Chapter Text
Phainon had just finalised a record deal with an uprising young pop band. The group consisted of 2 guitarists, a bassist, a drummer, and a singer, all below the age of 20. They had average music—mostly recorded and played in the basement of a member's house. None had exactly told Phainon outright about it, but from the slight background noise and low-quality production, he could guess that much. They also had cheaply dyed hair to tie it all together.
The band was alright, but nothing special. He’s sure they could make a living off music if they hone their skills well enough and improve composition techniques. But he can't remember the last time he saw an artist worthy of climbing the ranks, a band ready to blow up and take no.1 on the charts. Phainon sighs and drops his head to his hands, feeling a looming headache wash over him.
Goldweaver Records is one of the biggest record labels in the country, damnit. When will Aglaea raise the company’s standards? He knows very well she has very high ones herself, but they seem to just be letting anybody get signed these days. This job is beyond boring without interesting, mind-blowing talents.
It's the dead of the night. His office clock ticks painfully louder than usual, and his stomach churns with acid desperate to digest something. Phainon spares a quick glance to check the time, groaning upon realising it's already 1 in the morning. He slams his desk dramatically and stands up, before striding towards his leather messenger bag.
Aglaea is gonna pay for making him work overtime, he swears on it. Phainon fishes his phone from the depths of his pocket, and quickly leaves a text for his pissed-coloured boss.
“You're gonna pay for my supper tonight, okay? You promised me a meal for my hard work.”
Sent.
If it were any other worker, they’re sure to be fired the next morning. But Phainon and Aglaea are close—close enough for him to call her a friend. She used to be his senior during their university days, her name well-known for excelling in both the arts and sciences. Algaea was popular among students and teachers alike despite not talking often, but maybe it was because her looks did the speaking for her. She was drop-dead gorgeous, so much so that even someone as devoid of desire for a love life like Phainon could admit it.
Ping. He gets a response for his text fairly quickly, as expected of his most efficient boss.
“Send me the bill.”
A woman of few words, indeed. He shakes his head with a smile, turns off all the lights and AC units, and finally takes his leave for the day.
As he walks down the office hallways and into the next block, still surprisingly filled with musicians and contractors, his wrist is abruptly grabbed. Phainon snaps his head back to look at the person responsible for the vice grip, though she’s a lot shorter than he’d expected for someone with such strength. His eyes drop down to meet hers, and she has this big, charming smile plastered across her innocent-looking features.
“Are you Mr. Phainon?” He notices her pink pigtails that curl at the ends, tips dyed a complimentary shade of soft turquoise. “My name is Hyacinthia, but you can call me Hyacine for short!”
“Hyacinthia… Ah, right, Aglaea’s told me about you before,” he nods upon remembering his boss’s vague description of the girl. “You’re one of the new producers, aren’t you? I heard that you worked with a really successful band recently, and their latest album topped the charts.”
“Oh, the Chief Operating Officer has already told you about me?” Hyacine squeals. “I’m happy that I caught her gaze. And yes, that’s me! I truly appreciate everyone’s efforts during that time, it was teamwork that got us to where we are.”
As bubbly as Aglaea said. Phainon wonders where she manages to get all that energy in the middle of the night, but maybe that’s just how young people are these days. He’s not even old himself, but with the amount of work piling up on his office desk, he can’t be too sure he’s not aging twice as fast. And it’s not that he dislikes Hyacine’s personality, he could never loathe a girl so sweet—he’s just so incredibly tired right now. And hungry.
“Right, right, I’m not here to waste your time,” Hyacine seems to catch on to his impatience, smiling apologetically. “Mr. Phainon, I’m currently working with an artist who hasn’t been professionally signed yet. He commissioned me to be his producer for this one album he’s very insistent on releasing, and it’s…”
She trails off, at a loss for words. Phainon waits for her to continue, but it seems that she genuinely can’t find a way to describe this mysterious artist’s music.
“I-It’s not bad! Quite the opposite, actually,” she clarifies immediately upon noticing Phainon’s questioning expression. “His music is really unique, so much so that I can’t just box it into a singular genre. But if I had to, I’d say it leans towards rock and maybe a little bit of metal. The reason why I was so speechless was because I couldn't find the right words to capture the essence of his lyricism and composition… All I can say is that it’s impressive enough for Lady Aglaea to personally contact me about him.”
This is interesting. If he’s an artist worthy of Aglaea’s praise, he’s sure to become a musical sensation. Her intuitions have never been wrong, neither have her compliments been devoid of truth.
“And you’ve come to me for…?” Phainon gestures a motion with his hands for Hyacine to go on.
“I need your help signing him to our label… Lady Aglaea has her eyes on him, and wants us to be the ones to kick-start his fame.”
Phainon’s face lights up. All thoughts about ordering food delivery and going to bed have dissipated, a newfound eagerness settling in his chest.
“I’ve already sent him a text message asking if he’d like to accept a record deal of ours, but he hasn’t responded. I’m sure he’ll agree though, so are you willing to help us?” Hyacine asks with a slightly anxious smile, head tilted with hope.
“Yeah! I’ll help out,” Phainon says a little bit too loudly and quickly. People in the hallways crane their necks to shoot him a glare, but he doesn’t give a shit. Neither does Hyacine apparently, given the way her eyes sparkle.
“Great! Thank you, Mr. Phainon!” She whips out her phone and opens her business profile. “This is my email address and phone number. I’ll introduce you to the guy tomorrow, and he can give you his contact details himself… We still have yet to finalize all of this with him, after all. Thank you again for your efforts!”
Phainon nods, saving Hyacine’s number to his contacts.
“No, no, thank you,” he hums under his breath.
“Hm? Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I said thank you,” Phainon grins, shoving his phone into his bag. “It’s been a good while since I’ve heard of a new artist that piqued my interest. Where and when should we meet up, by the way?”
“Hmm… maybe at a cafe. I’ll text you the location-”
“Miss Hyacine! We need you at Studio 203, now!” An impatient lady calls from a few rooms down. Even at this hour, the studios are still as busy as ever, huh? Phainon is glad his office is located in a different building. Hyacine sighs in mild frustration, before giving Phainon a thumbs up and jogging towards the demanding voice.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Phainon!”
“See you, Hyacine” he waves her goodbye with a smile.
It’s the next morning.
Phainon blinks his dreary eyes open. Sunlight peeks through the blinds of his windowsill and spills onto his floorboards, illuminating the room with a soft, warm glow. He turns his head to the side, lazily fumbling for his phone like it was muscle memory, and finally finds it buried in the crevices of his pillow. Rubbing his eyes with one hand while the other scrolls through his atrocious amounts of unread messages, he manages to find Hyacine’s contact after some effort.
She had already texted him the necessary details, much to his relief. His eyes flicker to the top left corner of the screen to check the time, hoping he didn't accidentally oversleep or something.
“7:36 am… I’ve still got about an hour left.” Phainon thinks to himself as he lets out a loud yawn.
As he sits up, he catches sight of black and white ivories. It’s old and grimey, with sinking keys that stick to one another and make it almost impossible to play. The sun's rays fall on it like a blanket, and Phainon feels as though it's almost like a calling of some sort. He wonders how long it's been since he last touched the piano, but quickly dismisses the thought before he gets the chance to start dwelling. Now isn't he time to reminisce or berate himself for quitting music.
Now is the time to meet a promising new artist.
With that, Phainon gets off the bed and takes what might be the quickest shower of his life. He can’t be bothered to make the bed or actually cook breakfast, he could just order something from the cafe—but homemade coffee is always a must. He quickly dumps a packet of instant coffee into a flask, unsure if it was cleaned or not, and pours a generous amount of hot water. Using a spoon to stir, he stands by the counter absentmindedly.
As days blend into each other, everything becomes a repeating routine for Phainon; shower, food, shirt, jacket, slacks, loafers, bag, and keys. Except now, there’s been a change to this bleak cycle—instead of heading to the office, he’s heading to a cafe. He’s meeting somebody new, not the same old faces at work.
Phainon steps onto the cramped bus, fingers encircling a cool metal pole. They start to feel clammy and sweaty after a while, and Phainon wonders if bus rides usually take this long or if he's just been dissociating on every other day.
“We're arriving at our next stop now,” a voice from the bus speakers reverberates, straight into Phainon’s right ear and right back out the left. It was only until the vehicle came to a halt that he realised the moment he anticipated for a whole day had finally come. Phainon wriggles through the sea of people, middle-aged workers and elderly alike, and successfully steps onto the sidewalk without spilling his drink.
Right in front of him was the cafe. It didn’t particularly stand out in the busy streets, dark wooden walls naturally blending in with the warm surroundings. Something about that alone gave it a comfortable air, though.
There were two pillars that swirled beside the entrance's doors—embellished with homey decor and small jingling bells that swung aggressively each time someone exited or entered the building. The windows were made of dull stained-glass, shrouded by lace curtains from the inside that were kept clean and pristine despite their old appearance. To top it all off, a huge, gold sign hung atop the entrance like a greeting. It spelled the words ‘La Petite Parisienne’ in bold, cursive letters. Phainon chuckles to himself in amusement—he doubts the cafe was even remotely French.
He pushes one of the doors open and steps inside.
“Mr. Phainon! You made it,” Hyacine’s soft, gleeful voice greets him before she even comes into view. Phainon twists his head and squints, trying to find the source of that voice, before finally spotting a mop of pink hair waving at him at a booth by the window. He laughs and scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, making his way over.
“Ah, am I late? Good morning, Hyacine-”
God, he knows it’s rude to stare, but he can’t help himself right now. Phainon’s eyes immediately trail to the man opposite her.
He could gauge that the man was of similar age as himself, but it was difficult to determine his height due to his seated position. His outfit consists of a loose, fishnet tank for a top—nothing underneath—and baggy black jeans adorned with beaded chains and patterns. He wore a matching set of earrings and necklaces, both embedded with sapphire gems, and a belt with the buckle in the shape of a sun. Damn, he really seemed to have his closet sorted out.
“And what about me?”
He had messy, long hair that was dyed red at the tips, styled in a way that framed his sharp features and made them more attractive than they already were. He had a lock of braided hair dangling on the right side of his face, and Phainon notes that he’s the only one among the three of them that doesn’t have any funky hair gimmicks.
He also notes that the man was exceptionally well-built. He wasn’t bulky, however—biceps and forearms defined in a way that made Phainon's throat go dry. As his gaze drops lower, the view of his toned abdomen and V-line makes an appearance, and Phainon wants to die.
“A-And good morning to you too. Is… Is this the artist you spoke to me about, Hyacine?” Phainon’s voice comes out embarrassingly more strained than he would’ve liked.
Before she could reply, that absolute god-of-a-man speaks first. His tone is slightly gruff, but not dismissive or rude.
“Yeah, that’s me. The name’s Mydei.”
“Right… Mydei…” Phainon mutters to himself, flipping through the imaginary pages in his brain to check if the name rings a bell.
None.
“You’ve probably never heard of Mr. Mydeimos before, Mr. Phainon,” Hyacine gently intervenes. “Like I said, he’s never been registered or signed to a company, so you can’t find him in any official documents.”
Mydei nods, wordlessly confirming the statement. He shifts towards the window to give Phainon some space to sit, and Phainon silently prays that Hyacine would offer him to sit next to her instead. But she doesn’t, so he tucks his messenger bag against his chest and swallows his pride. As he lowers himself into the booth, he feels his thigh brush against Mydei’s—curse this place for being so damn small.
“Do you want anything to eat? Drink? This meal’s on me,” Mydei doesn’t seem bothered by the contact, leaning forward and grabbing a menu for Phainon. He’s… really sweet, in fact.
“No, I couldn’t possibly accept that!” Phainon retorts hastily. “I’ll pay for you guys instead.”
“No, I’m paying. I offered first.”
“Well, I never consented to you paying.”
“And neither did I, so we’re even.”
Hyacine giggles fondly at the sight of their easy banter, stretching her arms out to separate the two men.
“How about we settle this the old-fashioned way?”
And that’s how Mydei ended up smugly pulling his wallet out after 3 victorious rounds of rock-paper-scissors.
“Order whatever you want now,” he taps his card on the table, gesturing for the waitress to come and take their orders. Phainon groans, rolling his eyes in annoyance.
“Fine… I’ll have the pancakes.”
“And I’ll have a parfait,” Hyacine smiles, closing her menu and stacking it on top of the other two. The waitress nods and repeats their orders, before turning away.
“Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s address what you two brought me here for.” Mydei crosses his arms and leans back against the booth. “But before that, who is this guy, Miss Hyacine? You’ve barely told me anything about him but his name.”
“I think it's best for me to introduce myself,” Phainon quickly says. “As you know, my name is Phainon. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mydei.”
“Oh, please. Skip the formalities—we already got into our first 'argument’ 5 minutes ago,” he jokes, and Phainon can't tell if it's lighthearted or mocking. Either way, he clears his throat, figuring the man is right.
“Ah… yeah. Anyways, I’m a contractor under Goldweaver Records, the same company Hyacine is a producer for. I’m sure you’ve been informed that we're looking to sign you up?”
Mydei drums his fingers against the table, fixing an analytic gaze upon Phainon. “I have, indeed. But truthfully, I harbour no interest in these dumb record deals of yours. I am definitely not looking for years-long contracts that restrict me from doing whatever I want.”
“Huh?”
This isn't right… Hyacine assured him that Mydei would agree with this.
Phainon stares at her in what could be described as barely contained horror. She simply plasters a poker-face of understanding mixed with curiosity, though Phainon is sure she's just as mortified as he is.
“May I ask why, Mr. Mydeimos?” She asks, voice smooth and calculated. “You're clearly a talented individual. Mr. Phainon and I both know that you can take your music career very far with just a little bit of help from us. Goldweaver Records is not a company that entertains child play, and you’ve gotten the opportunity of being offered a record deal.”
“Not all people strive for fame and success, Miss Hyacine,” Mydei shrugs. “I’ve already told you; all I want is to publish my music with your help. Not Goldweaver Record’s, not Phainon’s.”
Those words stung more than Phainon expected. Usually, he wouldn't care about being shut down by some random artist—he's a respectable contractor that knows his and his company's worth. But this man was different; he had a beautiful voice, a pretty face, and an insane amount of talent given the high praise that surrounded him. He would make the perfect rockstar, the perfect global sensation that Phainon is excited to work side-by-side with. It’s not even about the potential money or recognition he’ll receive at this point, he just inexplicably wants to be a part of Mydei’s musical career (which is stupid, because who even dreams of getting involved with unnecessary work).
Phainon can only mumble a dejected ‘why?’.
Mydei hears it and quirks an eyebrow.
“Because these are my wishes. I don't plan on pursuing music for the rest of my life, you know. I’d be happy retiring as a gas station worker or something,” he scoffs, voice growing softer and slightly more vulnerable. “I just… need to get this album out there.”
“Hmm… Music is often personal, so I understand,” Hyacine sighs, resting her cheek against her knuckles. “Mr. Mydeimos, you mentioned your disdain for contracts that “restrict” you earlier. We can propose something that satisfies both parties, if you’d like to hear us out.”
She nudges Phainon’s ankle with her foot, signaling for him to come up with some bullshit save on the spot. He coughs, before giving her a dreaded look.
“R-Right… you're still entitled to artistic freedom while bound to the company, if that's what you're worried about,” he tries to reason. “Or is it something else that concerns you?”
“It's not that…” Mydei sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I already said it, I’m not looking for a long-term music career. I just want to release my album for personal reasons, and continue on with my life. Record deals and contracts have no meaning to me. And even if I were looking for a job in music, I’d see these things as a hassle rather than an opportunity.”
Phainon is on the verge of begging now. He knows there's nothing else he can do at the moment, since forcing a client into signing something is unfortunately illegal.
“Just… Please give us one chance. I promise you, these aren't my boss’s or Hyacine’s words right now.” Phainon sighs, resorting to his last course of action. “I truly look forward to listening to your music. I want to work with you, not for money or fame, but of my own interest.”
“I’ll take extra steps to ensure Goldweaver Records won't force you into releasing any tracks you don't want to, and that you can work on your music as privately as you desire. I have close connections with the Chief Operating Officer, so I assure you that we can forge a contract suitable to your preferences. Don't worry.”
Phainon’s words seem to have an effect on Mydei, with the way he stays silent and listens intently. He takes this as a cue to continue.
“It doesn't matter if you want a record deal lasting just two months or something, I can make it happen! So please, Mydei…” Phainon awkwardly trails off. His cheeks flush from the embarrassment of realising he got carried away, and he scratches the back of his head. “Uhm… I don't usually go to these lengths to recruit an artist. You're a special case.”
Mydei hums in thought, carefully considering Phainon's offer. “And what happens if I become oh-so-famous like you guys confidently say I will? I’m not accusing your company’s morality, I just don't want to get exploited after begrudgingly agreeing to some shitty contract.”
“I already said it, haven’t I? I, Phainon of Goldweaver Records, will personally take measures to prevent that from happening,” He insists, eyes gleaming with determination.
After a long, painful minute of silence, Mydei finally relents.
“Fine.” He doesn’t say any more.
But that's all Phainon and Hyacine needed to hear to beam. They stare at each other with shit-eating grins and sparkling eyes, and Mydei barely resists the urge to let out a loud scoff.
“You sure do have a way with words, don’t ya, Phainon?” Mydei teases, enunciating Phainon’s name with unnecessary bravado. The latter can only stare at him with a stupid fucking smile plastered across his dumb face.
“Thank you. For the compliment and for complying with us,” Phainon whips out his phone, tapping a few buttons on the screen. “Err… I’ll need your number, by the way.”
“Oh? Miss Hyacine hasn’t given it to you yet?” He mumbles questioningly, sliding his phone out of his pocket and placing it on the table in front of Phainon. He gives the screen a light tap.
“You… You have your phone number as your lockscreen?” Phainon asks, trying to sound amused, even though all he can muster is contempt for the odd choice of wallpaper. It was dangerous, and he’s sure Mydei isn’t stupid enough to ignore that. “Do you have women asking you out that often or something?”
Mydei laughs. “Good joke, Phainon. But it leans closer to the truth that you might think.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised…” He mutters under his breath. Thank the Titans that nobody heard that. “Alright, I’ve added you to my contacts.”
The blonde simply snorts as he sees Phainon’s number appear in his chats. He edits the name and sets it to ‘annoying smooth-talker’.
“Let’s head back to the offices after our food arrives,” Phainon says to Hyacine, who nods in response. “You come along too, Mydeimos.”
And so, the shit-show commences.