Fic: Remembering, from the Boston!verse
Feb. 5th, 2009 09:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eff_realityRemembering
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
babybrothalova for the Timestamp Meme. The story of how Dom became a rent boy in the Boston!verse. I tried something a bit different with it.
Note: I swear to God, this 'verse has not been abandoned. Hopefully this'll inspire me to clean up the next scenes and finally post them.
INTERLUDE: REMEMBERING
He may not remember much of the days that followed, but he remembers that day.
More than anything, he remembers the weather. It was on the verge of snowing, the first snow of winter. The sky was slate gray, and the air had gone still and blank, the way it only does when it's getting ready to be filled. The stream of breath coming from his mouth was sharp, a cloudy white switchblade flashing between his teeth.
The streetlights were just coming on.
He doesn't remember the guy's name or anything of what he looked like. He doesn't remember his voice. But he remembers his scent, or rather, his body does. His stomach still tumbles when he happens to catch it on a stranger's trail.
He often wishes it had been a woman, the first time.
He remembers feeling like he wasn't there. His brain floated above the bed (a mattress he's actively worked to block out, more so than the john, for some reason) and up to the ceiling, leaving his body below: a sack of blood and nerve endings.
The act he's cultivated over the years, the bravado, the control, the I don't give a fuck--it's not just for the client's benefit.
What it was like physically, the actual sex, is completely gone by now. He supposes experience is good for some things.
He has it all written down, what happened that afternoon. He's been diligent about keeping track of his tricks, more diligent than he's been about anything in his life. He could just flip to that page and get smacked in the face with the details. They'd rush through his pupils and into his mind's eye like birds, and then he'd never be able to get them back out. So he doesn't read it. But sometimes, he'll turn to the entry, just to keep it warm. He'll avert his eyes and run his fingers over the words, feel the grooves of his 19 year-old penmanship, wishing the gesture could transport him back there somehow, so he could say, "Stop. Don't."
Do you regret it?, Billy once asked. Dominic still doesn't know how to answer. He can't deny that he feels protective of his younger self, like it's some boy he himself never was. He likes to pretend that all this didn't happen to that boy, that maybe Dominic At Nineteen split in two, and one half went one way and did the right thing and had a good life, maybe even went home, while the other, well. He's the other, unfortunately.
But at the end of the day, he can handle that. The other Dominic didn't get to meet Billy.
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Written for
babybrothalova for the Timestamp Meme. The story of how Dom became a rent boy in the Boston!verse. I tried something a bit different with it.Note: I swear to God, this 'verse has not been abandoned. Hopefully this'll inspire me to clean up the next scenes and finally post them.
INTERLUDE: REMEMBERING
He may not remember much of the days that followed, but he remembers that day.
More than anything, he remembers the weather. It was on the verge of snowing, the first snow of winter. The sky was slate gray, and the air had gone still and blank, the way it only does when it's getting ready to be filled. The stream of breath coming from his mouth was sharp, a cloudy white switchblade flashing between his teeth.
The streetlights were just coming on.
He doesn't remember the guy's name or anything of what he looked like. He doesn't remember his voice. But he remembers his scent, or rather, his body does. His stomach still tumbles when he happens to catch it on a stranger's trail.
He often wishes it had been a woman, the first time.
He remembers feeling like he wasn't there. His brain floated above the bed (a mattress he's actively worked to block out, more so than the john, for some reason) and up to the ceiling, leaving his body below: a sack of blood and nerve endings.
The act he's cultivated over the years, the bravado, the control, the I don't give a fuck--it's not just for the client's benefit.
What it was like physically, the actual sex, is completely gone by now. He supposes experience is good for some things.
He has it all written down, what happened that afternoon. He's been diligent about keeping track of his tricks, more diligent than he's been about anything in his life. He could just flip to that page and get smacked in the face with the details. They'd rush through his pupils and into his mind's eye like birds, and then he'd never be able to get them back out. So he doesn't read it. But sometimes, he'll turn to the entry, just to keep it warm. He'll avert his eyes and run his fingers over the words, feel the grooves of his 19 year-old penmanship, wishing the gesture could transport him back there somehow, so he could say, "Stop. Don't."
Do you regret it?, Billy once asked. Dominic still doesn't know how to answer. He can't deny that he feels protective of his younger self, like it's some boy he himself never was. He likes to pretend that all this didn't happen to that boy, that maybe Dominic At Nineteen split in two, and one half went one way and did the right thing and had a good life, maybe even went home, while the other, well. He's the other, unfortunately.
But at the end of the day, he can handle that. The other Dominic didn't get to meet Billy.
