Fic: Liking it

They’ve finished eating, and they’ve been quiet for a while, sitting on the rug on the sand while the others play cricket. But then Orlando is silly enough to start it up again, to call out to Dom from under the great shadow of Sala’s torso and, as if Sala isn’t there, to say, “Legolas completely kicks orc arse.”

Sala screws his beer bottle down into the sand behind him and brushes his hands off thoughtfully. He takes Orlando by the elbow. They look at each other. Sala smiles one of those big, dimpled smiles of his. Then he jerks Orlando over, knocks his knees straight and flattens him face-down on the rug. He bends Orlando’s arm behind his back and holds him down.

“Allo!” Dom hoots, scrabbling out of the way. “My money’s on the orc.”

Orlando tries to twist, but he’s held too firmly. He tries to push up, bracing his free hand and his knees, but the uneven pressure makes the rug buckle and shift under him. A cascade of sand flips up into his face. He spits.

Finally Orlando stops struggling and just kicks his legs theatrically. He laughs for a bit.

Sala doesn’t make a sound. What seems like a ridiculous amount of time later, Orlando says, snorting into the rug, “Well, this is really emasculating.”

“Yeah, you like it,” Sala says cheerfully.

“You’d like it,” Orlando tries. “You’d like to do anything with my balls you could.”

“Maybe I would,” Sala says. “But what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing, apparently,” Orlando says.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Sala says. He lets Orlando go.

Orlando rolls over, coughs, and grins at Sala. But Sala feints at him, and Orlando throws his forearms over his face in surrender.

“Well,” Orlando says very quietly. “I won’t ask if it was good for you.”

But Sala just shakes his head, gets up and jogs off down to join the cricket.

When they’re packing up for the night, he sees Sala striding away up the track to the car park, a great stack of folding chairs on his shoulder. Orlando still has to help Dom stick stuff back in containers, and when they get back up to the car park themselves, he doesn’t expect that Sala will still be there.

Sala is, though. He’s standing by his car, in the half-dark, casting a much thicker, more solid shadow than the scrub behind him. He’s jiggling his keys in his hand. Then he looks up.

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