(no subject)
So, uh. Do you know how hard it is to write something for the best writer you know? Because it's really hard. gigantic's birthday is the day after tomorrow, and I started three different stories for her birthday and scrapped all three of them before settling on the one I'm putting the finishing touches on as we speak.
However, I wrote a couple hundred words of Tom Felton/Matt Lewis, and thought I'd share them anyway. Happy fake birthday present, Ceej! It is well-documented how much I love your face.
(titled by Rilo Kiley, unbetaed)
and then there is no mystery left
tfelt/matt dave lewis rpf
pg-13, 1368 words
They get asked about it a lot; what the last days on set were like. Were they tense during filming? Was it hard to say goodbye to people he'd been working with for the last decade? His personal favorite question has always been, "Draco is such a polarizing character. Are you friends with the other kids on set?"
Tom smiles at his fifth interviewer of the day and says, honestly, "Honestly, we just stayed up until all hours having tea. It wasn't nearly as wild as you'd imagine."
She laughs, and it's a bright, tinkling sound. "I don't think I believe you," she says, leaning forward to touch his knee, clearly an American.
Tom grins at her, remembering to use all his teeth and says, "It's the truth! We're much less interesting than people make us out to be."
There's a gleam in her eyes when she pulls back that wasn't there before, and it's a pretty seamless transition to, "Were you aware of Daniel's drinking problem?"
There are cameras rolling, as usual, and Tom says, "Ah, but you know I can't answer that question," and then the interview is over.
- -
He's actually nothing like Draco, thank Christ, though he feels pretty protective of him most of the time. Anyone that knows him, though, can vouch for his credibility. He doesn't go around plotting the death of his enemies in his spare time.
"No," Rupert says. "You spare us by writing them down in notebooks and plotting on Post-Its." Rupert's been staying at his Los Angeles flat for three weeks now. Tom had invited him to stay for a night-two, but Rup has made himself comfortable, and it's better to have him there than to not. It's nice. Rupert snorts. "Nice, mate? Nice? Remind me to go snort something off a hooker the next time we're out at a premiere."
Tom laughs too, tugging out his mobile to check his messages. He could have sworn he'd heard it go off, but it must have been a phantom vibration, because there's nothing new there now.
"Off of her arse," he says, absently. "Definitely her arse." Rupert laughs so hard he snorts tea out of his nose, which is disgusting, but should probably be way more so. As it is, they just laugh harder.
- -
Tom hasn't seen Matt since London. They took the flight back together, Tom to see his Nan before crossing back over for the Apes premiere, and Matt because his promotional duties were over until the DVD tour.
"Don't forget the five year retrospective," Tom says as they stand in baggage claim, waiting to pick up the garment bag containing Matt's suit.
Matt laughs, bumping their shoulders lightly, not enough to hurt. "Harry Potter: Fifty years later," he says, holding up his curled fist as an imaginary microphone to Tom's mouth. "Tom Felton, do you still use a kilo of product in your hair?" He's laughing too hard to really sell it, and that makes Tom laugh too, louder than he probably should be.
In their muddy trainers and tracky bottoms and wearing hooded sweatshirts, they look vaguely inconspicuous. Tom wears dark sunglasses anyway, and Matt's beard has grown to the point where his entire jaw has transformed into a missing continent. Tom's made the joke before; it's the only reason he doesn't repeat himself.
"You should come by," Matt says, garment bag finally in hand. Tom raises his brows, gesturing towards it with his chin. "I carried it on during the flight over," Matt says to the unasked question. "But I've worn it now, haven't I? No point in taking it on the plane and having to share my seat with it, is there?" They do go home together, but it's not-it's just because Matt says, "Let's have a drink," and it's not much, but Matt's place is closer to Heathrow.
It's still an hour out, but it's better than two.
- -
Rupert is kind of a terrible house guest. He even admits it himself, leaving his things everywhere in the flat. It's kind of ridiculous, because Tom's not particularly neat himself, but Rupert takes his antipathy to cleanliness to a whole new level.
Matt calls on their third day of doing nothing. Tom's camped out on the couch, reading through a script, but also playing Angry Birds on his iPhone. The call takes him by surprise, but only because it stops his game in the middle.
Rupert has a kettle on, and instead of walking back to the couch, he's standing over it, listening as the water boils. "You gonna answer that?" he asks, and Tom thinks about it, and thinks about it, and by the time he's ready to say yes, Matt's already left a message on his voicemail. "I guess not," Rupert says around a laugh, and Tom throws him a two-fingered salute because he can.
Rupert just laughs anyway.
- -
Matt lived-lives in a modest place. Two bedrooms and a half bath don't really say much, but the spacious kitchen does, with its gleaming metallic surfaces and state-of-the-art appliances.
"Look at you," Tom says, leaning against the breakfast bar. "A regular home-maker, you are."
Matt laughs, too good-natured by half. "Sod off," he says, nudging Tom's shoulder in passing. "I can make you beans on toast if you'd prefer," he says.
"If I'd prefer it to what?" Tom asks, and Matt laughs, the sound bright and cheerful. Genuine.
"I was fixing to make a filet mignon, myself," Matt says. "But anything to make you to make you feel at home."
"You're a wanker, you know that?"
"Me?" Matt asks, voice rough around his laugh. He wheezes, bent slightly. "Me? Oh, that's rich from the bloke that played Draco Malfoy for half his life." He slaps his palm down against the marble of the counter and the sides of their hands press together.
"I could murder a cuppa," Tom says, and Matt laughs again as he turns to go, taking the warmth of his skin with him.
- -
"You must be surprised at the turnout," the reporter on the red carpet asks him. Rupert has just shown up, wearing his home-made surprise, and Tom hasn't stopped laughing long enough to get a decent breath in or out.
"Sorry?" Tom asks, trying not to notice the shine and bounce of her hair under the fluorescents. She's much prettier in person than she's ever been on TV.
She smiles at him, hands on his arm, her fingertips squeezing just hard enough to make him notice. "The turnout," she says, saving a twinkle for the camera. "You must be so pleased that all these Harry Potter fans have come out to support you." She laughs, the sound false and bright, too cheerful; tinny and mechanized like a pre-recorded bell. "Rupert was certainly a surprise."
Tom spots Rupert a few paces away down the carpet, holding his jacket open for the flashing cameras and screaming eyes to see. "We're a family," he says, a regurgitation of an earlier speech. "We support each other."
"You're friends, then?" she asks, and Tom smiles and nods his thanks.
In the pocket of his blazer, his phone begins to buzz.
- -
Matt kisses like he's drowning, begging for it with the way his teeth nip and the heat of his mouth pressing everywhere and nowhere at once. He's grown taller, broader, fuller, but when he leans Tom back against the breakfast bar in his kitchen, practically bending him in half, Tom can still taste Earl Gray in the corners of his mouth, even though the tea's only just now brewing.
- -
"I saw the shirt," Matt says, when Tom finally picks up his phone. He sounds amused, his voice muffled, like he's smoking, and Tom leans back against his rented balcony, checking the time on his watch and adding eight hours.
"Are you just getting up?" Tom asks, not answering the question.
Matt laughs, quiet and still muffled, and Tom closes his eyes on the impending sunlight, seeing streaks of pink and purple behind his lids. "Have a meeting," he says. "It seems someone wants to cast me in a movie."
"A movie," Tom says drolly. "What's that?"
However, I wrote a couple hundred words of Tom Felton/Matt Lewis, and thought I'd share them anyway. Happy fake birthday present, Ceej! It is well-documented how much I love your face.
(titled by Rilo Kiley, unbetaed)
and then there is no mystery left
tfelt/matt dave lewis rpf
pg-13, 1368 words
They get asked about it a lot; what the last days on set were like. Were they tense during filming? Was it hard to say goodbye to people he'd been working with for the last decade? His personal favorite question has always been, "Draco is such a polarizing character. Are you friends with the other kids on set?"
Tom smiles at his fifth interviewer of the day and says, honestly, "Honestly, we just stayed up until all hours having tea. It wasn't nearly as wild as you'd imagine."
She laughs, and it's a bright, tinkling sound. "I don't think I believe you," she says, leaning forward to touch his knee, clearly an American.
Tom grins at her, remembering to use all his teeth and says, "It's the truth! We're much less interesting than people make us out to be."
There's a gleam in her eyes when she pulls back that wasn't there before, and it's a pretty seamless transition to, "Were you aware of Daniel's drinking problem?"
There are cameras rolling, as usual, and Tom says, "Ah, but you know I can't answer that question," and then the interview is over.
- -
He's actually nothing like Draco, thank Christ, though he feels pretty protective of him most of the time. Anyone that knows him, though, can vouch for his credibility. He doesn't go around plotting the death of his enemies in his spare time.
"No," Rupert says. "You spare us by writing them down in notebooks and plotting on Post-Its." Rupert's been staying at his Los Angeles flat for three weeks now. Tom had invited him to stay for a night-two, but Rup has made himself comfortable, and it's better to have him there than to not. It's nice. Rupert snorts. "Nice, mate? Nice? Remind me to go snort something off a hooker the next time we're out at a premiere."
Tom laughs too, tugging out his mobile to check his messages. He could have sworn he'd heard it go off, but it must have been a phantom vibration, because there's nothing new there now.
"Off of her arse," he says, absently. "Definitely her arse." Rupert laughs so hard he snorts tea out of his nose, which is disgusting, but should probably be way more so. As it is, they just laugh harder.
- -
Tom hasn't seen Matt since London. They took the flight back together, Tom to see his Nan before crossing back over for the Apes premiere, and Matt because his promotional duties were over until the DVD tour.
"Don't forget the five year retrospective," Tom says as they stand in baggage claim, waiting to pick up the garment bag containing Matt's suit.
Matt laughs, bumping their shoulders lightly, not enough to hurt. "Harry Potter: Fifty years later," he says, holding up his curled fist as an imaginary microphone to Tom's mouth. "Tom Felton, do you still use a kilo of product in your hair?" He's laughing too hard to really sell it, and that makes Tom laugh too, louder than he probably should be.
In their muddy trainers and tracky bottoms and wearing hooded sweatshirts, they look vaguely inconspicuous. Tom wears dark sunglasses anyway, and Matt's beard has grown to the point where his entire jaw has transformed into a missing continent. Tom's made the joke before; it's the only reason he doesn't repeat himself.
"You should come by," Matt says, garment bag finally in hand. Tom raises his brows, gesturing towards it with his chin. "I carried it on during the flight over," Matt says to the unasked question. "But I've worn it now, haven't I? No point in taking it on the plane and having to share my seat with it, is there?" They do go home together, but it's not-it's just because Matt says, "Let's have a drink," and it's not much, but Matt's place is closer to Heathrow.
It's still an hour out, but it's better than two.
- -
Rupert is kind of a terrible house guest. He even admits it himself, leaving his things everywhere in the flat. It's kind of ridiculous, because Tom's not particularly neat himself, but Rupert takes his antipathy to cleanliness to a whole new level.
Matt calls on their third day of doing nothing. Tom's camped out on the couch, reading through a script, but also playing Angry Birds on his iPhone. The call takes him by surprise, but only because it stops his game in the middle.
Rupert has a kettle on, and instead of walking back to the couch, he's standing over it, listening as the water boils. "You gonna answer that?" he asks, and Tom thinks about it, and thinks about it, and by the time he's ready to say yes, Matt's already left a message on his voicemail. "I guess not," Rupert says around a laugh, and Tom throws him a two-fingered salute because he can.
Rupert just laughs anyway.
- -
Matt lived-lives in a modest place. Two bedrooms and a half bath don't really say much, but the spacious kitchen does, with its gleaming metallic surfaces and state-of-the-art appliances.
"Look at you," Tom says, leaning against the breakfast bar. "A regular home-maker, you are."
Matt laughs, too good-natured by half. "Sod off," he says, nudging Tom's shoulder in passing. "I can make you beans on toast if you'd prefer," he says.
"If I'd prefer it to what?" Tom asks, and Matt laughs, the sound bright and cheerful. Genuine.
"I was fixing to make a filet mignon, myself," Matt says. "But anything to make you to make you feel at home."
"You're a wanker, you know that?"
"Me?" Matt asks, voice rough around his laugh. He wheezes, bent slightly. "Me? Oh, that's rich from the bloke that played Draco Malfoy for half his life." He slaps his palm down against the marble of the counter and the sides of their hands press together.
"I could murder a cuppa," Tom says, and Matt laughs again as he turns to go, taking the warmth of his skin with him.
- -
"You must be surprised at the turnout," the reporter on the red carpet asks him. Rupert has just shown up, wearing his home-made surprise, and Tom hasn't stopped laughing long enough to get a decent breath in or out.
"Sorry?" Tom asks, trying not to notice the shine and bounce of her hair under the fluorescents. She's much prettier in person than she's ever been on TV.
She smiles at him, hands on his arm, her fingertips squeezing just hard enough to make him notice. "The turnout," she says, saving a twinkle for the camera. "You must be so pleased that all these Harry Potter fans have come out to support you." She laughs, the sound false and bright, too cheerful; tinny and mechanized like a pre-recorded bell. "Rupert was certainly a surprise."
Tom spots Rupert a few paces away down the carpet, holding his jacket open for the flashing cameras and screaming eyes to see. "We're a family," he says, a regurgitation of an earlier speech. "We support each other."
"You're friends, then?" she asks, and Tom smiles and nods his thanks.
In the pocket of his blazer, his phone begins to buzz.
- -
Matt kisses like he's drowning, begging for it with the way his teeth nip and the heat of his mouth pressing everywhere and nowhere at once. He's grown taller, broader, fuller, but when he leans Tom back against the breakfast bar in his kitchen, practically bending him in half, Tom can still taste Earl Gray in the corners of his mouth, even though the tea's only just now brewing.
- -
"I saw the shirt," Matt says, when Tom finally picks up his phone. He sounds amused, his voice muffled, like he's smoking, and Tom leans back against his rented balcony, checking the time on his watch and adding eight hours.
"Are you just getting up?" Tom asks, not answering the question.
Matt laughs, quiet and still muffled, and Tom closes his eyes on the impending sunlight, seeing streaks of pink and purple behind his lids. "Have a meeting," he says. "It seems someone wants to cast me in a movie."
"A movie," Tom says drolly. "What's that?"