Thankyous to Wax. mwah, mwah. and helicopter!
He can still feel the pushups in his muscles, a fat greasy demon sprawling across his shoulders and palming his biceps with greedy hands. The shower-- isn't all that effective, actually. Hot water feels wonderful after the day's ghastly toil, yes, but what he actually wants is a nice massage, complete with scented oils and candles and shit like that. Something to take him away from this... bootcamp, yeah, okay. Bootcamp.
When he was about ten, he'd thought bootcamp meant a place where chimney-sweep scrappy boys from Mary Poppins sat in rows spit-polishing rich men's shoes.
In some ways, this is worse.
He tips his head back, letting the water blast across his face, feeling like some huge wilted sunflower soaking up sunshine. Everyone was so in character. If he asked for a massage here, they'd probably clap him across the back and point him at a grotty brothel that'd magically spring up across the road. It was like something out of Sharpe. Sean B would approve.
Hell, Sean B would fit in better. Or Dom. Dom-- well, he could fit in anywhere.
Not that Orlando's not fitting in. The guys like him, sure. Just that he doesn't exactly feel like he's embracing the part, not like the rest of them. He's not sure what he's going to do to amend that, to integrate himself, but it'll probably include alcohol and inappropriate copulation. That's always been his style; until Dom, he'd never considered the alternative.
The soap's worse than in his ten-year-old fantasy. It comes from a spout and smells bizarrely like men in adverts for military gay chatlines look, unpleasantly acrid but vaguely insubstantial as well. One part animal fat, four parts bleach, he thinks, rubbing lather under his arms and across his chest and wondering why the hell he's bothering to stick around here. A whole week of it, all for falling out a helicopter. man. Talk about method acting.
Male chatter materialises in the back of his hearing, and he wipes his eyes; a couple more guys wander in, one already slicking a hand over his cock, the other laughing and making jokes about dropping the soap.
The soap's liquid, you idiot, Orlando thinks, to distract himself from the awareness that he wouldn't mind crawling blindly around on the wet tiles with these guys watching the back of his neck. Or lower. Yet another reason this place was getting to him, ha.
"That obstacle course, though," the first man groans, abandoning his cock and grabbing a flannel instead, "what a bitch."
The other man grunts, then clears his throat. "Totally."
Orlando tries not to grin. The accents and the dirty skin and the piles of khaki that Orlando just knows have been abandoned on the benches outside the shower room, they're making this picture feel weird, making it feel genuine even though Orlando knows these guys fill out the same union forms each year that he does.
"Orli, hey," another guy calls, wandering in. There's a whole crowd of them coming in. Orlando's glad he got here early, doesn't have to share a shower spout, then thinks about the first guy and his casual self-exploration and wishes he'd had more patience. Loitered a little. Scuse me, is there room for one more under there? I'm very flexible.
"Alright, mate," Orlando replies. He can't remember the guy's name, just knows he saw him wrapped round Ewan earlier - Ewan, hell, another guy who makes this feel unreal.
"Ready to hit the sack," the guy says, then veers to chat to the guy behind him, and Orlando wonders if he's just been snubbed, then decides he hasn't been. It was platonic, the guy and Ewan, unless Orlando's radar was acting up. Again.
Please, not again. He thinks about Dom, and the wrench of working up the nerve that last night and kissing him direct on the mouth and finding to his horror that Dom was kissing him back. Hot and desperate, with the sharp bite of tequila on his tongue.
The problem wasn't the tequila, either. The problem was that this was the last night, that Orlando was only doing this in a drunken masochistic plea for rejection, 'cause if Dom pushed him away then it would be for the best that Orlando hadn't tried it on before now. Best that Orlando stuck to gleeful slutting around and making light of Viggo catching him creeping back to his trailer every fifth dawn. Wouldn't be Orlando's fault.
It - was, really. And the tequila was a bad idea too because they were both too useless to do anything but give messy, eager blowjobs that went on and on until their jaws ached and their throats were sore with gagging, and they were both too dizzily exhausted to come.
"Christ," Dom moaned, when Orlando automatically started to finger his ass for the third time, "it's not gonna happen, I can't--"
Orlando felt like weeping, stroked his palm down Dom's warm thigh. "I know."
"Tomorrow?" Dom asked hopefully, and Orlando slid back up his body, kissed his mouth, cheek, neck.
"I can't," he said, muffling it in the glorious salty expanse of Dom's skin in the hope that neither would hear him and they could both pretend nothing had been said. Yay for ignoring it.
Dom sighed. So much for ignoring it, Orlando thought. "What time are you leaving?"
"Ten," Orlando said, shivering as Dom's fingers found the edge of his jaw and started to trail round. He was still fairly drunk, and insensible with exhaustion.
"We could wake up--"
"The check-in's earlier than that," Orlando said sadly, and Dom's fingers paused before continuing.
Orlando shocks back to here-now-showering when he becomes aware someone's talking to him. "You'll turn into a prune," the voice is saying, distinctly deep, and Orlando's brain obligingly staccatoes pictures of the last few moments: the two men jostling each other, the crowd turning into several individuals soaping themselves, Ewan's friend sharing his shower nozzle with a tall black guy. Maybe not so platonic, eh.
It's Josh talking to him; of course it is. That's exactly who Orlando needs to see when he's feeling shattered and nostalgic.
"My shoulders burn," Orlando says, shrugging, voice light. "I could stay in here all day." Obligingly, his shoulders start pulsing unpleasantly again. That demon yawning; heat pours slimily down Orlando's back.
"Yeah," Josh says. He's wearing a towel, Orlando's brain informs him. Orlando's brain, unburdened with tact, disapproves of this. Orlando's brain also thinks Josh never ached like this in his life. "Pumped, though," Josh adds, and grins, all rogueish. Orlando remembers Elijah talking about the crush he'd had way back, about the way Josh's arms, near the shoulders, had been as wide as Elijah's thigh.
"You go for that, huh," Orlando had said, sharing a glance with Dom as Elijah pressed both hands to his chest and swooned, and Dom's glance had turned private, too private for Orlando to bear looking at, and Orlando had looked away. Felt like Orlando had always looked away first.
"Me too," he says quickly, when Josh raises his eyebrows. Josh's towel's getting splashed. "Yeah." He flexes an arm experimentally, feels a sort of painful melt inside it, and drops it again. "Mm."
Josh's grin crumples handsomely, and he laughs, a tiny smirk of a laugh, light and buff. "Having trouble?"
"I'm shagged," Orlando admits. "I'm not cut out for this place."
Josh's eyebrows creep up again. "You're..."
"tired," Orlando says quickly, then laughs. "Too, too tired."
"I'm dirty," Josh says, and Orlando feels his laugh go crumbly, then begin a fresh swell.
"You said it."
"Watch yourself," Josh growls, playful and quiet, and Orlando can't help but glance around, checking that people aren't checking out this turn of events. They're not.
"I didn't say anything," Orlando says indignantly, "you're the one who said--"
"I know what I said," Josh interrupts, nodding, "I just," eyes even, head tilting, "wonder what you're gonna do about it."
Oh, dear god. "It's not my problem, surely," Orlando says desperately, trying to stop his mind wriggling down Josh's towel to imagine exactly how dirty he could be.
"Look around, sweetheart," Josh says, and Orlando thinks, sweetheart? sweetheart? and then Josh is adding, "They're all filled up, but you've been here longest, so."
Turf war, Orlando thinks irreverently. "Who says I've been in the longest?"
"I watched you come in."
He can't help his eyebrows going up. "Oh really?"
Josh raises his hand, slides a fingertip over Orlando's shoulder. Hello, Orlando thinks. "So, you gonna move over?"
As if he's actually asking. "You're throwing me out?"
Josh shrugs, and the steam's starting to make Orlando's pulse feel sluggish. "It's only fair," he says, like he's got this sly script and it's unfolding just right, then he's glancing at the ceiling and tilting his head and saying, "I suppose," his hands on the knot of his towel, "we could share?"
"Okay," Orlando says, and he thinks it might've been a little too fast, but hey. Josh is nodding, and it looks almost unconscious; he tosses the towel behind him and it falls in an instantly-soggy heap on the tiles. So dramatic, darling, Orlando thinks, but the acid is somewhat diluted by the excited sizzle that goes through him because Josh is crowding him, and Orlando's not about to step out from under the water, but Josh is damn big, and, yes. "Pushy bastard," Orlando grumbles.
"Impatient," Josh corrects, ducking his head under the spray, screwing his eyes up and rubbing a hand over his face. Orlando glances over his shoulder. Still no audience. Ewan's friend and the black guy have disappeared, and a man Orlando doesn't recognise is in their place.
"You got a lot of skin to wash," Orlando hears himself say, and his voice has dropped. He's pretty sure it sounds like a stupid, stupid pick-up line, but he doesn't care much. He's too busy concentrating on not looking down, on hoping Josh isn't about to look down either.
Josh chuckles, and it sounds like someone left a microphone near an earthquake. "Wanna help?"
Orlando swallows. Surely there's no possible way that could not be a come-on? Wanna help, indeed. Honestly. "Um," he says, and Josh's eyes are amused, and he's suddenly worried in case it's only obvious in his brain, in case Josh often asks men to help facilitate the cleansing process and thus would be highly bemused were Orlando to sink to his knees. "There's only one flannel."
"Use your mouth," his brain has Josh say, but, no, that isn't reality: "You must be clean by now," Josh is saying shrewdly, and that's just as bad but in a very different way, and Orlando wonders wildly if he's being got rid of.
"yeah, well," he says, groping for an excuse to stay under the shower despite, yes, being just about squeaky-clean all over.
"So maybe we could put you over here," Josh says, like Orlando hadn't spoken, running his hands against Orlando's arms, guiding Orlando to step backwards, "and I can get my share of the water at last," and Orlando squawks indignantly when his ass hits the tiles.
"I've been standing here, all wet, in the draft," Josh protested, unruffled, the press of his fingers on Orlando's arms turning to a grip. "Don't talk to me about cold."
"You could've-- there are other showers free," Orlando says, then wonders if that's blowing it, if that's gonna send Josh smirking away. Either way, huh. Josh was either paying more attention to him than to the rest of the room, or he wants to be here. Not to spell it out or anything, but. Yeah.
"This one's exactly the right temperature," Josh says.
Orlando can think of all sorts of ways to take that. "Oh, really?" he says, and Josh nods, and Orlando gets tired of the play of it, and maybe Josh is exactly who he needs to see right now. "It's exactly right for me, too."
"I'd hope so, the time you've been here," Josh retorted, and Orlando dares touch a smudge on Josh's shoulder with his fingertips. "What?"
"Helping," Orlando says simply, rubbing methodical circles, and the dirt comes away fairly easily - 90% water soluble, after all - and Orlando pretends it hasn't and keeps stroking away.
"Oh," Josh says, and edges closer, tilting his head, "thanks," and the angle's absolutely perfect, so Orlando slips his fingers round the back of Josh's head and leans up and kisses him, and, "whoa, whoa, what the hell are you doing?" demands Josh, snatching Orlando's hands away from his body and jerking back, and Orlando knows he felt him kiss back, knows it like he knows the shape of his knuckles, but maybe Josh has some hangup about it being here and naked and public and stuff, or maybe he never expected it to go this fast.
Bugger. "sorry," he says, backtracking, wondering if he can blame it on the steam, and Josh glares at him for a full six seconds, fists tight round Orlando's over-pulsing wrists. Orlando realises that if he's about to get thumped, he's got no chance of bracing - although what with Josh's hands already occupied, it'd have to be a headbutt. Great - and then something changed in Josh's eyes, something delicious and mean, and he idles closer again, and Orlando automatically closes his eyes.
"Watch yourself," Josh warns, mouth too close to Orlando's ear, and Orlando twists slightly, irritated with the tiles at his back, and then the unmistakable brush of Josh's cock touches his leg, and he inhales and presses closer despite himself.
Josh shakes him sharply, and outrage squirrels across his temper - you have no right to shake me, just because you're huge and masculine and hot, y'know - and then Josh's hands sleeken and slide to his waist instead, and Orlando hears himself demand, "exactly what--" before Josh appears to make up his mind and tugs him lightly closer, and Orlando's voice dries up at the touch of expansive wet skin.
"If I didn't want this," Josh says, mouth moving against Orlando's jaw as Orlando tilts his head back and keeps his eyes closed, "I would've kicked your ass by now."
"What if I didn't want it?" Orlando says, a sensation like pleasant knots tying going all over him, and Josh chuckles arrogantly, fingers creeping round to the small of Orlando's back. Orlando feels his cock again, definitely hard, definite and delicious and promising and yes, this may be exactly what he needs.
"I don't think anyone's had any doubt as to what you're wanting since you got here," Josh says, swerving his hips to a light collision, and Orlando inhales sharply, pressing back, tipping his ass hopefully against Josh's hand. Josh laughs, intimate in his ear, and strokes down, deliberately gathering Orlando's ass in both hands. Both-- large hands, Orlando thinks blissfully, all the knots tightening, and then Josh is saying, "get what I mean?" and Orlando isn't sure what he's said, but that doesn't matter since he truly doesn't care.
He nuzzles Josh's cheek, gets a slow knead for his trouble, realises that Josh could actually lift him off his feet if he wanted. Probably. Almost definitely, god - those arms. "You, um," he says, but there's not much chance of him actually asking. He feels light-headed with the little slides of his cock against the light wet scruff of hair at the base of Josh's stomach, and actually dizzy at the press of Josh's cock clean and impatient in return.
"Hmm?" Josh says, licking lightly at his ear, making Orlando go momentarily icy despite the steam. The shower shuts off, not that they were under it much, an abrupt absence of a noise Orlando had forgotten.
He squirms breathlessly, turning his face blindly towards Josh's mouth, and gets a brief slick kiss as reward. The water's sweet on his lips, insubstantial.
"Mmm," Josh hums, like answering his own question, and kisses him again, tongue sliding into Orlando's mouth as his fingertips creep between his thighs. Sporadic trickles of water had been making their way between their bodies, making all this slippier, and it feels more intense now they've stopped. Sticky, almost. Extremely good.
In another odd change in noise, Orlando hears the wet slap of hurried footsteps, and it comes back to him shockingly that they're not alone. "Whoaaa," someone yells, and it's too loud in the tiled room, and Orlando's relieved when some other man shushes the first one, then realises the whole fucking place has gone quiet. Possibly, has been quiet for some time.
The wet noise of being kissed is suddenly phenomenally obscene, especially when Josh thrusts deliberately against his stomach and rubs one fingertip suggestively closer-firm. Orlando almost gasps, sucking Josh's tongue instead, tilting his hips blindly in hope of coaxing Josh's fingers to - to be bold, his brain suggests, absurdly demure.
Closer to hysterical than he'd like to admit, Orlando laughs at himself, light soft panting gasps against Josh's mouth that almost sound like whimpers. Josh's hands squeeze, and the pads of two fingers flutter against the entrance to Orlando's body, and Orlando realises he's clutching Josh's shoulders like someone's giving him electric shocks and can't remember how his hands got there in the first place.
He's-- We're being watched, his brain screams, snatching a moment of clarity between waves of debilitating warmth, and they must look ridiculous, so primal and unsophisticated and far too into their roles, but Orlando doesn't care because fuck, Josh's hands, and since his reputation amongst theatrical circles is clearly already damaged then the least he can do is finish the job. Bad form to leave the stage before the final act, after all. They should applaud him.
Images of that, of a ring of actors standing round and clapping as they watch him get fucked, really aren't the sort of thing that's healthy in his brain right now.
"So up for this," Josh breathes, fingers swerving close and then frustratingly away again, and then one fingertip's tapping, lightly, directly where Orlando wants it. Orlando nudges down helplessly, hears little snarling noises dying in his own throat, incredibly close to a moan. Please. Please. Josh can't be worried he's not ready, not at this stage, not given how he's acting-- can't be worried about his wellbeing--
Josh's middle finger makes a direct little jab that makes Orlando hiss, and then, before he has time to talk himself through that one, before he can rationalise that Josh is just testing his boundaries or would never really finger him in front of the rest of the cast, that same finger pushes determinedly up inside him, and Orlando squawks in a mix of outrage and sleek, wonderful pain. Fucking big finger, knuckle by knuckle, sliding inside and his back's arched and his legs are trembling, and he buries his face in Josh's shoulder because this is so totally wrong he can't even begin to look around.
"You total doll," Josh whispers, and Orlando hisses when Josh's forefinger bends and starts nudging against the taut seam where his body meets the finger already inside him, because he's not ready, so not ready for a second one, and then Josh is groaning softly and pushing against Orlando's cock as he forces that second finger deliberately inside, and Orlando almost doubles over with the combined heat of it, can't because his legs won't take his weight right now. Every fraction of pressure against his cock is making him buzz all over, making his mouth ache with gasping, making him want to bear down on Josh's too-large fingers over and over again.
"Care-ful," he says brokenly, when Josh braces his free hand against Orlando's hip as he slides his fingers in and out, because that braced hand means Orlando can't move, means he can't wriggle away if Josh pushes too hard. Josh must know, he thinks helplessly - must know how big his fingers are because they're on his goddamn fucking palm, so unless he's never taken it the other way, he knows how much Orlando's struggling to accommodate right now.
The thought that he's never taken it the other way, that Josh just doles it out to the pretty boys, never spreads his own legs-- Orlando tries to corkscrew down hard on Josh's fingers, gasping with stinging heat, and thinks distractedly that at least his relationship with Dom would've been wholesome, because his fantasy life's a fucking ruin.
He hears Josh groan again, quietly, just loud breath in that cavern of a ribcage he's got, and then there's a moment of pure dizziness as the precious fingers pull out and Orlando makes a few pitiful noises, because that's exactly how his body feels right now.
"C'mon, no, we're just... turning you round, hands against the wall," Josh coaxes, hands pressing suggestively at Orlando's chest and then drawing him round, and Orlando presses his forehead into the cold tiles and can't believe the trashiness, can't believe he's up for something as top-shelf tawdry as this is turning out to be, wonders what magazines Josh'd take on a nine-month solitary.
"At least you're not getting me to grab my ankles," he mutters, then stifles a hiss as the long ridge of Josh's cock presses direct against the cleft of his ass, wriggling because he can't help it that his nerves enjoy slabs of hard male physique all close and personal behind him, especially when the shower mysteriously starts up again. The steam makes everything so blissfully dreamlike, he can forget he's gonna have to work with these guys tomorrow.
"What's that?" Josh asks, fingers flattening against Orlando's hipbones, tantalisingly close to his cock. "You suggesting...?"
"Not suggesting anything," Orlando whispers, and has to suppress the desire to add, "sir."
"Ah, no, y'know what?" Josh says, and taps his hips hard against Orlando's ass, making him want to shift and shift until that solid heat of cock that he can feel there is redirected and pushing into his ass. "I think you were."
What? What? God, Orlando thinks frantically, he's gonna fry in his skin with frustration before Josh actually sticks the damn thing inside. "What?"
Josh's mouth moves against Orlando's ear, and he twitches, wanting to push back into the broad heat behind him, make that linger-hover of wet chest into pretty much his only reality. "Do you wanna just bend over," Josh murmurs, breath sending chills down Orlando's skin, "and grab your ankles, babe?"
Babe? Oh christ. Orlando laughs, "you actually," and then Josh nudges again and it slithers into a low squeak, "want me... to," and one of Josh's hands is on his shoulder now, letting him back up a little, giving him room to manoeuvre but pressing down the whole time. Wanting him to fold double, wanting-- oh god.
His palms collide with his knees before he realises what he's doing, and it's easy to keep going, to curl his fingers around his calves, easy to keep sliding that cautious grip down because he frankly doesn't want to stop and discover that Josh really will shove him if be resists at this stage.
The hairs on his legs are wet, and he can see they all point in the same direction now he's smoothed them down. He can see that, because he's staring at his own ankles, and his ass is exposed in the air.
And Josh is behind him.
"Okay, so is this what you wanted," Orlando starts to say, and shuts up when Josh rocks against his ass, and they're moving now, apparently, because Josh's hands are spreading him and the slide of cock is shifting around, and then Orlando feels the press of it, intimate and unreal, and Josh mutters something that had better damn well be a compliment at this stage.
Water runs into Orlando's eyes and he squeezes them tight, just as Josh starts pushing, niggling, working his way inside. Orlando tries to think of an army-related pun to lighten the mood, but the only one that comes to mind - Saving Ryan's Privates - isn't all that suitable for the situation, and just makes him laugh like choking as Josh angles the first thrust solidly inside.
"Beautiful, beautiful," Josh hisses, more of a grunt than a groan, and Orlando feels every twinge of it, every not-quite-slick-enough centimetre forging its way inside. A pause builds a low glow like static, instant anticipation threaded through heat, and then Josh withdraws and slides in again, faster, more intent.
It's glorious, and it's-- fucking, like Orlando hasn't done in a long time, and it's wonderful to return to it, realise his body loves it just as much as it always did. He tries to rock back, meet Josh push for push, but he can't really do it without wobbling and Josh's holding his hips anyway; all responsibility's been lifted from him with the position, and there's nothing to do except cling to his ankles and enjoy. His head's spinning, and the angle of Josh's cock inside him makes it particularly damn intense, and Orlando's cock's being rubbed rhythmically against his own stomach and sending out undeniably pleasurable waves.
Josh's hips start jarring off his ass, and Orlando hears himself moan. His vision is full of pearly white sparks when he opens his eyes, can barely make out his own thighs, and he's never done this position, never, ever, and it's pretty surprising to find himself here right now. The blood in his head, that's one reason he's never done it before, and the way that if he comes it'll be all over his own chin, that's another, and the way that it's uncomfortable, like his whole world's spinning and overheated, that's a third - this is a position that only a certain type of guy could command, and he has no idea what Josh's thinking on the other side. If it involves him being called a bitch and a whore... the worst thing is, it's not far off accurate right now.
It's-- embarrassing to be finding it so hot, especially in public. Worse when he moans again, louder, and finds himself adjusting feverishly again to meet every stroke; worse still when Josh smacks his ass, once, hard, like whimsy, and Orlando twists helplessly to seek the sting of it again. His backache's disappeared, replaced with a frustration like wildfire.
"Jesus christ," Josh mutters, almost disgustedly, speeding up, and he doesn't hit him again, just bears down hard, slamming inside until Orlando's head almost jars against the wall. Dizzy, sir. Sorry, sir. Sorry.
Sir, Orlando spits at himself, a twinge of annoyance at this betrayal of his own fucking thought-process on top of everything else, but he's trying to balance with one grabbed-ankle so he can slip the other hand up and wank off, and then Josh blatantly notices and knocks his shoulder with the heel of his hand, and Orlando catches himself hoping it'll bruise.
God, knock him about. Wrong and cheesy and predictable but so-- right, and at least he's not on his hands and knees facing his audience, he thinks, and thinks about saying it, then decides that no, no, no. Not a good idea. For chrissakes, hasn't he learnt to keep his mouth shut by now? Look what situations suggesting stuff gets him into.
Josh's gonna come soon, he thinks distractedly, a small part of his brain wondering if he's gonna have to make sure he's first, because there's always the possibility that Josh'll take this role to its uniquely selfish conclusion. Touch yourself, private. Face the wall. The shower's stopped again.
Orlando tries dizzily to get his hand back up to his cock, heat slicing blurs now at every stroke, and Josh leans heavily against the base of his spine, wedging his cock in hard, grabbing the back of Orlando's neck with one hand.
"Can't you stay down?" he demands, ragged whisper, shoving hard, and Orlando gasps and loses it and just comes, heat-wracked and vaguely disturbed. Josh chuckles for a moment, as aftershocks bully pleasure through his body and the honest stink of salt brings the dizziness back three-fold, and then he's gripping Orlando's hips and pounding him, pure soldier using his last energy on a whore.
Ow, thinks Orlando blearily, just a moment before Josh grinds deep and grunts and sighs, and then it's over, Josh sinking slowly to the floor, dragging Orlando's body down against him as they disengage. Aw, how sweet.
Orlando, keeping his eyes closed, enjoys the jackrabbit of Josh's heart for a few precious seconds, before his imagination rears gleefully and he winds up having to peer surreptitiously around. Josh's shoulder makes a good bulwark to hide behind.
There are about five guys standing there, modulated lewd approval setting their grins crooked. Orlando figures the rest of them must've left, chased out for all the right reasons. He's not entirely sure why this lot have stayed. The obvious reason - our turn yet? - makes a sort of treacle-dread erupt slowly in his stomach and spread all over his body. That'd be really embarrassing. He wonders sharply if this particular copulation's been inappropriate enough to make him one of the lads, but he's got a suspicion he's just made the embrace-the-role situation more acute than ever. This is why these things should always be paired with alcohol.
He smiles vaguely at them, turning his attention back to Josh, and his mood drops slightly more. Josh's eyes are closed, and he looks - exhausted, sated, self-satisfied. Not about to defend Orlando's innocence, and if they were alone then Orlando might be thinking about slipping out of bed and meeting him with a determinedly cheery grin in the morning, but actually, he realises, if they were alone, Josh never would have approached him. This sort of setup has to be performance, because otherwise it's simply embarrassing.
Orlando looks back at the guys watching, and it's uncomfortable, deeply uncomfortable - don't you bastards have any sense of orgy etiquette? can't you tell we've reached the end? - and then Josh is stirring and tipping Orlando not-ungently onto the tiles, and those dark eyes are coming open, and Orlando tries to pretend like he's sleepier than reality's allowed.
Awake, Josh palms his cock, first, and that almost makes Orlando laugh, and then Josh's glancing over his shoulder, and Orlando holds his breath instead. Please, yeah? Call him babe any day of the week, so long as he makes that lot go away.
"What the hell?" Josh says, soft, and Orlando decides it's all gonna be okay. Great voice, that. No wonder he gets this sort of role.
One of the guys says something in an undertone, and Orlando figures he's better off not hearing right now.
"O-kay, guys," Josh rumbles, laughter and weariness in his voice, "I told you I could do it, and I proved it. Fuck off. I know y'all are ready to cream your... towels, just from seeing my ass in action, but really, I could do with not having people breathing down my neck right now."
Orlando blinks. Um. Hey.
There's a replying male rumble, some confusion and aggressive laughter, then the slap-slap of footsteps trailing out. Josh looks at him, half a smile crooking his mouth.
"Hmm," Orlando says, as casual as he can manage, pushing up on his elbows. "Proved it?"
Josh's smile widens, and he wrinkles his nose. "I had to get them outa here. The bit about the breathing down the neck was true."
"And the rest wasn't?"
Josh opens his mouth indignantly. "I'm not a bad guy," he protests, and palms the buzz of Orlando's head. Orlando almost nuzzles his palm, then doesn't. "They'll all think I was talking about a bet with someone else."
Orlando catches himself about to pout, quells it. He guesses it doesn't matter. "Well, whatever, eh?" he says.
"Cool," Josh nods, then smiles awkwardly. "Um, I best get going."
Orlando nods back, quickly. "Yup. See you around."
"Yeah," Josh says, then laughs and twirls his finger in the air, illustrating their surroundings, "well, yeah, obviously."
Whoops, Orlando thinks, grinning in return. Can't slot into one-nighter talk just yet. "Obviously." He stretches, then gets to his feet. Feels good, just once, to have the height advantage. "Yeah, I might just have one last rinse."
"Right," Josh says, and gets to his feet. Advantage lost. Orlando tries to tell himself that he likes the stinging in his ass as he turns on the shower again, but in truth, he won't like it til later. Later he'll think back and get hard at the sense-memory, but now, uh, not so great. The hot water feels like he's pouring it on a graze. "You really will prune," Josh says, voice oddly thoughtful, then wanders over to his towel. It's a sopping heap in the middle of the tiles.
"I'll survive," Orlando says, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, thinking about Dom. Dom would never have done this, and-- that's pretty telling.
He's gonna call him, he thinks, trying his hand at resolve. He's gonna damn well see if he can fly him out here, or vice versa, just as soon as possible. Already, the bad stuff about this evening's fading into the realm of anecdote, and he feels himself grin. Sometimes it takes one extreme to rationalise another.
He'll tell Dom about how he got fucked in a communal shower by Josh Hartnett, and Dom will make incredulous noises of glee, and together they'll plot about how to break it to Elijah for maximum effect. Perfect.
A touch on his shoulder makes him open his eyes again; Josh looks sort of nervous, and the useless towel's slung clinging around his waist.
"Um," Orlando says, blinking water out his eyes.
"It wasn't a bet," Josh says, earnestly. He's got water on his eyelashes, handsome as Disney.
Bet? Ah. "No," Orlando says, and smiles a little. Sweet of him to come back. "No, I figured it wasn't." Josh looks unconvinced. "You said so," Orlando adds, and Josh thinks for a moment, then nods.
"Yeah. I did."
Orlando flashes him a smile and starts to close his eyes again, and Josh clears his throat.
"Also," Josh says, "uh, no hard feelings?"
Orlando feels a little giddiness simmer inside him, cresting in his smile. "God, no," he says, happily. "That was. pretty amazing."
Josh grins, and then it fades and he tilts his head. "So you wanna... again, some time?"
Not really, Orlando thinks, then imagines the weeks of filming stretched out ahead, and smiles again. "Maybe. I'll find you," he says, and Josh grins and leans closer, and Orlando pecks him quickly on the mouth and then tilts his head back to let water run over his face. There's a few moments, then he hears the faint padding of wet footsteps leaving the room.
He's gonna stay in here and think about Dom some more, he decides, reaching for the soap. He's gonna ignore those fears that Dom won't approve, that Dom might not have wanted Orlando to charge straight into an unfeeling fuck, because there's a time and a place for them and this really isn't it. He lathers up, deciding carefully that he likes the way that he can still feel Josh inside him.
One extreme to highlight another, just keep saying it, he thinks, a quick grim wry flash. He folds those thoughts away with the whole potential Dom disapproval thing, and decides to focus on the here and now and banal instead. His backache's gone-- and that's amusing, but he doesn't really want to think about that either. He'd prefer to concentrate on good, clean things like plane tickets and scented candles and surprise phonecalls right now.