dig

Thanks go to Oreph for the beta. This is what a ghazal is, for the curious.

Ghazal
by Hetre Z

Last day. Sean’s leaving for England tomorrow, because his audition has been over for a week and he can’t think of a good excuse to stay. This is the Official Last Day of Sean’s visit, and they’re going to have a going-away party that night.

Dominic is shopping for the going-away-dinner. He walks a few blocks west, finds his favorite shop and goes in. Looks around him and feels almost comfortable walking over and picking up a shopping basket. He’s been shopping here for weeks, partly because they have the best deli in a seventeen-block radius (he’s checked), but also because the shopgirl has the sweetest pale curve of neck slipping out of her grocery apron.

Dom imagines running his hands under the apron, or over her neck to behind her head; he imagines sliding his fingers into her and seeing her coffee-bean eyes go wide and her breathing speed up. Thinking about it gives him a nice warm feeling in his stomach.

He thinks about her like this on a regular basis, almost as often as he wonders what Elijah tastes like. Dominic likes both ideas; he likes thinking about them piled together, the one on top of the other like a set of dominoes. And Sean, of course, since he’s been in the house for a while too. Dom might like seeing Sean’s wicked-handsome James Bond smile in the middle of all of this, have it go wider and wider as he watched Dom taste Elijah and feel the shopgirl.

But that’s where the dominoes would stop. Dom wonders what kind of person he is, to have these kinds of thoughts and then stop. He looks for things to buy.

Bagels, mostly, lots of bagels. Cinnamon, wine for the celebration. Popsicles, chicken, fresh fruit. Little things. He puts them in the shopping basket and walks around, looking for another reason not to leave the store.

The shopgirl smiles as he walks through the line. He smiles back.

He’s walking down the road, kicking at broken glass and watching the buses and tourists and cameras and missing Manchester, because there, well. There you can hide from things. Or no, more like you don’t need to hide, because there nobody cares what you like or who you like it with. Here everybody cares. They make it their business.

Elijah cares. He makes jokes about cars with fuel-injection engines and guys who sit on fences, and there’s an unspoken agreement between them that Dom will keep his sexual preferences to himself. At least, Elijah’s agreed to this. Dom is just waiting to see what happens.

Dominic thinks about him a lot, thinks about how his skin would taste and how it would feel sweat-slick underneath his hands, or dry-rough and salty and ready to be, well, anything. Dominic’s imaginings never get that far. There’s the first taste, and then he stops. And the whole chain of thought falls back on itself again.

Down one street, turn up the block, then he’s home. And when he gets home, it’s still Sean’s last day. They still have to say goodbye tomorrow. Dom wants to go back to the store again, pretend that he’s still there shopping for dinner.

They’re in the kitchen, the three of them, waiting for the food to cook. Laughing together and pretending they aren’t all on edge and waiting for the plane to leave tomorrow. Everything Sean does is to make Dom and Elijah forget that he’s going home after this. Everything Elijah does is to lighten the mood. He makes his car jokes.

Different people like different cars, he says. He is wide-eyed and pale, but his breath is coming faster than normal and his cheeks are rosy with nervousness. Dom, see, Dom’s a strange guy; the joke continues. Now, most guys like regular cars, the kind you can slide into and rev up. The kind that make you feel like a man.

Dom, though, Dom’s different. Elijah waits for Sean to ask how he’s different, and goes on with the jokes when he doesn’t. Dom likes the cars with the fuel injection engines. He likes other kinds, but fuel injection mostly. I wouldn’t want to bet on him in a race, Elijah says, staring wide-eyed right at Dom. That’s something I wouldn’t want to do.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Elijah realizes that nobody’s going to laugh at his jokes. He starts talking about New Zealand instead, makes everyone remember, and the kitchen glows from their laughter and their memories.

A little while later, Dom is still watching for Sean’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. Not that he cares; he doesn’t. It’s just that, well. And Sean’s leaving tomorrow, and everything. It wouldn’t be right if he didn’t think it was right, Dominic knows this. One hint of disapproval from his friends, and anything he wanted would lose its value.

But Sean doesn’t react. Just flicks his eyes at Dom in what might have been surprise, or approval or exhaustion for all Dom can tell, and goes back to remembering New Zealand out loud.

Dinner is chicken. Slow roasted, for some reason, which means that they all have time for alcohol before Dom needs to serve the food. So, because it’s the Last Day, they all get drunk. That’s the way it goes.

Dom walks over to the cupboard, opens a door and looks in. Elijah, having turned twenty-one, thinks that he has a legal obligation to buy massive amounts of alcohol. Dom takes out red wine and cream sherry; the vodka he leaves for later.

He loves watching his friends drink, almost more than he likes drinking himself. Elijah’s the best, downing glass after glass of foul smelling alcohol and pretending it doesn’t get to him, smiling muzzily at everyone, even the coat racks. It’s rather beautiful to watch; an angelic train wreck.

Sean doesn’t do much when he’s drunk, just lets his eyes burn into everyone far more than he would if he were in control of himself. He also likes to stretch like a cat, his shirt hiking up to show brown-tan-pale tinted skin, skin that people can’t seem to take their eyes off of until Sean lowers his arms and his shirt, and smiles to see everyone watching him. Dom’s seen it happen before, at pubs in New Zealand. He likes to remember.

Once the wine and the sherry have been tried, Dom takes the vodka out of the cupboard. Elijah decides then that he’ll pass on the vodka, and they all move from the kitchen to the living room. Dominic is walking in a haze, the entire room buzzing and wobbling under his feet. He can see Elijah out of the corner of his eye, running over to the linen closet and stumbling on the way.

Then, because of alcohol and other things, Sean decides that he wants to be-a-man and starts building a fire. He takes newspaper and uses it as tinder for the logs in the fireplace; the logs themselves, paper-dry from sitting in an unused fireplace for about four years, catch fire almost immediately. Sean has to jump back in order to avoid singed eyebrows. Dom, squatting near him to watch, sways drunkenly on the floor and falls back into the couch in an effort to escape the rising flames.

They sit, facing the fireplace, saying nothing. Elijah’s playing Twister by himself on the living room floor. Old times, they all think.

Want to see a trick?

Dom’s pulled out of his drunken fog. He squints to pay closer attention to Sean, whose blond hair is lit red from the fire. “What?”

“I asked you if you want to see a trick.” Sean sounds amused, and not at all drunk.

Dom briefly wonders where his alcohol tolerance went. He feels a lot worse off than he should. “Yeah, mate. Sure. Um, what kind of trick?”

Sean smiles. “Just wait and see. Close your eyes.”

A few seconds of figuring out the mechanics of the thing, and then, “All right. They’re closed.”

Dom feels Sean leave the couch, can hear him rustling around in front of the fireplace. His arms are very warm, and he doesn’t want to move at all, but he’s worried that Sean might fall into the fire. He wouldn’t be a very good host to let that happen.

Dom opens his eyes a bit, to make sure that Sean doesn’t do something silly where he would have to get up and save him, and sees a blurry outline mucking about with a candle and some newspaper. Nice trick, Dom thinks, is that all? And he closes his eyes again. It isn’t long before he spins down into sleep.

“Dominic. Dom.” A hand is shaking his arm, and his eyes are opening on their own, even though he doesn’t want them to.
Sean’s got his hand behind his back, and he’s smiling a big burning-eyed Cheshire-cat smile. Dom has, in the few (minutes? hours?) that he’s been asleep, managed to slide down the arm of the couch until he’s totally prone, stretched across it. With Sean standing over him, and that smile right there above his head, Dominic feels extremely vulnerable. He pushes himself up by the elbows, and waits for Sean to sit down and show him the magic trick.

Dominic, waiting, turns his head to check on Elijah. He’s lying on his back and giggling up to the ceiling like a kid who fell down at the circus. Elijah, drunk, looks at the world like a CIA agent stares out from behind his shades. Elijah, seriously drunk, is like Dom in a nervous collapse.

And since his once-rabid concentration on the Twister game has eroded into this, Dom thinks that maybe he should do something. This is the part of the evening when he usually peels Elijah off the floor and tucks him into bed. This is the time of night, on nights like this, when Dominic settles into his couch and thinks. He curls up into blankets and wraps a hand around his cock and thinks about how amazing Elijah looks, even when his features are blurred and confused by all the liquor they’ve both just drunk.

On any other night that would be happening, but not tonight. Tonight Sean’s on the couch with him, holding a hand behind his back and telling Dom to look at the floor while he finishes preparing for the magic trick. Dominic compromises by looking at Elijah, who’s curled up into a ball and is swishing the little arrow on the Twister board, lost in drunken thought. Twinge of guilt, and Dom closes his eyes,

“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me again. Here, look, it’s done. Dommie, look.” Sean’s voice twines with his fuzzy senses, confusing him further. He looks over.

Dominic remembers Sean in New Zealand, working on card tricks and ordering the others to call him Harry Houdini, if only to stop them from calling him “Sharpe”. He remembers Sean practicing swordplay and pulling practical jokes; remembers how right before a prank he would smile and wink at Dom, just Dom, or maybe bat his eyes. Because of things like this Dominic figures he has a pretty good idea of what Sean’s eyes look like, but he’s never seen fire in them before.

Yes, real fire. In the eyes. Dom must be drunker than he thought, he thinks. But then, if he can think about it, it’s probably not true. He thinks. He thinks that’s the way it goes.

It’s almost . . . seductive, the sparks in the eyes. They’re moving, the colors changing and shapes weaving in and out of each other. Vaguely nauseating, but still seductive as hell. And he’s staring at the flames in Sean’s eyes, and he’s getting more nauseous and turned-on by the second, and it comes to his brain slowly that the fire isn’t generated in the eyes; it’s being reflected from somewhere.

And that’s when Dom looks down at Sean’s hand and sees that his fingers are on fire. Sean’s hand is on fire. Flames are stroking his fingers all up and down, and it’s obscene and mesmerizing, looking like Dom feels when he thinks of Elijah at night.

But that’s just because Dom’s drunk. Not for any other reason. And nobody’s hand should ever be on fire.

Not Sean’s.

Dom splits into three parts. The first part sits back and thinks, “So, this was the magic trick.” The second part of him is just screaming inside, because this is Sean, and his fingers are on fire. And the third part of him tells Dominic to reach over with his right hand and, in an effort to smother the flames, curl it over Sean’s.

Dom hears a yell, and it’s probably from him but he doesn’t know why. After the first shock of pain and the buzz of skin contact, his palm just feels pleasantly numb. Elijah though, hearing Dom’s yell, has uncurled from his position on the floor and is staring around the room, dazed. For a few seconds, nobody moves.

“Dom, you fucking idiot!” Sean’s the first to recover. He grabs Dominic’s wrist and drags him toward the kitchen before he can say anything, explain himself or anything.

“You stupid bloody bastard. Not going to show you another trick ever again. What fucking possessed you? What in god’s name –? Never mind. Bloody eejit. Listen, do you have an aloe plant?”

He looks at Dom, who shakes his head to get the fuzziness out of it before answering. Clearing the confusion makes his hand start to hurt a little and no. He doesn’t want that. But it’s coming anyway. From a long way off, like the knowledge that Sean’s fingers were burning, it’s traveling slowly up his arm like lava. And it crawls up his neck and reaches his head, and he’s gone.

His legs almost collapse underneath him at the pain in his hand and the liquor on his brain. He knows it doesn’t feel as bad as he thinks; vodka always made things hurt worse for him, instead of numbing them.

He remembers Sean’s question then, because the pain has cleared his head a little. “Yeah. Yeah, we do,” Dom says thickly.

“In the kitchen,” Sean’s voice is gentler than it was. He’s holding Dominic up and half-dragging him to the kitchen. Dom wants to say thank you. Do something to show that he’s grateful for the help. But then, it was Sean that did this to him in the first place. And again, no. It wasn’t. He did it to himself. But again, that’s not true either. It’s not true, but it’s. No.

Dom’s surprised at how uneven his thoughts have become, like they’re chopped off in the middle.

They get to the kitchen, and he feels almost completely sober by that time (even though he can’t possibly be, science says so), and he can pay attention to his surroundings. He smells the chicken; it’s probably done. Part of him wants to go over to the oven and take it out right now. That way, see, that way this won’t have happened. But the other part of him just wants the pain to stop, and he can’t do that by ignoring it.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You call this an aloe plant?” Sean sounds angry. Maybe he is.

“It isn’t one?”

“Well, it used to be. Now it’s paper. You really know how to take care of things, don’t you?” He sounds like he’s laughing now. Dom’s all confused.

“Sorry, mate.” He can make his brain work, he really can; he just doesn’t know what to think or how much of it to think of.

“Don’t apologize to me. You’re the one who fucked himself up. C’mere.”

Sean goes over to the sink, dragging Dom with him. And he turns on the faucet and lets the water run, and Dom wants to remind him that dinner’s ready, and Elijah should get up off the floor and come in and eat. But his hand hurts, and Sean’s hand is in his, and for some reason he doesn’t know which is distracting him more.

“Wait, that’ll. That’ll hurt, won’t it?” It’s not that Dom’s a coward; he just doesn’t think he could handle any more pain, with the state he’s in. Any other time, sure, just not right now. He’s probably still drunk, but he isn’t sure.

Sean looks at him in irritation. “Yeah, it’ll hurt. See, your aloe plant’s dead, Sblomie. We have to do something.”

“Yeah, okay. Just not that.” He tries to keep the whining tone out of his voice. Dom thinks maybe Sean’s hand is still on fire, because it’s heating his arm all the way up.

“Okay, right. You ever hear of saliva healing burns?”

At this point Dom doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything but the Yorkshire lilt, ever. But he’s not going to say that. “No.”

“Well, don’t go crazy now, just let me try something.” And before Dom can say anything, he lifts Dom’s hand to his mouth and licks a white hot line along it. It starts an answering line of heat traveling from his arm all the way down to his stomach, settling there.

Dominic can’t imagine what’s happening to him. He sees Sean, and the mouth on his hand, and he feels warm all the way through, but it doesn’t fit with this life he has. It doesn’t fit with the dreams of Elijah and the shopgirl, with the magic-trick of a few minutes ago, with the movie that they were all in, back in New Zealand. This is something new entirely, and it makes no sense.

Dom’s frozen in place, can’t move, and he sees Sean’s tongue lift up off his skin and feels something like loss. Then Sean goes lightning-quick and sticks his hand under the faucet; there’s warm water running through the trail Sean’s tongue had already cleared, obscuring the line. Making it disappear. And it hurts, yes it does. But the loss of this, this history of his hand and his burn and that tongue, gone, hurts almost as much. Dom’s too tired to wonder when this all happened.

Sean bandages his hand in white gauze and tapes it up, his fingers showing none of the familiarity his tongue seemed to have. Then he takes the chicken out of the oven, and it’s only very slightly burned, and yells to Elijah that dinner’s ready, and they all sit down to eat.

It’s still the Last Day after all this, and right now they’re having the Last Day Dinner. Nobody says anything. Elijah’s still drunk, and he doesn’t even notice the trouble Dominic is having trying to eat with his left hand instead of his right. When Dom walks him to his room later, he feels the bandage against his arm, notices it for the first time.

Elijah looks from Dominic to the bandaged hand and then back up to him again. Asks, "Hey, are you Frodo?"

Dom has to shake his head no, and Elijah flops facedown in the bed before he can say a word.

He goes back out into the living room, wondering if this is Sean’s goodnight as well. Sean, for his week staying there, has spent the whole time sleeping on a couch in the house-house; Dom practically owns the one in the guesthouse, and Elijah sleeps on a bed there. Goodnight, for Sean, would mean leaving Dom and Elijah alone by themselves.

When he’s back in the living room again, Sean’s still there, and he’s holding a tube of some kind of gel. Dom’s mind jumps to the obvious (he’s drunk, in pain, lonely, hasn’t gotten any action in a long time; that’s all it is), but Sean simply grabs his hand and glazes his palm with the gel. It feels cold-painful at first, then bright-hot as his skin reacts. Finally it settles down into a kind of precarious, comforting warmth.

He sighs, and realizes that he’s been holding his breath while the sensations were crawling through his hand. He looks up at Sean.

“Thanks.” His voice is shaky with pain and alcohol.

Sean smiles and gets up to leave. He hasn’t said anything since Dom came out of Elijah’s room. Points at the fire, which is banked, and says, “I think you’ll be fine unless you walk into it. It’s not going to reach up and bite you. How’s the hand?”

“Oh, fine.” Sean looks at him. “It will be,” Dominic amends. Then, “Listen, what did you . . .? How did you do that trick?”

Sean picks up a half-melted candle and a bottle of kerosene off the floor, and places them beside some torn-up newspaper. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?” He winks.

“Yes, I suppose it would.” Dom’s voice sounds faint to his own ears. He’s staring at the candle and the bottle as if they just answered his question instead of Sean. Sean, who bends over and kisses him high on his cheekbone, up next to his eyelid, and whispers goodnight in his ear, and is gone.

Dominic wants to get up and get a glass of water, or go look in on Elijah. He wants to daydream about the shopgirl’s pale hair brushing her neck like feathers, or Elijah’s eyes turning into the ocean and the sky. But he falls asleep to the image of flames licking over long brown-tan-pale tinted fingers.

He wakes up with his tongue velcroed to the roof of his mouth. Walks into the kitchen and turns on the faucet with his right hand, and yelps when he can feel the hurt, because the cold metal of it stains his palm through the gauze. He hears an answering groan from Elijah’s room, and goes to check on him.

On the way there it hits him. Last day. Even more so than yesterday, because today is the day they put Sean on the plane. He wishes yesterday had been better, a Next To Last Day to be proud of. But see, last days are easy to come by; he’ll get a second chance.

Dom looks into Elijah’s room and sees a pile of blankets. There’s a tuft of scruffy dark hair sticking out of the top, and if Dom’s hand weren’t burned he’d want to run his fingers through it.

“Hey, kiddo.” Elijah hates being called that; it’s the best way to wake him up. “Hey, Lijah. How you feeling?”

“M’dead,” comes the scratchy voice from under the covers.

“Oh, then you don’t want to come to the airport?” Dom doesn’t know what answer he wants.

At this the blanket lurches up. “No, no, I do. Just gimme a minute, okay?” He’s already struggling weakly to get out from under the covers. His face is flushed, and he’s squinting into the morning light.

It’s a full hour before all three men have recovered enough (what with the waking up and being hung over) to load Sean’s things into the car. Dom has a little trouble driving, because of his hand, and Sean’s in the passenger seat, and the sun is out and merciless this morning. But they get to the airport on time, and walk over to the baggage check.

Sean turns to Elijah and wraps his long arms around the shorter figure, pressing him tight and whispering things into his ear. Things, most likely, about how much of a fool Elijah looks when he’s drunk, but Dom’s hand hurts to see them like that. And he knows who he’s jealous of, he just can’t remember. Then Sean turns to him.

“I’ll call you when I get back,” he says.

Sean must be getting to him, really, because Dominic almost smiles and says, “Please do,” before he catches himself and nods instead.

He hugs Dominic then, one-armed and loose. Walks up the ramp to the plane without looking back. Only when he gets to the curve in the ramp, right before it’s to carry him out of sight, does he turn and wave. Dominic can’t see his face very well; it’s too far away. But he knows Sean’s mouth will be twisted into a smile, the way it does sometimes. His hand throbs.

Dom drives home in a daze, imagining the twist of smile and the fading sunlight on blond hair. Imagining how the hair might shine after Sean gets back to his house, right before he picks up the phone and calls.

But then it’s three days later and Sean hasn’t called. Dom’s been in the house for those three days, letting his palm heal, resting it. So he knows Sean hasn’t called. It’s not that he’s waiting for anything, but he’s been in the house and he knows.

Dom wonders what Sean did when he first got back home. Did he go over to the phone and pick it up and start to dial? Did he stop and place it back in its cradle, forcing himself to; the way that Dom has to stop himself from checking if there’s still a dial tone in the guesthouse? He’s not waiting for a call, but Sean’s his friend. Dom wants to know if he got back okay. That’s what friends do.

After five days the bandage comes off, and his skin gasps in the open air. For the next few days the slightest breeze makes his flesh creep and brings back distinct memories and sensations. But after a while he starts to forget exactly what happened, the fire and wine and tongue blurring together in his head. And Sean still hasn’t called.

This is crazy, he thinks. Dom knows it’s crazy, he knows this line of thinking doesn’t get him anywhere. Knows he shouldn’t fool himself like this. Sean came for an audition, nothing more. He didn’t travel the (What, a thousand? Three thousand?) miles just to lick Dom’s hand. That’s just stupid.

What, a thousand? Three thousand? He’s remembering his thoughts, the ones he had just now, and his hand aches.

And not knowing the distance is what gets him. Because Dom used to know exactly how many miles were between England and Los Angeles. He used to count them like sheep. Everything seems to be falling apart, and all he can do is sit and feel his hand throbbing, thinking about Sean and Elijah and distance.

Then he thinks maybe it’s just loneliness. Yeah, that’s it; he’s lonely. He just wants some human comfort, more than just a wank and a dream of something. He wants somebody permanent, a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Maybe one of each. As long as they’re playing M*A*S*H, Dom thinks if he ever got a boyfriend that he’d like him to be called Charlie. Or Alan, or Jonathan. Not Sean. He wonders what the shopgirl’s name is.

Decides to go ask her.

He walks the few blocks west to the little store. On the way he realizes that he needs some groceries, which is good because when you ask someone out, you need an excuse to see them at first. Those are the rules. And he’s always followed rules; even when it seemed like he wasn’t, he was.

But there must be something wrong with him, because he knows he’s going to ask the shopgirl out; he might even proposition her right here in the store. And yet he can’t stop thinking about Sean, no matter how much he wants to, and that’s wrong, he knows it is. There’s a knot in his chest, and every time he thinks about Sean another thread gets tangled up in it.

Groceries. That’s what he needs, not thread. Not more tangles in his life.

More bagels; maybe he’s addicted to them. Cumin, the sharp smell of it a constant delight. Lettuce, steak. And Gummi Bears, because Elijah loves them but won’t admit it. In a couple of weeks, Dominic knows, he’ll find an empty bag of them at the bottom of the cupboard. And isn’t that what he wants? The luxury of being able to know that about someone, instead of storing the knowledge away as a longing? He walks to the checkout line.

The shopgirl smiles as he walks through. Now or never, he thinks, and smiles and puts his hand out.

“Hello, I’m Dom.”

“I’m Mallory.” Her voice is soft and scratchy. It fits her. “I see you here a lot.”

Might as well start flirting. “I intended you to.” It’s not the best, but Dominic has time. He’ll get better.

Her smile gets bigger, and she’s holding his hand, and her grip gets a little tighter. Good, things are moving along nicely. Small talk is next, right? He remembers small talk.

“So, how long have you been working here?”

“I got here about a month before you started coming regularly.” She realizes what she just said, and looks at the floor.

She noticed him even then? Very nice. Wonderful in fact. Flattery is next; skip the rest of the small talk because she obviously doesn’t need it.

“Well, why wouldn’t I come here? You brighten the place up.” She smiles a third time, all sweetness and brown eyes and blush rising up her cheeks. Reaches out with the middle finger of her right hand, and strokes it across his healing skin.

He feels pain, chills, a rush of blood to his groin, memories. And he would have stayed, smiled back and continued with the seduction, he would have. But she keeps stroking his hand, thinking that it makes him happy. And he can’t stop remembering.

He pays for his groceries and leaves.

Walking back home, kicking at bottles and watching the tourists and the buses, breathing smog and missing Manchester. Maybe he’s broken glass, the pieces of him never fitting together and shards of him catching the light. When he gets home, Elijah’s leaning out the window, smoking.

So, okay, parts of it aren’t worth it. Fine, he can deal with that. But some parts are worth it, and to prove that to himself he gets out his copy of the Silmarillion and starts reading. Elijah doesn’t make any sign that he’s noticed Dominic come in, but when he’s done with his cigarette he crushes it out and turns around and drops a bomb.

“Sean called while you were out.” He says it matter-of-fact. Oh Dommie, you missed a friend. How sad.

Of course Elijah would be caring and concerned. Of course he wouldn’t notice how important this is.

“Did.” Dom clears his throat. Not too obvious, he hopes. “What did he say?”

“Nothing, really. Just hi and how are you, I got back to England okay, it’s really cold here after Los Angeles, blah blah blah. You know. It’s Sean.” With that he shrugs and turns back to the window.

Dominic wonders how many times that day he’s going to give up.

He puts the book down; goes into the kitchen to make something, because food calms the nerves and occupies the hands. He wants to move out right now more than he ever has, more than he wanted to get away from his parents when he finally moved out on his own. Dom is even planning it in his head.

He’ll move out and buy his own house. Paint it blue-grey. Buy a piano and maybe listen to somebody play it. Staying in Elijah’s house is starting to sound like less and less of a good idea. While Dom’s thinking about his house, whether to buy one in Manchester, maybe Sussex, not California, he’s cutting bagels.

And then, “Fuck!”

There’s blood running in little streams out of his left hand, where the bagel knife has cut a deep gash into the fleshy part of it. Without noticing, he’s been grinding the knife too hard into the bagel, and he ground it into his hand next. Raises his hand and sticks it in his mouth automatically, sucking the blood off and dulling the pain.

Only then does he remember Sean saying that saliva is good for burns, and wonders if it’s good for cuts as well. Thinking about that causes a rush of blood down his spine, and another ball of heat to pool in his groin. He closes his eyes and feels himself getting hard, and the pain and the day are finally too much for him, and he reaches out with his burned hand to unzip his pants. If nothing else, he’s going to get an excellent wank out of this.

“Dommie?” He’s forgotten Elijah. Elijah who’s coming around the island counter in the kitchen and staring at him with blue eyes even larger than usual. “Dommie, are you okay?”

He looks really good. Good and worried, but also good. And Dominic’s close enough to smell the smoke on him, and the fresh air from the window. And his hand is still bleeding.

He kisses Elijah then, because his hand hurts and he can’t stop thinking about Sean’s mouth on it and everything’s falling apart and he just doesn’t care anymore. And all those months of car jokes and fence jokes (you know, if you can’t choose what side of the fence you’re on, after a while neither side’ll want you) must have really meant something, because Elijah’s kissing him back, just as hard as he’s ever thought about.

Elijah finds Dom’s hand still at his pants zipper, and finishes the work for him. And then he reaches inside and grasps Dom’s cock, running lines along it with his fingers. Dominic pushes him back against the counter.

He rests his forehead against Elijah’s, holding himself still by gripping the edge of the countertop until his knuckles are white and his arms are shaking. Elijah doesn’t seem to notice, just concentrates on the short strokes that make Dom’s breath ragged and the long, smooth strokes that make him close his eyes and see sparks behind them. Every once in a while Elijah places a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth, but besides that and the hands he doesn’t move. There is silence in the kitchen.

Dominic wants this from Elijah, he knows he does. But he can’t stop thinking about the shopgirl and how sweet her voice is, and how red Sean’s hair looked in the firelight. And then he imagines Sean’s hands on him instead of Elijah’s, and he comes.

He forgets where he is. Just listens to the sound of breathing, magnified by the tiles.

When Dom becomes aware of his surroundings again, he notices that his hands are still clenched on the countertop. His burned hand is throbbing like it hasn’t for days; his cut hand is still bleeding freely. Both of them are brushing Elijah’s shirt; his arms are almost, but not quite, completely wrapped around. Shirt. The blood is making a stain on the white of it.

Elijah hasn’t moved, their foreheads are still pressed together and he hasn’t moved. But when he notices that Dom’s eyes are open, he looks away and mutters something.

“What?” Elijah doesn’t answer. “Lij, what?”

“I said I’m cold.” He’s still not looking at Dominic.

Dom wraps his arms around Elijah and pulls him close. Their torsos crush together, out of alignment but fitting anyway. “S’at better?”

He nods. Then, “Yeah. Getting there. Thanks.”

Dom wants to say no, thank you, because Elijah just gave him a handjob and it’s what he’s been waiting for and he should be polite and say thank you. But the memory of Sean’s fingers and tongue stops him.

They don’t move for a long time. After a while, Elijah starts shifting his weight. “Dom, this? Are we going to do this again?”

Sean’s hand is still there, in his mind, but now the fire’s making the skin crack.

“Do you want to?” He asks. Elijah looks at him, nods.

This is what he’s been hoping for, isn’t it? “Then count on it.” Elijah smiles, and the hand turns to ash and blows away.

They stand there, arms wrapped and heads resting on shoulders. Dom can feel his body cooling down, getting colder and colder with every breath. The heat’s seeping out of him, into Elijah and into the air.

The End