paris hc

an alternative version of andreil’s first kiss.

go read it and other works on ao3 here


“I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.”

- Richard Siken, Crush.

Neil jolted awake, sweat soaking his skin and mouth dry from dreaming. It took a few moments for him to regain consciousness: first, he watched the darkness morph into his dorm, then, he heard Matt’s steady breathing from beneath. His chest felt constricted, lungs struggling to function like they were supposed to.

Everything came to an aching halt, and his vision doubled, and then his breathing faltered and heart stammered and surroundings began to blur and he forced himself to move, mind still on autopilot. Every step was a conscious effort, and he felt distant, looking at himself from above rather than from within.

He wasn’t sure how but he found himself ascending the stairs, two at a time, and cracked open the metal door. There, he hesitated in the entry, and his eyes landed on the man ahead; a silhouette against a dark backdrop. His mind had sorted through places to go, a safe haven to reside in, and his feet had taken him to Andrew.

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neil has a bad day and does some reflecting.


“Unbearable claustrophobia of the soul”

- Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch.

The thing about the mind was this: if you fed an idea enough it began to leak through the cracks, blocking out the light and polluting every branched thought. This became an endless cycle; the hunter and the prey, arrow piercing puckered flesh. And Neil was tired of being the rabbit.

He was currently in the locker room’s shower, head leaning against cold tile, the cracks between each one no doubt imprinting his skin. Everything felt disjointed; each moment wasn’t moving onto the next like it should. The past and present merging together in an overlap that blurred the edges. He could no longer distinguish between reality and memories, the only tell were his senses channelling in on his aching limbs, pulse a slamming beat inside his skull.

For him, numbness wasn’t a lack of feeling, it was an uncomfortable buzzing underneath his skin; like the hum of electricity waiting to be sparked to life. But his wires were disconnected, burnt out, and he didn’t know how to repair them.

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Georges Hobeika Mains Précieuses n•1 “minaudière” HC FW 17-18 #georgeshobeika #paris #hc #fw #fw1718 #pfw

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Headcanon: prom committee!JD
  • HC: okay westerburgers what's our prom theme for this year?
  • HD: classy, long flowy, like a night in Paris
  • HC: next
  • HC: did you have a brain tumour for breakfast? No. Next
  • JD: here's an idea... Glitter bombs... Kaboom™
  • Veronica: what the fuck