#4dearlife

pain is a small price to pay to admire beauty, as they say, and one he'll happily deal out. a hand comes up to rub at his nose, knocked on impact, as makes quick work down the length of the hall into the living room of the apartment. he bends, one arm coming around their shoulders and his face nuzzling into the crook of their neck as a way of hello, sparing not a drop of attention to the television. the crumple of his coat, draped over the sofa's back, greets them second, some script still clutched between his fingers.

He could sense it, the mark and madness of Aha. It was utterly and hopelessly addictive, gravitating towards it like a moth to candleflame. Without a heartbeat, without a heart, there was nowhere for pure Elation to flee except through to the very core of his being. Captivating where it shouldn't be, electrifying where there was ice.

she  is  like  an  instrument  played  devoid  of  discernable  tune.  a  bowstring  sawed  callously  over  an  unsuspecting  violin  —  producing  a  sound  both  grating  and  purposeful  in  its  intention  to  be  as  such.  ❝  was  there  something  you  needed,  fool?  ❞

@4dearlife &&.  liked  for  a  ONE  LINER.

Her hands quicker than a camera shutters snap: Assistant Directors head caught in the palm of her hand, pressed into her eye-lenses. Bibi allows it to sink in that he's been caught in the act. Before speaking her warning, "Those are private."

a flicker of emotions flash across his face, a shutter shot that piles an array of expressions: first, his candid, captured surprise. then, his festering intrigue cracking through. third, finally, something tinged, more elusive -- bargaining off a playwright's tongue.

"now just a moment, my dearest archivist," my latest and greatest subject piece, my idolatry de fascination. you who sought to destroy after your sky was shadowed without your sun, devoured by your grief -- of course they're private. isn't this the most honest expression? it truly is captivating. had he a heartbeat, it would pound in his ears. his wrist. his throat. the only remnants that it was ever there was how his eyes widen, the bags beneath his eyes exaggerated with interest. "there's no need to be so hasty."

nor put your hands on a vital member of the crew, sits on the back of his tongue, waiting. --no, no. teeth dig in, holding it down to the bottom of his mouth, before it can burst through the cut of his teeth and crack at her. it wouldn't be a first that his dear assistant was destroyed in the process of capturing a truly beautiful moment -- but it has never brought him joy to summon her once more, lamenting each fall. the film, reliably, would stay -- he'd accounted for this, as any known director should ( imagine that, a whole catalogue of film, lost in the fire; oh, he can't stomach the loss of his work. hypocrisy's deaf to his ears, overshadowed by the roar of an excellent piece found ) but he can play along with the panic, the pleading, the pleasantry. fit him into the role, and he'll act no matter the method.

( for a performance to be convincing, there must be truth. conviction. )

"please, unhand my assistant -- let's talk."

"alright, little lady," gallagher saddles up after sizing sparkle up, far too petite to be manning the barfront. he could stack a couple glasses high and not even reach the top of her head, so he reckons, having to squint down his nose at her. but she's cocksure in her grin, mischief flitting about her eyes. he thinks of those little firecrackers you pawn off at drugstores, waiting to blow. summer. stickied humidity and the dwelling scent of fried, cheap street food. Too bad it's up to him to rain down on her parade and put her goading to shame, taking a seat in front of her and propping his elbow up, palm out. "you might be all talk, but let's see if your brawn's as tough as your tongue."

a flex of his fingers, a tip of his chin. arrogant suits his rugged face well, thirty years aged.

"i've got one rule: no cryin' if you lose. i've never been known to make a lady cry, and I ain't about to make this night a first."

"so our beloved interim director has so kindly decided to grace me with her presence," there's only something a little snide to it, blowing off all the spare gunpowder that's spiked the air. his nose is burning, but it doesn't stop the high-rise of his smile. there's teeth to it too.

"Sunny," A little fucking worm in Sunday's ear. Tips of a little fucking worms fingers against one shoulder to still him— the other shoulder having a little fucking worms face neatly tucked against it. A phone is held in his face. "This dress. What color is it?"

❝  would  you  please  stop  calling  me ...  ❞  words  trail  off,  their  predictable  conclusion  left  unspoken.  sunday  cringes  at  the  nuisance  draped  over  him  with  a  degree  of  casualness  he  has  never  permitted.  feathers  ruffle  —  wings  fluffing  up  like  a  disgruntled  bird  before  the  halovian  swiftly  claws  back  his  own  composure.  (  no,  no.  can't  give  him  what  he  wants,  now.  )  he  squints  at  the  phone,  blinking  blearily  at  the  screen's  harsh  glow.  ❝  it's ...  ❞   it  really  is  just  a  dress  —  ?  a  perfectly  innocuous  one,  by  all  accounts  —  which  only  serves  to  stoke  the  flames  of  his  suspicion.  the  halovian  frowns,  side-eyeing  his  doppelganger  as  if  he  can  somehow  peer  through  his  forehead  and  glimpse  whatever  strange  machinations  may  be  at  play.

❝  white  and  gold.  ❞  oh,  he's  going  to  regret  answering,  isn't  he?  ❝  ...  why  do  you  ask?  ❞