Backstage is controlled chaos—it's been rearranged so many times to suit varying talent and rewritten schedules that no one remembers what it had looked like on Wednesday. Friends of hobbits and other actors are milling about, ringed by handlers and crew and volunteer security. It feels like a combination of a convention and a private get together.

Elijah's got his camera through the curtain, filming the audience. Dom's just about to go over and ask him why the fuck he bothers with that when he feels a firm, small hand slide around his waist.

"Can't hear a fuckin' thing," Billy murmurs, hooking his pointer finger in Dom's jacket pocket. He fishes around a bit, and comes up with nothing.

"Crazy, the whole lot of them," Dom replies. He'd give his left nut for a fucking beer, but nothing seems to run smooth around here.

"You're full of love tonight."

"Not that, man. Fucking assholes everywhere. It's not like you can argue with the fuckers when they tell you that you can't fucking stand up from your table."

"You could."

Dom's shoulders sag. "I did, but not when it counted."

Billy closes the distance between them, his other hand sliding up and across Dom's belly. Dom has to suppress a shiver—his skin is practically begging for something familiar, something honest, and something not LA, though there's no way in hell Billy could possibly get that. Or so Dom thinks.

"Missed ya, cunt," Billy murmurs. It's then that Dom realizes how close they are because Billy's lips brush the sweat-matted hair at the base of his neck as he speaks.

"Yeah." Dom watches Elijah. "Look at the wee bugger. The fuck's he doin'?"

"I don't have a clue. Missed him, though."

"Me, too."

"You wanna step out and have a smoke?"

"You don't smoke now, do you?"

"I meant for you. You're shaking."

Well, what the hell. The band'll play for a while—it's not as if Dom hasn't heard these tunes a thousand times—and Elijah's totally lost himself in playing with his camera. No one will notice, really, so long as they stay in the talent area. The tug of Billy's fingers at his belt loop is what finally does him in.

Somewhere between the stage and the elevator, Dom wonders when he became a pussy.

Billy leads him down a hall and then another, and finally out into an underground car park. Creepy fucking place, right out of the X-Files or some such, full of puddles and dark corners and bad lighting. Good place to smoke, though. Dom shifts his hip and casually takes out his pack. Before he can get one to his mouth and inevitably moan about his lost lighter, Billy's fingers circle his wrist.

He hasn't really looked Billy in the eye this whole time. The intimacy of the stage is far behind, and in its place is the fairly normal interaction they maintain while alone—familiar but not overwhelming. It's comforting and quiet and Dom relishes it, relishes that within that silence he can see himself and the mirror of Billy that comes along with it. He's never wanted anything more than to love Billy as much as a mate can.

But there are moments—moments when there is Something Greater, Something Different. Just moments here and there, usually followed by a wave of instant and uncomfortable denial, and an acceptance of what truly is there. This is never more obvious now that they've got worlds outside one another; worlds inhabited by the loving faces of kind women; worlds that don't always come ready made with space for their connection.

But not tonight. Tonight, the moment is dragging. Tonight, Billy is holding his wrist and searching his face. Tonight, Billy knows that Dom's had a rubbish day. Tonight, there is space.

"You've not told me everything."

"What haven't I told you?" Dom takes his wrist back and spins the cigarette pack against his fingers. "Told you how today was crap, told you all of that at dinner."

Billy shrugs and backs off.

Instant hesitation—Dom is lying and knows Billy won't take that shit from him. He smokes a cigarette in silence (damn that lighter for actually being where it is supposed to be), and when it's out he toes its final puddle resting place with disinterest. Billy is leaning against the concrete barrier dividing two parking spaces, hands in his pockets, head back, eyes closed. Before guiltily reaching for a second cigarette, Dom clears his throat and decides to try.

"Been read the riot act so many fucking times I wish I could've crammed the memo down a few throats. Orlando's not phoned. Sean never shuts up—and you know I love the man, but on top of everything I just can't cope with it and I told him so and he looked so fucking upset that I felt like a complete shit. Chris ended up patching it, but I was just being rude and I knew it and I still did it. I made an ass of myself in front of the girls, for God's sake."

"I know," Billy replies, opening his eyes lazily. "Sean spoke to me about it; Orlando is a ponce and we'll get him good later. But that's just the little things."

Fucking Billy and his fucking intuition.

And before he can think, Dom replies, "This weekend is going to end. It feels nice to be appreciated; it feels nice to be at the center. But it's going to end. We'll all be off to our lives." He fumbles with another cigarette. "Halfway across the world from each other. I love what I've got, but sometimes it feels like I've left something I had too far behind to even recognize it anymore."

He wishes Billy would stop staring and say something. He doesn't even know what he's saying, really. It's hard to say goodbye.

Billy comes back over, trainers swinging above the puddle between them. "Is that it, then?"

I'm fucking terrified that I'm going to lose you and that one day we'll show up at a convention and you'll look at me and not know who I am anymore. If that happens, I don't know what I'd do, Boyd. I need you to look at me the way you looked at me on stage, like if you didn't get closer to me you'd explode. If that's 'it', then yeah.

Dom'll never say it, but he ducks his head in a sheepish gesture of acknowledgment.

"There is no fucking drifting, Dominic," Billy replies. "Not where it counts." His face is animated now, pointy teeth finding lower lip, distracting Dom. He steps closer, letting a hand down on Dom's shoulder. "Come on, boyo. You know me. I'm not that kind of bloke. How many years has it been already? We're still here."

Billy really shouldn't touch him right now. Dom's whole body seems to shift nerve attention to wherever Billy is—or maybe that's just some deep-rooted need for comfort after the crap day he's had.

He feels somewhat of a disappointment, both in regards to his own doubts and his lack of ability to handle things properly today. Billy makes him laugh, makes him happy, and he really could use a dose of that right about now.

And he's gonna do something dangerous, he knows it, because there just is no way to get that comfort without resorting to stepping over a boundary. Not at this point, and not with how far things seem to have gone. More than even that, though, he wants to do something crazy. He feels as if there's a point to be made. It's got everything and nothing to do with the way Billy's eyes squint, almost as if he wants to ask what're you thinking, Monaghan.

"I'm just thinking ahead, is all it is," Dom blurts, without even realizing that his voice has dropped in both pitch and volume. Billy's hand shifts to the side of Dom's neck, fingertips finding the shaggy hair behind his ears. When he tugs, blood rushes Dom's cheeks.

"C'mere." Billy cups the back of Dom's neck and tugs until they're pressing together without actually embracing. "Put it out of your mind, yeah? We had a great time over the holiday and we'll have a great time over the next few days. It can only get better."

Billy hands on his hair and neck and his on Billy's arms; there is motion but not really, just warmth and a fit that seems too perfect to still be there after all these years. And standing there with the lighting unflattering and harsh and yet still able to detract from the beautiful curve of Billy's curled smile, and with the fresh warmth of a private embrace, Dom's body makes the decision for him.

There is no grace to his sudden lean forward, nothing special or sexy or smooth, but it nevertheless ends with their mouths pushed together. He feels nothing but the surprised shifting of Billy's smaller mouth and, beyond that, the stiffness of said surprise. Physically, it does almost nothing; too brief and too sudden and it was just skin and breathing. Mentally, it cues an avalanche.

He sucks a breath. They haven't done that in a long time. "Sorry."

"Is that what you need?" Billy's fingers splay, onetwothreefour, up the back of his skull. He shivers so hard that the tingle doubles back on itself. His cock throbs in response and he desperately pushes the sensation away. No, not again. "It's the same thing, isn't it? Like that morning I woke you up by throwing your surfboard into bed with you and telling you to get your arse out onto the water. You couldn't possibly know then how you looked taking wave after wave, oblivious to anything else."

"Bill—"

With renewed pressure, Billy kisses him again, this time with parted lips that leave a moist residue. "Shut up. Just shut—"

With his throat full of silent noise and pulse tripping heavily, Dom realizes that he is kissing back. It's like remembering he has a tongue or a foot; he can't sort out the boundaries of the realization, can't recall when or how or why they were crossed. Billy's hand finds the opening of his jacket and curls inside, warm palm sliding over an even warmer torso, sending blood rushing to Dom's face and cock.

He crushes their mouths together. Tongue, teeth, Billy's tongue, fucking wet, vibrating hum of a silent noise of approval. There is movement and a frantic tilting of the angle and Dom's mouth is full of Billy's tongue again. Get inside me. Fucking take it. You make everything normal again.

Before he can reckon where this is going he's got a wall of cement smashed against his back—Billy's hands curled around his sides relax just a bit now that he is still—and Billy's tongue skimming his teeth. How this fits in to tonight is beyond Dom; all he knows is that the good old Something is raging up and down the channels of his body, encouraging him to do things that he normally does not feel the urge to do.

It takes the rub of Billy's half-hard cock to jolt him out of the sentiment. He has one hand between Billy's shirt and waistband and the other against the cement wall—Billy has both hands up the back of Dom's shirt.

They pause to breathe, foreheads touching, and Dom feels a hand slide down to cup his hip. Fingers find his belt loop, tug, and a thumb passes across the hair just below his navel. Again, fingertips on his naked hip, tracing the ridge of bone to softer skin. And then Billy cups his cock, and he shudders. He hisses in a breath that is torn out again when Billy presses their pelvises together.

"Fuck."

"No time," Billy pants.

Dom sneaks a glance—Billy is hard as hell, jeans tented to the left, face beet red. His mouth and jaw (when did that happen?) is scrubbed pink by Dom's beard. Dom's cock throbs and pushes against the back of his zip, begging for attention.

If he could leave those marks there on that mouth, just imagine what that burn would look like on skin. Naked fucking skin. Oh, fuck.

Suddenly, staring at Billy, a wave of reality hits—they've got to go back in there. What the hell are they doing? How the fuck does Billy get away with shit like this? And there is space and cold, and the garage is wide and silent and empty. There are voices from the delivery dock, and the distant echo of their names and what sounds like a walkie-talkie.

There is a glance, Billy's eyes sliding down and then back up Dom's body, just before he turns and makes for the stairs. A heartbeat later, two crewmembers stick their heads round a corner and spot Dom and Billy. Dom's heart picks up again. What if they saw?

Uncharacteristically jumbled up, he follows.

On stage, the band is playing.