"Hey, you wanna hear about the dream I had last night?" he called out. Karl stepped out of their miniscule bathroom with a mouthful of foam, toothbrush in hand. His pajama bottoms were a deep shade of burgundy that offset his skin tone (not that Orlando spent a great deal of time thinking about skin tones or anything like that he just thought Karl looked good naked but Drew did talk about that sort of thing, and he tended to listen to her...mostly because he didn't have a choice) and his chest was also bare. "Hmm?" Karl asked, as he continued to brush his teeth. Orlando entertained a fleeting thought of pushing Karl against the counter and going to his knees, but he was feeling too lazy to move and, more importantly, he knew Karl wouldn't put out until Orlando'd at least finished his paper. Dude was totally worse than his mother when it came to homework. Not that he wanted his mother to give him the same sort of incentives that Karl did, but still. The comparison was a valid one. "The dream I had last night. You wanna hear it?" Karl disappeared back into the bathroom to spit out his toothpaste. "Am I naked?" "Nope." Karl popped his head around the door again, frowning. A lock of hair fell into his eyes. "Is it about Professor Sinclair naked? Because I don't need to hear your sex dreams if I'm not involved." "Nope," Orlando answered. Toss up in the air. Catch. Toss up in the air. Catch. "But you're both in it." "I'm listening," Karl called, over the sound of running water. "Okay, so. In the dream, I'm some gangster dude in the 1920s in Chicago, I think, or maybe New York, and I'm dressed for a night on the town, in this snazzy suit and hat, even though I'm going stag, and I duck into this nightclub or speakeasy or whatever they're called, because I want to hear some music." Karl walked out and snagged two bottles of water from the mini-fridge, tossing Orlando one. Karl had this, like, thing, where right before bed he drank only water. He claimed it helped him sleep better and helped his body recover better from their ridiculously long practices after class. Orlando thought there must be something to it, as he had a lot more energy these days. "If I'm dressed as a torch singer, then you can stop right now," Karl grinned, and flopped on the bed beside Orlando, shoving books out of the way and scooting over until they were pressed from ankle to hip. "Dude, you'd look like shit in a dress, no matter how great your legs are," Orlando replied. He lobbed the baseball to Karl, who neatly snagged it in his free hand before setting it on the bedside table. "Anyway, so I walk into this club, right, and you and Professor Sinclair are there, but you're both part of the band " "What instrument am I playing?" "Trumpet. Professor Sinclair's playing the trombone." "Seriously, you have got to stop eating cheesy garlic fries before bed." Orlando elbowed Karl in the side. "That's blasphemy you're spouting there." Karl just rolled his eyes. "Whatever, I'm a heathen. Keep going." "Alright, so, you're the only two people on the stage, no clue where the rest of the band is," Orlando said, settling back next to Karl, "and I'm the only one in the audience and there's a table right up front that I know is mine, right. So I slide in and start sipping on my champagne " "How'd the champagne get there if no one else is in the club but us?" "Who cares, it's dream-logic," Orlando shrugged. He loved Karl to infinity and beyond, but sometimes Karl was far too literal for his own good. Half the time, Orlando thought he was put on this earth to inject more frivolity into Karl's existence. It was a pretty good raison d'๊tre, if he said so himself. "Anyway, so, I'm enjoying my bubbly, you and Harry are playing away, sounding damn good, and then I call out, in this very angsty sort of voice where you can tell I'm channeling my inner Bogart, that I want to hear a certain song." "You don't look anything like Bogart," Karl pointed out. He cupped Orlando's unshaven chin and turned his head to and fro. "Not nearly craggy or beaten enough. But you're totally hotter." "You're biased," Orlando said, but leaned in for a soft kiss that tasted like mint. "What song was it?" Karl asked, after they'd spent a few long minutes lazily making out. "Hmm?" It took Orlando a moment to remember what they'd been talking about. Kissing Karl tended to scramble with his brain. "Oh, um, Cleaning Out My Closet." Karl promptly burst out laughing. "Dude, your brain is a scary place." "Dream logic, hello," Orlando said, poking at Karl's hip. "I didn't say it made sense. But I get the feeling I was all melancholy and thinking of a lost love or whatever and that song had some deep meaning or something." "Uh huh." "What, Eminem could totally have been a poet back in the day." "I'm just trying to figure out what that song would sound like on a trumpet," Karl grinned. "If you're playing, probably like shit." "Just because I have other talents that don't revolved around musical instruments..." "Just promise me next time we go karaoking with the theatre crowd that you won't get up and sing." "I can't promise anything if there's sake involved or if Drew's around," Karl answered. Which, y'know, was a good point. Drew tended to get Karl into all kinds of crazy situations. Orlando nodded and gave Karl his most serious game face. "I'll just bring earplugs." Karl frowned for half a second before pushing Orlando off the bed and to the floor amidst a flurry of flying papers. Onto The Art of War
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