Archive of Our Own

Phainon has a problem.

As an idol, he seldom comes home.  If he does, it’s mostly just to sleep; his home is hardly lived in.  But he had just come back from a major tour and was taking a short hiatus, so he was staying home for the meantime.

The problem first arose when he had come back from the gym on an offhanded Thursday.  He had noticed an odd smell coming from his dining room.  It wasn’t bad per se; the opposite, really.  

He popped his head in the room.  On the table was peppered chicken, a helping of rice, and various vegetables, all tidily arranged.  It seemed to be homemade too, with pots and pans glistening on the dish rack.

A note was placed next to it, its letters ranging in size and shape.  Cut out from magazines and newspapers.  It is nutritionally balanced.  Please help yourself.

Curt, hardly wasting any words.

He could almost laugh.  However.

The problem is, no one he knows made it.

The housekeeper only comes on days where the food isn’t there, and this particular day, she was not on the clock.  His manager, Aglaea, hardly ever cooks for him, and he was a solo debut, meaning he didn’t have group members to barge into his abode.  He didn’t have the time to cook today either, and of course, if he had ordered food and taken it, wouldn’t he have remembered?  Unless he spontaneously fell, cracked his head open, and got amnesia that only made him forget that one specific scenario.

He checked his bank account and food ordering app anyway, just in case.  Nothing suspicious.

So who could’ve made it?

At first, he was wary of it – who wouldn’t be?

Perhaps an overzealous fan?  A peculiar paparazzi?

He decided to check the security footage, but it seemed to be cut at a specific time.  How strange.  But other than food suddenly appearing when no one should be in the house, nothing out of the ordinary happened.

The constant feeling of being watched wasn’t new to him, nor was the one of being followed.  

Even so, he turned back multiple times to see… nothing.  In the case of paparazzi, he usually whips around fast enough to catch the other party.  But there isn’t anything, just him and thin air.

He hasn’t reported it to Aglaea.  There has been something in him, nagging him to stop from reporting it, mostly since it hasn’t done him much harm, but no doubt if she found out, she would berate him first, then install about thirty more cameras in every possible angle around the house to capture the perpetrator.  On top of the work pushed back in favor of his break, she would be more stressed to learn that he may have a stalker.  So, at least for now, he will continue to keep quiet, hoping that they’ll tire of him and leave on their own.

Whatever Phainon thought of the mysterious meal-placer, they never stopped, along with their odd, yet not exactly invasive, notes.

They ranged from, I heard you don’t like snow peas that much.  Do you prefer zucchini?, to Meat is important, but vegetables are essential to a good diet, to simple encouragements — You made it through the day; that’s enough for today.

He never ate them, never paid them any mind other than oh, there it is again, just tossed them in the garbage as an extra step in his routine.

However, on one particularly bad day when he was mobbed by paparazzi right outside, sweaty from the humid summer heat, starving from skipping lunch, and had nearly broken a leg during dance practice, he decided to try it. 

He decided if he died, he would leave his assets to a chimera charity.  He scribbled a quick note to Aglaea on the table, detailing the charity he wanted her to donate at and his apology for suddenly departing on account of his stupidity.  Canceling all his prior appointments would be a pain in the ass for her.

He sat down, moved the slip of paper (today’s read: Your best is more than enough), and nibbled a part of the chicken.  Flavorful and perfectly seasoned.  Didn’t taste weird or bitter.

It was good; great, even.

He waited for an hour.  Nothing. Must be slow acting poison then.

He took a bite of the rice and half a bell pepper.  Also incredibly good.

Before he knew it, the entire meal was gone.  The bowls were his, so he tossed them into the sink, planning to do them a different day.

He then went to bed, half expecting to die in his sleep that night.

He woke up, perfectly refreshed.  Hungry.

He almost expected another meal on his table, with a similar note next to it.

There was nothing, his kitchen looking strangely empty.  Too empty.  

The bowls.

He took a tentative step toward the sink where he had left them last night.

Delicate porcelain rested on a rack by the sink.  A colorful yellow bowl, hand painted buttercups and daffodils on its side.  Several identical red-black dishes laid next to it, all mildly wet.

Someone had washed them, and not too long ago either.

He swallowed.  Tapped his phone, calling Aglaea.

She picked up on the third ring, voice clipped, the tone she uses when she is overwhelmed with his schedule.  “What?”

“Did you come into my house today?  Or yesterday?”

He could hear her teeth audibly clack together before she inhaled, and much more collectedly, said, “No.  Did you forget that I only come by on Mondays and Wednesdays since you’re on hiatus?”

He didn’t forget, but that was beside the point.  He smiled anyway, half forgetting she can't see him over the phone.  “Sorry for troubling you then.  Thanks for everything.”

“Wait, Phainon—” some muffled voices before Aglaea’s came back in clarity.  “If you’re hungry or something, ask the housekeeper to make it for you.  She’s coming in today at ten.”

He glanced at the clock.  Nine thirty in the morning.  “…Alright.”

So he goes about his life.  Greets the housekeeper with a brilliant smile, fussed over by Aglaea, goes to the gym, dance practice, vocalization lessons, recordings for future projects, and comes home to a fresh bowl of food, sitting innocently on his table as steam slowly plumes from it, indicating its recent creation every night, unless someone is over or Phainon is at home.  If he leaves dirty dishes in the sink, they would be gone by the next morning; it’s like he has a second housekeeper.  It’s so ridiculous it’s almost comical.

Somewhere down the line, he wonders again who could break in every night, leave a note, cook a whole meal, and cut security footage of themself (selves?), all while avoiding people coming to and going back to the house.  Not to mention the dishwashing.

It takes a toll on him, trying to find time between his work and personal life, especially since this concerns both, and before he knows it, the hiatus is halfway done, and still hasn't found a single hair of his second housekeeper who he has never seen the face of.

Well, he can take out his stress another way.  

He tugs on his cap and mask.  Breathes out, jittery at the prospect of what he will do, what he would find, and opens the back door, greeted with a familiar flickering streetlight and dim stars.  The moon is whole tonight.

After all, everyone has their secrets.

Mydei has a problem.

He has never been the most tidy person in his life, even before he became a semi popular rockstar.

It didn’t mean he was messy or disorganized… at least most of the time.  At first, he had enough time to clean the house and more, but gigs drained him, eventually leading to him just chucking clothes on his bed and sleeping on top of it.  And, well, what was the point of folding them if he was just going to use them the next day? 

It didn’t just apply to clothes either; he would take one look in his room, seeing all sorts of music sheets, pencils, and spare guitar picks that had somehow spilled out its container strewn about the area, and promptly leave.  (Occasionally though, he would see a pen he swore he dropped and never found back on his desk, or his pomegranate juice refilled when he thought he ran out, but he dismisses them as mere coincidences.)

That didn’t mean he hated domestic duties, nor was he actually bad at them.  He enjoyed cooking for his band, Calamity, and he didn’t mind shopping for them either, of course when he had the time.  He liked a clean house when he had the time and motivation to clean in the first place, but over time, it was like he eroded—it just felt draining when he didn’t need to do it for others.  He personally didn’t mind when his living space was a mess, even if he did prefer it clean.  Hell, if either Castorice or Cipher (and let’s be honest, it was mostly the latter) did the same, he would nag them while picking up spare laundry (mother hen, is what Cipher calls him).  Even if it was disorganized, he knew where everything was, or at least most of the time.  He couldn’t see a problem with it, until—

“Mydei, you haven't been taking care of yourself that well nowadays.”

He looks up from his phone.  “What is that supposed to mean?”

Castorice tilts her head.  “You like to do things for me and Cipher, but I haven’t seen you do things for you for a while.”

By her side, Cipher nods.  “Case in point, you still live in that shitty shed, the one you lived in before we even became a band.  It’s a pigsty, no offense.”

“I just make sure to not overindulge…”

Castorice’s voice is soft, but relentless, like summer rain pounding against his back.  “You don’t buy things you like, you don’t do things that would only benefit yourself, you hardly even take care of yourself, or just do the bare minimum.  You always prioritize others first, and while that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, it becomes… unhealthy if it’s excessive.  In short, you’re rather careless when it comes to yourself.”

“It doesn’t even have security cameras,” Cipher jeers.  “What would happen if our lead singer and guitarist gets attacked?  We’re getting to the point where fans recognize us on the streets, you know, and you choose to live in a place that doesn’t come with heating or air conditioning, and in one of the sketchiest neighborhoods in the city at that.”

He scoffs.  “Even if I do get attacked, I could probably fight them off anyway.”

“That isn’t the point, Mydei,” Castorice says, exasperated.  “The point is, nobody can take care of you as well as you can to yourself.  Humans are inherently self serving; they do things to benefit themselves.  If you decide you don’t deserve it, then no matter how hard others try to take care of you, such as Cipher or myself, it won’t be of any use.”

“But I do,” he argues.  “I do do things that are self serving.”

“Really?” Cipher pipes up.  “As in?”

He does.  He really does, but if he says it in front of them, they might report him to the cops or disband the group right then and there.

When he doesn’t answer, Castorice sighs, holding up a hand.  “Alright.  Let’s save this for another day, shall we?  Just… Mydei, take care of yourself a little better, won’t you?  We’re worried.”

Silently, he nods, and she gives him a small smile.  

A few hours later, he arrives home, into his shitty house in a sketchy neighborhood, as Cipher called it.

He turns the key in its lock, expecting the usual clutter.  He slips off his shoes, stepping into his tiny home and immediately, he realizes that something is very wrong.

He didn’t bump into something.  No accidental stubbings of the toe, no kicks that make misplaced notebooks skid away, not even a dumbbell inconveniently placed right next to the doorway.

The entrance is free.  Free of clutter, free of a mess that he would promise to but never clean up.

He lunges for the door of his room, throwing the door open.  He looks at the floor.

It’s clean.

He nearly screams.

Instead, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, feigning calm, if for no one but himself.

He opens his eyes.  Still clean.  He can’t even see a speck of dust on his now visible floor.  He feels a little lightheaded.

He opens his closet.  All of his clothes that were discarded across his room are in there, all freshly washed; he can smell the comforting scent of his detergent when he inhales.  He gingerly walks towards his desk, fingertips gliding over the smooth wood of it.

Music sheets, not a single page missing, but organized by a haphazardly written title on top.  Notebooks, all neatly stacked together.  Writing utensils, all placed in a pen holder he isn’t sure he even had in the first place.  Guitar picks, placed into their container he swears he lost.

…Is he dying?

He dials Castorice, fidgeting with the gold cuff of his braid.  He needs someone, anyone to tell him he isn’t going insane.

She picks up on the third ring.  “Hello?”

“Cas.”

“Hm?”

“Cas, I need you to be honest with me.”

Her voice takes on a worried tinge.  “Is there something wrong?”

“My… house.”

He can almost see her furrowed eyebrows, scrunched in confusion, when she asks after a beat, “… What?”

“It’s… clean.”

He can practically taste the appalled silence.

“Excuse me?” she eventually says weakly.  “Is — is this like one of Cipher’s jokes?”

“Cas,” he says gravely.  “I can see the floor. Did… you come in and clean, or Cipher, or — or know who did?”

“Call Cipher,” she demands in lieu of a response, and cuts the line.

Taking another deep breath, he does as he’s told.

It takes two missed calls and a frantic text.

“Hello?”  He can hear her yawn over the phone, staticky and slow.

“My house is clean.”

She snorts.  “I didn’t take you for the lying type.”

“Cifera.  You aren’t listening to me.  It’s clean.”

She’s silent for a second.  “How clean?”

“All my stuff is organized, all my clothes are organized.  I can see the floor.  God—is it waxed?  Please don’t tell me it’s waxed.”

His voice must have some hysterical edge to it, because Cipher urges, “Check your valuables real quick?”

Passport, emergency stash of cash, some jewelry he only wears on gig days, credit cards.  All there. 

“All here,” he relays.

“Sign of forced entry?”

“None.”

She’s quiet for a second before she says, “So… how does a new house sound–”

“No,” he rejects immediately.

She scoffs.  “I don’t know what you see in that crappy shed–”

“Cipher–”

“Yeah, yeah.  So you have someone that broke into your house and cleaned the whole thing when you were gone, and you still don’t want to move out.” She’s quiet for a moment before giving an epiphanic hum.  “It’s not that bad when you think about it, is it?”

“What?” he says incredulously, because seriously, what?  Shit, is he getting talked into another bad idea by her again?  He and Castorice have been talked into those at least twenty times over their past years of friendship, ending up exactly as Cipher had planned or veering into essentially illegal territory.

“Well, if it were me, I wouldn’t bother.”  He hears a rustle from her end as she adjusts herself.  “The police won’t do shit anyway.  No belongings missing, right?  No harm done, only a clean house.  Not to mention police reports usually are ignored in that neighborhood…”

The little Castorice in his head is begging him not to listen to Cipher, as it always does.  But the little Cipher, right next to the little Castorice, is egging him on.

What’s the big deal? it goads.  Is it doing you harm? Will the police take you seriously?  Weren’t you the one who said you could take care of something dangerous yourself?  There isn’t any evidence of forced entry…  See, I told you you should’ve moved to a safer neighborhood.

“I… guess?” he says eventually, if not a little hesitant.

He can almost see the shrug she does.  “Then, think of it as a free cleaning service or something.  Well, if anything else picks up, call again.”  

She hangs up before he can say anything else.  He looks at his phone screen, somewhat dumbfounded.

Contrary to what Cipher had told him, he did try to catch the weirdo who’s been sneaking into his abode.  Keyword being tried.  Whether it was pretending to sleep the usual time he would go out and seeing if they would come in, or installing cameras around the property, it never did seem to work.

Whoever they were somehow always knew whether Mydei was actually asleep or not.  Mydei would promise himself to stay up for the night, but his sleeping habits, ever healthy, would kick in no later than eleven when he was in bed.  Additionally, when he would wake up, he would wake with his entire room spotless.  Even the clothes that were trapped under his body during the night would hang mockingly on his closet door by the morning (and of course, the cameras did nothing, as they would break on day two by some neighborhood hoodlums… another perk of his healthy, wonderful community).

So the problem is somebody has been breaking into his house and deep cleaning the entire thing before he comes back.  They don’t steal anything, or at least not anything tangible, since his sanity begs to differ.

Nonetheless, it becomes a routine for him.  A week goes by, looking like a tornado whipped through his house.  Clothes, sheets of discarded music, random knickknacks, all strewn across the floor.  It looks like a disaster zone, Cipher comments when she comes to check on him.

But by Saturday night, it’s clean.  Everything is in place.  Clothes, washed and folded.  Everything on his desk and floor are placed in his drawers or on his desk.  He gets a whiff of air freshener whenever he comes back home, as well as an undercurrent of something else he can’t place.

However, he is never there to catch them.  He just… comes back to a fully cleaned house.  Sometimes he wonders if he has even entered the right building.

He doesn’t have time to do anything about it or think about it too hard, though.

After all, he has his own chores to do.

On Saturdays, at approximately seven thirty in the morning, Mydei wakes up.  Phainon is hardly ever there to see it, but loves seeing his eyes blinking against the ray of sunlight whenever he could.  Mydei’s curtain barely covers the window, and the sun was perfectly placed in an angle that would land directly on his face, where he would then groan and turn over.  Phainon would replace it, but Mydei might not want that, so he staves off for now.

It takes another half an hour for Mydei to actually get up, scrolling on his phone bleary eyed; a detail Phainon adores.  He then charges his phone, sits up, and stretches with a soft noise as his joints pop.

Saturdays are either avocado toast days or muffins-from-Castorice days.  Every two weeks or so, the other members of the band would meet up at Mydei’s house, talking about projects and different songs they had come up with, before leaving after a few hours.

Phainon has to be especially careful on those days; both of the girls are extremely observant, as Cipher has hearing akin to a feline, having heard his near inaudible steps from inside, and Castorice noticing the flutter of his clothes on one very unfortunate occasion, though she dismissed him, assuming he was simply a passerby. While he is glad neither are particularly overly suspicious, he does feel like he needs a little more practice.

From here on out, there are two different ways Mydei goes about his day.

First, he goes out at exactly eleven, right before noon, returning long past sunset.  These are more unpredictable days, Phainon nearly being caught whenever Mydei arrives home earlier.

Second, he stays at home, either scrolling on his laptop or phone, occasionally scribbling something down on a notepad. In the awkward space between lunch and dinner, Mydei would leave, and wouldn't return until around ten. Today is one of these days.

Phainon much prefers the latter; he can see the relaxed, still sleep-soft Mydei in his loungewear, taking naps wherever and whenever he pleases, though he still enjoys seeing Mydei when he does his sets with dumbbells in his gym room, sweat dripping down his back and muscles flexing.  Phainon imagines running a hand over those arms, the crimson ink that winds over his body and disappears into his clothes, imagines taking that sweat-soaked shirt and bringing it up to his face to smell.  But, he never gets too far with those fantasies, because Mydei will set down the weights and leave to take a shower, and that sets off another train of thoughts.

Around eight thirty, when it gets fully dark, is when Phainon cautiously allows himself in.  Inserting the spare key placed underneath some rocks in the yard, he always has to hold his breath in anticipation when the lock clicks, and the door slowly creaks open, hinges creaking.

Whenever he makes it in, he has to stand there, basking in the fragrance that envelops him, before slipping further inside to start on his work.

Mydei is never here around this time.  Phainon had tried following him a few times, but never got close enough to see where he went, lest Mydei catch him.

Phainon only caught him once before Mydei would disappear for the day, slipping out the back door with a plastic bag in hand, and over the rusty, dingy fence Phainon wants to beg him to replace.  His stamina is far from lacking, but by the time Phainon made it to wherever Mydei was last seen, the man himself was nowhere to be found.

Phainon doesn’t have time to wonder where he goes, at least not at those moments, having far bigger fish to fry.

The fish being Mydei’s house.  He has seen Mydei chuck things on the floor when working on a new piece, too engrossed to remember to pick up whatever he had just thrown on the ground.

He starts by the entryway, pairing up the shoes and placing away sweaters and jackets, lingering longer than needed on the former.  And if he brings a few up to his face to smell… well, would you believe him if he said it was to determine whether it was in need of washing or still wearable?  (He carefully ignores the fact he decides that based on how much sweat he can smell.  And yes, there is a threshold.)

Either way, eventually he moves on.  The kitchen is a gamble, either filled with dirty dishes or relatively clean, at least compared to the rest of the house.  Whichever it is, he wipes down the dining room table until it shines, then washes the dishes if there are any in the sink.  He occasionally checks the fridge if it’s running low, but it always seems three ingredients away from full on bursting, so he usually doesn’t bother.  He absentmindedly wonders who Mydei cooks for.

The last stop is Mydei’s bedroom.  His favorite.  This is the part of the house that smells like Mydei the most—or so he thinks it would; the lush scent of his detergent, the floral aroma of his shampoo, the residue of his pomegranate cologne hanging in the air, all of the scents intertwine into something soft and alluring.  If he ever got the chance to inhale into the crook of Mydei’s neck, he thinks it would smell just like it.

Phainon picks up and throws the clothes littered everywhere into the washing machine and dryer.  He folds the clothes more meticulously for these, (not that he doesn’t for the rest!  But Mydei does spend the most of his time in his room when home, so he wants to make them especially proper) tucking them lovingly into their places on the closet shelves.

He then turns his attention to the havoc on the desk.  Sweeping the picks into its box, rummaging for a pen holder that lays abandoned under the desk every week and setting the numerous pens, pencils, and highlighters laying around in it, organizing the sheets of music with little more than a few lines of notes and a scribbled title on it, empties out the trash cans, and sprays some air freshener when he’s finished.

And, to satiate that prick of greed, he spritzes a bit of his cologne.  It’s not enough to be noticeable, but it’s there; a woody scent under everything else.  A little on the pillowcase and on the pink fuzzy blanket Mydei likes to curl up under the most.

He would try baking something, but there is only so much time before Mydei comes back, so he leaves, and lies in wait outside.

Just in time.

Mydei strides on the path to his house, oblivious, with his keys in one hand and a bag in the other.  It’s a different bag than the one he came out the house with originally, but the same bag they give out in a convenience store nearby, somewhere between their houses.  He doesn’t know when Mydei will go there again, but Phainon plans to go everyday until he sees him there.

He watches with bated breath when the key turns, making an audible click, and watches when Mydei’s body stiffens when he realizes what he’s looking at, before he steps inside with a complicated look and closes the door.

For now, this is enough.

He draws away for today.

Phainon’s schedule is almost always packed to the brim.  Perhaps that’s the reason why Mydei prefers the slower days, where he can see Phainon stretch in bed, glancing at the clock, and grinning sleepily when he sees it’s a free day.  These days are rare, but no less dear.  Not that Mydei hates the busy ones, but he can only avoid the eagle-like gaze of Phainon’s manager so many times before he might slip up, or have it being so busy that Mydei can hardly keep up.

There’s an abandoned parking garage next to Phainon’s house.  It’s a spot Mydei frequents, as there is a window that he can see through into Phainon’s bedroom, watching as he putters, practices, and sleeps.

Today, luckily, is one of the honey-slow days.

Five thirty in the morning, Mydei watches as Phainon’s eyes open.  This is the usual time he wakes up on days where his schedule looks like a cake cut into too many slices.

A post-it note on the clock in neat cursive, courtesy of Aglaea, reads: Off today.

The corners of Phainon’s lips rise, and together with his half lidded azure eyes, it makes something in Mydei’s chest swell.  He wants it, aches for it.  The slow mornings with streaks of light whispering of a new day through their window, the first thing he sees when he wakes being Phainon’s content smile, all with many more days to come.

He watches as Phainon drifts back into sleep.  Mydei might as well get some groceries for today’s dinner; Phainon won’t be waking up for at least another hour or two.  If he makes it back quick enough, he would have more time to see Phainon sleeping, not yet ready to tackle on the day.  He watches for a few more seconds before reluctantly dragging away his gaze.

The trip in the grocery store is not an unfruitful one; he finds a handful of fruit the band had mentioned they wanted to try, a wheel of cheese he faintly remembers he’s running out of, and some fried chicken that would make a good side dish for Phainon today.

He heads back to his house to store the food, planning to bring it over when Phainon disappears for a part of the night.

He doesn't dwell on that too much for now, though.

When he makes it back to Phainon's house, the snowy strands are moving about on the silk pillowcase.  He's about to wake up.

Did he lose track of time in the supermarket?  He would've liked it if there was a bit more time in between; he makes a mental note to cut the time he spends in the dairy section for next time.

Nevertheless, he watches with rapt breath as blue eyes come into view for the second time this morning.

He watches as Phainon slowly hauls himself up, pushing his bangs out of his face as he yawns.  

He sits, staring at the wall for a few seconds, before getting up and opening his phone. After an hour of mindlessly scrolling and occasionally smiling at something, he disappears into the bathroom, reemerging downstairs.

Mydei can hear the clack of heels against the pavement, quickly ducking away when Aglaea opens the door at nine o clock sharp, her clothes crisp yet casual, with not a hair out of place.  She sets down a paper bag, to which Phainon takes a bagel from. Her mouth moves, words forming but Mydei is only able to catch the shadows of a few — 'drama' — 'role'.

So that's it. Phainon finally got an acting role.  He isn't surprised, it was only a matter of time, really.  Phainon has always been exceptional compared to most, his looks included, but Mydei does feel a strange sense of pride welling up.

He quietly stores that information away for later, because Phainon offers her a small laugh that Mydei unfortunately cannot hear.  It's all clear skies and warm sun, just to be able to glance at that face, and Mydei will take whatever he can get. He tries to imagine it though, to piece it through the practiced ones in the interviews, to think of Phainon's voice bursting with delight.  He finds that he can't quite.

At four, the two leave the house, Phainon donned in a mask, cap, and sunglasses.

"…not that hungry," he's saying.  "I have something to do later, so let's just get a snack somewhere close."

"After picking out some clothes," comes Aglaea's voice, each word carefully enunciated, yet a ghost of a smile on her lips.  "Heavens above know you need new ones."

"I just don't understand why we can't get them online.  It's less of a pain when there's zero chance to run into paparazzi."

"You know very well it's because quality can't be seen on a screen…"

Their subtle, playful jabs eventually fade away as they walk down the road.  Mydei waits for another twenty minutes in case someone comes back suddenly, circling around the back of the property as he waits.

When no one does, he unlocks the door with a bobby pin Cipher left behind in his house, the camera above blinking red at him.  He ignores it in favor of glancing left and right, before carefully stepping into the space.

Placing his shoes neatly at the entryway, he lets out a breath he hasn't realized he had been holding, and continues on into the kitchen.

Cooking is not a major issue, at least for today.  The fried chicken he had gotten earlier with some green beans and mashed potato go well together.  A little plain compared to other days, but it's somewhat a treat for an idol.  He hopes Phainon will indulge him again today, eating until the plates are clean.

He sets the dishes on the table when he's done, in front of the seat he knows Phainon will take, and he places today's note he had brought in the bag: Make sure not to overwork yourself.

Pensive, he washes the pots and pans in the sink, a little absentmindedly until his alarm reminds him that there are ten minutes until the time he promised himself to finish and get out the house by.  He then dries his hands, setting a slice of lemon meringue pie he had kept in the fridge a little ways off the meal, and heads over to the study.

On the mahogany wood desk, among scattered pens and papers, sits a laptop.

Another alarm shrills. Five minutes.

Unhurriedly, he opens the laptop, typing the password in, swiping the cursor to an app.

Three minutes later, he has gathered his belongings, deleted the security camera footage of his entrance and lingering, and paused the camera itself.  He's made sure it'd continue running after a set amount of time.  He's out the door just in time as he hears voices around the corner.

"…sure you don't want to get dinner?"

A soft, sheepish laugh.  The sunset's glow grows softer, dimmer, an orange hue enveloping the two walking down the road.

"I can take care of it somehow. Tomorrow is dance practice, so I need to stock up on carbs anyway.  I rather not do too much at a restaurant. We were lucky enough to not get accosted today and I don't want the streak to be broken, you know?"

Their conversation fades as they make it to the door.  Somewhere across the street, Mydei watches.

The lock turns, and the door is pushed open.

He sees Phainon’s smile crack slightly.  Aglaea turns to him, a little confused, and he plays it off with an even larger grin, charm turned up to eleven.  She gives him a little scoff, but leaves.

Once she's out of sight, Mydei crosses the street once again, and observes.

There’s an unreadable look on Phainon’s face as he crosses to the dinner table and sees the food.  He picks up the note, eyes lazily skating over the words, before letting the paper slip out of his fingers.

Then, he begins eating.  

Mydei has only been watching him eat for a couple minutes before his phone starts to vibrate. Castorice.  He stares at her picture for a second before sighing, starting the walk back as he brings the phone up to his ear.

It's been three weeks since Phainon had staked out — ah, waited forlornly at the convenience store.  It was only a few blocks away from his house; closer to his than Mydei's, in fact.

Now, going to the store has almost been as much of a routine as his dinner spontaneously appearing out of thin air.

He would watch Mydei, up until he would vanish.  Then, he would survey the area for his next cleanup run, mentally putting the clutter into their rightful places, and refill a couple things he would notice that always ran low (pomegranate juice, chicken).  After that, to the convenience store.  He would buy a snack or two there, just to pretend he wasn't loitering around.  He does have his fair share of scandals, some worse than others, but they have always been either false or blown up to exaggerated proportions. So the usual.

But, all his thoughts come to a stop because finally, finally, does his efforts pay off.  Because today, before his very eyes, stands Mydei.  Flame tipped blond hair tamed into a cap, sun-rimmed eyes, his most beautiful dream in reality, standing in aisle seven and poring over different types of chicken.

Phainon has a sudden, strange calling to get down on his knees and worship the ground that man walks on right now.

Instead, he tugs his hood a little tighter over his head, takes a deep breath, and goes to pretend he, too, is looking at protein options.

Should he talk to him?  Even if he did, what would they talk about?  Should he pretend he recognized him?  What if Mydei finds that annoying?

Before Phainon can combust, the man in question turns to him.

It isn't a huge, mindblowing thing.  It's a quiet, ordinary action.  But no matter how ordinary it feels, or should feel, Phainon can feel the air slowly push out of his lungs, the blood rising to his head as he tries and fails to think on what to do.

For a second, the two just stare at each other.  The last remaining rational part of Phainon's brain tells him that the more likely option is that Mydei is staring at the lean beef still in his grasp, but the emotional, and frankly the rest of him, is elated over at the mere fact that Mydei had looked at him.

In the split second he was distracted, Mydei had already looked away, back to between Jim’s pasture-raised (and organic!) chicken breast or Suzy’s free-range chicken thigh.

“If you’re looking for protein,” Phainon says before he can close his stupid mouth, “I would suggest the chicken breast.  Lean beef does have a good amount of protein in it, but chicken can also help with weight loss.”

Slowly, Mydei looks up from his chicken.  The next words nearly make Phainon tumble straight to the ground.  “Then, what do you prefer to eat?”

He blinks instead, short circuiting – he wasn’t exactly expecting a response.  He was anticipating a confused but adorable nod, or perhaps a slightly bemused stare.  Being blessed with Mydei’s normal voice when he isn’t singing is fine too, amazing even; he’ll take whatever he can get.  He’s even lucky that Mydei is talking to him instead of giving him a weird look.

“Well, taste is subjective,” Phainon replies eventually.  “But depending on how you make it, anything could taste good.”

Mydei merely tilts his head.  “Do you have any specific dishes you would recommend?"

Mydei is curious about my taste in food?

Phainon tries not to burst out of his skin when he says, “I’m not a picky eater, but some of my favorites are stews, or meat, or both.  Soup always has a comforting taste to it as well, and some savory pies are also really good, like spanakopita or hortopita.  Oh, fruit is nice too!”

For a few seconds, there’s only the sounds of the scanner’s beeps and the occasional rustle of chip bags.

“...I was talking about the chicken,” Mydei finally says with a faint smile.  “But thanks for telling me.  I’ll try the ones you mentioned some time.”

Immediately, he goes red, feeling the burn on the tips of his ears.  Of course he was talking about the chicken, idiot.

A sudden ding from his phone pierces through the awkward air, to which Phainon fumbles to open.  A notification from Aglaea reads, Where are you?  

He sneaks a peek.  Mydei is putting back some chicken on the shelf, and Phainon uses the time to dash off, not looking back.

Look on the bright side, Phainon, he thinks desperately as he runs.  At least I’ll be on his mind now.  Er, for better or for worse.  There will be other chances.

He just hopes that no one heard the mortified screams he let out in the alleyways on the way back home.

“An acting role?”

Cipher doesn’t look up from her phone.  “Yeah, someone I knew got it for us.  We’re mostly just in the background.  They said they’ll do the sound mixing later, but they want us to come up with a new song for the drama.”

“So not really an acting role then,” Castorice looks up from the desk, where she is hunched over writing something down in her notebook.  “We don’t have any lines or actual interactions with the actors, do we?”

“I think there may be a couple?” she squints at a spot on the ceiling.  “Anyway, they’re sending the script in a few days, so we’ll see then.”

“You didn’t think this was a group decision?” Mydei asks, dumbfounded.  “Why am I just learning about this now?”

“I wouldn’t have accepted if we didn’t know what we were getting into,” Cipher waves a hand dismissively.  “If they really do need someone to act, I’ll do it.”

He holds a hand to his head and sighs.  “So?  What is it even about?”

She stretches, yawning as she does so, then settles herself back comfortably against the pillows.  “I dunno.  But I heard, ah… What’s the idol you were obsessed with again?  The one with white hair and looks like a dog.  Starts with a P.  Or was it a K?  I forgot.”

At that, he glances at her.  “Phainon?  Khaslana is his stage name.”

“Mm, that one.  He has a minor role in it, or so I’ve heard,” she studies her nails.  “His manager is pretty worried about that since it’s his first acting role.”

Phainon is going to be in the same drama as me, he thinks, somewhat amazed as he flops down hard near her feet.  We’re going to be in the same space, working together.

He had noticed that Phainon had been frequenting a certain convenience store recently.  It was one Mydei frequently went to, so there were no qualms about orchestrating a “chance” encounter.  Of course, he didn’t know that the man himself would walk up and talk to him, not that he was complaining.  But this?  This was hardly a coincidence – a miracle, maybe?

“Mydei?”

He looks up, pulling himself out of his thoughts.

“Even though Cipher didn’t discuss it with us beforehand… it is a good opportunity,” Castorice says tentatively.  “You shouldn’t worry about it too much, we just need to do what we usually do.”

“I’m not worried,” he denies.  “In fact, I’m excited.”

The two girls stare at him, wide eyed and mouths hanging open in perplexity.

It’s only when he furrows his brows that Cipher says with a graveness that could rival a funeral officiant, “If you’re excited, I’m damn about to ditch the band and run off into the sunset on the beach.”

Castorice gives a small choke before offering him a weak smile and a feeble thumbs up.  “I’m happy you’re excited.”

“I am,” he insists.

Cipher looks away, holding a hand to her mouth.  “Sorry, you just said it with the most dead expression I’ve ever seen.  Even corpses would jump out of their graves with more energy than that.”

He grunts noncommittally before turning back to tweak his guitar’s strings.  “So?  Any more bombshells to drop before we go home for the day?”

With a chorus of nos, they bid each other farewell, locking up the studio for the night.

While walking back to his house, Mydei sees the flickering neon lights of the convenience store.

Stews, meats, soup.  Savory pies, fresh fruit.

He resolves to go to the grocery store tomorrow.

When Phainon hears the news, he drops his script on the floor.  Aglaea frowns but does not comment.

“Calamity is going to be there?” he hears his own hoarse voice say.  “Like, the band?”

“Yes, but they’re just going to be in the background,” she answers primly.  “They won’t be playing live, or at least there aren’t any plans to, so it’ll hardly be a distraction.”

He swallows.  I beg to differ, Aglaea, he wants to say.  I’ve been distracted for a while now.

He must’ve stayed quiet for a beat too long because her ever unreadable eyes waver.  “If…” she hesitates for a second before continuing.  “If you don’t think you’re ready…”

He shakes his head, feeling oddly guilty.  “I’ll be fine.  Just worried about the reception is all.  Some people will say they’re just using me or the band to boost the drama’s popularity.”

“People will always find something to criticize,” she sniffs, sitting back.  “They’ll say whatever it is online and they always have.  You needn’t take it to heart.”

When he smiles but says nothing in response, she gives him another once-over.  “Have you remembered your lines for the filming in a few days?”

“Just about,” he flips back to the front page.  “I don’t have many, considering I’m just the male lead’s friend.  Occasionally I’ll talk to the leads in class.  The biggest scene I have is bringing them to the music venue.”

“Oh?  So you remembered all of the lines?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but abruptly, he feels a pair of eyes on the back of his neck.  It doesn’t stem from Aglaea, who cocks a brow when he startles.  He whips around to look at the window.  It’s close to dark, but the presence he had felt was definitely there.

“Phainon?”

“Sorry, I’ll be back soon.  You can quiz me all you want when I come back.”  He grabs his jacket and phone, slamming the door behind him as he rushes to check.

When he arrives behind the window of his living room, seeing Aglaea’s golden hair from the back, there isn’t anything there, no sign that anyone had been there recently.

Again.  His lips press into a thin line, his face turning frighteningly dark before he catches his reflection in the glass.

All of a sudden, the lights in his house seem too bright to face right now.  He scrubs his eyes, tired, and starts walking.  He doesn’t realize where he’s going until his feet leads him to Mydei’s house.  It isn’t a smart move, considering he might still be home, or worse, not even there, but a glimpse would be enough for today.

He shoots Aglaea a short text about how he’s going to grab some snacks at the convenience store, promising to buy her some pasteli and that he won’t take too long, before shoving back the device into his pocket.

When he reaches the familiar tiny door with an awning that looks like it’s one storm away from crumbling, he can finally breathe a little easier.  He circles the building a few times, a habit he uses to discern whether Mydei is home or not.  All the lights are dark, and the walls are so thin he occasionally can hear the water running, whether it’s from the shower or the sink.  But, not today.  Mydei isn’t home.

As he trudges back to his own home, despondent, he watches his shadow warping as he walks by the convenience store, before looking up at the flashy signs plastered on the windows.

He only hesitates for a few seconds before pushing the door open and hearing the jingle of the bell.

Phainon is rummaging through the snack aisle when there’s a rough inhale beside him.  He looks up, expecting to find a fan who recognized him under his hood, or a paparazzi about to invade his personal space.

It’s neither of those.  With all his expectations torn to shreds, he turns to face Mydei.  With his hand outstretched to the custard pudding in front of him, he’s looking straight at Phainon with those amber eyes.

“Ah, it’s you, right?” he eventually greets, and Phainon has to remember to breathe.  “The… one with the lean beef?”

He turns red.  Of course he remembered me as the lean beef guy.

He coughs lightly.  “Just call me Phainon.”

“Mydei.”  Phainon bobs his head in response, trying to keep all pretenses up that he is not actually as affected as he is.  

An awkward silence descends over them.

Phainon clears his throat.  “So… you live around here?”

Immediately, he cringes.  

“Sorry if that sounded weird,” he rushes to say, like he doesn’t know Mydei’s full address, job salary, and living conditions.  “I just see you a couple times here and there…”

“I could say the same for you,” Mydei takes two pudding cups, both from different shelves, and holds them up for him to see.  “Vanilla or chocolate?”

“Vanilla,” he says, and immediately snaps his mouth shut.  He busies himself with looking at the portokalopita nutritional facts, before being unable to help sneaking a glance when he hears a soft chuckle.

Mydei’s lips are still slightly curved when he looks, and Phainon can’t help but want more.  His laughs, his tears, his frowns, his smiles.  

He is dazzling, and Phainon cannot even hope to have him.  After all, who would want to have a relationship with their stalker?  Besides, if it ever gets out, the paparazzi would have a field day, and his career would essentially go up in flames.

He tells himself that these subtle glances and sightings of the Mydeis on screen are more than enough, but there’s a burning, loathsome feeling in his chest that desperately wants, wants to cross that blurry line of what’s considered to be too far, wants to claw its way out to the world, wants Mydei and his entire being.  

It’s a despicable little thing, and Phainon can only pray that it goes away with time.  For now though, he tries to appease it with small interactions like these.  Is it ever enough to satiate it?  Obviously not, but a starving man has to be slowly fed in order not to choke.  If he is deluded into thinking the amount of food will grow over time and there is no need to rush, then there is no opportunity for him to gorge himself and suffocate, alarming the people around him.

Sometimes, though, Phainon wonders if he’s the starving man or the one regulating the food.

“How often are you hitting the gym?” he asks when the silence stretches on uncomfortably.  It’s a feeble attempt at making conversation, as well as small talk to which Phainon already knows the answer to, but Mydei graciously takes it in stride.

“Five to six times a week.”

“That often?”

“Mm.  It feels liberating after you push yourself to do a few more sets than usual and get to relax after.  It helps with your health and overall sleep quality too.”

Phainon nods, ignoring the buzz of his phone.

He’s not prepared when Mydei asks him in return: “And you?”

His fingers freeze where they have just put back the portokalopita on the shelf.  “Hm?”

“Do you like to work out?”

“Sure I do.  Even though my job is very… physically demanding, I like how your mind goes blank when you work out, even if that is because you don’t want to fall off the treadmill or have the weight drop on your neck.”

Mydei hums.  “That too.”

The silence slinks back into the aisle, the beeps and rustles of the store giving him a feeling of deja vu.

“...If it’s alright with you, do you want to–”

A sharp ding rings in the air, and Phainon is cut off.

This time, it’s Mydei’s phone that interrupts.  He squints at the text, before putting it back in his pocket and fiddling with his braid, apologetic.  “I gotta go now.  You should head home soon too.  Talk to you next time?”

Phainon blinks, not even having time to process that something interrupted them again, yet a next time was already assumed.  Right, he’s supposed to respond.  He nods, probably far harder and faster than needed, and he is rewarded with a small smile.

“Don’t run out on me next time.”  It’s punctured with a teasing smirk; he is left starstruck and with a poor, palpitating heart.

Cipher whistles low when they get to the set for filming.  “Really pulling out all the stops on this one, aren’t they.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier if they rented an actual venue?”  Castorice squints at the overhead lights.  “Though, the spotlights do look real pricey.”

“Did the cast already finish filming everything before our appearance?”  Mydei calls from their dressing room.  

“Basically,” Cipher yawns, entirely too unconcerned for his liking.  “Oh right, they said the actors are gonna lip sync for our scene, so we don’t need to worry about the filming.”

“We can play it live?”

“Yeah,” she nods.  “Of course, we’ll have to record it in a studio after.”

They’re setting up on the stage when the cast finally get on set, hair and makeup mostly done, settling down in an area pushed to the side.

The two main leads of the drama are seated together, reviewing the script with impassive faces while four artists touch up their makeup and hair.

A little to the right sits… Phainon, as well as a pink haired girl, laughing energetically.  Their managers stand next to them, talking amongst themselves.

“See someone you recognize?” Castorice cocks her head when Mydei’s gaze lingers down at the crowd.

He falters for a second before muttering, “Something like that.”

About an hour later, the director, a woman known for having a harsh bark but even worse bite, calls everyone to get into position.

“You,” she jabs a finger in the band’s direction.  “You know when to start playing right?”

Castorice smiles gently.  “Yes, Miss Cerydra.”

She humphs, sitting back in her chair.  “We’ll be starting soon, so I hope you’re all prepared.”

True to her word, she calls action a minute later, and Mydei starts with a strum of his guitar. 

It isn’t so bad at first.  The notes rippling from his guitar, his voice crackling at the edges when he sings, the beat of Castorice’s drums and thrum of Cipher’s bass guitar, the heat of the lights clinging to his skin are all familiar sensations.  However.  His eyes are drawn to the door where Phainon guides the two leads through, but quickly looks away, glancing over the extras playing as the audience. 

The male lead points at the stage, words buried underneath the roar of the song.  Phainon winks at him though, hitting him a couple times on the back in jest, before bounding away into the throng of the extras and sidling beside the girl from before.  They engage in playful conversation, too soft to be heard over the music and cheers of the crowd, but undeniable in the way she giggles.

Mydei swallows.  He isn’t here to ogle at the idol, he’s here to put on a performance.  The ride of the adrenaline slowly abates as the song ends.  The spotlight dims, and he finally has a chance to swipe a hand under his neck, where sweat is starting to cool.

Cerydra calls for a cut.  “It’s not bad, I suppose,” she twirls a finger around a lock of hair.  “Let’s have another take, same scene.  Focus on the stage a little more.  Take a fifteen minute break.”

“It wasn’t as bad as I thought,” Cipher says, slipping off the hood of her costume as they walk back to their dressing room.  “At least for a first take.”

“Maybe they want to mesh the scenes together?  The female lead was sheltered for her whole life, so they probably brought her somewhere where she could have some fun,” Castorice shrugs.  “Then they’ll see the freedom in being with one another and slowly fall in love…”

“You read the entire script?”

“Not really, it’s just a prediction based on cliches…”

They have just turned the corner when Mydei spots Phainon and the girl talking at the end of the hall, her hair curling delicately over her shoulder as she points at the script.  Again.

He can’t stop the torrent of thoughts that come – Who is she?  How come I’ve never seen her?  What’s the nature of your relationship?

Cipher peeks over Mydei’s shoulder, curious.  “Oh, it’s the pup.  Interested in him?”

He hasn’t realized he had stopped walking until there’s a push against his back as Castorice presses the two into their room.  “He’s probably a wonderful person, but we don’t have much time, so let’s hydrate now while we can.”

“I heard he has racked up quite a few scandals,” Cipher stage whispers as the door swings shut behind her.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a few skeletons in his closet.”

“It isn’t nice to speak behind others’ backs.” Castorice frowns disapprovingly, handing Mydei two towels.

“I mean he is somewhat famous, so I suppose one or two would be fake – mmph!  Watch where you’re rubbing that thing!”  she yowls indignantly when Mydei mops up the sweat on her face, apparently too close to her mouth; he looks on blankly, waiting for her spiel to end before continuing to scrub her face.  “Anyway, the only reason he can even continue working as an idol is because of his manager and that infuriating sincerity when he speaks.”

Castorice sighs when she flits to their sides, taking over for Mydei.  “Have you never considered that it’s because he’s good at what he does?  I haven’t looked too much into him, but haven’t most of those so-called ‘scandals’ been disproven?”

She pouts in response, swiftly changing the topic.  “You should really let me wipe my own sweat.  I am a grown woman, you know.”

“Last time you wiped your own sweat, you did it so haphazardly you got so sick to the point you couldn’t get up by yourself,” Mydei reminds, deadpan.  “We were in an air conditioned room just like the set.”

“I–”

“Ruined your voice to the point it hurt to speak.”

“I’m a guitarist–”

“Couldn’t hold your food down.”

“Why do you remember these?”

“I was the one who brought you to the doctor,” he points out.  “Cas postponed the gigs.”

“...It’s been a while, let’s head back out.”

The second take goes smoothly, at least more than the first.  The guitar feels slightly heavier in his arms, his throat scratching in warning when he sings a little too low, bordering on straining, but the aches are welcome nonetheless.  

With the camera trained on the stage, there is no need for the actors to run around as much as they did in the initial cut.

Mydei, however, does watch as Phainon, once again, greets the same pink haired girl.  She tilts her head, beaming, before cupping her hands to whisper something in his ear.  He blushes, and the girl nudges him before sauntering off to a different area.

His voice turns a little more abrasive, a little rougher around the edges.  Castorice and Cipher’s heads jerk up to shoot him questioning looks, but he ignores them, searching for the crowd’s responses.

The lead actors are mostly expressionless, watching with minimal interest in their faces as their scenes are already over.  The extras do seem genuinely captivated by the performance, their reactions hardly being an act anymore, as are some of the crew behind scenes.

Then, he sneaks a glance.

Phainon is staring at him, his mouth hanging slightly open.  He looks completely enamored.

He grins, lifting his chin cockily, and Phainon jolts, jaw snapping shut.

As the high of the song wanes and hearing Cerydra calling cut once again, he leans away from the mic, panting lightly, to look at his bandmates.

Cipher has an eyebrow raised, sending a knowing look that feels like he’s under discomfited scrutiny, while Castorice, with a worried gaze, mouths, I have tea for your throat.

He furrows his brows and meets them in the middle, talking about the inflections in his voice during the live, or if there were any missteps in the song.

He doesn’t see the eyes that observe his every move, down the faintest hint of expression he allows to be unconcealed.

Nor does he realize that they follow him for the rest of the day.

For a few days now, Phainon’s housekeeper has been gone.

No, not his designated, paid housekeeper.

His ever evasive, never-before-seen housekeeper.

The reason he knows?

It isn’t to say he’s been keeping tabs on them, but he has been enjoying the good food that seems to be magicked onto his dining table, especially since the dishes have been unusually catered to his tastes recently.

Or, rather, he had been, until they’ve been slowly disappearing.

It started small, like a dessert or a side dish absent.  Like a few orange slices missing, or a sauce gone.  Then, an appetizer short.  The everyday meals he had been secretly looking forward to seeing now only appeared once, twice, maybe three times a week.

Today, there is a platter of pasta, seated alongside a plate of tiganite topped with a drizzle of honey and walnuts.  Today’s note reads, I’m sure your first acting role will go well.  He knows tomorrow, there will be no pasta, no tiganite, no note.  

He should be glad.  The weirdo with magic hands has been plaguing him with their obnoxiously spectacular cooking for nearly a year now, not to mention that the prickling feeling of being watched is still with him the moment he wakes.

He puts it off as a coincidence; the feeling dwindles when Aglaea picks him up to head to the set.

“Is the band going to be there today?” he casually asks, watching the blur of the landscape mesh together.

In the rearview mirror, Aglaea eyes him suspiciously.  “You seem oddly interested.  You don’t usually ask about this sort of thing.”

He shrugs.  “Cyrene wanted to know.”

Her gaze swivels back to the road, accepting his sorry excuse.  “They want to take more angles of the crowd today, so they’ll be there.  Try not to see her out in the open though.  The public will go ballistic.”

He snorts.  “I could be buying something from the supermarket, get rang up by a female employee, and someone could still cook up some rumor about me having an illicit affair.”

Sagely, Aglaea doesn’t reply.

When they get to the set, he immediately notices that Mydei is not present on the stage.  Which wouldn’t be a problem if the other two members weren’t already in their positions, tuning their instruments without a care in the world.

Cyrene bounds up next to him, hands clasped behind her back.  “Phainon, good to see you today.”

He nods, still looking waywardly above and around her head.

She stares at him for a second before giggling lightly.  “I heard a little butterfly say that a certain someone is busy sleeping in the dressing room.  Eyebags were wicked today.  They wanted him to sleep some of it off before covering it with some makeup.”

At that, Phainon turns to meet her eyes.  They’re blue, just like his, but are as shrewd as Aglaea’s.  He dips his head politely anyway.  “Thanks for letting me know.”

When he strides towards the direction of the dressing rooms, he ignores the sly look in her eyes when he passes her.  

“They’re planning on waking him up in half an hour, or so I’ve heard,” she sing songs.  “Cerydra wants your hair and makeup done in fifteen, so be quick with… whatever you’re doing.”

He turns around, once.  Smiles with his teeth.  She remains unimpressed.  He shrugs, and turns around to continue his route.

Calamity’s dressing room sits almost at the beginning, being the second one in the hallway when one turns the corner.  The band’s name is written in neat script on the placard on the door.

Holding his breath, he slowly eases the door open.  The door, thankfully, does not squeak.

Phainon is rewarded with a Mydei carefully asleep on the couch.  His head is resting on the armrest, face tilted slightly to the door.  His lashes rest against the tops of his cheekbones, eyebags pronounced against his pallid complexion, and his hands are scrunched to his chest, lest they hang off the edge.

Phainon squats down to reach eye level, propping his head on one of his hands, before reaching out with the other.  He watches with bated breath as he curls his pinkie on the tip of Mydei’s fingers, observing for any sign that he’s about to wake.  

He holds position, unable to breathe, before telling himself to match the pattern of the one before him.  In, out.  In, out.  He watches as Mydei’s chest rises and falls, being utterly oblivious to what’s happening in the waking world.  In, out.  In, out.  Soft breaths, soft breaths.

Eventually, Phainon reluctantly lets go.  He’s stayed here far too long – he doesn’t have time.  Quietly, he unzips his bag, taking out a fluffy blanket he uses when he falls asleep in impromptu places for work.  He places it gently over Mydei; he doesn’t so much as twitch.  He then backs out the room, sneaking one last glance at his sleeping face before the door rudely closes and now he is truly out of options except for to leave.

He’s getting his hair and makeup done in the corner when Mydei walks on set, yawning, hair still half sleep-mussed and guitar case slung over his shoulder.

Phainon watches with anxious eyes as Cipher pats down his hair, hand lingering atop his head for a few more seconds than necessary, at least in his opinion, but Mydei doesn’t seem to mind, turning to Castorice to speak with her.

There’s a nudge against his arm that jerks his attention away, and when he looks, he finds Cyrene, smile just a tad unnerving.

“You were staring,” she says in lieu of a greeting.  “Any harder, and you would be boring a hole into his head.”

He gives her a warm smile as she sits down next to him, flipping her hair over her shoulder and crossing her legs.  “No such thing happened.”

“Oh?  In that case, where did you go earlier?” she asks innocently.

“The bathroom.” he lies without a change of expression.

Silently, she keeps the same, unnerving smile on her face before Cerydra calls for action.

He goes through his lines and actions fluidly, frantic to turn back to the stage to watch the show he’s been exposed to for the past week.  When it’s time for him to leave the leads alone again, he turns far too hastily, his vision unable to adjust so quickly.

The lights are blinding, but they are familiar.  The ones they use in music videos, live performances, even the ones in his home.  

He forces himself to look at them.

When he blinks away the spots in his vision, he sees Mydei, crowned in the spotlight’s illumination, tattoos nearly pulsing in time with the lights.  His hands, his music, his voice, even the slightest of movements, Phainon desperately wants to hoard.  Every single last bit of him.  

If Phainon were to tear his teeth into his neck, would his veins leak the golden ichor of the gods?  Even if it were to be crimson, like the ink that tantalizes him by weaving into and out his clothes, he would be more than happy to lap it up, to be given anything Mydei allows him to have.

And then, to the very last second up until Phainon will lay down and die, he swears that Mydei’s eyes lingers on his face for a couple moments, lazily observing his face and sliding down to his neck where his choker and the sun tattoo lies, before glancing away like it never happened.

It could’ve been fanservice, it could’ve been simple curiosity.  As a performer himself, Phainon knows he’s done the same action for those reasons too.  Or, it could’ve been recognition.  They have had several run ins before outside of the set (though Phainon has probably ruined his first impression three times over).

The last few notes are played, and the leads dash off together out the door.  All according to the script.

But Phainon isn’t paying attention to them, the faint whirr of the equipment fading when they stop recording, nor the other actors scattering around him.

Instead, he observes the bobs of Mydei’s throat when he drinks his water, the curve of his spine when he straightens out his posture, the flash of pink when he wets his lips.

He doesn’t even see Cyrene move to his side before she says, “So.  I heard that Mydei will be giving out some honey cakes on the last day of filming.  Which…”  She glances down at her nonexistent watch.  “is tomorrow.”

He turns to her so fast his neck nearly snaps.  “What?”

She raises an eyebrow.  “...Tomorrow’s the last day of filming?”

He scowls.  “You know what I was referring to.”

She stares at him before a grin breaks out on her face, teasing.  “He’s making honey cakes for the staff, or so the rumors go.”

“Cyrene.”

“Mm?”

“If you get one tomorrow, give it to me and I’ll model for your makeup brand for two weeks.”

Her eyes narrow.  “Three weeks.”

“You’ll have to talk to my manager about that,” he responds primly.  “At most, two and a half.”

She rolls her eyes; it’s more of a show than anything else, with the way her lips are still curved.  “Alright, alright.  You better not bail at the work dinner then.”

Phainon freezes.  “Work dinner?”

“To celebrate finishing the filming for the drama.  It's tomorrow night, did you not hear?”

“No…”

She clucks her tongue sympathetically.  “Planned something?” 

He can’t say, I was planning to go to our coworker’s – you know, the one who you know I’m semi-obsessed with – house, break in, and clean everything before he comes back home to someone he regards as a sister.

Instead, he deflates.  “Something like that.”

They start walking together towards the dressing rooms, Phainon taking half the steps he usually takes to match with Cyrene’s.

“Have you talked to you-know-who?” she asks casually.

“Give me a break, Cyrene,” he holds a hand to his head and scrubs at his eyes, not realizing she had stopped a few feet behind him.  Her head raises, turning like a rabbit hearing the footsteps of a predator not far away.  “I can’t even look him in the eye half the time.  How can I–”

Before he’s even able to comprehend what’s going on, much less finish his sentence, three things happen in quick succession.

First, the door next to him slams open, and the man in question – speak of the devil, and he shall appear – tumbles out, alongside a cologne bottle sailing through the air, the two remaining band members chasing after them frantically.

Second, Mydei’s body collides into his, hard, knocking the wind out of Phainon’s lungs as they hit the wall and topple to the ground with twin grunts.

Third, the nozzle somehow dislodges from the bottle in midair, absolutely drenching the two of them in pomegranate-cypress cologne.

As a nice little finish to the chaos, the bottle shatters on the floor, right in front of Cyrene’s wide eyes.

For a second, the air is silent.

The dull buzz of the staff in the distance stops, the three girls still frozen in shock staring down at the mess.

And Phainon?  He tries his hardest not to move.  He can’t move.  Why?

Because Mydei’s face is in the crook of his neck, nose just barely brushing against his carotid artery; his legs are pinned down by Mydei’s beautiful, toned knees; his shoulders are held by hands Phainon wishes were clawing down his back.  All he can smell when he inhales is pomegranate with a cut of his own sandalwood cologne underneath it.  It smells exactly like Mydei’s house right after Phainon’s done with it.

Phainon needs to push him away before he says or does something he might regret, like breathing into Mydei’s neck with an audible noise, or digging his fingers into Mydei’s skin and watching colors bloom there, or something equally unbecoming.

However, his arms refuse to listen to reason, hovering awkwardly over Mydei’s waist until the other man finally draws away, and Phainon is left with a much barer, much colder neck, but the pressure on his lungs slowly dissipates.

In a majestic show of intelligence, Phainon stutters,  “Uh… so, you okay?”

Mydei turns away, face carefully blank as he outstretches a hand towards him.  “I should be asking you that.”

He stares at the hand, studded with black nail polish and several silver rings, the indents of his palm lines, the calluses on his fingertips.

He wonders what it would look like clenching into the fabric of bedsheets.  Not only that, but what it would look like in his hand, their fingers intertwining with each other in warm sunlight, or curved around a spatula, flipping some pancakes.  They are all delusions, born from his fantasies, but he so desperately wants them to burst forth into existence.

A loud cough from his right hauls him out of his reverie, and he hurriedly takes the hand before it can pull away, mumbling his thanks.

Cyrene’s fist drops from her mouth, revealing a light smile resting on her face, and clasps her hands behind her back.  “Mydei, right?”

Mydei blinks when she says his name, before inclining his head politely.  “Did you need something from me?”

Next to him, Phainon begs her, implores her to not say anything about their conversation before this whole fiasco through his eyes.  They make brief eye contact before she breaks it off in favor of looking up at Mydei.

“Is the band going to the celebratory dinner tomorrow?”

He looks almost bemused by the question.  “It would… be improper to go, when there are so many other people that have put much more effort into the film than we have.”

Behind him, the two other band members nod in agreement.

Cyrene deflates a little before perking up again when she pulls out her business card.  “The thing is I own a makeup brand on the side.  If any of you are interested in that kind of thing…”

Cipher slings an arm over Mydei’s shoulder when he accepts the card, her eyebrows getting higher and higher as she reads along with him.

“Thank you, really,” Castorice says softly.  “It’s been a wonderful experience.”

“Oh, no, no, really,” Cyrene shakes her head, a little bashful.  “I’ve always listened to your music when working, so it really was such a marvel to see and listen to in real life.”

“Wait, you’re a fan?”  Cipher says, so incredulously that Mydei elbows her side.  “The owner of Oronyx and Co is a fan of our music?” 

“Let’s sit down to talk, shall we?” The three girls walk off down the hallway, giggling and chattering as they go. 

Just before they turn the corner, Phainon sees Cyrene face him for a brief moment.  

I’ll tell the staff to not worry about the glass on the floor.  You guys can clean it together, right?

He narrows his eyes when she winks and turns back around.

The silence sits heavy in the corridor without the lively conversations to quash it, so heavy that Phainon can only stare at the scented liquid and broken glass, still near his feet.

Eventually, it’s quelled when he mumbles, “I have a broom in my dressing room to clean up the glass.  I’ll ask the staff if they have any paper towels or something…”

The quiet grows even heavier when neither of them move, Phainon not daring to look him in the eye, lest he lets some unseemly emotion slip out into his face and Mydei sees it.

Then, there’s a huff, one that drains the tension.  Slowly, Phainon allows his gaze to move up.  Mydei’s shoes, his hips, his chest, his chin, finally settling on the slight smile he has as Phainon still restrains himself from looking him in the eye.  He dreams of them, though; the clear molten gold, the liquid sunlight.  

“Don’t be ridiculous.  I have some in my room.  Why go bother the staff with it?  It’s my fault for not being careful,” Phainon bites his lip when he sees that enticing little grin grow wider, devolving into something that plays with that restraint, threatens it with snapping it entirely.  “It’ll be our little secret.”

With that, Mydei meanders back into the dressing room, presumably for the paper towels, and once again, Phainon is left standing there, starstruck, until he remembers about the broom.

When he dashes back to his own room, he finds Aglaea sitting on the couch, typing away at her laptop, only giving him a cursory glance when he enters.

“Work dinner tomorrow night,” she says.  “I’ve cleared your schedule after that for a few days.”

“Haha,” he responds distractedly as he searches for the broom.  “As a treat?”

“You’ve worked hard on the drama, so why not?” she eyes him.  “...Is there something you’re looking for?”

“Uhh… just, you know–” he grabs the broom from the corner, and her eyebrow lifts higher.  “I have something to do, so–”

“Phainon–”

“Gotta go, thanks for all your support as always.  Talk to you later!”

He rushes out as fast as he had come, leaving with a disbelieving look thrown in his direction.

Mydei had just come out of the room when Phainon came bounding back, panting with a slight flush dusting his cheeks and broom in hand.

“I’m back.” he says, breathless.

Mydei blinks, and says, somewhat dazed, “Welcome back.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds before Mydei turns away, coughing lightly.  Right.  Cleanup.

It’s a tense sort of silence now, with only the mournful clinks of the glass when he sweeps it onto the dustpan and the chatter of the staff a buzz in the background.

“You’re the person from the convenience store, right?” Phainon asks quietly.  

Mydei doesn’t look up from where he’s squatting on the floor, observing the liquid permeating through the thin paper towels.  “Didn’t think you’d want me to say anything about it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He looks up at him with so much self-satisfaction that Phainon’s hand twitches, wanting to drag him in and kiss that smugness off his face.  “I thought you were embarrassed about the whole lean beef incident.”

When the words land and Phainon finally stops thinking of what Mydei’s lips would look like after being licked into, he huffs.  “Didn’t think you would still bring it up if you knew I was embarrassed about it.”

Mydei snorts.  “You’ll live.  Your acting was enough to redeem yourself.”

“...You watched my acting?”

Gracefully as always, Mydei ignores him, but Phainon sees a faint tense in his shoulders.  He decides to lay off for now and change the topic.

“Where did you get your cologne?”

Mydei looks up at that, at least, and Phainon can feel a nervous grin start to spread over his face.  “...My cologne?”

“The cypress is a nice touch.” he says as he tries not to strain his smile too hard.  

Mydei blinks.  “Yes,” he eventually says.  “The pomegranate goes well with woody scents.”

“Last day of filming!”  Cipher stretches, her joints popping as she does so.  “Wasn’t easy making all those honey cakes last night, huh?”

“You just put them in the oven,” Mydei points out.  “Cas and I did the actual making and wrapping.”

“And where would you be if I didn’t?  With the cakes still in the oven, that’s where.”

“Guys,” Castorice says placidly.  “We’re about to exit the car, so can we please not fight in front of everyone?”

“We’re not fighting.” the two respond in unison.

Castorice’s ever present calm smile starts to fade and the two obediently get out of the car.

The band is greeted by staff on their way to their dressing room, offering a honey cake to each and every one.  The more that gathered around, the more staff swarmed around them, curious to what the fuss was about.

“Yes – thank you–!”

“Cipher has the ones with nuts.”

“Sorry, it’s limited to one per person.”

Soon, Cerydra herself appears.  She shoos away the remaining staff to do their jobs, before inspecting the band’s wares.

“So this is what you had to get my staff into a tizzy,” she squints down at the honey cakes nestled in tinfoil.  “This?  Really?”

“Director Cerydra,” Castorice inclines her head, holding out her portion.  “Would you like some?”

She sniffs.  “I’m not a very big fan of sweets.”

Cipher pops her head over Castorice’s shoulder.  “They were made by Mydei.  Believe us, if we ever quit being a band, he can make a living as a chef.”

Cerydra pinches off a corner of a sample, nibbling on it with a distasteful expression before popping the entire thing in her mouth.  “It’s not bad, I suppose.  Mind if I take the rest to hand out to my associates?”

“Please just take the portion you took from…”

She harumphs, but takes the piece anyway.  “Pity.  Action starts in fifteen, so please get ready by then.  And if possible, don’t distract the staff with treats until after the shooting is done.  If I catch another one of my staff with a honey cake in their hands, I’ll be confiscating the entire batch.”

Cipher silently holds out another chunk of honey cake.

Cerydra swipes it from her hand, turning back before they can blink.  “On second thought, they may need extra time to adjust everything.  Thirty minutes will suffice.”

The band complies, heading back to their room to prepare, when they see Cyrene waiting for them outside their dressing room.

“Ah, there you are,” she gives a little wave, then looks at the crumpled tinfoil in their hands, mostly empty.  “Sold out already?”

“Got closed until the end of the day,” Cipher yawns.  “We were distracting the staff so much that Cerydra had to cut us off.”

“Shame.  I was looking forward to it.  Someone told me Mydeimos’ cooking was especially exceptional.”

“Just Mydei is fine,” he says.  The brief flash of jealousy he had felt before when he had laid eyes on her the other day was irrational of him.  According to his research, Cyrene was an idol from Phainon’s agency’s sister company, and they had apparently gotten friendly when they were trainees before the companies had separated.  There were some dating rumors about the two, though they were all disproven.  Cyrene herself, though, just seemed like a friendly, bubbly person.  “Though, I don’t recall anyone here who would know my cooking is above average.”

She giggles.  “You underestimate your popularity, Mydei.  Don’t you know a bunch of the staff here are fans of Calamity?”  She pauses, rocking back and forth her feet.  “Well, some might not show it, but they are there.  More than you realize.  Promise.”

He blinks, meaning to ask her for more information, but she checks her phone and grimaces.  “I’ll catch you later for the cakes, I need to get ready.  Uh… you guys should too.  See you later!”

Today’s shoot focused on more of their hands and their instruments, so the actors were only really there to keep the consistency and the rest of the closeups for the finishing touches.

Having performed the same exact song for about a month straight for nearly everyday, he could just about play it in his sleep.

Though, Mydei found himself thinking about the blanket he had woken up with yesterday.

It was a sherpa throw blanket, thick and plush, and had an undercut of… something.  Familiar, almost a creamy sort of smell.  He had held it up to his nose, the smell wispy enough so he couldn’t place it, but strong enough that he recognized it to be familiar.

He had left it in the dressing room, and had almost forgotten about it until the girls had asked him about it.

“Where did you get that blanket?”

“Oh.  I was taking my nap and I woke up with it over me.  Is it neither of yours?”

Castorice tilted her head.  “Not to my knowledge…”

Cipher said nothing, just holding it up to her nose, sniffing it.

He snatched it away from her, somewhat aghast.  “What are you doing?”

“Smelling it?” she eyed it, looking mildly affronted.

He stared at her.  “Are you a dog?”

She didn’t answer him.  “It smells familiar.  I can’t quite place it, but it smells kind of like… what was his name again?  Khaslana?”

He stiffened.  “You must be mistaken.”

“In any case, wouldn’t you know more?  You were all up in his neck, inhaling like three other people weren't watching you.  Surely if anyone would know what he smelled like, you would?”

“Cipher.” Castorice hisses.

“He went home already,” he said, crossing his arms.  “I’ll speak to him tomorrow about it.”

As he sings, he can’t help but think about that blanket, still sitting heavy in his bag back in the band’s dressing room.  He searches for Phainon’s face amidst the crowd, but he finds that he can’t.  Maybe he hadn’t come in today.  He knows that Phainon’s schedule can be a little busy, but he always saw his projects until the very end.  He had finished filming all his scenes, but Mydei can’t help but feel just a little disappointed.

He no longer has much time to think about it at all, soon, because Cerydra calls cut, and Castorice and Cipher exchange looks when he plays for a beat too long before his hand falls from his guitar.

Cerydra pauses, examining her clipboard.  “This just about sums up the filming.”  She hops off her director’s chair and gives a halfhearted wave.  “Alright, see you for the work dinner tonight.”

The set is quiet when the door gives a resounding bang.  A plum-colored hair woman who had been standing next to the director’s chair the entire time, occasionally leaning down to whisper something in Cerydra’s ear, slowly raises a hand.  “The director has to finish up the editing.  Everyone else is free to leave.”

The staff whisper amongst themselves before slowly scattering, and the band starts packing up their equipment.  They’re heading back to their dressing room, when they are swarmed by the rest of the staff with pleading, hopeful faces.

“By chance, do you still have any…”

Castorice smiles, serene.  “Of course.  There should be just enough for everyone here.  If you can let us through…”

The mass of people splits like the sea, clearing a deliberate path to the door.  When they come back out, the staff are waiting in neat lines with twinkling, eager eyes.

The three resume handing out the cakes, already cut into small even squares from the day before, greeting both staff they recognize and staff they don’t.

Mydei is in the middle of scooping up another square when he looks up into Phainon’s eyes.  He freezes.

For a second, the two stare at each other, a bubble of silence compared to the rowdiness of the people surrounding them.

Eventually, Phainon lowers his head, looking like a large, pitiful dog.  “Cyrene had to go, so she asked if I could get some for her and her manager…”

Where were you during the recording?  Mydei wants to ask.  Would it seem too intrusive?  Too clingy?

“I see,” he eventually settles on.  He picks out three pieces, holding them out to him.  “Is this enough?”

Phainon stares down at it, hesitating briefly before their fingers brush against each other.  Just a second of exchange.  The heat Mydei had felt from his fingers alone was palpable.  It takes all of his restraint to not grab that hand back.  

Phainon doesn’t leave immediately after, though.  He opens and closes his mouth, as if contemplating on what to say next.

“If…” he says quietly, voice barely audible behind the noise of the staff.  “If it’s possible in the future, would you like to collab–”

But apparently, the people behind have had enough, getting antsy to the point of looking over Phainon’s shoulders, or rather, over his sides, on account of his height.  A more gutsy person from somewhere in the back yells, “Hey, what’s the hold up?  I’ve got a chimera to feed at home, you know!”

Phainon’s cheeks flame, fleeing so fast that Mydei gets a sense of deja vu.

A few hours later, the band is at Mydei’s house, preparing to celebrate, when Cipher asks him something that makes his mind stutter to a halt.

“I know you said one piece per person, but I gave Cyrene a few extra pieces.  You don’t mind, do you?  I felt kinda bad since there were a bunch of people who didn’t get one, but that was fine, yeah?”

“Cyrene?” Mydei slowly turns to her.  “But Phai – Khaslana said that Cyrene had asked him to get her some since she left early, so I gave him extra.”

She blinks.  She doesn’t answer his confused noises, only turning to share unreadable looks with Castorice.

Phainon has never liked work dinners.

Something about the pressure to be even more energetic when he’s already tired and beaten down from the day, preferring to lay down and die in the comfort of his own home instead of pretending he’s comfortable being probed with awkward questions and comments.

At least this time he isn’t alone.

Flanked by both Aglaea and Cyrene, he is plopped down in the middle of the center table, usually the table for the main actors and leading staff.  No matter that he’s a side character in the drama.

The main leads are seated at the corners of this table, with the other varying staff members sitting at the tables adjacent to them, all rambunctiously chatting amongst themselves.

The intrusive questions asked by overly friendly people are cut down ruthlessly by Aglaea’s expertise in You said it, not me insinuative wordplay, and Cyrene wordlessly messages him multiple cat videos.

Eventually, something in Aglaea’s bag vibrates, and she frowns as she takes her phone out of her bag.  She narrows her eyes at the caller id, and mutters, “Excuse me.  I have to take this call.”

Her heels clack crisply against the tiled floor, and when the door shuts, the room grows only livelier.

The person across from him, a woman he recognizes as the assistant director, picks up a wine bottle.

“Mister Khaslana,” she says, holding it out in his direction.  “This feast is exquisite, perfect for a job well done.  Why not accompany it with some fine wine tonight?”

“...Miss Hysilens,” he smiles tightly.  “Alcohol is rather bad for the skin, so I’m afraid I must decline.”

Her eyebrow raises marginally.  “Oh?  Aglaea said you had about a week off until your next work session.”

In desperation, he looks over to Cyrene, who shrugs and whispers, “My manager likes to drink, so I’m the designated driver for work dinners.  They’re a little stingy for Ubers.”  She turns back around to her manager when their side of the room starts whooping.  “Ah, wait a sec, don’t drink too much, you’re gonna be sick in the morning—”

When he opens his mouth to proclaim he, too, is a designated driver, Hysilens says, deadpan, “Please save your breath.  Aglaea never drinks during these dinners.  If not some wine, then…”

She pours some soda and alcohol in a glass, swishing the liquid around a few times before placing it in front of him.  He gazes at it like it had personally offended him.

Cerydra, who had been throwing back beers like water next to her, finally looks at them and lifts her chin.  “Just one drink.  If it isn’t good, then we won’t force it.  Though, I will say they taste exceedingly refreshing.  The carbonation does wonders.”

The mysterious drink’s carbonation pops menacingly, almost mockingly, at him a few times.  Grimacing, he takes a sip.

Then another.

Then a few, until the glass is completely drained.

Both women radiate glee when Hysilens silently pours him another glass, and he, just as silently, gulps it down again.

Little over half an hour later, Phainon is flushed, head cradled in one of his arms as he swirls the liquid with his free hand.

“I really wanted to talk to him some more,” he slurs.  “Or even just the band in general, I guess.  I’ve been their fan for so long, but you know, he’s my favorite, and he got me through a really difficult time.  It’s just, I just keep messing up in front of him…”

Hysilens offers him a look of mild pity despite filling his glass again, while Cerydra simply looks disgruntled.  “So then talk.  Make him accept your flaws and your unnecessary pride, or at the very least, bring your all to him.  You know how to use your words when you really want to, don’t lie to yourself.”

She opens her mouth when Hysilens holds some food out to feed her, and chews with relish.  All of a sudden, Phainon feels extremely sick, flopping down on the crook of his elbow where the light isn’t too bright and can’t see their PDA.  “He’s just so cool,” he mumbles.  “His appearance, that insane body of his, his voice, his personality, his body…”

He hears Cerydra mime a gag.  “Did you have to mention his body twice?”

“Why are you so enamored with him anyway?” Hysilens asks, her voice weirdly floaty.  “I mean, he isn’t horrible to look at, sure, and the band’s music is catchy enough, but does it warrant a reaction in which you almost drank yourself into a stupor?”

“You were the ones to offer me those drinks,” he grouses, scowling even though they can’t see it.  Normally, he wouldn’t have a reaction this blatant.  “He just… was there when I was at my lowest, when my career almost burst into flames right after it started.  Helped me get through it all.”

How could he explain that the numerous rumors when he was just a trainee would come later to bite him back soon after he debuted?  Dating rumors, violence rumors, bullying rumors, harassment rumors.  Most of it was untrue, the smallest bit of truth being blown up into unreal proportions.  He couldn’t even go out in public before being swarmed by paparazzi, unrelenting fans and haters alike.  No matter where he went, the airport, the agency, his house, someone would recognize him.  Even Cyrene was affected and had to lie low for a while.  He apologized to her nonstop then, and even when she shook her head and smiled, assuring it was fine and normal, that the unwanted attention would eventually die down, his guilt continued to grow.

But one day, when he was trying to avoid the countless articles of his “scandals” by listening to random songs on an obscure music streaming platform, when he heard that rage in that voice when belted out, the undertone of desperation and frustration, he couldn’t help but think, that’s it.  That’s what I feel.

That spark of interest was enough for him to look into the band.

Calamity.

When he saw their picture online, his gaze was immediately drawn to Mydei; the way he held himself in general was enough to get him invested.  His arrogant air, those enticing tattoos that wrapped around his body.

Then, almost obsessively, he found interviews of the band, watching all the ones available.

“Hobbies?  I like to cook.”

“A recommendation for Calamity’s fans?  Try pomegranate juice mixed with milk.  Add some goat cheese if you want it to be a little healthier.”

“My favorite food?  Anything sweet.”  The second part was said so unabashedly, Phainon had wondered how someone could just be without putting up any fronts whatsoever, so brazen and honest, so unlike Phainon who had crafted his perfect idol persona.

The more he learned, the more he wanted to know.  He was at it for so long that when Aglaea went to check up on him, his eyebags were so dark that it was the closest he had ever seen her to looking horrified.

It ballooned into something heavier, something that continued to fester.

Until.

Until, one day, he noticed Mydei in the supermarket near his house, where he soon found out it was sandwiched between their homes.

He didn’t want to creep up on him, nor approach him like he himself had been.  He just… wanted to watch him go about his daily life.  What did he buy?  What was he looking for, what was he looking at?

A little girl eventually toddled her way down Mydei’s aisle, tripping right behind him.  With tears welling up pitifully in her eyes and parents nowhere to be found, he simply turned and helped her up, patting down her dress and pulling down his hat over her head.

It was at this point the two, a tall, regal looking man with a severe expression and a small, sniffling girl with still unshed tears in her eyes, had walked hand-in-hand near the corner in which Phainon had been watching them from.

Ducking away into the next aisle, he could faintly hear the melody of one of Calamity’s songs being hummed and the soft giggle of the little girl.

Soon, the intercom rang to announce a lost child report.

Mydei had stayed with his arms crossed next to the girl, occasionally patting her head when she looked a little less comforted and more like about to burst into tears, with the employee who looked more than a little uncomfortable, until her parents had come to the center where they were at and bid farewell to him, completely forgetting about the hat still sitting securely on her head.

Mydei didn’t seem to notice either, though.  He had merely smiled, a rare, precious thing to see, even in interviews and recordings, and waved goodbye as he went back into the aisles to peruse, and eventually, out of the store.

Phainon had found himself wandering about half a block away from Mydei’s position, and before he knew it, he had just watched him slam the door to his house shut.

It finally occurred to him that he had followed this man to his house, which is extremely creepy and weird for anybody, no matter what the reason may be.

He was about to head home before he had seen a couple of boys roughing it up next to Mydei’s dingy (yes, it’s a little more than dingy, but it’s Mydei’s, so he decided to leave it at that) house.  The walls of the house looked one strong breeze away from toppling over and the boys were too caught up in the fight to notice that they were getting too close to those flimsy walls.  He decided to intervene.

What he didn’t realize is that he was an over 6 feet tall man, shrouded in a mask, glasses, cap, and a jacket in the dead of summer, huffing and puffing as he approached the roughhousing boys, looking extremely suspicious to everyone and anyone that laid their eyes on him.

“Excuse me,” he said hoarsely, out of breath from running.  He hadn’t gone out for a while, even to the gym, due to everything that went on at the time, so his athleticism had declined quite a bit as a result.  “You shouldn’t be fighting on someone’s property like this; it can be considered a crime.  If you’re going to fight, can you take it somewhere else?”

The two boys did stop fighting, one of them taking a long, up-and-down look at his figure, before spitting, “Your outfit is a crime to humanity,” and hauling the other boy away.

Well.  At least they were gone.

However, even though he himself had hardly any excuse for being on Mydei’s property, he found himself being… curious.  

How did Mydei live out his life?

Was his house spick and span, all put together as Mydei always looked in those interviews?  

What else did he do in his free time?

He shook his head.  It’d be a severe invasion of privacy if he were to do so.  Even if Mydei didn’t see Phainon literally staring at him through his window, his neighbors might, and the people calling for his resignation would quadruple.

He turned, about to head back home, when there was a noise that could only be described as if a glassware store had all their goods explode at the same exact time, coming straight from the direction of Mydei’s house.

Well.  It’d be extremely unfortunate if the idol he’s been obsessed with for at least a year died in some freak accident, or at least that’s the excuse Phainon gave himself before rushing to peek inside Mydei’s window. 

What does he see?

Mydei, as beautiful as he was in the supermarket, had a look on his face, one that makes him look utterly exhausted, and he’s staring at the glass coffee table that had just shattered all over his floor.

His so-called floor being a colorful assortment of clothes, random books, wrapped candies, hair ties, and writing utensils.  So, really, what was a couple thousand glass shards?

What did Mydei do?

He retreated somewhere deeper in the house for a minute, reemerging with a broom.

And to Phainon’s amazement and mild horror, simply swept the glass off the designated path where the floor was still visible and clear from the disaster areas.

The glass still resting atop the aforementioned disaster areas twinkle up at them and Mydei… Mydei chose to ignore those entirely, placing back the broom and reclining back down on the couch.

It was then that Phainon decided if someone didn’t intervene, Mydei might actually die in a freak accident in his house one day.

At least once a week from that day forward, Phainon made a bad yet unable to kick habit of peeking into Mydei’s house.

It started almost innocently at first.  Just quick, furtive glances inside, which quickly devolved into staring when it was clear no one would come look. Mydei’s house is tucked away in the corner next to an alleyway, where hardly anyone ever came by, so it was perfect to hide from prying eyes.

Everything changed when Phainon walked by the house one day as per usual, assuming it to be a usual session.

But this day was different.  He might’ve come too early, or maybe Mydei too late or on a different schedule, but for some reason, Mydei was outside his house.  It isn’t to say that Mydei doesn’t go out, but during Phainon’s time watching him, he has always been either inside or not there entirely.

And this day, Mydei seemed to have forgotten his key.

Phainon watched from the corner as Mydei groped inside his bag, coming up empty, before patting down his pockets with furrowed brows.

Then, he reached down into the rocks, holding an identical key, and opened the door to head inside.

He now knew how and where to get into Mydei’s house. This was dangerous.

On one of his days off, he had spotted Mydei, carrying what would be his usual in the present: his phone, keys, wallet, and a plastic bag from somewhere, holding who knows what.

When he went out of sight, Phainon circled around his house, once, twice.  Didn’t seem like anyone was inside.

With shaky hands, he dug around the rocks.  His fingers caught on something metallic, and it took him three separate tries to fit the key in the lock.  When he heard the now familiar click of the door unlocking, he had heard his breath rattle in his lungs.  Slowly, he pushed the door open.  The smell creeping up on him was so intoxicating, he had almost fallen to his knees right then and there.

What had he done for his first time breaking into Mydei’s home?  Simply observed it.  Where he put his ingredients, his things for everyday use, his organizational habits, or rather lack thereof.  He wanted to learn more.

Weeks passed, then months, then years.  How long has it been since he had heard the band’s music for the first time?

As time went on, Cyrene was proven right.  The rumors were discredited and the internet stopped hounding after him.  The people chasing after him in public spaces reduced, and he could finally be away from the spotlight and the main face of scandals.

Mydei, all in all, was his savior, the light of his life, and the person he coveted, that he wanted to be his, the most.

“So… does he know that?”  Hysilens asks as she swirls something in her drink.

“I’m probably one of millions he saved.”

Cerydra clicks her tongue.  “So he doesn’t.”

Cyrene finally turns back, expression exasperated.  “I look away for not even an hour and you’re drunk.  You–”

Then, he holds a hand to his mouth, going pale.

Cyrene stares at him.  “Are you nauseous?  Phainon–”

He stumbles to his feet, almost falling before Cyrene catches him, her grip deathly strong.

“Jeez, you’re a mess.  Where’s Aglaea…”

He gags, and the two exchange looks of alarm as the two women in front of them raise their eyebrows in interest.

“Try not to throw up in front of everyone, at the very least.” she mutters under her breath before spiriting him away to the bathroom with more strength than he knew her capable of.  

She watches with a complicated expression, somewhere between disgust and concern, as he dry heaves into the toilet bowl, but nothing comes up.

“Just how many glasses did Miss Hysilens pour you…”

“Cyrene,” he gasps through labored pants.  “You – you know, the honey cakes?”

“Yeah?”

“It tasted just like it–”

Another miserable gag, and she cringes.

“Hold on, okay?  I’ll – I’ll get you some water or something, so don’t leave.  Try sticking your finger down your throat or something…”

“I wish I could stick his–”

“Please spare me the details.” she says with a venomously sweet smile and slams the door closed.

He is left to mourn on the nasty floor, until he remembers–

Today is Friday night, entering early Saturday morning.

Saturday.

It’s Saturday.

He gets up, frowning when his designer pants stick to his hands when he tries patting them off where he had been kneeling.  He washes his hands, the fruity fragrance reminding him of someone’s scent, and shuts the door when he exits.

The band had just finished their drinks a little over an hour ago and were preparing to head back home. 

It was a quiet affair, with takeout and beer.  A little bit of cheering for a job well done, a little complimenting on the side dishes Mydei had cooked, and more than a little jeering at the cheesy romcom movie airing on the tv.  

The night turned fuzzy around the edges as they got tipsier, Castorice drinking some sparkling juice as she was the designated driver for tonight.

“Mydei, I get the feeling you haven’t been completely honest with us,” Cipher slurred as she sloshed her beer in its can.  “I mean, yeah, your home definitely leveled up from a shithole to a regular pigsty.  I can see the floor, for god’s sake.”

He merely raised an eyebrow when she giggled to no one in particular.

“My bad for yesterday, by the way,” she flopped down on his floor.  “Didn’t mean to shatter your cologne bottle like that.  I was just wondering if you changed it or whatever.  Recently I’ve been smelling something different in your house.”

“But you know?” she turned to face him, eyes glinting.  “The weird thing is, it didn’t.  Your cologne hadn’t changed.  Not your cologne, or your shampoo, or your laundry detergent.  It’s weird.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol, but the only thing that Mydei can think is – “...You know what laundry detergent I use?”

She glowered at him before turning to Castorice petulantly.  “I know everyone’s laundry detergent if I’ve been in their house before.  I know Cas’s too.”

“Right, and I’m the weird one.”

Cipher grew silent, and Castorice sighed next to her.  “She fell asleep.  I do have to give her credit, though.  Mydei, have you been… alright since the slump?”

“It’s been years since it happened.  I’m fine.”

“If songwriting is, you know…” she gestured vaguely with her hands.

He snorted.  “Kicking my ass?”

She pursed her lips into a half grin.  “Something like that.  If it’s too much, me and Cipher can always take over.”

He had simply lifted his beer can for more, setting it down when he realized it was empty.  “I’ll be fine.  I’ve… found a muse since then, anyway.”

A muse?  At first, sure.

But it spiralled into obsession, all-consuming.

A few years ago, he had fallen into a deep slump.  It was during their major breakthrough; they had just finished an immensely successful gig and the amount of fans that had shown up after that had nearly doubled.  This was their make or break.

At this point in time, he had been the sole songwriter of the group, Castorice and Cipher only giving small tweaks here and there, never producing an entire song themselves until nearly a year later.

In a fit of desperation, he had locked himself in his house, attempting and failing to write an adequate song for hours on end.  None of it called to him.  None of it was good enough.  If he didn’t write something good, this would set back not only his career, but Calamity’s as a whole.  

While searching for inspiration online, he came across Khaslana, a freshly debuted idol.  The songs he performed in were upbeat, sugary sweet, and not at all like what Calamity produced.  Vaguely interested in this, Mydei had looked into this further.  

Khaslana, real name Phainon, looked almost hand tailored to fit most of the population’s expectations for being a perfect “idol”, down to his voice, his hair, his appearance as a whole.

Handsome and charming, charismatic, talented yet humble – he was really what the idol industry strove to become.

To give hope to people, to take away their worries, even for a second, isn’t that what being an idol is all about?

But with that in mind, where do you go?

With that charming persona, with the people’s trust that holds your career in balance, do you ever become yourself, or are you just a mass of what people want you to be?

Mydei wanted to know.  Wanted to see what Phainon would look like when he shed his mask, his seemingly indomitable restraint.  Who was he under everything?

A week later, the girls finally found the spare key in the rocks by his door.

Not bothering to knock or announce their (technical) breaking and entering, they had sidestepped from the things lining the hallway and burst in his room.

At that moment, he didn’t know what he looked like, but Cipher had stepped back with a look of unconcealed horror, bumping back into Castorice, who barely looked better herself.

He had held up the finished song triumphantly, which he had fixated on for the last few days, wondering why his arm felt like lead when it went against gravity.  “I finished it.”

Castorice was the first to move.  “Mydei… um… How long has it been since you slept?”

He frowned.  He didn’t see why the answer would be relevant.

The girls exchange a look.  “We’ll save the lecture for later.  How about you take a power nap and we’ll look it over while you do?”

Cipher nodded.  “We’ll put on white noise and everything, or whatever.”

Now that he thought about it, when was the last time he slept?

Well, it didn’t matter much, anyway.  He stands, stretching, and about fifteen parts in his back pop.

The girls, who had gingerly sat down on the floor surrounded by discarded paper, exchanged another look of dismay.

“A chiropractor would shed tears,” he thought he heard Cipher mutter under her breath, and Castorice had elbowed her.

The second his head hit the pillow, his eyes slip shut and he goes dead in the world.  The sleep was dreamless and peaceful.  Even in the present, that sleep was the best he had gotten since he was a baby.

When he woke, to his surprise, his clock had informed him that it was the same time he had gone to sleep.

Has it really been that little time? He wondered.

There was a post-it note on top of the newly finished song by Castorice.  In her loopy script, it read, The song looks good.  Please check the date when you wake up.

Under that, in Cipher’s chicken scratch, read, We left on Wednesday night.

His phone was charging on his desk, courtesy of one of them.  Tapping on it impatiently, he simply stared when reality hit him.

He had slept through an entire day and a half.

He opened his curtains.  Birds outside his window chirped cheerfully back at him and the sun beamed directly into his eyes.  He closed it.

Over the course of the years, Mydei had a few stumbles in terms of inspiration, but whenever he did, the ever-present sunny smile, the smooth baritone of Phainon’s voice would almost move his pen for him – and when Mydei had snapped out of his daze, he would have a new song at the ready to pitch to the band.

It all came to a head when Phainon had been bombarded with fake scandals.

Mydei had been shopping at the supermarket when a crowd had gathered in front of the store across from him.

He had only given it a cursory glance before turning back, until he had heard someone yell, “Mister Khaslana, is it true that you were a delinquent in your school days?”

The riot had moved slowly down the street, almost like they were following something.

As Mydei left the store, he tilted his head.  He wondered briefly what Phainon looked like in person, but shook his head, thinking that the idol had enough on his plate.  Random civilians didn’t need to bother him along with paparazzi and reporters.

He slipped into an alleyway, a shortcut that led closer to his street, and almost immediately bumped into someone.

Their hood was tightly covered over their head, the black fabric of their clothes camouflaging in with the darkness of the gap.

He blinked, slightly taken aback.  “My bad.”

Twin, tired blue eyes stared back at him as fluffy white hair poked out of the hood.  “It’s fine.”

Mydei let his eyes linger for a second more before turning away.  That was Phainon, right?

The familiar blues of his eyes, his hair color of the moonlight.  It’d be odder for Mydei to not be able to recognize him with an appearance so striking.  Of course, ignoring the fact he had watched basically every fancam available of him on the internet.

About halfway through his walk home, he noticed a familiar hooded figure across the street, walking the same way as him.

Phainon is alone this time, striding briskly to his destination with a tight expression.

Mydei allowed him to walk about half a block farther before continuing, walking past his own home.

Eventually, Phainon stopped in front of a house.  This part of the neighborhood is vastly different from Mydei’s, a well-known area for the upper middle class.  With a freshly mowed lawn and white picket fence and everything.  Phainon didn’t bother looking around before unlocking the door, pulling the door heavily behind him.

Just one peek, Mydei promised to himself.  He didn’t look so good in the alleyway earlier.

Hopping over the fence, he decided to go up against the side window, just in case there were cameras by the front door.

Carefully peeking over the sill, he could see Phainon’s side profile.

He looked, for lack of better words, drained.  Mydei had made out the dark circles under those eyes, but in the current lighting, they stood out far more.

Compared to earlier in his career, he looked thinner, the light casting shadows on his cheeks, giving the impression that he was slimmer than he actually was.

Mydei had always enjoyed cooking for others.  If he could find a way to leave some food for Phainon, one that he knows for sure he would eat… maybe that burdened look would light up, even just for a little bit.

Cipher had taught them to lockpick once and shoved five of her bobby pins down their pockets.  Just in case, she repeated constantly.

From that day on, Mydei came back to check on him, learning both Phainon’s schedule and the password for the cameras in the process.  He knew the housekeeper’s schedule as well, keeping track of the days.

Until one day, a perfect day arrived.  Phainon would not be in the house until late into the night.  Aglaea would be with him, and the housekeeper would not be there.  He knew he had to strike.

He held his breath until Phainon entered the car, waiting for the vehicle to be out of sight.

Slowly, he jiggled the bobby pin in the keyhole, fingers shaking as he heard the telltale click.

Just in case, he couldn’t linger for long.  With the ingredient bag and note in hand, he strode over to the kitchen.

About an hour and a half later, the note, chicken, rice, and vegetables were all placed neatly on the dining room table, and the pots and pans used were glistening on the dish rack.

The study lies at the end of the hall.  He booted the laptop up, gloved finger tapping anxiously on the desk, and typed the password in as soon as the screen popped up. He deleted the footage, searching for the pause button, and ten minutes later, he was out the door.

He would continue this routine until the present.

Was this enough for a simple muse?

Castorice simply stared at him before nodding at whatever’s on his face.  “As long as you aren’t pushing yourself too hard.”

“I’m not.”

“Just please know your limits.  I rather like you being part of the band.”

He smiled ruefully.  “I rather like it too.”

Castorice promised to get Cipher home, and Mydei had bid them farewell.

He turns to the mess of the table.  As messy as he is, he doesn’t enjoy stray crumbs lying around his house, at the very least.

The clinks of the empty beer cans are expected.  The tinny bounces of crumbs against his garbage bag are expected.  The click of his front door opening, however, is not.  

At first, he thinks that the girls came back.  For maybe a hangover recovery drink for the morning, or something they’ve forgotten.  Either or.  That isn’t exactly out of character, after all.

But.

Why do the footsteps sound so heavy?

Why do the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise?

Why… is he not as alarmed as he should be?

Is it because somewhere in the depths of his mind, he recognizes that gait of walking, the sounds of the steps, after all the years of watching him, no matter how hard he tries to deny it?

Even when the scent of the telltale woody cologne infuses itself to his lingering pomegranate one, smelling just like the blanket he had woken up with the other day, smelling exactly like Phainon’s neck when Cipher had spilled his new cologne bottle everywhere, why does he still refuse to believe it?

He quietly flicks off the lights and moves to the kitchen, washing his hands with the only source of light the flickering streetlamp outside his house, when the walking stops, just short of where Mydei is waiting.

Then he hears it.

The shuffling of his clothes being folded, the clatter of pens falling onto the floor, out of clumsy hands unable to grab them before slipping out of grasp.

All of these sounds combining to create denial, rewriting over his trepidation.

The footsteps then move to his bedroom, with a demeanor of someone who has been in this house numerous times before.

When he hears the rustle of his things being moved around, he steps out to his living room.  His clothes are neatly folded, placed in the middle of the couch.  All of his things are organized on the coffee table, ranging from tissue boxes half used and forgotten, lotion and hand cream he had gotten as a gift, and at least… four umbrellas?

He doesn’t even look at the floor to sidestep anything like usual.  He already knows that it’s clear.

His bedroom door is halfway closed and when he comes closer, he can hear the shuffling get faster.

Slowly, he nudges it open with his fingertips, and the figure by his bed freezes.

Well.  If he wasn’t sober before, he definitely is now.

“Phainon,” he says softly, his voice thankfully sounding less shaken than he feels.  “What are you doing here?”

The moonlight-white glow of his hair, the sapphire of his eyes – who else could it be?

“Phainon.” he calls a little louder when he doesn’t respond with anything other than a flinch.  

“Mydei.” Phainon finally says, stiff.

Not for the first time, the blanket of silence is more deafening than words that either of them could say.

“What were you doing here?” Mydei repeats.

Phainon smiles, a small, heartrending thing.  He doesn’t move.  “I think you know already.”

“Were you the one who’s been coming into my house and organizing all my stuff?”

He doesn’t speak.

“Phainon–”

“If it was?”  Phainon’s smile is gone now, replaced by his lips pressed into a thin, tense line.

“Then at least give me the reason.  I deserve that much, at least.”

“I… you just looked exhausted.  Like you were tired of everything.”

“Everyone gets tired at one point.  I don’t see how it concerns you.”

Phainon recoils like he’s just been slapped.  “I know.  I know, but…”

Mydei merely watches him, silent, as Phainon tries to gather the words to speak.

“If there was something I could do, something that I could do that would lighten that burden just a little… that’d be enough for me.”

“Why?”

Phainon smiles again.  It’s a pitiful, raw thing, yet undeniably real.  “Do you really want me to say it out loud?”

Mydei meets his eyes, finding the sky through them.  “Yes.”

Phainon averts his gaze, like he can’t bear to look at him.  “I’m in love with you.  I have been for a while now.”

Mydei slowly sucks in a breath.  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Phainon’s eyes snap open, a blazing cerulean.  “Why didn’t I tell you earlier?  Would you have accepted?  Would any sane person, even if it wasn't you, would stay if I’d told them I have been stalking them for years on end and breaking into their home?”

“I–”

“You wouldn’t,” his voice picks up.  “Don’t lie to me, Mydei.  Because you would hate me–”

“Shut up–”

“–So you could never want me,” Phainon finishes flatly, like it’s a fact, when it’s the most inane thing to come out his mouth the entire night, almost even more than when he had confessed that he had been stalking him.  “You never have, and never will.  Is that enough reason not to tell you?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.” he scowls.

“Mydei, do you understand?  I’ve been stalking you for years. I've been breaking into your house every weekend and cleaning up your home without any permission whatsoever.”

“So what?”

“So what?” Phainon echoes as his voice takes on a disbelieving edge.  “I’ve been circling around your house, following you like a total fucking creep, and all you have to say is ‘so what’?”

“What if I told you I was doing the same?”

Phainon stares at him and slowly, in a faraway voice, says so quietly that Mydei’s chest gives an unfamiliar twinge, “…What?”

He crosses his arms.  “I’ve been stalking you for the past year too.  I know where you live, what you do in your free time, where you go to get your groceries.  I know who you meet up with for the most part, which snacks and food you enjoy–”

He cuts himself off when he sees Phainon bury his face in his hands.

Hiding?  At this point?  Mydei looks away, pride bruised, until he takes a closer look.

“Are you blushing.” he demands.

It’s still dark, the only source of light coming from his curtains not closed all the way, but from that alone, he can clearly see the faint tint of red sitting on the tops of Phainon’s cheekbones where he had not hidden them fully.

Phainon doesn’t answer, not even when he regains his composure, shifting to something a little more contrite.  “But sometimes, I worry.  I worry that you will only accept my feelings because I’ve forced them on you.  To you, I’ve always been too greedy, too eager for every scrap, every bone you deign to throw me.  At this point, I cannot help but want more, until I am wholly yours, and you mine.”

“You say that as though you have not openly admitted to stalking me,” Phainon wilts, but Mydei goes on, lifting his chin.  “But come.  Come, and bring your bright smiles, your eyes that tell me that I hung the stars in the sky.  Arm yourself with your charm and your faults, your highs and your lows.  Challenge me to accept them, command me to fall and accept defeat.  Be as greedy as you can, and I shall repay you tenfold.  I am not as fragile as you think.  Do you still not get it?”

Phainon hesitates at this, before asking quietly, “Will you let me have you?”

He scoffs, but he can feel his lips start to curve up.  “It’s a start, but not good enough.”

Phainon opens his mouth to respond, but Mydei doesn’t give him a chance to, hooking his fingers under Phainon’s choker and yanking hard.

The two are at a standstill, their breaths mingling together.  From this distance, he can make out the subtle golden flecks in his eyes, the darker ring of blue outlining his pupils.

“Let me have you,” Mydei whispers, looking him dead in the eye, and at this distance, he can hear Phainon’s breath catch.  A few seconds later, Mydei lets go, slipping his fingers away and smirking lightly.  “Isn’t that how it usually goes?”

For a second, Phainon doesn’t move.  Then, in an instant, he’s on him, crushing their mouths together so hard that Mydei can hardly breathe.

It’s a harsh slide of lips against lips, at first.  It’s messy, downright filthy, the way Phainon licks at his mouth, coating it in saliva, coaxing him to open it.  He vaguely registers Phainon’s hand on the back of his head, pressing him closer like he wants to meld their bodies together.

Give in. 

Yield.

It tempts him, makes his knees buckle, but Mydei is nothing if not resilient.  He clings onto Phainon’s biceps, which feel feverish under his fingers, and presses in harder.  

His tongue meets Phainon’s, and he can hear Phainon trying to inhale shakily.  As Mydei deepens the kiss, he tastes the sweet zing of soda and the heady taste of alcohol, mixing with their spit.  The sandalwood scent envelops him when he breathes, and he nearly moans off it alone.

He pushes Phainon closer to the bed until Mydei sits in his lap, the angle shifting and their lips leave each other.  As he stares down at Phainon, the fool beneath him just smiles dopily, kiss-drunk, before leaning closer to his ear.

“Let me have you,” he murmurs, hot in his ear, and Mydei shivers at the mirrored words from earlier.  “Hm?”

“Yes.” he breathes; the word leaves him as easily as air, and Mydei is suddenly aware of a hand between his shoulder blades, slowly trailing down to the small of his back and giving a healthy squeeze to his hips, but is soon distracted by the fervent lick on his lips, not noticing Phainon rucking up his shirt.

The mood is less impatient now, with Phainon tracing over every dip and curve, slowly kissing each inch of his body.  He lifts Mydei’s shirt off, continuing his markings with reverent pecks on his arms, his tattoos, everywhere he can reach, until he says hoarsely, “Please sit on me.”

The words hang in the air after they are blurted out loud.  Mydei raises a brow, shifting slightly as if to prove a point, and Phainon makes a muffled noise.  “I am.”

“Not — not like that,” Phainon flushes.  “Like on…”

The last few words trail off pitifully.  Unluckily for him, Mydei has never really been the person to be moved by pity.  He does, however, get mildly preoccupied by the pink on his cheeks, stroking a thumb idly over one.  “Speak louder.”

Phainon looks like he wants to cover his face, but ultimately leans into Mydei’s hand, blushing furiously all the while.  “On… my face…”

When Mydei doesn’t respond, he immediately backtracks.  “If you’re uncomfortable with it, we don’t have to–”

At that, Mydei yanks off Phainon’s shirt, almost ripping it in two, and pushes him down, flat on his back on the bed, ignoring the undignified yelp that Phainon lets out and the thing that has been incessantly poking at his inner thigh the entire time.  He takes off his pants and undergarments, the feeling of being bare against clothes sparking warmth in his core.

Then, he bends down at Phainon’s waist, just above his pants, before removing them too.  He makes eye contact with Phainon here, who tenses but otherwise doesn’t move, and dips down to slowly kiss his way up.  Peppering brief butterfly kisses to his stomach, his diaphragm, between his pecs.  He sucks at his collarbone, just below his sun tattoo, and Phainon squeezes his hips again, inhaling sharply when Mydei scrapes his teeth against it.  

Mydei then turns his attention to his face, brushing his bangs away to press a kiss to his forehead, to his temples, to the tops of his cheeks that are still flaming.  Finally, he goes to press a kiss to the corner of Phainon’s lips, but at the last second, Phainon turns, making their lips meet and Mydei can feel his mouth forming a grin.

The kiss is slow yet sensual.  Mydei allows him to open his mouth and tangle their tongues together until his head feels like it’s buzzing with static, a soft noise dragging itself up from his throat.

The grip on his hips turn bruising, and Mydei, albeit somewhat reluctantly, pulls away.  When Phainon stares, turning his puppy-dog eyes on him, he huffs.  “Don’t look at me like that.  You’re the one who wanted me to sit on your face.”

Then, as bright as sunlight filtering through rain clouds after a heavy storm, Phainon smiles.  “Please.”

Mydei straddles his torso, and as he’s positioning himself just over Phainon’s neck, he hears something sounding suspiciously like a whimper.

“Like what you see?”  Phainon looks up at him, wide eyed and still adorably pink.  Mydei cocks his head haughtily, smirking.  “You look like you’re about to drool.”

“Please,”  he begs, eyes flickering from down to up.  “Please.”

Slowly, tantalizingly, he spreads his thighs on either side of Phainon’s head, cheeks burning when Phainon stares between his legs.  Mydei lowers himself, trying not to put his full weight on his head, but it doesn’t matter anyway, not when Phainon hauls the back of his thighs closer and swipes his tongue over his perineum, gently nipping at it.

He nearly shrieks at that, and his knees almost collapse where he is kneeling over Phainon’s head, clutching onto the headboard.

“You–!” he spits, scandalized, and Phainon only answers with his eyes curving into crescents, the blues of his eyes nearly drowning out with the expansion of his pupils, and goes farther down.  Before he reaches, however, Mydei moves away, and Phainon whines.

“If you keep dragging me down like that, I might put my whole weight on you.” he warns, and shakes when Phainon responds with a moan, stifled against Mydei’s body, and kneads the meat of his thighs.

“Do it,” he rasps when Mydei sits back on his haunches, and gives a teasing lick to the head.  Mydei jerks in his hold.  “I’d be even more overjoyed if you could crush my head with your thighs like a watermelon.  Could you?”

“You need to watch that mouth of yours.” he huffs, but unsteadily moves to reposition himself over him again, and Phainon beams like he had just accomplished a lifelong goal.  

He stiffens when Phainon spreads him apart, one hand on the headboard and the other in Phainon’s hair, trying to ignore the instinct that tells him to move away again.

“Relax…” he hears Phainon say, and something indignant wells up in him.

Mydei opens his mouth to retort, but in this moment, Phainon splays his tongue against the ring of muscle.  What comes out of Mydei’s mouth are not words, but an inhuman noise that he doesn’t even realize that it had tore itself from his own throat at first.  

His legs go limp and he shivers when he unintentionally rests himself completely onto Phainon’s face, mind filled with fractured thoughts as he tries and fails to pull himself back up.  Not that Phainon would have given him the chance to, if the way his fingers dug in harsher into his skin said anything.

“Stop – smelling me down there, weirdo.” Mydei tugs at his hair when he hears the audible inhales, even louder than the wet sounds coming from the same place, but it doesn’t dissuade Phainon in the least, if anything egging him on further.

He nearly thrashes out of his hold when Phainon pushes his tongue in – biting down on the keens that threaten to escape his mouth, failing miserably when he’s unable to help but roll his hips down, grinding down on Phainon’s face shamefully.  The noises that he chokes on spur Phainon on, the vibrations of his encouraging moans against Mydei’s body all the more stimulating.

Mydei grips his hair tighter when Phainon presses in a finger, wriggling when it settles into a dull burn.  The digit twists farther into him and he shifts, a little uncomfortable, until it curves slightly, and Mydei sobs when the flash of pleasure overtakes him suddenly, arching his back as he comes onto Phainon’s face.

He stays like that for a few long beats, panting with his mouth parted, twitching minutely as the finger and the tongue slips out, when he feels Phainon gently prying his thighs open where they are clenched tightly around his head.

“Did you like it?” Phainon asks huskily as he rearranges Mydei’s boneless body so he’s the one on his back, brushing a thumb under Mydei’s eyes as he wraps Mydei’s legs around his waist.  Phainon’s cheeks are still flushed, lips still kiss-bitten, and Mydei can see some of his hair sticking onto his forehead with sweat.  His smile is so insufferably smug when he pushes the remaining semen still lingering on his face into his mouth that Mydei reaches up a hand, gesturing for him to lean down.  When he complies, Mydei presses a sloppy kiss to the corner of his lips, replacing the one that had not happened earlier, coaxing a delighted laugh out of Phainon’s mouth.  Beside himself, Mydei smiles, tucking some stray hair behind Phainon’s ear.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Mydei scolds with no real bite.  Before he is able to pull away his hand, Phainon catches it, brushing his lips over his knuckles, his palm, his wrist, the tips of his fingers.  His eyes speak of love, and Mydei, in a rare fit of bashfulness, throws his other arm over his eyes.

“Mydei,” he hears him coo from somewhere above him.  “Won’t you look at me?”

As a response and mild retaliation, Mydei kicks his back with his heel, and Phainon laughs again, this time unbearably fond.  He finds himself peeking curiously under his forearm, and scowls when they make eye contact.

“Ah, Mydei, so feisty,” Phainon kisses his wrist again.  “So beautiful.  So perfect.”

At that, Mydei feels a thumb nudge his entrance, and lifts his arm once again to send him a look.

Phainon raises an eyebrow, teasing.  “No?”

Mydei’s lip trembles in near fury – Phainon knows the answer, yet is trying to pull it from his lips anyway.  He kicks his back again, harder than the first, so Phainon almost falls onto him, only bracing himself with an elbow.

“Get on with it,” he growls into his ear, “or don’t start at all.”

He throws his head back, gasping, when Phainon ruthlessly plunges two fingers in him without further preamble.

“Mydei,” he hears Phainon say, restraint snapping at the seams.  “Mydei, Mydei, Mydei.  You really know how to rile me up.”

“If you’re not going to say anything meaningful,” he snarls, “then just shut your mouth.”

He hisses when Phainon jabs at his prostate, leaking precum.  When his vision clears from the sparks vignetting his sight, he hears a familiar snap of a bottle opening.

He looks up at Phainon, who’s holding a half empty lube bottle.  His lube bottle.  The one hidden away in a drawer, the one that he thought Phainon didn’t know existed because it looked untouched every time he went to get it.  “That…”

Phainon cocks his head, a saccharine grin playing on his lips as the lube slowly drips onto his hand.  “Embarrassed?”

He glowers, ignoring the way his cheeks burn.  “Shut up and move.”

His grin turns a touch darker, and the sounds when Phainon shoves three fingers into him, mouth spilling filthy praises all over his skin, is almost too much.

The pleasure washes over him, like wave after wave, cresting higher and higher, and when he is nearly knocked over by the pressure, the fingers yank out of him.

Mydei’s eyes snap open, vision made blurry with unshed tears, as he makes a cry of frustration, throwing Phainon a ferocious glare.

Phainon’s smile borders on crazed.  “As ethereal as you are when overcome by ecstasy, I’d appreciate it if you weren’t the only one.”

Mydei tries to mirror it, baring his teeth.  It must look more like a grimace, but Phainon’s length, which had been pressing against the inside of his thigh, gives a violent twitch.  “Why aren’t you moving then?”

Phainon runs his hands over his body, up his flank and landing on his chest, flicking his nipple, and Mydei keens, turning away once again.  Phainon grabs his chin; he can barely make out the blue in his eyes through his tears.  He nearly salivates when he feels Phainon lining up himself to his entrance.  “Patience is a virtue, my dear Mydeimos.”

Once again, Mydei opens his mouth for a retort.  Of course, Phainon decides now is the perfect time to slam himself in, and a wanton moan rips itself out of his throat as he tries not to come unceremoniously yet again.  Stars burst in the corners of his vision.  It’s so bright.  It’s too bright, the way Phainon looks with his hair all mussed up and lips swollen, with that unfair reverent gleam in his eyes.

With nothing to grab onto, Mydei claws down whatever he can get his hands on, scratching up Phainon’s wrists and forearms.  Belatedly, Mydei realizes that Phainon hadn’t even moved since the initial thrust and is still only halfway in, and feels like he’s on the cusp of another involuntary sob.

“You alright?” he hears Phainon’s voice, faraway and heady.  A soft warmth grazes his cheek, and he pushes his head into it, desperate for its comfort.

With difficulty, he manages to refocus his gaze.

Phainon had reverted halfway back to his princely persona, with a half hearted look of guilt that doesn’t suit the situation.  His facade shatters when he sees Mydei squirming, trying to swallow him whole.

“Greedy,” he says, almost in awe, when Mydei gives another experimental roll of his hips, and tugs on his rim with a finger.  “So pretty.”

Mydei jolts, crying out when Phainon shoves himself completely in, pushing their hips flush against each other.  He feels so lightheaded; he screws his eyes shut to steady himself, but it only serves to make each sensation all the more clearer.

He can hardly breathe when he feels it up to his throat, shaking like an addict, whimpers falling like rain from his lips.

“Mydei,” Phainon calls, sounding oddly strangled.  “Mydei, look.”

Belligerently, he does.  It’s a mistake.

His stomach distends visibly when he sees where Phainon is looking down at.  He turns away again, only to glare back viciously when Phainon gives a short thrust.

“Phainon, you–” he cuts himself off, tensing when Phainon gently presses a finger to his abdomen.

“Do you think you can get pregnant?” Phainon rolls his hips again, grinding slowly, digging his finger on the bulge all the while, and Mydei shivers.

“Don’t… touch…” he hisses.  “Phainon, don’t you dare.”

Sapphire eyes meet teary amber.

The smile Phainon has on can only be called deranged.  He flattens his hand against Mydei’s stomach and slams into him, and Mydei screams, devolving into garbled moans as he writhes, painting their stomachs with streaks of white.

Phainon doesn’t stop – if anything, he speeds up, lapping at the tears that wet his cheeks, sucking mark after mark all over his body, as he fucks harder into Mydei until he spills messily into him, the warmth of it all making him jerk again.

“Y-you…” Mydei sniffles, and inside him, Phainon twitches.  Mydei has never been one to cry, yet when he does, Phainon likes it?  “You–!”

“Me,” Phainon kisses his fingertips, one by one like he’s worshipping him.  “You’re so good to me.”

With that, he lifts Mydei onto his lap.  It almost feels too deep like this, and with every shift he makes, jolts of pleasure climb his spine.  He struggles anyway, only serving to inch himself further down.  When they connect, Mydei can barely hold himself upright.

“I thought I was dreaming, you know,” Phainon whispers, breath hot against his ear, and it takes several seconds for Mydei for the words to land when Phainon grinds into him.  “You made me honeycakes one day for dessert.  When you gave me the ones yesterday, it tasted exactly like it.  I thought I was wrong.  I thought maybe you used the same recipe.”

“Yeah?  Well–” Mydei trails off into a debauched moan, grabbing desperately back at the thought before it can fully break.  “Well, the first time you deep cleaned my house, I – ah, was gonna call the cops–”

Phainon has the audacity to laugh.  “You should’ve.  Then you wouldn’t be stuck here like this with me.”

“Who said I was complaining?”

Phainon stares at him at that, and unceremoniously snaps his hips up.

Mydei throws his head back, baring his neck, as he scratches down angry red lines on Phainon’s back.  “Phainon–”

The man in question kisses the column of his neck, nipping at him every so often.  He responds a beat late, breathless.  “Yes?”

Fat tears spill uncontrollably from his eyes when Phainon slams his hips down, his hands scrabbling for purchase.  He slurs, “Close…”

Phainon smiles sweetly, a ghost of his usual one, and Mydei hiccups; that smile, the light, peppered kisses all over his face, the overly saccharine praises being whispered lovingly into his ear are all a sharp contrast to the brutal pace Phainon picks up.

“Then take it, Mydei.”

On a particularly harsh thrust, Mydei unravels, drawing beads of blood as he moans, eyes rolling back in his skull.

He quivers as Phainon holds him through his orgasm, unable to do anything besides slide his lips messily over Phainon’s shoulder.

When he finally collects himself enough to have a coherent thought, tender fingers brush back the hair he’s too worn out to push away from his eyes, soft lips caress his neck, feather light.  “Still with me?”

Blearily, Mydei blinks the mix of sweat and tears out of his eyes, laying his head on Phainon’s shoulder, closing his eyes when he smells the familiar sandalwood.

“Mydei?”  The hands on his hips start drawing slow, soothing circles on his back.

Mydei noses around his neck, near his sun tattoo, dazedly inhaling more of that sandalwood scent until his head spins.  It’s mixed with the cut of sweat, and he nuzzles into it, like he’s trying to drown himself in that intoxicating scent.  Then, he nibbles where Phainon’s neck and shoulder meets, and he feels Phainon’s body shudder.

He resumes his merciless pace and Mydei retaliates, biting down hard onto that tattoo, where the scent is at its strongest, and he hears Phainon moan.  He can do little but let Phainon take him, clenching down, trembling when he feels liquid start to trickle out of him.

Phainon leans onto him too, panting as he comes down from his high, before skimming his lips over Mydei’s limp hand, an imitation of earlier’s.  Slowly, he licks into Mydei’s mouth; Mydei clumsily chases after Phainon’s lips when he starts to pull back.

A string of saliva connects the two when they pull away from each other.

Phainon smiles, and Mydei feels an odd sense of trepidation crawl down his back.  “One more round?”

“Now that I think about it,” Mydei says when they lay together, bodies squished against each other in his small bed.  Phainon thinks about replacing it too, as the limited space would be a problem for future activities, but enjoys the heat of Mydei’s body too much, so he says nothing.  “Why did you come in?  You couldn’t have known if the band was celebrating in the house or in some other restaurant or something.”

I wanted to see you, Phainon thinks.  It sounds unbearably sappy, even to him, but it’s the truth, so he says it anyway, twirling a lock of blond-red hair around his finger as he does so.

Mydei snorts, and turns his back cruelly on him.  “Sap.”

He wraps an arm over Mydei’s waist, and smiles when he feels a brush of lips over the back of his hand when his arm is dragged up. “Tired?”

“What do you think?  Some guy was rearranging my guts for hours on end.  Turn the other way and think about what you did.”

“You want me to think about how I fucked you when you’re right in front of me?”  Mydei sputters, and he pouts, even though Mydei can’t see it.  “There isn’t even anywhere else to go.  I’ll fall off the bed if I move any more…”

Mydei sighs, beleaguered, like he’s complaining to the high heavens.  His next words make Phainon grin like a maniac.  “I need to buy a bigger bed.”