(no subject)

[boy_on_film]

Set near the end of the party.



Keira's laughter comes to him from inside the house and Orlando realises everybody's either leaving, already gone, or moving inside. Orlando hums happily to himself, soaking in the comfortable half-quiet of the yard, the smell of oranges, chlorine, nicotine and of a dozen people's sweat, perfumes and after-shaves. There's the tingle of beer and pot in Orlando's limbs and he feels it heavy on his tongue, too. When he opens his eyes again his vision is full of Bill.

Literally.

Orlando blinks. "Hi!"

Orlando's eyes are a little red, bloodshot, but only a little. Not so stoned that he won't remember this in the morning, which is good.

Although, if he's perfectly honest, Bill is glad Orlando is slightly mellow with booze and weed. Maybe it'll take some of the sting out of what Bill needs to tell him. Chemical padding.

"Come into the grove with me, Orlando," he says softly, and is disgusted to notice that he's trying to prepare Orlando for the seriousness of the situation without actually saying it; trying to use body language and the expression on his face to convey it. "I need to talk to you."

The oranges are even more fragrant this close up and Orlando bends in half to pick one off the ground, his balance a little wobbly when he straightens. He leans a shoulder against a trunk and smiles at Bill in the semi-darkness.

Bill is standing a little less easily than earlier. Orlando tries to remember where Keira and Nic are and whether they have anything to do with it.

He scratches a nail ineffectually at the zest. "Alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, for right now. But something happened you should know about."

But for long moments, he can't think how to tell Orlando that someone had tried to kill him tonight. Someone had wanted him dead enough to burn down the apartment building Orlando had lived in with Burelle.

"There was a fire," he says, watching Orlando fucking with the orange. He takes it from Orlando's unresisting grasp with one hand, dipping into his jacket pocket for his knife at the same time. He spends fifteen seconds or so peeling it, hands it back skinless and quartered. He runs his edge along the flat of the blade to get the sticky juice off of it, then licks it off the pad of his thumb. "Your apartment building burned down," he finishes finally.

There's a brief grin on Orlando's face when Bill hands him the orange neatly split, but then the words are out of Bill's mouth and sink in almost immediately, bringing Orlando's gaze back up to Bill's face, impromptu snack forgotten.

"It. What?" He heard. But--what?

"It burned down," Bill repeats, a little surprised to find that it doesn't irritate him to have to do so, though patience is not normally his forte. "Someone set it on fire. It burned to the ground. No one was hurt in the fire, but the building is gone."

He shuts up, just stands there and watches Orlando, waiting for it to sink in.

Soft flesh gives under his fingers and Orlando feels, with an odd sense of detached clarity, the cold, sticky juice running down his wrist.

"Why?" He hears the word come out much more harshly than he means it and feels the resulting anger build up in his chest, sticky and cold too, where marijuana-hunger was a second before. "Why-- why-- why did this happen? Who did this? Is it because-- IS IT BECAUSE--" The anger jumps up in his throat and he clamps it down, clenching it between his teeth, clutching it between his hands, sweet and cool and wrecked.

Orlando doesn't get angry, much. He isn't like Bill, who lives with the understanding that rage is like breathing for him: easy, painless, and sometimes involuntary.

When the rage blossoms on Orlando's face, a visible shocked sort of jolt that clenches his fists -- squeezing the orange he's holding to pulp -- and his jaw and draws his wiry frame tight and hard, Bill stands still and doesn't attempt to diffuse it. He isn't sure if being angry is better for him than the... malaise of the past weeks, or not. He doesn't know any more. But he does know that Orlando has a right to be angry, and he knows that he'd rather have him angry than terrified.

Even with orange juice dripping from his hands and down his forearms, even with how pale his face has become, Orlando actually looks... fairly formidable when angry. Bill thinks it's probably a height thing.

"Yes. Although... I'm not sure Dominguez meant for the building to get burned down. That's not really his style. He can be flashy, but that's a bit too obvious for him. But I don't doubt that he sent whomever did it. Maybe to grab you. Maybe to kill you."

He keeps his voice steady and neutral, doing nothing but imparting information. It might help, it might not. It's hard to tell with Orlando.

Bill has never really understood him, like it or not. Orlando reacts differently than most people to things.

Orlando stares at Bill for a moment (it ticks away endlessly, no end in sight) then looks away, down at the ruined fruit in his hands. He holds it in both hands, weighing it with a calmness that frightens even him. The rage simmers just under the surface, foreign yet almost comforting, and he feels it when it boils over and coils his muscles to pull his arm back. He flings the orange--hard and violent, wishing it would hit someone--and hears it smash against something in the shadows of the grove. He thinks the echoing cry is probably his.

Bill hasn't flinched; grey-green eyes, poised and analytical, are studying him. There's an unsettling tinge of simpatico in them, blinked away momentarily when Orlando starts yelling again.

"Why won't they fucking leave me alone! They know I've been out here all this time, they know I haven't said anything to anyone! I JUST WANT OUT! I don't care about them anymore! Wasn't killing Robbie enough?!"

And there isn't any kind of answer to that that will satisfy Orlando, Bill knows it. There isn't any way to pacify, placate, or comfort him. It's the way it is because it just is.

It will never be enough. As long as Dominguez reads Orlando as a danger to him, it will never be enough, and as far as Bill goes, nothing will stop him. Orlando is a danger to him, but Bill had hurt him. Hurt his pride, hurt his operation, hurt his image, hurt the hierarchy of command that Dominguez had established so meticulously. Hurt his credibility.

"It won't ever be enough," he says, and it sounds almost like he's musing aloud. Maybe he is. "People like Dominguez don't have limits, you know. There isn't a line that can't be crossed, a place where he won't go. He'd kill your mother if he thought there was a good reason for it, your children, your dog, the lady that taught you to play the guitar when you were six. There isn't any reason to let you live in his mind, Orlando, and every reason why your death would benefit him. He isn't the sort of bloke that believes that because you haven't talked, you won't some time in the future."

He chooses not to mention the rest. There's no need for Orlando to know, no need to worry him further, as Bill can take care of himself in a way that Orlando will never be able to.

Orlando's eyes darken and burn, angerfear flickering like baleful coals in their depths. "And he's right, of course," Bill adds, and he isn't even sure why. It isn't that he thinks it will help, to lay it out for Orlando like this. He's tried before; Orlando has turned away from every single attempt to talk about it. "He's right. The DA will eventually call you to testify, and you'll do it, Orlando, because they'll drop all charges against you if you do. Right now the only standing charge is misdemeanor possession, but if you don't cooperate, it'll be other things, big things. Conspiracy to possess with intent to deliver, conspiracy to commit organized crime, maybe, if the DA feels like being a bastard and taking a chance. Felony shite, Pretty, and you'd go down for it because you don't know how to take care of yourself, not on the street and not on the stand. You'll talk because you'll end up with no choice, and Dominguez knows it. Nevermind that you don't know anything that could really hurt him. What you know is enough to make him uncomfortable. And he doesn't like to be uncomfortable."

The painful twinge in his jaw is back, the muscles in his shoulders aching even through the slowly fading buzz of alcohol and weed. He curls his fists tightly enough to hurt, to curb the scary impulse to hit Bill, to punch him right in the mouth to shut him up. Orlando hasn't felt that impulse since before Robbie, since living on the street where you had to hurt people so they wouldn't hurt you. It tastes bitter in his mouth now. He doesn't want to hit Bill. Because he likes Bill, who's probably closer to him right now than anyone else because he knows and he understands.

And Bill could hit back, and Orlando doesn't want to find out what that would feel like.

He looks away from Bill, down at Bill's boots digging into the soft earth of the grove. Some of the white-hot anger leaves him, suddenly, leaving half of him drained, the rest of him still on edge. "Do I have to hide? Always? I don't want to go away, Bill..."

For a moment, he really thinks Orlando is going to hit him.

It doesn't frighten him. If Orlando gave into that impulse, in spite of the strength Bill knows lies in Orlando's sinewy arms and lean chest, it wouldn't hurt him much. Bill knows how to take a hit, and there wouldn't be much in the way of skill behind it.

So it doesn't frighten him.

What does frighten him is that, just for a moment, he wishes Orlando would. He wishes Orlando would lash out at him, because...

But he isn't sure. It isn't clear what it is he thinks would be good about Orlando hitting him. He has a brief vision, premonition-like, of Orlando swinging, of pinning his arms, and he remembers Orlando at the shooting range, shaking against Bill's chest and crying...

Wait. What?

This is probably not the best time to be trying to sort out what the hell he's thinking, but he recognizes the blaze of bright thought in his mind, and knows it's one of those he will lose if he doesn't grasp it now, think it through now.

He holds up a hand, a hold-on-wait gesture, and is aware of Orlando's puzzled frown, but he disregards it for the moment, banishes Orlando's question from his awareness, and just thinks.

If Orlando had hit him, it would have been a panic reflex on his part, and kind of hopeless lashing out at the only person he could lash out at, the only person who would understand and could take it. If Orlando had hit him, Bill would have taken the blow, and then grabbed him, pinned him to prevent another round -- because Bill is willing to let Orlando take his anger and frustration and dismay out on him, but he knows himself well enough to understand that more than a few blows, even clumsy ones, would have pushed him into some sort of physical retaliation, instinctive, and he wouldn't have wanted that. So he would've grabbed him, pinned his wrists, and Orlando would've struggled a bit -- like at the range -- but would have eventually given up. He would have eventually just wept, because tears are far more Orlando's thing than violence.

And in that situation -- and only in that situation -- Bill would've been able to give him some kind of comfort. Because...

He frowns and shakes his head a little.

Because...

Because he doesn't know how to offer comfort any other way. Because he can't just hug Orlando, can't just give comfort like that.

Because...

Because I'm nearly as fucked up as he is, he thinks, and is frankly a little stunned at the realization. Because I'm too fucked up to be able to just give him what he needs.

He thinks of Keira, and her smiles. Then, inexplicably, he thinks of Nic curling an arm around his waist, warm and as snuggly as a puppy, totally oblivious to the fact that some people really don't want to be snuggled by him.

And he doesn't want to be this way.

"Orlando," he says, and his voice is a weirdly uneven stammer. And he will do what he has to do to make it so that Orlando doesn't have to go away. "No one knows you're here," he says. "No one has any reason to think to look for you at Johnny's. I think... you're safe enough here." For now.

But not forever. Eventually, Dominguez would think to look, because Dominguez is a thorough sort of guy.

Before he really understands he's going to do it, he's curling a hand around Orlando's forearm. "It's..." But he can't quite finish, can't tell Orlando it's going to be okay, because he doesn't know that, and for some reason, he can't quite bring himself to lie to Orlando. Not now. Though God knows he's done it before.

It's this place, these people, he thinks. I don't know who the fuck I am when they're around. But there isn't any anger in the thought, just some kind of weary bafflement.

"I'm going to fix this," he says instead, which is closer to the truth. He's going to bloody well try, anyway.

Orlando looks up when Bill doesn't answer and watches as Bill seems to be debating with himself. Orlando can almost hear the wheels turning and grinding and he's not very surprised when Bill's voice comes out a little less sure than it should. Bill's honesty (both his words and how he's showing his own uncertainty) is suddenly all the comfort Orlando needs.

Bill's going to fix it. Bill will take care of it. Yeah.

Orlando's hands are sticky and shaking and he wipes them on his thighs, the denim warm and tacky now too. Bill's gentle grip on his arm stays and Bill's eyes flicker to him looking for a reaction. Orlando isn't sure what to give him: the raw anger has gone and the usual tears are nothing more than wetness at the corner of his eyes. He feels tired again, tired and scared but relieved, too, and it's because of Bill. So.

MacKinnon would've recoiled, shoved him away. Even Bill, when he first got to DBY, would've shrugged him off. Now, though, when Orlando inches into his personal space, hesistant and unexpecting, this Bill doesn't move away.

Orlando fucking creeps close to him, and Bill doesn't move -- feeling guilty that he has to steel himself to be still, like bracing for a blow, feeling even guiltier that Orlando clearly knows that he has to creep up on Bill like this -- when Orlando drops his forehead onto Bill's shoulder and lets out a soft, sighing exhalation.

I don't have to be like this, Bill thinks, and when he slides his arms up and around Orlando's shoulders it's deliberate, and feels oddly triumphant. Orlando makes a sound, soft and contented, and his arms curl around Bill's chest and he pushes his face into Bill's shoulder. Bill can feel the muscles in Orlando's back relaxing under his hands.

And it's not that different, really, now that he's done it. Not that different from embraces he remembers as common and frequent from childhood, and not that different from holding Keira, and feeling her all soft and curving into his chest.

Which should bother him, maybe, but he refuses to let it.

He can smell the orange Orlando had crushed in his hands, very present, and he can smell shampoo in Orlando's hair, which is familiar.

He just stands there and holds him, because there is nothing else he can do for Orlando at the moment, and he will continue to do so until Orlando chooses to pull away, because he refuses to offer comfort (no matter how hard the offer alone is for him) and then take it away before Orlando gets what he needs.

He doesn't have to be an arsehole.

Orlando realises he's holding his breath, feeling Bill move gingerly around him, and lets it out on a sigh, the rest of the tenseness slipping away as it usually does when someone he loves touches him like this. The fact that it's Bill doesn't lessen it, heightens it tenfold even. Orlando fights the tightening of his throat and evens out his breath against Bill's shoulder, closing his eyes, afraid that if he lets go, he'll never get this again, never feel this safe again.

"Thank you," he whispers, breathes it without being sure Bill can even hear it.

He doesn't smile, but he feels a little bit of an urge to, and this isn't so hard. You're such a twat, Boyd, he thinks, but there isn't any bite to it. He's feeling pretty forgiving at the moment, even of his own idiocy.

He isn't sure he's meant to have heard Orlando's whispered thanks, so he doesn't respond to it.

Instead, he says: "It'll be all right," which somehow doesn't feel like a lie this time.

Orlando lingers a moment more in the warmth of the unlikely embrace before pulling away gently. Bill's hands are slow to fall away from his back and the smile on Orlando's face is genuine, bordering on giddy. The feeling is strangely buoyant despite the heaviness of the moment. He sobers up a notch, thinking about where he used to live with Robbie. Thinking about. Fuck.

"I'll do it. I mean, whatever I need to do. I like it here. I don't want to leave."

"Best you stay put for now," Bill agrees. Orlando is standing practically right on top of him still, and in spite of his newfound resolve, Bill takes a step back.

It's hard to talk to Orlando from that close, after all. Distracting. And Bill has to crane his neck way back, as Orlando's a full head taller than he is, and it feels a lot like he's waiting for Orlando to kiss him with his head all tipped back like that. And that he's the girl. And...

He stops rationalizing it and just accepts the fact that he's more comfortable a couple of feet away from Orlando.

"You might have to stay away from DBY though, at least for a couple of days. Until I can get some things sorted. We both might, actually. Unless I can get something done tonight, which I'll try to do, but I'm going to have to find some people first, and I don't know how long that will take. I know where to look, but if they're trying to hide, it'll be harder."

He doesn't know for sure yet, won't know until he's able to size up the situation with more information than he currently has. He needs to find someone who will talk to him, and he's willing to make that happen in any way he can, because he understands very clearly that Dominguez will try again. Persistent bastard. Though it likely won't be immediately. Dominguez is also perfectly comfortable with taking his time to do something. He won't rush things unless he has a good reason.

And he won't want another fuck up like the fire. It isn't so much that Dominguez wouldn't do something like that as it is that he doesn't want it commonly known that he would.

"And stay with Johnny, at his place, if you can. Don't stay at the guesthouse. I don't want you there alone." He hesitates a moment, but he has to ask, has to give Orlando the choice. "You could go into police custody, you know. After this, they're looking for you already, I'm sure."

He knows, actually, but he isn't going to tell Orlando that bit.

Orlando shakes his head vigorously, folding his arms over his chest. "No. Not the police. I hate cops."

He realises what he said and wishes he could take it back, but he's not going to fumble an apology because he thinks Bill knows. He's not entirely sure Bill likes cops either anyway.

"I want to stay here. With everyone," he says quietly, and suddenly wishes for Johnny.

They look at the lights coming on in the house, the shadow puppets of moving people, all of them drunk, most of them happy.

"You're not going to go away, are you?" Orlando asks even more quietly, without looking at Bill. He's never really tried to imagine a life without Bill in its periphery (or so very near to its center), and he doesn't want to entertain the thought. Not now, when he's already lost so many things.

"No," Bill says, after a long moment. It's true for right now, anyway. If things get too ugly, he'll have to go. For everyones -- Keira's -- safety. But things aren't that ugly yet.

Dominguez has no more reason to look for Bill at DBY than he has to look for Orlando at Johnny's. If Bill can take care of things tonight, somehow...

Well. He doesn't really know what. He knows that Dominguez is a cautious man. He knows that if Bill is able to get some information, use it somehow, and possibly make a few threats, then he might be able to buy some time, both for himself and for Orlando. It's not Dominguez's style to rush into things.

In a perfect world, Bill would have been able to find the idiots who'd burned down Orlando's apartment building, taken them into custody alive, and bullied the twats into giving him information before Dominguez had sent them off to die. Accomplishing that would have bought him weeks -- maybe months -- because having them in police custody would've change Dominguez's priorities.

It would've become far more important for Dominguez to take care of the men that could implicate him for conspiracy to commit murder than it would've been for him to take care of Orlando, who really doesn't know anything earth-shattering.

That would've been ideal. But. In a perfect world, none of this would have ever happened.

He glances toward the house. It's all lit up inside, and even from here he can hear laughter.

"I think I might go for tonight, though," he muses aloud. "I'm not sure I'm... invited to the after-the-party-party." His ears easily catch Keira's laughter, separate it from the rest. "And there are things I should be doing."

Orlando studies him discreetly. "Keira's in there," he points out quietly, knowing full well that Bill is aware of that. Bill is the kind of bloke who always knows where a person he likes is. "You're invited," he adds after a moment, and he thinks he probably did have to say that because Bill doesn't presume, he finds out. The idea of Bill staying for one of Johnny's after-parties is a little incongruous, but Orlando wants to make sure Bill knows he's wanted. And not just by him.

"By you?" Bill asks, brows arched a little, but he smiles. "Or by Johnny? Because he might be madly in love with you, Pretty, but I get the feeling that he's still the sort of bloke that makes his own decisions. And... I'm not sure what he's planning, but I get the feeling it's... private."

He watches Orlando, curious as to his response, verbal and otherwise.

Orlando shifts, looks pensively at his feet then his hands before looking up at Bill again, a faint smile back on his face, blinking away a thought or two.

"Johnny likes everybody. You're part of DBY, and your girlfriend's in there. Why don't you stay?"

Girlfriend?

Bill actually has to take a second to blink and think about that.

Girlfriend. Keira?

Of course that was who Orlando meant, who the fuck else could it be? But still...

He looks toward the house in time to see a girl-shaped shadow flit by a window -- as far as he knows, Keira is the only girl still present (if you don't count Orlando) -- and he feels his lips wanting to curl up.

Girlfriend. Huh.

But he opens his mouth and says, "Um..." which is a completely uncharacteristic thing for him to say. He's surprised to hear himself say it. Shocked really.

Orlando, however, laughs.

In spite of the fact that he is being blatantly laughed at, Bill is rather glad to hear it. At least Orlando isn't going to fall apart on him. That's good to know.

"Shut the fuck up, twat," he says, and Orlando grins at him. "Fuck you, Bloom," he grumbles. "Lets go inside."