fic: without seatbelts on.
rpf. melanie laurent/eva green, melanie/marion cotillard, eva/marion, and a few others. 1250 words. They were never very close. This is AU in which Melanie and Eva are sisters. Shut up, I'm allowed to do whatever I want.
notes: for a variety of people who force me to do horrible things. no I have not returned; this was written on a pile of napkins, please forgive any mistakes.
[one | Melanie]
“Sometimes I lie just for the fun of it.”
“Is that supposed to shock me?”
“Bitch.”
“Yes. Well, it happens.”
-
They were never very close. Not as children, not as young women, certainly not now.
That big house, all those empty rooms, curtains that were never closed. These are the things that separated them, that let them grow apart.
So they both became actresses. So they both smile with the barest twist of lips that drives men, women, cameras mad. So what.
Cain and Abel both dug holes in the fucking desert, look how that turned out. And sure they’re better than that, no one’s ever been forced to be a keeper.
Still, I love you but please don’t speak has always gone without saying.
-
Melanie meets Marion over coffee, a pool of it spilled across the café floor when limbs and legs tangled harshly.
There was a moment when eyes locked and an agreement was made to laugh, to smile, to forgive.
Marion and Melanie are very good at agreeing. It’s practically indecent.
-
There are phone calls, once weekly, for appearance’s sake (but no one is watching).
The conversation is brief and generally centered around precipitation. Rounded vowels are used by all.
After the obligatory three minutes (four if there’s been a storm) Eva finishes it off with a “be safe.” She’s a bit older (by years that seem like seconds now and used to be ages) and in this alone responsibility is her role.
Melanie leans her head against the window, dial tone harsh in her ear. The window is cool; the receiver is heavy and old.
-
“How’s Guillaume?”
“Alright. I don’t think he likes me very much.”
This is not a lie; it is an opinion, if a tragically wrong one.
That is not Marion’s fault, or perhaps it is but she can hardly be blamed for her nature.
Guillaume likes her perfectly (everyone does) he also loves her which is the heart of the problem.
Guillaume loves Marion and he is a fool. Or perhaps Guillaume is a fool and he loves Marion.
Certainly all of this is not his fault, she is very discrete.
It is Thursday morning; they are lying naked in bed, cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Rain falls in through the open window.
[two | Eva]
“So. Bond.”
“Yes.”
“It’s certainly-unexpected.”
There isn’t a laugh (Mel doesn’t laugh, it doesn’t suit her eyes) but there’s a catch, a pause stretching over miles and telephone cables that borders on amusement.
Marion does laugh, full and ever so slightly snide, then spends twenty minutes coming up with increasingly nonsensical names and is only quieted by a particularly incendiary comment out of Eva’s mouth that leaves everyone with a sharp ache between the thighs.
-
“L.A.”
“It’s - sunny.”
“-American.”
“Can’t win everything.”
“You can certainly try a bit harder.”
-
They are not friends.
Mel is Marion’s friend. The Franco boy is Marion’s friend. Eva is not her friend.
They are occasional lovers. They are two warm bodies, four clever hands. They are crimson and pink lips. They are excellent at drinking together.
They are not friends.
It’s London that’s the problem. For all her education and style, Marion does not understand London.
And that is a damned shame.
-
Mel comes to the set. It isn’t the first time. They do this occasionally, provide interest, or support, or something.
But it’s Bond. And Mel.
She sits in one of the spare set chairs, chats with Daniel while lighting a cigarette that a crew member tries (and fails) to get her to put out.
Later they walk out together, not quite arm in arm but there’s only a breath between them.
“You’re fucking him.”
“Yes.”
“At least it isn’t Brosnan.”
-
They go to a premiere, one of Marion’s so the husband the boyfriend is there but that’s easily forgotten.
She introduces them, then laughs when she catches onto the joke.
“I had no idea.”
“There aren’t many similarities.”
“No. But I can see it now.”
Marion is a terrible liar.
[three | melanie and eva]
They were never very close.
All those rooms and all that space and all that time between them. They were never very close.
This is a lie.
Books read under covers late at night, away from the maids’ watchful eyes. Words slipping from mouths to ears, laughter and sorrow and lives never lived taking form with a precious sort of magic.
First cigarettes behind the rose bushes both managing not to cough, tumblers of cognac shared in the sitting room when the household had gone to bed.
A bottle of black henna in the guest bathroom at fifteen for one, thirteen for the other with the latex gloves and the brush. (Yes, this is you glowing in the younger’s eyes.)
They were never very close.
This is a lie.
-
She meets Craig on the set and doesn’t like him at all but feel like she ought to anyway. (Later she learns this is a common condition around the man.)
He looks her up and down as she fumbles with her lighter; his suit is wearing him but that may be the character talking.
“So you’re the sister.”
She doesn’t flinch; he’s looking for a reaction. Eva’s not the sort to talk but it’s not exactly a secret.
“Yes.”
“It’s nice. The two of you. No touching, no speaking. Hell, you barely look at each other. One would hardly be able to tell.”
“Pardon?”
“You aren’t going to play coy, are you? Neither of us is a fool.”
“I can’t say I entirely believe you.”
“And it’s not like I blame you. I mean, who could resist a woman like Eva in bed.”
“Not you, I imagine.”
“Besides there’s nothing wrong with a bit of love between siblings. The Greeks did it.”
“Love? Who’s talking about love? Surely it’s sex we’re discussing.”
He laughs and she leaves him to it. He’s a clever man, if off by a mile.
-
“I heard about Tarantino and the Nazis.”
“Yes.”
“It sounds-“
“It is. But also-“
“American. I know. Still.”
“Still.”
“How is he?”
“Daniel?”
“No, August. And Daniel?”
“Well, yes.”
“So, how are they?”
“Alright, I suppose. It’s become-well, I’ve become bored.”
“It’s rather impossible to please you.”
“No one has ever tried.”
“No. No, I don’t suppose so.”
-
It began like this: They were young and clever and bored (they were also beautiful but that has little bearing on the present).
It was summer and they wandered through the streets and smoked too much and laughed when they shouldn’t have.
It was summer and it was easy and it was their last time together, their last time whole.
It was a single sloppy kiss on a balcony that migrated inside and into the bedroom and on and on and on.
It went too far, by common definition.
In truth it didn’t go far enough and this, the now, the present is a holding pattern. Is what happens when you’re thrown into open water without a boat but you know how to swim.
There was a kiss, there was an almost fuck; there was heat and summer and boredom.
They were never very close.
notes: for a variety of people who force me to do horrible things. no I have not returned; this was written on a pile of napkins, please forgive any mistakes.
[one | Melanie]
“Sometimes I lie just for the fun of it.”
“Is that supposed to shock me?”
“Bitch.”
“Yes. Well, it happens.”
-
They were never very close. Not as children, not as young women, certainly not now.
That big house, all those empty rooms, curtains that were never closed. These are the things that separated them, that let them grow apart.
So they both became actresses. So they both smile with the barest twist of lips that drives men, women, cameras mad. So what.
Cain and Abel both dug holes in the fucking desert, look how that turned out. And sure they’re better than that, no one’s ever been forced to be a keeper.
Still, I love you but please don’t speak has always gone without saying.
-
Melanie meets Marion over coffee, a pool of it spilled across the café floor when limbs and legs tangled harshly.
There was a moment when eyes locked and an agreement was made to laugh, to smile, to forgive.
Marion and Melanie are very good at agreeing. It’s practically indecent.
-
There are phone calls, once weekly, for appearance’s sake (but no one is watching).
The conversation is brief and generally centered around precipitation. Rounded vowels are used by all.
After the obligatory three minutes (four if there’s been a storm) Eva finishes it off with a “be safe.” She’s a bit older (by years that seem like seconds now and used to be ages) and in this alone responsibility is her role.
Melanie leans her head against the window, dial tone harsh in her ear. The window is cool; the receiver is heavy and old.
-
“How’s Guillaume?”
“Alright. I don’t think he likes me very much.”
This is not a lie; it is an opinion, if a tragically wrong one.
That is not Marion’s fault, or perhaps it is but she can hardly be blamed for her nature.
Guillaume likes her perfectly (everyone does) he also loves her which is the heart of the problem.
Guillaume loves Marion and he is a fool. Or perhaps Guillaume is a fool and he loves Marion.
Certainly all of this is not his fault, she is very discrete.
It is Thursday morning; they are lying naked in bed, cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Rain falls in through the open window.
[two | Eva]
“So. Bond.”
“Yes.”
“It’s certainly-unexpected.”
There isn’t a laugh (Mel doesn’t laugh, it doesn’t suit her eyes) but there’s a catch, a pause stretching over miles and telephone cables that borders on amusement.
Marion does laugh, full and ever so slightly snide, then spends twenty minutes coming up with increasingly nonsensical names and is only quieted by a particularly incendiary comment out of Eva’s mouth that leaves everyone with a sharp ache between the thighs.
-
“L.A.”
“It’s - sunny.”
“-American.”
“Can’t win everything.”
“You can certainly try a bit harder.”
-
They are not friends.
Mel is Marion’s friend. The Franco boy is Marion’s friend. Eva is not her friend.
They are occasional lovers. They are two warm bodies, four clever hands. They are crimson and pink lips. They are excellent at drinking together.
They are not friends.
It’s London that’s the problem. For all her education and style, Marion does not understand London.
And that is a damned shame.
-
Mel comes to the set. It isn’t the first time. They do this occasionally, provide interest, or support, or something.
But it’s Bond. And Mel.
She sits in one of the spare set chairs, chats with Daniel while lighting a cigarette that a crew member tries (and fails) to get her to put out.
Later they walk out together, not quite arm in arm but there’s only a breath between them.
“You’re fucking him.”
“Yes.”
“At least it isn’t Brosnan.”
-
They go to a premiere, one of Marion’s so the husband the boyfriend is there but that’s easily forgotten.
She introduces them, then laughs when she catches onto the joke.
“I had no idea.”
“There aren’t many similarities.”
“No. But I can see it now.”
Marion is a terrible liar.
[three | melanie and eva]
They were never very close.
All those rooms and all that space and all that time between them. They were never very close.
This is a lie.
Books read under covers late at night, away from the maids’ watchful eyes. Words slipping from mouths to ears, laughter and sorrow and lives never lived taking form with a precious sort of magic.
First cigarettes behind the rose bushes both managing not to cough, tumblers of cognac shared in the sitting room when the household had gone to bed.
A bottle of black henna in the guest bathroom at fifteen for one, thirteen for the other with the latex gloves and the brush. (Yes, this is you glowing in the younger’s eyes.)
They were never very close.
This is a lie.
-
She meets Craig on the set and doesn’t like him at all but feel like she ought to anyway. (Later she learns this is a common condition around the man.)
He looks her up and down as she fumbles with her lighter; his suit is wearing him but that may be the character talking.
“So you’re the sister.”
She doesn’t flinch; he’s looking for a reaction. Eva’s not the sort to talk but it’s not exactly a secret.
“Yes.”
“It’s nice. The two of you. No touching, no speaking. Hell, you barely look at each other. One would hardly be able to tell.”
“Pardon?”
“You aren’t going to play coy, are you? Neither of us is a fool.”
“I can’t say I entirely believe you.”
“And it’s not like I blame you. I mean, who could resist a woman like Eva in bed.”
“Not you, I imagine.”
“Besides there’s nothing wrong with a bit of love between siblings. The Greeks did it.”
“Love? Who’s talking about love? Surely it’s sex we’re discussing.”
He laughs and she leaves him to it. He’s a clever man, if off by a mile.
-
“I heard about Tarantino and the Nazis.”
“Yes.”
“It sounds-“
“It is. But also-“
“American. I know. Still.”
“Still.”
“How is he?”
“Daniel?”
“No, August. And Daniel?”
“Well, yes.”
“So, how are they?”
“Alright, I suppose. It’s become-well, I’ve become bored.”
“It’s rather impossible to please you.”
“No one has ever tried.”
“No. No, I don’t suppose so.”
-
It began like this: They were young and clever and bored (they were also beautiful but that has little bearing on the present).
It was summer and they wandered through the streets and smoked too much and laughed when they shouldn’t have.
It was summer and it was easy and it was their last time together, their last time whole.
It was a single sloppy kiss on a balcony that migrated inside and into the bedroom and on and on and on.
It went too far, by common definition.
In truth it didn’t go far enough and this, the now, the present is a holding pattern. Is what happens when you’re thrown into open water without a boat but you know how to swim.
There was a kiss, there was an almost fuck; there was heat and summer and boredom.
They were never very close.