tellwolves

[tellwolves]

Attic Bedroom Design & Decor, 1985

[tellwolves]

Eric Bogosian & Glenn Close in HEIGHTS [2005] dir. Chris Terrio

[tellwolves]

toby is tying his apron strings into a firm knot at the small of his back when felix turns. his half-conscious smile fades slightly. something about it feels confrontational.

his eyes dart around the floor. "my friend," my partner, "told me i ought to learn a few things in the kitchen other than being," he looks up, voice disappearing with each word, "in the way."

it takes a few seconds. he racks his brain trying to put a name to the face that seems to know him.

"ffffff—fel...ix? felix?" the image is vague, but he remembers dark hair and a shark-toothed grin belonging to one of the inmates that built furniture with him. felix looks awfully similar.

@tellwolves / toby said: i figured this was where the bad kids hang out.

hangggggggg on a minute. you don't hear a yorkshire accent like that anywhere in this big rotten apple. (it's comical, really; the full body, physical double take. felix was never much one for subtlety.)

"mate?" he swings around, arms thrown out. his apron is already wonky. the cooking teacher has relegated him to the back of the classroom, on account of The Incident that occurred last time.

"mate! what the bloody hell are you doing here?"

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finn, perhaps surprisingly, weakly smiles, still half-asleep. inbetween noises that are more exhale than laugh, "what? darling—"

his feet swing over the edge of the mattress, landing in velvet slippers. he makes his way over to xeno, the soles lightly scraping against the floor.

"i'm still rather—bedraggled," that's a pun, "to understand what exactly you're getting at, but if you didn't ruin them, why should i be angry?" he leans over quick enough to settle a hand on xeno's shoulder, further still to land a fast good morning peck on his forehead.

the hand drifts down to his elbow and squeezes, gently coaxing him around and forward. "which photos? talk while you walk. i'm famished."

it's a logical concept, isn't it? living in a house and being part of a family means it's called sharing, not stealing.

xeno, however, doesn't do logic very well.

he hums, listening to finn but shaking his head. "no, no, it was stealing. it was. i stole your best paints. your best. and photos. i stole your photos from you, photos you'd miss if i'd ruined them." (did he ruin them? no. but that seems beside the point to xeno, who can't accept the absolution that finn so willingly offers.)

"so you have to tell me it's bad, okay?" he draws in a breath, shoulders tense. "you have to tell me i can't do it again."

[tellwolves]

dramatics? check. hysterics? only sometimes, usually for comedic effect. mere and harmless exaggeration? often and extremely well. perhaps his charm will somehow create fissures in cain's composure, though he does not expect it to be an easy battle by any means.

he tries to keep his own—composure, that is—when the nervous tittering starts. it is in vain, for he begins to smirk, and that is the right word for it, too. teasing is imminent.

"i think you have a wonderful sense of humor, if that laugh is anything to show for it."

A WARMTH RISES TO CAIN'S CHEEKS. He looks down upon those prone to dramatics, hysterics, even mere and harmless exaggeration. He'd hate to become one such person.

Cain is too sheepish, feels too called out, to exhibit a genuine laugh. He looks down at his hands—subtly, he hopes, checking his watch and inspecting the leather band for scuff marks, as he habitually does—and notes how his fingers seem to twist together, as if of their own accord. (He's neeeervous!)

"My sense of humor can be," He searches for a word neither too strong nor too weak, "Lacking. At times. I admit it. You will be a good influence on me, because—aha, ah—"

There it is! (Neeeervous) laughter.

"You are the only person to say something like that in my office."

[tellwolves]

Jonathan Bailey in Fellow Travelers 1x04 “Your Nuts Roasting on an Open Fire”

[tellwolves]

"misfortune is a rather strong word."

finn shrugs his jacket—tweed, naturally—off, draping it over his lap. he loosens his tie, unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up, and pockets the cufflinks.

"i'm not anyone you have to curry favor with, cain." it is as if he read his mind. maybe that is a secret uncle power. "i'd rather you laugh than grovel. it looks better on you. laughing, i mean."

he leans in, cheeky and unserious. "only someone you love very much should see the other one."

@tellwolves said: you can laugh if you want to. it's funny, i know.

"I will not laugh. I do not want to laugh." Cain sounds good-natured enough, though, light and breezy in a way the professor often lacks. He feels like he's found decent company with Finn—which in the outside world, has become a feeling that comes more and more rarely. Cain himself is looking in on a world he no longer understands.

"What you think is funny about your own life is your own concern," he explains. "I will not laugh at another's misfortune." Especially not someone whose favor he seeks.

[tellwolves]

finn remains flat and horizontal. his hand scrubs his face twice over before he slides on his glasses. the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed awakenings are largely a thing of the past. he's not sure whether to attribute that to his age or the illness.

hidden unless xeno comes to stand above him, his face morphs at the confession. (toby's feet move underneath the covers. twitchy, like two rabbits. he is undisturbed.)

"stole?" he repeats, pulling himself up onto his forearms. "whatever do you mean? if i've told you once, i've told you a hundred times. you live here. you use and take anything you want at your leisure, you aren't stealing them."

it's first thing in the morning, sunlight only just breaking through dawn's haze while xeno paces by finn's bedside.

"no," he shakes his head, "i mean, yes. you're not allowed to say anything nice. in fact, i think you should be mad about it. you should be very mad. you see, i stole from you."

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I can never get interested in things that didn't happen to people who never lived.

84 CHARING CROSS ROAD 1987, dir. David Jones

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"i'm—not," he paws around the bedside table for his glasses, half-awake, voice thick with sleep, "allowed to say anything nice about it?"

that seems backwards.

@tellwolves

"i'm gonna show you something. but you have to promise not to say anything nice about it."

[tellwolves]

Niles Crane favorite looks season 3

[tellwolves]

she doesn't like football. she never could understand why the country had made it so synonymous with thanksgiving. greta didn't seem too interested in it, either. a few years ago, they would've done something with each other to entertain themselves.

nowadays, she's not so sure greta wants anything to do with her.

"psst. junebug."

she looks over her shoulder. uncle finn's dressed up like he's leaving—his scarf, his gloves, his nice brown coat. so soon? a sharp, longing pang shoots through her chest. every time he leaves, every time she leaves him, she feels that they haven't spent an adequate amount of time together. "are you leaving?"

he shakes his head, muttering, "oh, no, no, no. i'm not."

that makes her feel better. but, the question remains. "why are you dressed up like you are?"

he inches closer, and puts his arm over her shoulders. he pulls her close, and she instinctively curls into his side. she doesn't feel embarrassed. it's just them, no one will tell her eleven's too old for that.

"i was thinking me and you could blow this popsicle stand." he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, towards the living room, towards dad and grandpa complaining about the ref.

she nods. "yeah. i'd like that."

she puts on her shoes, then her scarf and gloves and her woolen jacket. she lets him situate the toboggan on her head, careful to not snag her ears with his rings when he slips it over them.

right hand on the doorknob, his finger goes to his lips. she mirrors the gesture. it feels like a breakout. it's nice to have fun little secrets with someone again.

they walk into the woods. with the trees surrounding them, the sounds of a newborn night, the silence that only comes with snow, it feels like a whole different time. that's why she likes them so much. everything modern melts away. they could've walked into a portal and not known it. she looks for a robin. maybe the secret garden is near.

they stop, and finn says he's going to build them a fire. she didn't know he could do that, but doesn't tell him so. she picks up three sticks that look good enough for kindling. finn's thank you, darling, you're a natural woodsy owl makes her feel warmer than any fire ever could. after a couple minutes, there's a fire in front of them. her uncle finn could do anything.

"you ever think about what the cavemen thought when they did that for the first time?" finn asks, brushing snow off a log he'd dragged over for them to sit on.

she sits down beside him, smiling, a giggle bubbling up her throat. she hadn't. "i bet they went crazy."

they huddle together, her underneath his arm. she closes her eyes. she can smell his cologne, and her house, and, faintly, his apartment. lavender and orange. she finds herself staring at the fire more than talking with him. she supposes that's just as well: he's not being very talkative, either.

it's nice to just be held.

he gives her a tiny shake. "i'm going to teach you something."

she looks up, but doesn't move. "yeah?"

"you know mozart, don't you?"

"yeah. duh. you play him all the time."

his smile can be heard in his voice. "my apologies, young lady." then, continuing: "there's a song in the record i play all the time."

she sniffles, chilled, and sits up. "requiem, right?"

"just the one. you're a smart cookie, crocodile. well, one of the songs, or rather, one of the parts, it's called lacrimosa."

lacrimosa. it's a pretty word. she likes it. she repeats it a few times to herself.

"it's latin for 'weeping'. crying. the state of being tearful."

she loved to hear uncle finn talk. he sounded so—educated. sounded like new york city. she wanted to be like him.

"this song and others like it are sung in the instance of someone dying. morbidly enough," finn reaches and fixes her scarf, tucks some hair back into the toboggan, preening her like a proud bird would his chick, "mozart died before he could finish composing it."

she shivers. she's not sure if it's the chill or the thought of a famous man writing about death, only to die with his work incomplete. she stays her silence, slightly bobbing her head to will finn on.

he leans in a little closer, drops his voice to an even quieter whisper. "do you want to know how it goes?"

her mouth opens, closes. she nods. he sings it through, his voice a little haunting in the stillness, especially since he's singing about death and crying and sorrow. he teaches her what each line means, translating it into english.

she sings it. they both do. over and over again in their small, quiet, wobbly voices, careful not to disturb any creatures that might be around. by the end of it, she knew it by heart. dona eis requiem. dona eis requiem

"we ought to start heading back." he stands, and she mourns the moment coming to an end. she doesn't want it to end. "they'll be wondering where we are."

there's a pause as he puts out the fire. "i want to stay here forever. in the forest. with you. i never want to go back to the city again."

her eyes grow wide. uncle finn, not living in the city? no, impossible. that's not right. that's a square peg in a round hole.

his smile seems a little sad. "i know i couldn't." he opens his arm, the same one she's been under, inviting her to walk underneath it as they head back. she feels reassured, but still wonders if finn had meant to say that out loud. if that had slipped out on accident, and she was never supposed to know about it.

they follow their tracks home. turns out, they weren't far from home, at all. so much for the illusion.

"there you two are," mom says as they reenter the warm kitchen, their cheeks red from the cold. one fist goes onto her hip. her smile is toothless, but entirely geniune. mom must be thinking that they're two peas in a pod. "saved you some pumpkin pie. there's two pieces in there with your names on it. some cool whip, too."

"thanks a bunch, old woman," finn says, teasing her with his nickname for her. mom feigns severity, looking like the school secretary, and goes back into the living room.

as she's leaving, finn says to june: "c'mon. i'll let you have this piece. it's bigger."

when he's certain mom's gone, finn winks. she, more clumsily, winks back. their secret. they won't tell anybody where they were.

[tellwolves]

Naked Lunch (1991) // dir. David Cronenberg

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Anthony Hopkins and Winona Ryder at a rehearsal for Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992) 

[tellwolves]

something in june's face gets stuck. freeze-framed. like she's not sure ellie is real. looking beyond the uncanny reflection, she did not expect the answer to resemble her own tastes, too.

she unsticks, thaws. she sniffs an inhale, buffs the backs of her knuckles of the hand with her cigarette against the end of her nose. finally manages to nod.

"i got frankenstein. i can give it to you tomm—hm." a strangled sort of hum. "you don't go to my school, do you?"

cigarettes remind ellie of her own uncle jack, a chronic nicotine addict, who always seems to leave that smell behind with him every time he visits (crashes at) the house. ellie is not a smoker herself, but she always finds herself curiously eyeing people who are. or rather their lighters and matchboxes, which always look so very tempting when the little flames flicker about. she's considered taking up the habit, if only just to have a little box of something dangerous to hold in her hands, but never has.

(but then again, that might be one of the reasons she is currently banned from the public library. apparently some of her impulses have set off the sprinklers in the past and led to some irreparable damages.)

now humming a tune — something she can't remember the name of but must have heard in a shop or a movie at one point or another — ellie contemplates the offer. "that's very kind." she does appreciate the lack of questioning too. "have you got any of the romantics? byron or shelley — preferably mary. i'll take percy too, but i think mary is much better."

[tellwolves]

june's eyes narrow, in slight. how the hell does one get banned from a library? she holds her tongue, busying her hands and eyes with rooting through her bag for her cigarettes. she lights up, not offering this girl—whose face is a little too close to her own for comfort—one.

she can't help but feel her uncle would be sorely disappointed in his boyfriend, getting his fourteen year old niece hooked on nicotine. whatever. she doesn't care. he's gone. then her face heats up with how much she does, and how thinking about finn like that—dead, dead, dead, and someone whose opinion doesn't mean everything to her—makes her want to throw up.

she quickly drowns these thoughts in an thick exhale of smoke. "i got a lot of old books. if you like that."

"i'm not allowed in there anymore. the librarians are conspiring against me." she may very well be the only little girl in the neighborhood who has been banned from entering the public library. entirely her own fault, but she doesn't care to recall the reason. "they're very awful people, you know — i shall be forced to steal all my reading material from now on. have you got anything worth reading?"

@tellwolves ft. june

[tellwolves]

Theater District, Manhattan, New York, 1982