|LA. Night. Nowish.
||[Mar. 25th, 2005|10:28 pm]
not yet day
Don’t say it; if you don’t say it, then it isn’t. It isn’t something that exists, and it isn’t something that can be taken away. It isn’t something you’ll, you know, lose. This time. It’s not. It isn’t.|
It isn’t Orlando’s fake hair, that’s for sure. Not the chemical relaxation or the genuine extensions. It isn’t his straggling facial hair either, or his clogged pores, or his Old Spice derivative deodorant, or his stupid fucking Cavalli undershirt or his buffed nails. Not his trendy old man suspenders or his fucking beautiful piece of shit lovely longed-for… it isn’t anything in particular about Orlando, really, that has Viggo staring at him, him, bathed in moonlight even. It’s not that. It’s none of those things. It isn’t-
-any one thing. But for some reason, not a reason that needs to be talked about, thought about, Viggo is here. His hand is here on Orlando’s ribcage, rising and falling, rising and falling, and Orlando is a mess, truth be known. He’s a very expensive mess in a Los Angeles hotel room, but he’s sleeping. And that’s something.
Something they won’t talk about in the morning.