A few days after the party - Orlando, Bill.
Johnny is going to be okay.
That's the great thing about Johnny, isn't it; he's always okay. No matter the hardship, no matter what misery looms, Johnny can look it in the eye and acknowledge it but always come out on top, because that's the kind of guy Johnny is. Though sometimes Orlando gets the impression it doesn't come entirely easily for Johnny, despite the ease he puts in everything. Even before last night Orlando's seen him struggle, doubt but also determination in the set of his jaw, pushed away by the inevitable smile. He's not a saint, but close enough to those who know him. Johnny can be trusted to take care of himself and, if nothing else, Orlando thinks, at least dutifully learn from every fuck-up.
Orlando, not so much.
He feels raw and restless tonight. Sleep eludes him but there's nothing new there. Instead of the usual paralysing apathy however is this piercing sense of needing to do something about it, whatever it is. He's wisely vacated the house, but the guesthouse at the bottom of the garden feels tiny and stifling so Orlando toes off his trainers and wriggles into a pair of leather trousers he digs out from the bottom of a suitcase stashed away in the cupboard. He kneels by the trunk, half-dressed, fingers going over the neatly folded t-shirts stacked there. He selects the thin washed-out fabric of a black shirt with a mock Hells' Angels decal and pulls it over his head and down his chest. The fit is snug, but then again it's meant to be.
He loops both thumbs into two belt-loops and tugs; Robbie liked the way he used to make the waist of his trousers sit just so on his hips.
It takes a few minutes in front of the mirror, immobile and staring, before recalling the motions. He ignores the razor sitting damply on the spotted lip of the sink and rummages for the mostly-empty bottles confined to the back of the medicine cabinet months ago. He squeezes a fat dollop of viscous gel into his palm then rubs both hands together vigorously, warming the gel before raking his fingers through his hair, shaking it loose. The curls bounce and glisten satisfyingly when he drops his arms. Orlando catches the foreign smile in his reflection and looks away.
He washes his hands and brushes his teeth before lacing up boots he hasn't worn in ages and hurrying out the door and off the property.
--
This is something Orlando's never liked about Los Angeles, how you can't really walk anywhere. Orlando hates driving, though, and he'd rather skirt kerbs and feel the dangerous woosh of hot air violently displaced by vehicles rushing past in the opposite direction. His eyes sting and he licks his lips, but the heavy step of his boots in the filth that's accumulated by the side of the road is comforting. It's like riding a bike, he muses dryly, but no less fascinated by the ease with which he's remembering things. Muscle-memory. Or maybe it's that he just never forgot at all.
Rings' place is an hour's walk away. There are two cars parked in the drive when Orlando walks up to the bungalow--a rather normal-looking place, he always thought, with its trimmed palms and spotless stucco. He files along the cars up to the door. His finger on the doorbell is surprisingly steady.
That's the great thing about Johnny, isn't it; he's always okay. No matter the hardship, no matter what misery looms, Johnny can look it in the eye and acknowledge it but always come out on top, because that's the kind of guy Johnny is. Though sometimes Orlando gets the impression it doesn't come entirely easily for Johnny, despite the ease he puts in everything. Even before last night Orlando's seen him struggle, doubt but also determination in the set of his jaw, pushed away by the inevitable smile. He's not a saint, but close enough to those who know him. Johnny can be trusted to take care of himself and, if nothing else, Orlando thinks, at least dutifully learn from every fuck-up.
Orlando, not so much.
He feels raw and restless tonight. Sleep eludes him but there's nothing new there. Instead of the usual paralysing apathy however is this piercing sense of needing to do something about it, whatever it is. He's wisely vacated the house, but the guesthouse at the bottom of the garden feels tiny and stifling so Orlando toes off his trainers and wriggles into a pair of leather trousers he digs out from the bottom of a suitcase stashed away in the cupboard. He kneels by the trunk, half-dressed, fingers going over the neatly folded t-shirts stacked there. He selects the thin washed-out fabric of a black shirt with a mock Hells' Angels decal and pulls it over his head and down his chest. The fit is snug, but then again it's meant to be.
He loops both thumbs into two belt-loops and tugs; Robbie liked the way he used to make the waist of his trousers sit just so on his hips.
It takes a few minutes in front of the mirror, immobile and staring, before recalling the motions. He ignores the razor sitting damply on the spotted lip of the sink and rummages for the mostly-empty bottles confined to the back of the medicine cabinet months ago. He squeezes a fat dollop of viscous gel into his palm then rubs both hands together vigorously, warming the gel before raking his fingers through his hair, shaking it loose. The curls bounce and glisten satisfyingly when he drops his arms. Orlando catches the foreign smile in his reflection and looks away.
He washes his hands and brushes his teeth before lacing up boots he hasn't worn in ages and hurrying out the door and off the property.
--
This is something Orlando's never liked about Los Angeles, how you can't really walk anywhere. Orlando hates driving, though, and he'd rather skirt kerbs and feel the dangerous woosh of hot air violently displaced by vehicles rushing past in the opposite direction. His eyes sting and he licks his lips, but the heavy step of his boots in the filth that's accumulated by the side of the road is comforting. It's like riding a bike, he muses dryly, but no less fascinated by the ease with which he's remembering things. Muscle-memory. Or maybe it's that he just never forgot at all.
Rings' place is an hour's walk away. There are two cars parked in the drive when Orlando walks up to the bungalow--a rather normal-looking place, he always thought, with its trimmed palms and spotless stucco. He files along the cars up to the door. His finger on the doorbell is surprisingly steady.