For: amourality, thank you for the LJ time. It makes me happy! This story is just to keep you going until I’m inspired on the Marshall front. And west_of_moon, thank you for the wonderful icons. I can’t wait to use them!
Disclaimer: It's all fiction, folks.
Orlando supposed that as far as polite fictions went, things could be worse. Although off the top of his head he couldn't think how.
He helped himself to a beer from the ice-filled bathtub, wondering how much alcohol it would take for him to truly forget everything he wasn’t meant to remember.
The dewy XXXX bottle was cold and slippery in his hand. He popped off the lid and took a long chug, eyes taking in the gaily festooned walls as he tilted his head back. There was tinsel hanging off every available architrave and lintel, and Orlando had a sneaking suspicion that the place wouldn’t look much less festive and... cluttered was really the only word for it... even when Peter and Fran weren’t opening their house to hordes of partying cast and crew. It was that kind of place. Homely.
It was a dead shame he couldn't relax and enjoy it more.
Reluctantly, he wandered back out into the loungeroom, carefully avoiding the plastic mistletoe hanging in the doorway, sidling over to the group containing Karl’s broad back, just in time to catch the tail-end of a pronouncement by Ian...
“I said, ‘Dear boy, don't you know by now that hard choices are my specialty?’”
Everyone laughed, including Ian, whose eyes raked Orlando as he stood poised half a step behind Karl, about to insinuate himself into the group.
Orlando’s skin flushed all over as he realised Ian had been telling a dirty story. A dirty gay story.
Trying not to be too obvious about it, he took a step back, turned, and quietly walked away. He was hyper-aware of Ian’s gaze boring into his retreating back as he made his way across the room.
And how the fuck was he supposed to maintain the fiction that he didn’t remember what had happened, when every-fucking-thing seemed to be doing a karmic tap-dance to remind him?
Elijah’s bedroom is a swamp. Dark and dank, incredibly over-heated, their skins awash with sweat. Orlando can’t think at all, as though the heat has short-circuited something vital inside his head. It’s all instinct. Skin on skin.
All he can focus on is the feel of Elijah’s hand moving lazily on his cock. Elijah's fingers curled tightly around him, almost too tightly, making the head of his cock throb with something close to pain.
His body moves restlessly in the semi-dark, full of animal pleasure, the world narrowed down to Elijah's actions and his own reactions. His hips are out of control, lurching and humping up into Elijah’s slow hand; Elijah’s breath is humid against his shoulder, passing right through the thin fabric of his t-shirt so easily Orlando might as well be naked. And secretly, that’s what he wants. To be stretched out naked on Elijah’s messy bed, with Elijah’s mouth directly on his skin, hot and dirty, tongue lapping in the same lazy circles his hand is rubbing up and down Orlando’s cock.
Orlando’s hands are scrabbling hieroglyphs along Elijah’s jeans, desperate for the touch of skin. But he keeps his mouth closed, teeth biting his bottom lip to make sure he doesn’t just start begging. Because this isn’t happening. They both know it. This is a time out. A dream. Because neither of them are gay. Just curious. Just wanting to know. Just this once.
So Elijah’s hand isn’t really pushing him past pain into a new kind of agonised pleasure. The rangy scent of Orlando's arousal isn't really mixing with Elijah's to form a heady, seductive smell that's driving him crazy with want. Elijah isn’t making tiny breathless noises that signal that he's hard, just from doing this, touching Orlando, his hand too tight with inexperience, sparking this incredible mix of terror and euphoria all along Orlando’s nerve-endings, reminding him a little of the teeth-itching sensation of nails on a blackboard, just a little too sharp and intense to really be called good, but, god, he doesn’t want Elijah to stop.
The tension spirals, pushes itself into a tight knot inside Orlando’s belly, twisting him into some new shape, and Orlando’s starting to suspect that his flesh might never forget whatever new form it is he's taking on, no matter what polite fiction they’ve silently agreed to. He’s never felt less polite, and sex has never felt more real.
And then he’s right there, trembling on the edge of an impossible, endless fall, and Elijah... Elijah... is the one pushing him over with one more inevitable too-hard stroke, and as he comes he can’t help it, he leans into Elijah and licks the sweat off his neck, clutching at the hard muscles in his biceps—feeling the shift and pull of Elijah’s right hand on his cock, feeling the echo in the muscles beneath his own hand. His skin’s on fire, and he can’t stop coming, coming, coming as though his cock is broken and won’t ever fucking stop. Everything aches, and he wishes he was brave enough to kiss Elijah, just once, his tongue tingling at the thought, just once before they pretend this never happened. But the enervating aftermath fades too fast, reality pulling him back inside his head, and he just doesn’t have the guts. So he doesn’t do it, but his mouth is aching with the lack, and something stirs beneath the mind-blowing hum of his blood, a dark surge of dizzying emptiness that he suspects even his own hand on Elijah’s cock won’t fill.
And how the fuck is he ever meant to forget this when all he wants is to kiss Elijah long and deep and do the whole mind-blowing thing all over again?
Orlando walked away from the feeling of Ian’s eyes on his back, wanting to be anywhere else so long as he was no longer the focus of someone quite so likely to ask all the wrong questions. He looked back, checking to see if Ian really was still watching, and managed to bump into someone.
“Sorry,” fell out of his mouth automatically, and he clutched hard at warm cotton to stop himself from going arse over teakettle. Further words shrivelled up and vanished off his tongue when he turned and found himself less than an inch from Elijah’s wide, blue, guileless eyes.
Eons passed as they stared at each other.
Then Elijah blinked and looked away, a faint flush colouring his skin.
Orlando's gaze was riveted to the elegant line of Elijah’s throat. His mouth went dry with want.
“Klutz,” said Dom, and reached up to ruffle Orlando’s Mohawk.
Orlando forced himself to unpeel his hands from Elijah's shirt. He smiled and nodded at Dom. “Just going to…” he said, pointing to the loos.
With every ounce of professionalism he possessed, he walked as casually as possible across the loungeroom, threw a quick wave at Viggo as he passed, then squeezed by John, who was blocking the back door, and stepped out into the cool bite of night. Once outside, he kept right on going, dropping down from the porch onto the grass, walking out over the uneven tussocks, on and on until the overgrown garden had swallowed him and he could barely see the glow of the house reflected on leaves.
Only then, surrounded by the quiet shush of the night, did he stop. He leaned his head against the smooth bark of the nearest tree and tried not to think about anything but the wind.
Elijah stared after Orlando’s retreating back.
He shivered, not even bothering to pretend to himself that he was cold. There was a very real chance that he’d never, ever be cold again. Not after. That.
Sex. With Orlando.
Which they were obviously never going to talk about. Never going to try again, even though it was all Elijah could do not to leap on Orlando every time he saw him and just rut against him like some kind of animal.
And Elijah knew he should be trying to push it out of his mind, but really, how the fuck was he supposed to push that out of his mind?
Orlando’s hand is resting on his thigh, asking permission, and Elijah can’t quite believe it’s really happening after so long wondering what it might be like.
His mouth is too dry for words so he just nods, like his head is on some kind of spring, up and down, yes, yes, yes. God yes!
Orlando’s fingers are awkward on his button, but manage the zip with an easy glide that has Elijah so ready, so hard, it’s all he can do to keep his hands at his sides and not just grab Orlando and do something, anything, just to ease the ache... And then Orlando’s hand is on his dick, rough and hard. It feels like sandpaper. Like heaven.
Elijah is so close, so fucking close it feels like his skin is about to peel right off his body, and god, he doesn’t want to come. Not yet. But he's going to unless he does something, right fucking now. He forces himself to reach out and pull Orlando’s hand off his dick. And that hurts, because without Orlando’s hand on him it feels like he’s going to fly apart any second, and he makes a sound in his throat that should be embarrassing, but isn't because he's too busy looking at the dark outline of Orlando, who goes still, tries to pull away, as though he thinks Elijah is saying "No," but Elijah holds on tight, despite the sweat slicking his palms, lifts Orlando’s hand to his mouth, rakes his teeth and tongue over the skin, taking in the salty taste of sweat and his own bitterness. Sucks Orlando’s fingers into the hollow of his cheek, one by one, sucking them in right to the root, licking hard, only letting go once each one is spit drenched and slick. And Orlando's breathing hard now: he gets it, and he's not trying pull away any more.
Then, when Elijah can't stand the ache for one more second, he wraps Orlando’s slippery hand back around his cock, his own hand over the top, setting the pace, until Orlando has it. Perfect. Every stroke a smooth, brutal glide and twist.
Elijah lets go. It feels like free-fall.
Orlando’s hand is pressing promises of ecstasy into his flesh.
And, god, it isn't even over yet and Elijah can’t wait to do this again. Naked. In the light. So he can see the look on Orlando’s face as he comes beneath Elijah’s tongue, and hands, and hips.
The rush of Elijah's racing heart is keeping time with each relentless stroke of Orlando's hand. The muggy dark is full of their mixed scent, the smell of it so fucking hot, ratcheting everything up. It hurts like sand in Elijah's lungs, but he can't get enough, gasping it down with each laboured breath. Orlando is panting too. Elijah can see the dark yaw of his open mouth and wants to lean forward, wants to taste, but he can't because suddenly it's right there, this enormous, clawing red avalanche behind his eyeballs, ripping through him, utterly unstoppable, uncontainable, and with the first burst of his cock Elijah yells so loud it makes his ears ring.
Afterwards--after an endless time of lying side-by-side, silent in the dark, trying to regain breath; after Orlando eventually looks over at the red glare of the clock, mutters, Shit, and frantically pulls his clothes back into place; after Orlando lingers in the doorway to say, Later, yeah?, then leaves in a tearing hurry, late for work; after Elijah tries to reply and discovers that his voice is raw, as though he's chain-smoked three packets of cigarettes--afterwards... every time he hears the rough, used edge in his voice, all he can think about is getting Orlando naked and doing everything the two of them can dream up, until they're both too sore to move.
It’s easily the best day of his life.
And how the fuck was he supposed to ever, ever forget that, when every husky word out of his mouth was a reminder?
Orlando was a fucking sadist, and Elijah had a good mind to track him down and just... kill him... punch him so fucking hard... yell at him until his voice gave out all over again... trip him up and... fucking hump him until they both fucking came in their pants.
Elijah gulped a mouthful of beer, trying to wash away the endless dryness of his mouth. A tiny amount of luke-warm bitterness was all that rolled onto his tongue. He stared down at the empty bottle, and his restless fingers picked at the label, peeling it off in little dandruffy flakes, dropping the pieces onto the carpet.
Once there was nothing left to pick at--just three white stripes of glue left on the glass--he decided to go and get another drink.
“Back in a sec,” he said to no one in particular.
Despite the fact that the drinks-filled bathtub was located through the doorway on Elijah's left, he walked across the room, past Viggo, around John, and out onto the back porch.
The porch was empty of Orlando. Elijah looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen. There was a group of people sitting on the back steps, drinking and laughing, but Orlando wasn't amongst them. He wasn't anywhere, as though he'd been swallowed by the night.
Elijah stood in the chill air, staring up at the half-moon, aware of his cock as an insistent background throb, wondering what the fuck he was meant to do next.
Once Orlando had calmed down enough to start feeling stupid for standing out in the dark--hugging a tree for fuck’s sake--he attempted to pull himself together enough to get to his car and go home. He ran his hands over his head, soothing the goose-bumps pimpling his scalp, scrubbed hard at his face, turned to face the glow of the house, telling himself to “Pull it together, idiot,” then, with a sigh, he tramped back through the bushes.
As he stepped out of the garden, back onto the tussocky lawn, happy voices wafted out to him from the house. He hesitated, wondering if he should say goodbye to anyone, or if he could get away with just sneaking around the side of the house to his car.
The idea of running into Elijah was enough to tip the balance in favour of sneaking off. He kept as far as possible from the house, circling around in the dark like a shadow until he was out on the front lawn and heading to where he’d parked.
He’d almost made it, keys in hand, when a movement caught his eye. A dark silhouette peeled itself away from the side of his car and stepped forward to meet him.
A hobbit-sized silhouette.
“Orlando?” Elijah asked, as he stepped away from the car. His heart was beating like a rush of wings in his ears.
The figure hesitated for a moment, before walking towards him. “Yeah.”
Elijah stared hard at the moon-shadowed planes of Orlando’s face. He wouldn’t meet Elijah’s eyes, staring past his left shoulder.
“Are you avoiding me?”
Orlando looked down and shuffled his feet. Elijah’s stomach dropped.
So, fuck. It was the worst-case scenario. Elijah just wanted to crawl away, throw up, and become a hermit for the next million or so years. But as none of those things were a fucking option, it was time for damage control.
“For fuck’s sake, Orli,” said Elijah, channeling his anger, pushing away the tears pricking the backs of his eyes. “If you’ve gone off me just fucking say so! It’s okay if you have. We can still be friends. But stop pissing me around.”
Orlando’s head lifted, and he stared at Elijah as though he was speaking Elvish or something. “Gone off you?”
Elijah frowned. “Yes,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “If you,” he pointed to Orlando, “don’t want to fuck,” he made a wanking gesture, “with me,” he pointed to his own chest, unintentionally aiming right at his heart, “anymore. Then. Just. Fucking. Say. So. Okay?”
Orlando’s keys dropped out of his hand with a rattle, clinking against the curb. He stood gaping at Elijah, saying nothing.
Elijah stared back, utterly confused, wondering if maybe he was speaking Elvish after all.
Orlando couldn’t breathe.
He stared at Elijah, not quite willing to believe that this was real. That Elijah was really, actually... asking him if he wanted to have sex again!
A long way off, Orlando was vaguely aware of his keys falling to the ground, but it didn’t matter, wasn’t the slightest bit important, because Elijah was right there, standing in front of him, coloured white and black with the night, wearing the most adorable expression of confusion, his lips not quite shut as though he was about to speak again.
Orlando couldn’t tear his eyes away from Elijah’s lips... full and round and lush and...
...tasting like beer and salt beneath his tongue, warm and soft, and god, so fucking good that this had to be a dream, it couldn’t possibly be real...
...and then Elijah’s thumbs were pressing pain against his cheeks, pushing him away, and all Orlando could taste was regret, bitter as tears, as his mouth tore away from Elijah’s.
Elijah swallowed and licked his lips, holding Orlando’s face tightly in his hands.
Orlando was still staring at his mouth, as though he wanted to kiss Elijah again; his ragged breath an erotic goad against Elijah’s skin.
“What the fuck?” Elijah asked, wondering if his life was ever going to start making sense. “If you still want me, why the fuck were you acting like such a...” No word suitably vitriolic seemed able to negotiate the fog of lust that was making his body thrum.
With an obvious effort, Orlando tore his gaze away from Elijah’s mouth, and met his eyes.
“I’m an idiot,” he said, and then grinned. It looked manic in the moonlight. “You know what I’ve spent the best part of the last hour doing?”
Elijah shook his head, bemused.
“Complaining to a fucking tree that you’re a bastard for only wanting a one-off with me.”
Elijah’s eyes widened, and then he snorted. “A tree?”
“Yeah,” said Orlando, still grinning like a loon, nodding as much as Elijah’s grip would allow. “I’m a moron.”
“You are a fucking moron!” Then Elijah let go of Orlando and stepped back a pace, narrowing his eyes, as the rest of it sank in. “You thought it was a one-off?”
“Yeah,” said Orlando, grin slipping. He moved forward, re-taking the pace Elijah had put between them, and lay a hand on Elijah’s arm. “Don’t be mad. I just... I didn’t know it was going to be like that.”
Elijah didn’t say anything, just frowned down at Orlando’s hand.
“Come on, cut me some slack.” Orlando stepped closer still, and slid both arms around Elijah.
Elijah let himself be touched, but his own arms stayed by his sides. He could smell Orlando with every breath.
“Until we... I didn’t even know I was...” Orlando hesitated, a look of uncertainty crossing his face, “bi?” He tilted his head, tried again. “Gay? Bi?”
“You hadn’t done that before?” Elijah asked, surprised. Without conscious thought his hands came up to rest on Orlando’s waist.
“Nope. Never.” Orlando moved closer, pressing into Elijah, his hard-on hot against Elijah’s hip. “What about you?”
“No. I thought you had though.” With a sigh, Elijah gave in to temptation, rubbing his aching cock against Orlando’s thigh.
Orlando shook his head. “Not before you. But I think maybe I’m...” Orlando tested the word, rolling it off his tongue cautiously, as though it might bite. “...bi.”
They both considered that for a moment.
“Are you?” Orlando asked, one hand stroking up and down Elijah’s back.
Elijah shrugged. “No fucking clue. I just know I really want to do it again.”
Orlando’s gaze dropped back to Elijah’s mouth. “God, yes.”
This time the kiss was languid. Slow and wet, all lewd tongue and sliding lips. Full of promises of more to come.
“Wow,” Elijah said, panting. His mouth fastened back onto Orlando’s, unable to stay apart. “Come on,” he managed between kisses, lips biting, teasing. His hands gripping Orlando’s ass. “Let’s go home.”
The bed-side lamp is on, and Elijah’s stretched out on the rumpled, sweat-stained sheets, naked, hard, writhing beneath Orlando’s tongue.
Orlando kneels between Elijah’s legs, his hands restlessly mapping every inch of Elijah’s skin, and as Elijah sighs beneath his touch, arches up into his mouth, begs for “More. Harder! Please, Orli,” Orlando wants this to last forever. Wants it to burn into him like a brand. As though their bodies are a living memorial to lust.
That’s the last coherent thought he has before he’s lost, existing only where his skin meshes with Elijah’s, caught up in the endless now of coaxing Elijah into higher and higher ecstasies, mindless even of the promise of his own imminent pleasure beneath Elijah’s eager touch.