Chapter Text
…Amo?
Really? She couldn't have come up with a fake name, or a nickname, or– or something that wouldn't be as obvious as her literal stage name? Her trainees liked to call her Cari when they were out, since apparently it was supposed to be short for another word for love (and really, how lucky was she, that her name itself meant love?), but for some reason that had vanished from her mind the moment she'd looked up and seen those big eyes watching her expectantly.
Something about the way Rudo looks makes her want to be honest. Not that she's usually dishonest, but– it's different, with him. There's a strange compulsion that vibrates behind her teeth when she looks at him, a burst of words explaining everything in painful detail waiting to spill out onto the wooden floor between them.
Before she can shatter that careful composure and burn into a lick of orange flame in his face, he blinks owlishly before murmuring, "Must be a common name around here."
Amo latches onto that at a speed that's almost embarrassing. "You're not from around here?"
Rudo shifts in his seat. Blinks once at his desk, then twice at her. "No…I moved here about a year ago. Stuff happened. Enjin took me in, and now I'm here."
"Enjin?"
"The old man from yesterday," Rudo grumbles, although it's not entirely directed at Amo—she knows that much. She's that begrudging around some of her supervisors too, but only because she's close enough with them to know they won't bristle from her if she's not always sun-warmed and smiling at them.
Amo lets out a little ah in response, trying her best to turn back to her book for all of two excruciatingly long minutes before her attention is caught by a little flickering light on Rudo's desk. "What's that? I've never seen that on a phone before."
The tips of Rudo's ears resemble petals, pink with the flush. "I– I don't just fix phones, yunno. I do my own stuff too. This is…supposed to be a pair of those fancy matching bracelets that can light up. Enjin found them half-broken in the trash and figured I'd know what to do with 'em."
That gets Amo's attention, her book carefully closed in her lap as she leans closer. "I've heard of those! They vibrate too, right? Or are these ones different?"
"I think they did, once," Rudo offers, the hard line of his shoulders easing now that it feels like she's genuinely interested in what he's doing. "It'll take me a bit to figure that part out, but…"
He trails off into a tangent, one he might have only muttered to himself as he worked before. Not that she'd know it, but it's different, having someone here who actually listens to how much he talks; somehow, he doesn't feel like she's waiting for him to stop any more than she's waiting for him to continue.
When he pauses, she watches him expectantly instead of checking her phone or the clock. When he talks, she waits for him to breathe before asking her questions—and she asks questions. When she's not asking questions, she's focused on him like a heat-seeking missile as he rattles off jargon from the back of his mind, half to explain and half to just keep her looking at him.
It's different—it's all different with her. He doesn't have a single lick of a clue as to what he's supposed to do about it.
This is entirely new for Amo, too. The only difference is that she can act like it's totally fine, even when her mind is screaming and melting at the same time, and also turning into fluffy pink putty that's spilling out of her ears by the ounce. She tends to refrain from blushing, because she's old enough to have crossed the line between such expressions being endearing and being an indicator of childishness—but the way Rudo peeks over at her with those round, round eyes makes her face warm imperceptibly.
She's constantly thought of the first time she saw Rudo's eyes, so many times before she'd come here. In the morning, at practice, in class, at the photoshoot she'd been pulled early for; all of it had been gently pressed by the dark red wax of that memory, those wide and painfully expressive eyes seeking her out like they could have found her at the very edge of the world.
Looking at him now, getting secret glances from a brand-new angle, Amo can't help but feel like she was just let into the world's most sparkly secret. Every time he looks at her, she tries to look away as quickly; she doesn't want him to think she's staring—even though she definitely is—but she also wants to lock eyes with him over and over again, until they've no choice but to stay still and watch each other watch each other.
Eventually, Rudo finishes up his work. Amo's not sure how long she's been watching him or when he stopped talking to focus, but he straightens up quite suddenly and it sends her heart skittering down the lining of her stomach as she mimics the movement and settles back into the lovely chair he'd offered her.
"Are they finished?" she asks, leaning closer after just a beat of being further away from him. It's mortifying, really, how close she wants to be to him. "Can I see?"
"Yeah," Rudo nods, his voice a little rough from all the talking but nonetheless fairly pleased with himself. Amo wonders if he takes on that tone after every fix, or if it's just for these small projects that don't seem to have anything to do with the actual repair shop.
There's a bit of silence—they seem to be quite good at that—and then he's turning to her with one of them held out. "Here."
Amo blinks in a poor imitation of Rudo about half an hour ago. "What?"
"You– you can have one. If you want." Rudo's cheeks are burning as pink as raspberries; Amo wonders if he would spill out jam from his face if she bit him. "I just– this one's got a sun and it's kinda orange-y so I thought you might like it, but it's fine if you don't want it–"
"I do!" she blurts. His head snaps up so fast at her words that she hears the little crack. "I do…want it. If that's okay. It's really pretty, Rudo. Thank you…"
She lets him carefully adjust the thin chain around her wrist, the leather gloves on his hands warm and somehow soft—and thankfully enough to hide the way her pulse is thudding at the speed of a freight train barreling through the North Pole. The metal isn't as cold as she'd feared it would be, but Rudo experimentally presses on the little button embedded in the other bracelet, and the sudden buzz it sends against her skin draws a startled little giggle out of her.
After a short while of experimenting with the vibration settings, Amo realizes something.
"You should wear the other one," she says, pointing to the black chain that still sits patiently on his desk, waiting to be fastened around a wrist of its own. "Since you made it. And if I have the other one, then we can match; I wouldn't really wanna match with anyone else, anyway."
Amo was just being honest, but for some reason that causes Rudo to sputter and wave his hands around in some strange gestures she doesn't quite know how to make sense of. In the end, though, he lets her carefully fasten the other bracelet around his own wrist. Looking at the way the metal gleams under the light, sparkling against the both of their skin, Amo can't help but giggle to herself.
"We match," she whispers giddily, peering up at him with a shy little smile. "Rudo, we match."
Rudo looks like he's swallowed a pepper. "Y– yeah."
The moment passes too soon, and Amo has to go back home after a little while. She waves goodbye to him and thanks him at least six times for the bracelet, promising to send many vibrations to him, before she vanishes. She doesn't notice Rudo watching her leave, but somehow she reasons that he wouldn't have just dismissed her the moment she wasn't in his line of sight.
Getting home is one thing. The YouTube livestream she'd had scheduled for today—setting it up, getting ready, steeling herself for interacting with fans—is another.
It takes her a bit to put on the persona of Amo-chan, to slip into that skin and feel the smile come a little more easily. Somehow, the way she's been talking to Rudo over the past couple of days has bled from refreshing to comfortably familiar; and now it doesn't seem so simple (or appealing) to put on an audience-ready façade anymore.
She shakes her head, smacking her cheeks with both palms before adjusting the settings on her phone and hitting the button to begin the live. There's a number of extremely early viewers, eager fans and stream campers who fill her chat with greetings and excited chatter. She responds to as much of it as she can as it scrolls by, her eyes wide and warm as she chats affably to her phone screen in the middle of her living room.
The first donation is what gets her to halt, her eyes fluttering as her well-rehearsed words halt in her throat. Beneath the sleeves of her large sweater, the chain around her wrist feels like it's burning through her skin.
$10 from @3-RUDO.
…Rudo? The repair-shop Rudo? As in, the Rudo who had the same cherry-red eyes that she could just barely make out in the grainy profile picture of her first donor of the stream? It's not like she knows of anyone else with that name, but there's not even a message there–
Before she can even respond to the first donation with a thank-you, another one filters right in.
$5 from @3-RUDO.
If the first one made her halt, this one makes her heart plummet all four and a half feet down from her ribs to her fuzzy slippers—this one comes with a message.
hi sry i forgt to write smth. i ddint know u read duras.