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starter 4 @fukstar (denver).
“so, uh...” hands go in pockets, rockin toe to heel.
there's a blanket over his brain right now. chris lee feels warm and fuzzy and out of it as fuck. he laughs lazily, in a type of way you might mistake for flirtin. grinnin a little. “can i crash on your couch tonight?” his mouth is dry from forgettin how to swallow.
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“ put on some makeup and go to a bar. ” @fukstar, sid arellano.
olivia could stop being a fuckin’ doomer about everything  —  but it’s just so easy being a damn debbie downer. it’s so easy. with those heavy lids that blink owlishly, all tired and rimmed with dark circles. liver damage, insomnia, drugs catching up to her body  …  olivia drinks iced water from a deli cup, while she wipes down her station with sanitizer and a scrap of towel. her shoulders haven’t rolled back once, she doesn’t know when she’s unclenched her jaw last.  “i would. but i got kids to go home to, a cat to feed, and i’d rather be in bed.”  yeah. it’s easy to be a doomer. she can prove it a thousand times over. she hates the sound of her voice when she says this  —  olivia laments the time of her life when she would be jumping at the opportunity to go hang out with coworkers, do karaoke, get drunk and come to work just a bit hungover.  “too old for that. bones are bad.”
@fukstar said: look you skinny bastard, will you wake up? from mia.
aw but chris lee is feelin mighty sorry for himself. he's been awake the entire time, ignorin mia as she tries shakin him awake. was it her or someone else that tried to peel his eyelids back? well he ignored that too. what was it with these musician types and their fuckin drinkin man... they'd drank him straight under the table. his head is goin brrrrrrrrr and his tummy feels all swishy and nasty and gross. chris lee would always sooner light up a joint than do whatever the hell it was he did last night. not that he don't like a good drink, but after his fourth shot of tequila he weren't feelin so neat.
“you're so loud right now,” he mutters, watery mouthed and takin a moment to gulp. chris lee and the prairie bastards are s'posed to be supportin spitkiss on their north american tour... or is it the other way around? he can't remember. shit, are they playin today? he's suddenly wide eyed and shiftin onto his back. lookin across at mia, chris asks her, “what time is it?”
@fukstar / cont.
“so it’s that simple? do what i want, fuck the rest?”
she’s coke-fiend chic; 80% legs— red-bottom heel bobbing, half-hung off the arch of her foot. all the sharp angles of her are used as lean-to’s: cupped palm cradling an elbow, knees supporting her poor, slumped posture. it’s cooler up top; goose flesh pimpling where the perfumed breeze kisses her skin.
“even if they hate me for it?”
truthfully, in all parallels, she’s the schmoozing bastard with the champagne flute. a nepo kid with a few records and a five-hundred episodic chronicling everything from her first fuck to her first mental breakdown. she looks into the glass. swirls its contents around. it’s warm now— seasoned with the breath of the record producer who handed it to her. nico sets it aside, nauseated, and pops the clasp on her heart-shaped purse.
“you’re in that band.” déjà vu. she holds a tiny mirror up and tucks a flyaway back into place. ignores the smudged, i’ve been crying make-up and instead eyes him in the compact’s reflection before snapping it shut.
“do you know who i am?”
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