Vic and K rocked with the crowd’s messy wet rhythm, struggling to stay on their feet as they strained toward the stage barrier. The dusk-skinned Big on bass, all four arms engaged, hiked one leg up on an amp; sparks shot into the hot air like summer fireworks. A tech rushed to replace it with one of the dozens stacked backstage, leaving the wreckage of the first crumpled on the stage.
The crowd rippled like a storm current. Vic’s mouth was papery, his skin sticky with other people’s sweat. He could taste it on his lips, salty and sick as he shouted along. Every part of him was shoved up against someone else: his chin nudging into a back, a pointed elbow near his shoulder and knocking up against his jawline, the thrashing plant-like tendrils of a nearby Faygen slapping at his ankles. He shoved back, baring his teeth into a smile, and pushed forward like he was going to get anywhere. He felt tapping on the bare, tattooed bicep of his bio arm, and he turned.
K shot him a sharp, wide grin, pointing up, then tugged on the ponytail of the bearded person on their other side. The person angled towards them, strobe lights highlighting the artificial spikes extending from their cheeks, and K pointed again, jutting their index finger into the air. The incomprehensible mess of sound around Vic pitched down as K was hoisted high, leaving a bubble of space by Vic’s ear for the cacophony to fill. Hands poured in to catch them, and the crowd rushed to fill the space where they had been. Vic watched as K was propelled forward, towards the stage, their head tipped back as they let out a wheezy giggle that was completely lost in the noise — though Vic knew it so well he could practically hear it anyway. K’s heart hammered double-time in Vic’s chest. With the crowd of strangers pressed tight on either side, he felt a strange sort of feedback loop, caught between the wet heat against his bio arm and the electric sharpness of his synth, the difference between nerves he had grown and those that had been coiled in metal. He tasted copper.
Vic lifted his eyes and screamed to the ceiling, letting the crowd toss him this way and that, giddy from his stomach up.
* * *
After, amid the crackle of biodegradable cups and tickets being crushed under heavy boots as the crowd slowly thinned, he found K again. He caught them by the sweat-slick shoulder, their artfully ripped t-shirt hanging halfway down their arm. K slung a damp arm across his neck and tilted their heads together.
“Hey, loser,” they said, and Vic reached to ruffle the front of their hair as his other hand dug for gum in the pocket of his ripped jeans. “You have fun?”
“Always do,” Vic replied, and ripped the wrapping off the gum stick with his teeth. His tongue felt rough in his mouth, scraped by all the sins he’d bitten out tonight while the mob around him couldn’t hear, all the horrid whispers ground under the heels of the people around him. He stuck the gum between his teeth, and turned to K. “Hey,” Vic said, twisting in their grip so he could thumb the corner of their wet mouth with his bio hand. “You’re bleeding.”
“Shit,” K said, their studded tongue automatically flicking out to chase his finger. “Must’ve bit myself. How bad is it, doc?”
“Somehow I think you’ll live. We’ll see how bad it hurts tomorrow.”
“Right! I wanna get that bassist’s number,” K declared, too loud and too close to Vic’s ear. “Musician’s fingers times four, hot damn.”
“What would you even do with all of those? Just because someone’s hot doesn’t mean they have to use all of their hands at once. You don’t have enough tits for that.”
“I have plenty of tits! In this outfit, at least.” They laughed, a little wild, still rushing with the adrenaline of the show. “No, uh, I don’t know. She’d find something to grab, probably. You crashing at mine?”
“Yeah,” Vic said, and felt the relief of home sink into his gut. “Might as well.”
“Cool. Just use your own damn toothbrush, this time. It’s in the cabinet for a fucking reason.” K pushed off, giving him a toothy smile, and Vic almost overbalanced. “I’m going to go flirt with that bassist while they finish packing up.”
“The band is backstage, she’s gotta be with them.”
“I know a guy,” K said, sounding entirely unconcerned. “Wait for me here?”
“Yeah,” Vic said, pushing his gum up flat against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “But if you actually get back there I’m going to be shocked.”
“You have so little faith in me!” K called over their shoulder, as they slipped off in the direction of the broad-shouldered security by the stage barrier.
Vic found an isolated corner to slump in, playing mindless games on his communicator and shoving his gum around in his mouth. He was going for his third straight combo in a matching game when he heard a voice directly in front of him, slightly accented but easy to understand.
“I like your arm.”
Vic looked up to see a Faygen, dressed in scene-ready DIY with rips and spikes, a mohawk-like ridge of spiny leaves crowning their head and twisting lines etched across their green-tinted skin. Vic was sort of impressed; Faygens didn’t often go for body mods, considering the plantlike nature of parts of their bodies, but if the tattoo-style carvings were a natural occurrence, they were a very convenient one. In response, Vic bent said arm at the elbow, the slick rose-engraved synth skin flexing with the movement.
“Yeah,” Vic said, trying his best to make his voice come out friendly. It often didn’t, no matter how badly he wanted it to. “So do I. That’s why I picked the design.”
The new arrival held out a hand, long-fingered and covered in rings, both metal human-style rings and more traditional ornaments made of natural matter. “I’m Twist. Or, well, that’s my common name, anyway. You don’t wanna hear the long one. He/him.”
“Vic,” Vic replied, extending his bio hand to shake. The rings felt interesting against his skin — some cold, some humming with an odd warmth. Like all Faygens, Twist was lacking any discernible fingernails. “He/him too.” Twist nodded, and while it was always a little hard for Vic to tell when his conversational partner didn’t have pupils, he could swear he felt him give Vic a fairly complimentary up-down glance.
“I saw you earlier, and I, uh,” Twist drew his hands back into his pockets, rocking back onto the inch-high heels of his boots. “I seriously had to ask if you’re, you know. Available. I saw you with someone before, are you guys —” Twist trailed off with a vague gesture that utilized both his hands and the flexible spines atop his head.
Vic understood well enough. He would’ve taken pity even if Twist had been human (stars knew he’d had enough trouble with words in his lifetime), but he also knew Faygens had used significantly less verbal communication before first contact, and still didn’t do it much among themselves — he wasn’t gonna make this guy wait and flail.
“That’s K,” Vic said, with a nod. Right on cue, though it couldn’t possibly be related, he felt a hum of triumph in his chest that could only come from K’s heart, beating half-and-half alongside his own. He wondered if it was related to their quest to make it backstage. “They’re — we’re committed but platonic. And nonexclusive.” He smiled, a little sharper than he intended. He couldn’t help it — it was just how his face worked. It wouldn’t be the first time he had scared someone off without meaning to. Sometimes Vic was amazed he had managed to make any friends at all. “And you?” he asked. “Are you available?”
“I have a boyfriend,” Twist said, with a grin. “But we’re not exclusive either. He’d be first in line to yell at me if I didn’t ask for your number.”
That was oddly flattering. And Twist was real cute, and clearly had good taste in music, so — Vic held out his communicator, his smile growing. Twist scrambled to pull his own from his vest and shoved them together, clinking their sides together. His hair tendrils were moving in a way Vic wasn’t sure he was conscious of, coiling in little twists. Vic wondered if that was where his name came from. The new contacts popped up on both screens for confirmation almost immediately, and they pressed yes at the same t
ime.
“I’ll message you?” Vic suggested. “I mean, it’s late tonight, but —”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Twist agreed, bobbing his head in a continuous little nod. “Uh, we could get — coffee, or food, or something? I don’t actually drink coffee. I could drink something else while you drink coffee, though.”
Vic bit down on his lip, suppressing a laugh that might be taken the wrong way. He was doing so well thus far — or at least he hoped he was. He didn’t want to screw it up now.
“I do drink coffee,” he confirmed. “Coffee’s good.”
“Great,” Twist said. He glanced around, offered Vic his hand for an awkward fist bump, and took a few steps back. “My ride is here and she’s probably gonna kill me if I take much longer, so.”
“Bye,” Vic said, feeling flushed and pleased. “Don’t get murdered before we can get, you know, drinks. Coffee.”
“Yes,” Twist said. “Yeah. G’night, Vic.”
Vic raised his synth hand in a wave, and watched Twist turn and just about sprint out the venue door. The majority of the crowd had filed out in the post-set crush, leaving only die-hard fans or folks hanging around to wait for someone.
Twist had barely cleared the doorway before K crashed into Vic’s back with zero warning, communicator in hand and a smile on their face that told Vic they were just as pleased with themselves.
“So,” Vic said, amused. “I can tell you got the number. How did you even get back there? For real.”
“I told you,” K said, waving their communicator in a triumphant celebration before stuffing it back in their pocket. “I know a guy. You don’t know the guy.” They gave him a mischievous look that spoke volumes. “And you got something too, didn’t you? There I was, chatting up that gorgeous bassist — Svayna, by the way, she’s cool — when my half of your heart started hammering a fucking drumline on my ribcage. I almost lost my rhythm.”
“Well, you love a challenge,” Vic said, rolling his eyes. “And if you got her number, I can’t imagine it threw you off too badly. But. Yeah. A guy came and asked for my number, too.”
“You give it to him?” K asked, eyes glinting like they already knew.
“Sure did.”
“Is he cute?”
“He is,” Vic confirmed. “And no, you can’t hit on him yet. I’ll let you know.”
They shrugged, unbothered. “Fair enough!” they chirped, and hooked an arm through his, beginning to drag him towards the door. “Let’s head on home.”
Home. Vic liked when K called it that, even if it wasn’t quite true.
* * *
One high-speed hover rail ride later, they arrived at the single-bedroom apartment K rented. They both made a beeline for the kitchen, where they ate cold fowl legs with their hands for a post-show refuel, standing up in the hazy light that hovered above K’s kitchen table. Sometimes after shows they stopped at one of the numerous little stalls and stands that sold hot, handheld meals from all corners of the galaxy and all manner of cultures. All the encores tonight had kept them too late for even the most dedicated (or adventurous) chefs. After the amount of jumping and bouncing and rocking they’d done to each song, food was a necessity.
After they’d eaten, Vic went to the bathroom to brush his teeth — and did, indeed, use his own damn toothbrush. Shirtless, mouth rinsed and tongue tasting of mint, he stared down the mirror. There were three scars on his chest: two horizontal, from his top surgery, and one vertical scar in the direct center of his chest, from the surgery that had traded half of his heart for half of K’s. Vic and K had both chosen to keep their paired scars, but Vic was still deciding whether or not he wanted the other two fully gone. Each application of silvery scar gel faded the color, the shape. If he persisted in putting it on, all of his scars would be barely a whisper, almost nothing left behind.
Vic couldn’t be sure, yet, if the the look of them was something that would keep stirring pride, but he had plenty of time to make the choice. The gel didn’t stop working, no matter how healed you got.
K barged into the bathroom without knocking, but Vic was too familiar with this to jump. They crowded close to the mirror to check that all their piercings were intact, no beads or barbells lost in the crush.
“How’s it looking?” K asked, twisting in the mirror to count the earrings dangling from their cartilage.
Vic knew what they meant right away. “Not bad.” Vic turned to see himself from another angle, enough room left in the mirror to see the recent flatness of his torso from the side. “ I’m just seeing how the scars are doing.”
“I’m still not used to you with no nipples,” K said, and stuck their tongue out at their reflection. Vic wasn’t sure if they were looking at their tongue piercing or just making faces.
“I didn’t have any use for them.”
“Could’ve pierced ‘em,” K offered. They took a step back, apparently satisfied that their facial hardware was properly positioned.
“Pierce your own,” Vic said back.
“Maybe I will,” K said. They reached down to grab a generous handful of their own chest appraisingly, even though they were still dressed. “But I’m not super sure how that works with the, uh —” K jiggled their wrist in Vic’s direction, the studded cuff strapped to their skin catching the light. “Speaking of,” K said and reached to twist the cuff’s centerpiece gem, a miracle of shiny circuitry. Their chest shrank in response, retreating into their torso. K assessed themselves in the mirror, and nodded. “I think that’ll be more comfortable for tonight. I got what I wanted out of ‘em, anyway.”
“That bassist’s number?” Vic guessed, with a snort.
“Maybe a little bit.” K bit down on a grin. “And, I mean, you know, appeasing the fluctuating nature of my comfort with them, but…” Vic nodded. He’d wanted his none of the time, but he could still understand K wanting theirs occasionally. “Anyway,” K said, nudging him in his naked ribcage. “I gotta shower before bed. I’m sticky. And not in any of the good ways. Are you joining me, or taking the second shift?”
Vic considered this for a moment. “I’ll go after you,” he said.
“Sure thing,” K said, and reached up to ruffle his hair. “But you are showering before you get in the bed, or I’m going to torch it, and my couch isn’t big enough for both of us.”
Vic, laughing, ducked out of the bathroom before they could mess up his hair any further.
When Vic returned to K’s bedroom, clean and still damp, K was already tucked under the covers, wearing glasses and sitting up with a sleek tablet in their lap to read from. He had his own drawer in K’s dresser; it took no time at all to pull on a pair of boxers and some socks.
“Is that a new shirt? Why does it say ‘carnal knowledge’ on it?” Vic asked.
K looked down at the shirt in response, as if to check it was really there. “Disgusted looks from the elderly?” they offered.
“We’re alone in your bedroom,” Vic said, climbing into the empty side of the bed.
“You never know where the elderly may be lurking,” K quipped, quick and easy. With a single touch, their tablet went dark. “And you really can’t fucking talk about my clothing choices: you sleep in socks. Fucking weirdo.” Vic responded to this by kicking out at them with one of his socked feet. They continued, unphased. “Are you staying up, or can I turn the light off? I’m honestly beat — I’ll definitely pass out even if we leave it.”
“Stars, do you really think I have any juice left in me after tonight?” Vic wiggled under the blankets until he was comfortable, his bare leg pressing hot to one of K’s. They automatically hooked a calf over his. Vic’s frantic two-toned pulse was slowing already.
“I dunno,” K mused, drawing out the syllables. “You are pretty juicy.”
“Shut up and turn the light off or I’m leaving out the window,” Vic replied. K barked a laugh and hummed a simple note at their lights, launching the room into darkness.
It took a little more shifting to ge
t comfortable, but eventually Vic fell asleep, lulled by the sound of K’s breath and the half of their heart beating steadily in his ribcage.
* * *
Vic wasn’t sure what woke him, but the room was still dark and he tasted bile on his tongue. His chest was constricting with rapid breaths, his stomach twisting in nausea and confusion. All he could do was try to focus on physical sensation, on each detail as they presented themselves to him. The bed was firm and still beneath him, but his body was decidedly not. The blankets had been pulled almost entirely off of him, and his feet were cold — he’d lost his socks, somehow. His mouth was dry from panting. K’s hand was gentle in his hair, their body pressed against his side, and as his ears stopped rushing he realized they were talking. It took another long moment to be able to understand what, exactly, they were saying.
“You’re okay. Hey, you’re all right. Vic, hey. Look at me. Vic. Victor. Victor Gains, my love, half of my heart, I have you, you’re here, you aren’t anywhere else, you’re real and I have you and I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Vic sucked in a noisy breath and turned towards them, eyes searching in the dark. He caught on K’s face, and could just barely see them start to smile when he did, the glint of their teeth an odd comfort.
“Hey,” they said, slightly nonsensically. “There you are. It’s okay, I have you.” Vic reached out with his bio arm and K was there, chilly fingers twining in his. “You awake?” they asked, and Vic nodded, not sure his voice would carry. “Okay, good,” K said. “Let’s do heartbeats?”
It took Vic a moment to focus in on the rhythmic thud of the dual heartbeats in his chest, and another before he was able to calm his breathing enough to try and sync his half-heart with K’s, noticeably slower and sweeter. Vic’s other heartbeat pounded in K’s ribcage, but they stayed, breathed with him, squeezed his hand at a regular, slow pace until the disparate parts of the hearts in Vic’s chest were beating in time.
Eventually he squeezed K’s hand in return, and their smile bloomed again.
* * *
It Gets Even Better Page 18