written for Dee and her haiku challenge (50/70/50)
Denim
The cuffs of Orlando's jeans drag into the ocean. Capillary action pulls salt-water up the legs, staining the denim a dark wet indigo blue. The material clings to his knees as the waves curl around his ankles. Beneath his feet, the sand sways, and Orlando wishes he had Viggo's leverage.
Voice
The heels of Viggo's palms are cracked and worn like his voice – a combination of age, experience and the heartbreak of his work. Orlando likes the fact that Viggo smells of things from the ocean: surf sweat and bright sky. His touch is colored a resilient white, with pale blue overtones. And when they fuck, Viggo is like the riptide, pulling Orlando under, into the dark places of the sea.
Habit
Orlando's damp fingers carry electric shock when they are pulled from the water to cup Viggo's jaw. "What're you doing?" Viggo asks, careful not to murmur against Orlando's mouth. "Same thing I always do," Orlando answers before trying to part Viggo's lips with his smile, hungry to taste the seaside.
