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Shieda Kayn and the popstar prince aren’t exactly what people would refer to as ‘friends’.
Not like they could be referred to as enemies either. They’re on two entirely different sides of the music industry. Kayn is loud and careless, brash, experimental. Kicked out of several old bands, all he’s got left is his torn down guitar and his rusty government computer, which has definitely seen better days, in which he mixes his — allegedly — crappy covers of popular rock songs. But when he’s so lonely, in a worn down studio apartment where there’s certainly bigger amounts of mold than of white paint on the wall, the only thing that puts him out his tunnel of self hatred is that one stupid bubbly tune.
Pink and green cover the otherwise yellowing walls. The tape’s coming off, and the huge grin on the popstar’s face looks like it’s constantly laughing at him. Of course he would.
He’s a goddamn pariah, living from paycheck to paycheck. He has one bedroom and the ceiling’s falling apart, the sinks get clogged, he doesn’t even have hot water sometimes, goddamn it. How does a rockstar, a former huge name in the industry, wind up living like a dog!? Well, of course, he did that to himself.
So while he tries to get a better job, or better even, gets signed to a label, the only choice he really has is to continue looking up at the posters up on the walls, at the tiny stickers plastered on his computer, at his cheap, knock-off merchandise, because there’s no way that whoever manages Ezreal’s brand is charging so much for a t-shirt of a superstar that plummeted down like three years ago.
Well, that’s just projecting, isn’t it? Kayn’s career was the one that was completely torn to shreds. The only people who follow him currently only do it because it’s funny to see him fumble, not because they like his music. It’s not like Ezreal stopped being popular even after his pseudo-cancellation over being a nepo-baby and a “one hit wonder”, and his album flopping. There’s a bunch of stans, Kayn included, that will fight tooth and nail to defend that shitty pop album.
“It’s not that bad”, Kayn said once. Begrudgingly. Ever since then he’s streamed it every single day, and it shows in his spotify wrapped every year. Top 0,001% listeners every time.
With his back permanently bent, he tries to work on his small computer while sitting on the couch and watching shitty cable television. He needs to make it big again. He needs to have his voice listened to, as the thoughts in his head become louder and louder, and the only way he’s making enough to cover the costs of his medications on top of rent, services and food, is the fact that his dad is present enough to send him money, whenever he himself has some to spare. He knows Zed means well, wanting to support him, but not disturb him.
And he needs to blow up. He has to make his father proud.
He didn’t take in a useless man, someone who’s forever going to haunt him, like the failure of a child he always was and always will be. After all, he spent all his childhood listening to Zed’s friends belittling him for every wrongdoing of Kayn, as if any mistake was enough reason for him to be thrown back into the orphanage he was born into.
Zed didn’t raise a quitter. He raised a superstar. And of course, superstars never start up already having their lives solved for them —well, unless they come from these really big names in the industry and whatnot—. Real superstars come from nothing. They scrap at leftovers, live within the shadows, until they finally have their chance to shine. Until they come out their shells and explode with energy and passion. Until their dreams are acknowledged, until their names are shouted in stadiums filled to the brim with fans.
Until they come down crashing from a drug-fueled trip. Until they cheat, sleep around and get drunk off their mind. Until their fame outweighs all their mental trauma, and suddenly, their uneasiness is unjustified. How could you be so sad, when you’ve got everything? Fame, money, designer clothes and bitches. How could anyone be sad upon having all that in the palm of their hands?
He lights up a cigarette, his only vice besides his own ego, as he looks up at the beautiful man that always stares back at him.
“Do you feel that too, Ez? That void?”
He asks him, nearly every day.
Sometimes it’s casual, like talking to an old friend.
Sometimes it’s accusatory. He uses the same tone that the voices on his head employ on him. Points his fingers at him, berates him for even daring to feel even a glimpse of discomfort.
Sometimes, however, it’s empathetic. He barely looks up at him, his lips pouting after having bitten them for hours, smudged with blood. How does a popstar prince feel, even after retirement? Unlike Kayn, he still gets revenue from all his songs, still has people from publicitary campaigns begging at his door for him to sing different iterations of “You’re my museum” to promote their brands, still gets interviews nearly every day, be it either from fan forums or big names in televisions.
Does he feel the same things Kayn does? There’s no way, mainly because Ezreal doesn’t live in a crusty apartment with a landlord that overcharges him. But maybe he feels something similar. Of course, the big face plastered on his wall like a deity staring back at his soul doesn’t possibly possess the answers to all his questions. It’s uncanny as all hell, and he’s sure that the poster is just as big as the main door, which is at best concerning.
But he can’t help it. He needs comfort. And being so alone, so lost in his own misery… Might as well talk to the wall.
He places his cigarette in the ashtray, letting out a very loud sigh as he exhales the remnants of smoke off his lungs.
God, he thinks, looking up at the ceiling, there’s something seriously fucked up with me.
He shuts the computer off, slamming it closed. Small stickers of the popstar are all over it, smiling and winking at him. His lips twitch, trying to curve up into a smile. A slightly creepy variation of one, but a smile nonetheless.
He covers himself up with a blanket, and places his head on the armrest. Whatever, he’s sleeping on the couch again. His back is certainly not going to be happy about this, but he couldn’t really care less about another health related problem being added to the list.
He’s dying young, anyway.
He’s only got six, painful years until 27.
–
He wakes up in a cold sweat. Gasping for air, clutching the fabric off the couch. He digs his nails until tiny pieces of foam get stuck in his fingers. There’s blood everywhere.
On his hands, his neck, his chest, his lips. On his pajamas too, now, as it falls down on them. His head is spinning, it’s fast, frenetic, and as his body, forced into a sitting position without him even realizing it. can barely stay uptight. He feels himself lost in this place, barely aware of where he is, and his apartment’s filthy state doesn’t necessarily help his case.
He finally quiets down from a scream he didn’t even know he was letting out. His lips seal as the sound echoes in the room for a second, or two. He touches his face, embedding his fingers in a mix of sweat and crimson red and stuffing. He goes to touch his hair as well, pulling it slightly, trying to see if he’s all there, if he’s alive, what even is going on.
He flops back down into the couch, groaning. He doesn’t care about hitting the back of his head with the armrest, about the sharp pain that sets into his bones and rends him apart, even less about the blood. He’s gotten used to the blood. The taste of metal on his mouth stopped being disgusting a while ago. Now it’s familiar. It tastes like home. Not quite like Zed’s homecooked meals, though. It feels like home in the exact same way loud arguments used to feel like home.
He wipes his hand clean with his fuzzy pants. He’ll just shove them in the washing machine tomorrow.
“Great. ‘Nother fuckin’ night terror.”
–
Next day goes as usual for him. He shows up to work exactly five minutes late and is barely allowed to clock in, being given a warning from his boss. However, Diana looks a little less stern today, even in her usual scolding. Maybe she does notice the eyebags under his eyes, or the feeble attempts at covering up his bruises from last night.
The café he works at is relatively small, but it’s always crowded. It’s located near an university complex, and being quite cheap, every single broke college kid decides it’s a great spot to write their essays on or hang out with people after class. He can’t blame them, though. The coffee’s always a little too strong, the pastries are sweet and warm and soft, and the music’s always damn good.
He’s a bit clumsy, but he makes sure to perform well nonetheless. Even if it’s difficult, especially considering the terrible night he had, and he struggles a bit more than usual, he manages to get through until his break. He’s pretty sure the clients find his awkwardness kinda endearing. Some even recognize him from his past bands, and ask for an autograph, which always helps to boost his mood, even if it’s for a couple seconds, and it quickly dies off as his coworkers give him dirty looks for it.
He sits down on a cornet as he finally gets his first moment of respite, wiping the sweat off his forehead, mumbling to himself under his breath as he usually does.
He feels something flick at his forehead. Diana hands him a sandwich before he can complain.
“Eat up, kiddo.”
She sighs, leaning on the shelves behind them.
They never talk much, what for, anyway? It’s just business. Just a boss and her troublemaking underling who peaked on a high school band and then crashed down like a plane.
He grabs the sandwich. It’s salami and cheese.
Kayn doesn’t like the taste of salami, but he’s not about to say that. Not to his boss, who’s kindly going out of her way to offer him some pity. But she does notice the way his nose scrunches up at the taste. Duly noted, for another instance where she has enough time to look after the guy.
“That popstar dude you like was on the news yesterday, thought you should know”
Kayn’s eyes light up with excitement at the mention of Ez. If Diana hadn’t been working with him for half a year now, she’d think it’s a little creepy. But whatever, the kid’s lonely, might as well give him some chatter, a taste of normal human interaction. He’s not bad, anyway.
“He said something about looking for a new group or something. Maybe you should post that song you’re working on, see if he likes it.”
He nearly chokes on his meal as she says that.
“How do you know I’m working on a song, anyway.”
“Well, for once, you just spend all your breaks scribbling weird stuff on napkins. Please stop.” She sighs as she crosses her arms, trying to appear menacing. It works. “You’re making me have to spend more money on restocks, and you’re gonna force me to deduct it from your salary.”
He shivers at those words.
“And besides, I’m not dumb, I know you were in one of those rock bands. I have a kid your age, you know. Just try, you know. I know it makes you happier than this job.”
At least Diana isn’t a shitty boss. Strict, yes, but kind. It’s almost motherly. She reminds Kayn a lot of Zed’s girlfriend back home, Syndra. He’s still hesitant to call her mom, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t look up to her for comfort in times of need. Her embrace is always calming, her words always right, even if a little sarcastic and sharp. Kayn probably got that from her, growing up. It’s almost… Sweet.
He finishes up his meal and quickly shoots back up on his feet, newfound hope in his gaze, as he returns to diligently cleaning up tables and delivering orders left and right.
He rides his motorcycle to go home, the only thing in his life that provides him with a sense of excitement and adrenaline. He never takes the same path twice. The sound of the engine roaring, the soft slapping of the wind all over his body, the way his old leather gloves mold perfectly into the handle as he drives off into the night… Kayn says it helps with creating his songs. He pockets the intense emotions of the ride in order to transform them into music back home.
Once he’s finally home, he ignores his hunger, the mismatched kitchen tiles or the drops of water leaking from the faucet, and jumps straight into his computer. He needs to make proper use of the time he has, since playing music one more minute past 10:00 PM means his neighbour will be banging at his door, asking him to shut up. He needs to be quick.
So he leans against the couch, guitar on his lap. He doesn’t have a plan, not yet. So he just tries, and tries, and tries. Several pages painted with colorful ink end up scattered on the coffee table and the floor as he tries to figure out what melody could best suit the lyrics he would write at his job.
Absolutely depressing lyrics, for the record. He’s heavily influenced by the sound of Pentakill, the loud guitars, the powerful riffs, and while his poetry is unpolished, it’s extremely raw. Most of his old songs were about his misery, his depression, and they’ve switched out to discuss his addictions, especially at such a young age; he talks about his obsessions, his paranoia, how it truly feels to hit the lowest of the low without sounding like an emo band for teenagers that think they’re deep. He falls asleep with his head on the table, back completely bent forward, red ink staining his fingers and his cheeks, tucked only by all the discarded drafts of potential songs.
But when he wakes up at three in the morning, he has something . He has something and he needs to do it now. So he rushes into the kitchen to heat up whatever leftovers he’s got sitting around for three days on the fridge and, as he sits back down on the couch, he puts his headphones on and the computer on his lap, lifting his legs so he won’t keep crouching down onto himself. He plays with his synths, eats creamy noodles, then messes around some more. He wants to do something that he’s never done before. Something great, but disruptive. He wants to take the name that he’s been given by the industry, the status of a pariah, of a disgusting, insufferable hell of a man, and reappropriate it. If he can’t change his status as of now, he has to embrace it, to become it. He will reshape the hellfire into a peaceful flame, just not yet.
-
Days go by, and he keeps on working. Nothing can stop him now. If Ezreal wants a new partner so badly, then he’ll prove it to him, he’ll prove himself worthy even if it kills him. And then, finally, his idol will look at him, he’ll answer all his questions, he’ll finally be able to stand side by side with him on a stage. A week worth of sleepless nights later, and he finally has something he can call a draft. Two weeks later, he already did the instrumental, most of it on his computer. He’s perfectly competent with real instruments, of course, it’s just… He lacks the equipment to record in the comfort of his apartment. So this will have to do.
Recording the vocals is a challenge. He has his own mic, but his shift ends too late to be able to record without disturbing the peace of the whole building. So he begs Diana to cut him some slack, change his shifts enough so that he can work all morning long and be home in the afternoon. And after his coworkers complain for days on end, he finally gets that opening, that moment where he can finally record the vocals for his new song. He knows he’s on a timer, he has to be fast, or else Ez will pick someone else to work with, someone that isn’t him, and then his life will go back to being utterly miserable, with nothing exciting to cling onto.
And a couple hours of him insanely working on his computer, his eyes red from how much he stared at the screen uninterrupted for several hours, he finally has… Something.
Something that sounds good. Well, as good as Kayn can make something. Not because he makes bad things, but because he refuses to make something that’s objectively and conventionally good. The filthiest, crunchiest something can sound, the better. But he can only make sense of composing like that because he’s had formal training in music. But, well… He’s achieved something quite authentic. The critics will probably… Not be into it. He’ll get countless upon countless appearances in news outlets about how he’s gone “crazy”. But whatever.
He’s not doing this for the media. He’s doing this for himself.
The possibility of working with the cutest guy in the industry is just a plus. It’s not like he’ll see it, anyway. It’ll be another trashy song added to the huge dumpster of songs he drops on his Soundcloud account only to never see them again. But just as he’s even remotely considering publishing it without saying a word and only posting a story on his instagram with the song link on it, he realizes maybe this isn’t exactly how the song will reach the biggest name in the industry. Well, the odds of Ezreal's even following him, even through a burner account, are already quite low.
This song needs a visualizer. If he doesn’t make at least something visual to go with the song, then not even his dad will listen to it. So he goes through all of his several hard drive disks in order to find some footage that suits the song. He’ll slap some effects on top with Adobe Premiere, loop the whole thing and call it a day. He can’t be bothered to make anything fancy for it.
The good thing about no one giving a flying fuck about him is that he can just do whatever he wants about his music and no one will be able to police him in any way shape or form. He manages himself, so to speak. It’s a very terrible decision on his end, truly, but it works for his brand, for what it’s worth. Well, as much as anything works for a fallen rockstar.
It’s three in the morning. His eyes burn, and he feels his sanity slipping with every additional second he spends on this. Seriously, why even bother? It’s just a dumb project, Ezreal isn’t going to see it anyway, and the only thing he’s actually achieving by this is burying himself further into a pit of shame. But when his editing program finally exports his video file, after crashing for the past hour and a half, he finally has a decent visualizer, mostly composed of videos he recorded when he first got into the apartment. Crappy videos of the wrecked walls and the yellow walls and the copious amount of dirt stuck in the wooden flooring. The camera shots are quick and hard to understand, nothing makes sense in the entirety of the piece, neither the song, the lyrics, or the visualizer.
But that’s the fun part, isn’t it?
He posts the video, titled ‘ignominia.’ , shuts the computer off, and goes to sleep. On the couch, once more.
–
Kayn oversleeps the morning after. Which is good, it’s his day off, after all. He turns on his phone, not really expecting anything. There’s… A lot of likes. Mostly from what seems to be burner accounts, just words and a lot of nonsensical numbers. But then, there’s a verified account. That tiny, round little blue checkmark that accompanies a beautiful text in some fancy font that reads “your museum~”. He could recognize the face in the icon anywhere, literally anywhere. He doesn’t even have to look at it, but he does, anyway, to try and make sense that this is real, that his head isn’t playing games on him.
Bright, honey hued eyes. Smooth green hair, and a pink background behind him. He’s making a cute little heart, and his icon has a beautiful border full of hearts and stars. It’s… Ezreal. Ezreal, and a whole lot of spam accounts, but it’s him.
And then… There’s a DM request.
He feels his heart stop. A DM request? Only a day after posting his brand new song? Weird. It’s not like anyone really wants to cling onto his lackluster fame. But it is surprising that the new song is being played so much, his latest releases barely hitting the hundred or something listens. This one skyrocketed to 50k, with the number going up every second.
His fingers are trembling as he puts his thumb over it, and he has to close his eyes. A part of him really wants this to be Ezreal. The same man he’s been looking up to for years. He hopes that his cute bubbly little self listened to the hellish nightmare that is Kayn’s music and liked it so much he just had to reach out.
But also… God, he’s gonna fuck up his reputation. They can’t catch the cutest idol on the market hanging out with the musical equivalent of a sewer rat. He’s so cute, too. Pretty eyes, beautiful pouty lips with a pronounced cupid’s bow. He has a cute, feminine allure that only cis boys get to have and it’s infuriating but he has no right to take that away from him just because he’s been obsessed with his music since he was like, fourteen. It’s gonna be bad for him. Oh, no. This was a mistake. A terrible mistake on his end.
He fucked up, he fucked up so badly. He feels his breath run short. What the fuck. How did he not think about it!? Now Ezreal’s life is going to be ruined, and that’s his fault, only his fault. Ezreal’s career is never going to take off again. He’s going to be stuck with him forever, for better or worse.
God, he hopes Ezreal just liked the song casually and that's it, that the message isn’t his. It can't be. It has to be some scammer trying to get through him. Some spam DMs of sexy bot women trying to get him to splurge his money on them or some shit like that. It can’t be the pretty bright popstar prince. He’ll die if it is. He’ll certainly, absolutely pass out on the ground if—
“heyyy! i’m ez!!!
i rlly like your song! i’ve been listening to your stuff for like, years, i was so scared you stopped making music, haha!
uhhm, i know it’s kinda not my brand, but i’ve been wanting to try my hand at heavier stuff… you think maybe you wanna join forces? i’ll send you my contact e-mail, so you can hit up my manager if you’re into it, hehe! (˶˃ ᗜ ˂˶)”
He feels his cellphone slap him across the face.
“What the hell, man.”
–
His coworkers are forced to listen to him gush about his triumph for weeks on end as he’s in talks with Ezreal’s manager. It’s a young woman, Alune, he thinks she’s called. Pretty sweet, especially to someone like him. It’s clear she’s well aware of his reputation, and still discusses potential projects with excitement. Huh. That’s weird, isn’t it?
But he can’t really complain. He’s being spoonfed a chance to return to the spotlight, a final opportunity to prove himself against his idol. The thought of getting near Ezreal is driving him crazy. His palms start sweating every time he thinks about the fact that he’ll finally meet him, one on one, that they’ll talk to each other. That they’ll be in the same room, create a project together, sing together. That they’ll create art together, blend their uniquenesses together to create something fresh, something the industry’s never seen.
His ears redden at the thought of talking to him. He can hear himself stumbling and stuttering, something he’d never do with any other person he knows. He’s always confident, knows how to act, what to say. He’s had to force himself to adapt, to become a type of guy that’s loud, brash and full of attitude. People stopped clocking him since then, and it’s become a sick tendency of his, to overperform. But Ezreal isn’t like his coworkers, or his dad’s friends.
Ezreal is a sweet guy. He has to be soft to him. He has to praise him, give him genuine compliments, show him just how passionate he is for his music, for his work, for him . He’s so excited to feel his soft hair on his hands, to see how his pretty eyelids flutter when Kayn looks at him. Wants to see the holographic finish on his nails as their fingers intertwine, taste the chapstick off his lips—
He realizes he’s too caught up on his thoughts as he runs a red light and nearly gets crashed by a truck in the process. He gives the driver the middle finger before he speeds away, not looking back in case the guy decides to start chasing him down to cuss him out and punch him.
He’s going to see his idol for the first time. It’d be bad if he got there with bruises on his face.
The neighbourhood where Ezreal lives is far from Kayn’s. It’s nice, with pristine white buildings and freshly cut grass. The parks are full of children playing and people roam the streets peacefully. Kayn’s never seen such calmness before, being used to the loudness and the insecurity from his place. It’s a nice change of pace, though he can’t help but feel entirely out of place, like this place is a puzzle, and he’s a missing piece from an entirely different boxset that got mixed in. He leaves his bike outside what seems to be Ezreal’s house. It’s not a mansion, but it looks comfortable.
It’s clearly, well, a house. Redundant, yes, but it actually is one. It has a nice front with cute windows and grass and flowers outside, the rooftop is a gentle shade of terracotta, and looking at it from the outside makes him feel cozy. It’s not as comfortable looking as his home, back in Ionia, but the knowledge that the popstar is inside, waiting for him, probably with some snacks to talk about his biggest passion in life, music, is making him feel bubbly inside. He wishes his dad was by his side right now to cheer him on.
He walks up to the door, checks himself out in the window to see if he’s presentable. He’s wearing the best he had on his closet at the time that didn’t have stains of humidity. He went for something casual, a pair of baggy dark jeans, an oversized sweater with a shirt on top, and a bunch of chains and rings adorning him. His left index has the statement piece, a big snake that looks to be wrapped around his finger. His piercings look quite striking, too. His face is full of them, and so are his ears. He sticks his tongue, showing himself the small bundle of glistening silver on it. He fixes his hair, keeping strands of pink out his eye so that Ez can look at his soft brown eye, and wonder about what’s hidden beneath the cool-looking (well, kind of corny) eyepatch he wears.
After he’s done ogling himself for a change, he rings the doorbell. Two times exactly. It's a force of habit, being used to doing it back at home, so his dad could tell it was him at the door. He hears shuffling out the other side, a couple of stumbles as well, even some hops. He looks… A little worried. But then, the boy opens the door, his breathing quick as he leans heavily onto the door for support. He’s finishing putting on his shoe, grabbing it from the top and pulling upwards to fit himself in it.
He’s seen him countless times, but not like this. Never like this.
His face is peppered with cute reddish freckles, his teeth are a little bit crooked. His nose is small, his eyes wide and full of joy, his lips bitten down and scarred a bit, but not as much as Kayn himself. His skin is tanner than in pictures, and there’s always a little bit of pink on his cheeks, or maybe he’s just that happy to see Kayn.
“Oh my god, it’s you! it really is you! Come here, come inside, come on!”
He grabs him by the wrist, yanking him in. There’s childish excitement that for a moment transports them both into another place and time entirely. It makes them feel like they’re joyful little kids running off at the park and not troubled adults trying to work through their lives and passions togethers, intertwining their fates for the first time, only to, although unbeknownst to them, never separate again.
The living room is pretty big. He sees his manager, but barely gets to wave her hello as he’s forced to sit on the couch, pushed there by Ezreal. There’s a plate full of chocolate chip cookies and a cup half full of warm, black coffee. There’s a small jug with milk by his side, in case he needs it, and a sugar bowl beside it. The popstar breaks the tension by grabbing a cookie, taking a big bite out of it. Crumbs fall off onto his chin as he smiles at Kayn.
“So!” He starts out. “I’m so excited to work with you!”
Kayn can’t tell virtually any of his words apart. The chewing is too loud, and his cheeks are full. God, that’s cute. Kayn grabs a tissue and offers it to him, and their fingers graze as Ezreal takes it. The rockstar feels his heart literally stop for a moment.
“I’ve been listening to your stuff for years, but that new song? It was a banger, it should be on the radios everywhere. I wanna make something like that.”
Kayn can’t help but laugh at those words.
“You? Make something like that? Really?”
He can’t believe it. Ezreal pouts, flicking Kayn’s forehead. The scent of chocolate has stuck to him, mixing with his sweet, citrusy perfume, and Kayn takes deep breaths, trying to commit to memory as well as to keep his cool in front of his idol.
“Of course! I’m not just some dumb cutesy blond, y’know? I don’t wanna be known for my cheesy pop song—” he puts heavy emphasis on the word song, the single hit, “—and my flop album forever.”
He grabs another cookie. Kayn grabs one, but simply puts it beside his cup as he starts putting in some sugar on his coffee. The popstar must really like sweets, huh? good to know. He should’ve brought him some scones from the café.
“But me? There’s plenty of… Softer rock bands.”
He tries to find the proper words to explain to Ezreal that maybe his sound is too extreme for his brand. The green haired star doubles down.
“But that’s the fun! You’re hard and edgy, and that’s fun! We could mix things up, create something totally unique! You’re so… raw. And I can help harness your talent.”
Heat makes its way towards Kayn’s cheeks, making him blush furiously. His gaze drifts down to Ez’s lips, the way there’s crumbs on them, melted chocolate on the corner. He has to force himself to look away from him. But then, Ez grabs his wrist once more, and he gasps. Does this boy not know the meaning of personal space?
It’s not like he minds, of course. But he doesn’t want to get too excited and make him uncomfortable or anything. He’s too cute. He doesn’t want to tarnish him, to break him.
“But what could the song be about, that mixes both of our styles…? Ugh…”
He looks down, seemingly trying to think, waiting for an idea to hit him. When five seconds pass, and not a single thought crosses his brain, he lightly taps his fists on his temple, groaning and whining, like a kid.
Kayn snorts. “So, you’re telling me you went through the effort of convincing your manager to get me , of all people, here, and you don’t have a single potential idea for a song?”
“Shut uuuuup!” Ezreal whines, and the smile on Kayn’s face is bigger. His cheeks hurt. When was the last time he laughed this loud? Probably at his dad back home. He ruffles his hair.
“What do you do when you don’t have inspiration?” Kayn crosses his legs on the couch, taking a sip of his coffee. He gets a dirty look from Ez, but that doesn’t make him put his feet down. Quite the opposite, he gets more comfortable.
He tries to think about an answer, but he looks a little bit… Troubled. He notices him biting the inside of his cheek, his brows furrowed. This further fuels Kayn’s newfound confidence. If he teases him, he doesn’t have to face his feelings. Not now.
“Don’t tell me the pretty popstar prince doesn’t have to think of ideas because his songs are written for him?” His hand moves before he can even process the action, grabbing his cheek and pinching it, laughing. “Oh, did I hit a nerve, pretty guy?”
Ezreal looks completely flustered. Red on his face, pouty expression, as he moves his face away from Kayn’s hand. He… Hesitates. He flinches slightly before pulling him out, and even then, his hand lingers on his, staying a little bit longer on Kayn’s fingers.
“C’mon, everyone knows my hits were manufactured, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out, idiot.” He crosses his arms, looking away. “I thought you’d come here with ideas, anyway.”
“You thought wrong.” Kayn is surprised he’s not being even half as offputting as he can be. But Ezreal feels like an old friend, like someone he’s supposed to be with. It’s not a chore. It’s full, unfiltered joy, what he feels inside this room. “But I do have my ways of coming up with my songs.”
Ezreal tilts his head slightly. “Ways that aren’t brooding all day long? Who would’ve thought.”
Kayn crosses his arms, taking a bite of that sweet chocolatey dough as he mumbles something to himself before raising his tone, pretending to be offended. “Whatever. Then I guess you’re not coming with me. And here I was, planning to take you on a ride”
Ezreal gulps. Kayn notices the way his addam’s apple bobs, the loud sound of saliva, the look on his eyes, staring right into his.
“A ride?”
“Yeah, duh. I have a bike.” Kayn drapes an arm over the couch. His voice sounds confused at first, raising a brow as he lets one of his legs relax and stretch into the coffee table. He feels Ez’s eyes go down, then back up at his face, then towards the wall, and only after all that staring, it hits him. “What kind of ride were you thinking about, huh?”
Ezreal stumbles over his words, unable to even conjure up a comeback.
“Whatever! I’ll go change into something more comfortable.”
Ezreal gets off the couch, storming off into his bedroom. He shuts the door closed, too. He already looked comfortable, as far as Kayn knows. He doesn’t need to be in super flexible clothes for the ride, anyway, it’s not like they’re gonna go take a jog or something.
He taps his foot on the ground as he waits. He sips on the coffee that’s already gone cold, finishes his stupidly sweet cookie. He sighs, leaning into the warmth that Ez left on the couch. He’s… Cute. He’s very damn cute, and sweet, too. But he’s not like the guy in his wall who stares him down every week. Those eyes are empty, they look at Kayn like a statue of Janna looks at the Shuriman and the Zaunites. There’s nothing behind that gaze, only the idealization that comes with it.
Ezreal’s eyes shine when he eats those chocolate chip cookies. He furrows his brows and looks away when nervous, and they reflect Kayn’s face every time they exchange gazes.
He’s cute. So cute. So stupidly handsome.
“I’m back, I’m back!”
Okay. He could get more comfortable. He’s wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a fuzzy sweater with a cat on it. He’s wearing comfortable shoes and a huge jacket with cat ears on the hood. Damn, he must really like kitties. He knows a spot back home where all the stray kitties reside. Kayn gives them food more often than he feeds himself.
Kayn sighs, getting off the couch. He clumsily picks up the dishes they used and looks for the kitchen to set them, and after leaving them on the sink, he rushes towards his bike.
It’s not the most modern bike, but it’s definitely not an old, useless piece of junk. It’s nice and sturdy and shiny, with a few stickers on it that are starting to peel after weeks of use. There’s a single helmet on the handle. He grabs it, then hands it to Ezreal.
“We can’t have your pretty face end up fucked.” He teases.
“C’mon, you’re pretty too.” Ezreal comments, watching as Kayn takes his eyepatch off. His left eye is hooded, the eyelid lower than his other eye. It covers at least half the eye, but it’s not like the eye looks bad or wounded either way.
“Huh, thought you’d be more screwed out there.”
“Nah, it’s just this. And I can’t see shit from afar, so I use contacts, but I get migraines if I use them a lot for some reason.”
He shrugs, climbing onto the bike, patting the space behind him.
Ez slips into the helmet. It’s a little big, and the mix of black and red contrasts heavily with the pastels on the boy’s clothes. He can tell it’s a bit heavy for the boy, as he loses a little bit of balance initially. He holds out his hand to him.
Butterflies start fluttering on Kayn’s stomach when those perfectly manicured hands hold out his very own, covered in leather. He helps him up, flexing as he does so, making sure Ez knows just how strong he is, just how easy it is for him to carry him, to handle him this way.
Ezreal’s arms wrap around his waist. His warm, soft body leans onto him, his weight on Kayn’s back. The touch is cozy, and their bodies fit like tiny little pieces on a miniature that snap right together. Like they were meant to be part of one, together. Kayn’s hands clutch the handle tight, and he looks at the horizon.
“You ready for your first ever ride, little princess?”
He starts up his vehicle. The sudden loudness and the vibrations beneath make Ezreal squeaks, holding onto him even tighter. He needs this cute guy close forever. Not just in the shape of dumb posters or stickers, he’ll rip them all off, now that he knows the taste of the real thing, beneath all the perfect facades.
“If this doesn’t help us compose, I swear to god, I’m gonna pretend this didn’t happen.”
“Don’t worry, don’t worry, it’s going to work.”
They ride out into the horizon. And Kayn takes him all the way to his part of time, to the corner where the cute kitties live, allowing Ezreal to feed them snacks.
He takes one home. White with patches of black. A dark fluffy circle around the eye reminds the popstar of Kayn, and he can’t help but be endeared by it.
–
They decide they’re gonna go all in with their song, shooting a full music video. Kayn does the mixing and the editing, and Ezreal hires a professional team to do all the technical, “behind the cameras” part properly. The creating of the music video is fun, and most importantly, Ezreal gets to ride on Kayn’s back many more times.
He relishes on the adrenaline of driving down a hill with him. As Kayn gets more used to having someone on the seat behind, he starts taking crazier turns, driving faster, more careless. They incorporate that in the music, of course. Because of course, there’s something quite appealing about having the wind push them away as they cut through it, speeding through cars in crowded avenues. Kayn’s hand squeezes the handle, watches as they go faster, and faster, and they’re really lucky they don’t get into any accidents, but being on that verge, tiptoeing on that line…
Ezreal would be lying if he didn’t wait by the window everyday for Kayn to pick him up for rehearsals, to talk about the project, or just to hang out together. The neighbours look, the other cute young boys in the neighbourhood are green with envy whenever the hot guy with the motorcycle visits him, opening their blinds and windows just to get a closer look.
It fuels Kayn’s ego. But of course, he always picks Ezreal up, and only him.
“It’s strictly business”, he says, as he rides him to shooting that morning, biting his lip as he secures his helmet, making sure Ez gets to have a nice good look at the soft tug of his lip.
-
They post everything after a couple of days. The song does terribly. It flops, as they say colloquially. Kayn claims it’s because none of them really get the vibe they were going for, that they’re not ready for their type of thrashy, experimental sound. Ezreal thinks they may have gone a bit too far, but Kayn’s niche is very receptive to the collaboration, and even manage to hone a few more thousand followers.
But most importantly, they get a few musicians interested in collaborating with the both of them. The crazy nature of the production, the fact that a fallen star managed to become the talk of the town for being near Ez, it made a few other musicians try and make an attempt to return to the scene, it gave them hope.
Ezreal squeezes Kayn’s hand as he reads their messages and comments. Well, this isn’t gonna be their biggest hit, but it’s going to be his favorite song forever; he thinks, looking up at his face, at his eyes beaming with excitement, then at the remains of poster paper behind him, long since it’s been ripped and replaced by pictures of both of them.