Drabbles n Bits

Tue, 02 Aug 2005 06:40:59 GMT

Soooooooo..........

long time, no update.

There's a few reasons. Real life got in the way. The Lost fandom kind of took over where LOTR left off. And I've figured out filters on my real journal, koritsimou, so I'm going to transfer what fic I do have over to there and delete this in a few days. It's been fun, but i feel like I'm clogging the internet. Feel free to follow me, and I will add you cheerily, but that journal's mostly real life, musings, etc., and any fic will few and far in between. And filtered. Thanks for all who have commented and/or critiqued. It's been fun. -Jo

Wed, 23 Feb 2005 03:38:45 GMT

The mod's comments:

"The format of this was very different and worked wonderfully. Very economic and straight-forward, yet there were lots of layers to peel back and a great demonstration of characterization. Subtle but effective. Written with subtlety and conveying awkwardness beautifully without being awkward itself."

GO. ME. *runs off to read the first-place winner post-haste*

EW/VM/OB

Sun, 06 Feb 2005 05:30:22 GMT

Title: Flight into Serenity
Author: in_doms_eyes
Rating: PG-13, but only for one use of the f-bomb
Pairing: VM/OB/EW (if you tilt your head and squint), for lotrpschallenge Challenge 30, Threesomes. Beta'ed and titled by perfect_oasis, one of the most gorgeous people I've never seen.
Summary: a trailer and a couch hold the secrets to the universe.

Before- 1998

Orlando Bloom, college student, budding actor. Male. Just 21. Brown hair, reasonably messy, brown eyes that he can use to full effect on teachers and girls alike. Smokes because it is cool, acts because it gives him a rush. Has quite a reputation but only lives up to about half of it. Earnest, laughing, a bit innocent. Too innocent to understand why he drinks a little too much, dances a little too frantically at parties. He laughs hurt off in public but sits and looks out his window for hours on end afterward, staring off above the young beech tree that grows awkwardly in his garden.

Elijah Wood, actor, Hollywood. Male. 17. Shorter than he'd like to be. Has acted with Kevin Costner and a dolphin. Not in the same movie. Supports his family with his work. Uses his eyes when working. Can't see a thing out of them without contacts. Makes people coo and sigh, and want to protect him. Smokes, doesn't remember where he picked it up. Jumps when people come up behind him. Is in teen mags that gush about his favorite day of the week and deli sandwich. Doesn't notice that he barely breathes all through a public appearance. His left middle fingernail (the only unbitten one) digs so far into his palm that he has to send a minder off in search of a band-aid.

Viggo Mortensen, actor, painter, photographer, poet. Male. 39. Has an odd voice that makes women nervous one moment and soothes them the next. Has a son. Until Henry was born, Viggo never realized what a scary place the world was. Now he wants to paint him a castle, paint him a field covered in snow, paint him onto the canvas where mean teachers and preteen awkwardness and loneliness can never reach him. Viggo wonders abut his son, just that tiny bit unreachable in his own world. He does not think to ask himself why he hasn't wanted to paint a stepmother for Henry. He doesn't ask himself why lately he hasn't wanted to paint at all.

After - 2000

They Meet.

Orlando. 23. Messy brown hair now covered by a blond wig, brown eyes covered with blue contacts that make them water. His lithe frame is covered in silks and leather. He still smokes, but much less. Spends his days next to a quiet man whose voice makes him nervous, then soothes him. The man doesn't expect him to entertain, or joke. The man asks of Orlando nothing, except to notice the way the layers in some rocks are set, or that Dom leans on Billy in between takes. Often, Orlando works next to another man, a boy, really, with distracting eyes and a mouth whose corners turn down when he thinks no one is watching. Orlando wants to protect him. When the day's shots are done and his costume removed, Orlando slips, still in elf-mode, behind the rows of trailers over to the quiet man's. Inside, he curls up on the couch, watching, waiting.

Elijah. 19. Is tired, so tired, all the time. Worries a lot, more than is healthy, about what would happen if he fucks this up. Spends his days with his feet stuffed into two bigger, rubber feet. Sometimes it's just him and Sean, sometimes the others are there, including a king and a elf; one, almost perpetually dirty and scruffy, clad in wool and leather, the other seemingly perfect, with a blonde wig that now looks as natural as his own hair, as if he has two heads that he swaps daily. Sometimes Elijah will lose himself in thought, about his sister or about home, and when he comes back to the moment, a pair of blue-clad eyes will be watching him. They look away, connect with another pair of real blue, and communication will pass between. Sometimes, Elijah thinks that he almostmaybemight have heard what they said. After the day is done, and his feet have been freed from his (other) feet, he walks heavily down Trailer Row, waving to this or that crewmember, smiling but saying nothing. He creeps into the scruffy man's trailer, and sits on the couch. He swings his feet up to the arm, and lays his head ever so slowly onto the hip of the lanky man already there. They watch and wait.

Viggo. 41. Spends his days running from one end of a valley to another, or swinging a real sword in fake battles, or waiting. They wait a lot. His skin itches from the mud and the chainmail on his chest smells metallic when it's wet and hot. Which is a lot. He wonders where this will end up, and worries about the young men next to him, younger than he ever remembers being. The thin one, so thin that he could almost break. Viggo has seen the scar where he almost did. He seems blithe, easy with his task, but occasionally as he turns Viggo will see something in his eye or shoulder or jaw that makes his throat close just a little, and the man has to stop and clear his throat before he can say his lines again. The other supposedly has eyes that are windows to his soul, but Viggo has seen the difference between his working eyes and his honest eyes. The honest eyes make a rare appearance whenever Viggo stops to discuss a line with him, or point out a bird flying over, high enough to be barely a speck. The eyes follow the bird, and Viggo knows the young man wishes he could go with it.

When the day is done, and Viggo has showered off the grime, he stands in his trailer. He has a paintbrush in his hand. Paint goes from palette to canvas, palette to canvas. He heards the door creak quietly behind him, and his ears follow the steps over to the couch, assess the creak of springs on the couch. He does not turn. Later, he hears the door yet again, hears slightly clumsier footsteps, smells fresh cigarette smoke lingering. He does not turn. He simply finishes his thought on the canvas, sets his brushes in the cup of water, and wipes each of his fingers one by one with the towel.

Only then does he turn and move to the couch where the other two watch and wait.

Tue, 25 Jan 2005 17:17:42 GMT

Good Lord. Go read this story immediately. No time to 'splain. Note: Monaboyd, NC-17.

Fifteen Minutes by elmathelas

http://www.livejournal.com/users/elmathelas/18753.html?view=80705#t80705

Charlie/Claire Lost fics

Sun, 16 Jan 2005 04:18:07 GMT

Two little ficlets, different takes on the same event. They both begged to be written down. If you feel like commenting, tell me which you liked (or hated) more.

Understood (#1 and #2)
Pairing: Charlie/Claire
Rating:PG at most. Bit o' cussin'.
Warning: If you have a blood squick, don't bother. Charlie cuts his finger.
Disclaimer: ohh, if only I were J.J. If only. But I'm not, so no harm no foul, k?
Author's notes: Slightly AU; no Ethan, no death in the jungle, etc. Big hoorays for lady_tavington and driveshaft4ever, who made sure I didn't muck up too much.

Understood #1 (non-angst)

The beach hummed gently as people went about their business, doing whatever people who haven't had a decent wash or meal in three weeks do. Charlie half-watched people out of the corner of his eye as his made a mess of his task; slicing the omnipresent white tubers they had been digging out of the shady spots along the edge of the forest. Not quite water chestnuts, not quite potatoes. Whatever. His eye wandered over Shannon's sleeping form artfully arranged in the shade. Even sleeping, she's vain. He eyed Jin walking purposefully down the beach towards something – what it was, he never found out because the knife chose that moment to slip and jab itself maliciously into the side of his third finger.

Christ!, he yelped in his mind, as he dropped the knife and grabbed his finger. The blood had already begun to flow, slow and thick. Dehydrated. Blood's too thick. Must drink more. The pain had begun to fill his chest, working its way up to his head. A shadow fell over the dropped tubers.

He looked up to see Claire standing over him, head shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, backpack slung over her shoulder. She dropped awkwardly to the sand beside him, holding out her palms as if to receive communion. He stretched out his hands, still clamping the offended finger. "Oh, dear, that's a good one, isn't it? Keep it clamped. Let me grab my water, we'll wash it. We might need to see Jack."

She twisted as gracefully as she could, drawing her bottle out of her bag and untwisting the cap. The water wasn't cold, didn't do much to numb the pain. Not going to cry in front of her. Not going to bloody cry. Rebellious tear ducts welled up anyway, threatening to spill at the slightest provocation.

The blood, momentarily washed away, began to well up anew, but not as quickly as before.
"Think we'll be all right, yeah? You get distracted there? That was quite a yelp." She looked at him from underneath her brim with that wrinklysquint face that always made him feel just a little light-headed.

"Oh really? I hadn't thought I'd made a sound." He had managed to swallow the tears. Big girl's blouse, you are, Charlie Pace. You've had worse.

She furrowed her brow a tiny bit. "Didn't you?” she asked, “Thought I heard you. Good thing I did too, or you would have bled to death. What would you do without me?" She sobered a bit at the look he gave her, intense, pained.

Whoa there, mate. Scaring her a bit. Back off, make a joke. He tried to chuckle a bit. "Well, we could have broken the routine of boar with a bit of Finger Stew, of course." His finger was still bleeding. "I'm not one to make a fuss, but perhaps we ought to go see Jack, yeah? I'm adding a bit more protein to the tubers than there ought to be." He hoisted himself to his feet, and offered his arm, one hand still firmly clamped over the other, for her to help herself up with. Her hand was hot and gritty from the sand where it gripped his arm.

Together they made their way.

Understood # 2 (angst)

Charlie made an involuntary cry as the knife sliced deep into his finger. He grabbed his finger and squeezed just as the blood began to flow. Damn it, damn it, damn it all to hell, he thought. And I was doing so well. Six and a half days. Six and a half days since he'd thrown it into the fire. It was still his but his and Jack's secret, but it had been a very rough week. The more disgusting effects of withdrawal had pretty much passed, hands would not stop shaking.

He leaned away from the pile of tubers he'd been chopping, not wanting to get blood on any of them. Bloody hell, it hurt. A shadow fell over his lap.

"Charlie, what did you do? Let me see." Claire awkwardly dropped to the sand beside him. There was a backpack on her back and a sunhat clapped on her head and a slightly exasperated look on her face. He'd been avoiding her, and now here she was, at the bloody perfect time. Her round belly brushed against his knee as she held out her hands expectantly. There was nothing for it. He held out his trembling hand to show her.

She took it, peering into the wound. "Ah, it's not that bad. Keep clamping it. I don't think you need to see Jack, do you? A couple days, you'll be as healthy as you ever were." Her eyes crinkled up in the smile that usually made him a bit light-headed.

Despite himself, tears pushed themselves into his eyes. What the hell do you think you're doing, you big girl's blouse? Don't cry in front of her. He couldn't help it; the frustration and shame of the past week welled itself to the surface in front of the one person he wanted to be strong for.

Her face sobered a bit, seeing this reaction. "Charlie? It's just a finger, dear. I don't even think you need stiches. Her hands, smoothing over his wrist, asked Why do you shake? Why do you cry? He looked up at her, and knew she expected an answer.

"Claire. Back- back in touring days, y'know? People loved us, and we got all these things, right? And there was a lot of fun. And, um, booze. And - other things." He looked down into the sand, his humiliation complete. "Couldn't quite seem to avoid those." He should have cut his own throat, rather than sit here and wait for the disgust, the rejection that was sure to come.

Her hands stilled on his wrist. A long moment of silence. Here it comes.

"And now?" Her voice was soft, oh so soft, tender even, but not angrily so. Which was rather a surprise to him- but that wasn’t to say he wasn’t relieved.

"Well, now. My supply's gone, inn'it? I mean, I had some for a while. But. I threw the rest away. Time to make a choice, right? 'S why I've been um, reticent for the past week. A pathetic junkie going through withdrawal's not something you should have to see."

Another long moment of silence, but her fingers began to move again, tracing the tendons in his wrist, exploring, soothing. "Charlie, I may be more innocent than you, but that doesn't mean I don't understand."

He looked up into serious blue eyes. Blood loss. That's it. I'm just hallucinating that she hasn't run away.

"One of Thomas' friends... didn't quite expect the effects he got. He thought he was just having fun. He was - unprepared, I think for what he'd have to go through." Her head tilted, just a bit to side. "And I don't think he's a horrible person. And I don't think you are, Charlie."

She turned and began to struggle to her feet. In a flash Charlie was up and helping her, his finger suddenly a second priority. She straightened up, and suddenly flashed him a dazzling smile. "And see? That's why. Even with a bloody finger and tears in your eyes, you wanted to help me. That's not the mark of a bad person, Charlie." She peered down at his hand again, then back up to his face. "Maybe we ought to go find Jack anyway, yeah? Just to be sure."

He stared at her, incredulous, for just a second. Then he smiled back, unsure, in pain, but for some reason - happy.

They made their way together.

Wed, 05 Jan 2005 07:36:35 GMT

mirabile_dictu wrote an incredible piece. Go read it post-haste.
The Bird's Nest

under the bone

Sat, 11 Dec 2004 07:01:49 GMT

Monaboydish, G; inspired by thosepics, from an old St. Pat's day.
utter, unbetaed crap
utter bullshit too. Please don't sue
concrit is highly encouraged

The pain seared into his wrist, lancing up his arm, so he could feel every hair it passed as the fire finally lodged itself in the crook of his neck. Dom winced and muttered a curse, but did not remove the cigarette butt from his wrist until he smelled singed skin.

He impassively studied the ring of deep pink flesh. The press was going to buzz about that. Eventually it would get around to the other guys. One by one they would see the photo of the beer bottle and haunted eyes, call, and leave voicemail when Dom couldn't be arsed to answer. Viggo would be gentle, as he always was, Lij would be stuttery and rambling, as he always was, Astin would be blunt but kind, as he always was, and Billy, Billy wouldn't call like he always never did.

Dom stubbed out the cigarette and swigged a mouthful of flat beer. What was he doing here? He didn't belong in a loud club full of sweaty desperate people. He could be sweaty and desperate by himself. He got up and pushed his way roughly through the crowd and out into the clamoring evening.

He beat his thoughts away from green eyes and nimble fingers, but they stubbornly yelled call him and tell him. Tell him what? That he missed him? That he hadn't yet found a replacement for late nights of Playstation and takeaway? That there was no substitute to be had for his best mate?

Tell him you're sorry, stupid wanker.

Sorry he'd done it? He wasn't. He could never be sorry for what he felt. He was sorry that Billy hadn't turned out to be the man Dom had hoped he would be. Not quite. He was sorry it was all lost.

His wrist began to throb as he turned onto his street and lit a fresh cigarette.

Damien Rice

Sat, 11 Dec 2004 06:23:34 GMT

And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

And so it is
Just like you said it should be
We'll both forget the breeze
Most of the time
And so it is
The colder water
The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to
Leave it all behind?

I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind...
My mind...my mind...
'Til I find somebody new

I'm going to write a Monaboyd about this someday, I know I am.....or maybe Charlie/Claire..... gonna start posting in here now that I'm not swamped...... any fiction is always meant for concrit - if something's boring or artificial, I want to hear it.

Mon, 11 Oct 2004 04:12:56 GMT

I like to think of myself as an educated, cultured woman. I really do. I figure I have a wider world view than a lot of people, considering what I study and the people I know. But until this year, I had never known jazz, and now I'm kicking myself.

See who I'm listening to? Find some of her stuff. Buy it, download it, whatever. She's like nothign you've ever heard before or ever will again. Everyone knows her name, but few really listen.

Strange Fruit

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

Thu, 17 Jun 2004 05:25:15 GMT

Well, double durhay on a stick.

Thu, 17 Jun 2004 05:23:31 GMT

My Homepage
>Well, double durhay on a stick.</a>

Sat, 17 Apr 2004 20:14:09 GMT

Title: Siamo all’ ultima scena
Author: in_doms_eyes
Pairing: Billy/Dom, of course
Rating: oh so G
Feedback: Only if you truly like it. No need to make my ego any larger. I also really do like criticism. Really.
Summary: Billy takes Dom to Chicago for a surprise present.
Warnings: Opera alert! Fluff, tears, umm…oh yeah, it’s two men kissing. If you don’t like that, why are you reading this community for goodness sakes?
Disclaimers: If I knew Billy and Dom, they wouldn’t be kissing each other without me involved somehow. Plus, I’d too busy taking pictures to write this... So yeah. Lies upon lies.
Thank you: to ladywhip and queenrayven for beta'ing, and thank you to elvea87, magikalcrab, and music_chick_2 for offering! Chocolate cookies to all!

........................................................
"Get dressed."

They were in Chicago, high in a posh hotel suite overlooking the river. Dom had never been to the Windy City, and he pleaded and cajoled until Billy relented and took him “as your early birthday present. I swear, sometimes you’re more trouble than you’re worth.” Dom had just whooped and jumped on the bed, and proceeded to make it worth Billy’s while. Now it was a warm September evening, and Billy stood over the other man and looked down at him where he sat on the couch.

Dom squinted up from where he was curled. He was reading some magazine that involved whatever music he happened to be into this week. It changed a lot, but it was always too loud and too rock-angry for Billy.

"What in the what, now? Why? Where are we going?" His eyes locked onto Billy's and he began to show signs of interest. "C'mon, tell me where?"

"Never ye mind where. You don't need to know till we get there. Go shower. Ye smell riper than my Aunt Fanny's arse."

Dom cackled and grabbed him, pulling him to the lush carpet and submitting him to one noxious armpit. "Ha! You love it! Where are we going? Tell me! Tell me!" He began to tease Billy, curling one finger behind his ear and down his throat, smiling impishly.

Billy swatted his ass as he wriggled out from underneath him. "Ye know I do, ye numptie. And I ain't telling you. Now go. I brought something for you to wear."
Dom grinned, his interest piqued further, as he shed clothes on his way to the bathroom. "Well, as long as it isn't assless chaps, I'm game. Maybe even those, but you would insist on leaving the hotel."

Billy smiled softly as he heard Dom singing to himself as the shower came on.
...................................................

"Dom! For cripe's sake, let's go!"

Billy rapped on the bathroom door. It was 6:30 and they were going to be late. Billy was already dressed in a black suit, white shirt unbuttoned a wee bit, expensive cologne, fresh shave. He had never worried much about being stylish - he didn't need to. He had a classic, effortless thing about him that was easy maintain. Dom, on the other hand....

Gray suit, sharp and modern, deep purple tie, with the usual punky hair spiked, looking as if he had just run an absentminded hand through it, even though Billy knew he had spent a great deal of thought (and time) on every rebellious strand. Peeking out from one immaculate sleeve was Dom's favorite leather wristband.

"All right, keep your shirt on. As much as that pains me to say...." Dom emerged from the bathroom, settling his cuffs, and Billy felt a little shudder inside his lungs. No, heart. No, hips. Whatever. He didn't really know or care. Dom looked dead sexy. Too bad he knew it.

Dom stopped in his tracks and cocked his head to one side, grinning. "Hey, you don't look half bad. Have I told you lately that you're a sexy beast?"

Billy snorted and grabbed their coats. "Come on, the car's waiting." He walked out ahead of the other man, trying to hide a smile.

........................................................

The car pulled to the side of the crowded Chicago street, the driver ignoring the indignant honking of the arsehole behind them that thought he had been mortally wronged by their lawful detour. Billy stepped out first, turning to pull Dom out of the backseat. Dom looked around confusedly, trying to establish where they had landed. Finally, he looked up to the sign high on the side of the stately building.

"Lyric...Opera...House.... We're seeing a bloody opera? Are you daft? Fat ladies in horns singing in French for four hours! Bills, why in God's name?" He stopped in his tracks, folded his arms, disregarding his fresh suit, and stared at Billy.

Billy stared back patiently. "First of all, the ladies in horns are in one opera, which is Das Rhinegold, and it was in German. Tonight we're seeing La Boheme, which is in Italian, involves no large females with battle gear, and is nowhere near four hours long. Secondly, don't knock it until you've tried it, Dommie. How do you know what you’re missing?"

Dom eyed him suspiciously for a moment before shrugging. "All right. But if this bites, you owe me... something..." And he raised his eyebrow wickedly. Billy just laughed and dragged him into the theatre.

.......................................................

Once inside, Dom was momentarily stilled by the beauty of the lobby. Gold ornamented ceilings soared high above them and women’s heels echoed on the marble floors. Employees stood in unobtrusive corners, serving drinks or taking coats. Red-carpeted grand staircases swept up to a balcony where well-dressed people aleady stood, drinks in hand, chatting and looking down on the entering crowd.

“Oh, wow. Didn’t quite expect this. Very posh, isn’t it?”

Billy smiled inwardly as they moved in. It was one of the things he loved about Dom; if he was gob-smacked by something, he’d say so with no pretense. Why act cool? Life was too astounding to pretend like you didn’t care.

They strolled about, idly talking about the people and Chicago and whatever else came into their heads. They drifted up the grand staircases, Dom making a loud crack about being Scarlett to Bill’s Rhett that made the people around him chuckle and Billy blush. As they leaned on a balcony to join the people-watchers, Billy took in the taste of his drink, the warmth of the lights, the idle chatter in his ears, and the closeness of Dom. Of course, he wouldn’t let Dom know how the opera ended, which annoyed him to no end. Billy would only tell him the basics: “It’s about these poor artists living in Paris in the late 1800’s-“

“But it’s sung in Italian?”

Billy rolled his eyes. “Aye, because it was written by an Italian. Suspend your disbelief a wee bit, will ye? So these artists, one is Rodolfo, and he falls in love with Mimi, and there’s Marcello, but he’s in love with Musetta, only he’s in denial.....”

Finally, the chimes rang out for the start of the show, and the mass of people began to drift towards the theater, talking animatedley with each other. Dom’s hand brushed against Billy’s as they wandered towards their seats. They found their seats just as the orchestra began to tune. Billy had to almost guide Dom’s rear into his seat because he was to agape at the beauty of the theater, all gold and columns and red plush seats, with balconies stretching four stories up. They had seats right in the middle of the main floor – Billy had wanted Dom to be utterly enveloped in the sounds he knew were coming- and Dom kept twisting this way and that in his seat, eyes swiftly moving from one spot to the next; here two people greeting each other in the aisle, there a woman removing a monster of a mink coat; turning again to stretch up to see down into the orchestra pit. He continued this way until he turned all the way around and came nose to nose with a large, forbidding woman right behind him. She gave him a Look and he giggled nervously, waved, and sank down out of her way.

“Bills, where am I going to see the words?”

“They’re right up there, where that screen is. The English’ll come on just as the character is singing the Italian onstage.”

“How’m I supposed to get into it if I have to be reading all the time?”

“It’s easier than it seems. You’ll see. As soon as they open their mouths you’ll believe.” Billy hoped it was true. He wanted Dom to be affected by this as much as he was. He didn’t even know himself why it mattered, but it did very much. The Biddy behind them gave a shush as the lights dimmed and the conductor took his place.

......................................................

Dom had started out smirking at the singing, but he had surprised himself by laughing along with the other audience members at the antics of Rodolfo and his friends, and growing suddenly quiet when Mimi entered the onstage garret with her candle and shawl. When Rodolfo’s hand found Mimi’s in the dark, Dom groped for and found Billy’s fingers and didn’t let go until the end of the act. Billy could barely follow the supertitles with Dom’s callouses scraping enjoyably against his palm.

Now it was halfway through the second act, and Musetta had entered, clad in a scarlet mountain of a dress (Billy was sure he’d never seen so much breast on display at an ostensibly classy show), and was singing her famous waltz at the Café Momus. She swayed and posed, enticing her former lover Marcello. Dom was thouroughly caught up now.

Quando men vo
Quando men vo soletta per la via
La gente sosta e mira
E la bellezza mia
Tutta ricerca in me
Ricerca in me da capo a pie

The supertitles above the stage read

When I go walking down the street
All the people stop and stare
And the beauty they see in me
They study from head to toe

The soprano continued, music swelling underneath her, high notes floating out and caressing and warming Billy’s ears, soul, belly.

E tu che sai,
Che memorie che struggi,
Da me tanto rifuggi?
So ben; le angoscie tue non le vuoi dir
Non le vuoi dir; so ben ma ti senti morir!

And the supertitles said

And you, I know
You struggle with your memories
You avoid me so?
I know well; your sufferings you don’t want to tell
I know them; but you would rather die!

And the violins ran up the scale, practically shouting with joy, and Billy’s heart sang along as the baritone leapt to his feet, singing

La giovinezza mia non e ancor morta,
Ne di te morto e il sovvenir…
Se bu battesi, alla mia porta
T ‘andrebbe il mio core ad aprir!

The memories of my youth are not dead,
Nor are my memories of my love for you;
If you came to my door,
My heart would rush to open it!

As Musetta and Marcello rushed into each other’s embrace, Billy suppressed an urge to cheer, even though he had seen the opera before, and knew what would happen. Such a great story. This was the pair he was intrigued by; Rodolfo and Mimi were almost secondary. He abruptly remembered Dom and turned his head to see his lover’s response.

Dom was weeping, tears silently coursing down his face in defiance of his earlier reservations. He was lost in the onstage lovers’ embrace, forgetting utterly the posh surroundings, the woman behind him, everything but the moment and how it made him feel. Billy touched his arm, and Dom jumped and turned an embarrassed face towards him. Billy reached up to wipe away a few tears. “Don’t be embarrassed, love,” he whispered. “Most everyone has the same reaction the first time they see this.”

Dom fumbled for his hand again, found it and squeezed it. “I’m just happy for them, ‘s all. Why did they fall apart in the first place?”

“Don’t know, love.”

At which point they were shushed again by the ample woman behind them.

The players were cavorting to a military beat as the act drew to a close, and as the lights rose for intermission, Dom smeared a hand across his face and sighed. “Geez, I’m such a idiot. Crying over opera.”

Billy grinned. “Come on. Let’s go stretch legs.”

............................................................

Mimi was dying onstage, a victim of tuberculosis, which was amusing, since the soprano playing her was anything but wasting away. Dom had recovered enough to snicker at this, and even Billy admitted silently to himself that it was kind of funny. At last, after singing for another ten minutes, she was dead, the tenor had sung his high notes, and the curtain descended on Dom’s first opera. When the singers came out for bows, Billy noticed proudly that Dom’s were some of the loudest cheers.

The collected their coats from the coatcheck and joined the flood of people heading towards the door, chattering about the show.

Billy glanced over to Dom, who was quiet, drawn into his overcoat despite the mild weather, eyes gazing ahead without really seeing what they were looking at.

“Well? What did ye think?” Billy held his breath for the answer.

Dom looked at him, eyes thoughtful, as they broke away from the crowd and began to walk down the street, close enough to bump shoulder or hip once in a while. He was silent for a bit as they passed a block, just drifting in whichever direction they happened to be going.

“I don’t know what to say. My mind’s too full. I thought Musetta and what’s ‘is face were much more interesting that the other two, but I’m sure you saw that.” Dom laughed a little, still a bit unsure of how that had quite happened. “I know how much music means to you, Bills. It’s one of your reasons for breathing. I’m beginning to see a bit why.”

Billy halted in a pool of light cast by a street lamp, and waited until Dom noticed that he had stopped and came back. Dom drew up very close to him and smiled, serious bluegray eyes trained on his lover’s green ones. “Honestly? I’ve never felt that moved by something I used to make fun of. Unless I count you.” He ducked the playful swat directed his way. “Seriously, I loved it, Bills. Only you could come up with something like that to surprise me.” He leaned forward and lightly pressed his lips against his boyfriend’s. “Now come on. All that death made me hungry.”

Billy smiled an inward smile, following a humming Dom in search of a taxi.

Tue, 24 Feb 2004 06:38:44 GMT

Yay! First entry of my alter ego!