祝日 / Permanent Vacation
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
noise dept.
almost home
Three Goblin Art
trying on a metaphor
todays bird
dirt enthusiast
🪼
cherry valley forever
Claire Keane
ojovivo
Peter Solarz
Keni
Kiana Khansmith
izzy's playlists!
blake kathryn
No title available
Jules of Nature
tumblr dot com
seen from Canada
seen from Lithuania
seen from Türkiye
seen from Canada
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Oman
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Maldives
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Qatar
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Canada
@bittenmoths
RAFAEL VELAZQUEZ — intro. study. visuals. wanted. JUNIPER RIDLEY LIAO — intro. study. visuals. wanted. PANDORA GORE — intro. study. visuals. wanted. ZAKARIA SINGH — intro. study. visuals. wanted.
dependent blog for redcreekfm. penned by james.
𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘. behind redstone bar, 11:30pm 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛. anyone
𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗸 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗲. no matter how much carlos tells himself he should leave, that there are so many reasons he should get the hell out and return to life as he knew it ( despite the potential consequences they could face if ever ████████ ) they stay. carlos stays, trapped between its tragic grasp and forced to watch its horrific history unfold. under the impression of being alone, carlos jumps at the sudden noise, nearly dropping the cigarette held between their fingers. “ jesus, f — dude! you can't be doing that anymore, there's like, a killer out and shit! ” brief pause, eyes narrow at the person standing before him. it doesn't help that his response to all this is misplaced carelessness, the kind that could make you the first kill in a horror flick — not the kid who trips on air, but the one who stands face to face with the killer and laughs in disbelief. “ unless . . . the killer's you. is it you? ”
the noise that leaves june is sharp and shrill, the beginnings of a hyena's laughter; some misplaced look of amusement in their eyes as a shoulder leans against brick wall, "yeah, y'fucking - got me. congrats, sherlock - solved the fucking mystery." a butterfly knife flickers in their hand, handles passing over knuckle - a glint of metal beneath dim light before she's shoving it back into her pocket. it's more letter opener than weapon - bought a decade ago for five bucks, exactly where they stand now; but it's the intent that counts, isn't it? june rolls her eyes, a few more strides until they're close enough to swipe the cigarette out of their grasp, "i'm like, a feminist, dude. if i was the killer i'd be killing men, not some fucking - babysitter. like, the fuck kind of message would i be putting out?" an exhale of smoke, "what about you? it's fucking - suspicious, don't you think? new to town, bam - fucking, chick dead. d'you got mommy issues or something? is killing maternal figures your, like, thing? did your mom not tell you she loved you enough?"
for? JUNE ( @bittenmoths ) where? outside white pine auto garage
"if i get my car serviced here, are you gonna cut the brakes?" fawn teases when she spots june. she's smoking a cigarette and leaning against the hood of her car — a red 2008 buick lacrosse that she bought off a guy on craigslist over in traverse city. and as much as she's tried to fix the problem herself, she is not that kind of lesbian. and as much as she's not overly confident in june's skills to fix her car, there are other employees and she assumes they were hired for a reason. she's never really bothered to ask. she doesn't know what june actually does there, really. fawn crushes her cigarette under her boot and stands up straight, eyes flicking over the other liao, "i took all the valuables out. can never be too careful." and, honestly, if fawn were in her shoes, she would immediately check the console and the glove compartment for something good. fawn knows that part of her runs in their genes. like blue eyes or the potential to have a widow's peak. there's some metaphor or joke about how the apple's rotten right to the core, but that's not really fawn's style.
they used to find solace in white pine; in the hum of an engine, in the weight of tools in her hands. oil snaked around her smile lines; some semblance of pride in her own work. now white pine is just - one of those places. a means of passing the time; heartbeat felt underneath her skin at the very sight of some of her coworkers. no peace, no solace; just a growing annoyance, like warts dotting her skin and needing to be froze off. sasha, nicholas - even carlos. and now fawn, standing before her - wearing the same smirk that june sees in the mirror every morning. they scowl, all heavy lines and a roll of their eyes as a cigarette is plucked from behind her ear, stuck between her lips instead. "not gonna leave here with brakes, fucking, anyways -"
an old coat hangs from their shoulders; mismatched denim and corduroy patches, stolen directly from their father's closet too many years ago. june sometimes imagines she's wearing his pelt, instead; a huntress laying claim over her kill. he's not dead; but he's close enough to it - and sometimes, when june looks at fawn, all she can see is another furred body to strike through. a wolf cub turned against her own sibling; not for the sake of survival, but for the sake of bloodshed. for control. she stalks forward, the buick an excuse to divert her gaze; boot meeting tire, as if she's checking for pressure. "oh yeah? how valuable d'you consider your radio?" her fingers brush against the car's hood, knuckles mottled with bruises, swelled and angry. "not running a fucking - charity over here, fawn - gonna cost you fucking, double." a lick of lips and a smile that almost splits skin, cigarette clutched between two fingers, "it's the cunt sister mark up. crazy shit - the economy. rough out here. y'got a fucking - light, on you?"
danny ramirez as andre in winner.
Jane B. par Agnés V. (1988) // dir. Agnés Varda
she sees him first , as she always does , because tori's head is on a semi - permanent swivel in this hovel of a town . so she was being very careful . your high school boyfriend who wrote songs about you and proclaimed his heartbreak over you on goddamn youtube is not someone that you wanna run into while you're doing your weekly grocery shopping . well bi - weekly , if kingston was gonna keep eating her out of house and home . what happened to middling rockstars retiring to thailand and becoming weird beach guys ? or going to live in isolation in the mountains ? or whatever the fuck ozzy osbourne had going on ? she had been trying to avoid him , though she did see him eating a grape unpaid for and tori remembers that he is a douchebag . it is when she's trying to make her escape that his cart bumps into hers and his voice rises and her head drops . not in shame but in annoyance . she wants to suplex him . “ god , you are so loud and a fucking prick . ” she reaches into her basket and grabs a goldfish cracker that she was eating ( which is her right as she IS going to pay for it , thanks ) and throws it at him . then another . and another . “ i am a big shot lawyer in the fucking city , i'm on sabbatical . ” lie , but okay , he doesn't need to know that . “ you're the one with a defunct career , little - ” cracker throw . “ drummer - ” cracker throw . “ bitch . ” two crackers thrown .
in a funny way, tori reminds zak of better days. of the early days - when fame was the goal, not the consequence. when he breathed easier - when his biggest problem was fifty goddamn magazines appearing on his doorstep and a hate - forum on a music discussion board. anger still rises out of her the same predictable way - something zak's oddly fond of. it rejuvenates something in him. the first goldfish misses, becomes crumbs on the floor - he laughs. "dunno what you're - talking about, this is my indoor voice." years of performing had damaged his hearing before a fully - developed brain could lead to the discovery of earplugs; it's not so bad, the damage - but his voice is always one of the louder ones in the room. is almost a damn echo in the grocery store. the second goldfish hits him in the chest with a small thwack. "you're on what?" another laugh rumbles out of his chest, more crackers pelting various parts of him. "god, tori, what is this? a lifetime movie? big city slicker returns to her small town roots - are y'gonna fucking, rediscover the meaning of holiday cheer next? shit - do we have a fucking, hot cocoa festival coming up?" by the fourth, or fifth, cracker - he's begun to move away from his cart, body darting left to catch a goldfish in his mouth. the grin that follows is considerably shit - eating. "yeah, yeah, whatever - i'm fucking, defunct," a crunch between his teeth, "let me know when you start repping santa and all his elves, yeah? i'd love to sit in and watch you work."
🗝️ open starter for anyone. 📍 norwood street, just outside of maeve's front door.
✦ ⋰ norwood street feels particularly haunted now. it's a feeling that maeve can't escape – the moment she steps out of her front door, she's there. it's there. she often finds herself looking at the front door of alaina's home like a deer caught in headlights. so close, but impossibly far on the one night that it mattered. maeve nivans has finally met with a problem she couldn't fix ; alaina price was murdered- gone from red creek forever- possibly joined the uncomfortably long list of people that you just didn't talk about. she wonders if alaina's home will be notated as the price house in red creek history ; reduced to a horrific event & molded into a haunted house to prod at in the same way the thorne house was. her heart seizes at the thought. as she peers at alaina's front door, it almost feels like someone looks back — she nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears the footsteps. hand pressed to her heart, she nearly squeaks. ❝ oh my god. a warning would be nice. ❞ the anxiety is a new hurdle, too. an unwelcome guest that moved in with the ghosts on october 31st. she breathes out through her nose before offering a warmer expression– ❝ sorry, sorry. i'm just— on edge recently. you understand. ❞
if he'd known of alaina price's murder beforehand - maybe zak wouldn't have returned back home. maybe instead of seeking reconciliation, he would've sought out - warmth. a white sand beach with crystal blue waters. wherever washed out musicians went after their spirits had been ripped from them like a butterfly's wings. maybe he would've stayed in rehab longer. maybe he would've bought a farm, somewhere. learn to live off his own land; but isn't that what red creek is? his own land - eighteen years spent treading the same soil, haunting the same halls. red creek is home, even with the hairs raised at the back of his neck; with a hesitance that he's never held before.
he's not sure if it's morbid curiosity or nostalgia that leads him down norwood street, fingers wrapped around a cigarette like it's a joint. if he closes his eyes - he can trick his mind into believing it. can feel the weight slowly slip from his shoulders, the warmth breathed back into him, little by little. it's not much, the sort of flame that's only ignited after hours of rubbing sticks against rock and dry bush - but it's enough to keep him moving; enough to let him forget about knowing alaina price. it's easier, this way. separate the fresh grave from the younger girl he knew in childhood. there's no ghosts to haunt him if he rejects the idea of her death.
"christ," breathed low, an escaped mutter before zak's gaze slides up maeve. he's stopped in his tracks, now, cigarette frozen between lips. "i'll try, fucking - honking, next. just gotta - get my horn back from the fucking - pack of clowns that stole it, first - but next time, i got you." fingers are partially numb from how the breeze carries the cold; a small smile flickers against the corner of his mouth as he shifts the weight of his forever - crooked body. "you're fine - murder's, fucking - bad." wiser words have never been spoken; words that amuse him enough that he's snorting at himself before flicking ash to the pavement. "you live across from - the scene?" avoids saying alaina's name; always avoids the truth. "that's a fucking - bummer, sorry for your loss. hope your next neighbor is less dead."
○ NOW DELIVERING TO . . . ⏤ @bittenmoths !
" are my eyes deceiving me or is that zakariah singh ? " renee's voice is one of complete awe and surprise as she eyes up the semi familiar figure . semi familiar in that . . . the last time she saw him , he had full cheeks , and a cheeky smile . toddler nadia almost always strapped to him. a way of always looking down , avoiding gazes , as if scared someone might really see him . THIS MAN . . . isn't the same teenager .
renee had vaguely seen and heard of him in the missing years . an artist , just like her own daughter , but the kind that pained her to think about JOSIE BECOMING . the kind that slept hardly . drank regularly . did more than that . the exact kind that your parents would worry about , if you had parents who cared . which had always been the biggest fault of zakariah singh's . renee almost wants to reach up and gently touch his carved in cheek , hollowed out . HIS EYES LOOK JUST LIKE MARCUS' DID . for a second , she thinks she might be looking at a dead person . her own dead brother . renee blinks , startling herself , and instead smiles warmly at the man before her . " i mean this kindly , but i never thought i'd ever see you back here . " she pauses . " but i'm really glad i am . " some people will always have a soft , warm spot nestled inside of renee . and he is one of them .
"the one and only." his smile is a slow spread that never quite reaches his eyes, only slightly hesitant as his arms gesture out, a small shrug of shoulders. he always looks tired these days, with lavender - rimmed eyes and a knobbiness he's never quite had before. "renee," her name's spoken as a content sigh, breathed out with ease. she's someone who looks at him fondly - not wary, not angry. it's the same comfort that a warm hug brings; even if he doesn't know how to reciprocate. "it's - really good to see you, you know that? you haven't - aged a day."
there's not many people that zak holds in warm regards - a good two decades spent burning bridges and making enemies in his desperate pursuit for fame; only to end up burning himself from the inside out, with nobody left to fall back on. renee isn't a lifeline, but she's calm waters; nostalgia in the form of a person. someone who cared - who still cares. "think - stranger things have happened," he wants to say, me neither. he wants to say, i shouldn't be. zak keeps smiling. "well - don't know how long i'll be back, anyways." a lie - he's bound to the town by chain. "how've you been? what's all - new and shiny with you? are you - well? doing - good?"
she sees something flash in his eyes , because she's seen it in her own eyes : regret . hesitation . unsureness . DO YOU REMEMBER ME ? he asks it like a man begging on the street ( he looks like it , too ) . " yes . " the word leaves her lips although she's still not sure , has never felt so unsure in her entire life . her eyes work over him once , twice , three times . computing . thinking . considering . there are people that your soul will know forever , even when you try to beat it out of you , even when you spend nights with a pillow shoved over your face crying hoarsely . there are people who are made of the same parts of the night sky . THIS MAN . . . whatever he is made out of , it is a mirror of what nadia is made out of . it feels like a cruel knife in her gut , and for a second nadia does consider that maybe she has been stabbed . her eyes fall to her stomach , to double check , but it's as bare as it's always been . EMPTY SPACE .
" you're my - " she cuts the words off . her eyes slide back up to his . it doesn't matter because his hands move deftly to his wallet and he's pulling out a photograph that's worn and needs desperately replacing . but nadia could recognise it , and the faces imprinted there , in a heartbeat . nadia doesn't take the photograph . she's too scared it'll disintegrate in her fingers if she does . she looks at it , though , and holds her breath . SHE DOESN'T RECOGNISE HERSELF FOR A SECOND . there is a small girl , smiling , untroubled , unabandoned , joyful . nadia wonders when she stopped looking like that . she swallows thickly , before her eyes roam to the taller man in the photo beside her . HE LOOKS YOUNG , BUT FULL . coloured in compared to his otherwise now greyscale counterpart . nadia's eyebrows knit together in confusion as she looks at the photo . there are faces here , including her own , which she hasn't seen in years . his thumb delicately covers their parents and she's glad for it . they are gone . nadia's eyes slowly move back up to his . she hasn't even realised she's taken a small , timid step closer to him . " ZAKARIAH ? " her face twists , confused . " i thought you were off living that rockstar life . " it sounds frigid and small in this space , like a clump of unwashed laundry . she looks at him again , trying to understand , trying to recognise him . " . . . are you on something ? " the words are an accident , left over from the cruel ability she has to blurt out the first thing in her mind that is currently scrambled . but is that why he's come back here ? for money ? because he's shit out of luck . nadia is hardly basking in spare change .
she remembers him, and maybe there's supposed to be relief - an instant reassurance that goes beyond words, that heals like a salve over the worst of his wounds. maybe there's supposed to be relief - but zak only feels... stiff. a body put in the morgue without confirming the signs of his life. he's half - thawed out, all wrong angles, skin tinted blue. isn't he supposed to feel whole, now? whole, again? whole, as a person? isn't seeing nadia supposed to - wake something up, inside him? his skin is buzzing. itching. maybe there's supposed to be relief - but it's not something he feels with her. towards her. he fights against the nausea that churns inside him as her eyes flicker between the photo in his hand, to him, to all of him. it's not a scrutinizing gaze, just confused - a girl trying to put together the puzzle pieces of her brother.
his laugh is an unfamiliar sound; it's short, awkward - sniffling as his thumb sweeps beneath his nose. "we, uh - broke up, not too long ago. so i guess i'm retired now. got a... shit pension, out of it." the photo disappears inside his wallet again as he flips it shut, shoves it back inside his pockets alongside his hands. shoulders roll back only to freeze; eyes blinking wide and blindsided by nadia's following question. zak sucks in a breath; hesitates for just a moment too long. "no," and he knows it sounds like a lie, despite being the truth. "i, uh - i don't... i'm sober. i don't - do anything. anymore. i don't do anything anymore." he doesn't wake up reaching for the half - empty bottle on his nightstand, he doesn't rub powder against his bleeding gums, he doesn't play the drums - he doesn't hesitate on her contact, or their parents', or any of his bandmate's. zak doesn't do anything; including live, at least, in a way he knows how to. his head feels heavy, a fawn whos only sprouted one antler. “do you - do you want to get a coffee? diner's - open.”
My Big Fat Greek Wedding (2002) Dir. Joel Zwick
OASIS — Philadelphia 9 March 1996
Don't Let Them See Me Like This, Jasmine Gibson
Newness (2017) Directed by Drake Doremus
“ fucking demetrius , ” taylan spits the name out like it's a bad taste he can't get rid of . fingers dig into the worn fabric of the seat , nails scraping against the leather like he's trying to crave his frustration into it , like the damn thing might somehow swallow his anger . “ he doesn't give a shit about what really happened . too busy trying to pin it all on me . easier to blame someone than actually do his fucking job . ” his hands tighten , knuckles gone white , the tension in his body pulling taut , like a wire stretched too thin . is this what you and your old man were fighting about ? taylan’s gaze snaps to rafael , his father’s voice still rattling around his skull . “ yeah . ” he says finally , “ that's exactly it . ” the words settle between them , thick with unsaid things . a rough hand combing through his curls , blunt fingers scrapping his scalp like he's trying to rub the frustration out of his own skin . “ beer , ” he mutters . then , softer , a shift almost raw with gratitude he doesn't usually show . “ thank you , for taking care of selin . ” his twin sister , his other half , always the one he's supposed to protect , but that night , it was rafael who had stepped in .
"good ol' demi," it's said with a sigh, half defeated. he doesn't - hate the sheriff. doesn't have much mind to; but he hates the way it always falls back against the same few people. that time and time again, it's always the people rafael cares most for getting called to the police department. like a child sentenced to the principal's office. "i know," it's simple - reassuring, though he doubts that taylan needs that. his eyes glance over at the other man as he pulls out from his parking spot. "put your seatbelt on -" head glancing over his shoulder as he reverses. rafael could offer his condolences, his pity - but what good would that do? it's a play he's seen a thousand times growing up. a man trying to string his son along like a puppet of his own design, until he has no other option but to cut the yarn himself. "they're wrong about you, y'know - they're just fucking - idiots." there's a surprising venom that's spat out, "as if that's the first thing you want to do after getting home." the car rolls against the road, smooth and calm - rafael's grasp is always taut against the wheel. firm - in control. he has to be. he needs to be. "beer it is," another sigh - this time, of slight disappointment - though he already knew the answer. something sweet beckons him - but he turns left, not right. redstone's, not dolly's. "don't gotta - thank me, but - you're welcome. y'know i'd do anything for the two of you, right? without question. m'just glad that selin's okay. that it wasn't worse - don't know what they were fucking... thinking. starting shit like that, on a night like that -" a pause, lingering before one hand reaches forward - flickers on the radio. it's still quiet. "- what were you up to, anyways?"
𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗱 : greer & rafael ( @bittenmoths ) !
𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗿: 9:27pm.
𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻: greer's place, first floor .
* ❪ ⛓️ ❫ ﹕ 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗮 𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲. never thought there'd be a day greer so badly wished the couple renting two floors above would rattle the walls with their usual quarreling. where the older woman in the middle is dropping pots and pans due to her terrible lack of spatial awareness. there's an eerie silence that falls upon each abode. out of all days that his tenants decide not to fill in the air with noise, believing it now to be an omen of some kind. a man with a foot in every existing religion, every spiritual belief, sold in the idea that everything happens for a reason. a plan laid out for every single individual that crosses his path, every individual he has yet to meet, every individual that he never will. the rain that patters against tinted windows only seem to accentuate tonight's ambiance, not a singular light on in favor of letting the darkness swallow vacant rooms, dissuading intrigue in passerbyers. as if on cue there's a knock against wood, hand instinctively reaching for the cool metal tucked in the waistband of his jeans, squinted eye peeking through the peephole to see who it is. the familiar shag of curls that leaks out the stormy weather is what makes him sigh, the thought of letting him in batting around his skull in a losing round of tennis. with a muted creak, greer's opening the door and tucking a foot behind it to block any further view inside. ❛ hey, listen man, s' not really a good time. nour's not been feelin' well an' i finally got her to knock out. ❜ a swarm of guilt at the pit of his stomach. in the case someone had some very stupid fucking ideas, he had allowed nour to stay a couple nights with a friend. ❛ don't want any noise, y'know ? just need a quiet night. ❜ a certain intensity glistens in the black pits of his stare, asking kindly, for the older man to leave for his own safety rather than the inconvenience of dropping by.
the moment rafael's eyes had met greer's, flat and two dimensional and void of all color, all life - the everyday noise of amrak had been replaced with a ringing in his ears. his heart skipped once. twice - before speeding up; an attempt to jump outside his own chest. the confusion was slow - webbed across his mind, wrapped around his brain; a slow suffocation of questions, of concern. concern, bright and sharp - cutting across the fear that beat in the same measures as his pulse. concern, not for himself, for those associated - but for greer. for nour. he'd wanted to drop everything and run; wanted greer to pick up his damn phone. wanted - reassurance. to reassure. a sick prank pulled by teenagers. a misunderstanding. another slanderous publication from the register. he gets none of this; no answers to his questions, no proof of life. rafael's always been overbearing. someone who doesn't give up, even when he should. even when everything in his body is telling him to turn the other way. but there's a plastic bag of takeout twirling from his fingers, bumping against a denim knee, and it's only getting colder. "yeah?" it's not an accusatory tone - nothing about rafael is accusatory. instead, his eyes trace greer's features - still familiar to him, slight comfort in the fact that he's unharmed. rain sticks to his collar, slipped beneath the leather that repels it. his hair is stuck to the nape of his neck. half - curly, half - slicked down. he's looking for something in greer's gaze besides the flashing warning signs to turn back now, but he doesn't know what he's looking for. not yet. "if i'd known - would'a brought some cold medicine with me. or some, uh - old velazquez home remedy." he doesn't mention the missed calls, the unanswered texts - just shifts the weight on his feet, raising the bag in his hands. "got, uh - burgers. from lakeside. didn't know if you'd - eaten, yet. or how long ago. think they're still warm - y'can just... take them, if you want, but -" despite greer's unspoken warning, despite his own intuition, the creeping sensation of something being not quite right, rafael steps forward. it's the only direction he knows to go. his voice is quiet, eyes pleading; a silent beg to be let in. "- i can be quiet, greer. like a damn mouse."
ꜜ ﹙ 📹 ﹚ ﹕ ZOOM IN ON THIS SHIT ! as per usual, a canon 518 rested in foster's hands⸻ a handheld model perfect for roaming the streets, no patience for tripods and setups when life unfolded much faster and unceremoniously. he favored the rawness of it, the immediacy ﹕ lens becoming an extension of himself, translating the world's entropy into something more permanent. something he could always look back on and study life itself. and foster was sitting on a bench, filming the red creek's usual humdrum, when rafael moved through the frame with that unhurried, solemn grace. the winter winds played mercilessly with his silhouette, whipping his collar upward, tugging at the loose threads of his coat, and foster couldn't help but follow him his camera while the other man's features told another story⸻ an ever-mournful gaze, seen more clearly as he adjusted the focus, the furrow of his brows speaking of a tiredness older than his years. grief did that to people, foster thought. except to himself. why not to me ? but scenes and throughlines began to appear play out on his mind, feet almost unconsciously moving to trail behind rafael, as he mused on every possible juxtaposition he could play with. “ wait, wait, rafael ... wait up. ” he called out, camera ready to capture his reaction, whether it be that usual well-lit smile, or something more indignant and piqued. “ i've just got one question for you. ” his voice light and laced with a smirk, cutting through the quiet mechanical whir of the film advancing. “ how long d'you think we have 'til kingsley comes up with a theory that daniela estrada has been ground into some meat sludge and turned into some upper-class mcnuggies for red creek's top one-percent ? ” @bittenmoths
rafael forgets, sometimes, how seamless life goes on; despite the tragedy that keeps falling over their town, stealing people in their sleep like faeries in the night. like the world always knows how to keep on spinning on that tilted axis of theirs - and he spins along, too. he wished he knew how to stop. how to keep his feet firmly planted in place; how to take root, again. but his head is swimming in clouds, sputtering beneath rain - spattered waves. rafael doesn't know what it means to take root anymore; he doesn't know how to stop the vertigo that nauseates him. he doesn't know how to live a seamless life. he knows worry. he knows fear; his body feels like it's built from lego blocks and stacks of marshmallows. sturdy yet malleable. braced for an impact he's too soft to take, somehow too soft to cushion. his teeth are grinded to dust; jaw so tense it's on the verge of fracturing, web - like cracks crawling out from where bone hinges. december is a bad month for rafael. it reminds him of blizzards, of icy roads; of things he can't take back. he just wants to make it through the month. he just wants a text back; some reassurance that someone's okay, even if it's not him.
the clouds are lining his vision again, when foster's voice rings out. his hands are shoved keep into his pockets, arms drawn close to his sides. "yeah?" the smile is automatic - it always is, always spinning alongside the world, always seamless. the wind whips rafael's hair back from his features as he turns towards the other man, towards foster - an assumed curiosity. he pauses. his brows furrow. for a moment, the wind stops blowing. "what?" rafael's features falter, shift from unconditional kindness to something near - unreadable. it passes for a second, before a half - uneasy smile breaks the silence. slices through the tension. "kingsley's better than that - his conspiracies have a real weight to them, i think. rooted in... some kind of reality. she's more, like -" his shoulders roll back, automatic, gaze falling onto the... camcorder? in foster's hands. it's almost like a game; rafael thinks. foster wants to film his reaction; to see his raw, genuine reaction. wants him to be taken aback. all shock value, no meaning. or maybe he's wrong. still, in an attempt to play against him, "- she's more like laura palmer, i think. a plastic - wrapped princess. limited edition."
"That might just apply to like, stadium or arena shows in super big cities? I've only been to super tiny concerts in the middle of nowhere Kentucky so maybe my opinion isn't totally valid," she lets out a sigh. There was nothing that Savannah craved more than to have the opportunity to move to a bigger city and experience more of a wider music scene. Whether it be LA or New York, she could only imagine how much she'd adore it. "I am the drummer at redstone, yes! If you come to our next show, maybe I'll feel generous and throw a drumstick to you," she jokes.
"i feel like it's more like... which artist is playing, and who their audience is? used to travel outta town for concerts a lot, since there's not too many who come all the way out here. it always feels - special, though, when you're in a space that's so solely focused on the music, and the now of it all." there's a deep - pitted nostalgia that softens the lines in his face, the look in his eyes. the few memories rafael's kept, he holds onto with an ironlike grip - always afraid they'll slip away when he lets his guard down. "yeah?" he glances at her from the corner of his eye, head tilting towards the records beneath his palms, "guess i'll have to catch it, then. can't embarrass you by missing it, y'know?"
