Harry squinted as a burst of sunlight fanned through the trees, and focused on Orlando's face -- the narrow cheekbones, wide eyes, impossibly long lashes, and the smile that rivaled the sun. "I think I already know," he repeated, testing the weight of the words on his tongue. "What if I want to tell you anyway?" Orlando placed his head on Harry's chest, and Harry closed his hand over Orlando's hair, stubble abrading his fingers. "Then I'll listen," Harry replied, looking down at his hand. Blunt fingers with calluses, large knuckles with scratches -- a working man's hand -- on that delicate scalp. Thought about complementary colors and wondered if it applied to anything else. "But sometimes words really are inadequate." "So what would be adequate?" Harry smiled, spread his fingers to touch more of Orlando's hair. "This is more than enough." Orlando lifted his head, dark eyes fathomless, the gold flecks in them tugging at something deep in Harry's heart. "I want to show you more." "I don't need --" Harry stopped when Orlando placed a finger over his lips. "I need." "Alright." Orlando twisted beneath Harry, tugged him up and Harry spared a last glance at his backyard -- the messy azalea bushes, ragged grass, weather-beaten lawn furniture, paint-chipped fence -- his home, safe and familiar. But, for a second, it seemed new. Different. Then Orlando laced their fingers together, and Harry allowed the moment to slip away, focusing on watching the slight sway of Orlando's hips as he pulled Harry back into the house and down the shadowed hallway. "Which room is yours?" Harry nodded toward the last door on the right, and he and Orlando stepped into the semi-dark room. Harry squinted again, eyes adjusting to the shadows. Dust motes danced in the air, trailed like fairy dust along the messy bed and heavy oak dressers. Orlando stepped over a pile of laundry and turned around, breathing deeply. "I like it," he finally said, giving Harry another shy smile. "Feels like you." Harry looked around the room, tried to see what Orlando saw. Only saw the piles of jeans and t-shirts in careless disarray on the floor, the heavy, moss-green curtains blocking the sun, scarred furniture, the dresser that held his alarm clock, watch, and several piles of loose change and crumpled notes. The bed was unmade, the pillow still had a crease from Harry's head. It looked like a typical guy's bedroom to Harry. Orlando apparently saw something a little different. "So, um --" Harry rubbed a hand through his hair, yawned nervously. "Relax." Orlando's smile brightened, and he pushed Harry down to sit on the edge of the bed. "I'm not going to hurt you." "I know you're not," Harry stated simply, and was rewarded with another smile. Orlando didn't answer, just moved slender fingers to the hem of his t-shirt, drew it slowly over his head. Harry's breath caught -- felt that same pressing weight on his chest he'd had the last time he'd seen that sleekly muscled chest and abs, gazed upon all of that golden skin. The only difference was that now Harry was free to look, to touch, to run the flat side of his tongue along the small sun tattoo peeking from the waistband of Orlando's jeans. Well, maybe he'd always been free to do it, but this time he was aware. "Can you see alright?" Orlando asked, taking a step toward the lamp. Harry tugged Orlando into the vee of his legs, hands resting on Orlando's hips. "Yeah," he said, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned forward to finally taste warm skin. "I can see just fine." Onto Morning: Taste
|