FIC: three of a kind
Title: three of a kind
Author: Anj (rosesanguina)
Fandom: The Dreamers (Bertolucci)
Pairings: Thèo/Thèo's girlfriend, Matthew/Isabelle, Thèo/Isabelle, Thèo/Matthew, Thèo/Isabelle/Matthew
Rating: R
Word Count: ~1250
Warnings: incest
Notes: Happy Birthday, spifftastic! I know you didn't want anything for your birthday, but I couldn't resist the Thèo-love, so. I hope you enjoy it. For the rest of you, if you haven't seen The Dreamers, you really must. It's gorgeous. (And so is Louis Garrel. Just look at that icon! Nnngh.)
She laughed too much.
No, that wasn't the problem. The laugh was wrong. Giggly, insipid...he knew she was intelligent, or at least intelligent enough, but when she laughed, she sounded stupid. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth widened and she looked like there was nothing so funny in the world as whatever he'd said just that moment.
Most men he knew, or at least most boys, found that attractive. They liked feeling like they were the cleverest and funniest and, of course, handsomest and sexiest person alive, and a girl who could worship them was a rare and unmatched find. But he'd never been like that. He'd grown up being challenged, first by his father, who had always been so sharp and eloquent and seemed to have so much to say about so many things; and then, when he'd realised that his father did know a lot, but about only one thing, by Isabelle. Sometimes they agreed, sometimes they didn't, but the point was that they were both stubborn, and neither of them backed down. They were one heart, one soul, yet two different people, and that was his favourite thing, knowing that despite their disagreements and their arguments and even their full-out fights, there was still love, and respect, and belonging.
Barbara giggled again, and he closed his eyes. The hair beneath his fingertips was wavy, thick, like hers, but he knew that if he opened his eyes the colour would be wrong. Dark, yes, but not dark enough - closer to blonde, really.
Matthew-coloured.
He closed his eyes tighter and pulled her half into his lap, shutting her up with his tongue in her mouth. She moaned, arching into him, and that was wrong too - too soft and not in the right places, her legs too short as she wrapped them around his back, her hands smaller and wider where they pressed against his spine, and her lips were softer too, fuller, but just a bit rough. A glimpse of bubbles and curls of fragrant smoke flashed across his mind, and he winced, coming up off his knees and pushing her down onto her back so he didn't have to think about Vietnam. About the one other person who could challenge him on everything he'd thought was certain.
Even Isa.
'Oh, Thèo,' she gasped, and he couldn't tell if she was acting or she actually meant it.
Oh, Thèo! he heard Isabelle's mocking voice in his ear, and he knew she would smile that knowing little smirk of hers and say Not everyone can be an actress - most of them only pretend.
Life isn't a movie, Thèo. Matthew would say, that slightly condescending holier-than-thou look in place, before slipping his hand between Isabelle's thighs, and he buried his face in Barbara's neck and bit down, fingers slipping into her mouth to stifle her shrilling.
He could hear them moving around in the next room, louder almost than Barbara, as impossible as that seemed: Isabelle's husky murmur, thick with passion and rife with teasing all at once, joined by Matthew's reedy baritone as he said to her all the things Thèo had longed to, but in that awkward American way she seemed to find so charming. With his eyes closed, all he could see was them, together, Matthew in his ridiculous white socks looking unfairly beautiful as he pushed into her, the furrow between Isa's brows that could have been pleasure or pain or both at once, the breathless gasps as they moved together while Thèo hovered and tried not to, tried not to let them know how much he cared, because they wouldn't have noticed anyway. That was the night everything had changed - shift of power, shift of balance, spilt blood and broken peace, and now they were holding their own little révolution without him, spurred on by Matthew's Puritan objections.
Barbara gasped again in his ear, and he gritted his teeth, rolling off of her. She looked up at him with blank blue eyes, and he smiled, leaning over to kiss her lightly.
'Moment, ma chère,' he murmured, giving her his best sleepy-charming grin, and she smiled back, dazzled, fingertips trailing across his bare chest as he switched on the record player and carefully lowered the needle.
La mer
Qu'on voit danser
Le long des golfes clairs...
They'd never changed the record since that night. In fact, Thèo had made sure not to, had listened to it in secret, quietly, when Isabelle and Matthew were off fucking each other stupid, had hung out his window, a cigarette dangling from between his lips, and watched the flashes of pale skin and dark hair through the window. When he touched Isa now, it wasn't the same - his touch wasn't Matthew's, and that she always compared them half made him want to kill Matthew and half made him want to fuck him so he could find out what he had that Thèo didn't. He nearly had, once, and it still scared him to think of how much he'd wanted to. Still wanted to, if he was being honest. It scared him that sometimes he didn't know which one made him more jealous. It scared him that he was jealous at all.
Ironic, that Matthew was the one who wanted them so badly, wanted to share what they had, and then had come along and driven a wedge between them - something nobody else had ever managed to do - simply by wanting them so much that they couldn't help but let him.
We accept him, one of us...
He shook his shaggy head and grinned at Barbara as he sauntered back toward the bed, each step yielding another button until his trousers slid past his narrow hips to join the rest of their clothes on the floor, all but his velvet blazer. She laughed again, delightedly, a dark wickedness in her eyes that almost made him forget that she wasn't who he really wanted.
For a moment, as he climbed onto the bed, between her thighs, Tenet's voice faltered, became raspier, earthier, a rough-edged salute to their generation, I'm goin' down to shoot my old lady now, and he reached out blindly with his foot, kicking the volume to high as he heard Isa start to scream.
This time though, when he closed his eyes, he saw only her, red lips pouted and eyes filled with pain as she raged at him, screamed for him, begged him, and Barbara's laughter disappeared behind the palpable cloud of her hurt and the visceral swell of Tenet's voice.
Who are you?
(Not one of us...)
He saw her, and then he saw him, big confused blue eyes, hair falling into his face as he pleaded with Isa, seeing all his hard-won triumphs slipping through his fingers like frothy water flecked with blood. His realisation, finally, that whatever he'd thought, whatever idealistic "rescue" he'd hoped to perform, Thèo and Isa were forever, and he couldn't break that no matter how hard he tried. His moment of extreme self-doubt, his eleven o'clock soliloquy, when his long-standing moral difficulties ran up against his desire, his need to be part of something where he could truly belong.
His acceptance, his lips heavy and red with wine brushing soft and apologetic against Thèo's nape, and Isa's breasts cool and smooth against his chest as they fit together as they were meant to fit, the Dreamers finally finding their reality, and this time he laughed too as he tightened his hand on Barbara's hip and buried himself inside her in one smooth thrust.
Author: Anj (rosesanguina)
Fandom: The Dreamers (Bertolucci)
Pairings: Thèo/Thèo's girlfriend, Matthew/Isabelle, Thèo/Isabelle, Thèo/Matthew, Thèo/Isabelle/Matthew
Rating: R
Word Count: ~1250
Warnings: incest
Notes: Happy Birthday, spifftastic! I know you didn't want anything for your birthday, but I couldn't resist the Thèo-love, so. I hope you enjoy it. For the rest of you, if you haven't seen The Dreamers, you really must. It's gorgeous. (And so is Louis Garrel. Just look at that icon! Nnngh.)
She laughed too much.
No, that wasn't the problem. The laugh was wrong. Giggly, insipid...he knew she was intelligent, or at least intelligent enough, but when she laughed, she sounded stupid. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth widened and she looked like there was nothing so funny in the world as whatever he'd said just that moment.
Most men he knew, or at least most boys, found that attractive. They liked feeling like they were the cleverest and funniest and, of course, handsomest and sexiest person alive, and a girl who could worship them was a rare and unmatched find. But he'd never been like that. He'd grown up being challenged, first by his father, who had always been so sharp and eloquent and seemed to have so much to say about so many things; and then, when he'd realised that his father did know a lot, but about only one thing, by Isabelle. Sometimes they agreed, sometimes they didn't, but the point was that they were both stubborn, and neither of them backed down. They were one heart, one soul, yet two different people, and that was his favourite thing, knowing that despite their disagreements and their arguments and even their full-out fights, there was still love, and respect, and belonging.
Barbara giggled again, and he closed his eyes. The hair beneath his fingertips was wavy, thick, like hers, but he knew that if he opened his eyes the colour would be wrong. Dark, yes, but not dark enough - closer to blonde, really.
Matthew-coloured.
He closed his eyes tighter and pulled her half into his lap, shutting her up with his tongue in her mouth. She moaned, arching into him, and that was wrong too - too soft and not in the right places, her legs too short as she wrapped them around his back, her hands smaller and wider where they pressed against his spine, and her lips were softer too, fuller, but just a bit rough. A glimpse of bubbles and curls of fragrant smoke flashed across his mind, and he winced, coming up off his knees and pushing her down onto her back so he didn't have to think about Vietnam. About the one other person who could challenge him on everything he'd thought was certain.
Even Isa.
'Oh, Thèo,' she gasped, and he couldn't tell if she was acting or she actually meant it.
Oh, Thèo! he heard Isabelle's mocking voice in his ear, and he knew she would smile that knowing little smirk of hers and say Not everyone can be an actress - most of them only pretend.
Life isn't a movie, Thèo. Matthew would say, that slightly condescending holier-than-thou look in place, before slipping his hand between Isabelle's thighs, and he buried his face in Barbara's neck and bit down, fingers slipping into her mouth to stifle her shrilling.
He could hear them moving around in the next room, louder almost than Barbara, as impossible as that seemed: Isabelle's husky murmur, thick with passion and rife with teasing all at once, joined by Matthew's reedy baritone as he said to her all the things Thèo had longed to, but in that awkward American way she seemed to find so charming. With his eyes closed, all he could see was them, together, Matthew in his ridiculous white socks looking unfairly beautiful as he pushed into her, the furrow between Isa's brows that could have been pleasure or pain or both at once, the breathless gasps as they moved together while Thèo hovered and tried not to, tried not to let them know how much he cared, because they wouldn't have noticed anyway. That was the night everything had changed - shift of power, shift of balance, spilt blood and broken peace, and now they were holding their own little révolution without him, spurred on by Matthew's Puritan objections.
Barbara gasped again in his ear, and he gritted his teeth, rolling off of her. She looked up at him with blank blue eyes, and he smiled, leaning over to kiss her lightly.
'Moment, ma chère,' he murmured, giving her his best sleepy-charming grin, and she smiled back, dazzled, fingertips trailing across his bare chest as he switched on the record player and carefully lowered the needle.
La mer
Qu'on voit danser
Le long des golfes clairs...
They'd never changed the record since that night. In fact, Thèo had made sure not to, had listened to it in secret, quietly, when Isabelle and Matthew were off fucking each other stupid, had hung out his window, a cigarette dangling from between his lips, and watched the flashes of pale skin and dark hair through the window. When he touched Isa now, it wasn't the same - his touch wasn't Matthew's, and that she always compared them half made him want to kill Matthew and half made him want to fuck him so he could find out what he had that Thèo didn't. He nearly had, once, and it still scared him to think of how much he'd wanted to. Still wanted to, if he was being honest. It scared him that sometimes he didn't know which one made him more jealous. It scared him that he was jealous at all.
Ironic, that Matthew was the one who wanted them so badly, wanted to share what they had, and then had come along and driven a wedge between them - something nobody else had ever managed to do - simply by wanting them so much that they couldn't help but let him.
We accept him, one of us...
He shook his shaggy head and grinned at Barbara as he sauntered back toward the bed, each step yielding another button until his trousers slid past his narrow hips to join the rest of their clothes on the floor, all but his velvet blazer. She laughed again, delightedly, a dark wickedness in her eyes that almost made him forget that she wasn't who he really wanted.
For a moment, as he climbed onto the bed, between her thighs, Tenet's voice faltered, became raspier, earthier, a rough-edged salute to their generation, I'm goin' down to shoot my old lady now, and he reached out blindly with his foot, kicking the volume to high as he heard Isa start to scream.
This time though, when he closed his eyes, he saw only her, red lips pouted and eyes filled with pain as she raged at him, screamed for him, begged him, and Barbara's laughter disappeared behind the palpable cloud of her hurt and the visceral swell of Tenet's voice.
Who are you?
(Not one of us...)
He saw her, and then he saw him, big confused blue eyes, hair falling into his face as he pleaded with Isa, seeing all his hard-won triumphs slipping through his fingers like frothy water flecked with blood. His realisation, finally, that whatever he'd thought, whatever idealistic "rescue" he'd hoped to perform, Thèo and Isa were forever, and he couldn't break that no matter how hard he tried. His moment of extreme self-doubt, his eleven o'clock soliloquy, when his long-standing moral difficulties ran up against his desire, his need to be part of something where he could truly belong.
His acceptance, his lips heavy and red with wine brushing soft and apologetic against Thèo's nape, and Isa's breasts cool and smooth against his chest as they fit together as they were meant to fit, the Dreamers finally finding their reality, and this time he laughed too as he tightened his hand on Barbara's hip and buried himself inside her in one smooth thrust.