GLITTER

Title: Never Been This Far Before
Author: Ros
Pairing: VK/Orlando Bloom
Rating: R
A/N: Takes place in Cracktrailer verse.

Eight days since school's let out and Orli's already nut brown, Vince is already peeling skin off his nose, and they're already bored out of their minds. The bored part isn't that much of a change, and summer just makes the act of skipping school official, but the endless daylight and the increasing heat makes them antsy, scrappy.

They've been in four fights this week, and Vince's knuckles are ripped from where his fist actually managed to connect with Jim-Bob's face. Fucker had it coming. He shouldn't call Vince names like that.

So they're layin' up today, all the rest of the boys are down at the watering hole while he and Orli are spending the morning with their arms and legs tossed outside the edges of the kiddie pool. Facing each other, the sides of their left hips touching in the tight space. Doing nothing more energetic than trying to keep their beers from getting warm.

Brains and faces sun-fried, Orli finally quirks his chin in the direction of the toolshed and drawls, "Bet it's cooler in there."

"Nuh-uh," Vince narrows his eyes. The toolshed's Clyde's and his stepdaddy wouldn't take kindly to the two of them rummaging around in his space. He'd been very explicit about that the last time. Vince can almost feel the itch along the tops of his thighs where Clyde'd wore him out until his belt found blood.

Orli knocks his knee against Vince's and adjusts that stupid Bronco's hat he refuses to give up even though his hair curls through the hole right above one ear. He turns his body sideways and reaches over Vince, but instead of grabbing another beer out of the box, he stays that way, weight of his grimy arm across Vince's stomach.

"Clyde's sleeping off his hangover, I can hear him mumbling about how your momma won't put out anymore."

"Fuck *off*."

Orli laughs and tucks his chin against the line down Vince's chest. Looks at him through the thick fringe of his dark lashes with those eyes that always get the girls into the backseat of Orli's Chevy. After a moment, Vince shoves him off with a shallow splash and grabs the rest of the beers with a sigh.

"If I get in trouble, I'm going to tell your momma that you were the one who set fire to the Sheriff's new car,"' he says, but there's no anger in his words. Never would rat out Orli, and Orli knows it.

"And if Clyde wakes up, we'll just head on down to the Sav-on and see if we can't get Lori Ann to set us up with some ice cream," Orli says, pushing the door of the shed open. He's trying to be quiet about it. Vince can tell. "All right?'

Vince nods and gives up a smile. Orli clips his shoulder and doesn't say anything more about Clyde. Doesn't need to. They'll always take care of each other. Have been, since Vince can remember and even before that. Vince's momma still talks about how Orli'd use to sit and watch over Vince when he was a baby and Orli was just three years old.

The trailer that Orli calls home isn't even a trailer. Just a camper shell that sits alone outside the edge of town. Thing faces northeast for some reason, jutting out sideways from the road as if a hurricane had picked it up and plopped it back down next to a random patch of orchardgrass. It's so far out that Vince has to trudge past the two-three streets that are littered with old copies of La Nacion instead of USA Today and his momma never lets him visit after dark, no matter how careful he promises to be.

So Orli spends most of his time over at Vince's. Says it's an improvement, what with it being a real house and everything. Even if the backyard is a minefield of broken brown glass glittering like gemstones. Even if the place sometimes smells like moldy lint that's been soaking in brine.

"Even," he says, as he pulls Vince into the toolshed, "if your momma keeps giving me the look over."

"Yeah," Vince snorts. Warmth's coming off Orli in visible waves; he's a mirage of grease-black hair and sweat stains. They've had this conversation a hundred times over. Vince doesn't even have to think about it anymore before he replies, "everybody wants a piece of your ass, even my momma."

"It's God's truth," Orli says, grinning around another pull on his Bud. He plops down and takes a seat under the tiny window. Takes off his cap and chunks it towards a rusted Folger's can filled with old nails. There's just enough sunlight to see Orli's eyes glittering up at him. "Can't fight it none. Best to not even try."

"Must be nice to be such a big shot," Vince says, grinning back.

He slithers down the wall and sits right next to Orli. Stretches his legs out. There are little clumps of sawdust sticking to the damp hair along Orli's thighs, and he reaches out to brush them off before he plucks at the ragged hem of his own swim trunks.

"What's it like?" he finally asks, keeping his gaze down towards his fingers. He gets nothing but silence from Orli in response, so he finally flitters his eyes upwards and finds Orli staring at him with a blank expression on his face.

"What's what like?"

"Kissing all those girls."

That gets him the signature smirk, so he shrugs and picks up his beer, mumbles, "nevermind."

"It's...," Orli says, voice fading away into silence again. He knocks his shoulder against Vince's, like he thinks Vince isn't paying attention. "They're all soft and shit. Warm. And if you kiss them long enough, you can get them to do other stuff. Put their little hands where you want them to."

Vince shifts and turns his feet out until his left knee is almost touching Orli.

He leans back and closes his eyes, the afternoon heat seeping into the shed and Orli's body next to his burning fuel like a furnace. He tries to think about how it must feel, to have someone else touch you in those places where he only touches himself. He can't imagine it. Even when he tries to start at the beginning, hands on his shoulders, his neck, his face.

And then his imagination must kick into overdrive, because he can tell *exactly* what having someone else's gentle hands on his face would be like. Gentle fingertips over the highest curves of his cheek. So gentle they can't possibly belong to Orli.

"You're blushing."

"Am not."

"So are. Jesus Christ, look at you. What're you thinking about?"

"Go away."

And Vince isn't going to open his eyes, because this isn't happening, and there's nothing to see. Orli isn't touching him, not like this, because Orli's never touched him before. Well, Orli's always touching him, but that's different. That's just...just the way they've always been.

Orli's hands in his hair when they're watching the race, skimming over his scalp while he shouts at the TV, or Orli spread out next to him while they lay out in the backyard watching the stars form against the purple sky and talking about how they're gonna grow up and they're gonna get out of this town. They're gonna be somebody.

That's not *ever* Orli's hand slipping under the elastic of his shorts. Or strong, summer-hot fingers around his dick, squeezing carefully until Vince moans into Orli's mouth and holy shit, he's moaning *into* Orli's mouth and his hands are moving up to push Orli away, but then the fucker starts sliding his fist up and down and -

There's a dull, thumping sound that he realizes is his ass hitting the floor while Orli's puffing out, "do it, do it, do it," against his face and Vince is trying to find a way to say, "I *am*," but then, he is.

The world goes silent, except for his sharp cry. There should be Garth Brooks blaring from Mrs. Farnsworth's kitchen window and Clyde's snores and the sound of the traffic rushing past on the highway. He can't hear any of it under the dark behind his eyelids. Then there are sun spots scattering towards an endless distance, and he's wondering why that's never happened to him before.

When he finally opens his eyes, his lashes brush against Orli's collarbone. His face is buried up against Orli's chest and he's half-toppled over Orli's body while fingernails trace down his bare back. As his senses return, air hits him in all the places that he's wet and exposed, makes him shiver. He swivels his head to look at the door of the shed as his blood and sweat run cold from fear.

"What was *that*?" he asks, turning back to Orli. Bastard's - and he means that literally - slouching against the wall like nothing happened, a secret smile curving up towards his eyes the only indication that Vince didn't just dream the whole thing. He shoves Orli away from him. Tries to. "What *was* that?"

"That was you coming all over my fingers," Orli says, and he sounds strange. Voice tight and high. "God*damn* but you're pretty when you shoot."

Orli grabs his wrist and the back of his neck. Tugs him forward until his lips touch behind Vince's ear. Pulls Vince's hand into his lap.
Vince rears back, gaining some distance between his hand and the hard heat that's just beneath his palm. His brain skitters over the realization that Orli's hard, refuses to acknowledge it in any way. Still, his lifeline itches, and his fingertips twitch - stupid, stupid - but he manages to shake his head.

"Stop it," he says, practically wheezing. God, Clyde was going to find them, he was going to walk through those doors and Vince was going to get his hide whupped right off. "Orli, we're gonna be in a heap of shit."

"Don't be scared," Orli's saying, like that makes any sense. "I'll show you what to do."

"Fucker, I *know* what to do," and that's absolutely the wrong thing to say, because Orli takes his hand and shoves it inside his trunks and Vince's brain shuts down all together.

"Prove it."

Orli lets go of him then, pulls both arms away and leaves Vince sitting there, hand disappearing under the rayon of Orli's shorts and blinking against the vision of Orli's set gaze like he's trapped. Because he is. Double dog dare you, he can practically hear Orli saying to him. It feels just like the time they stood on top of Orli's camper when Vince was five years old. Come on, Orli'd said, standing behind him. Jump.

He's shaking all over as he smoothes his thumb up along the underside of Orli's cock. Rubs the pad of his finger back and forth, testing out the softness of the skin there. Orli breathes out a long sigh, and arches into his hand, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, mouth and eyes rounding out when Vince swipes against the moisture along the head.

"Yeah," Orli says as his eyelids drop closed, and it sounds like praise.

Something inside his chest loosens, fear heavy and ungiving as ice chipping away. Melting out of himself like sweat every time he moves his hand and the flush on Orli's throat climbs higher.

And the fear doesn't come back, even when Orli shimmies and pushes his shorts down over his hips, jostling Vince and almost knocking him away. Vince just tightens his grip.

The faster Vince pumps his fist, the harder Orli's hips buck. Vince breathes deep, takes in the smell of Orli spreading on his hand, clover currants and sea salt. And when he pulls up the shining length of Orli's dick as slowly as he can force himself to, squeezes around the straining cockhead, Orli's eyes pop open and he makes a sound that rushes straight up Vince's spine. Gathers like lightning on a rod at the base of his skull.

And then Orli's saying, "Look."

"What?"
"Lookit what you're doing to me. No, don't turn your head."

So Vince drags his gaze past the rapid rise and fall of Orli's chest to where his hand is someplace it should never be, doing something that his stepdaddy'd beat him senseless for if he ever found out.

But now that he's looking, he can't tear his eyes away. From how swollen and dark Orli is, and he shouldn't know how Orli's cock looks when it's hard. Shouldn't know the exact shades of difference between the pulsing flesh in his hand and the one between his own legs. Shouldn't be able to see, shouldn't be watching this, right there. Or hear the kinds of noises that Orli makes while his hand scrabbles on the wall above his head and he pushes into Vince's fist.

"You dirty little mother*fucker*," Orli spits out, and he sounds slightly awed. Looks back at Vince and pins him down with sharp eyes that are starting to bleed black. "Keeping this from me all this time."

"Wasn't," Vince is whispering, and it's the truth. He never knew this was even possible - that Orli could ever throw his legs open and grab Vince by the back of his head and make hurt-puppy noises while he pulled on Orli's cock hard enough to make wet, slapping sounds that stick in the humid air.

Never knew Orli could beg.

Orli keeps stroking the corner of his mouth as he looks at Vince with hooded eyes, so Vince turns his head and closes his lips around the knuckle of the thumb. When he sucks the finger in deeper, Orli makes a surprised, grateful oh with his lips and his face goes as red as dewberries. Right before he slams his head back against the boards and comes.

Orli curses as he spills out everywhere, just like Vince somehow knew he would. But the way the blasphemy sounds splintered and worn makes his cheeks go hot again.

"Told you," he says, voice stuttering as Orli blinks up at the ceiling, the underside of his lashes fluttering in double-time. "Told you I knew how. Stupid hillbilly. Shoulda just taken my word for it."

"Shit," is the only thing that Orli says, pulling on his elbow until Vince is sitting between his knees. And something's really wrong if Orli's not even trying to outdo his insults anymore.

Instead, Orli runs a hand through Vince's hair. Looks at Vince like he's never seen him before, brown eyes gone muddy and unreadable. He's actually biting his lip. The image of Orli's teeth denting the pink skin scratches a burn across Vince's gut, and he finds that he's already leaning in when Orli tugs on the ends of his hair so that he can licks Vince's mouth.

Up until now, kissing's been for backseats with girls whose mommas are too busy or too tired or too gone to notice that their daughters are missing on a school night. Or been quick and quiet things behind the school gym and who is Vince kidding because until now, kissing's been something he's seen on the TV when Clyde wasn't hogging it to watch football.

He had a chance once, with a girl named Chanel. Her parents were Mormons and they lived in the nice part of town. For a little while, Vince thought about how they could be like a movie, where the poor boy and the rich girl fall in love, but those movies always ended up with the girl getting knocked up and getting kicked out of her house. And anyways Orli told him she wasn't any good. So kissing's never really been anything at all.

It's certainly never been this: the tip of Orli's tongue running along the seam of his lips until he opens his mouth, and then there's not enough room, not enough air, as Orli tries to touch his tonsils. It's never been this noisy, smacking, sliding thing where Vince is moaning too loudly and Orli's evidently decided that the way to shut him up is to drag him down to the floorboards and steal his breath. It's never been this endless, soaring floatiness where he's flat on his back, but he still has to clutch at Orli's shoulders.

"We can't - we can't never tell nobody about this," Orli says, when he finally pulls away. Vince's mouth is still wide open like it's stuck that way, letting out quick little gasps that speed up when Orli leans down again to bite him right under his jaw.

He doesn't know what to say to that, except for "which *part*?" so he just nods solemnly and turns his head and lets Orli pant dirty things into his ear that there's probably a whole chapter in the Bible devoted against.

His shorts are still tangled around his ankles, and it's uncomfortable as all get out, so he still doesn't say anything when Orli shifts down and pushes them past his feet. Just watches Orli while he quickly shucks his own trunks and grabs Vince by the backs of his knees to drag him across the sawdust. Just catches air at the back of his throat, and that gets Orli looking at him again with that unreadable expression.

Then Orli's mouthing his way down past Vince's stomach, and he's saying, "this is gonna feel so good, you're gonna love it". And through it all, Vince shakes so hard that he has to grit his teeth, starts praying, "God," and "Jesus," and then he's definitely going to Hell. Because he's raising his hips and spreading his legs and his prayers are turning into, "OrliOrliOrli."

It's another place he's never been, where he's chanting his best friend's name and the same mouth he's loved for years, the same mouth that Orli uses to spit and curse and chew and smile with, is wrapped around him. Pulling whimpers and silver-strings of pleasure out of him until the world in his head is cleaner and whiter than it will ever be outside.

And then Vince is thinking that this isn't so different after all, 'cause here's another place where they're somebody to the only ones that matter. Each other.

-End