Fic: Here on Earth

It is not until Orlando drips audibly on the corner of the rug that it occurs to Sean that he should have said hello already, that the time for watching is over and the time for talking has started again. The black fish of Orli has been getting bigger and bigger for some time as it comes up from the surf; Orli has been in earshot for five or six paces already — that would have been the right time to say hello, and Sean has missed it.

Now Orli is here, up from the surf, has come to the edge of the rug and can come no further, and Orli is looking at Sean. Orli is black and shiny and dripping all over; his face is alternately livid and pale as parchment. Orli shakes the way a stalactite shakes before it falls. Orli drips, and it sounds like a small, dull tapping on the rug.

Sean wonders whether he can really hear the drips falling on the rug, over this wind that sends Orli’s wetsuit zipper pull-cord sailing out on the diagonal. Maybe it is the force with which they hit, striking their dark stain into the fabric, that makes him imagine he hears them.

Orli tilts his head to the side. A runnel slides down from a curl of hair painted dark and seaweedy onto Orli’s temple. The sea can be seen crashing about, pale grey and white, between Orli’s knees.

All afternoon the sky has been heavy, the soot-grey of an army blanket. The golf umbrella Sean picked up at the chemist has stood sentinel, unused, nose-first in the sand where Orli thrust it like a flag of conquest when they arrived. Now that the sun is dipping, long rifts are snagging open in the sky-blanket’s weft over by the horizon, bright streaks of brass and chrome. There is chrome shining off the curving line of Orli’s wet, rubber body. There is a sheen of chrome lighting up on the tight, young skin stretched over Orli’s cheekbone, beneath eyelashes gone to starfish with water.

Sean hopes Orli will not notice that the spine of Sean’s new book also shines chromish in the oily light, virgin, uncreased.

Sean says, “Good surf?”

“Yeah,” Orli says, his voice riding over a tremble.

A sudden kink jumps in Orli’s knee, and quickly, desperately he reaches out his hand, and for a second Sean thinks Orli is reaching out for him, for him. There is another second and Sean reaches behind himself for the towel. Then Orli is rubbing his head, fast and messy, with the towel, and more drips are striking the rug.

“Fuck,” Orli says raggedly, “I’m cold.”

Sean watches Orli hop around on the sand like a heron, towel tight around his rubber shoulders.

“Can I have the keys?” Orli says. “Sorry, I just, I’ve just got to get out of this wind. You come up whenever you’re ready, eh, no hurry, I just…”

“No, no,” Sean says, “go on.” He scrabbles for the keys in the front pocket of his backpack.

Orli crunches away up the beach. Orli’s ankles are strung with beads of wet sand, inked with black rivulets of leg hair.

Sean finds his sunglasses case in the backpack and puts his sunglasses in it. He puts the case back in the backpack and then puts his book in, too. He gets up and shakes off the rug. Sand sails away. Damp can be seen climbing in the white segments of the black and white umbrella.


Back at the car, Sean finds Orli standing in front of the opened back side door, wetsuit peeled down to his waist, towelling himself briskly. Sean puts the things in the boot, and when he has done that, Orli is doing the thing of facing the car, and having his towel around his waist, and getting his wetsuit off underneath the towel.

Sean comes up behind Orli and undoes the towel at the front, and holds it out like a screen to either side of Orli.

“Oh, that’s great, Mr. Discretion, that is,” Orli says, “that doesn’t look at all suss.” His voice is choppy with cold and the effort from tugging at the wetsuit: Sean cannot tell if he is laughing or angry.

“No one’s here,” Sean says. There is a slight sucking sound, and Orli gets one leg out of the wetsuit. His backside bumps into Sean through the towel.

“They were a minute ago,” Orli says, voice still blunt, choppy. He is not laughing. “Jesus Christ. And I’m not allowed to kiss you in the bloody lift.”

“They went,” Sean says quickly. “It’s alright.” He wants to kiss Orli, but Orli is bending too far over, presenting only vertebrae and ribs under chilled-pale skin like wind corrugations in sand.

Then the other leg is off, and then the speedos underneath, and Orli stands up to dump the wetsuit across the roof, the speedos on top of it. Sean brings the ends of the towel in and rubs Orli’s bare hips with it. Orli makes a jerky little sound, and his hands grab at Sean’s. Sean says, “No one here. No one!”

Orli lets Sean’s hands go, though an alertness remains in the tilt of his head, like a bird when it hears movement.

Sean rubs the towel around to Orli’s buttocks, and he crouches and rubs down each of Orli’s legs. He works the towel up again to the buttocks, and he rubs around and around. The moment where Orli is standing naked in the open air and letting Sean rub him and rub him stretches on: Orli’s neck softens and he buries his face in his arms on the roof of the car; he gives a little, muffled chuckle. Orli’s back gets an arch in it. Sean rubs up Orli’s back in one long stroke, then down again. He circles the buttocks again, two-handed.

Then the arch in Orli’s back eases, and he says, gently, earnestly, “I’m really cold. I’ve gotta get in the car, eh?”

Sean watches Orli, without towel, or wetsuit, or speedos, crawl across the back seat toward the pile of his clothes.

Sean gets into the back seat after Orli, and closes the door behind them.

“We’re having a committee on me getting dressed, are we?” Orli says, his eyebrows pressed low over his eyes — and now there is a laugh in his voice.

“Will you be the chairman?” Sean says. He shifts across the seat till they are thigh to thigh, puts his arm around Orli’s back and rubs the damp skin.

Orli shivers into Sean. Sean kisses the hollow in Orli’s collarbone, and it is like the bowl of a china soup spoon. “Yeah alright,” Orli says. “Only proper, I s’pose.”

“Good,” Sean says. He blows hot air on Orli’s neck. “Means you don’t get to vote.”

“Oi,” Orli says. “That’s rigged!” Sean hooks Orli’s legs over his lap, chafes his hand along Orli’s thigh, the skin clammy under damp leg hair, stuck with flecks of sand.

Orli reaches to fumble through his clothes, behind him on the seat. Sean pulls Orli’s hand back, not before Orli has picked up his underwear. Sean shakes Orli’s wrist to make him drop it. Orli lets his underwear go, eyes crinkling. “You’re just going to let me freeze to death,” Orli says, pressing against Sean. “You should get impeached.”

“But you’re the chairman,” Sean says. “If anyone’s impeached, it should be you.”

“Doesn’t make any sense,” Orli says. His lips, when they press briefly behind Sean’s ear, are cool, though the breath between them is warm.

“Well,” Sean says, “it’s politics, isn’t it.” His hand trails up the inside of Orli’s thigh.

Orli’s knee gives a coy twitch. “Nah, it’s barely even there,” Orli protests.

“Let me worry about that,” Sean says. “Come on.” Orli lets Sean turn him to the side on the seat, his back against the door. He lets Sean lift and spread his knees, lets Sean lean over him.

Sean sucks one cool, glass-hard nipple. “Don’t kiss me in the lift, Orli,” Orli teases, his voice soft, almost sleepy. “Someone might see, and ruin the surprise for the proper indecent exposure I’ve got planned later.” His finger traces Sean’s hairline down behind the ear. Sean only looks at Orli for a second before moving further down Orli’s body. He kisses the fold of skin Orli’s navel has tucked itself away into. He licks the salty crease in the flex of Orli’s hip, down past tangled, damp pubic hair.

As he bends to mouth Orli’s cock, purplish and puckered small, there is an echo of a shy flinch again in Orli’s knee. There is, indeed, barely anything there. Orli has compressed, shrunk up into himself like a snail retreating into its shell, an anemone closing up tight. Sean suckles, coaxes the length of him out.

“Warm, anyway,” Orli says softly. Orli’s fingers lift the hair at the back of Sean’s neck, smooth it down again.

Slowly, Sean’s mouth begins to ease the wrinkled tightness out of Orli. After a while he can feel blood beginning to move around under the skin.

“Mmm,” Orli says.

Orli gives a small, all-over shiver, like the shivering of heating soup before bubbles have broken out. Orli’s fingers disappear from Sean’s hair, and he seems to be moving around, though trying to keep his hips still.

Fabric falls on Sean’s forehead. It’s Orli’s jumper. Sean lifts his head, and the jumper hem falls down against Orli’s cock. “Sorry, sorry,” Orli says, hiking the hem back up again. At Sean’s expression, he takes Sean’s face in his hands, says again, “Sorry.”

“Don’t know why I bother,” Sean says. He licks behind the head of Orli’s cock.

“Sorry,” Orli says, “eh?” His thumb skates into the dip of Sean’s temple.

Sean lowers his mouth again. Orli’s fingers slide across Sean’s scalp.

Outside, the globe of the carpark’s single lamp post kindles, wan against the sky, which is still quite light.

The seat-springs squeak when Orli starts to shift around, and murmur, and tighten his fingers in Sean’s hair. One of his feet kicks in the air off the edge of the seat. “Oh,” he says, short, sharp.

Afterwards, Orli starts almost immediately to shiver again. A tide of goosebumps surges across his skin, as if he is a wet dog shaking, spiking up the fur. He gropes for his pants and underwear from where they have fallen on the floor. He gets them over his ankles and pulls them up to his knees, but then Sean grabs his legs again and pulls them back over Sean’s lap. Sean kisses Orli, and Orli’s tongue chases his, agile.

Orli shivers, clutches Sean. He tries to sit up a bit and tug his pants up further, but Sean squeezes him tighter. Sean rubs Orli’s bare thigh briskly, and Orli relaxes.

The carpark light is yellower than it was before, as the dusk fades.

“Fuck me, I’m hungry,” Orli says. “Chips, what d’you reckon? Reckon they’ve got a nice, big deep-fryer at that place by the turn-off to the track?”

Sean does not reply. He rubs Orli’s thigh, high up towards the hip, where the hair is finer. His hand is sandpaper on the goosebumps: slowly he is rubbing them down smooth.

Orli’s fingers tug in Sean’s hair.

“You’re a daft bugger, you are,” Orli says. “You weren’t even reading that book.”

Sean blesses the bumps on Orli’s neck, for which Sean’s mouth is a sandblaster, his warm breath blasting them smooth; blesses them, because there is no need to look at Orli.

“Yes,” Sean says. “I expect I am.”

“I reckon I get to squeeze your arse out in the hall, now,” Orli says softly, “y’bastard.” The jump of his voicebox thrums in the skin under Sean’s lips.

When Sean does not reply, Orli rolls his hips up at bit, and moves Sean’s hand onto his backside. “Eh?” Orli says.

Sean kneads Orli’s backside. He says, smiling into Orli’s neck, “Whatever you like.”

“What if I say I want to pull my trousers up?” Orli says.

“Now,” Sean says, “let’s be reasonable.”


4 Comments so far

  1. stormatdusk December 11th, 2010 12:42 pm

    i’m breathless.

    that was amazing.

  2. Eyebrow of Doom December 12th, 2010 4:38 pm


  3. Andrea November 6th, 2015 2:59 pm

    Excellent! Very sensual! This pair is great!

  4. Eyebrow of Doom November 6th, 2015 8:15 pm

    Thank you!

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