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fellowshippers2004-10-03 09:48 pm
thisisheaven.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-10-03 09:48 pm
"If you love enough, you'll lie a lot." (BB/DM)
Title: "If you love enough, you'll lie a lot." (12/12)
Pairing: Monaboyd
Rating: NC-17 in some parts.
Disclaimer: Don't know em, wish I did. If this were true we wouldn't be writing about it, the papers would.
Summary: "You haven’t the faith left to inspire the kind of hope you need, the kind that tells you that this is the truth and that everything you’ve been waiting for is finally falling into place."
AN: Dedicated to my wonderful P-resh. I'm sorry to all you people who read that this update took so long, but it's FINALLY FINISHED! Detailed explanation inside...
Previous parts: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven
You decide that fate has a cruel twisted sense of humor when you hear the front door click and realize that Orlando has yet again found you in the aftermath of heartbreak. You know he’s there, standing at the edge of the room, a sense of uncertainty as to whether he should shatter the deceptive calm you sit in. However, you can’t bring yourself to lift your gaze to him. Instead, you continue staring into the space right in front of you, too numb to feel how broken you are and too scared of what you’ll do once the numbness abates.
You remain frozen as Orlando finally chooses to walk towards you. You wonder to yourself if you look as transparent as you feel; as if you are a frozen lake, a mere sheet of ice covering turbulent waters rushing just beneath the surface, begging to crack their fragile encasement. The couch you sit on shifts slightly under Orlando’s weight, but he doesn’t say a word and doesn’t move closer to you. You have no idea how long you sit like this, transfixed by the space in front of you, but eventually its hold on you lessens and you are able to look away.
When you do, Orlando shifts a bit closer to you and wraps an arm around your waist, almost pulling you onto his lap. You would make some barely funny remark about not being attracted to him unlike the rest of the world, but your lips are frozen, your voice choked with unsaid words, sobs half escaped from your heaving chest, and relentless sighs of depths described in long forgotten poetry.
He holds you to him, breath exhaling close to your face and faintly smelling of cigarettes, showing he was probably nervous about what he would come home and find. You want to be angry with him, and part of you is, irrationally and horribly so, yet he continues to hold you and you continue to fall apart in his arms. By the time Orlando lets you go, your joints are stiff and you feel a deep kind of weariness, yet you don’t seem to register either feeling. He looks as if he’s about to speak, tell you to talk to him about it, vent properly so that you’ll be all better, but you’ll never be all better. Never.
You shake your head before he can say the words, and they die on his lips, a faint noise between a sigh and partial word the only thing breaking your silence. Finally you feel ready to leave, the companionship becoming too much and making you more claustrophobic than comfortable. You latch onto Orlando once more, moving your head from his neck to kiss him softly right above the jaw before letting go.
Standing, you manage to say four words in a dry, cracking voice that scares you because it is so devoid of anything, even pain. “At least I know,” you say, before squeezing his shoulder and walking out to your car. You hope that he doesn’t follow you, and get in your car quickly, unsure of where to go.
You drive for hours barely registering where you are. When a road dead ends near the beach, you simply turn towards the water and drive on unmade paths, hoping your car doesn’t quit before you do. You don’t stop until your car finally runs out of gas, and then you sit like a man possessed, only coherent for the moment that you turn off your cell phone, not wanting to ever be found.
Numbness encompasses you, only to be interrupted by the shock of who finds you. When Sean opens your side door and sits down, you’re dismayed and surprised, wondering what he’ll say to you now. But when you turn to look at him, he just whispers, “Found you,” and pulls his coat over his t-shirt and sweatpants, looking more disheveled than you’ve ever seen him. He grasps your arm and his father worry lines appear even more deeply on his face. For a fleeting moment you have the inane thought that Sean really is Sam Gamgee, never could a man be more perfect for the role, but you aren’t Frodo, and no one, least of all yourself, seems to know how to save you.
How Sean found you is still a mystery to you, a week later, as you put your bags in the back of Orlando’s car, ready for the airport. Your bags are packed neatly; Orlando came earlier and packed for you, as you have been inept to do any task, least of all pack your life back in bags. You’re returning to London temporarily, long enough to load anything left there and store it until the Rings publicity is done for the year. You think you might go off to live in the States for awhile. There you’ll hopefully find work, be someone else, and never again think of what you haven’t stopped thinking about since it happened. According to Orlando, Hollywood is the best place to forget, so maybe you’ll start there.
Orlando drives you to the airport, but he’s staying behind to wait for Lij to finish up his last bit of reshoots. You know most of the Fellowship is leaving on flights throughout the week, but conveniently, you missed most of the final cast party as you were sitting on the floor in a corner, nursing one drink all night. If anyone noticed, they left you blissfully at peace, understanding that what you were feeling was beyond any mundane life quote they could muster to memory to inspire you.
You stare out the window for the entire drive, watching but barely seeing what you pass. You’re going to miss New Zealand, and under other circumstances, you’d be avidly committing little details and places to memory, scrutinizing everything and thinking how you changed so much in such a beautiful place. But now you’re more concerned with the dried water droplet pattern on the car window, making pictures out of nothing until you feel more than a little insane. Sometimes, especially these days, you really do worry about yourself.
Orlando parks the car and you both walk wordlessly to the terminal. Somehow you knew that he wouldn’t just let you off on the sidewalk, a quick hug trying to convey too much in too little action or time, and then drive off and leave you in the cold. No, it’s too impersonal, and besides, he’s protecting you again.
He walks you all the way to the gate, waiting patiently until they announce boarding for first class. You don’t want to get on the plane; you don’t know truly what will happen when you are alone again. Yet your feet ignore your silent plea and you walk mechanically to the ticket counter, forgetting any good-byes or comforting last words that Orlando said before you’ve even left his side.
Placing one of your bags on the ground, you hand over your ticket and passport. An obsequiously dressed airline attendant looks over your ID thoroughly, as if she can’t believe that you are the person in your passport photo. At this point, you haven’t seen a mirror in days and you really have no idea what you look like. She finally nods and lets you continue, and you walk into the snake-like terminal to get on the plane.
Turning a corner, you realize that you’ve forgotten your bag, and you turn around and walk back to the counter. Keeping your head down, you reach for your bag with an attempt at a sheepish smile, before turning back around, expression already faded, and walking back again. If you had looked up or turned around again, you would have noticed a familiar face with eyes fixated on you. Expressive eyes that you’ve never understood darkened in defeat when you first disappear around the bend and then lighting up again at your reappearance. Eyes that speak more loudly than any words Billy was trying to voice as he inexplicably came to send you off.
But you don’t look up, so you get on the plane none the wiser.
If asked, you couldn’t have described the plane ride. Time continued to blur for you, as it had since the night with Billy. You would go to a place in your head where you were untouchable, living an unreal life without needs or passions, existing around others only because you had to, when all you wanted was to disappear.
People often say that you must love yourself and be able to be on your own before you can love another and have a functional relationship. You’ve often thought that while this advice may be valuable and wise, it’s a bunch of crap in the real world. When you love, you make yourself dependent, and when you’re alone, you begin to lose all that you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just you, maybe for you this love was the kind that you weren’t whole without. And just maybe, you were meant for this kind of love, spending your life feeling unfulfilled until you finally found it, and now suffering further because it is unrequited.
You feel weak; your spirit feels listless and jaded. At one point as you walk through your flat, you pause to look at the medicine cabinet and then turn away. Those pills were to take life from you, yet there wasn’t any to take. You couldn’t call what you have life, you’d become a ghost, and as such you exist in a way that nothing, not endless sleep or sharp pain, could even fleetingly interrupt your torment.
But in the following days your dull spirit comes alive at night and you have such dreams that you would wake startled and burning, confused and never rested. You fall asleep at night with waves crashing in your ears, wishing on some level that they’d carry you away and that you’d find peace in tumultuous blue water. One morning you wake with tears running down your face, and like a dam full of crevices and cracks, you break down. Sobs wrack your body and you call out for Billy, mother, God, or any comforting words or arms that would just make it all go away. In desperation, you take four sleeping pills, welcoming blackness and artificial sleep’s arms as they enfold you, tears still glistening wetly on your cheeks.
When you wake up again, you’re disoriented and confused, having lost track of reality and time. A heavy oppression blankets you and stifles you more than starched collars ever did. Checking your mobile, you see that you’ve missed a call from Ian among others and have voicemails. Skipping Lij’s falsely cheery voice and Orlando’s speech, you hear Ian’s gravelly voice in the midst and stop in time to hear the words, “Go someplace that will make you smile, little hobbit, a place where you can be barefoot and feel the earth beneath your feet. Even though you don’t believe it, you haven’t fallen off the edge just yet.”
A ghost of a smile makes its way to your face and you dress haphazardly, your mind more on the place that you want to go than on your current actions. You take the train to the outskirts of London, to a place you haven’t visited in years, but bears evidence to continued picnics and visits from others. Sitting down against a large tree, you lean against it, feeling more secure than you have in the last two weeks. You take your shoes off and bury your feet in the grass, closing your eyes tightly against the soft sunlight.
There’s no instantaneous relief or rush of peace, but the weight on your shoulders does seem a little bit more manageable and you breathe deeply. You attempt to clear your mind as you sit and remember that maybe it would be a good time to restart doing some yoga. Just sitting quietly like this reminds you of the peace you used to enjoy and you feel both nostalgic and bitter, wishing that you could remember how to laugh in that carefree happy way you used to.
And then, as it is prone to do in England, the weak sunlight dissipates and rain begins to fall. Opening your eyes, you see scant couples hiding under trees and umbrellas for cover, children running from their parents to the nearest puddle, mingling shouts of amusement and dismay. You let yourself get soaked, enjoying the feeling of cool water cleansing you.
Walking back to catch the train later, you’re still wet, but your mood remains improved. You contemplate calling Ian to thank him for the advice, but you have a feeling that he already knows, so you shrug it off. As you near your house, you begin to feel the weight again upon your shoulders. Tears of weariness and frustration start in your eyes, but you push them away before they can fall. Miracles don’t happen overnight, you tell yourself, it will still be awhile, if ever before you’ll be alright again.
When you open the door to your flat, the first thing you notice are little scraps of crumpled paper lying on the floor, stairs, chairs, even where you’re about to drop your keys. Picking one up, you read a jagged dark word written in writing you don’t recognize. You bend down and begin to collect them, searching the kitchen, living room, and hall before sitting on the stairs to read them.
The moment that you spread the scraps out along the lower ledge, a surreal feeling takes a hold of you and you fancy that you might just be dreaming. How could a whirlwind of papers suddenly appear in your apartment when there weren’t any before? The logical part of your brain seems to have taken a vacation because it has no answer or warning against the oddity you now face. Curiosity begins to surge within you and you want to quell it, hating the trouble it had already gotten you into.
You skim over the words quickly and you have a sense of both foreboding and excitement. Hope and curiosity only add to your excitement and you have to stop yourself from getting carried away. You remember an old schoolteacher once telling you that only fools give and get second chances. She had always called you a fool so you had better not disappoint her now.
There’s a mystery in both the situation and the words you now read. It’s a message you know, but for the life of you, all you can make are conjectures and guesses as to what it all means. A part of you suggests that this is all just madness, your imagination running away with you and yet you have the oddest sensation that everything is changing before your eyes, a dizzying heady feeling that's both pleasurable and somehow full of pain. Shutting off your mind momentarily, you focus on solely reading the words before you.
Shocked. Scared. Confused. Angry. Betrayed. Pain. Rejected. Surprised. Unprepared. Mistaken. Enraged. Frightened. Unsure. Frustrated.
More and more words, some repeated and others almost unrecognizable. Each one is written on a small scrap of paper slightly crumpled, as if someone had shredded pieces of a painting drawn in emotions. The writing is shaky and some of the papers bear imprints of how hard each word was written, more than just a line on a page, but a story all by itself.
Walking up the stairs, you pause at the top and begin to pick up more papers, scattered in a line towards your half opened bedroom door. The first few are scribbles beyond deciphering, almost torn themselves from the weight of the writing. Each is a little less desperate, a little more readable, until you’re almost to the door and only three papers remain.
Love.
The word is written so hard that you can almost feel the pain behind it. Dark and angry, it’s splattered across an entire page as if the person who wrote it was both afraid and dismayed by the emotion, too much so to rip it up.
The next paper is folded neatly and you open it to natural handwriting that you’re accustomed to, recognizing its signature before you do the word.
Love, written almost tenderly, with emotion that you aren’t sure if you are actually seeing or imagining. Love, and despite yourself you’re suddenly so elated because it’s Billy’s writing and maybe he could just be offering you what you’ve been waiting for since before you even knew that you were waiting.
And finally the last piece, which lies waiting in the barely open space of your doorway. You sit down hard, back against the doorframe, allowing the door to open slightly further, yet you remain facing away. Opening the folded paper with shaking hands, your faced with many words, tumbled out in fragments of suggested meaning that you stare at, rereading it until they’re imprinted in your mind.
Forever and always, from this life to the next and all the space in between. Through the dark and light and shades of grey in which we are destined to exist. Because I do and I can’t help it and I don’t want to help it because it was what I was made for, who I’m meant to be.
The words blur before your eyes and your heart is racing. This new emotion, so different from how you’ve felt lately is just as scary, so afraid you are of allowing yourself to hope again. You haven’t the faith left to inspire the kind of hope you need, the kind that tells you that this is the truth and that everything you’ve been waiting for is finally falling into place. Yet, as your reread Billy’s words, something stirs within you and you’re reminded again how resilient and utterly unbelievable your love is for this man.
You aren’t sure at the moment if you can die from too much joy and if this, the happiest moment you’ve had yet in this life, could just be to make up for all the hard times and darkness you’ve experienced. You’ve inclined to think that this may be it, that Billy may actually be your reward. Suddenly that quote from Orlando doesn’t seem so crazy and all the suffering seems worthwhile, even as it culminates in your mind, compounding into one horrific pain that still could never outstrip this moment.
Struggling to stand, you turn and push the door the rest of the way open, eyes immediately finding Billy who appears small sitting on the edge of your bed. He rises to meet you halfway in your room and you stand there transfixed, staring at him with a kind of fascination, as if it’s not really him, simply a fanciful dream sent to torment you further.
Billy, as usual, seems to know what you’re thinking, and gently takes a hold of your elbow, pulling you to sit on your bed. The mattress dips behind you as he moves to sit against the wall, pulling you to sit between is open legs. His arms embrace you from behind as his solid chest forms a protective pillow around your back. You feel his lips against the slightly ticklish and slightly sensitive part of your neck and he’s speaking, but you can’t make out the words. You feel him trace the letters into your skin, repeating them over and over again.
You have this overwhelming urge to weep and a dry sob runs the length of your body causing you to shudder but not make a sound. It’s all so much so fast and you’re so afraid that he’ll just disappear and this will all have been some cruel trick. But then you feel a wetness against your neck and arms tightening around your chest. Paying attention now, you smell a scent so familiar and distinct that you have yet to decide what it is except that it is the pure embodiment of Billy. His warmth encompasses you and spurred into action, you wrap your arms around his, leaning your head back against his shoulder, allowing your body to melt into his. You know all at once that if this isn’t actually real then you should just die now because you never really believed that you could live without this before and now you’re sure of it.
You’re standing on the precipice and he’s asking you to jump. Yet you’ve already jumped, already braved the rocky ledge. Then, some part of you had trusted that you wouldn’t fall, but you had, hitting every bump, crack, and jagged edge on the way down. Now, as you face the same question again, whether or not to jump, you feel both weary and broken. Could you handle another fall? Even as happy as you are at this moment, you’re not sure if you could.
You open your eyes and see the last scrap of paper on the floor where you’ve dropped it. An echo of Billy’s vow to you sounds in your mind and you realize your answer. With faith, you’ll just have to trust that one of two things will happen. Either you will jump and be granted wings, or Billy will catch you before you can fall.
Dropping your arms, you pull against his so that you can turn to face him. He lets his arms fall but catches one of your hands instead. Tears are in his beautiful eyes and he looks at you with such pain and desperation that all you want to do is comfort him. “I’m so sorry, my Dommie. So sorry. I just can’t let you go again, can’t lose you anymore. Please forgive me for being afraid.”
It isn’t the most eloquent statement but it is beautiful to your ears. You know exactly what he means and can’t help but answering, “Only if you’ll forgive me for the same thing.”
Billy smiles wryly at you through his tears and you lean in, brushing them away with your thumb. Pulling him to you, you hug him tightly, kissing the side of his face and neck gently, as if you fear he might break from anything less than extreme tenderness. Together, you move as one to lie down, still wrapped in each other’s arms, knowing without speaking that there will be time later for more words and that sometimes only silence can do justice to the most heartfelt moments.
You don’t know how long the two of you lie there, holding each other tightly and relishing what was almost lost. Finally Billy stirs next to you and begins to sit up, disentangling himself, yet remaining no less close to you. He looks down at you, smiling tenderly and you allow your face to remain open, rather than guarding it as you always have.
Billy breathes deeply and then says fervently, sounding somewhat astonished, as if he’d had a revelation within the words, “Love you Dommie. Love you so much, more than I did a minute ago.”
You smile at the sweet sentiment and turn your head to face him as you sit up as well. “Love you too Bills. Now why’d it take us so long to say that?” you say, only mildly sarcastic.
Billy cuffs you upside the head lightly and then laughs, and your ears happy to hear the sound. “Well we certainly made it difficult.” He pauses, contemplating his next words before saying in a much more serious tone, “I’m scared.”
“Me too,” you answer truthfully. “And there’s no guarantees really, just love. But I won’t give up now that I finally have you. I just can’t.” Your last words are said with a quiet desperation reminiscent of the state you’ve been in for the last two weeks.
Billy looks surprised at the conviction behind your statement. “I won’t lose you either, love,” he answers, as he grasps your hand reassuringly.
“No leaving me anymore, alright?” you can’t help but add, a slight tremor in your question belying your nervousness.
“Promise you. But you know what they say anyways.”
“No, what do they say?” you ask, confused.
And then Billy smiles, such a soft sweet smile that a part of you melts and you wonder how you could be so lucky.
“If it comes back it’s yours, and the like,” he says.
You can’t help but smile in response.
“Now there’s one more thing,” he says. “I know this isn’t going to be easy, just starting over as we are. But we’ve got to promise to try, no more lies and no more being scared because we’re in this together.”
You nod as he says this and give him a mock scout salute. Billy looks at you a moment before shaking his head good naturedly and murmuring, “You really don’t deserve this.” Then he grasps your hand, opening your palm and tracing your fingers outward before placing his ring, so recently removed from your possession, back into your hand.
“I added a bit of writing on the inside. I couldn’t think of what to say without sounding too maudlin, but it needed something. It’s just a reminder for the hard times when we’re most likely to forget.”
You look inside the ring, letting the engraving catch the light.
“Yours,” is all it said.
The End
A/N: I want to apologize to anyone who actually kept up with this story for these last chapters and the ridiculously long delay. All the comments I've gotten on behalf of this story really are the inspiration behind me writing at all and I love knowing that people appreciate what I write. So here ends my first official story. Should I write more, same pairings, new pairings, at all? Please, if you have read this from the beginning or just happened to stumble upon it, I'd love to know what you think. Otherwise, I really hope you all enjoyed it.
PS. Unfortunately, I seem to have lost my wonderful beta for this last chapter, so please pardon me for any mistakes.
Pairing: Monaboyd
Rating: NC-17 in some parts.
Disclaimer: Don't know em, wish I did. If this were true we wouldn't be writing about it, the papers would.
Summary: "You haven’t the faith left to inspire the kind of hope you need, the kind that tells you that this is the truth and that everything you’ve been waiting for is finally falling into place."
AN: Dedicated to my wonderful P-resh. I'm sorry to all you people who read that this update took so long, but it's FINALLY FINISHED! Detailed explanation inside...
Previous parts: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven
You decide that fate has a cruel twisted sense of humor when you hear the front door click and realize that Orlando has yet again found you in the aftermath of heartbreak. You know he’s there, standing at the edge of the room, a sense of uncertainty as to whether he should shatter the deceptive calm you sit in. However, you can’t bring yourself to lift your gaze to him. Instead, you continue staring into the space right in front of you, too numb to feel how broken you are and too scared of what you’ll do once the numbness abates.
You remain frozen as Orlando finally chooses to walk towards you. You wonder to yourself if you look as transparent as you feel; as if you are a frozen lake, a mere sheet of ice covering turbulent waters rushing just beneath the surface, begging to crack their fragile encasement. The couch you sit on shifts slightly under Orlando’s weight, but he doesn’t say a word and doesn’t move closer to you. You have no idea how long you sit like this, transfixed by the space in front of you, but eventually its hold on you lessens and you are able to look away.
When you do, Orlando shifts a bit closer to you and wraps an arm around your waist, almost pulling you onto his lap. You would make some barely funny remark about not being attracted to him unlike the rest of the world, but your lips are frozen, your voice choked with unsaid words, sobs half escaped from your heaving chest, and relentless sighs of depths described in long forgotten poetry.
He holds you to him, breath exhaling close to your face and faintly smelling of cigarettes, showing he was probably nervous about what he would come home and find. You want to be angry with him, and part of you is, irrationally and horribly so, yet he continues to hold you and you continue to fall apart in his arms. By the time Orlando lets you go, your joints are stiff and you feel a deep kind of weariness, yet you don’t seem to register either feeling. He looks as if he’s about to speak, tell you to talk to him about it, vent properly so that you’ll be all better, but you’ll never be all better. Never.
You shake your head before he can say the words, and they die on his lips, a faint noise between a sigh and partial word the only thing breaking your silence. Finally you feel ready to leave, the companionship becoming too much and making you more claustrophobic than comfortable. You latch onto Orlando once more, moving your head from his neck to kiss him softly right above the jaw before letting go.
Standing, you manage to say four words in a dry, cracking voice that scares you because it is so devoid of anything, even pain. “At least I know,” you say, before squeezing his shoulder and walking out to your car. You hope that he doesn’t follow you, and get in your car quickly, unsure of where to go.
You drive for hours barely registering where you are. When a road dead ends near the beach, you simply turn towards the water and drive on unmade paths, hoping your car doesn’t quit before you do. You don’t stop until your car finally runs out of gas, and then you sit like a man possessed, only coherent for the moment that you turn off your cell phone, not wanting to ever be found.
Numbness encompasses you, only to be interrupted by the shock of who finds you. When Sean opens your side door and sits down, you’re dismayed and surprised, wondering what he’ll say to you now. But when you turn to look at him, he just whispers, “Found you,” and pulls his coat over his t-shirt and sweatpants, looking more disheveled than you’ve ever seen him. He grasps your arm and his father worry lines appear even more deeply on his face. For a fleeting moment you have the inane thought that Sean really is Sam Gamgee, never could a man be more perfect for the role, but you aren’t Frodo, and no one, least of all yourself, seems to know how to save you.
How Sean found you is still a mystery to you, a week later, as you put your bags in the back of Orlando’s car, ready for the airport. Your bags are packed neatly; Orlando came earlier and packed for you, as you have been inept to do any task, least of all pack your life back in bags. You’re returning to London temporarily, long enough to load anything left there and store it until the Rings publicity is done for the year. You think you might go off to live in the States for awhile. There you’ll hopefully find work, be someone else, and never again think of what you haven’t stopped thinking about since it happened. According to Orlando, Hollywood is the best place to forget, so maybe you’ll start there.
Orlando drives you to the airport, but he’s staying behind to wait for Lij to finish up his last bit of reshoots. You know most of the Fellowship is leaving on flights throughout the week, but conveniently, you missed most of the final cast party as you were sitting on the floor in a corner, nursing one drink all night. If anyone noticed, they left you blissfully at peace, understanding that what you were feeling was beyond any mundane life quote they could muster to memory to inspire you.
You stare out the window for the entire drive, watching but barely seeing what you pass. You’re going to miss New Zealand, and under other circumstances, you’d be avidly committing little details and places to memory, scrutinizing everything and thinking how you changed so much in such a beautiful place. But now you’re more concerned with the dried water droplet pattern on the car window, making pictures out of nothing until you feel more than a little insane. Sometimes, especially these days, you really do worry about yourself.
Orlando parks the car and you both walk wordlessly to the terminal. Somehow you knew that he wouldn’t just let you off on the sidewalk, a quick hug trying to convey too much in too little action or time, and then drive off and leave you in the cold. No, it’s too impersonal, and besides, he’s protecting you again.
He walks you all the way to the gate, waiting patiently until they announce boarding for first class. You don’t want to get on the plane; you don’t know truly what will happen when you are alone again. Yet your feet ignore your silent plea and you walk mechanically to the ticket counter, forgetting any good-byes or comforting last words that Orlando said before you’ve even left his side.
Placing one of your bags on the ground, you hand over your ticket and passport. An obsequiously dressed airline attendant looks over your ID thoroughly, as if she can’t believe that you are the person in your passport photo. At this point, you haven’t seen a mirror in days and you really have no idea what you look like. She finally nods and lets you continue, and you walk into the snake-like terminal to get on the plane.
Turning a corner, you realize that you’ve forgotten your bag, and you turn around and walk back to the counter. Keeping your head down, you reach for your bag with an attempt at a sheepish smile, before turning back around, expression already faded, and walking back again. If you had looked up or turned around again, you would have noticed a familiar face with eyes fixated on you. Expressive eyes that you’ve never understood darkened in defeat when you first disappear around the bend and then lighting up again at your reappearance. Eyes that speak more loudly than any words Billy was trying to voice as he inexplicably came to send you off.
But you don’t look up, so you get on the plane none the wiser.
If asked, you couldn’t have described the plane ride. Time continued to blur for you, as it had since the night with Billy. You would go to a place in your head where you were untouchable, living an unreal life without needs or passions, existing around others only because you had to, when all you wanted was to disappear.
People often say that you must love yourself and be able to be on your own before you can love another and have a functional relationship. You’ve often thought that while this advice may be valuable and wise, it’s a bunch of crap in the real world. When you love, you make yourself dependent, and when you’re alone, you begin to lose all that you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just you, maybe for you this love was the kind that you weren’t whole without. And just maybe, you were meant for this kind of love, spending your life feeling unfulfilled until you finally found it, and now suffering further because it is unrequited.
You feel weak; your spirit feels listless and jaded. At one point as you walk through your flat, you pause to look at the medicine cabinet and then turn away. Those pills were to take life from you, yet there wasn’t any to take. You couldn’t call what you have life, you’d become a ghost, and as such you exist in a way that nothing, not endless sleep or sharp pain, could even fleetingly interrupt your torment.
But in the following days your dull spirit comes alive at night and you have such dreams that you would wake startled and burning, confused and never rested. You fall asleep at night with waves crashing in your ears, wishing on some level that they’d carry you away and that you’d find peace in tumultuous blue water. One morning you wake with tears running down your face, and like a dam full of crevices and cracks, you break down. Sobs wrack your body and you call out for Billy, mother, God, or any comforting words or arms that would just make it all go away. In desperation, you take four sleeping pills, welcoming blackness and artificial sleep’s arms as they enfold you, tears still glistening wetly on your cheeks.
When you wake up again, you’re disoriented and confused, having lost track of reality and time. A heavy oppression blankets you and stifles you more than starched collars ever did. Checking your mobile, you see that you’ve missed a call from Ian among others and have voicemails. Skipping Lij’s falsely cheery voice and Orlando’s speech, you hear Ian’s gravelly voice in the midst and stop in time to hear the words, “Go someplace that will make you smile, little hobbit, a place where you can be barefoot and feel the earth beneath your feet. Even though you don’t believe it, you haven’t fallen off the edge just yet.”
A ghost of a smile makes its way to your face and you dress haphazardly, your mind more on the place that you want to go than on your current actions. You take the train to the outskirts of London, to a place you haven’t visited in years, but bears evidence to continued picnics and visits from others. Sitting down against a large tree, you lean against it, feeling more secure than you have in the last two weeks. You take your shoes off and bury your feet in the grass, closing your eyes tightly against the soft sunlight.
There’s no instantaneous relief or rush of peace, but the weight on your shoulders does seem a little bit more manageable and you breathe deeply. You attempt to clear your mind as you sit and remember that maybe it would be a good time to restart doing some yoga. Just sitting quietly like this reminds you of the peace you used to enjoy and you feel both nostalgic and bitter, wishing that you could remember how to laugh in that carefree happy way you used to.
And then, as it is prone to do in England, the weak sunlight dissipates and rain begins to fall. Opening your eyes, you see scant couples hiding under trees and umbrellas for cover, children running from their parents to the nearest puddle, mingling shouts of amusement and dismay. You let yourself get soaked, enjoying the feeling of cool water cleansing you.
Walking back to catch the train later, you’re still wet, but your mood remains improved. You contemplate calling Ian to thank him for the advice, but you have a feeling that he already knows, so you shrug it off. As you near your house, you begin to feel the weight again upon your shoulders. Tears of weariness and frustration start in your eyes, but you push them away before they can fall. Miracles don’t happen overnight, you tell yourself, it will still be awhile, if ever before you’ll be alright again.
When you open the door to your flat, the first thing you notice are little scraps of crumpled paper lying on the floor, stairs, chairs, even where you’re about to drop your keys. Picking one up, you read a jagged dark word written in writing you don’t recognize. You bend down and begin to collect them, searching the kitchen, living room, and hall before sitting on the stairs to read them.
The moment that you spread the scraps out along the lower ledge, a surreal feeling takes a hold of you and you fancy that you might just be dreaming. How could a whirlwind of papers suddenly appear in your apartment when there weren’t any before? The logical part of your brain seems to have taken a vacation because it has no answer or warning against the oddity you now face. Curiosity begins to surge within you and you want to quell it, hating the trouble it had already gotten you into.
You skim over the words quickly and you have a sense of both foreboding and excitement. Hope and curiosity only add to your excitement and you have to stop yourself from getting carried away. You remember an old schoolteacher once telling you that only fools give and get second chances. She had always called you a fool so you had better not disappoint her now.
There’s a mystery in both the situation and the words you now read. It’s a message you know, but for the life of you, all you can make are conjectures and guesses as to what it all means. A part of you suggests that this is all just madness, your imagination running away with you and yet you have the oddest sensation that everything is changing before your eyes, a dizzying heady feeling that's both pleasurable and somehow full of pain. Shutting off your mind momentarily, you focus on solely reading the words before you.
Shocked. Scared. Confused. Angry. Betrayed. Pain. Rejected. Surprised. Unprepared. Mistaken. Enraged. Frightened. Unsure. Frustrated.
More and more words, some repeated and others almost unrecognizable. Each one is written on a small scrap of paper slightly crumpled, as if someone had shredded pieces of a painting drawn in emotions. The writing is shaky and some of the papers bear imprints of how hard each word was written, more than just a line on a page, but a story all by itself.
Walking up the stairs, you pause at the top and begin to pick up more papers, scattered in a line towards your half opened bedroom door. The first few are scribbles beyond deciphering, almost torn themselves from the weight of the writing. Each is a little less desperate, a little more readable, until you’re almost to the door and only three papers remain.
Love.
The word is written so hard that you can almost feel the pain behind it. Dark and angry, it’s splattered across an entire page as if the person who wrote it was both afraid and dismayed by the emotion, too much so to rip it up.
The next paper is folded neatly and you open it to natural handwriting that you’re accustomed to, recognizing its signature before you do the word.
Love, written almost tenderly, with emotion that you aren’t sure if you are actually seeing or imagining. Love, and despite yourself you’re suddenly so elated because it’s Billy’s writing and maybe he could just be offering you what you’ve been waiting for since before you even knew that you were waiting.
And finally the last piece, which lies waiting in the barely open space of your doorway. You sit down hard, back against the doorframe, allowing the door to open slightly further, yet you remain facing away. Opening the folded paper with shaking hands, your faced with many words, tumbled out in fragments of suggested meaning that you stare at, rereading it until they’re imprinted in your mind.
Forever and always, from this life to the next and all the space in between. Through the dark and light and shades of grey in which we are destined to exist. Because I do and I can’t help it and I don’t want to help it because it was what I was made for, who I’m meant to be.
The words blur before your eyes and your heart is racing. This new emotion, so different from how you’ve felt lately is just as scary, so afraid you are of allowing yourself to hope again. You haven’t the faith left to inspire the kind of hope you need, the kind that tells you that this is the truth and that everything you’ve been waiting for is finally falling into place. Yet, as your reread Billy’s words, something stirs within you and you’re reminded again how resilient and utterly unbelievable your love is for this man.
You aren’t sure at the moment if you can die from too much joy and if this, the happiest moment you’ve had yet in this life, could just be to make up for all the hard times and darkness you’ve experienced. You’ve inclined to think that this may be it, that Billy may actually be your reward. Suddenly that quote from Orlando doesn’t seem so crazy and all the suffering seems worthwhile, even as it culminates in your mind, compounding into one horrific pain that still could never outstrip this moment.
Struggling to stand, you turn and push the door the rest of the way open, eyes immediately finding Billy who appears small sitting on the edge of your bed. He rises to meet you halfway in your room and you stand there transfixed, staring at him with a kind of fascination, as if it’s not really him, simply a fanciful dream sent to torment you further.
Billy, as usual, seems to know what you’re thinking, and gently takes a hold of your elbow, pulling you to sit on your bed. The mattress dips behind you as he moves to sit against the wall, pulling you to sit between is open legs. His arms embrace you from behind as his solid chest forms a protective pillow around your back. You feel his lips against the slightly ticklish and slightly sensitive part of your neck and he’s speaking, but you can’t make out the words. You feel him trace the letters into your skin, repeating them over and over again.
You have this overwhelming urge to weep and a dry sob runs the length of your body causing you to shudder but not make a sound. It’s all so much so fast and you’re so afraid that he’ll just disappear and this will all have been some cruel trick. But then you feel a wetness against your neck and arms tightening around your chest. Paying attention now, you smell a scent so familiar and distinct that you have yet to decide what it is except that it is the pure embodiment of Billy. His warmth encompasses you and spurred into action, you wrap your arms around his, leaning your head back against his shoulder, allowing your body to melt into his. You know all at once that if this isn’t actually real then you should just die now because you never really believed that you could live without this before and now you’re sure of it.
You’re standing on the precipice and he’s asking you to jump. Yet you’ve already jumped, already braved the rocky ledge. Then, some part of you had trusted that you wouldn’t fall, but you had, hitting every bump, crack, and jagged edge on the way down. Now, as you face the same question again, whether or not to jump, you feel both weary and broken. Could you handle another fall? Even as happy as you are at this moment, you’re not sure if you could.
You open your eyes and see the last scrap of paper on the floor where you’ve dropped it. An echo of Billy’s vow to you sounds in your mind and you realize your answer. With faith, you’ll just have to trust that one of two things will happen. Either you will jump and be granted wings, or Billy will catch you before you can fall.
Dropping your arms, you pull against his so that you can turn to face him. He lets his arms fall but catches one of your hands instead. Tears are in his beautiful eyes and he looks at you with such pain and desperation that all you want to do is comfort him. “I’m so sorry, my Dommie. So sorry. I just can’t let you go again, can’t lose you anymore. Please forgive me for being afraid.”
It isn’t the most eloquent statement but it is beautiful to your ears. You know exactly what he means and can’t help but answering, “Only if you’ll forgive me for the same thing.”
Billy smiles wryly at you through his tears and you lean in, brushing them away with your thumb. Pulling him to you, you hug him tightly, kissing the side of his face and neck gently, as if you fear he might break from anything less than extreme tenderness. Together, you move as one to lie down, still wrapped in each other’s arms, knowing without speaking that there will be time later for more words and that sometimes only silence can do justice to the most heartfelt moments.
You don’t know how long the two of you lie there, holding each other tightly and relishing what was almost lost. Finally Billy stirs next to you and begins to sit up, disentangling himself, yet remaining no less close to you. He looks down at you, smiling tenderly and you allow your face to remain open, rather than guarding it as you always have.
Billy breathes deeply and then says fervently, sounding somewhat astonished, as if he’d had a revelation within the words, “Love you Dommie. Love you so much, more than I did a minute ago.”
You smile at the sweet sentiment and turn your head to face him as you sit up as well. “Love you too Bills. Now why’d it take us so long to say that?” you say, only mildly sarcastic.
Billy cuffs you upside the head lightly and then laughs, and your ears happy to hear the sound. “Well we certainly made it difficult.” He pauses, contemplating his next words before saying in a much more serious tone, “I’m scared.”
“Me too,” you answer truthfully. “And there’s no guarantees really, just love. But I won’t give up now that I finally have you. I just can’t.” Your last words are said with a quiet desperation reminiscent of the state you’ve been in for the last two weeks.
Billy looks surprised at the conviction behind your statement. “I won’t lose you either, love,” he answers, as he grasps your hand reassuringly.
“No leaving me anymore, alright?” you can’t help but add, a slight tremor in your question belying your nervousness.
“Promise you. But you know what they say anyways.”
“No, what do they say?” you ask, confused.
And then Billy smiles, such a soft sweet smile that a part of you melts and you wonder how you could be so lucky.
“If it comes back it’s yours, and the like,” he says.
You can’t help but smile in response.
“Now there’s one more thing,” he says. “I know this isn’t going to be easy, just starting over as we are. But we’ve got to promise to try, no more lies and no more being scared because we’re in this together.”
You nod as he says this and give him a mock scout salute. Billy looks at you a moment before shaking his head good naturedly and murmuring, “You really don’t deserve this.” Then he grasps your hand, opening your palm and tracing your fingers outward before placing his ring, so recently removed from your possession, back into your hand.
“I added a bit of writing on the inside. I couldn’t think of what to say without sounding too maudlin, but it needed something. It’s just a reminder for the hard times when we’re most likely to forget.”
You look inside the ring, letting the engraving catch the light.
“Yours,” is all it said.
The End
A/N: I want to apologize to anyone who actually kept up with this story for these last chapters and the ridiculously long delay. All the comments I've gotten on behalf of this story really are the inspiration behind me writing at all and I love knowing that people appreciate what I write. So here ends my first official story. Should I write more, same pairings, new pairings, at all? Please, if you have read this from the beginning or just happened to stumble upon it, I'd love to know what you think. Otherwise, I really hope you all enjoyed it.
PS. Unfortunately, I seem to have lost my wonderful beta for this last chapter, so please pardon me for any mistakes.