First time fill, also first time writing a RPF (feels so unethical). I hope I'm doing this right. If anyone comments, I'll keep writing.
xxx
When Tim woke to a gentle rapping at the door, he had to shake off the feeling that he was back home in England. And he wasn’t in his crap apartment in New York. And he wasn’t in his mediocre apartment in Hollywood. And he wasn’t on the floor of the warehouse passed out in a pool of cherry-flavoured stage blood, too sticky to peel himself away for a cup of coffee. He was in his trailer. And once he had his head wrapped around that, his next response was that he had no idea how long he’d been asleep or which scene he was supposed to be prepped for.
He stumbled to his feet, tripping on the shoes he forgot that he’d taken off, and swung open the plastic door. But it wasn’t the 2nd A.D. there to tell him he was due for blocking 20 minutes ago. It was just Harvey. One of those people who felt weirdly like home. Maybe because he’d been watching his films back in England. The man was nostalgic.
Tim exhaled.
“Hello,” said Harvey, as if he were surprised to see him there.
“Oh hey man, what time is it?” By the end of the sentence, he was American.
“Past your bed time,” Harvey teased, tapping a rolled-up copy of the script in his palm. “I called your apartment but there was no answer. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Tim nodded, noting that it was dark out already, and stepped aside to let Harvey in. Now he remembered that they’d wrapped for the day. He didn’t remember deciding to sleep in his trailer though. He really wasn’t supposed to be there.
“I think the wardrobe department was looking for that,” Harvey remarked, taking a seat on the chair across from the narrow bed.
Tim looked down and realized that he was still Mr. Orange. “Fuck.” Then he saw the red smears on his pillow. “Everything I touch becomes a crime scene.”
“Spoken like a true method actor,” joked Harvey, sifting through the papers in his hand.
“Come on, you know I don’t buy into that shit,” he mumbled, catching Harvey’s eyes briefly. “No offense,” he offered, recalling that Harvey was of the Stanislavsky persuasion. To each his own. Tim sat down on the bed and loosened his tie. “How did you feel about today?”
Harvey nodded. “Good. You?”
“Pretty good.” He pulled the tie over his head.
“Good.”
“Oh hey, I love what you did with the uh...” Tim snapped his fingers, trying to remember what they shot that day, trying to come up with something nice and easy and casual to talk about. Easy and casual had been an extra effort ever since they started shooting in the warehouse. It had been a pretty fucking brutal week and every time they left the set he was having a harder and harder time shaking it off. He had to work extra hard to keep it light so he wouldn’t sink into a black hole. “Your shit with Madsen,” he remembered. “That was tense.”
Harvey smiled politely. “Thanks.”
“I mean I didn’t see you, I just heard you, but it sounded really good.” Orange had been passed out for a couple days now, for the most part. “I’m basically set dec with a pulse these days.”
“The set dec still gets paid more than we do,” Harvey joked, and Tim smiled. “I know it’s not easy to do what you do all day,” Harvey continued without looking up from his script. “Being still like that? I’d be going nuts.”
“I am going slightly nuts, yeah,” Tim admitted. “I keep having these dreams that I’m dead.” Harvey met his eyes with what appeared to be concern, so he kept talking. “What did you want to see to me about? Everything cool?” He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Harvey-the-producer or Harvey-the-actor, though most of his work as a producer had been done long before they started shooting.
“I just wanted to get your take on the scene tomorrow.”
“I’m glad you said that.” He wasn’t glad. It was seriously uncomfortable and he preferred to just dive in hard and messy, and get right back out. Shit. He had to stop agreeing with everything Harvey said. “Sorry, but mind if I grab a shower first? I’m a bloody disaster.”
“By all means.”
“I’ll be super-quick.” Everything was super-everything now, when it wasn’t super-cool, and so it would be until it was time to pick up different obnoxious phrases from another script and forget about this one. But he had a feeling that this was going to be one of those projects that really got inside him. It was already different.
He got up and closed himself into the tiny bathroom, stripping down quickly with the moves he’d choreographed to avoid bumping his elbows on anything, and then he slipped into the Roth-sized shower.
Tim never really exhaled all day until the weak stream hot water hit him, finally able to scrub away Orange and crawl back into his own skin. The problem was that he was having a hard time remembering who he was these days. He almost never left the set, and he absolutely never stopped thinking or talking about work. He didn’t know which continent he belonged to. He hadn’t seen his friends in... he couldn’t even remember. There weren’t really that many of them and it shouldn’t have felt like a chore. The music he listened to was exclusively prescribed by Quentin. When he did make it out to see a movie or have a drink, it was always with cast or crew. Being that they were in a movie town, people often recognized him when they saw him (even more often than in New York or back home), and through their eyes he was someone other than himself again. ‘You’re American – how and why did you see that film?’ he wanted to ask, every time. Temporary financial stability was a relief that almost forgave his utter lack of existence outside his films. When people looked at him, he knew they were seeing someone who didn’t really exist. ‘You were great in this. I loved you in that.’ Here and now were abstract concepts.
Harvey advised him that it would get much worse if he kept up the good work. But Harvey saw who he was rather than who he was pretending to be. Maybe that’s why the man felt like home. The kind of home he had to make for himself... not the kind he had as a child. A lot of the actors he worked with were competitive by nature. ‘What have you done?’ ‘Who are you with?’ ‘Where did you train?’ ‘What are you doing next?’ He hated answering those questions. He hated feeling evaluated and sized up by people who he wanted to consider equals. On the other hand, Harvey Keitel had every right to brag if he wanted to. He was a real American movie star. But instead of pestering Tim about his history and his future, engaging in that discrete contest of who could drop a bigger name, he literally took Tim under his wing and held him there, respecting him as an equal and a friend. And he was always, always honest. A good listener. Able to give and take ideas without wasting time to consider whose opinion was more valuable. When he talked about work, it was to the point and never indulgent. All his charming anecdotes about life were just that... about life outside of the industry. The man had certainly lived.
Maybe that was Tim’s problem. He didn’t have another life.
Tim turned off the water, his briskly-shampooed hair hanging in his eyes. The length used to irritate him but he kept it that way to look younger. There were times when he enjoyed hiding behind it.
Tomorrow was the death scene. Of course on this film, every day was a death scene for someone, but theirs was The Death Scene. It was the punch line that lived up to its punch. So far they’d been getting on really well. Harvey was easy to work with. He was raw and vulnerable, totally open with not an ounce of judgement. It was every actor’s dream to work with someone so totally unafraid like that. Maybe it was simply in the nature of the scenes they had together, but there was a profound trust between them. He couldn’t have done the job without that. Tim was actually a little surprised by what Harvey was pulling out of him, making it look like Tim was responsible for all his own choices.
Once he’d toweled himself off he realized he hadn’t taken his clean clothes from that morning into the bathroom with him. Reluctantly, he wrapped the towel around his waist and slipped back into the little den of the trailer.
Re: [RPF] Harvey Keitel/Tim Roth, rimming - FILL - Untitled - 1/?
xxx
When Tim woke to a gentle rapping at the door, he had to shake off the feeling that he was back home in England. And he wasn’t in his crap apartment in New York. And he wasn’t in his mediocre apartment in Hollywood. And he wasn’t on the floor of the warehouse passed out in a pool of cherry-flavoured stage blood, too sticky to peel himself away for a cup of coffee. He was in his trailer. And once he had his head wrapped around that, his next response was that he had no idea how long he’d been asleep or which scene he was supposed to be prepped for.
He stumbled to his feet, tripping on the shoes he forgot that he’d taken off, and swung open the plastic door. But it wasn’t the 2nd A.D. there to tell him he was due for blocking 20 minutes ago. It was just Harvey. One of those people who felt weirdly like home. Maybe because he’d been watching his films back in England. The man was nostalgic.
Tim exhaled.
“Hello,” said Harvey, as if he were surprised to see him there.
“Oh hey man, what time is it?” By the end of the sentence, he was American.
“Past your bed time,” Harvey teased, tapping a rolled-up copy of the script in his palm. “I called your apartment but there was no answer. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Tim nodded, noting that it was dark out already, and stepped aside to let Harvey in. Now he remembered that they’d wrapped for the day. He didn’t remember deciding to sleep in his trailer though. He really wasn’t supposed to be there.
“I think the wardrobe department was looking for that,” Harvey remarked, taking a seat on the chair across from the narrow bed.
Tim looked down and realized that he was still Mr. Orange. “Fuck.” Then he saw the red smears on his pillow. “Everything I touch becomes a crime scene.”
“Spoken like a true method actor,” joked Harvey, sifting through the papers in his hand.
“Come on, you know I don’t buy into that shit,” he mumbled, catching Harvey’s eyes briefly. “No offense,” he offered, recalling that Harvey was of the Stanislavsky persuasion. To each his own. Tim sat down on the bed and loosened his tie. “How did you feel about today?”
Harvey nodded. “Good. You?”
“Pretty good.” He pulled the tie over his head.
“Good.”
“Oh hey, I love what you did with the uh...” Tim snapped his fingers, trying to remember what they shot that day, trying to come up with something nice and easy and casual to talk about. Easy and casual had been an extra effort ever since they started shooting in the warehouse. It had been a pretty fucking brutal week and every time they left the set he was having a harder and harder time shaking it off. He had to work extra hard to keep it light so he wouldn’t sink into a black hole. “Your shit with Madsen,” he remembered. “That was tense.”
Harvey smiled politely. “Thanks.”
“I mean I didn’t see you, I just heard you, but it sounded really good.” Orange had been passed out for a couple days now, for the most part. “I’m basically set dec with a pulse these days.”
“The set dec still gets paid more than we do,” Harvey joked, and Tim smiled. “I know it’s not easy to do what you do all day,” Harvey continued without looking up from his script. “Being still like that? I’d be going nuts.”
“I am going slightly nuts, yeah,” Tim admitted. “I keep having these dreams that I’m dead.” Harvey met his eyes with what appeared to be concern, so he kept talking. “What did you want to see to me about? Everything cool?” He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Harvey-the-producer or Harvey-the-actor, though most of his work as a producer had been done long before they started shooting.
“I just wanted to get your take on the scene tomorrow.”
“I’m glad you said that.” He wasn’t glad. It was seriously uncomfortable and he preferred to just dive in hard and messy, and get right back out. Shit. He had to stop agreeing with everything Harvey said. “Sorry, but mind if I grab a shower first? I’m a bloody disaster.”
“By all means.”
“I’ll be super-quick.” Everything was super-everything now, when it wasn’t super-cool, and so it would be until it was time to pick up different obnoxious phrases from another script and forget about this one. But he had a feeling that this was going to be one of those projects that really got inside him. It was already different.
He got up and closed himself into the tiny bathroom, stripping down quickly with the moves he’d choreographed to avoid bumping his elbows on anything, and then he slipped into the Roth-sized shower.
Tim never really exhaled all day until the weak stream hot water hit him, finally able to scrub away Orange and crawl back into his own skin. The problem was that he was having a hard time remembering who he was these days. He almost never left the set, and he absolutely never stopped thinking or talking about work. He didn’t know which continent he belonged to. He hadn’t seen his friends in... he couldn’t even remember. There weren’t really that many of them and it shouldn’t have felt like a chore. The music he listened to was exclusively prescribed by Quentin. When he did make it out to see a movie or have a drink, it was always with cast or crew. Being that they were in a movie town, people often recognized him when they saw him (even more often than in New York or back home), and through their eyes he was someone other than himself again. ‘You’re American – how and why did you see that film?’ he wanted to ask, every time. Temporary financial stability was a relief that almost forgave his utter lack of existence outside his films. When people looked at him, he knew they were seeing someone who didn’t really exist. ‘You were great in this. I loved you in that.’ Here and now were abstract concepts.
Harvey advised him that it would get much worse if he kept up the good work. But Harvey saw who he was rather than who he was pretending to be. Maybe that’s why the man felt like home. The kind of home he had to make for himself... not the kind he had as a child. A lot of the actors he worked with were competitive by nature. ‘What have you done?’ ‘Who are you with?’ ‘Where did you train?’ ‘What are you doing next?’ He hated answering those questions. He hated feeling evaluated and sized up by people who he wanted to consider equals. On the other hand, Harvey Keitel had every right to brag if he wanted to. He was a real American movie star. But instead of pestering Tim about his history and his future, engaging in that discrete contest of who could drop a bigger name, he literally took Tim under his wing and held him there, respecting him as an equal and a friend. And he was always, always honest. A good listener. Able to give and take ideas without wasting time to consider whose opinion was more valuable. When he talked about work, it was to the point and never indulgent. All his charming anecdotes about life were just that... about life outside of the industry. The man had certainly lived.
Maybe that was Tim’s problem. He didn’t have another life.
Tim turned off the water, his briskly-shampooed hair hanging in his eyes. The length used to irritate him but he kept it that way to look younger. There were times when he enjoyed hiding behind it.
Tomorrow was the death scene. Of course on this film, every day was a death scene for someone, but theirs was The Death Scene. It was the punch line that lived up to its punch. So far they’d been getting on really well. Harvey was easy to work with. He was raw and vulnerable, totally open with not an ounce of judgement. It was every actor’s dream to work with someone so totally unafraid like that. Maybe it was simply in the nature of the scenes they had together, but there was a profound trust between them. He couldn’t have done the job without that. Tim was actually a little surprised by what Harvey was pulling out of him, making it look like Tim was responsible for all his own choices.
Once he’d toweled himself off he realized he hadn’t taken his clean clothes from that morning into the bathroom with him. Reluctantly, he wrapped the towel around his waist and slipped back into the little den of the trailer.