room 639 - she glues the pages of her bible too
room 639 - she glues the pages of her bible too
for zauberer_sirin. chan marshall/paul banks. 828 words. r.
-
in the forest, is a monster
(pj harvey) who will love me now?
one
she’s convinced her voice is drying, spinning to the resistance of uncontrollable longing; yes, it’s poetic, but somewhere between being young and staying old, she falls in love too, too fast and this is why she’s here.
“i’m going to stop doing it one day,” she says, the waif of smoke slides across her mouth and he’s watching, she’s amused and almost starts singing, forgetting that’s she’s going drown the line, her knuckles scrapped, “really.”
he doesn’t laugh, the traditionalist, and turns his gaze to the tops of her windows, the small little place in - where?
“won’t happen.” (this is a, the boy) “it’s not like you.”
two
he’s not supposed to be in brazil, to see her, but she’s barely in the states anymore because, really, there’s too many stories and she’d rather not tell them, maybe sing them, but never tell them.
he’s waiting, after she finishes, and friends are now doing the thing - oh, paul and chan, why yes, oh yes, we’ve had dinner with them. except not because chan is phobic and paul is too quiet, too shy, and she kinda likes -
“tour?”
“carlos,” he’s sour.
she laughs.
three
careful, “we should collaborate.”
the tape skips, “you’re gonna fuck my heart up.”
(she’s serious; they’re serious)
four
she doesn’t tell the story, she prefers to lesson review on the airplane, with a pen and a dark movie - the headphones, for five dollars, work like a charm if she lies to herself and she’s humming in ‘a’ instead.
dear paul - she’s writing on the back of the napkin, which spills to the extra - here’s a list of the reasons why i can’t stand still and
and?
chan is serious, stalk, and sullen; by now, she’s not shy about the walls and sinai, just like her daddy and mama told her, oh, her twang comes back, just like a regular country girl except she hates to smile.
to whom it may concern
chan is - paul, let’s stop.
(it’s paris, the romance of the bourgeois)
five
there’s a song about her, about whiskey, and she catches daniel, one day, in the market because there’s open air.
“there’s no room anymore,” he remarks, idly, “the songs keep coming.”
and she laughs to be inappropriate.
six
two weeks, no, really, two fucking weeks.
madison square garden again and her hands are shaking violently, her nails cut across the strings and she stops, panics, starts again, to stop again, to panic again and bury herself in the sounds that still haunt her.
her friends say better liar. she misses her camera.
but she’s waiting for paul this time - there’s a story about them, an article, and how they got together, except they really didn’t get together: there are songs, cryptic messages, and a kiss or two.
“i can’t be in love with you,” she mutters to her guitar, he’s playing and swaying across from her, the lights changing, red and gold, blue, ending in blue.
and she wonders, ball and chain, if he can understand.
seven
“holy, holy, holy,” she sings lightly.
her mouth over his stomach, against his thighs, as her mouth sighs against his cock. he grunts and turns and she’s got him in her mouth, soft and wet and teasing because yes, oh, yes she’s going to.
“you -”
she laughs softly. “me?”
his hips are high, his hair slipping back and she’s watching, drawn to the curves and pants, her lips running up and down his shaft. paul grunts again, moans louder, and it’s fuck, fuck
“fuck,” she breathes.
eight
she quits smoking; he quits drinking.
“fuck your philosophy,” carlos got a new girlfriend. but that’s something different.
they’re, paul and chan and chan and paul, they’re the sonny and cher of a ungrateful generation at the corner, of manhattan, of the many that split open and shower a city of chaotic reasoning. chan still hates the city, still tells him that she hates the city, and he’s yet to tell her where he really disappears to -
“oh, home,” he’s quiet and slides a nonchalance.
she snorts.
he’s quiet.
she looks away, thoughtful, her fingers over his wrist and then gone as her hands move to her pockets, into her pockets, a haven to curl.
“this might not work,” she says.
he laughs quietly.
preface
they really meet in berlin, when she leaves early because she fucks up so bad and she spends an hour vomiting in her dressing room because she’s so scared, so scared of the lack of routine and going back to that place.
her hotel is wide, he’s smoking outside, nodding.
“something to drink?”
she’s snorts; it’s the first time, goodbye ruby tuesday, and he’ll follow her upstairs to watch the bottle fall from her lips because she just can’t do that, her voice is sad enough, her finger shaking too much.
later, paul will say: “i think it was then.”
+
a couple notes.
• chan had a nervous breakdown in 2006, disappeared for a few months at mt. sinai to recover, had a couple dreams about johnny cash, still drinks once in awhile and still is deathly afraid of being on stage.
• paul speaks spanish with a Mexican accent.
• zau, i owe you something with mcgosling in a car and a slings & arrows marathon. promise.
for zauberer_sirin. chan marshall/paul banks. 828 words. r.
-
in the forest, is a monster
(pj harvey) who will love me now?
one
she’s convinced her voice is drying, spinning to the resistance of uncontrollable longing; yes, it’s poetic, but somewhere between being young and staying old, she falls in love too, too fast and this is why she’s here.
“i’m going to stop doing it one day,” she says, the waif of smoke slides across her mouth and he’s watching, she’s amused and almost starts singing, forgetting that’s she’s going drown the line, her knuckles scrapped, “really.”
he doesn’t laugh, the traditionalist, and turns his gaze to the tops of her windows, the small little place in - where?
“won’t happen.” (this is a, the boy) “it’s not like you.”
two
he’s not supposed to be in brazil, to see her, but she’s barely in the states anymore because, really, there’s too many stories and she’d rather not tell them, maybe sing them, but never tell them.
he’s waiting, after she finishes, and friends are now doing the thing - oh, paul and chan, why yes, oh yes, we’ve had dinner with them. except not because chan is phobic and paul is too quiet, too shy, and she kinda likes -
“tour?”
“carlos,” he’s sour.
she laughs.
three
careful, “we should collaborate.”
the tape skips, “you’re gonna fuck my heart up.”
(she’s serious; they’re serious)
four
she doesn’t tell the story, she prefers to lesson review on the airplane, with a pen and a dark movie - the headphones, for five dollars, work like a charm if she lies to herself and she’s humming in ‘a’ instead.
dear paul - she’s writing on the back of the napkin, which spills to the extra - here’s a list of the reasons why i can’t stand still and
and?
chan is serious, stalk, and sullen; by now, she’s not shy about the walls and sinai, just like her daddy and mama told her, oh, her twang comes back, just like a regular country girl except she hates to smile.
to whom it may concern
chan is - paul, let’s stop.
(it’s paris, the romance of the bourgeois)
five
there’s a song about her, about whiskey, and she catches daniel, one day, in the market because there’s open air.
“there’s no room anymore,” he remarks, idly, “the songs keep coming.”
and she laughs to be inappropriate.
six
two weeks, no, really, two fucking weeks.
madison square garden again and her hands are shaking violently, her nails cut across the strings and she stops, panics, starts again, to stop again, to panic again and bury herself in the sounds that still haunt her.
her friends say better liar. she misses her camera.
but she’s waiting for paul this time - there’s a story about them, an article, and how they got together, except they really didn’t get together: there are songs, cryptic messages, and a kiss or two.
“i can’t be in love with you,” she mutters to her guitar, he’s playing and swaying across from her, the lights changing, red and gold, blue, ending in blue.
and she wonders, ball and chain, if he can understand.
seven
“holy, holy, holy,” she sings lightly.
her mouth over his stomach, against his thighs, as her mouth sighs against his cock. he grunts and turns and she’s got him in her mouth, soft and wet and teasing because yes, oh, yes she’s going to.
“you -”
she laughs softly. “me?”
his hips are high, his hair slipping back and she’s watching, drawn to the curves and pants, her lips running up and down his shaft. paul grunts again, moans louder, and it’s fuck, fuck
“fuck,” she breathes.
eight
she quits smoking; he quits drinking.
“fuck your philosophy,” carlos got a new girlfriend. but that’s something different.
they’re, paul and chan and chan and paul, they’re the sonny and cher of a ungrateful generation at the corner, of manhattan, of the many that split open and shower a city of chaotic reasoning. chan still hates the city, still tells him that she hates the city, and he’s yet to tell her where he really disappears to -
“oh, home,” he’s quiet and slides a nonchalance.
she snorts.
he’s quiet.
she looks away, thoughtful, her fingers over his wrist and then gone as her hands move to her pockets, into her pockets, a haven to curl.
“this might not work,” she says.
he laughs quietly.
preface
they really meet in berlin, when she leaves early because she fucks up so bad and she spends an hour vomiting in her dressing room because she’s so scared, so scared of the lack of routine and going back to that place.
her hotel is wide, he’s smoking outside, nodding.
“something to drink?”
she’s snorts; it’s the first time, goodbye ruby tuesday, and he’ll follow her upstairs to watch the bottle fall from her lips because she just can’t do that, her voice is sad enough, her finger shaking too much.
later, paul will say: “i think it was then.”
+
a couple notes.
• chan had a nervous breakdown in 2006, disappeared for a few months at mt. sinai to recover, had a couple dreams about johnny cash, still drinks once in awhile and still is deathly afraid of being on stage.
• paul speaks spanish with a Mexican accent.
• zau, i owe you something with mcgosling in a car and a slings & arrows marathon. promise.