Repost: Fatalis
Jan. 27th, 2007 06:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fiercelydreamedReposting this here at the request of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
capra_maritimus; it was originally posted over at the_drifter back in 2003, but I recently flocked that post.
Title: Fatalis
Author: the drifter
Fandom: lotrips
Pairing: Billy Boyd / Dominic Monaghan.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: If Dom keeps this up, it’s going to f*cking kill him.
Disclaimer: I make no cash, I mean no harm, I make no claim, I didn’t even come up with this disclaimer.
Comments: Thanks millions to my fabulous, prompt, thorough and willing betas,spiritkitty and shaenie. All bow.
Feedback: Please.
Pronunciation: m&-'räzh
Function: noun
Etymology: French, from mirer to look at, from Latin mirari
Date: 1803
1 : an optical effect that is sometimes seen at sea, in the desert, or over a hot pavement, that may have the appearance of a pool of water or a mirror in which distant objects are seen inverted, and that is caused by the bending or reflection of rays of light by a layer of heated air of varying density
2 : something illusory and unattainable
Synonyms: delusion, fantasy, fata morgana, hallucination, ignis fatuus, illusion, optical illusion, phantasm
You never really thought about dancing, not until you met Billy.
Which isn’t to say you don’t dance, because you do and quite well, thank you very much. You’ve been clubbing almost since you moved from Germany, since you were old enough (if not tall enough) to lie about your age and sneak in. You can follow a beat and keep track of where your feet go and, over time, you’ve developed a rather nice hip-swivel that’s gotten you shagged more than once. But dancing’s never been more than that- a way to pass a night out, a way to get laid, something to do when there’s music pounding and lots of bodies and a bit of floor space.
With Billy, though, it’s different. Deep. Hypnotic. It’s going to fucking kill you if you keep it up.
Once already, it almost has.
*
The first time you dance with him, everyone is several pints in and well on their way to pissed. Liv, Viggo, and a hiccupping Elijah are trying to explain American traffic school to a couple of local girls while Orlando fetches the next round. On the dance floor, Cate, Sean and Bean struggle gamely on to the jukebox’s bizarre combination of international top 40s and New Zealand one-hit wonders. For some reason you’ve now lost track of, you and Billy are arguing about the merits of different rockumentaries. Billy, pink-cheeked, expounds at length on the brilliance of The Last Waltz. You’ve never heard of it but will be damned if you’re going to let on that you’ve no idea who he means by “the band.” Whenever he pauses for air or beer, you find yourself singing the praises of This Is Spinal Tap, an American movie you haven’t seen in years. Midway through a rather compelling case for Spinal Tap as epic tragedy, you recall that they made Spinal Tap up. Your train of thought derails spectacularly, but you’re rescued from disaster when Elijah tries to say something through a mouthful of Foster’s, chokes, and spits beer across the table. The two girls scream and jump back while Liv collapses into giggles and Viggo vigorously pounds Elijah on the back. You contrive to look concerned and offer Elijah a napkin; Billy snorts and elbows you in the ribs.
Elijah gulps air and waves Viggo off. “It’s that song,” he manages, gesturing towards the jukebox, “that one I was telling you about the other day. It’s- shit- it’s called … oh, damn, Liv, help me out.” Liv bites her lips and concentrates; you do too. It sounds a bit like updated American big-band, fast-paced and slightly raucous, with electric guitar and some baritone sliding smarmily from note to note.
“I … it’s …” she tries. “They’re … Sorry, Lij, it’s not coming to me.” She turns to Viggo, who holds up his hands helplessly.
Elijah shrugs. “Anyway, this is the song I used to try to swing to whenever I had the house to myself. I’d fast-forward Swing Kids to the dance segments, turn the television down, turn the song all the way up, and try to teach myself the routines.”
“Did it work?” asks Billy. You can see his lips quivering with effort of keeping a straight face.
Elijah ponders this. “Dunno,” he says, “but I sure felt cool while I was doing it.”
You jump to your feet. “Well, that’s recommendation enough for me!” you chirp gleefully, and grab Billy by the arm. “C’mon, Billy, s’about your era, innit?”
He laughs and swats at you, bicep flexing under your hand as he pulls away. “Leave me alone, you daft cunt!” You dig your heels in and try for a pleading pout. He wavers for a moment, then rolls his eyes, shoves you towards the dance floor, and climbs out of the booth after you. “Remind me to kill him in the morning,” he tells the grinning Americans.
Once out on the floor, you offer your arms gracefully to Billy, ready to dodge if he tries to hit you again. Raising a thin eyebrow, he hauls your left hand onto his shoulder, grabs your right, plants his free hand in the small of your back and sweeps you into motion. You promptly trip all over his feet, and he lunges sideways to prevent you from hitting the ground. Off-balance, you grin crookedly. “Sorry, mate. Haven’t had much practice following.”
He cocks his head politely. “Not to worry, Miss Monaghan. Never too late to learn.” Before you can come up with a retort, he drops you into a dip, swings you upright, and starts demonstrating the steps at half-tempo. You’re half-inclined to feign difficulty just to show him up, but you obediently mimic him and after a bit of coaching (“No, Dom, the lady does it backwards.”), the two of you try again at full speed.
Dancing with Billy like this is a bit … odd. He’s a firm lead, and very, well, physical; whenever you flub and head the wrong way, he catches you between his hips and his hand and steers you back in the right direction. (Each time, you fight the temptation to whack him.) Because he’s the same height as you are, you have to keep craning your head back to get some space between your faces. But it’s brilliant fun, more fun than you’ve ever had dancing, and whenever he grins at you, you can’t help but grin back.
As Billy leads you in a laughing, clumsy turn, you spot a trio of burly Kiwis staring at you from the bar. One of them nods in your direction and comments, “Backs to the wall, men.” His mates just about piss themselves laughing, and your insides dissolve as you remember that New Zealand isn’t Manchester, not by a long shot. By the time you’re facing Billy again, a bitter tang has seeped into the back of your throat and you’re not really lying when you plead nausea and go get your coat. You half-glimpse his face as you head for the door, and there’s something complicated there that makes you want to stop and get a better look. You fight with your coat buttons and keep walking. Outside, the leather does nothing to cut the chill.
You spend four merciless hours staring at a crack in your ceiling, your hands fisted under your pillow. Even with the later-than-normal morning call, you oversleep by a half-hour and arrive at the set cringing and braced for a balling-out. When you duck into your trailer, it’s occupied; only luck saves you from running face first into PJ’s back as he reads Billy the riot act. Billy’s new look for today’s shoot appears to be a split lip and one seriously swollen black eye, but he radiates calm professionalism and a total lack of contrition as PJ barks about the tight shooting schedule, the cost of a day’s filming, and his contractual obligations. Eventually PJ winds down and asks, “What the hell happened to you, anyway?”
Billy’s voice is even, his accent a little more crisp than usual. “There was a misunderstanding with three of the local gentlemen last night. I straightened it out.”
His eyes flick briefly over to you and you stare back at him, mind blank. Something in your mind clicks and falls into place, and you find yourself wondering if the “misunderstanding” was about you or about him. Or about you and him. He laces his fingers on his lap, and his knuckles are battered and split. Kali, something whispers, Jeet Kune Do. The punchline to an old joke- what does the other bloke look like? PJ starts talking again, and when you look up, Billy’s eyes are locked on PJ’s face as he nods and murmurs agreement. You slip quietly out the door.
*
Like all good actors, you and the other hobbits know a cue when you see one, so when filming the trilogy presents you with eighteen months on an island, the four of you take up surfing. It’s one of the only fun things no one’s contract (quite) prohibits, and as Billy puts it: “It’s not like anyone’s going to be good enough at it to actually drown themselves.” Gearing up proves to be a pleasant way to take a chunk out of your first project paycheck; you like the firmness of your new wetsuit, the slight pressure it exerts wherever it touches you. It’s like a supple suit of armor. When you and the others stride out onto the sand, black-uniformed, brand new boards balanced like warriors’ shields, you bare your teeth in a predatory smile. You look, you think, like the last leaders of some lost tribe, like men sent out to do battle with the elements. Like fucking movie stars. As a group, you pause at the crest of the last dune to stare regally out at the ocean you will dominate. Then Sean lets out a high-pitched howl and everybody charges down the beach and into the water.
The first hour is downright hilarious. It takes you seven tries to get your feet under you, fifteen more before you can get off your knees without falling. Each moment of success lasts about a second, then the board will kick sideways out from under you and you’re back under the water again. More often than not you surface to the sound of laughter, but as you’re laughing yourself it’s hard to resent; you just hoist yourself back onto your surfboard and try again.
When you finally manage to stay upright long enough for a wave to take you, the wonder of it leaves you breathless. You are filled with a desire to be able to do this and do it well. After that, you stop counting the number of times you wipe out, you quit checking to see how the others are doing. Through trial and error, your technique improves; you gain precious seconds upright, precious meters on the water. The afternoon bleeds towards sunset. When exhaustion finally makes your muscles shake too hard to balance, you paddle back to shore. Elijah and Sean are already sprawled on the beach, and Sean throws a companionable arm across your shoulders when you toss yourself onto the sand next to them. Elijah, propped on his elbows, nods a greeting and jerks his chin towards the water.
“He’s getting good at that,” he says.
You follow his gaze out to a black-clad body weaving along the surf. Billy. He glides along the curve of the wave, knees slightly bent, arms out. His feet rest on the board like it’s solid ground beneath him, like he and it are one seamless thing. One hand brushes against the wave as though he’s steadying himself on it. He moves instinctively, and despite the brilliance of the red sunlight on him, it’s his grace that burns the image into your eyes.
*
When you dance with Billy again, it’s not at a pub like that first time. You’ve both learned better than that. It’s at a packed-out club, the crowd sleek and polished and on the pull. The collective plan is to get a table and buy several rounds of expensively colorful drinks, but as the group wends its way along the edge of the dance floor, some intangible tether tugs you to a stop. When you turn back, Billy’s level gaze fixes you in place. His eyes ask some question, and yours must have answered, because when he steps into the sea of figures, you follow.
In strobe-lit darkness, with the bass pounding in your chest and the trance samples rippling over your skin, everything feels closer, hotter, more intent, more serious. Neither of you speak as you position yourselves and start to move together; you don’t make eye contact. Sometimes the fabric of your trousers brush together, but other than that you never touch. There are a few centimeters of air between you at all times. You dance with Billy for hours and your pulse races in time with the music. Half the time you’re desperate for something to say, but this isn’t afternoon tea: this is unknown and dangerous and anything you say could blow it all to shite. So instead you look at him, one little piece at a time. You watch the sweat glisten and roll down his neck, you stare at the taut line of his shoulders underneath his favorite black shirt, you lower your eyes and are riveted by the sight of his hips rolling, rolling, always perfectly in synch with yours and a hands-breadth away.
*
Billy tells you that the trick of surfing is to learn the ocean, to listen to it so closely that you feel waves coming before they ever crest or break. The first time he says something like this, you’re watching the water after a full day on the waves (well, for him, anyway; for you it’s been more of an afternoon underneath them). You turn your head to say something snarky and he’s sitting perfectly still with his elbows on his knees, squinting into the setting sun. Dry salt glitters on his skin. Staring at his profile etched against the distant sky, you feel certain that if you reach out to touch him, your hand will pass through empty air. He looks like a mirage. You shut your mouth and look back out at the sea.
Maybe dancing is like surfing for Billy. Maybe for him, music is like the ocean, or maybe you are, and that’s how he can dance like that with you, perfectly aligned with your body and perfectly complementing your movements and four perfect centimeters away. You don’t know. You do know that lately, when you fight your way to orgasm, your hands clutching your cock, the moment before you come feels exactly like that empty space between you. The minute after feels like surfacing from under a vicious wave, treading water, and seeing him still riding out to shore.
*
One night you and Billy dance and drink at Jack’s until closing and stumble out so blind-drunk that it seems like a good idea to try and walk home. You toss your arm over his shoulders, and he does the same, and walking becomes more like falling forward with feet stuck out just in time to keep you both upright. The world swings wildly around as you stagger forward like puppets in a three-legged race, and you are simultaneously convinced that you’ve never felt better and that you’re going to wake up to a face full of pavement. One of you trips- you can’t tell who- and a foot’s put down early to compensate, and the next couple are early too, and then the two of you are bounding down the street in a perfectly synchronized gait. With each step Billy lets out a forceful hoo! of air, so depending on whether you listen to your feet or his breath, your forward progress either sounds like thump! thump! thump! thump! thump! or like hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo!. Without warning he skids to a halt, and your momentum swings you around in front of him like a children’s game of crack-the-whip. You plant your free hand on his chest to steady yourself and shift your gaze like a spotlight up to his face. Billy frowns in concentration and holds up one finger. You wait patiently for him to speak. He opens his mouth, his chest swells with air, and he turns his head to the side to release a surprisingly baritone belch.
It could be the Guinness, but this is the funniest thing you’ve seen in your life.
When you recover enough to remember which direction is up, it becomes apparent that your legs have given way and the only thing keeping you off the sidewalk is your grip on Billy’s neck. You swing your hips in a circle until you feel your knees lock and then jerk upright, grasping his shoulders in both hands and pushing him out to arms length.
“You,” you hear yourself declare cheerfully, “are pissed.”
Billy, red in the face, blinks glassy-eyed indignation at you. “Am not.”
“Drunk.” You hook an arm behind his neck and haul him down an alley in a loose-jointed walk. “Sloshed. Hammered. Plastered. Wasted.”
“Pfff. You’re a fine one to call the kettle black.”
“Give us a tune then, Pip.”
“Aye, give over!”
“How about ‘Billy Boy’? Or maybe you’d like to belch us the alphabet- I’ve never heard you in quite that key befo-”
He body-checks you against the side of a building, hard enough that your head cracks against the brick and the air rushes out of you. You start to say, ow, fucksake, Bill!, but a hot mouth clamps down on yours and the world drops away except for his lips and tongue and pelvis pressing against yours and every other burning place your bodies touch. Your blood rushes to your skin like a wave breaking, like liquid metal towards a magnet. All of your consciousness is on the surfaces closest to him, and the rest of you might as well be dust as his tongue swirls in your mouth and starbursts go off inside your eyelids.
He pushes back off the wall and in an instant you go from held upright to falling forward, lungs pulling in one cold gasp of air as your mouth, no longer filled with his, recalls that it has other functions, like breathing. You stare up at him, and he blinks and touches one hand to his lips. Something hangs in the air between you. Then he lets loose a bright peal of laughter and whatever it is vanishes. You laugh too, because really, what else can you do, and when he offers his hand you take it and stumble down the alley with him. And a block later, when Billy falls to his knees and spews violently, you pat him on the back and murmur encouragement and hail a taxi. Somehow, you come up with the directions to his flat, and when you get there you strip off his shoes and trousers and jacket, and you tuck him into bed with a glass of water on the nightstand, and you take up your post on the living room couch. These are all things you know how to do, and you do your damnedest to stick to that familiar territory as you fidget on the couch and listen to him breathing in the other room.
*
That weekend, PJ lets the Fellowship loose for two days. With the storm warnings for Saturday evening, you and the other Black Riders shuffle through breakfast at half-seven and drive silently for the coast. Sean steers the car smoothly, to the letter of the law. All you can see of Billy is the edge of one shoulder and a bit of neck between passenger seat and headrest. In the back with Elijah, you lean your forehead on the chill window and watch the pale sun shimmer up from the horizon. The bright patches in your vision linger for a full five minutes after you have to look away.
The first quarter-hour in the water is unbearably cold and clumsy, but when your blood starts flowing again, you begin to find the rhythm in the tide. The waves crest high and break steady as drumbeats, and the resistance of the surging water feels smooth and dense beneath you. As the sun swings upward, gravity and your movements and the motion of the water start to merge. Each wave you ride blends into the next. On this morning, you spend far more time on your board than swimming beside it, and each time you paddle back out fierce triumph fills your skin. You have never been a surfer, never been more than laughable at this. But today it is intuitive, as organic as breathing, and with each wave that roars and dies beneath your feet, it becomes as indispensable.
Sometime vaguely around noon, you see Elijah signaling from the beach; you let the surf carry you back in. The other three are tucking in to a picnic spread, and the sight makes you ready to start gnawing your board. Someone, probably Sean, made tuna sandwiches, now warm and a little sandy. It takes you all of ten minutes to polish off two of them, a bottle of water, a banana and half a box of crackers. You stretch out on your back, sand and sun seeping warmth into your wetsuit, and listen to Elijah and Sean crack wise about each other’s surfing ability.
The sand to your right shifts, but after a few minutes pass without anything unpleasant happening, you stop bracing yourself for a flying hobbit or flung handful of sand. The sun radiates redly into your closed eyelids, and your muscles and joints slowly loosen in the cradle of the sand.
“Hey.” Billy’s voice is quiet, only a foot or two to your right. “You look good out there.”
The warm muscles of your face shift in an involuntary smile.
Eventually, a chill wind prods you back to full consciousness. You sit up and scrub your hand over your neck, looking around. Thin grey clouds are creeping over the sky. The waves crest higher now that the tide’s coming in; the surf is choppy.
“Storm’s coming,” says Billy as he walks up behind you. You squint up at him, and he holds a hand out to pull you to your feet. “Won’t be long now before the waves get too rough.”
Back on the water, you find the ocean less docile. Each peak is ragged and white-edged, and the breaking waves have a more syncopated beat. The wind batters at you. It’s a challenge to stay on the board: Sean and Elijah fall more often than not, and even Billy wavers. After an hour, you all ride into the shallows on the same wave.
“One more?” you call, your voice far-off and hollow over the roar of wind and sea.
“Not for me,” Elijah calls back. Sean, already halfway out of the water, just shakes his head. Billy studies the waves, eyes narrowed, and then turns back to you.
“I’m in,” he yells.
The two of you lie on your boards and paddle out side by side. The current fights you, pulling first one way and then the other. When you’re close enough to the breakline, you turn to Billy; five meters away, he gazes back at you, waiting for you to make the move. You glance over your shoulder and then face forward again, concentrating on the hissing and pounding of the surf. For a moment, nothing—then the rhythm flashes in your head, rich and textured and perfectly clear. “Now!” you yell and stroke out into the current. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him doing the same. In perfect unison you push yourselves to standing and surge forward and onto the cresting wave. The ocean bucks beneath your board, rearing in a solid wall beside you. You run your hand along its shimmering flank. Exhilaration flashes through you and, laughing with joy, you look back to find Billy.
The wave breaks and swallows you whole.
Tumbling into the crush of water, you lose all sense of direction. Cold currents slam and tear at you with terrible force. You try to fight, but your arms and legs are useless weights, and the ocean catches them and pulls you farther under the spinning waves. You open your eyes and see nothing but the rushing darkness. Horribly, unwillingly, you open your mouth to shout, and the water sweeps your voice away in a rush of bubbles and floods down your throat. The shadowed sea wraps itself around you, and your body curls in submission, goes limp.
When you rise to the surface, your skin registers the absence of water and not the presence of air. The whirling grey sky burns your salt-blind eyes, and you roll bonelessly back under as the next wave sweeps in. Dark water swirls down on you again, but fingers like nails seize your numb arms and haul you back up into the wind. Capricious, the tide tears at your legs, then changes its mind and washes against you, pushing you away as you are dragged to shore. Your ankles cut ruts in the sodden sand. Inside your body, everything is curiously still.
The hands hurl you onto the beach and slam themselves down onto your chest. Your body seizes in shock, and then you roll to your side and vomit water. Each gasp displaces water in your lungs; each convulsion leaves you breathless. Voices swarm in circles around you like wasps. You pant into the sand until your heart starts to slow. Someone rolls you onto your back and Billy’s face looms close, mouth moving, skin bloodless where it stretches over bone. Now that you can breathe again, you cannot seem to stop to answer him, and his words are overpowered by the sound of your pulse. As you stare up at him, fatigue swims through you, and sparks like lightning bugs flicker in your vision.
But you understand now, it fills your head as exhaustion takes you and Billy fades. You were not made to do these things, to ride these waves with impunity. All your skill and knowledge is an illusion, and this is something that will sing you in and suck you down. From now on, you will tread water; you will wade in the shallows. Sit with hands folded and stay at the table. The power of this is more that you can challenge or carry. To survive, you must bow down and let it wash past you.
Deny the pull and skirt the tide.
Read the sequel: Sea Change.
capra_maritimus; it was originally posted over at the_drifter back in 2003, but I recently flocked that post.Title: Fatalis
Author: the drifter
Fandom: lotrips
Pairing: Billy Boyd / Dominic Monaghan.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: If Dom keeps this up, it’s going to f*cking kill him.
Disclaimer: I make no cash, I mean no harm, I make no claim, I didn’t even come up with this disclaimer.
Comments: Thanks millions to my fabulous, prompt, thorough and willing betas,
spiritkitty and shaenie. All bow.Feedback: Please.
Pronunciation: m&-'räzh
Function: noun
Etymology: French, from mirer to look at, from Latin mirari
Date: 1803
1 : an optical effect that is sometimes seen at sea, in the desert, or over a hot pavement, that may have the appearance of a pool of water or a mirror in which distant objects are seen inverted, and that is caused by the bending or reflection of rays of light by a layer of heated air of varying density
2 : something illusory and unattainable
Synonyms: delusion, fantasy, fata morgana, hallucination, ignis fatuus, illusion, optical illusion, phantasm
You never really thought about dancing, not until you met Billy.
Which isn’t to say you don’t dance, because you do and quite well, thank you very much. You’ve been clubbing almost since you moved from Germany, since you were old enough (if not tall enough) to lie about your age and sneak in. You can follow a beat and keep track of where your feet go and, over time, you’ve developed a rather nice hip-swivel that’s gotten you shagged more than once. But dancing’s never been more than that- a way to pass a night out, a way to get laid, something to do when there’s music pounding and lots of bodies and a bit of floor space.
With Billy, though, it’s different. Deep. Hypnotic. It’s going to fucking kill you if you keep it up.
Once already, it almost has.
*
The first time you dance with him, everyone is several pints in and well on their way to pissed. Liv, Viggo, and a hiccupping Elijah are trying to explain American traffic school to a couple of local girls while Orlando fetches the next round. On the dance floor, Cate, Sean and Bean struggle gamely on to the jukebox’s bizarre combination of international top 40s and New Zealand one-hit wonders. For some reason you’ve now lost track of, you and Billy are arguing about the merits of different rockumentaries. Billy, pink-cheeked, expounds at length on the brilliance of The Last Waltz. You’ve never heard of it but will be damned if you’re going to let on that you’ve no idea who he means by “the band.” Whenever he pauses for air or beer, you find yourself singing the praises of This Is Spinal Tap, an American movie you haven’t seen in years. Midway through a rather compelling case for Spinal Tap as epic tragedy, you recall that they made Spinal Tap up. Your train of thought derails spectacularly, but you’re rescued from disaster when Elijah tries to say something through a mouthful of Foster’s, chokes, and spits beer across the table. The two girls scream and jump back while Liv collapses into giggles and Viggo vigorously pounds Elijah on the back. You contrive to look concerned and offer Elijah a napkin; Billy snorts and elbows you in the ribs.
Elijah gulps air and waves Viggo off. “It’s that song,” he manages, gesturing towards the jukebox, “that one I was telling you about the other day. It’s- shit- it’s called … oh, damn, Liv, help me out.” Liv bites her lips and concentrates; you do too. It sounds a bit like updated American big-band, fast-paced and slightly raucous, with electric guitar and some baritone sliding smarmily from note to note.
“I … it’s …” she tries. “They’re … Sorry, Lij, it’s not coming to me.” She turns to Viggo, who holds up his hands helplessly.
Elijah shrugs. “Anyway, this is the song I used to try to swing to whenever I had the house to myself. I’d fast-forward Swing Kids to the dance segments, turn the television down, turn the song all the way up, and try to teach myself the routines.”
“Did it work?” asks Billy. You can see his lips quivering with effort of keeping a straight face.
Elijah ponders this. “Dunno,” he says, “but I sure felt cool while I was doing it.”
You jump to your feet. “Well, that’s recommendation enough for me!” you chirp gleefully, and grab Billy by the arm. “C’mon, Billy, s’about your era, innit?”
He laughs and swats at you, bicep flexing under your hand as he pulls away. “Leave me alone, you daft cunt!” You dig your heels in and try for a pleading pout. He wavers for a moment, then rolls his eyes, shoves you towards the dance floor, and climbs out of the booth after you. “Remind me to kill him in the morning,” he tells the grinning Americans.
Once out on the floor, you offer your arms gracefully to Billy, ready to dodge if he tries to hit you again. Raising a thin eyebrow, he hauls your left hand onto his shoulder, grabs your right, plants his free hand in the small of your back and sweeps you into motion. You promptly trip all over his feet, and he lunges sideways to prevent you from hitting the ground. Off-balance, you grin crookedly. “Sorry, mate. Haven’t had much practice following.”
He cocks his head politely. “Not to worry, Miss Monaghan. Never too late to learn.” Before you can come up with a retort, he drops you into a dip, swings you upright, and starts demonstrating the steps at half-tempo. You’re half-inclined to feign difficulty just to show him up, but you obediently mimic him and after a bit of coaching (“No, Dom, the lady does it backwards.”), the two of you try again at full speed.
Dancing with Billy like this is a bit … odd. He’s a firm lead, and very, well, physical; whenever you flub and head the wrong way, he catches you between his hips and his hand and steers you back in the right direction. (Each time, you fight the temptation to whack him.) Because he’s the same height as you are, you have to keep craning your head back to get some space between your faces. But it’s brilliant fun, more fun than you’ve ever had dancing, and whenever he grins at you, you can’t help but grin back.
As Billy leads you in a laughing, clumsy turn, you spot a trio of burly Kiwis staring at you from the bar. One of them nods in your direction and comments, “Backs to the wall, men.” His mates just about piss themselves laughing, and your insides dissolve as you remember that New Zealand isn’t Manchester, not by a long shot. By the time you’re facing Billy again, a bitter tang has seeped into the back of your throat and you’re not really lying when you plead nausea and go get your coat. You half-glimpse his face as you head for the door, and there’s something complicated there that makes you want to stop and get a better look. You fight with your coat buttons and keep walking. Outside, the leather does nothing to cut the chill.
You spend four merciless hours staring at a crack in your ceiling, your hands fisted under your pillow. Even with the later-than-normal morning call, you oversleep by a half-hour and arrive at the set cringing and braced for a balling-out. When you duck into your trailer, it’s occupied; only luck saves you from running face first into PJ’s back as he reads Billy the riot act. Billy’s new look for today’s shoot appears to be a split lip and one seriously swollen black eye, but he radiates calm professionalism and a total lack of contrition as PJ barks about the tight shooting schedule, the cost of a day’s filming, and his contractual obligations. Eventually PJ winds down and asks, “What the hell happened to you, anyway?”
Billy’s voice is even, his accent a little more crisp than usual. “There was a misunderstanding with three of the local gentlemen last night. I straightened it out.”
His eyes flick briefly over to you and you stare back at him, mind blank. Something in your mind clicks and falls into place, and you find yourself wondering if the “misunderstanding” was about you or about him. Or about you and him. He laces his fingers on his lap, and his knuckles are battered and split. Kali, something whispers, Jeet Kune Do. The punchline to an old joke- what does the other bloke look like? PJ starts talking again, and when you look up, Billy’s eyes are locked on PJ’s face as he nods and murmurs agreement. You slip quietly out the door.
*
Like all good actors, you and the other hobbits know a cue when you see one, so when filming the trilogy presents you with eighteen months on an island, the four of you take up surfing. It’s one of the only fun things no one’s contract (quite) prohibits, and as Billy puts it: “It’s not like anyone’s going to be good enough at it to actually drown themselves.” Gearing up proves to be a pleasant way to take a chunk out of your first project paycheck; you like the firmness of your new wetsuit, the slight pressure it exerts wherever it touches you. It’s like a supple suit of armor. When you and the others stride out onto the sand, black-uniformed, brand new boards balanced like warriors’ shields, you bare your teeth in a predatory smile. You look, you think, like the last leaders of some lost tribe, like men sent out to do battle with the elements. Like fucking movie stars. As a group, you pause at the crest of the last dune to stare regally out at the ocean you will dominate. Then Sean lets out a high-pitched howl and everybody charges down the beach and into the water.
The first hour is downright hilarious. It takes you seven tries to get your feet under you, fifteen more before you can get off your knees without falling. Each moment of success lasts about a second, then the board will kick sideways out from under you and you’re back under the water again. More often than not you surface to the sound of laughter, but as you’re laughing yourself it’s hard to resent; you just hoist yourself back onto your surfboard and try again.
When you finally manage to stay upright long enough for a wave to take you, the wonder of it leaves you breathless. You are filled with a desire to be able to do this and do it well. After that, you stop counting the number of times you wipe out, you quit checking to see how the others are doing. Through trial and error, your technique improves; you gain precious seconds upright, precious meters on the water. The afternoon bleeds towards sunset. When exhaustion finally makes your muscles shake too hard to balance, you paddle back to shore. Elijah and Sean are already sprawled on the beach, and Sean throws a companionable arm across your shoulders when you toss yourself onto the sand next to them. Elijah, propped on his elbows, nods a greeting and jerks his chin towards the water.
“He’s getting good at that,” he says.
You follow his gaze out to a black-clad body weaving along the surf. Billy. He glides along the curve of the wave, knees slightly bent, arms out. His feet rest on the board like it’s solid ground beneath him, like he and it are one seamless thing. One hand brushes against the wave as though he’s steadying himself on it. He moves instinctively, and despite the brilliance of the red sunlight on him, it’s his grace that burns the image into your eyes.
*
When you dance with Billy again, it’s not at a pub like that first time. You’ve both learned better than that. It’s at a packed-out club, the crowd sleek and polished and on the pull. The collective plan is to get a table and buy several rounds of expensively colorful drinks, but as the group wends its way along the edge of the dance floor, some intangible tether tugs you to a stop. When you turn back, Billy’s level gaze fixes you in place. His eyes ask some question, and yours must have answered, because when he steps into the sea of figures, you follow.
In strobe-lit darkness, with the bass pounding in your chest and the trance samples rippling over your skin, everything feels closer, hotter, more intent, more serious. Neither of you speak as you position yourselves and start to move together; you don’t make eye contact. Sometimes the fabric of your trousers brush together, but other than that you never touch. There are a few centimeters of air between you at all times. You dance with Billy for hours and your pulse races in time with the music. Half the time you’re desperate for something to say, but this isn’t afternoon tea: this is unknown and dangerous and anything you say could blow it all to shite. So instead you look at him, one little piece at a time. You watch the sweat glisten and roll down his neck, you stare at the taut line of his shoulders underneath his favorite black shirt, you lower your eyes and are riveted by the sight of his hips rolling, rolling, always perfectly in synch with yours and a hands-breadth away.
*
Billy tells you that the trick of surfing is to learn the ocean, to listen to it so closely that you feel waves coming before they ever crest or break. The first time he says something like this, you’re watching the water after a full day on the waves (well, for him, anyway; for you it’s been more of an afternoon underneath them). You turn your head to say something snarky and he’s sitting perfectly still with his elbows on his knees, squinting into the setting sun. Dry salt glitters on his skin. Staring at his profile etched against the distant sky, you feel certain that if you reach out to touch him, your hand will pass through empty air. He looks like a mirage. You shut your mouth and look back out at the sea.
Maybe dancing is like surfing for Billy. Maybe for him, music is like the ocean, or maybe you are, and that’s how he can dance like that with you, perfectly aligned with your body and perfectly complementing your movements and four perfect centimeters away. You don’t know. You do know that lately, when you fight your way to orgasm, your hands clutching your cock, the moment before you come feels exactly like that empty space between you. The minute after feels like surfacing from under a vicious wave, treading water, and seeing him still riding out to shore.
*
One night you and Billy dance and drink at Jack’s until closing and stumble out so blind-drunk that it seems like a good idea to try and walk home. You toss your arm over his shoulders, and he does the same, and walking becomes more like falling forward with feet stuck out just in time to keep you both upright. The world swings wildly around as you stagger forward like puppets in a three-legged race, and you are simultaneously convinced that you’ve never felt better and that you’re going to wake up to a face full of pavement. One of you trips- you can’t tell who- and a foot’s put down early to compensate, and the next couple are early too, and then the two of you are bounding down the street in a perfectly synchronized gait. With each step Billy lets out a forceful hoo! of air, so depending on whether you listen to your feet or his breath, your forward progress either sounds like thump! thump! thump! thump! thump! or like hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo!. Without warning he skids to a halt, and your momentum swings you around in front of him like a children’s game of crack-the-whip. You plant your free hand on his chest to steady yourself and shift your gaze like a spotlight up to his face. Billy frowns in concentration and holds up one finger. You wait patiently for him to speak. He opens his mouth, his chest swells with air, and he turns his head to the side to release a surprisingly baritone belch.
It could be the Guinness, but this is the funniest thing you’ve seen in your life.
When you recover enough to remember which direction is up, it becomes apparent that your legs have given way and the only thing keeping you off the sidewalk is your grip on Billy’s neck. You swing your hips in a circle until you feel your knees lock and then jerk upright, grasping his shoulders in both hands and pushing him out to arms length.
“You,” you hear yourself declare cheerfully, “are pissed.”
Billy, red in the face, blinks glassy-eyed indignation at you. “Am not.”
“Drunk.” You hook an arm behind his neck and haul him down an alley in a loose-jointed walk. “Sloshed. Hammered. Plastered. Wasted.”
“Pfff. You’re a fine one to call the kettle black.”
“Give us a tune then, Pip.”
“Aye, give over!”
“How about ‘Billy Boy’? Or maybe you’d like to belch us the alphabet- I’ve never heard you in quite that key befo-”
He body-checks you against the side of a building, hard enough that your head cracks against the brick and the air rushes out of you. You start to say, ow, fucksake, Bill!, but a hot mouth clamps down on yours and the world drops away except for his lips and tongue and pelvis pressing against yours and every other burning place your bodies touch. Your blood rushes to your skin like a wave breaking, like liquid metal towards a magnet. All of your consciousness is on the surfaces closest to him, and the rest of you might as well be dust as his tongue swirls in your mouth and starbursts go off inside your eyelids.
He pushes back off the wall and in an instant you go from held upright to falling forward, lungs pulling in one cold gasp of air as your mouth, no longer filled with his, recalls that it has other functions, like breathing. You stare up at him, and he blinks and touches one hand to his lips. Something hangs in the air between you. Then he lets loose a bright peal of laughter and whatever it is vanishes. You laugh too, because really, what else can you do, and when he offers his hand you take it and stumble down the alley with him. And a block later, when Billy falls to his knees and spews violently, you pat him on the back and murmur encouragement and hail a taxi. Somehow, you come up with the directions to his flat, and when you get there you strip off his shoes and trousers and jacket, and you tuck him into bed with a glass of water on the nightstand, and you take up your post on the living room couch. These are all things you know how to do, and you do your damnedest to stick to that familiar territory as you fidget on the couch and listen to him breathing in the other room.
*
That weekend, PJ lets the Fellowship loose for two days. With the storm warnings for Saturday evening, you and the other Black Riders shuffle through breakfast at half-seven and drive silently for the coast. Sean steers the car smoothly, to the letter of the law. All you can see of Billy is the edge of one shoulder and a bit of neck between passenger seat and headrest. In the back with Elijah, you lean your forehead on the chill window and watch the pale sun shimmer up from the horizon. The bright patches in your vision linger for a full five minutes after you have to look away.
The first quarter-hour in the water is unbearably cold and clumsy, but when your blood starts flowing again, you begin to find the rhythm in the tide. The waves crest high and break steady as drumbeats, and the resistance of the surging water feels smooth and dense beneath you. As the sun swings upward, gravity and your movements and the motion of the water start to merge. Each wave you ride blends into the next. On this morning, you spend far more time on your board than swimming beside it, and each time you paddle back out fierce triumph fills your skin. You have never been a surfer, never been more than laughable at this. But today it is intuitive, as organic as breathing, and with each wave that roars and dies beneath your feet, it becomes as indispensable.
Sometime vaguely around noon, you see Elijah signaling from the beach; you let the surf carry you back in. The other three are tucking in to a picnic spread, and the sight makes you ready to start gnawing your board. Someone, probably Sean, made tuna sandwiches, now warm and a little sandy. It takes you all of ten minutes to polish off two of them, a bottle of water, a banana and half a box of crackers. You stretch out on your back, sand and sun seeping warmth into your wetsuit, and listen to Elijah and Sean crack wise about each other’s surfing ability.
The sand to your right shifts, but after a few minutes pass without anything unpleasant happening, you stop bracing yourself for a flying hobbit or flung handful of sand. The sun radiates redly into your closed eyelids, and your muscles and joints slowly loosen in the cradle of the sand.
“Hey.” Billy’s voice is quiet, only a foot or two to your right. “You look good out there.”
The warm muscles of your face shift in an involuntary smile.
Eventually, a chill wind prods you back to full consciousness. You sit up and scrub your hand over your neck, looking around. Thin grey clouds are creeping over the sky. The waves crest higher now that the tide’s coming in; the surf is choppy.
“Storm’s coming,” says Billy as he walks up behind you. You squint up at him, and he holds a hand out to pull you to your feet. “Won’t be long now before the waves get too rough.”
Back on the water, you find the ocean less docile. Each peak is ragged and white-edged, and the breaking waves have a more syncopated beat. The wind batters at you. It’s a challenge to stay on the board: Sean and Elijah fall more often than not, and even Billy wavers. After an hour, you all ride into the shallows on the same wave.
“One more?” you call, your voice far-off and hollow over the roar of wind and sea.
“Not for me,” Elijah calls back. Sean, already halfway out of the water, just shakes his head. Billy studies the waves, eyes narrowed, and then turns back to you.
“I’m in,” he yells.
The two of you lie on your boards and paddle out side by side. The current fights you, pulling first one way and then the other. When you’re close enough to the breakline, you turn to Billy; five meters away, he gazes back at you, waiting for you to make the move. You glance over your shoulder and then face forward again, concentrating on the hissing and pounding of the surf. For a moment, nothing—then the rhythm flashes in your head, rich and textured and perfectly clear. “Now!” you yell and stroke out into the current. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him doing the same. In perfect unison you push yourselves to standing and surge forward and onto the cresting wave. The ocean bucks beneath your board, rearing in a solid wall beside you. You run your hand along its shimmering flank. Exhilaration flashes through you and, laughing with joy, you look back to find Billy.
The wave breaks and swallows you whole.
Tumbling into the crush of water, you lose all sense of direction. Cold currents slam and tear at you with terrible force. You try to fight, but your arms and legs are useless weights, and the ocean catches them and pulls you farther under the spinning waves. You open your eyes and see nothing but the rushing darkness. Horribly, unwillingly, you open your mouth to shout, and the water sweeps your voice away in a rush of bubbles and floods down your throat. The shadowed sea wraps itself around you, and your body curls in submission, goes limp.
When you rise to the surface, your skin registers the absence of water and not the presence of air. The whirling grey sky burns your salt-blind eyes, and you roll bonelessly back under as the next wave sweeps in. Dark water swirls down on you again, but fingers like nails seize your numb arms and haul you back up into the wind. Capricious, the tide tears at your legs, then changes its mind and washes against you, pushing you away as you are dragged to shore. Your ankles cut ruts in the sodden sand. Inside your body, everything is curiously still.
The hands hurl you onto the beach and slam themselves down onto your chest. Your body seizes in shock, and then you roll to your side and vomit water. Each gasp displaces water in your lungs; each convulsion leaves you breathless. Voices swarm in circles around you like wasps. You pant into the sand until your heart starts to slow. Someone rolls you onto your back and Billy’s face looms close, mouth moving, skin bloodless where it stretches over bone. Now that you can breathe again, you cannot seem to stop to answer him, and his words are overpowered by the sound of your pulse. As you stare up at him, fatigue swims through you, and sparks like lightning bugs flicker in your vision.
But you understand now, it fills your head as exhaustion takes you and Billy fades. You were not made to do these things, to ride these waves with impunity. All your skill and knowledge is an illusion, and this is something that will sing you in and suck you down. From now on, you will tread water; you will wade in the shallows. Sit with hands folded and stay at the table. The power of this is more that you can challenge or carry. To survive, you must bow down and let it wash past you.
Deny the pull and skirt the tide.
Read the sequel: Sea Change.