(no subject)
The sofa's upholstery is surprisingly cool against his forehead when Orlando curls up and presses his knees, too, to the backrest. The shadow puppets of the bad sitcom repeat casting moving whites and blues against his back is somewhat of a comfort, even without the sound. Orlando's grown tired of laugh-tracks at half three in the morning. He closes his eyes and, because one needs to entertain oneself in however way that comes to mind when one hasn't slept in over 48 hours, Orlando thinks of the sounds he likes instead. Keira's laughter. Johnny typing away, humming. Nikki splashing gracefully in the pool. Bill's breathing. Yeah.
He presses his palm against the bump in his sweatpants and rubs absently, going through each sound again to identify which one is making the muscle in his stomach twitch with each push of his hand on his crotch. He knows which one it is tonight, but he goes through them, tries them all on for size, takes his time so that when he summons the feel of Bill speaking close to his ear, his cock jerks under his hand and Orlando slips his hand into the waist of his sweatpants, fisting it tightly.
He collects touches from Bill like a kid would toys from cereal boxes. Rare and treasured; unimportant, but they mean the world to him. Orlando feels safe in the assessment of his own feelings and he knows that he doesn't love Bill the way he loved Robbie or the way he can't think of a life without Johnny anymore. He has no trouble admitting this. But Bill's presence is a comfort he hadn't expected, and the man does things to him he can't begin to understand. Orlando flicks the pad of his thumb over the head of his cock, tracing the slit as he imagines, for a moment, Bill's hand on the small of his back instead of his wrist. Orlando can almost feel it against his scar, Bill's sureness, Bill's unwavering touch, when he dares touching at all. The rarity of it makes each instances stand out all the more in Orlando's head.
He moans and curls into himself further, pressing his forehead and knees to the backrest harder. His hand settles into a familiar rhythm, comforting flicks of his wrist. He slips his second hand in and moves his legs a bit to squeeze his balls, daring to imagine Bill's touch there too. Bill's breathing.
It's the breathing that undoes him.
He presses his palm against the bump in his sweatpants and rubs absently, going through each sound again to identify which one is making the muscle in his stomach twitch with each push of his hand on his crotch. He knows which one it is tonight, but he goes through them, tries them all on for size, takes his time so that when he summons the feel of Bill speaking close to his ear, his cock jerks under his hand and Orlando slips his hand into the waist of his sweatpants, fisting it tightly.
He collects touches from Bill like a kid would toys from cereal boxes. Rare and treasured; unimportant, but they mean the world to him. Orlando feels safe in the assessment of his own feelings and he knows that he doesn't love Bill the way he loved Robbie or the way he can't think of a life without Johnny anymore. He has no trouble admitting this. But Bill's presence is a comfort he hadn't expected, and the man does things to him he can't begin to understand. Orlando flicks the pad of his thumb over the head of his cock, tracing the slit as he imagines, for a moment, Bill's hand on the small of his back instead of his wrist. Orlando can almost feel it against his scar, Bill's sureness, Bill's unwavering touch, when he dares touching at all. The rarity of it makes each instances stand out all the more in Orlando's head.
He moans and curls into himself further, pressing his forehead and knees to the backrest harder. His hand settles into a familiar rhythm, comforting flicks of his wrist. He slips his second hand in and moves his legs a bit to squeeze his balls, daring to imagine Bill's touch there too. Bill's breathing.
It's the breathing that undoes him.