have time to prepare.

But fuck he feels good, so good, half hard still, throbbing with heat. What better way to apologize for interrupting? Biting his lip, Dom curls his fingers around until a cotton-clad erection is in his fist. He sets his wrist properly and begins slowly working Billy's cock, giving the head a little squeeze with every pass. No flare, here, no style, he just wants to get Billy rock hard, wants those little noises to come up for him again.

Fucking tense, hell yes, Billy's back ramrod straight on the bed, fingers clenched, legs spread. He smells like sex and the source becomes clear—the pajama cloth is wet with a damp spot over the head of his cock. Dom bites back a noise and swivels his fist just around the tip. His fingertips play against the damp spot, spreading just a little.

"Fuck," Billy hisses. "Fuck."

Dom drags a slow, hard tug and then repeats the swiveling before settling back into the steady jerking. His rings make the cloth and the motion even more animated. Every time one of the warm metal bands passes the tip of Billy's cock, a shudder goes down his thighs.

But Dom's an impatient lad and the sight of those long fingers milking Billy is enough to undo them both, so he speeds up, rings and fingers and wristband jangling atop the musky scent of pre-come, all a fantastic blur. The duckies are fuckin' watching, almost, when Billy comes, hips twitching and breath coming in soft pants—there is also woven in a tiny squeak that might've been an attempt at Dom's name, but who could tell or even bother taking notice when the damp spot becomes wet soaked splatter, when Billy's cock is jerking in his hand, when Billy's hand flies down to grab his forearm?

"Ah, God," Billy sighs, slumping into the mattress as Dom strokes and pets the last of it out of him.

"Maybe we don't need the duckie pajamas," Dom offers, mumbled because he's smooshed his mouth into Billy's shoulder.

Billy shakes with laughter and Dom can taste the sweat on his skin. "Perhaps not."