That girl's ass?
Sitting right here on my dick.
Hah.
Orange is sat on the edge of the simple white bed, blinking down at his empty hands. There is dried blood under his fingernails. The wedding band shines dull in the blue light of the flickering television. It's a baseball game on screen, Tigers versus Cardinals, the orange and blue of the Tigers bright against the green diamond field; red and white of the Cardinals shoving up alongside memories of bloodied white shirts and religion. He couldn't recall any churches, could Orange. No steeples, no chapels. No grains of rice playing ball on stone paths.
Orange felt a sense of commitment, though - tied to that ring, which was tying him to someone else. Couldn't recall a wife's perfume so much as the fresh aftertaste of whiskey. He huffs a breath. He felt tied to White. Not like he'd ever kissed the guy, but hell if they hadn't consummated the daylights out of each other once or twice.
White is on the far side of the bed, laid flat with his hands crossed over his chest. Sleeping in his full suit, shoes hanging over the edge of the coverlet.
Orange only stopped sweating minutes ago. The fever would come and go, a dry rush that hollowed him out and left his thoughts scattered. He felt better now, though. The Tigers were winning, and that always put him in a good mood. Orange tried to fix his hair back away from his eyes; for some reason it kept springing forward in a messy damp tangle, no matter how still he was sat in place watching television. He wanted to wake Larry, ask him for a comb maybe. Who was the vain fuck of that equation, carrying a comb as close to his persons as most sensible crooks carried knives?
White stirs under the silent attention, sharp eyes cracking under dark lashes. "What?" He gruffs.
Orange cracks a grin. For all his posturing, it seemed the unflappable Mr. White was incredibly shy. "Larry."
"What, already?" Larry closes his eyes, but he isn't frowning.
"That's your name, Larry Dimmick."
"Oh yeah? Thanks, then." White waves a lazy hand, settling over on his side with his back to the light of television. "But I already knew that. It's your name we couldn't figure out, right?"
Orange falters. "Huhn? ... Shit, I don't remember that at all." He clambers up on the bed, kicking his shoes off. "The back of your suit is all cut up."
"What?" White peers over his shoulder. He sits up, clawing at his jacket, which comes away from him in halves. "What the fuck-?"
Orange checks his own suit, which smells like charr and the leftover gasoline of the struggle with Marvin. "Practical joke? Shitty tailoring?"
"Your name is Freddy Newendyke." White patiently untucks his shirt, pulling it over his head to check for lacerations in the fabric. "I heard that sorry blue-boy say so." He catches Orange staring at his chest, and scowls. "Could you be any weirder?"
A flicker of annoyance. "I don't remember that scar." Orange reaches over to brush under the collar of White's wifebeater.
White looks down, paws at the scar, their fingers colliding. Orange is close, really fucking close, having shifted over the bed to settle hip-to-hip, rucking his warm hands under Larry's shirt like he had no business doing. White relinquishes his shirt and the last shreds of his pride, though Orange knows he'll get crap for this later.
"Holy fucking -!" Orange's eyes go big and scared and Larry glances down. The scar claws across Larry's sternum in an ugly stitch, wandering haphazard through the short dark hair down his chest, mapping out like a river branching off to what look like gunshot scars. Fresh ones, bruised and swollen.
"Huh," White muses. "Looks like I had to get fixed up a bit, too." He's got a hand at Orange's belt, already knows what he'll find under there.
Orange sinks forward with a pitiful sound, forehead light on Larry's shoulder. "I remember that. Worst day of my life, swear to fucking god, seeing you gunned down..."
"Forget about it." Larry soothes, one hand working the back of Orange's taut neck while the other seduces his front. "Forget about all that -" he pauses. There's an extra scar under the pads of his fingers, leading up from Orange's abdomen and out across his chest in giant puckering stitches. Orange shivers, pulling away.
White follows Orange across the bed, rucking up the fabric of his suit to expose him from chest to thighs. The scarring is neat, cut, clinical. But there are extra holes on that pale expanse of skin where extra holes shouldn't be, and what the fuck kinda quack would have to cut this far up the chest to fix a belly wound?
White fingers the scar as far as it leads down Orange's pelvis, taking Orange's half-hard cock into his mouth without preamble. The noise this elicits is more pain than pleasure, and White stops. "What," He kneels up, looming over Orange, nosing along his cheek. "Still sore?"
Orange makes like he's going to shake his head, just tilts his chin away, but his mouth falls open in surprise and he gasps. "My head," he all but whispers. "My fukken head, christ, what is this -?" Orange has got fingers dug through his hair, knuckles white. One hand falls away to reveal a bruise blossoming over his left temple, spreading ugly and red through his eye before he squeezes both eyes shut against the pain.
Larry's stomach bottoms out. There's another scar, one that looks like it's been puttied over with makeup, and it's a deep but small impression under the bone of Orange's right cheek.
White knows exactly what that is. Cursing, he gets an arm under Orange's head, half undressed bodies pressed flush. White peers over the wound, breath held, hoping it won't get much worse, knowing what it'll look like when it does. The bruise is dark and awful and Orange is making a noise that is dark and awful until he's not making any noise at all.
White can't stop apologizing. He ends up pleading with Orange, as if he could in any way fix any of this, calling out every term of endearment until his creativity runs dry and he just wants Freddy to open his fucking eyes, goddammit.
"My head is killing me," Freddy mumbles into the bare press of Larry's shoulder. "I don't think I can screw around tonight."
Larry's laughter is cathartic. "You just fucking cold-cock me with the headache excuse? Some balls on this one." Larry does something he's never even considered before; Larry kisses Freddy's face, the small wet dip between eye and nose, the salty corner of upper lip and cheek, the jagged bone of his grin. His hands are busy setting Freddy's clothes to rights, and at the end of it all he does in fact pull a comb from his back pocket to smooth damp hair out of green eyes.