It's five thirty in the morning and you're amazed by how much sun there is on this side of the world already. You hum to yourself tunelessly as you dump spoonful after spoonful of sugar into your coffee. Your prefer tea – the lot of you do, except for maybe Elijah – but you all know that the only way to catch the best waves is to make sure you don't sleep through them.
Orlando pushes his mug towards you with the tips of his fingers and you pour a spot of cream into his cup. You continue to hum – a song that Maggie taught you once – as you watch it swirl and dissolve round the neck of your spoon. He looks out the kitchen window, out onto the sand and the surf below. Outside, the waves are wailing against the beach, waiting for you.
"S'not that cold," you mumble quietly, wrapping your sense-dull fingers around your mug. For a minute, no one understands what you're talking about, and then you nod towards Orlando's shirt, gesturing to the high black collar hugging close to his neck. He bristles imperceptibly and then mumbles some nonsense excuse.
Your hands are tired – still sleeping – as you straighten the collar of his shirt – tucking away a dark red, angry bruise that shows where his jaw meets his neck. He reaches out and touches the band of your wristwatch and tells you thank you and tells you sorry before looping his index finger in the handle of his mug and pulling it towards him to breathe the steam. You steal a sideways glance and think that perhaps the turtleneck means Dom. Dom who likes to leave marks behind with his mouth, Dom who's still sleeping in Orlando's bed down the hall.
"You look like an idiot," Elijah says from the couch with the slightest hint of malice in his voice. He's fidgeting, trying to figure out how to work the controls of Sean's new digital camera, and when Orlando turns away from you to tell Elijah to fuck off, the little silver Nikon whirs and clicks and beeps happily.
"Oops," Elijah then says and fumbles for the delete button.
