#fukstar.

IT IS MOSTLY SILENT, EXCEPT FOR THE CRICKETS CHIRPING AND THE FAINT SOUND OF THE METAL CHAINS OF A SWINGSET. jesse lets the toes of his shoes scrape against the ground below ( when did they stop putting tan bark beneath swings and putting in these strange… not quite foam but… pebbly mats? ) he adjusts his hands on the chains, letting out a gentle sigh, and his gaze shifts to the person beside him.  ryan’s shaggy hair ruffles in the slight breeze, and jesse absently finds himself wondering if she was cold. he chews gently on the corner of his mouth, brows furrowing for a brief moment, forcing his gaze back to the ground, his own long hair falling forward slightly, hiding part of his face.  after a few moments, he’s shrugging out of his zip-up, twisting the swing slightly to face the blonde with a little smile – it is almost shy. ( is even this gesture too forward? ) “you look cold,” he states plainly, and his palms are pushing forward the old hoodie, offering it out to ryan, a soft, earnest look in his eyes.  the moment feels like it lingers too long, but he pushes down that nervous feeling that is getting heavier in the pit of his stomach – so silly, he thought, over the simple gesture of offering up his sweatshirt. 

THERE IS LITTLE TO NO DELICACY IN THE WAY STAR LETS HERSELF KICK AT A CABLE SNAKING ACROSS THE FLOOR. a frown pulls across her lips, but not one of distaste : the mess in the room wasn’t what was bothering her, at least not right now ( and, admittedly, she could respect the mess, to a point ).  she felt wild, like she could stay awake for weeks, and maybe the flash in her dark eyes said the same thing – there was electricity in her blood, in her spine, holding her upright and pulsing beneath her skin. but lips don’t part to speak, just to pull on the cigarette dangling from her lips. she finally turns to look at cillian, to find those bright eyes in their dark hollows. maybe there was something there that could tell her what was going haywire with this song – and maybe he had the answers to everything hidden somewhere between his ears.  her frown pulls a little more when she can’t see anything there.  cillian roseingrave is an enigma to star. he is everything, at least in her head, but she can’t pick at him, she can’t pull him apart at the edges and pick at his brain, no matter how hard she tried. he was a master of putting the conversation back on the correct tracks after she’d managed to derail it, and she was always so surprised when she discovered that they were back where they were supposed to be. there was no detours with cillian.  she supposed that she could respect it : they were here because the label asked him for a favor. they wanted him to pick up the pieces of the poor little rich girl ( realistically, they knew they didn’t believe her own line of thinking about herself, but frustration drew that negative self-talk out in waves ) and put her back together, to try to make something out of the hand-me-down parts that she took from her father, from her brothers.  “what’s wrong with it?” what’s wrong with me? she wanted to ask. do you know why i can’t do anything right? anything good enough? but the questions about the song, that had to be good enough for now – he wouldn’t entertain the spiral beginning to form at the base of her thoughts, just waiting for every precarious thing to tumble down and into it.