#Leo dicaprio cannes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oonajaeadira · 2 years ago

Text

I’ll Never Fall In Love Again: Scene 6: What’s Mine Is Yours

Fandom: The Bubble

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Warnings: messy feelings, blurry lines.

A/N: I promise you that they’re stupid about each other and possibly always have been and just didn’t know it; hopefully that’s apparent now. Bear with them; there’s a mess to untangle. (Also, surprise, you get to see where the universe split and The Bubble didn’t happen...and maybe a little hint to why he was the way he was during that if it had...)

“Damn. I was really hoping to go swimming.” Standing with your arms crossed on a deserted beach with the Palais de Festivals at your back, you pouted out over the smooth white sand and the blue Rivera coastline. “How cold do you really think it is?”

Without missing a beat, Dieter shrugged before kicking off his crocs and peeling off the cashmere socks. He up took handfuls of his track pants and padded into the shallows, letting a swell move over his ankles. “Fuck. It’s cold. Maybe with a wetsuit or something, but I don’t think you’re gonna wanna get in that.”

“Ugh. What’s the use of coming to Cannes if I can’t swim in the Mediterranean?”

Coming back to take a seat and brush the sand off his feet, Dieter chuckled. “That’s probably why the festival’s in May. Not really peak tourist season. That’d be a mess.”

Continuing to pout, you plopped down beside him and took the opportunity to at least enjoy the view. Once he was done with the irritating business of brushing his feet dry and getting them back into their plastic finery, your husband of less than a month leaned his elbows on his knees and sat absently scratching his beard.

“That island out there?” He wagged a finger out to a green bit of land in the bay. “That’s the place where they kept the Man in the Iron Mask.”

“The Leo DiCaprio film? Ew. Why on earth did they let it out?”

That sent him rolling backward into the sand and the next few minutes were filled with several rounds of giggles that lapped and retreated between you in waves matching those of the too-cold Rivera.

It was so nice to be out of the States. After the wedding, everything got pretty noisy for a while. Paparazzi following you, Morgan calling you with more auditions in a week than you’ve had in the last year, late-night hosts deeming you some kind of angel for taking him on (“They’re targeting me, ‘Cakes. I don’t give a shit. Let it roll off. Easy to flush.”) Socials were lighting up, so Morgan set you up with a media handler.

“Just enjoy your honeymoon, kitten,” she’d waved you off with a tinkle of silver bangle bracelets.

“It’s not a honeymoon, M!” Under different circumstances you may have chastised her for teasing, but you were just too excited. “It’s THE festival! And I finally get to gooooo!!!!”

Morgan smiled, and raised her voice to cover your clapping and high-pitched noises. “Okay, okay, love. Just have fun and keep Bravo from making poor choices. Everything’s illegal there. And they don’t give a shit if you’re a celebrity. They’ll kick his ass.”

He’s not a dummy. He knows, you thought, glancing at him squinting through one eye up into the blue sky.

He caught you staring. “What.”

“Nothing. Did you get oranges and chocolates in your room? I heard some of the other cast got treats.”

“You didn’t?”

“Nope. Must be grand being an A-lister. No love for the bit-part players, I see.”

He rose up on his elbows, reaching into his pocket to find his sunglasses and slip them on his face before laying back down with a grunt. “Probably thought we were sharing. You can have mine, missus. What’s mine is yours. Except the champagne. That’s my reward for doing the damn panel tomorrow.”

“You got champagne too???”

A smile stretched over his face. “Okay. You can have one glass. ONE. I don’t need a repeat of the wedding night.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“The toilet was fizzing.”

The wedding night had been a bit of a blur, but not so much that you didn’t remember Dieter holding your hair. Wiping your face. Keeping the room from spinning by smoothing your forehead with his big warm hand. Helping you drift off to sleep with your head on his lap listening to a documentary on James Joyce he was watching. You dreamed in Gaelic. When you woke up in the morning in your crumpled dress to the pungent smell of weed, there was a mini banquet–every item on the room service breakfast menu–laid out in the middle of the enormous bed between you. And your new bedheaded husband in a big fluffy bathrobe demolishing a stack of pancakes, watching cartoons and laughing his ass off without swallowing first. You’d just laid there and watched him for a minute. Because he was cute. Your fake husband had his moments.

“Just the one, promise,” holding up two fingers in a girl scout salute and then finger-gunning them into his cheek. “I’m gonna need it. I’m glad you’re here.”

This time he didn’t stop at elbows in the sand, but sat all the way up. “You can’t possibly fuck this up. Enjoy the show, answer the one group question that gets tossed your way, don’t spill anything on your outfit, flash that pretty smile. Easy.”

“I know,” you stared out over the water to the Isle de Man in the Iron Mask. “Still.”

A hand came up and rubbed your back. “Aw, Babycakes. If you find a way to fuck up, I promise to fuck up harder and take the heat off you.”

You gave him a side-eyed smile. “No you won’t. You’ll just point and laugh.”

“Yeah, probably.” ________________

But it was exactly as Dieter told you.

You walked the carpet in a very understated, romanesque Sabyasachi dress, holding on to Dieter’s arm and hoping he’d take the bulk of the attention. But of course he played the proud new husband and showed you off, knowing full well that you were nervous, being your safety net as he purposefully dragged you through the deep end.

Beyond being well-received, you had totally forgotten the fact that you’d get to watch Fall of Timon for the first time on a big screen surrounded by a huge, enthusiastic audience. The final effects were gorgeous on a larger scale, done by the same studio that made 300 look so beautiful years before and you could feel the rapt attention of the audience as the epic battle waged on. It might have been overwhelming if you hadn’t had him right next to you to keep you grounded. Dieter squeezed your hand throughout your two shared sequences, and you jogged his shoulder with a whispered “fuck yeah” after his very dramatic death scene.

The standing panel afterward sped by without you having to utter a single word; the director and two stars–Davey and Dieter–blessedly taking on most of the talking. But it was still nice to have a swell of applause and a few whoops when you were introduced.

The afterparty was similarly overwhelming but easy, full of complimentary festival-goers and plenty of tasty French pastries–all of which you managed to keep off your dress. But after an hour, your feet were aching in your heels and the adrenaline was wearing off. You’d just barely sat down when Dieter appeared beside you.

“Officially bored. Wanna go pop that bottle? Turn in early and get some sleep before press junket tomorrow?”

“Oh my god, yes please.”

He offered his arm. “My ladybug.”

And you took it. “My lord of the flies.”

Once you’d freed yourself from your fabric designer prison he brought the champagne to your room. It only took one glass--combined with the excitement of the day, some lingering jet lag, a late-night French sitcom on the TV--and Dieter working out the cramps in your feet to knock you out.

You woke up in the middle of the night where you’d fallen asleep on your stomach with your head at the end of the bed. The TV was dark and he’d left you to sleep it off.

You simply turned and crawled under the covers…but on the other side, where he’d been sitting.

The pillow still smelled of him.

You slept smiling until morning. _________________

“Great. Perfect. That’s the shot. Kent? Can you mark that? Continuity please and thanks, Molly.” Annie pops her head out from behind her monitor and points a mockingly angry finger at you. “You. Here. Now.”

Handing the glass you’re holding over to prop management, you make your way over to your director. “Really? Called to the principal’s office again?”

“Because of you nailing this and giving me everything I ever wanted like some demented djinn, we are ahead of schedule. You up on scene 38? Because we can just continue with the sequence today, bang it out and scrap Friday.”

“Yeah, of course. Thanks, Annie.”

“Thank you. Craft has those little fig bars you like so much. Go fuel up. I’ll get you out of here in time for dinner.”

“You mean that I should get to them before you do and then they’re all gone.”

Her phone rings and she swipes the screen to answer, waving you off with a smirk, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The shoot has been going marvelously well, better than you could have hoped for. Dream project, dream director. Almost zero drama or incident, every piston well-oiled, a great crew–well, Kent can be a bit of a shit, but Annie’s a pro at making him feel important and still keeping him in his place. The woman is magic and you’re learning so much from her. That you’re only halfway through principal and she treats you like family? What god did you appease for this to be your life right now?

Even the surprise of Dieter whining at the craft services table and inspecting all the bananas is a welcome sight. “Who took the one with the sticker?”

It could have been much worse. After a couple of years amicably avoiding each other where your main irritation with him was his dodging the divorce papers (and his beef with you was your nagging him about it) you expected your time with him to be much more difficult.

But as he was during Fall of Timon, he was a generous scene partner. Supported your choices. Surprised you into genuine reactions. Challenged you to do your best work. And all it did was remind you of your vows.

You were having fun.

“Kent took the one with the sticker.”

He blinks at you before breaking out that goofy grin of his, you obviously surprised him. “Fuckin’ Kent.”

“Isn’t it your day off? Surely you can find better meal options elsewhere.”

“I did. Little Italian place in the warehouse district. Got a killer pesto.”

“Oooo. I like a good pesto. You’ll have to let me know where it is.”

“That’s the plan. Tonight? Dinner?”

The bottom drops out of your good mood. In the space of a heartbeat your blood is centrifuged in every single direction–the knee-jerk of animosity, excitement at being asked out, the slap of betrayal, red flags, his warm smile, that familiar feeling of home, heartbreak, lust–the sudden severity of the reaction adding shock and disorientation into the mix–

“Dieter, I…I want to–”

He cringes before you can follow up with an exception clause. “I won’t force you, I just…wanted…”

Your eyes don’t lock for long. Your gaze wanders the ample breadth of his shoulders as you regroup, collect all your emotions from their various compass points. No, Dieter. You never forced me to do anything I didn’t want to. Except stay in a marriage I have been all but begging to leave.

Well. Maybe you could use this as an opportunity to push the papers in a gentle way.

You tilt your head. Give him the what-am-I-gonna-do-with-you look. “I know you wouldn’t, D. That’s why I said. ‘I want to.’”

The look does its reliable job and melts him. “Amazing.”

________________

The Uber driver swears that Dieter looks just like that guy from Hunger Strike…that Derek Bravo fella. Dieter spends the entire ride talking to him about what a hack Derek Bravo is. Didn’t even do his own stunts. The driver tsks in shame, forgetting that Hunger Strike is a drama and there’s no action involved. You spend the entire ride looking out the window and silently choking on your laughter, slapping Dieter’s hand when he pinches your leg.

Once you’re out on the sidewalk you’re able to catch your breath. “Oh my god, you’re such a menace!”

“Maybe, but that Derek Bravo asshole seems to be a lot worse,” he grins, sliding a hand across your back to usher you through the door to the restaurant.

Thankfully there are booths in the quaint little establishment, with separators going all the way to the ceiling so that each table was like its own little nook, each one lit by a single votive on the white tablecloth, illuminating a canopy of dried grape vines over each one.

Were it a date, you might be irritated when he waves off the menus and orders two pestos and a bottle of wine. But it’s Dieter. He knows what you like and he likes treating.

Once you’re both situated, he leans back, smiles, and sighs as if he were sinking into a warm bath made of you. “Thanks for coming out with me.”

“If the pasta’s as good as you say, then thanks for bringing me.”

He asks you how the rest of work went and fills you in on an upcoming change he received for one of his scenes. The wine arrives and you’re almost a glass gone as you start in on your shared experience on set. By the time the food is served, you’re both roaring out how much you haaaaate Annie for being so brilliant, a wave of worship all but drowning the table and washing all other conversation away.

You hadn’t planned on a lull. But here it is. He’s right though; the pesto is outstanding.

“What’s this all about, D?”

“Hmm?”

“This. Dinner.”

He shrugs, shoving a spoonful of pasta into his mouth, giving it a couple of chews and answering through it. “Just thought it’d be nice. Old times. Give the energies a good clean before the big scene coming up.”

Ah. The sex scene. You’ve been living in unprofessional denial, avoiding feelings or examination of your own lack of experience in this area of your career. Dieter’s had a few, but it rarely comes up in your chosen projects. You just figured you’d be fine. At least you know Dieter well. If he’s going to be a jerk about it, then you’re confident enough–or at least Annie is–that you can act past it. But he’s not going to be a jerk about it. He doesn’t have it in him. You know he’s probably more nervous than you are. It’s a challenging scene and he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

“Yeah? Do our energies need that much cleaning? Has it been so terrible working on this project with me?” You toss it off as a joke.

“Babycakes.” His tone does not match yours, too much of a pleading aftertaste in it. “I just want us to be good again.”

Oh god. What does that mean? Nope. You shake your head and play dumb. “I think we are! Working with you again has been fun, you know we have fun. We are good, we’re fine. But.” Biting your bottom lip and giving him a cringing smile, your octaves climb, “We might be better…? If you finally sign those papers???”

Now he does match your tone, but seasons it with sass and irritation. “I don’t want to???”

You make him bear every second of your sigh. “So. I’ll ask you again then. What’s this all about?”

“You’re my best friend, Cakes–”

“I’m still gonna be your friend. Do you really think I’m not capable of–”

“That’s not what I’m saying!” His fist smashes on the table. The wine sloshes in your glasses. “You know what I mean. You know me. I don’t want to sign the papers because I. don’t. want. to. divorce. you.”

You give it a few seconds, play with the pasta on your plate. The outburst wasn’t terribly loud, but it was enough to gain half a hush and more than a few glances. “I do know you, D. I know you think you know how you feel but–”

“I know how you feel.”

This time it’s your turn to smash your fists, but you simply lean back and put them in your lap. Stare him down. “You. Dare.”

“No. No. I didn’t mean to insinuate…” He breaks, running his hands through his hair, digging into his eyes with the heels of his hands, growling a little in frustration under his breath. Then he comes up for air, tips back his glass in a long pull of wine and slumps forward on his elbows. His hands open and close, desperate, grasping at air as if he could drag your understanding where he needed it to go. “I didn’t sleep with her.”

“What? Who.”

“Chelsea Seagate.”

You scoff. “The hell you didn’t.”

“I fucking swear.”

“Dieter. Everyone saw you leave together. Everyone saw you leave her house the next morning. You’re going to tell me that you spend a year not sleeping with anyone and then,” you avert your eyes, “all…that…happens between us and you’re not going to take advantage of the moment–”

But suddenly he’s up and sliding out of his seat–his spoon catching on his sweater and rattling to the floor taking some pasta with it–and fumbling over to your side of the booth, caging you in, fingertips eagerly, but gently, curling around your jaw, literally pulling your focus to him as if you weren’t already startled by his rushing you.

“I have been trying to tell you for two. Years. You are the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me and I know I fucked it up but you have to believe me, sweetness, that night I came back to L.A.? After the party? It was the best night of my life. Most of the time I just want to be numb and forget that feeling of constantly making decisions that either fuck me or fuck eveyrone else but that night? On the couch? It’s like…It’s like I finally found the eye of the hurricane. I’m like, this is my best friend and I love her. I love her. I love her so fucking much and she’s been here putting up with my shit the whole time!”

Oh god. It would be so easy to fall into him right now, especially with these puppy eyes he’s making and he’s breaking his heart open right here in front of you…. But you manage to pull back somehow, lightly remove his hands from your face. Calmly show him you’re willing to have this conversation now, in this very public place, but he’s going to have to keep his voice down and answer your questions.

“You really didn’t sleep with her?”

“No. We took a lot of pills. She passed out. I cried. Like, a lot.”

Now it’s your turn to hold his gaze, ask him the real question.

“Did you want to sleep with her?” His silence and terror tell you what he can’t bring himself to say. A sonic boom echoes somewhere deep down inside you. You ignore it, justify it, push it away. “I see. So. Same difference. But I don’t see how it really matters, D. It’s not like we were really married–”

“Yeah, well I was starting to think we were heading in that direction–”

“Then why in hell would you go off with another woman on the very night–”

“Because I thought you didn’t want me!”

Oh. Oh god.

Suddenly this is very bad. Not what he’s saying, not how you’re feeling, but that it’s happening here, in this booth, closed in physically by his body, reigned in by the public setting and oh god this slide is covered in motor oil. This is leading to a chemical explosion that Dieter’s not really known for controlling. Your eyes dart to the window and you lower your voice, barely hold back its desperation.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, D. I need to get some air. You’re going to let me get up and walk calmly out of this restaurant.” Anguish curls up on his forehead as he realizes that he’s making more mistakes and you place a hand on his chest, letting him know it’s okay, you just need an adjustment. “I’m going to go outside and take a right and walk slowly enough that you can pay the bill and catch up to me, but I’m not talking about this any more in here.”

He nods. Eagerly makes way for you.

The night is cool enough that being out of the dim restaurant and taking one deep breath instantly calms you. You’re only a block away when he catches up.

As you keep walking, he falls in step, following your lead.

And waits for you to begin.

“I thought you were together. She was going to film that Austen adaptation in Wales and I thought you took that Cliff Beasts thing to be near her. But then her film got delayed and you weren’t listed on your project anymore so I figured you stayed behind with her in the States.”

“No. I wasn’t with her. I didn’t even talk to her after that night except to take her out to coffee later and apologize.”

“That would be the pictures everyone was publishing.”

He nods painfully, maneuvering past that awkwardness to get to the point. “ I, ah, had a moment there. Like a crossroads. I was gonna do Cliff Beasts because I wanted the distraction and it was one of the only things filming during the pandemic. But, like, I looked down that path and it fucking led to madness. I missed you and I was so damn depressed about what happened and I would have to fully isolate for two weeks and then have nobody to talk to except a TikTik girl and a dinosaur franchise family that all hated each other. You know I couldn’t handle that shit. I would have gone insane.”

“Well where did you go then? I hope it was somewhere without phone coverage because you certainly didn’t think to call–”

“Rehab.”

This stops you in front of a storefront window hung with Asian silks, an Indian sari shop, the ghost light inside shining through the one red bolt among the golds and greens and throwing a pink glow onto him.

“What? Are you…serious?”

Now that he mentions this, you realize you haven’t smelled a stitch of weed on him during this shoot. No bloodshot eyes, no dilated pupils. No stumbling in late, no cheeky smiles to cover infractions. No quick “bathroom breaks” between shots.

He shrugs in the blushing light. “For the hard shit. Still get baked though,” he threw his hands out when you gave him a quick side-eye, “but ONLY real mild strains, real organic stuff they grow on goat farms and shit. And not when I’m working. Dries out my mucus membranes. Blocks my mental processes. Prefer edibles now. Got some in my room if you want…”

You give a dismissive huff and resume walking, much less hurried now. “Well…wow. I’m…I’m really proud of you, Deets. Do you…are you feeling better?”

“Yeah. I am.” He ambles beside you, hands in his loungewear pockets. “You really thought I was with Chelsea, huh.”

“Well, it was all over the socials. Someone updated your wikipage and it sat there for months without challenge. What was I supposed to think?”

“And you believe all that gossip rag bullshit?”

“Didn’t have any reason not to.”

“You. Who went through with a PR wedding.” He looks down over his shoulder at you with a glib expression.

Touche.

“I guess…” Your excuse is shy, exposing itself slowly. You haven’t actually heard the words out loud before tonight either. “I guess it was just easier to believe it. Like it seemed plausible and…it made more sense that you might be into her since you’d known her longer or since we hadn’t, uh…since I wasn’t on your level…like I failed stardom or something…”

This time it’s him that stops, scowling, his brows lowered as he holds your gaze.

“Then why didn’t you force me? You had your citizenship. You could have taken the papers to court and had everything dissolved in a few weeks.”

Above your head a few moths ping against the streetlamp you’re standing under. The circle of light frames you both, the center ring of your very own circus, you can almost hear the crowd gasping as your own heart begins to lose its grip on the trapeze.

But he’s waiting for an answer. And the show must go on. There’s nowhere to hide.

“I was...really hoping you would let go of me willingly. I wanted you to acknowledge that I was hurt and you were at fault for it. I guess I wanted closure. For a fake marriage?” You try to soften how pathetic you suddenly sound with an under-committed huff. “And...I thought that if you had to physically put your own name–your real name–on those papers, that would mean you’d grant me all of those things.”

Stuffing his hands back in his pockets and leaning back on his heels, he tongues the inside of his cheek in irritation. “Right. And why would you need that?”

You refuse to answer. What were you supposed to say? That you’d fallen for him and you wanted him to soothe the wound by showing that he cared? Did your ego really need that much?

The longer you stand silent, the more disappointed he appears.

“That’s what I meant when I said I know how you feel, Cakes.” Taking out his phone, he punches his thick fingers over the screen, then drops it back in his pocket. “Ordered us a ride. Two minutes away. I’m taking you home.”

Suddenly exhausted, you throw an arm around the lamp post and lean against it. He stands quietly behind you.

“If you knew, then why not just sign?”

He groans in discomfort. But then his answer is quiet. Quieter than you expect. “I thought I could fix it. I just needed you to listen. Guess I was wrong.”

No you weren’t wrong… I just…no. It’s too late for this be salvaged. Too much hurt. Don’t try.

“And you thought the best thing to do was follow me into one of the most important films of my career? When you knew how much this means to me? To come here and throw me off balance?”

“I just wanted to watch you shine, babe. Your work on Timon? C’mon. Earth-shattering. I loved watching you work.”

“Yeah? Not earth-shattering enough to get me an Oscar though. At least I don’t have to ride home alone this time.”

You can almost feel him flinch.

That one hurt both of you.

But now another thought breaks through, horrifying not in its intention but in its implication. His own Oscar… is that...part of the reason he’s here? Like some kind of karmic payback? Wait. Does he actually think he’s bringing weight to this project? Attention? Clout?

And with a stopping of breath you understand the possibility that he’s doing it to benefit you??? To draw more eyes to the project for you?

The gall. The fucking gall. The ego and the risk and the goddamn…sweetness….

Shit.

“I’m sorry, babe.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I know. Me too.”

A black SUV pulls up to the curb and Dieter opens the door for you. Helps you up and then situates himself next to you.

The driver is tight-lipped, doesn’t have the radio on. It’s a hybrid car so every red light is an ocean of quiet.

At one point, Dieter’s hand slides into yours.

At another, your head finds his shoulder.

Then he buries his face your hair.

“I’ll sign the papers if that’s what you really want.”

The light turns green and the city keeps slipping by.

“It can wait until after we wrap. No need to rush it during the shoot. We could get together afterward to do that and coordinate flights for press circuit at the same time.”

“I’d like that,” he mumbles into your hair. “What is this, peppermint?”

“Tea tree.”

“Oh. It’s good. Clean.”

“Like….clean energies?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just watches the city a moment.

“Yeah. Something like that.” ________________

One, two, three, four—plunk.

You were trying to make it to five. Four was the record. You could do better.

What a difference two weeks and five-thousand miles made.

Unlike Cannes, Seattle’s beaches had plenty of stones. The water was gloomier, less jeweled. Fog lay forgotten over the ocean as if the bay were overly embarrassed of its grey waves and was trying to stop you from seeing too far.

And unlike Cannes, Seattle’s festival was–

Nope. You hadn’t come out to the beach to think, best if you stuck to the stones.

One, two, three–plunk.

Damn.

“Hey! Hey! Soothsayer girl!” A festival-goer’s voice echoes up out of a memory from earlier in the day, calling out from behind the press lines on the carpet. “You’re fuckin’ awesome!!”

Craning your head, you’d tried to see around a camera to see where the compliment was coming from. “Thanks?”

“And hot! Too bad you’re stupid too. Dieter Bravo? That dickneck?”

The gasps and screams as four camera tripods immediately tipped over like dominoes, felled by the ribbon barriers as Dieter appeared from halfway down the carpet and plowed through them. Taking fistfuls of the person’s shirtfront, he just kept moving, backing the attendee through the crowd, shaking him, yelling–

“No! You don’t talk to my wife like that! You don’t fucking talk to her at all!”

Security stepping up. The look on Davey’s face. Your producers frowning.

Ugh.

Closing your eyes as you stood on the beach, you held some heavy regret at bay. What the hell had you gotten yourself into with this?

Sploosh.

“Shit. I don’t understand how this works.”

Somehow it felt both better and worse to have Dieter show up out of nowhere. He threw a few more stones, each one landing with a hard splash or a deep, tonal bloop in the water, and a bland curse from himself.

“Well, maybe start by not throwing overhand. It’s like you’re damning them to the sea.”

He shrugged, squinted behind his glasses, and just chucked a fist-sized mini-bolder at the next wave like he was spiking a touchdown football, producing a three-foot splash column. “I can see why you like this. It’s…therapeutic.”

“Dieter–”

“Sorry about this afternoon. I mean, I’m not. But I’m sorry to you.” Sploosh.

“And to Davey and Entertainment Weekly and that girl that fell over the curb?”

“Sure.” Splash. Bloop. Sploosh. “Well? Are you gonna say something? Curse me out? Did I harsh your vibe?”

You shook your head. “Did you get any treats in your room again?”

“Champagne.”

“Again? Fuck you!”

“You can have it if you want it! It’s the cheap shit. Europe-this-place-is-not.”

“It sure isn’t.” Thrusting your hand in his, you pulled him away from the shore. “One glass. HBO. Your room.”

“Okay.”

Together you silently crossed the beach, hand in hand. You could feel his eyes on you, a question behind them as you neared the parking lot. A few scattered people stood around, trying to be inconspicuous, but obviously popping curious phone shots of you both.

You gripped his hand tighter. Show ‘em.

“I’m just gonna crash there, if you don’t mind. My room smells like feet.”

His fingers folded more firmly around yours. “Whatever you want. What’s mine is yours, missus.”

“Even the cheap shit.”

“Especially the cheap shit.”

“Only the best from the lord of the flies.”

“Everything and anything a ladybug desires.”

“I want your green bathrobe too.”

“No.”

______

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST