roll like thunder

honey’s perched on the hood of her car, legs crossed in a meditation pose, picking absentmindedly at her nails. her mobile is cradled carefully between her shoulder and the side of her head, and she sighs as the voice on the other end of the line goes off. after an eternity of listening to them whine (it’s only been twenty minutes) she hurls the bloodstained knife she’s been using to cultivate her cuticles at the ground, not unlike a child throwing a tantrum. ❝ no !! i don’t care if this is ‘illegal’, you FUCKING owe me, and don’t act like you don’t know how to get blood out of a car !! ❞    the aggressive, pent-up energy that’s always bubbling just underneath honey’s skin bursts and she springs from the vehicle, pacing anxiously up and down underneath the gentle glow of the streetlamps. ❝ i know where you live. ❞ she reminds her dear friend on the other end of the line. ❝ i’ve had a bad night. do NOT fuck with me. now, i’ll see you here in twenty minutes, yeah ?? ❞ honey's voice takes on a sweet a cadence as her name, but her smile is feral, nearly a snarl.

“all those fairytales are full of shit -” in rose’s head, she swears she sounds like adele. that’s 50% because she’s a self-assured young woman, but also 50% because she’s, like, three shots into a night preceded by a day that was filled with emotional wine drinking. she throws her arms into the air with an excited shriek; the music pulsing through her makes her feel like a new woman, cleansed, as if she hadn't been dumped via text just eight hours earlier. so she's, somehow, even louder and brasher than usual as she pushes her way back to the crowded bar.

lana will stand, hip cocked, eyebrow raised, foot tapping. the only sign of concern, or even care, apparent in her body language is her lips, which she’s worrying at with her front teeth - which are slightly crooked from years of this nervous habit. her eyes slowly deviate from her friends (term used loosely, colleagues is closer to what she feels) and their current victim, who’d started off playing smart-ass but was losing colour (and blood) from their face with every passing moment.     lana looks over her shoulder at the opening into the alleyway and, with a carefully controlled, bored drawl, not bothering to look back at the scene in front of her because maybe she might feel a slight twinge of guilt, she admonishes, “c’mon, guys, that’s enough. i think they’ve learned their lesson.” she winces at the sound of smacking flesh on flesh behind her.

“oh my fucking god.” lana’s eye roll is betrayed in her voice even as she’s facing away, loudly opening and closing cupboards. “where is the fucking cilantro. anyway, we never said we were exclusive so i don’t know why you’re freaking out so much.” lana, as usual, feels a small knot of guilt at the bottom of her stomach, because she knows that she’s doing this on purpose, knows by the instinctive sense of panic at someone getting closer than arm’s length. so she refuses to look at the other, steadfastly focusing on the kitchen counter.

“oh, sorry -” the automatic apology is barely off mia’s lips before she just sort of freezes and stares and (she can’t help it, it’s a reflex) her eyes are already welling up because seeing them is like a goddamn punch in the gut. she clutches her bags of shopping to her chest like they might protect her, and tries very very hard to glaze over her emotions, appear blank and pliable as she always does. it doesn’t work. so, instead, she offers a shaky, “haven’t seen you around in a while.”

@indigenoxs​ for rose and callum