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The lights are dimmed, only the fluorescence of the emergency guides glowing a soft blue along the halls. The O2 recycler rumbles along below them. Nighttime has fallen over Site 107.
Or… maybe it hasn’t. For all Lancaster knew, it could be the middle of the day, back on the outside. But thinking about outside these days leads him more and more to that creeping conclusion that the site wasn't what had been moved at all– that the world outside was gone completely, its only survivors their little team of researchers, buried forever in the endless rock. And, hopeless though their situation may be, Lancaster still wanted to live.
An odd feeling, that. But even after everything- even despite tendencies that would seem all but suicidal to the average viewer– that remained the the truth of the matter. Orion wanted to live.
A tremor lances through him, the blistering vampire-bite indent where the taser’s prongs had bitten into him radiating a shockwave of pain. He turns onto his side, curling inwards– pulling pained breaths through his teeth until the shaking stops.
And that’s the truth of the matter, now, too. His body hadn’t taken being contained well, and that was one thing, but being electrocuted over and over- well. That was another thing entirely. Between that and being crushed under rubble every month, Orion could barely remember the last time he hadn’t been shot through with pain.
He could, of course, take an Advil. Could probably get Medical to give him some of the strong stuff, too. But the idea of taking painkillers- popping pills like nothing- has always made him uneasy, and that isn’t something he really wants to deal with the implications of getting over.
(He decidedly doesn’t think about Harley. He even more decidedly doesn’t think of his father.)
And besides, regardless of the pain, Orion doesn’t think he’ll be getting much sleep tonight. He’s too… weightless, in a way– like he’s watching himself lie there from afar, a ghost in his own skin. Dissociation, the psychologist in his mind reminds him. Even with his own mental health he retains a degree of professional disinterest. Always the doctor, never the patient.
He rolls onto his back again, the pain in his hips be damned, and presses the heels of his palms into his eyelids until constellations explode behind them. It’s fine. He’s fine .
Usually, when this happens– and it happens often– usually, sleeping it off is enough to bring him back down to earth. Except that sleeping is pretty much all he'd done for the two months of Containment, and he's always been a bit of an insomniac, and the site has been dark for hours and he's still staring at his ceiling fan. So he is, as far as he can figure, out of options.
…Although. Well. Hm.
Now that he thinks about it, two months of being under constant watch followed by one month of constant chaos have had him… more than a little pent-up. And, of course, the weekly T-shots– not to mention the now-constant presence of Harley in his life– aren't helping matters either. He could certainly try. It might even help.
(Briefly, he entertains the idea of calling Harley. Except that this thing between them is still fragile, and adding that to the equation is the kind of too-much-too-soon that would surely break them. He's still healing; both of them are. They'll take it slow.)
Orion lets the fantasy linger, though, turning it over in his mind like slow-mulled wine. Harley at his door, voice rough from sleep; tired, but warm, endearingly dogged in his concern. Miraculously not toting a flask with him, though he’s sure that’s unrealistic– and besides Lancaster isn’t sure he’d care. A drink sounds pretty great right now.
He trails his fingertips down his chest, through the curly hair meandering its trail down along his stomach. He's lost quite a bit of weight, he muses idly, tracing the grooves between his ribs. It's not a pretty sight. Lancaster's always been chubby- even when he'd had to choose between dinner and gas to keep his car's heating on, he hadn't lost much of his baby fat- but the padding around his ribs and hip bones has shrunk away, leaving him a mix between skeletal and flabby. Which is body negativity, he knows. And it really isn't even as though he dislikes his body most of the time– he'd fought too long and too hard to have it this way and just reject it. He does like the way he looks. He just… feels more like a mess of scar tissue than a person, sometimes.
With his left hand Orion traces the twin crescent-moon scars along his chest, that old and secret thrill still running through him even through the haze of pain. These, at least, he'd chosen. These are his .
His right hand dips lower, tugging up the fabric of his boxers to smooth over the neat multitudes of horizontal slashes on his outer thigh. They tell a rich history, if one were to learn the language- most older and faded, a few new and pink. No scabs; not right now, at least, though with a bitter huff he thinks that probably won't last. It's one of those habits he's never quite been able to kick.
He could, right now. There are razor blades in his medicine cabinet, and a pocket knife in his briefcase, and it would be easy- it would be so easy. Except he’s… he’s already in so much pain, all the time. Adding more to the list doesn’t have the same appeal it once did.
Besides, this is nice. Being touched softly, for the first time in a while- even if it’s only his own hand- is nice. It feels good to do something that’s good for him.
Experimentally, he trails featherlight touches over the fabric between his thighs. It grows damp quickly under his touch- finicky though his body can be, it has been quite a long time. The silky friction of fabric against his folds is deliciously novel, and he presses down a bit harder, and ah- that’s- that’s good.
His maintenance routine, as he likes to think of it, is rarely luxurious- a mix of time constraints and his own internalized issues regarding sex making it easier just to rub one out as stress relief than to bother with anything more thorough . As it is, he doesn’t really have the energy to deviate from that. His hip is beginning to cramp up already.
The seam of his boxers scratches roughly against his clit, and he winces, readjusting so the smooth cotton is the only contact. It’s dry- somehow less comfortable. This is… Jesus, this is so unsexy. Orion squeezes his eyes shut in momentary annoyance.
He shakes out the forming stiffness in his fingers and starts over- slower, slipping under the seam of his boxers to tease featherlight at the head of his t-dick before dipping further. Fingers is a nice thought, but one that isn’t particularly realistic without a great deal more foreplay- and besides, he doesn’t really have the energy right now. He smears his fingers through the gathering slick and back up.
As he settles into his usual routine- rocking fingers back and forth over his dick, breath held tight in his lungs save for occasional quiet gasps when he remembers he needs air- he can feel his body come back to itself. Tingling heat spreads from his cock outwards, and Orion lets out a quiet nnh as the pressure builds, a burning desire for more pulsing through him.
He grinds down harder with the pads of his fingers, hard enough to bruise. The mix of stimulation and pain sends sparks exploding up his spine. He’s not close, but he’s getting there- if he can just hold onto it for a few more moments–
The muscles in his wrist and palm spasm, shocks of pain shooting from that old hairline fracture, and- fuck, that hurts, god, Jesus, he should have known. The building tension dissipates in an instant. He holds still for a moment, pulling pained breaths through his teeth as the pain ebbs away.
Lancaster huffs in frustration and lets his hand fall. Fucking hell.
His clit is still pulsing with want, but… there’s really no point, is there. His wrist is already sore anyway. Christ. Five fucking minutes to himself, that’s all he’d asked for– just to feel good for five minutes . He scrubs the non-sticky hand over his face in annoyance.
The telltale bloop of a walkie sounds from his bedside table, and Harley’s voice crackles over their private channel- quiet and almost cautious. “You awake?”
Orion rolls over to grab it, wiping his fingers off on the sheets. Gross, yeah, but who cares. “Yeah,” he manages, before clearing his throat. “Yeah, what's up?”
A beat, and then: “Just wanted to check on you.”
“Are you drunk?” The accusation falls from his tongue far easier than he'd like, even though he really had only meant it as a question. Too pent up, maybe. He shouldn’t be taking it out on Harley, though- god knows the man has his own fair share of problems.
“No.” Thankfully, his friend only sounds a little bit hurt. Probably because he knows that nine times out of ten the answer would be yes. “I- no. I'm just… thinking. Can't sleep.”
Just thinking, Lancaster knows, is code for trying not to spiral . Which… two sides of the same coin, aren't they? The scars on his thighs and shoulders are proof enough.
“Me either,” he admits. It's easier like this- quiet confessions uttered to the shadows of his ceiling.
Harley hums. “Are you okay?” It's clear by his tone he doesn't actually expect Orion to respond honestly, and that… that really should come as a relief. But these days he just thinks of it as one step closer to being given up on.
“I'm…” Fine , he starts to say, but– well. His whole fucking body hurts, and his hands are too unsteady for him to even get off properly, and he... He hasn't been fine for a long time. “...Not great.”
“Oh,” says Harley. A beat. “Can I help?”
Come over, Orion wants to say, because he knows he could- knows Harley feels guilty enough about leaving him alone for those awful months to do just about anything Lancaster asked. Except that he doesn't know if this is something he's willing to put on the line. He’s not willing to lose what little trust they've built back.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks instead, because he knows Harley will understand that's code for I can't be alone with my thoughts right now.
Ed gives a crackling sort of chuckle. “College, mostly. My misadventures as a youth.”
“Tell me about it,” Orion encourages, laying the walkie next to his pillow and settling in properly.
“Well, junior year of undergrad was actually when I realized I wanted to go into communications…” Harley begins. He shuts his eyes, letting the rambling, gravelly tones wash over him like high tide as his best friend recounts joining a Mandarin class because the professor was attractive and falling in love with the language itself instead.
It's… nice. Surprisingly grounding. He's loved Harley's voice since the day he first heard the morning announcement over the site comms– years before he had a face to put to the title of Head of Communications. And then he'd actually met the man, wasted and slurring and still charming as anything, and Harley had asked his name and laughed when he said Orion. “It's not you,” he'd explained, seeing Lancaster's defensiveness. “It suits you. There’s, there are stars–” and here he'd reached out, clumsy fingertips bumping Lancaster's cheekbones- “all over your face.”
Orion had flushed, pulling away as broad hands attempted to map out the path of freckles over his nose. You're drunk, he'd stammered, and Harley had laughed again. It seems I am.
Now, he traces idly along the same path Harley had taken all those years ago. The freckles on his cheeks have faded near-completely from the lack of sunlight. He wonders whether Ed still sees stars in him, or whether those have blinked out too.
Lancaster rolls onto his side, propping a pillow between his thighs to take some of the strain off his hips, and settles into the story. Harley is talking about how he’d first figured out he was bisexual halfway through his sophomore year of high school. It– it should make Lancaster happy, knowing that Harley’s coming-out was easy, that he hadn’t had years of Catholic guilt and homophobia to work through before he could accept himself, but as it is the mention of Ed’s moms just fills him with a bittersweet sort of longing. He is glad- he is- that Harley had had a support network. He just… can’t help wondering what it would have been like, for him, if he’d had that too. Significantly less scars, that’s for sure.
The rambling waves of his best friend’s voice carry him away from that spiral, though, into a tangent about his childhood crush on Gerard Way. Orion just has to unmute for that.
“I knew you were emo as a kid,” he accuses, chest lightening with the friendly ribbing. “And you make fun of me for the one theater thing I did!”
“I wasn’t emo, ” Harley protests. “I just- they’re hot, okay?! And I was an angsty tween boy– of course I latched onto their music. You totally did too. You’re just denying it to save face.”
Orion wants to retort that no, actually, he’d never been a tween boy at all- he’d only started to transition in late high school, and God knew how that had gone for him. “I was only allowed to listen to Christian music until I was 16.” His being kicked out of his house at that age had, of course, made those rules moot. “But after that I did have a very brief MCR phase.”
“Shit, Lanc.” The almost disturbed tone to his voice makes Lancaster want to laugh in his face. Oh, if only he knew the half of it. “That sucks.”
“It was fine. Really wasn’t the worst thing they did.” He gives a humorless chuckle, dismissive. This really isn’t something he wants to get into right now. “...Can we talk about something else?”
“As long as you’re talking about it with someone-” Harley starts, and he can tell he’s about to receive a lecture.
“I am . I’m- I’m just tired, Harley. I can’t right now.” Orion lets out a long sigh. “I’m- I am working on it, though. Promise.”
“Hmm.” Whether his friend actually believes that or not is a mystery, but if nothing else, he does drop the topic. “What do you want to talk about, then?”
“I dunno.” He lets his eyes fall shut. “Tell me more about linguistics. Or mythology. Something cool.”
Harley hums again, small smile audible even over the poor signal. “Do you know why the Greeks named the constellation Orion?”
He’s heard, of course- almost a dozen times- Ed’s drunken explanation of the story. Every time, it makes his heart flutter little circles round his ribcage. “I think you might’ve told me, but I don’t really remember,” he lies. “What was it again?”
Harley starts the story the way he always does- so, the myth goes, back when the gods were still on Earth- and Lancaster settles again into the rolling velvet of his voice. For a long while, he just breathes along with it, focusing on the way the tension bleeds out of him slowly. It’s almost meditative.
His shoulder is starting to hurt, and so he shifts slightly, the edge of the pillow catching against the still-damp spot on his boxers, and- hmm. That’s. Mm. Well.
Against his better judgement, he rolls his hips forward slightly, and has to stifle a quiet hiss. He- he really shouldn’t be turned on by this, by just– listening to his best friend ramble about the etymology of his chosen name . Although, now that he thinks about it, that’s the exact kind of thing that would turn him on, and he should not be surprised.
God, he loves this voice. The low and rumbling roll of Orion off his best friend’s tongue has him shivery with want, a thrilling backdrop to the press of the pillow against him.
He also really should not be considering masturbating with Harley on the line – not only is that incredibly unprofessional, it’s also just kind of rude– except that he’s really so fucking tired, and it’s been months , and his judgement is being clouded a little bit by the pulse of need that radiates through him at the thought of it, and, well…
He rolls his hips again, harder this time, sending sparks of god-yes-please shivering through him. Okay. So he’s doing this, then.
It doesn’t hurt much, this way- hip problems aside, it’s better than before; the previous slickness and tingling arousal getting him there much faster. Harley’s deep, absurdly attractive voice murmuring soothingly over the radio is certainly not hurting, either, and it doesn’t take much to lose himself in the feeling, stifling the hitches of his breath into the pillow. It’s– it’s good . It’s exactly what he’d needed. Fuck, he’s gone.
“Lancaster?” Harley is asking him, and he presses the back of his hand to his teeth to muffle the quiet whimper that ekes out of him. “Still with me?”
He fumbles for the walkie with his free hand, hits the button on the third try. “Yeah,” he manages, strained. “Yeah, I'm listening.”
“Are you okay? You sound…”
“Fine!” His voice cracks. “Just, uh- ngh – just a pain flare. Will you– can you keep talking?”
Thankfully, it's believable enough that Harley doesn't push him on it, just launches back into his story. Orion feels a bit guilty for using that as an excuse, but, well- it isn't entirely a lie. He is in pain. He just also, well– mmh .
Harley’s tone raises in excitement as he gets to what is- presumably- the good bit– and jesus , he loves this man so much he feels like his ribs will crack with the strength of it. He needs– he needs something. Needs to watch those nimble fingers untie the braids from their bun, cascading in black waterfalls over his shoulderblades, collar half-unbuttoned and bruises pressed close against his chest.
The thought makes his breath hitch again, and he slides his other hand- the one that doesn’t have a hairline fracture on the wrist- between the hot crevice of his thighs. The press of his fingertips against the plush opening of his front has him letting out a shuddering breath.
There’s no pain anymore, or maybe it just doesn’t matter– the whole world narrowed to the burning coiling of desire and the way he chases it. It’s slick and hot and bordering on the edge of too much and not enough all at once, and he wants so badly not to be alone right now- except that he isn’t , not really, not anymore. Someone who cares for him is spinning lovely stories into the silence, and Lancaster wants.
He wonders whether Harley’s voice would be low and gravelly or high, breathy, utterly wrecked. Whether he’d narrate every moment of his pleasure into Orion’s ear– rambling praise between hitching, desperate gasps– or whether he’s the type who prefers to put his mouth to an altogether different use.
Christ. Orion shoves his hand downwards, grinding hard onto the heel of his palm, and fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck–
The tension snaps, and he stifles a long, low whine into the back of his hand as his orgasm crashes over him. He’s swept away with it, grinding tiny, bruising circles into his t-dick as stars explode behind his eyelids. He comes hard.
By the time he remembers to breathe, most of the aftershocks have run through him, limbs heavy and jelly-like as the intense currents of pleasure ebb away.
Lancaster rolls onto his back, splaying out like a starfish and breathing heavily as sweet oxytocin washes through him. Harley is still rambling. He lets the dull, dulcet voice blend into the background noise as all the tension bleeds from his muscles.
He comes back to himself slowly, but with a solid finality this time– his body actually feels like his for the first time in… he doesn’t even know how long. The feeling of being solid, grounded, comes as such a relief that he barely even thinks about how utterly inappropriate that had all been. Orion can freak out about that tomorrow. For now, things are finally okay.
“Fall asleep?” Harley asks, hushed like he’s worried to wake him. Something in Orion melts at the intimacy of it.
“Not yet,” he sighs, and hopes it doesn’t sound as terribly fond as he feels. He yawns. “I am getting tired, though. Might drop off soon.” And then, far more earnest than he’d intended: “Thanks for being here.”
“Oh.” He sounds a bit startled, but Orion can hear the hesitant happiness in it. “Uh- yeah. Of course. Thanks for listening.”
“Mm.” Lancaster hums sleepily, feeling his eyelids droop. “Night, Ed.”
He barely hears the reply- Sleep well, Orion- before he falls into a deep, dreamless rest.