Title: Background Intervals
Author: Jill
E-Mail: [email protected]
Disclaimer: Nobody has ever accused me of being psychic. I don't think this happened.
Summary: Some things just happen sometimes.
Pairing; Orlando/Elijah
Rating: R

Everyone tells Orlando that he's the sort of happy drunk it's hard not to laugh with. Or at, depending on the night's particular antics. His smiles are always big and bright, his jokes boisterous, his demeanor jovial in a different way than usual.

He likes to have quick shots when he's dancing and fancy flavored beer for long nights of sitting around and shooting the shit. He likes to find mixed drinks he's never tried before, and always encourages everyone around him to taste, gradually going from offering his glass to teasing that they could try it right out of his mouth. He's flirtatious, free with his suggestive grins and winks -- but he blinks with slow, unsteady surprise the night Elijah leans over and takes him up on it, is still blinking as Dom and Billy laugh and Elijah simply says, "you're right. That's fucking good," and orders one for himself. He doesn't drink any more after that but isn't much closer to sober by the time he follows Elijah into his hotel room and presses him to the wall with a slight smirk.

"It wasn't all that good."

"Something was," Elijah tells him, wasted enough to be confident about the entire thing, and the kisses are soft, steady, sloppily wet and appropriately messy. Elijah's hands are warm and fumbling across his skin, plucking at his clothes like the unwanted bits of radish he always removes from salads. There's a certain graceless precision involved, the look of absent concentration and automatic intent exactly the same, and Orlando likes the almost pained fluttering of Elijah's eyelids when he comes, still on his feet, golden bright against the dull white paint on the wall.

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It's not something they talk about. Just a thing that happened after a long day of work, a long night of fun, and they can look each other in the eye and laugh and joke the same as ever, so talking seems unnecessary. Elijah doesn't pull the drink stunt again, and Orlando lets it go at that.

Until another night, walking back and it's late and they're drunk and Dom has the look about him that everyone knows means to back off for awhile because they've all seen it in the mirror at some point. It was his turn for a rough day and they'd thought going out, relaxing, laughing would help, but it hadn't and his jaw is tense and his eyes distant. He walks ahead of them, not so drunk, pace steady and purposeful. He doesn't wait when they fall behind, caught up with bumping into each other and arguing over whose fault it is each time.

And he's gone around a corner when they stop on a tiny bridge, really just the road raised slightly over a large stream, but there's a low brick border wall and Orlando leans over it, stares down into the water gurgling less than a foot deep over rocks. Light from buildings, from street lamps, from unidentified sources, catches on the surface and bends, prisms off into blurry pinpricks.

Elijah's hand comes down on the small of his back, right across the hem of his shirt where it's pulled up, heel of his palm connecting in warm contrast with goose-bumped flesh. "What is it?" he asks, leaning nowhere near as far.

"Just water." Orlando straightens up and looks back and Elijah is glowing -- something must be wrong with his contacts, Elijah doesn't glow, people don't soak up light and send it back brighter than before. He reaches to press a hand against the offending skin and stumbles, and they're scuffling and shoving and then yes, Elijah's hands *are* warm, grasping, under his shirt and the waist of his jeans, thank God he likes his jeans loose enough that fingers can slide in and rub, thumbs on the nervy jut of his hipbones. Hot, uncontrolled kisses, gripping Elijah at the waist and thrusting, rubbing, popping the top button of his jeans to get his hand in and bring him off, see that flush and flutter and he's still glowing, glowing against the dark shadows of night.

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Later he can't believe he, for all intents and purposes, had sex on a bridge in the middle of the night, in the middle of the city. Except that he can't really deny it, with how his back hurts a little from leaning at weird angles and his knees are sore from keeping them slightly bent to put himself at Elijah's height.

Next time, if there's a next time, he swears there will be a bed involved. And he's pretty sure that even though they don't really talk about it, there will be a next time.

fin