Day After Tomorrow fic
Title: This Is the Way One World Ends
Fandom: LOTRips
Pairing: Billy Boyd/Dominic Monaghan
Rating: R–ish
Warning: Character death.
Author’s Note: For The Day After Tomorrow challenge. This was a great idea, if a little intimidating to write. I have not seen the movie, so this is all based on my vague perception. All inaccuracies are, well, just that.

Billy’s been up for hours now, watching the news open–mouthed and wide–eyed. The coffee he prepared sits cold and untouched on the table before him, next to his appointment calendar.

He had a meeting today—meeting is a much better word than audition, to Billy’s mind and ears—or, rather, he was scheduled to have one ninety minutes ago. Right now he’s still sitting on the couch in Dominic’s house, staring at report after report of the worst weather the United States has ever seen. It’s terrifying viewing, and only after the first hour did Billy fully understand that it’s more than just the States—

That in all likelihood the small remains of his family are now gone with the rest of the Scottish coastline.

He’s tried too many times to call Margaret, Scott, anyone. Margaret had scolded him not two days before about never picking up his phone, and Billy feels the weight of guilt hard on his back and shoulders.

When the first static makes the television crackle and the hair on Billy’s neck stand up wildly, Billy turns off his phone and pulls his knees to his chest, waiting—for what, he has no idea.

-----------------------------

He should wake Dominic.

Billy knows this. But too often Billy has woken Dominic from his dreams, and to write Dominic off as simply not a morning person is to achieve a level of spin not even Billy can stomach. He’s ducked enough small appliances and expressions of violence, and he now prefers that Dominic surface when he’s ready.

But surely this is different. Surely Dominic would understand that the world is changing—Billy hears Cate’s voice in his head, soothing, expository, calm, and the sound makes him draw up tighter on the couch—and that they should be together right now.

Is it kinder, though, to let Dominic sleep—in hopes that he’ll never know when the waves hit this house, too close to the beach? Billy sits in silence, considering both sides of his argument and watching the television fade and finally die.

In the end, the decision is made for him. Dominic stumbles from the hallway, eyes and hair wild, and stops short at the edge of the room.

“Is it true? Is it coming?”

Billy nods slowly, and Dominic’s eyes move to the glass door that separates them from what will be the end of everything.

-----------------------------

“The radio said we have four hours,” Dominic breathes, his voice still rough and slurry from sleep. “Before it cut out. ’s no point in evacuating, and I wouldn’t—“

“Leave here anyway,” Billy nods again. “I know, Dom. I’m sorry.”

Dominic crosses the room, his hand caressing Billy’s cheek as he passes between couch and coffee table. His little journey ends at the sliding glass door, and Dominic presses both palms and his forehead on the glass, breathing deep.

“It would make a mad surf, wouldn’t it?” Billy says softly, and the words take long seconds to reach Dominic. Dominic stares at the water, already beginning to roil and crest white and grey, and laughs.

“I’m game if you are.”

But neither of them moves immediately to play or change clothes. After several minutes Dominic sighs and turns at last to face Billy, calmer now in a way Billy wishes he could learn, absorb and keep forever, provided he didn’t have to suffer through the physical gymnastics that came with the learning.

“We should just … go out there,” Dominic muses. “Not to surf. Just to remember it.”

“White shores,” Billy smiles, and it is Dominic’s turn to nod.

-----------------------------

They stand at the water’s edge, letting the waves lap up angrily over Billy’s shoes and Dominic’s ever-bared feet.

“Doesn’t seem fair, does it?” Billy murmurs, smiling as Dominic’s forehead furrows in response. “You’ve done everything you could to keep this planet from finally turning on us, and we’re going to die nevertheless.” Billy begins to rock back and forth on his heels, high, nervous laughter escaping from his throat. “I want my money back, Dommie. You can keep your trees. I want my regular light bulbs and my aerosol cans and my single–serving packages of everything. Fuck this, Dom. Our little forest isn’t going to save a damn thing, is it? It’s probably frozen—“

“I wasn’t trying to save the world,” Dominic says clearly, still staring at the water. “This would have happened eventually, Billy. Every rational sign in the books pointed toward it. Science has always known—”

“Our families are dead, Dom. Did you know that? Did you know that the coast is gone? That Manchester’s probably covered in ice and broken glass?”

“Billy—“

“I’m never going to see my sister again,” Billy whispers. “You’ll never see your brother. Rationalize that for me, Dommie.”

-----------------------------

Dominic doesn’t answer at first, choosing instead to find Billy’s hand and clasp it between them, pulling him closer. The water is turning dark, and even from miles way, Dominic can hear the rumbles of thunder, feel the electricity in the air, almost in his skin. The beach is so very quiet beyond the sounds on the water.

Over the past few years, Dominic’s grown comfortable in silence, his own and the world’s, and he uses it now to pass strength to Billy the only way he knows how. And after a moment, Billy does seem to calm down again, that throbbing, racing pulse in his throat slowing down as they stand and stare.

“Why the suit?” Dominic finally asks, his thumb moving up to stroke at the edge of Billy’s shirt cuff.

“I had an audition—a meeting,” Billy laughs. “Seems a bit. Well. Unnecessary now, doesn’t it?”

“Dunno,” Dominic shakes his head. “Always imagined you’d go looking better than me.”

“That’s not exactly a stretch, Dom.”

Billy squeezes Dominic’s hand lightly, and begins to turn back to the house. Dominic remains still in the sand, waiting for Billy to reach the door before he allows himself to cry.

-----------------------------

Billy wanders the house aimlessly, welcoming any distraction. He’s grateful that when the proper thought comes, it means he has something to do.

He gathers their cellphones, checking one more time for a signal on either, before placing them side by side on Dominic’s kitchen counter. Then it is their wallets, their keys, a short scribbled list of emergency contacts and numbers. Billy writes a paragraph on the back of the list, signing it with significantly less flourish than usual, and he’s just made to fold the paper in two when Dominic appears beside him.

“I’m getting the passports,” Billy says, handing Dominic the paper. “And your strongbox. Read that and add … something if you’d like.”

Dominic scans Billy’s writing and swallows the urge to cry again before taking up the pen himself. It takes him longer to say what he wants—and to keep it legible—but the words come freely. He only just stops himself from drawing his usual pair of enormous ears next to his name, and tucks the paper inside Billy’s wallet, the larger of the two on the counter.

Their words will likely never be read, but Dominic can’t really call that a loss.

-----------------------------

The sky’s gone dark, darker even than the water, and the thunder is almost deafening. The lights went out only moments after Dominic had locked the strongbox, and he and Billy both thanked their personal deities for the time they’d already been granted.

Billy has shucked his jacket at last, and sits now with his sleeves rolled up and elbows on his knees, pitched forward a bit on the couch. Dominic sits beside him, one hand moving down and across Billy’s back in slow, gentle rhythm.

“D’you think it’ll be cold?” Billy asks suddenly, turning to face Dominic with wide, wet eyes. “Will we be cold, before—?”

“I don’t know … I tried not to, you know, imagine it too hard.”

“But you’ve read—“

“I don’t always want to know the end of the story, Bill,” Dominic says softly. Billy’s face crumples, just for half a second, but the sight is so rare that Dominic’s breath catches, and he reaches for Billy immediately,

“Are you cold now?” he asks, searching Billy’s eyes for answers Billy never allows to leave his lips. “Billy. Billy, we should—do you want—“

Billy’s lips open then, and fall upon Dominic’s gently.

-----------------------------

It’s not their usual kiss. There’s no short struggle for dominance, no tease and no play. Billy’s angles and sharp corners round off in Dominic’s hands, and Dominic’s usual greed and even more usual speed are both tamped down by the desire for something to hold on to. Someone.

Dominic can barely see where his hands are moving, caught as they are in darkness only illuminated now by streaks of purple–grey and pale blue lighting. But memory serves him better than his eyes in any case, and Billy responds, his own hands traveling down Dominic’s back, his stomach, everywhere.

They don’t speak—less because of the need to conserve their energy for this than because they don’t really have to anymore. Yes, this is different from anything they’ve done before, but it is also the same. They are the same. Billy’s lips still go half–numb from the pressure of Dominic’s teeth and tongue, and Dominic’s hips still rise wildly at the touch of Billy’s fingers just there.

Billy’s hands curl around Dominic’s biceps then, and he falls back into the couch, pulling Dominic down and waiting for him to settle before Billy drops his hands to Dominic’s hips.

-----------------------------

They move slowly, carefully, ignoring the tremendous roar outside, until Dominic cannot wait any longer. The friction between them adds to the hum of electric energy that threatens to bring down the walls of this little house. Dominic’s teeth chatter as he feels the sudden cold demanding entrance, and Billy’s eyes fill with tears he’s held back all day. Dominic kisses him, begging Billy silently not to cry, not to break them both when it’s almost over.

But then they are both crying, needing this to end, in whatever fashion. Dominic tenses above Billy, and Billy’s hands hold him steady as he trembles, coming hard and gasping. Dominic pushes frantically, desperately one last time before he falls, and Billy loses the breath caught in his throat as he comes, quieter than Dominic but just as wild.

This is where they’re meant to exchange soft words, words that are meant to carry long after they can no longer see or hear each other. But there’s little time and no energy—and everything between them has already been left on paper, sealed tight in a box that should survive even when they do not.

All that is left now is to sleep.

-----------------------------

Billy closes his eyes tight, keeping Dominic to his chest and wrapping his arms around the warm, still–shaking body above him. Dominic’s half–gone already, his breathing evening out into the restive purr Billy loves to hear.

Given the chance, he would have left Dominic to his sleep, Billy thinks as he strokes Dominic’s hair. It would have been gentler than all this—the fear, the almost–argument, the wandering and waiting. Dominic deserved better—had earned better, for all the work and love he’s shared with the world.

But at the same time, Billy knows that once he knew Dominic would remain asleep, he would have run, himself. Not run from this place—a pointless enterprise, and cowardly besides—but run into the ocean while it was still welcoming. He would have walked or surfed into oblivion if he had to—anything to avoid the long, dire wait.

Exhaustion overtakes him now, and Billy is again grateful that if the strongbox is ever found, that someone will know who lived here. Who fell in love here and who refused to leave. Billy allows himself to sink further into the cushions and into sleep, all sense of waiting gone.

-----------------------------

He does not hear the crash, the violent sound of glass breaking. He and Dominic do not feel the shards that fall into Billy’s hands and Dominic’s back the moment before the wave comes. The water is indeed cold—colder than Billy could have ever imagined, were he awake to consider it—and it sweeps them away in a rush. They do not feel the tide pulling them apart, far gone as they are, nor will they fear the water break over and through them, filling their lungs.

Their eyes will not open again.

Thirty–six days from today, a strongbox will be found nearly three miles away from the former site of Dominic’s little home on the beach. The articles and papers inside will still be in good condition, and a disaster relief worker will scan their contents quickly before turning the box over to authorities as one more piece of wreckage, as heartbreaking debris.

The world did not end for everyone, the acting president will intone over static–ridden radio. But those of us who remain must respect those who have left us. He will not speak aloud the rest of his thought: They were the lucky ones.