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The dim lights throughout the cramped record store bathe the mahogany shelves in monochrome. Everywhere Thunder looks, he finds swathes of gray crossing over the short steps and aisles. Although the night has come, moonlight bleeding through the tall, arching window and illuminating the floating dust, he is still surprised by the ambiance. It’s as if they’ve taken refuge somewhere disconnected from the city. Through the window, the outlines of flickering street lights on the apartment buildings and department stores appear like untouchable shadows. He surmises it’s like a movie, and he is observing himself through a screen as he follows Argent up the short steps.
Time is nonexistent as they approach the loft. A deep gray hammock is connected to the window, which seems more like a mirror. While Thunder is unable to see himself fully, he recognizes his broad figure against the stonewashed backdrop of the city.
Argent looks at the gramophone sitting pretty on a side table. Like everything else, it’s sunlit in a sheen of steel. She makes herself comfortable in the hammock, crossing one leg over the other, and reaches for a collection of records left in their sleeves. Bringing them to her chin, she shifts through them like they are playing cards, and peers up to Thunder. Her cheeks are pushing toward her eyes, and they crinkle.
“So, what do you think? Isn’t this place nice?” she asks, her low tone and inviting.
Her ebony hair is styled short in a neat bob and matches her evening gown. Streaks of scarlet across her bangs and rich in her eyes bring Thunder’s gaze toward her. It’s the only color imbued in their world.
Thunder brushes his knuckles against the silk, shimmery drapes flowing around him. He breaches the last step and enters Argent’s domain, saying, “It is. I have never once been inside such a-” He holds out his hand toward the records, filled with history in every unplayed song. “-wondrous place.”
“I like to come here when the day’s work is done. It’s like-” Argent hums, tilting her head. “-my little extra corner. A home away from home. Shopkeeper quite likes me after I saved his store, so he lets me come and go as I please. It’s why I had this.”
She procures a thick, iron key from her long sleeve. Then, she snaps her fingers inward and forms a fist, like a viper snatching prey. It’s a magic trick, one that had already startled Thunder outside when she suddenly revealed it behind his ear. When Argent reopens her hand, the key is gone, and he feels no inclination to ask how it’s done. Otherwise, the magic will break.
He lifts his leg and steps onto his deep gray cloud. Bringing himself toward her, Thunder watches as she flips through the records. On the creased sleeves, many names are emblazoned in rigid fonts similar to his brother’s element. She asks if any stand out to him, and when she reaches the final record, Thunder points, brows knitting at the name.
“Good taste. The best is always saved for last, so let’s go with ‘em first,” Argent says, tugging out the record. “The Steel City Divas are a relatively new group, and while they’re not usually my style, they’re already charting some grand hits. I think you’ll like them as much as I do.”
Argent flicks a switch on the gramophone. Lifting the needle, she sets the record in place and watches it spin. It turns slowly, as if carefully beginning to dance. Then, Argent lowers the needle, emitting a droning, electrical hum, reminding Thunder of an oncoming storm.
Eclectic drums fill the venue. They pulse and bounce off the walls, much like his own reverberating power. Guitar riffs follow, like water flowing in a stream. He’s lulled into the song as her arm wreaths around him, bringing him closer to listen. His cloud threatens to give way underneath him at her cool touch, her fingers gently ghosting across his back on their way to claim his shoulder.
Her dark eyes, as brilliant as rubies, compel him to stay awake.
“They usually have vocals, so this opening track is pretty unique,” she says, and she slips her hand upward through the curls of his hair. She pushes on the base of his skull, and her wrists lift his helmet. She sets it aside, and he leans into her touch, immersing himself in the world she’s presented. Argent should be cold, but the blood pulsing in her palm is warmer than magma, and he sighs, eyelids threatening to close.
She chuckles.
“Aw, don’t fall asleep on me. There’s still a whole eleven tracks to go through.”
But her voice and the music drag him into a gentle stupor. A languid grin nudges his rounder cheeks upward. Her fingernails idly scrape through his scalp, and he sighs, basking in the soft, melodic rock.
“It is as if we are the only two living beings in this world,” he murmurs, “and you have welcomed me to join you.”
“That’s why I unlocked the door in the first place.” Argent holds out her free hand, and the key is present. With another tight fist, it vanishes just as quickly. “What do you think of the Divas?”
He hums in tune with the rhythmic drums beating like an idle storm.
“I will need to hear more to form an opinion.”
Thunder pushes off his cloud, the vapors wetting his ankle as he joins her on the hammock. Argent nestles into his chest, making herself comfortable against him, to which he wishes he had worn something just as grand. But Argent’s hand continues gliding across his cheek, like she’s expertly strumming strings, and finds Thunder once again.
Thunder eventually closes his eyes, becoming one with their song and Argent. The real world fades, replaced with surges of gray and red, her colors. As Argent quietly sings along to the next song, her tone like honey, Thunder has no greater peace.