Page 91 of Ruby
His breath shifts. Barely. But I notice, heart pounding as I wait for him to scoff at me, the Bitch wanting to rise and start swinging the moment the fear of rejection surfaces.
“I care about you,” I rush to say, keeping her in check, knowing she is the last mask that would be helpful right now.
I need him to understand this isn’t desperation, so I keep the words spilling out. “Not because of the transformation. Not because you’re available. I care about you.”
“Care?” he asks.
“Feelings,” I explain. “Closeness.”
The air feels thin. He studies my face like he’s memorizing it.
“Like a dusk-cry searching for its echo?” he asks.
I swallow hard, the imagery of it making goosebumps rise on my skin.
“Yes, like that,” I say after a long moment.
“I know your note, and I keep it safe in my throat,” he responds in the monotone of Azoeul’s language before switching to the rich timbre of his own. “Beautiful echo.”
Yes, he cares. It’s steady. Grounded. No hesitation.
But he doesn’t say love.
Neither do I.
We stand there in the space where that word could go.
“I am not choosing this lightly,” he adds, switching back to the more efficient language. “If we do this, it is not simply… biological intervention.”
“I know.”
“I will not treat it as an experiment,” he continues.
“I know,” I repeat.
An upper hand lifts, slow enough that I could step away if I wanted to. I don’t. His fingers brush my jaw, careful, like he’s confirming I’m real.
“You are certain?” he asks.
“About the change? No,” I admit. “But I’m sure about you.”
“I will never fly again,” he tells me and my brow lowers at the change of subject.
Then I remember how broken he has seemed each time we have talked about it and I feel stupid. It’s hard to think of anyone that big having wings. Wingless is how he’s always been with me.
“That’s terrible, of course, but it doesn’t matter to me, if that’s your concern,” I tell him. “Flying isn’t a requirement.”
“Maybe it should be,” he responds.
“It doesn’t matter to this choice, Szhe’ka.”
“If you are certain, then sing it,” he urges. “Sing what you want so I know for sure.”
My throat shifts painfully and my heart leaps at being so vulnerable, but I pull my breath low in my belly, no aria of my career more important than what I am about to sing. “I choose you,” I sing, melody and harmonics weaving my assurances.
His body relaxes. “As I choose you,” he sings back, the resonance carrying his steady regard. His commitment to remain.
Something shifts in his expression, something deep and restrained, before he switches to the shorter, harsh tones of the language everyone uses here. “I will stand with you in this choice,” he rumbles.
