an unholy mess of a girl. (corleones) wrote,
an unholy mess of a girl.
corleones

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happy birthday, iva!

anthem for doomed youth
political animals
tj. hammond. fic + mix for martyr4mylove4u's birthday. most ridiculous gift for the most ridiculous human. Seventeen is the worst year. There is stuff after that looks worse, feels worse but in his bones, he knows there is nothing like seventeen.





But damn if there isn't anything sexier
than a slender boy with a handgun,
a fast car, a bottle of pills.
[crush | richard siken]




+ no church in the wild | jay-z & kayne west ft. frank ocean
Human beings in a mob
What’s a mob to a king?
What’s a king to a god?
What’s a god to a non-believer?
Who don’t believe in anything?
We make it out alive
All right, all right
No church in the wild


The Hammonds are a family of politicians, (he takes to calling them sophists during freshman year after attending a single philosophy lecture and deciding it's the funniest thing in the world - he's still not proud of that one). It's a business, the way anything is, a trade that people are born into.

His father asks him once, what he'd like to do. On a dinner home from university.

"You're a smart kid, you know," he says, like he's surprised, "What on earth do you plan to do with that?"

And TJ had looked up, a pair of raw knuckles and a black eye grinning over the silverware. "Do I have a choice?" he'd said.

+ daredevil | fiona apple
I guess I just must be a daredevil
I don't feel anything until I smash it up
I'm caught on the cold, caught on the hot
Not so with the warmer lot
And all I want is a confidant
To help me laugh it off
And don't let me ruin me
I may need a chaperone


He has a face like a fox, something sharp and fragile there at the same time and most people ignore that latter bit, most people only see over half of who he is. Sunglasses in the late morning, his car cruising across the city in a dizzy summer hazer and he wears a jacket, leather suede something even when it is hot out and if it feels like armour than no one notices that.

They grow up quickly, him and Doug, a kind of accelerated youth, twin paths of precociousness and deviance. While Doug is being fitted for suits at sixteen, TJ has mastered every spirit on the planet by fourteen, learns people and their bodies and faces.

He's at a college party somewhere outside of Washington, a bonfire behind someone's mansion and this is where is starts. The guy is older, maybe eighteen, maybe more. He kisses unlike anyone TJ's ever tasted before (and that's more people than you think - whatever that number is in your head, think higher) and he presses his fingers down on TJ's shoulders in a way that will make him shiver for years.

He thinks he knows then, knows then and always but really, it doesn't bother him and that's the worst part -- TJ knows he will rip the world apart, little bits of it, little newspaper tabloid but he doesn't care, doesn't think about it, never has.

They were never watched as they grew; now that's an occupational hazard of raising your kids in the White House. Time runs shorter than love.

+ neon bible | arcade fire
Take the poison of your age
Don't lick your fingers when you turn the page
What I know is what you know is right
In the city you see only light
It's the Neon Bible, the Neon Bible
Not much chance for survival
If the Neon Bible is right


Seventeen is the worst year. There is stuff after that looks worse, feels worse but in his bones, he knows there is nothing like seventeen.

Seventeen is the year he learns to undo the front of his trousers without touching the buckle, the year tequila gets boring and little pills served on platters in houses of people he doesn't know grow interesting. Seventeen is the year, he feels hell at his heels and runs runs runs.

It is the year that he forgets, forgets things like his brother's face, the address to his house (that's the funniest), forgets how to crawl up the stairs without making a sound, forget how to uncork bottles of champagne without spilling, every last details of the sixteen years before vanishing into a haze of gold and sex and dirt.

He forgets, he loses but he gets it all back eventually.

+ lakehouse | of monsters and men
Oh, I miss the comfort of this house.
Where we are, where we are.
Where we are, where we are,
the floor under our feet whispers out,
come on in, come on in,
where it all begins.


Most people think he's too young to remember the days before the White House and TJ's not sure if that's because they're bad at math or merely dismissive of his myriad talents; a fully functioning memory is amongst those. (Coke and whisky haven't gotten to it yet; they will but that is much later and a whole different story.) He remembers everything about the lakehouse, but most of it gets lost in the millions of other locations he stores; beds and drapes and pale yellow ceilings. Sundays, he remembers. Later, his father will say they went to Church as all good men do, will say this on microphones and television cameras but those Sundays were only far and few in between and most of the time, his good Southern father enjoyed other good Southern sports, like golf and fishing with his good son Doug. For a political family, there was never much conflict in that respect; Doug belonged to his father and TJ belonged to his mother. No one decided, there were no favourites in this game. It is just how things were, how they always would be, a small innocent line drawn then, a deadly truth now.

He remembers the back porch, the wide aching lake opening at the corner of their doors. He remembers the table he sat at with his mother, she with her papers and he with his French homework, he remembers being too young to want anything else, anywhere else. He remembers the smell of his mother's cigarettes, her perfume, the way she pulled at the corner of each page before turning it.

He doesn't miss anything, no.

+ anthem for doomed youth | the indelicates
Your party and your revolution
Your grand designs and adorable dreams
Your silverless palms and your list of demands
For concessions the world doesn't need
Ah doomed youth, you're too beautiful
All your simplicities that you know they can't see
Like you can do, doomed youth


He will live a thousand years on this world and when he dies, that'll be it. TJ doesn't believe in immortality, not the way his family does, not in legacy. Doug's got a building named after him in Cornell, his father's got enough stock in history and bastards to last several more life times and his mother, he knows, will live forever.

TJ and his two dollar scandals and his stealth behind doors will die with his body, will be buried in the dirt with him. He takes it all, leaves nothing behind.

For now, there are still a thousand years. He is twenty two, twenty five, twenty eight and nine lives stretch before him like a cat unfolding it's body, preparing to leap.
Tags: fic, mix, tv: political animals
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