Sometimes Cosima wonders why she is even friends with Sarah and Felix—Sarah especially. On stage, they back her with the fluency and precision of two seasoned professionals. She doubts that if she were somehow able to throw clones of herself on drums and bass that they'd be able to keep up any better. It's understandable that she values their talent, puts up with them during those long hours cramped inside the van.
What they share is much more than that though. Her respect for them, her affection, does not cease at the extent of their musical abilities. In the past few days, as she's been building up her confidence, she's leaned on them emotionally. Had they not been there, she doesn't think she would've been able to play. Hell, if not for them, she never would've signed up for this gig in the first place.
If not for them, she would have been homeless after dropping out of college, too, in those bleak couple of months where her parents had cut her off financially, refused to speak with her. If not for her friends' encouragement, she never would have felt secure enough to take that risk in the first place.
There are a lot of things she never would have done without them – granted, some of them illicit, or embarrassing, but most, very good. Like it or not, they've been a part of her, almost from the day they met. They've made her laugh, made her more herself than anyone she's ever known before. They've had her back in the worst of times, and will continue to do so. She loves them, unconditionally.
Of course, that doesn't mean she never dislikes them. Particularly now, as they're hollering raucously from the Independent Release section of a record store in Portland, goading Beth Childs to take a picture of them while Felix holds one of Nautilus' record sleeves in front of his face – the one that has Cosima's moody visage artfully rendered on the cover – and Sarah makes licentious gestures at it, shouting, "Ooh, rock me, Amadeus!"
Really, she can't take them anywhere. Maybe she wouldn't mind so much if it was just the three of them, but with Beth and Delphine in tow, the entire outing has been all the more humiliating.
The moment Beth decides to join in the photo, exclaiming, "This is definitely going on our twitter," Cosima decides it might be best for her to just leave the store altogether. As she turns to walk out, however, she collides instantly with another body.
"Hello," Delphine giggles, placing her hands firmly on Cosima's shoulders to help keep their balance.
"Sorry!" Cosima throws her hands up, turning instantly crimson. "I didn't mean to—uhm, sorry."
"It's okay." Delphine peeks over her shoulder towards their bandmates. Beth and Sarah each now have an arm around Felix's shoulders, kissing the record sleeve's cheeks. Delphine giggles again before looking down at Cosima apologetically. "Maybe we should get you out of here?"
"Where do you think I was running off to?"
"Yeah," Delphine laughs, placing a hand at Cosima's back and steering her towards the door. "C'mon." As they walk out, the other three begin shouting at them crudely, the bearded man behind the register looking up from his magazine to shoot them dirty looks.
"Thanks," Cosima says, the moment the door closes behind them.
"Walk with me," Delphine says, eyes sparkling excitedly, tugging at Cosima's sweater sleeve.
"Okay." She doesn't ask where Delphine is taking her as they walk down the street. The blonde's hair gleams in the sunlight, her pale cheeks lightly flushed. Cosima likes following her, even blindly. She doesn't worry about impending mischief, or embarrassment.
"Sarah and Felix seem to pick on you an awful lot," Delphine notes.
"Yeah, well… they're my best friends, believe it or not. They can get away with it."
"It never bothers you?"
Cosima snorts. "It annoys the shit out of me. But, what can I say," she shrugs as Delphine slows to a halt in front of an antique shop. "I'm not sure if you've gotten this vibe from me yet, but I'm pretty easy to pick on." The blonde smiles, pulling a carton of cigarettes from her jacket pocket. Cosima had been surprised to find out she smoked. Willowy, demure—she didn't seem like the type. Nevertheless, seeing the blonde's lips pucker around the filter, cheeks hollowing on the inhale, Cosima's stomach clenches painfully at the sight, her mouth dry. Shake it off, she tells herself. "When Sarah and Felix pick on me, it's just for a laugh. Sarah would kick the shit out of anybody else if she saw them doing it."
"Not Felix," Delphine asks, blowing smoke to the side of Cosima's face. She shivers.
"Felix would instigate. He doesn't really like to get his hands dirty. Not in that way, at least."
Delphine seems to consider this for a moment, watching the cars passing on the quiet street, bikers pedaling by. "I like them. They remind of Beth."
Cosima laughs. "Yeah, they might be getting along a little too well."
"It's good," Delphine decides. "She can get a bit stuffy when she's stuck with Art and Paul all the time. Especially Paul."
"Yeah, what's up with those two?"
The blonde shrugs. "Nobody really knows. I think they started sleeping together again a few weeks ago—just sleeping together though. Neither of them is miserable enough to be dating again."
"Wow," Cosima chuckles, "sounds like it's meant to be."
Delphine raises her eyebrows, taking one last drag off her cigarette before disposing of it. "It's complicated, I suppose. I'm in no place to judge," she mutters, and Cosima assumes she means—as their bandmate. She doesn't dwell on it when Delphine waves her inside. "Come look with me."
Five different bells jingle overhead with the opening of the door. Aside from a sleepy looking old man playing solitaire behind the register, there is nobody else in the store. He greets them politely as they pass, but quickly returns to his cards.
The shop is charmingly cluttered – tiny, and seeming even tinier with the wall-to-wall racks crammed with antiques, items climbing towards the ceiling. The room smells of dust and patchouli. Inhaling, Cosima can't help but be reminded of the way her grandfather's house used to smell. She smiles at Delphine, who has already wandered off to the nearest rack, entranced by an old trunk on the floor.
"You can store all your booty in there," Cosima remarks, padding up quietly behind her. The blonde, having squatted down to inspect the trunk, looks up at her with a confused expression. "It looks like a pirate chest."
"Huh…" Delphine fingers the lock carefully, popping open the top to inspect the inner compartments. "I guess it does."
"There. The perfect place to store all of your doubloons. Or Grammy awards," Cosima says, inspecting a set of crystal brandy glasses a couple shelves down.
"Oh, c'mon," Delphine mutters, rolling her eyes. Cosima smirks, picking up one of the glasses and holding it in her palm. Sarah and Fee would get a kick out of these, she thinks, drinking that shitty bourbon. "And what would you store in here?"
Cosima glances at her sidelong, picking up an ornate set of cutlery. "Weed," she says bluntly.
"Weed?"
"I don't know," Cosima shrugs. "Maybe I'd stash my vibrators, too." Delphine laughs, but her cheeks redden at the comment. Cosima's eyes narrow slightly, accompanying a sly grin. The blonde is much shyer than she lets on, it seems. She strolls around the corner rack, spotting an old milk crate on the floor, loaded with records.
"Oh, jackpot." Cosima rifles through them, running her fingers over the worn sleeves, pulling out one of the vinyls to inspect its scratches. She can already hear them pop-crackling under the needle, the way her father always told her they were meant to be heard. She glances at the price tag—$5. She now has another reason to be glad they left the stuffy record store down the street.
She's lifting one of the records beneath her nose, sniffing the yellowed paper as Delphine kneels down beside her.
"What are you doing?"
Cosima startles slightly. There is very little room in this corner of the shop. Not quite so little that Delphine's elbow has to be rubbing hers, she notes, but very little, nonetheless.
"Smelling it," she says without shame, and lifts the record under Delphine's nose. "Here." Tentatively, the blonde takes a whiff, and gives her a small smile.
"Musty." She reaches forward to flick through the stack. "But not so different from flipping the pages of a book, just for the scent, I suppose."
"Right?" Cosima glances at her profile. This close, and in this lighting, she can see all the little details. The precise length of her lashes, the beauty mark under her bottom lip, the slender slope of her nose. Cosima's breath nearly catches with the sudden desire to run her finger along the contour of the other woman's cheekbone. For shit's sake, Cos. She blinks, biting her own tongue.
She's getting used to the way her stomach constantly seems to twist around Delphine, the pleasant surges of warmth that arrest her, ebbing over her body in mellifluous currents. Though there are moments of cloying intensity, she's mostly been able to ascribe the feeling to some form of admiration, or even gratitude, for the opportunities this woman has allowed her.
She thinks back to the perfect circle Delphine's lips had formed around her cigarette earlier, and the physical pain it had caused her; the graceful roll of her wrists when she's drumming, the way her hair bounces; the length and lithe curling of her fingers, even now, as they flip through the records in the crate.
Cosima sucks in a quick breath through her nose, hoping it inconspicuous. Her entire body flushes suddenly, and she has to consciously ward off the sensuous thoughts that beg for contemplation.
She's not really used to anything, is the problem. Despite the odd feeling of comfort that seems to lighten and expand in her chest whenever Delphine is near, she can't help but feel strangely uprooted, as well, a sense of newness imbuing itself in the familiarity that the other woman presents.
Delphine is a contradiction. And Cosima cannot resist the temptation to reconcile her.
"See anything you like?"
"Huh?" Cosima's entire body tenses when she snaps back at Delphine's words, feeling abruptly as if she's been caught, red-handed; as if her utter fascination has been painted plainly across her forehead.
But Delphine isn't looking at her. Cosima follows her line of sight down to the record crate, and quickly shakes her head.
"Oh, yeah… some good ones in there." She wraps her arms around her knees, resting her chin on them as she wills herself to focus. Don't think. Don't think about wanting to sleep with the way-out-of-your-league rock star. Don't—"Hey." Her hand rushes forward to stop Delphine from flipping the next record, setting her fingers reverently on the sleeve.
"Good one?"
"Love Is the Thing," Cosima says, picking up the record. She smiles, a sense of nostalgia seizing her—not just from the smell of her Pap's house wafting about, but from the familiar cover art that she'd gazed at so many times as a kid. "My pap loved Nat King Cole. One of his favorites." She pauses. "When he passed away, his turntable and record collection were among the things he left my dad. And when I was a kid… I was obsessed with those records. So different from cassettes, or CDs. I thought they were amazing. I used to just spread them all out on the living room floor and study the covers." She looks up and Delphine is smiling at her. Holding out her hand, the blonde gestures shyly towards the record.
"May I?"
"Of course." Cosima hands it to her gently. She studies the sleeve, too, turning it over to read the track list.
"You really love music, don't you?"
"Well, yeah," Cosima chuckles.
Delphine shakes her head gently, a slight furrow in her brow. "No, I don't just mean… not just the sound of it. Not just the way a song can get stuck in your head." She pauses, choosing her words carefully, still reading the back of the record. "I see you when you play. You transform. I mean… you just come alive. And I think—that is not just someone who likes music, who loves it… cosmetically. That is someone who breathes for it, who breathes with it." She pauses, smiling a bit sadly, and hands the record back to Cosima.
"There is a difference, between worship and… complete surrender." She laughs at herself, cheeks reddening. "Sorry—that is a terribly dramatic analogy—"
"No," Cosima assures her, resting a hand on Delphine's wrist. Her touch burns. "I get it. It's like… My mom always said—there's a difference between a career and a calling. One you work for. The other, you're born for." She thinks that probably sounds equally as dramatic; but Delphine looks up with her eyes alight in total understanding.
"Yes. Exactly." She glances down quickly—just for a second—at Cosima's hand on her wrist before she continues. "You love music, not because you… admire it. But because it is a part of you."
"Well… if I wasn't doing it every day, I'd be in total misery. And I'm not just saying that—I've been there. So—I don't know. I think you might be right about that." Delphine turns her head away for a moment, placing her chin in her fist, looking almost melancholy. Cosima wants to say something, to ask about it, but before she can, Delphine is snatching the record back from her and standing.
"I have to buy this for you."
"No, you don't," Cosima says, standing, too, waving her hands as if to decline. She does so because it is what she has been taught is the polite thing to do. But in truth, she wants Delphine to buy the record for her, and not because she doesn't want to spend the money herself. She simply wants to have something that Delphine wanted to give to her.
"Well, I'm going to." And Cosima can't protest, because Delphine's long legs have carried her to the register before she has a chance to. She can't even feign a frown as the blonde hands her the shopping bag.
AN: The original chapter four got to be longer than I'd anticipated, so I decided to split it. Probably unnecessary, but you get a little chapter in the middle of the week, so... why not?
Thank you so much for the reviews so far! In addition to the encouragement, what questions and little speculation you offer give me plenty to consider. I really appreciate it!