(no subject)
Title: Lingers Through the Thickness of My Skin
Fandom: RPF/original
Characters: [inspired by] Gaspard Ulliel, Katie Leung, mentions of Rob Pattinson, Clémence Poésy
Rating: G
Word Count: 759
Notes: This may or may not be made into an original writing, we'll see.
Everything happens for a reason.
She is hopeful. Constantly, vigilantly hopeful. But if there is one thing in which she would never believe, it’s fate. Fate and destiny and chance. Chance. The word leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Bon chance!”
She tells him to go to hell. He quotes Sartre.
“We’re already there, non?”
She thinks she’ll send him there personally. With a stick. A really big stick, one that will probably be taller than her five-foot-five frame.
It is all so natural. He tries a different approach. “‘In the face of an obstacle which is impossible to overcome, stubbornness is stupid.’ Simone de Beauvoir. I wonder how they got on.”
She cocks an eyebrow, and he knows he is caught. “She was a feminist. I doubt she believed in nonsense like fate, either.”
He shrugs a shoulder. Sheepish smile. (It lets him get away with anything. Well, most things.) “She was French. Of course she did.”
She mimics, sans sheepish smile. She can get away with most things without it. Eye-rolls are more effective, she decides. She needs to hop off the topic train and onto steady grounds before it leaves the station and sends them into a trainwreck. “Why are you here, anyhow?”
“Paris, je t’aime.” He wonders if she is clever enough to decode both answers.
“More like Paris, je te déteste.” She is. The doubt never existed.
He makes sure the small smirk on his face vanishes before turning to her. His eyes challenge. “Then why are you here?”
Opponent surrenders. “I needed to get away.”
“Running away from steak and kidney pie by escaping to the escargot?” He needs to find a restaurant soon. Starvation is not in vogue this season. No, scratch that, who is he kidding?
“More like from ale to vin du maison. We’re not that high class.” It is no secret that she means he is not that high class, her steak and kidney pie. Who still eats that, anyhow? Except for the caviar, she supposes. The caviar is probably eating the steak and kidney right this moment. Innuendos aside, of course.
That makes no sense. Haggis goes with steak and kidney pie more than caviar ever will. Or is it because haggis and steak and kidney are just too similar? Is that why those two are never served on the table together?
Broccoli beef is an all-occasion food. She’ll stick with that for now.
“Let’s practise for a pub quiz, then. Question one: Will you ever get over him?”
Wordless answers are worth ten points, even if she thinks they should worth more. Like a hundred. If a picture can speak a thousand words, a movement can perhaps transmit a million, more or less. If looks can kill, they can certainly yell, “well, what do you think?!”
“My turn. Question two: Don’t you ever wonder what would happen if it were you instead of him?” The quizmaster learns the answers ahead of time, and so does she.
“No.” Everything gives him away.
Buzz! “Wrong answer, minus five from le vin du maison.” Her mental tally shows six-hundred-fifty-three-thousand seven-hundred ten versus twenty. The tieguanyin is up, of course. Tea is always healthier than alcohol.
“Question three: Do you hate her?” It is so simple. Always so, so simple.
“Yes. No.” She can’t, finding no reason. She does, having every reason. “I’ll never win.”
His mattress is firm, that she remembers. He doesn’t like it, wanting instead something to sink himself into entirely. Her body imprints, but not thorough enough. (The clothing gets in the way.)
“He snores.”
“She sleep-talks.” Une billet à Londres, s’il vous plait. “I wonder how that works out.”
Quite well, she thinks. Listening is overrated. He never does. Maybe her heart doesn’t speak loud enough. Vocal chords fail her.
“Question four: Do you love her?” Always so difficult.
“No.” A little too quickly. “Yes.” A little too hesitant.
Should it be this difficult? Honestly.
He looks at her. When, where, how? Unanswered questions, buried deep in the sand. They wait for a message in a bottle. (No one answers their S.O.S.)
“Question five: What are you really doing here?”
Change in strategy: avoidance.
“Bonus question, for all the ale and the wet chips too: If everything happens for a reason, does chance have something to do with my wandering the Parisian streets in the dead of the winter night with some boy that I’ve met not long ago?”
The boy smiles. The girl laughs. Tomorrow is another day. Fate can wait.
I needed you.
Fandom: RPF/original
Characters: [inspired by] Gaspard Ulliel, Katie Leung, mentions of Rob Pattinson, Clémence Poésy
Rating: G
Word Count: 759
Notes: This may or may not be made into an original writing, we'll see.
Everything happens for a reason.
She is hopeful. Constantly, vigilantly hopeful. But if there is one thing in which she would never believe, it’s fate. Fate and destiny and chance. Chance. The word leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Bon chance!”
She tells him to go to hell. He quotes Sartre.
“We’re already there, non?”
She thinks she’ll send him there personally. With a stick. A really big stick, one that will probably be taller than her five-foot-five frame.
It is all so natural. He tries a different approach. “‘In the face of an obstacle which is impossible to overcome, stubbornness is stupid.’ Simone de Beauvoir. I wonder how they got on.”
She cocks an eyebrow, and he knows he is caught. “She was a feminist. I doubt she believed in nonsense like fate, either.”
He shrugs a shoulder. Sheepish smile. (It lets him get away with anything. Well, most things.) “She was French. Of course she did.”
She mimics, sans sheepish smile. She can get away with most things without it. Eye-rolls are more effective, she decides. She needs to hop off the topic train and onto steady grounds before it leaves the station and sends them into a trainwreck. “Why are you here, anyhow?”
“Paris, je t’aime.” He wonders if she is clever enough to decode both answers.
“More like Paris, je te déteste.” She is. The doubt never existed.
He makes sure the small smirk on his face vanishes before turning to her. His eyes challenge. “Then why are you here?”
Opponent surrenders. “I needed to get away.”
“Running away from steak and kidney pie by escaping to the escargot?” He needs to find a restaurant soon. Starvation is not in vogue this season. No, scratch that, who is he kidding?
“More like from ale to vin du maison. We’re not that high class.” It is no secret that she means he is not that high class, her steak and kidney pie. Who still eats that, anyhow? Except for the caviar, she supposes. The caviar is probably eating the steak and kidney right this moment. Innuendos aside, of course.
That makes no sense. Haggis goes with steak and kidney pie more than caviar ever will. Or is it because haggis and steak and kidney are just too similar? Is that why those two are never served on the table together?
Broccoli beef is an all-occasion food. She’ll stick with that for now.
“Let’s practise for a pub quiz, then. Question one: Will you ever get over him?”
Wordless answers are worth ten points, even if she thinks they should worth more. Like a hundred. If a picture can speak a thousand words, a movement can perhaps transmit a million, more or less. If looks can kill, they can certainly yell, “well, what do you think?!”
“My turn. Question two: Don’t you ever wonder what would happen if it were you instead of him?” The quizmaster learns the answers ahead of time, and so does she.
“No.” Everything gives him away.
Buzz! “Wrong answer, minus five from le vin du maison.” Her mental tally shows six-hundred-fifty-three-thousand seven-hundred ten versus twenty. The tieguanyin is up, of course. Tea is always healthier than alcohol.
“Question three: Do you hate her?” It is so simple. Always so, so simple.
“Yes. No.” She can’t, finding no reason. She does, having every reason. “I’ll never win.”
His mattress is firm, that she remembers. He doesn’t like it, wanting instead something to sink himself into entirely. Her body imprints, but not thorough enough. (The clothing gets in the way.)
“He snores.”
“She sleep-talks.” Une billet à Londres, s’il vous plait. “I wonder how that works out.”
Quite well, she thinks. Listening is overrated. He never does. Maybe her heart doesn’t speak loud enough. Vocal chords fail her.
“Question four: Do you love her?” Always so difficult.
“No.” A little too quickly. “Yes.” A little too hesitant.
Should it be this difficult? Honestly.
He looks at her. When, where, how? Unanswered questions, buried deep in the sand. They wait for a message in a bottle. (No one answers their S.O.S.)
“Question five: What are you really doing here?”
Change in strategy: avoidance.
“Bonus question, for all the ale and the wet chips too: If everything happens for a reason, does chance have something to do with my wandering the Parisian streets in the dead of the winter night with some boy that I’ve met not long ago?”
The boy smiles. The girl laughs. Tomorrow is another day. Fate can wait.
I needed you.