Hey sugar mama, come and dance with me
The smartest thing you ever did was take a chance with me
-- Crazy Town: Butterfly --
The sun's standing low, sand already cooling, no longer charged with heat, and Elijah shivers as he drops to the ground, his wetsuit clinging. Orlando moves aside to make room for him on the towel. Not much, though.
"Thanks," Elijah says, still slightly breathless. When Orlando ruffles his hair, droplets of water sprinkle, and Elijah ducks his head to hide a smile.
Orlando never notices just how easy Elijah makes it.
"You should get this off." One accusing finger poking at neoprene, and Elijah shrugs, nods. Pretends to miss Orlando's hidden glances when he peels the wetsuit off.
Orlando's never been good at subtle observation. Elijah is.
A trail of fine, dark hair leads from Orlando's navel down in a straight line, disappearing underneath the cloth of Orlando's trunks. It reminds Elijah of an arrow. Follow this.
Tempting.
Small frown, gaze unfocused: Orlando is staring at the horizon, at sky already tinted with a hint of orange. They should probably leave; the temperature drops quickly around here.
"Orli."
Orlando's eyes focus. "Ready?"
"Yeah."
Elijah takes the hand Orlando offers to help him up, and pretends not to notice that Orlando holds on for just a moment longer than strictly necessary.
2.
Rule number two, sometimes annoying, but unavoidable, is to wait for Orlando to
come to him.
It's amazingly easy to get used to dinner with Orcs, Uruk-hais, wizards, dwarves and all other kinds of creatures one doesn't usually meet in the streets. The masks make for some nasty eating noises, but hey. Worth it.
The only creature they're currently lacking is the elf, and Elijah's very much not noticing when the door opens and a breeze of cool air follows said elf inside. Mhmm.
"So," he says, twists some noodles -- coated in something green that's rumored to have been basil once -- around his fork. "Sean's doing his family thing, Billy and Dom are gonna check out the whiskey distilleries around here, so that leaves only me to decide what to do with my night?"
It's mere coincidence (yes, really) that Orlando arrives just in time to hear Elijah's half-monologue. It is, however, not-so-coincidental that they stumble upon each other two hours later.
Inhaling cigarette smoke, body molded to the wall of the hobbitish make-up trailer and eyes half-closed; Orlando straightens when Elijah steps outside. His grin is wide and broad with just an edge of nervous. "Wanna go clubbing?"
"Sure." Grinning back comes naturally, although Elijah thinks his expression might be closer to a smirk.
3. Rule number three is not to make it too easy.
Orlando loves challenges, after all.
She's nice. Probably too young for this club, and her name's something like Amy or Jennifer, makes Elijah wonder if her parents studied the list of Most Common Names before christening her, but she's talking to him as if he's a human being rather than Kid Hollywood. Mild flirting, sure, but he can handle that. Also, it makes Orlando watch her with an expression of poorly concealed antipathy.
Elijah likes that Orlando's always so easy to read. Possibly something about opposites and attraction thereof.
"It was so great to meet you," she says, finally, and the emphasis on the 'so' confirms Elijah's suspicions concerning her age. Nod and smile, and she walks off as Orlando approaches.
Heavy bass, yet Elijah's body thrums to the rhythm of Orlando's steps. He melts into the shadows and anticipates.
"C'mon," Orlando leans close, breath warm-wet against Elijah's cheek, "let's go dance."
Elijah knows Orlando will convince him. And shakes his head.
Orlando's fingers, long and slender, wrap around Elijah's wrist, and Elijah forces his pulse not to speed up. His beer is plucked out of his hands, then takes a graceful swan dive into the closest garbage can.
Elijah's protest is halfhearted, at best.
Flashes of light. Dance. Sea of bodies. Dance. Musicmovementrhythm. Dance.
Elijah doesn't really like dancing; it makes him feel awkward, self-conscious, overly aware of people pressing in on him. Some time ago -- break in filming, make-up people buzzing around them, powder brushes ready to attack -- Orlando explained that dancing's almost like acting: losing oneself, letting go. A performance, only not.
Elijah wonders, vaguely, who Orlando's performing for. Why he does in the first place. Orlando's not one for performances, not when the cameras aren't rolling. Not jaded enough, probably.
Not yet, anyway.
Another flash of light, sparkles from the mirrorball dancing over Orlando's face, painting his teeth an almost demonic white when he grins. Moves closer.
Closer. Finally.
There's something to be said for Orlando lost in music.
Elijah's nose catches a hint of cologne, fresh and earthy, clearly Orlando. It's almost swallowed by the blur of perfumebeersweat, but the faint trace is there. It's encouragement enough.
The first step has to be left to Orlando, has to be a challenge, a conscious decision. Something Orlando can't just slip into only to wake up and feel tricked.
Elijah is allowed to lower his lashes, though. And to smile.
2. Rule number five
is to -- oh -- stay in control.
The backseat creaks when Elijah slides into the cab, vinyl slick and cold beneath his palms. Provoked by movement, a cloud of cigar smoke rises, stale air. The driver apparently doesn't believe in open windows.
Orlando follows, eyes black, velvet shimmer in the semi-darkness, and because it makes things easier, Elijah turns away, stares at the bright circle of a streetlamp outside.
Get a grip, dammit.
Then the cab pulls away from the curb, the circle of light fades into the distance, and Orlando is
right there.
Hand resting casually against the outline of Elijah's erection, fingers stroking lightly, and control's slipping, disappearing, fading just like the streetlamp, nothing more than a vague memory. Fuck. Impossible not to look at Orlando now, impossible not to look at Orlando looking back, and just, oh. And yes.
The five minutes to the hotel stretch into eternity and seconds, endless, yet far too quick to process. No thought, just action and reaction. Something about Elijah's fingers circling smooth heat, Orlando's lids drifting shut, lips parting. Something about Orlando releasing his hold, raising his hand to his mouth to lick it clean. Something about half-fumbled kisses.
Elijah hopes Orlando left the driver a generous tip.
Cuts himself on the edge of his keycard in his haste. Not enough to bleed, just a momentary sting of pain that helps him concentrate long enough to get the door open. A stripe of light floods from the corridor into the room, then the lock clicks, and they're inside.
The image of rules flashes behind Elijah's lids. Neatly written down on a white sheet, the way he never did; black pen, numbers from one to ten. Could be tacked to the refrigerator.
Orlando pulls down Elijah's zipper, sound almost obscene in the silence, almost-silence, mixing only with the wet noises of kissing.
Elijah can't read the rules.
Mentally crumbles the sheet into a tiny ball, watches it sail into a dark corner, out of sight, just as Orlando sinks to his knees, rubbing all over Elijah as he goes down. Goes. down.
Oh.
Can't do anything but thread his fingers through Orlando's hair, the contrast of pale skin and dark hair so right, so right, and try to hold on. Exquisite burn, starting in his thighs, thinking only in adjectives and verbs, but not able to tell them apart, just that they're adjectives and verbs, and only one noun.
Orlando.