"Touching Base" (LOTR RPS) (VM/OB or VM, OB) (PG)
This is for sidhe_elf. Because sometimes you just need a drabble. (It's not really a drabble, it's way too long to be a drabble, but we can pretend.)
Title: Touching Base
Authors: Leale
Rating: PG
Fandom: LOTR RPS, VM/OB or VM, OB if you prefer the friendship
Summary: "He wasn't a lonely man, by any means."
Feedback: Would make me feel pretty.
Archive: Sure, just let me know.
Author's Note: valour demanded to look and told me it was good. I blame all my delusions on her. ;) *hugs* This was written for sidhe_elf. She knows why.
Viggo tilted his head and daubed another bit of blue onto his latest work. He wrinkled his nose at the whorl and used a nearby cloth to blot up most of the oil paint. A stain of blue was left behind, not hiding the orange beneath it, and he decided he liked the look of the tiered colors. He glanced across the room at the silent phone and then up at the hall clock, visible only because he'd left the door of the studio propped wide open.
It was late, past eleven, and he should be done for the night. In his youth, he might have stayed up until the early hours, moving about his studio in a creative fog, adding paint to his masterpieces, sliding the slick pigment across canvas. But not tonight. It was late and he had obligations the next day. And, he admitted to himself, he was tired. He twisted the top on the aluminum tube of blue paint, noticing the specks of overrun paint matched the smudges on his fingers. He had turpentine but he didn't want to smell it while he slept so he'd most likely skip the cleanup. What he really needed was a good shower. He set the tube of paint in line with the others and washed out his brushes. His house was quiet and for a scant moment, Viggo felt the vastness of his solitude.
He wasn't a lonely man, by any means. Even as a child, he'd been able to amuse himself for hours at a stretch, finding solace and rejuvenation through his art, through his imagination, through his own introspection. He liked peace and quiet. He liked nature. He liked oil paints and pastels and watercolors. He liked people, but not all of them. There were people who amused him, people who taught him, people who learned from him. And there were people who loved him. He loved them back with fierce devotion, but he understood that love was letting them go and giving them freedom to live the lives they were meant to live. He never begrudged that, but sometimes, late at night, when the house loomed dark and silent, he wondered what it would be like if he were different. If he could hold on to people as desperately as others did. Would they cling back to him? Or would they slip through his fingers and disappear forever? He shook his head before forming an answer and promised himself falsely that he'd think long and hard on the matter tomorrow, with a pen between his fingers and a notebook on his knee. He'd always been able to sort his feelings better with poetry than locked up inside his own head.
Wiping his fingers with an old rag, Viggo turned off the light in the studio and closed the door softly behind him. He was just passing under the clock when the phone rang.
"Late," he said aloud, to keep the phone from being alone in its disruption of the quiet. He didn't recognize the number but lifted the receiver anyway.
"Hello?"
"Vig? That you?" It was Orlando, his voice excitable and muffled and still slightly elevated above the background noise.
"Orlando?" Viggo felt the corners of his mouth turn up in pleasure and scolded himself for letting his emotions swing so easily. It wasn't a very harsh scolding.
"Vig, yeah, it's me. Listen, you'll never guess where I am." On that assumption, Orlando launched into his explanation without waiting for Viggo to try his best guess. "I'm under a table at this party. Things're getting a bit wild and crazy, yeah? And I remembered that it's been like, weeks since we talked and figured I'd give you a call. So what's going on with you?"
Viggo laughed and it felt good. He remembered laughing like that in New Zealand and his cheeks hurt from the stretch of the long-unused muscles.
"It's after eleven," he said, leaning his shoulder against the wall. "Don't you elves need your beauty sleep?"
"Oh...fuck." Orlando sounded dismayed. "I didn't think, mate. Call you later?"
"No," Viggo told him as if the idea was silly--because it was. "I'm glad you called. Talk to me." He wandered into the kitchen as Orlando chattered about filming on his new movie and squatted down on the floor. He crawled under the kitchen table and sat cross-legged, listening to his friend. Sometimes friendship, he thought, was just finding time.
Title: Touching Base
Authors: Leale
Rating: PG
Fandom: LOTR RPS, VM/OB or VM, OB if you prefer the friendship
Summary: "He wasn't a lonely man, by any means."
Feedback: Would make me feel pretty.
Archive: Sure, just let me know.
Author's Note: valour demanded to look and told me it was good. I blame all my delusions on her. ;) *hugs* This was written for sidhe_elf. She knows why.
Viggo tilted his head and daubed another bit of blue onto his latest work. He wrinkled his nose at the whorl and used a nearby cloth to blot up most of the oil paint. A stain of blue was left behind, not hiding the orange beneath it, and he decided he liked the look of the tiered colors. He glanced across the room at the silent phone and then up at the hall clock, visible only because he'd left the door of the studio propped wide open.
It was late, past eleven, and he should be done for the night. In his youth, he might have stayed up until the early hours, moving about his studio in a creative fog, adding paint to his masterpieces, sliding the slick pigment across canvas. But not tonight. It was late and he had obligations the next day. And, he admitted to himself, he was tired. He twisted the top on the aluminum tube of blue paint, noticing the specks of overrun paint matched the smudges on his fingers. He had turpentine but he didn't want to smell it while he slept so he'd most likely skip the cleanup. What he really needed was a good shower. He set the tube of paint in line with the others and washed out his brushes. His house was quiet and for a scant moment, Viggo felt the vastness of his solitude.
He wasn't a lonely man, by any means. Even as a child, he'd been able to amuse himself for hours at a stretch, finding solace and rejuvenation through his art, through his imagination, through his own introspection. He liked peace and quiet. He liked nature. He liked oil paints and pastels and watercolors. He liked people, but not all of them. There were people who amused him, people who taught him, people who learned from him. And there were people who loved him. He loved them back with fierce devotion, but he understood that love was letting them go and giving them freedom to live the lives they were meant to live. He never begrudged that, but sometimes, late at night, when the house loomed dark and silent, he wondered what it would be like if he were different. If he could hold on to people as desperately as others did. Would they cling back to him? Or would they slip through his fingers and disappear forever? He shook his head before forming an answer and promised himself falsely that he'd think long and hard on the matter tomorrow, with a pen between his fingers and a notebook on his knee. He'd always been able to sort his feelings better with poetry than locked up inside his own head.
Wiping his fingers with an old rag, Viggo turned off the light in the studio and closed the door softly behind him. He was just passing under the clock when the phone rang.
"Late," he said aloud, to keep the phone from being alone in its disruption of the quiet. He didn't recognize the number but lifted the receiver anyway.
"Hello?"
"Vig? That you?" It was Orlando, his voice excitable and muffled and still slightly elevated above the background noise.
"Orlando?" Viggo felt the corners of his mouth turn up in pleasure and scolded himself for letting his emotions swing so easily. It wasn't a very harsh scolding.
"Vig, yeah, it's me. Listen, you'll never guess where I am." On that assumption, Orlando launched into his explanation without waiting for Viggo to try his best guess. "I'm under a table at this party. Things're getting a bit wild and crazy, yeah? And I remembered that it's been like, weeks since we talked and figured I'd give you a call. So what's going on with you?"
Viggo laughed and it felt good. He remembered laughing like that in New Zealand and his cheeks hurt from the stretch of the long-unused muscles.
"It's after eleven," he said, leaning his shoulder against the wall. "Don't you elves need your beauty sleep?"
"Oh...fuck." Orlando sounded dismayed. "I didn't think, mate. Call you later?"
"No," Viggo told him as if the idea was silly--because it was. "I'm glad you called. Talk to me." He wandered into the kitchen as Orlando chattered about filming on his new movie and squatted down on the floor. He crawled under the kitchen table and sat cross-legged, listening to his friend. Sometimes friendship, he thought, was just finding time.