vigorli

Title: Giving Up on New Poetry
Author: Élizabeth de l'Epée et du Mot de l'Eau

watersword
Fandom: RPF
Pairing, Characters: Orlando Bloom/Viggo Mortensen, Kate Bosworth
Series: None.
Rating: G.
Archive: Only if you ask, please.
Warnings: Light angst.
Spoilers: None.
Timeframe: 2003.
Summary: Nice doesn't have to have a point; that's why it's nice.
Disclaimer: This work is complete and total fiction. The author does not know any of the characters herein and is making no claims about their sexualities or relationship(s). No money is being made and no disrespect, copyright, or trademark infringement is intended.
Crossposted to:

watersword (friendsfiltered post),

vigorli, &

vigorleancult.
Notes: I don’t use betas; any errors are solely and completely my fault. Written in an LJ update window while multi-tasking.

"I gave up on new poetry myself thirty years ago, when most of it began to read like coded messages passing between lonely aliens on a hostile world." ~Russell Baker

He likes her, sure. She's pretty, and funny, and nice -- of course he likes her. She doesn't ask anything of him that he can't give; and right now, that's reason enough.

They spend time together -- when it's scheduled in, and usually there are photographers, but there are always photographers now, and she puts up with it. She puts up with his dog, who took months to get housebroken, and who licks her in inappropriate places.

He thinks of himself as a nice bloke, and so he drops by one evening when he has nothing to do, bearing Chinese takeaway, and they sit at her kitchen table and drink American beer, and talk about, what do they talk about? He kisses the corner of her mouth when he leaves, but he kisses everyone, and she tastes like eaten-away lipstick and msg.

She calls him at nine to ask if he wants to get coffee; she offers to buy the coffee. He picks her up, the little hybrid thrumming under his hands when he sees her lock her door, and her smile is the colour of an apple's flesh.

The coffee joint is nearly empty, and she stirs her mug before each sip. He asks if she wants breakfast, and she shakes her head, flicking the palest blonde wisps of her hair out of her eyes. "You go ahead if you want," she says.

"No, just..."

"Yeah."

Her Massachusetts accent sounds flat to him, but it lets him pay attention to the curve of her mouth and the freckle in front of her left ear. He smiles and she smiles back. That's what people do, huh?

Relationships are complicated; she's not.

They've got to know each other pretty well pretty quickly. No one minds their spending time together, which is a nice change, and it's nice to have a friend to ring up at the end of the day. Her hands are tiny, and she's always cold; he starts keeping an extra jacket in his car for her.

It's not complicated. It's nice.

She comes by on a Sunday afternoon when rain is pissing down, with a chew toy for Sidi and frozen yogurt pops -- strawberry -- for the two of them and a DVD of The Color of Money. "Tastes like strawberries," he says, trying to mimic the enunication he can hear in his mind, but he doesn't get it, and she looks at him blankly.

"It is strawberry," she says.

"I know. Just a joke I had with some friends."

"'Kay." She doesn't ask. She's never asked much of him.

She doesn't give much to him, either, but he doesn't really need anything from her. She gives him quiet, and she buys him coffee half the time; the other half he treats her. He gives her reminders to eat, because sometimes she forgets, and he gave her a windchime for Christmas.

It's enough. It's not poetry, but then, poetry is complicated, and complicated hurts. He's not sure he can take more hurt. He doesn't want complicated anymore. Nice is enough. Nice has to be enough, because he can't ask for poetry. He'll never have poetry again, and the strawberries shreds between his teeth feel like knives.

"Nice girl," he says when anyone asks. "I like her."

Feedback would be more than nice.