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Look at him. God, just look at him. Fucking gorgeous. You couldn't even put your finger on it, Dom thought, and he'd thought a lot about it. Devoted a lot of time and energy and valuable eye-use to trying to figure out just what it was that made him want to shag Orli so much. It was just there. You could see it. Orli was Orli, and Dom wanted to shag him.
Wanted... fucking hell he wanted. Just think of it; all that energy, buzzing into you, fizzing into Dom through Orli's palms on his skin. He'd give it off through every pore of that bloody incredible body. Training had been good to them all, but a setup like Orli's demanded to be studied in greater detail. Take your time, Dom, take it one square inch at a time. Use your hands, use your tongue. He'd taste great, he'd smell great. He'd sound fantastic, whimpering into Dom's mouth.
Whimpering? Nah. That wasn't his style. Orli seemed like the sort to be a talker, really loud, really filthy - harder, faster, fuck yeah, right there. He'd tell Dom - explicitly - exactly what he wanted to do, what he wanted done, and they'd do it all, all with Orli's voice telling him that that was it, hell yeah, and Dom's hands fisted in Orli's mohawk, made for the purpose of anchoring straining, aching sex. And when Dom thumbed his nipple or bit at his collarbone, he'd hiss...
He was fucking gorgeous. Maybe, just maybe, they were right, Billy and Elijah who'd said he should just ask him. Maybe it'd happen.
Yes.
* * *
Hah. Crash and burn, Dom, crash and burn. Ker-splat with those laughing brown eyes and drawled, "Nah, mate."
Did he have to be so fucking nice about it? Friendly and effusive and laid-back, undeniable even when he was telling you no, hell no, I know it all and you can't have a whisper of it.
It was enough to make Dom wince at the memory, grimace into beer number three. Four. However many.
So real, with him looking at Dom all apologetic and giving the idea that he really was sorry it wasn't going to happen. Really sorry he was never going to fuck Dom. Shag Dom. Whatever. Did verbs matter in the negative?
So all Dom could do was grin lop-sidedly and try to get out gracefully. Oh well. No big deal. Fair enough. See you around. Mate.
And then get drunk. Five pint glasses, sitting on the bar. Six.
Hope that somewhere in the cloudy mists of liquor he'd stop replaying the horrifically pleasant denial. The casual bringing down of weeks of carefully-layered fantasies.
Hope that somewhere along the line Dom could stop rubbing his own nose in it. Stop wallowing in it.
No.
* * *
He's said what?
It's unbelievable, it hits him out of the buzz like a slap. Somewhere in the still-functioning parts of his brain he knows he's gaping, but Dom couldn't close his mouth, couldn't stop staring at Elijah, who's said, who's said...
(Would. You. Shag. Me?)
Stare at Elijah with his sparkle and his cute and all that bright confidence and his hair sticking up in little tufts that would prickle at Dom's palms if he... as he...
Why haven't you see this before?
God, look at him.
Look at him.
Maybe.