Larry knew it was a bad idea even before the chemical tang of cocaine bloomed from Orange's mouth to his, bitter and distinct. He startled from the kiss, the light from the hallway closed out as his back hit the door. Too drunk. Too stupid. Too damn dark in there.

"Hey," Orange soothed, the heavy fold of a leather jacket hitting the floor. "Relax man, I'm not gonna jump you." White got a little warning this time, Orange's bony hands searching out his shoulders, the jumping pulse in his neck, then combing through his hair. Another one of those absurd contrasts; for a guy who made a career out of taking what he wanted from others, Orange was remarkably giving. He kissed like they had just got back from Prom, like White's mouth was the most fascinating thing in the known world.

White had anchored his grip at Orange's sides, cementing the image of slow dancing in a highschool gym. Taffeta on the basketball hoops and barbiturates in the punch.

Orange slid and arm around White's neck to pull himself closer, shoulders to knees keeping out the dark chill settled raw on damp skin. "What," he complained when White braced their bodies apart. "What, what," he mouthed against White's ear like he knew it would drive him crazy, as sure as if he'd read it on a file. "I'm clean, you asshole -- certificate of health in my wallet. Right next to the condoms."

"Good to know," White hadn't trusted his voice to work, especially at the next reluctant admission, "So you're clean, but you're also fucked up."

"Jury's out on that." Orange mused, though he had given White some space. Hotel curtains were a heavy barricade against outside light and noise, and either Orange didn't want to risk a lamp or simply didn't have the patience to go hunting for one. Maybe it was dark for a good reason.

Maybe Larry didn't want to go hunting out a lamp either. "I mean you're high. You didn't even ask me if I was clean."

Orange's hands do noise to the door on both sides of White's head, slapping the wood before pushing himself away. "So tell me you're clean, then."

Larry can think a little clearer without the smell of sweat and leather crawling down his throat. "You're married."

Orange scoffs. "I'm not asking you to wear my class ring, Suzie Q, I just wanna suck your cock."

White is surprised that they'd been thinking along the same lines. hat this encounter was a little too... something. Too new. Too intimate. The kind of rendezvous teenagers would have, because they knew it wouldn't last past the summer but they were drunk and self-centered and delusional on hormones. "I'm flattered."

"Yeah. You're somethin'."

"I'm also shitfaced. Nothin' doin', friend, sorry."

"You're sober enough."

White has crossed his arms, leaned his head against the door. Kept trying to swallow back the aftertaste of the crack rock Orange had probably been dissolving under his lip all night, wondering if it was enough to show up on a blood test. Wondering if it was enough to get him addicted. "Maybe. But you're still married."

"For the tax returns."

"I got a code. I got standards."

"'Course you do." Orange sounds less manic, at least, but the defeat echoes between them. The repeated spark of a butane lighter, a small weak pocket of light where Orange wears his hair ruffled and boyish, disappearing as the cigarette is breathed to life. Footfall in the dark, the healthy noiselessness of a new mattress giving way under a body.

White steps forward because he can't just leave it god damn well enough alone. He's unsurprised when he feels the tug of his beltloop, knees hitting the edge of the bed.

"You nightblind?"

White means to laugh, he just doesn't get around to it. "No, but your pupils are probably blown so wide I bet it's given you super vision."

"Faster than a speeding bullet..." Orange mumbles, manages to coax White to take a sit. His voice lowers dramatically. "Able to leap to erroneous conclusions in a single bound."

"Listen to the Harvard grad over here. Erroneous."

"I got that word from Ghostbusters."

White's eyes are glued to the burning cherry of Orange's cigarette. "Dan Aykroyd is a trip."

Orange makes an agreement in the back of his throat. "And Billy-what's-his'face."

"Crystal? He ain't in that film."

"Sure he is, he plays Peter."

"Crissakes, asshole. Short."

"I want to see your dick."

"... Okay. So what's the long story?"

"If I'm lucky? Your dick."

"Hardy fucking har."

"That's the idea."

"You wanna get smacked?"

"Okay. Sure. I can be into that."

"Orange. Enough wise-assing. What's the deal here? What's the matter with you?"

"I don't want you on the team."

Larry's pulse thunders through his ears. He sits up. "Did I ever, once, ever fuck up or screw you over or make Papa Joe look bad? Huh? Did I?"

"No, man, and it ain't anything like Quid Pro Quo over here, believe me, it's just. Jesus. You're good. You'd make a good thief. The Cabots, man, they need guys like you. This job," An exhale. "We aren't wearing any masks. That's gotta tell you something. We aren't even using our real names. The only safe way anybody could conceivably move that much ice through the market is anonymously, right?"

"Sure, I follow."

"So, Joe gets his cut once we make the sell. By ourselves. Individually. Preferably a few borders apart from California, and I don't mean state-wise."

"... So?"

"So I don't think you should be on this job. Most of the guys on the team have plans to get far, far away from the states. Do something else with their lives, maybe. But you're good at this line of work and it just feels like you only just got here to just. I dunno. I'm high."

"What happens if the guys don't or can't make the sell, or somehow Joe Cabot doesn't get his share?"

"He knows the buyers. They take the share right at the transaction. We're just the middle-men, the splash page, some faces the media can point the blame at."

"Yeah okay. I get it."

"You're gonna hear all this when Joe calls you around."

"If I get the job."

Orange falls back to the mattress. "Man, don't even listen to me. You're great. You'll do great." His legs find their way over White's lap, feet wagging off the side of the bed. "Wallet's in my jacket, if you want to have a look at that bloodwork sheet."

Larry's chest pinches in tight. He could have a look, and get Orange's name as easy as that. His hesitation is snapped up in the jaws of Orange's tireless observation, though, and the moment passes -- Orange removes himself from Larry, from the bed, fishes around the floor for his jacket. Pulls it on.

Couldn't have read much of anything in the dark, anyway.