., sink or swim

[jonny kaplan]

Ice crunched under military boots. It was dark and had been since he'd landed- in fact, it had been dark since he'd left the city, as far as Jonny was concerned. Eschewing the early descent and late recoil of darkness that this time of year brought on, he had upped and left to join a tour in the middle of the night, mere hours after returning from that all important escape trip across the atlantic. He could barely recall the last time he had seen Manhattan sunshine, habitually avoiding daylight even when he decided to be a genuine resident for more than a few days. Jetlag clinging to his tired bones, he hadn't adequately prepared for the chill, his standard uniform of a white tee, leather jacket and black skinny jeans doing next to nothing to shield his heavily decorated skin from the chill. Truth be told he had found himself woefully underprepared for everything over the few days previous. Booking a return flight at such short notice that he had only managed to catch it with seconds to spare, he'd returned to a kitchen that was bereft of anything that was not Sriracha or beer, and now was freezing his ass off as he braced himself for a date with disaster herself. As it turned out, heavy duty brooding did not grant much in the way of prep time.    Approaching Sinthia's apartment made Jonathan Kaplan wonder if he'd inherited his mother's leanings towards self-destruction. These things were partially genetic, were they not? Like his mother, he despised almost all forms of social interaction and preferred his own company. Like his mother, his sense of familial obligation was weak, second to his self-interest. Like his mother, he tended to knowingly fall for women who would inevitably spell his demise. In truth Sara was perfect for him, and he loved her with an intensity that threatened to burst at the seams... but she would be too good for him, she wouldn't take his shit and she wouldn't give him cause to wallow. In short, she was too perfect for him that any notion of romance between the two was laughable. Still, Jonny could shake the feeling that he was boarding the Titanic, knowing that the voyage would be violently cut short.      With not even the remotest idea of where the flighty blonde was going to drag him and even less of an idea as to why he'd agreed to this in the first place, Jonny approached her apartment like it was his dying day. In truth the quiet, pretty little street was more Park Avenue than Death Row, but he was sunk in his customary pessimism, burdened as he was by his own lack of faith in the inherent goodness of the world. Itching to get back to Texas and willing to delay for the inevitable for as long as he possibly could, the man fished out a cigarette from the box of Luckies that was snugly lodged in the front pocket of his jeans. Warm light momentarily cast his angular features into sharp relief, the sudden flickering from the lighter glinting in a car window and making him survey his appearance. It struck him that he could have made more of an effort. But the moment had passed almost as quickly as it had arisen, and with it his cigarette break seemed to disappear into thin air. It was such a fucking con how time would pass quickly when you didn't want it to, such a fucking con that he almost got mad about it... before realizing the futility of it all and sluggishly putting out the last embers of the cigarette under his heel.    Apathy suitably restored, he closed the distance between himself and her front door with deliberate slowness, lazily raising a hand to ring the doorbell. Jetlag was hitting him hard now, hungover from London rather than Texas. His bones felt heavy with reluctance, shoulders ever so slightly slumped: a picture postcard of the surly schoolboy. "Come on then, let's get this Herculean trial over and done with." Notes: I suck, this sucks, Jonny really sucks. Tagged: sinthia clark-kaplan Listening: Widowspeak.

[sinthia clark-kaplan]

The fact of Sinthia's current sobriety should have been the first clue that she was not apathetic to this entire situation. On the outward glance, she'd have been the poster for the reserved, but rolling under the surface of her skin was the danger of slight calamity. She sat, cloaked by the darkness of her bathroom, browned legs slung over the side of the tub and crossed at the ankles. Perhaps she was being a bit melodramatic, but the edge to her self pity was currently being worn off by the joint she was in the midst of lighting. Although she'd never admit to needing anything, Sinthia simply couldn't continue the rest of the day without something, the altered state of mind her favorite brand of addiction. She'd take it in whatever form, and seriously considered once what inhaling compressed air might feel like, before she realized that was a place too far gone for her to go. The full curve of her mouth blew smoke rings towards the ceiling fan, the muscles of her back relaxing into the hard, unwet surface of the tub floor. There was a piece of her, however, that longed to stay in touch with reality. This was the part of her that apparently controlled the muscle of her body too, as the young blonde snuffed out the joint only after a single hit, thinking better of her decision to smoke. She crawled out of the tub, tugging down the pair of boyshorts that had ridden up in her quest to feel either nervous or sorry for herself and turned to the mirror instead, ruffling the honey of her hair. Jonny Kaplan was the only breathing organism that could shake Sinthia from the carefully crafted act she mastered long before she'd even become a Kaplan. His agreeance to the date surfaced memories Sinthia had long forgotten they had made. Her mind was stuck in a dark room, the nervousness of his lips and hands as he touched her in a way that shouted their naivety, the fabric of her shirt bunched and uncomfortable because she wanted to leave it on, and of course, the first, initial pressure which lets you know that you have indeed, lost something. Of course, she knew he'd only knock loud enough to say that he did, and so the blonde was slightly surprised when she heard it. She wasn't wearing much, but enough for him to know she wasn't actually trying to make him pay attention. the door swung inwards towards her chest, her head of curls peaking around in hopes of actually seeing him standing there, surprised that he was. "Now don't get too excited, we're not going out." The width of her shoulders shrugged as he stepped through the door to meet her, not offering any explanation for the moment. She pointed to the couch, void of decorative pillows or expensive fabric upholstery, and when he finally sat, brooding and huffy as ever, Sinthia settled a beer in his hand. Curling into the spot opposite him, far enough away so that they weren't touching, the young woman drew her knees to her chest and grinned a bit wickedly. "Probably shouldn't be seen together." NOTES: don't make fun of my music. LISTENING: everything has changed - taylor swift ft ed sheeran.

[jonny kaplan]

Met by the sight of a determinedly casual Sinthia, her outfit gave nothing away. Sinthia could go to the dingiest dive bar in couture and make everyone else feel underdressed, just as much as she could go to a formal event in jeans and make everyone red-faced at their own extravagant efforts. So he had no idea where they were going from this indicator, but immediately he felt better about the evening. Her honeyed hair framed her face beautifully, the soft lighting of her apartment making her tanned skin glow. She could draw him in with one look from those baby blues, and though there was still the low thrum of alarm bells ringing distantly in his head, he found himself entering her apartment without even thinking about it. Warmth engulfed him immediately, furthering the increase in his comfort, and the familiar smell of her perfume soothed him evermore. Though his appearance was for all intents and purposes as sulky as ever, the man eased into the evening, shoulders relaxing as he warmed up to the idea. Not so hard when you've got a beautiful girl in front of you.    Slumping into the ridiculously sumptuous sofa, Jonny was reminded of the value of a couch that hadn't collapsed in on itself. For once his face distorted into a rare smile, bemused as he was that Sinthia had chosen to sit across from him. "Is this a date or a therapy session?" Usually the svelte girl would curl up next to him, full lips whispering filthy things into his ear, breath hot and her chest pushed up against his. This was determinedly different. Grateful for the beer in his hand, he took a slow gulp, eyes still narrowed on her. There was a trace of wickedness to her grin that was familiar enough to hint that this wouldn't be such a different occasion to their usual. Setting the bottle down, he crossed his arms and slumped further into the couch, eyes narrowing again. "So you insist on a serious date, only to sit around your living room. And we're not gonna fuck. What are we gonna do, talk? Chat about our trips? Share vacay pictures?"     The truth was that he was immensely relieved not to be seen in public with her, and wasn't unaware of how awful that fact was. Tired of fielding questions about her, and wanting to maintain some sort of consistency with all his claims of hatred, being seen with her would make him feel like a hypocrite, an attention seeker. How could they know how he really felt? He wasn't sure he knew how he felt, and he sure as fuck didn't feel like explaining that to anyone any time soon. "Come over here, it's unsettling having you stare me down like this." Usually still, Jonny was oddly restless, fidgeting as he started picking at a loose thread on his jeans. In her apartment with her looking that good, on a date of all fucking things, the ball was certainly in her court. If there was a more unsettling prospect than being a pawn to Sinthia Clark-Kaplan's fickle whims, he hadn't encountered it. Notes: nut gud Listening: ... i'm watching bad X factor clips on youtube JUDGE ME

[sinthia clark-kaplan]

If she knew that Jonny found her just as terrifying as she found him, the blonde refused to let on. To be honest, she was completely off in left field, totally in the dark. However, a complete foil for Jonny's currently behaviour, she sat stoic and eerily still. There was usually some form of movement from her, whether it be the beat of her heel against the table in a lethargic rhythm, or the crack of her knuckles when she fidgeted, but today, she was rigid and hardly warm. The boy that sat away from her made Sinthia completely uncomfortable. It wasn't as if she hadn't always felt that way, but the blonde was getting really terrible at hiding it. Ever since the demise of their friendship, their professional relationship, and the inevitable death of whatever they were now, she didn't know how to balance everything he threw at her. It was difficult, in her mind, to dodge his insults and his lips all in one breath. Jonny exhausted her, which was something she wasn't afraid to admit. Her eyes flash at the contempt that dripped in his words, yet she wasn't surprised by his disdain for being here. The blonde simply quirks an eyebrow and doesn't move from her spot on the sofa, simply allowing herself to watch every movement he made. Too bad she didn't understand that his movements came from the same nervousness that cemented there, far from him. Ignoring his request for physical contact, she speaks, her tone bored of his annoyance with her already. "No, actually. I would really rather not talk to you. But I didn't cancel..." The only action Sinthia takes to close the gap between them is to curl her fingers around his beer, taking a sip out of it before settling it on the coffee table. Right up until she makes the movement to lead the couch, the blonde isn't sure she'll show him what she had planned instead of a drunken, predictable night in East Village. Her teeth chew on the fullness of her lower lip, and she stares at him hard for hardly a second longer. "I figured though, that you might appreciate it .." Sinthia was actually quite sure he'd hate it. Perhaps he would scream at her and leave the apartment. However, his dislike for her was so frequent these days, that she could only shrug her shoulders and swallow it down. Long, slender legs pull her from the couch, going to stand in front of the DVD player. It's a burnt CD, her chipped nails obscuring the label of what was written on it. It had taken her all afternoon, and the restoration of an old harddrive, to find all the footage that she had been looking for. Bending at the knee, she lowers herself to eye level, and her speakers spoke the sound of their voices, the same mixture that had chased them from the bar two weekends ago. However, the sound wasn't the most haunting. Instead, it was the screen before them, playing the footage of a project they had abandoned over an argument only a year ago. NOTES: lalalalalallala sux. LISTENING: if i could change your mind by HAIM.

[jonny kaplan]

If there was one thing that was a stranger to their relationship, it was silence. Though he tended to be a man of few words - and why the hell were so many tumbling awkwardly from his lips tonight? - those words were nearly always caustic, acerbic enough to stir dissonance, inspiring Sinthia to ever fresher tactics in her efforts to get under her skin. What had started off as playful jibes between strangers had evolved to endearing mockery between bandmates, and somewhere along the line all the affection slipped out, real vitriol proving a volatile substitute. It had become war. So a passionless evening of civility felt odd, almost like when warring Greeks would hit pause on warfare to celebrate the Olympics with their enemies, only to return to bitter hatred as soon as the games were played. Except it wasn't like that, was it? Because the Olympics stood for something, and this, this stood for abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Discomfort growing by the second, Jonny was overcome with the urge to down his beer, but refrained. Better to avoid showing his discomfort if possible. If this reunion was supposed to symbolize something, that something was lost on Jon and he wasn't sure that he would have it any other way. Everything about Sinthia was senseless, after all.    Or maybe it was just that everything about his relationship with Sinthia was senseless, rather than the girl herself. He didn't see reason in her actions because he didn't look for it, satisfied as he was that she was an attention seeker at best and a true tour de force of emotional manipulation at worst. He didn't stop to consider that much of their animosity could be traced back to him. He never let himself dwell on the times she'd been sincere, or the songs they had written, or the good times they had had. It was easier to demonize her and to hide behind that act forever, because really, that kept her close, didn't it? Ignoring the glaringly obvious fact that no single person was even half as manipulative as himself, he felt his temper flare at her words. "Right. Then I'll save you the bother - here, I'm cancelling. Let me know if there's a fee and I'll send you my card details." Almost getting up to leave, he stops as she gets up. With one quick moment the beer is officially gone, and he at least feels slightly better for it.    With a groan as she reaches for what's either a DVD or a CD (his disbelief that she could possibly have good taste in either medium oh so evident), he pulled his jacket off, sprawling the couch and draping it over his head. "Wake me up when you're done," he said, voice muffled by leather and... his own voice. Freezing up for a moment, just as he had in the bar, he seized the jacket from his face and shot her a glare. Nausea knotted his stomach, his shoulders more tense than they had been even before he entered the room. "You're a fucking cunt, you know that?"  Notes: um worst thing i've ever written I'M SORRY Listening: Beethoven's seventh symphony.

[sinthia clark-kaplan]

"Probably." The words that tumble from her lips are dry and had there been more, Sinthia is certain her voice would have cracked. Not from sadness or surprise, but from ultimate force of having to speak. Her arms tangled themselves at the thin shape of her waist, even her body was shaped in movement, her hips liquid and the direct opposite of lucid. She was soft curves, and easy lines, not angular in the slightest. She had always envied Gwen for the sharpness of her collar bones and the protrusion of her elbows. Sinthia had never once taken the time to realize that her own figure held just as much power as the model-esque form of her best friend. The posture of her body was closed off, and she sat next to him, but closer this time, silent as she too watched the pictures, headlines, and video footage. It evoked an emotion, but for the moment she wasn't terribly sure which kind. Jonny was an enigma to her, of sorts. Though that was perhaps her least favorite word on the planet, and felt as though using it to describe him was some sort of cop out on her behalf. It seemed ridiculous, that he could still hate her for reasons she couldn't even remember. Why had they broken up? Why didn't it work? What was it that eventually caused them to be here, arms crossed and hardly looking at one another. It was by far the least romantic date that she had ever been on, and certainly the least physical one. Though the ache to touch him rumbled under the surface-- which wasn't surprising, he was the type of good looking she adored, quite content to map the artwork of his tattoos with her eyes after they fucked. Although it had gone unaddressed that he would even do such things until recently, Sinthia always savoured the moments when he would stay. "I don't really get why you hate it so much. It was so much fun, you know?" The bottom of her lip is nearly raw now with chewing. She hasn't looked at him since the tape began. Sinthia didn't need to to know exactly what look he had on his face. It was a scowl, the one that made his eyes flicker with anger and masked sadness. He was vulnerable, now, faced with the thing that they wanted so badly to work and then failed. Perhaps that was why she opted to terrorize him, as to ensure their relationship would never get serious, not as serious as this had been. Jonny and Sinthia floated somewhere around casual annoyances to distant fuck buddies. They had shattered their dreams once, and Sinthia was quite pleased to leave a distance so that they could not to it to one another again. "We were really fucking good, Jon." NOTES: it just keeps getting shorter and shorter LISTENING: NADA.

[jonny kaplan]

Hearing his own music when he didn't expect it was one of the worst things that could happen to Jonny. Haunting as it was intended to be - he had flirted with ideas of them being a shoegaze outfit, or maybe even slightly goth... - it was beyond haunting to him-- it plagued him. Like seeing an ex in the street, except you thought that ex long dead. A child you had aborted, live and well, grown and asking you why you'd done it. The end of his career as a musician had been a very real death to Jonathan Kaplan, a complete surgical removal of his soul. He told everyone whenever they would listen that he had lost the drive to make music, that it was a whim that had passed and was no longer interesting to him, but that was a bare-faced lie. He couldn't make music anymore. Once talented, he'd completely lost the ability, and this was in no small part the source of his ongoing tirade against enjoying anything at all. No wonder, then, that he did not appreciate hearing his failure played out for him to suffer anew. Particularly, he noted, over sub-par speakers. So much fun. Did those words honestly just leave her overfull lips? Fun. Fun, the same way covering yourself in kerosene and lighting a match is fun. Fun, like swimming in a pool full of used hypodermic needles. She was honestly calling that experience fun, that Oedipal experience of setting yourself up for a tremendous (and public) fall, riding higher and higher on your own hubris only to crash down to your knees. Fun. The mere thought of saying the words coated his tongue like tar, a dark rage seizing his insides. "No. We were derivative." False. "...Played out..." False. "....Washed up..." False. "...Doomed to fail." Certainly true. Her glib attitude made white hot anger take control of his entire being, her words ringing round in his head to that monstrous background noise. Suddenly he got to his feet, shoving the eject button and taking the disc. Blissful silence fell between them. This was shortly disrupted, however, by an awful cracking noise as Jonny snapped the small round thing, two halves held splintered between guitar-string scarred fingers. He flung the jagged plastic at her, not caring if he did her some damage. Wanting it to do some damage. "You think you're so clever, don't you? Pushing my buttons just because you can. But you're a moron. You think you can hurt me?" he leans in closer, pure hatred lending each word some weight. "You don't even know me." Pulling away, he took a couple steps back, trying to breathe. He'd been taught some strategies for handling his anger by a counsellor not long after his mother's passing, and if they had seemed stupid then, they seemed really fucking moronic now. Wanting to hit something-- well, wanting to hit her, he at least deflected that urge by landing a heavy kick to her coffee table, smashing it and sending various objects flying. If he'd expected that to be satisfying he was disappointed. "Fuck, Sinthia! Fuck!" He ran a hand through his hair. Finally his shoulders slumped back down, his breathing slowing. He almost wondered why her neighbors weren't rushing to her aid, but then, this was probably a normal level of din for Sinthia's household. "Fuck Sinthia." A laugh escapes him, though it contains no humour, only hollow mockery. "No fucking wonder hearing this shit doesn't bother you, you've got no idea what you're listening to. You're just a fucking drummer." Notes: SORRY U MADE ME I SUCK Listening: Beethoven's seventh symphony, still.

[sinthia clark-kaplan]

And this is where they differed fundamentally. Sinthia had never known the anger that Jonny was currently spewing in front of her. The blue of her eyes watched him with a silent, stony reverence, shock hidden perfectly but the stoic manner of her body language. As she watched this fit, this literal tantrum in front of her, the young woman could not help but feel slightly bad for him. Of course, had she known he would have turned into a monstrosity such as this, she would have steered clear of mentioning their, or maybe just his, failed professional lives. It was in that moment that Sinthia realized that Jonny had a problem. A huge, gaping problem in the shape of a dead mother and failure and the inability to enjoy anything. Yet, he chose all these things, preferred to be unhappy rather than content, and that was a choice that Sinthia Clark-Kaplan would never understand. He was, in all manner of things, unhealthy. Not only for himself, but for her. An act that she hoped he would appreciate was instead something far more horrific. But, it would be a lie to say that she was surprised. The mangled pieces of broken disc fell to the floor, moving only slightly to bat them away as they rained at her arms as she raised them to protect herself. It was white, hot shame that flooded her then, and it enraged her that he managed to scorn her in such a way, that he could make her feel like a beaten child after a spanking. She drew herself up taller, hardly listening to the words he screamed, she could never understand why he always thought she was out to hurt him. They would never and could never understand one another. Her actions would always be that type of misplaced and misguided sweetness, and he would continue to see them as attacks on his own personal lifestyle. The heat rose in her cheeks as the table in front of them splintered, and for a moment, Sinthia thought she might cry, brows furrowing in the middle of her face as she tried her best to remain unfeeling. She didn't know how he kept up this charade for so long. Ten minutes of this and she was exhausted, chin microscopically quivering. Her tone is defeated, and she doesn't look at him as she bends to begin to pick up pieces of the things he's wrecked and smashed. She just shakes her head, blonde curls shuddering as Sinthia tries to keep her shoulders straight. "Just go, Jonny. That's what you wanted from the beginning so please, just go." It was as if she was trapped in a room with a rabid dog. It was rare that she let her own facade slip completely, but there she was, stuck between the two hardest places of hating him and loving him on an entirely fucked up level. Yet, it was clear then, that she couldn't allow him to continue on like this, treating her like this. If he had been looking for a reaction other than that, he would be sorely disappointed. She might have been idiotic at times, but she knew abusive when she saw it, and he wouldn't receive the chance to continue this. At least, not tonight. NOTES: wow that was terrifying...... LISTENING: Blood on the Leaves - Kanye West.

[jonny kaplan]

With his heartbeat thundering away in his ears, Jonny could finally calm down, frustration vented. It was by no means cathartic - he was throwing scraps to the growing beast that was his anger, and it would get hungry again in almost no time at all. But he had appeased it for now, buying himself a few minutes of clear thinking. He had been prone to paranoid outbursts in his teenage years, but if anything they were becoming more frequent as he got older. He was doing less and thus distractions were few and far between. But this was something that differentiated him not only from Sinthia, but from most of his peers - the disaffected youth thing, that had never been an act for Jonny. Small things had always infuriated him, because they were emblematic of the larger problem at hand. Sinthia playing their music wasn't just annoying, it didn't just grate on his nerves: it cut him to pieces and rolled those pieces in salt. In the heat of the moment he always assumed these actions to be wholly intentional, but with his slowing heart-rate he could start to see that it probably wasn't. The problem was that he was too stubborn to admit this after the heat of his own accusations.  But he couldn't blame her, not this time. She had dropped her usual affectations, had stripped herself of her facade rather than her clothes. He had asked her to be sincere, and she had complied. He had blamed his aggression on her lack of sincerity over all these months, and here they were, in amongst the destruction of his temper, Sinthia still without her overzealous defense mechanism. He held his face in his hands for a few seconds as he collected himself. A black guilt started to creep up on him from the inside out, starting from the pit of his stomach and spreading out, constricting his chest, numbing his fingers. Finally he pulled his hands away, turning to look at the statuesque blonde, who was now robbed of that regal standing. She was sat perfectly still, cheeks flushed against skin that had recently been drained of color... he'd done this. Anyone else might think she was merely unimpressed, maybe even pissed off - but he could see it, that almost imperceptible micro-expression that told him she wanted to cry. Though tearfulness usually aggravated Jonny, there was something in this tearfulness, in its rareness and her reluctance for it to be seen that struck a chord within him, and he felt bad for her, and even anger at himself. Granted it was the typical abusive mantra of 'why do you make me do this?' rather than 'why do I do this?', but that alone was progress. When she speaks it hurts more and he's tempted to leave. In fact he would leave if he thought he truly could, but the reality was that this dark cloud would cling to him if he did, and in all honesty he couldn't bear that. He leans down, softly trying to guide her into sitting back on the floor. "Here, let me do that." Picking up only a few little shards, he realized the scale of the task with an inward sigh. "Let me run you a bath, OK? By the time you're out I'll have this place looking like it did when I came in. Maybe better, because at least that picture of my uncle's ruined." Offering her a weak smile - smiles were not his strong suit - he nodded towards her bathroom, encouraging her to follow him as he got up and headed that way. This was typical for his outbursts, always vividly intense but brief, as if his body couldn't sustain that level of passion for very long and he would be forced to run on niceness, all his anger spent. But he was being uncharacteristically gentle, a gentleness that had in fact been the sole reserve of his relations with Sinthia for years. Admittedly not recent years, but years. Notes: I ended this pretty badly, forgive. Listening: My Bloody Valentine.

[sinthia clark-kaplan]

Sinthia is blind to it, the apologies to her that his body language is forming. She hears each little nicety, first the offering, then the promises, then the joke. Jonny had a way of doing this, each and every time he did this to her, all before he cracked again and hated something she'd done with the same passion that was unique to his circumstance. The blonde didn't even bother to tense as he touched her, so thoroughly disappointed in him and unable to really respond to the bone that he was throwing her, the one that she had wanted all along. She simply shook her head, twisting half heartedly out of his grasp. "No. You should go. I should tell you to go and you should go." She knows that this was the beginning of the endless cycle of abuse that they carried out on each other, day after day. Sinthia could recognize it now, see where it was that she was going wrong. This should have been where she made him leave. This should have been the time she stuck to her guns and forced him out. But she didn't. However, she refused to allow him the chance of touching her. The blonde doesn't say anything more, moving past him to the tiled bathroom, it's plainness something that Sinthia was now thankful for. There was a headache, raging in the forefront of her brain, and the young woman sat down on the closed toilet as the bath ran, reaching for the joint she had left in there prior to opening the door. The water bubbled and churned in the bottom of the tub, and she carelessly took off her clothes without shutting the door, sinking down and away from the man that kept her life filled with unnecessary grief. She kept telling herself that it never used to be like this, that they had been friends and their connection had been something realer than anything he had shared with anyone else. Albeit, perhaps she contributed to his demeanor, her carelessness and out right taunting on the subject of his dead mother was probably even less welcome than he let on. there she was again, slipping back into what she thought she had done wrong, when in reality, her childish retaliations chalked up to nothing in comparison to the tantrum he just threw. She shook her head, curls wet, the blue of her eyes fluttered closed as she inhaled smoke from the end of the joint. It poised between two fingers, ashing in the water as she kept her feet preoccupied with turning the taps on and off. Anger, white and hot flared in the flat of her stomach, and she knocked a shampoo bottle onto the floor belligerently with her hand. "Goddamn it, Jonny." She says it under her breath, scowling into the water, unsure of where he was at that moment and also not particularly caring. This had been a simple attempt to return to what they once were, to remind him that there was a time when she wasn't all bad. In retrospect, it seemed that they were further and further from that now, both too angry and stubborn to admit that they somehow had fallen for and hurt one another between then and now. A sigh escapes the full of her mouth, and Sinthia doesn't allow herself to cry, swallowing down more smoke into the thick tissue of her lungs. NOTES: sobbing LISTENING: This Land - Hans Zimmerman.

[jonny kaplan]

Cleaning up his mistakes had never been Jonny's thing. Shuffling across her floor collecting rubble, the already worn denim of his jeans wore ever thinner, threatening to open up into holes around his knees. He had a tendency to wear things until they were worn through, frayed and falling apart. More generally he had a tendency to stick to things as they fell apart, which might be noble if he wasn't so much a part of their destruction more often than not. Glad for the distraction of picking up shards of plastic and ceramic, he's a little glazed over when his hand grazes against a jagged piece of something, the red ink of his blood tinting the offending piece of glass. He swore under his breath. Still, it's a welcome reminder that he's fallible, and he places aside most of the debris to get to his feet. It's more or less clear now, though he'll have to clear the table itself... maybe treat her to another one. She probably wouldn't let him. Still scorned from her reluctance to let him make physical contact, he had recoiled as though burned, retreating into the mundane task of tidying as she left the room. He'd finally pushed his luck that inch too far. In retrospect, it had been obvious what she was doing. She had opened herself up to him by letting all the bullshit slip away, and in this non-hostile state she had expected him to react positively to the stroll down memory lane that she'd planned. She had opened up to him, and had quite fairly expected to have the courtesy returned. But as usual his defensiveness had kicked in, distrusting that anyone could have positive intentions... had it always been like this? Blue eyes scanning her CD collection, he barely took the time to internally mock her for holding on to these dinosaurs of technology. Finally they met with what he wanted: Interpol's best work, 'Antics'. He skipped ahead a song until the familiar bassline that was so characteristic of the band and the track itself kicked in. 'Evil' had been a song he'd played on repeat in the early days of their acquaintance, back when she made him sheepish and he could make her blush, and he was always excited about seeing her. It was funny to remember being excited about anything. Cradling his bleeding hand, Jonny strolled into the bathroom as Paul Banks' vocals kicked in. He'd always been jealous of Paul Banks' vocals. "You gonna share?" Barely aware of her nudity save for a small thrill somewhere deep inside him, he turned the light off and let the light from the hallway cast the room into dramatic contrast. Setting himself down beside the tub, he let his hand dangle in, plumes of crimson flourishing in the clear water. Before he could let himself think too deeply about the connotations of blood in bathtubs, he let himself get lost in the chorus of the song, leaning his head against his arm. "Remember this? Fuck, I thought I was so cool, listening to Interpol like I was scaling the depths of obscurity." He flicked at the water gently, lost in thought. Finally he glanced up, his eyes meeting hers as he scrutinized her face for a few moments. "Why do you put up with me? We're not married, we're not family, not really. You've got no reason to take my shit, and yet you do. Why?" He continued lazily pulling his hand around the water, stirring it until the red faded to pink. Notes: jonny u rly are an asshole. Listening: interpol obvz.

[sinthia clark-kaplan]

The oceanic blue of her gaze simply watched his hand as it slid into the bath tub with her, her face passive and unfurled now. Her anger was ebbing away, though a calamity sat beneath the surface of her skin, clinging to her marrow like the warmth of this bath. Sinthia stares at him a long moment, lifting the joint to his lips as he inhaled. She lifts her mouth as he exhales through his own, capturing the smoke before sliding against the tub again. In this moment, he was not lucky enough to have her gaze on him, and she allowed the second hand smoke to escape through her nose, her own lashes fluttering down to meet her cheeks as she closed her eyes. She hardly pays attention as he spews his adoration for Interpol, even less interested as he tries to do exactly what she did back in the living room. But Sinthia can't acknowledge it, can't let it register. He's trying to remind her that she loves him, too. Yet he is stuck in the dog house, at least for now. But, he asks her a question that scares her into thinking about the answer. She had never really asked herself why she put up with him, it was just the fact that she did. She watched the plumes of his blood mix with the golden of her hair, the water making everything into liquid. The blonde raises her hands above her head to let them rest above, staring into the ceiling and trying to come up with an appropriate answer for him. She wasn't scared of him, not really. She knew he would never actually hit her, other wise he would have already. Part of her was vaguely grateful that he had ruined her coffee table and not her face, but then again, it's pretty fucking ridiculous that she should have to put up with that kind of destruction of personal property to begin with. For a moment, she doesn't say anything, simply lifts the joint to his lips again, watching his face before she ashes it out on the side of the tub. But finally, after wrestling with the question for what seems like hours, Sinthia finally can dictate something to say, rolling over onto her stomach as she turns to look at him over her left shoulder. "I don't really have any other friends, I guess." It's unsatisfactory, but she doesn't know how to describe it any further. In fact, she's quite certain that if she had answered in any other way, she'd be in far deeper water. She was guilty, admitting it would be ridiculous, that she wished they could go back to what they were. She isn't tender with him in that moment, watching the steam and smoke swirl around his dark face. The blonde sits stoic in her bath water, her brow furrowed then with confusion as she watches him lean his head on his arm, their gazes locked in some sort of monumental battle. She takes a wet hand, running a thumb over the creases of his forehead, trying her best to smooth out the frown lines that would no doubt become permanent on the fixture of his face. "Why do you hate me?" NOTES: sinthia i h y LISTENING: Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High - Arctic Monkeys.

[jonny kaplan]

The water felt hot against his skin, his hand brushing dangerously close to her tanned leg as he flexed his fingers, enjoying just the juxtaposition between the hot water and his dry clothes. He'd pulled his jacket off by this point, his once pristinely white t-shirt flecked with blood... he nursed a private hope that it would stain. Without the crutch that making music had been, it was only the very purest of experiences that gave him any pleasure these days. Warm water against cool skin. A kiss from someone who knows what they're doing, never too soft, just hard enough. Shake Shack burgers. Simplicity had always been something he appreciated, in clothes and women and even flavors, but now it was all he could register. Any sort of innovation in simple principles left him lost, overloading his system and making him seem like an elderly person confounded by an iPhone. Conversation, now there was a thing that confused the hell out of him. Love, sitcoms these days, wireless technology, Cronuts... he was a luddite in every conceivable way, finding everything modern life had to offer completely excessive. Though he'd never admit it out loud, sometimes Jonny yearned for the days when marriage was arranged and you did the job your father did. Free will - if it even existed, and he was comforted to think that it probably didn't - was vastly overrated.   This simplicity made him yearn for her to let his tantrum go, already ancient history as it was from his perspective. He wanted her to get out of that bath, to feel her warm flesh under his fingertips, steam rising off her skin after the sudden drop in temperature. He didn't even want to sleep with her in any licentious way - rather, he wanted to tuck her into bed and to crawl in beside her, finding the crook of her neck so he could breathe in that smell he knew so well and maybe finally get a decent nights sleep. Taking another hit, he nods his gratitude and holds the smoke in, leaning forward to breathe it out for her to inhale. He was impatient, getting bored of her refusal to bend to his whims. At least taking another hit had at least blurred the edges. Despite all his inner refusals, as she turned over he couldn't help casting his eyes over her toned frame, all soft curves and the promise of comfort. It was so unlike her personality, soft and lovely and inviting. He wanted another beer.    A small grin crosses his face at her response. Before he can help himself he's tracing her spine with a finger, noting how smooth her skin feels under his. "You feel pretty tense. You should get laid." It's true that she feels tense, her muscles tight under his touch. Jonny doesn't give himself the opportunity to consider that this may be her recoiling again. The water really does feel warm. In a split second he's up on his feet, pulling off his boots and Batman socks. "Shove over," he said, though he doesn't give her much time and starts climbing in, his jeans and t-shirt immediately soaking up water. As tempted as he had been this whole time, it's the question that's provoked this response, and he's banking on the gesture giving him some time to formulate a reply. But it's not enough. Having forced her to sit up in the tub, he's given himself over to impulse for once, his hands finding her waist and pulling her into his lap. His lips meet hers and she tastes earthy, that familiar taste of weed and beer lacing both their tongues as they meet. Pulling away, his hand is against her cheek, her damp hair tickling his face as he plants another quick kiss on her lips. "Hatred's the best I have to offer." Notes: CHEEEEESE. Listening: interpol still.

[sinthia clark-kaplan]

And, just like any other battered wife, Sinthia cannot help but shiver at the gentleness of Jonny's touch, unable to formulate words as his fingers dance across the tip of her spine. She is everything she refuses to be for anyone else. Quinn often puts up a bitchy front, and Sinthia tears it down in one quick flash of her tongue. Cillan, his sarcasm often biting and rude, but she never allows him to get the best of her. Jonathan fucking kaplan, on the other hand, gets away with this lethargy of his abusive habits, screaming at her and then crawling close enough for her to accept that it was her turn to close the distance, even if he should have been the one to apologize. It infuriated her, but she allowed it, making excuses for the suicide of his mother and the neglect of his father. Perhaps, because she knew the love of her own family, albiet strange and still a bit tattered, she knew that despite how much he would deny it, the absence of any parental figure kept him up at night. He was unable to say these things for himself, perhaps would even laugh in the face of them, but the difference between Jonny and Sinthia was that she was the most healthy of the pair, and thus bore the brunt of the enormity of his temper. The blonde doesn't have much time to react as he's splashed in beside her. For a moment she is completely aware of her own nudity, nearly cracking the semblance of a smile at his generally clothed figure. He pulls her in, with a senstivity that he has not shown her in months, and Sinthia falls right back into that pattern of wanting things to be just like this, their honesty quick to emerge on their sleeves. Perhaps this was when they were happiest, in the small moments after big arguments, during the times he agreed to come over after she had no doubt pissed him off in the worst possible way. Even then, as he spoke, cupping her cheek in his hand, she rolls her eyes, but leans forward to grasp his mouth with her own, beginning, as usual, to forget all that he has done, and hating herself for it. The scent of patchouli clings to her hair, exchanging the smell of their skin as she winds her arms around his neck, settling comfortably into his lap. "I thought hatred was too much. You're not supposed to care either way, remember?" She teases him almost gently, but her tone has a hint of cynicism. As much as she may delude herself into thinking that he enjoyed his time with her, she would never be stupid enough to convince herself that he truly loved her. Not in the way he loved Atlas. There was a vague memory there, of him screaming at her, insisting that she would never compare. That sat on the edge of her consciousness as she clung to him, but she would allow that moment it's peace. "But I hate you too, I really fucking hate you too." Her hands, whispering what she wants more than her mouth does, pull the shirt over his head, allowing her face to bury in his neck. His skin is always rough and over worked where it is inked. "Take me to bed." He'd know what she meant. NOTES: make it stop. LISTENING: Hold On, We're Going Home - Drake.

[jonny kaplan]

He's kissing her and it feels different somehow, possibly because he's submerged in bathwater in his clothes but possibly for some other reason that he doesn't massively want to investigate. The fabric between them keeps the situation relatively wholesome, though normally he wouldn't be able to have her naked in his lap quite so platonically. If he feels anything it's an urge to hug her tight, as if he could shelter her from the abusive world - as if he wasn't where the abuse in her life started and ended. Contrary to what anyone might think were they to look in from the outside, he never meant to be quite so manipulative. Just like his father had never meant to neglect him, and his mother had selfishly never thought of herself as anything but a burden that her children were better off without, Jonny always felt that his mistreatment of Sinthia was somehow justified. Whether because she deserved it or simply because she could take it was anyone's guess, but it was in these rare moments that he could see his abuse for what it was, and feel sick to his stomach with guilt over it. Wanting to make it up to her but not knowing how, all he could bring himself to do was keep kissing her, sometimes briefly though mostly enjoying it, his tongue against hers and his fingers splaying across her back.   A smirk graced his face at her dig. It was true - apathy was something that came naturally to him, but also something he prized as the ultimate triumph of man. It was no coincidence that he so lauded a quality that he personally had in abundance. And when Sinthia was in one of her moods, pushing all his buttons like a deranged toddler with a new toy, he was certainly reluctant to grant her the satisfaction of an emotional reaction of any kind. No, he had realized some time ago that it was better not to react with anger but with retaliation, chipping away at her ego since he knew that deep down she wasn't all that secure. Still more secure than most, but not unbreakable... it would be a lie for him to say he didn't appreciate the challenge, too. "Oh believe me Beautiful, I hate your guts." He playfully knocks her chin, landing another kiss on her lips as if it would prove his point. Her arms feel reassuring around his neck. It's a weird realization but one he realizes he's had before - she really does feel like the only family he's got in the world, and Jonny can't quite figure out if that's because she is, or if he's misdiagnosing one unfamiliar feeling for another. Though they never went without the necessities, love was something his family had always been rather short on.    Grinning now as the shirt is pulled up and over his head, he's glad to see it go. The fabric is truly waterlogged now and it's weighing him down, and the feeling of her cheek so soft against his neck only strengthens his lust to take care of her. Her demand fills him with a lust of another sort, but he stifles it. "No, we have a date. I'm thinking Ikea - you know your living room could really benefit from a coffee table." Gently pushing her off, he heaves himself out of the tub. Holding out a towel for her he privately wonders if he's right in thinking he's left sweatpants and a shirt here at some point, or if maybe he could reclaim some of the clothing she had robbed from him over the years. He's sure his high school sweater would still fit, almost as sure as he is that she stole it.  Notes: oh bless Listening: bat 4 lashez