allargando ; ruby series

I've always loved parties. The opulent kind—full of cheese trays and marble and champagne. Well, and the neon kind—too full of sweaty bodies and sex and beer. And then the kind that didn't matter, that filled the void between the other two—broken hearts bleeding upon leather couch cushions that have lost their value and videos from phones with laugh tracks louder than the amps that were still crackling out whispers of nightmare fuel just for the kids too high to think and the remnants of a mixed drink spewed across a classmate's mother's favorite carpet. They all felt pretty much the same. Well, actually, I could always manage to make them the same.

"Ruby?"

It's a question I adore hearing. ("Yes, that's me. Please, call me, Ruby.")

I fall toward the adoration, swoon into it. It sounds like my name on the surface of lips that belonged to someone whose voice I've never heard mingling with anything but jazz beats. I look for her even though I know I had only been imagining it. Maybe the siren will call again if I'm lucky. And, yeah, I mean, I am pretty fucking lucky.

I won't tell a soul that. I can't. That would make me unlikable, some fraud. ("Charming boy, but-") My mom would tell me they were wrong for hours. Hours and hours and hours about how they only hated me because they were jealous. Day after day after day. Week after week. Years. Until I believed it.

"Ruby!"

My beer sloshes when she pulls at my wrist. Her pupils are bursting, eyes full of something I can't quite place and a smile I don't think I'd ever seen her wear. But it is her. Ivory. Her name gets lost somewhere between my thoughts and lips. Sweat sits upon her brow, her upper lip, collarbone. It's making her hair curl and stick to her neck, her temples. Not unusual for her. Just-

"You're at a party!"

Why can't I place how this is- different?

"Do you even know how to do that?"

It's not an accusation, but- ("Ruby! Come on!") -I know she can hear them too. ("Hurry up, come shuffle!") All of them- ("Tin Can Man, hurry it up.") - swaying off beat. I want to tell her- ("Simons' pet? Please you must be kidding.") -she is a metronome- ("Come on, really? H e r?") -and they are nothing. I move to lean into the beat of her soul- ("Let's go, man.") -but she is already leaving.

Her fingers are sheet music, no callus and all calluses, pulling me in and down and toward. Just a spilt second of freshly burst blisters caressing my jaw, fingertips settling at the back of my neck, and nails digging in because something is telling me I should be questioning why she is here, but I'm a few drinks in, and she is distracting me with- A kiss. So delicate for someone who is normally so forceful. And to plant it right in the middle of my forehead. Right where I might bloom.

"You know you're one of the best, and I will be better than you. So thanks for giving me a reason to try."

The world tilts and I'm catching myself against the wall, let her steady me as I steady her. She pretends she can't sing and then says something so sickeningly sweet and inviting that I know she must be lying. My head is alight with effervescent lyrics and blooming poetry and lullabies made of lipstick stains. I breathe in, deeply. She smells like something lost on me, lug nut oil, and-

Ivory. All sweat and chaos and perfection.

"You aren't staying?"

I step around what feels like a thousand strangers just to make sure I'm standing in her way. She knows the steps to a dance I'm unfamiliar with. I stumble for a moment, but I manage to catch up with her despite my clumsy footwork. I want her attention again, her gaze- her eyes -I want it.

I want it on me.

"You should stay." I talk quickly because I know she can keep time. I wouldn't dare waste it. "Igo got this nice new set for his birthday and, sorry, yes, it is-" I put my heel down in an attempt to catch her, but she out-paces me again. I chuckle because I don't want her to leave; I think it could work as I continue to try and follow the steps to her beat. "Well, wait, wait, wait-" I've got her steps down now, found the rhythm she'd set, matched until I found my heel behind her's. She would have to stop or climb over me. "It's a rock set, but I'm sure you could figure it out."

Her pupils have a pinpoint accuracy while being as full as the moon. Wow.

What was this?

"Come to the concert! I'll show you then."

I still want her to stay.

Oh.

I still want her to stay.

"Okay, but my big head might not fit through the door," I grin as she leaves and call after her as everything around me gets all loud again. I let all those voices swallow mine whole.

"I'll be there! Don't break any legs!"

I know her palms are frowning at me, a few precious rubies of blood forcing themselves through pristine ivory gauze. I blink hard, rub at my eyes and lean forward in the chair I'd pulled up to the foot of her bed. ("She will make a full recovery.") I wanted to tell them that didn't help me feel better and that it certainly wasn't helping her, either. ("Thank you, Doctor.") They asked if there was someone that needed to be contacted. I told them I didn't know; they didn't believe me. So I lied—("Her parents hate me, but I'm not leaving until she wakes up.")—and then they did.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Again. Then again. Over and over and over, notifications and likes and messages. (dude what happened to getting coffee this morning?) (where are you) (skipping?) (i was sooooo drunk, please ignore my actions haha) (IT WAS LIT) (Hey) (profs looking for you) (Did you leave with Frenchie?) (fun party! xoxo #froshslosh) (music nerds go hardcore!) (hi!) (my friend wants to know if you're single.) (Nvm found her.) (She's okay btw.) (you're sooo fucking hot) (look at this) (CHOKE ME DEAR LORD) (Would you be interested in performing for a fundraiser?) (voice like BUTTER! OMG!) (give it up for the #froshslosh pong champs!) (yo) (fr) (u good?)

" "

I tear my phone free of my pocket and shut it off. All that fame reduced to nothing but a tiny, pathetic mirror in my hand now.

Tiny. Pathetic. Reflection.

Me.

And so I put me away.

Now all that's left is her.

I let myself stare at the hills her legs make beneath strange linens, but only because I can see the doorway beyond. I can see the avoxes, nurses, peacekeepers, doctors—I will know when someone is watching, know when I need to lift my head again, sit up in my chair, pretend.

Lie.

But for now I can breathe. Deep, full, near to bursting. And then I can just keep hold, hold, holding it until I can't anymore. Then wait until my vision swims and my eyes near burst from my skull as my lungs beg for more of what they need to keep my pulse from dying out. And then I gasp, pressing my face into the side of the bed so no one can hear or see me breaking.

The hospital sheets are soft, yet irritating. I inhale until my lungs are full again. I clutch at them as gently as possible because I don't want to disturb her as she recovers or pull at the tubes bleeding life back into her veins. But despite the color they are nothing like her. Nothing like Ivory. And especially nothing like Ivory when she is dying—staining me a deeper red than my name.

Fuck.

After a few extra moments I lift my head, unfurling my fingers and smoothing the sheets before sitting back against uncomfortable craft foam. I manage to look at her knees, I hold my hands in my lap, thumbs circling each other to a tune that was missing a beat.

I think about her blood in the wrinkles of my palms. One moment she was drenching me, the next she was dried and crackling over my skin in patterns the nurse helped me scrape away. I think about how I'd uselessly slapped my palms over her neck—("We estimate she was dead for a little over sixteen minutes.")—and how cold she'd been. No pulse, no heartbeat, no rhythm.

No Ivory.

And I threw up. Wretched until there was nothing left, scared because I thought she was gone, shaking because I was exhausted, sobbing because her blood wouldn't come off as I gripped the edges of the sink. Nurse Tao rubbed my back as if I were a child that needed comforting. And I let him. Because I was. I even let him peel my hands away from the sink, let him scrub my nailbeds until she wasn't stuck in them anymore. She circled down the drain—the color of rust sounds a lot like fear—and I just stood there.

Watching.

He doesn't stop me when I press my palms into the bottom of the sink, just let my fingertips freeze and drown alongside her. I don't stop him when he helps me out of my jacket or undoes my cufflinks or guides me into the shower. I know I should've said thank you, but for once in my life I didn't know what to say. I had nothing to say. I couldn't figure out what I was supposed to say or do. And I didn't want to.

I'm jolted away from the fresh memories when her phone's face comes to life, all lit up with a message on the bedside table.

And I ignore it.

At least until the screen goes dark again and my reflection returns to greet me. I think I hate him.

Fuck.

I swipe it into my hands, force it to light up again. She doesn't have a passcode. My calls sit unopened, notifications all stacked on top of each other in an order, seconds apart- no, minutes, like the doctor had said. I hear my voice through the speakers. I sound like some voiceless puppet. I sound like a frantic joke. I sound like nothing. I sound like that thing I was known for—the thing I had made all mine, my fucking voice—wasn't there anymore.

("Okay?") Delete. ("Please, you know I will leave a thousand voicemails.") Delete. ("And, just saying, you did call me first.") Delete. ("Answer your texts. I know the buzzing annoys you.") Delete. ("Answer! your! phone!") Delete. "Hey, I just wanted to talk about-") Delete. ("Service in here is shit-") Delete.

("You better still be in the practice room.")

I hesitate, thumb hovering over the 'Delete' button. I'm prompted by an automated voice and asked if I would like to listen again. I don't; I ask it to anyway.

("You better still be in the practice room.")

Delete.

I make it all disappear.