RPF Fic: if ever the kind-hearted
Fic dump, fic dump! I feel at least I'm being somewhat productive with this stupid, stupid cough. Just in time for December 2, the next slot on the Advent Calendar and mascaratube's day. Have a happy, merry, festive December, lady! Now, it's time for Misfits.
if ever the kind-hearted
rpf ; eva green/louis garrel (eva green/daniel craig) ; 2,071 words, pg
all coins are the same. let’s pick a side.
-
There was a film once.
You hear that a lot: there was a film once, a sort of strange play on once upon a time and forever and ever; self-indulgent at best, but actors are worse when they’re from a dynasty.
The truth is this: they see less of each other, of course.
“He wants to get married,” she confesses to Louis; she is in New York and her accent is impeccable. Earlier, he couldn’t recognize her, him in Paris, her in her hotel room. She blames the phone. “Marton,” she murmurs. “He took me to a quiet dinner. I had no idea it was coming, you see.”
He doesn’t answer. It’s been awhile, she thinks. She’s standing by the dresser in her hotel room and there’s a shirt, pressed and hanging over the corner. Her fingers drift over the plastic.
Then she sighs. “Louis?”
“You are terribly preoccupied by this.”
His voice is soft and sleepy. His English is heavy. She wonders if he’s mocking her and chooses to ignore it.
“It’s marriage,” she sighs again, and a bit dramatically. There’s a laugh and a murmur; she rolls her eyes. He makes a sound too, a half-purr and she imagines him as he stretches out, too long for the sheets and legs off the edge of the bed.
“What about -”
“Don’t,” she says quickly. She swears in French too.
“I only meant to say that you always were adamant about not getting married, understandably so - you’re a bit of a brat, no?”
She says nothing and picks up the shirt. She moves to the bed and drops it over the sheets. The arms flail and sigh into the covers and the plastic wrinkles; it’s a strange picture, an unnecessary one that she cannot decide whether or not she likes how this feels.
“I’m getting older.”
She say it and it feels uninspired; her accent is slipping and this is less about practice that she wants to admit.
“And so are you,” she says.
They are not friends. There is a story that walks around saying that they are, that they are more than they want to be, that they enjoy each other’s company when he loves to call her playground names. But they do talk and they talk too much; it is just something that cannot be explained.
He calls her a lot in London too, midway between coming and going, when it makes the most sense to him.
“And how is that dog of yours,” he says, bored. There is the echo of the airport in the background of the line. Coming and going, he always says and it’s with a wide, uncomfortable grin. It’s always a secret joke, anyways. Someone yells hello! too and she manages not to roll her eyes.
“How is your girlfriend?” she asks instead.
He laughs and she hears car horns next. Coming and going, she thinks. He must be back in Paris. She hasn’t been home in weeks. There was a strange fight with her mother and her sister, something about being actresses and human beings, something she’s not entirely sure how to take.
“The same,” he says, “as most of your men, the ones that continue to drag themselves, salivating after you.”
She blushes. Her hands rub her face angrily.
“You’re a terrible man,” she murmurs.
He laughs again. “You love me,” he drawls. He pauses and yells, “Taxi!” and the sound of a car door slamming echoes over the line. She winces and manages to move to her bedroom. “It apparent, really, considering you feel the need to indulge in each time you call me.”
“You call me,” she breathes. She drops to her bed. Her legs curl underneath her and her dog comes tumbling in. “Ass,” she adds, but it’s half-hearted.
“We are not together anymore,” he says. He ignores her. “We decided it would be best if we were to remain friends.”
There’s something apparent in each time they talk; insults are layered and full of choices, and most of the time she is too unsure to think of all the reason why he is sudden and particular. But she just remembers him this way, as always being this way, long and too many bones and the sharp way his mouth seemed to understand how to tuck itself against her throat.
“I’m sorry.”
She is genuine. He says nothing.
They don’t sleep with each other, contrary to the assumptions; there is too many of them and Eva cares very little about what people think while Louis has learned to reveal in it. Two sides of the same coin, Bertolucci would exclaim and there was this fascinating way he would say it, as if he knew certain things were going to happen anyway.
(They do sleep with each other and it isn’t Paris, it’s somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, up in air where she’s just a passenger in row C and he’s next to her, across the aisle; there’s something extraordinary and so intimate that leads them to this point, to the point where she lets him cram her into a bathroom and he’s inside of her, her leg wrapped around her waist. Her thighs are flushed and sticky and she feels his thumbs as they drag against her skin. He’s gentle and then she fists her fingers through his hair. It’s his teeth at her throat and she whispers, nearly begs, “no, no, no,” because this isn’t what she planned and maybe he’s taking a little of her, and maybe he will be the only one. They will tell no one.)
There is dinner with Daniel and his ring. She is lost somewhere at the bar and he is sitting next to her, studying his scotch as if it were completely and utterly misplaced.
But then he fits, of course he fits here, a bar in between their flats. There are high tables laced with gold and wood, too dark and too heavy. They are an odd and handsome pair among the couples, up at the bar and in pairs along the restaurant walls. The bartender keeps passing her with a smile.
“Are you all right?” she manages carefully. She does not know how to look at him yet. She orders a glass of wine.
“I don’t know,” he says.
Eva wears black and it’s open against her back, into a long, tired v. Her hair is pulled back. There is a crowd behind them and a lot of murmurs; she feels uncomfortable too.
“I do not know what you want me to say.”
He sighs. “Nothing. I rather you say nothing. In fact, I prefer to go upstairs with you and talk about it there. I’d rather talk about nothing at all. It’s sort of ironic, I suppose, considering I’m here, with you, and all I did in the last couple of hours was -”
“Stop.” She reaches forward and grabs his drink. She has to peel his fingers away from the glass. Eva tries not to look at him.
“I mean it, you know,” he says.
She shakes her head.
“No you don’t.”
“Of course.” He looks at her and smiles, that strange, sullen smile that he does. She reaches over and brushes her fingers against his face. It’s barely there and he catches her wrist. “You know best,” he says.
She merely smiles, echoing him. “Of course.”
It’s an odd moment where she catches something in her voice. It’s a taste and a sudden change of pitch. There is a couple next to them that is suddenly interested in their conversation, the woman trying to catch Daniel’s gaze. Eva doesn’t smile, but she stares back, her eyes dark. She straightens and some of her hair falls into her eyes.
She does not tell him about the ring. “You’re not the only one,” she says.
(Louis will ask, and then say, “you are not the type to settle down,” and it’ll be insistent, shared, and full of calm jealousy; the three of them have been at the same party, the same event full of cocktails and too many empty trips outside for a bit of air. She will defend herself too, in memory, with a shy sigh. Then he’ll laugh as if she is supposed to understand: “The man always avoids me.”)
There is the rare occasion when they see each other. There is always an quiet, “we will work together again, no?” and it makes her decidedly uncomfortable and curious at once.
He comes to her flat sometime after a holiday. There is lipstick on his collar and he stands outside the door, her dog nipping at his legs and a bottle of wine in his hand.
“Let me in,” he says in greeting. There is a cigarette behind his ear. “It is fucking cold here. I can’t stand it.”
She rolls her eyes, stepping back. “Little boy.”
He flashes a grin and steps inside, moving down the hallway. There are walls of books and paintings, organized and unorganized. She is never home enough to really put forth some kind of effort; it’s about making home a home and Eva never really knows if she wants to stay in London anymore. She has been saying this for years.
“You are not surprised,” he announces. She’s followed him to her kitchen and grabs the bottle from his hand, just as he sits.
“No,” she says. “What is it this time?”
He laughs and shakes his head. There are books on her table. There are flowers too, from her mother as her sister, a sorry we fought but we are really making up for our parents. They are roses and Eva understands how to tolerate roses.
“Siblings again, terrible, terrible siblings, living in the city of lights with terrible, terrible jealousies and terrible, terrible parents. You, of course, are my sister who smokes a lot and fucks like a sailor.”
She scoffs. “Another one of yours,” she assumes. She opens the wine and grabs to glasses, sitting next to him at the table. “Trying to please daddy again, no?”
He points his finger at her, then takes the glass in her hand. “You, of course, will be one of those untouchable women, and I the boyishly handsome brother - perhaps it’s a bit too close to me.”
She doesn’t laugh and he seems to be waiting for her to. She just shakes her head and picks up her glass. She takes a sip of her wine and looks away. In the other room, she listens to her dog as he settles.
“I feel like music,” she murmurs.
“Of course.”
He lets her stand and this is Louis, she has to remind herself, Louis who knows how to count and catch every hitch and change in her movements. She grabs her wine and turns to lean against the counter instead.
“No music,” he says.
“Why are you here?”
“Why am I always here?” he throws back; she sighs and says, “Stop.”
He stares at her. There is a smile, but it starts to fade. She thinks she is sad and then, he is entirely too serious and it’s apparent, too apparent that neither of them are really what they want to be for each other, whatever that means these days. It is the first time that she gets to look at him, or the first time, in a very long time, where she gets to let herself look at him.
Stepping forward, she lets her fingers brush against his face. He lets out a sigh and turns his mouth against her palm. She does not sigh or smile. She bends over him, letting her mouth brush against his forehead.
“Do not say anything,” he says quietly. He doesn’t try to look at her. “It was about you, a very long time ago, and I think that I and you have yet to let that go. We like punishment. You know this to be true,” he murmurs and his fingers start to brush against her hip, just lightly, “ - because it is easier to blame you and blame me.”
It’s easy, somehow, to smile against his skin. Her fingers start to slide into his hair and he laughs softly.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she murmurs, and she means it.
He keeps her close all the same.
There was a film once.
They can’t say that anymore.
if ever the kind-hearted
rpf ; eva green/louis garrel (eva green/daniel craig) ; 2,071 words, pg
all coins are the same. let’s pick a side.
-
There was a film once.
You hear that a lot: there was a film once, a sort of strange play on once upon a time and forever and ever; self-indulgent at best, but actors are worse when they’re from a dynasty.
The truth is this: they see less of each other, of course.
“He wants to get married,” she confesses to Louis; she is in New York and her accent is impeccable. Earlier, he couldn’t recognize her, him in Paris, her in her hotel room. She blames the phone. “Marton,” she murmurs. “He took me to a quiet dinner. I had no idea it was coming, you see.”
He doesn’t answer. It’s been awhile, she thinks. She’s standing by the dresser in her hotel room and there’s a shirt, pressed and hanging over the corner. Her fingers drift over the plastic.
Then she sighs. “Louis?”
“You are terribly preoccupied by this.”
His voice is soft and sleepy. His English is heavy. She wonders if he’s mocking her and chooses to ignore it.
“It’s marriage,” she sighs again, and a bit dramatically. There’s a laugh and a murmur; she rolls her eyes. He makes a sound too, a half-purr and she imagines him as he stretches out, too long for the sheets and legs off the edge of the bed.
“What about -”
“Don’t,” she says quickly. She swears in French too.
“I only meant to say that you always were adamant about not getting married, understandably so - you’re a bit of a brat, no?”
She says nothing and picks up the shirt. She moves to the bed and drops it over the sheets. The arms flail and sigh into the covers and the plastic wrinkles; it’s a strange picture, an unnecessary one that she cannot decide whether or not she likes how this feels.
“I’m getting older.”
She say it and it feels uninspired; her accent is slipping and this is less about practice that she wants to admit.
“And so are you,” she says.
They are not friends. There is a story that walks around saying that they are, that they are more than they want to be, that they enjoy each other’s company when he loves to call her playground names. But they do talk and they talk too much; it is just something that cannot be explained.
He calls her a lot in London too, midway between coming and going, when it makes the most sense to him.
“And how is that dog of yours,” he says, bored. There is the echo of the airport in the background of the line. Coming and going, he always says and it’s with a wide, uncomfortable grin. It’s always a secret joke, anyways. Someone yells hello! too and she manages not to roll her eyes.
“How is your girlfriend?” she asks instead.
He laughs and she hears car horns next. Coming and going, she thinks. He must be back in Paris. She hasn’t been home in weeks. There was a strange fight with her mother and her sister, something about being actresses and human beings, something she’s not entirely sure how to take.
“The same,” he says, “as most of your men, the ones that continue to drag themselves, salivating after you.”
She blushes. Her hands rub her face angrily.
“You’re a terrible man,” she murmurs.
He laughs again. “You love me,” he drawls. He pauses and yells, “Taxi!” and the sound of a car door slamming echoes over the line. She winces and manages to move to her bedroom. “It apparent, really, considering you feel the need to indulge in each time you call me.”
“You call me,” she breathes. She drops to her bed. Her legs curl underneath her and her dog comes tumbling in. “Ass,” she adds, but it’s half-hearted.
“We are not together anymore,” he says. He ignores her. “We decided it would be best if we were to remain friends.”
There’s something apparent in each time they talk; insults are layered and full of choices, and most of the time she is too unsure to think of all the reason why he is sudden and particular. But she just remembers him this way, as always being this way, long and too many bones and the sharp way his mouth seemed to understand how to tuck itself against her throat.
“I’m sorry.”
She is genuine. He says nothing.
They don’t sleep with each other, contrary to the assumptions; there is too many of them and Eva cares very little about what people think while Louis has learned to reveal in it. Two sides of the same coin, Bertolucci would exclaim and there was this fascinating way he would say it, as if he knew certain things were going to happen anyway.
(They do sleep with each other and it isn’t Paris, it’s somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, up in air where she’s just a passenger in row C and he’s next to her, across the aisle; there’s something extraordinary and so intimate that leads them to this point, to the point where she lets him cram her into a bathroom and he’s inside of her, her leg wrapped around her waist. Her thighs are flushed and sticky and she feels his thumbs as they drag against her skin. He’s gentle and then she fists her fingers through his hair. It’s his teeth at her throat and she whispers, nearly begs, “no, no, no,” because this isn’t what she planned and maybe he’s taking a little of her, and maybe he will be the only one. They will tell no one.)
There is dinner with Daniel and his ring. She is lost somewhere at the bar and he is sitting next to her, studying his scotch as if it were completely and utterly misplaced.
But then he fits, of course he fits here, a bar in between their flats. There are high tables laced with gold and wood, too dark and too heavy. They are an odd and handsome pair among the couples, up at the bar and in pairs along the restaurant walls. The bartender keeps passing her with a smile.
“Are you all right?” she manages carefully. She does not know how to look at him yet. She orders a glass of wine.
“I don’t know,” he says.
Eva wears black and it’s open against her back, into a long, tired v. Her hair is pulled back. There is a crowd behind them and a lot of murmurs; she feels uncomfortable too.
“I do not know what you want me to say.”
He sighs. “Nothing. I rather you say nothing. In fact, I prefer to go upstairs with you and talk about it there. I’d rather talk about nothing at all. It’s sort of ironic, I suppose, considering I’m here, with you, and all I did in the last couple of hours was -”
“Stop.” She reaches forward and grabs his drink. She has to peel his fingers away from the glass. Eva tries not to look at him.
“I mean it, you know,” he says.
She shakes her head.
“No you don’t.”
“Of course.” He looks at her and smiles, that strange, sullen smile that he does. She reaches over and brushes her fingers against his face. It’s barely there and he catches her wrist. “You know best,” he says.
She merely smiles, echoing him. “Of course.”
It’s an odd moment where she catches something in her voice. It’s a taste and a sudden change of pitch. There is a couple next to them that is suddenly interested in their conversation, the woman trying to catch Daniel’s gaze. Eva doesn’t smile, but she stares back, her eyes dark. She straightens and some of her hair falls into her eyes.
She does not tell him about the ring. “You’re not the only one,” she says.
(Louis will ask, and then say, “you are not the type to settle down,” and it’ll be insistent, shared, and full of calm jealousy; the three of them have been at the same party, the same event full of cocktails and too many empty trips outside for a bit of air. She will defend herself too, in memory, with a shy sigh. Then he’ll laugh as if she is supposed to understand: “The man always avoids me.”)
There is the rare occasion when they see each other. There is always an quiet, “we will work together again, no?” and it makes her decidedly uncomfortable and curious at once.
He comes to her flat sometime after a holiday. There is lipstick on his collar and he stands outside the door, her dog nipping at his legs and a bottle of wine in his hand.
“Let me in,” he says in greeting. There is a cigarette behind his ear. “It is fucking cold here. I can’t stand it.”
She rolls her eyes, stepping back. “Little boy.”
He flashes a grin and steps inside, moving down the hallway. There are walls of books and paintings, organized and unorganized. She is never home enough to really put forth some kind of effort; it’s about making home a home and Eva never really knows if she wants to stay in London anymore. She has been saying this for years.
“You are not surprised,” he announces. She’s followed him to her kitchen and grabs the bottle from his hand, just as he sits.
“No,” she says. “What is it this time?”
He laughs and shakes his head. There are books on her table. There are flowers too, from her mother as her sister, a sorry we fought but we are really making up for our parents. They are roses and Eva understands how to tolerate roses.
“Siblings again, terrible, terrible siblings, living in the city of lights with terrible, terrible jealousies and terrible, terrible parents. You, of course, are my sister who smokes a lot and fucks like a sailor.”
She scoffs. “Another one of yours,” she assumes. She opens the wine and grabs to glasses, sitting next to him at the table. “Trying to please daddy again, no?”
He points his finger at her, then takes the glass in her hand. “You, of course, will be one of those untouchable women, and I the boyishly handsome brother - perhaps it’s a bit too close to me.”
She doesn’t laugh and he seems to be waiting for her to. She just shakes her head and picks up her glass. She takes a sip of her wine and looks away. In the other room, she listens to her dog as he settles.
“I feel like music,” she murmurs.
“Of course.”
He lets her stand and this is Louis, she has to remind herself, Louis who knows how to count and catch every hitch and change in her movements. She grabs her wine and turns to lean against the counter instead.
“No music,” he says.
“Why are you here?”
“Why am I always here?” he throws back; she sighs and says, “Stop.”
He stares at her. There is a smile, but it starts to fade. She thinks she is sad and then, he is entirely too serious and it’s apparent, too apparent that neither of them are really what they want to be for each other, whatever that means these days. It is the first time that she gets to look at him, or the first time, in a very long time, where she gets to let herself look at him.
Stepping forward, she lets her fingers brush against his face. He lets out a sigh and turns his mouth against her palm. She does not sigh or smile. She bends over him, letting her mouth brush against his forehead.
“Do not say anything,” he says quietly. He doesn’t try to look at her. “It was about you, a very long time ago, and I think that I and you have yet to let that go. We like punishment. You know this to be true,” he murmurs and his fingers start to brush against her hip, just lightly, “ - because it is easier to blame you and blame me.”
It’s easy, somehow, to smile against his skin. Her fingers start to slide into his hair and he laughs softly.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she murmurs, and she means it.
He keeps her close all the same.
There was a film once.
They can’t say that anymore.