Work Text:
Sometimes Tommy thinks he should try to be less obvious. And nine mornings out of ten he does try: to be more subtle; to play the boss-man, the unconcerned friend. But then he has his first glimpse of Billy for the day, and Billy is the Sun, and Tommy is pulled into his orbit as helplessly as a rogue rock straying near the path of some greater object. Billy the beautiful, the cheerfully troubled, the delicately manic, the sporadically brilliant. The blessedly oblivious. The guests, the other staff are just so many moons invisible in eclipse. Tommy himself a small round satellite, craving an elusive embrace that would burn him, end him, rip him apart from the inside out.
He thinks their hugs should leave scorch marks, the lightest brush of their arms be visible on his skin an hour after. Subtlety is not rolling up his sleeve to check.
Veronica knows. Tommy can tell that from the sad, kind, wise little smiles she gives him whenever Billy walks out of the room. They are sweet. And kind of annoying.
Vic knows too, he is sure. It worries him.
Alice knew. Presumably still knows, wherever she is now. The night she finally reached the Billy Grant escape-velocity she drew Tommy aside for an unprecedented quiet chat. "He'll figure it out one day," she said. "I hope for his sake you'll still be waiting for him." And then she paused before adding: "Though for your sake, Tommy, I rather hope you won't."
Of course I'll be waiting, he wanted to say, and what do you mean by "figure it out"? Instead he laughed and told her she was a silly girl, and gave her a long hug. A little too long. She smelled of Billy.
Tommy once saw a documentary about suns. Some science guy was blowing steam about red giant stars, the ones that grow and grow until they are so vast, so overwhelming that anything in their vicinity gets swallowed up. The thought troubles Tommy sometimes. Especially on the hot lonely nights when the wind blows straight from the desert and all is oppressive, and he ends up shuddering Billy's name into his solitary silk pillow. Nights followed by uneasy days when he avoids Billy's eyes and tries to count the years since his last Confession.
Most mornings though he walks into the Casino like the world is at his feet, happy with his job, happy with his lot in life. He's just a friend, he likes you as a friend, that's a wonderful deal, don't be so damned obvious. Ready to play it cool, to be relaxed, to be the boss. And then in comes Dr Billy Grant. Worlds collide, the room lights up like a fucking white-out and Tommy the little satellite is back in orbit. "Heyyy, it's Dr Vegas!" he cries.
Tomorrow, he thinks. I'll try again tomorrow.