My baby lives in shades of cool
Blue heart and hands and aptitude
He lives for love, for women, too
I'm one of many, one is blue
And when he calls
He calls for me
And not for you
—Lana del Rey, Shades of Cool
The day May is crowned, she is in the bathroom, listening to the radio's wavy, quiet jazz with the lingering remains of a red wine buzz. From the bathtub, she glances at him, head leaned back into the misty marble. He stares at himself in the mirror, the unbuttoned collar of his pristine white shirt handing around his shaven neck. Steven wipes the cologne from his hands, under the rushing water, dries them slowly on the moist bath towel, and changes the station when the slithering jazz music is interrupted by an announcer. The water rushes down with a gurgling goodbye, and Flannery sinks down, eyes closed, pruned hands dragging back her hair. It pools around her face like a cloud of sunlit blood, despite her attempts.
Steven is there when she slides up, breathing in through her wet mouth, an odd expression on his face. She brings her knees up, still unused to baring herself so easily to him, but she still stares at him, questions him. Steven just smiles, the unbuttoned sides of his shirt dipping into the lukewarm water when he leans to kiss her goodbye. The radio floods them with violins, and the kiss is slow and steady like the drum behind them; Flannery sinks against him for a second, half-drowsy, half-wanting.
By the time she has curled into his large, immaculate white bathrobe, loosely tied and damp, Steven has already left.
"It's an honor, of course, to reach this pinnacle," the girl says, beautifully brushed out of dirty knees, introduced to flowing satins and deep blues. May is all color, all tanned skin and hair curled over her shoulder casually, like she doesn't need the assurance of a hairstylist. And the color of her eyes – like the sea in its entirety has offered to crash inside it. They are beautiful, wide and bright, and they swing over Flannery like she's not even there.
Flannery flattens herself against the wall, fingers curling around the stem of her fourth wine glass, hears the rest of the speech with distracted ears. Wallace lingers by the door, not impatient but unwilling to stick around for longer than needed, Steven at his side. The League's etiquette is arresting, she knows, pursing her mouth.
He looks at her when she brings the glass to her lips, the aching bitterness of the wine making her tongue tingle and her mouth flood, but she swallows it down anyway, feels her mind slowing like the flat curve of a river, smooth and sparkling and slow. The night is warm, but the color of his eyes reminds her of Snowpoint, of misty snowstorms by the sea, and her arms prickle. Steven leans into Wallace, gaze abandoning her, and Flannery looks away, the moment lost when the waiter sidles to her.
"Thank you," she says, paying back in kind, voice a little deep, a little slow, exchanging her empty glass for another, three-quarters of misty yellow; she smiles at the boy when he's done, watches him flush pink and smile back uncertainly, her hand on his arm for a second too long, too meaningful. When she looks at Steven, she finds him glancing back again, eyes blue like the pit of the ocean floor.
He says, "will you give me the pleasure of accompanying you to your car?", because he's polite and a gentleman. Flannery says, "yes," with a flush, an unsteady nod of her head, because she's already learned how to play his game. Steven nods, smiling gently, his cool fingers lifting her hand, her arm, her heart, and when he gives her his elbow she takes it. The flashes of the cameras are far away, by the hall, as they walk outside the tall, emerald hedge. The chilly summer night smells of dry grass when she breathes in deep, but it's the pleasant scent of his expensive cologne that holds her attention, plays with it like a panther and a yarn of ball.
She's drunk and she knows it, so she doesn't lean into his shoulder, even if it costs her the world. Behind them, they leave the declining party, her black platform heels crunching down the gravel of the stone pathway. Steven, beside her, stills for a second, blue eyes flicking down to the source of the noise. She's painted her nails pink, a hot color; failed to gather up the courage to bring them to a fancy dinner, and instead decided to cover them with the heels her dresser had been drooling over for weeks.
"You looked exquisite today, if you don't mind me saying," Steven says, and his eyes are bright and pale and glacial when he slots them into hers. Flannery feels the warmth of embarrassment join the one already on her face, and blames him for her buzz, heart aching. Maybe it shows on her expression, because he moves away, looks to the garden instead.
"Do you really think I can't tell when you fall deeper in love with her?" Flannery asks, mimicking him and staring at the floor, the gray stone matching his tie. The stone in his pin is subtle, but it matches May's eyes, the blue deep color like a masterful watercolor painting. She looks at the floor harder, trying to replace it with ruby red, but the night is dark and she only manages whiskey yellow.
Steven stills, his arm pulling her back when she forgets to unlink hers. Her balance slips, half wobbly and shameful, and he steadies her with one hand, pulls her face into his with the other. His mouth tastes of vermouth, minty fresh like the breeze in his mouth when he opens it, taking her in like she's nectar. Flannery's hands grip at the lapels of his suit, worrying the black, short nails raking across the fabric like she's trying to leave a mark.
He brings her closer, she lets him, and they stay until she pushes him back, feeling sick, bile rising up her throat. Even in the dim streetlight, she can see her lipstick smudged across his mouth, can see how he runs his tongue over the red with a distracted lick. His pin looks crooked and she puts a hand on her mouth, another on his chest, willing him to stay away.
He says, "I'm sorry," because he's polite and a gentleman. Flannery doesn't say anything, because just because she's learned to play the game doesn't mean she's going to win.
Juan's retirement ceremony happens two weeks after that, something beautiful and extravagant like only the League's money reserves can assure. Flannery witnesses the headlines, weeping for the older man's departure at the same time they clamor for Wallace's return. It's all tasteful, like the fine champagne in her glass or like the golden seams on the table cloths.
Steven wears a gray double-breasted suit that tinges blue in the ambiance, blue like the curtains and the napkins, like the lit up vases placed all around the room, tame goldeen and luvdisc lazily swimming around inside them. Flannery's wearing white and gold, her dresser commenting how blue clashes too much with her hair, and why bother conforming if she can shine? Flannery doesn't feel like she's shining. She just feels washed-out, the weight of her gold necklace bringing her head down when May greets her, looking radiant in a turquoise dress that reflects the light of the aquariums, makes it look like it's made of water. Flannery still smiles, greeting her back like it's easy, searching for the closest tray of champagne over the other girl's shoulder when she isn't looking.
Courteous words exchanged, Flannery glides to the table, picking up the stem like a ripe fruit, bringing it up to her parched lips.
"Flannery," Steven says, from her side, his hand starting the path of her back before he remembers they're out in the open, before he remembers she's still incensed. It smoothly swerves in the direction of his tie, instead, fixing it despite its previous perfection.
"Lovely to see you," Flannery replies, smiling even wider, and clinks his glass with hers. Watches his face harden like graphite under pressure, his feelings surging up like the rarest diamond. Her stomach pulls, the champagne tight in her throat, and she excuses herself with the same convincing smile, disappearing into the crowd.
Winona and her exchange pleasant conversation during the dinner, but the other woman is snatched by Wallace when the band starts playing, and Flannery finds herself roaming the halls of the League building with a sigh and another glass. The walls aren't straight anymore, instead fluidly escaping her hands when she thinks she's got them, and Flannery delicately wipes at her eyes with a careful finger. The champagne is high quality and almost as if sweet, but it still stings – she's never liked gas in her drinks, used to natural juices or boiling teas. She swallows another gulp, the last one, and rests her glass on the closest table. The silence is stifling, and her heels click once, twice, until she gets tired of it and bends over to take them off.
Her head swims when she does, but she manages to steady herself against the white wall, her skin slapping against the surface and stinging enough to make her focus on her pink palm, one shoe hanging from her finger as the other remains on her foot.
"Need a hand?" a voice calls from the end of the corridor, deep and smooth and laced with blue. Flannery looks over her shoulder, a few errant strands of red hair sticking to her lipstick, finds Steven by the door, hand clasped around the knob. His eyes are dark, leaning into dark-grey today, and she doesn't know what to make of it.
He looks expectant, and she hates that he's bothering to act when he knows that she's drunk enough to make bad decisions. Drunk enough to forgive and forget. Flannery sighs, leans against the wall, and holds her hand out to him. Steven takes it, intertwines their fingers and their mouths while their presence doesn't go missed.
May's necklace is a drop of blue, like frozen water, and when Steven stands beside her for the pictures, Flannery feels sick to her stomach, staring at his glacier eyes. The heavy curtains flutter around the audience, drowning them in blue, closing the act.
The partygoers' population dwindles after Wallace speaks out to the media, flashing his winning smile at the end as he bids adieu.
After the dresses sweep the floor in a final goodbye dance, and all that remains is champagne glasses half-filled and abandoned, she lingers, feeling her foundations drowning into lava. Steven is leaning against the furthest wall away, eyes steered into Ever Grande's blue skies, his index finger tracing the rim of his heavy scotch glass. His expression, as always, is closed – this time not in polite agreeableness, but in something she can't define without wanting to wither.
She brings a hand to her hair, pushes it behind her ear, the golden earring dangling. Licking the prickling bubbles off her lips, she sets the champagne flute down on the nearest table, a little too strongly. The white fabric wrinkles further with the motion, pressed under the glass foot, but she's in that state of slow drunkenness, and the concern trickles out of her thoughts like water. Steven's blue tie pin brings out his eyes on his gray tie, and her eyes trace the stone, the glint, the opacity. All she sees is May's eyes.
"Hey," Steven says, pushing off the wall with no visible effort, no rush of breath, no sigh, no flaw. Flannery fiddles with her hair again, feeling slow and dizzy with nervous energy, the red locks brushing past his thumb when he leans in to comb past them. His fingers are ringed, gray steel and polished blue and cyan, and her hair catches, pulls; she sucks in a breath, and Steven halts, curling them out of her hair and around her neck instead, leaning in to kiss her. He smells like the sort of drinks she can't handle, like old whiskey and ice cubes, breath bitter and cool. Flannery closes her eyes, her mind, her heart, and doesn't push him away.
The champagne by the table eventually sizzles to a pale halt, finally dead.