Chapter Text
"You know, if you keep scowling like that, your face might actually stick that way." Neteyam leaned back in his chair, grinning up at Ao’nung from under the brim of his stupidly expensive sunglasses.
Ao’nung didn’t dignify that with a response, arms crossed as he scanned the crowd outside the recording studio. Paparazzi lurked near the gate, lenses trained on them like vultures waiting for a slip-up. He adjusted his earpiece, muttering into his mic, "Perimeter’s clear. Just keep moving."
Neteyam sighed, stretching his legs out in front of him like he hadn’t a care in the world. "Relax, Nung. Nobody’s gonna jump me in broad daylight."
"You’d be surprised," Ao’nung muttered. He hated this part—the waiting, the exposure, the way Neteyam acted like he was invincible just because his last three singles had topped the charts. Fame made people stupid. Ao’nung had seen it before.
A sudden movement near the gate caught his eye. Not paparazzi—too fast, too purposeful. His hand twitched toward his waistband before he registered the familiar face: Tsireya, Neteyam’s stylist and also Aonung sister, waving impatiently from behind the security barricade. The tension in his shoulders eased, but only slightly. She had a habit of showing up unannounced, usually with some "emergency" involving sequins or misplaced eyelash glue.
Neteyam perked up immediately. "Oh, hey! Your sister’s here to save me from your terrible personality." He wiggled his fingers in Tsireya’s direction, grinning when she blew him a kiss. Ao’nung rolled his eyes—they were unbearable together, always conspiring against him. He tapped his earpiece again. "Let her through," he muttered, then shot Tsireya a warning look as the guard lifted the barrier. "Make it quick."
She ignored him entirely, breezing past with a garment bag slung over one shoulder and a latte in her free hand. "You look like you’ve been chewing glass," she told Ao’nung, then promptly shoved the coffee at Neteyam. "Drink this before your voice gives out. You sounded like a dying seagull in the last take." Neteyam gasped in mock offense, clutching his chest. Ao’nung resisted the urge to groan.
Tsireya turned back to him, tilting her head. "So," she said, far too casually, "when were you going to tell me you have a fanclub?" Ao’nung blinked. Neteyam choked on his latte, coughing violently.
"What?" Ao’nung managed, just as Tsireya pulled out her phone and tapped the screen. A video loaded—security footage, probably from last week’s concert, where he’d hauled Neteyam offstage after some overenthusiastic fan tried to climb up. The angle was weirdly cinematic, spotlight catching the sharp line of Ao’nung’s jaw as he’d shielded Neteyam with his body. The caption read: "WHO IS THIS MAN??" with about a hundred thousand likes.
Ao’nung snatched the phone, squinting at the screen like it might bite him. The comments were worse—thirst traps, memes, someone had even photoshopped his head onto a romance novel cover. His grip tightened. "This is bullshit."
Neteyam wheezed out a laugh, still recovering from his latte mishap. "Oh my god—" he gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "—you’re trending!"
"Shut up." Ao’nung shoved the phone back at Tsireya, who was grinning like she’d just won the lottery. "Ask that person to delete that footage before I sue them," he growled, ignoring how Neteyam was now wheezing with laughter beside him, doubled over in his chair.
Tsireya tucked her phone away with a shrug. "Too late. It’s already gone viral. There’s merch now—someone’s selling t-shirts with your face and ‘WHO IS THIS MAN?’ printed in sparkly letters." She paused, then added cheerfully, "They’re sold out."
Neteyam wiped tears from his eyes. "Oh, this is perfect. Now you know how it feels." He gestured vaguely at Ao’nung’s frozen expression. "Welcome to the circus."
Ao’nung pinched the bridge of his nose. This couldn’t be happening. He was security—meant to blend in, be invisible. Not... whatever this was. "This is a liability," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "People noticing me means they’re not paying attention to you."
Neteyam waved a dismissive hand. "Relax. Nobody’s gonna kidnap me just because you’ve got a jawline that could cut glass." He leaned forward, propping his chin on his palm. "Actually, this might work in our favor. Distract them with the pretty bodyguard while I sneak out the back."
Ao’nung exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled—the kind of breath you took when resisting the urge to throw a chair. Tsireya was scrolling through her phone again, humming as she flicked past screenshots of fan edits where someone had superimposed his face onto a shirtless firefighter calendar. "Oh, this one’s good," she mused, tilting the screen toward Neteyam, who promptly choked on his latte again.
"Give me that." Ao’nung snatched the phone, thumb jamming against the power button until the screen went black. He tossed it back at her like it was contaminated. "This isn’t funny. I have a job to do."
Neteyam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning. "Yeah, and you’re doing it so well—oh, wait." He gestured at the paparazzi now shamelessly zooming in on Ao’nung’s profile. "Pretty sure you just upgraded us from ‘celebrity sighting’ to ‘viral conspiracy theory.’ Are you sure you’re not secretly a runaway model?"
Ao’nung ignored him, focusing instead on the security feed buzzing in his earpiece. "Perimeter’s getting crowded," the ground team muttered. "We need to move."
Tsireya tucked her phone away, finally—mercifully—switching to professional mode as she unzipped the garment bag slung over her shoulder. "Change of plans," she announced, shaking out a sleek black blazer. "We’re doing the Vanity Fair interview here instead. Photographer’s setting up in Studio B."
Ao'nung barely suppressed a groan as Tsireya draped the blazer over Neteyam’s shoulders, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles with the precision of a surgeon. "Studio B’s got three exits," he muttered into his mic, already mapping the layout in his head. "I want two extra guys at the south stairwell." The last thing they needed was some overzealous fan slipping past security while Neteyam posed for glossy magazine shots.
Neteyam caught his eye in the reflection of Tsireya’s compact mirror, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "Relax, Nung. It’s just Vanity Fair, not a warzone." He flicked a sequin off his sleeve—where it had come from, Ao’nung had no idea—and added, "Unless you’re worried your fans will storm the building."
Tsireya snorted, snapping the compact shut. "Oh, they’d line up for tickets." She patted Ao’nung’s bicep like she was admiring a prize stallion. "Look at him. All brooding and mysterious. It’s marketable."
Ao’nung swatted her hand away, but not before Neteyam’s grin widened. "Marketable," he echoed, dragging out the word like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. "You hear that? You’re marketable."
The earpiece crackled to life before Ao’nung could retaliate. "Uh, boss?" The security team’s voice was strained. "We got a… situation at the east gate."
Ao’nung’s head snapped toward the east gate before the security guy even finished his sentence. His fingers twitched toward his earpiece. “Define ‘situation.’”
Through the static, the response was almost sheepish. “Uh… delivery guy with a bouquet? Says it’s for ‘the hot bodyguard.’”
Neteyam collapsed against Tsireya’s shoulder, shaking with silent laughter. Tsireya, for her part, looked like Christmas had come early. “Oh my god,” she wheezed, clutching her stomach. “It’s already starting.”
“Tell them to toss it,” Ao’nung growled into the mic, but Neteyam lunged forward, snatching the earpiece right out of his hand.
“No, no—let’s see it!” Neteyam chirped into the mic, wiggling his fingers at the security team through the glass doors. “Bring the flowers to us. For science.”
Ao’nung’s jaw clenched so hard he could feel the muscle twitch. “Give that back.” He made a grab for the earpiece, but Neteyam danced out of reach, still giggling like a kid who’d stolen the last cookie. Tsireya, the traitor, was already snapping photos of Ao’nung’s murderous expression—probably for her personal collection of blackmail material.
The security guard hesitated at the gate, clutching a ridiculously oversized bouquet of crimson roses wrapped in gold foil. Ao’nung could see the poor guy’s soul leaving his body as he shuffled forward, clearly weighing his paycheck against the humiliation of delivering what was essentially a romantic grenade. “Uh,” the guard said, thrusting the flowers at Ao’nung like they were radioactive. “There’s a… note.”
Neteyam snatched it before Ao’nung could react, unfolding the slip of paper with the glee of a gossip columnist. His eyebrows shot up. “Ohhh, this is juicy.” He cleared his throat dramatically. “‘To the man with the hands that could crush me—’”
Ao’nung lunged. Neteyam yelped, twisting away, but not fast enough—Ao’nung caught him around the waist, pinning him against the studio wall with one arm while he pried the note from his fingers with the other. Neteyam wheezed, still laughing, as Ao’nung scanned the ridiculous script. It was worse than he’d imagined. Flowery prose about "stoic strength" and "untouchable allure," signed with a heart and the Instagram handle @AonungsArmy. He crumpled it in his fist.
"Okay, okay, we’re done here," Tsireya announced, though the glee in her voice suggested otherwise. She plucked the bouquet from the guard’s trembling hands and shoved it unceremoniously into a nearby trash can. "Focus, children. Neteyam’s got an interview, and Ao’nung’s got a… burgeoning fanfiction career to ignore."
Neteyam peeled himself off the wall, still giggling as he straightened his blazer. "You’re blushing," he sing-songed, poking Ao’nung’s cheek. Ao’nung batted his hand away, but not before Tsireya’s phone camera clicked. "Delete that," he growled.
"Never," she said cheerfully, tucking her phone into her back pocket. "Blackmail’s too valuable. Now move—photographer’s waiting." She herded them toward Studio B, where a harried-looking crew was setting up lights around a velvet chaise. Neteyam slid onto it with practiced ease, crossing his ankles like he’d been born for glossy magazine spreads. Ao’nung took up his usual post by the door, arms crossed, scanning for exits.
The photographer—a wiry man with a headset and a perpetually frazzled expression—paused mid-adjustment when he spotted Ao’nung. "Oh. You’re staying?" He sounded oddly hopeful.
The photographer’s gaze lingered on Ao’nung a beat too long, fingers tapping against his camera strap. "Actually," he said, voice dropping into that slimy industry purr Ao’nung recognized instantly—the sound of someone scenting money. "You’d elevate the composition. The brooding protector angle? Gold."
Neteyam smirked from the chaise, twirling a stray sequin between his fingers. "Told you you’re marketable."
Ao’nung’s jaw tightened. "No."
The photographer blinked, then laughed like he’d misheard. "I’m offering you a Vanity Fair spread. People kill for this."
"And I kill people," Ao’nung deadpanned. The room went very quiet. Tsireya coughed into her fist.
The photographer’s laugh came out strangled. "Uh. Right." He fiddled with his lens cap, shooting a nervous glance at Tsireya, who merely shrugged as if to say, Told you so. Neteyam stretched across the chaise like a satisfied cat, watching the exchange with undisguised amusement. "Don’t mind him," he drawled. "He’s allergic to fun and compliments."
Ao’nung ignored them both, turning his attention to the security feed buzzing in his earpiece. The east gate was clear, but the crowd outside had doubled—likely drawn by the viral footage. He muttered into his mic, "Double the perimeter patrol. And confiscate any more… deliveries." The last word came out like a curse.
Tsireya rolled her eyes, adjusting Neteyam’s collar with the precision of a bomb technician. "Relax. It’s just flowers. Unless you’re secretly terrified of roses?" She paused, then gasped theatrically. "Wait. Do you have a phobia of romance?"
Neteyam choked on a laugh. Ao’nung’s eye twitched.
The photographer, sensing his opportunity slipping away, cleared his throat. "Look—just stand behind him. You don’t even have to smile. It’s atmospheric. Mysterious." He gestured wildly at the lighting setup. "Think brooding shadow meets protective intensity."
Ao’nung exhaled through his nose—long, slow, measured. The photographer was still talking, hands fluttering like he was orchestrating some grand artistic vision instead of just trying to capitalize on a viral moment. Tsireya nudged Neteyam’s shoulder, whispering something that made him bite his lip to stifle a laugh. Ao’nung didn’t need to hear it to know it was at his expense.
“Fine,” he ground out, stepping forward before the photographer could launch into another sales pitch. “One shot. Then I’m done.”
The photographer beamed like he’d just won a Pulitzer. “Perfect! Just—yes, right there, behind the chaise. A little to the left—no, your other left—”
Neteyam tilted his head back to smirk up at Ao’nung, who was looming behind him like a disgruntled shadow. “You’re terrible at taking direction,” Neteyam murmured, just loud enough for Ao’nung to hear.
“And you’re terrible at shutting up,” Ao’nung muttered back, adjusting his stance while the photographer fussed with the lighting. The studio was too warm, the lights too bright, and Neteyam’s grin too sharp.
The photographer’s lens clicked rapidly, capturing Neteyam’s effortless sprawl and Ao’nung’s rigid posture in a series of frames that would undoubtedly fuel more internet delirium. Ao’nung could already imagine the captions: 'Mysterious Bodyguard and His Pop Star Charge'. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes—though Neteyam’s knowing smirk suggested he’d noticed the tension in his jaw anyway.
"Okay, now—Ao’nung, could you maybe not look like you’re about to murder someone?" the photographer called, peering over his camera with a nervous chuckle.
Neteyam twisted on the chaise, draping an arm over the back to peer up at him. "Yeah, Nung. Smile a little. Or at least unclench your fists."
Ao’nung flexed his fingers deliberately. "I’m not clenched."
"You are," Tsireya supplied from the sidelines, scrolling through her phone again. "Also, your fanclub just hit 50K followers. Congrats."
Ao’nung’s exhale was barely audible—just a controlled release of air through his nose—but Neteyam caught it anyway, grinning wider as he tapped his fingers against the chaise. “Relax,” he murmured, voice pitched low enough that only Ao’nung could hear. “You look good in photos. Not that you’d ever admit it.”
The photographer adjusted his lens with a hum, circling them like a vulture. “Ao’nung, maybe… lean in a little? Like you’re—” He waved a hand vaguely. “—protecting him.”
Neteyam’s grin turned wicked. “Oh, he’s always protecting me,” he purred, stretching his legs out just enough for his knee to brush Ao’nung’s thigh. Ao’nung didn’t flinch, but his fingers twitched at his sides. Tsireya’s phone camera clicked again from the sidelines.
The photographer’s smile was verging on manic. “Perfect, perfect! Now—Neteyam, tilt your head back like you’re whispering to him. Yes, just like that—”
Neteyam obeyed, arching back until his lips were a breath away from Ao’nung’s ear. “You know,” he whispered, warm and teasing, “if you keep scowling, they’re gonna photoshop you into some dark romance novel cover.”
Ao’nung exhaled sharply through his nose—Neteyam’s breath was warm against his skin, his laughter vibrating through the space between them like a live wire. “I will drop you,” he muttered, low enough that only Neteyam could hear.
Neteyam’s grin widened. “Promises, promises,” he murmured back, just as the photographer’s shutter clicked rapidly, capturing the moment with the glee of a paparazzo stumbling upon scandal. Tsireya was practically vibrating with suppressed laughter by the lighting rig, her phone held aloft like a torch. Ao’nung shot her a glare that could melt steel. She blew him a kiss.
“Okay, perfect,” the photographer gushed, scrolling through the shots with the fervor of a man who’d just struck gold. “Now, Ao’nung—could you maybe put a hand on his shoulder? Just to sell the whole… protective vibe?”
Neteyam’s eyes sparkled with mischief as Ao’nung’s fingers twitched. “very protective indeed,” Neteyam drawled, tilting his head to expose the line of his throat like some kind of sacrificial offering. “Practically clings to me when—”
Ao’nung moved before the thought fully formed—one hand sliding firmly around Neteyam’s shoulder, the other gripping the chaise’s backrest as he leaned in, close enough that Neteyam’s teasing breath hitched. The studio lights caught the sharp angle of his jaw, casting shadows that made his scowl look downright predatory. Neteyam’s lips parted in genuine surprise, his fingers freezing mid-air where they’d been fiddling with a sequin.
The photographer’s camera clicked furiously, but Ao’nung barely heard it. His thumb brushed the bare skin above Neteyam’s collar, warm and deliberate. “This what you wanted?” Ao’nung murmured, voice so low it vibrated between them. Neteyam’s pulse jumped under his fingertips.
Tsireya’s phone clattered to the floor.
For once, the studio was dead silent.
The photographer's lens clicked one final time before the silence shattered into a flurry of movement—Tsireya scrambling for her phone, Neteyam blinking rapidly like he'd been flashbanged, and Ao’nung straightening up so fast the chaise wobied under his grip. The photographer cleared his throat, adjusting his headset with trembling fingers. "Uh. That’s—that’s a wrap. Great energy. Very... intense."
Neteyam exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to dispel the moment. "Yeah, well. He’s got a flair for dramatics," he quipped, though his voice lacked its usual bite. His fingers absently brushed the spot on his shoulder where Ao’nung’s hand had been, then quickly stilled when he caught himself.
Ao’nung ignored the heat crawling up his neck, turning on his heel to stalk toward the exit. "We’re done here." His earpiece crackled with static—blessed distraction—as the security team mumbled something about crowd control. He focused on that, on the familiar rhythm of threat assessment, and not the way Neteyam’s throat had bobbed when he’d leaned in.
Tsireya intercepted him at the door, her grin downright diabolical. "Oh, you’re so screwed," she sing-songed, tapping her phone screen where the photographer had already air-dropped her the raw shots. Ao’nung glimpsed the preview—his own silhouette curved over Neteyam’s sprawl, shadows cutting across them like a chiaroscuro painting—before she yanked it away. "Fifty grand says this one makes the cover."
"Delete it," he growled.
Ao’nung didn’t wait for Tsireya’s inevitable retort—just shouldered past her into the hallway, the studio door swinging shut behind him with a satisfying thud. The air out here was cooler, quieter, a temporary reprieve from the chaos of the shoot. He tapped his earpiece, muttering into the mic, "Status update."
The security team’s response was garbled, but the gist was clear: the crowd outside had thinned, lured away by rumors of a different celebrity sighting three blocks over. Ao’nung exhaled, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension coiled there. At least that was going right today.
Neteyam didn’t fidget. Not on stage, not in interviews, not even when some overzealous fan tried to climb into his dressing room. But right now, his fingers wouldn’t stop tapping against the car door handle. The silence between him and Ao’nung was thicker than the bulletproof glass separating them from the paparazzi outside.
He stole a glance at Ao’nung’s profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed around the steering wheel like he was imagining throttling someone. Probably him. Neteyam should’ve been used to that look by now, but after what happened in the studio, it felt… different. Like they’d tripped over some invisible line and neither of them knew how to step back.
Ao’nung just kept his eyes trained on the road, fingers flexing around the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him from bolting. The silence in the car was thick enough to choke on, broken only by the hum of the engine and Neteyam’s restless fingers tapping against the door handle. He could feel Neteyam’s gaze flickering toward him every few seconds—quick, skittish glances that lingered a heartbeat too long before darting away. It was unbearable. Normally, Neteyam would’ve filled the silence with some inane chatter, needling him until Ao’nung snapped. But now? Now he was biting his lip, staring out the window like he’d never seen a sidewalk before.
Stupid. Ao’nung clenched his jaw. He shouldn’t have done that—shouldn’t have leaned in, shouldn’t have touched him like that, shouldn’t have let the photographer goad him into whatever the hell that was. It was just a job. Neteyam was just a job. Except he wasn’t, and that was the problem. The way Neteyam’s breath had stuttered when Ao’nung’s thumb brushed his collarbone—that wasn’t part of the job. The way his own pulse had kicked up like a spooked horse—that wasn’t protocol.
Neteyam cleared his throat, fiddling with his sleeve cuff. “So,” he said, voice too bright, “think Vanity Fair’ll use that shot?”
Ao’nung’s grip tightened. “Doubt it.”
“Oh, come on.” Neteyam forced a laugh, leaning back against the seat like he was trying to act casual. It would’ve been convincing if Ao’nung hadn’t spent the last two years memorizing his tells—the way his fingers twitched when he was nervous, the slight crease between his brows when he was faking nonchalance. “You looked like some brooding romance novel hero. They’d be idiots not to.”
The car turned sharply, and Neteyam’s knee bumped against Ao’nung’s thigh—just a brush, accidental, but Ao’nung stiffened like he’d been burned. Neteyam didn’t pull away, though. He never did. That was the problem.
Ao’nung exhaled through his nose, fingers flexing on the wheel. “Why are you like this?” he muttered, reaching across Neteyam’s chest before he could think better of it. The seatbelt clicked softly as he yanked it across him, his forearm brushing against Neteyam’s collarbone—the same spot he’d touched in the studio, warm and vulnerable under exposed above the dip of his shirt. Neteyam didn’t flinch. Didn’t even breathe. Just watched him with those stupidly dark eyes, lips parted like he’d been caught mid-thought.
Too close. Ao’nung could count the flecks of gold in his irises, the faint scar above his eyebrow from that time a stage light fell too fast. Could see the way Neteyam’s throat worked when he swallowed, the pulse jumping under his skin. The car smelled like Neteyam’s stupid cologne—something citrus and expensive that clung to the upholstery no matter how often Ao’nung had the interior cleaned. It was suffocating.
Neteyam’s fingers twitched against the seatbelt strap, brushing Ao’nung’s wrist. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” Ao’nung cut him off, voice rough. Protocol. Always protocol. Even if Neteyam’s breath hitched when Ao’nung’s thumb grazed his sternum, even if the space between them crackled like live wire. He secured the buckle with a click that sounded too loud in the silence, then jerked back into his seat like he’d been burned.
Neteyam blinked, slow, like he was coming out of a daze. His fingers lingered on the strap, tracing the path Ao’nung’s hand had taken. “Thanks,” he said, so quiet Ao’nung almost missed it.
The car idled at a red light, the silence between them pressing like a physical weight. Neteyam fiddled with the radio dial—clicking through static-filled stations before settling on some pop ballad he'd recorded two years ago. Ao'nung recognized it instantly; he'd heard it roughly ten thousand times during stakeouts, studio sessions, and one memorable incident where Neteyam had sung it off-key for forty-five minutes straight just to annoy him.
"Really?" Ao'nung deadpanned as Neteyam's own falsetto floated through the speakers.
Neteyam's grin was all teeth. "What, you don't like my music anymore?"
Ao'nung exhaled through his nose. The light turned green. He accelerated just a fraction too hard, smirking when Neteyam's grip tightened on the door handle.
The song swelled into the chorus—some saccharine line about forbiden love—and Neteyam abruptly changed the station. Ao'nung didn't comment. Didn't have to. The tension coiled between them spoke volumes.
Ao’nung kept his eyes on the road, but he could feel Neteyam’s restless energy radiating from the passenger seat like a live wire. The radio crackled through another station—some breathy indie track that did nothing to fill the silence. Neteyam tapped his fingers against the window, the rhythm uneven, distracted. Ao’nung knew that tell. He was working up to something.
"You gonna say whatever’s eating at you," Ao’nung muttered, "or just keep pretending the window’s fascinating?"
Neteyam’s fingers stilled. He turned his head slowly, the streetlights outside casting gold streaks across his cheekbones. "You’re one to talk. You’ve been clenching your jaw so tight I’m surprised your teeth haven’t shattered."
Ao’nung flexed his fingers on the wheel. "Long day."
"Uh-huh." Neteyam shifted, twisting in his seat to face him fully—and that’s when it happened. A loud, unholy growl erupted from his stomach, echoing through the car like a disgruntled bear. Neteyam froze, cheeks flushing pink under the dashboard lights.
Ao’nung didn’t even glance over. "That your stomach or a demon?"
Neteyam scowled, pressing a hand against his abdomen like he could will the betrayal into silence. "Shut up."
"Didn’t eat again, did you." Ao’nung’s tone was flat, but his fingers tapped the wheel in that familiar rhythm—three quick beats, the telltale sign he was annoyed. "Studio at 7AM, skipped lunch for that stupid photoshoot, and now it’s—" He flicked a glance at the dashboard clock. "—9:47PM. Real smart, rockstar."
Neteyam slumped lower in his seat, grumbling, "Wasn’t hungry."
Ao’nung flicked Neteyam’s forehead—hard enough to sting, not hard enough to bruise—and ignored his indignant yelp. “Idiot,” he muttered, turning the car sharply toward the nearest 24-hour diner. “You’re gonna pass out mid-concert one of these days, and then what? I’ll have to carry your ass offstage while the internet edits it into a rom-com montage.”
Neteyam rubbed his forehead, scowling. “Dramatic much? I skip one meal—”
“You skip every meal when you’re in studio mode,” Ao’nung cut him off, fingers tightening on the wheel. He knew Neteyam’s habits better than his own at this point—the way he’d forget to eat for hours when chasing a melody, surviving on black coffee and adrenaline until his hands shook. “What’s in your fridge right now? And don’t lie.”
Neteyam hesitated just a beat too long. “…Eggs?”
Ao’nung snorted. “Expired three weeks ago.” He flicked the turn signal with unnecessary force, swinging the car into the neon-lit parking lot of a 24-hour convenience store. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across Neteyam’s face as he blinked at the sudden brightness.
“Stay,” Ao’nung ordered, killing the engine with a twist of his wrist. He pointed at Neteyam like he was a misbehaving puppy. “In the car. With the doors locked.”
Neteyam rolled his eyes, slumping further into the passenger seat. “What, you think my fans are lurking behind the beef jerky?”
“Yes.” Ao’nung deadpanned, already scanning the storefront through the windshield. The cashier—a bored-looking college student—was scrolling on their phone, and the only other patron was an elderly man squinting at the freezer section. Low risk. Still. He tossed the car keys at Neteyam’s chest. “If anyone so much as breathes near this car, honk twice.”
Neteyam caught the keys with one hand, saluting mockingly. “Aye aye, captain.”
The convenience store's automatic doors hissed open, flooding Ao'nung with a wave of artificial cold and the tinny sound of a pop song playing through cheap speakers. He grabbed a basket, moving through the aisles with the precision of a man who'd done this too many times—whole grain bread, eggs that weren't expired, the specific brand of almond milk Neteyam pretended to hate but always drank.
His fingers hesitated over the instant ramen. Too salty. Neteyam would eat it anyway and then complain for hours about water retention before a show. Ao'nung shoved it back, opting for rice cakes and a jar of honey instead.
The freezer section hummed as he yanked open the door, grabbing a pack of frozen dumplings—Neteyam's favorite, the kind his mom used to make back in LA. The elderly man by the ice cream gave him a knowing look. Ao'nung glared back until the man shuffled away.
At the register, the cashier didn't even glance up from their phone as they rang up his haul. Ao'nung's earpiece crackled—Neteyam's voice, sing-song and staticky. "Nung, if you're getting those gross protein bars again, I swear to—"
Ao'nung ripped out the earpiece and dropped it into the basket. The cashier blinked.
The cashier handed Ao'nung his change with the same enthusiasm as someone scraping gum off a shoe. He stuffed the bills into his pocket without counting them, grabbed the grocery bags, and stalked toward the exit—only to freeze when his earpiece, still nestled among the ramen packets, crackled to life again. Neteyam's voice, tinny and distorted: "Nung. There’s a guy. Just—just staring at me? Like, hardcore staring."
Ao'nung dropped the bags. The automatic doors hadn’t even finished sliding open before he was halfway across the parking lot, hand already reaching for the knife strapped to his ankle. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the cashier’s startled yelp behind him. The car came into view—still intact, doors still locked, Neteyam still inside, but—
Oh.