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“We can't be seen together, not now at least.” Marcoh’s tone was far from happy. He spoke lowly, almost as if someone were spying on what he was doing. “The press is trying to find another polemic to cover the president’s corruption, you know this.”
“I know. But we’re almost two whole months without seeing each other! I’m worried about that, about what your fans are capable of doing and I can't even say publicly I’m worried because somehow they’ll tie it with us being together which isn't a lie. I miss you.” His voice through the phone was faltering and the actor noticed his short, shallow sobs.
“I… miss you too, Daan. I wanted everyone to know I’m gay and I don't even care more for my career, but…” he stopped for seconds. Marcoh's eyes glanced to his broken window and then back to the telephone on the table. “I can't do this with the fans I have. I fear they do something too extreme to me or my sister…”
“We can travel together, we can spend your holiday in Hong Kong or Egypt or…”
“But we’ll never be one hundred percent in peace. I’m too famous, it doesn't matter where I go, there's always a fan, a paparazzi or similar stalking me.” he sighed, sad.
“Sometimes I wonder if we're going to be able to live and love one day.” Daan went silent for a couple of seconds that seemed like an eternity. “S-sorry, I need to go.”
And just like that, Daan hung up the phone without even saying ‘goodbye’ or ‘love you’. He never did that before. Something inside the actor hurted, a piercing pain deep in his core. Was he mad? Marcoh didn't know and he wouldn't call again and insist. The actor couldn't blame him for feeling that way, for acting that way. He knows it isn't anyone's fault, but he wished for these things to not hurt the manner they hurted.
Marcoh dialed the number of the CEO of his agency and hoped for Caligura to pick up the phone. “Please…”
“Hello? Who's calling at this hour?” his thick accent for the first time tranquilized the actor.
“It's Santoro. I need to talk to the press tomorrow.”