★

HE REGARDED HER AS HE WOULD ANY OTHER, equality being the very foundation the gym was built upon. Robbie wasn't the political sort, granted, but if having a single mother and a hapless sister had taught him one thing, it was that everyone needed some place to go where they felt safe, secure, and wouldn't be bogged down with the usual labels. Man, woman, model, boxer, didn't matter. They had their reasons for being here.

❛ Sometimes.  A  little  of  this,  a  little  of  that. ❜  Magdalena  hums  the  words  out  thoughtfully,  gaze  lingering  at  the  equipment  scattered  around  the  space.  They were white  lies  of  omission  that  wouldn’t  hurt  anybody,  because  she knew  nobody  cared.  She  certainly  didn’t. 

❛ I  think  we  all  feel  that  way  at  some  point  or  another. ❜  The  admission  slips  out  in  the  form  of  a  sympathetic  ear,  keying  her  into  the  lonely  man  who  existed  behind  the  curtain.  The  truth  of  the  experiences  of  any  artist,  anywhere,  at  any  given  point  in  time.  He’d  seen  it  all.  

❛ Hate  to  break  it  to  you,  because  you’re  special  for  a  lot  of  reasons,  but  you’re  not  special  for  that.  We  have  a  weird  job,   filled  with  impossible  demands,  where  you  can  either  decide  to  be  a  people  pleaser  or  just  do  what  you  want. ❜

It  was  the  very  genesis  of  tough  love,  but  nonetheless,  it  spurred  from  a  place  of  care.  The  desire  to  see  her  unravel  herself  out  of  her  own  mind,  and  prove  herself  wrong.  In  his  eyes,  it  was  plain  to  see  what  she  was  capable  of  ──  the  potential  she  could  have,  if  only  she  could  allow  herself  to  reach  out  and  grasp  it.  Grab  her  own  life  by  the  goddamn  balls  for  once,  and  just  run  with  it.  Really,  truly  run  with  it.  

❝ don't make promises you can't keep, ❞ he teases back, unable to keep himself from smiling. nothing but pure mischief in his eyes, he looks at cillian through soft haze of smoke and the alcohol in his own system. there's never been a shortage of confidence where julian is concerned, no need to exert more social energy than necessary. this game of chicken, however, is something he deems worth his time to pursue.

Cillian  removes  his  hands  from  the  lining  of  his  pockets,  grazing  the  curves  of  the  other’s  hips  before  looping, shifting  around  to  the  small  of  his  back  …  heading  down,  down,  down,  until  the  ends  of  his  fingers  slide  underneath  the  back  of  the  waistband  of  Julian’s  pants.  Flesh  against  flesh,  he  pulls  them  in  closer,  decimating  what  little  space  had  been  between  them  in  the  first  place.  

❛  I can  show  you  that  better  than  I  could  tell  you  …   give  you  a  reason  to  come  back.  If  you  want.  ❜  His  voice  is  low,  and steady  ──  flooded  with  deep  and  tantalizing  intonations,  eyes  flickering  across  the  landscape  of  Julian’s  features  before  settling  on  the  pout  that  had  formed  on  his  lips.

Kashmir  “Kash”  Zastoupil  is  an  independent  filmmaker  from  Southern  California, known for his thematic emphasis  on  alienation,  sexual  fluidity,  nihilism,  self-destruction, and  the  underground  punk  movement. Heavily  stylistic,  his films  are  rife  with plenty of  dark  satire,  and  shockingly beautiful  iconography  that  contrasts  the  brutal  environments.  Soundtracks  that  are  teeming  with  loud,  fuzzy  guitars  and  synthesizers  work  against  the  imagery  to  create  a  hazy,  dreamlike  atmosphere  and  highlight  the  surrealist,  drug - like  overtones. 

Through  his  experimental  explorations  in  film,  he  has  developed  a  strong  cult  following  and  been  heralded  as  a  kingpin pioneer  in  queer  and  punk  subcultures  alike.  

During  the  making  of  his  docuseries  that  examined  local  rock - based  music  scenes  across  the  world,  Zastoupil  met  Cillian  Roseingrave,   the  then-guitarist  of  the  Irish  garage  rock  band,  Iffy  Pop.  This  was  where  infatuation  and  utter  obsession  began.   Falling  hard  and  fast,   it  was  deemed  almost  inevitable  that  they  spiralled  into  a  state  of  substance  induced  codependency,  as  bad  for  one  another  as  they  were  in  love.  Cillian  became  his  muse,  the  center  of  his  universe  ──  utterly  in  awe  of  everything  that  he  was.  The  two  were  spotted  out  in  public  together  more  often  than  not,  crawling  and  slinking  through  bars,   and  ripping  through  after  parties  like  twin  hurricanes.  It  wasn’t  long  before  rumors  about  the  exact  nature  of  their  relationship  began  to  swirl.  Between  the  not - so - secret  make out  sessions  in  back  alleys  and  the  blow  out  arguments  on  sets  and  in  dressing  rooms,  it  was  the  industry’s  worst  kept  secret.  

When  Iffy  Pop  dissolved  and  Cillian  dived  headfirst  into  what  would  later  become  the  industrial  powerhouse,  Dogma,  Kash  followed  him.  To  the  ends  of  the  earth,  he  followed  him.  The  album  nobody  was  ever  really  meant  to  hear  was  ripe  with  intimate  details  about  their  relationship  ──  the  good,  the  bad,  the  pretty,  the  ugly.  All  of  it.  Raw  honesty  felt  like  a  punch  to  the  gut,  and  yet,  Kash  couldn’t  help  but  forgive  because  he  could  tell  that  there  was  something  there   …  that  Cillian  was  on  the  precipice  of  something  truly  great.  

Then  the  matching  tattoos  started.  The  weeks - long  benders,  and  the  black  outs.  Forever  and  always  upping  the  ante  on  what  their  bodies  could  handle.  As  if  they  were  in  competition  with  one  another,  yet  simultaneously  completely  intertwined.  Kash  was  always  right  there,  alongside  him.  His  muse,  his  world,   fused  at  the  hip  and  unable  to  survive  separation,  no  matter  the  cost.   No  matter  the  moral,  emotional,  physical  injuries  that  either  sustained.  The  two  always  swore  up  and  down  that  they  would  die  for  each  other,  with  each  other,  and  be  buried  face  down  in  the  same  grave.  

❛  FUCK  THE  WORLD.  FUCK  IT  ALL,   IT’S  YOU  AND  ME.  ❜

Once  that  first  album  was  completed,  Kash  threw  himself  into  bringing  Cillian’s  visions  to  life   ──   directing  the  first  wave  of  Dogma  music  videos,  combining  his  signature  nihilistic  style  and  editing  with  the  very  genesis  of  all  that  Cillian  had  created  in  that  basement.  Cillian  began  writing  more,  providing  the  score  for  Kash’s  latest  film.  For  a  moment  there,  it  was  utter  bliss.  Shedding  plain  excitement  and  pain  and  trading  it  in  for  pure  ecstasy,  bathing  in  the  synergy  they  had  created  together in their two person cult.  

It  all  ended  with  a  fight.  One  lasting,  final  blow.  Cillian  spent  a  bit  of  time  in  the  hospital,  which  felt  fitting  in  the  sense  that  removing  Kash  from  his  life  might  as  well  have  had  the  precision  of  open - heart  surgery.  The  recovery  process,  however,  was  doubly  painful.  For  as  many  times  as  they  had  fought,  broken  up,  and  gotten  back  together,  there  was  something  about  this  time  that  let  them  both  know  it  was  well  and  truly  over. 

Though,  really  ──  neither  are  quite  sure  that  they  did  actually  fully  survive  separation.  The  scars  are  still  there,   things  that  linger.  After  all,   Kash  thinks,  it’s  kind  of  hard  to  forget  about  a  guy  when  you  have  a  massive  hyper realistic  portrait  of  him  tattooed  on  your  arm  and  all  his  songs  play  everywhere  you  go.  It’s  been  years  since  the  last  time  they  saw  each  other,  and  yet,  they  manage  to  see  each  other  everywhere.

❛ I  don’t  think  that’s  stupid. ❜  Her  words  fell  out  rather  matter-of-factly,  stemming  from  a  space  she  often  tried  to  bury.  Hamza  had  always  called  it  her  imposter  syndrome   …  whatever  that  meant.  Her  problems  with  taking  up  space,  with  feeling  as  though  she  had  no  idea  what  the  hell  she  was  really  doing  at  any  given  point  in  time.  This  made  sense  to  her   …  yet,  it  felt  bizarre  to  hear  it  coming  from  a  man  she  had  always  so  admired.  Someone  of  his  caliber,  who  had  made  it  all  seem  so  effortless.  Maybe  the  reality  was,  every  person  who  had  the  audacity  to  make  anything  felt  this  way  at  some  point  or  another.

taking a seat at the edge of the bed, julian shoves his feet into the boots and starts lacing them up in silence. he doesn't know where he's going yet. he could call for a car, or wander around until he finds a bar that's still open. the latter sounds more appealing, so he goes with that plan as he tries his best to tune out cillian's words. standing upright again, he's grateful to be at eye level in this volatile moment.

❝ i don't owe you a fucking explanation for anything. you want me to act like an adult? fine. i'm leaving. problem solved. no more fighting. have fun jerking off to my instagram pictures, 'cause that's the only way you'll ever see me now. ❞

So,   he   says   nothing.   The   sin   of   omission.   The   sin   of   retreating   back   into   this   porous shell   of   a   body,   where   expression   had   worn   thin   and   fallen   into   a   state   of   neutrality.   He   said   nothing.   But   he   felt   everything, every ounce of it.   The   lacquer   of   apathy   had   hardened   on   his   face,   and   he   could   not   do   much   but   watch   as   Julian   walked   away.  

Yes, he   had definitely   made   his   choice   …   it   just wasn’t   the   one   that   Cillian   had   been   hoping   for.

As   the   door   shuts,   there   is   a   momentary   burst   ──   another   vibrant display   of   emotion,   hand   swatting   at   a   ceramic   lamp   that   rested   defenselessly   on   top   of   a   dresser,   watching   as   it   shatters   on   the   floor.   ❛ Fuck! ❜ 

As  she  curls  into  herself,  licking  her  wounds  and  the  salt  of  her  own  tears,  he  moves  silently.  Closer,  and  closer,  until  he’s  sat  on  the  floor  in  front  of  her.  He  knew  better  than  to  touch  a  maimed  animal,   already  pushing  the  boundaries  by  sinking  into  her  space.  But  it  was  here  that  they  existed  together,  and  nothing  else  in the world did.   Just  the  two  of  them.  

❛ What  else  makes  you  feel  that  way? ❜  Cillian’s  voice  is  soft,  gentle.  Startlingly  dulcet  tones  crooned  out  by  a  man  who was more often  than not known  for  nothing  but  his  rage,  his  anger.  But his  motives  were  layered,  in  all  their  infinite  complexity.  He  knew  that  she  needed  to  push  herself,  in  order  to  spin  something  from  nothing.  Something  that  she  could  be  proud  of.  But  above  all  else,  through  the  aching  pains  of  isolation,   she  just  needed  someone  who would fucking listen to her. 

temper flaring, it only takes a split second for julian to pick up one of his boots and launch it as hard as he can in @fukstar's direction. the heavier part of the heel makes contact with the wall of the hotel room they're in, inches away from cillian's head. it leaves a sizable dent in the wall, deep enough that it is not something that can be easily explained away upon check-out.

❛  What  the  actual  fuck  is  wrong  with  you?!  ❜  Cillian  hardly  raises  his  voice,  ever.  He  was  quiet  by  nature,  soft  spoken  if  nothing  else.  The  exception  was  the  stage  …  and  the  here,  the  now.  Now,  he  was  biting  back   ──  energy  fluctuating  like  the  turning  tides  amidst  a  storm,  rising  to  match  Julian’s  anger.  

❛  ──  You  really  wanna  start  this?  Because  we  can  either  keep  fucking  going  until  we  break  everything  in  the  stupid  goddamn  hotel  room,  or  you  can  try  explaining  like  a  normal  fucking  person  what  the  hell  is  going  on  with  you.  ❜