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TITLE: un homme avec les pieds nue
AUTHOR: Sabrina (email@example.com)
ORIGINAL STORY: Bare written by GirloftheQ
Pairing: VM/OB (Viggo Mortensen/Orlando Bloom)
Disclaimer: All words contained within are false and from the author's own imaginings. Any resemblance to real-life events is purely coincidental. Though she uses copyrighted/real characters, no profit is being made from these works.
Summary: Viggo mumbled the words to a poem, his rumble matching the sudden peal of thunder outside. He looked at his foot. There was a spot of blood where he had dug the most stubborn piece of glass out, and it was dark. Alive.
Notes: written for the Lotrips Remix 2004. un homme avec les pieds nue; French "a man with bare feet".
Viggo had stepped on a piece of glass before he hobbled into the common room, easing himself down into an armchair, blessedly close to the window. It was raining. It always seemed to rain the days he decided to go barefoot.
He was picking the glass out of his foot. "Shit, shit, shit," he mumbled, the mantra contending with the drumming of the rain on the window. He barely noticed when Orli came into the room, and gave a curt nod.
Viggo could feel Orli's eyes sweeping over him, hovering somewhere near his feet.
He dug the last bit of glass out, and stared contentedly out of the window. The room emptied, and he made some inconsequential noise. Orli barely glanced up, and gave a curt nod.
Viggo couldn't remember the last time the common room had been so empty. So quiet. His foot was tingling slightly, and he shifted in his seat. He said something to Orli, and Orli replied. Witty repartee was never Viggo's strongpoint.
Viggo mumbled the words to a poem, his rumble matching the sudden peal of thunder outside. He looked at his foot. There was a spot of blood where he had dug the most stubborn piece of glass out, and it was dark. Alive.
Viggo dug a pen out of his shirt pocket. He and Orli exchanged a few words, and Orli stiffened.
"Shocking, ain't it?" The arched eyebrow, the pursed lips. Orli was being sarcastic. Viggo never handled sarcasm with his friends, only with the press. He thought a little while.
Viggo went back to his arm, scribbling. He glanced up, and spied Orli staring at his feet again. Viggo's feet were ugly and calloused, and the blood was running through the lines. The hole wasn't deep, but blood was pernicious. He supposed the chair had seen worse things.
He had written up his arm with a poem that wouldn't let go of his mind. He had used a red pen, but somehow the letters looked dull. The blood stopped running, and the bottom of his foot was stained red. He shifted again; the pincushions of sleep was running through his legs.
Orli's feet were barefoot too. His shoes were on the ground in front of him, old worn trainers; they were probably white once. Orli's feet were nice, Viggo thought, if a bit pale. The nails were pared down and even. Viggo stared for a bit. Said more words. "It must be hard." What? What. Poetry had seeped into his mind.
But Orli, surprisingly, answered. "Yeah." They smiled at each other, Viggo's more shy than Orli's. Orli's smile was perfect, even. Viggo's smile had irregularities, gaps. His mind was acting the same way.
Viggo looked away, out of the window. The air stilled, there was more rain. And Viggo's mind was mercifully blank.
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