rpf: heavy in your arms.
heavy in your arms.
rpf. melanie laurent/marion cotillard. this if for snapdragonrose. Marion’s calls will go unanswered. She is not a patient woman, Melanie. 683 words.
The rented apartment is spare. There are no pictures on the walls, one painting and the bare surface, the complete lack of well anything; it is a relief.
Marion only unpacks when she feels at home, fills the rooms up. It is something of a pleasure, sharp, sweet to see that New York is not yet home.
“It is just-“ Marion breaks off, her grin pulling at the sides of her mouth. “It is just a job, Melanie.”
Mel raises her eyebrows and then lets them fall. The jobs on this side of the ocean have been increasing.
(Personally, she blames Guillaume. But that is another story.)
“You like it here.”
It is a statement, it is not a question; she must like it here or there is no excuse to stay. Marion smiles. “Sometimes, I do, yes,” and it is not the words, but the grin, sweetly cut across rose lips, it is the smile that is the rub because it is not fake-Marion is not a cruel person, she likes it here and Melanie does not want her to.
Later, with her hands on her hips in the cold bedroom, she will wonder why, why she does, why she stays, it is not the fame, she knows, and Guillaume is barely with her (her teeth graze the smooth curve of her neck) if it not her or Guillaume, Melanie wonders if there is another (Marion laughs, soft like the swishing of a single breath).
--
In the morning, Marion makes coffee and they sit at the table and laugh like old friends (only friends) and Melanie does not check the flower pots for cameras.
--
She stays in the city for two weeks. She will not do a movie in English, she does not want to, she will not stay (sometimes she wants to).
At home, she will not read the magazines or see the pictures of the happy couple (the French Angelina and Brad!) smiling through the glossy pictures, she will not go to the theatre and watch Leonardo Di Caprio woo her best friend on the large screen, with her face stretched out over the audience; she will stay out, Marion’s calls will go unanswered.
She is not a patient woman, Melanie.
--
There is a light flashing in her face on the red carpet. There are many, she blinks and she grins and when they are inside, she sneaks out the side.
“You look very American,” the comment is at her back and when she turns, Marion is balancing a clutch under her elbow and lighting a cigarette and smiling like she wonders (what does she wonder).
Melanie folds down her suit at the sides, “I am trying.”
And then-“I did not know you would be here.”
(it's true, she didn't. she asked. she usually does about Marion.)
Marion pulls down her mouth. “Nonsense. We are friends, I must come for you.”
There’s something about the simplicity with which she says it that stops her from making a lewd comment.
“Thank you.”
--
Tomorrow, she doesn’t know what will happen, she is lying tied up in the damp sweaty sheets of her bed and it is empty, there only the thought of someone and her fingers against the space between her legs.
She gasps into the phone when it rings.
“Hello?” she can hear Marion frowning at the other end, “Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine.”
--
It takes her two years of the dance to realize she doesn’t hate Guillaume. Guillaume is not the problem.
--
"So, you're home?"
Her things looks strange in the room. She's acquired things abroad that don't seem to fit.
"Yes, I am home."
The sigh on the other end. She hopes it's regret.
(Well, not really. She's given up hoping things a long time ago.)
--
A year or so goes by.
She kisses someone on the streets of Paris, with the lights soft coming down all around them and when she closes her eyes she almost feels something and it is not longing.
We'll call it progress.
rpf. melanie laurent/marion cotillard. this if for snapdragonrose. Marion’s calls will go unanswered. She is not a patient woman, Melanie. 683 words.
The rented apartment is spare. There are no pictures on the walls, one painting and the bare surface, the complete lack of well anything; it is a relief.
Marion only unpacks when she feels at home, fills the rooms up. It is something of a pleasure, sharp, sweet to see that New York is not yet home.
“It is just-“ Marion breaks off, her grin pulling at the sides of her mouth. “It is just a job, Melanie.”
Mel raises her eyebrows and then lets them fall. The jobs on this side of the ocean have been increasing.
(Personally, she blames Guillaume. But that is another story.)
“You like it here.”
It is a statement, it is not a question; she must like it here or there is no excuse to stay. Marion smiles. “Sometimes, I do, yes,” and it is not the words, but the grin, sweetly cut across rose lips, it is the smile that is the rub because it is not fake-Marion is not a cruel person, she likes it here and Melanie does not want her to.
Later, with her hands on her hips in the cold bedroom, she will wonder why, why she does, why she stays, it is not the fame, she knows, and Guillaume is barely with her (her teeth graze the smooth curve of her neck) if it not her or Guillaume, Melanie wonders if there is another (Marion laughs, soft like the swishing of a single breath).
--
In the morning, Marion makes coffee and they sit at the table and laugh like old friends (only friends) and Melanie does not check the flower pots for cameras.
--
She stays in the city for two weeks. She will not do a movie in English, she does not want to, she will not stay (sometimes she wants to).
At home, she will not read the magazines or see the pictures of the happy couple (the French Angelina and Brad!) smiling through the glossy pictures, she will not go to the theatre and watch Leonardo Di Caprio woo her best friend on the large screen, with her face stretched out over the audience; she will stay out, Marion’s calls will go unanswered.
She is not a patient woman, Melanie.
--
There is a light flashing in her face on the red carpet. There are many, she blinks and she grins and when they are inside, she sneaks out the side.
“You look very American,” the comment is at her back and when she turns, Marion is balancing a clutch under her elbow and lighting a cigarette and smiling like she wonders (what does she wonder).
Melanie folds down her suit at the sides, “I am trying.”
And then-“I did not know you would be here.”
(it's true, she didn't. she asked. she usually does about Marion.)
Marion pulls down her mouth. “Nonsense. We are friends, I must come for you.”
There’s something about the simplicity with which she says it that stops her from making a lewd comment.
“Thank you.”
--
Tomorrow, she doesn’t know what will happen, she is lying tied up in the damp sweaty sheets of her bed and it is empty, there only the thought of someone and her fingers against the space between her legs.
She gasps into the phone when it rings.
“Hello?” she can hear Marion frowning at the other end, “Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine.”
--
It takes her two years of the dance to realize she doesn’t hate Guillaume. Guillaume is not the problem.
--
"So, you're home?"
Her things looks strange in the room. She's acquired things abroad that don't seem to fit.
"Yes, I am home."
The sigh on the other end. She hopes it's regret.
(Well, not really. She's given up hoping things a long time ago.)
--
A year or so goes by.
She kisses someone on the streets of Paris, with the lights soft coming down all around them and when she closes her eyes she almost feels something and it is not longing.
We'll call it progress.