"Yeah." He smirks, makes a show of flexing. He slings his towel around her neck, draws her in for an open-mouthed, wet kiss, sliding his tongue into new territory. "Tats turn you on, do they?" he asks when he lifts his head. "This one's just unusual." Coral-painted nails trace the delicate lettering. "What's it mean?" He shrugs out of her touch, smiles in apology. "Just something we all got at the end of the "Rings" shoot." "Male bonding thing, then." "Yeah," he says softly, glancing at the tattoo's reflection in the mirror. She steps up behind him, chin resting on his shoulder. He likes her because she's delicate, soft. Shorter than he is. Didn't ask a lot of him last night except his name, what movies he'd done. And an invitation to his bed. "Way of remembrance." "Think it's sweet. That you guys all got one." "Yeah." Dom can't tear his eyes away from the tattoo. He remembers -- dim, thick, as if through glass or fog -- laughter in a brightly lit tattoo parlor on the other side of the world. Remembers Elijah screaming like a girl between high-pitched giggles. Remembers Orlando's wide-eyed enthusiasm, Viggo's stoic acceptance, Billy and Astin's running commentary to Bean, promising that they'd all find him, force him to get his done. Remembers the first stab of the needle under his skin, smiling at everyone, so in love with the movie, the world, them -- his brothers, his comrades -- that he'd thought he could have died right then and there and been utterly fucking happy. He tries to recall the feeling now. Frowns when it won't come. "You still see the others, don't you?" she asks, smoothing her hands across his ribcage. "Remember hearing that you all were still tight." "Yeah, sometimes. Not as much as we'd like." Tries to remember the last time he'd talked to Bean. To Orlando. To Karl or Bernard. Ah, well, they're all busy. Comes with the territory. Life brings change, and he's made a new incredible life for himself. New opportunities. New friends. And he still keeps in touch with Lij and Billy, right? And Viggo, of course. He still remembers. "What're you thinking?" she asks, and he meets her eyes in the mirror. "Just wondering if I should let my hair grow back out," he lies. "Like it used to be." "Why? I like it just fine," she smiles. "It's very chic. Very L.A." "Yeah," he smiles, throat tight for a split second. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?"
|