#borispavsky

— oh, ah ken thit. brains, brawn...   ah  look  him  up  and  down  n  even  though  ah  thought  ah  kent  how  much  ah  did  mean  this  in  jest,  ah  take  him  in  and  ken  just  the  jest  ah  mean:  boris  either  carefully  cultivated  the  look  or,  like  me,  was  simply  cursed  upon  birth  to  live  scrawny.  tall  enough  likes,  sure,  but  brawn  never  came  ontae  the  radar  fir  me  nor  him.  couldn’t  dream  ay  it.  there’s  no  a  chance  there’s  a  secret  photo  album  hovering  out  there  in  the  world  wi  us  as  muscle  men.  boris  drowning  in  his  outfits  seems  more  likely.  a  far  more  realistic  sight.   — brains,   ah  say,  take  it  back.   — think ah mean brains-you’ve brains tae back up the pretty face. it’s just thit brawn is no really the word for you.

      ❝       ---      says   the   king   of   brooding.        ❞         she’s   on   the   spirited   side   of   a  kittenish   nudge   in   spite   of   stifled   mood.     she’s   splayed   on   the   couch   haphazardly  ,     body   upturned   with   neat   ropes   of   hair   spilling   over   the   brim   of    cushions   and   onto   the   floor.     mooning  gaze   fixates   on   the   flickering   channels   as   she   dictates   the   remote   control.      (   ...    )      starlet   says   nothing   ,     nor   does   she   divulge   the   headspring   of   her   melodramatic   fit   of   pique.     instead    ,    she   anticipates  half - pint   of   ice   cream      (     concealed   in   the   freezer   with   her   name   penned   in   bold    ,    girlish   print:      CARI  -  DON’T  TOUCH   !    )   

the  desert  moon  seemed  so  much  farther  away    ---    so    reticent    &    shy    away    from    manhattan    skyline    &    the    cloying    scrapers    that    kissed    &    caressed    at    its    cratered    edges.    it    was    distant,    unreachable    &    the    space    between    himself    &    it’s    diligent    companionship    felt    sharply    personal    *    he’d    disappointed    that    astral    solace    &    felt,    fully,    the    pang    of    that    burdening    regret.    yet    laying    out    in    nevada    sand,    still    warm    from    unrelenting    sun,    beside    boris    (    too    alike    to    the    moon,    foreign    &    pale,    his    coal    eyes    passionate    &    steady    against    his    clockwork    phases    ),    he    feels    a    fervid    course    of    gladdening,    of    security.    he    is    hyper    aware    of    the    other’s    breathing,    the    nearness    of    their    hands    over    the    wind  -  blown    grooves    in    the    sand    ---    boris    gives    out    his     unsolicited    philosophies    &    theodore    can    smell    the    clinical    filth    of    cheap    vodka    &    the    lingering    presence    of    long    burnt    out    joints.    still,    he    smiles,    glancing    momentarily    to    counterpart’s    skyward    profile    before    his    own    gaze    returns    rightly    to    heedful    moon.          ❛❛  NO  SHIT.  i  don’t  even  believe  half  of  what  comes  out  of  your  mouth.  ❜❜

@borispavsky​

dinnae ken how good or bad or in between he means so ah guess he’s spot oan. think thit most ay the difference ah make when ah’m in a room is how much ay the air ah’m taking in from everyone else.  fact ah give a second round ay the o2 through ma body then oot and intae everyone else’s; like everyone spits in a cup and we say drink.  ah feel a bit like a weird little add on tae the social sphere like thit. didnae think ah had much an effect oan anyone: thit’s where ma apathy sits and gets intae bed where ah’m aw cozy wi it. hearing anything on the contrary feels like a sharp something tae the guts. dinnae ken whit thit is either. could be anything tae dae wi the mouth it’s come from.

                so ma hanging heid oan ma bed goes from straight dozing tae straight up n alert n eyeing boris from oot ay the corner ay ma eye. dinnae ken whether he’s talking aboot ma effect or the general you - general you, ah salute - like the pointed social commentary kind we’re both stupidly fond of. the initial self centred but entirely plausible (if ah’m no just pasting ma rose tinted view on whit ah like fir our whitever type ay relationship tae be) kept me oan the road tae thinking it was me. genuinely plainly aw aboot mark breathing in all thit air n breathing the bad shit back oot fir everyone else tae swallow renton.  ah’m no fucking dumb, aw ah dae is think aboot other people, good or bad thoughts. ah ken thit people think aboot other people, ah’m no the only cognitive fucker going likes. the thought ay getting a thought oan me though, fully oan me, still gets me totally scoobied. naw, ah ken thit scoobied isnae the word oan the tip ay ma tongue right now but ah dinnae ken one better. ah dinnae seem tae ken very much recently n whenever ah do, it’s embarrassing.

                first things first: ma eyes retreat. hover away from boris n ma side eyeing shenanigans because the scoobied feeling gets ma stomach acting up n giving us a plunging feeling too. ah look away from him sitting on the other end ay ma bed n let the peekers hang across ma bedroom instead.  they land on billy’s bed.  best thing he could’ve done, the fucker, leaving the house aftir doing the worst thing he could’ve done fir me today (see coming home early n sweeping in oan ma free time like the thieving eagle eyed cunt he is). 

                 naw, he left. ah shouldnae dwell. ah close ma eyes fir a moment n let ma heid swing back and bang against the head board ay the bed behind me. ah give it a good knock once and then give another, slow but audible n hard fucking hitting thank you very much. 

                the clanking sound ay the wood against the wall hits n ah’m suddenly reminded ay the heavenly prints up above me posted up behind the bed oan the wall:  music, artists, fitba.  ah think aboot the shot ay the famous five, the hibs forward line, thit’s up behind me; the lot ay them wearing the same green shirt ah lent boris just a day ago. the loud fucking noise ah would’ve made if anyone else asked tae keep it any longer than the length of a game – the small fuckin chance ah would’ve lent it out in the first place. ma stingy gene didnae even kick in. he asked n ah smiled.

                ah smile now. eyes closed n widespread oan ma face. the scoobied feelin does a flip in ma guts. naw, ah cannae dae this blind. ah let the smile rest n fade. ah let vision back in next n go tae glance at boris but think better ay masel.   — better stop acting up then, aye?   ah go, vague as.   — better chill oot if it turns oot people are actually watching. 

@borispavsky​

— right oan,   ah say, feeling mightily americanised fir the turn ay phrase. it’s thit gobsmacked ah’m hanging ontae every word he sais and will probably continue in thit fashion till things inevitably dae go tits up (n even then ah’m sure ah’ll still be listening) feeling thit ah’ve really been hanging ontae round boris. ah can only hope the childish giddiness isnae strung up oan ma coupon like ah so fear it could be.   

                — please,   ah implore. ah ken the look is severely plastered oan ma face n there’s no getting rid of it. only choice is tae lean intae it in the proper ignorance and ma feeble non attempts at hiding it. let the smile n glimmer in ma eye sit.   — ah’m awl ears. 

.* ♡ /  “  he’s  a  real  asshole,  ain’t  he  ?  ”  /  re  :  @borispavsky

her    high    cheek    bears    the    ripe,    wilted    bloom    of    a    bruise,    hidden    partially    by    the    blood    rush    tingeing    freckled    face,    all    the    way    to    the    tips    of    her    ears,    an    ashamed    pink.    beverly    hooks    her    thumbs    on    belt    loops,    averting    heavy    eyes    to    the    slick    rainbows    curling    on    alley    cement.    all    she    can    think    to    say    are    half    sentences.    dumb    &    dim.    his    words    hang    heavy,    an    accusation    too    sure    to    be    combatted    (    like    he’d    been    there    before,    the    bare    clarity    of    his    understanding    ).               ❛❛  no.  he’s  not.  ❜❜          DUMB.    struck    dumb.    tears    prick,    yet    another    uncomfortable    display.    if    only    it    weren’t    so    hot    out.    if    only    she’d    brought    a    pack    of    cigarettes    ---    hell,    she’d    settle    for    her    yo  -  yo.    something    else,    anything    else,    to    do    besides    blubber    in    the    company    of    boris’    cool    delegations.          ❛❛  you  don’t  even  know  him.  he’s  not  an  asshole.  ❜❜