RPF: the two of us will have read this before
the two of us will have read this before
mcavoy has this odd habit of popping up when she doesn’t want him to. courtly love for the next several centuries; why you should never wear mcqueen, smoke cigars, but always take advice from the incomparable ms. green. rpf. keira knightley/james mcavoy. with guest appearances by eva green and mr. daniel craig, of course. 1014 words, r. and a prelude to a epic in the works.
for thisisironic. i promise, bb, something much bigger than this to follow - i haven't had that much coffee yet. *amused*
selling herself ends with a cycle of fuck you and a complimentary bottle of 1960-something before a vogue interview. dresses and dresses and more of those goddamn dress. hands to her hips, a louse for a smile and she’s keira knightly, miserable bitch and with small, perky tits. she laughs through chanel and armani. loses a ring in the bathroom. gives an assistant a nervous breakdown. tells her not to worry and pulls it off the makeup table. poor kid.
“what was it like?”
and the interview is still filled with more clothes, this time, as she stares blankly off to the side. four blocks from home. from rupert and his cock envy. her stomach knots. she doesn’t particularly understand the sudden need to hang low and walk around to show it. she misses him. not rupert. never rupert. because there are always other ruperts - maybe, that’s why she keeps getting linked to orlando fucking bloom.
of course, there’s a bit of grace and “oh, wicked. it was a fucking riot - great time because the story was so wrenching, so desperately gutting that i -”
“you?”
can’t do this. over dust, she says something to the tune of mcavoy and quite a bloke. at this very moment, she hates him more.
.
a new movie, he calls her once -
“a bungalow, knightley,” laughing thickly, “i’ve got myself a bungalow.”
so good to hear his voice. but there are admissions and admissions are unaffordable. she just won’t and will not become that woman. the pinning. the things that she will not and refuse to do.
but it’s in her throat. burn. sudden and open, she tries to remember why she said mates the way that she did. still sober, the phone stays cradled against her shoulder and she thinks about fingering herself once or twice. it’s not like he’d ever really, really know.
she laughs all the same.
.
galliano has her curiosity.
for the record, they meet this way; eva green, older by five, sits next to her and is quiet, champagne sighing between her fingers instead of fags. her head is tilted and the runway’s blank, but still, she passes for the future ghost of catherine deneuve.
“i was sad to see you die,” keira blurts. it rustles and shame forms in a fucking blush. like a school girl, “in bond. the new one looks like the girls from school.”
there’s a lazy smile that she understand, a peek of dark lashes, and she’s made a curiosity, not a friend yet, as the other woman turns a little towards her. there’s nothing to say yet. a snapping of fingers. and she’s got her own glass of gold, splitting between her fingertips now.
“don’t worry.” a pause. “he hasn’t forgotten me.”
.
mcavoy has this odd habit of popping up when she doesn’t want him to.
rupert fights like a model, thin and stupid - she tells him so, calmly, as he skirts and fold under a fit. the door slams. she wants to get pissed. because, really, he’s a fucking pansy and the sex isn’t even that great. she’s still here, but then again, it’s always been about being alone.
but mcavoy seems to understand her moods better than she does; it’s a market store, after hours, and he’s got some weird quirk about the cheeses. his elbow brushes her arm and they’re close, keira eye the scotch.
“we should have a drink.”
her eyes are narrowed and she sways right into the trap, dipping closer for a goodbye and his mouth skimming right against her cheek. a final press to goodbye, there are always cameras somewhere.
“you should fuck off,” she mumbles. the flush isn’t right and the ring presses into her hip, reminding her that she is, really, just human after all.
but he tries to be kind and she shouldn’t remember the way he hiked her dress up, the spill of silk as his palms kissed her thighs. the teeth in her shoulder. the hard echoing over her own.
“don’t this,” he murmurs.
she looks away. “this was your start.”
they both swallow.
.
in london, she’s praised because eva isn’t sienna miller.
but they’re really not friends. far and wide sides. there’s a script. she needs advice. keira’s far from the mood to do another stupid period peice
it amuses her, nonetheless, and they split cake every now and pace between them, a simple moment with no lies. there’s a joke about calories and keira’s huge fan of fuck it all, the bottomless pit that she is.
he’s here, they say. of course, they can avoid some sense of literacy, coy and true. but eva tenses and suddenly the rewrite is planned, tired as the rumor slides a murmurs. the other woman barely blinks, eyes straight away, and her hand lingering over her fork.
“green.”
there’s a light snort. and keira is curious, a gaze to the side. for the sport. the other other woman holds court with gray, frowning and a tense hand around the new bond’s hip. it’s almost funny. but then keira remembers too - there are no cameras here to hide behind.
“you look as frosty as ever,” he continues. and she remembers something about their relationship, nothing from eva’s mouth. but a meeting from before.
eva’s amusement then becomes quietly crueler. the air thicker as her head tilts up. her mouth moves and it’s a cued daniel, a lighter purr but there nonetheless. she doesn’t understand what’s going on, but manages keep herself out.
“have a good evening,” is all he says.
and when he’s gone, when the girlfriend is gone, eva leans forward, reaching for her napkin with no wave for the check. maybe, keira misses it; there is a quick gaze over her shoulder, from behind, and there’s a soft sigh to follow.
they don’t talk about it. but it’s no surprise.
“ma tante always,” for the story, remember she’s a french actress, “told me never to fall in love with a serious actor.”
keira’s mouth tilts. “and how’s that going?”
“shit.”
-