Chapter Text
These spotlights and their white teeth are going to eat Amo alive one day.
That's what her mother had muttered into the round rim of her ceramic mug the day that Amo had departed. She'd said it with such gentle certainty, in the way only a mother could; and even though Amo knew she had meant well, it had tucked itself under her skin and leeched at her anyway. It's been long enough since then that she's not sure of her mother's whereabouts now—but even if she was still concerned about it, this city's edges gleam meanly enough to keep her from lingering on it for too long. For all its glitter and heat, it was still a lioness—and Amo, good meat.
She feels it now, walking barefoot along the highway, ruffled heels swinging in one hand while the other perpetually nudges her bangs from her face. The sunset is dying behind her, smears of baby blue and cola-orange mottled across the sky like somebody had spilled their paint cup all over the world.
The ache in her feet and the bloom of her exhales behind her face back are a tether, keeping her rooted here and away from the fluorescent studio lights that threatened to infect her with a strange, unnamable radiation. She'd gotten through practice, but just barely; swaying and leaping under the lights, pretending that she was something more marketable than this. The idea of cramming herself into a car she'd never seen before and letting herself be carted off to wherever by the driver her manager picked out for the week, especially when she still burned with this horrible restlessness, was sickening.
She's so distracted by both her lingering anxiety and oncoming hunger that she almost doesn't notice that she's circled over to the commercial district instead of walking to the residential areas like she'd meant to. Fumbling in her tiny purse for her phone—which is just barely managing to shut itself as it is around her chunky pink Dioramour wallet—she gapes at the screen as she realizes the tight squeeze had caused the tiny scuff in the corner to bloom into a sizeable crack that blacked out nearly half of her screen.
Exasperated and feeling exhaustion pulling at the edges of her face, she swivels around in hopes that there's a repair store around here. Wandering around bears some fruit, but they're all larger places that her mother and her manager had warned her about—they might steal her data, or plant something on her phone, or maybe something even more sinister. The other trainees at the time had told her not to take it too seriously, but lately it seems like that's all Amo knows how to do.
The sky has long bled into sable-blue by the time she finds her way to a repair shop that's somewhat discreet. Pulling on her heels and shuffling inside, she tugs the hood of her large jacket further over her head as she approaches the counter.
"Um, excuse me…" she says, getting the attention of the guy at the counter, "…do you know how to fix phones?"
The guy swivels around after a moment, paper drink cup half-raised to his mouth, and all Amo can think is that he has the reddest eyes she's ever seen. She doesn't think any of the colored contacts the other trainees wore could have come close to being as pigmented as this. They're wide and almost perpetually seeking, and Amo feels somewhat like she's being silently asked to pluck two perfectly round pearls from their oysters.
She only realizes that she's staring when she blinks and realizes that he's staring, too. Mouth slightly slack, drink dangerously close to slipping from his hand, one earbud dangling from where he's taken it out to hear her, those wide red eyes staring up at her as if she'd leaned over the counter and plucked it out herself.
He breaks the silence, upsetting that strange and delicate balance as he nods, gesturing for her to hand her phone over. She slides it across the counter, waiting until he turns away before peering around at the walls smeared with layers of graffiti and plastered posters peeling at their edges. When she turns back around, he's staring at her again.
For a moment, a curl of something nauseated boils hot in the lower half of her spine. Does he recognize her? Without the frills and fanfreluche and orange eyeshadow, she doesn't look all that different from anyone else in this town. And, strangely charming as he is, she sorely doubts that someone as…rugged as—she peers at the little tin nametag pinned to his overshirt—Rudo here would be within the demographic that even knew her face, much less actually listened to her music.
But there is always the possibility. Always that 5% chance, lingering in the back of her mouth like a bitter aftertaste. And as she watches Rudo examine her phone, the device looking increasingly small in those large gloves, she feels it bleed into her gums.
She's about to ask after her phone when Rudo finally speaks, voice a little more gruff than she'd anticipated. "Just looks like your screen's cracked. It's still turning on fine, but your display is pretty damaged."
Amo deflates a bit, worrying the inside of her cheek as she watches him set it down and fiddle with the keyboard in front of him. How embarrassing, that she can't even take care of her own phone. "Right…how much will that set me back?"
"Should be around 140 bucks."
She nods and fishes out a handful of slightly crumpled bills from her wallet, sliding them across the counter. All her cards are sitting untouched in her Apple wallet, the limits obscene. Something about how the bedazzled tangerine of Amo's phone case looks in his worn gloves makes her cheeks burn with a childish fluster that she tamps down ferociously.
Rudo is quiet as he sorts the money, then settles at the cluttered little wooden desk Amo supposes is meant to be a work station. She's unsure of what she's supposed to be doing until he glances over his shoulder and seems to startle at the fact she's still there.
"You can, uh…you can sit down. Anywhere. This'll only take about half an hour, so. Yeah."
Amo is not keen to embarrass herself any further in front of him, so she nods mutely and finds the closest chair to settle down in. She manages to busy herself by tugging at a loose thread on her Issey Miyake sweats, then by watching his back as he works on her phone.
It takes her about eight minutes to work up the courage to ask, "So…do you work here alone? That must be hard."
All she gets in return is, "No. My boss's in the back."
Her attempt at conversation fizzles out there. The rest of the time is spent peering at the time and recoiling at how late it's gotten, then wondering how she's going to get home. She hadn't seen a bus stop the entire way here; she certainly wouldn't have walked if that was an option.
She almost doesn't realize it's already been half an hour until Rudo's chair squeals against the floor as he stands up, breaking the silence. "All finished here."
As Amo approaches the counter to take her phone back, Rudo goes strangely still for a moment. He lingers between the counter and his work station, her phone held loosely, jaw tightening like he's trying to grind out words and failing.
She waits. It's not like she can really do anything else.
"…listen, I–"
The door behind him promptly swings open, and a man with blond hair and a laidback gait comes sauntering from…wherever was behind that door.
"Rudo, it's closing time. Go ahead and lock up shop so we can–" he starts, only pausing when he spots Amo standing there, bug-eyed and waiting for her phone. "Oh, you got a customer. Hey there, miss."
She waves in response, watching as Rudo's head turns on a swivel as he sputters for…some reason—at the same time that the taller man peers a little more closely at Amo. Something about the way recognition clicks in his eyes sends Amo's pulse skittering up her throat and urging her to flee before the rumor mill can start spinning. He rubs his chin for a moment, muttering, "Say…don't I know you from somewhere?"
Before she can firmly deny his suspicions, Rudo scurries over to the counter and hands over her phone, his cheeks strangely pinkened as he blurts out a hurried okayyesthankyoucomeagain.
Amo takes two seconds to adjust her grip on her phone before she manages to squeak, "Wait, um– do you know where the nearest bus stop is? That's still running, I mean."
The tall man raises a brow. "You don't have a ride home?"
Stranger danger be extremely damned, Amo shakes her head no. The tall man glances over to Rudo before saying, "Well, Rudo here can drop you off, and I'll go ahead and close up. You can do that, right, Rudo? Don't worry about him, little lady, he's a nice kid. Harmless, won't bother you, but the ride might be a little bumpy. You don't mind, right? He'll have you back home, safe and sound, in no time."
"Enjin," Rudo hisses, his cheeks significantly pinker, "stop. Talking."
"What? This is what I get for being a helpful, encouraging–"
"You're asking her to let a- a stranger take her home–?"
"How's that any different from Uber?"
"I'm not an Uber driver!"
"Um," Amo says, turning both heads towards her, "I would appreciate that. If that's okay."
There's silence for a moment. Then, without warning, Rudo is snatching up a jacket from the coat hook behind him and nearly bruising his hip on the way around the counter. Pulling the jacket on, he comes face to face with Amo and looks somewhat like he's choking on a peach pit. A hot twist of guilt wriggles its way into Amo's ribs.
"You…" he mutters, his voice tinny. "You okay with riding a motorcycle?"
The ride home is quiet. From within the helmet she was given, the world flutters by like she's the one standing still, and everyone else is just passing her by. Her arms remain fixed around Rudo, but he doesn't go nearly as fast as she thought motorcycles usually went. She doesn't know why both sensations bring her a curdling sense of comfort, something mutated by a strain of stillness that could only be found in two kids in a town that felt bigger than it was.
She wonders if she's bothering him by making him take her home, but for some reason she doesn't feel quite as guilty as she thinks she should. Through the thick jacket, Amo swears she can feel Rudo's heart thudding almost as quickly as her own.
Later that night, when she's stuffed under three blankets and curled into herself like a spiral shell, she thinks about him.
She should be thinking about how sore she's going to be tomorrow at practice, or how she wishes she could have a slice of cake for breakfast, or how she could have sworn she'd seen a pin of her likeness on his shirt before he'd turned away from her, or how her manager's going to know she didn't get her full eight hours of sleep and demand to know why and she'll have to dredge up an explanation from somewhere deep, deep down inside–
But all that she can think about is those wide, dark eyes; the color of crushed berries, the kind she'd felt her own fall into.