My time is up on stage, so I bow once more and take my leave before I even get a good look at his friend. Backstage is organized chaos. Other artists are sparsely spaced around the area. Some practice a few notes quietly while others stoically wait their turn for the stage, and one man looks ready to beat a poor stagehand over the head with his cello. I don’t need to be able to read his lips to know that whatever he’s spewing is angry and hateful. Dark red waves roll off him by the plenty. The young guy with the clipboard flips pages as his lips move. A muddy yellow has me flinching away with shared shame for him.
As much as I’d love to help him, I don’t want to be around the angry man. Since losing my hearing a few years ago and coming into my gift, the reds have always been frightening. Even if they aren’t directed at me.
Walking back to the tiny corner where I’d stowed away my violin case, I find it undisturbed and lose myself in going through the motions of caring for my instrument before locking it up tight.
When I turn to leave, a quick flash of blue is the only warning I have that someone is approaching. Thankfully, I’ve grown accustomed to my disability and don’t let out a squeak of surprise like I did there at the beginning. I’d startled not only myself but countless others as well. Emilio got it more than once or twice, and we now share the joke between us.
His lips turn up into a bright smile, and he signs as he says, “You were perfect.”
With my case in one hand, I give him the simple sign for thank you and return his grin.
“Are you hungry?” he asks before reaching for my case.
I’d tried fighting him at first when he’d offer to carry all my stuff around, but there’s no use with him. Once I hand it over, I nod and sign, “Very, but our plane leaves in two hours. No time.”
I trust him to lead us, so I glance up to watch his lips. “There’s a small place on the way. We’ll still make it.”
My gut tells me that there’s more than just food on his mind. I can’t help but wonder if it has anything to do with his red-headed friend that was sitting in the audience with him. Now that he’s got my undivided attention, I notice there does seem to be a different way that Emilio is carrying himself. I can’t put into words what it is, but something is off.
His long silver hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck with a strap of dark blue leather. I’d once asked him why he had the hair color of an old man when he’s only a few years older than myself, and he’d laughed and told me a story about when he was younger and had tempted fates by throwing stones at an old lady’s house. Said she was an ancient witch and had cursed him. By the time he discovered a way to remove the hex, his hair had gone completely silver. Of course, even in all of his seriousness, I saw straight through the fable. Only in the chair of a truly expensive salon would someone be able to get hair like his. A silver that shimmers a baby blue when the light hits it just right. The same color of his eyes.
An azure cloak is draped across his shoulders and fastened with a dragon claw pin at the bottom of his neck. Not even the formalwear of a tux can dissuade him from wearing it. On anyone else, the look might possibly be considered outlandish, but Emilio owns it.
We walk arm in arm toward the back entrance, stopping quickly to grab my jacket from the rack by the door. Emilio helps me into it with his one free hand all while hitting me full force with that dazzling smile. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t at least think once about what it would be like were we together as a couple. As far as I know, for as long as I’ve known him, he’s never had a girlfriend. Boyfriend either, for that matter. A couple times when we’d been celebrating a little too hard with champagne, I’d almost asked him why we aren’t dating. We see each other every single day and have for years. The first day we met was at the hospital following my accident. He’d been there as a therapist, helping the recovering patients with music, and that was the first day I remember seeing the colors. Though that’s not saying much considering I don’t recall anything before that first waking moment anyways. Following that first day, we’d become inseparable. My first friend that I can remember. My only friend to this day. So, when those thoughts surface, I squash them back down into the depths of my soul.
Now that we’re face to face, I can’t help but flick my eyes up to his. An arm links around my back to pull us closer. Desire burns within those blue orbs, and my heart stutters in my chest when it looks as though he’ll finally be the first to break the barrier. I watch as he lowers his head, and my eyes drift closed. Soft warm lips press against my forehead before he’s letting go and pulling away.
I plaster a genuine smile on my face but can’t control the disappointed sigh. It’s so soft that he shouldn’t be able to hear it, yet somehow, I get the feeling he has because his expression softens, seeming to hold a sad promise.
Taking my hand in his again, he kisses the back before hooking it in his elbow.
As we step outside, a barrage of colors accosts me. There’s a color for every sound, and, in a city this size, it’s magnificent. Since getting used to them, it’s easier to enjoy the beauty they offer. For once, I wish Emilio could see them too.
A radiant red floats around us, seemingly wrapping itself around my body in a familiar hug. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but something inside me responds to it like a cat purring to a petting.
Emilio pulls us to a stop as a short blue wave rolls off him. He never talks to me without getting my attention first, always the considerate gentleman. Which only leaves the other option, there’s someone out here with us.
The back entrance to the music hall is positioned directly between two brick walls that lead into the small rear parking lot, blocking majority of the sunlight left. One of my worries in coming to the city is always getting mugged or worse. I’d be an easy target, especially since one of my senses is dead. Given the opportunity, Emilio might even use that as an excuse for why he accompanies me on every trip, though, I’d wager it’s not the real reason.
When I risk a glance up to his face, my nerves instantly relax at his playful demeanor. Then I track his eyes and find the source of red ripples in the air.
A brown-eyed stranger steps from the shadow. The brown-eyed stranger from the crowd in the hall. His chocolate-colored hair is styled into a semi-spike to the right. The edges are a lot shorter and lead down into sideburns with a trimmed beard and mustache. There’s a slightly rounded shape to his face, extremely unlike Emilio’s oval, aristocratic appearance. One of his dark eyebrows arches slightly as if it’s so used to the movement that it’s now stuck that way even with the charming expression he wears that pulls his thin lips into a smile.
There’s a tap on my hand, and Emilio waits until my attention is on him before introducing me. “Owan, this is a long-time friend of mine, Imber.”
I release his arm, so he can sign the letters to me. Names are harder when they can be pronounced so many different ways. I nod once in understanding, and still facing me, his eyes travel back to his friend. “May I present her righteousness, Owan the beautiful.”
My lips tilt up at his words as I give him a soft tap on the hand in chide, yet Imber seems unfazed by the exchange. As I turn back to him, his lips move slower than necessary. “Pleasure, your grace. I would sign for you, but I’m afraid that I never learned how.”