⋮ "one way or another" - lubethesystem
⤷ chapter one; 'one way, or another, im gonna find ya'
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
"i'll follow your bus downtown,
i'll wait outside and see who comes out.
and, you won't see me, but, i'll see you."
⤷ ⋮ pairing: thurston moore/lee ranaldo [sonic youth]
⤷ ⋮ cw: n/a [subject to change as fic goes on, but, starts off normal]
⤷ ⋮ tags: smoking, late night conversations, domestic fluff, banter, awkwardness, takes place in 1984, other additional tags to be added.
a sneak peek of this chapter...
Thurston had learned that people could melt.
He'd delineated such a realization upon the wind-knocking junction of bodies crashing in tsunami, squinted at the grain-inkling-droplets of facial recognition, saw how it all vanished at some point, how the bones collided in intimacy and soon reveled in the veneration it was to subsequently disappear. It was a magnitude that evoked sonder, a deep thrum of quiet that seemingly surpassed the decades of huddling fervor, to see the oozing occur in a blend of palpable time and internal wake. As if he could control it, when people became nothing more than just a gust of gelid air against a cloud-lined sky and a concrete-rind wall.
He'd inhale, it was a forcible reflex necessary to survive—let the speech happen, let the conversational slack seep into his very nervous system and keep himself palpitating—yet, that contortion seemingly slipped his conscious mind in every waking state of boredom. He felt wrung of placidity in the wake of interaction that never sparked, or piqued, or stimulated; a lymphatic drainage, a mental fog, a sudden death; it never amounted to intellectual interest, intuitive synchrony. Therefore, like disposable wreckage, those same souls would come to the precipice, boil over at a billowing point, and then morphose into a dispensable blink of nothing.
Things could beckon him forth into a static stasis, however. Like that corner of the room. When all other abundant, supernumeraries fizzled to a liquidation of ceased-existence, there was always someone standing at a glance, at a distance, in swallowed introspection. Thurston's eyes could always find a point of oxygen in a burial of waste, could always find something to subconsciously drift on the fault-line of. Bisected awareness completely hearkened to the abysmally profound serenity, constantly radiating from cloistered spaces and rotten doorways.
Placidity in pursed lips, in a black winter jacket that bled like ink against a wall covered in delirious grime, in a blase limbo of poised-tense while attempting to meld dark hair with darkness itself—one that was a natural oath of mute. That was what was most intriguing, how most everything could be tuned out of his ear, every single raffish bluster, yet a completely solitary means of existence could be the most accentuated sound possible. He attuned himself to it. Most shows bled out with that same extremity, a visceral attachment only strewn and spurred on in a hypothetical locked line of sight; Thurston found himself dependent on escaping what he found completely hindering and confining himself to what provided stability.
It was almost instinctual, when he saw that shadow of a man navigating through the hoard, to linger behind.
or; everything is bleak when thurston can't find meaning in it. he finds sweet stimulation when he least expects it.
chat im SO excited to be posting this one!! love this (somewhat) au and it's crazy ass plot. fucking awesome. it does lean in a direction more like romantic horror later.. but for NOW it's fun and normal.
not gonna be that person and yap for ten million years about this fic.. but i am gonna try to pound out these chapters more often than my usual once-a-month posting pattern if possible so i can write the FUN PART sooner lol..
currently posting on mobile because i won't be home with my computer until august. my bad if the formatting on the fic or this post is off at all.
okay.. love you guys. here's the playlist below.
