Chapter 45 #2
For a while, I just watch. The beer makes everything a little fuzzier, blurs the harsh lines of the world.
I let myself forget the edge of the bandage under my dress, the heaviness of old pain.
I watch as Rosie crowdsurfs on the arms of laughing children, as an old woman in overalls twirls a kid in circles until they’re both dizzy.
A slow song sneaks in, a lull between storms. The mood shifts.
The bodies pair up, move closer, cling. I see a girl in a patched Authority jumpsuit fold into the arms of her partner, her head tucked under his chin.
There’s a hunger in the way they hold each other, like they’re the last two people alive.
I glance at Kang. His cup is empty, his gaze fixed on the dance floor, face unreadable. For all his toughness, he looks utterly alone.
Fuck it.
I nudge him, hard enough that the bench creaks. “You ever dance?” I ask.
He startles, then gives me a look—part suspicion, part embarrassment. “Not really my thing.”
“Good,” I say, and grab his hand. “Means you can’t be worse than me.”
He stands, slow, as if the floor might open up beneath him. I tow him into the mess of people, finding a sliver of open space near the edge. The music is a ballad, sweet and haunted, with lyrics about rivers and ghosts. I put my hands at his shoulders, and for a second he just stands there, rigid.
“You’re supposed to put your hands here,” I say, tapping my hips.
He does, mechanical at first, then steadier. We sway, barely moving. He keeps his eyes down, glued to a spot above my collarbone.
“You look terrified,” I whisper.
“Just… don’t want to step on you.”
I snort, then soften. “You won’t.”
After a minute, he relaxes. The muscles in his neck stop twitching. He matches my movements, small and careful, like we’re both afraid to break the moment.
“I thought you’d laugh at this,” he says, voice so low I almost miss it.
“I am laughing,” I say, and it’s true, but it’s a quiet thing. “Just not at you.”
The song ends, the tempo picks up again, but we keep moving, neither of us ready to let go. Kang’s hands slide up to my waist, fingers splayed. I rest my chin on his shoulder, let my eyes drift shut.
For a while, I don’t think about Authority, or Maven, or what’s waiting in the tunnels. I just feel the heat of Kang’s body, the steady rise and fall of his breath.
When I open my eyes, I catch Maven at the edge of the dance floor, watching us with a crooked grin. They raise their cup in salute, and I raise mine right back.
This is not the world I wanted, but it’s the one I have.
For tonight, it’s enough.
We stay on the edge of the dance floor, Kang’s hands rigid at my waist, my arms circled at his neck.
The music cycles through three more songs—fast, loud, full of stomping—and I can feel his body fighting to keep pace, awkward but determined.
The next song slows, the rhythm drawing the crowd tighter, the lights dimming just enough to blur faces into silhouettes.
Kang relaxes fractionally. His hands slide, by degrees, from the sharp points of my hip bones to a gentler cradle at my back.
I ease my grip on his neck, fingertips trailing the shorn hair at his nape.
His pulse is steady and strong. We move in increments, micro-corrections as our bodies search for a mutual center of gravity.
At the next tempo shift, the band drops into a cover—soft, sweet, the kind of ballad that would have gotten you mocked in my old lab or court-martialed in Authority blue.
The vocals are low and raw, the lyrics simple: just longing, repetition, and the image of a river that always returns to the same bend, no matter how many times it’s flooded or dried out.
For a moment, the room shrinks to just the two of us, and the music feels like a current we’re both caught in.
We slow to a sway. Kang’s eyes finally meet mine, bright green in the half-light. There’s something in them I haven’t seen before—vulnerability, maybe, or just exhaustion. His breath ghosts over my cheek, warm and just a little sharp from the beer.
Then it happens: a hitch in the song, a shift in the progression. Kang’s hands go slack, his eyes unfocus, and he stops moving. My body freezes too, as if we’ve both hit the same invisible wall.
I know this melody. I know it the way I know my own name, the way I know the pain in my shoulder or the taste of Authority ration bars. But I don’t know why. The memory is there, but unreachable, a word on the tip of my tongue.
I look at Kang, and see the same recognition in his face. He’s searching, hard, behind his eyes. His mouth opens like he might say something, but closes again.
Our bodies take over, moving on their own. We fall into step, perfect sync, like we’ve done this a thousand times before. I sense the pressure of his hand at the small of my back, the guidance in the arc of his shoulder. I match his pace, even the little stutter in his left foot.
The song slows again, the vocalist holding a single note for what feels like an entire year. Kang’s hand tightens at my waist, not rough, just— desperate.
I feel my throat close. My eyes burn, then overflow. Tears, hot and sudden, run down my cheeks. I don’t sob, don’t even breathe hard, but the tears keep coming. They’re not for pain or loss, but for something old and important that’s been locked away.
Kang notices, of course. He stops us dead in the center of the floor, cups my cheek with his palm, and wipes away the tears with his thumb.
We stand there, motionless, the song washing over us.
His mouth is close enough that I can feel each word as a vibration against my skin.
He smells like beer and iron and the faint, sweet undertone of ozone from the tunnels.
For a moment, the world is gone. The party, the Sanctuary, the years of running—none of it matters. There is only this: his hand on my face, my tears on his thumb, and the ache in my chest that says, yes, this is real.
He pulls me in, tight, until there is no space between us. I rest my head on his shoulder, and he leans his cheek against my hair.
We stay like that, unmoving, long after the song ends and the crowd resumes its chaos. Rosie’s band launches into another fast one, but we don’t move. People swirl around us, laughing, shouting, spilling drinks. But they all give us a berth, as if they sense the gravity of our orbit.
When I finally look up, Kang is watching me. His lips are parted, and his face is so open it hurts to see. He brushes another tear from my cheek, and then, with a tenderness I’ve never known from him, kisses the corner of my mouth.
It’s not a claim, not a conquest. It’s a question.
I answer it by holding him closer.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to.
We just hold on, and let the rest of the world go.