After their six hour performance for the Cromulons in the Signus-5 Expanse is over, Guy-Manuel crosses his arms and waits. Backstage is almost as crowded as the concert for Planet Music, and Thomas is talking to someone else. The blue haired Brit from the other band introduces himself as 2-D. For flesh-based sentience he's ghoulish around the edges.
"You have a very different sound," Thomas tells him.
They're about the same height. Guy-Manuel listens to 2-D talk in his native tongue before sending it through the translator. The accent is from Hertfordshire, England.
"Discovery changed my life," 2-D confesses, but the words slur together like he's processing dial-up. "Wanna hit the recording studio or summfink?"
Guy-Manuel watches 2-D shamelessly flirt with Thomas behind his darkened visor. When Thomas brightens he digs his heel into the floor and the second cooling fan starts up.
"Maybe sometime we can work together again, and, and-" Thomas falters over the feel of the bass through the floor. "-and collaborate," he finishes when he finds the right word.
Guy-Man is close enough to the conversation that Thomas turns to him for assent. There's confetti under his foot and the speakers are still playing something Thomas wouldn't greenlight while rolling.
"Il a pas inventé l'eau chaude," Guy-Manuel snaps, switching audio drivers just to spite him.
When they get back to the hotel, Guy-Man can barely hear Thomas over the whir from his own overworked ventilation system. His processor is still humming when he connects to the wifi. They look too good for the five-star suite they're staying in.
Thomas presses cautiously as he hangs his glittering jacket in the closet. "You don't want to work with them again?"
"Why should we repeat ourselves?" Guy-Manuel wants to know from where he's sprawled across the bed.
"You didn't like them?" Thomas asks instead.
Guy-Man barely lets him finish speaking. "Non."
They have been making music together as far back as their RAM takes them; they were conceived like two partitions in the same shell. When they toured across space in a pyramid no star system was left untouched by their beats. There isn't any reason for Guy-Man to feel insecure over a vocalist with blown out eyes.
"Pisser dans un violon," Guy-Manuel complains when Thomas sits down beside him. "It isn't new," he reiterates. "It's a waste of time."
When Thomas doesn't signal concession a current of electricity begins barreling through Guy-Man's circuitry. Thomas turns to him like he can tell and shakes his head.
"Guy-Man," he says emphatically. "Je suis désolé." Thomas takes his hand. "I love making music with you," he insists. "I want to do it for the rest of my life."
The power surge lights his helmet like a christmas tree and leaves Guy-Man blinking. The chandelier overhead blows out and they both come dangerously close to overheating.
Guy-Manuel folds his arms and disrupts the silence. "On s'encule ou on prend le train?"