fitzpatrick - abernathy, b ( abernathytm ) .
the smiths the queen is dead plays in bowie’s earphones and maybe it’s a little CLICHE that she’s got a walkman, but she’s got a fucking walkman and if you have a problem with her cds, take it up with her vinyl collection, which she’d much prefer to be listening to, but this is about the closest she’ll get. she finds that there is a certain CHARM about committing to an artist, an album, having it spin round and round like a merry go round or thoughts in her head after a few drinks, having to eject the disk and put in another should a change be desired.
chipped black nails drum the beat beside her leg as she lays out in the grass on a clouded day. it seems counter productive, but the girl’s pale skin prefers clouds to sun and her introverted demeanor prefers empty grass to the hoards of gallagher students on a hot day. a breeze stops her drumming and she pulls her long sleeves over her hands to keep warm, but holds her ground, defiant even toward mother earth herself.
blue eyes are illuminated even brighter by the gray-blue skies and the black liner surrounding their hue. she feels her skin burn, but doesn’t know what direction the stranger’s stare is coming from until she’s looking directly at them. she holds her gaze, a questionable decision considering a killer has access to gallagher’s campus, but the reminder of such danger only makes bowie pull down her sunnies to get a better look.
she takes off her headphones and it is a sign of invitation where she will not be one to wave someone over. she’s always hated that gesture. WAVING. walkman and headphones rest in the grass, her body outstretches once more, and now she’s doodling a sun on the top of her hand, ink smudging in certain places, as she awaits her not-so-secret admirer. upon their arrival, bowie looks up from her hand and states her observation aloud, “you’re watching me.” // @chanroyer
the gray skies remind chan of falls in france . of the singular winter she had in new york city . that winter had been a brutally cold thing that chased people indoors to avoid the weather --- the wind had felt like a monster in its own right, like something with sharp teeth . she had spent those months in the underbelly of nyu, tucked away compiling research until the season thawed . but for a girl whose talents require her to be inside, surrounded by blue - lit monitors and the resonant click of keyboards, she sure chases the sun . chan remembers planting a flower that year that sat in the windowsill of her dorm, where it would lean desperately toward whatever spare sunlight it could find . like it would grow with their combined determination alone . she could relate .
the plant didn’t make it to march . suppose there’s a metaphor in there somewhere .
at gallagher, though, the gray skies bring a hush across the campus, a certain calm, that she had grown to appreciate . the brunette is cutting between the greenhouse and the main building when a blonde catches her eye, and she pauses, waiting expectantly until bowie looks over . that’s invitation enough, even before the other girl pulls her headphones away . when chan reaches her side and bowie speaks, a brow upticks and she laughs shortly . “ don’t sound so full of yourself . ” it’s borderline cold in the gallagher skirt, but she drops to stretch out against the grass regardless . a grin twitches at the corner of her lips . “ i was trying to figure out who was mad enough to be laying out here in this uniform . ”
