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[...running full-tilt at a taxying airplane...]
This is for T, even though I thought I swore off this ship.
Departure Lounge
LOTRips. Billy/Dom, Billy/Ali. PG13
"He highlights 'Ali,' hits the Backspace key, and types 'Dom.'"
Billy has this fantasy of running full-tilt at a taxying airplane. In this fantasy, it's either dawn or twilight because the sky is a soft pink shade with wisps of clouds. Billy stares at the cockpit like he can stare down the pilot, beat him into submission with sheer force of will. The airplane and Billy race towards each other like lovers, but instead of Tchaikovsky's overture playing in the background, Billy hears the deafening roar of jet engines and the muted strains of goodbye.
Just as it seems like Billy's about to become a stain on the airfield, the plane lifts into the air. That's two hundred tons of machinery defying gravity. Billy is knocked back on his arse, his hair is mussed, there's dust in his eyes, and his ears are ringing.
In his fantasy, Dom is on that plane.
Lying flat on the ground, Billy sees Dom shrink into the sky. His heart feels heavy and his head is full of things he cannot quite articulate.
***
The entirety of the email from Hawai'i reads as follows: wtf. my nose is peeling. :( someone come get me.
Dom sent these three sentences to Elijah, Orli, Sean squared, and a handful of other people whose email addresses look familiar but mean little to him. Billy calls the direct line to Dom's room as soon as he finishes reading the e-mail, and Dom picks up not with a hello, but with a "Billy?"
Billy says, "I've come to get you."
"...How?"
"Don't know. Keep on talking, I'll think of something."
Billy doesn't throw away throwaway moments. He's going to keep Dom's "Billy?" deep within the secret fifth chamber of his heart for him to marvel at as he pleases. He will set this tiny everyday miracle apart. So even though Billy's countering Dom's (wrong) opinion that relish is infinitely superior to mustard, what he's really thinking is, I want to promise you every good thing in the world.
I want you to know that that is what you mean to me.
***
Ali comes home. This, Billy finds, changes everything.
In a good way, but. What you get after a week of lounging around in an empty flat in one of the bleakest places in the world is lonely and depressed. What you get is an I love you perched on the edge of your tongue every time Dom calls, but never when Ali calls. When Ali calls, Billy says it fearlessly, a relieved confirmation and triumphant epiphany every time.
I love you.
It's not fair to compare the two. He loves them both. (He thinks he does.)
Ali comes home from a week of business dealings in London and Billy wraps himself around her. They stand in the corridor, Ali hasn't even taken off her coat, her bags lie by their feet where she dropped them, and Billy embraces her and doesn't seem to want to let go until the next ice age rolls in.
"Come off it, what's wrong with you?" she teases.
"I love yooouuu," Billy croons.
"Help me with my bags, then," says Ali, and kisses his mouth. He doesn't let her pull away until seconds later.
Billy finds that when he's with Ali, he doesn't think much about Dom. Sometimes he'd watch the way some actress moves her head on television or hear a song on the radio and think, Oh, right. Dom. Most of the time, Billy just thinks Ali is smiling or Ali is sitting at the kitchen table eating a salad or Ali is coming to watch Eastenders, defend the remote, defend the remote.
Exhibit A: he loves Ali. Exhibit B: he loves Dom. This has him confused for a while until he figures out that the two feelings aren't mutually exclusive. Exhibit A and Exhibit B cordially take tea every afternoon while Exhibit C--a little voice in his head that likes to yell, "What the fuck, mate?"--remains locked in the basement, bound and gagged.
***
Billy looks up the lyrics on the internet, reads them over, and pronounces them apt. The finalized format of his email would read as follows: Dear Ali, [insert copy-pasted lyrics here] Love, Billy.
It's cheesy, yes, and doubly cheesy because Ali would only be gone for a few hours to do the shopping. Billy reckons that's one of love's perks: he can afford to be cheesy. He and Ali can snuggle while watching karaoke videos, dance to Lionel Richie, and email song lyrics to each other because they aren't counting the coolness points. But, before he clicks the Send button, Billy hesitates. He studies the lyrics. He scrolls up, he scrolls down.
He highlights 'Ali,' hits the Backspace key, and types 'Dom.'
The lyrics aren't necessarily romantic anyway. It's usually interpreted as romantic, true, but Dom would only take that to be part of the joke. Dom would be quite fine and dandy with the idea of finding cheesy lyrics in his inbox, so, really, why shouldn't Billy send the song to him?
Billy thinks Ali is going to leave me for reasons he doesn't want to scrutinize. He considers sending the lyrics to the both of them, but that feels like cheating somehow.
He highlights 'Dom,' types 'Ali,' and clicks Send as the airplane roars past his head and disappears.
You have successfully sent one message, says the screen, which Billy supposes is better than nothing.
[end.]
Departure Lounge
LOTRips. Billy/Dom, Billy/Ali. PG13
"He highlights 'Ali,' hits the Backspace key, and types 'Dom.'"
Billy has this fantasy of running full-tilt at a taxying airplane. In this fantasy, it's either dawn or twilight because the sky is a soft pink shade with wisps of clouds. Billy stares at the cockpit like he can stare down the pilot, beat him into submission with sheer force of will. The airplane and Billy race towards each other like lovers, but instead of Tchaikovsky's overture playing in the background, Billy hears the deafening roar of jet engines and the muted strains of goodbye.
Just as it seems like Billy's about to become a stain on the airfield, the plane lifts into the air. That's two hundred tons of machinery defying gravity. Billy is knocked back on his arse, his hair is mussed, there's dust in his eyes, and his ears are ringing.
In his fantasy, Dom is on that plane.
Lying flat on the ground, Billy sees Dom shrink into the sky. His heart feels heavy and his head is full of things he cannot quite articulate.
***
The entirety of the email from Hawai'i reads as follows: wtf. my nose is peeling. :( someone come get me.
Dom sent these three sentences to Elijah, Orli, Sean squared, and a handful of other people whose email addresses look familiar but mean little to him. Billy calls the direct line to Dom's room as soon as he finishes reading the e-mail, and Dom picks up not with a hello, but with a "Billy?"
Billy says, "I've come to get you."
"...How?"
"Don't know. Keep on talking, I'll think of something."
Billy doesn't throw away throwaway moments. He's going to keep Dom's "Billy?" deep within the secret fifth chamber of his heart for him to marvel at as he pleases. He will set this tiny everyday miracle apart. So even though Billy's countering Dom's (wrong) opinion that relish is infinitely superior to mustard, what he's really thinking is, I want to promise you every good thing in the world.
I want you to know that that is what you mean to me.
***
Ali comes home. This, Billy finds, changes everything.
In a good way, but. What you get after a week of lounging around in an empty flat in one of the bleakest places in the world is lonely and depressed. What you get is an I love you perched on the edge of your tongue every time Dom calls, but never when Ali calls. When Ali calls, Billy says it fearlessly, a relieved confirmation and triumphant epiphany every time.
I love you.
It's not fair to compare the two. He loves them both. (He thinks he does.)
Ali comes home from a week of business dealings in London and Billy wraps himself around her. They stand in the corridor, Ali hasn't even taken off her coat, her bags lie by their feet where she dropped them, and Billy embraces her and doesn't seem to want to let go until the next ice age rolls in.
"Come off it, what's wrong with you?" she teases.
"I love yooouuu," Billy croons.
"Help me with my bags, then," says Ali, and kisses his mouth. He doesn't let her pull away until seconds later.
Billy finds that when he's with Ali, he doesn't think much about Dom. Sometimes he'd watch the way some actress moves her head on television or hear a song on the radio and think, Oh, right. Dom. Most of the time, Billy just thinks Ali is smiling or Ali is sitting at the kitchen table eating a salad or Ali is coming to watch Eastenders, defend the remote, defend the remote.
Exhibit A: he loves Ali. Exhibit B: he loves Dom. This has him confused for a while until he figures out that the two feelings aren't mutually exclusive. Exhibit A and Exhibit B cordially take tea every afternoon while Exhibit C--a little voice in his head that likes to yell, "What the fuck, mate?"--remains locked in the basement, bound and gagged.
***
Billy looks up the lyrics on the internet, reads them over, and pronounces them apt. The finalized format of his email would read as follows: Dear Ali, [insert copy-pasted lyrics here] Love, Billy.
It's cheesy, yes, and doubly cheesy because Ali would only be gone for a few hours to do the shopping. Billy reckons that's one of love's perks: he can afford to be cheesy. He and Ali can snuggle while watching karaoke videos, dance to Lionel Richie, and email song lyrics to each other because they aren't counting the coolness points. But, before he clicks the Send button, Billy hesitates. He studies the lyrics. He scrolls up, he scrolls down.
He highlights 'Ali,' hits the Backspace key, and types 'Dom.'
The lyrics aren't necessarily romantic anyway. It's usually interpreted as romantic, true, but Dom would only take that to be part of the joke. Dom would be quite fine and dandy with the idea of finding cheesy lyrics in his inbox, so, really, why shouldn't Billy send the song to him?
Billy thinks Ali is going to leave me for reasons he doesn't want to scrutinize. He considers sending the lyrics to the both of them, but that feels like cheating somehow.
He highlights 'Dom,' types 'Ali,' and clicks Send as the airplane roars past his head and disappears.
You have successfully sent one message, says the screen, which Billy supposes is better than nothing.
[end.]
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