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fellowshippers2004-03-21 11:34 am
handelshands.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-03-21 11:34 am
(no subject)
Title: Untitled
Author: rowan_and
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Feedback: Please.
Disclaimer: Only the make-believe people in my head would ever do these things, sadly.
Summary: Little Viggo ficlet. ‘Devil, devil’ bit is e.e. cummings.
Author notes: Thank you to mirabile_dictu for the comment that inspired this, and for the encouragement to post something for the very first time.
What does it mean to be stuck in his own zen indifference? There’s paint on his fingers and he rubs them together like he always does, the whorls of rough fingertips gliding against each other. In the past week they’ve taken two pictures of him on the street, one with a donut half shoved in his mouth and the other with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip like a slouchy Marlboro man. His shirttails are untucked in both, and the cleft in his chin looks like a hoof, he thinks (‘devil devil green devil’ he mutters and guffaws).
The phone on the table next to the couch is green, one of those old jobs in two pieces with a coiled cord between. He could tell you things about it that you’d never want to know (there’s a chip in the plastic on one of the back corners near the little rubber foot), has thought of painting it, but that’s a little too weird even for him. It never rings when he stares at it. He’d tried that with a penny once, but he could never move the penny with the force of his mind. That idea came from Orlando, who for some reason was convinced from age eight to ten that he could make objects move if he stared at them and concentrated really hard. He still more or less believes that the world can be rearranged through will, and Viggo admires that. It must take a lot of energy.
Today he wishes that Billy would call. Talking to Billy never makes Viggo feel like he’s obligated to follow the conversation and ad grunts of agreement. Within minutes Billy’s voice will lull him out of reality and into a place where it doesn’t matter at all what Billy is saying, because his voice is like music or waves rolling in or the most mellow high Viggo’s ever had.
The paint on his fingers is almost dry, and his thumb and forefinger stick when he presses them together and then pulls them apart. Maybe he’ll paint the table that the phone sits on, or the worn spot on the couch arm where he rests his elbow during long calls. It doesn’t occur to him to pick up the receiver and dial.
X-posted to my journal.
Author: rowan_and
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Feedback: Please.
Disclaimer: Only the make-believe people in my head would ever do these things, sadly.
Summary: Little Viggo ficlet. ‘Devil, devil’ bit is e.e. cummings.
Author notes: Thank you to mirabile_dictu for the comment that inspired this, and for the encouragement to post something for the very first time.
What does it mean to be stuck in his own zen indifference? There’s paint on his fingers and he rubs them together like he always does, the whorls of rough fingertips gliding against each other. In the past week they’ve taken two pictures of him on the street, one with a donut half shoved in his mouth and the other with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip like a slouchy Marlboro man. His shirttails are untucked in both, and the cleft in his chin looks like a hoof, he thinks (‘devil devil green devil’ he mutters and guffaws).
The phone on the table next to the couch is green, one of those old jobs in two pieces with a coiled cord between. He could tell you things about it that you’d never want to know (there’s a chip in the plastic on one of the back corners near the little rubber foot), has thought of painting it, but that’s a little too weird even for him. It never rings when he stares at it. He’d tried that with a penny once, but he could never move the penny with the force of his mind. That idea came from Orlando, who for some reason was convinced from age eight to ten that he could make objects move if he stared at them and concentrated really hard. He still more or less believes that the world can be rearranged through will, and Viggo admires that. It must take a lot of energy.
Today he wishes that Billy would call. Talking to Billy never makes Viggo feel like he’s obligated to follow the conversation and ad grunts of agreement. Within minutes Billy’s voice will lull him out of reality and into a place where it doesn’t matter at all what Billy is saying, because his voice is like music or waves rolling in or the most mellow high Viggo’s ever had.
The paint on his fingers is almost dry, and his thumb and forefinger stick when he presses them together and then pulls them apart. Maybe he’ll paint the table that the phone sits on, or the worn spot on the couch arm where he rests his elbow during long calls. It doesn’t occur to him to pick up the receiver and dial.
X-posted to my journal.