Chapter Text
Meouch was always anywhere except here. He's like his ship: constantly moving, gliding freely through the infinite stream of stars without a care in the universe to anchor him down, sentiments and faults in every planet left behind. Such was his life as a former space pirate. Wherever he was, he was always moving and never here.
So then why is he here? Playing the bass guitar next to the man whose home planet he destroyed, along with two other people with similarly unfortunate backgrounds at a local bar on a 2 am Tuesday?
Funnily enough, the answer to this oddly complicated question was rather simple. Which was the way Meouch liked to think about things: simple, surface level, never complex. In fact, the answer could be simplified down to just one word. Phobos.
Meouch’s train of thought pulls an abrupt stop in its tracks, the absence of music in his ears telling him that something had changed in his environment. Their song just ended. The momentary silence of the room is quickly replaced with mellow applause and cheering from their tipsy crowd. Meouch blinks out of his daze.
“You okay?” Sung mouthed at him from the center of the stage. He looked concerned.
"Yeah, 'm fine," Meouch nodded, waving a hand at his band leader nonchalantly.
He glanced at the other side of the stage where Phobos stood directly across from him. The guitarist was facing in his direction, but whether or not he was actually looking at him Meouch could not tell, not with his entire face obscured by his helmet. And the thing is, Meouch wishes he was looking at him.
So the answer, as it turns out, is perhaps not that simple at all. In fact, Phobos was a very complicated thing, this being one of the reasons why the man frustrated Meouch so much. Never in any galaxy had Meouch encountered someone who contrasted his personality in every way possible. But Phobos wasn't just the reason he was here. Phobos was the reason he was still here. And that in turn, posed to him the simplest of questions with an answer he has yet to figure out: why?
Meouch looked away and adjusted his hands on the fretboard. He starts to stare off into the distance again.
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One thing about Phobos is that the man liked to practice alone, Meouch noted. Usually on an elevated surface located far away from any signs of natural life. Not because he was shy or anything (a Lord with godly guitar skills would have no reason to be) but because Phobos found solace in solitude, something Meouch and him actually shared in common for once.
So to happen upon the chance to be graced with the majesty of Guitar Solo outside of concerts was an undeniably rare and valuable thing. Phobos’ playing was a holy sight to behold. It was some type of pure, divine music upon your ears, every note reaching to the very depths of your soul. Meouch would go as far as describing it as a religious experience and he wishes he was exaggerating. For the truth is, Meouch had been enthralled by Phobos’ artistry with music ever since the day he first heard him play, maybe even more so than his fellow bandmates.
It wasn’t long before Meouch suddenly wondered what it would be like to hold those small blue hands in his. Similarly calloused, yet somehow so delicate looking. They didn't look as rough as Meouch's were, recklessly bruised throughout the years. Phobos would take good care of his hands, even if they did shred lightning- or rather, because. Then it wasn’t long before his mind started wondering about everything else, like how the skin of his neck felt or how his lips would taste, mindless thoughts turning into longer fantasies.
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Love, despite Meouch’s expertise in making it, isn’t something he truly has an understanding of. Its definition across the galaxy rather varied, he’s discovered. He had always just settled himself on Earth women (mostly) and sex, because that was all Meouch needed, and beyond that would admittedly be greedy.
And Phobos makes him feel unreasonably greedy.
There's something about him that makes Meouch want, but for what exactly, he doesn't know.
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Meouch wakes up to the warmth of someone else against him.
His eyes open reluctantly to see only one blonde girl on his bed, which he finds odd. He swore there was supposed to be an additional brunette at least at some point in his hazy memory, but his mind is still barely there to question it. He stretched lazily as the recollection of last night's events came back to him.
“Morning,” a soft, feminine voice greeted.
He groaned weakly in response, hugging a pillow to his chest. The blonde, a fine martian lady whose name escapes him seemed to already be dressed. At least the top of her was, anyway.
She sat up, “She already left, the other girl.”
“What about you?” He asks.
“Don’t really need to be anywhere today. Thought I’d hang around for a bit longer.”
“It’s chill,” Meouch casually assured her, settling back into the sheets. She sat still on the edge of the bed, combing her fingers through her long golden hair gathered to one side.
Meouch closed his eyes, feeling more than ready for sleep to drag him back into the sweet state of unconsciousness when he hears, “Hey, can I ask you something? I’m just curious.”
“About what?”
“About 'Phobos'. She that cute?”
Meouch’s eyes shot open at the mention of the name. The girl had a teasing smile on her face.
He looked flatly at her for a moment, quickly recalling the details of last night and the various ways his subconscious had betrayed him. Then nonchalantly, “Yeah. Pretty cute.”
Meouch tossed himself to face the other side and closed his eyes again.
“Hopeless? Taken?” She asked.
“First one.”
“Long hair?”
“Yeah.”
“Blonde?”
“Gold.”
“Red eyes?”
“Alright- yes, you kinda look like them,” he lifted his head from his pillow and turned around to give her a glare.
“Sorry, sorry,” she laughed playfully. Then the look on her face softened, the gaze in her eyes somewhat forlorn. “Someone important, huh?"
Meouch didn’t know how to respond, so he just lets silence speak in his stead. She was an odd one, this one. But she was nice, even if she was interrogating him about who it was he saw behind closed eyelids.
Someone important.
“I really enjoyed last night,” she got up from the bed, finally, “thanks, Commander.”
She walked over to give him a peck on the cheek. And then just like that she left, leaving Meouch alone with thoughts that would torment him till noon.
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Feelings, Meouch had already long decided, are fucking bullshit. At this point in space and time, Meouch is fully aware that yes, he wants nothing more but to hold Phobos in his arms under the stars and tell him how beautiful he is and that he loves him more than anything else in the entire goddamn galaxy.
The feelings seemed to worsen everyday, like something was eating him up inside and very slowly destroying his system. Mostly through the alcohol.
"OKAY. SO YOU ARE IN LOVE WITH PHOBOS. WHY HAVEN'T YOU TOLD HIM YET?" Havve said, voice monotone. He had been listening to Meouch ramble poetic nonsense about how pretty Phobos’ eyes were while he took shots for the past 15 minutes. He was getting bored and slightly annoyed at this point.
The pint of beer in front of Havve was left untouched, Meouch knew the cyborg did not drink- or consume, or even require any sustenance for that matter, but he felt the need to be courteous and bought him a drink anyway. It was the thought that counts.
"I can't, Havve. This kind of thing's hopeless y'know?" The lion sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that night, pressing a palm against the temple of his forehead.
"INCORRECT. THERE IS A 50.222223 PERCENT CHANCE THAT YOUR CONFESSION OF LOVE WILL HAVE A DESIRED OUTCOME," came the cyborg’s flat reply.
Meouch stared emptily into the glimmering gold of whiskey in his glass, swiveling it around, "I don't deserve him."
Meouch only said it because it was true. It was pathetic, almost, that things had turned against him like this. He was convinced that this was just his punishment. That to long for a man who would never see you in the same way, whose everything you had taken away from once, is how the universe set him up to pay for his sins. And that was fair. Because right now, the tight pain he felt in chest felt like the worst possible thing he could ever endure.
Havve slides his glass towards Meouch.
"THEN I HOPE YOU ENJOY SLEEPING WITH WOMEN WHO LOOK LIKE HIM AND DRINKING AWAY YOUR SORROWS EVERY NIGHT."
Meouch scowled. As much as he hated consulting with Havve, his absolute logic was the only foil to his emotional reasoning. He’s about to call the bartender over for another refill, thinking Havve had left him at that and the rest of the night’s fate was doomed to end in a couple more drinks and an impromptu bar fight with unfortunate strangers who he’d unleash his pent up frustrations onto, but then Havve speaks again.
"IF YOU DO NOT TELL HIM, THEN I WILL TELL SUNG."
Meouch slammed a fist onto the counter violently. Havve didn’t move an inch.
"Havve, what the hell man!" he yelled angrily, giving Havve a look of utter betrayal, one that meant I thought we had an agreement. That was specifically the first thing Meouch made him promise he wouldn’t do.
"I DO NOT WANT TO SEE YOU SUFFER LIKE THIS, MEOUCH," Havve says. His voice remained the same robotic quality, but the lights in his eyes dimmed a little.
Meouch is silenced then, the anger in his face quickly subsiding. The rare times Havve expressed compassion always catches him off guard.
He thinks about what Sung would have to say about this. Probably, "You have to face your problems head on, Meouch." or "You can't keep running away from your feelings."
Meouch winced. He downs another glass.
“Alright, fine,” he groaned in defeat, “Just don’t tell Sung. I have enough problems to deal with already.”
Havve nodded.
Meouch manages to waste himself on three bottles worth of Jim Beam that night.