Realistic or Modern 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙰𝚈 𝙲𝙰𝚃𝚂 — a 1x1 by mel & jo

[demonology]

​

 

[demonology]

location :

new yawk; more specifically: various apartments, the car, the club 'St. Mark's', late night diner feasts, etc. etc.

wordbank :

baby's first scream, stale beer, annoyed glares, well-meaning roadies, tobacco stings, broken glass, rebirth

tags :

PRETTY HATE MACHINE.

stop one »

. . . ny city

May 15th, 1992

A small ray of sunshine peaked through the above tufts, piercing sunglassless eyes and reminding all West Villagers that, yes, this was Hell, and it had not succumbed to being frozen over. A gaggle of queens, dressed in varying degrees of drag, were clacking down the street. Their voices cascaded across the relatively lifeless block, almost as though they were calling forth all of the miscreants that rolled beneath in the sewers and waited until neon replaced Vitamin D. The sun became shrouded again and began to sink in response, knowing the nighttime was being called forth.

A Toyota FJ60 sat in front of an equally squat building, where four plucky fools were attempting fill it and a trailer. The trailer had proven itself commitment-phobic, unwilling to attach to the jack on the Toyota's backside. Of course, the dimming light didn't help, and while the band weren't expected to play at St. Mark's until far later into the night, the timing did nothing to quell the more anxious members. The trailer was the most difficult and important aspect to the expected trip, leaving it vulnerable to fuck-ups with massive consequences.

As the queens made their way down the crag-filled concrete, they spotted the fledglings and gave a welcoming cheer. Neighbors, it seemed. The tallest one, Gigi, dressed elegantly in a stove-eye red gown, stopped to pull down her skirt, take off her heels, and proceeded to grease up her hands as she miraculously healed the trailer hitch's fears of intimacy.

"Where're y'all going?" She asked as she put her knockoff-Louis's back on, using one of her friends for stability.

coded by reveriee.

 

[demonology]

birdie

Let's get in the car before any more queens try to make out with Pierce...

mood

jittery, a little silly tbfr

location

outside her apartment

oufit

serving A YOUTHFUL CHE GUEVARA: sexy shirt [x], 12-yr-old-boy pants [x], silly hat [x], shoesies [x]

Having given up on making the trailer hitch to her truck, she stepped back, scraping her shoe-bottoms against the concrete curb. She eyed her feet, stretching her toes to the brim of the leather around them, as she fished around in her pocket. The plastic shuffle of her Spirits, and she invited one to a waltz as she took it from the pack. Wordlessly, Ronnie passed her the pin-up lighter they shared, and Birdie offered a cigarette in return.

The wind kissed her on the lips with the fuel of garbage and stench of gas. She blew out smoke, grumbling with a dadish-sort of energy, before looking down the road. Birdie smiled, sun blinding her as Gigi walked forward. A child-palm with similar enthusiasm, she waved, inviting the performers over.

"Hey!" Gigi mumbled a response, hooking the jack up for them. Birdie gave Ronnie and then Pierce a look, shrugging with surprise, but appreciative all the same.

"Thanks." Birdie passed her lit cigarette over to Gigi and her friends in offering.

"Where're y'all going?"

Ronnie appeared to speak for the band and their roadies, saying, "We're touring." She said it with a smirk, using the trailer's bumper to shave off the cigarette's ash into a point. Wickedly, she added, "You should stop by! We'd love for you guys to see us off."

Their neighbors laughed. Ruby, the least sparkly dressed despite her name, fluffed Ronnie's straw-beaten hair back. "Thanks, hon, but we're not looking to party with a bunch of degenerates."

"Nonesense!" Birdie jumped in, bumping her shoulder into Ruby's. "Don't act like you're any better than them." She nodded towards Gigi and the others, making it a special point to include Pierce and Zane.

"You're worse than Rhiannon," Ronnie added.

"Exactly." She took her cigarette back from Ruby. "C'mon! We'll even bring you on stage"

Gigi wasn't bemused, despite her smile. "Uh-huh. You're just looking to make a quick-buck off of us."

Even after some good-natured bickering, the ladies were on their way, intent on dropping a tab in the middle of a warehouse somewhere. Ronnie and Birdie backed off, shrugging and letting them go on their way. Of course, not before a hug was had for each attending member of the tour, including Pierce, who typically got a kiss on the cheek from Ruby.

Ronnie sparked up, "You're rotten, Ruby."

"Oh shut it. You should be the one kissing on him, not me, if it bothers you so much."

Birdie rolled her eyes. "Maybe you shouldn't come to the show if you're going to be fighting about Pierce."

"Oh shut it, Bird."

Gigi took this as an opportunity to lead them away, whispering to Ruby about how she shouldn't go around stirring the pot. Ronnie laughed, and before long, they were back to just the band and Pierce.

Jingling her keys, Birdie moved towards the driver's seat. "Alright. Let's go before any more queens try to make out with Pierce."

She slammed the car door shut, knowing Pierce would take the shotgun. When he got in, she announced, "We are not listening to any more Nirvana. I cannot physically take it. I want to puke. So don't bother trying. We will be listening to Sonic Youth or so fucking help me." She smacked away his hand and then Zane's.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[PRETTY HATE MACHINE.]

pierce

heritage pierce WILL have his revenge on the lower east side.

mood

i dunno, man. it's just like... i dunno

location

outside birdie's apartment

oufit

don't ask, don't tell. probably just a jacket, a plain tee, and jeans that look like they're about to fall apart at the hem

tag

demonology

It’s Ang. Sorry I missed ya’! Leave a message and I might call back. Unless this is Meat. Fuck you for writing my number over that urinal and fuck Pierce for trusting you to go to the bathroom alone… you know, like a big boy.

Her laughter crackled, breathy through the receiver, and then there was the familiar click and beep. He’d rested himself beside the pay phone.

❝Hey.❞

Trademark eloquence. It never seemed to matter how much he rehearsed, or for how long. He’d always forget. The admission lingered there between the tip of his tongue and the forefront of his mind. He’d already made this mistake. He always does, and it was getting unbearably embarrassing.

Mechanical. Fuzzy silence filled the line. Pierce looked back over his shoulder at the band. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, smiling and bantering with the ladies of the street. Not a single clue as to what happened the night before.

But time marched ever onward, and he only had so many quarters in his pocket.

He turned back towards the machine, rubbed at his tired eyes, squeezing them shut and scrunching his nose as if it was the only thing that could help him conjure something up.

❝So. I’ve had some time to think about everything and… shit, you’re right. Okay? You’re right. But I’m not ready to change. You know it. I know it. And I don’t know if this is just a cliché or whatever. I don’t know if you regret all of this, or if you think it’s something you did, or you’ve got it all figured out, but I don’t. I was never good for you, Ang. And I don’t mean this to sound like some big pity party. It’s just the truth. What you saw in me, I’ll never know, but I do care about you. And for what it’s worth… I’m sorry.❞

His minute was running out. He glanced over his shoulder again. Everyone seemed to have let this fly under their radar so far. Good.

❝Listen, I’ve gotta go, but I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again. I just need to get out, you know? Get my chakras aligned or something. However that woo-woo junk works.❞

He almost went to offer a see ya’ around out of habit, but caught himself midway, lips parting and pressing back together in succession as he ran through what else there was to say in his mind. This was fucking terrible. He was always good with a customer service smile but never where it actually mattered. What else was there to say? Drawing blanks was just about the only thing he could manage when the chips were down, and so he unceremoniously returned the phone to its housing. It was as satisfactory of a goodbye as all the rest would turn out to be.

――― »« ―――​

Pierce casually swung around the ladies when he finally made his approach, tossing his duffle bag full of shit amongst the back-end of Birdie’s wheels. The thing was bulky. Indistinguishable from the gym locker of a teenage boy contents-wise. A couple changes of clothes, some socks, his Walkman, a small selection of his favorite tapes, an all-purpose bar of Irish Spring and a few nudie mags. He didn’t like being tied down to things — much less having to lug ‘em around. If that meant he had to swap precious underwear space for a carton of Reds, so be it. A guy’s always gotta know when to pick his battles.

Despite his distracted, oddly reserved mood for the evening — he managed to crack a smile at Ruby’s embrace, accepting the kiss on his cheek with a satisfied hum. While he’d be leaving New York behind with little regrets, he did passively wish that he’d had the guts to take her out for a real fun time. Oh, and Janie too. And probably Layla. Guess Ang had him more tightly wound than he initially thought, huh? At least he still had Ronnie. The woman of his absolute dreams, even if she gave him a hard time about it. He’d always had a soft spot for the ones that could beat the absolute shit out of him if they really had to.

Then Birdie had to go and ruin it, of course. A little verbal catfight never hurt anybody, and he could play a good fuckin’ prize when he wanted to. As if an arrow found its way into his heart, he brought a palm to rest over his heart in a display of mock hurt.

❝Ouch. And here I was gearing up for ‘there’s enough of me to go around’.❞

He chuckled at the thought, left with nothing but the imprint of Ruby’s lipstick on his face.

――― »« ―――​

His hand recoiled in the wake of Birdie’s protective outburst. ❝Alright, I get it. Christ. Be my guest, O’ Red-Maned Highness.❞

She never let him pick the soundtrack. Suppose he was lucky enough that she let him call shotgun fairly consistently. He breathed a low sigh, the weight of his head thumping back against the seat’s rest as he turned his attention towards the window. It’d be a weird ride to… Jersey? Philly? He didn’t put much effort into remembering the next stop of the tour. All he knew was that they were headed West, and he tuned in to the sight of hazy city neon passing by.

❝Hey Ronnie…❞ — he let his head lazily lull over to find her in the backseat. A tired grin settled over his features — ❝… I’ve been meaning to ask ya’ about your plans for Vegas.❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

birdie

a beer with the bar owner will surely make up for utter destruction...

mood

jittery, a little silly tbfr

location

driving -> the bar

oufit

serving A YOUTHFUL CHE GUEVARA: sexy shirt [x], 12-yr-old-boy pants [x], silly hat [x], shoesies [x]

She shook her head, red spikes flying with the effort, but she let the comment go. Eyeing Pierce out of the corner of her eye, she watched him settle into the leather headrest. A joke popped into her head, with her mouth popping open. It passed just as quickly as her gaze had, no longer watching him watch the world roll by. Better for it as a car cut her off whilst switching lanes. Honking, she flipped the old woman off before thinking better of it. There was a tension to all her actions, something that was quickly beginning to bother Birdie.

So, when Pierce turned to ask Ronnie about Vegas, she snapped, ❝Could you quit flirting with everything that fuckin' moves? She doesn't want to watch you go bankrupt at the roulette table or squeeze your bicep while you pull the tab at the slots.❞

Ronnie, shifting her head upward at Bird's outburst, quirked a brow. ❝What are you even talking about?❞

❝He asked you... were you not listening?❞ Birdie looked back, hands staunch at the wheel, to find Ronnie pushing her bush-wheat hair back and closing her copy of Notes From The Underground. A confused glance towards Rhiannon told Birdie everything.

❝Nevermind. It's better that you weren't paying attention.❞

❝Uh-huh. What was your question, Pierce?❞

❝He asked what you were doing in Vegas,❞ Birdie huffed out in a way that attempted passivity but clearly wasnt. She was choicely focused on the road, gaze resolute.

Dull silence filled with the road's white noise. Finally, she couldn't stand it, asking, ❝Well, what are you doing in Vegas, Ron?❞

The backseat bursted into complementary giggles, one baritone, one smokey, and the another more alluring. Birdie resisted the urge to look back, instead changing the channel on the radio as static overtook the music. Finally, Ronnie said, ❝I'd mentioned the black jack tables to Rhi, but I don't know how long I'll last before they kick me out.❞ Zane's scoffed in a middle-of-the-road manner that made it unclear whether he was shocked or not.

❝I thought that was a joke,❞ Birdie spoke incredulously, sneaking a look at Ronnie through the rear view.

Ronnie shrugged, picking up her book again and shifting her sunglasses back down. ❝Guess we'll find out.❞

Another sparkle of red spikes, jittering alongside the charms on her hat as she shook her head. ❝Whatever.❞

❝Whatever,❞ Ronnie mimics, sticking her tongue out and compelling a smile out of Birdie.

---

The dwindling sun became replaced by street lamps as they arrived in Newark for the first stop of their tour. The dreadful quietness of a blueish street clouded around the truck as Birdie pulled into the alley behind the bar. The drive had cleared Birdie's sinuses, especially as they left the NY smog behind, and she transformed into the creature of the night she must preferred. Renewed, she ran 'round to the front, disposable in tow, and snapped a photo of the fuschia neon they'd spotted on the way in: Strangelove. She turned to find Lolo, eyes wide. ❝Jesus! I forgot you were in the trunk.❞

❝Yeah, thanks for making every right turn on a yellow, by the way.❞ He chuckled, plucking the camera from her hand. ❝I'm lucky I didn't capsize.❞

Rolling her eyes, she mumbled an apology as Ronnie and Zane rounded the alleyway's corner, heads crowded together like fraternal twins joking about mom in pig latin. Quickly, though, they stopped laughing when they got closer to Birdie, slowing down to allow Rhiannon to catch up with them.

❝Alright,❞ Birdie began with an orchestrated clap. ❝Gather in front so I can get a picture.❞ She pushed Rhiannon and Lolo towards the front before manically bumping her head around the four other heads in search of Pierce.

When she met his gaze with her own flame, she barked, ❝You're taking the picture, Tarzan.❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[PRETTY HATE MACHINE.]

pierce

heritage pierce WILL have his revenge on the lower east side.

mood

trying to figure out what birdie's damage is

location

the mystery machine --> newark

oufit

don't ask, don't tell. probably just a jacket, a plain tee, and jeans that look like they're about to fall apart at the hem

tag

demonology

Honestly, he had a hard time gauging where Birdie’s sudden damage came from. Used to be that the two could freely talk about girls that’d caught each other's eye. Yeah, okay, so he was a bit of a whore - but he never set out to break any hearts about it. Especially not Ronnie’s. Could they not tell when he was genuinely sweet on somebody by now? He could squeeze his own bicep, thank you very much, but a marriage is something you kinda need two people for - and what screams romance louder than a shotgun wedding in Vegas? Hear me out, Ronnie. We get married, we party, and then file for an annulment within the day. The photobooth can be our photographer. Rent one of those honeymoon rooms with those cool heart-shaped jacuzzis. Just dip our toes in and blame it on the alcohol when we’re in front of the judge, you know? I’ll only take it as seriously as you want. At this point, outright rejection would hurt less than the way she was content to string him along.

Pierce silently shook his head as everybody else seemed to fall into their own dialogue and shot a look back at the ever-silent Rhiannon. That very particular look that says you hearing this shit? Unbelievable. He received nothing but a bored expression of complete disinterest in return. She had the right idea, though. Headset on, cassette player rolling on her own little soundtrack, and she was gone. Gaze staring through and far out over the city. It was admirable. She was the ultimate zen, ultimate cool in his eyes - and so he took a page from her book and turned away from everyone else, head resting against the window, sights focused on the passing headlights.

――― »« ―――​

You’re taking the picture, Tarzan.

Last mistake she’d ever make. Pierce was notorious for somehow managing to capture the absolute worst photos at the absolute worst times. Candids but make them avant-garde, he’d say. Sitting in a shoebox somewhere were several shots of a blurry-faced pile of red liberty spikes dispensing whipped cream into her mouth directly from the can, a dear-in-the-headlights look in her eye from Pierce catching her attention just long enough to snap it.

❝Free camera. Nice.❞ Now that he had it, she wasn’t getting it back. Guess he had to do something on this tour besides play emotional support and shuffle stage equipment around. Photography really must be his true calling. Maybe he’d play nice about the whole candids thing… for now. ❝Okay, freaks, bring it in.❞

In true Toilet Bowl spirit, there couldn’t have been any bigger of a thematic divide between Zane and Rhiannon. The bassist leaned in, tongue out and nose scrunched while he brought up his fingers to make bunny ears behind Rhi’s head. Pierce’s thumb wound up the film, and he managed to get the sight to his eye just quick enough to catch her scowling, turning to bat his hand away. Hey, he thought maybe he’d play nice about the whole candids thing. If the opportunity presents itself…

He shoved the camera into one of his inner jacket pockets, shooting a sly little look at his bestest friend in the whole wide world. She’d get it back once she decided to stop being so weirdly venomous. Or whenever he began to tease her by dangling it above her head until she punched him in the kidney again. That, uh, that usually gets a guy to drop just about anything he’s holding.

❝Can’t wait until the guy at the photo booth develops these and has to see Rhi ripping your guts out when she finally snaps. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya’, Z.❞

――― »« ―――​

What’s one or two drinks? Frankie usually had no problem taking up the slack when it came to unloading the equipment while he pre-gamed. God, he loved her. Even if she was the first to bust his balls about his little crush. It wasn’t like they didn’t have time, anyway. The bar itself was still technically closed to allow the band to set up and tune, but drinks were usually free for the band, right? Far be it from him to start being responsible with his cash now. He only had about a hundred bucks left to his name. Guess he'd have to knock 'em back two at a time just to make sure. Something to sip, something to shoot. If there's anything Jersey was good at, it was local draft.

❝Hey.❞ Pierce waved to get the attention of the somewhat off-put looking bartender. ❝If I tip a little higher, can I get a couple extra drinks? You know, just between us.❞

Boss-man usually put a cap on what was considered "free" in instances like this. It was always worth a shot anyhow, wink-wink.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

ronnie

you’re a pain in my ass.

mood

casual, too cool, and ready to make Pierce drool?

location

the bar

oufit

serving A RONNIE STAPLE: jacket [x], dress [x], ring [x], shoesies [x]

The chair swiveled and the cracked cherry leather creaked as she tossed herself onto the seat. A fluid wisp of nicotine tar or perhaps a motor-oiled skunk, slick and slippery. Unable to be caught. She’s a jittery moth, settling here, and pulling from her top-pocket a flat-faced cigarette case. The pin-up girl, holding her crisp hair back as it dripped like the oil off the skunk, was just barely visible as Ronnie threw it onto the butcher-block counter. Her own hair was not nearly as clear cut, frizzing up towards the heavens as she continued to move it. Brush it back, pull a shoulder forward — why was she trying at all? It was Pierce.

❝Any chance I could get a freebie too?❞

Her brow vaulted in a McDonald’s arch, a motion that Birdie had often noted after her midnight shifts, smoothing over Ron’s painted-on brow sleepily. She’d never taken the motion to be anything other than primitive affection, a kind only common to mastermind grandmothers, boarding school primadonnas, dragon-haired roommates, and monkeys. Another swift of dried wheat across her shoulders, and she met the bartender’s eyes. ❝Please?❞

He scruffed his beard, studying her up and down. ❝Do I know you?❞ He spoke with a Slavic intonation, turned up the way she might if she wanted to play a mysterious foreigner, lost to the NYC streets but just as capable as a natural-born. Other times, she did it to appear soft and stupid; others, she was harsh and as cold as the land she came from.

❝I am going to be playing guitar on that stage in like an hour.❞ She nodded towards the stage, giving a smile at Birdie’s wave.

❝Nah, nah. That’s not it.❞ A sly smirk grew across his blotchy face, stretched out and bloated as a turtle caught in a plastic net.

She shifted her head to one side, briefly looking towards Pierce with ghost-seeing eyes, before smiling at the bartender. ❝I think I just have one of those faces.❞ As quick as she had made contact, her eyes were scant again, looking at her cigarette compact and picking at it’s worn edges. Piece of shit, she thought, watching the silvery paint chip off to reveal greening aluminum.

Ciggy twitching out the corner of her mouth, and a not-so-deliberate subject change. ❝Can I get a light along with a shot?❞

❝Sure,❞ he told her. A fox about to escape the hole. ❝Just tell me where I know you from.❞ Now, he too was picking at the corner of her container, and when she looked up, he smiled at her.

Козёл. ❝You already seem to know, bunny.❞

❝And you already seem to know me.❞

❝Nika! I knew it was you!❞

She almost cringes as the word slices her, but she instead makes it a slow blink. Unyielding, as though she were spotting as she made a quadruple pirouette. Finally, she turns to Pierce, saying around the cigarette still poking out her mouth, ❝Since this svolach isn’t goin to help me out, will you?❞

In hazy smoke, she studied Fyo, surprised to see him filled out to such a degree. ❝Who’d let you into Jersey?❞
He shrugged. ❝Broke my metatarsal, surgery. Dad shipped me off to the States for uni, and now I’m here.❞
The same McDonald’s brow. ❝Really? How could he be so cruel?❞

Another display of apathy met with mutual chuckles. ❝You were on the money — I am a slovach.❞

She watched Pierce out of her peripheral before turning to fully face him. ❝This is Fyodor Alexeev,❞ she motioned with her cigarette, a magical wand pinched between two red-nailed fingers. ❝He lifted me up once in a production of the Nutcracker. Turns out he was the real nut-cracker, and he got kicked off the stage before he could even pin his crown in. What exactly did you do again, bunny?❞

❝I believe they caught me trying to sell you a hand-rolled.❞ There’s a devil in his whiskey eyes, one that she matches.

❝Ah yes. Such a good role model you are, Fyo. You were a junior, weren’t you?❞

❝Unfortunately. Freshman?❞

❝Pre-program, I believe.❞ Fyo interrupts with a muttered veneration — Jesus!. ❝Babcia,❞ she looked belatedly to Pierce, explaining, ❝My grandmother. She got me an audition for the Nutcracker, hence why I was even there.❞

❝I didn’t know you were that young, fuck. I feel bad now — who the fuck sells to a thirteen year old?❞

❝You do, apparently,❞ Ronnie spoke plainly, voice ragged over the lack of ventilation. Lungs seethed, a sponge for nicotine, but she continued, mischief raining supreme, ❝So how about those free drinks for my friend and I?❞

The scruffy bartender shook his head and greasy spikes of dishwater blond go flying. ❝You’re the slovach, Nika.❞ Yet, two shots of vodka magically appeared before Pierce and Ronnie. She leaned back in the chair, letting the groan be the only sound between them, waiting for Pierce to reply before Fyodore interrupts once more.

❝Hey. I’m runnin’ off shift but can I get your number?❞

Rolling her eyes, Ronnie sat back up. ❝Why?❞

❝My roommate’s hosting a thing — a house party. You could swing by after?❞

❝That depends. Are they coming to the show?❞

❝I could make them.❞

❝Good boy!❞ She winked. ❝Get them here, and I’ll give you my number.❞

Dissatisfied, Fyodor rolled his eyes in mimicry of Ron’s earlier move, but he let it pass. ❝Cool, see you.❞ A salute, leftover from the old days after long practices, and he’s gone.

Picking up her own, she hoists it back in celebration. Across the bar towards her bandmates and roadie, who are setting up the stage, she yelled, ❝To the Toilet Bowl Tour 1992!❞

Cheers played off the cobwebbed corners and aching wood doors. Ronnie downed her shot, meeting Pierce’s gaze as her head flushed down. ❝So. Lots of time between here and Vegas. We’ll have to plan something for these buzzkills to do in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.❞

A question lidded her tone, even though she didn’t ask anything. It snapped onto the end of the thought, replacing the period, and also enclosing the two. Hellfire danced at the corners of her eyes, but it’s just the liquor, so she thought nothing of it.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[PRETTY HATE MACHINE.]

pierce

HEART EYES HEART EYES HEART EYES!!!!!

mood

wake up babe new ronnie lore just dropped

location

what's this place called again?

oufit

don't ask, don't tell. probably just a jacket, a plain tee, and jeans that look like they're about to fall apart at the hem

tag

demonology

And then she was there. Venus in pink. Ronnie wore leather just as well as she did Pierce around her finger, and he was sure he wasn't the only one. Her charisma came effortless. Combined with her enigmatic nature, a manic drive for a good time and legs for days - her mere presence would drive any man to his knees. And he was. Shamelessly. Been that way since the very day they met. Desperation? Yeah, maybe. It'd been a while since he'd lost his head so intensely about a romantic obsession. Maybe it was their own little push-and-pull game that kept him interested, because even if they were steady, what then? What would they do?

She was a mirror. He knew it. She knew it. If nothing else, he was at least aware of his own issues, even if any real change was far out of sight. But holy shit.

Pierce's light was already readied before the demand escaped her lips, and he shifted position to face her, plopping his chin into an open palm. He remained dead silent as she took a drag, caught up with what seemed to be an old... friend(?) Sometimes it was kinda hard to get a read on her.

The vodka went down smoothly enough. He wouldn't call it his choice liquor, but he couldn't bring himself to complain anyway. Especially not for a free drink.

❝You've been around.❞ Not like it wasn't hard to end up a stone's throw from New York. Miss one stop on your daily train and suddenly you're in Jersey. A few of his bros settled down here to save on rent, a move Pierce had considered for himself a few times, only problem is that then he'd be living in fuckin' Newark. But some kinda slav state? That was new. ❝And no, I don't mean it like that. It's just that your guy here is kinda cramping your mystique. I can't say I know too much about ballet besides it tears up your feet something fierce, huh?❞

He finally settled onto a stool for himself, letting the topic slide and humoring Ronnie's question. ❝See, I've actually got the entire itinerary planned out. I figure we drop Lolo and Zane off in the middle of a biiiiiig cornfield when we pass through Oklahoma and let those two occupy themselves. Not really sure what Rhi likes. Maybe she'll just be satisfied with one of those boomer tourist traps, like the world's biggest rubber band ball or something, I dunno.❞ A shrug. ❝I think Bird would be fine with the guys. Maybe we can thrift a super-eight along the way and she can film the shenanigans we'll miss out on, 'cause you and I? I'm thinking joyride. I'll pick up a trader and prowl the classifieds for an old lonely collector with an ancient hotrod, and we convince him to test drive. Promise we'll bring it back no worse for wear. Thoughts?❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

ronnie

the hungry hungry caterpillar practices constraint

mood

casual, too cool, and ready to make Pierce drool?

location

the bar

oufit

serving A RONNIE STAPLE: jacket [x], dress [x], ring [x], shoesies [x]

Her jacket creased and squeaked with her shrug. She had splayed herself out, spreading like a black ooze to take up as much space as possible. Slouched in the barstool, her legs jutted out, folded ankles resting against Pierce’s own stool’s support. An arm pressed against the back of the empty chair beside her, and the other poised out just far enough that she only had to lean forward to ash her Camel.

It was allowed, in this instance, to humor Pierce, she decided. Cut-corners of her mouth became Irish twins, smiling at him lopsidedly. ❝He sure seems bent on filling the room with hot air.❞

A drag, another self-conscious ash. ❝I didn’t know ‘im very long, but he’s one of those former hoity-toity types. Not his fault; his dad was the type of guy who paid big bucks for his children to succeed. I heard rumors, at the Bolshoi, that his father paid for the set dressings so he would play the Prince.❞

Another shrug, another drag. ❝What do I know, though? He seems like he’s gotten some hair on his chest and can provide cheap booze. Probably could school him in a game of poker, plus maybe one of his buddies is hot.❞ A final drag, a final ash.

The topic slid and moved on, with Pierce answering her question. Quickly, her leniency vanished. He was suggesting a joyride, a date, and she could only roll her eyes. She threatened herself to stub out the cigarette and stomp off, but instead she lit a second one with the dying bits of the first. The snake eating itself, she thought. ❝As much as I would love to carjack with you, I think we’ll rot in jail before Lolo and Zane realize they’ve been stranded with only Birdie as food.❞

Furthermore, she thought. ❝Birdie will hunt us down and kill us.❞

Eyes wide open, like a kitchen door swinging from an impatient, overworked shove. That was the only indication that she’d slipped. She opted in the next moment to suck down on her Camel, letting her mind wander. ❝It’d be nice though. Top down, nose pink with midnight cold.❞ She cleared her throat and then placed the cigarette between her forefinger and thumb, making a pained face as she took one last hit. ❝I’m sure Zane, Lolo, Birdie, and even Rhiannon will just cry if they missed out.❞

A raggedy ann dressed in bluejay hues waved her over, fiery in frustration as she squatted next to the amp. She called, ❝Ron, I can’t figure out your amp.❞

Then, Ronnie stood, smoke billowing around her, and held it out to Pierce. ❝I gotta go fiddle with that piece of shit. Be a sweetie n’ grab Lolo and meet me backstage?❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[PRETTY HATE MACHINE.]

pierce

it's your party, you can puke if you want to

mood

mild concern

location

what's this place called again?

oufit

don't ask, don't tell. probably just a jacket, a plain tee, and jeans that look like they're about to fall apart at the hem

tag

demonology

Of course Ronnie wouldn’t let him play moral support forever, though she could ask him to do just about anything and he’d still fall away from that stool just to win her approval. Her rejection did nothing to kill the high of having learned something more about the proverbial Matryoshka doll of charm and troubled idealism.

A captivated grin settled over his features, and he reached out to accept her small offering. ❝Of course.❞ A beat of silence, then he tilted his head towards the stage. ❝Gives me some time to come up with a better offer.❞

He didn’t watch her leave. Couldn’t bring himself to. The least he could do to prove his devotion was keep word about it, and he turned back towards the bar with her cigarette between his lips, eyes lulling to a close to savor a long drag.

――― »« ―――​

Toilet Bowl’s opening set was always energetic — despite New-Age Nicks and her shoe-gazy, college rock stage presence that always seemed so out of place amongst the punky trio. But it wasn’t Rhiannon he was there for. From behind an elevated drum set, Birdie was hardly visible save for the slight glimpse of a funny little hat and the shard of red that it somehow remained perched on top of. She used glue, right? Guess that was more reliable than beer and egg whites.

Empty bottles were thrown, some hecklers crawled out of their cave, but the set seemed to go well otherwise. Where would they be without their favorite roadie to keep up the hype? Towards the middle of the main act, Pierce had seemingly lost interest and found himself wading through the crowd, pushing through his fair share of sweat and grime towards the small backstage area where the band had already made themselves comfortable. Zane, halfway through a bong rip, had taken up residence in a ratty armchair — springs and styrofoam where the remnants of a cup holder was. Ronnie and Bird were lounged across the accompanying loveseat. Rhiannon was nowhere to be found. Where the Hell did they find a bong?

❝Was nobody gonna tell me about this? You’re breaking my heart over here.❞ Pierce approached the scene right as Zane passed the equipment. He didn’t expect to find Birdie so gone so quickly and he hesitated to make himself comfortable at the sight. Her hat lay on the floor right in front of Ronnie’s feet. He grabbed the too-small accessory and did his best to balance it on top of his own head before crossing his arms over his chest. Then, looking down at Zooted McPeapod; ❝So I guess this means I’ll have to get us to Philly somehow.❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

birdie

TOILET BOWL TOUR 1991... i mean 2!

mood

drunk; like a cat ready to curl up after a bit of catnip

location

after their set

oufit

serving A YOUTHFUL CHE GUEVARA: sexy shirt [x], 12-yr-old-boy pants [x], silly hat [x], shoesies [x]

A renaissance haze drenched the scene. This was a photograph of her youth, and she was basking in it. Her forehead was chilled from the fan swaying as a groupie dancer and the diluted-blood sweat pooling from her hairline. Having recently dyed her hair, she'd expected this, and clumsily, she reached up with the back of her hand to wipe it away. Lazy-bones, she laid up across Ronnie's lap, awkwardly off-kilter with her legs on the guitarist and her back on the dilapidated cushion. A beer in one hand, she hadn't bothered to check the label before downing her first one, and by now, she was on her second and had already committed to this tableau. Zane coughed with the effort of his toke, and she was giggling as Pierce entered.

Then, he was beside her, looking down at her Ophelia form, and she felt like drowning could be the very best thing for her. ❝Oh hush, baby boy, you know it means you get to choose what CD we listen to.❞ She laughed and creaked upwards, using Ronnie as leverage. She patted the seat where her head had just been. ❝Pop a squat.❞

In a game of musical chairs, Birdie had sat her head on his thigh, but just as quickly, Ronnie got up. She knew there was no need for her to rest there, but instead of moving, she grabbed her hat off his head, smacking him on the shoulder in jest. Jamming it back on her head, she howled to the rest of the group, lifting her beer, ❝First show of the Toilet Bowl Tour 1992! Woo!❞

A chorus responded, and she passed her can to Pierce and let out a small burp. Tugging on a strand of his hair, she smiled. ❝I think the grease-monkey look works for you, but I think it works for most guys, honestly. Look at Lolo❞ A beat and a glance towards the boy, who's stolen the bong from Zane. Cut back, and her smile still brandished towards him. A curious Birdie, pecking for more information when she'd be better off leaving it be. She thought of all the girls who'd ran their fingers through Lolo's hair, through Jac's hair, Ronnie's, and then finally, Pierce's.

❝Does Ang like your hair?❞ A natural jump. She gave another beat, mulling over the image of Angel in his apartment, conflicting it with the one she has now. She thought, in descending order, of Jacqueline, of Ronnie's missing boy-toy, and finally, the Angel fallen from heaven.

She began laughing before she spoke, as though she really were telling a joke. ❝Are you drunk enough to tell me why she didn't tag along?❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[PRETTY HATE MACHINE.]

pierce

it's your party, you can puke if you want to

mood

mild concern

location

what's this place called again?

oufit

don't ask, don't tell. probably just a jacket, a plain tee, and jeans that look like they're about to fall apart at the hem

tag

demonology

Pierce let out a gentle laugh at the apparent change in Birdie’s attitude, melting into the warmth of Ron’s spot. ❝Not nearly drunk enough.❞ A hand came up to wrap around hers where she grabbed at his hair. A tender moment just brief enough to coax it away. Who was she calling a grease monkey? He didn’t think that slathering her hair with industrial strength glue made her look any less grungy. It was easy for him to dismiss her brand-name compliment as drunken affection between friends, especially where Lolo was concerned.

Did Angel like his hair? It wasn’t ever anything she really commented on. It was kinda just there. Hair. The only time she actually brought it up was within the context of trying to convince him to let her daddy set him up as a desk jockey in the Plaza, a nice respectable salary job that would probably require him to wear pressed suits and maintain a clean cut. The image wasn’t what he was opposed to. He’d presented himself as your average joe before in one of his brief stints as a 9-to-5’er. It was the thought of the circumstances that made him sick. Reliant on your date’s dad for your weekly check? No way, man. Not to mention the fact that it was mind-numbingly boring. There were much better ways to piss away eight hours than sitting in a sterile cubicle, trying to balance a pen on your upper lip in between phone calls.

❝I guess she does.❞ A slight shrug. ❝Not that I’d change it even if she didn’t.❞

Maybe he’d go for a shorter cut when the weather warms up a bit more.

He tilted his head, a curious look to him as he did his best to avoid Birdie prying harder into the Angel situation. ❝Are you feeling okay? You look kinda pale...❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

birdie

TOILET BOWL TOUR 1991... i mean 2!

mood

drunk; like a cat ready to curl up after a bit of catnip

location

after their set

oufit

serving A YOUTHFUL CHE GUEVARA: sexy shirt [x], 12-yr-old-boy pants [x], silly hat [x], shoesies [x]

Her wrist deflated with a tire's slow leak. It skirted against his hand as she pulled her own back towards her chest, but instead she decided to take her beer back, laying her fingers flush to his so quickly it was a feather's touch. Downing the rest of it, she wiped her upper lip and threw the can on the table, laughing at Pierce's comment around her gargle of beer.

❝Hmph. Someone's avoidant,❞ she teased, settling back into her chosen perch and scoffing at her own joke. It was intended to come out casually, a humor so common it barely raised alarms between them, but she'd paused too long or stressed the wrong syllable. She raised her brows, trying to let the question pass so her joke was solely that — a joke.

Instead of answering, he tilted his head, so his visage swam in her vision. She was sure her eyes lolled with the tracking of his moments, but she chose not to think too hard about it, despite his question. ❝I'm okay,❞ she whispered, shrugging. Then, silence bloomed from their met-gazes, flecks of dark chocolate and Guiness in her vision. She chose not to think too hard about it, until Zane's yelling and Ronnie's ragging became too disruptive.

She sat up. ❝Actually, I feel like shit.❞ Burping into her elbow, she looked to him and asked, ❝Wanna go hang out by the car? It's nice out.❞ Pitifully, she wagged her brows. ❝Maybe even a walk and talk if I stop feeling like I might vomit.❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[PRETTY HATE MACHINE.]

pierce

it's your party, you can puke if you want to

mood

mild concern

location

what's this place called again?

oufit

don't ask, don't tell. probably just a jacket, a plain tee, and jeans that look like they're about to fall apart at the hem

tag

demonology

❝I’m not avoidant, just don’t wanna air out dirty laundry where everybody else is sitting.❞ Pierce put an arm up along the back of the seat, adjusting his posture to face slightly more towards Bird. ❝Besides, you’ll wanna get somewhere quieter anyway. Your head looks like it’s about to explode.❞

She was lucky the weight of it didn’t sink into her shoulders. Affectionate teasing, as always. Pierce wasn’t any less of a little punk, and he was sure she’d already be chomping at the bit at the suggestion of drama within his love life. If her recent eagerness to get pissy about his choice of partner was any indication, of course.

❝Oh hey, you know what? I think we passed a 7-Eleven on the way in. Might do some good to get a little carbonation on your stomach.❞ By a little, he obviously meant a Big Gulp’s worth. If it was only a few cents more, why not? He could pound some Jolt and stay wired long enough to get them checked into a roach motel in PA. Win-win. ❝You can always use my arm if you feel like you’re gonna fall into the gutter. The offer’s on the table.❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

birdie

TOILET BOWL TOUR 1991... i mean 2!

mood

drunk; like a cat ready to curl up after a bit of catnip

location

after their set

oufit

serving A YOUTHFUL CHE GUEVARA: sexy shirt [x], 12-yr-old-boy pants [x], silly hat [x], shoesies [x]

The building appeared as a beacon as she leaned on Pierce's arm, walking up to the door and thinking it might be a portal to another dimension. The start to a really shitty horror movie where, given Pierce's madonna-whore complex, he would die first and leave Birdie to be the cursed final girl.
Bells jingled as the pair entered the neon matrix. Thankfully, all that waited beyond the plexiglass was an old woman, cursed far worse than Birdie would be given she was stuck in the 7-11 uniform that always reminded Birdie of a made-man's bowling attire. Her hair was powdery and looked like blue cotton candy made with dishwater. She didn't bother to look up as they entered, so Birdie passed her by without interruption.

Pierce and Birdie shared the same neural pathways (hence why leaving her to be the final girl would be an awful idea), so nonverbally they made their way to the Big Gulp machine. Getting ice everywhere, she filled up her Xtra Large and began to mull over her choices.

Pressing down the lever for root beer, she eyed Pierce. ❝Now that the only audience we got is that poor lady up front, care to indulge me? Why didn't Ang tag along?❞

She stuck a straw into the lidless cup, struggling with her drunken hands to get the cap on and stick the straw through the hole. ❝She fed me, that one time I saw her, and given you have maybe done that once, I'm more so I'm asking as a concerned doggie, not one looking to bite both of your heads off.❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[PRETTY HATE MACHINE.]

pierce

it's your party, you can puke if you want to

mood

eesh

location

7-eleven

oufit

don't ask, don't tell. probably just a jacket, a plain tee, and jeans that look like they're about to fall apart at the hem

tag

demonology

Piss-yellow fluorescence bathed the moment as Pierce went for a Slurpee (Blue Ras, the only valid flavor) instead, the machine softly humming within the silence that followed Birdie's question. He let it simmer for a hot second on the slim chance that maybe she'd pick up his vibe and ask him something else, anything else. It became obvious that she wouldn't bite, and he slipped her an answer while reaching for the domed lid dispenser. ❝She's, uh... she's making plans for France.❞ A half-truth, but one he knew Birdie wouldn't be satisfied with no matter her sobriety level. He continued - ❝Daddy's sending her off to study at one of those fancy-schmancy places in... Marseille, I think? I don't know. It's all Paris to me. Doesn't want his delicate little daughter to have to lower herself to those notoriously awful NYU standards, I guess.❞

He made an off-handed waving gesture and then turned to face her, leaning his butt against the counter beside the machine. He brought the straw to his lips and took a looooong drink as he mulled over his choice of words. Really, there was no harm in keeping their little lover's quarrel a secret, but he didn’t want to saddle his best friend with his romantic baggage.

❝With how much of a weirdo you've been acting lately, I think you'll like hearing this; Ang and I are done. Doesn't really matter why, does it? Same as it always is, I'm just too-❞, he stopped abruptly short, and his eyes held hers for a millisecond too long before they dropped to the floor. Pierce wasn't the type to get all sulky about things, and this conversation was no exception. Certain things were just hard to admit. ❝Well... you know. Better than anybody, right?❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

birdie

nonchalance, you old foe

mood

drunk; like a cat ready to curl up after a bit of catnip

location

after their set

oufit

serving A YOUTHFUL CHE GUEVARA: sexy shirt [x], 12-yr-old-boy pants [x], silly hat [x], shoesies [x]

The fluorescent, slightly tinged in blue, green and yellow air hung around her and clouded her head. Bird had created a fog when she shotgunned that first beer backstage. Now, as the sun began to peak out in the form of the revolving, warming lights on the taquitos stand, she saw Pierce with drunken clarity. She debates between getting Lolo piña colada and cherry, spearing off a piece of her cheek as she mulled life and its choices over. This was one of them, a minute one, but it made her pause all the same.

Frowning around his comment (Weird?), she went with piña colada, flicking the sticky knob and watched fluffy pillows of sugar layer in her cup and form a cloud under the plastic dome. Her nose scrunched up with the notion, but she was so unself-aware about this, that she didn't hide it when she turned to look him in the eyes.

Pierce had made a choice, or maybe Ang had. It sounded like it was on her, but his pause led her to believe the choice and who made it might not be as simple as he made it sound. ❝Ha.❞ Her laugh was dry and flakey, sarcastic yet also mildly annoyed. ❝You sure are, buddy.❞ She turned back, filling up a large Mountain Dew for Ronnie.

Sipping, she adds, with a shrug , ❝I'm sorry, though. She seemed cool.❞

They make their way to the front of the store, back to the old lady that hacks behind the counter. Birdie, unable to let the moment slide, hangs a quick right down the technicolor aisle of plastic packaging and even more sugar. She takes another sip and eyes up at Pierce slyly. She's preparing for a quip, mulling something over that will make them laugh, and a Chesire smile grows on her lips. She comes up empty, though. Weird.

❝I know —❞ she starts and stops and looks at the peach rings instead. The plastic crinkles under her prudent examination. ❝I might've been a bit weird, but still.❞ Birdie doesn't elaborate, sipping on her root beer and bitting at the straw instead of her cheek, mulling over life and its choices. She was making one right now, torn between befuddling honesty and clear concealment.

Finally, she decides not to buy anything else, rubbing past Pierce awkwardly and clumsily. ❝Just. Uhm. If you want to talk about it, I'm here to listen,❞ she tells him, looking up at him in a moment's pause.

Then, she hightails it to the register, beginning a small chat with the grandma behind the counter, who bums Birdie a cigarette simply because she 'asked so nicely.'

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[PRETTY HATE MACHINE.]

pierce

it's your party, you can puke if you want to

mood

eesh

location

7-eleven

oufit

don't ask, don't tell. probably just a jacket, a plain tee, and jeans that look like they're about to fall apart at the hem

tag

demonology

Birdie’s annoyance in her initial reply definitely didn’t fly over Pierce’s head. Okay, so at least she’d been more aware of her weirdness than he assumed, but why? She pushed past him, either because she didn’t want to talk about it or wasn’t sure how, but he figured if something was wrong he wanted to nip it in the bud now. There was no problem with the women he dated coming in and out of his life — but secrets left nothing but a bad fucking taste.

He held onto the thought, trailing behind Birdie and awkwardly lingering behind her in silence as he drank his Slurpee. There was a beat of consideration as she paid, and soon enough they’d found themselves stepping back out into the cool night air where Pierce swung around to hold the door open for his inebriated friend.

❝Hey, uh…❞ - he piped up with stained blue lips as she passed by, and the bells jingled for the final time as he released his hold - ❝I don’t really know what’s going on, but if I did something wrong for you to get so weird, I need to know. Angel’s just one thing. You and I are different. You know that, right? Don’t worry about it. Seriously.❞

And then, his sight focused on the armful of drinks she decided to haul back with them. While the gesture was sweet and trademark Birdie, she’d bitten off more than she could chew sober. ❝Are you sure you don’t want me to carry something or… something?❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

birdie

nonchalance, you old foe

mood

drunk; like a cat ready to curl up after a bit of catnip

location

after their set

oufit

serving A YOUTHFUL CHE GUEVARA: sexy shirt [x], 12-yr-old-boy pants [x], silly hat [x], shoesies [x]

She walks across the crag-rocked plains of the concrete pylons marking each parking space, ignoring Pierce as much as she's holding onto every word. Her boots jingle as she does a little balancing act on the pylons, twisting and twirling. She shuffles around her cups, trying to fish into her pocket for a lighter that she does not have and also put the cigarette in her mouth. Just as Pierce asks her for one of her drinks, her rootbeer goes crashing. The brown syrup splashes upwards onto her legs, staining the edge of her shorts. ❝Fuck!❞ is all she's said since leaving the store, but it has a thrum of emotion beneath it that shows she isn't just mourning the lost soda.

She plops down on the concrete next to her rootbeer's corpse and sticks her face behind a wall of chipped-polished nails. Taking a big sigh, Birdie removes her hands, looks up at Pierce, and tugs on his jeans. ❝You're right,❞ she admits, referring to the idea that their friendship is different. Perhaps that was why she let out the expletive. Perhaps she just needed to let off some steam. Her mind is a scrambled egg, though, and she can tell that the morning'll bring nothing but a headache. It isn't a good time to talk about what's brewing, and frankly, Birdie'd prefer the pot be left until whatever is about to boil is all gone. Heated to the point where its all evaporated and the only thing left behind is useless sediment that washes away with the slightest provocation.

She wraps an arm around his shoulders and tells him the truth. ❝You didn't do anything, bud. Don't worry.❞ She rests a head on his shoulder, taking off her hat, which seems so ridiculous in the state she's in. Fiddling with the pins, her mouth considers running, and she takes a sip off Ronnie's Mountain Dew.

❝Guess you've just seemed preoccupied lately.❞ She shrugs and finally gets the 7-11 lady's cigarette lit. ❝Everybody's got their eyes on you, and you're lookin' at everybody else. Hard not to feel like I'm lost in the shuffle.❞

Birdie's restless, so she stands and gathers up her drinks. Swallowing hard, she forces a smile. ❝I wouldn't worry about it though. I've just never performed in front of so many people.❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[PRETTY HATE MACHINE.]

pierce

it's your party, you can puke if you want to

mood

worried for his friend

location

7-eleven

oufit

don't ask, don't tell. probably just a jacket, a plain tee, and jeans that look like they're about to fall apart at the hem

tag

demonology

Pierce flinched slightly as her drink exploded against the tar and blinked at the ensuing emotional outburst. It must’ve been strange to see the two of them from the outside-in; her with all of the bells and whistles that jingle jangled around with her seemingly unyielding urge to move, and him just sitting there with an awkward hunch to feel it all unfold. Puzzled, maybe, at the way she’d taken every possible chance to remain physically close to him like a milk-drunk puppy just looking for something warm and reassuring to cling to. He wasn’t complaining, and he always followed her lead, even if it left him simmering in yet another brief moment of silence. In that aspect, he found it pretty cute. The kinda aspect that would leave him gasping for air in the wake of a punch to the stomach, so he kept quiet when he followed her to the ground.

A firm string plucked somewhere deep within his heart at the implication that she wanted more of his attention, though the feeling remained platonic. What would Ms. Atwood say? The key difference was that Birdie never had to put on a performance to get his attention, and he wondered if she was even aware of it. Knowing that she valued his presence was more than enough. But all too quickly, she was up and eager to move on. Why? If he wasn’t worried before, he was definitely worried now.

❝Can you hold on for a sec? I’ll get you another root beer, but if you really wanna hear the truth about why I’ve been so preoccupied, you’ve gotta stay a little longer.❞ - Pierce patted her abandoned space on the concrete pylon - ❝We’ll be back before the ice melts. Just… please. You’ll make yourself sick moving around like that.❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

birdie

nonchalance, you old foe

mood

drunk; like a cat ready to curl up after a bit of catnip

location

after their set

oufit

serving A YOUTHFUL CHE GUEVARA: sexy shirt [x], 12-yr-old-boy pants [x], silly hat [x], shoesies [x]

It always comes so quickly — the blips where Birdie’s heart squelches almost unpleasantly but not unfamiliarly. The first few times it happened (Pierce on a street corner with nascent Times Square neon in this eyes, Pierce with fire in his eyes and murky lake water in the humid air, Pierce with pupils as large as eclipses in his apartment or hers after just waking up, Pierce with a crack in his face that was actually just a smile she thought of as just for her even if it wasn’t), she had been unsettled. Her stomach flipped over like an impatient baby, and she felt battery acids creak up her esophagus. She was nipped at with guilt, any affection dissolved into the mole-dotted word of Jacqueline DuPont’s face. As such, she’d adequately fought off any more moments, or at least tried to. Time passed, and they became so infrequent, she’d stopped fighting them off and called them dead. When they’ve returned lately, against her better judgment, it’s been less about Jac, though. Like the acid grief had eaten enough of her. It was something different, so she’d taken to fighting them off for a different reason.

In her state, she couldn’t stave it off this time. So, Pierce with 7-11 fluorescents and his trademarked, cutting kindness in his eyes. Her heart squelches, decidedly so. There’s a moment where she questions her ‘strictly-platonic’ inhibitions, but with a small crack in her own face, she sits next to him and decides to let the beer bring her back to the irreverent mood from earlier in the night. She hopes it makes her forget in the morning how her heart feels right now, that it makes anything out of the ordinary appear to her best friend as drunken intuition and nothing more. Because it is Birdie and Pierce, at the end of the day, and she needs it to stay that way.

❝Forget the root beer,❞ she tells him. ❝What’s the truth?❞

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[PRETTY HATE MACHINE.]

pierce

it's your party, you can puke if you want to

mood

real confusion hours!!

location

7-eleven

oufit

don't ask, don't tell. probably just a jacket, a plain tee, and jeans that look like they're about to fall apart at the hem

tag

demonology

❝I didn’t lie about the reason Ang and I didn’t work out, it’s just not really the whole truth. Could you picture me in France? What would I even do there?❞ There was the shuffle of rubber soles dragging along greasy tar, and Pierce brought his legs in knees-to-chest, taking another sip of his Slurpee and draping his arms over them. There was a beat of consideration before he continued - ❝We both know I’m not the most emotionally available guy out there. Ang didn’t really like that, and I think it’s just been building up for too long.❞

He really just wanted to leave it at that, though he figured Birdie wouldn’t be satisfied now that he was the one to offer it. Pierce played with his straw, tilted the domed lid towards himself to peer in and make swirls in the ice. His lack of any meaningful eye contact remained a recognizable tell of his discomfort. A regrettable aspect of his aversion to this kind of discussion that didn’t even fly over his own head let alone your average Joe. He elaborated when it seemed he was satisfied enough with his handiwork, offering his friend more of an awkward side eye than any full-blown contact.

❝I took her out for a good time last night. One of those last hurrah kinda things considering it’ll be the last time we see each other for awhile, and I think the pressure got to her to say something before I left, and she really laid into me about… well, I guess she just thinks I’m too cold. Shallow. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been accused of that.❞ He shot Birdie a wry, half-hearted little grin - but it faded as he brought his attention back to his beverage. ❝She never said so directly, but it’s what she meant. And she was pissed. When she didn’t get the reaction she wanted, she took off.❞

Another moment of silence passed, and Pierce blinked, staring past his cup at the neon reflection of a puddle in the ground. Heavy words lightly thrown. She didn’t need to know the details — even if the words hurt. ❝I’m not too young and dumb to know I’ve got feelings. I do, but I can’t talk about them. I don’t know how. You can call me an idiot, a loser, an asshole, whatever. I’ve heard it all before. But it kinda sucks when people just assume I don’t care about anything or anybody.❞

It was his final act of defiance when faced with a failed relationship, a veritable broken record of insistence and foot-stamping that’s done nothing but throw him into another internal negative feedback loop, and he was just… suddenly so tired of it. He wanted more than anything to cut this short, get up and get to a nice warm bed — but he relented. If only because it was Birdie.

A defeated exhale. ❝The worst part is, I keep thinking to myself ‘what if she’s right’? What if I really just don’t care about any of this and I’ve tricked myself into thinking that I do just so I don’t lose you or Meat or anybody I’m supposed to love?❞

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© weldherwings.

 

[demonology]

birdie

nonchalance, you old foe

mood

drunk; like a cat ready to curl up after a bit of catnip

location

after their set

oufit

serving A YOUTHFUL CHE GUEVARA: sexy shirt [x], 12-yr-old-boy pants [x], silly hat [x], shoesies [x]

It kinda sucks when people just assume I don’t care about anything or anybody.

The evening was beginning to fold into itself, and Birdie feels as though her brain is actually batter for some twisted cake that God was making with his frilly apron on (not unlike the one her Dad used to wear on Friday mornings before school while he made pancakes and Mom slept in). It isn’t a terribly unpleasant feeling, though the fact that it only began to feel that way because of Pierce’s words stuck out to her. How many times had she assumed the same thing, despite all that she knew about him, all the time spent as a pair side-by-side?

Regretful for how she’d acted during the car ride over, she grimaces, takes the palm closest to her off the icy Slurpee, and tucks it neatly in between her two warm ones.

What if I really just don’t care about any of this and I’ve tricked myself into thinking that I do just so I don’t lose you or Meat or anybody I’m supposed to love?

There’s a snapshot of hurt in her eyes, but it’s short-lived because anything hurtful between them can’t last. In fact, she can’t help but scoff at the line-up. ❝Glad to know me and Meat are on the same level,❞ she jests.

❝Seriously though, I think she’s just pricked at a sore spot, man. Of course you love us, of course you care about stuff. I mean maybe you don’t have similar passions or goals as Ang, who frankly, doesn’t seem like the type to get your mojo. She seems like a go-getter type who values certain things, and maybe some of those things are valid to ask from you, like being honest with yourself and her about your feelings.❞ Her cheeks turn a tad pink for a reason she only dimly recognizes. It feels a bit like shame, hypocrisy, and a hint of that guilt she always carries.

❝Maybe she isn’t the person you can do that with. That doesn’t mean you go through life only wanting bodies around you. Why else would you put up with Meat’s… well whatever Meat is or my whiny ass bullshit?❞ She squeezes his hand lightly to emphasize her words.

There’s a rest in her ill-timed speech, and the only sound is of a cicada’s creaking. A cricket joins in with a car engine starting to finish the crescendo.

❝If you’ve been faking it all this time,❞ she says, ❝then you’ve had me fooled.❞ Suddenly aware of how long she’s held onto his hand, she lets go. ❝I mean c’mon, you’re my best friend for a reason, and if five years counts for anything, I think you’re the furthest thing from shallow or inauthentic or whatever else you might think about yourself.❞

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© weldherwings.