IN WHICH the heiress to grunge is swooned by the king of garage rock in a lifelong affair over the span of three decades, always fervidly dancing on the edge of crashing and burning...
[2000s JULIAN CASABLANCAS x GROUPIE!OC]
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"And for my next trick," she giggled deliriously as she kicked her foot in the air, her heel flying up towards the ceiling and landing near the kitchenette, "Moulin Rouge!" Julian's hand steadily filmed her through his camcorder, laughter mingling with the tracking sound of the tape. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the one and only, my girlfriend, Stella Cobain!" he announced with a mock. The word was new and fresh amidst the drying paint of their Chelsea apartment. Boxes labeled "music shit" and a Dylan poster graced the space by the new video system. The flat was covered in a mix of Virgo and Taurus kitsch. A bong by the record player, a lily plant adjacent to the Persian rug, and a lace veil used as a doily for a stained-glass Tiffany lamp. Summer was in full swing, and the sweat dripped from his forehead as he heaved from moving furniture around. "The queen of flying kitten heels," he murmured before slapping the screen of the camera shut, walking over to press a tender kiss to her forehead. Heat kissed her arms and chest from the glass pane to her right; she giggled softly as her arms wrapped around his back. "We're a mess." She sighed sweetly.
A promotional tour, studio sessions, and at-home mixing had filled the first month of their new life together. The road had been as it always was, hectic and rushed in comparison to their afternoons on the fire escape. Is This It was a commercial success on which they were all riding one hell of a high. Celebrations, plaques, interviews, late nights at clubs. Only to climb into a bunk and do it all over again the next morning. His first major paycheck had landed them this place just blocks away from the Chelsea Hotel (and, of course, a brand-new guitar). In between press shots and road bumps, her career was still taking off. A provocative shoot as a topless boxer for COMME des GARÇONS spring/summer 2001 that hung proudly on the corner of 57th and 5th. Strolling down the runway for her confidant Marc Jacobs, posing with his latest duffle design beneath glimmering lights. Now was the time for winding down. Their relationship had begun a process of metamorphosis leading into their new world. There was no more hiding, especially not when photographed on a whim leaving their new complex. Friends and wine filled the space in a Dionysus-esque haze. Warmth and adoration had crept in with sunbeams into the floor of their home.
Still, buried deep was a reminder of their past. Labels were nonexistent even if they slept and awoke in the same bed. "Companion" simply sounded lighter than "girlfriend" to him, and she was willing to wait patiently in the meanwhile. The ball and chain kept her quiet and compliant as they neared nearly three years of whirlwind "nothingness." Still, that "nothingness" dozed off with his nose in her neck every night and entwined both of their lives. Julian fought his fight or flight, feet twitching to bolt whenever Stella got too close. She tried to balance his love and his pull, attempting to not come off too strong. To not completely settle into routine and a life with him. Still, she couldn't deny that she was elated. It finally seemed as if they were reaching a new level of trust and care. The idea that one day all of this might be genuine and not some strange charade had cemented into her mind.
That afternoon, she paced around the kitchen in a Vivienne Westwood corset and mini skirt. They were off to yet another gig, Julian dressed in his best leather and tightest pants as always. It was hilarious. Her eyes were smoky and her fingernails long and black as they chopped up garlic and lemon. Heels clicked on the ground when she stirred the orzo and grilled the chicken. Julian chuckled to himself at the table as he fumbled with his Nokia. "What is it?" she asked, wiping her hands on a tea towel with a Union Jack printed on it. His gaze drifted from the wood to her gamine features as she leaned against the doorway with a grin. "Smells amazing," he murmured with a genuine softness in his eyes, "who knew nepo babies could cook?" She scoffed and laughed, calling out as she walked back to the pan, "They can't credit Mom or Dad for this one; this recipe is all mine." Tonight would be as wild as any other night. Drugs, drinking, designer on the floor by the end of it. However, their home existed in a perpetual state of calm before the storm and a soft cradle to carry them afterwards. She scooped the meal onto his plate and then hers, the kitchen a mess of ingredients and expensive perfume. "Prettiest chef I've ever met." He grinned softly with an edge of teasing; her lips curled softly with a giggle. Silence was a soft blanket over their tranquil existence. Most of their life was filled with noise, music, and shouting. Yet here, no words were needed.
That same night, they stumbled into the apartment. Shoes strewn by the entrance per Stella's request, the lamp flickering low in the corner with remnants of cigarette ash beneath it. Julian trudged to the bedroom with aching eyes, lazily undoing his belt and shoving off his jacket before flopping in bed with a grunt. She giggled softly as he moaned quietly, "Stell, sleep." Her slender fingers ruffled his hair as she took off to the bathroom to apply her creams. Snores rumbled quietly from the mattress as she wiped her face with a wet cloth, chuckling softly to herself. The same man who had thrashed around and screamed onstage was now deep in sleep in their bed. Theirs, not hers. She tiptoed back into their sanctuary, grabbing her Leica and snapping a picture of the scene. Julian. Asleep like a child, hair fluffed into the pillows, covers exposing the waistband of his boxers. She was no longer just a groupie; she was truly his when it mattered.
The bed creaked as she slid in, taking one last look at his face before blowing out the prayer candle on her nightstand. Golden glow dimmed to darkness in a sunset, his face blending into lines. Lines she could trace by heart and always did before bed. "Goodnight, Jules," she whispered. "I love you." He croaked quietly with a stir, not fully waking. His body turned into hers, arms linking around soft flesh, thumbing her hip quietly with his face fully in her hair. Peace and slumber covered them, even in an ever-waking city.
