#Tear Drop Briolette | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonillfated · 9 months

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✩░▒▓▆ 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 ▆▓▒░✩

"'Cause I'm losing what's left of my dignity, a small price I'll pay to see that you're happy. Forget all the disappointments you have faced, open up your worried world and let me in." 🚬

Or; Two rockstars talk about constellations, trash polka, and sparklers that smell of fake IDs & leftover cereal.

☆ Merry X-Mas @raggedy-dxctor

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There's a buzzing stuck under Corin's skin, electric and charged. Somehow, he thinks while his blood rushes with glitter missiles, it never gets old to feel this whizzing rush after a performance. Sharp, tangy citrus clings to his hair - pomelo soda whose sparkling bubbles wet his hazel locks, excitement forces you to spill a whole juice can at the final vocal pitch of Puppy Love. Somehow, even though sour acid of tonic makes his eyes burn, he blinks evenly against the flashing spotlights. Mirth, sequins- there's leopard print beneath that makes his knees buckle, his nose twitch. Dressed in primary colors and geometric spangles, 'you look like a fruitloop' says a cocky voice, slight smokers rasp. For a hot minute he's in on a different stage, between nicotine, blueberry rum rinsed leather - standing like a gunslinger or gargoyle with razor lyrics.

More neon beams onto his sweaty face as he closes his eyes, simply bathing in whatever syrupy vapor decides to float his way. All sorts of gifts are thrown at him, flowers and clothing articles - the cheers of the crowd fade into a low hum, like fireflies or the static of a boombox. And he can't help but grin, alive and lungs full of candid fog that creeps put of the machine. Tounge stained with mandarin cough drops, Corin blows a playful kiss at his audience and waves. He smells the acetone of his neatly applied nail polish on his curled fist around the microphone. Lights drop like molten gold from the ceiling of the backdrop, cheap, popsicle wrapper tattoos line his arms - rhinestone stickers, he's pretty sure specks of a glowstick are jumbled with his freckles, like the briolette, kandi bracelets wrapped around his wrists.

"Thank you everyone, for coming tonight!" Corin shouts, beaming at the loud screaming he gets in return. A flamingo platform with a number - like watching surfing videos. Transparent ballyhoos hug and wrench him to remain longer, pleading for encores or just a little chat. It warms his heart that so many individuals love his gigs, how lionized and feted he felt upon stepping up that familiar vinyl. He skips down the steps, grinning softly when his managers and team shove a bottle of fresh water into his sweaty palms. He poured his soul into every single note, made sure to swallow melodies like cinnamon whiskey. There's a hand on his shoulder, a pat from his drummer and member compliments, air clinging heavy to tunes, reluctant to let them dwindle into oblivion. He peeks behind the curtains at the swaying sea of bodies still raw, full of energy, faces blurred into flushed cheeks and mascara striped tears. Corin snickers, perks his sticky lips, and dissappears behind the seashell curved amphitheater before his supervisors can even realize he's gone.

He has never snuck out as a teenager before, but Milo described the thrill of breaking patterns, busted knuckles, and scatterbrained limericks he wrote on license plates. He rummages through his messy suitcase and pulls out the patched, shearling aviator bomber. He steps over setlists, ginger ale cans, tinsel - nearly trips and breaks his nose. It feels tipsy to tip-toe across the dressing room, still high on cologne and adrenaline, helium miasma, sonic bubbles. He just needs to manage to slip past unseen, a little shadow in denim and disco, guided by nothing but the distant flicker of an exit sign.

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It's rare their schedules mix, allign. Scuffed, road-worn converse tap along the cool pavement. He curses, pulls his jacket a bit tighter, and hisses through his teeth. Thankfully, Corin didn't have any unfortunate run-ins with fans that yanked at the chainlink fences behind the vents. He did see all the posters with out of pocket messages, camera clicks from paparazzi. Slowly, the moon winks at him behind the tattered clouds, twinkles of metal halides, traffic poles - he allows himself the freedom to pick up a penny. The spot they agreed to meet up at is not far away from his concert location, down the alley and up the main subway road. Tyres reek of blistering rubber, he hears them before he notices the black Trans Am pull up beside him - bronze firebird bastard.

He stops, crosses his arms, taps his foot impatiently. The driver of the old timer brings his vehicle to a low, gravelly bellow. Once he comes to a halt, rolling down his tinted window, the ebony haired male at the wheel lulls his head to the rim. "Get in." He instructs, scratchy, husky - eyes zipping to his rear view mirror. And he does, all too comfortable and familiar. The seats are cold, worn surfaces that have him scooting further inside until he settles snugly into the passanger spot. It smells of remote Septembers, tobacco, parrafin paint, and horror movie nights. All of a sudden, he is ten and in New Jersey, there's a boy with a bruise on his jaw and he is the only person who approaches the snaggle-toothed delinquent. Now he sits with the same man, looking at his inked limbs that he remembers patching up one too many times, gauze, bandaids.

"Did anyone see ya'?" And there's playfulness to the question, eager and bone crushing. He rolls his brown eyes, going to turn up the radio as Milo hurries up the roaring car. It swerves almost lazily. "I wouldn't be here if someone did, idiot." Corin flops his head against the rest and glances at his friend waggish, pure - of course the younger male refuses to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his stare, drifting his icy orbs, illuminating diodes. There's no riposte, no jab or snarky comment. Even though he was fully expecting one back, it's surprisingly nice to bathe in silence that will never feel awkward. Jumping out of his skin, the spikes of the tallers cufflinks graze his bare knees through the rips, holes of his baggy jeans. A few creative vulgar phrases later and fidgeting with the glove box, he slams the compartment hard until it pops open. Puzzled, he observes the cluttered drawer, not bothering to catch the fallen zippo or dice keychain.

"Grab that shit for me, would ya'?" He doesn't get what first, but one tattooed finger points at a cardboard container. He reaches and takes it - Blockbuster Sparklers, he steals a bounty bar too. Comics, epipen and cellophane, altoid mints and cash. It's all so chaotic but neat at the same time, Corin scoffs at the british branded hinge-lid packs of burning cancer on top of a guitar chip pouch, Woodbine. "This?" He holds it up, dangling the white case to make sure he didn't mix it up with a cigarette receptacle. Milo nods curtly, abrubtly cutting a serrated corner to escape the bustling gridlock so they get out of the city hub faster. He shuffles a bit to regain his position and shoots an offended glare at the pale bassist. "Still can't believe you're legally allowed to drive." To prove the point, he veers his beloved vintage car more promptly down a busy boulevard.

"I will file a lawsuit, in case you forgot we're both kind of famous." Milo gives him a look, annoyed and snide. Corin huffs as he peels open his chocolate and bites a mouth full of creamy coconut. It's only ten minutes more until he parks by an abandoned warehouse, always the same, empty lot by the toyons, where the meter maids never check. It's impressive how well he knew the Los-Angeles streets, every lane, crescent. Ceasing their bickering for later, the lead vocalist and shredder both leave Milo's ride to tackle the vacant depot. Vandalized graffiti masonry, ivy shrouded walls that coil all the way up towards the flat roof. He fiddles with the keys and locks the car with a dramatic jingle, confident, arrogant even. Fishnet sleeves, biker jersey with random pins he most likely pocketed off of his devotees, Corin follows the flashy M sewed onto his lanky back - not being able to resist shoving him.

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If there's one thing Corin never expected to do, it's to associate torrid smoke with home, to make his toes curl. It clings in the late night, summer breeze and roves, tangles with the scent of rotten heat. He takes a sip of his capri sun, plops a fourth haribo sour worm, and inches just a tad closer to the slates to watch all the town's flickering lustre. "Deneb is such a fuckin' diva." He hears Milo grumble, puffing out a cloud of toxins.

"Deneb?" He asks, chewing the pink and yellow gummy. His friend drones, taking a deep drag. He raises his pointer, chipped black. "That guy." Following his directions to see a cluster of stars that spiral like a bird, wings spread and twinkling. "A real show stopper." Apparently he was an astrologer too, not just a lavish strummer. Corin never payed attention to constellations much, nor did he openly research their names and shapes. This one however was exactly like Milo said, a peacock amongst the vast midnight blue. "Takes one to know one." He nudges his side light-heartedly, laughing, alive and full of holograms, singapore sling with too much pineapple. It glistens just as he gets a punch delivered to his shoulder, exactly with the clenched hand decorated in trash polka designs - some crimson, obsidian calligraphy and ravens.

"Shut the fuck up and hand me the firecrackers." He pops another candy into his mouth and hands him the dangerous toys. Milo rubs out his coffin nail onto the bricks, it sizzles and dissolves into a pile of rutilant ashes. Corin holds his one out and waits till the other lights it, gasoline and blaze, until it crackles wickedly against the thin skin of his hands like popping kerosene. He's twelve again, for the second time after his tiring show, in prep school - on the creaking laminate of their gym. A boy with a grumpy sneer, bleeding nose, another kid with granola bars and Alcott's novel clutched firmly. A few years later, those same fingers hold a bowl of leftover cheerios, fake IDs, switchblades and rosaries. But right now, even with all the hectic work their lifestyles include, it's just two people breathing something rich, voltaic.

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