fic: a bachelor of human kinetics (rpf)
a bachelor of human kinetics
rpf. someday, with enough courage, they may toast to the quieter of places, to libraries, dark theaters and empty hotel halls. keira knightley/james mcavoy. 5088 words. nc-17.
notes: for thisisironic! and, wow. this fic jumped up a notch. and, yes. it is rpf - if that's not your thing, that's cool. and for the record: these are all lies. lies, lies, lies. no offense intended.
we’re hiding like elephants when they’re happy.
(à bout de souffle)
“If we were, to say, commit this to film” - James may think, those early hours where the sun peaks before it crests, funny shadows and long beams of light spread -
“French new wave, definitely” - he sees her interrupting, a long tangle of limbs, an anonymous bed, a half-filled champagne flute as a makeshift ashtray. She would be smirking, no question about that. The New York skyscape would be scratching for the clouds outside an open window, the noise of traffic for ambience, tiny, miniature, down there too many stories below.
“I’d be Jean-Paul Belmondo to your Jean Seberg?” he asks, perched on one elbow, looking down at her.
“Exactement,” she answers, a bad French accent and the raise of her chin. There is a grin there, stretching, falters. Her face slides solemn and the light would catch.
“Best start practicing dodging bullets now, eh?” she says.
This all, of course, does not start with this.
He might sometimes think of other ways they might have come to meet. It’s a futile exercise - a riff on the theme song from Cheers: everybody already knows their name, as well as the finer and lesser points of their personal histories.
It was the first day on set when they finally met, no longer James and Keira, but, instead, as Joe insisted, Robbie and Cecilia. It felt right, in one of those indescribable sorts of ways, meeting her, that firm shake of her hand and friendly nod of her head at his introduction.
There is an easy kind of contentedness that comes of just being him. He is naturally happy, affable, yes, affable had been the word used to describe him once. And he is - he’ll joke, ride with the flow, more often than not find humor hidden in the strangest of places.
That aside, there is a certain brand of stasis inherent in this, a marking time, the constant slipping down into the typical, the mundane, the trappings of domestic banalities.
“Now, is War and Peace really your favorite book?” he asks, one afternoon, his copy of the script rolled and dog-eared in his lap. She sits across, a pen uncapped, at the ready. There is a certain level of mockery to the question, tinged all the more in good humor, his mouth twisted in a closed-lip smile.
“Fuck off,” she answers in a laugh.
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Just curious.”
The library is ready, the set waiting for them, and there is a nervous energy taut in the air. He isn’t quite sure what to do with it, quite sure how to explain the strange anxiety attached to the scene, too many thoughts already struggling for dominance in his mind.
Joe calls, “action!” and James steps forward, hand against the side of her face and kisses her. He kisses her softly, pulls back slightly and looks at her. Detachment is key here, he imagines, detachment of a sort, but that can’t work, it won’t work (not James and Keira, but Robbie and Cecilia, not actors, rather lovers, yes) and he kisses her again. Her lips part against his own, the kiss falling deeper, her body warm against his. They kiss, they are kissing, camera rolling and his fingers curl into her hair, her head dipped back, her tongue feather-light against his, the mechanics of their motions fading fast -
He is already hard against her stomach when Joe yells cut!, and he knows she can feel it, based only on the way she is squirming slightly against him.
It starts simply enough - Joe, and wank him off!, imparted first as a joke, but like all jokes, there is a kind of truth underlying that and both his and her laughter rings anxious and fake.
Joe keeps stressing the importance of the scene - the crux of the story! he takes to saying - and it is take after take, reference to meetings past, discussions, storyboards even - the passion, we need the passion! Joe insists.
Later, James will accuse him, drunk after too many much needed and perhaps deserved pints. “You bloody instigator. What the hell did you think would happen? I’d close my eyes and think of England?” he’ll say, red in the face, the pub crowded and Joe will just laugh, full-bodied and head thrown back. “You fucking bad, bad, bad, bad, bad influence.”
For now though, there is a library.
It is the way her fingers curl around him, a tight fist, the knuckles pop. It is her that inhales sharply, first, a catch of her breath on the first slide of her hand, his cock slick beneath her palm, almost as though caught off guard. He is thick in her hand and there is a funny look of deep concentration shading across her face, a bite of her lip, that quick flash of white enamel and teeth.
He doesn’t mean to, but his hips arch forward and her hand slides farther down, stopping at the base of his cock. Her side of her hand, her little finger, brush against his skin - she can feel the hair there. He watches her swallow, and he is trying, he is really trying to steady himself here.
He’s painfully hard, and there are a litany of things just waiting to be said, sticky in his mouth. He swallows down a Jesus Christ when her hand twists once, and then again, a quick, accidental brush of her nails against him, a completely different tactile sensation.
It is overwhelming, of course. The rhythm of her hand against the rapid beating of his heart, her irregular breathing a harsh counter-beat to him, and his own hand has settled low against her hip. He is trying here, resisting the urge to pull her against him. He tries to watch her, between slit eyes, and her cheeks are stained, pink - the recognition of this bringing another slight sway of his hips, towards her, of their own accord. Her eyes are cast down, and fuck, he swallows down around a grunt, the sound still escaping (her eyelashes flutter at this), because she’s watching - and his head rolls back, just a second - she is watching her hand, his cock, her cheeks pink, and there is a tremble to her fingers that echoes straight through him.
Later, he will chalk it all up to the utter foreignness of the situation, the peculiar state of it all. It was a strange hand, certainly not his own, not his wife’s (and for the love of God, he can’t remember the last time a girl wanked him off, gave him a handjob with no expectation for reciprocation or as a cursory act of foreplay). It is the fact they weren’t alone. Christ, who knew he got off on exhibitionism? Regardless - later he will devise excuses, but for now, now it isn’t a matter of vague generalities or pseudo-Freudian, introspective bullshit.
Instead, it’s her, it’s Keira, it’s the fact that it is her and it’s him that has him entirely too close to the edge.
There is a sureness to her movements now, a questionable confidence he finds more erotic than her tentative nature before. He can feel her breath against his face, the stuttering downturn of an exhale and his hand grips her by the waist, sweat slicked against the green silk of her dress. His hand slips a little higher, the dress bunching; his thumb grazes the underside of her breast, her nipple sharp against the thin fabric. Over-sensitized, he thinks, unsure who he is referring to, and it’s too much, and when his thumb brushes against her again, this time with more deliberation, a motive somewhere in his lust-clouded head, she gives an answering squeeze in response. Yes, it’s too fucking much, and his hips buck and he’s too close, too goddamn close, and that ragged sigh belongs to him.
Her thumb rubs along the tip, spreading the come already collected there, and there is little space between the two of them - he has moved as close to her as possible, pushed against the shelves, her hand has barely room to move, pull against him; their foreheads almost touch. He is close enough he could kiss her - but he’s not supposed to, is he? But he could, a tilt of his head, dip slightly, and her lips are there - and Jesus fuck Mother of God - her tongue darts out, licks her lips, wet, her hand still pumping against him.
His hand climbs higher again, higher, the silk almost damp - his sweat? hers? - and finally, he thinks; he palms her breast, her nipple hard against his palm. He moves his thumb over it, pulling the neckline of her dress, already impossibly low, down just a little more.
Their foreheads bump together, then settle, pressed against each other. His eyes flicker shut and a moan catches against her teeth, her hand even more energetic, ruthless, and he wants to fuck her, fuck her now - and the strap slips down on her dress, her legs are spread - yes, he moans, out loud, and he should be embarrassed by this, this yes, that sounds nothing like him, too gravely, the pitch too low. Keira kind of whimpers - his hand fans against her bare skin, bare breast, thumb hot against her nipple - he can’t breathe and her eyes flash open, meet his own - dark eyes, pupils blown, oh God, he needs to fuck her, now, yes, now -
“Cut!” Joe calls.
Her hand stills around him for an extra moment before she pulls away.
Later, it is his trailer, the door latched shut and his trousers are unzipped and down before he even turns around. His cock is still half-hard, and it doesn’t take much, the barest trace of fingers against his skin, before he’s fully there.
He hasn’t wanked like this in years: that rough, rapid, desperate need - hand firm, spread flat against the wall, panting, and fuck if he isn’t going straight to hell, but he can’t stop thinking about her. He wonders if she is in the same state, her cunt wet (her sweet, wet cunt) and her fingers are there, beneath her panties, maybe two fingers deep, her thumb heavy on her clit, his name, his name, his fucking name, her lips -
He comes.
There is an unraveling at work here, his self-control chipping away, large chinks taken out of it. He’ll think of her stark, pale skin, her wide, bare collarbone, the shape and curve of her lips, the angular slant of her hips. He might watch her, nowhere near conspicuous, no real effort on his part to hide it. If she notices, she is either too good or too shy to mention it, chide him for it. He considers her to be neither the first nor the last - the memory of the tight grip of her hand indelible on his mind, erasing any proof of her goodness or her purity, the shyness dissolving in similar kind. It must be some other option then, following an alternate path of thought fear impedes him from wandering too far down. Perhaps she doesn’t mention it because she doesn’t notice it, his actions more covert than even he could hope. Maybe it makes her uncomfortable, the awkwardness still lingering between them, clouding over any exchange spent there.
Perhaps, and how the fear can sing, it is because she is watching him as well.
He wonders how much time he has before his wife will come to hate her.
He wagers, not much.
He’ll think of her neck, bare, and his teeth scraping down the length of it, of her spreading her legs, him entering and the chance that she would beg, “James,” that proper clip of her accent awash with need.
He fingered her in a bathroom, once.
“Where are you going?” she asks, one day, earlier, work done but the set still full, bustling.
He laughs. “Get pissed, of course.”
“Care if I join?”
“ ‘Course not.”
The phrase famous last words might come to mind, always mundane in their ability to forewarn properly.
There are pints and bad music, and she does a well enough job keeping up with him, her lips pursed as she tells him he need not worry - an arched eyebrow, and “I can certainly hold my own.”
Her elbow crooks at an awkward angle, balanced on the edge of the table, old scratched wood, and her pint looks ridiculously large in her hands.
She drains it, a smug smile as she places the empty glass down, a heavy thunk.
“I have to say,” he says, leaning into her, across the table, “I am impressed.
She snorts loudly, then opens in a wide laugh. It’s catching.
The bar is crowded, an empty shot glass in both their hands, her face contorted in a grimace. There are too many people, a shove to her back and she staggers forward, her lips too close to his own. His hand grabs her by the waist, an involuntary gesture on his part, and the mind works with memory, slipping back. He can feel her breath against his neck - he can’t take it anymore. “Come on,” he slurs against her ear, too close, and his lip brushes against the lobe. There’s a slight shudder through her he catches with a smile, devious, yes, and there is a tight clench in his lower belly.
He is drunk, nearly ridiculously so, everything tinged with a fuzziness, delayed reactions and the like.
Neither of them is hesitant about it. He kisses her, or maybe she leans in first, or it’s him, it doesn’t matter, they meet in the middle, more akin to a crash, hard.
There is something both disgusting and seedy about it, finger-fucking Keira in a bathroom of a pub, too many pints in.
She’s loud, too loud, her moaning carrying over the top of the stall; he closes his mouth over hers, sloppy, swallowing the sound.
When she finally stills, her hand running down his chest, fingers clawing at the fabric there, a giggle can be heard. “Oh, fuck,” he murmurs, and the giggling grows in volume.
Keira palms the front of his jeans. He stops her, a tight grip on her wrist and the door squeaks open and shut, the laughter fading down the hall.
“Careful, there,” his wife says over the phone.
“Always,” he answers.
He twists his wedding ring with a sigh, the click of his phone as he snaps it shut.
There is a couch in her trailer, a down moment, filming close to wrapping, too much indecency stacked up between the two of them.
And at this point, she is straddling his lap, her knees slipping against the couch. It’s not like he’s exactly trying to stop anything: his hands are clutching at her, his fingers digging into the slight curve of her ass, the other wrapped tightly around her neck, caught in the loose strands of her hair. There are these hot little whimpers coming from her, grinding herself shamelessly against him. He squeezes her - encouragement, he thinks, dimly - and she nips lightly along his jaw. He thrusts up, the two of them moving together, still too many layers between them.
“I want,” she starts, her voice that breathless kind of shake, and this is so fucking ridiculous, he’s so fucking hard, his jeans too tight, and it’s “oh, God,” she’s murmuring along his face, “James,” another downturn of her hips, “I want,” and her fingers bite into his shoulders, another upward thrust from him, “I want to fuck you, I want to fuck you so bad, I can’t stop thinking,” there is a low groan from him, his head thrown back and she won’t stop talking, she won’t shut up, and she needs to, she has to, “- so bloody stupid, we’re so - I want you, I want you to fuck me - ”
There is really only so much he can take.
He flips them, hardly neatly, her leg catching somewhere; there is a crash of something, off an end table to the floor. His hands have already rucked up the hem of her shirt, the muscles of her stomach contracting under his touch. He rubs himself against her, the hard ridge of his jeans rough between her legs; her back arches, her ankles crossing behind his back.
It doesn’t take much more than this - after, clothes stick to sweat-stained skin and James slumps against her, their jeans still on.
She will wrap her arms around his neck.
He imagines it would be difficult enough to pull off an extramarital affair, to keep it under the radar, considering normal circumstances. But when a certain level of fame and, perchance, notoriety added to the mix the odds become that much more insurmountable. As it should, he thinks.
Really though, it’s beyond reasoning or careful, linearly placed rationale. It’s beyond all foolishness.
There isn’t a blanket statement for this, no easy, all-encompassing definition, title, to make the classification, the explanation, the allocation of emotions any more comprehensible.
It’s a latte in the morning and the paparazzi at her elbow. It’s Us Weekly and a two-page spread, her face, that gray knit hat and the venti latte clutched in her hand.
Rupert looks silly next to her, his hair too long, clinging fast to bohemian chic with what appears to be a touch of too much effort.
They’re really making it a little too easy for him to spy.
The coffeehouse is crowded enough, and despite it all, James still maintains a faceless kind of anonymity.
It is a wave of his hand, a dismissal of sorts.
“I always get interested in the girls who aren’t right for me.”
There’s a chuckle from across the table, followed by the scrape of the leg of a chair against the white tiled linoleum.
“Yeah, but thing is, you’re married, mate. You forget so soon?”
He craves a cigarette, some smoke, something to obscure the distance.
There’s a rueful smile on his part, the slight shake of his head, and then he raises it.
“How could I ever possibly?”
It is strange to wait for things one’s not supposed to have. The guilt hangs around with impatience, has the uncanny ability to mar easy moments in between. It is the guilt, he’s sure of it, too potent, and he blames Catholic school and involuntary signs of the cross.
She is a girl. She is still just a girl. She is young, younger than his wife, and just like that, he is the classical embodiment of every man who has strayed outside his marriage and cheated on his wife.
In her heels, she stands just slightly taller than he is.
“Schilling Chanel, now eh?” he asks, his posture casual and a flashbulb pops, his vision slightly fuzzy, tinged with the surreal as he offers a half-smile for the cameras and stares straight ahead. His fingers press softly into her side, his thumb brushing the ridge of her ribs. He can feel each and every one of her breaths, the expansion there, an undulating movement and his fingers press in a little deeper; her breathing follows suit.
Her white dress is stark against her skin and she bats him lightly on the arm.
“Shut it, you.” Her eyes dance; he might just hold her a little tighter.
It is Venice, of course, the warmth of Italy and the lush accommodations they are set in. Her room is slightly larger than his own, and he chides her about it, a half-hearted joke as he gazes out the window, the foreign city waiting.
She chatters endlessly and he is only part way listening. She has a suitcase open in the corner of the room and shoes stacked along a wall. The evening is theirs, a strange kind of intimacy to the room; he watches her move about the room as he leans against the windowsill.
There comes a slight pause in her ramblings, a hand at her hip, and he takes the opening with a, “I’ve missed you, you know?” he never fully intended on vocalizing.
Her shoulders slump, a little, and her arms fall to her side. Her fingers knit together and she raises her head, level with his.
“No,” she says, “I hadn’t.” Her eyes meet his own, they both hold the gaze until she whispers:
“But I had hoped.”
Kissing her carries a ghost of familiarity, but the freshness, the newness of it all is still there, the slide of her lips against his, the way her hand will pull through his hair, his tongue slipping in her mouth. The clink of teeth sounds and there is a hiccup of a giggle from her, fades fast into a sharp sigh as his hands wander down and past her hips.
Her fingers shake over the buttons of his shirt, stuttering first over fabric and then, skin, his chest full. It’s bizarre, he thinks. He has always prided himself on possessing a large amount of romanticism within himself, but this, it’s different, different in a way he will never be able to explain - he’s sure of it, positive, his shirt slides down and off his shoulders - but it’s her.
She has these sharp shoulder blades that cut beneath the palms of his hands, running them over and across her back, his fingers seeking for purchase. The bed is soft, whining beneath their combined weight.
When he thrusts into her it is his name that passes through her lips, it is his mouth trailing across her neck, his nose coming to brush across her cheek. His hand holds her hip, like an anchor.
The sun has yet to set; the rays comb through her hair when she comes, a shudder.
“James is the best kisser ever!” passes quickly through the gossip pages, fueled, where else, but by Venice.
He is quoted in the same article, irony of ironies -
“It’s very romantic,” McAvoy adds of Venice, with a smile.
It kind of makes him ache.
It’s the kind of story he wishes could be written by the greats, a modern romance, a classic kind of love affair, rooted in the now. It’s a story meant to be scribbled, near illegible notes jotted in the margin, maybe a coffee stain or two.
It isn’t meant to be documented in the tabloids, nestled between a story about celebrities with cellulite and former reality televisions stars. He thinks it would be an insult, an offense to memory and the truth.
It would read like typical star smut, aired ad nauseum on E!, maybe placed somewhere on a countdown, mocked on talk shows. But that’s what it will become, he’s sure of it, if they let this continue. The caution would fade as time would amount, secrecy would build on frustration, guilt would start to stain in irreparable ways. He might be wrong in thinking it, off base considering the sheer weight of duplicity at play, but he thinks they deserve better than this.
The only problem is, it won’t be found here.
It’s hard to catch his wife in the eye these days. He doesn’t blame her.
The whole scenario is becoming entirely too maudlin for him. He needs a laugh.
“We all have days when we behave badly,” she says. The journalist smiles, nods as she continues to speak, her gestures wide.
Another premiere, the Park Hyatt this time, and someone had either the foresight or the devious intention of placing them in the same corridor.
He knocks gently on her door, first, a kind of skittering of his knuckle against it. He runs his fingers along his jaw, there is a quiet murmuring coming from farther down the hall, the ding of an elevator sounds. He considers knocking again, the whole thing really kind of ridiculous, standing alone out there in the hall, the nondescript carpeting, the generic hotel wallpaper stretching to the right and the left of him. The door has yet to open; he sighs. He raises a fist again, poised to knock - louder this time, with force, it’s a pathetic pep talk in his head.
A flex of his wrist and right before the impact, the door swings open.
“Oh!” she says, her hair hanging kind of limp, a robe cinched tight at her waist, her mouth stuck still in that oh of surprise.
His arm is still raised, an almost comical fist still formed, and he smiles, maybe blushes, as his arm drops. “Yeah. Hi.”
“I was expecting room service.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
She bites her lip a little, dark eye make-up still ghosting beneath her eyes, heavy eyelashes and her fingers curl around the neck of her robe, pulling it against her chest. There is a funny look to her eyes, a nervousness he chalks, maybe a little too arrogantly, up to himself; it causes a strange swell within him, to think that it is he that sets her at unease, who can rattle her, just a little. There is canned laughter from inside her room, Jay Leno, maybe Letterman, maybe someone else altogether, hitting a punchline in stride.
“Do you mind if…” he tries, first, and then it is, “Can I come in?” he finally asks, the hallway still empty, the wallpaper remains ugly. He sounds childlike, he thinks, insecure and nervous and laughter tries for an outlet, because, really, this is a role he was never supposed to play, isn’t it? His fingers itch for distraction, a cigarette to light or something, anything, and for lack of anything else, he jams his hands deep into his pockets, taps an indistinct rhythm against the tops of his thighs.
There’s a start there, a motion to her throat as she swallows, hard, can’t be in surprise, she has to have expected at least this - the same hotel, the same hallway, the same cruel twist of fate, star-crossed lovers, doomed romance, however it is sonnets sometimes spill.
“Of course,” she says, that awkward beat still there between them, that fake smile of hers (her real one can border on the grotesque, he thinks, too large, too much teeth, but, see, it’s authentic, hers) as she pulls the door open wider, moves to the side, the threshold open.
He crosses it.
Her room is already a mess, the cleaning service already having passed through earlier on in the day. There are clothes scattered, the comforter already rumpled as though first sat on and then rolled about in. There are three water glasses arranged in different locations, all varying levels of full to empty. There’s a script left out on a table and the curtains are drawn, open, and fake city illumination shines in.
It turns out to be Letterman not Leno on the television, Teri Hatcher or one of the housewives perched in the guest chair. The scene fades to a commercial break, a jingle starting. Keira catches him watching it, snatches the remote off the nightstand and presses the mute button, her mouth set tight.
“What is it that you wanted?” she asks, a firm upper lip giving way to half a laugh at the end there. The remote control is still clutched tightly in her hand.
He smiles, if only for lack of anything else to say or do, and then it’s a shrug of his shoulders, an indistinct grunt, and “I’m not entirely sure.”
“Well. It’s probably…well that you, that you decided. To stop by, that is. There are things,” she says, enveloped in a sigh, “that need to be said. I imagine this has gone on long enough,” she adds as a slight afterthought, that slight shake of her head.
He opens his mouth to speak, and she stops him, a quick nod of her head, her hand held up near his chest. She doesn’t touch him.
“Don’t. Don’t say anything. It’s distracting.”
Words can stick in that Scottish brogue of his, maybe make her trip, stumble a little. Maybe she will fall into him; it might be how he likes to imagine this first had started.
Quiet descends for a moment, the television still on mute, the words spelled out in red, the top right corner of the screen.
“We’ve been incredibly selfish,” she says in a whisper, her voice soft enough where it nearly blends into the room, catches in the walls, the large bed in the middle of the room.
“I’m aware of it.”
“Then you understand, yes? That we have to stop. We can’t keep, we can’t keep…going on, not like this.” There is a slight shade of coloring to her cheeks, blushing just a little. “It isn’t fair, for either of them.”
There is little to do but nod, agree, a lack of desire to be painted as the villain of this particular scenario, the reality of losing her still there, too ripe to truly grasp.
There is always a last time, of course, a classic, aching kind of end.
Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, a hand raised to cup his jaw. Naked, they lie together, feet tangled in the sheets.
“Excuse me,” she says, quietly, dabbing her face with her napkin, setting it down beside her plate. They watch her, of course, as she rises; her chair scrapes across the floor, a loud angry sound, louder than the sharp clink of his knife against the stem of his glass.
She skirts around the room, a wide arc.
Cecilia, yes.
Celluloid continues to spin, passed over reels and shined onto wide and vacant screens.
Another premiere and the red carpet rolls to greet them, separately, as it were. She walks in first, a tight shift of a dress, clinging to her frame, confidence to her walk. He follows in careful stride, and he will smile, they will snap pictures, the moment immortalized - this moment, the rest, all there between them, shaded and hidden.
Yes, and they would have written postcards home if they ever cared to be reminded of any of their mutual past.
The darkness of the theater settles; her arm may brush his. He won’t look down.
The credits will roll, and eventually, the house lights will rise.
But now, there are the rows of seats that climb upward, the widened screen and her arm, resting next to his.
It starts.
fin.
rpf. someday, with enough courage, they may toast to the quieter of places, to libraries, dark theaters and empty hotel halls. keira knightley/james mcavoy. 5088 words. nc-17.
notes: for thisisironic! and, wow. this fic jumped up a notch. and, yes. it is rpf - if that's not your thing, that's cool. and for the record: these are all lies. lies, lies, lies. no offense intended.
we’re hiding like elephants when they’re happy.
(à bout de souffle)
“If we were, to say, commit this to film” - James may think, those early hours where the sun peaks before it crests, funny shadows and long beams of light spread -
“French new wave, definitely” - he sees her interrupting, a long tangle of limbs, an anonymous bed, a half-filled champagne flute as a makeshift ashtray. She would be smirking, no question about that. The New York skyscape would be scratching for the clouds outside an open window, the noise of traffic for ambience, tiny, miniature, down there too many stories below.
“I’d be Jean-Paul Belmondo to your Jean Seberg?” he asks, perched on one elbow, looking down at her.
“Exactement,” she answers, a bad French accent and the raise of her chin. There is a grin there, stretching, falters. Her face slides solemn and the light would catch.
“Best start practicing dodging bullets now, eh?” she says.
This all, of course, does not start with this.
He might sometimes think of other ways they might have come to meet. It’s a futile exercise - a riff on the theme song from Cheers: everybody already knows their name, as well as the finer and lesser points of their personal histories.
It was the first day on set when they finally met, no longer James and Keira, but, instead, as Joe insisted, Robbie and Cecilia. It felt right, in one of those indescribable sorts of ways, meeting her, that firm shake of her hand and friendly nod of her head at his introduction.
There is an easy kind of contentedness that comes of just being him. He is naturally happy, affable, yes, affable had been the word used to describe him once. And he is - he’ll joke, ride with the flow, more often than not find humor hidden in the strangest of places.
That aside, there is a certain brand of stasis inherent in this, a marking time, the constant slipping down into the typical, the mundane, the trappings of domestic banalities.
“Now, is War and Peace really your favorite book?” he asks, one afternoon, his copy of the script rolled and dog-eared in his lap. She sits across, a pen uncapped, at the ready. There is a certain level of mockery to the question, tinged all the more in good humor, his mouth twisted in a closed-lip smile.
“Fuck off,” she answers in a laugh.
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Just curious.”
The library is ready, the set waiting for them, and there is a nervous energy taut in the air. He isn’t quite sure what to do with it, quite sure how to explain the strange anxiety attached to the scene, too many thoughts already struggling for dominance in his mind.
Joe calls, “action!” and James steps forward, hand against the side of her face and kisses her. He kisses her softly, pulls back slightly and looks at her. Detachment is key here, he imagines, detachment of a sort, but that can’t work, it won’t work (not James and Keira, but Robbie and Cecilia, not actors, rather lovers, yes) and he kisses her again. Her lips part against his own, the kiss falling deeper, her body warm against his. They kiss, they are kissing, camera rolling and his fingers curl into her hair, her head dipped back, her tongue feather-light against his, the mechanics of their motions fading fast -
He is already hard against her stomach when Joe yells cut!, and he knows she can feel it, based only on the way she is squirming slightly against him.
It starts simply enough - Joe, and wank him off!, imparted first as a joke, but like all jokes, there is a kind of truth underlying that and both his and her laughter rings anxious and fake.
Joe keeps stressing the importance of the scene - the crux of the story! he takes to saying - and it is take after take, reference to meetings past, discussions, storyboards even - the passion, we need the passion! Joe insists.
Later, James will accuse him, drunk after too many much needed and perhaps deserved pints. “You bloody instigator. What the hell did you think would happen? I’d close my eyes and think of England?” he’ll say, red in the face, the pub crowded and Joe will just laugh, full-bodied and head thrown back. “You fucking bad, bad, bad, bad, bad influence.”
For now though, there is a library.
It is the way her fingers curl around him, a tight fist, the knuckles pop. It is her that inhales sharply, first, a catch of her breath on the first slide of her hand, his cock slick beneath her palm, almost as though caught off guard. He is thick in her hand and there is a funny look of deep concentration shading across her face, a bite of her lip, that quick flash of white enamel and teeth.
He doesn’t mean to, but his hips arch forward and her hand slides farther down, stopping at the base of his cock. Her side of her hand, her little finger, brush against his skin - she can feel the hair there. He watches her swallow, and he is trying, he is really trying to steady himself here.
He’s painfully hard, and there are a litany of things just waiting to be said, sticky in his mouth. He swallows down a Jesus Christ when her hand twists once, and then again, a quick, accidental brush of her nails against him, a completely different tactile sensation.
It is overwhelming, of course. The rhythm of her hand against the rapid beating of his heart, her irregular breathing a harsh counter-beat to him, and his own hand has settled low against her hip. He is trying here, resisting the urge to pull her against him. He tries to watch her, between slit eyes, and her cheeks are stained, pink - the recognition of this bringing another slight sway of his hips, towards her, of their own accord. Her eyes are cast down, and fuck, he swallows down around a grunt, the sound still escaping (her eyelashes flutter at this), because she’s watching - and his head rolls back, just a second - she is watching her hand, his cock, her cheeks pink, and there is a tremble to her fingers that echoes straight through him.
Later, he will chalk it all up to the utter foreignness of the situation, the peculiar state of it all. It was a strange hand, certainly not his own, not his wife’s (and for the love of God, he can’t remember the last time a girl wanked him off, gave him a handjob with no expectation for reciprocation or as a cursory act of foreplay). It is the fact they weren’t alone. Christ, who knew he got off on exhibitionism? Regardless - later he will devise excuses, but for now, now it isn’t a matter of vague generalities or pseudo-Freudian, introspective bullshit.
Instead, it’s her, it’s Keira, it’s the fact that it is her and it’s him that has him entirely too close to the edge.
There is a sureness to her movements now, a questionable confidence he finds more erotic than her tentative nature before. He can feel her breath against his face, the stuttering downturn of an exhale and his hand grips her by the waist, sweat slicked against the green silk of her dress. His hand slips a little higher, the dress bunching; his thumb grazes the underside of her breast, her nipple sharp against the thin fabric. Over-sensitized, he thinks, unsure who he is referring to, and it’s too much, and when his thumb brushes against her again, this time with more deliberation, a motive somewhere in his lust-clouded head, she gives an answering squeeze in response. Yes, it’s too fucking much, and his hips buck and he’s too close, too goddamn close, and that ragged sigh belongs to him.
Her thumb rubs along the tip, spreading the come already collected there, and there is little space between the two of them - he has moved as close to her as possible, pushed against the shelves, her hand has barely room to move, pull against him; their foreheads almost touch. He is close enough he could kiss her - but he’s not supposed to, is he? But he could, a tilt of his head, dip slightly, and her lips are there - and Jesus fuck Mother of God - her tongue darts out, licks her lips, wet, her hand still pumping against him.
His hand climbs higher again, higher, the silk almost damp - his sweat? hers? - and finally, he thinks; he palms her breast, her nipple hard against his palm. He moves his thumb over it, pulling the neckline of her dress, already impossibly low, down just a little more.
Their foreheads bump together, then settle, pressed against each other. His eyes flicker shut and a moan catches against her teeth, her hand even more energetic, ruthless, and he wants to fuck her, fuck her now - and the strap slips down on her dress, her legs are spread - yes, he moans, out loud, and he should be embarrassed by this, this yes, that sounds nothing like him, too gravely, the pitch too low. Keira kind of whimpers - his hand fans against her bare skin, bare breast, thumb hot against her nipple - he can’t breathe and her eyes flash open, meet his own - dark eyes, pupils blown, oh God, he needs to fuck her, now, yes, now -
“Cut!” Joe calls.
Her hand stills around him for an extra moment before she pulls away.
Later, it is his trailer, the door latched shut and his trousers are unzipped and down before he even turns around. His cock is still half-hard, and it doesn’t take much, the barest trace of fingers against his skin, before he’s fully there.
He hasn’t wanked like this in years: that rough, rapid, desperate need - hand firm, spread flat against the wall, panting, and fuck if he isn’t going straight to hell, but he can’t stop thinking about her. He wonders if she is in the same state, her cunt wet (her sweet, wet cunt) and her fingers are there, beneath her panties, maybe two fingers deep, her thumb heavy on her clit, his name, his name, his fucking name, her lips -
He comes.
There is an unraveling at work here, his self-control chipping away, large chinks taken out of it. He’ll think of her stark, pale skin, her wide, bare collarbone, the shape and curve of her lips, the angular slant of her hips. He might watch her, nowhere near conspicuous, no real effort on his part to hide it. If she notices, she is either too good or too shy to mention it, chide him for it. He considers her to be neither the first nor the last - the memory of the tight grip of her hand indelible on his mind, erasing any proof of her goodness or her purity, the shyness dissolving in similar kind. It must be some other option then, following an alternate path of thought fear impedes him from wandering too far down. Perhaps she doesn’t mention it because she doesn’t notice it, his actions more covert than even he could hope. Maybe it makes her uncomfortable, the awkwardness still lingering between them, clouding over any exchange spent there.
Perhaps, and how the fear can sing, it is because she is watching him as well.
He wonders how much time he has before his wife will come to hate her.
He wagers, not much.
He’ll think of her neck, bare, and his teeth scraping down the length of it, of her spreading her legs, him entering and the chance that she would beg, “James,” that proper clip of her accent awash with need.
He fingered her in a bathroom, once.
“Where are you going?” she asks, one day, earlier, work done but the set still full, bustling.
He laughs. “Get pissed, of course.”
“Care if I join?”
“ ‘Course not.”
The phrase famous last words might come to mind, always mundane in their ability to forewarn properly.
There are pints and bad music, and she does a well enough job keeping up with him, her lips pursed as she tells him he need not worry - an arched eyebrow, and “I can certainly hold my own.”
Her elbow crooks at an awkward angle, balanced on the edge of the table, old scratched wood, and her pint looks ridiculously large in her hands.
She drains it, a smug smile as she places the empty glass down, a heavy thunk.
“I have to say,” he says, leaning into her, across the table, “I am impressed.
She snorts loudly, then opens in a wide laugh. It’s catching.
The bar is crowded, an empty shot glass in both their hands, her face contorted in a grimace. There are too many people, a shove to her back and she staggers forward, her lips too close to his own. His hand grabs her by the waist, an involuntary gesture on his part, and the mind works with memory, slipping back. He can feel her breath against his neck - he can’t take it anymore. “Come on,” he slurs against her ear, too close, and his lip brushes against the lobe. There’s a slight shudder through her he catches with a smile, devious, yes, and there is a tight clench in his lower belly.
He is drunk, nearly ridiculously so, everything tinged with a fuzziness, delayed reactions and the like.
Neither of them is hesitant about it. He kisses her, or maybe she leans in first, or it’s him, it doesn’t matter, they meet in the middle, more akin to a crash, hard.
There is something both disgusting and seedy about it, finger-fucking Keira in a bathroom of a pub, too many pints in.
She’s loud, too loud, her moaning carrying over the top of the stall; he closes his mouth over hers, sloppy, swallowing the sound.
When she finally stills, her hand running down his chest, fingers clawing at the fabric there, a giggle can be heard. “Oh, fuck,” he murmurs, and the giggling grows in volume.
Keira palms the front of his jeans. He stops her, a tight grip on her wrist and the door squeaks open and shut, the laughter fading down the hall.
“Careful, there,” his wife says over the phone.
“Always,” he answers.
He twists his wedding ring with a sigh, the click of his phone as he snaps it shut.
There is a couch in her trailer, a down moment, filming close to wrapping, too much indecency stacked up between the two of them.
And at this point, she is straddling his lap, her knees slipping against the couch. It’s not like he’s exactly trying to stop anything: his hands are clutching at her, his fingers digging into the slight curve of her ass, the other wrapped tightly around her neck, caught in the loose strands of her hair. There are these hot little whimpers coming from her, grinding herself shamelessly against him. He squeezes her - encouragement, he thinks, dimly - and she nips lightly along his jaw. He thrusts up, the two of them moving together, still too many layers between them.
“I want,” she starts, her voice that breathless kind of shake, and this is so fucking ridiculous, he’s so fucking hard, his jeans too tight, and it’s “oh, God,” she’s murmuring along his face, “James,” another downturn of her hips, “I want,” and her fingers bite into his shoulders, another upward thrust from him, “I want to fuck you, I want to fuck you so bad, I can’t stop thinking,” there is a low groan from him, his head thrown back and she won’t stop talking, she won’t shut up, and she needs to, she has to, “- so bloody stupid, we’re so - I want you, I want you to fuck me - ”
There is really only so much he can take.
He flips them, hardly neatly, her leg catching somewhere; there is a crash of something, off an end table to the floor. His hands have already rucked up the hem of her shirt, the muscles of her stomach contracting under his touch. He rubs himself against her, the hard ridge of his jeans rough between her legs; her back arches, her ankles crossing behind his back.
It doesn’t take much more than this - after, clothes stick to sweat-stained skin and James slumps against her, their jeans still on.
She will wrap her arms around his neck.
He imagines it would be difficult enough to pull off an extramarital affair, to keep it under the radar, considering normal circumstances. But when a certain level of fame and, perchance, notoriety added to the mix the odds become that much more insurmountable. As it should, he thinks.
Really though, it’s beyond reasoning or careful, linearly placed rationale. It’s beyond all foolishness.
There isn’t a blanket statement for this, no easy, all-encompassing definition, title, to make the classification, the explanation, the allocation of emotions any more comprehensible.
It’s a latte in the morning and the paparazzi at her elbow. It’s Us Weekly and a two-page spread, her face, that gray knit hat and the venti latte clutched in her hand.
Rupert looks silly next to her, his hair too long, clinging fast to bohemian chic with what appears to be a touch of too much effort.
They’re really making it a little too easy for him to spy.
The coffeehouse is crowded enough, and despite it all, James still maintains a faceless kind of anonymity.
It is a wave of his hand, a dismissal of sorts.
“I always get interested in the girls who aren’t right for me.”
There’s a chuckle from across the table, followed by the scrape of the leg of a chair against the white tiled linoleum.
“Yeah, but thing is, you’re married, mate. You forget so soon?”
He craves a cigarette, some smoke, something to obscure the distance.
There’s a rueful smile on his part, the slight shake of his head, and then he raises it.
“How could I ever possibly?”
It is strange to wait for things one’s not supposed to have. The guilt hangs around with impatience, has the uncanny ability to mar easy moments in between. It is the guilt, he’s sure of it, too potent, and he blames Catholic school and involuntary signs of the cross.
She is a girl. She is still just a girl. She is young, younger than his wife, and just like that, he is the classical embodiment of every man who has strayed outside his marriage and cheated on his wife.
In her heels, she stands just slightly taller than he is.
“Schilling Chanel, now eh?” he asks, his posture casual and a flashbulb pops, his vision slightly fuzzy, tinged with the surreal as he offers a half-smile for the cameras and stares straight ahead. His fingers press softly into her side, his thumb brushing the ridge of her ribs. He can feel each and every one of her breaths, the expansion there, an undulating movement and his fingers press in a little deeper; her breathing follows suit.
Her white dress is stark against her skin and she bats him lightly on the arm.
“Shut it, you.” Her eyes dance; he might just hold her a little tighter.
It is Venice, of course, the warmth of Italy and the lush accommodations they are set in. Her room is slightly larger than his own, and he chides her about it, a half-hearted joke as he gazes out the window, the foreign city waiting.
She chatters endlessly and he is only part way listening. She has a suitcase open in the corner of the room and shoes stacked along a wall. The evening is theirs, a strange kind of intimacy to the room; he watches her move about the room as he leans against the windowsill.
There comes a slight pause in her ramblings, a hand at her hip, and he takes the opening with a, “I’ve missed you, you know?” he never fully intended on vocalizing.
Her shoulders slump, a little, and her arms fall to her side. Her fingers knit together and she raises her head, level with his.
“No,” she says, “I hadn’t.” Her eyes meet his own, they both hold the gaze until she whispers:
“But I had hoped.”
Kissing her carries a ghost of familiarity, but the freshness, the newness of it all is still there, the slide of her lips against his, the way her hand will pull through his hair, his tongue slipping in her mouth. The clink of teeth sounds and there is a hiccup of a giggle from her, fades fast into a sharp sigh as his hands wander down and past her hips.
Her fingers shake over the buttons of his shirt, stuttering first over fabric and then, skin, his chest full. It’s bizarre, he thinks. He has always prided himself on possessing a large amount of romanticism within himself, but this, it’s different, different in a way he will never be able to explain - he’s sure of it, positive, his shirt slides down and off his shoulders - but it’s her.
She has these sharp shoulder blades that cut beneath the palms of his hands, running them over and across her back, his fingers seeking for purchase. The bed is soft, whining beneath their combined weight.
When he thrusts into her it is his name that passes through her lips, it is his mouth trailing across her neck, his nose coming to brush across her cheek. His hand holds her hip, like an anchor.
The sun has yet to set; the rays comb through her hair when she comes, a shudder.
“James is the best kisser ever!” passes quickly through the gossip pages, fueled, where else, but by Venice.
He is quoted in the same article, irony of ironies -
“It’s very romantic,” McAvoy adds of Venice, with a smile.
It kind of makes him ache.
It’s the kind of story he wishes could be written by the greats, a modern romance, a classic kind of love affair, rooted in the now. It’s a story meant to be scribbled, near illegible notes jotted in the margin, maybe a coffee stain or two.
It isn’t meant to be documented in the tabloids, nestled between a story about celebrities with cellulite and former reality televisions stars. He thinks it would be an insult, an offense to memory and the truth.
It would read like typical star smut, aired ad nauseum on E!, maybe placed somewhere on a countdown, mocked on talk shows. But that’s what it will become, he’s sure of it, if they let this continue. The caution would fade as time would amount, secrecy would build on frustration, guilt would start to stain in irreparable ways. He might be wrong in thinking it, off base considering the sheer weight of duplicity at play, but he thinks they deserve better than this.
The only problem is, it won’t be found here.
It’s hard to catch his wife in the eye these days. He doesn’t blame her.
The whole scenario is becoming entirely too maudlin for him. He needs a laugh.
“We all have days when we behave badly,” she says. The journalist smiles, nods as she continues to speak, her gestures wide.
Another premiere, the Park Hyatt this time, and someone had either the foresight or the devious intention of placing them in the same corridor.
He knocks gently on her door, first, a kind of skittering of his knuckle against it. He runs his fingers along his jaw, there is a quiet murmuring coming from farther down the hall, the ding of an elevator sounds. He considers knocking again, the whole thing really kind of ridiculous, standing alone out there in the hall, the nondescript carpeting, the generic hotel wallpaper stretching to the right and the left of him. The door has yet to open; he sighs. He raises a fist again, poised to knock - louder this time, with force, it’s a pathetic pep talk in his head.
A flex of his wrist and right before the impact, the door swings open.
“Oh!” she says, her hair hanging kind of limp, a robe cinched tight at her waist, her mouth stuck still in that oh of surprise.
His arm is still raised, an almost comical fist still formed, and he smiles, maybe blushes, as his arm drops. “Yeah. Hi.”
“I was expecting room service.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
She bites her lip a little, dark eye make-up still ghosting beneath her eyes, heavy eyelashes and her fingers curl around the neck of her robe, pulling it against her chest. There is a funny look to her eyes, a nervousness he chalks, maybe a little too arrogantly, up to himself; it causes a strange swell within him, to think that it is he that sets her at unease, who can rattle her, just a little. There is canned laughter from inside her room, Jay Leno, maybe Letterman, maybe someone else altogether, hitting a punchline in stride.
“Do you mind if…” he tries, first, and then it is, “Can I come in?” he finally asks, the hallway still empty, the wallpaper remains ugly. He sounds childlike, he thinks, insecure and nervous and laughter tries for an outlet, because, really, this is a role he was never supposed to play, isn’t it? His fingers itch for distraction, a cigarette to light or something, anything, and for lack of anything else, he jams his hands deep into his pockets, taps an indistinct rhythm against the tops of his thighs.
There’s a start there, a motion to her throat as she swallows, hard, can’t be in surprise, she has to have expected at least this - the same hotel, the same hallway, the same cruel twist of fate, star-crossed lovers, doomed romance, however it is sonnets sometimes spill.
“Of course,” she says, that awkward beat still there between them, that fake smile of hers (her real one can border on the grotesque, he thinks, too large, too much teeth, but, see, it’s authentic, hers) as she pulls the door open wider, moves to the side, the threshold open.
He crosses it.
Her room is already a mess, the cleaning service already having passed through earlier on in the day. There are clothes scattered, the comforter already rumpled as though first sat on and then rolled about in. There are three water glasses arranged in different locations, all varying levels of full to empty. There’s a script left out on a table and the curtains are drawn, open, and fake city illumination shines in.
It turns out to be Letterman not Leno on the television, Teri Hatcher or one of the housewives perched in the guest chair. The scene fades to a commercial break, a jingle starting. Keira catches him watching it, snatches the remote off the nightstand and presses the mute button, her mouth set tight.
“What is it that you wanted?” she asks, a firm upper lip giving way to half a laugh at the end there. The remote control is still clutched tightly in her hand.
He smiles, if only for lack of anything else to say or do, and then it’s a shrug of his shoulders, an indistinct grunt, and “I’m not entirely sure.”
“Well. It’s probably…well that you, that you decided. To stop by, that is. There are things,” she says, enveloped in a sigh, “that need to be said. I imagine this has gone on long enough,” she adds as a slight afterthought, that slight shake of her head.
He opens his mouth to speak, and she stops him, a quick nod of her head, her hand held up near his chest. She doesn’t touch him.
“Don’t. Don’t say anything. It’s distracting.”
Words can stick in that Scottish brogue of his, maybe make her trip, stumble a little. Maybe she will fall into him; it might be how he likes to imagine this first had started.
Quiet descends for a moment, the television still on mute, the words spelled out in red, the top right corner of the screen.
“We’ve been incredibly selfish,” she says in a whisper, her voice soft enough where it nearly blends into the room, catches in the walls, the large bed in the middle of the room.
“I’m aware of it.”
“Then you understand, yes? That we have to stop. We can’t keep, we can’t keep…going on, not like this.” There is a slight shade of coloring to her cheeks, blushing just a little. “It isn’t fair, for either of them.”
There is little to do but nod, agree, a lack of desire to be painted as the villain of this particular scenario, the reality of losing her still there, too ripe to truly grasp.
There is always a last time, of course, a classic, aching kind of end.
Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, a hand raised to cup his jaw. Naked, they lie together, feet tangled in the sheets.
“Excuse me,” she says, quietly, dabbing her face with her napkin, setting it down beside her plate. They watch her, of course, as she rises; her chair scrapes across the floor, a loud angry sound, louder than the sharp clink of his knife against the stem of his glass.
She skirts around the room, a wide arc.
Cecilia, yes.
Celluloid continues to spin, passed over reels and shined onto wide and vacant screens.
Another premiere and the red carpet rolls to greet them, separately, as it were. She walks in first, a tight shift of a dress, clinging to her frame, confidence to her walk. He follows in careful stride, and he will smile, they will snap pictures, the moment immortalized - this moment, the rest, all there between them, shaded and hidden.
Yes, and they would have written postcards home if they ever cared to be reminded of any of their mutual past.
The darkness of the theater settles; her arm may brush his. He won’t look down.
The credits will roll, and eventually, the house lights will rise.
But now, there are the rows of seats that climb upward, the widened screen and her arm, resting next to his.
It starts.
fin.