Chapter Text
Well, fact:
She has a cozy little apartment right in Kensington, a few (long) blocks from Central Square.
(twenty minute taxi ride as a total bullshit; or first find the blue subway line and then the seventeenth double-decker bus all the way to Sing Street and get off there);
Sixty square meters. You won't miss out, I promise.
Whoa and wow, right? Let's go on then.
This very apartment was rented for the first indecent fee from the pilot episode of a passing series - her mother grab an opportunity and advised her to make an investment and not to waste money... so Milly took it logically and somehow obeyed.
Prize to her for the "best daughter" of the year.
What can we even know about it when we are twenty-two? Exactly.
Milly, at twenty-two, is not really a fan of London, but she is (definitely) definitely a fan of a good change. And that says a lot, right? At least two simple things: either she is still running from something, and running so hard that she loses her shoes, or she wants to remain constantly in moments and movements, because this is the only way she feels ... alive.
Everyone has their own way, in fact.
Fabian Frankel likes to get drunk with wine until he fucking passes out, so what? What do we say to him? Shall we say something at all?
That a fool is a fool. Nothing new.
Esthétique des imbeciles.
White large window frames, a gray balcony with one chair and a heart-shaped ashtray (from Emma Darcy), lots of colorful New Year's lights on the walls and a large full-length mirror absorbed by the designer shoes around. A warm blanket and a box of chocolates. Well, and warm socks, you know, Milly hates the cold; she wraps herself in all these oversized things so that only her nose and ears stick out. Otherwise, no way.
She can freeze or disappear.
That, and...
you still need to match this little Rhaenyra you play on screen. Targaryens love heat. They do not recognize the winters of the North. And now you got used to the royal girl so much that your mouth completely eats out just at the thought of kissing your partner-actor again, who (fucking hell) is about twenty years older than you, who has all his fingers (broken) in silver rings, and his throat smell of coarse cologne.
He smells like experience.
And burnt sugar. Hmm.
Who so casually (for some reason) hooks his thumb around the waistband of his dark Italian trousers when he smokes a cigarette. In general, Matt Smith is some kind of unflappable bad migraine that crushes her head (her frontal bone) for a couple of hours a day, (during working hours from 8 am to 4 pm, ha) if you take and remember him, if you think about him well. He is also a London migraine, because he was fucking born here (almost) and took and trampled all the streets with his own feet from Circus Square to the Royal Palace.
Fucking Prince Philip, Your Highness.
Yeah, let's think more about Matt Smith.
Pathetic.
Bye.
Milly arrives in London a few days before Christmas (alone) and is already fucked up to her throat by snow and left-hand traffic, you can believe it. And these school Oxford boys, who are seventeen years old - but who have already managed to roll up to her two hundred times while she opened and closed the door of her car.
Jesus.
But the keys are in place, the packages are in hand - you only need to go up to the second floor, without accidentally hooking the neighbor's umbrella stand. As easy as pie. The keyhole has two turns. Left, then right. Five minutes later Milly is already somehow chaotically falling on the sofa in her Kensington, not even taking off her shoes, not bothering to pull off her coat. It becomes somehow what-evs on the dirt and on the melted snow around. She unconsciously clutches a black bag to her and looks up at the ceiling: teenage voices can still be heard from the street, music from (coffee) cafes, phone-yes-i'm-going-it's-cold-fuck-talks.
Just put on a freaking hat and scarf already, right?
Just do it, come on.
And just like that - you grab yourself and go from a bigger city to a smaller city. But in fact, almost nothing changes, even though you are a fan of change. She christened herself that. She took herself with her - a curse and pleasure at the same time. But you can live, obviously. And even more - you need to do it, it is necessary.
Script reading night ahead.
Things to do. Professional things to do. Cool things.
Milly allows herself to lie down for twenty minutes and then heads straight for the bathroom. She leaving boots in the living room. She draws water, pulls off warm pants and sweater - huge goosebumps immediately crawl up her stomach. She almost gets into this boiling water, finally feeling better. She firmly decides to make herself a “holiday” coffee after: she bought milk in advance, she brought a mug from LA, because small rituals for a small woman.
Yeah. Good girl.
Right?
The little woman is what Matt also calls her.
Milly took an aspirin for her headache, so:
Milly involuntarily wonders... what he'll be wearing today, how he'll be dressed when it comes to reading the script online. When literally everyone will gather - from the fool Fabian Frankel to her best friend Emily. Will any of them be able to pick up and catch her eye on this goofy pixelated image of Smith? Can someone figure it out? Hardly. Nah. That's the only thing the CIA does. But the CIA don't messing around, they have their own affairs up to their throats, they are not interested in watching another (and such) predictable drama when you fall in love with an actor in a set. The world has seen thousands of such stories, believe me - sometimes you want to die from them.
Heyaa Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet!
References to the studio!
Okay. Then this:
forty minutes later Milly is already connected. She sits with wet hair (that is going to stick to her forehead probably), wrapped in a blue blanket. In her hands - coffee with milk. Fine. She's fine. She impulsively clicks on video call. In front of her are sleepy and tired faces. Emily notices her immediately — smiling at her so well, jumping around the room, waving her arms in greeting.
“Hi,” Milly says, smiling back, infected by her energy. “I-”
“Are you really there?” Carey cuts her off sharply, leans in to close; Fabian copies this movement, and it seems like these fools are about to crawl through time and space to appear in Kensington. “Oh, I see flashlights! How cool tho! So beautiful! By the way, are u cold? Do you have a damn battery there? Why are you in a blanket, baby?”
So much words.
Milly jumps. She takes a sip of her coffee, carefully lowering her mug to the table. “It's all right, baby, don't worry. In fact, it's a pity you couldn't come.”
“You don’t tell me that,” Fabian pretends to be offended, crossing his arms in a funny way; he's in some hotel room, next to a bottle of red expensive wine. “It's not fair. Ugh.”
Emily shows him the middle finger. How lovely. Ryan connects to a video call and rolls his eyes immediately. He's not even going to think about what they're talking about. “Nice to see you,” he says importantly, like a screenwriter should, lowering the script folder in front of him. "Especially if we're going to work, right?" Where are the little ones? I won't read Luke and Jace's lines again instead of them. Emily, write to them, have them come in.”
Emily turns to her phone. Milly watches as Fabian swallows alcohol. Some beautiful girl sits in his bed and paints her eyes. Milly wants to (for fun) guess who she is and concentrates on it so much that she doesn't even notice when Matt appear on the screen.
“I guess I'm on time.”
“Yes.” Ryan doesn't look up from his notes, but throws up his hands in greeting. “Only now you have to go to another link, buddy, I did two groups, because there are many of you guys here. Nothing personal.”
That's for sure.
“Thanks, that makes a lot of sense.” Matt smiles and then leans back into his chair; Milly is only now realizing what's going on. She somehow experiences the moment of breathing abruptly and hesitantly looks up at Smith, who seems to be looking directly at her in return. He opens his mouth again. “The kids will be separate from the adults. I'm saved!”
“Pfft,” Millie looks at him defiantly, then sticks her tongue out at him. “Stuuupid.”
“Hey!” Ryan deftly raises his head, looks at the girl appraisingly, and then at Matt, who seems to only smile back. He seems to be cool with it. “Manners, Alcock. You are colleagues!”
“She clearly hates me, man” Smith says calmly, never ceasing to smile; what an irony, because their scenes are just beautiful. Milly looks straight ahead, she now clearly sees what he is wearing: he is wearing a simple white shirt and his hair is tousled, they want to be touched and smoothed, in general she really wants to squeeze into him. Into his all body. “Isn't it, little one? By the way, will you build a dragon house for yourself from this blanket or something else?”
A British accent rolls through his mouth like tin. Milly swallows.
There is a ringing in the ears.
“Oh, just fuck off.” She pulls the blanket even tighter over herself, involuntarily brushing her wet hair off her forehead. Matt tracks this movement. “Go to your adult group, stop being this funny.”
How ironic.
Her checks turn dark red.
“Really,” Emily agrees, finally looking up from her iPhone. At the same second, the boys join in and the room is filled with their loud voices. “It's done, Ryan. You owe me.”
“As if I didn’t influence the fact that you are paid a good salary,” the screenwriter says under his breath. “Okay... but where's Tennant? Where is this fool? Impossible to start on time! I should call his dad, not even joking.”
They all have a good laugh.
“Has it snowed in London yet?” Fabian suddenly speaks up, having finished another glass. He sounds kind of sad and depressed, but he's probably hungover.
Milly immediately shuts up. She bites her lip.
“Are you in London?”
Of course it's Matt.
Who else?
He stares intently, too (hotly) intently, and then turns off. Well, yes, it is expected. Five points. Left in English, so to speak. Milly involuntarily frowns. She pulls the printed script up to her knees and stupidly picks up a pencil. You need to focus on work. That's right. Start to step back a little from the general chaos. Well said. Be professional. Not being (Rhaenyra) in real life, who is in love with her uncle (Daemon);
Unbelievable.
Five minutes later she receives a text message on her phone. It's as simple as two and two. It remains only to add up and find out the answer. Milly freezes over the phone, and then turns back off screen so that others on the laptop can not see it.
A secret is a secret.
Matt Smith writes ugly insolently:
You're in London and I don't know about it.
What? Funny. Milly takes another sip of her coffee - it's already cold, but her throat is getting so dry that just a little more and you can pass out. She writes back to him, she says that she's here by accident (ha-ha), and that she didn't even suspect, oh no, no, that he would also be here, right before Christmas. Matt, it seems, is just going to be Matt, so he answers her in five minutes. Writes that:
I live here, what are you talking about? I am the most London-man of all London-men. Let's go out and get something hot, shall we? My treat.
Oh. He offers her a drink. Something hot. Together. Today. Why? Yep, that's it. Milly bites her lip stupidly. She sits there with her phone and open dialogue until water from her wet hair drips onto the screen. Drip, drip, drip. Then she wipes it with a blanket, well, she agrees, why not? She says not "yes", but "20:00, corner of the thirteenth and seventh boulevard, immediately after the script reading." Here's what she says.
And pain flashes through the head.
Begins to whine in the chest and under the ribs.
Perhaps that is why she pulls on black tights and sweatpants, hiding her body behind a large jacket, and her face behind a scarf and hat.
She knows he will come perfect.
She wants with all her heart not to be like that.
1.
The corner of the thirteenth is a real left-sided hell.
Go honk yourself, you fucking idiot!
Milly rolls her eyes.
She stands near the bench, jumping from foot to foot. She decides not to stick on the phone, but to watch people. It's really distracting. It slightly unwinds the tight knot of nerves in the abdomen. It dulls all thoughts and these desires - to have what is not available to you.
Or whom.
Across the road she sees a company. They all laugh and pour beer to the songs. A beautiful girl with that feeling clings to another Oxford boy, intending to suck his all face (for sure) so that he then becomes stupidly ill, not otherwise. Milly looks and thinks about whether she will ever have something like this? Simple and easy, no drama. To feel good, great and...
Matt appears behind her unexpectedly quietly. Like he in some fucking way fumbles from the first second that she is her. Feels it like a dog. Because he puts his hands on her shoulders so loudly, (for fun) that Milly jumps sharply. She freezes in horror for a second and then quickly turns around. From under her large scarf, only her eyes and a red frostbitten nose are visible, but she is simply furious. What a fool indeed.
“Oh my god!” Her hands mechanically grab onto his hands, pull him over, well, right now she really regrets that she is wearing gloves; She would like skin to skin, ah, you know. “You… you- ”
Insolent. Complacent. Idiot.
Nothing comes out of her mouth at all. But something else happens:
“Yes, well, that's me,” Matt smiles, tilting his head a little to one side; he smells like Christmas, like candy and Milly's eyes start to water a little. Sweet smell, sweet smell. Crashes into the head, twists the insides. “Hello, little one. I'm sorry I scared you. Not gonna lie - I wanted to.”
He is still smiling. They are still in the middle of the sidewalk and people walk around them in two legs. Matt flicks Milly's nose with his finger. “By the way, you have the same jacket as my nephew,” he says, and holds her hands in response, does not let go of her gloves.
By the way, you have the same-
Damn. Why did it hurt her so much?
The same jacket, you see, like his nephew's. Well, fuck it. Milly pushes the thoughts away. “Latest boys’ model,” she grimaces, slowly taking a step back, finally gathering into a heap of pieces, right there on the spot. “Envy silently, Mr. Smith. It won't fit on you, don't ya even think about it.”
Facts.
“That's a fact,” the man nods, raising his eyebrows. “Where shall we go?”
Millie shrugs. “You're a control freak, aren't you? A bit of it, as I know. You asked me out, you decide. But there must be something hot.”
For a second there is complete confusion in Matt's eyes. Milly deftly clings to his eye with her own and then exhales the steam from her mouth.
“Control freak, you say? Hmm.”
For some reason they smile at each other still. Magic. They go hand by hand (for appearances) to a cafe to finally get coffee. Latte, latte, cappuccino, cappuccino. Shitty - shit. Milly asks for pumpkin syrup in hers. She pours two sugars into a glass. Matt watches her in silence, then grimaces as he deliberately snatches the cup from her hands and takes a sip.
“Mm. I have gin at home, you know.” Sounds so casual. So in the usual way. And also like a test. When he speaks, his lips stretch and a wrinkle appears on his forehead. Milly, on the other hand, feels especially acute and strange: at the same time understanding the hint, right, and at the same time tormenting herself for having come up with this hint to herself. Really? She pulls her jacket back on. Just in case. Right now, she still feels like a little boy. That's what he did with his comparisons. She snatches her coffee back from his fingers. Matt's knees touch her knees under the table where they so successfully take and hypnotize each other's eyes.
“There's gin here too, Matty. Some stupid syrup. You can also try.”
“Yeah, why not.” Smith rolls his eyes, sharing the irony with her. “Let's mix everything you find here. Let's make super sugar coffee. To drink - well, then to die, right?“
Milly hits Matt on the arm stupidly, childishly. “You are such a fool.”
“I suppose you truly find that charming, darling. Do you?”
Oh. Deal. Milly licks her lips impudently. She deliberately takes big sips and feels the man's knees with her legs. “So I do have gin at my house, Milly. Come on.”
And it begins. It is dangerous to agree with him. Because you never know how it all might end. But Milly is a little sick - she's an actress. And therefore, when they go out into the street, falling under the snow, she so skillfully pretends that everything suits her. That she is easy and calm, just like that beautiful girl who pressed her lips into Mr. Oxford's lips. Matt looks at her strangely, then reaches out and straightens her scarf, hiding her ears. “You will die, and what should I tell Ryan?”
“Shut up.”
They are smiling.
2.
They come by taxi to a completely different area of London.
Excursion in full, fantastic.
They silently go up to his apartment. Matt's all wet already, his hair sticking to his forehead in a funny way and Milly sees stupid snowflakes on his eyelashes, well, she's so pissed off, fuck, so pissed off, why the hell is she even noticing all this?
“Will you just stand there, hmm?” Matt asking.
Cheeks blush. Millie snorts. She pulls off her jacket, scarf, shoes and leaves it all on the floor, right on the heap. Matt looks at it all for a second, at the girl who shifts from foot to foot, and then just waves to her with his left hand, gesturing - come here already, come on, come on.
She goes.