Notes:
+ Thanks again to CouchCrusader for his fantastic beta'ing and suggestions! If you love FiM, I highly recommend you check out his work.
+ This is the longest chapter ever (likely because shameless fluff); and this is probably the longest it'll ever be for this fic /
+ Finally, thank you again to everyone whose left comments and reviews! I'm always super happy to read them, and really glad you're enjoying ✿
Chapter 4: Light the Inside
At the beginning they were hesitant, not sure whether to walk ahead or behind or beside, not sure where to look when they spoke, or what to speak about at all. Whenever she talked to him he answered at worst with silence, and at best only after painstaking hesitation. What was he supposed to say to Red?
Except "yes," to whatever she suggested.
"Hey, Mr. I'm-Alright-At-Games, how do you feel about hitting up Playstate?"
"Hey, Mr. I-Always-Wanted-A-Pet, want to visit the new zoo today? Maybe we can find you a buddy."
"Hey, Mr. Just-Coffee, how do you feel about a wine tasting? I heard there's one popping up in Goldwalk today."
"I hope all this variety isn't too intimidating," she said, clinking her glass against his, and he rolled his eyes and tipped back his third sample.
"It isn't," he told her, "because it all tastes the same."
Which wasn't to say it was bad. He set his glass down on a table, which re-cycled it in a blink and returned him a new one.
"Did you know you're not supposed to swallow it?"
"I'd rather drink it," he told her, rather than admit he in fact had not known, but something about how her eyes glinted made him think she'd seen right through him.
He looked away and up to the sky (67% sunny), gridded by trellises. Conversations eddied in the cool breeze, rustled the grape leaves.
"So," he said, "do you believe it? That I have no Selections?"
She laughed. "What are you saying? Now you do Selections, but you're just keeping them a secret?"
"Maybe," he said slyly, and she rolled her eyes, then considered.
"I wouldn't be surprised if you had one or two after all. I have no any idea how you could have gotten this far in Cloudbank without anyone noticing otherwise. Last time I checked" — her voice turned tinny and stilted — "0% of Cloudbank willingly choose nonselection."
She mused, then continued with her normal voice. "Maybe no one's figured you out because your secret Selection is Hacking?"
"Nah."
"Drinking?" she asked, after he had tipped back the tenth sample that pride had made him swallow.
"Nope."
"I was going to guess Punctuality this time," she said the next time they met, as soon as he jogged within hearing distance, "but I guess not."
"Should have...guessed...Cartography...or Navigation," he panted, hands on his knees. "Because that's...practically...what it took to get here...now that they finished that new complex. Whew! I wish they'd put up a poll for a bridge to Fairview already."
"Well, you know what they say. If wishes were votes, you'd never make one anyway so it doesn't matter."
"Do they say that?"
"Oh, definitely. I heard them just the other day."
When did he stop being nervous — when did he start feeling so at ease, more relaxed than he'd ever felt in his entire life? He'd always been impressed by the power of her singing, the way it crashed against his bones and conceptions, but he'd never thought he'd want her conversations more — and her laughter, and her eyes rolling at him over her tea. Her voice was like oil, smoothed out squeaks and creaks he hadn't even realized he had. Things that had always made him falter and stop — the pressure of Selections, the staggering desire for a perfect phrase — suddenly were so small, and walkable.
"That one," she told him, and he followed her gaze to a person further up the street from their bench, who had impressive brows and shoulder pieces like turrets. He snorted, and leaned toward her ear.
"Easy," he whispered. "First Selection: Fashion. Second: Squirrel Training."
She burst out laughing, beautifully. "Squirrels?! I thought for sure you'd say something about their eyebrows."
"I did. After all, there's no way they could have stayed so still on his face without him having Selected Squirrel Training," he told her, and she covered her mouth to remain quiet, ineffectually, as the person passed.
"You missed it," he said when the person had left, "I definitely saw the tails twitch," and for that she doubled over onto him, hair disheveled, her body warm against him.
Now. Now. Do it. He opened his mouth, words poised. Red, my name is —
"Okay," Red said, straightening and wiping tears from her eyes and pointing at someone else, "okay, now them."
The moment was gone, and as in all the moments before, he dropped it. If only she asked again, he would have told her — didn't she wonder? But if she did, she kept it to herself, and the more time passed, the heavier and larger his name seemed to get, until there were no conversations that felt large or deep enough to survive him dropping it.
So he waited for her to want to hear it. She certainly had no problem voicing her desires to him otherwise; Red was the one that usually came up with all their plans, though he made occasional attempts.
- Ever been to that tea place in Fairview? he asked one day, as if he hadn't spent the better part of the morning finding a tea house with hand-picked chamomile and then another hour trying to craft the right message. He'd received a reply no less than a minute later:
- No it's only open in the mornings when I'm busy
Well, that explained why he never saw her before noon. Why, he typed back, but his thumb hovered over the send button, and a minute later he grimaced and deleted his response. Maybe that pried too much. she certainly never asked how he spent his time away from her.
He started to wonder if she'd ever ask anything about his life. The closest she ever got was one day when they were picking over dessert.
"Hey," she said suddenly. "What's that design on the back of your jacket, anyway?"
"The…design?"
"Yeah, the triangle. Does it stand for anything?"
How was he supposed to answer this one? He mulled.
"It doesn't mean anything, really," he admitted, after having composed, tested, and discarded a fair number of possible responses before settling on the boring truth.
"Nothing at all?" And when he just shrugged: "Well, imagine that! Mr. Making-Choices-is-Useless actually does have an irrational personal preference for something. The secret was triangles the whole time."
She was more teasing than cruel, but he adjusted his jacket self-consciously.
"It's a great shape. You should try it sometime," he managed, and she snorted.
"If it can get you to make a decision on something, I'll have to see what the fuss is about."
After that, she began to jokingly point out triangles to him: on signage, on food packages, on a ring at Goldwalk market.
The ring had a jewel with a familiar color, and when he turned away to follow Red, it glimmered in his periphery, as if waving him back. He glanced, and examined it again, more closely. It seemed pretty. It matched the color of her nails.
Maybe it could help him say what kept getting jammed in his throat, in his teeth. He reached toward it.
"Come on, Mr. I-Never-Buy-Anything," Red called further down, and his fingers curled and retracted, back into his pocket.
Maybe he didn't need to say anything. Maybe it was enough to be beside her, protect her when she was out. The more time she spent out of the spotlight, the safer she'd be.
Then again, this was also the best time for her to be spirited away. Like all the rest, if she disappeared now, it would make sense. He could see the rationalizations now: After the altercation, Red left the big stages — and never came back.
The opportunity for him to defend her arose on a day too hot for her to wear a hood. Her hair fluttered in the wind: a flame, a beacon. While they lounged at an outdoor cafe, someone approached.
"Red," they called, and Red looked up, with an automatic smile. People sometimes identified her and requested autographs, but this person was empty-handed — no paper, no photo, no terminal, no pen.
"How long until you get back to the stage, Red? Does it take you that long just to milk controversy? To trick people into thinking you're relevant?"
The person wasn't even done speaking when Red had turned her back to them, and as she reached for her cup in lieu of responding, the person grabbed her arm.
"Well?" the person demanded, tugging her back to face them, and his fists clenched on the table. That's enough. He stood, mouth opening.
"Back off," Red said coldly.
"Back off," she repeated, when the person didn't let her go. Her expression was even harder than her voice. "Or the news in the next hour will have more controversial things to report on me, and it's not going to be about music."
The person released her, so sharply that her hand was flung back against her cup. Her tea spilled on the table. They stalked away, and he watched as they vanished into the crowd.
"They're gone," he said.
"Good," she muttered. He stared as Red silently pushed a wadded napkin across the puddle of tea, then slapped the table until it rendered a new cup. She gripped the handle, knuckles white.
"Scared?" he asked.
"Pissed," she growled. "Jerk. If I didn't sing I would have yelled at them."
He laughed. "No need. Did you see how fast they ran away? First Selection: Coward." He considered. "Though I'd probably run too if you looked at me like that."
She snorted. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Remind me to stay far away from your bad side. You look ready to take up Murder."
She snorted again, and smiled, and soon her mood lifted, and seemed to remain high until they said goodbye. So much for protecting her. He could almost bring himself to pity whoever got in her way.
Including himself. He watched her go — watched the sunset glinting off her hair, the easy way she stepped, the last small wave she gave him as she glanced back. He jumped and waved back, but she was already looking away, was already around the corner, was already out of sight. He felt something in his chest drop. He fisted his hands into his pockets with a sigh.
Don't disappear.
It would be so much worse now, losing her, now that she wasn't just a singer. And so much worse to fade back into Cloudbank's anonymous cruft, now that he knew how it felt to want to be somebody.
:::
They traversed the city together, rarely coming across the same place twice. Cloudbank was labyrinthine — constantly emergent — rich with self-destruction. The avenues they strolled were often different by the time they walked back: ivory pavement recobbled in emerald and mica, a stairway now a slide, a left now a right. Once they had just barely crossed an intersection when it began to bulge beneath their feet, a roil of platinum that rose and then fell. Red stumbled and fell to her knees on a newly silver street so burnished that it reflected her startled face back at her.
"Whoa — are you alright?"
"Y-yeah," Red said, and began to push herself up — but in the reflection saw him extend a hand down to her. She looked up — took it — he hefted her up, easy, and she found that when she was returned to her feet she still felt a little shaky.
That was how it grew: meeting, eating, conversating, walking, loops punctuated by seeing sights and finding things to do: fighting in the arcades, muttering to each other through films, skating in a chiming rink whose ice held the squeaky remnants of the dog park. ("Is your Selection Ice Skating?" she gasped, staggering against the rink edges, and he just winked at her as he glided away.)
The normal iterations, in other words: things she'd done a thousand times before, both alone and with others, but which now had a certain hue — a static that zipped across her fingertips when their arms brushed, a heat that bloomed and stayed, a brutal laughter that burst out of her throat and constricted in her belly and lungs until there was nothing for her to do but clutch him in exquisite agony, and feel him clutching back.
Cloudbank was never the same from day to day. But until now, the city had never felt different, much less new.
And it wasn't just the city. The stagnancy that had been squatting and sitting heavy in her body was lightening, dispersing in the wind, leaving her relieved, and — excited. She'd never had so many ideas before. Part of it was thanks to him relaxing, opening up, and becoming positively chatty.
"Ah, just what Cloudbank needed: a clothing boutique in the middle of a highway."
"Look at that fountain. Is someone distributing scuba gear beside that fountain?"
"How many roses must there be in that garden for us to smell it from two blocks away?"
"Do you think Cloudbank has anything that doesn't change?" he asked as they started back from a new restaurant and found a canal where a promenade had been an hour prior. It was broad, the waters deep and dense with neon lilies and coruscating carp.
"There has to be something. Maybe underground," Red mused, kneeling and poking a finger into the water. The fish scattered, scintillating. "Everything's probably the same beneath the sidewalks and sewers — just like us."
"Like us?"
"Like us. The surface grows and changes — our hair, our clothing, our skin — but we're essentially the same underneath. Bones, blood, muscle. Cells."
"So the city has a skeleton, huh? The spine of the world. I like it."
"The spine of the world," she repeated. She liked it too; she chewed it, tasted its weight on her tongue.
"None of us have all the same pieces that we had the day before," she continued thoughtfully, standing. "It's just natural for a city to change with the people living in it. The day Cloudbank stops changing is probably the day we're all dead."
He snorted. "For a second there it sounded like you were going back to Civil Planning, Miss Ex-Traverson. But now you just sound Morbid."
"Morbid! Is that even a Selection?"
"Oh, definitely. I heard them announce it just the other day."
She laughed. It was so easy to interact with him — much easier than it ever had been for her to interact with other people.
- Hey Red, she read one day, I saw photos of you performing at some kind of tiny stage place. The Mixin, I guess? Does that mean you're ready to start performing again? Call me, let me know!
Red resolved to call that night, but only remembered it the next morning. The instant that her terminal shuddered with another message, her body did too, with guilt.
- Hey Red, there's a wine tasting happening today at Goldwalk! The best of the best — I hear they had a tough time campaigning for the right weather to grow it all year, but it all turned out wonderful, and sweet as anything. Want to catch up?
- Sorry Sybil I'm pretty busy, she typed. Sorry too for not getting back to you about Mixin truth is it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing.
The instant she sent it off, the response came back — this time in the form of a video request. Red glanced at the clock. She should have started working fifteen minutes ago. She sighed and accepted.
"Red! I'm so glad I finally caught you!" Sybil said happily. "You're up early!"
"I'm usually up this early to work," Red admitted, but Sybil was already moving on.
"Anyway, I just wanted to say, that's fine about the Mixin, but you know, you should have told me. I could have at least spruced the place up a bit. Its whole schema is completely outdated. I'm surprised you chose it at all, it really doesn't deserve you."
Red shrugged. "Well, like I said, it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing."
"Even so. Have some respect for yourself, you know? Anyway," Sybil continued, fluffing her hair, "wine tasting today?"
"Sorry, Sybil, I have plans this afternoon," Red said, "and work I'd like to get done before then," and she expected Sybil's face to fall. Instead, Sybil waved her hand dismissively.
"It's fine, it's fine. You know," Sybil said, chewing her lip, "I just remembered that I — I really have some work I need to get done today, too, so it works out."
"I'm glad to hear that," Red said, relieved, and she placed her finger on the button to dismiss the video. "I'll talk to you later, then."
"Later!"
And it was true — it was definitely true, at the time, that Red was too busy, but that afternoon the restaurant they'd been planning to visit turned out to have been converted into a pet groomer's, and the vineyard was so close by...
What little guilt that took root about the matter had little efficacy. Nothing could overcome her — not even the rare trolls they encountered, whose words once boiled in her but now we're as harmless as the steam from her teacup. Melodies overflowed in her and there was space for little else. At night she felt like a live circuit, all her veins vibrating with song, and though she struggled to sleep, she was never tired when morning came.
:::
When she finally accepted one of Sybil's invitations, it was to a reception of some kind. For once, Sybil hadn't given her many details about it — just suggested attire, and said something about a surprise. The place was fairly crowded and Red craned to spot Sybil. Not a minute later, she saw someone waving.
"Red!" Sybil cried, and Red smiled and waved back. She hugged Sybil carefully; Sybil was wearing a broad-brimmed hat which pushed up against Red's face. "I'm so happy to see you!"
"It's nice to see you too," Red told her, but Sybil was already holding her at arm's length and examining her clothing.
"Is this one of the dresses I got you?" she asked. "For your performance at...Empty Set's month anniversary, right?"
"Probably. Honestly, Sybil, almost all of the dresses I own are from you."
"It fits you so well," she said, beaming, "I'm so happy to see you wearing it again!" She took Red's arm and led her to a long table with an ice sculpture surrounded by confections, and a huddle of people. Their light chatter broke when Sybil approached, and they started to wave calmly at Sybil until their eyes fell on —
"Red?" one of them gasped.
"Of course," Sybil said proudly, and the huddle immediately broke and assembled around them.
"Red! Wow! It's really you!"
"You've been gone for so long!"
They started to pepper her with questions, each one overlapping the one previous, until finally Red stammered, "Sorry — who?"
"Students," Sybil explained, "about to go declare their Selection. They're all thinking of doing Music — of applying to your program, in fact. Surprise!" she added.
Well. Whatever Red had been expecting as a surprise, it wasn't this. The students introduced themselves excitedly, too many names and pronouns for Red to remember at once.
"Sorry if I forget. But that's great," Red said, smiling at them. "I'm glad to hear the program's still going strong."
"It is!"
"We're very excited!"
"So," Sybil continued, "I thought it might benefit them to speak with you. And it might help you too! Since you seemed confused the other day, about Selections."
The students gasped. "Red," one said, "you're not thinking of switching?"
"Not at all," Red said. How could she possibly explain? She looked around at them, their expressions bright and open and expectant. Even Sybil was watching avidly, one hand around Red's arm while the other raised the brim of her hat. Where could Red even start?
One of the students piped up to fill the silence. "I'm so excited to Select Music," they said. "But I have no idea what my second will be. Do you have any tips? Why did you choose Linguistics?"
"Is it that strange?" Red asked. "Music is a versatile Selection. It can go with anything. It's beautiful, communicative…"
"So that's why you chose Music? To communicate your ideas?" another student asked. They added, "I'm thinking of doing Politics as my second."
"Both Music and Politics sound great," Red told them.
"And it doesn't get old?" another student asked, wringing their wrists. "It's still not old for you, I mean? Because you've been away for a while — it's not because you don't like Music anymore, is it?"
"It certainly isn't! Red's just been working on some things privately," Sybil explained. "Isn't that right, Red?"
"Maybe," Red said.
"Oh, new content? What is it?" the students asked. "What's it about?"
"To be honest, I don't like talking about it," Red told them, and regretted it, because the students looked immediately disappointed and embarrassed. Sybil looked crestfallen too, but she recovered quickly, clearing her throat.
"That's how Selections are, aren't they? Even if people choose the same one, they all deal with them differently. Red is more private and is perfectly capable of handling everything on her own, and that could arguably be why she's the best in Cloudbank."
"Thank you," Red said, feeling her face warm. "Listen, why don't we talk about something else? Something that's not related to choosing Selections."
The students blinked at her, and at each other. In the end, it was Sybil who said: "Like what?"
Red shrugged. "Anything."
The students stared, swallowing, searching each other and the room for topics.
"The weather for the past hour has been nice," one student ventured finally. "And it looks like the campaign for a thunderstorm next weekend has been doing well too. I really want to do Meteorology for my second — maybe make something like — a storm that's also a symphony," and they were immediately hushed.
"That's about your Selection!"
"No, that's fine," Red said, "that sounds fantastic," but she was distracted — her terminal had started to buzz in her pocket, and her heart had started to speed up. She couldn't resist; she withdrew it and glanced at the screen.
- Free this evening?
"Who's that?" Sybil asked, squinting at the text.
"A friend of mine," Red said. She tried to withdraw her arm from Sybil's to type back, but when Sybil didn't let go, she typed her response out with one hand.
- Yes why?
"A friend?" Sybil asked. "Who?"
"Just someone I met some time ago." Red started to put the terminal away but it immediately buzzed again.
- Yon-Dale got permissions for Goldwalk skies again want to go?
"Red!" Sybil tugged her arm. "Pay attention!"
"I am," Red said, setting her terminal against her side. Well, this was a first — Nobody inviting her somewhere. She turned to the student who had been speaking to her last, smiling a little too broadly. "What were you saying?"
"It's just — I'm just so unsure," a student said, hands on their face. "It would be so much easier if we could have three Selections."
"Would it?" Red asked, and made her voice as benevolent as possible. "Listen. Don't worry about it. You'll be fine — it's not like making a Selection means you'll be cutting things out of your life. It's not a big deal — you'll be okay."
"What are you talking about?" Sybil demanded. "It is a big deal. It's who they're going to be for the rest of their lives."
The students looked ill.
"But they can always change. I did." Red searched for words. "Listen, not even Cloudbank is the same from day to day. Why should people have to choose a couple things to fit into?"
Her terminal was buzzing again. Red glanced down at it and Sybil pulled her arm again, wresting her attention back. "Just because Cloudbank changes all the time doesn't mean it's ideal! And Red, even you displayed an early interest — and talent — in Music. You really should have chosen it from the beginning. Besides, even if they change later, they have to start somewhere."
The students were nodding — "Yes, we have to start somewhere" — and one student was starting up again: "Either way, we have to choose. How did you decide, Red? How did you give up Civil Planning entirely?"
"You must have liked it to be at Traverson in the first place, right? But then you chose Music!"
"I've been wondering that too," another student chimed in. "Do you miss it? What made you choose something else?"
Red sighed and rubbed her forehead. She looked down one more time.
-Vote just finished sunset's in two hours, her terminal read, and she typed out her response with her left thumb.
- Meet you in Goldwalk in 1.
"Red," Sybil said with exasperation, and Red tucked the terminal away.
"I'm done, I'm done," she assured her. She turned the majority of her attention to Sybil and the students, carving off only a small portion of it to occasionally check the time. Once the hour was up, once she felt her brain about to melt out of her ears, she made the proper noises, and the students understood and nodded and thanked her, shaking hands, waving. Sybil waved as well, but caught up again when Red was almost out the door.
"Red," she called, grabbing Red's elbow.
"Yes?" Red turned back, only a bit. "Sorry, Sybil, I'm going to meet someone, so —"
"I know, I know," Sybil said, twisting her hair around a finger. "I just wanted to say thanks for coming. It's nice to see you. And — and I don't really know what's happening with your life right now, why you're not performing like you used to — and why you're so confused about Selections — but I just want to let you know —"
She took a breath. The next words came out all at once. "I just want to let you know I think you're a fantastic Musician, the best in Cloudbank, and believe me, because I know everyone. You always have been, and you always will be. That'll never change. So, if you're afraid...or...something…" Another breath, another burst. "Please don't be. The way you are is...is perfect."
She stopped, with a huff, a swallow. She was somewhat flushed, perhaps because she'd run out of air, and Red turned back to her, fully.
"Thanks, Sybil. I appreciate it," she told her. "The truth is, I'm fine. Maybe even...better than ever. And I'm definitely not going to give up Music. So, don't worry about me."
"Oh — okay. Okay," Sybil said. She held out her arms for a hug, and when Red obliged, she whispered. "I — I'm glad to hear it. Call me, alright?"
"Alright," Red assured her, and took off. She was late.
:::
Red spotted him pacing along the waterfront and ran to catch up.
"Sorry!" she called, "Things took longer than I expected."
She waited for him to tease her, but instead his brows arched. "What's the occasion?"
"Ah — huh?"
He gestured at her dress and she looked down. "Oh, this. I just came from an event."
"An event? How was it?"
"It was...fine. Though," she sighed, "I'm relieved it's over."
Next time, she'd take Sybil's "surprises" with a grain of salt.
He smiled. "Well, me too, I guess. You're…" He paused. "Your dress looks nice."
"Thanks. A friend got it for me," she said, spreading the skirt out to give him a better look. He coughed.
"A friend? What kind of friend?"
"What do you mean? Just a friend."
"Well, your friend knows what looks...really good on you, I guess. Anyway, let's get going," he said, clearing his throat, "sunset's soon," and they started off.
They didn't speak much, but silence was a relief after the fusillade of the reception, the relentless questions, the fears she'd done her best to smooth. Free now in Cloudbank, in his undemanding presence, she felt tension scatter from her body with every step. She took a deep breath, letting her lungs fill with the crisp air, with the steam rolling from street vendor fryers, and with the nameless nebulous smell that followed him, which was becoming as comfortable and close to her as her own clothing.
He was walking ahead of her, and when she pointed it out — "What's the rush? I thought we had time" — he grimaced.
"You're right. Sorry." He slowed, falling back beside her, where she could better see that his stride was stiffer than usual. He kept tugging at the cloth around his arms.
"We'll make it," she told him. He nodded at her and pulled at his collar.
They traced a path along the bay. Crowds were forming, seeking higher ground, and they appended themselves to a group chatting enthusiastically and craning over the skyline. All together they went up to a tower's public balcony, piling in subsets into the elevator, where people cooed over autographed shots of sunsets past. At the top, there was one OVC terminal on the balcony, and someone was calling over it.
"Five minutes until the poll closes!"
"Have you voted already?" Red asked, and he snorted.
"What do you think?"
She rolled her eyes.
At least he seemed a little calmer now. He gazed out over the city and then asked, "Did you vote?"
"Yeah — passed by a terminal earlier today, actually."
"Yet you weren't even gonna see the sunset until I invited you."
"Come on, Mr. Snark I would have seen parts of it from somewhere."
The balcony had two platforms and they took the lower one, which was less crowded. Red bent her arms over the balcony railing, leaning out, and he propped himself on the railing beside her.
"Besides," she continued, "it's fun to vote. And it's not like it hurts anyone."
"One minute left!" the person at the terminal called out. "Hurry, hurry! It's looking close!"
On the upper platform, people were rushing to claim the last gaps against the railing, were angling their cameras over Cloudbank's roofs and spires.
"And...closed!" The person rushed off to the balcony herself, mouth agape as they scanned the sky. The sun moved, a millimeter, and somewhere in Cloudbank, an artist applied her brushes and catalysts to the firmament.
Red had seen Yon-Dale sunsets before, but she and everyone on the balcony knew immediately that this one was different. It dwarfed — spilled across Goldwalk's skies, and farther, brimming beyond even the most distant perimeters of Cloudbank. She inhaled sharply as colors flushed across the atmosphere — vibrant oranges limned in pink and cyan, red clouds stretched thin and sequined with yellow. After an astonished hush, the air filled with gasping and murmurs and the energetic flap of camera shutters.
"About voting," he said, slowly, softly. "And, um, choosing. I'm starting to think...maybe...it's time for a change."
She felt something jitter across her chest, but kept perfectly still, silent, until the air felt thick with the weight of his words and she felt she to say something to relieve it.
"I'm not sure if you know this," she said, lightly, "but the deadline for the sunset vote closed about a minute ago. Unless — unless you voted after all?"
"I — yeah, I — might have made some kind of vote."
She looked away from the sky to stare at him. "Really?" He didn't meet her gaze; he was looking down at his hands. "What color did you choose?"
"No, it wasn't — it wasn't the sunset. I don't really care what color it has."
"Yeah? Kind of a strange thing for someone to say after they invite someone out to see one." He was still looking down, and she pushed her shoulder against his. "Come on, Mr. Hypocrite, seeing the sunset was your idea, right? You might as well actually look at it."
He looked up, finally, to the sky, adjusting his position. Their shoulders touched again, this time not pushing: just resting, just being.
"What I mean is," he started, and this time she didn't prod him, just waited while he fidgeted and scratched his head and sighed. "What I mean is...the vote I cast...the choice I made...isn't about what color it is. It's about who I see it with."
She watched him, and when he eventually risked a glance at her she didn't hide her ridiculous grin.
"So you can make choices after all," she marveled, and held her hand out in front of them, over the railing, palm skyward and red-orange with sunset. He reached for it, holding it lightly, then firmly. Her fingers pushed out between his, curled down, intertwined.
They watched the sun descend in silence. When the show was over (crowds dispersing with lively chatter, cameras packed up and hauled away) they just stood, watching Yon-Dale's dyes recede and leave Cloudbank constellated with its nightlife. The majority tonight had gone to pleasantly warm winds, but she pressed her body against his anyway, and when he looked down at her next she leaned up and kissed him, pianissimo. When she released him, he leaned in again, hands raising to either side of her face.
They stood there, consumed. In her mind rose a thousand different notes, a thousand things to write about — the brush of his hair against her forehead, the way his fingers coiled into her hair, the ache of them tugging strands and pressing into her skin, the static and fire percolating through every cell of her body.
She took a deep breath in, letting it all fill her lungs, letting it saturate her racing heart. She exhaled shallowly, to keep it from slipping away.
She remembered how she had felt, writing Music on the form, the way she'd stilled the hesitation of her hand as she'd submitted. She'd left, reciting to herself, Red, Musician, swallowing it, waiting for it to digest, to become her. After years, it had — but it took just a single instant, a single coarse whisper in her ear, "Red," for all her structures to fracture. His voice made her heart full, it moved her just like music, and being with him, realizing that he liked being with her too, she felt something just as bright as the spotlight, but warmer. She was more. She wanted more. She grabbed his hand.
They ran across Cloudbank, so fast he kept stumbling and making the pavement hiss sparks. She dragged him into Highrise, its buildings and its endless renovation, throbbing and glowing like her own skin. She unlocked her door and they crashed beyond it, toppling things in the darkness, boxes, umbrellas, boots, something that shattered. Once they were inside he pushed his mouth to hers again, and she met him and pushed him against the door, closing it and shutting away the single bar of streetlight it had admitted. She clutched the lapels of his jacket, even as he struggled to take it off.
They stumbled around, tripping, ankles and elbows catching in objects that rustled, clattered, clinked, thumped. The walls blinked every time a shoulder or knuckle made impact and after a couple more fumbles the apartment got the idea and the lights whirred on, just in time to illuminate them them as they fell onto her bed.
He kissed her mouth, her brows, her cheeks, her smooth throat trembling with laughter, her fingertips and palms that she raised to bat him playfully away.
"Careful," she whispered, "or it's going to be too obvious your Selection is Kissing."
He pressed his mouth against her ear. "It's not," he murmured, "but I'll give you another hint," and he hitched up her dress.