[lotrips] bleached
A mountain bike carelessly dumped on the grass. Viggo closes his eyes briefly; the harsh morning sun reflects off the metal and he thinks Orlando.
There is sand between his toes still, even though he brushed most of it off down at the beach. Seems here that there is always sand, always sand between his toes, in his hair, on the kitchen floor underfoot even at midnight. He finds pale blonde sand on the windowsills, in his bed. It is gritty.
Flash of dark on the stairs and Viggo looks up to his house, squinting into the sun even with sunglasses on because it is California and that's what you do here. The apartment block is white too and that makes it worse, makes it harder to pick out the dark shape that is Orlando's head against white walls white shirt white shorts. Viggo considers calling out to him but the sand underneath his fingernails suggests not. Move forward instead. Make the sun disappear behind the roof, stop the glare, watch Orlando bound up the rickety wooden stairs, legs head arms but nothing in the middle. Orlando has no centre anymore because it he has disguised it with white.
In between the last step and the porch Viggo thinks that it is strange to see Orlando in white, in monochrome, and wonders if three years of comments on his atrocious shirts have hit a nerve. Or if Orlando has bleached everything, just for a laugh, bleached his clothes like the sun bleaches everything in California, especially near the beach where the sand amplifies the white. Once, Viggo rebelled, stalked down to the beach to pour crimson acrylic on the sand just so there was some real colour. Within minutes the juicy red had became blush-coloured and frustrating under the pale blue sky. Viggo had gone to the market and bought raspberries and ate them all on the way home.
When Orlando has both feet on the porch Viggo looks gratefully at his dark hair that is not bleached, or sandy, or sunny, and now there is no glare he sees all of Orlando, his torso no longer lost against the white walls. Is he thinner, taller?
He holds his breath as Orlando sinks back down into his heels after the last step. There is quiet, it is a quiet neighbourhood for all its proximity to the ocean. Bleached of sound too, Viggo thinks, and wonders if he is bitter about that as well. Up on the porch Orlando takes one step, two steps, feet level but apart. Viggo exhales a little because the sun creates prickly heat on the back of his neck and his ankles. Sand, which after all is really just glass, magnifies the sunrays and he feels each little grain on the tops of his feet. Little burning spots like stings. Orlando swivels slowly on the balls of his feet, left and right, left and right. The motion makes his hips move, makes Viggo dizzy, what with the sand and the white and the stinging. Dizzy, so he exhales all the way out and draws in another breath and lets it out and draws another and lets it out so that Orlando stands still and knocks on Viggo's door.
The first time - in New Zealand, on someone's trailer - Viggo saw Orlando knock on a door he laughed out loud. Orlando makes loose fists of his hands and flips their weight back and forth on his wrists, raptapraptapraptap with both hands, a demented meerkat knock. It is easy to recognise, without rhythm or effort and definitely Orlando but Viggo strains to hear it on his own door. Maybe he does. Raptapraptap?
Both Orlando's wrists have watches wrapped around them, an affectation he seems to have stolen from Dominic although Viggo has his own suspicions about Dom's incessant wrist binding with watches and bracelets. And lately leather, not even subtle with the metal rings attached. Orlando has hinted - although how would he really know - that Dom is not the one that wears cuffs when it matters, and Viggo thinks that Elijah is sometimes too much of a cliche for his own good. Orlando keeps the left watch on L for London time and the right watch on California, or Sydney, or wherever he is. Viggo wonders when the left wrist will be L for Los Angeles and hopes never for Orlando, but soon for him.
Viggo is not answering and Orlando's shoulders have slowly inched down from their expectant stance. He twists again on his heels and Viggo wants to close his eyes when a pivot spins Orlando right around on one foot, hitching slightly when he loses momentum. That will make him dizzy again, thinks Viggo, but he doesn't know if he is referring to himself or Orlando. Maybe Orlando is dizzy because he reaches out the London wrist to lean on the glass door. Orlando's weight must be all concentrated on that wrist, on that glass pane, so Viggo can't help himself from thinking what if it were to break and shatter Orlando would have bright shards of glass to deal with and the white shirt would be spattered with crimson, just like Viggo wanted the sand to be. Viggo wants to shout out to Orlando that he is in danger, leaning like that, he'll bleed from cut glass and he won't be bleached and white anymore.
Then the danger is over because Orlando has distributed his weight on the glass door, has leaned his whole frame against it, half twisting away. Viggo wonders why from this distance he can see Orlando's eyes close, slowly and sadly. There is his cheek resting against the door, and Viggo thinks it would be cool in the heat, it must be, because Orlando's palm is flat against the glass, against his face, looking like a posed theatre still for promotion. Viggo tries to think of a play to fit the scene. All the way up the stairs, creeping ranger-like, a good skill, yes thank you Peter. Can't think of a play. Orlando - he can't see him now - is still there, beautiful and disappointed to be shut out. Viggo thinks the sand between his toes may give him away, the gritty sound may scrape too loud in the white clean air, but he reaches the porch and sees Orlando all in white and his eyes are still closed.
Viggo reaches out for him.