kate nash - don’t you want to share the guilt?
79 playsi arrive at your house
but you’ve just got up
and you are wearing a towel
and your eyes look dark
i help to dry your body
and I see your cut
so I give you a plaster
and we cover it up
i say “have you been crying?”
and you say “shut up”
childish gambino - make it go right [feat. kilo kish]
hoppin’ round town with the bunnies when
i’m the candy that you need, brush your sweet tooth
heard you got me replaced with a statue?
a veneer, i hear, she’s just swell
if you want to date a rock, you think I can’t tell?
so you bored? are you lost? was it worthwhile?
i feel the ice-cold chill in her warm smile
(via changethemusic)
Mandy steps into the elevator after him, glancing briefly at her own reflection before closing her eyes against it, feeling suddenly exhausted, the boost from the beer finally wearing off. Her forehead creases slightly, not from the insult to her brothers - she’s called them worse, and been less apologetic - but the reference to how they see her. In her head she hears the words “botched abortion” all over again, and she opens her eyes, frowning at the floor. “You really think so…?” she asks quietly, and squeezes his hand a little tighter as they go into the room.
She glances at the TV stand, then shakes her head and sits down gingerly on the comforter, undoing the buttons on her coat. “Nah… I don’t really want any more.” The variety of terrible television flashes over her eyes without much attention paid to it, and she lets herself flop backward on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling. The heater rattles against the far wall, cranking out stuffy, hot air. It’s a welcome change from the usual chill at her house, and the sound is alien but comforting.
She closes her eyes again with a smile, half-hearing Lip’s new quotes. “Everybody pays,” she yawns, slowly. “Innocence, health, optimism… always something.”
He breathes a sigh before sitting up and tugging his scarf off, throwing it to the floor and having his jacket follow after. The hotel’s warm considering the outside weather, distant skyscrapers visible out the open window. He shuffles his shoes off and stands, explaining, “I need to pee,” without embarrassment. Walking into the tiny bathroom he lift the toilet’s seat and unzips his pants, washing his hands once he’s done.
He comes back, laying down at Mandy’s side. He hesitates, hand poised to wrap across her waist—the liquid courage dispelling and leaving him tired—before he settles to across her. “You better not steal my wallet while I’m asleep,” he jokes quietly into her shoulder. He doesn’t peg Mandy as that type of girl, but he’s been with a few if not heard stories about them. It’s not like he has much to steal unless she wants his work permit and expired library card anyway. The article about the germs on a hotel comforter makes him frown, but he’s comfortable and not willing to mention how gross the evidence was. But he drags a lumpy pillow down from the head of the bed and gives enough room on it to share. He rubs a thumb along the stripe of skin where her shirt’s ridden up, sighs in her fading perfume and smell of shampoo as he curls closer. “It’s nice,” he mutters, eyes closed. The sound of cars persist outside in a dull background soundtrack, as his mouth quirks up in a half-smile, telling her “this is intimacy without pressure or burden. Simple.”
“It isn’t so bad, anymore… we mostly leave each other alone. Like a living minefield.” Mandy shudders slightly as she recalls her more awkward pre-teen years, though. Lip’s not wrong; growing up surrounded by boys, and especially the kind of boys her brothers were, was anything but easy or comfortable. “Yeah… Hottest game in town for a while was who could snap my bra hardest.” A quick laugh shakes off the skeevy feeling that still clings to her shoulders. “Well, don’t tell anyone, but I liked Wuthering Heights, too.” A small grin wrinkles her nose. “But Nabokov’s just so dirty.”
Mandy exhales hard in the lobby of the motel, breathing the warm air into her lungs as quickly as she can with a smile, feeling the sting melt away from her exposed skin. She stifles her amusement as the clerk rolls her eyes, but flashes a brief, daring grin at the desk as she follows Lip down the hall, her fingers squeezing tight between his, feeling a rush of adrenaline at being party to their small escape. “Thanks,” she says quietly, intense, keeping close to him. “Too bad there’s no minibars here, huh?” It’s been a while since Mandy felt safe enough to get completely obliterated, without a thought to her surroundings. It’s not necessary, she thinks - but it might have been nice to sink into a little stupidity with someone she trusts enough.
He shrugs and presses the button to summon the elevator. “Well, I drank more then you,” he hums in a quiet voice. Hotel’s hallways always made him wary of his noises. “But it’s not a contest,” he insists as the shaft dings and the doors open. In the mirror he notices the flush from either the alcohol or the cold settling on his cheeks. “I’m so glad my siblings aren’t douchers,” he says in reference to Mandy’s brothers before he realizes how harsh and condemning it sounds. “Sorry,” he murmurs and rubs his thumb over her still cold knuckles. “Just. You’re not seen as a human by them.” He knows what that’s like from Frank and to an extent Monica, but he at least had Fiona and Ian and Debbie and Carl and Liam. The doors slide open again with a ring. He gives her hand a squeeze and follows the signs to their room.
“They might,” he hopes while jamming the card into the slot. The green light flashes after a few tries and he goes slow. The room smells like a standard hotel room. There’s a no smoking sign drilled into the wall above the bed that makes him scoff. Like he’s going to pay attention to that. The TV stand’s dark wooden doors are closed and the remote sits on the bed’s horrible green comforter. “Might be under there,” he nods and picks up the remote to click the television on. Flicking through the subpar channel selection a multitude of times before he frowns and just turns it off after a while. “I don’t see how we could be reading less books as a society if TV shows are this shitty,” he says and lets his eyes close and runs a hand through his curls. “Huxley was right,” he begins, quoting: “One can’t have something for nothing. Happiness has got to be paid for. You’re paying for it, Mr. Watson–paying because you happen to be too much interested in beauty. I was too much interested in truth; I paid too.”
