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fellowshippers2004-07-28 02:39 am
springfall-kg.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-07-28 02:39 am
Thinks, Notices, Decides, Feels.
Pairing: Viggorli
X-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
viggorli
Just a little drabble :-) Comments loved.
There are few things as beautiful as the human face, Viggo thinks. He thinks this while he’s watching you sleep, although you have no idea. Nothing touches you in these few slipping hours that you really can’t remember in the morning or ever again. It’s alright- you don’t mind, and you know he knows you don’t mind that you never can remember any of your dreams or even that the memory of quiet escapes you. You just flicker open and smile, like a flower opening after a night under rain. There is something about the way that your skin lights up from the underside with a light that he cannot see that makes you special, Viggo thinks. It’s something about the way your teeth are so white and your eyes are so dark that makes a beautiful contrast and makes something inside him want to cry. He never does, of course. He clears his throat and flushes a little while you are too groggy to notice, and he accepts you into his arms when you sit up, groping with slow and heavy hands to support the bodyweight that is always so heavy when you first languidly lift your eyelids.
You always sit quiet when other people talk about that strange dream they had, Viggo notices. You don’t clam up, you never stay silent for anything- Viggo notices that you cannot stay still. You remind him of a fidgety dog, left inside for too long, needing to run and stretch its legs. Your body can sometimes quiet itself- as years pass, the stillness and calmness that never could quite get a hold of you has settled on your skin like dew on leaves in the morning. Your face does not still, Viggo notices, even in sleep- a reason that makes your face so much more remarkable than any other. Perhaps remarkable is not the word he wants, but he thinks that it will do. Maybe he wants memorable, but he cannot really decide. As you’re asleep, it doesn’t, in effect, matter- but it does, to him.
He has never tried to paint you because he doesn’t think he’d be able to do it right, Viggo decides. You don’t know that it is fear that has prevented him from it- you just think it’s apathy; ignorance towards the quiet desire of yours to have his eyes like that on you, the way they’ve been on dead sea life or a particularly beautiful landscape. What you don’t know is that you are the landscape that Viggo has decided he really can’t- and really shouldn’t- try to pin down. Your body is a sacred place, and your face is something that even cameras have never truly been able to capture. Viggo decides that maybe there is more to you than people can see.
Maybe just this once he’d touch you, Viggo thinks. It’s only three in the morning- you won’t wake, Viggo thinks. Tentatively he’ll reach out a hand and brush away the soft brown hair that falls across your forehead at a soft curved angle and falls into the hollows where your closed eyes rest. He’ll push it away so he can see your face, and he will touch your face, your cheekbone fitting into his palm like it belongs there. And who can really say? Maybe it does. You stir, and before you open your eyes, Viggo’s hand retracts itself, and Viggo thinks that he must be crazy to wake you up. Lids slide open but it’s still dark for you, just a different type. He looks almost apologetic when you tell him, teasingly cranky,
‘Why did you wake me up? I was dreaming.’
Viggo feels like a monster. As if to make it up to you, he lights a candle and draws you in brown charcoal and leaves it by your pillow, for you to greet when your face breaks open with your morning smile. You will not know why, but you will go out to the kitchen to find him drinking coffee and wrap your tan arms about his neck, kiss his fair temple with eyes still bleary, and Viggo will feel a way he doesn’t dare to put into words just yet.
X-posted to
viggorliJust a little drabble :-) Comments loved.
There are few things as beautiful as the human face, Viggo thinks. He thinks this while he’s watching you sleep, although you have no idea. Nothing touches you in these few slipping hours that you really can’t remember in the morning or ever again. It’s alright- you don’t mind, and you know he knows you don’t mind that you never can remember any of your dreams or even that the memory of quiet escapes you. You just flicker open and smile, like a flower opening after a night under rain. There is something about the way that your skin lights up from the underside with a light that he cannot see that makes you special, Viggo thinks. It’s something about the way your teeth are so white and your eyes are so dark that makes a beautiful contrast and makes something inside him want to cry. He never does, of course. He clears his throat and flushes a little while you are too groggy to notice, and he accepts you into his arms when you sit up, groping with slow and heavy hands to support the bodyweight that is always so heavy when you first languidly lift your eyelids.
You always sit quiet when other people talk about that strange dream they had, Viggo notices. You don’t clam up, you never stay silent for anything- Viggo notices that you cannot stay still. You remind him of a fidgety dog, left inside for too long, needing to run and stretch its legs. Your body can sometimes quiet itself- as years pass, the stillness and calmness that never could quite get a hold of you has settled on your skin like dew on leaves in the morning. Your face does not still, Viggo notices, even in sleep- a reason that makes your face so much more remarkable than any other. Perhaps remarkable is not the word he wants, but he thinks that it will do. Maybe he wants memorable, but he cannot really decide. As you’re asleep, it doesn’t, in effect, matter- but it does, to him.
He has never tried to paint you because he doesn’t think he’d be able to do it right, Viggo decides. You don’t know that it is fear that has prevented him from it- you just think it’s apathy; ignorance towards the quiet desire of yours to have his eyes like that on you, the way they’ve been on dead sea life or a particularly beautiful landscape. What you don’t know is that you are the landscape that Viggo has decided he really can’t- and really shouldn’t- try to pin down. Your body is a sacred place, and your face is something that even cameras have never truly been able to capture. Viggo decides that maybe there is more to you than people can see.
Maybe just this once he’d touch you, Viggo thinks. It’s only three in the morning- you won’t wake, Viggo thinks. Tentatively he’ll reach out a hand and brush away the soft brown hair that falls across your forehead at a soft curved angle and falls into the hollows where your closed eyes rest. He’ll push it away so he can see your face, and he will touch your face, your cheekbone fitting into his palm like it belongs there. And who can really say? Maybe it does. You stir, and before you open your eyes, Viggo’s hand retracts itself, and Viggo thinks that he must be crazy to wake you up. Lids slide open but it’s still dark for you, just a different type. He looks almost apologetic when you tell him, teasingly cranky,
‘Why did you wake me up? I was dreaming.’
Viggo feels like a monster. As if to make it up to you, he lights a candle and draws you in brown charcoal and leaves it by your pillow, for you to greet when your face breaks open with your morning smile. You will not know why, but you will go out to the kitchen to find him drinking coffee and wrap your tan arms about his neck, kiss his fair temple with eyes still bleary, and Viggo will feel a way he doesn’t dare to put into words just yet.