Work Text:
Dom is losing his mind.
Things should be perfect. Dom's reconnected with Billy, who's the best, maddest, arse of a friend Dom ever had or ever hopes to have. Billy's boyfriend is an adorable looking kid who's clearly nuts about Billy. He also has a talent that Dom can broker a cool quarter of million dollars for any time Elijah feels like taking a job, and Dom gets fifteen per cent of the fee for his services in setting up the deal.
The boys aren't greedy, though; Elijah rarely works more than once every couple of months. The house in the hills is large and luxurious, but not ridiculously so. The guys buy whatever they want without regard to cost, but a lot of what they want is delivery pizza and music cds. A sizeable fraction of Elijah's earnings goes into reserve; Billy takes great satisfaction in calculating how many more years they need to stay in business – less than five – before the three of them will be financially set for the rest of their lives.
Dom slips easily into their routines, swimming a couple of dozen laps of the pool, pushing weights in the basement gym, losing nickels and dimes to Billy at poker on the terrace, arguing film theory with Elijah. Some nights the three of them (Dom, Billy, and Elijah) will go to a club, somewhere funky enough that Elijah's two-in-the-morning shades won't seem any weirder than anyone else's affectations. More often they go to a quieter bar or a nice restaurant: something Orlando can enjoy too. At night, when he doesn't have to worry about the damage the sun is doing to his unresponsive eyes, Orlando often doesn't bother with his shades. People stare, partly because he's an outrageously good-looking bloke, but mostly because his over-dilated eyes are simultaneously unsettling and seductive and just so fucking hard to look away from.
They're damn funny together, Billy and Dom and Orlando, in that very dry self-deprecating way that Americans don't get and that Dom's missed so much. Elijah squawks indignantly because he doesn't understand the cultural references, but he also grins in delight to see Billy and Orlando glowing with good humor.
Ten times a day, Orlando says something or does something or is something that makes Dom want to just grab him and kiss him. Sometimes Dom's already reaching out, his fingers prickling in anticipation of the heat of Orlando's golden skin, when Billy – God bless him – clears his throat significantly, or Elijah walks in, or Dom's otherwise interrupted. Sometimes Dom gets so close that Orlando feels the slight disturbance of the air when Dom pulls back, and he tips his head and frowns.
"Dom?" he says.
"Yeah," Dom croaks. Then, more forcefully, "yeah."
"Christ. I didn't even know you were there," Orlando scowls.
"I was being quiet," Dom offers hopefully.
Orlando exhales through his nostrils and stalks out, leaving Dom to sigh and wish he'd just stayed still.
It's not only that Orlando is the most gorgeous piece of cock Dom's ever seen; Orlando is also – unconsciously, innocently, blindly - the most maddeningly provocative creature on earth.
Orlando swims in modestly loose black shorts. But when he's done, he hauls himself out of the water
diamonds sheeting off his dark body, silver rivulets snaking down the flawless skin of his back, stars hanging and falling off the tips of his curls
and strips his wet shorts off where he stands, and towels himself dry. And Dom's heart slams painfully against his breastbone, and it's not just sex though
arch and twist of muscles under the skin, and the shadowed hollow of Orlando's flank, where the flesh falls away from beneath his hipbone
it's that Orlando is so
fucking
beautiful.
Orlando slings his damp towel around his waist and walks barefoot into the kitchen, where Dom's been watching from the window. Dom presses himself back against the sink, trying to make himself small and quiet, trying to avoid the inevitable crash of Orlando's irritation. No matter how still and silent Dom is, it never seems to be enough to soothe Orlando. Sometimes Orlando sniffs the air, and says Dom's name with the almost-intonation of a question, and when Dom responds Orlando scowls and leaves. Sometimes Orlando acts like Dom's not even there
God, once, Orlando leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, skin still beaded with water and his towel slipping lower by degrees … he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and deliberately rubbed the heel of his hand across one brown nipple
and Dom freezes, not even breathing, hoping to preserve the spell. But Orlando's expression inevitably curdles into disgust and he
leaves.
Dom knows the curve and taper of Orlando's back all too well.
Cut.
"Your friend's a moron," Elijah says, throwing himself onto the couch on top of Billy's legs and pulling the magazine out of Billy's hands.
"Who? Dominic?" Billy says, all mock indignation. He tries to rescue his reading but Elijah pitches it away in a flurry of pages.
"He's making Orlando cranky," Elijah says, burrowing under Billy's arm curling himself against Billy's side. "Creeping around like he doesn't want him to know he's even in the room with him. And he fucking drools at him, man. Why doesn't he just go for it? Please tell me he's not some fucking dickhead that can't get past the being blind."
"Well, I think it's lovely," Billy says primly. "Seeing Dom spendin' some time, exertin' some self-control, havin' a real old-fashioned romantic courtship for a change."
"What are you on?" Elijah laughs.
"The couch," Billy deadpans, but even through golden mirrored shades Elijah's spotted the too bright sparkle in Billy's green eyes.
"Oh my God – you did this. You said something to him. What did you say?"
"I've no idea what yeh're on abou'," Billy protests, but his mouth quirks and curls and his face scrunches up a little jitter of laughter.
Elijah laughs too, on trust.
"I jus' told him, I told him, Orlando was very timid. That he'd hafta go very slow wi' him, an' not startle him, and not mention sex for God's sake."
Elijah slitters down on the couch cushions, completely hysterical.
"Wha - ? Wh - ?"
"I don' know, it jus' seemed the thing to do at the time," Billy manages to say between convulsions of laughter.
"Well, fix it," Elijah gasps, putting his fingers up behind his shades to wipe the tears away.
"Fix what?" Billy crows. "Look. Does Orlando want him?"
"Oh yeah."
"Well then, what Dom does or doesn't do won't make any difference in the long run. If Orlando wants him, he'll bloody have him, and Dom won't get much say in it."
Cut.
Dom's in hell, and hell is …
Orlando drinking beer from a long necked bottle, and pushing the tip of his tongue into the circle of sweating glass to retrieve the fragment of lemon flesh caught just inside the rim.
Orlando repping out biceps curls with a barbell in the basement gym. As he gets tired, he cheats the weight a little with a subtle swing of his hips forward each time he lifts.
Orlando throwing open all the doors and windows of the converted guesthouse on the other side of the pool, and announcing grandly that he has to work. He dons a pair of denim jeans so ragged and holed as to be more of a gesture towards clothing than an actual garment, and walks barefoot from the main house. Hours later he emerges, his hands and chest and face streaked rusty with dried clay. To avoid bringing the mess into the house, he has Elijah bring him a bowl of water, strips off to his underwear on the kitchen step, and washes the worst of it off right there in the sun and breeze.
Orlando comes into the living room wearing a white tee shirt worn semi-transparent, and a pair of button fly jeans that are buttoned up
wrong.
Dom hears the sky crack.
For a second there's nothing in Dom's world but the way the slightly stiff denim of the fly pokes out where there's a buttonhole spare between two buttons, and the wicked gleam of the button left over at the top, right below Orlando's navel. Orlando passes Dom, who's gripping the arms of his chair as if they contain his sanity, and throws himself onto the couch, limbs sprawling.
From this side, Dom can see the coin-thin edges of the dutiful buttons, and the faintly frayed edge of the fly placket, and the rose-warm shadow showing in the gap and the fact that Orlando is
naked
under his jeans.
And Dom makes a very tiny sound, as something slips through metaphorical fingers and hits the ground and shatters. Orlando turns his head ever so fractionally, but his expression doesn't alter.
Orlando yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth, and lifts his arms and stretches them up and back, until his body's bowed back and every bone and muscle is pushing proudly under his skin. Then he lets the stretch go, making fuzzy little noises of pleasure as he slumps lower, his thighs falling open.
Dom's breath is a silently shivering current between parched lips.
Orlando scratches idly at his left collar bone through the flimsy cotton of his tee shirt. Then his fingertips move up and down over his breast bone, and down onto his belly.
Dom stops breathing entirely.
Orlando shifts restlessly, lifting one bare foot up onto the edge of the couch cushions, his heel indenting a shining hollow in the dark leather. His knee tips outwards, the denim between his legs curving into a tight-sprung arch. Orlando's hand goes back and forth over his stomach, the whisper of his palm against cotton against skin obscenely loud in the silent room.
Dom could swear he hears the molecules of the air buzzing against each other.
Orlando's hand goes lower, plucking the folds of his tee shirt hem up enough to expose the waist of his jeans.
Dom's heart stops in his chest, leaving a profound stillness.
Orlando's fingers meet denim, and the disc of a brass button. Orlando fumbles, frowns.
Orlando's hand slides
right
down
onto
his cock, onto the thickly curved flesh that fills out the shape of his jeans, onto the rucked denim of his fly. He pokes his finger into the hallowed shadowed space between the wrongly done buttons.
"Crap," he laughs under his breath.
Dom opens his mouth wide, pulling air into his empty aching lungs in an almost silent gulp. Almost silent. But Orlando doesn't scowl or scold.
He runs his hands up both sides of his fly, his fingers meeting on the top button, and then he moves down and thumbs the next buttonhole out of its misassigned buttonhole, and then down to the next and
Dom realizes that the very lowest button is the only one that's right and
fuck self control
and fuck slow
and fuck Billy
but most of all please oh please just let him fuck Orlando or he's gonna die of it. Dom pushes forwards, about to stand when
"Orlando?" Elijah says when he's still a couple of paces outside the living room in the hallway. "Billy wants me to go and look - "
Elijah stops abruptly just inside the door, presented with Orlando – fly three quarters unbuttoned and erection poking hopefully out from between the flaps of denim – and Dom, red eared and wild-eyed.
"Oh. Sorry. Hi Dom."
"Dom," Orlando says, his voice steady but hard. "I didn't know you were there."
Dom looks desperate, and then he just cracks, scrambling out of the chair and pushing past Elijah hard enough to get a 'hey' of protest, and fleeing.
"You're a bad man," Elijah tells Orlando.
"Was there something really fucking important you had to tell me?" Orlando says, standing up but making no attempt to refasten his jeans.
"Billy wants me to go look at a sports car."
"Midlife crisis," Orlando says, stripping his tee shirt off and shoving it at Elijah. "You guys need to have more sex."
"Hey," Elijah protests as Orlando moves away. "You always complain that we're doing it too much."
"Don't be ridiculous," Orlando says, tip-touching the doorframe for reference on his way out. "Everyone needs more sex. Especially the me part of everyone."
"Yeah. Well. I think I'm gonna go look at that car," Elijah calls, though Orlando's clearly not listening.
Cut.