AndreaLyn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
andrealyn) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2004-08-12 02:25 am
andrealyn) wrote in fellowshippers2004-08-12 02:25 am
(no subject)
Title: Defined By My Addiction
Pairing: None, really. Call it gen.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Did not happen.
Summary: One night, Dom walks along the beach, sits in the sand and smokes. Dom Monaghan smokes seven cigarettes by the seashore. A story of needs, of addiction, and of loss.
Dom isn’t sure that there’s a Hawaiian word for addiction. He’s not quite sure what the equivalent to that is these days. Hell, half the time, he’s not even sure what his addiction du jour is going to be. He’s slowly sinking into Charlie’s skin and learning the double-life he could lead. He lives in the shadows, dabbles in the light. When he looks up, it’s never sure what he’s looking at. Once it was the sun, but now it’s the moon, and yesterday there were stars.
And he begs for one more hit.
One more movie, he swears. One more show and I’ll be fine. Just give me one more taste of the spotlight that I need, and I’ll be good. If he could just cling to those remnants of fame that lurk in those shadows, he can make it through the next week. And it’s all too quick and it’s all too fast, but Dom understands addiction perfectly.
Charlie becomes him.
He makes mid-afternoon phone calls from Hawaii that are late-night disturbances in Scotland. He twitches when he does this. Fidgets and craves a smoke, but won’t let himself have one until he gets off the phone. One addiction at a time. He scratches the side of his face as he surrounds himself in a tattered old chair that had come with the beach house. The waves collide and crash with Billy’s voice to form a soothing repertoire of comforting words.
“What if this gets killed?” Dom worries at night.
“The pilot hasn’t even aired,” Billy retaliates. His voice is tiny and distant on the line.
“You know networks,” Dom replies.
“It will be fine,” Billy assures him patiently. Good ‘ol Bill. Always patient, unlike Dom who as everyone knows is a young one and takes quickly to impatience as Billy likes to tell people in his patent patient tone. “I thought we’d agreed you’d stop obsessing.”
“And I thought we’d agreed to disagree,” Dom retaliates, but his heart isn’t in it. He looks down and is surprised to find a cigarette cradled between his fingers carefully. He can’t remember taking it out, and he wonders just how long it will take before the lighter is in the other hand. Wonders how long before a flame is struck.
But his heart isn’t in this.
“Dom, just shut up and relax,” Billy tiredly lobs back. He’s seemingly not up for an argument.
“Yeah,” Dom agrees with a grumble.
And then they both hear it, the sound of a lighter.
click fwoosh
Dom indulges.
And Dom puts down the phone, because there’s no way in hell he can talk to Orlando. He can’t do it anymore. Orlando gets the spotlight, he gets the movies, he gets the roles, and he gets every single second of fame that Dom wishes for in the deepest part of his subconscious.
Hey, mate, how’s it going? Listen, you’ve got to hear what Kirsten told me the other day on set…
That conversation won’t be happening again. Once was more than enough. It’s with smug satisfaction that Dom thinks to himself: ‘I’m not the only one losing my roots.’ The accent of home has faded for Dom, but Orlando’s lexicon is slowly changing and now it’s not just him that gets taunted, teased, tested by Elijah on the British slang of the day and whether he remembers good old Leicester Square, ManU and the rousing pints of Guinness. Then again, Dom switched to Corona the minute he stepped onto American soil.
One by one into the shadow they fall, Dom thinks with a smirk.
One night, Dom walks along the beach, sits in the sand and smokes. Dom Monaghan smokes seven cigarettes by the seashore. It’ll settle for being an anecdote when he shows up on set with his newest look of scruff and a side of mangy-homeless-actor.
Billy never calls him.
It’s always the other way around.
Dom Monaghan smokes five cigarettes by the telephone.
“I’m getting worried,” Dom admits on the phone.
“Why?”
“Because we’re shooting the third episode, but I’ve got no clue what the hell my character is about. All I know is that he’s a guy, he’s into drugs. He’s defined by his addictions.”
“Well, you obviously know something about him,” Viggo responds, ever the armchair psychiatrist. “If he is his addictions, then your character is that. Your character is epitomized by what he needs.”
“You make it sound simple,” Dom scoffs.
“Maybe it is.”
“So then, my character is therefore what he desires, what he craves…”
“What he’s addicted to,” Viggo cuts in.
“Yeah, right. So, what you’re saying mate, is that what Charlie needs, Charlie’s life revolves around.”
“I make a point not to argue with you when you’ve finally listened to me,” and Dom can hear Viggo’s smirk with every word. Dom rolls his eyes, twirling the cigarette between his fingers as he contemplates his next bold move.
“So then what do I need?”
“What do you need?” Viggo parrots. Fucking psychology.
And then one night, Billy calls.
“Elijah said you looked…he said you looked…”
“Say it, Bill,” Dom encourages him, eyes dead, body tired, cigarette burning a trail of smoke to heaven or whatever lies beyond. “Go head, you can say it. Elijah stopped by, saw me, and ran off to tell you just how shitty I look these latest days.”
“That’s not exactly how he put it,” Billy replies uneasily. “Listen, I’ve got time between some shoots. Do you want me to come down there?”
Dom pauses before he can let a warm rush of humour flood out and protect him from something deeper and more meaningful. There’s something about that offer that’s stopped him in his tracks. What does Dom want? If he’s so defined by his needs and his addictions, well then surely he’ll need…
“Stay away, Billy,” Dom finally finds his strength and voices hoarsely. “Please.”
“Dom, you’re my best…”
“If you love me,” Dom threatens, “you will stay away.”
“Dom…”
“And don’t call. Not for…just…not for a little while, okay?”
Dom hangs up.
In the early morning, in the light of the rising sun, Dom throws his only remaining pack of cigarettes out to sea as he lets out a cry of loss, wondering if the last vestiges of his pain and his addiction will ride those waves to Scotland and arrive on the doorstep of Billy’s country.
And if there’s a Hawaiian word for loss, for addiction, for suffering, Dom is pretty sure he’s become the very definition of it.
THE END
Pairing: None, really. Call it gen.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Did not happen.
Summary: One night, Dom walks along the beach, sits in the sand and smokes. Dom Monaghan smokes seven cigarettes by the seashore. A story of needs, of addiction, and of loss.
Dom isn’t sure that there’s a Hawaiian word for addiction. He’s not quite sure what the equivalent to that is these days. Hell, half the time, he’s not even sure what his addiction du jour is going to be. He’s slowly sinking into Charlie’s skin and learning the double-life he could lead. He lives in the shadows, dabbles in the light. When he looks up, it’s never sure what he’s looking at. Once it was the sun, but now it’s the moon, and yesterday there were stars.
And he begs for one more hit.
One more movie, he swears. One more show and I’ll be fine. Just give me one more taste of the spotlight that I need, and I’ll be good. If he could just cling to those remnants of fame that lurk in those shadows, he can make it through the next week. And it’s all too quick and it’s all too fast, but Dom understands addiction perfectly.
Charlie becomes him.
He makes mid-afternoon phone calls from Hawaii that are late-night disturbances in Scotland. He twitches when he does this. Fidgets and craves a smoke, but won’t let himself have one until he gets off the phone. One addiction at a time. He scratches the side of his face as he surrounds himself in a tattered old chair that had come with the beach house. The waves collide and crash with Billy’s voice to form a soothing repertoire of comforting words.
“What if this gets killed?” Dom worries at night.
“The pilot hasn’t even aired,” Billy retaliates. His voice is tiny and distant on the line.
“You know networks,” Dom replies.
“It will be fine,” Billy assures him patiently. Good ‘ol Bill. Always patient, unlike Dom who as everyone knows is a young one and takes quickly to impatience as Billy likes to tell people in his patent patient tone. “I thought we’d agreed you’d stop obsessing.”
“And I thought we’d agreed to disagree,” Dom retaliates, but his heart isn’t in it. He looks down and is surprised to find a cigarette cradled between his fingers carefully. He can’t remember taking it out, and he wonders just how long it will take before the lighter is in the other hand. Wonders how long before a flame is struck.
But his heart isn’t in this.
“Dom, just shut up and relax,” Billy tiredly lobs back. He’s seemingly not up for an argument.
“Yeah,” Dom agrees with a grumble.
And then they both hear it, the sound of a lighter.
click fwoosh
Dom indulges.
And Dom puts down the phone, because there’s no way in hell he can talk to Orlando. He can’t do it anymore. Orlando gets the spotlight, he gets the movies, he gets the roles, and he gets every single second of fame that Dom wishes for in the deepest part of his subconscious.
Hey, mate, how’s it going? Listen, you’ve got to hear what Kirsten told me the other day on set…
That conversation won’t be happening again. Once was more than enough. It’s with smug satisfaction that Dom thinks to himself: ‘I’m not the only one losing my roots.’ The accent of home has faded for Dom, but Orlando’s lexicon is slowly changing and now it’s not just him that gets taunted, teased, tested by Elijah on the British slang of the day and whether he remembers good old Leicester Square, ManU and the rousing pints of Guinness. Then again, Dom switched to Corona the minute he stepped onto American soil.
One by one into the shadow they fall, Dom thinks with a smirk.
One night, Dom walks along the beach, sits in the sand and smokes. Dom Monaghan smokes seven cigarettes by the seashore. It’ll settle for being an anecdote when he shows up on set with his newest look of scruff and a side of mangy-homeless-actor.
Billy never calls him.
It’s always the other way around.
Dom Monaghan smokes five cigarettes by the telephone.
“I’m getting worried,” Dom admits on the phone.
“Why?”
“Because we’re shooting the third episode, but I’ve got no clue what the hell my character is about. All I know is that he’s a guy, he’s into drugs. He’s defined by his addictions.”
“Well, you obviously know something about him,” Viggo responds, ever the armchair psychiatrist. “If he is his addictions, then your character is that. Your character is epitomized by what he needs.”
“You make it sound simple,” Dom scoffs.
“Maybe it is.”
“So then, my character is therefore what he desires, what he craves…”
“What he’s addicted to,” Viggo cuts in.
“Yeah, right. So, what you’re saying mate, is that what Charlie needs, Charlie’s life revolves around.”
“I make a point not to argue with you when you’ve finally listened to me,” and Dom can hear Viggo’s smirk with every word. Dom rolls his eyes, twirling the cigarette between his fingers as he contemplates his next bold move.
“So then what do I need?”
“What do you need?” Viggo parrots. Fucking psychology.
And then one night, Billy calls.
“Elijah said you looked…he said you looked…”
“Say it, Bill,” Dom encourages him, eyes dead, body tired, cigarette burning a trail of smoke to heaven or whatever lies beyond. “Go head, you can say it. Elijah stopped by, saw me, and ran off to tell you just how shitty I look these latest days.”
“That’s not exactly how he put it,” Billy replies uneasily. “Listen, I’ve got time between some shoots. Do you want me to come down there?”
Dom pauses before he can let a warm rush of humour flood out and protect him from something deeper and more meaningful. There’s something about that offer that’s stopped him in his tracks. What does Dom want? If he’s so defined by his needs and his addictions, well then surely he’ll need…
“Stay away, Billy,” Dom finally finds his strength and voices hoarsely. “Please.”
“Dom, you’re my best…”
“If you love me,” Dom threatens, “you will stay away.”
“Dom…”
“And don’t call. Not for…just…not for a little while, okay?”
Dom hangs up.
In the early morning, in the light of the rising sun, Dom throws his only remaining pack of cigarettes out to sea as he lets out a cry of loss, wondering if the last vestiges of his pain and his addiction will ride those waves to Scotland and arrive on the doorstep of Billy’s country.
And if there’s a Hawaiian word for loss, for addiction, for suffering, Dom is pretty sure he’s become the very definition of it.
THE END