Fic: Chair

Aug. 4th, 2017 10:25 pm
afra_schatz: Made by wizzicons on LJ (Default)
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Viggo comes back to the hotel in Southern Boeotia they booked themselves into with about his weight in groceries dangling from his arms. The hotel is probably best described as the perfect equivalent to the car they rented - somewhat dented, designed by someone obviously colour blind, way too small for Eric, but inadvertantly charming somehow anyway. In any case, when Viggo shoulders the door to their room open, he does it with some care to not accidentally unhinge the door, like Eric did yesterday. Then he stops in the small pathway between bath and beds and looks at Eric.

‘Mate,’ he says after a moment of Eric not acknowledging his presence because he is too busy with his current task, ‘honestly, I don’t believe you when you say you’re from Australia.’

Eric turns, a slightly dangerous endeavour, considering he is standing on their room’s only (and quite wonky) chair.

‘You spent Christmas there,’ he says in that tone of voice he uses when he wakes Viggo from kafkaesk dreams. ‘With my whole family. In my family’s hotel. For decades.’

Viggo makes a dismissive waving gesture and the discoball-sized melon in his left hand bangs against the wall. Some plaster rains from the ceiling.

‘That doesn’t prove anything.’

Eric now turns fully on his chair, still unwilling to descend, though interested in the contents of Viggo’s bags, judging from the thirsty look in his eyes.

‘Did you get beer?’ he asks. ‘And sunscreen?’

Viggo huffs and makes the (short) way to the beds, dropping the bags onto Eric’s before flopping down on the other.

‘Did I get beer and sunscreen?’ he repeats, sounding offended. ‘The audacity.’

‘Does that mean yes?’ Eric asks anyway, ‘because if you forgot, I will have to come down and kick you.’

Viggo props himself up on his elbows so he can look at Eric from a slightly less weird angle.

‘Which brings me back to the obvious fact that you can’t possibly be from Down Under.’

‘You’ve seen my passport,’ Eric reasons, like that is gonna help with Viggo. ‘Yesterday, when we checked in.’

‘Yeah,’ Viggo agrees, contemplates that moment for a second. ‘You know, I am pretty sure that the hotel’s proprietor is planning on stealing our identities. Have you seen the way she scrutinized our passports?’

‘That’s cause we looked shady as fuck,’ Eric says and again, just because he is perfectly right doesn’t mean Viggo has to acknowledge that. ‘Me with engine grease all over my face, you, well, looking like you do.’

Viggo takes a beer can from the bag closest to him and tosses it in the general direction of Eric’s head. Eric catches it mid-air easily, but it causes the chair to sway dangerously for an instant. Opening the intended assault weapon and slurping off the beer that instantly bubbles out, Eric says against the can’s rim,

‘Besides, who’d want to steal our identities? What would they want to do with them?’

‘I don’t know,’ Viggo says, lying back on the bed and looking at the ceiling. There is an ominous wet spot right above Eric’s bed. ‘What do people do with stolen identities? Rob banks, scam insurances, pretend they are from Australia, even though they aren’t.’

Eric laughs and turns his back to Viggo again.

‘Now I am not only not from Australia but also not Eric Bana?’

‘Well, how would I know?’ Viggo replies with the appropriate drama in his voice. ‘For all I know your real name could be Romulus Gaita and you could be from Romania.’

Eric eats another cracker.

‘My dad’s originally from Bosnia,’ he then says. ‘That’s as close to Romania as I can do you, mate.’

Viggo knows that of course, has known it literally for decades. But he still sits up and makes a loud ‘haHA’ noise as if he just caught Eric out. Eric, in turn, nearly falls of his chair.

‘Stop that, damnit,’ he complains. ‘Or I’ll fall off!’

‘You should’ve thought about that before,’ Viggo reasons reasonably.

Without turning, Eric gives him the finger.

‘I am standing up here,’ he says, very slowly, so even a dim-witted person could follow, even takes a sip of beer, so Viggo has time to process before he continues, ‘because that is the closest I can get to this crappy air con vent.’

The rattling sound of the air con stutters at exactly that moment as if to prove Eric’s point, and the curls on Eric’s head momentarily stop jittering in the gentle breeze.

‘I know that, mate,’ Viggo replies in exactly the same tempo, because duh, why else would Eric be standing on a chair in the corner instead of sitting outside and enjoying the marvelous view of the Aegean Sea?

‘Which is why I repeat: There is no way you can be from the hottest continent on the planet.’
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