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“Empress’ Housekeeping Services.” Mydei calls, knocking on the door of apartment 496.
Silence.
Mydei frowns, readjusting the tote bag of cleaning supplies in his arms. He double-checks the client’s information. He’s at the right address and the right apartment, so why is the client not answering?
It’s his first time working for this “Khaslana.” Hyacine usually cleaned this sector, but she took a leave of absence and Mydei had jumped at the chance to pick up another shift. With the extra money, not only could he pay for groceries and rent this month (not to mention college savings), but also splurge a little and buy Phainon’s new album. Just the thought of it made him grin like a maniac.
Although that would all be for naught if the client didn’t answer the door.
Mydei knocks again, louder. “Empress’ Housekeeping Services!”
Nothing.
But just as Mydei is preparing to leave, the door creaks open.
“Housekeeping?” A rasping voice comes from the dark corridor. “You’re not Hyacine.”
Yeah, no shit. Still, Mydei pastes a polite expression on his face. “Hyacine’s miniature pony accidentally ate a poisonous shrub, so she’s taking the month off to take care of her pet. I’m her replacement. You can call me Mydei.”
“Khaslana” is perhaps a centimeter taller than Mydei, dressed in baggy black sweatpants and a baggier black hoodie pulled low over his face. His clothes melt into the dark apartment behind him; does the man not turn on the lights or what? Mydei can only see his chin, which looks strangely familiar, but before he can ponder further Khaslana properly opens the door.
“Come in.”
“Pardon the intrusion.” Mydei pulls off his shoes and places them neatly in the entranceway. “Do you mind if I turn on the lights?”
In lieu of an answer, the man flicks on the lightswitch. His outfit is not any less strange when viewed fully, but at least his apartment looks normal. A living-dining-kitchen combo, bedroom, and bathroom. Mydei quickly sets to work on the LDK, pulling out his cleaning supplies.
As Mydei starts cleaning, he soon realizes the man himself is anything but normal.
Instead of doing what Mydei’s clients usually do—that is, politely excuse himself and go to another room so he and Mydei can both work in peace—Khaslana folds himself into a corner and stares, like a psychopathic dust sprite, as Mydei vacuums, scrubs, mops, and attempts to ignore Khaslana boring a hole into his back. Even as Mydei determinedly avoids eye contact or looking at that corner at all, it still makes the hairs on his arm stand up.
He continues cleaning, but the man doesn’t stop staring, and Mydei’s patience slowly frays.
He finally finishes up with the LDK and moves to the bedroom, out of Khaslana’s line of sight. He takes a deep breath, letting the relief wash over him, which lasts for all of ten seconds before Khaslana follows him.
What the fuck is your problem?!
Of course, if Mydei actually said that to a client, Cerydra would fire him on the spot. So instead, what comes out is: “Uh, sir. I appreciate your concern over the cleanliness of your apartment, but rest assured that it is completely okay to go to another room while I clean. I—”
Mydei looks at the man for the first time, and his words trail off.
Sometime while he was cleaning, Khaslana had taken off his hood.
And that face—it was Phainon’s face.
Phainon. Okhema’s Prince Charming. Ever since his successful win on the idol audition show Pick Your Chrysos Heir! and subsequent debut, Phainon had enraptured thousands of fans with his joyful and positive nature, energetic dance moves, and smile, which fans claimed was comparable in brightness to the Dawn Device. Despite only being eighteen, his name was plastered all over Threads, his face on a billboard over Okhema Crossing, and his photocards in a drawer in Mydei’s bedroom.
Mydei had spent more hours than he’d like to admit staring at the face that was now two meters away from him.
It wasn’t an exact copy. Khaslana has gold eyes instead of Phainon’s clear sky blue, and the warm toned lighting makes him seem blond instead of silver-haired under the stage lights. But the facial structure, the sloping shape of his nose, the long eyelashes… Mydei would be ashamed to call himself a Phainon stan if he didn’t recognize them on sight.
Unfortunately, Khaslana seems to have also picked up on that fact, as his expression quickly changes. What was previously a blank stare becomes a blank, murderous stare. Khaslana strides across the room in two quick steps and slams his hand over Mydei’s mouth.
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“Mmpf?!” Mydei says unintelligibly, warring between how dare he grab me like that, who the fuck does he think he is and fuck, Phainon touched me?!
Thankfully, Khaslana elaborates. “If everyone knew that their favorite idol was secretly a loser, a fraud, a socially awkward liar who spends his weekends holed up in his house, they would lose all respect. Wait, no, perhaps they should lose all respect—after all, what right do I have to make these people look up to me? They shouldn’t look up to me! I am nothing but an imposter, taking advantage of thousands of gullible teenagers—”
His golden eyes start to acquire a wet sheen. Mydei is equally alarmed by that, and the fact that as Khaslana gets more incensed, his grip becomes tighter. Mydei swears he can hear his jawbone crack.
“A fake like me has no right to be on stage. I should just retire and move back to Aedes Elysiae and spend the rest of my days talking to my favorite wheat stalk, Wheaty—”
Wait, retire?
Phainon retiring would be the same thing as the sun extinguishing. On behalf of Phainon fans everywhere, Mydei simply cannot allow that to happen.
Mydei wrenches the hand off his face. He opens his mouth to comfort his idol—
“I don’t know who you are.”
…Shit. Mydei forgot that he’s crap at comforting others.
Before Mydei can dig himself a hole and die, Khaslana turns his teary eyes to Mydei’s face. “R-really?”
His voice is half-hopeful, half-skeptical as his eyes glance outside the window. Mydei inadvertently follows his gaze, to the huge billboard plastered with Phainon’s face hovering over the city. “Thus Burns the Dawn” Now Out! Phainon proclaims, flashing a wink and a finger heart.
Mydei expressionlessly marches over to the window and yanks the curtains closed.
Khaslana stares at him. Suddenly feeling an urge to defend himself, Mydei barks. “What? The man out there has blue eyes and your eyes are gold, clearly you’re not the same person. Never mind that your cheekbones are on the exact same height and your nose is both tilted at a perfect 42 degrees from the nosebridge, and it’s not like I know this since there’s a poster of you, I mean him, hanging over my dresser—” Fuck, what was he saying? “—Anyway, you’re clearly two different people, so I’m not going to leak anything about you to the tabloids.”
He hands Khaslana a tissue. The man discreetly dabs at his eyes. At least he isn’t ranting about being an imposter anymore, so Mydei will count that as a win.
Okay, now to change the subject. Mydei might be bad at talking, but he's good at cooking. Everyone likes food, right? “How about I make something to eat.”
Khaslana says nothing, which Mydei takes as agreement. He drags the man into the living room and points at the couch. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
Mydei retreats to the kitchen. Judging by the trash that he’d taken out earlier, Khaslana had mostly subsisted on a diet of… instant noodles, and instant coffee. Honestly, how was this man alive, much less performing the high-energy dance routines he was known for?
Khaslana trails him into the kitchen, staring blankly at Mydei as he rustles through the mostly-empty fridge. The staring doesn’t feel as intrusive as it did earlier, perhaps because Mydei now knows that Khaslana is (likely) not harboring an inner desire to murder him. The fridge only housed a packet of chicken and some bread. Atrocious, but Mydei is a professional. He could make that work.
“Half of staying in shape is nutrition, you know.” Mydei tells Khaslana. If the man was going to follow him everywhere, he would be subjected to being lectured on his abysmal dietary habits.
Silence. For someone so cheerful and effusive on stage, talking to Khaslana at home is like talking to a rock. Or a stalk of wheat, for that matter.
The breaded chicken is soon ready. Mydei plates it. “Where are your utensils?”
Wordlessly, Khaslana shuffles around the kitchen to retrieve two forks. He hands one to Mydei, who accepts, slightly taken aback. He hadn’t planned on eating, but he couldn’t refuse Khaslana’s gesture.
The two of them migrate to the kitchen table, where Khaslana stares at the chicken in silence.
“It’s not poisoned. You saw me make it.”
“I know.”
“...”
“...”
Fed up, Mydei cuts a piece of chicken and pops it in his mouth. It’s slightly tasteless, but that’s what happens when there’s not a single spice to be found in the kitchen. Part of him is ashamed at feeding subpar cooking to his idol. The other part of him reminds himself that this is the only food in said idol’s kitchen, and said idol eats instant ramen on a daily basis.
Khaslana takes it as a cue to start eating, taking small bites that turn into bigger bites until the plate is clean.
Mydei takes it back to wash it.
“...Thanks.” Khaslana mumbles. “It’s been a long time since someone cooked dinner for me.”
Okay, now that was just depressing. Also, what did he mean, dinner? If a single piece of chicken was what Khaslana considered dinner, Mydei was seriously concerned.
“Usually, I eat a protein bar, but I ran out recently… Now I just eat a cup of coffee grounds.”
Wait, so the instant coffee packages aren’t even used to make coffee? Khaslana just eats the powder? What the fuck?
Mydei grimly concludes that his idol has the self-preservation skills of a walnut.
It was jarring to see the discrepancies between Phainon and Khaslana. Phainon was a bright light, a natural-born star no matter what he was doing. There were hour-long compilations titled “Blinded by Phainon’s smile! Top 10 Phainon Moments!”
Looking at Khaslana, it was more like seeing the same light through a clouded and grimy window. His hair, unkempt and greasy, stuck out in tufts rather than Phainon’s artful messiness. The black hoodie washed out his face and hair, making him look pale and wan. There was no trace of Phainon’s trademark smile—Khaslana’s face was blank to the point of being unsettling.
Mydei couldn’t help but worry. What if he collapses on stage due to lack of nutrition? What if he falls into another depressive spiral and actually decides to retire? As a Phainon fan, he couldn’t allow anything to befall his idol!
“You should learn how to cook. There are plenty of helpful videos online. If you can’t cook or don’t have time, then order takeout, there are healthy takeout options as well.” Mydei lectures, putting the cleaned plate back on the shelf. He nearly launches into another segment about meal planning, but remembers that he’s technically here for another job. “Do some research. I’ll go clean the rest of the apartment.”
It goes much faster without Khaslana peering over his shoulder like a demented ghost. Mydei finishes up quickly and returns to the living room. Khaslana is right where he left him.
“Um, I’m done. Your next session is next week, same time.”
Khaslana gets up to walk him to the entranceway. “Okay.”
“Take care of yourself. Don’t die,” or retire, “–before next week.”
“...Okay.”
Mydei bows and leaves. The door creaks shut behind him.
Mydei makes his way home on autopilot. Once safely ensconced in his dingy, cheap apartment, he slides to the ground and plops his face into his arms. What the fuck just happened.
There was no way he had just spent the last two hours in close proximity to his idol, someone he’s only seen on the screen before now.
Mydei first memory of Phainon is when he was sixteen.
The apartment was empty, his mom out on another low-paying high-demand job, the only kind she could get after the divorce. Eurypon had used Castrum Kremnos Inc.’s influence to blacklist her from any upper-level positions suited for her education, and she had spent most of her savings on divorce proceedings and negotiating for custody of Mydei.
Gorgo didn’t come from an upper-class family before she married Eurypon, but after the divorce they were, essentially, broke. Gorgo was constantly at work, trying to keep them afloat. Mydei rarely saw her anymore, despite living in the same shitty, cheap three-room apartment.
He turned on the TV, the neighbors’ voices and his own thoughts being too loud otherwise. Usually, it would only be white noise as he worked on his homework and part-time job applications, but as he filled in yet another form requesting his nonexistent credentials, a song caught his attention.
It was hard rock, the singer screaming in a despairing tone as guitar shredded in the background. But within all the noise was a thread of tenacity. A refusal to give up. Mydei glanced at the TV.
It was a boy. His blue eyes glared intensely at the camera as he danced, his arms and legs arcing with strong, sharp energy. As if he’d rather die than break or bend.
Mydei didn’t get any more work done until the program ended, entranced as the boy and his group finished their routine. He learned his name—Phainon—and that the show was for debuting up-and-coming idol trainees. Mydei would typically have no interest in this kind of content, but there was something about Phainon. His determination. His stubbornness. His clear desire to win or die trying.
Mydei saw himself in Phainon.
He couldn’t help but become invested. Phainon’s success meant that there was hope for people like him in the world. After another rejected application, Phainon’s stages would coax Mydei out of his slump. Phainon’s interviews accompanied him as he ate dinner alone. Phainon was the first and only idol that Mydei supported, his bright and innocent smile a comfort when they were too poor to afford meat, as Gorgo’s stress lines became more prominent by the day, as Mydei took shady jobs to help pay the month’s rent.
Phainon was there for Mydei when his life was in shambles. It would be against Mydei’s very nature to abandon his idol simply because he wasn’t always the shining persona he embodied on stage.
Yet, it was also dishonorable to lie. Mydei groans. He was terrible at lying, and there was no way Khaslana believed his “I don’t know who you are” schtick. But what was the alternative? “I’m actually a hardcore fan of yours. I spent so many hours fighting your antis online that they now flee at the sight of my Threads username. I have five different posters of you in my room, one for every cardinal direction and another one on the ceiling. But I’m not a creepy stalker, I swear.”
Right.
Mydei was living an idol stan’s trashy fanfiction—the opportunity to spend private, one-on-one time with the physical copy of his bias. He wouldn’t deny feeling a little (okay, a lot) flustered over the idea. But unlike a trashy fanfiction, his actions do come with repercussions. What kind of Phainon fan would he be, if he tried to selfishly keep Phainon to himself? Not to mention, they lived entirely different lives to begin with. Phainon was a famous idol, and Mydei was just some guy.
The honorable thing to do in this situation would be to help Khaslana out, from a respectful distance, as his housekeeper. The least Mydei could do is make sure the man doesn’t die from malnutrition.
Mind made up, Mydei picks himself off the floor and starts on making his own dinner.
Taking care of Khaslana might be a harder mission than Mydei expected.
Mydei stares at the scene in front of him. Khaslana, blond bangs and pale cheeks dusted with ash and soot. A plate of unidentifiable substance. The kitchen was smoking.
“Is your fire alarm broken?” Once the shock wears off, Mydei immediately jumps into action, soaking a towel in water. Khaslana sullenly wipes the soot off his face.
“The fire alarm…? You mean the beeping?” Khaslana asks, tilting his head in the cute puppy-like manner that Phainon often uses during interviews and subsequently featured in thousands of fan edits (“Fifty Minute Fan Compilation of Phai-puppy Moments!”). Except in Khaslana’s case, it’s less “puppy” and more “blank-eyed bloodhound.” “It was getting annoying… so I disabled it.”
Mydei finally spots the pile of disassembled mechanical components sitting neatly on the kitchen counter and the hole in Khaslana’s ceiling. A pathetic wire dangles out of it. The lone survivor.
Mydei says a silent prayer for the innocent fire alarm.
“I tried to make the breaded chicken you made last time… I looked up the recipe online… It didn’t seem so hard.” Khaslana mumbles. Now that Mydei thinks about it, the substance on the plate does resemble chicken. It would have to be some kind of meat to drip blood like that, at least.
“Um. Good job.” Points for effort, at least.
Khaslana follows Mydei’s line of sight to the plate of Schrödinger’s chicken. His expression immediately crumples. On Khaslana, that just meant his eyes lost all light. “I ruined it, didn’t I? I should’ve known that someone like me would never succeed. It was hubris to even try. Why couldn’t I learn my lesson the first time?”
“Hey.”
“Sorry again. Sorry for being born.”
“Wait, no.” Mydei groans. “Firstly, stop it with the ‘I’m a failure’ bullshit,” the man’s so successful that his concert tickets literally sell out in minutes. Mydei would know, since he’s literally never gotten one, “–and if you want to learn how to cook chicken that bad, I’ll teach you.”
“A piece of waste like me shouldn’t trouble you.” Khaslana says morosely.
He’s literally stubborner than a brick. Time for a change of tactics. “It’ll be more trouble if you don’t know how to cook for yourself and I have to make something every time I come over.”
“...”
Mydei takes Khaslana’s silence as consent, rifling through his fridge. It is slightly less of an embarrassment than last time, by which he means Khaslana not only has bread and chicken but also a head of lettuce.
“Here, we can make chicken salad. It should be slightly easier.”
Khaslana doesn’t say anything, but when he scoots closer to listen, he looks slightly less depressed. Mydei will take it.
After an hour and at least two different kitchen fires, Khaslana is holding a bowl of chicken salad. (Mydei will never know how someone manages to continuously mistake the stove’s “high” dial for the “off” dial.)
“We’ll make a chef out of you yet.” Mydei says, patting Khaslana on the shoulder.
The man’s mouth twitches. Was that… a smile? Before Mydei can determine whether it is or not, Khaslana ducks his head down. He offers the bowl of chicken salad. “Will you try it?”
“Uh… Sure.” Mydei concedes. He picks up a fork and takes a bite. The chicken is admittedly dry, and the dish still suffers from a lack of spices, but it is edible, and made with care. “It’s… good.”
Khaslana smiles. It’s not the same as Phainon’s smile—less confident, more hesitant, the bags under his eyes creasing—but it has the same effect. Namely, the fucking sun explodes a meter away from Mydei’s face.
In the back of Mydei’s mind, he dimly realizes why sunglasses are required to stare into the sun. All along, Phainon fans have resented the fact that they could only see their favorite idol through a screen, but the screen was actually a divine form of protection that prevented hapless fans from burning out their corneas against Phainon’s smile.
Mydei automatically slaps a hand over his eyes to protect his vision.
“M-Mydei?! I’m sorry! I must have been ugly and disgusting. I shouldn’t have shown you such an unsightly appearance. You didn’t receive any lasting trauma, did you?”
“No. There was a bug.” he grits out tonelessly. “On my face. I killed it.”
“Um…??”
“I’ll get to cleaning now.”
“Okay…?”
“That’ll be seven Balance Coins.” Mydei says, scanning the last bottle of Rough-Brew Ambrosia. “How would you like to pay?”
The customer wordlessly hands over their credit card, and Mydei quickly completes the transaction. They thank him and leave.
Mydei wipes the sweat off his forehead, discreetly glancing at the time. Three minutes until break. Castorice should be coming right about…
“Mydei,” his coworker calls.
Now.
“Take your break.” Castorice says, moving to stand beside him by the check-out counter.
“Thanks, Castorice.”
“Oh, and check Phainon’s fanpage, will you?” She winks at him, before turning to greet the next customer in line.
Huh? Mydei wants to question her further, but it would be unprofessional to chat while there are customers waiting. He retreats to the break room and pulls out his teleslate.
Sure enough, there are plenty of notifications on his fan account. He opens Threads and is blinded by an official post—Phainon’s next live concert is announced to promote his newest album, Thus Burns the Dawn!
His heart skips a beat.
Despite having been an idol for around two years, it was comparatively rare for Phainon to host live concerts, instead garnering the majority of his popularity through music videos and variety show appearances. Thinking back on it, Phainon’s refusal might be due to Khaslana’s reclusiveness.
Either way, a Phainon concert was a once-in-a-blue-moon opportunity, and Phainon fans go rabid over it.
There’s an accompanying interview with Phainon’s concert announcements. Mydei bookmarks the interview to watch in full when he gets home, and scrolls through the short clips scattered around his feed.
“Phainon’s favorite food?! ∑(ﾟДﾟ)” A caption proclaims. Intrigued, Mydei taps on the clip.
“You’re looking as bright as ever, Phainon! Are all teenage idols like you nowadays? What are they feeding you?”
The tiny Phainon on screen flashes one of his signature smiles, Charming Interview Smile #3. Mydei automatically screenshots it to archive later. Should he change his teleslate wallpaper as well?
“Haha! I can’t speak for the rest of my peers, but personally I think chicken salad is really revitalizing!”
Mydei’s train of thought cuts off as the clip ends.
What? Chicken salad??
No. Mydei reminds himself to be reasonable. Chicken salad was the only thing Khaslana knows how to cook, so of course he’d say that. There’s no special meaning behind it.
Mydei spends the rest of his ten-minute break scrolling through his feed, distracting himself by battling with antis.
You have some fucking audacity to be putting Phainon down for not holding more concerts, Mydei types furiously. Since when were fans entitled to all of their idol’s time? It was completely with Phainon’s rights to use his energy how he sees fit rather than catering to privileged shits like you.
By the time his break ends and he returns to help Castorice, he’s calmed down significantly. There really was nothing like beating down nameless Internet trolls for putting things into perspective.
It’s getting into the evening hours now, and the convenience store has mostly quieted down. Castorice takes this opportunity to chat.
“Did you see the news about Phainon’s concert next month? I managed to reserve two tickets! We should go together.”
Mydei takes a moment to contemplate the offer. Normally, he would refuse—idol tickets were expensive, and the money would better be used for college funds. But he had been picking up extra housekeeping shifts, and if he didn’t buy the album (Mydei internally cries a little at the thought), he could justify the price.
Plus, it was Castorice. She was the only other person who knew about his idol hobbies; Mydei was anti-social at school, his part-time jobs leaving him with little time to participate in clubs or hanging out after class. It was pure coincidence that Castorice happened to work at the same convenience store and saw his Phainon teleslate background one day, and subsequently divulged her own guilty pleasure of idol-stanning.
He’s never had someone to share this hobby with, and despite himself Mydei feels a little anticipatory at the idea of attending the concert with a friend.
“You know what, sure.”
“Really?” Castorice brightens up. “I’m so glad! Do you want to watch Phainon’s interview together after our shift?”
“Good idea.”
They lapse into silence as another customer approaches, a bag of chips in hand.
As Mydei reaches out to scan the snacks, he silently thanks Phainon. If it weren’t for him, he doubted he’d be able to make friends with Castorice at all.
Truly, supporting Phainon was a decision that Mydei would never regret.
He does, however, regret unwittingly signing up to be Khaslana’s cooking instructor.
Mydei doesn’t know when Khaslana arbitrarily decided that Mydei is the god of culinary arts, but during his next housekeeping trip, Khaslana greets him at the door with a blank face and a photo of honeycakes.
Mydei sets his cleaning supplies down and steps closer to squint at the image, cursing the fact that his eyesight is shit without his glasses. It’s honeycakes, topped artfully with berries, drizzled with an aesthetic grid pattern. The photo is posted by a famous cooking account, and the caption promises “Easy & Quick! Golden Honeycakes within Ten Minutes!” with a recipe link.
Mydei shifts his attention to Khaslana, who is looking at him with no expression whatsoever. “Okay…? Do you want to make them?”
At that, Khaslana perks up and nods. He points at the kitchen counter, and Mydei suddenly notices a plastic bag on it, which, upon closer inspection, is full of groceries.
“Huh,” Mydei says, quietly impressed that Khaslana had gotten all the ingredients ready. “Good job.”
Khaslana smiles slightly, and Mydei quickly looks away. His heart can’t take another Phainon smile from up close.
“Cooking instructor” was not strictly within his job purview, but any resistance melts under Khaslana’s expectant gaze. At least honeycakes were easy enough to make, Mydei comforts himself.
“Your kitchen is surprisingly well-stocked,” Mydei notes as he sets out the ingredients and utensils. He even had a mixer, which Mydei eyes enviously. He’d never bought one, as it was inefficient to spend money on something that Mydei could do himself, but it would be nice to have.
“...It came with the apartment.” Khaslana rasps, hovering awkwardly in the background. Taking pity on the man, Mydei sets him to work measuring out the portion sizes.
Khaslana is surprisingly apt in the kitchen once he figures out how the various machinery is supposed to work. They make the batter without any problems.
“Can you heat the pan?” he asks absentmindedly, setting the batter on the counter to sit.
In hindsight, leaving Khaslana unsupervised was a mistake. A yelp of pain has Mydei whirling around.
Khaslana cradles his reddening palm, looking at the pan with surprise.
“What did you do?!” Mydei grabs Khaslana’s hand to check for injuries. It doesn’t appear to be anything major, but the heel of the palm was slightly burnt. He quickly turns on the sink and puts Khaslana’s hand under the running water.
“I wanted to check if it was heating up…” Khaslana murmurs, avoiding his gaze.
“So you stuck your hand on the pan?!”
“S-sorry. My ineptitude caused you trouble. I shouldn’t have inconvenienced you with my selfishness. In reparation I will throw myself into the sun…”
“Hey. I’m not mad.” Mydei attempts to ward off Khaslana’s spiraling. “I’m just worried. Your hands are precious, you know. You can’t treat them so lightly.”
Phainon’s hands were a national treasure ever since that one keyboard ad. Those fifteen seconds of HD coverage of Phainon’s fingers awakened thousands of hand kinks worldwide.
“When you use the stove, make sure you always have someone to supervise you. At least until you get used to it.” Mydei lectures, shuddering to think of how close those national treasures came to being ruined.
“Like you?”
“Yeah, like me–” Wait, what? Mydei quickly corrects himself. “...but it might be better to find someone else that you trust. I’m only a housekeeper.”
Khaslana doesn’t say anything, but Mydei can feel his stare boring into the side of his face. He awkwardly turns away. “Keep your hand under the water. I–I’m going to check on the batter.”
Mydei spends a minute staring at the batter—which is perfectly fine, sitting on the counter where he left it—and trying to collect himself. Fuck. This is dangerous.
He can’t let himself get attached. Phainon is a national treasure, and Mydei is just a broke student working three part-time jobs to pay rent. Their trajectories were never meant to intersect. After this month, Hyacine would come back and Mydei—and Khaslana—would return to their normal lives.
This was all just temporary.
Mydei couldn’t let himself get attached. For Phainon, and for himself.
The batter flatly stares back at him, decidedly unimpressed with his mental crisis. For some reason, the light golden color makes his mind unwittingly bring up Khaslana’s blank stare—aaand Mydei was stopping there. He tears his eyes away, moving to heat up the pan properly.
“Can I stop now?” Khaslana suddenly asks, still obediently holding his hand under the water. Shit. Mydei almost forgot.
Technically, first-degree burns were supposed to be nursed for ten to fifteen minutes. “Not yet. Do you have a first-aid kit?”
“There might be one in the bathroom.”
Mydei retrieves the first-aid kit, digging out some burn salve and bandages. He puts them by the sink. “Here.”
He pours the batter on the pan while Khaslana applies the salve and attempts, unsuccessfully, to put on the bandages with one hand. After three attempts, Mydei can’t bear to watch anymore.
“Let me do it.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Stop apologizing, you have nothing to be sorry about.”
“Sorry…”
Mydei decides Khaslana’s horrifying self-esteem issues are a problem for later. He’s not giving up, it’s a strategic retreat.
Khaslana offers his hand. Mydei unwinds the loosely wrapped bandages and rewraps them as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the fact that he’s holding Phainon’s hand.
Fuck. He is shit at this “stay detached” thing.
Khaslana watches quietly from the side as Mydei goes back to the stove. He squints at the honeycake, gauging the batter, which is slowly turning into a bronze tone.
He deftly slips a spatula under the batter and flips the honeycake in one practiced motion.
Next to him, Khaslana makes a sound. When Mydei glances over, he’s staring at the honeycake. Khaslana’s face is expressionless, but if Mydei squints hard, he almost sees a puppy tail wagging in wonder—no, stop it.
He coughs. “Sorry. I would offer to let you try flipping them, except…” he gestures at Khaslana’s bandaged hand.
Khaslana’s golden eyes flick from the honeycake to Mydei’s face. “It’s okay. I like watching.”
“I’ll leave the rest of the batter in the fridge and you can try to make them when your hand heals.” Mydei says. Hopefully, Khaslana will eat them for breakfast or something. Kephale knows he needs some food.
Mydei quickly finishes the honeycake and makes another for good measure. He plates them and drizzles a perfect grid pattern over the bronze cake before topping it off with a handful of berries. (No, he’s not trying to impress Khaslana. He’s just showing that he can make better honeycakes than a fucking Threads account.)
“Here. Eat up.” Mydei says, setting the plate on the living room table.
“Thank you.” Khaslana murmurs. His eyes light up on the first bite, and Mydei mumbles out some excuse about cleaning before making his escape.
Later, when Mydei is making a plate of honeycakes in the privacy of his own kitchen, he lets himself reflect on the past three weeks.
It feels like a dream. Getting to meet his idol, being in close proximity with him, making food together as if they weren’t normally worlds apart.
But it was just that—a dream. Something fragile and transient, built on the façade that Khaslana was a normal person and Mydei had the right to get close to him like that.
Anyway, Mydei thinks as he flips the honeycake, the entire thing was based on a lie in the first place. Their entire relationship began when Mydei had denied knowing that Khaslana was Phainon.
Lying had never sat well with him. It was dishonorable, and although Mydei was no longer his father’s son, he was still raised to bear himself with pride.
Next week was the last week he’d be working as Phainon’s housekeeper. I’ll tell him then, Mydei decides, ruthlessly suppressing the disappointment that he feels at the thought. Then, even if I’m a disgraceful fan, Khaslana will never have to see me again.
The jingle of keys in the door jolts him out of his thoughts. Gorgo must be home early. There’s some shuffling as she sheds her heels in the entranceway and steps into the apartment.
“Mother,” Mydei greets. “Food will be ready soon.”
She smiles, a little worn and tired but warm nonetheless, and ruffles his hair. “That smells good, Mydeimos. Are we having honeycakes for dinner tonight? What brought this on?”
Mydei shrugs, pasting on a look of indifference. “They’re easy to make.”
Gorgo sighs. “That’s true. You work too hard, Mydeimos.”
He can hear the underlying guilt and exhaustion embedded in those words. Mydei shakes his head, looking her in the eyes. “I’m part of this family too. It’ll be dishonorable to let you carry all the burden alone.”
“My little lion.” Gorgo says, tenderly, regretfully. Mydei’s skin prickles.
He gently shoves her towards the bathroom. “Go wash up, I’ll be done in a few minutes.”
“As bossy as a lion, too.”
Mydei flushes. “Mother!”
Gorgo’s laughter follows her out of the kitchen. Mydei shakes his head, but when he plates the honeycakes, he’s smiling.
Mydei forces himself to look Khaslana in the eyes when he says it.
“I know you’re Phainon.”
The past two hours went by with the veneer of normalcy. They went through the routine that Mydei had unconsciously got used to during the last three weeks. Khaslana had saved the batter from last week, Mydei taught Khaslana how to flip the honeycakes, then he cleaned the apartment. They were now sitting at the living room table, a syrup-sticky plate between them.
Khaslana blinks, but before he can say anything, Mydei continues.
“I’m actually a huge fan of yours. I–I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so I pretended not to know you. But I wanted to say,” Mydei resists the urge to glance away from Khaslana’s blank stare, “–that I support you no matter what. And you should have more faith in yourself. And I’m sorry for lying.”
Silence. Mydei lets his gaze drop to the honey stains on the plate. He feels ready to crawl out of his skin.
“I think I always knew.” Khaslana finally says. “You were pretty obvious, that first day.”
Mydei groans. At least he tried.
“I just didn’t want to believe it.” Khaslana’s voice does something, dips lower, “Everyone wants ‘Phainon’ to be perfect and charming. When I went on Chrysos Heir!, I crafted Phainon to be the ideal person. The idol that everyone can look up to. Whenever anyone finds out that I’m… me… it’s an inevitable disappointment.”
Mydei looks up, ready to refute the fact that Khaslana could ever be a disappointment, but is struck by the man’s expression.
It’s unlike any of Phainon’s broad, sunshine grins or even Khaslana’s own shy, hesitant smiles. It’s a rueful tip of the mouth, betrayed by the quiet, helpless fear in those golden eyes.
Like this, Khaslana looks… vulnerable.
Human, in a way Phainon’s stage-perfect persona never revealed, or Khaslana’s own blankness—even in moments of spiraling depression—never belied.
“When I met you, I didn’t want to believe it. The idea that someone could support me… as Khaslana… it scared me.
“But you did.” Khaslana’s voice gets quieter, until Mydei strains to hear. “Thank you.”
Struck dumb, Mydei can only gape for a moment before he collects himself.
“Y–yeah. Of course. People shouldn’t look down on you just because of who you are on your own time. You’re… you’re pretty amazing, Khaslana. All of your fans think so.”
Mydei shuts up before he can ramble further. He stands and starts collecting his things.
“I should go now.”
“Wait,” Khaslana trails him to the door. “You said you’re a fan. The concert in two weeks… will you be there?”
Surprised, Mydei glances back at Khaslana. The man is staring at him with his typical blank expression, but there’s a certain anticipation in his posture.
“Uh, yeah. I’ll be there.”
Khaslana smiles, shy, hesitant. “I’ll do my best, then.”
Mydei’s heart skips a beat. “Y–yeah.”
He quickly fumbles his way out the door. It closes with a click behind him.
Mydei takes a deep breath, rubbing at his chest as if to assuage the sudden bittersweet pressure.
That’s that, then.
Later that night, huddled in his room, Mydei rewatches old Phainon interview highlights and attempts to forget about the past month.
The shining Phainon on the screen—that was Mydei’s idol. Developing personal attachments—even to gloomy, blank, human Khaslana—was a one-way route to heartbreak.
I should just forget about it.
Mydei stares blankly as the interviewer asks a question. “What would you say is your dream, Phainon?”
He remembers this interview. Taken after his win on Chrysos Heir!, it was a classic among Phainon fans.
The Phainon on screen smiles. Even in a plain shirt and sweating slightly, he’s dazzling.
“My dream? My dream is to deliver everyone else’s dreams to them!”
That. That statement was clipped thousands of times. Phainon fans, weeping at their idol’s selflessness and purity, coined Phainon with the nickname “Deliverer.”
Phainon, the Deliverer of dreams. A man so selfless, so good, that his deepest wish was making others smile. Mydei couldn’t keep such a person to himself.
Mydei takes a deep breath and tries to convince himself to let go.
“Mydei? You’ve been kind of spacing out all day.”
Mydei blinks at Castorice’s concern, before mustering up a smile. “It’s nothing. I just can’t believe we’re here, you know? Going to see Phainon in-person.”
Castorice brightens up at that, waving her fan sign around. It’s a cute cartoon puppy, with white fur and blue eyes. “Right?! I have to take lots of photos for Polyxia. She’s so sad she couldn’t come.”
Polyxia, Castorice’s sister. Mydei remembers. Castorice had briefly mentioned near the start of their friendship that she had a younger sister suffering from a chronic illness.
Looking around, the crowded and blinding stage probably wouldn’t be a good place for a sick person. No wonder she couldn’t come.
“You’ll have to introduce me someday.” Mydei says.
Castorice looks briefly surprised, before smiling. “Of course! She’s super talented, and just as much of a Phainon stan as we are! This sign is her artwork.”
Mydei appraises the sign with new eyes. He’d thought it looked very good even from the beginning, but upon reevaluation he can really see the effort put into it. From the puppy’s lolling smile to the fluffy cowlick in the perfect imitation of Phainon’s hair, it was evident that the artist truly cared about her work and the subject.
“Do you want a photo?” Mydei offers, intending to snap a picture of Castorice and the sign.
“Good idea!”
Contrary to his expectations, Castorice gestures for him to lean in for a selfie. Mydei hesitates for a moment before he complies, awkwardly scooting closer and holding up his own sign. It’s nothing compared to Polyxia’s work, a shoddy white sign with “DELIVERER” scrawled on it in huge blue letters, but he couldn't come empty-handed.
Click.
Mydei doesn't know a lot about selfie-taking, but the photo turns out well enough. Castorice excitedly texts her sister about it.
They wait for a while longer, and the concert soon begins.
The wave of cheers when Phainon steps on stage nearly deafens Mydei. He can’t help but get caught up in the excitement, the hundreds of fans screaming at the sight of their favorite idol.
See, Phainon? We all support you.
For his own part, Mydei waves his sign in welcome and soon lets himself be entranced by the show.
If this was two months ago, Mydei would be awe-struck to see Phainon in-person. He’s dazzling, a shining sun under the stage lights. His movements are sharp and practiced as he dances, and his voice is captivating when he sings his new album's discography. His smile is brilliant, even if Mydei and Castorice are sitting some distance away from the stage in the cheaper seats.
Mydei is still awed, of course, but a part of him can't help but worry. Is Phainon eating enough? Has he tried to make the honeycakes again and hurt himself? Is he doing okay?
But it’s no longer his place to worry.
Mydei can’t help the bittersweet expression that floats onto his face.
Goodbye, Khaslana.
It’s soon intermission. Mydei scrubs at the sweat on his face. Castorice is not much better, panting with exertion from waving her sign in the air the entire time.
“I’ll get some water for us.”
“Okay!” Castorice agrees. “I’ll wait for you here.”
Mydei squeezes his way to the exit, making use of his bulk and height to push past the crowd.
He wanders the venue, searching for a concessions stand. He could've sworn he saw one at the entrance.
Suddenly, someone grabs his bicep.
Mydei shouts in surprise, but before he can do anything the person pulls him into a nearby room.
“What the fuck?!” Mydei growls, turning on his assailant. But his anger soon drops into surprise.
“Phainon?!”
“Mydei…” The man in question says. His bangs are still shining with sweat, and he’s in his stage outfit. A towel is draped around his shoulders. His eyes are blue.
Before, Mydei had thought seeing golden eyes in Phainon’s face was strange. Now, he can’t quite get used to the sky-blue where he’s used to seeing gold.
Mydei quickly snaps out of his trance.
“What are you doing? Don’t you have a performance?!”
“You didn’t come.”
“Huh?”
“Last week. You didn’t come.” Phainon—no, Khaslana?—steps closer. Mydei steps back, but he hits the door.
“Well, yeah…” Mydei tries to sound normal. “Hyacine’s back from her break, so she’s in charge of your housekeeping.”
“There was no one to teach me how to cook. Or make sure that I was flipping the honeycakes right. Didn’t you say I should only use the stove under supervision?” Khaslana murmurs. It’s disconcerting, seeing Khaslana’s blank, slightly aggrieved expression on Phainon’s face, hearing his quiet tone from Phainon’s mouth.
“S–sorry. But there’s other people—”
Khaslana wraps his arms around Mydei.
Mydei freezes. What the fuck.
Was this a hug? Were they hugging? Why was Khaslana—Phainon—hugging Mydei? Was he expected to hug him back?
“You said you’d support me.” Khaslana’s breath tickles Mydei’s neck, “Support me by my side.”
Mydei’s mouth opens and closes.
His brain has officially stopped working.
“Okay?” Khaslana’s arms tighten around him.
“Okay! Okay.” Mydei automatically yelps, if only to regain his personal space. Thankfully, Khaslana steps back afterwards, and Mydei’s thought processes come back online.
Khaslana is smiling, soft and self-satisfied.
A single thought surfaces in Mydei’s head.
Fuck. I’m in too deep now.