Note: I apologize profusely for how long it's been. I know it's only two weeks, and it's even Sunday, but I feel guilty. Some people on the wisdom teeth update suggested I don't spread myself too thin, and I greatly appreciate your concern.
In other news, my wisdom teeth finally feel normal again, and I'm back at home after a quick visit to Nashville (I was there on Friday when I realized I didn't bring my computer on the trip). So we're basically back in the swing of things!
PREVIOUSLY ON THE CLASSIX: Cartney and Emeray discovered that DEFED put an engagement ring in a box intended to hold a necklace. According to their note, DEFED doesn't really like Emeray anymore and planted this ring as a tipping point to annoy the public. If you want a visualization of how this would annoy the public, consider this in today's time with whomever you feel applies or applied in the past.
emeray
I've never been too keen on birthdays. Judging by the way the last sixteen have played out, the annual celebration of the day I was brought into this world has never proved to be any different than any other day in my life. The world never stopped in its merry course of tribulations. The sun never poked its way out of the crowds to boast a gold, effervescent sheen; March is generally a muggy time for my area of Eldae. The people didn't smile when I walked by––they never did, even on a regular day.
Like usual, I would wake, look in the mirror. Same brunette atrocity with the bright blue eyes, one year older. If anything, my birthday was just another reminder that this horrible glitch of a thing was brought into the world.
As of late, however, I've had my fair share of unique days. They don't drone on like they did back in Red. The world stops every time I walk out the door. The sun comes in gold and white-hot camera flashes when I pass by paparazzi. And most of all, everybody smiles at me when I walk by––even if they hate me with all their might. They're usually too starstruck to remember that.
Today I wake, look in the mirror. New blonde luminary with the bright blue eyes, one year older.
I brush my teeth with my right hand, glancing with great caution at the left. I wiggle the fingers, inspecting the skin and feeling how nice it is to have no rings weighing them down. Cartney told me he'd do everything in his power to keep DEFED's ring from making an appearance at dinner tonight, but even so, there's no guarantee. There's always a lingering chance that the box he brings tonight won't possess a simple necklace.
Engagement aside, DEFED's entire reappearance is the worst gift I could've asked for on a day like this. For three months we've been without them––on edge, surely, but without. The only thing we ever had to fear was the propensity of them coming back, and paranoia can always be vanquished with a little hopeful thinking. DEFED, however, can never be vanquished––they'd already proved this twice, with Bree and Foster.
Pulling on a sweatshirt, I take in a deep breath, departing from my room to make a quick morning visit to the Analytix. I'll have to find a spare moment today to show the other members DEFED's newest message––maybe even Norax, too. The letter didn't explicitly tell me that she couldn't know, and she's been holding her ignorance of the Volxsturm against us from the moment we escaped the Fishbowl, going on and on about how she could've stopped Foster's death from happening, some way, somehow. Informing her of a new threat immediately seems like something we should be doing, especially with so many new members about to flood into the place.
My stomach takes a twist inside me. And they can't wait to meet you––the last line in DEFED's note. Norax told us that new Famoux members are going to be comprised of the people who talk the most frequently about us, regardless of whether or not all that talking be negative or positive.
I imagine DEFED must discuss the Famoux an awful lot.
Luckily, no Volxsturm appears in the Analytix this morning. No chart of names, no gauging who's in first place with public appeal. DEFED might be back, but they don't seem to be back in the business of killing us off.
Yet.
As I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen, I notice music playing. I haven't heard this before, but somehow I know exactly what it is.
"Can you just feel the love in the air?" asks Chapter, grinning wide at me. He's leaned back casual, his hands on either side of the countertop. Just the sight of him here, alone in the kitchen, brightens the whole morning. "Can you hear the love, love?"
Out of some hidden speakers around the room, Cartney's newest song, "For Emeray" is blaring––an exclusive new track that was released the very second my seventeenth birthday began. From what I've heard in the Analytix, this song is already monumentally popular for having been released in the dead of night. It provides more buzz than can be observed on the surface––not only is it a painfully blatant song about me, the title's eponymous Emeray, but it's the first song Cartney Kirk has released since his last single . . . a single that he happened to share with a one Kaytee McKarrington.
The oozing, lovey-dovey violins are far too much for me to handle at this hour of the morning. I can feel a headache coming on, so I put my fingers to my temples, pressing down deep. Moving slowly toward the carafe of coffee beside him, I utter the first words of my seventeenth year: "Could you please turn that music down?"
Chapter laughs, pulling a remote from his pocket. He dangles it front of me. "You know, turning down the song Cartney wrote especially for you would imply that you're turning Cartney himself down."
Moving quick, I snatch the remote from his fingers. In a press of a button, the song is completely cut off, right in the middle of a tantalizing melody. His eyebrows raise, smile softening into a smug expression.
"That song is the last thing I want to be listening to this morning," I tell him. "Looks like I'm going to have to turn Cartney down on this one."
"Are there other situations in which you wouldn't turn him down?"
I give him a look. "Only situations such as, perhaps, a dating contract."
"Ah, that's right." He leans toward me, touching his nose against mine. "For the record, I think it's a fantastically atrocious song. 'For Emeray' . . . you've really got to give Cartney a hand for being subtle."
"Stop lying."
"No, really! It took me a couple listens this morning to even start guessing that he wrote it about you."
I shake my head at his sarcasm, our noses bumping together in the process. It's not too often that there's nobody else is in the room when the two of us are, so I don't hesitate to follow Chapter's lead when he tilts his head to give me a kiss.
For the first time this morning, my insides seem to finally settle––all notions of potential engagements and DEFED threats dissolve, if only for a moment. All I can focus on in this moment is how natural, how comfortable it is to be with him; how I can distinctly taste his last cup of coffee on his tongue. For a second, it's all that matters.
Like all good things, short-lived.
"I believe what I'm looking at right now is one of those special things I'm supposed to call Norax about," says a deep voice.
It's too deep to belong to Cartney, but we separate with all the same panic. Blinking fast, I find Angad standing by the foot of the stairs. He's not even looking at us––he's busy fiddling with one of the many colorful pins on his jacket.
"I'm going to be the good guy and let this slide," he continues, "but only because it's your birthday, Emeray."
On a three month instinct, I take a step away from Chapter, to which he reaches out to me and touches my arm.
"Why?" he asks.
"You know." I offer a consoling look: This is how the contract is.
Chapter sighs, turning toward the carafe. I watch him as he pours two cups of coffee––one for him, one for me. He offers the mug carefully, perhaps like one would offer a jewel or a bouquet of flowers.
"Happy birthday, Sticks," he says.
This makes Angad clear his throat with a cough. "Technically, calling Emeray by her past life nickname like that is also something Norax frowns upon. It's considered a verbal liability, which could be compromising."
"You are truly just like the last one," Chapter remarks, turning around to meet my guard's gaze. He drums his hands against the granite island's counter. "You know––all that good old rule following."
Angad tips his hat, unfazed. "You could say all of us guards are following the same rulebook, Mr. Stones."
Chapter mimics the salute. "Be a leader, not a follower."
There's a sound of clacking shoes above us. Another member, finished with getting ready. I don't remember the last time I heard this noise––most of the time, the other members get ready early and are out of the Metropolix before I've even woken up.
I point to the ceiling, gesturing to the sound as it moves down toward the direction of the stairwell. "Is everybody still here?"
"That's right," Angad tells me. "In fact, the other members should be down soon for a quick meal before going off to their other obligations."
"A full member breakfast?"
"Since you're scheduled to be going to dinner with Cartney later tonight, Norax decided you having breakfast and exiting the Metropolix at once would be enough to satisfy the public's desire to see you and the other members together on your birthday."
"Always a woman with a plan," Chapter mumbles.
"At least we're all going to be together," I point out. "When's the last time we've all had a meal together?"
But immediately, I wish I hadn't said it. We vividly remember the last time––in fact, all of Delicatum remembers it. Because it was broadcasted.
Because it was the dinner where Foster died.
Chapter notices the change in my face, and carries on like it wasn't brought up. "Hey, at least I get to have one meal with you on your birthday. Cartney's been hogging your entire eating schedule lately."
"It's all those dinners Norax and Buchan scheduled this week," I say. "It's way too much, even for fans who like us."
"I'm a little offended you're getting coffee with him so regularly now." He winks. "I thought the coffee theory was real, Sticks. You're breaking my heart."
"What coffee theory? I haven't heard it."
"It's actually not a theory at all. But for all intents and purposes, you're still breaking my heart." He points at the mug in my hands ardently. "Look! This isn't even special to you, is it, Sticks?"
It's increasingly hard to respond to this without stopping everything and throwing my arms around him. I want to tell him over and over how he makes anything special––from making a cup of coffee to just walking down a hallway. It's more than anybody has ever gone out of their way to make special for me. But judging by the way Angad earnestly taps his foot on the floor, Chapter and I must be having much too long a conversation than what the contract prefers.
"I value these cups of coffee like you wouldn't believe," I say. "Cartney and I never have actual coffee together."
"What do you guys get at Wes Tegg's, then?"
"Vanilla lattes."
"Oh, I didn't know you liked those."
"I don't."
Chapter laughs. "And so the nonexistent coffee theory lives on."
The other members make their way into the kitchen one by one, offering me light celebratory greetings. Race makes a joke about Cartney's new song, and how comical it is that I've only been here for less than a year and already have two hit songs written about me, thanks to "For Emeray" and Marlon York's "Bad Together."
It's an oddly unceremonious morning. I'm getting the feeling that celebrity birthdays are only really a big deal to the news stations and the fans at home, or maybe they're a little more exciting when you're at least ten months past losing a best friend. Not barely three, with everyone's images suffering a little, and the looming presence of DEFED's threat and a possible engagement with Cartney Kirk weighing down on my shoulders.
Maybe she realizes how much I need it, because Kaytee smiles and gives me a hug, disregarding any mention of Cartney Kirk Race has just brought up. For a moment I'm propelled back to that first time meeting the Famoux, where she was the only one to embrace me when I felt like none of them would agree on adding a new member so quickly after Bree's death. Ever since her conflict with Cartney, and my contract with him, I've been having a lot of trouble deciphering where she and I stand. One minute, she's giving me the cold shoulder, and the next, it's like nothing's wrong and we're still great friends. My mood lifts astronomically, simply because she chose to be great friends today.
She nods at my shocked face, squeezing my shoulders. "We're about to see a storm of new kids we're likely never going to fully trust. I can't go into that with us not trusting one another like we used to."
A very, very preferred gift to be given.
xxx
Okay, generally uneventful and unceremonious. My specialty. I'll be back in a bit. Remember:
Sticks and Stones may break your bones, but haters make you famoux. Stay classy, stay classix.