The fall wasn't as painful as it was loud. A full-body, undignified thud hurt my ego more than my backside. The carpet may have saved my ass some serious rug burn.
"......"
Calista looked down at me in my pitiful state, not with disdain or guilt. If she could've willed me to spontaneously combust with a thought, I was certain it'd happen, but not after making sure I was okay first, which sounded extremely contradictory.
She stared at me on the floor for a long moment, her expression caught somewhat between panic and bewilderment. Her gaze darted between her own hand, as if she'd just discovered it was a venomous snake, and my face, which was currently turned upward at her from a very unflattering angle.
"Oh—"
Then she reached for me.
Her hands hesitated for a second before she decided to commit.
"Damien, you—"
She swallowed, lips pressing together into a thin line as her hands hovered an inch from my arm, stuttering, uncertain whether she should put her hands on me or not.
She committed, eventually. Gripped my forearm with both hands and pulled, and I found my feet again with about as much dignity as a newborn deer on ice.
"Are you hurt? I didn’t mean to…"
"I'm fine..." I grumbled, not feeling particularly fine at all, my pride had taken a severe beating, but the actual physical pain was negligible. "Just a... slight loss of equilibrium."
That was my good excuse, and not her potentially monstrous strength.
She looked at her hands again for a half-second, then put them in her pockets, as if locking them away somewhere they couldn't cause further incident. "You shouldn't have grabbed me."
"I'm aware. Sorry about that." I had to be the bigger man and apologize, even if the whole situation felt insane. "You were leaving. And I... was desperate."
"Desperate....?"
Calista repeated, a hint of suspicion tinged with subtle unease. I could only imagine that in her mind, a world where men were desperate could only mean trouble, and perhaps trouble was precisely what she needed to prepare for.
"You must not be thinking properly." Calista said carefully, arms crossed across her chest and slowly backing away.
"Well, true..."
A bit of awkward laugh, which of course had no echo in her eyes or demeanor.
I gathered a little more breath, then raised both hands in an amicable gesture, while being cautious, still, not to appear threatening. "Calista, I just want to talk to you... honestly. Let's just go upstairs and sit somewhere private. And you could just listen for ten minutes. Will that work?"
"Ten minutes."
"Is that not okay...?"
I tilted my head, lowering it an inch but still looking up at her. My lips were stuck somewhat half parted, and Calista's resolve trembled along with her eyes. I could've sworn her eyes were looking at me with spite and self-hatred as well.
Then...
She closed her eyes, wrinkling her nose and fighting off what looked like an impending headache. "You... fine." It took her the strength to move a mountain to say that.
She made a vague gesture with her head, before preceding me up the stairs. I followed, aware this might be the stupidest thing I'd done since waking up in this world.
No, the stupidest one was probably taking off my shirt in front of all of them, or coming back home with a hot police officer that was all too willing to get my number.
From behind her, I mentally high fived myself for not leering at my older sister's hypnotic ass-centric sway up the flight of stairs, and felt like a grown adult.
Mentally, anyway.
I did also accept that the bare possibility existed that I was nothing more than a meat-puppet for the raging hormones of a billion people around the globe.
The stench of cigarettes, which I've never liked, was somewhat pleasant as it blended with her perfume. It was a mix between bitter and sweet. Bittersweet. Yes, that's what perfectly described what I was probably feeling as well. 3 AM motivation could either be genius-level inspirations or batshit crazy, but for now I was just walking with Calista, with a friendly distance maintained between our bodies.
This wasn't exactly a dangerous, hostile meeting, nor did she strike me as one who'd literally just stab her brother in the chest.
But I guess stranger things had happened.
Her room was far along the corridor, out of reach to anyone else's.
Calista opened the door without ceremony, and entered quietly. She waited until I was in as well, and closed the door, before moving towards her desk, just under the bright yellow lights of a suspended light fixture, and placing her wallet, keys, lighter, and a pack of smokes right at the very corner.
I stared at her room, not entirely sure what I expected. In fact, this thought was telegraphed for all the other rooms in this house as well, as I had yet to do a complete tour of everyone's place.
Surprisingly, Calista's room was messy. Not a filthy mess, but a lived-in one. Wires snaked across the floor like vines, connecting synthesizers, a mixing board that looked more complex than a spaceship cockpit, an integrated piano, and monitors displaying half-finished audio charts or whatever it was she was working on.
Clothing draped every surface—chairs, amps, the edge of the bed.
"Make yourself not at home." Calista muttered, stepping over a tangle of cables.
I navigated carefully toward a clear spot in the corner, sinking into what appeared to be an oversized beanbag chair.
Without further ado, Calista began her transformation. Off came the figure-hugging dress, she didn't shed it off gracefully as much as she nearly tore her arms free in the most aggressive way possible, but it was nothing too graphic.
And surprisingly sexy as well, to spectate.
It was like watching a tiger peel off a latex suit.
Then I realized that she was wearing nothing but underwear beneath that, and I had no clue whether I was allowed to look or not. I was born not even three days ago in this new world afterall.
I decided to stare at her workstation instead. It was only after Calista, nearly turning the whole room upside down searching for a change of clothes, pulled out a tank top and unflattering shorts, which absolutely flattered her long, fit legs.
White.
No, she was pale. A shade of white that would make tattoos look incredibly good on her, which, after some curious looking, I found one that wrapped around her upper arm and ended somewhere over her breastbone and hid behind that shirt.
The black ink was a beautiful contrast against her soft, pale skin.
When I looked again, I found her looking back, gauging the look on my face and narrowing her eyes with distaste at the moment's weakness.
"What. Is. It." She sat down, crossing one leg over the other. "What are you looking at?"
"Your tattoo..." I said. "It's really cool, when did you get it?"
Calista crossed her arm across her body protectively. Then let it go with a breath. "A while ago. Why? What does it matter to you?"
"I'm not judging you." I tried to smile disarmingly. "In fact, I've always wanted one as well. Maybe... maybe I'll get one as well, sometime."
I wasn’t even lying. Back in my world, I’ve always wanted one. Either a half or a full sleeve. Maybe something on my shoulders and back too. Never got around to do it, though.
Her eyes widened, then blinked, as if recovering from some shock. "Damien... you want a tattoo...? But, isn't that..."
"Painful...?"
"Un... unmanly..." Calista bit her lower lip, her face all scrunched up in disbelief.
"Oh..." I thought tattoos were universal in this world as well, but apparently I was wrong. I waved it off with a shrug. "Yeah? Well, I believe that freedom of choice is a prerogative that belongs to every human that shouldn't be fettered to absurdity or cultural constriction. So... if I feel that a tattoo is the right fit, then I will absolutely do it without restraint or hesitation."
"......"
It didn't do the trick as my older sister simply stared at me in bewildered silence.
"You always said you hated them..."
Calista spoke slowly, looking at me as if trying to read my intentions.
"I changed my mind."
She rubbed the bridge of her nose, visibly impatient. "Damien, what's going on? You hate me. Why the fuck did you come to my room? What do you want from me? Is this your way of getting back at me?"
Going down that rabbit hole right now, of all times, wouldn't lead to a satisfying conclusion, nor was it relevant.
As curious as I was, it was not the right moment to press further. I let it slide and waved it off nonchalantly. "Why do you keep bringing up the past? I just think it's time, I don't know, we got along a little... and as I said, I've picked up the guitar again, and it turns out we have something in common."
Calista stood up and retrieved an energy drink from a mini-fridge.
She had to bend over to get one and oh god did I look. Just one second—I inwardly pleaded in front of King Enma, or whoever's watching, hoping for a flimsy pass for a glance, but a glance it was and nothing more.
She sat back on the bed, legs crossed with the can resting comfortably between her thighs. "What now... you want to be a singer?"
I rubbed my throat.
"I... don't really know, honestly. Maybe. I just think it could be fun to see how far I can go, right?"
Calista drank with such vigor that she had to breathe in through the nose twice after downing half the can. Her dark eyes roamed up and down my frame, looking a bit annoyed that she still couldn't figure this out.
"Why?"
"I've listened to songs from... Emmett, and..." I trailed off, scrunching up my nose to show my distaste. "Well, they suck."
"They don't." Calista raised an eyebrow as if appalled by my comment.
"Well, I don't like them. I don't like all this self-pity and a non-stop love letter to how terrible they have it. I mean... I think a song should express passion and intense emotions, shouldn't it? We shouldn't peddle sadness to the people like there's no hope anymore, or as the alternative is even worse. Even if that's reality sometimes, there should at least be some measure of resistance and rebellion. I don't know, like... do you get what I'm saying?"
I was rambling mindlessly.
A sigh.
A groan.
Calista rolled her eyes.
"So what. You want me to help you write a song and send it to a label so it'll be published or whatever...?"
"No, I need your help producing it. I'll... take care of the lyrics." I averted my eyes at that point, because I knew that what I intended to write could potentially open a whole can of worms that Calista would not, should not, have the emotional capacity to digest at that moment.
God forbid my poor mother reading the type of profanity and double entendre I had in mind. Oh Lord.
Calista reached the bottom of the can, her lips lightly touching it as she made sure there's none of that sweet elixir that was wasted.
"This is so fucking stupid."
That line, after she finished the entire thing and crumpled it.
I shifted. "Could you give me some constructive criticism or some ideas instead of sitting here and sipping on that, or at least have the courtesy of sharing one or two cans?"
"Damien, for fuck's sake, do you even know what it takes to even be considered a passable candidate? Do you even have the slightest..."
"I do." I narrowed my eyes.
“......”
She narrowed hers as well.
"Show me." And then Calista stood up abruptly and began setting up what looked like a professional mic connected to her complicated-looking computer. I was no producer, but even I could tell this stuff was top-tier. "Let's see what you've got."
"......"
I gawked.
Right now?
Here?
"You want me to sing...?"
"You want to be a singer? Then sing." She adjusted the mic, looked me in the eye, and gestured towards it like it was a guillotine. "Show me why I shouldn't kick you out of my room this very instant."
"Calista, it's fucking 3 AM."
"......."