Human beings were amazingly resilient. They could get used to anything. Getting up every morning and being someone else; eventually, it stopped being an issue. You didn't have to shave any more, but you did have to wax (and oh boy, wasn't that fun). You began recognising that face in the mirror as yourself. You began answering to the other name on instinct. You got used to the house around you, and putting on different clothes, and holding yourself a certain way. You stopped having to think about it. It started becoming a part of you. You started becoming a part of it.

Sure, that whole period thing; that sucked. But at least Dom knew when to expect that. The cycle of the Pill cheerfully informed him that it was going to be a good three weeks until he had to worry about it again. He was used to that too; took the little white pill every morning without even thinking about it.

There were lots of things he missed. Like spending time with the hobbits. Sure, he saw them quite frequently, but it was short bursts, conversations over meals, breaks between scenes. They got together every Friday night for drinks and general silliness. Sometimes a lot of silliness. Like two weeks ago, when Elijah had drunkenly confessed to Dom that the reason he'd been so freaked over the whole body-swapping thing was that he had had a crush on Liv.

"Oh," Dom had said, things suddenly making sense. And then, another realisation. "Oh. Well, ah..."

"Don't worry," Elijah declared expansively. "I'm not gonna proposition you or anything. That'd be just too fucking weird. You're, like, a guy."

Like a guy. Like a girl, too. Dom was starting to think that maybe... well, maybe he was just Dom. And kissing Elijah would be too fucking weird, but because he was Elijah, not because he was a guy.

Dom had been too drunk to think about that revelation at the time. He tucked it away for further consideration.

In general, though, despite the weekly piss-ups and frequent chats, Dom was starting to miss the in-jokes. The things that developed in an instant and a repetition, and just happened as part of them being together. He wasn't keeping up. It was, he supposed, only natural. He still missed them, though.

That was why he was spending so much time with Viggo. The company was good. It was a relief.

It had started gradually enough. Conversations around the set, and in the cafeteria, talking about the story, and the characters, which turned into longer discussions, after filming and over the phone, of the central themes of the novels, and of life in general.

Viggo had picked the reason before Dom had himself, over the third cup of coffee one afternoon in the cafeteria when they could have gone home already. "Liv, are you lonely?"

Dom had got used to Viggo's insight, his sudden remarks, and didn't even fumble his cup at that one. Frowned slightly into his coffee and considered. "Partly," he admitted. "Sort of." He looked up into Viggo's direct gaze, the one only he had, that seemed to look straight through all the bullshit to the truth. Dom had been worried that he'd see through the Liv exterior to the Dom underneath. But he hadn't yet.

"Is it homesickness?" Viggo asked.

"Not quite," Dom replied. "It's more complicated than that." And, because it suddenly seemed important, he added: "That's not the only reason I spend time with you."

Viggo just smiled, and said nothing. Once, that had made Dom uncomfortable, Viggo's silences, the way he didn't say things, but just watched. He'd felt like he was being measured up, was being found wanting, too flippant, too shallow. Now, he realised that Viggo didn't say things just to have things said, watched because he liked to see. Liked to see everything, liked to know everything that made up a person, or an event. Liked to understand it. Now, Dom was comfortable. More than comfortable. In fact, Viggo's silent regard was reassuring, like the feel of the tiki where he still wore it underneath his shirt.

Dom got used to spending more and more time with Viggo. Got used to knocks on his door at odd hours, and spending long afternoons off sitting in the large, airy room in Viggo's house that was used as a studio. Viggo worked, distracted, busy, vague, while Dom read - a magazine, a book, his script, whatever.

Or sometimes he just watched Viggo work. In the middle of creation, he was remarkably unselfconscious. Clad in old, worn jeans and a paint-spattered T-shirt, he moved around the studio without seeming to think at all about physicality. His gaze was distant, distracted, focussed on something somewhere else. He muttered to himself as his hands moved.

Dom watched him idly, and thought.

He thought about how it was now almost two months since the swap, and he surprised himself at having to think about it, because he'd always known precisely to the day how long it had been.

He thought about Elijah laughing about having a crush, about not kissing him because he was Elijah, and it would be kind of like kissing his brother.

He thought about when he had flashes of despair or frustration or... yes, of loneliness, and then he shifted and the little carved tiki on its leather cord around his neck moved against his skin. It was like reassurance, a warm glow, a feeling that he was capable of this. Of enjoying it, even. That memory was what you made of it, and Viggo was there for him, solid and unquestioning and whatever he needed.

He thought about the night before, when they'd been sitting in Dom's living room, drinking hot chocolate and not really watching bad New Zealand television. It had been a long, tiring day, and Viggo had offered a foot massage, working the tension out of the balls of Dom's feet with long sweeps of his thumbs. Afterwards, Dom left his feet on the cushion in Viggo's lap, too comfortable to move. Viggo slouched, his forearm draped over Dom's ankles. The conversation had just been a long collection of non sequiturs, of vague comments without context, passed back and forth slowly.

Dom hadn't felt so relaxed in a long time. His feet didn't hurt any more, and the chocolate was wonderfully hot and smooth, and whenever Viggo laughed at something Dom said he made the cushion shift, and Dom had felt that same warm glow.

He'd felt it again that morning, even without Viggo there, just looking into the living room and remembering the previous evening.

"Earth to Liv?" Dom blinked, looked up to see Viggo grinning at him, wiping his hands on a rag. "I thought you'd gone to sleep with your eyes open."

Dom smiled, stretched in the armchair, not uncurling his legs. He liked the way this body folded up like that. "I was just thinking."

"What about?" Viggo crouched down easily beside the chair. He was always so terribly at ease with his body. Dom envied him that, a little. Dom had never been that comfortable, not even in his own body.

Dom considered. His fingers crept up to his collar, pulled the tiki out from underneath. "About this, sort of. I... I don't think I need it any more."

Viggo continued looking at him. Didn't jump to any conclusions. Viggo was like that. "Why not?" he asked quietly.

"Because." Dom paused to think, was having surprising difficulty lining his thoughts up with Viggo's eyes staring at his. "Because I don't need a reminder any more. I know that you're there." He drew the leather cord over his head, blinking at the sudden absence he felt.

Viggo leaned forward, balancing himself with his forearm across the arm of the chair. His other hand came up to take the tiki as Dom held it out. His fingers tangled in the leather cord, twined in between Dom's, the carved stone between their palms again.

"I'm glad," Viggo murmured. His eyes flickered over Dom's face, and Dom was suddenly aware of their hands clasped together, of the failing light outside, the tightening gloom in the studio, of being so close he could feel Viggo's breath as a faint breeze on his face.

Viggo leaned forward. Dom didn't lean back.

Viggo's lips pressed at the corner of Dom's mouth, not tentative, but testing. Giving Dom the opportunity to pull back, if he wanted.

He didn't want. He turned his head, slid his lips against Viggo's. Tilted his head and let his lips part like they wanted to, chasing the warm glow. Viggo leaned in more, mouth slanting and deepening and there was the taste of him in Dom's mouth, in Viggo's mouth, where their tongues touched and slipped. Dom was trembling, he realised; the faintest of shivers, under his skin.

When Viggo finally pulled back, Dom felt a sigh escape his parted lips, and he opened his eyes - when had they closed? - to meet Viggo's amused gaze.

"My knees are killing me," Viggo declared. And then they were laughing, and he stood up, and the moment was past.

But not gone. It was still there the next day, when Dom was eating a hurried lunch with the hobbits, laughing and carrying on, and he felt a hand pressed briefly against his shoulder, high on his back, then gone, and when he turned, Viggo was walking past, a fleeting smile over his shoulder.

It was still there the day after, when Dom stood with the other spectators on the edge of a Fellowship scene, watching Viggo grit his teeth and become Aragorn, and remembering watching him laugh. Dom missed the weight of the tiki, the feel of the leather cord around his neck. He watched Viggo being Aragorn; they both had that same ease in their own skins. Dom wondered what their secret was.

And it was still there on the third day, when Dom got home late and exhausted, staggered through the door telling himself, mantra-syle, that there was only one more day before he could have the weekend off. The message light was flashing on his answering machine. It was Viggo. He started talking immediately, without a greeting, just the ebb and flow of his voice, with its hypnotic rhythm, as if the machine had begun recording in the middle of a conversation of half-realised associations and rambling thoughts. Dom hadn't turned on any lights but the one in the hall, and he stood in the puddle of light, listening to Viggo's voice, letting it run over him and seep outwards, into the darkened house.

"The sunset was simply beautiful," the message concluded. "And I thought of you."

Dom listened to it twice, and saved it. He picked up the phone and dialled.

On the second ring, he realised that it was probably half past midnight. On the third ring, the phone picked up.

"Hello?"

Dom couldn't help the smile on his face. Over the phoneline, Viggo's voice was somehow even closer, even more intimate. "I got your message. Thank you."

"My pleasure."

Dom wondered if he'd woken Viggo up. He didn't sound disorientated. Viggo never did. "I was wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow night."

"I'd love to."

He hadn't been fully intending to ask that, but now that it was out, he knew what to say next. "Bring a bottle of wine. Something to share."

Half a beat's pause, and Viggo replied: "I will."

"The whole weekend off!" Elijah declared, bouncing with energy as he joined them at the end of the day. "There's nothing for it, we're going to have to get completely shit-faced tonight."

Raucous agreement, and Dom smiled ruefully. "Already got plans," he said vaguely.

Billy hooted. "The elf-princess has a hot date!"

Dom ignored the way his stomach flipped, let himself grin. "Something like that."

Elijah's eyes widened with interest, but Orlando got in first. "Your loss," he declared, slinging an arm around Sean and Liv. He added with a grin; "I was planning on drinking my own weight in lager and kissing anything I could get my hands on."

Dom laughed. "Next time, maybe." He promised to catch up with them the next day, and went home alone.

The house was too big, too empty, and he was getting too damn nervous. He was glad when, as the sun was setting, vibrant rays slanting through the kitchen window, there came a knock on the door.

"It's open!" he called, suddenly far more interested in the shallots he was chopping. He kept his eyes down as he listened to the door opening, closing again. "In here!" he added, and listened again - chop, chop, chop - to quiet footsteps along the hall carpet, and then on the tiles of the kitchen, and now he really couldn't look up.

With a heavy glass sound, a bottle of wine was set down on the bench beside him, inside his field of vision. Dom's hand stilled on the knife as he read the label. Penfolds Bin 128 Coonawarra Shiraz. Beside him, a voice he thought he'd recognise anywhere said: "It was meant to be shared."

Dom looked up, met Viggo's eyes with a smile. "Hello."

Viggo smiled back. "Hello."

From there, it was almost easy. Viggo opened the wine. Liv's wineglasses were large. They looked right in Viggo's hands. He handed one to Dom, and they clinked the rims together in silence before taking the first sip. It was a good wine. Even Dom, who knew nothing about wine, could tell that. It was broad and fruity, slid across his tongue sweetly, finished with a faint bite.

They drank in the kitchen while Dom finished cooking. They drank and talked, easy and laughing and rambling. Viggo shed his shoes, and rolled his sleeves up. He leaned against the cupboards, not moving when Dom had to squeeze past him. The last rays of the sun disappeared over the horizon, and they had to turn on the light, cocooning themselves in light as darkness fell outside. It was somehow more comfortable in the kitchen, and when Dom finished cooking they just stayed there, sitting side-by-side on the bench, eating the laksa Dom had made from large bowls. It went quickly, and Viggo slid off the bench to put the empty bowls in the sink. He poured the last of the wine into their glasses, leaned against the cupboards opposite Dom and turned that silent regard on him again.

"What?" Dom laughed. His skin was tingling; wine and Viggo's eyes. He took another sip, not breaking eye contact over the rim. Viggo said nothing. "What?" he repeated, more soberly.

"You've changed in the past couple of months," Viggo said, setting down his wine glass, and Dom suddenly felt horrifically sober. He opened his mouth, but Viggo kept talking. "And I like it."

Dom's mouth was still open. And dry. "You do?"

Viggo took a step forward, took Dom's wineglass out of his hand and set it beside the other one. "I do," he stated, leaning his hands on the bench, one on either side of Dom's knees. Dom would swear that there was something in his eyes. Hesitation. Uncertainty, even. Then he shifted, reached into his pocket to pull something out. "I want you to keep this. As a reminder."

Dom looked down, at the carved tiki tangled in its leather cord, lying on Viggo's callused palm in the small space between them. He placed his palm over the top, curling his fingers around the stone, as he smiled up at Viggo. "I don't need a reminder," he repeated. "But I want to keep it."

Tired of talking. One hand curled tighter around the stone, and the other tangled in the hair at the nape of Viggo's neck, pulled him closer and down, tilted his head and their mouths met, already open, tongues pushing, the mingling taste of the wine that was meant to be shared. They shared it. Viggo's hands shifted, gripped Dom's hips and drew him forward. Dom let his knees slip apart, slide against Viggo's hips as he was pulled against him with the rasping slide of denim.

The tiki was still in his hand, and Dom let it slip out onto the bench; he had better things to be doing with that hand. Like sliding it over Viggo's shoulder, down his back, holding him closer as the kiss shifted, deepened. Dom had never been kissed like this. He'd kissed girls before, and even the most bold and adventurous of them had never demanded with the same casual arrogance. That made Dom wonder, fleetingly, if he should be more gentle. If he shouldn't strain against Viggo like this, shouldn't grip his neck and hold him and tangle his tongue in his mouth. If he should kiss more like a girl.

But he didn't want to. He wanted to chase that warm glow that flooded him through Viggo's lips against his, and Viggo's body against his, and Viggo's hands pushing up from his waist under the shirt he was wearing. Pushing up and over the lace of his bra and then a thumb crept underneath, across the swell of breast, and when it found the nipple, the warm glow flashed into molten heat. Dom pushed forward, and whimpered - fucking whimpered - into Viggo's mouth.

"Liv," Viggo murmured against Dom's lips. No. Yes. Whatever.

The thumb moved again, and Dom gasped. "Upstairs. Now."

Viggo pulled Dom off the bench, their mouths back in contact, tight against each other, but they had to separate to move. Not too much, though. They left Dom's shirt in the kitchen, and he shivered at cool air and Viggo's hands against his skin. Viggo's shirt was dropped in the hall, and his jeans on the stairs, stumbling and laughing against each other, hands smoothing over bare flesh, trails of tongue-spread saliva. Dom's jeans were shed in the bedroom door, and they left a trail of underwear to the bed.

It was weird, but the oddities occurred to Dom, and slid past, fell away. It was weird, but at the same time, it was amazingly right. It wasn't a male body under his hands, hard, muscled planes, or rather it was, but it was Viggo's. Viggo's hands over his own body, smoothing over curves and into creases, teaching him things he hadn't guessed about this body he'd been living in for two months. Dom arched under Viggo's hands, eternally surprised, but handled him with familiarity, swallowed Viggo's moan. Wanted. Needed. Insisted.

And this was what it was like for women. All inside, all internal, the reverse feeling to that he knew well, but still familiar, this tingling under his skin and the tightening coil inside, all inside. Like sweet, blessed pressure building, with Viggo moving above him, inside him, with him and his mouth at Dom's throat, his breasts, and Dom's fingernails digging into Viggo's back, and he shuddered, splintered apart and imploded, inside his own skin, with Viggo's name on his lips.

He heard the wrong name in return. "Liv." Gasped and broken.

Like a blade through his tumbling euphoria, and he had to grab Viggo, had to kiss him deep to stop himself saying something, saying everything. Had to kiss him deep in the hope that tongue-to-tongue could communicate it, Viggo could realise, that direct gaze could see through to Dom underneath.

Viggo kissed back, deep but slow and sweet, and they settled, tangled in each other and the sheets, shifting only enough to be out of the wet spot. Viggo kissed him back, holding him gently, pulling back a little to whisper: "That was spectacular. You were spectacular."

You. Him. Dom. Yes. And he remembered his conversation in the lift with Liv, two months ago.

"What belongs to me?" she'd asked.

"You," he'd told her.

In return, she'd asked: "Yeah, but what's me?"

He knew, now. You were you. You were whatever you did, and everything you took in, and whatever you allowed yourself to be. Memory was what you made of it. You were what you made of it. You were the person you felt when he looked you in the eye and held you close and said you.

"Thank you," Dom said, and smiled, happy and sleepy. His eyelids were starting to droop. He snuggled against Viggo's warmth, cheek against his shoulder, arms warm around him, and drifted.

Somewhere, some time, in the haze, he felt Viggo moving out from beside him, and made a small sound of protest deep in his throat.

Viggo chuckled, pressed lips against Dom's temple, and he liked that. Wanted to open his eyes to see Viggo's eyes again, but that was far too hard. "Sleep, love."

"Stay," Dom managed to mumble.

Lips against his temple again, lingering this time, and a hand on his hair. "Next time." A promise whispered.

"Next time," Dom repeated, lips barely moving, but curved into a smile.

And that was really the last thing he remembered.