Title: Always Good to See You
Summary: Dom comes to LA to see Lij. Lij picks him up at the airport. Good times ensue.
Notes: It's been a long time since I had the fun of a good DomLijah. Gosh, these boys look good together. Trianne requested fun, no angst, no pining. Hope this suits, hon!
stormatdusk cheered me on.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction, which means that while the characters depicted are based on public personas of real celebrities, the events described in the story never happened. This story in no way claims to represent the truth about the people mentioned within or the way they would behave.
It's evolved over the years, the way they see each other. Two things have never changed: they're always glad to see each other, even when there's emotional tension between them; and there's always sexual tension between them, even if it's not always resolved at some particular meeting or another.
They're always glad to see each other. And they always want each other. It never changes.
Well, it does change: If one of them's got a steady girl that changes things, sometimes. If neither of them has a steady girl but one of them's stressed by work or the lack thereof that changes things. If they're both just coming off some marathon of business (maybe work-related and maybe not- maybe just having been busy at something or another), that can change things too.
But two things never change. They're always glad to see each other. And they're always wanting each other.
Today it's Lij meeting Dom at LAX. How Lij manages to get into LAX and out again without being spotted most of the time is something of a miracle, until you remember that he's been acting since he was what- two? Four? Something like that, he forgets sometimes, now- and has some of the finest micro-mini-muscle control of anyone in the business. That, and he's not afraid to wear utterly ridiculous things.
That's how, when Dom gets off the plane, coming back to LA from having been over in Manchester for a week or so, visiting, catchin' up, taking life easy, he's met by a short man in glasses, a corduroy cap, tan, with a not-quite matching jacket with very worn leather patches on the elbows; a pinkish shirt that looks as if it'd gotten in the wash with something red; green corduroy trousers; and black leather lace-up, not fancy, but scuffed, worn. This guy's got three cameras slung around him, and he follows Dom all the way out of the terminal and practically onto the small-hotel shuttle, snapping pictures all the way.
People through the whole airport have turned their heads, mostly in annoyance, sometimes in curiosity, occasionally in recognition, and Dom was stopped twice for autographs, which he gave generously while the camera-guy kept snapping. On the shuttle two girls and the boy they're with, Japanese from the bag-tags and accents, gossip behind their hands about him until he gets off at one of the smaller upscale hotels, tips the driver, and disappears through the entry archway into the lushly (for Los Angeles) landscaped grounds.
In the meantime, the damn paparazzi has gone back to his car, a non-descript older model Prius in that see-it-everywhere silver colour so popular in LA; he's kept everything on except the cameras which come off and get packed into their bags in the trunk, carefully put away like the tools of his trade.
Also in the trunk are two bags of groceries, a small suitcase, a bag from Victoria's Secrets, a bag from a quiet little leather shop, and a box of movies and music cds. He drives carefully, cautiously, to the alley behind that small hotel, changes his cap and jacket for a baseball hat, backwards, and a leather scruffy zip-up that says 'Ray's Kitchen Linens' on the back, and walks up to the kitchen delivery door and knocks.
He talks to the guy who answers the door for a few moments, then grins and heads back to the car, flipping something over in his hand, over, over, long ways round. Looking closely it's apparent it's a key, a metal key- he must have been picking something up that's not work-related or related to the hotel, because it only uses keypads and cardkeys for security now, and he's not come away with any linens.
He drives around the block, satisfies himself that the coast is clear for now, and drives a half block away to park in a small lot tucked in behind a Laundromat and just adjacent to the hotel. He gets out of the Ray's jacket, shrugs on an ordinary black leather coat, gets the suitcase out of the trunk, and walks around the half-block to the entry arch and disappears as well.
At the desk he's greeted with a discreet smile and his cardkey as soon as he signs in. The rooms- suite, really- are on the third floor in the back, blind walls to the alley, windows onto an atrium behind the front rooms, a fountain and an aviary in the atrium ensuring enough random ambient noise to drown out most phone or camera mics.
Within minutes he's in the room, where he's greeted, this time, with eager hands that take the suitcase and the shades he'd replaced the glasses with and put them aside, then grab his upper arms and pull him in for a huge all encompassing hug. The fingers of these hands are unusually long, and know him unusually well, and find their way quickly to cradling his skull and cupping his ass and pulling him close, so, so close, while Dom kisses Elijah deeply, greedily, shoving him up against the wall, holding him there, just holding him there as though that act alone will stop time.
Elijah just lets him take and take, lets him hold and caress and fondle and kiss and tongue and taste, until Dom slows down a bit, until he seems to surface for air, until he breaks, panting, and pushes himself away, arms-length, and begins to laugh.
"What the hell was that with the paparazzi gig, Doodle? I 'bout had a heart attack with all that!" But Dom's laughing, he's sparkling with the random aggressive teasing naughtiness of it, of walking up into LAX for gawd's sakes, Elijah Jordan Freakin' Wood, to pick up Dominic Freakin' Monaghan, in front of fans and everyone.
"Had to try it, man. Had to try it. All the shit Orli's going through, I thought, see if I could beat them at their own game." He's laughing, too, but serious at the same time- they all know that some people are hounded to within an inch of their lives; that there's something undeniably vampiric about a certain class of fans that sucks the blood drawn by the paparazzis, and that it'll kill you, ruining holidays, stripping privacy.
"You know, I used to think I wanted that," Dom says, nuzzling Elijah's neck, finding buttons to undo. "Used to think I wanted to be followed, photographed, seen everywhere. Know better now. Think maybe Charlie taught me that, somehow." He gives up trying to talk, because Elijah's shrugging out of the shirt, his jacket and cap already discarded, lying on the floor beside them.
"That was a good run for you, Lost," says Lij, manhandling Dom's t-shirt in an attempt to get it off him. "And we can talk about all that- plans, friends, all that shit, after- but first we get naked, and we get caught up on us, yeah? It's been too fuckin' long, Monaghan, too fuckin' long, and I'm aching for you."
It's the growl behind the aching that does it- all serious talk of anything besides hot sex is discarded in an instant as they stumble-dance across the room to the bed, dropping shoes and trousers with abandon to fall, bouncing, on the mattress, mouths hungry and seeking, hands roaming, touching, having.
They're realists- before kick-dropping his jeans out of the way Dom'd retrieved both lube and condoms- but they know each other, too, know what kinds of kinks work and which don't, know the secrets- the silent touches guaranteed to bring shouts of laughter or muffled grunts, know how they differ in what feels better with putting the condom on.
They know to ask, to not assume who will be top, or that someone will want rough sex this time- it's not all worked out by any means, but it's been- what, now, nine years? No, eight, going on nine- since the first tentative jokes during make-up, since Billy pointed out how well they looked together- and they've given up the school-boy shyness because it's just a waste of time.
This time it's all about face-time, about connection, not about fucking- that'll come, stiff dicks in tight asses, blow-jobs, all of it- but this, last meeting of the Old Year, is about seeing each other's faces when they come.
They're so matched in size, in height and mass and strength, though Lij is more limber, and Dom has bigger hands. Lij can tie a cherry stem with his tongue, but Dom can tie Lij in knots with his tongue, kissing, licking, caressing a bitten bruise with his tongue, gentling the blood rising to the surface with his tongue and a cool breath. Lij shifts and shifts again and they're lying on the bed, Dom on his back, Lij looking down at him, grey eyes and blue eyes focused only on each other.
Dom's long-fingered capable right hand around the shafts of their cocks, and Lij's nimble right hand toying with the heads- the richness of that, the sinful weave of so many sensations shared and had alone at the same time drives their kissing to franticness, their hands to a well-known, still-fumbling pull-and-rub-and-twist-and ungh! until they come, one after the other, coating their mirrored bellies with their come, hands slipping over their backs, each over each, as they grab and hold and kiss and shudder until it's all done, until they can't move for all the wash of sensation they've created.
They'll sleep, now, then wake and shower. Find some way, some devious way, to get some dinner; go to a club where they won't be outed (Lij's dj connections to the rescue, here), then come back to the room, and this time, fuck. But that's later. For now, they'll sleep, secure in the knowledge that it's always good to see each other again.