fellowshippers | FIC, An Ocean of Violets, Orlijah, R

Title: An Ocean of Violets
Author: Azrhiaz
Rating: strong R this one, I should think
Pairing: Orlijah, baby
Summary: Elijah doesn’t like eighties music. Orli does. Not much plot, hooyah.
Archive: BTF, Night’s Garden, others please ask
Disclaimer: I only wish this happened. And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. All the fabulous lyrics written by Prince, not me. Don’t sue.
Feedback: works for me.
Author’s notes: What happens when my other bunnies refuse to cooperate plus a thunderstorm and Prince on the CD player. For Jo- happy belated birthday and all that. I’ll make you like Orlijah yet. * determined face*

“Damn, Orli, you are such a lame fuck.”

Orli didn’t miss a beat as he bopped around the room after hitting play. Elijah rolled his eyes as Prince’s “U Got the Look” blasted from his beloved old Koss speakers. The thunder outside boomed even louder, threatening to drown out Prince’s squeals.

“You’re just sore ‘cause we can’t go surfing,” Orli replied good-naturedly before striking a campy pose with Elijah’s hairbrush and singing along with Sheena Easton’s bit.

“Well, yeah,” Elijah snapped as he snatched the hairbrush away from Orli, “but that doesn’t change the fact that I hate this eighties crap.”

Rather than taking offense, Orli merely looked amused, grinning wildly at Elijah. “You like Rush.”

“Doesn’t count, that’s more like seventies,” Elijah said as he flopped down grumpily onto his yellow vinyl beanbag. Truth to tell, he didn’t really dislike Prince all that much. He was just more disappointed than he’d care to admit about not getting to go surfing with Orli. Orli surfing was a beautiful thing. He was so damn good at it, so graceful, he made Elijah think of a sleek black dolphin instead of a Brit who’d never touched a surfboard until two years ago.

“I bet I can get you to like eighties music,” Orli said with a teasing glint in his eyes, “at least Prince.”

“Bet you can’t,” Elijah retorted. Can not. Can too. Jeez, we sound like five year olds, he thought.

“I just love a challenge,” Orli said and turned to Elijah’s closet, flinging the louvered doors open. “First, wardrobe.” He began poking around through Elijah’s clothes, flipping quickly and shaking his head in patent disapproval.

“You aren’t going to find anything eighties in there,” Elijah said, “I was, like, five when the skinny ties were in.”

Orli laughed and continued his search. “You just need to use your imagination a bit.” He pulled out a pink shirt, appraised it for 2.2 seconds, and tossed it on the floor.

“Hey!” Elijah protested, but Orli paid no attention. He pulled out a white silk shirt, far too tailored to be eighties, but silk regardless. “That won’t fit you,” he added, but Orli was already pulling his gray t-shirt off, and the sight of his carved abs flexing made Elijah’s voice freeze up in his throat.

“It doesn’t really have to fit. I’m not going to button it up,” Orli said as he pulled the shirt on and rolled the too-short sleeves up, a distinctly eighties touch.

“Oh,” was Elijah’s brilliant reply. He hoped that Orli didn’t hear the crack in that word, and not trusting himself to say anything else, he didn’t.

“Second, makeup.” Orli looked around Elijah’s garage loft. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any.”

Elijah blinked in surprise. “Uh, no, I don’t. But, um, sometimes Hannah leaves some in the bathroom when she stays over.”

“Okay, then. Be right back.” Orli ducked into the bathroom and shut the door. “Little Red Corvette” was on now- baby, you’re much too fast- and Elijah swallowed hard in anticipation or fear, or both, watching the door and waiting.

After an approximate eternity of chewing his nubs and picking at the loose thread on the beanbag, Orli reemerged from the bathroom and Elijah forgot to breathe.

Orli had moussed his hair up in a fluffy pouf that looked really silly, but the smoky kohl rimming his sin-dark eyes looked anything but. A tiny hint of blush warmed the unreal planes of his cheekbones, and his lips…dear God. They were glossy and just a bit peachy-brown, and Elijah wondered idly if that was Hannah’s coffee-flavored lip gloss.

“So, what do you think?” Eighties-Orli said, hands on hips, thrusting his lips out in an exaggerated pout that broke the tension and sent Elijah into a fit of giggles.

Pretending hurt, Orli pouted- very pretty, Elijah thought before he caught himself- and flounced over to the CD player. “And third, we need to change this up a bit. I don’t much like this one,” Orli said as he hit the track button three times. He reached over and flicked off the overhead light, so that the room was lit only with the soft grey rainlight and the occasional bright flash of lightning.

“One, two, one, two, three, four,” Orli and Prince sang, and the bright cymbals of “Raspberry Beret” filled the room. Orli bounced in place, wielding an air guitar and moving uncannily like Prince in the sky-blue video. Elijah laughed again, and Orli grinned, and the world wasn’t such a crap place to be right then. Orli didn’t finish the song, though, turning to hit stop less than halfway through.

“Hey, why’d you stop?” Elijah asked, disappointed.

“That one’s fun, but I like this one better,” Orli said, fast-forwarding another couple of tracks. A spiraling wave of sound curled out of the speakers and straight up Elijah’s spine, rushing back down to his cock when Prince said “uhhhh” and Orli flicked his hips forward. The white shirt fell open over the summer-bronzed skin and Orli’s hips slid into an impossible figure-eight motion like they were set on well-oiled ball bearings. Orli locked eyes with Elijah and sang:

You don’t have to be beautiful
To turn me on

I just need your body, baby
From dusk til dawn

Elijah felt his pants get a little bit tighter and the room was getting inexplicably warmer. He shifted in the beanbag as Orli continued--

You don’t have to watch Dynasty
To have an attitude

--Orli dipped his hand just under his waistband, and Elijah’s mouth went dry—

You just leave it all up to me
My love will be your food

Elijah’s dick was definitely hard now, straining against the uncomfortable crush of denim as Orli twirled and sang and cast playfully corrupted glances at Elijah through smudgy lashes. He wasn’t at all sure he was okay with where this was going, as he wasn’t at all sure if Orli was just fucking with him. And there were untold depths of embarrassment to drown in if that turned out to be the case. He hopped up and hit the stop button.

Orli looked at him, surprise and concern flashing over his face. “Lij? What’s wrong?”

Elijah turned away, feeling the burn creep up his cheeks. “Nothing, just…nothing.” He sat back down in the beanbag and focused his attention on the urgent matter of the loose thread.

Orli stood there quietly for a minute. Elijah was silently kicking himself for probably ruining the entire afternoon. He was just about to speak- to say something, anything, to try to undo his fuckup- when from underneath his lashes he saw Orli’s hand slide back over and press play, then skip.

The sensuous glide of electric guitar coincided almost magically with a crack of lightning so close Elijah could smell the cool blueness of the ozone before the thunder followed in a window-rattling boom. Orli began to dance again, but slowly, and Elijah forced himself to look up at Orli’s face. In the shadowy half-light he looked like raw sex, no playfulness in his expression now. He moved closer to Elijah until he was practically on top of him, and then, oh then, he was on top of him, throwing a leg over the beanbag so that he was standing astride Elijah. The sinuous swirl of his hips was so mesmerizing Elijah didn’t realize he was staring until Orli caught his chin with his hand and lifted it so that he was looking instead into burning eyes.

Dig if you will the picture
Of you and I engaged in a kiss

--Orli sank to his knees, straddling Elijah’s lap, leaning over so that his glossy lips were only centimeters away from Elijah’s, so close that Elijah knew that it was Hannah’s coffee lip gloss, he could smell it along with the cinnamon heat of Orli’s breath—

The sweat of your body covers me
Can you, my darling, can you picture this?

--Elijah thought he could; then Orli’s lips were on his, and a thousand and one nights of sticky dreams came suddenly, inexplicably true and awake—

Dream if you can a courtyard

--Orli’s tongue now, sliding in and wrapping around and oh—

An ocean of violets in bloom

--Elijah felt himself falling, losing himself in the kiss, drowning in the violets—he could see them, oh yes—

Animals strike curious poses
They feel the heat, the heat between me and you

--and then Orli was pressing down against him, and Elijah felt how hard he was through his khakis. He heard a strangled whimper—was that me?—and fuck, if it means embarrassment later, so fucking what—he reached for Orli’s fly. Orli caught his wrist and shook his head, and the doubt was there again, a split second of agony before Orli whispered:

“No, let me touch you.”

And then Orli was pulling his jeans down, and he sank back further into the bean bag as those glossy-sweet lips closed around his cock and the world became simultaneously tiny and infinite. Lightning flashed again, bright against the glossy dark curls of Orli’s bobbing head, and Elijah threaded his fingers through Orli’s hair and held on for dear life as the storm crashed hard around them. There, ohgodohgod there, the hot satin at the back of Orli’s throat, and he pressed up and came without warning in a scalding rush, incapable at that moment of apology but Orli didn’t protest, only drawing him in deeper with an unbearable suction until Elijah pushed his head away—too much—and Orli leaned up to kiss him again, bitter this time but somehow still sweet.

Orli settled beside him in the beanbag and Elijah listened to the rain beat against the window in a ragged pattern echoing his own breath. The song, too, had slipped to the next track, and somehow that was right. They sat there together, not speaking, just listening to the baroque melancholy of “Purple Rain.” Finally Orli broke the silence.

“So…what do you think of Prince now?” His eyeliner was smeared beyond repair and he had a very smug grin indeed plastered across his face.

Elijah laughed, and it was all as it should be again, only…better.

“Well, apparently he sucks,” he replied before bolting for the bedroom, Orli’s laughing curses hot on his heels.

End.

FIC, An Ocean of Violets, Orlijah, R

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