You are puttering about the apartment, cleaning and dancing to pounding trance music. The fan does little but push the hot air around, and your body is sticky with a light layer of sweat. You pause, cocking your head to listen for a second. There. A knock on the door, harder this time. You slide the lock, open it. He is leaning against the opposite wall, those eyes that you love are hidden behind dark glasses, the smile that never ceases to tease your own lips apart and make your spine twang with longing is there on his face. Orlando. Orli, in your mind, though you can't bring yourself to reveal the intimacy to him. He wears a tightly fitted tee shirt over his muscled torso, baggy shorts hang off his hips, his feet are bare; he must have come straight from his flat down the hall. He pushes off the wall.

"Can you do me a favor, love?" You sigh. You never deny him when he calls you this, as casually as he may say it. Endless borrowed foodstuffs, cds, beer, phone calls; all given in neighborly generosity because of that smile, those eyes. You attempt a look of annoyance.

"What now?" He pushes past you into the living room, restlessly circling, picking up and putting down objects at random. He never just sits still unless he's completely wasted, and you've spent countless hours watching him pace just to take in the feline grace of his body. He takes his sunglasses off, flinging them carelessly onto the sofa. He pauses, runs slender fingers through the untidy spikes of his hair.

"Need to get rid of this mess. You've got a buzzer, right?" You feel a pang at the thought of those locks no longer existing, making your palms itch. You shrug, nod, and move into the bath to dig out the electric clippers, come back to find him resuming his pacing and hand them to him. He looks down at them in his palm, wrinkles his nose, and looks up, cocking his head. Oh, lord, he wants something else.

"Could you do it for me? I need it all gone--down to the skin." You swallow, try again for the put-upon expression.

"C'mon then, into the bath with you. Grab the stool from the kitchen." He grins, darts a quick kiss on your cheek and bounds off the fetch the chair. You walk to the tiled bathroom, open a window to encourage the nonexistent breeze in futile hope that the flush on your face will cool. He comes into the small room, plunks down on the tall seat, and you wrap a towel around his neck, unable to resist running your fingers under the edge of the cloth to stroke his smooth skin. Plugging the clippers in, you turn them on and pause a moment, hand vibrating to the low buzz. Running a hand up the back of his head, you silently say farewell to your only chance to feel the softness of his hair, and push his skull until his chin touches his chest. He shivers and giggles when you apply the clippers to his scalp, running in long sweeps over the curve of his head. You move in a slow circle around him, tilting him this way and that, folding his ears down to clean up his hairline, lifting his chin with a finger to get the front. You feel his gaze on your face, avoid it for fear of being this close and giving away the thoughts you are having about each bit of skin as you touch it. Clumps of dark fuzz fall to the floor. Finally, his hair is shorn as close as you can get it with the tool. You take the towel and brush it over his neck and scalp, freeing the loose strands, and back up a step to look at him. Oh, god, you'd forgotten what the sight of him with this cut did to you. You reach out and pet him, the short bristles soft and tickling your palm. He grins and brings his own hand up to it.

"Have you got a razor and cream?" You sigh, loathe to take your hand away, but turn and retrieve the can of shaving gel and a fresh blade from the shower, telling him to duck his head under the tap as you turn on the hot water. As he wets his head, you wipe up the discarded clumps with the towel and set it aside, picking a fresh one up and draping it over your shoulder. He turns off the tap and stands, shaking droplets off like a dog, sits back on the stool expectantly. You take the towel and carefully, lovingly, wipe the water off his face. He submits to this patiently, but his foot, hooked onto a rung of the seat, is jiggling. Right. On with it, then. You squirt the scented gel into your palm and crush a fleeting thought to what type of cream you'd rather be putting on him at the moment. Rubbing your hands together, you caress his head and rub the gel into a lather. He closes his eyes and starts to hum, enjoying the sensation. You take a breath and finish, turn away to run your hands under the sink tap and wipe them dry with the towel over your shoulder. He pops up and cranes his neck over you to see himself in the mirror, enticingly close, making you shiver and sweat more in the heat. You wonder for the millionth time if he knows of your crush, if he teases you on purpose. You don't think he would be cruel, but then again, he has an impish streak worse than a ten year old. You meet his eyes in the reflection.

"Sit." He sticks his tongue out at you, evoking yet more unwelcome thoughts, and disappears from the image to take his place once more. Rolling your eyes, you turn back to the real Orlando and lift the razor, delicately tracing his skin, carving lines out of the lather and rinsing the blade in steaming hot water. The mirror is quickly fogged, the air thick and stifling despite the open window, and you feel your top adhering to your skin, the hairs from his clippings pricking where they stick.

"Your feet are really tiny," he says suddenly, and you look down to where you stand in between his knees. You see that he has let one bare foot down to rest lightly next to one of yours. You stare, bemused.

"Not so very. Yours are just huge." He laughs boyishly, and you groan inwardly, having thought about his feet before. Old wives' tales, indeed. He runs his toes along your instep and you kick his shin, eliciting another giggle.

He plays with the hem of your shirt as you work on the top of his head, and you suck in a breath when his fingers toy with the button of your shorts. You don't want him to stop, but can't bear the thought of being this worked up and him leaving yet again without taking it to the level you dream of at night. Noticing your hand trembling, you warn him.

"Keep that up and your likely to have a nasty head wound, Orlando. You know I'm ticklish." It's the closest you can come to admitting what his playing hands do to you, and you feel yourself blush furiously, thankful that you have his head tucked down and he cannot see you. He laughs softly, hands still. But his fingers are curled into the belt loops and remain there, hanging, threatening to drag the loose-fitting garment down over your hips. Your mind wars with wishing for it and dreading the event happening. Now you can't turn to rinse the blade, but lean back as his hands casually hold your hips in place to run it under the faucet. You wet a hand and run it slickly over his scalp, sensitive palm feeling for rough patches and cleaning them up. His humming picks up when you do this, and you see his eyes are closed again, lips parted slightly. You lick your lips, aching to touch them to his, to slide your tongue into his mouth, and sigh. Not to be; he's never given you any encouragement beyond friendly hugs and kisses, childish tussling like he does with any of his male friends.

You take the towel and wipe off your hands.

"All done. Time for you to wash up." You expect him to thank you with his habitual friendly peck and go off to his own place, but he stands and strips off his shirt in front of you, turns to run the shower tap again. You stand there, stupidly gaping, then shake yourself, racing to get out of the room before any more clothing comes off and reduces you to a quivering puddle. He turns back to you, having got the temperature of the water to his liking. You freeze, for some unknown reason, you can't move when he looks at you. He cocks his head, eyeing you appraisingly. What now? What could he possibly have left to do to your fast crumbling defenses? He lifts a hand and pushes the damply curling strands from where they have stuck to your cheek, runs a finger along your neck and comes away with a dollop of shaving cream that somehow got there.

"Looks like you need a shower as well," he grins, teasing.

"I'll have one after you," you stammer, backing away, pleading with the powers that be to help you not make a fool of yourself. He wrinkles his nose briefly.

"Suit yourself."

You stumble to the next room, struggling not to pant. And remember that you've used all the clean towels in the bathroom. Taking a deep breath to calm your shaking-he's in the shower, for god's sake, not your bed!-you find the pile of clean laundry from earlier in the day and return, easing the door open. Calling to him, hoping you sound normal, you edge closer to the shower to place the towel on the cabinet there.

"There's a towel for you when you're finished." You turn away, forcing yourself not to peer at the clouded curtain to see what's behind it. You're tortured enough without the added input. You hear the sound of the curtain rings scraping their pole, and abruptly his steaming body pulls you into the tub. You shriek as you are rapidly soaked, but the water fills your mouth and you sputter, completely bewildered and more than a little angry at this mistreatment. His voice over your shoulder stills your struggles.

"There's a rough spot. Fix it?" Your nostrils flare, jaw clenches. Of all the unnecessary, mean...

"I'm soaked, Orlando," you seethe. "It could have waited."

His voice drops an octave, rumbles with humour, "No, it couldn't."