fellowshippers | (no subject)

Title: Ice
Author: Linda (truntelinda@hotmail.com)
Author web page: http://www.livejournal.com/~trunte
Pairing: Viggo Mortensen/Orlando Bloom
Rating: pg-13
Disclaimers: this is fiction, don´t know them, didn´t happen
Feedback: yes please
Summary: Orlando thinks about Viggo´s ways...
Notes: written for the first challenge at

asongofsixpence. lyrics from Your Own Disaster - Taking Back Sunday.

Ice

~~~
...and in one breath
you could
shrug me off your shoulders...
~~~

It´s like when we´re taking a walk and the hair in your face doesn´t bother you one bit when the wind tugs at it, gets it in your eyes and mouth; you don´t even lift a hand to try and tame it or tuck it behind an ear or pull it back. It´s just there and you accept that, but tomorrow you´ll cut it all off; maybe it got in your eyes one time too many?

In a way it´s as if you never actually choose anything yourself but just take whatever comes along, what´s in front of you, be it food or clothes or people...or me. You´re never bothered by anything, and never really excited. I told you I loved you and you smiled. Kissed me for the first time, but didn´t say a word about it. Because you don´t love, do you? You don´t hate, either. That´s what fascinated me, perhaps?

Because I´ve always admired your ability to deep inside be ice cold, to actually not give a shit. I detest it, but admire it nonetheless. I wonder if you´ve ever cared, or if you were born this way? I don´t know...I hate that I even care about that.

And I was an idiot to even for a second think that I could change you.

Your hands are dug deep in your jeans´ pockets - not because it´s cold, but probably because you were looking for something and it was just easier to leave them there. And while I watch your hair in wonder from where I´m walking next to you I laugh nervously and say that out here you can scratch your ass without worrying that anyone will see, and you smile - that same old, apathetic smile - but you don´t say anything. I suppose you´d scratch your ass if there were fifteen people in the room with you.

I keep talking about random things, mentioning almost everything we walk past and try to think up something to say about it. I ramble, I know, but there´s something...you´re not interested in what I´m saying, but then, you never are... I´m scared, though. I don´t want to let you talk, because I feel it...I know it...

I just don´t know why. You tire? Get bored?

I don´t know, but outside the door to your apartment you shrug me off your shoulders without so much as a sigh while looking for the right key. You let yourself in and close the door behind you.

And that´s just how you do things, I guess.

~~~