notes: my slashababy for shaenie. she asked for porn and this was the best i could do.
It started in New Zealand. A makeup trailer at dawn. Like an action movie epic, which is what they were filming, but also like a romance. A mystery. Infatuation that kills.
Four months and Billy’s eyes had been darkening. They clouded over until nearly black. Elijah called them nightmares but everyone else watched in silence. When Billy blinked they breathed a sigh of relief, thankful for a brief respite.
In the mornings Billy read poetry in his makeup chair and said nothing about phenomenons or pupils bleeding their ink into irises. In fact it was like he hadn’t noticed but Dom sometimes looked up to see Billy staring into the mirror, caught like the rest of them.
The only one other than Billy who said nothing to anyone was Orlando. Not because he hadn’t noticed but because too many words were bubbling in his vocal chords and he had never been very good at making decisions. Better to keep his mouth shut and trap them all in until one situation or another made the choice for him.
It started in New Zealand, in a makeup trailer at dawn. A kiss like a slap, that fierce and full of fury. And then nothing but black eyes for months.
When Orlando talked about it he always referred to Fight Club. To the way you feel after someone has punched you hard in the gut and you are fighting for air. To the sound of knuckles and cheekbones.
There were things he didn’t talk about, like how Billy fisted his hands in Orli’s hair and dug his nails into his scalp. The cradle of bones that made Billy’s hips and the dark of Orlando’s mouth against them. The way Billy leaned his head back to scream and Orlando licked the vowels from Billy’s skin.
There was nothing really violent about it, that’s what no one understood. There was nothing like bruises (mostly) or blood (except for the time Orli bit his own tongue and the bitter liquid filled both their mouths, stained both their lips). Elijah routinely made them strip from the waist up and walked round them in circles, inspecting their skin, fingers prodding for sore spots. Not because he didn’t trust them but because he couldn’t believe love didn’t leave marks.
The first rule of fight club, Orlando would gasp, and Billy would sink his teeth into Orlando’s pale skin. The give of flesh beneath enamel. A dismal savage thing to do but it made Orlando clench his hands into his fists and tilt his head back to allow for more air.
Sometimes Orlando slept in Billy’s arms.
Mostly he stayed awake as Billy drifted, invented languages on Billy’s skin, and waited for the sun to rise.
It was only after 8 months that they approached each other again and that had been more of a mistake than anything else. A club in Wellington, Billy knocked into Orlando by some girl too drunk to keep her balance. His shoulder into Orli’s ribcage, both slick and sticky with sweat and beer, Billy’s eyes so dark he could barely see out anymore.
This one time not so much a fistfight but a car accident. Mouths barreling towards each other at high speeds in the wrong lanes. Billy thinking autobahn.
Orlando thinking finally.
When Billy talked about it he talked about all the things didn’t matter. Like the ridge of Orlando’s collarbones. The sweep of Orlando’s eyelashes. How they sat together sometimes and said nothing and Billy dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek until it swelled and bled under the pressure.
He did not mention the taste of Orlando’s skin, haunting the edges of his tongue. How his fingers slipped and slid over Orli’s angles, looking for someplace to grab hold.
He did not mention leaning his head against the headboard of Orli’s bed, his forehead to cold wood, his fingers turning white from gripping too hard. Orli behind him, lips to Billy’s shoulderblades. The words that crusted and crowded around Orli’s tongue before spilling out into an unintelligible string of syllables.
Dom sometimes pulled him aside, slid thumbs over Billy’s knuckles, checked them for flaws. As if Billy would lose control, would swing violently. Would break something beautiful. Dom smiled always as he did this, pressed gentle kisses in the dips between the bones afterwards, silent apologies. Not that he didn’t trust Billy but because he already knew that beauty like that only lasted as long as people’s patience did.
The second rule of fight club, Billy would mutter, into Orlando’s neck. Orlando would arch and hiss and rake his nails down Billy’s back, leaving angry trails in their wake (because he couldn’t cut them, wouldn’t cut them).
Sometimes Billy held Orlando to his chest and listened to his heart slow.
Mostly Billy closed his eyes and slipped away, carried by the feel of Orlando’s fingerprints swiping over his skin.
In London. In LA. In Glasgow. A darkness that spread to every major city. The pump-thump of blood running too fast in veins too small. The solid smack of skin meeting skin.
In the months they were apart Billy’s eyes lightened to green again. As if it was Orlando’s shadow sticking to Billy’s irises. Nothing like lust or fury or energy but something much simpler and fiercer, the mere presence of him. But Orlando was harder than anything that ran in Billy’s bloodline. He was harder and full of heat and Billy felt like he came away from their time together covered in burns.
Sometimes sliding into Orlando Billy’s eyelashes fluttered involuntarily and everything around him went black. Until all there was was the feel of it. His whole body using only one sense, everything else shut out, made unimportant.
Sometimes bending under the weight of Billy’s mouth Orlando opened his eyes and they were floating in air. Nothing but the two of them clinging and clutching. Their afterimages flickering like lightning around them.
Sometimes they closed their eyes and gave in.
Mostly, though, they clawed their way back to the surface, knowing the sun would be waiting.