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✦      ⌢      open to unlimited replies. ✦      ⌢      ＠   the bluffs,   around   10:00   a.m.

perched  atop  the  bluffs,    hana  feels  as  if  she  can  finally  breathe.     impossibly  high  above  lethe  and  the  ocean,     it's  as  if  nothing  can  touch  her  here.    (   as  long  as  she  keeps  her  eyes  forward,     far  away  from  the  direction  of  tidepoint.   )     coming  alone  almost  promises  no  need  for  performance.   almost—     because  she  hears  the  trek  of  a  guest  climbing  the  bluffs.     she  doesn't  turn.    eyes   ahead,     she  reminds  herself.    “spot's  taken.”

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Satoshi Kon - Perfect Blue (1997)

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✦      ⌢      closed for   the savior  / @saint1ies. ✦      ⌢      ＠   lethe   club,   around   9:10   p.m.

brows  knit  together  as  her  eyes  scan  the  text.   she  sorts  through  a  mental  checklist  as  she  reads—   white  looks  good  on  you,   true.   shame  it  won't  hide  the  stains,   indisputable.   see  you  tonight,   sent  from…   who?   panic  rises  in  her  chest,   taking  the  shape  of  something  dark,   ugly,   and—   no,   she  won't  crack  at  her  own  party.   a  swipe  of  her  fingers:   delete  message.   almost  as  soon  as  the  button  is  pressed,   she  collides  with  someone  in  front  of  her.   “sorry–”   she  begins,   looking  up  to  meet  the  hazel  hues  of  none  other  than  romy  ivalu.   a  pause,   to  test  the  waters,   “got  a  stupid  text.”

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✦      ⌢      closed for the hothead & the genius burnout. ✦      ⌢      ＠   lethe   club,   around   11:30   p.m.

the worst part of the night arrives.  it's something like an end credits scene.  attendees spill out of the club doors,  the constant background noise of people dulls to music playing from a distant speaker,  and staff appears to begin erasing evidence of all her hard work.  a final curtain call,  but she didn't even get to take a bow.  she rounds to the bar for final calls,  ready to usher the remaining through the doors with a dazzling smile.  on her way,  she stares down at the phone in her hands—  at  the  text—  free hand tracing the wall like a guiding friend until she rounds the corner. “oh,  milos,  you're still…”  words fall short as she finally looks up from the screen,  failing to restart as she notices crimson splashed across his shirt. brows draw together in confusion,  concern,  and—  oh.  rehearsed smile drops from her features at the sight in front of her.  rue,  cloaked in red.  something between a gasp & a shrill shriek leaves her. half a step,  a hand that begs to reach out—  and a pause.  she can't bring herself to move any further.  instead,  she stares ahead,  caught in her stupor.  the last time she stepped up,  the night ended with a shovel & an unimaginable amount of dirt beneath her nails.  “tell me that's not yours.”

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Perfect Blue (1997), dir. Satoshi Kon

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should it be possible,  hana's ears would perk to attention—  what hasn't she heard?  did she miss something in planning?  did someone find out that–  she hangs onto each & every word,  happy to be roped into a secret before she realizes he's spouting total nonsense.  face morphs into disbelief,  hand swats at his shoulder:  “that is so not funny,  tommy.”  she huffs,  “i thought something was wrong,  like—  hang on,  what do you mean yours?” 

light bounces off every surface like it's trying to escape: glinting off chandeliers and champagne flutes. everything shimmered, nothing still -- this is exactly what he needed. but hana didn't need to know that just yet. “oh, you didn't hear?” half-shadowed in a corner, he looks up from his cracked phone, which dangles from a charger plugged into the wall. it was an old and battered thing that could barely last a night, but he had a feeling he'd need it later. “this is where all the 'i-hate-hana's-party' club members are meeting for the first time,” he says teasingly, then his voice lifts into a song filled with mischief: “you should hear what they're saying, apparently mine was better.” except, well, no one had said that because the last time he threw a party...

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a  wolf  is  a  wolf;   even  in  a  cage,   even  dressed  in  silk. please   welcome   hana   sayoc   to   lethe   club.

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✦      ⌢      closed   for   the heir   / @seabled. ✦      ⌢      ＠   lethe   club,   around   10:15   p.m.

question  sits  on  the  tip  on  her  tongue.  five  easy  words:  did  you  get  that  text?  if  the  answer  was  yes,  the  mutually  assured  destruction  continues.  if  the  answer  was  no,  there's  a  risk--  an  assertion  of  guilt  that  hana  isn't  made  to  withstand.  as  quickly  as  she  had  approach,  she  slows  down.  she  turns  her  phone  off  entirely  and  presses  it  to  her  chest,  a  facade  set  to  test  the  waters.  “freya!  i've  been  looking  for  you  all  night.  are  my  texts  not  going  through?  please  say  you  aren't  miserable  here  too.”

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beneath  his  gaze,   hana  falters.   for  someone  that  clings  to  attention  like  a  lifeline,   she  would  love  nothing  more  than  for  him  to  look  away.   she  shifts  uncomfortably  as  he  seems  to  look  &  know  something  she  doesn't.   what  do  the  others  say  about  her?   do  they  know?   do  they  owe  him  too?   images  of  freya  &  rue  gravitating  to  him  surface  in  her  mind.   again,   her  expression  falls  flat.   “you  want  me  to  tell  you  how  to  enjoy  a  party?”   a  pause,   then  a  sigh.   she  takes  hold  of  his  wrist,   already  pulling  him  to  the  stairs.   “come  on.   people  usually  start  at  the  bar. what's your poison?"

though  ,  now  only  half  turned  towards  hanna  ,  his  attention  remained  fully  on  her  .  especially  focused  onto  the  miniscular  changes  flashing  across  the  other's  features  .  the  twisted  brows  ,  a  flicker  in  her  eyes  that  arose  a  surge  of  adrenaline  through  rei's  veins  .  perhaps  not  fully visible  to  just  anyone  ,  it  was  crystal  clear  to  him  -  the  pact  ,  the  attachment  .  .  .  the  evident  string  roping  the  two  together  ,  whether  they  like  it  or  not  .  or  so  to  speak  ,  the  gaping  end  of  a  deal  ,  yet  to  be  closed  -  a  token  ,  yet  to  be  repaid  .  something  that  lingers  between  them  as  conscpicuous  as  it  was  clandestine  .  and  most  certainly  a  debt  rei  kept  a  watchful  eye  on  - in  it's  due  time  ,  though  .  for  now  ,  he  simply  perks  a  brow  whilst  stashing  the  momentary  triumph  safely  away  .  “  to  do  what  ,  exactly  ?  ”  flat  ,  like  a  decision  already  made  . 

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I think I was just born with something dark and ugly inside of me. Always waiting to be found out.

planetarium - adrienne rich/@twoheadedfawnn/ugly, bitter, and true - suzanne rivecca/a burning hill - mitski/a hora da estrela- clarice lispector/ @100493503004422/sharp objects - gillian flynn

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ghosts  have  a  way  of  seeping  their  way  into  your  daily  life.  like  teddy  now:  a  drifter  between  life  and  death.  “jesus,  sadie.  why  don't  you  call  it  out  to  the  whole  club?”  hana  scolds,  brows  furrowing  in  displeasure.  her  arms  fold  over  her  chest,  a  defensive  wall  to  shield  herself  from  the  responsibility.  “anyways,  he  would've  loved  it."  (not  her  motivation  for  hosting  the  party  this  year,  but—)  “you  think  he  wouldn't  be  finishing  off  a  champagne  tower  right  now?  be  real."  hands raise in surrender, "next  time  i'll  just  let  you  be  miserable  all  by  yourself, lest you sign a confession in the bathroom.”

teddy would have loved this. that's the thought that refuses to leave her brain since the moment she'd stepped foot into lethe club. sadie could picture him here so clearly; always a glass in hand, always a laugh at bay. alive, he'd been larger than life. it only made sense he'd be no different dead. they weren't comforting thoughts, and she found no solace in the exaggerated opulence of her surroundings. the champagne flute trembles in her hand. if she gripped it any harder, it might shatter. she just needed one last moment alone before having to face anyone. all year long, it'd just been her and teddy's ghost haunting lethe— she didn't know if she was ready to share her town again with everyone else. as it turned out, sadie had no say in the matter. hana materializes, a poltergeist in her own right, one made up of smoke and mirrors. "i'm standing," is how sadie chooses to reply, unable to keep her tone impassive. disdain creeping in. she blinks at the follow-up question, once, twice, as if waiting for the punchline. "oh yeah han, it's great. our friend's dead and you decided to throw the met gala. i'm sure freya's impressed."

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SHAMELESS 7x05 | “OWN YOUR SHIT”

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here  come  the  variables  that  frustrate  hana  to  no  end.  heat  rushing  to  her  cheeks,  something  fluttering  in  her  stomach,  a  loss  for  words—  all  attributed  to  what?  someone  pretty  looking  her  way?  the  same  someone  who  couldn't  space  her  a  call  back?  she  huffs,  air  puffing  into  her  cheeks  as  she  wills  herself  to  get  it  together.  “it's  hard  not  to  notice  people  all  by  themselves  in  a  place  this  big.”  then,  despite  herself,  “even  harder  when  they  look  like  you,  you  know.”  to  her  credit,  she  takes  the  reasoning  into  consideration.  lets  the  idea  roll  around  in  her  mind  before  she  frowns:  “... you  think  people  have  to  be  drunk  to  enjoy  my  party?”

they  could  only  muster  a  sip  of  their  drink  as  a  rebuttal,  half-successful,  the  other  half  spluttering  through  a  laugh.  “  you  watchin'  everyone  like  this  ?  or  are  you  just  giving  me  special  treatment  ?  ”  misja  didn't  mean  for  it  to  come  out  nearly  as  flirty  —  or  perhaps  they  did,  even  she  wouldn't  know  herself,  but  it's  summer  !  what's  wrong  with  a  cheeky  lil'  start  to  the  night  ?  “  no  one's  nearly  as  drunk  to  enjoy  it  yet.  everyone's  all  just  busy  saying  hi  and  recapping  the  last  nine  months  —  chill,  han.  ”

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frustration  bubbles  into  her  chest—  &  promptly  boils  over.  “well,  whenever  people  are  showing  face  at  the  party  just  to  look  like  a  kicked  puppy  in  the  corner—”  she  huffs,  but  backs  down  from  the  risk  of  conflict.  “fine,  okay.  what  could  i  do  to  make  you  feel  more  welcomed,  alena?  would  you  like  me  to  walk  you  to  the  bar?  pull  you  to  the  dance  floor?”

i  don't,  threatens  to  spill  over  her  lips,  an  instinct  more  than  it  is  a  real  answer.  would  that  be  a  truth  or  a  lie?  alena's  features  twist  into  something  halfway  between  a  scowl  and  a  tight  smile,  before  he  exhales  and  turns  his  body  to  look  at  hana.  it's  both,  maybe.  he  lets  his  phone  slip  between  his  fingers  to  drop  into  the  pocket  of  his  jeans  again.  "you  know,"  she  drawls,  the  words  a  fresh  start  over  the  previously  unspoken  instinct,  "i've  heard  that  there  are  better  ways  to  make  someone  feel  welcomed  at  your  party.  wanna  give  one  of  those  a  go  instead?"

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considering  the  lengths  that  hana  has  gone  to  avoid  rei,  the  swift  dismissal  should  be  counted  as  a  blessing  in  disguise.  &  yet,  it  ignites  that  angry  fire  inside  of  hana's  heart  —  the  one  that  roars  so  large  it  threatens  to  spill  out  of  the  burns  on  her  side.  self  preservation  high  enough  to  extinguish  the  flames,  but  not  enough  to  take  his  silence  in  stride.  “okay,  rude.”  a  furrow  of  her  brows  &  she's  trailing  along  after  him.  call  it  liquid  courage,  if  you  must.  (or  a  wounded  ego,  if  you're  honest.)  “why  show  up  if  you're  going  to  be  all…  broody  the  entire  time?  got  business  to  take  care  of?”  regret,  as  soon  as  the  words  leave  her  mouth,  because  they  have  business to  tend  to.  a  lump  sum,  which  frankly  haunts  her  moments  of  clarity.  “you should take  a  night  off, really.”

eyes  ,  worn  out  by  the  night  (  and  many  before  it  )  ,  aimlessly  roamed  a  room  filled  to  the  brim  ,  yet  .  .  .  empty  where  it  mattered  .  it  shouldn't  matter  ,  though  -  it  doesn't  ,  if  one  was  to  confront  rei  directly  .  he'd  swear  it  by  heart  ,  even  just  by  the  excavated  hole  left  behind  .  he  was  here  for  one  thing  ,  and  one  thing  only  ,  profit  .  selling  to  earn  a  couple  of  hundreds  wasn't  the  hardest  of  tasks  given  the  circumstances  .  prey  onto  the  weak  ,  take  what  was  theirs  and  ditch  this  shit  show  .  no  hard  feelings  ,  no  dwelling  .  though  ,  that  proved  to  be  harder  than  rei  originally  anticipated  when  faces  of  the  past  kept  haunting  his  present  .  much  like  the  one  approaching   .  .  .  hana  .  not  much  of  a  welcomed  one  ,  at  that  and  with  a  bounce  in  her  step  that  had  his  stomach  in  a  knot  .  there  was  no  time  for  remorse  when  her  voice  felt  like  nails  on  chalkboard  ,  scraping  the  inside  of  his  skull  -  undoubtedly  something  hana  would've  come  prepared  with  .  or  was  that  just  the  sour  feeling  settling  in  rei's  throat  speaking  ?  he  didn't  answer  and  he  wasn't  planning  on  doing  so  ,  either  .  instead  ,  a  scoff  before  walking  away  from  the  scene  .  .  .  away  from  her  . 

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from  the  moment  she  sets  foot  into  lethe  club,  hana  knows.  it's  impossible  not  to  notice  that  glimmering  light  tucked  at  the  other's  core:  a  spark  that  rue  evidently  wants  to  burrow  in  the  shadows  &  one  that  once  urged  hana  to  fan  it  into  a  flame.  something  hangs  between  them  now—  not  just  the  knowledge  of  last  summer,  but  something  new.  the  assumption  that  something  has  shifted,  the  clues  that  could  equate  to  the  what,  the  prior  knowledge  that  should  make  that  hypothesis  invalid… she  had  hardly  noticed  her  feet  moving  until  she  was  hovering  pointlessly  behind  the  other.  it's  nice  that  rue  notices  her  presence  too,  she  supposes,  so  that  there's  no  room  for  her  train  of  thought. in  a  move  that  is  entirely  too  comfortable  for  months  of  silence,  she  corrects  the  strap  of  rue's  dress.  “that's  better.”  a  surface  level  smile  crosses  perfectly  lined  lips.  it's  like  the  final  brushstroke  of  a  perfect  painting.   “you're  late,  you  know.”  her  head  tilts,  curious.  a  moment  of  eye  contact  that  begs  her  to  read  between  the  lines.  (is  it  because  of  me?  is  it  because  of  him?)

open to : four replies. location : lethe club, 10 p.m.

she shows up late. always does. not fashionably, not even carelessly — just wrong, like a glitch in the night, like something lethe tried to spit out but couldn’t quite manage. her heels are mismatched. she lost one of the original pair days ago and never cared enough to replace it. there's a smear of lipstick on her cheek like she forgot where her mouth was, and her pupils are blown wide, black holes swallowing what little light’s left in her. she's wearing a white slip — something thin and askew and wrinkled from where she slept in it on someone else’s floor. it clings like humidity, like a fever, like guilt that never dried out. one strap’s slipping off her shoulder and she doesn’t bother to fix it. her ribs show. she knows she doesn’t belong here — but the night is predatory, and it pulls her in anyway — slow and sweet like poison disguised as honey, like the way black mold grows behind wallpaper. inside, the party swells. champagne towers glint like knives. someone laughs too loud. the music cleaves like a migraine. she doesn’t go in. not yet. she hovers on the threshold, shoulders bare, glitter clinging to her skin like fallout. a cigarette dangles between two fingers, already half ash. her lighter’s almost out of fluid, but she keeps clicking it anyway. eventually it catches. she inhales — like she’s trying to burn something out of herself. exhales like maybe it worked. but there’s a bitter punch — of caffeine. of nicotine. of something else she can’t remember taking. her hands twitch, her jaw locks, and her heart stutters in that way it sometimes does, like it’s trying to warn her. she ignores it. footsteps approach — slow, cautious, like whoever it is already knows better. she doesn’t turn. doesn’t acknowledge them. just stares into the dark like there might be something in it worth finding. ‘ what. ’ there's no inflection — just flat. hollow. like a snapped wire, without urgency. the cigarette burns to the filter.

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✦      ⌢      open   to   unlimited   replies. ✦      ⌢      ＠   lethe   club,   around   8:30   p.m.

like  narcissus  and  the  water,  peering  down  at  the  party  reflects  all  of  hana's  best  &  most  well-crafted  assets:  extravagance,  abundance,  luxury.  this  had  been  a  non-negotiable  of  her  return,  a  much  needed  reset  button.  the  intentions  had  been  to  curate  a  space  so  lively  that  there  would  be  no  space  for  reminicsing.  so  when  she  spots  someone  hovering  near  a  back  corner  of  the  club,  it's  registered  as  a  personal  attack.  “what  are  you  doing  over  here?”  she  asks,  already  closing  in  on  their  personal  space.  a  frown  threatens  to  cross  her  lips,  “don't  you  like  the  party?”