like light from a room (rpf)
like light from a room
rpf in cannes, they will drink champagne as the flashbulbs go off (adrien brody/léa seydoux, 1457 words)
notes: lol so rpf is creepy and weird but so am i so here you are. these are all lies etc etc and there are qt pictures that i creeped over behind the cut of these two beautiful people.
we’re hiding like elephants when they’re happy
(a bout de soufflé)
Adrien shields the sun from his eyes and he says, “I love Cannes.”
Léa laughs. “You have told me that before,” she reminds him, putting her small hand on the crook of his elbow, her fingers squeezing a little before she pulls away, laces her hands together and smiles coyly. Down the way, Owen, Woody, Rachel and Michael are standing together chatting, preparing for the photo call and press conference in ten minutes. Léa inclines her head at them a little, eyebrow raised. “I am going to go speak with them,” she tells him. “Goodbye.”
“If you must,” Adrien sighs and he lopes over to them with her, arms swinging at his sides. His legs are longer than hers and he shortens his strides, watching her feet out of the corner of his eye.
They pose together at the photo call, but at the end of the day, it’s Woody, Rachel and Owen’s movie (although Woody is the undeniable star, a bigger name than any of them and the film would premiere in Cannes with or without the mostly established cast, so he gets the most questions and pictures snapped), so they stand off to the side together because Michael is too busy beaming at Rachel (“ah, young love,” Adrien sighs and he winks at Léa who rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest) so they’re almost free to fade into the background, which they do, although it’s a little harder for Adrien than her.
They pose together, his arm around the back of her waist and he rests his hand between her shoulder blades for a brief moment. He withdraws it, putting his hands in his pockets with a grin.
He winks at her again before he slinks off to chat with Owen, his smile wide and crooked.
Léa rolls her eyes again, goes to talk to Woody.
During the press conference, she feels his gaze on her. The back of her neck warms.
The flash bulbs are blinding and she’s blinking spots out of her eyes for the next hour.
At the premiere, he nearly walks on the train of Rachel’s red Marchesa gown and they laugh about it later. “But I didn’t,” Adrien reminds Léa, all mock-seriousness but his eyes are bright and dancing in the dim light. “I stopped myself before I could do any serious damage.”
Léa chuckles, the sound low in the back of her throat and pours herself another glass. They’re back at Adrien’s hotel room; he’s reclining on the bed holding his third (maybe fourth? Léa’s lost count) glass of champagne with an unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth and she is sitting in a squashy armchair that she’s pulled over so she can put her bare feet up on his bed, her shoes cast aside. He grins at her. “Owen called me a red carpet pro,” he tells her and he can’t find his lighter so Léa tosses him hers. It hits him in the chest and he fumbles for a moment before lighting it and looks triumphant.
Léa smirks at him, standing up. She wanders around for a moment, pulls back the white curtains to look out the window. She says, “Do you ever wonder…?” but she trails off, the thought incomplete so her sentence is unfinished. Her finger tips tap against the glass, leaving behind small prints. Right now, she is very sleepy and a little drunk.
He says, “All the time,” and drains his champagne in one gulp. He reaches for the bottle, taking a drink straight from it.
She looks back at him; his face is impassive. He pats the spot next to him and she sits down, her back straight and her spine barely touches the pillows behind her. Adrien is still sprawled on the bed, his bowtie undone and his jacket somewhere on the floor. His cufflinks are on the table beside him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The champagne bottle is propped up against his left thigh. They’re both facing the television; a Fellini film is flickering on the screen, casting long shadows on the walls and they watch in silence.
Adrien leans forward and presses his lips to the back of her neck. His hands rest on her hips and he squeezes a little.
He whispers, “let me make you breakfast in the morning” and he runs his fingers over the tips of her hair.
Léa laughs again, quiet and she sighs. “What would you make?”
“Crepes,” he murmurs, kissing her neck again. “Or scones with tea and champagne. Something very… French.”
“Scones and tea are not very French,” Léa corrects him. She tries to pout and she fails. Adrien chuckles, stroking her hair a little more. “Croissants are French. And you are in a hotel. No kitchen, remember?”
“You got me,” Adrien says. He keeps playing with her hair and she relaxes against him. His hands are long and dry against her neck and she leans against the pillows. The TV keeps playing on low in the background.
“Perhaps we could go to the… hotel restaurant for breakfast?” Léa offers, struggling to find the words, the English clumsy on her tongue and even worse than usual because his fingertips keep grazing her skin. “They have croissants, I believe.”
He taps his fingers once, twice, three times against the back of her neck. “I could do that,” he says finally. Léa settles deeper against the pillows, eyes closing. “Are you falling asleep on me?” Adrien asks, slightly incredulous. “Should I be offended?”
“Perhaps,” Léa murmurs and she rests her head against his shoulder. He smells of cigarettes and she smiles; Adrien settles his arm over her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. Léa sighs. “Tell me a bedtime story.” She reaches across his body, her arm stretched over his stomach and finds his hand. She laces their fingers together.
Adrien chuckles again, a rumble deep in his chest and rests his head against hers.
Léa supposes they must have fallen asleep like that because when she wakes up, Adrien is puttering around the room, still in his crisp white shirt and black trousers, only now they’re wrinkled and his hair is mussed from sleep and he says, “breakfast?”
She accepts.
(Of course she does.)
The first time Léa meets Adrien, she is wearing her costume for the film and he is wearing jeans and a leather jacket, a hat (she doesn’t know what style it is) atop his head at a jaunty angle. His sole scene was filmed early on, but he remained in Paris for another few weeks and told her it was because he loved Paris, and because Owen was there.
He steals an apple from craft services and grins at her, crooked and confident. He jokes, “Having fun yet?” and Léa rolls her eyes, shaking her head. Léa doesn’t talk much, but Adrien does and he takes out a cigarette but he forgot his lighter on the desk at his hotel so Léa offers him hers and he speaks with excited, animated hand gestures about the Champs or the Louvre or Palais Garnier, something touristy that makes Léa shake her head again in equal parts amused and embarrassed for him.
“You sound like a tourist,” she tells him, playing with her cigarette lighter. Down the way, Owen and Woody are talking.
“I am a tourist,” he reminds her and bites into his apple. The juice drips down his chin and she offers him a napkin. “You should come with me,” he adds, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand.
Léa says, “perhaps I will” and he nods at her. He reaches over with one of his long arms and long hands with long fingers and pats her arm.
Adrien says, “I’m holding you to it” and he raises his eyebrows knowingly at her, throwing away the apple core.
They eye each other for a moment until Woody and Owen walk over and Adrien goes to join them, pulling Owen into an embrace. Owen’s back is to Léa and Adrien grins at her over Owen’s shoulder. He pulls away, pats Owen on the cheek, grinning like a fool, and glances at her. He says, “I never told you my name” and her eyebrows shoot up, inching up her forehead to her hairline.
He holds out his hand to her. Her hand is small inside his and he squeezes.
“Adrien,” he says finally, eyes staring into hers.
“Léa,” she returns, lips pursed.
“I’ve heard good things about you,” he adds. He holds onto her hand for a few beats too long before he drops it. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” she says.
She watches him when he goes.
end.
rpf in cannes, they will drink champagne as the flashbulbs go off (adrien brody/léa seydoux, 1457 words)
notes: lol so rpf is creepy and weird but so am i so here you are. these are all lies etc etc and there are qt pictures that i creeped over behind the cut of these two beautiful people.
we’re hiding like elephants when they’re happy
(a bout de soufflé)
Adrien shields the sun from his eyes and he says, “I love Cannes.”
Léa laughs. “You have told me that before,” she reminds him, putting her small hand on the crook of his elbow, her fingers squeezing a little before she pulls away, laces her hands together and smiles coyly. Down the way, Owen, Woody, Rachel and Michael are standing together chatting, preparing for the photo call and press conference in ten minutes. Léa inclines her head at them a little, eyebrow raised. “I am going to go speak with them,” she tells him. “Goodbye.”
“If you must,” Adrien sighs and he lopes over to them with her, arms swinging at his sides. His legs are longer than hers and he shortens his strides, watching her feet out of the corner of his eye.
They pose together at the photo call, but at the end of the day, it’s Woody, Rachel and Owen’s movie (although Woody is the undeniable star, a bigger name than any of them and the film would premiere in Cannes with or without the mostly established cast, so he gets the most questions and pictures snapped), so they stand off to the side together because Michael is too busy beaming at Rachel (“ah, young love,” Adrien sighs and he winks at Léa who rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest) so they’re almost free to fade into the background, which they do, although it’s a little harder for Adrien than her.
They pose together, his arm around the back of her waist and he rests his hand between her shoulder blades for a brief moment. He withdraws it, putting his hands in his pockets with a grin.
He winks at her again before he slinks off to chat with Owen, his smile wide and crooked.
Léa rolls her eyes again, goes to talk to Woody.
During the press conference, she feels his gaze on her. The back of her neck warms.
The flash bulbs are blinding and she’s blinking spots out of her eyes for the next hour.
At the premiere, he nearly walks on the train of Rachel’s red Marchesa gown and they laugh about it later. “But I didn’t,” Adrien reminds Léa, all mock-seriousness but his eyes are bright and dancing in the dim light. “I stopped myself before I could do any serious damage.”
Léa chuckles, the sound low in the back of her throat and pours herself another glass. They’re back at Adrien’s hotel room; he’s reclining on the bed holding his third (maybe fourth? Léa’s lost count) glass of champagne with an unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth and she is sitting in a squashy armchair that she’s pulled over so she can put her bare feet up on his bed, her shoes cast aside. He grins at her. “Owen called me a red carpet pro,” he tells her and he can’t find his lighter so Léa tosses him hers. It hits him in the chest and he fumbles for a moment before lighting it and looks triumphant.
Léa smirks at him, standing up. She wanders around for a moment, pulls back the white curtains to look out the window. She says, “Do you ever wonder…?” but she trails off, the thought incomplete so her sentence is unfinished. Her finger tips tap against the glass, leaving behind small prints. Right now, she is very sleepy and a little drunk.
He says, “All the time,” and drains his champagne in one gulp. He reaches for the bottle, taking a drink straight from it.
She looks back at him; his face is impassive. He pats the spot next to him and she sits down, her back straight and her spine barely touches the pillows behind her. Adrien is still sprawled on the bed, his bowtie undone and his jacket somewhere on the floor. His cufflinks are on the table beside him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The champagne bottle is propped up against his left thigh. They’re both facing the television; a Fellini film is flickering on the screen, casting long shadows on the walls and they watch in silence.
Adrien leans forward and presses his lips to the back of her neck. His hands rest on her hips and he squeezes a little.
He whispers, “let me make you breakfast in the morning” and he runs his fingers over the tips of her hair.
Léa laughs again, quiet and she sighs. “What would you make?”
“Crepes,” he murmurs, kissing her neck again. “Or scones with tea and champagne. Something very… French.”
“Scones and tea are not very French,” Léa corrects him. She tries to pout and she fails. Adrien chuckles, stroking her hair a little more. “Croissants are French. And you are in a hotel. No kitchen, remember?”
“You got me,” Adrien says. He keeps playing with her hair and she relaxes against him. His hands are long and dry against her neck and she leans against the pillows. The TV keeps playing on low in the background.
“Perhaps we could go to the… hotel restaurant for breakfast?” Léa offers, struggling to find the words, the English clumsy on her tongue and even worse than usual because his fingertips keep grazing her skin. “They have croissants, I believe.”
He taps his fingers once, twice, three times against the back of her neck. “I could do that,” he says finally. Léa settles deeper against the pillows, eyes closing. “Are you falling asleep on me?” Adrien asks, slightly incredulous. “Should I be offended?”
“Perhaps,” Léa murmurs and she rests her head against his shoulder. He smells of cigarettes and she smiles; Adrien settles his arm over her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. Léa sighs. “Tell me a bedtime story.” She reaches across his body, her arm stretched over his stomach and finds his hand. She laces their fingers together.
Adrien chuckles again, a rumble deep in his chest and rests his head against hers.
Léa supposes they must have fallen asleep like that because when she wakes up, Adrien is puttering around the room, still in his crisp white shirt and black trousers, only now they’re wrinkled and his hair is mussed from sleep and he says, “breakfast?”
She accepts.
(Of course she does.)
The first time Léa meets Adrien, she is wearing her costume for the film and he is wearing jeans and a leather jacket, a hat (she doesn’t know what style it is) atop his head at a jaunty angle. His sole scene was filmed early on, but he remained in Paris for another few weeks and told her it was because he loved Paris, and because Owen was there.
He steals an apple from craft services and grins at her, crooked and confident. He jokes, “Having fun yet?” and Léa rolls her eyes, shaking her head. Léa doesn’t talk much, but Adrien does and he takes out a cigarette but he forgot his lighter on the desk at his hotel so Léa offers him hers and he speaks with excited, animated hand gestures about the Champs or the Louvre or Palais Garnier, something touristy that makes Léa shake her head again in equal parts amused and embarrassed for him.
“You sound like a tourist,” she tells him, playing with her cigarette lighter. Down the way, Owen and Woody are talking.
“I am a tourist,” he reminds her and bites into his apple. The juice drips down his chin and she offers him a napkin. “You should come with me,” he adds, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand.
Léa says, “perhaps I will” and he nods at her. He reaches over with one of his long arms and long hands with long fingers and pats her arm.
Adrien says, “I’m holding you to it” and he raises his eyebrows knowingly at her, throwing away the apple core.
They eye each other for a moment until Woody and Owen walk over and Adrien goes to join them, pulling Owen into an embrace. Owen’s back is to Léa and Adrien grins at her over Owen’s shoulder. He pulls away, pats Owen on the cheek, grinning like a fool, and glances at her. He says, “I never told you my name” and her eyebrows shoot up, inching up her forehead to her hairline.
He holds out his hand to her. Her hand is small inside his and he squeezes.
“Adrien,” he says finally, eyes staring into hers.
“Léa,” she returns, lips pursed.
“I’ve heard good things about you,” he adds. He holds onto her hand for a few beats too long before he drops it. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” she says.
She watches him when he goes.
end.