19 | goddess (part one)

SATURDAY ARRIVES IN A SHROUD of icicle-driven winds and colourless skies, bleached by acid rain and the pallor of a washed-out horizon, welcoming the first lights of early afternoon doing little to battle the overhanging darkness clasped in the branches of bent-over trees.

The tunnels are dark and empty; the chorus of dancers dwindling to few and the painters taking a rest from the glistening paint swirled across the walls. I clasp my bag tighter to my chest, half-expecting someone to jump out and steal my booze at any moment. Of all the things on my person, the alcohol is the most expensive, and who knows what kind of creeps could come out when everything is so silent.

Archer turns a corner, the mouth opening up into a gaping hole of a room.

More people than I've ever seen clustered in the Chain at once press against each other, a writhing mass of bodies; hot breaths intermingling, but the spark in the air undying. Swaying from side to side, passing around bottles and drinks and ear-to-ear grins. In the effervescent spirit of the moment, I decant a spillage of some of my mother's pinot noir into Archer's glass, before tipping the bottle back to my lips, the taste overly tart on my tongue.

"Jesus, Ivory." Archer wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's a bit dry, isn't it?"

I nudge him, laughing. "Quicker you finish it, quicker I can open the next bottle," I say.

His eyes bug in his head. "You have more? I already thought that was a fat bottle."

"I raided my Mum's stash," I explain, unzipping my bag to produce another gleaming bottle, a tart, expensive vodka I hug to my chest as I let Eb zip it back up for me after he steals a Jack Daniels from my bag, gulping directly from the bottle before chasing it down with a beer.

"Good job." He cracks a grin, nicking the bottle from my fingers and staggering forward with it in his grasp, bringing it his lips and taking a long, drawn-out sip. I snatch it back, swallowing a deep swig and stumbling into him, his arm automatically falling around my shoulders. "You better not be drunk, you have a performance to do."

"I'm not," I promise, giving myself a shake. "I've built up a pretty strong tolerance over the years."

"I hope." He gives my shoulder a squeeze before releasing, the absent warmth of his touch leaving me vulnerable to the sudden cold. "Hey, you're on the one after next. You should probably go meet JJ backstage, Ebony and I will probably have a table when you get back."

"Okay." I toss my hair over my shoulder, smoothing down my outfit: a crimson bardot top and a black denim skirt that tears off around my mid-thigh, and is wildly more appropriate than anything else I would wear to an event like this. Backstage is set firmly in my sights; a dark, shadowed area, sectioned off by dingy dividers.

JJ is waiting for me backstage, his beanie off in a rare moment to reveal dark chocolate ringlets he combs his fingers through for a moment before pulling his beanie back over his head.

"Hi." I suppress a grin as I approach, taking a swig from my bottle―ice-cold water this time, to soothe my throat―and pick up the microphone, tossing it up and down in my hand. The fluorescent light brings out the red glitter infused with my black nails, done before we arrived, while the dim light of afternoon had seeped into evening, infusing the whole world with golden light. "We're on in a bit."

"So I've heard." JJ smiles, flexing his fingers. "Hey, you know all your words?"

"Backwards and forwards," I say. "Three songs, right? One, three, and eleven on your playlist. I was listening to them on the way up."

"Yeah, those three," he confirms, pressing his knuckles into his mouth to stifle a cough. "I'm nervous. Are you?"

"I don't know. I'm not thinking about it," I say, twisting my rings around my finger―a birthstone and a constellation; a gift from my mother. "If this ever happens again, I'll probably know how you feel."

"I don't doubt that you'll do amazing, so of course it will," JJ says, dimples cutting into his cheeks. He adjusts his sunglasses, clasping his unattended cane in his fingers as the roar of applause fills the room. An unabashed din, before the onstage act invites itself back, holding their fingers and wishing us luck. "That's our cue," he says, taking the lead and beckoning for me to follow.

The applause from the last act is dying when JJ and I make it onto the makeshift stage, him at the piano and me at the mic stand, slotting it in and checking for feedback. The MC crosses the stage in bounds and leaps, announcing us with practised gusto, and a hyped-up, half-intoxicated crowd bursts into another round of applause as he leaps off of stage.

JJ's skilled fingers find the keys, tapping out the opening melody. In the hushed silence, I find the eyes of Archer; my brother, and I feel my chest seize and my hands shake, but then I wind my fingers around the microphone, and everything seems to fall into place.

☆☆☆