CHOIR OF FURIES

they’ve been growing close, which is… about as much as she’s willing to explain. there are scribbles, heavy little drawings in the back of her journal that have morphed from studies of the cat (pun intended) to the tattoo that’d been ripped out of the back and sits on the desk between them. (there are other scribbles in there that she guards with her life - sat next to the blade that’s starting to gnaw a chunk outta the side table, and under strict do not fuck with my shit, especially you joel, i’ve seen you looking order. yeah. there are scribbles. if anyone asks, there aren’t, but she turns over every conversation in her brain near enough every night and tries to figure out what it means. babe. what the fuck does that one mean?)

             “i don’t know. should i?”   cat is… just being cat. but ellie flexes her fingers and clears her throat because cat purrs in her ear (pun intended) and calls her babe and… holy shit, basically. (she doesn’t like looking at it much. it reminds her of riley. of tess. of - anyone and everyone she’s lost along the way. there’s a tinge of pink that still crowns the flared flesh, but this is as healed as she figures it’s going to get. fuck this virus.)

   “gimme one good reason to and we’ll see, ‘cause y’know… jury’s still out on it.”   she does. it’s inherent. her trust eases the tips of her fingers against cat’s and her forearm lain flat against the wood. with cat, she is nothing but cool. everything is just - cool. she finds herself staring more often than not, and when jesse drags her off for something a lot less enchanting like laundry duty, she resists the urge to kick him in the shin.

BABE.  THAT  WAS  RISKY,  BUT  IT  SEEMED  THERE  was  no  immediate  adverse  reaction  to  the  flirtatious  endearment  which  was  good,  but  there  also  wasn’t  much  of  a  reaction  at  all.  it  felt  as  if  they  had  been  playing  this  game  for  ages,  cat  likes  to  think  she  makes  her  attraction  to  the  other  girl  quite  obvious;  with  the  subtle  touches  and  the  way  she  looks  at  her,  but  just  when  it  seems  like  ellie  might  be  catching  on  they  revert  to  the  same  old  friendly  interactions.  she  couldn’t  really  be  this  clueless,  right?  because  the  alternative  is  that  she  is  simply  not  interested.

a  single  brow  raises,  and  since  both  hands  are  currently  occupied,  one  holding  the  neelde  and  the  other  holding  ellie’s,  she  instead  uses  her  head  to  gesture  down  at  herself.     ❝ sorry,  did  i  forget  to  show  you  my  portfolio?  ❞      only  a  few  patches  of  unmarked  skin  can  be  seen  between  the  various  pieces  of  art  etched  in  black  ink  upon  her  left  arm,  her  body  is  a  collection  of  an  almost  lost  artform,  as  if  that  wasn’t  enough  proof  that  she  had  at  least  some  idea  what  she  was  doing.  but  she  knows  ellie  is  just  fucking  with  her,  and  she  likes  it.

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“Later, fuckers! Max, you rock – we are so fucking awesome!”

Adrenaline coursing through her veins, Max all but bounces in her seat excitedly. She feels on top of the world – something she hasn’t felt in so long. Five years, to be exact.

Chloe just has that effect on her, it seems. She brings out both the best and the worst of her – her inner bad girl, but also her inner badass. With Chloe at her side and time in the palm of her hand, she feels invincible.

Well, at least until Friday… if that storm comes.

That’s the furthest thing from Max’s mind now, though. All she can think about is how fucking awesome they both are, the feeling in the pit of her stomach, and how much she wants a repeat of the big hug she gave Chloe back at the pool when they successfully managed to escape from Blackwell security the first time.

She reaches for the ancient radio on the truck’s console and switches it on. If there was ever a moment that warranted a soundtrack, it’s this one – it feels like a scene out of a movie. 

@rcadia

TYRES  SQUEAL  AND  THERE  IS  UNDOUBTEDLY  a  fresh  set  of  black  marks  left  upon  the  asphalt  of  the  blackwell  academy  parking  lot.  it’s  good  to  know  that  even  for  an  old  junker,  the  punk’s  truck  still  makes  an  adequate  getaway  vehicle.  she’ll  have  to  remember  that  for  when  they'll  inevatably  further  vandalise  arcadia  bay,  but  for  now  they speed  down  the  empty  streets  of  a  sleepy  town,  en  route  back  to  chloe’s  house  to  hide  out.

❝ seriously  max,  that  was  so  badass!  we  totally  ninja’d  our  way  past  sergent  shithead  back  there.  a  clean  getaway ❞

she’s  grinning,  gaze  mostly  focused  on  the  road  ahead,  though  she  does  dare  to  glance  sideways  at  her  partner  in  time  beside  her.  was  this  even  really  max  caulfield?  she  can’t  imagine  that  the  girl  she’d  known  years  ago  would  agree  to  be  an  accomplice  to  breaking  and  entering,  and  yet  here  they  were.

@rcadia.

it’s not an easy thing to hide. joel ushered her into a room that smelt like sawdust and rot and told her they were gonna fix it, but it throbbed for weeks. went yellow. went red. went an angry shade of purple that prompted a soft hmm from maria in the couple days to follow, but ultimately, it ended up as a rough bubble of skin that only sometimes looked like a gnarly bear bite. (huh. don’tcha wish it was something as simple as that?)

they’ve been talking about it for a while. cat talks, ellie stares at her in this weird heart-full kind of way that she’s still trying to figure out, but man, she’s cool. the ink that covers what must be at least a quarter of her body by now (that might be an exaggeration, but holy shit, ellie’s a little too mesmerised to take that logical step), well that’s - pretty cool too.

    “you better have a steady hand. it’s already fucked up enough.”

her arm’s laid out on the nearest table, and cat’s already close enough that it’s the only thing ellie really looks at. her eyes. no - mouth. no - cheek. no - gah, this is stupid. fucking nerd. she settles back in the chair and totally avoids looking in any kind of direction that may or may not be hers.

       “i’m warning you. i’ll fuck you up if you fuck me up.”

TOO  MANY  TIMES  SHE’D  WORN  LONG  SLEEVES  IN  SUMMER.  an  ugly  scar  hidden  at  all  costs,  cat  was  one  of  the  lucky  few  with  whom  the  girl  had  shown  the  marred  skin  of  her  forearm  to,  and  she  doesn’t  hold  that  sentiment  lightly.  sitting  on  the  back  porch  under  the  summer  night’s  sky,  ellie  plucks  at  the  strings  of  a  beloved  guitar  and  she  voices  the  thought  aloud  as  it  comes  to  her.  i  could  cover  it  for  you,  y’know?  

it  had  been  quite  a  while  between  that  night  and  this  one,  where  they  sit  at  a  small  desk  in  cat’s  bedroom;  its  surface  worn  and  thoroughly  stained  with  black  ink.  it  was  a  process;  they’d  sat  for  hours  together  over  many  nights  both  scribbling  away  in  sketchbooks,  eager  to  conjure  something  worthy  of  permanance  upon  the  girl’s  skin.  cat  had  came  up  with  the  ferns,  ellie  suggested  the  moth.  now  they  sit  closer  than  is  probably  necessary  for  the  task,  and  she  is  already  dipping  the  end  of  a  pencil  strapped  needle  into  a  pot  of  jet.      ❝     i’ll  fuck  you  up  just  for  doubting  my  expert  skills.     ❞

gaze  wonders  around  the  busy  hall  until  it  catches  a  glimpse  of  maria  standing  by  the  door.  she  recongises  who  she’s  talking  too,  though  she  can’t  say  she’s  familiar  with  them,  gathered  just  enough  about  the  girl  to  be  surprised  that  she  showed  up  to  one  of  these  shindigs.  though  by  the  looks  of  things  she  didn’t  have  much  choice  with  the  way  she’s  looking  at  maria.  very  little  is  known  about  abby,  other  than  she  keeps  to  herself  and  has  been  through  a  lot.  maybe  cat  is  tipsy  enough  to  think  that  her  company  would  make  things  a  little  less  miserable.

     relax. right. sean bobs his head, making subtle work of nudging the sketchbook out of view. she seems…nice. like someone who isn’t about to jump him for acting like a stalker, at least. his shoulders deflate as the built-up tension starts to bleed from his body. 

     “ so…you…play the guitar ? ” sean regrets the words as soon as they tumble out of his mouth. no fucking shit she plays guitar, sherlock. “ that’s cool. i always wanted to learn, but i’m kinda tone deaf, so…won’t be auditioning for the voice any time soon. ”

GAZE  FLICKERS  FROM  THE  BOY  TO  THE  INSTRUMENT  and  back  again,  nodding  in  obvious  confirmation  to  his  question  while  giving  steel  strings  a  loose  strum.     ❝     y’  got  me,  i  do  play  the  guitar.     ❞      the  drifter  chuckles,  it  was  kind  of  adorable  how  awkward  this  dude  was.  to  be  honest  she  was  expecting  him  to  tuck  tail  and  run,  especially  after  calling  him  out  for  staring  like  that,  still,  she’s  not  opposed  to  the  company.     ❝     it  ain’t  that  hard,  jus’  takes  a  bitta  practice  is  all.  y’know  all  those  reality  shows  are  fake  right?     ❞ 

     the speed at which sean’s sketchbook snaps shut could rival his best track times. 

     “ no ! n-no, i was just…” he scratches his jaw, frantically racking his brain for a plausible excuse. was just…? admiring your guitar ? wondering what brand of hair dye you use ? there’s no un-lame, completely nonpredatory way to say ‘i thought you looked cool and i wanted to try sketching you,’ so sean settles on an apology: “sorry. i, uh…got lost in thought. ”

A  SLY  SMIRK  FINDS  ITS  WAY  CURLING  TO  THE  edge  of  the  chapped  lips,  she  didn’t  think  that  this  kid’s  eyes  could  get  any  wider  if  he  tried,  not  without  poppin’  out  of  his  head  at  least.  real  deer  in  the  headlights.  so  guilty  looking  that  the  word  busted  may  as  well  have  been  sharpied  on  his  forehead,  a  peel  of  laughter  cant  help  but  escape  as  the  guitar  is  adjusted  on  her  lap,  looking  up  at  the  stranger  from  her  milkcarton  throne  on  the  side  of  the  seattle  streets.