With a sharp intake of breath, Billy grimaces and carefully flexes the fingers of his left hand around the neck of the borrowed guitar. Its rich wood reflects interlocking circular patterns of light across the line of wooden tables as he shifts. Smirking a bit, he watches the light play over Dominic's darkly tanned face and blonde-tipped hair (Hawaii or Hollywood, Billy is no longer aware of caring), angling the guitar to send a sharp stab directly into slightly unfocused eyes. Dom blinks, and then his gaze sharpens on Billy. Slowly, he tips his glass in acknowledgement, lips curving up in that familiar crooked smile before someone else at the table demands his attention, and Billy is once again lost to the crowd.

He allows himself a small satisfied smile of his own. For the first time in too many days, he feels comfortable, almost happy. It feels good to be playing just now in this pub, for these people. There are no heroes here, no special treatment only a group of tired men and women, all worn and weathered with too many cares, blithely unwilling to forget that they were, once upon a rosy memory, boys and girls with too much time on their hands. And Dominic, who slides right in as if he'd known them all his life, who softens his voice and twists his accent into something easy, tells lewd jokes and laughs three times as loud, entertaining them all with his absurd combination of delightful quirkiness and light humor, and finally winning them over with his kind heart. For, although Dom would never admit it, Billy's seen him deftly cover twice as many rounds as the others tonight with scarcely a thought, and he's hardly the only one to notice.

Someone moves to Billy's right, and the bartender (a proud girl with piles of gorgeous red hair atop her head) winks at him playfully and adds a full glass to the collection of empties in front of him, gathering up as many of the latter as she can hold. He smiles at her gratefully, and she waggles her head vaguely at the crowd before him, chuckling deeply. He sees her eyes snap to Dom, and for one dizzying moment Billy watches her watching Dom appreciatively, her face bright and shining, before she remembers herself and looks away. Noting Billy's gaze on her, the bartender raises one eloquent eyebrow and nods pointedly at his guitar, before spinning easily on her heel. A slight flush of indignation crawls across Billy's cheeks, but he sharply corrects his fingering and stutters out a quick rhythm. Absently, he watches the girl go, noting with forgiveness the attractive way her hips twitch for balance as she pushes through the pub, hands full of smudged glasses.

For the thousandth time this evening, a band of warmth creeps up from Billy's belly and wraps itself tightly around his chest. There will always be something about this place that whispers 'home' to him, no matter how many times he leaves and returns. Dark and dingy it may be, but there's no better place in the world for a friendly word and a cold pint (or a good looking bird) than his local.

Returning his attention to the music, he trails his fingers up and down the scales with an ease he doesn't feel. The chords come quickly enough, but it's the changes between, the act of playing itself with which he can't quite keep up. His fingers are sore, unpracticed, and his grip has been sweaty and unsure all night, fading calluses sitting slightly off of the strings. Billy thinks longingly of the jar of vanilla-scented hand cream in the drawer of his bedside table -- a Christmas gift from Margaret, the only person from whom he'd accept such a thing -- and loses himself for a moment in thoughts of Dom's long hands smoothing it over his reddened fingertips with studious care.

Absurd as it is, the last time he played of his own volition for an audience larger than five was almost a year ago, at the TORn party. Of course, there were a few fundraising events, but Billy's always been willing to put on a show for a cause, and that's what it was: an act. Billy Boyd, Showman Extraordinaire. It's never quite the same to really sing or play for a room full of fans, and he avoids it as often as he can, shrugging off the repeated requests with a gracious smile. He feels a bit guilty every time, but he's not truly a musician and he knows it, preferring to allow the drunken cheers of a few good friends to coax a tune or two on a dreary winter evening. Besides, his music has both nothing and everything to do with Glasgow - the impulse to create twisted up inside him with thoughts of tenement housing and misty memories of his mother's quiet eyes. It's a private feeling, and one that leaves him rather more vulnerable than he'd like. Especially tonight. Even at the party, he'd only really decided to take the stage at Elijah's urging, an attempt to keep the mood going after Dom's exuberant performance. But now thinking of Elijah makes him want to renounce music all together.

He brings the upbeat song to a triumphant close, and takes a small bow, handing the guitar back to Mark with a quiet "Cheers." There's a scattering of applause, and a few calls of 'encore,' but Billy demurs gracefully, and bows his head, ducking through the crowd with practiced ease in the direction of the loo.

The quiet on the other side of the scarred wooden door is exactly what he needs, and he leans back against it with a deep sigh, running a hand up and down repeatedly over the scruff on his neck and chin. After a moment, he moves towards the sink and turns on the cool tap with a quick twist. He lets it run for a few seconds, watching the water swirl down the drain, and then slips his hands into the frigid stream, finally feeling the stinging pain in his fingers begin to numb.

Slowly raising his head, Billy blinks at himself in the mirror. He's tired tonight, more tired than he's been in ages, and the circles under his eyes are heavy, his face pale. His hair, he notices, is significantly thinner then at this time last year, mirroring in a surreal way his loss of patience for all things young, cocky and American. Don't lie to yourself, William. Mirroring his loss of patience for all things Elijah.

The crushing weight of the last week settles with a creak across his back and neck, and suddenly Billy feels every minute of his years and more. He bows his head in surrender, bracing his hands on either side of the porcelain sink, and closes his eyes.

The waves are crashing onto the shore now with tremendous force, and Billy knows enough about Hawaiian weather to predict the storm that will follow. So he says as much. Dom agrees, but Elijah, characteristically, is convinced that he knows better than the rest of the fucking world.

"Whatever. Come on, Dom!" Although he's facing the water and not the towel on which Billy is reclining, Elijah's nasal whine slices right through the wind and into Billy's ears, it hits a nerve and Billy twitches slightly, shifting his weight forward to a sitting position. Dom glances sideways and down at Billy and rolls his eyes, arms crossed nervously across his chest. Dom's cheeks and nose are slightly red, and Billy is sure they'll be warm to the touch. Funny that someone so tan could still end up sunburned. He can feel the heat radiating from his own face, and muses that the tip of Elijah's pointy little nose isn't in much better shape.

"Elijah, I realize you have a death wish, but I'd prefer it if it wasn't my death you were trying for!" Dom laughs, loud and open, and Billy snickers a bit meanly, turning aside to gather up his things. He can feel his knees creak as he stands and a muscle in his left shoulder protests angrily as he reaches to curl his arms around the surfboard. Old, he thinks, I'm getting too old for this. The sun is gone and the clouds are dark, and Billy thinks he can just make out flashes of lightning off in the distance, sliding closer every minute.

"But, Dom, look at that surf! It doesn't get any fucking better than that, man! That's real fucking surfing out there." Billy thinks Elijah's hand is likely to come flying off the way he's waving it around.

"That's real fucking dangerous is what it is, Elwood," Dom reasons, "Not even the surfers around here will try that. Look!" Sure enough the few people still scattered on the beach are packing the last of their belongings, occasionally shooting nervous glances at the sky.

Elijah shakes his head, his eyes flashing with impatience. "No, they're all tourists. Don't you see, Dom? This is the kind of thing we've been waiting fo--"

"He's right, Elijah," Billy interrupts, unable to stand the horribly flat sound of Elijah's wheedling voice any longer. He's still so young. "Come in, now. The waves will still be here in the morning. And hopefully that," he motions towards the sky where the lightning is now obvious to anyone with eyes, "won't be." Without waiting, Billy pivots as well as he can with such uncertain footing and stalks off towards the car, spraying sand behind him as he goes.

***

The ride back to Dom's is spent mostly in silence. Elijah smokes the whole way, periodically flicking ash out the window to scatter on the road behind them. Halfway there, his pale arm snakes out from the back and threads itself between the two front seats to flip on the radio. Predictably for Christmas Eve, the tinkling of tiny bells and the clop clop clop of coconut-shell horse hooves fills the air. Whatever the carol is, Elijah recognizes it quickly, adding his smoke-husky voice to the tinny speakers in what he apparently (mistakenly) thinks is harmony. Billy winces and Dom grumbles, shifting awkwardly in the passenger seat. Elijah grins and sings louder. "Our cheeks are nice and rosy," he half-screams, the hair metal version of Christmas, and leans forward for maximum effect. Seething, Billy punches a bit too hard at the off button, and then curses under his breath and shakes his hand.

For a half second, Elijah's rasp continues to fill the car, unaware of having lost its backup vocals, until Billy leans a bit harder on the gas. Elijah is thrown back against the seat so hard Billy thinks he can hear teeth clacking together, and he feels a momentary pang of regret. On the other hand, the singing has stopped.

In the rearview, Billy can see Elijah's eyes narrow and his lips tighten. Huffing audibly, he takes his time lighting another cigarette and then inhales deeply, holding it as long as he can. He leans forward again, deliberately, as if he has something very important to say, and instead blows a stream of smoke directly into Billy's face. Little fuck.

"Elijah! Stop it, mate! He's trying to drive," says Dom, who, having spent the entire car ride exchanging incredulous glances with Elijah, is now laughing and waving his arms about like an insane monkey, trying to clear the air. Billy bites down hard on his inner lip and tastes blood.

"Yeah, whatever," mutters Elijah, and then, blissfully, refuses to say another word.

Billy doesn't bother to call it, just heads straight for the bathroom as soon as Dom pushes open the door. "Hey, Bills," Dom yells out after him, "No fair! It's my flat, wanker!"

"Age and beauty before the rest of you lot," Billy returns gruffly, locking himself in.

He makes the water as hot as he can stand and strips quickly, scattering his things across the room. Carefully, he steps into the shower and pulls the curtain to, reaching straight for the soap. Billy is fastidious by nature, but his routine is always simple, no frills. In contrast, the overpowering smell of Dom's designer shampoo fills the room when Billy snaps opens the bottle, and he coughs in protest, wrinkling his nose.

Nothing about this trip has gone off the way the three of them planned, from the stormy weather down to the bloody delays in their flights. Billy himself is weary to the bone and feeling, obviously, more than bit touchy about things. Elijah is downright horrible, allowing all of the spoiled brat tendencies he's usually so successful at hiding to come out to play, and even Dom is tetchy, tired, it seems, of trying to keep the peace between the two of them. Things might have been better if Orlando had made it over - his zeal for life is, as they say, infectious - but his last minute cancellation had come as no surprise to anyone. Orlando is, after all, a very busy man. Well, hell. Who isn't these days, Billy thinks uncharitably.

Sighing in frustration at his inability to shake off his mood, he rinses and shuts off the water, groping blindly for the towel rack from behind the curtain. When his hand encounters something soft and cotton, he pulls it back - and barks with laughter. Dom's towel is hideously, hilariously pink - the kind of pink Billy usually associates with flowers or wee girl babies, but certainly not his best mate. Curiously, he examines it for an emblem, and sure enough, stitched into the bottom corner are two stylized white letters surrounded by a black border, recognizable as the initials of a worldwide hotel chain. Chuckling fondly at Dom's peculiar penchant for kleptomania, he towels off and then reaches for the pair of discarded tracksuit bottoms lying crumpled half behind the toilet. As usual, the legs are a bit too long, but they're a fine fit for lounging, which is all he intends to do for the rest of the day, preferably with a nice cup of Indian Masala Tea and some more civilized Christmas carols on the stereo.

Firmly resolving to be more pleasant for the rest of the holiday, Billy schools his face and steps out the door, reveling in the feel of the plush carpeting under his bare feet. The colder air prickles the hair on his chest, and he absently reaches one hand to rub at it, indulging in a long and satisfying yawn as he moves towards the front room.

He must have heard the sounds before he saw it, must have been hearing the scrabbling fingers and low, harsh cries for several seconds before they penetrated his consciousness. It's certainly obvious enough once he rounds the corner and comes almost face to face with Dom, whose own eyes are closed in ecstasy as Elijah laps languidly at his collarbone, long wet swipes drawing shining trails across Dom's bare chest. Elijah's upper half is naked as well, and Billy is suddenly hyper-aware of every vertebra in the boy's back, every sinew that stretches and pulls across his shoulder blades as he moves, of the tiny spattering of dark hairs clustered almost at the base of his spine. Like some horny teenager, Billy's half hard before he knows it, his focus skittering and jumping from detail to luridly delicious detail with no logical pattern.

Dom's fingers are clenched so hard into the cushion on the back of the leather couch that they're white, his fingernails marring the smooth surface with crescent moons and sharp scratches that fade almost as soon as he changes his grip. Elijah is lying awkwardly between Dom's legs, frantically trying and failing to push their hips together for some sort of friction and to continue his detailed exploration of Dom's chest at the same time. Dom moans, low and harsh as something connects, and Elijah's back goes stiff, his hips grinding forward and his lips pressing harshly onto Dom's, which open, pliant and wet beneath him. Billy's dick jumps at the sight, and he flinches away, closing his eyes.

Quickly he spins, jogging back down the hall to Dom's bedroom and slams the door. Shaking with rage and confusion, Billy throws on the first shirt he can find, doesn't care whose - what does it really matter anymore, anyway - and throws his duffel onto the bed, still mostly packed.

He reaches for the phone and dials the operator, waiting through the automated options with a fevered calm. In fact, he's suddenly more calm than he can ever remember being. All the worries and cares of the long day's travel are gone, and his fatigue has faded completely. Everything is crystal clear and sharp, so perfectly sharp, like the world around him is sparkling. The air itself is almost painful, stabbing harshly at Billy's lungs and he can't seem to get enough oxygen, even with the great gulping breaths he's taking. He squeezes his eyes shut for a brief second trying to focus, trying to remember what it feels like to breathe normally, and the phone crackles, the flat vowels of an American woman grating across his mind. Get yourself under control, Boyd. Make this happen. It takes him one more second to get there, two more difficult breaths and he's able to speak. He's quite proud of the fact that his voice only shakes the tiniest bit as he asks the disembodied voice for a cab to the airport.

Glasgow, December 27th, 2004

"Hssst!" The muted whisper catches Billy off guard and he jumps, the toilet seat underneath him sliding sideways. He catches himself by flattening his palms against the walls and planting his feet widely on the floor, supporting most of his weight on his hands. "Billy?" Dom's whisper is too loud, reverberating in the cavernous space, filling the silence. "Know you're in here, Boyd," he slurs drunkenly after a moment, "Heard you."

Billy doesn't move, doesn't know what to say. They haven't spoken about it yet, not a word. Dom just showed up on Billy's doorstep in the middle of the afternoon, a sad smile on his face despite the drizzling rain and the fact that he was shivering violently in the cold. Billy would have to be one heartless bastard not to let him in, and, truth be told, had Elijah been with him, it would've been sorely tempting. But he's never been able to deny Dom anything, not really, so he'd just sighed, and opened the door, before heading straight to the kitchen to put on the kettle. And that was that. They'd made small talk about the weather, about their respective flights, and then Mark had rung, asking if Billy planned on coming out tonight, and he'd answered yes, yes of course he was, and there they are. And there they are.

Dom is moving across the floor now; Billy can hear his trainers squeaking on the tile as he comes, and Billy stands, wanting to meet him on equal ground. The toilet creaks as he does so, and Dom stops short, waiting. Billy pulls open the cubicle door, and there is Dom, hair mussed and face flushed from too many excesses.

"Aha! Found you, you sneaky bastard," Dom says in a low voice. But he doesn't move, just stands there, his eyes boring into Billy's as if all the answers are written plainly on his face. And maybe they are, Billy thinks, if you know where to look.

He falls on Dom hungrily, slamming their lips together so hard that he tastes blood, cradling the back of Dom's head with one hand to minimize the impact, the other fisting in his t-shirt, drawing him closer. Billy licks and nips at Dom's mouth, sliding his tongue between the slightly parted lips, taking what he wants without asking, and Dom retaliates by sliding a thigh between Billy's legs and pressing. Billy moans, wildly, and Dom groans deep in his throat and God, that feels good, slides his arm around Billy's hip, dipping his hand below Billy's waistband in the back, and splaying his fingers to touch as much skin as he can. Billy pushes forward against Dom's thigh, drives them back against the wall, and Dom is so unexpectedly soft, so goddamned soft, just like a girl, and Billy reaches to palm one of Dom's nipples through his shirt.

Dom's fingers are scrabbling at the buttons of Billy's own shirt now, but Billy keeps pushing him back, keeps forcing him harder against the tile and Dom can't find any purchase, sliding his hands lower and lower in desperation, finally reaching for the hem and pushing up, eager to touch Billy everywhere he can. Billy growls at the first contact of Dom's cold fingers on his stomach and reaches for the button of Dom's fly, ripping it open, and yanking on the zipper. But Dom goes suddenly rigid, and he pushes Billy back, shaking his head and licking absently at his bruised and swollen mouth. Billy can see a smear of blood and saliva glistening on Dom's bottom lip where one or the other of them has bitten, and he leans forward to lick it up, but Dom's palm in the center of his chest stops him.

"No," Dom pants hoarsely, "Don't want you," and Billy's heart falls, fucking plummets to the bottom of his shoes, and he tries to step backward, to put as much distance between himself and Dom as he can. "Stop it!" Dom yells, and grabs his chin, forcing Billy to look him in the eye. For the first time Billy is confronted with Dom's own frustration, his own confusion and uncertainty, and his throat goes tight, his cock hard and full and throbbing against the seam of his jeans.

"Don't want you like that," Dom growls, and leans forward, kissing Billy shortly, but with unexpected tenderness. Billy just stares as Dom pulls back, hopelessly confused, and Dom's thumb strokes his cheek in tiny circles. "Oh, Bills," he murmurs, and then, almost reluctantly, lets go of Billy's jaw and slides to his knees, undoing Billy's fly with trembling hands.

Billy gasps as Dom's hand slides through the slit in his boxers and around his cock, drawing it out, and he gropes blindly, threading his fingers through Dom's hair and mumbling god knows what under his breath. Dom laughs, a little breathless, and licks a long line up the underside of Billy's cock, tongue swirling assuredly around the tip, and Billy's fingers tighten reflexively as he bites back a moan. And then Dom takes him in to that pink mouth, all the way in, and it's tight and wet and wonderful and amazing and this is all so surreal. This is Dom, his best mate, with Billy's cock in his mouth, and Billy's hands in his hair and his eyes shining up at Billy, and Billy thinks they should stop, thinks they should talk about this at least, should do something, and he opens his mouth to say it, to stop Dom before this goes any further -- and loses all capacity for rational thought as Dom begins kneading Billy's balls gently with one hand, rolling them carefully back and forth in his palm in time to the rhythm of his mouth.

To Billy the next moments stretch on forever. He runs his fingers through Dom's hair, a more detached part of his brain appreciating the softness of it as he curls one hand around the back of Dom's neck, pulling at the small sweaty curls at the nape. He can feel the pressure building, feel it pulsing in his balls, in his cock, his back, his fingertips, and he looks down, and Dom's eyes are closed now, mouth moving so gracefully around him that Billy can feel hot tears pricking the backs of his eyes from at the sheer mad pleasure of it all. And then Dom does - something that Billy can only interpret as oh, fucking fuck, that's good, and Billy's coming before he can stop it, before he can do more than groan out a small warning. He surges forward, hips stuttering, but Dom doesn't gag, doesn't pull back, just places one hand firmly on Billy's hip to control the pressure and goes on moving his mouth until Billy's knees go weak and he starts to sag.

Dom pulls back, finally, wiping his mouth surreptitiously on the back of his hand. He grins up at Billy, and hums happily in the back of his throat as he tucks Billy back in and zips him up, then pushes backwards against the wall and rises to his feet. Billy feels as if he's been pole axed, as if his whole world has come crashing down around his ears and he is, quite simply, at a loss for what to say. "I," he tries anyway, but stops when he realizes he has nothing to follow it up with. Dom chuckles, and kisses him softly, and Billy kisses back, surprised.

"Shhh. It's okay, Billy," Dom whispers urgently against his lips, and Billy shakes his head.

"No, Dom. It's not," he says, thinking sadly of Elijah, "but let's let it be. Just for tonight."

fin.

List of 2004 Stories