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Each week passed, and once again, Friday came at both a leisurely and rapid pace. Ever since the light from the sky had faded into a starless night, the city's life shone brighter, snuffing out any remains of the nebulas and stars visible above.
Slowly, the incessant symphony of middle-class automobiles honking in the traffic outside Anaxa's apartment had blended into the sound of sports cars racing across empty streets. The avenues grew hungrier in need of release, people draped in silk and downright outrageous clothes walked down to the nearest club in a hurry for what good time the city offered.
However, amidst the delightful composition going on outside, Anaxa's phone remained silent, not a text, not a call echoing through the rather cold atmosphere in his abode.
He was a busy man, but once the 18th hour hits on Friday, work became slower, and Anaxa grew busier. Over the weekend, the empty space of his bed became warm, with yet another stranger whose face would become smudged amidst the many others in his memories. He wasn't a slave to lust. Oh no, that would be absolute blasphemy. He was simply acquainted with convenient methods to keep his mind sharp and remain both in control and efficient. Though, that doesn't mean he’d allow anyone to even step in the entryway of his apartment.
Anaxa's standards were obscenely high. He wanted someone who wasn't too much to leave him more drained mentally than physically. He wanted someone quiet yet energetic enough to leave him breathless, someone with proper hygiene (because, yes, apparently, even the rich sometimes weren't taught proper self-care), someone who would look decent enough besides him and most importantly, someone who'd be gone by dawn and forgotten by the time he stepped into his office on a fresh Monday morning.
Though, with you, his downfall was absolute. Suddenly, he didn't mind the cologne that lingered on the sheets and his clothes from the night before. Now, don't get him wrong he still was quite open about his dislikes and boundaries but for you, he accommodated. You wormed yourself into his ruthless logic guided heart, remembering each single detail from how his brows creased when he read the newspaper or tasted a rather foul wine, the way he liked his tea and the exact temperature the kettle should be adjusted to. You stayed, and somehow Anaxa didn't quite mind it.
Before he knew it, he'd forgotten about other one night lovers and cleared his Friday evening for your timely arrival. However, tonight, there seemed to be a change of events, for he didn't receive any messy call demanding whether you could barge into his penthouse with that annoyingly tired face. The clock struck 10PM and his phone remained silent, each notification shut down with ruthless efficiency that gradually became more urgent. Not you, not you, still not you. Where were you?
As much as his logical mind remained calm, he couldn't deny the slight tremor in his fingers with each swipe. Had you decided he was no longer worth your attention? Were you too tired to entertain him? If so he'd simply suggest you lay in bed, but you should have told him. Unwanted anxiety rose in his gut as he bit on his nail —a habit he'd tried time and time again to discard and if caught, he'd stubbornly deny it.
He hated this, how dare you forget about him. Did you not think of him as much as he did of you? His face soured, as if lemon extract had settled on his tongue at the hypocrisy of his mind. Getting enraged for something he did himself? Aeons, how far he’d fallen, calm and collected Anaxa getting worked up over a night lover.
The book in his lap rested uselessly against his thighs as he filed through notifications until the screen turned black and suddenly lit up with a familiar interface and your name on the caller's ID. Ignoring the way his chest squeezed at the sight of your call, he answered with efficiency that suggested he hadn't been glued to his phone ever since nightfall.
“Name,”
His voice remained leveled as he spoke through the receiver.
“You never call this late, do you need something?”
The jab at your tardiness was barely concealed beneath his tones of indifference.
“Hey”, your voice was airy through the receiver, he noted with an arched brow, you sound tired. “I'm just finishing up, Mydeimos' manager had me work overtime on some lyrics. Am I disturbing you?”
Anaxa's finger stilled from where it was tapping against his knee, the sharp edge of his blunt nail slightly digging into his skin. Work —of course it was work, not him, never him but the city's restless hunger for Mydeimos’s next hit.
“Disturbing me? Please,”
His voice remained smooth and detached, practiced indifference wrapped in velvet sarcasm.
“You're a more than welcomed distraction,”
He offered, his thumb tracing idle circles on the crescents indented into his skin, leaning back into his chair like some regal consort awaiting their emperor's call.
“Though I do recall you promising lyrics by midnight last week...”
He let that hang there, just enough accusation to sting without outright reprimand because honestly? The thought of those half-finished verses scattered across your desk instead of beneath his hands had been gnawing at him all day too; those fragments weren't meant only for Mydeimos's ears after all.
But then again, when have we ever done things simply or purely for one person, it’s always about our personal gain, isn’t it?
“Oh, well, you know how that works.” With each pause, the sound of your steps hit the wet pavement, Anaxa could only imagine your figure wandering the busy streets, exhausted from the day of work behind you. “I know it's pretty late, but would you like me to bring you dinner? I heard that restaurant you like just had a refill on seafood. I could bring you that octopus carpaccio and fig deserts from Mem's bakery”
He hummed, his lip slightly twitching upwards.
“Would that be enough of a peace offering to allow myself into your evening?”
Ah, there it was. Anaxa's eyes gleamed at the proposal with the slightest hint of interest.
“You’re trying to bribe me,”
It was just a statement, almost an idle musing.
“—with food not less.”
In truth, he was tempted. The figs deserts from Mem were his favorite and octopus carpaccio sounded divine.
You spoil me too easily.
The words were at the tip of his tongue and he swallowed them back with a grimace. He bit the inside of his cheek, feigning nonchalance.
“You'd have to bring those and your lyrics both, for a 'sufficient' peace offering.”
You chuckled on the other side of the line, the sound of cars passing by muffling the pleasant hum of your voice.
“I'll make sure to take out that bottle of wine you seem rather keen on drinking too.”
He added, his eyes wandering to where stood proudly the Vino Nobile he allowed himself to indulge into only when you were there to share it. His voice dropped lower, something almost like surrender threading through his usual dry amusement.
“What time should I expect you?”
“Hm, about fifteen, there shouldn't be too much traffic.”
Anaxa let out a slow exhale, the corner of his mouth tipping up just slightly —fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to light candles he’d never admit to having ready for you. To pour that wine into glasses instead of drinking straight from the bottle like some desperate fools.
“Fifteen,” he repeated it back, deliberate as if testing the word on his own tongue —sounding much too eager already.
“Try not to be late.”
A pause, before adding,
“Or do, I rather enjoy watching you grovel when Mydeimos’s demands steal your punctuality again.”
The teasing lilt was unmistakable now; playful cruelty wrapped in silky-smooth sarcasm because Aeons forbid either of you acknowledge this for what it really was —your version of wanting.
As soon as the call ended Anaxa pushed himself from the chair with deliberate grace, his steps measured and his anticipation rising through the atmosphere of the apartment.
The next fifteen minutes were a blur. Candles were lit and positioned —the ones you said you liked, the ones you said made the whole apartment taste like summer. The wine was poured into fine crystal glasses, one for you and one for him.
He even took a moment to tidy up the room, neatening the papers strewn across his desk and picking up a discarded shirt.
Ridiculous.
As the clock struck the fourteenth minute, a gentle series of knocks echoed through the apartment —you remembered Anaxa hated the sound of his doorbell but hadn't had the time to change it yet.
Anaxa froze mid-step. Knocks. Not the doorbell. Not a flimsy excuse of "I was in the neighborhood." Knocks. The kind you used when you actually wanted him to know it was you, not just some phantom from his past or one of those fleeting lovers who never bothered to learn how he preferred things done.
His fingers twitched at his side before smoothing back over his shirt like none of this had rattled him at all (it did). He took exactly three measured breaths before striding toward that door and wrenching it open with deliberate nonchalance.
And there you stood in all your exhausted glory, damp haired from the rainfall outside, guitar strapped messily over your chest as if thrown on in a hurry and arms laden with takeout bags. Though, despite any logic, none mattered more than your gleaming gaze flickering through your lashes upon meeting his silver irises.
“You're early,” he noted dryly, leaning against the doorframe, blocking the entrance because rules were rules after all.
“Shoes off,” he reminded, fingers tightening on the frame just for a second before he stepped aside with exaggerated reluctance, gesturing grandly toward his apartment like some kind of begrudging royal escorting an unwelcome guest inside (which was ridiculous because you both knew damn well you were anything but).
He hummed as you passed past him, close enough to feel your damp sleeves brushing against his bare forearms, close enough to smell rainwater on your figure, clinging stubbornly in that familiar blend of your silky locks still smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and stage lights —even though you did not indulge into such repugnant habits.
You barged into his home as if it were yours, your laugh like a lazy, slow burning fire as you set down the bags on the kitchen counter with casual efficiency.
He shut the door, taking his time to flip the lock with one hand before taking slow strides towards you. Each one calculated like a hunter stalking prey — finally stopping right behind your frame, his breath just barely ghosting across your damp neck beneath your shirt.
“You're dripping on my floor,”
He noted, eyeing the small droplets of water that had made a messy trail across his wooden flooring.
One slender hand came up to idly tug at damp fabric where it still clung stubbornly to the small of your back. Anaxa's head dipped down, lips hovering just above shoulder, the barest brush of skin against skin. His other hand came to rest on your hip, thumb making circles against the bare sliver of flesh between shirt and waistband.
"Take this off."
His voice was a low, hushed command. There was no mistaking the edge to it; not when he'd gone through the trouble of lighting candles and opening a bottle of wine.
You freezed against his pull, the ghost of a smile on your lips as you willed yourself to relax under his unexpected touch.
“Oh? What about your octopus, you hate your carpaccio hot.”
The tone of your voice was casual but Anaxa knew better, it was teasing, it was bait. He grunted behind you, shuffling closer, feeling your wet strands tickle against his cheek.
“Let me rephrase, then.” Anaxa murmured against damp skin, lips curving into something dangerously close to a smile. "First, you take this off." A sharp tug on the fabric punctuated his words before trailing his fingertips along your spine in deliberate provocation.
"Then we eat cold octopus like barbarians while I critique your lyrics properly.”
He let silence hang in the air, the tension thick enough to cut through with a knife.
“Or would you prefer Mydeimos’s manager hearing about how well his star lyricist follows orders?”
“Careful,” you answered in a low tone, turning in Anaxa's hold, your guitar strap sliding from your shoulder down onto the floor with a muffled thud (ouch). “You're starting to sound invested.”
You tilted your head at him, your eyes reflecting the candlelight like molten metal.
“Is this really about obedience or do you just enjoy watching me unravel?”
Before he could react, your fingertips had already reached up. Tracing the gold accents of his eyepatch, descending down the small chain which ended at his earring, your hand curling at the back of his neck. Touch feather-like.
“Don't think I've forgotten how much you hate being touched first.”
A shiver ran through Anaxa at your velvet coated threat, sharp and unexpected.
Instinctively, he jerked back—just enough to break that infuriatingly tender touch and shoot you a dark glare. He hated how effortlessly you could make him falter, despising his own body for betraying him so easily.
A muscle ticked in Anaxa's jaw as he clenched his teeth for just a second before spitting with acrid sarcasm.
"You talk too much.”
“I’m a poet,”
You grinned, turning your back to him as you stepped back, your teasing touch discarded as if the jerk you'd received had been enough of an indication of Anaxa's displeasure at the sudden touch. You fleeted, as if to show a cornered animal you were no threat. He hated it.
His eyes burned into your back as you hooked your fingers underneath your soaked shirt, pulling the fabric off your body, silver eyes tracing each freckle on the expanse of your back like a constellation.
He exhaled sharply through his nose as you folded the wet shirt, setting it aside and falling rather ungracefully on his velvet couch. Finally, he forced himself to move. Picking up the two expensive glasses and pouring the expensive wine into them, his movements were slow, deliberate, as if pouring the wine himself gave him control over whatever game you two were playing.
"Here." Anaxa shoved one glass toward where you were sprawled across what had indeed become your spot on the couch (when had that happened? Since when did you just... claim spaces within other people's lives?).
"Try not to spill my vintage all over yourself this time.”
The jab was automatic but there was something almost fond laced beneath those biting words because watching your pretty eyes crinkle at corners whenever liquor hit your tongue after a long day always made something stupidly warm coil inside his chest —even though would rather die than admit such thing aloud ever.
You chuckled, taking the glass with exaggerated flourish, your gaze following each and every move from the man before you with that annoyingly lazy kind of interest.
“You are awfully hospitable tonight.”
You drawled as you leaned back onto the couch, swirling the wine before taking a long measured sip. It was good, as always, smooth and rich on the tongue, leaving a pleasant aftertaste. Your gaze lifted to meet Anaxa's, your lips curving into a knowing smirk.
“Almost sweet, even.”
"Don't get used to it,"
He retorted, shifting to lean back into the velvet couch opposing yours with familiar ease. His eyes flicked across your bare torso with practiced nonchalance before settling on the food spread out before you.
He picked up one of the delicate plates, idly picking at the octopus carpaccio with a precision more suited to dissection; pale fingers deftly carving through tender flesh with elegant efficiency.
"And for the record, I'm still planning on judging your latest lyrics tonight so don’t get too comfortable.”
“I don't doubt it,” your answer came easily, gaze following each deliberate move of Anaxa's hands. Taking another sip, your lips parted once more.
“Though, I must admit, Mydeimos' manager has been getting on every one of my nerves. Making me work overtime regardless that I still haven't received last month's pay.” You sighed, “How incompetent.”
Anaxa’s fingers stilled mid-cut.
The fork clinked against porcelain as he set it down with deliberate care, too controlled, too precise for someone who usually didn’t bother masking his irritation. His silver eyes narrowed, fuchsia pupils sharpening like a blade unsheathed at the mention of unpaid labor.
“...He hasn’t paid you.”
The words came out flat, a statement more than a question, before his voice dipped lower into something dangerous.
“And yet Mydeimos is still touring under a contract that includes your lyrics?”
Anaxa exhaled through his nose before adding icily: “Tell me you at least have legal copies saved somewhere.”
If there was one thing Anaxagoras hated more than being touched first without warning, it was incompetent fools exploiting people smarter than them (and you had always been smarter, annoyingly so)
You hummed in answer, gaze turning to the large floor-to-celling windows, eyeing the stretch of the buzzing city behind them.
Anaxa’s jaw tightened, fingers curling around his wineglass so hard the crystal threatened to crack. Taking a step further, standing in front of you with a rather sour face.
"Disgraceful." The word was sharp, final, as if he'd already decided exactly how this would end. His free hand reached for your wrist without thinking, thumb pressing into pulse point as if checking for damage done by stress alone which was ridiculous because you both knew Anaxa wasn’t that kind of man who fussed over such things.
"You should let me handle it. I have a friend in litigation who owes me favors and I do so enjoy watching incompetents squirm when cornered properly."
The offer hung between you like an unspoken dare, one that tasted suspiciously like concern wrapped up in vengeance.
He could see the surprise in your eyes, your eyebrows lifting at his unexpected touch. You were used to Anaxa's sharpness, accustomed to the biting edge that always lingered beneath polished syllables but the sudden, uncharacteristic show of care was new.
He could see your subtle shift on the navy couch, like a part of you desperately wanted to pull away and scoff at him like you always did. Anaxa's silver gaze remained on you like a perfect equation, after all, you had always been his favorite variable and he relished in experimenting what outcome you'd come up with next.
"And just what do I have to give in return for this... assistance?” your next words were slow, uncertain, and he couldn't help the quirk of his lips at the question.
He could tell you were surprised. That much was almost endearing. You might've been smarter than most, but still so easily disarmed by even the faintest gesture of concern. He wondered idly just how much of this had been an act, all your sharp retorts and casual touches.
“Oh? Now you care about quid pro quo?” His voice dropped to a velvet murmur as he leaned in closer. Close enough that the scent of wine and expensive cologne tangled with damp rainwater clinging stubbornly between you.
“Fine. I want all of your lyrics, the unfinished ones too.”
He paused before adding, “And maybe another hour tonight where I don’t have to pretend this is purely transactional.”
Your eyes widened, something like surprise and want flashing across your features before you forced yourself to feign nonchalance.
You leaned back into the couch as if seeking space you didn't really need, one leg crossed over the other with practiced ease.
"A heavy payment," You murmured, fingers tracing idle circles on your thigh as you tried to regain your usual composure. "More than what my lyrics are worth, isn't it? They're just ink on paper.”
Anaxa's lips curled into something dangerously close to a real smile, one that held no warmth, only the sharp satisfaction of knowing he'd struck true.
"Just words?"
He echoed, leaning back with deliberate laziness while his fingers finally, finally, retreated from your wrist, though not without one last lingering brush against skin.
"You forget I've heard you hum them under your breath when you think no one's listening." A pause, his silver eyes flickering over to yours with muted amusement. "Or perhaps that’s the payment I’m after all along,”
He could feel excitement curl into his gut at the sound of your breath hitching. He knew he had you right where he wanted.
"Tell me it doesn't unravel you too. Knowing someone else holds pieces of yourself they could twist however they please."
Because if there was anything Anaxa understood better than power plays or clever bargains, it was how fragile trust truly became once given freely and too much of that had already been handed over between these four walls.
Your fingers stilled against your thigh, something too quick for Anaxa to decipher passing your features. For a moment, your familiar mask of lazy indifference slipped and revealed something darker, more vulnerable. And it took every ounce of self-control for Anaxa not to rip these cracking edges apart. You opened your mouth, witty retort at the tip of your tongue before your eyebrows furrowed. With a huff, you closed your mouth once more. “You're far too good at getting under me skin,” you begrudgingly muttered, refusing to reveal how impressed you were at his smart use of words to disarm you.
“Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Only those foolish enough to think I was trying to be gentle,” Anaxa purred, lifting his wineglass for another sip while watching you over the rim with unblinking silver eyes. “But you... you never mistake my intentions.” His voice dropped lower then. Something almost like approval threading through dry amusement.
“It’s why you keep coming back despite knowing exactly how much I enjoy peeling apart every layer until there’s nothing left but raw honesty between us.” A beat passed before adding mockingly.
“Or have I been wrong about your preferences all this time?”
Your eyes narrowed at the jibe. In some ways, this was familiar ground —the sharp and biting sarcasm. But there was something else beneath it too; something too warm and dangerous.
You crossed your arms over your chest and Anaxa could hardly resist stealing a glance at your soft skin.
"You really think you've got me figured out, huh?"
You tilted your head, eyes glinting with a mixture of challenge and something else pulling his gaze back to yours. "Go on then, by all means, Mr. All-Knowing, enlighten me.”
Anaxa’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. The kind that said he knew exactly how much this was unraveling you. He set his wineglass down with deliberate care before leaning forward, one hand supporting him against the couch while the other slid at your hip. His gaze wandered across your half-naked frame.
“Let’s see.” His voice dripped with faux contemplation. “You prefer control until you don’t —until it becomes too much and suddenly my hands are the only thing keeping you from drowning in it.” Anaxa tilted his head just slightly.
“You like being called out when you lie but hate admitting when someone sees through the act entirely.” You could barely contain the indignant sound that left you, unfortunately for you, encouraging him on.
“And most of all? You crave having your lyrics stolen, because deep down? You want to know what they sound like coming from my mouth instead of Mydeimos’s stage.”
Finally, his eyes met yours, almost tauntingly soft.
"Am I close?”
Your eyes widened, but you quickly tried to mask your surprise with a smirk that didn't quite meet your eyes. "Not bad," you managed to reply, trying to keep your voice light despite the heat rising on your cheeks.
Too goddamn close.
You leaned back against the couch, trying to regain your composure, but it was hard when every word out of Anaxa's mouth felt like a blow straight to your heart.
"But you forgot one thing," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "You've somehow missed that I'm not usually this easy. I give you what you want because I want you to have it.”
“Oh, but that’s the best part,” he murmured, leaning forward until the space between you crackled with something electric and unspoken. “You think I haven’t noticed how carefully you dole out every scrap of yourself? How every concession is measured like some grand sacrifice?” His fingers tightened against your hip.
“But here’s what you missed—” A pause, Anaxa exhaled sharply through his nose before adding with brutal honesty.
“I don’t want your restraints or your performances. I want whatever pathetic little truth you're still trying to protect.”
He leaned forward, closing the already minimal distance between you until there was nothing but heat and the subtle scent of expensive wine. Your faces were mere inches apart now, he reached up with deliberate slowness until just the tips of his fingers lingered right beneath your chin, tilting it up in a silent demand for you to meet his eyes. His voice dropped to a gravelly murmur, barely audible over your breath mingling into the air.
“And we both know what the truth is, don't we? You—”
He started, his hands like magnets attracted to your warmth as he caged you in, a humiliating and desperate attempt at finally getting you to admit what he so dearly hoped wasn't just an illusion of his.
“—Love me.”
Silence rang loud, muffling his ears as he willed his body to remain calm regardless of his racing heartbeat, because as much as he demanded your truths and lyrics, he'd just offered his heart to you and the sting of being shut down would be like no other.
Until, a smile rose on your lips, subtle satisfaction rising in your irises. Anaxa knew you were tipping into dangerous territory, were saying the honest truth, without any weil of sarcasm. Because for once, you felt like you could admit his statement in whatever this setting was without sounding too much like caring.
"I do."
You answered.
"And I know you do too, love me.”
He could deny it. He should deny it.
But the truth burned through him like wildfire with every passing moment. He wanted you, and you knew it just as well as he did.
And so, without a moment to stop and think this unexpected confession through, he dived in. Catching your lips in a mix of yearning and hate.
Anaxa's hand gripped the side of the couch with bruising force, the other having wandered to tangle into your hair. He closed the distance between you in a single, swift motion, capturing your lips with the desperation of a drowning man. Begging for you, let him have another taste of your warmth, and maybe, maybe, something more.
A week went by, and Anaxa still hadn't heard of you. You'd left his apartment last at dawn after having spent the night warming his side.
As much as he tried to rein the foolish feeling of betrayal racing through his limbs with each passing hour, he couldn't. Minutes felt like torture under your heavy silence.
Had he pushed too far? If so, why hadn't you stopped him, cursed him, put an end to whatever charades you were playing? So many questions and so little answers were messing with his brain. He'd taken unnecessary tardiness at work and couldn't focus on anything but the feeling of your soft lips and warm hands.
Monday mornings usually went by well for Anaxa. He'd wake up at 6 AM to the sound of his blaring alarm and the sight of sun stretching through the horizon. Though, this morning had been deplorable. He woke up with a horrendous headache and stuffed nose. He hadn't even fully registered his bodily condition before he realized the light outside his window was much much too bright for it to be 6 AM.
He rose up like he'd been shocked, scattering ungracefully for his alarm clock only to realise it didn't glow those ominous bold red numbers. Only the pitch black screen met his gaze. Furrowing his brow with growing frustration, he reached for his phone on the nightstand, just to realise that it'd been drained of any battery. A groan left his chapped lips, rising to his feet in a hurry and wandering over to the kitchen where the battery-powered clock informed him of what he'd dreaded most. He was late for work. And not by a few measly minutes (even though that was already truly unacceptable), no, Anaxagoras was 3 hours, 47 minutes, and 02 seconds late.
He was late.
Anaxa was never late. He always arrived before anyone —always.
He ran his hands over his face, groaning irritably at the realization. Three hours. Three and a half hours since he was supposed to walk through those polished glass doors, and he was still struggling to feel remotely human.
His gaze fell from the wall clock to the kitchen counter, debating whether work was even worth rushing for. Sighing, he rubbed his tired eyes. Before whatever dumb decision he might do, he needed coffee. Preferably in a high dose, too. His fingers fumbled with the machine, eyes still bleary and half closed.
As the sound of the coffee maker grunting filled the kitchen, Anaxa finally regained some semblance of consciousness and critical thinking. He eyed the papers scattered on the kitchen counter, clearing out a clean stack of papers concerning work. The remaining papers were on various subjects, but one made him sigh at his own idiocy. Of course, how had he forgotten? The letter from the landlord lay there before him like a bad coffee stain, and suddenly, it was evident. The dates, matching that of last week's Sunday, were written in big bold letters amidst various information concerning repairs of the distribution board.
He sighed, the explanation to today's fiasco flashing through his mind. Anaxa slumped against the counter, hands coming up to rub at his temples. He felt like he'd been hit by a truck, or two. His head was pounding. His nose was stuffed. His throat was dry. He was pretty sure he had a fever.
And to top it all? He still missed you.
Stupid.
He leaned forward, pressing his head against the cool granite counter with a low curse. How pathetic that he was still so caught up in this... situation.
Anaxa's fingers twitched against the granite, remembering how your mug was still sitting in the sink like some kind of taunt.
He didn't need to look at it. He already knew what he'd see if he turned his head: that stupid little light blue ceramic mug, shaped like a cute shark you'd brought at his apartment last month when you were bored between break hours. He remembered how your lips had curled around its rim just a week before that night.
His throat tightened with something raw and ugly as panic hit him square in the chest. What if you weren't coming back? Not for coffee. Not for anything else either.
You couldn't be doing that, could you? No, not after you'd chased him like a desperate fool—
A pause.
Was that it? His mind ran a thousand miles a minute, trying to come up with another possible reason for your abrupt disappearance and lack of contact.
Anaxa’s breath hitched, sharp, like a blade between ribs as logic dawned upon him.
Of course. It made perfect sense now. You had always been the one to chase, always the one who demanded entry with your infuriating charm and those sharp eyes that saw too much. And Anaxa? He'd spent your entire history playing hard to get like some petulant child refusing affection until it was shoved down his throat.
So this was it, then? A test of devotion in all its cruel simplicity. One final game where you waited on him to prove how badly he wanted this, wanted you.
The thought alone sent heat flooding through veins hotter than any fever ever could.
"You insufferable bastard—"
He muttered hoarsely, reaching for the keys. Being played irked him; losing when it mattered hit a nerve. And this moment, this one, hit it hard.
An hour later, he'd reached the foyer of the apartment complex, scarf raised to the top of his cheeks. Keys in hand, he stopped at the mailbox. Twisting the lock open, he was met with the sight of a rather large envelope. He tilted his head in question. Anaxa had many connections, yes, but he wasn't expecting any letter. Additionally, it couldn't have been something administrative due to the rather imposing thickness of the envelope.
His pale fingers reached for the muted beige letter. Hands flipping the mail, trying to find the name of the sender, but nothing. He huffed, thinking it may be an error or a prank from the wealthy kids living a few floors below him. But the name on the front of the envelope was definitely his. With a sigh, he dug his nail into the delicate paper, ripping it open with ruthless efficiency. Inside, he was met with papers varying in format and state. Some were run down by time and frustrated hands, others a large A4 paper format neatly folded in half. All, however, possessed one similarity. They all had your writing all over them.
All the papers contained notes varying from small chicken-scratches of impromptu ideas to actual full unreleased songs. Everything stood there in his hands, but something was missing. There was no letter from you, no explanation. You'd done what he asked, sure, but what now?
It was... a lot more than he'd expected, to say the least.
He'd wanted your lyrics, and here they were. Pages upon pages of raw words that you had written just because you felt like it. You had given him everything : rough drafts scribbled on bar napkins, polished verses with precise corrections in red ink. Words that Anaxa suddenly had in the palm of his hand. It was more than he could've hoped for…
But still nowhere near what he really wanted.
And you, despite everything even without a letter, even after a week of silence, even after all those nights Anaxa had let you dance around him but never truly showed his yearning, had trusted. Trusted with lyrics and words and thoughts that were never meant to be shared with eyes other than your own, trusted that Anaxa would do something with them, trusted that he would keep them safe.
So what the hell was he supposed to do now? How was he even supposed to begin to respond to something like this?
Chase.
Anaxa's mind supplied. He should respond. He should chase. Because that was what you usually did when something, someone, mattered to you. You chased.
The problem was, Anaxa had never chased in his life. He took what he wanted with calculated precision and deliberate calm. He'd never had to chase, never had to hope, because men and women had always been tripping over themselves to give him whatever he asked for just for the opportunity to share his bed.
And now, now, you were forcing him into a position he'd never been in before. He'd never had to work for something before. Never had to actually earn someone's affection which was ridiculous because he shouldn't care, because he and you had always been nothing but transactional, because you were friends with benefits at best and strangers with occasional benefits at worst.
This was absurd. He was Anaxagoras, he didn't chase, he claimed. And yet here he stood in some sterile hallway with nothing but your words in his hands and a hollow ache where pride should be.
He could walk away right now if he wanted to. Let Mydeimos keep those lyrics for all their worth because what were songs compared to the satisfaction of your unsaid confessions?
His thumb brushed over one particularly smudged line, some half-finished verse scribbled between coffee stains and sharpie corrections like it had been written during late nights when thoughts bled too easily onto paper.
A muscle twitched along his jaw before he muttered under breath:
"...Fine, but I swear on every star carved into my skin, if you're not there waiting when I knock? I'll— ”
Whatever remaining curses he may have muttered, blasphemous enough to make a scholar blush, were lost to the sound of his quick steps through the foyer and the slam of the front door behind him.