1, 12, or 13 with ii and whoever else!
Between the two of them, Her Second is the one who can talk to real life adults. Ones with careers and leases and valid government IDs. Whether this is the reward (or hazard) of having not grown up around other children is uncertain. He's so charming! Doesn't stumble over his words or awkwardly look away or run the other direction.
Has he mentioned the charm?
Definitely charmed him when they met.
But here they are, sat before a representative of a record label that--against all odds--likes their music.
He lets Her Second do the talking.
There are questions, of course, about the masks, about their story, about the darkness beneath their skin, and about the contracts they'd be willing to sign. There are answers, some of which they'd agreed upon before and others they work out in tandem on the fly. Colors pass between them, affirmative cerulean and stormcloud negatives met by acquiesceing sunflower and skeptical mustard. They're aligned on their goals, for the most part, but there are things that they failed to consider.
In the end, they know what they need to do.
It's still nerve wracking.
There's a jitter in his body that manifests as a bouncing leg, tapping fingers, chewing the inside of his cheek. He knows it's going as well as it can--they're nothing, they're new, they're so far from the norm as to be alien. They've expected nothing and still gotten this much, which is a blessing and a terror both. He doesn't know how to contain himself.
Her Second slides a hand beneath the table and takes his. It is an instant comfort, no matter that he's already been receiving buttercup brushes for some twenty minutes now.
Not enough to calm him completely, though. He still feels like he's going to throw up. Wishes he could have stayed back home with the Third who's probably busy working on whatever it is he's gotten into his mind to fix up next. Wishes he and Her Second were on the sofa, tangled into one lump of skin and blankets. Not even sex! Just cuddles! Or a nap! As long as it's not here!
If Her Second twigs his embarrassment at the line of thought, he doesn't show it. He does rub his thumb across a clammy palm, though, makes sure comfort is available.
The label guy stands and bids them wait just a moment. They stay seated as he leaves to grab something from the printer.
Her Second turns his whole body to look at him, still holding his hand. There is nothing in his posture that could indicate irritation or exasperation, but it's suddenly the most likely thing in the world. Obviously Her Second is about to tell him he's over-reacting and reprimand him for not trusting in the obviously fantastic negotiating skills of his obviously perfect--
Her Second says nothing, just pulls their joined hands to his face and drops a lingering kiss on the back of his knuckles. Eye contact never wavers, nor does the radiant, warm light of hope that shines upon him.
Everything in him relaxes. He visibly deflates. A watery smile filters through the thin blur of tears that well up from within him.
Oh.
Right.
The label guy is back, talking a mile a minute, so doesn't seem to notice their moment. If he had, it would have been terribly embarrassing bcause neither of them is prone to public displays of affection and--
Her Second places one last surreptitious kiss to his knuckles and turns his attention away.
Right.
Together.
They do this together.
