Nothing // Vertigo Flowers

❝ the fates' already fucked me sideways swinging by my neck from the family tree .

ind horror oc FOREST BARNETT from the infamous barnett family massacre case.

The wind tears through the car, tossing Noah’s hair, pulling the smoke sideways, and Kerry glances at him again — quick, sideways, like he’s stealing something he doesn’t want to get caught taking. There’s something about him like this, lit in fragments by passing streetlights, that catches Kerry off guard. Not just the way he looks — though, yeah, that too, the lashes, the mouth, the gap in his teeth that makes his smile feel unpolished in a way Kerry likes more than he should — but the way he is. Unfiltered. Candid in a way that borders on careless, in the way that Kerry likes in a person. It pulls something easy and warm out of Kerry, something that makes him want to keep him talking just to hear what comes out next. 

He shifts gears, the car gliding smoother now as the streets widen, buildings stretching taller, cleaner, all glass and sharp edges catching the city glow. This part of town hums differently — less desperate, more curated — and Kerry feels it settle into him like a costume he knows how to wear. 

“But nah,” he adds, glancing over again when Noah starts picking at himself, at his clothes, that flicker of self-consciousness settling in. Kerry laughs again, lighter this time, like the idea itself is ridiculous.

“Dress code?” He snorts, dragging from his cigarette before speaking around it. “You think I could get into my bloody room if there was a dress code?” He gestures vaguely at himself — the ripped blue denim, the jacket that’s more hole than leather in places, the rings, the piercings, the ink crawling up his hands and disappearing under his sleeves. 

Another glance at Noah, slower this time. Measured. He lets it linger a second too long before looking back at the road. “If anything,” he adds, smirking, “you’re the one they’d let in. All mysterious and shit. People eat that up.” 

It’s half a joke, but there’s something honest tucked underneath it, something he doesn’t quite dress up in humor fast enough. He taps the steering wheel with his thumb, restless energy buzzing under his skin, the coke still singing through his bloodstream — not enough anymore, though. Not quite enough. He can feel the edge of it wearing thin already, that familiar itch starting to creep in behind his eyes, in the back of his throat. He swallows it down, exhales smoke, focuses instead on the road, on the way the skyline opens up ahead of them like a promise he’s still not sure he deserves.

“You’ll see,” he says, tone shifting again — brighter now, a little theatrical, like he’s stepping into a role he knows well. “It’s insane. Whole place is like… I dunno, like someone built a palace and it has no rules.” He grins, glancing over again, and this time there’s something almost boyish about it, something eager. “Open bar all night. People you’ve never seen before acting like they’ve known you forever. Musicians, actors, fuckin’ weird art people just… hovering around like ghosts.” He drums his fingers against the wheel. 

“There’s this lounge that looks like a goddamn opera house. Chandeliers and velvet and all that shit. Feels fake in the best way.”

He flicks the cigarette out finally, rolling the window down a little more to let the last of the smoke escape, then leans back into his seat, one arm draped loose as he drives. “Band’s holed up there for a bit,” he adds, more casually, like it’s not something he’s still getting used to saying out loud.

“We’ve got a couple shows lined up, press, all that garbage.” A pause. Then, quieter, almost like he’s letting Noah in on something he doesn’t offer up to everyone: “I wanted to show you it, though.” His mouth twitches into a crooked smile, eyes flicking over again. “The whole stupid circus of it. While we’re in town.”

The car slows as they pull up toward brighter streets, the hotel coming into view — all glass and gold-lit edges, towering and pristine in a way that feels almost obscene compared to where they started. 

and so when kerry aims the word mysterious in his direction he can't help but roll his eyes and swallow down a laugh that itched at his throat. depressing was a much better description. shifting in his seat again, noah follows the others lead and digs around in the pocket of his jeans, fishing out a pack of cigarettes and balancing one between his lips. he leans down, head near his knees as he lights it, keeping the flame from the rushing wind. he returns upright with a long inhale, head tilting back as he breathes the smoke back out into the dark, letting the rush of nicotine calm his anxious skin. his hollowed eyes return to kerry, watching him as he speaks of chandeliers and velvet, trying to picture himself there among those musicians and actors, people with eagerness and desire, but comes up with a nagging emptiness. it's washed away with more nicotine, lips pursing with a silent fluster over kerry's confession of wanting to show it to him. he couldn't for the life of him begin to understand why and it sits queasy in his stomach.