eff_reality: (teh monaboyd hart)
[personal profile] eff_reality
Reposting these properly, at the request of [livejournal.com profile] msilverstar. All glorious d/b.


for [livejournal.com profile] babydazzle: AU; Billy and Dom are placed in the same orphanage as children.

It takes all of two minutes for Billy to spot him. Through the throng of sweat and glitter and thumpa-thumpa, there's a cylindrical cage (surely that has to be for show, surely he can't really be locked in there, Billy thinks stupidly) encasing an unfamiliar figure with a familiar face. His body is lean and somehow toffee-skinned, writhing arrhythmically but with a sincerity that manages to keep all eyes on it, Billy's the most loyal.

Long after crafts time is over, Billy shuffles into the rec room, mop in hand, to find a lone little figure in the center of the floor, surrounded by crayons, markers, and orbs of paint, and covered in color from the ends of his blonde hair to the sides of his trainers. He must be a new admit, Billy realizes, trying to get a look at his face. "Oi." The boy twists his torso to look at Billy, who approaches in a loose crouch. "Did you have a little accident?"

The boy smiles impishly, his face flushed with the pleasure of play. "No."


His dancer is nearly nude, save for a pair of ridiculous black shorts that leave little to the imagination, and the flashing lights that bathe him. Billy feels an unplanned surge of lust as his elegant hands curl around the metal bars, thick silver rings glinting under the strobe. The dancer uses his grip to propel him through an unseen opening in the cage and around the front, like a spider. The crowd below erupts in cheers, and the dancer braces his tongue between his teeth in a playful smile.

"This is the last time, Monaghan. You can't keep these things in here with you, it's disgusting."

"But Warden, they'll die!"

"They're vermin! You're on probation for the next month."

Billy finds himself drifting from the living area and in the direction of the argument.

"Aw, Boyd, leave the baby alone." "Yeah, he's fuckin' weird."

Billy waits until the warden makes his way back to his own quarters before turning the corner and crossing the threshold into Dom's room. The boy is a sight, tears streaming down his face and twin spiders creeping up his forearm. Billy says nothing as he kneels next to him.

"Leave me alone." Dom ducks his face, wiping at it with the ends of his nightshirt.

Billy stills him with a gentle hand between his shoulder blades. "I can keep them in my bunk. Warden never goes there."


Billy turns from the spectacle for a split second to order from the bartender, and when he turns back, there's a mini-crowd within the crowd gathered around the dancer. A brutal pair of hands seems to be trying to pull him down off his pedestal, and a few others trying to intervene—or assist.

Billy doesn't discriminate, though. He's down there before the bartender can ask Rocks or straight up?, prying the offenders off one by one. He'd have gotten an eyeful of fist for his trouble if he weren't so spry.

Dom quickly hops down—and it is Dom, Billy's one-hundred percent sure now—and takes him by the hand, pulling him almost violently through the crowd and out the side exit. He lets out a rush of an exhale when the cool night air hits them. Billy eyes the other patrons in the alley smoking, a bit uncomfortable now that he's under the scrutiny of streetlights.

"Sorry for being so forceful. I just wanted to get you out of there and thank you properly." Dom spins to face Billy with care, his feet still bare against the concrete. "Thank you. Was my fault, really. I was feeling kind of reckless."

Billy looks up from his feet with a sheepish smile, hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat.

Dom's eyes go wide and serious, and Billy takes the opportunity to examine him more closely: the asymmetrical lines of his face, the soft curve of his mouth. "Hi, Dom."

Billy would expect tears if this were just a couple of years before. But Dom's nearly ten now, and one of the strongest kids Billy's ever known, himself included. His face is stoic as he hands Billy's father's pocket watch back to him. "You're going to need it more than me."

Unspeakably touched, Billy gathers Dom up to his chest and holds him tightly there, hoping he'll somehow absorb into him. "Wherever I am, I'll always protect you." The way he roughs up the hair at the crown of Dom's head as they part belies the seriousness of his words.


"Billy. Christ." All at once, Dom invades his space, wraps his arms around him, and nearly slams him against the side of the building, his mouth grazing brick and the juncture of Billy's neck. "How did you find me?"

Billy clutches Dom's back with one hand and the watch in his coat pocket with the other. For a moment, he contemplates giving it back to its previous owner, but then, he supposes an embrace will suffice. "I keep my promises."

*


for [livejournal.com profile] sandelwood: word prompt threatened; mention of billy/ali.

Dom thinks it's great that Billy's got a girl back home. Really, he does. It's a reason for Billy to keep his focus on set, not stay out too late at the pubs, not drink too much. It's something for him to look forward to when they leave paradise. Dom thinks they should all be so lucky. (Well, they're all already pretty lucky in his book.)

But it becomes something different altogether when Billy walks into the kitchen one morning—their kitchen in their house—and tells him he's going to fly his girl out to South Island for a visit. Billy's going to pay to fly her for thirty-some-odd fucking hours just to see her for a few days (in their house).

This is serious.

A week later, Dom wakes at half-eleven to the sound of muted girlish laughter coming from the floor below. There's a piece of red luggage with purple tags in the hallway, and Dom feels positively nauseated. He shuffles quickly to the bathroom and closes the door, locking it with careful hands.

He can't stay in here for the next five days, he knows that—he's not fifteen anymore. In a few minutes, he'll emerge with a smile in place and the most convincing hug Ali's ever felt. He'll even flirt with her a bit, and Billy'll be totally oblivious, just happy to be with his two favorite people, as he'd referred to them the night before.

But right now, Dom needs this. He needs a moment of sterile silence to tamp down this stupid ugly feeling bubbling up in his chest and get his shit together. He needs to stop wanting to "accidentally" knock Ali's purple toothbrush into the toilet. He needs to be a fucking adult and support his best friend.

His heart gives a start at the sound of creaking footsteps coming up the stairs. As they pass the bathroom door, Billy natters on about restaurants in Wellington and you've got to meet some of the stunties, they're enormous and then, of course, he mentions his new video camera, another innocent object of Dom's jealousy of late.

When Bill says It's up here, let me show you, Dom feels suddenly saved. Without another thought, he looks himself over in the bathroom mirror, straightens his pajama bottoms, gives Ali's toothbrush a wink, and opens the door with a flourish.

Five minutes later, he's mugging for Billy's camera for all it's worth, pulling the most brilliant of anecdotes out of his arse like a pro. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ali shift her weight, arms crossed, her mouth curled in its usual beguiling smirk—the one Dom knows from all the photos Billy's showed him—but her eyes are uncharacteristically icy.

He almost feels guilty as Billy throws his head back and laughs, drifting closer to him with each passing moment.

*


for [livejournal.com profile] juke_box_dive: a combination of jealousy and h/c.

Thankfully, it's been a long while since Dom's been in a situation like this, but he finds it's just like riding a bike. He doesn't have to think twice before shuffling quickly to the bathroom and pulling that big brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide down from the medicine cabinet.

Billy stands idly—and still a bit drunkenly—in the middle of the living room.

"Sit," Dom urges. "Just be a sec." He's nothing but a flash as he disappears into the kitchen. A moment later, he returns, and Billy's still standing in the same spot. "Don't have any cotton, but this should do." He waves a roll of paper towels in the air. "Sit."

Billy preemptively winces as Dom moves the wet towel to the gash at the side of his mouth.

"Christ, he really popped you one, didn't he?" Billy's nostrils flare—to cope with the sting or to seethe a bit more, Dom's not sure. He drops his voice to a quiet rumble, as if he's handling a volatile mutt. "I thought I had a temper." He examines the cut, checking for depth. "Can't wait to see the look on Pete's face."

"I'm off close-ups for at least a week," Billy answers. "Should be fine."

His voice has taken on that cold, clipped quality that Dom often likes to envision as a barbed wire fence keeping him out. "Well, I'm personally offended by it. It breaks my heart to see your gorgeous face so thoughtlessly marred." Dom moves to hold him still by the chin, but Billy smacks his hand away.

"Fuck off."

Dom isn't surprised or perturbed by this reaction. "'S your problem? I'm not the one that hit you."

"But you're the one that made me hit him, which, in turn, made him hit me."

Dom scoots closer to the edge of the corner of the coffee table, where he's planted himself. "And how did I make you hit him, Bill?"

"By being you," Billy bites back.

At this, Dom pours a fresh dose of peroxide onto the balled up paper towel and applies with pressure. Billy jerks his head back. "Hold still, you prick."

A long silence stretches between them, and as Dom continues to care for him, Billy starts to feel not only repentant for his actions but a bit mortified as well. "I was looking out for you," he explains. "He wasn't going to take no for an answer."

"I appreciate the concern, but that's my problem."

Billy wrings his hands in his lap, his eyes filling with an odd mixture of confusion and frustration, one Dom's never seen before. "Why d'you need to do that?"

"...What?" Both their voices go impossibly hushed as Dom takes a fingertip of Neosporin and dabs it along the cut.

"You flirt with everyone."

Dom levels Billy with his eyes. "And you don't? Give me a fucking break, Bill."

"Not like you do," Billy gently insists. "Not like that."

Dom lowers his hand and gives him a patient look.

Billy hesitates. "Why do you need every person in the room to want to fuck you? I just don't understand it. I never have."

"I don't understand why it bothers you so much." Dom leans in close enough to record every twitch, every nuance of what that remark does to Billy.

"...It worries me. It gives people the wrong idea, and when you're not careful about it, it gives the wrong people the wrong idea. Hence, tonight."

Dom pulls his hand back and grips both arms of the recliner, utterly invading Billy's space. "I don't think that's it." Billy refuses to look at him, turning his head as far as it can go, the thick tendon at the side of his neck tenaciously taut. Dom scoots forward again and cocks his head, trying to get a peek at his eyes. "Is it?"

The chair trembles with Billy's attempt to rise and leave. "We're done here."

Dom eases him back down by the shoulders before he can get away, willing the sound of confrontation out of his own voice. "No we're not, you stubborn shit. Your eye needs a look, too."

Billy still refuses to meet his gaze, but he lowers himself back into the recliner with a stern expression, his cheeks flushed with more than just annoyance, and Dom tries not to smirk; he was definitely onto something.
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