Viggo fic.
Dec. 16th, 2003 10:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hackthis_archiveMy writer’s block is not-unlike having a large elephant following me around and blocking out the sun when it’s already hella cold. Which it already is. This does not bode well for my Obscure Santa Challenge or any OC fic, but if you squeeze the stone hard enough some blood will appear. Really.
For my girl,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ethrosdemon, Happy Chrismukkah, I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.
LOTRips
All is Vanity
The package is there when he opens the door to get the mail, and when he squints and sees the return address, he momentarily forgets what he meant to do in the first place.
It’s an innocuous white box with purple and orange lettering and strict orders to be left without a signature; he knows better than to get caught up in that never-ending mess of sign-on-delivery. He bends down to pick up the box, but its size belies its weight and rather than moving it all over the house he decides to open it there, on the front steps.
Every month his publicist sends him a large package of clippings where he’s mentioned, or a project he might be interested in is discussed. For the longest time there were no packages at all, and then came The Lord of the Rings and ever since the mail has been impossible. Still, it’s slightly disconcerting to open the box and find himself looking back in black and white, splashed on the cover of Vlife.
Native people believe that photographs steal the soul of the subject, and Viggo’s never been that interested in being the one in front of the camera. He frowns slightly as his fingers trace the innumerable crows feet and signs of aging that spider across his features. In a house with no mirrors he tends to forget that he’s getting older, and this cover is a noticeable reminder.
There are other articles and reviews of the gallery in West Hollywood. The cover of Vanity Fair makes him look slightly whimsical, and his frown deepens. He flips open to the article already marked diligently by his publicist’s assistant and scratches his head in a sort of dazed amusement. The photos project a relaxed grandeur that’s interesting. It’s not him at all, but it’s still interesting.
He closes the magazine and continues through the material provided. There he is again on the cover of Newsweek in full costume, except it doesn’t seem like a costume to him, and it’s somewhat confusing to his sense of self to see himself and know that not everyone sees him. That most people see Aragorn without a thought for Viggo, even though Viggo and Aragorn are the same.
There are other clippings, a post-it marking an article with Billy here, a photo spread with Dominic there. Elijah is on the cover of several magazines that Viggo’s never heard of, and on the bottom of the pile there’s an enormous binder clip and a yellow post-it with furious neon orange scrawl that makes Viggo’s eyes hurt.
Orlando.
Of course Orlando would have more press than anyone.
Viggo’s smile is genuine, even if it looks slightly pained, and he gathers the magazines in his arms and stands up purposefully.
He wanders back into the house, in search of glue and scissors, without closing the door behind him.
*
The coffee is comfort in his mouth, hot and freeze-dried, instantly fresh via a container of hot water and Sanka. He rolls the liquid around with his tongue, tasting unprocessed granules of sugar and coffee, and he shifts around in the plastic seat underneath him. The formica counter in front of him has dents and scratches decorating it’s façade, and Viggo blinks as the new waitress staggers by him. She’s juggling plates, cups and the force of gravity is urging her to make a mistake. Her dirty blonde hair makes him think about the itchiness of wigs and stubble.
When the door of the diner swings open, his eyes lift of their own accord and he finds himself with a lap full of warm liquid. He’s not easy to startle, and this boy doesn’t even look like Orlando, not really. The height difference is negligible, and there’s dark hair peeking out from underneath a knit cap, but this boy is far more stocky and not nearly as graceful.
He’s not Orlando, and Orlando is not in Montana. Viggo is in Montana, and in a few days he’ll fly to New Zealand for the premiere and the publicity machine will swallow him whole for the next few weeks.
But that’s later, and this is now. Right now he’s just another guy, sitting at a counter in a truck stop, drinking bad coffee and wondering if he has enough acrylic burnt sienna or if he needs to drive the three hours to Helena to get more.
He’s not the King. Not yet.
He pats absently at the rapidly cooling coffee in his lap and the dark stain seeping into olive green pants. The liquid is cold, but he remains in his seat for several more minutes, sipping at coffee dregs that are by turns too sweet and too bitter.
As he leaves the diner he gets a better look at the young man in the knit hat.
He really doesn’t look like Orlando at all.
*
His publicist sends along a copy of Pirates of the Caribbean on DVD, which Viggo decides to give to Henry for Christmas. And even though he’s sure Henry will probably get it before then if he really wants it, and he’s told himself it’s a gift, he still finds himself unwrapping the DVD and sticking it in the machine without really realizing what he’s doing. He turns on the television and presses ‘play’ before going into the kitchen, turning on NPR and tapping a cigarette out of a yellow pack of American Spirit.
He listens distractedly to the radio as he washes the dishes and puts the kitchen in some semblance of order. He ashes on the floor by mistake and rather than tracking the mess all over the house, he sits down and removes his boots.
He smokes two more cigarettes, getting even more ash onto the floor, which requires him to sweep it up with his fingers and the newspaper from last week. He tosses the ash and the paper into the trash can, washes his hands and decides to go upstairs and paint. When he turns off the radio, he can hear Orlando’s voice coming from somewhere, and it takes him several minutes to realize it’s the DVD playing.
He’s the one who started it.
*
Viggo packs carefully for the upcoming premieres, smoothing shirts and socks into the appropriate places with a caution belied by his paint-smeared coveralls and unwashed hair. He hasn't bathed in several days, he got excited about a project and art is always more important than anything else, but tonight he'll wash thoroughly, getting into all those little crevices that Henry got impressively dirty when he was small.
He has an appointment to have his hair cut tomorrow, too, but it's with a barber as opposed to the stylist his manager would surely prefer. He likes the gray around his temples. He thinks it makes the reddish-blondish-brown color of his hair more dignified. He’s not interested in being fashionable and stylish, but he wants to make a good impression. It doesn’t matter how old he is, or how much he despises certain facets of what he does, he knows concessions have to be made.
It’s just a haircut, and perhaps he’ll keep the sheared locks for a future project.
He pauses in his packing and marvels at the automatic nature of it all. White shirts, black shirts, black socks, black shoes, all folded together in the same packaging that the dry cleaner placed them in at the end of the last onslaught of premieres for this exact same movie.
He reaches out to touch and instead grabs a cigarette from beside his suitcase. He knows better than to smoke around his good clothes this way. Fran and Liv had once scolded him for the cigarette burns on his blue suit, but he needs something else to do with his hands. There’s a certain part of him that thinks everyone should have a wine stain on their jacket or a tear in the knee of their jeans.
He likes being raw and rough around the edges, and it’s important to him that he not be digested and processed by the industry machine. He doesn’t want to become someone who’s manufactured.
He’s seen what happens when Hollywood gets hold of you.
*
The premieres blend and mesh until they’re all the same: bright lights, screaming fans, groping hands from hobbits and smiling until his face hurts. The adoration and attention are great, but they seem to feel more hollow with every passing year. The general thrill has been replaced by circles under eyes and guarded looks. Wonder has been tossed aside for stress, and Viggo may be getting older, but when he looks he can see his younger costars aging.
Ian has always been exuberant, despite his age, but Elijah, Billy and Dominic don’t exude quite the same enthusiasm as they used to. The brighter their stars shine, the more careful they become.
And then there’s Orlando.
Viggo’s not even sure what to say there. The stardom, the fans, the rumours that seem to dog him more faithfully than any pet, it's a lot for anyone to take. Orlando's always been bright, but Viggo's not sure that anyone's learning curve is as high as it needs to be to survive being 'the new big thing' in the industry.
And yes, Viggo may be King, but Orlando reigns.
Clearly, it’s making him old before his time.
*
Viggo remembers how Orlando used to be, the coltish innocence and wide-eyed wonder that became a part of everything he touched. Viggo remembers the selflessness that used to come so easily and the way he would say anything to anyone at anytime. Viggo remembers that Orlando used to have short hair he could barely hold on to. Now it looks like Orlando’s hair is just as frazzled at the head it sits on. Now, Orlando flinches when he’s touched until he realizes who it is.
They still mesh together naturally, their bodies fit side-by-side, but it’s not the same.
When they’re together now they don’t talk about the way it used to be.
*
Viggo doesn’t pine; he worries.
He’s never been in Orlando’s place, but he knows what it looks like not to cope well.
He’s been around long enough to know burnout when it’s there.
*
On the flight home from London, the stewardess offers him dozens of glossy magazines that he doesn’t read, and he picks one more out of courtesy than anything else. Yet at some point during the flight he finds himself flipping through it idly until he sees Orlando’s face sliding under his calloused thumb. Then he stops.
The background is too stark, and Orlando’s eyes are guarded not just from the photographer, but from the reader as well. Viggo thinks he preferred the mohawk to the free flowing mess of hair that seems to distract the viewer from the real subject of the photograph. What Viggo has always appreciated about Orlando is the fact that he’s beautiful without trying. All the broken bones and healed scars make Orlando more human, but all Viggo sees in photographs these days is Orlando airbrushed and covered over until he’s not really there at all.
Hollywood is washing Orlando away, and Viggo picks up the ridiculously expensive airplane phone before he thinks too hard about it. Some people don’t have to fly nine hours to get home, and the muffled swearing that greets him makes him smile.
“You should come to Montana,” he says by way of greeting. “No crowds, no press, no industry machine. It’s a good place to just be.”
-end-
Notes: Inspired by ‘Nothing Precious at All’ by the Stereophonics, the January 2004 issue of Vanity Fair, and these photos thatqueenofalostart loved so much.
Thanks toserialkarma for beta duty.
Also, I am never fucking writing Viggo again, it’s like getting sucked dry by leeches
.
For my girl,
ethrosdemon, Happy Chrismukkah, I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. LOTRips
The package is there when he opens the door to get the mail, and when he squints and sees the return address, he momentarily forgets what he meant to do in the first place.
It’s an innocuous white box with purple and orange lettering and strict orders to be left without a signature; he knows better than to get caught up in that never-ending mess of sign-on-delivery. He bends down to pick up the box, but its size belies its weight and rather than moving it all over the house he decides to open it there, on the front steps.
Every month his publicist sends him a large package of clippings where he’s mentioned, or a project he might be interested in is discussed. For the longest time there were no packages at all, and then came The Lord of the Rings and ever since the mail has been impossible. Still, it’s slightly disconcerting to open the box and find himself looking back in black and white, splashed on the cover of Vlife.
Native people believe that photographs steal the soul of the subject, and Viggo’s never been that interested in being the one in front of the camera. He frowns slightly as his fingers trace the innumerable crows feet and signs of aging that spider across his features. In a house with no mirrors he tends to forget that he’s getting older, and this cover is a noticeable reminder.
There are other articles and reviews of the gallery in West Hollywood. The cover of Vanity Fair makes him look slightly whimsical, and his frown deepens. He flips open to the article already marked diligently by his publicist’s assistant and scratches his head in a sort of dazed amusement. The photos project a relaxed grandeur that’s interesting. It’s not him at all, but it’s still interesting.
He closes the magazine and continues through the material provided. There he is again on the cover of Newsweek in full costume, except it doesn’t seem like a costume to him, and it’s somewhat confusing to his sense of self to see himself and know that not everyone sees him. That most people see Aragorn without a thought for Viggo, even though Viggo and Aragorn are the same.
There are other clippings, a post-it marking an article with Billy here, a photo spread with Dominic there. Elijah is on the cover of several magazines that Viggo’s never heard of, and on the bottom of the pile there’s an enormous binder clip and a yellow post-it with furious neon orange scrawl that makes Viggo’s eyes hurt.
Orlando.
Of course Orlando would have more press than anyone.
Viggo’s smile is genuine, even if it looks slightly pained, and he gathers the magazines in his arms and stands up purposefully.
He wanders back into the house, in search of glue and scissors, without closing the door behind him.
The coffee is comfort in his mouth, hot and freeze-dried, instantly fresh via a container of hot water and Sanka. He rolls the liquid around with his tongue, tasting unprocessed granules of sugar and coffee, and he shifts around in the plastic seat underneath him. The formica counter in front of him has dents and scratches decorating it’s façade, and Viggo blinks as the new waitress staggers by him. She’s juggling plates, cups and the force of gravity is urging her to make a mistake. Her dirty blonde hair makes him think about the itchiness of wigs and stubble.
When the door of the diner swings open, his eyes lift of their own accord and he finds himself with a lap full of warm liquid. He’s not easy to startle, and this boy doesn’t even look like Orlando, not really. The height difference is negligible, and there’s dark hair peeking out from underneath a knit cap, but this boy is far more stocky and not nearly as graceful.
He’s not Orlando, and Orlando is not in Montana. Viggo is in Montana, and in a few days he’ll fly to New Zealand for the premiere and the publicity machine will swallow him whole for the next few weeks.
But that’s later, and this is now. Right now he’s just another guy, sitting at a counter in a truck stop, drinking bad coffee and wondering if he has enough acrylic burnt sienna or if he needs to drive the three hours to Helena to get more.
He’s not the King. Not yet.
He pats absently at the rapidly cooling coffee in his lap and the dark stain seeping into olive green pants. The liquid is cold, but he remains in his seat for several more minutes, sipping at coffee dregs that are by turns too sweet and too bitter.
As he leaves the diner he gets a better look at the young man in the knit hat.
He really doesn’t look like Orlando at all.
His publicist sends along a copy of Pirates of the Caribbean on DVD, which Viggo decides to give to Henry for Christmas. And even though he’s sure Henry will probably get it before then if he really wants it, and he’s told himself it’s a gift, he still finds himself unwrapping the DVD and sticking it in the machine without really realizing what he’s doing. He turns on the television and presses ‘play’ before going into the kitchen, turning on NPR and tapping a cigarette out of a yellow pack of American Spirit.
He listens distractedly to the radio as he washes the dishes and puts the kitchen in some semblance of order. He ashes on the floor by mistake and rather than tracking the mess all over the house, he sits down and removes his boots.
He smokes two more cigarettes, getting even more ash onto the floor, which requires him to sweep it up with his fingers and the newspaper from last week. He tosses the ash and the paper into the trash can, washes his hands and decides to go upstairs and paint. When he turns off the radio, he can hear Orlando’s voice coming from somewhere, and it takes him several minutes to realize it’s the DVD playing.
He’s the one who started it.
Viggo packs carefully for the upcoming premieres, smoothing shirts and socks into the appropriate places with a caution belied by his paint-smeared coveralls and unwashed hair. He hasn't bathed in several days, he got excited about a project and art is always more important than anything else, but tonight he'll wash thoroughly, getting into all those little crevices that Henry got impressively dirty when he was small.
He has an appointment to have his hair cut tomorrow, too, but it's with a barber as opposed to the stylist his manager would surely prefer. He likes the gray around his temples. He thinks it makes the reddish-blondish-brown color of his hair more dignified. He’s not interested in being fashionable and stylish, but he wants to make a good impression. It doesn’t matter how old he is, or how much he despises certain facets of what he does, he knows concessions have to be made.
It’s just a haircut, and perhaps he’ll keep the sheared locks for a future project.
He pauses in his packing and marvels at the automatic nature of it all. White shirts, black shirts, black socks, black shoes, all folded together in the same packaging that the dry cleaner placed them in at the end of the last onslaught of premieres for this exact same movie.
He reaches out to touch and instead grabs a cigarette from beside his suitcase. He knows better than to smoke around his good clothes this way. Fran and Liv had once scolded him for the cigarette burns on his blue suit, but he needs something else to do with his hands. There’s a certain part of him that thinks everyone should have a wine stain on their jacket or a tear in the knee of their jeans.
He likes being raw and rough around the edges, and it’s important to him that he not be digested and processed by the industry machine. He doesn’t want to become someone who’s manufactured.
He’s seen what happens when Hollywood gets hold of you.
The premieres blend and mesh until they’re all the same: bright lights, screaming fans, groping hands from hobbits and smiling until his face hurts. The adoration and attention are great, but they seem to feel more hollow with every passing year. The general thrill has been replaced by circles under eyes and guarded looks. Wonder has been tossed aside for stress, and Viggo may be getting older, but when he looks he can see his younger costars aging.
Ian has always been exuberant, despite his age, but Elijah, Billy and Dominic don’t exude quite the same enthusiasm as they used to. The brighter their stars shine, the more careful they become.
And then there’s Orlando.
Viggo’s not even sure what to say there. The stardom, the fans, the rumours that seem to dog him more faithfully than any pet, it's a lot for anyone to take. Orlando's always been bright, but Viggo's not sure that anyone's learning curve is as high as it needs to be to survive being 'the new big thing' in the industry.
And yes, Viggo may be King, but Orlando reigns.
Clearly, it’s making him old before his time.
Viggo remembers how Orlando used to be, the coltish innocence and wide-eyed wonder that became a part of everything he touched. Viggo remembers the selflessness that used to come so easily and the way he would say anything to anyone at anytime. Viggo remembers that Orlando used to have short hair he could barely hold on to. Now it looks like Orlando’s hair is just as frazzled at the head it sits on. Now, Orlando flinches when he’s touched until he realizes who it is.
They still mesh together naturally, their bodies fit side-by-side, but it’s not the same.
When they’re together now they don’t talk about the way it used to be.
Viggo doesn’t pine; he worries.
He’s never been in Orlando’s place, but he knows what it looks like not to cope well.
He’s been around long enough to know burnout when it’s there.
On the flight home from London, the stewardess offers him dozens of glossy magazines that he doesn’t read, and he picks one more out of courtesy than anything else. Yet at some point during the flight he finds himself flipping through it idly until he sees Orlando’s face sliding under his calloused thumb. Then he stops.
The background is too stark, and Orlando’s eyes are guarded not just from the photographer, but from the reader as well. Viggo thinks he preferred the mohawk to the free flowing mess of hair that seems to distract the viewer from the real subject of the photograph. What Viggo has always appreciated about Orlando is the fact that he’s beautiful without trying. All the broken bones and healed scars make Orlando more human, but all Viggo sees in photographs these days is Orlando airbrushed and covered over until he’s not really there at all.
Hollywood is washing Orlando away, and Viggo picks up the ridiculously expensive airplane phone before he thinks too hard about it. Some people don’t have to fly nine hours to get home, and the muffled swearing that greets him makes him smile.
“You should come to Montana,” he says by way of greeting. “No crowds, no press, no industry machine. It’s a good place to just be.”
-end-
Notes: Inspired by ‘Nothing Precious at All’ by the Stereophonics, the January 2004 issue of Vanity Fair, and these photos that
queenofalostart loved so much.Thanks to
serialkarma for beta duty.Also, I am never fucking writing Viggo again, it’s like getting sucked dry by leeches
.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 10:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 02:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 11:33 am (UTC)Intense.
This pulled me out of my day and into another world; thanks.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 02:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 11:36 am (UTC)Yes, I am a lapsed Catholic and taking the Lord's name in vain a stone's throw away from his magically delicious birthday, but I don't care.
Fuck, woman! Are you trying to kill me? The way your descrive Orlando is exactly what I've been trying to spill out of my head in the two-plus weeks I've grown enamored with him. It's like watching a fucking train wreck. It's like watching your favorite band gets signed to a major label and then put out an album of Pro-Tool'd crap. It's like this: "All the broken bones and healed scars make Orlando more human, but all Viggo sees in photographs these days is Orlando airbrushed and covered over until he’s not really there at all." Fuck, yeah.
I am so depraved. Is it wrong to be enraptured while watching something so beautiful unravel and spin away?
(Me thinks I need to lay off the "Fight Club.")
Fight Club is the Holy Book.
Date: 2003-12-16 02:06 pm (UTC)I don't spend much time looking at Orlando (unlike some people) but what struck me the most was how, well, not there he looked. Not in the junkie sense, but in the overwhelmed oh-my-fuck-what-have-I-got-myself-into way, and I think Viggo would totally see that, too.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 12:56 pm (UTC)are you sure? Why don't you tell us what you really feel.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 02:12 pm (UTC)The left side of my respiratory system is all blocked up for whatever reason and half the time when my breathing is acting fucked I think I'm being punished for the life I used to live. Watching Lex on Smallville creeps me out sometimes because I see myself in all the stuff he does/has done/is going to do. I wonder if I'm cynical because I've already been hurt or because I'm afraid of being hurt again. I'm tired of being poor, but sucess seems like it might be even worse. I'd really like to be thinner. I'd really like to have a car. I'd really like to finish my Obscure Santa thing because it's giving me a migraine. You asked...
no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 06:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 01:05 pm (UTC)Orlando as Legolas, however, was like someone crawled inside my head to cast the movie. And after looking at those pictures, I fancy that I can see the unraveling that comes with the Hollywood machine.
Very, very nicely done.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 02:14 pm (UTC)It's like being processed by a meat-grinder.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 02:18 pm (UTC)ok, I lied
Date: 2003-12-16 02:07 pm (UTC)The cover of Vanity Fair makes him look slightly whimsical
seeing yourself airbrushed is strange, but to someone like him, I'd imagine it's like looking at some other person altogether.
That most people see Aragorn without a thought for Viggo, even though Viggo and Aragorn are the same.
Exactly.
Her dirty blonde hair makes him think about the itchiness of wigs and stubble.
He's right there in your head, so stop fighting him *g*
tapping a cigarette out of a yellow pack of American Spirit.
You did your research!
When he turns off the radio, he can hear Orlando’s voice coming from somewhere, and it takes him several minutes to realize it’s the DVD playing.
He’s the one who started it.
That's so real and depressing. Damn you.
I love the entire haircut bit, mainly because I've spent some time thinking about his really, really bad hair choices.
It’s just a haircut, and perhaps he’ll keep the sheared locks for a future project.
Would I be scaring you to tell you that I have ziplocks with my own hair in them, different colors from various years, all waiting for *something* to be done with them? lol
He likes being raw and rough around the edges, and it’s important to him that he not be digested and processed by the industry machine. He doesn’t want to become someone who’s manufactured.
He’s seen what happens when Hollywood gets hold of you.
Sigh. Yeah. Keep your edges while you can, but eventually you end up on the cover of Vanityfair looking like some smoothed over 'next big thing'. I'm assuming V is thinking about Orli here as much as himself.
And yes, Viggo may be King, but Orlando reigns.
Clearly, it’s making him old before his time.
And I was right. It seems to suit Orlando, though. I think that difference, where Viggo acted to pay the bills and then continued it to try to make as much of an artistic statement as possible, and how Orlando really is Hollywood would be a massive divide.
Now it looks like Orlando’s hair is just as frazzled at the head it sits on. Now, Orlando flinches when he’s touched until he realizes who it is.
!!! That's fantastic.
Ah, Viggo. Try to save him, but I think you're way too late, hon.
Happy Chrismukkah to you, my darling. Thank you.
Re: ok, I lied
Date: 2003-12-16 02:38 pm (UTC)No, for real for real this time. Not like Pharrell for real. I'm serious. This was harder than sweating blood.
You did your research!
I've done more research trying to write this dude for you than I've done since I left college. Also, in Vanity Fair he looks really hot, and elegant and what have you, but so not like the King. Unless you meant the European kind that are all inbred. Happy Chrismukkah to you too.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 05:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-17 09:17 am (UTC)I like that part a lot too. Thanks for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2003-12-16 05:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-17 09:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-17 06:49 am (UTC)From reading the comments, I see that it was an ordeal to write, but I would never have guessed from the text itself. It flows so beautifully.
I love the eyes that see through the masks, the voice of genuine concern.
Thanks much for writing this.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-17 09:18 am (UTC)Then it truly was worth it; thank you so much for all your kind words. I'm so glad you enjoyed reading it.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-17 11:53 am (UTC)So, thanks.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-17 02:47 pm (UTC)I know, it was very 'dude' wasn't it? *nods head sagely*
But it's hard for me to pass up anything of yours, so I gave it a try. And it's wonderful, lovely, as always, and in fact really meshed with how I'm feeling - the contemplativeness, the quietness. And then the hope at the end. Gorgeous.
So, thanks.
Thank *you* for reading.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-17 04:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-18 09:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-17 08:57 pm (UTC)thanks. and thanks for dipping into lotrips just when i happened to be craving some.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-18 09:13 am (UTC)thanks. and thanks for dipping into lotrips just when i happened to be craving some.
That wasn't a drive-by it was like...like a spray from a passing car. Much like a drive-by. I'll hush now.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-17 09:20 pm (UTC)*grovel grovel*
no subject
Date: 2003-12-18 09:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-18 11:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-19 11:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-03 11:01 pm (UTC)it hurts because it's true and because it's happened to so many people, orlando and others. i love the way you wrote this, so quietly aching, so serene. like viggo. even if you hate writing him (i do too).