Simplicity

by Vivi

It was cold in his flat. The furnace was on and obediently pumping out warmth through the grates scattered about but somehow that heat wasn't reaching him, stood aloof and away from where he sat in the floor. Orli wrapped his arms around his knees and stared at the cold hearth, wishing there was a fire crackling and licking its way over the grille, but not wanting it badly enough to bother building one.

And anyway, he could hear better this way.

A moment ago there had been footsteps coming up the stairs, hitting the one squeaky spot on the landing, and he was waiting, stomach coiled and almost nauseous with tension to see where they stopped.

There were three people, besides himself, who had a key to his flat.

One was his landlady, sweet little old lady who always had her hair in little pink curlers, and Orli had wondered more than once did she ever take them out to see the end product because if she had, he had yet to see it. Nice old biddy, and he made sure he sent his rent cheques to her right on time, name, date and signature affixed neatly in their proper spots.

He supposed she might use her key on occasion; send some repairman in to check the place and change the filters in the furnace, switch the batteries in the smoke detectors and the like. Every once in a while he'd get a little orange or green post-it note tacked on his door, informing him about things like that.

She'd never come up after dark.

His mum had a key as well. In case of emergencies, if he locked his own keys in, perhaps. Not so much to visit; he was more like to go see her than the other way. Too often he wasn't here and it was difficult to catch him not busy when he was. She'd come by occasionally, though.

But she never came after dark, either.

And one other person had a key. Orli had given it to him without saying a word, and he'd taken it the same way. After all was said and done, the cameras weren't rolling, the shine of the lights were gone and whatever glamour that came with cosmetics and wigs had been washed away and put in a trunk. After it was all over, Orli had looked up and he'd still been there. So he gave him the key.

He always came after dark.

Strange how things worked out sometimes. His first real role in a film had been like a diamond someone had just tossed in his lap, and he'd never expected it to be anything else. Just a job, a good job, certainly, but still a job. He hadn't expected to make friends the way he had, or even to do half the things he had. He certainly hadn't expected to find someone to fancy, and he hadn't.

Far too simple a word for what had happened when he'd gotten to know Viggo.

Simplicity was where it began.

He'd taught Viggo how to surf.

Viggo had taught him how to give a blowjob and it was good that Orli had done better at that than Viggo had at surfing. It hadn't seemed any stranger or more important than surfing had. He'd turned his newfound skills to others and it had meant nothing more than that. Not then.

The first time they'd fucked had been on the floor of his trailer, carpet grinding raw patches into his knees, his palms and they were on call in less than a half hour, the taste of come still thick and heavy in Orli's mouth even as he was trying not to scream or cry because it hurt, fucking -hurt- and he still could help pushing back into it, trying to get more as Viggo jerked his hips back, fucking him hard, fucking him up and it would be almost a week before he could really sit comfortably again, and he didn't find out until much later that Viggo had seen him going down on Elijah in the loo, had stood guard at the door until they were done. Had followed him back to his trailer afterward.

It hadn't stopped him from letting Viggo do it again at the end of the week. And again. Again.

There was faintest scrape of a key in the lock and Orli closed his eyes, still waiting, always waiting, for a touch, gentle or rough, and maybe this time they'd make it to the bedroom, a tangle of smooth, naked limbs to sprawl across rumpled sheets or maybe it'd be like the time they never made it past the foyer, with the doormat rough against his shoulders and his pants tangled around his ankles, awkward and determined and sweat and come and fucking in any room, anywhere at all.

But always in silence. Like that time in the trailer. Like with the key.

Like simplicity itself.

-finis-

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