(no subject)
Title: Let The Truth Disappear
Fandom: RPF
Characters: Rob/Clémence, implied Rob/Katie
Rating: PGish
Word Count: 622
Note: Like I said, this may or may not be part of a bigger fic. Title comes from this quote: "Denial doesn't let the truth disappear. - Unknown"
“You love her.”
He turns on his side and props up his head to get a better view of her. The early sun reflects off her creamy skin as her frame rests against the chrome of the windowsill. He watches her carefully, observing every smoke ring she makes as she exhales out the open window.
His elbow digs into her mattress, his fingers running through his hair. His attempt to tame his unruly bedhead fails as brown strands continue to obscure his vision. The white sheets feel cool against his skin, still slightly sticky from the night before. His eyelids drop as he squints to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight. The questioning look never leaves his face even if he knows full well what she means.
“Hmm?” he asks sleepily, barely making a sound. He doesn’t know if he is confused about her statement, or if he doesn’t want to acknowledge her. Or maybe he is still trying to lie to himself.
She shrugs, nonchalant, as she takes another drag of her fag. She surprises him when she pulls a fag from his pack; he assumes that she smokes cloves like every other girl he knows. Every girl except her, the other “her” in his life, the “her” that he has been trying to get out of his mind, the “her” that he has resolved not to discuss with this “her.” And he has been quite successful until this moment.
“You haven’t slept with her yet,” she stated, her eyes are still on the streets below.
Her careful indifference is killing him. She has to be curious; if she weren’t, she wouldn’t be asking these questions. Yet, she knows; none of these is a question as much as a statement. It’s almost as if she can read his mind. If she can probe as she wishes, why is she interrogating him with all these statement-questions? It is absolutely unnerving, and yet he always plays along.
He blinks for a second before answering. “She’s not that kind of girl.”
She turns around and stares at a fixed spot on the wall. She is completely unreadable, and he decides that this is unfair and unacceptable. He begins to question himself. Maybe he is the only open book. After all, he can’t read her either, and she never hides anything from anyone. Her honest innocence - he refuses to call it “naivety” - won’t allow her. Silently, he makes it into a new year’s resolution: to learn to read her and her, and to close up his own pages. This is only nearly as absurd as the one he made last year: to quit fags. At least he can now cope with failures.
She nods, leaning her head back against the glass. She tips the fag into the ashtray, tapping lightly until the excess gray falls into the ceramic. Her slim fingers brush back a strand of blonde hair, tucking it behind her ear. Her eyes scan the room, searching for words, landing on everything except him. Her face remains emotionless as her mouth and voice begin to form a sound.
“You haven’t tried,” she whispers, the confidence still remains in her voice.
He expects a response dripping with bitterness, accusing him of implying that she is that kind of girl. He expects a cold stare that would’ve spoken volumes. He expects to see her stroll wordlessly out of the room, her nightgown clinging lazily against her curves.
He never would have expected this, and there is nothing he can say.
She hops off the windowsill lightly. The floorboards creak softly as she wanders out of the room. His gaze remains fixed out of the window as he answers to no one in particular: No.
Fandom: RPF
Characters: Rob/Clémence, implied Rob/Katie
Rating: PGish
Word Count: 622
Note: Like I said, this may or may not be part of a bigger fic. Title comes from this quote: "Denial doesn't let the truth disappear. - Unknown"
“You love her.”
He turns on his side and props up his head to get a better view of her. The early sun reflects off her creamy skin as her frame rests against the chrome of the windowsill. He watches her carefully, observing every smoke ring she makes as she exhales out the open window.
His elbow digs into her mattress, his fingers running through his hair. His attempt to tame his unruly bedhead fails as brown strands continue to obscure his vision. The white sheets feel cool against his skin, still slightly sticky from the night before. His eyelids drop as he squints to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight. The questioning look never leaves his face even if he knows full well what she means.
“Hmm?” he asks sleepily, barely making a sound. He doesn’t know if he is confused about her statement, or if he doesn’t want to acknowledge her. Or maybe he is still trying to lie to himself.
She shrugs, nonchalant, as she takes another drag of her fag. She surprises him when she pulls a fag from his pack; he assumes that she smokes cloves like every other girl he knows. Every girl except her, the other “her” in his life, the “her” that he has been trying to get out of his mind, the “her” that he has resolved not to discuss with this “her.” And he has been quite successful until this moment.
“You haven’t slept with her yet,” she stated, her eyes are still on the streets below.
Her careful indifference is killing him. She has to be curious; if she weren’t, she wouldn’t be asking these questions. Yet, she knows; none of these is a question as much as a statement. It’s almost as if she can read his mind. If she can probe as she wishes, why is she interrogating him with all these statement-questions? It is absolutely unnerving, and yet he always plays along.
He blinks for a second before answering. “She’s not that kind of girl.”
She turns around and stares at a fixed spot on the wall. She is completely unreadable, and he decides that this is unfair and unacceptable. He begins to question himself. Maybe he is the only open book. After all, he can’t read her either, and she never hides anything from anyone. Her honest innocence - he refuses to call it “naivety” - won’t allow her. Silently, he makes it into a new year’s resolution: to learn to read her and her, and to close up his own pages. This is only nearly as absurd as the one he made last year: to quit fags. At least he can now cope with failures.
She nods, leaning her head back against the glass. She tips the fag into the ashtray, tapping lightly until the excess gray falls into the ceramic. Her slim fingers brush back a strand of blonde hair, tucking it behind her ear. Her eyes scan the room, searching for words, landing on everything except him. Her face remains emotionless as her mouth and voice begin to form a sound.
“You haven’t tried,” she whispers, the confidence still remains in her voice.
He expects a response dripping with bitterness, accusing him of implying that she is that kind of girl. He expects a cold stare that would’ve spoken volumes. He expects to see her stroll wordlessly out of the room, her nightgown clinging lazily against her curves.
He never would have expected this, and there is nothing he can say.
She hops off the windowsill lightly. The floorboards creak softly as she wanders out of the room. His gaze remains fixed out of the window as he answers to no one in particular: No.