Chapter Text
Being a supermodel wasn’t easy.
Nobody said it was, but Phainon often rehearsed the line in his head to bring some semblance of sanity back to his mind. It gave him the chance to argue with a wall after an exhausting day of being on his feet, crowded into a foreign five-star hotel wearing a soft robe and stinking of several different perfumes, diminished by jet lag and dreading the fact that he had to do it all over again the next day.
To say he disliked it would be a lie—he would never have risen to fame status if he had. Truthfully, it was a mild annoyance at times and a blessing on a random Tuesday. The people he met were awesome: celebrities, red-carpet actors, top musicians, the CEO of the luxury brand he would be styling for an ad campaign. Meeting fans was a hit or a miss; most were respectful—brimming with excitement, but respectful nonetheless—but others could be unsettling and obsessive. Once in Paris, he and his mother agent, Aglaea, had been stopped by a group who recognized him. He shook a girl’s hand and she said something in French. As he did not speak French, Aglaea had told him once they arrived at the hotel that the girl had sworn she’d never wash that hand again.
All he could respond with was a startled, “Oh.”
His head vibrated against the window of the car as it sped down the I-15, his tired eyes too heavy to properly appreciate the spectacle of Las Vegas. He’d only landed about an hour ago, barely able to walk after enduring an eleven hour flight from Athens to New York where he stayed for the night before being rushed back onto another plane and endured another five hours to land in Nevada. To say he was exhausted was an understatement—he was ready to have his will written.
There was one positive to come out of this. He was allowed a refractory period of two days—really, two days?—before he was scheduled to film an advertisement for some accessible luxury brand that he couldn’t remember the name of. Luckily, he had an estate in Nevada and a dear friend who’d offered to prepare it while he was gone and, additionally, watch his dog. Oh, how he missed Snowy.
The car lurched forward with a long honk so suddenly that Phainon didn’t have time to brace, his cheek colliding hard with the back of the driver's seat.
“Apologizes, Mr. Khaslana,” said the driver through gritted teeth as the model groaned behind him. “These motorcyclists think they own the road.”
Phainon winced as he straightened up, rubbing his cheek just in time to see a black-clad motorcyclist a few feet in front of their car, attempting to force himself between two SUVs. The driver gave one more honk for good measure; the cyclist glanced over his shoulder at them before throwing up a time-saving gesture with his middle finger and sped off.
“How cheerful,” Phainon muttered.
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“Are you sure you can handle it yourself, Mr. Khaslana?” asked the driver, watching helplessly as Phainon struggled yet determinedly wrestled his enormous suitcase out of the trunk with a crossbody bag strangling his neck and a backpack tearing his shoulders apart.
“I am quite sure. Thank you. You were an excellent guide,” Phainon panted. The suitcase wheels finally landed on the pavement; he leaned against it, catching his breath. Surely Aglaea hadn’t packed this much stuff for him? Was she trying to send him off to war?
The driver watched him for a moment longer before nodding and stepping back inside the car, starting the ignition while Phainon pulled his luggage up the driveway to the estate, a sleek and modern mansion in Summerlin that overlooked the distant city, now lit up with explosions of color and neon lights. If he was in his right mind, he would’ve dropped everything and ran down there as fast as he could.
But the only thing that was on his mind was his bed and his dog.
The coolness of the foyer was a blessing against the sweltering desert heat. Even at night, the temperature remained in the low hundreds. Phainon submitted to the AC kissing his skin, sighing in relief—finally, home!
It wasn’t long before he heard the rapid tapping of claws against hardwood floors and the insistent, happy barks that echoed across the house. Snowy was already barreling into his legs, jumping against his chest, and licking his face before Phainon could even announce his presence.
“Snowy—ah! Down, boy! Down!” The Samoyed happily ignored the command and instead sniffed him all over, growing more excited at all the new scents he’d discovered. It took Phainon having to force the dog into a sitting position just so he could take a second and remove clumps of white fur from his mouth. He kneeled, cupping the fluffy face with his hands and shaking it gently. “Did you miss me? Were you a good boy for Miss Cipher? I hope so.”
“The goodest,” said a voice from the stairs. “Totally didn’t tear up your pillow case.”
Cipher stood on the stairs landing, her hand sifting through a bag of chips she’d stolen from the pantry. She looked utterly in her element, wearing a large baggy T-shirt that Phainon recognized as one of his own, long basketball shorts (also his own), gray hair notably untamed as if she’d just woken up.
Phainon huffed. “You look comfortable.”
“I’ve never been more comfortable in my life,” she said, descending the rest of the stairs, licking chip dust off her fingers. “Considering a roommate anytime soon? I’m always open.”
“I’m already surrounded by people day and night. Home means alone time,” he chuckled. When she advanced closer, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug. “How was it? Snowy didn’t cause you too much trouble, did he?”
She shook her head against his shoulder before they parted. “Nah. It was nothing. Had him get all his energy out in the morning so I wouldn’t go crazy for the rest of the day. But enough about that.” She looked him up and down with a scrutinizing brow. “You look terrible.”
Phainon laughed tiredly, running a hand through his hair. He hadn’t realized how unkept it was; he blamed the hoodie he’d draped over his head and unceremoniously passed out while on the plane. “I feel a second away from death.”
“You can’t die yet!” she exclaimed. “We still have tomorrow to look forward to.”
Lost, he blinked. “...What’s happening tomorrow?”
“Jesus, you truly are on the edge of death,” Cipher noted. “Especially if you can’t remember your own birthday.”
Was it his birthday? He could’ve sworn it was later in the month.
Oh, no. Now he remembered. He’d called his parents last week to inform them that he wouldn’t be in the country to celebrate with their yearly family dinner, and Aglaea had given him a cupcake with a candle in it sometime in the last few days. So she knew I wouldn’t have enough energy on the actual day.
As if reading his worries, Cipher punched him lightly in the shoulder with a grin. “Here. I’ll make it up to you. A café opened since you’ve been gone. Cassie visited it a few days ago—said it was spectacular! The best coffee and treats she’s ever had! I’ll buy you as much as you want. My treat.”
For the first time since he’d departed from Athens, Phainon saw a light at the end of the tunnel. Treats, coffee—luxuries in his eyes! A strict diet had been imposed upon him the second he signed his contract: healthy, nutritious meals everyday and one cheat day (it could hardly be called such; he was maybe allowed a mini cup of ice cream before he was being scolded for ‘neglecting his looks’). He had been completely barred from coffee because apparently it would spike his anxiety, but he didn’t know how much of that was true. He was depressed by tea and the innumerable amounts of flavors it came in.
Feeling as if he were about to float off the ground from pure euphoria, Phainon took her shoulders. “I owe you my life. I mean it. Whatever you want, you can have it.”
She laughed lightheartedly. “Don’t mention it. I’ll revoke my offer if you keep looking at me like that. Just call me at whatever time you wake up tomorrow and I’ll swing by.” She knelt, ruffling Snowy’s fur. “Goodbye, you horrible, fat boy.”
“He is not fat.”
She shrugged. “Can’t really tell beneath that coat.”
They exchanged their final goodbye’s for the night before Cipher walked out the door, and Phainon had realized too late that she hadn’t given back his clothes nor the chip bag. Knowing her, she never would. Too exhausted to care, Phainon dragged his bags upstairs and collapsed in bed without even changing into something more comfortable.
Finally, silence. He melted into the comfort of his own bed, Snowy quickly plopping down beside him with a gruff. The AC hummed like a lullaby in the night, and before he knew it, he was falling into a much-needed slumber.
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It was nearly noon by the time Phainon tumbled out of bed, body weary yet gratefully rested. He knew Cipher would be patient, but he showered as fast as possible and tore through his closet for an outfit that both hid his identity but refrained from making him an object of suspicion. He landed on a blue and white windbreaker jacket, black sweat pants, a pair of worn-out sneakers he hadn’t worn since college, and a basic cap to hide his noteworthy white hair. To top it off, he plucked his prescription glasses off the bedside table and slipped those on as well, though he much preferred contact lenses.
A horn honked outside shortly after he texted Cipher that he was ready. The Nevada heat was thick already. He hurried into the passenger seat.
“Oh, thank god,” sighed Cipher from behind the wheel.
He cocked a brow. “What? Is there something on my face?”
“No. I just had a nightmare that you’d pull up in that horrible color combo we always see you in. I don’t care if it's your birthday—I will make you walk.”
Phainon rolled his eyes and scoffed. “You guys just don’t understand fashion! Remind me who the model here is—me or you? Hm?”
“You always pull out the model card when you know you’re wrong.”
“I do not!”
“Do.”
The cafe was a rustic little building, the interior walls inlaid with concrete and brick, pipes running across the ceiling with exposed lightbulb fixtures glowing a soothing yellow. The bar was placed in the very center, and already Phainon could see dozens of enticing pastries stored inside the display cases, smell the aroma of coffee brewing at a tantalizing distance.
“Reservation for Cifera,” Cipher said as they approached the hostess stand. As far as he could see, mostly every table was occupied. Waiters flocked the floor, flawlessly carrying steaming trays.
The hostess searched the name on her computer, and when she raised her eyes to ask them to follow her, her gaze landed on Phainon and lingered for several heartbeats. Immediately, he averted his attention, suddenly entranced by a potted yellow flower by the wall.
“O-Of course. Right this way, please,” she strained and led them onto the floor.
When Phainon was certain she was out of earshot, he whispered frantically, “She knows.”
“Of course, she knows,” Cipher responded, walking with an air of calm that made Phainon almost envious. She shot him a look over her shoulder. “I already paid for the reservation. You are not flaking out on me now.”
The hostess led them to a special seating arrangement; it looked almost like a greenhouse that sat behind the bar itself, but the interior was filled with round tables and a small lounging area in the back, adorned with plush couches, a TV, and magazine racks. Tangles of vines draped from the ‘greenhouse’’s structural supports, fairy lights weaving through the leaves.
“Your waiter will be right with you.” The hostess bowed, her eyes lingering once more on Phainon’s face before she hurried off. He watched her through the glass, stomach knotting as she went straight to her co-workers.
Perhaps he should’ve tried harder with the outfit. He could’ve pretended to be deathly ill just to have an excuse to wear a mask indoors.
As if sensing his distress, Cipher kicked him lightly under the table and leaned back in her chair. “So,” she said. “Tell me about your European adventures. I want all the juicy details.”
He recapped as they waited—unbearable flights and unreasonable hours, long shifts spent on his feet, constantly having to redo takes until the commercial directors deemed it perfect, all while speaking in languages he couldn’t understand. The first three days, he shot ad campaigns for Hermès, Louis Vuitton, Dolce & Gabbana. Thursday was for runway shows. Friday, he finally got a break, only having an interview scheduled that would be published by ELLE Magazine, but by that time, his answers were short and clipped, covered by faux energy.
It wasn’t all bad, though. If he wasn’t completely worn out during the day, he’d slip on a casual disguise and run a muck in a foreign city like an overexcited puppy without a leash. He’d indulged in so many gourmet dinners with Aglaea that he had to wash his system out with junk and products bought from a local grocery store just to feel like himself again.
Cipher nodded casually as she listened. At the beginning of their friendship, the mere mention of styling for luxury designers was enough to make her gawk, but she’d gotten so used to it now that it sounded more like he was naming off his shopping list rather than walking a dream path that countless people could only imagine.
“And you’re only here for like, what? Two days?” she asked.
Phainon rested his elbows on the table. “Three, maybe. I’m not too sure. After the advertisement is finished, I may stay longer just because I deserve it.” Leaning his cheek against his palm, he sighed heavily. “I cannot do those flights again.”
Cipher pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Be that as it may, I speak for everyone when I say we feel neglected by your lack of presence! You’re here now—you need to visit Cassie and the others.” Before he could respond, her eyes were already shining with a new idea. “Oh, I know! What better way of celebrating your birthday than at a club and waking up with a roaring hangover the next morning? Whaddya think?”
“Wait, I thought this was the celebration?” He tapped a finger against the table, suddenly confused.
She lifted an unimpressed brow. “Phainon, who the hell celebrates their birthday at a cafe at eleven AM?”
“Well, I don’t know! You tell me—” he sputtered just as a figure approached their table.
“Good morning. My name is Mydeimos. I will be your waiter today. Can I get you started with any drinks? We currently have a two for ten dollar deal—”
Phainon stopped listening after the second sentence, his mind unable to focus on anything other than the man’s face—olive-toned skin, a nose cut from marble, a blonde, mane-like hairstyle that fanned over his shoulders and brushed against his cheeks. The tips, dyed a dark red, clashed aesthetically with the pink apron he was wearing—and, god, was that apron fighting against a broad chest.
“Phainon.”
He blinked rapidly, the immersion fading. “Sorry, what?”
Cipher gestured to the waiter—what was his name again? Phainon had already forgotten—who was staring down at him with expectant eyes, waiting patiently for something. “I can come back if you need a few more minutes to decide,” he said.
“Oh, no! Don’t worry,” Phainon stammered, fumbling for his menu, all too aware of the questioning look Cipher was sending him from across the table. “I’ll just have an oolong tea and, um…a cappuccino. Please.”
The waiter nodded quietly as he wrote the order down in his notebook. Red tattoos snaked around his arms, and Phainon’s eyes traced them until the ink disappeared beneath black latex gloves. “I’ll be back with those shortly.”
As soon as he was just another head in the crowd, Cipher rocked backwards in her chair. “What the hell was that?”
“What was what?”
“That,” she enunciated. “You were totally staring at his rack!”
To that, Phainon choked. He absolutely was not! It wasn’t his fault the waiter had a killer physique. Quickly, he pushed his glasses further up his nose. “He does not have a—a rack!”
She raised her brows and scoffed. “Dude, trust me—he has a rack. Might even be bigger than mine. Maybe when he comes back around, we can compare—”
Phainon hid his face in his hands, feeling heat creep up his neck. “We are absolutely not doing that.”
“He’s at least a C cup.”
“Cipher!”
In an attempt to preserve his dignity, Phainon hastily changed the topic, and soon enough, the handsome waiter was pushed to the back of his mind. Cipher filled him in on what he’s missed while traveling. She worked as a croupier at one of the major casinos on the Strip and always had a handful of enticing stories (“This dude swallowed, like, four chips while I wasn’t looking. They had to wheel him out on a stretcher.”), and as interesting as they were, his brain could only process bits and pieces of them. His train of thought was quickly occupied once Mydeimos came back into view from behind the bar, strong arms carefully holding a metal cup of milk beneath the steam wand and rotating it slowly. Phainon watched with renewed attention as the barista grabbed a cloth and wiped the rod clean, up and down, gloved fingers curling around the length—
Oh, my god.
“And then last Friday….movie date….spilled popcorn all over herself—”
Mydeimos tightened a frosting bag, his hip pressing against the counter as he bent over a half-decorated cake. He tucked a strand of blonde hair behind his ear before squeezing the bag, laser focused as he wrote. The midday sun cast a warm blanket over the cafe, and dots of sunlight glowed against his tan skin.
Phainon had realized too late that Cipher had fallen silent. He ripped his gaze away from the bar, only to find her staring quietly at him.
“I-I’m sorry. What were you saying?” he asked apologetically, sitting straighter in his chair. Was she mad about his lack of attention? Now he’d done it—she’d done something sweet for him out of the kindness of her heart and he didn’t even have the span to listen to her.
She narrowed her eyes methodically before, very slowly, leaning forward until their faces were nearly touching, fingers laced under her chin.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said casually, gaze drifting to the bar just as a mischievous grin plastered itself on her face. “What’s got your attention is far more interesting.”
Now they were both watching the waiter; Phainon dipped his cap slightly over his eyes so that it wasn’t too obvious he was staring. Cipher nodded silently at whatever she was thinking about, probably assessing if Mydeimos’ chest was actually larger than hers or not. She sucked in a breath as they watched him gather three drinks on a tray.
“Shit, he’s coming back,” she cursed, then stammered, “Ask for his number.”
“What? I can’t do that—its too sudden!” he whisper-yelled. The thought made him nauseous; he could barely order a coffee without fumbling. If he asked for his number, he’d probably fall out of his chair and break a tooth on the table.
Cipher rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. I forgot, you’re a wimp.” Mydeimos neared closer, weaving himself through the crowd to the greenhouse structure. “Okay, uh—a compliment! Give him a compliment!”
“Like what?”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t flirt with guys,” she responded.
Phainon’s mouth worked, but there was no time to argue. Mydeimos was next to them once more, meticulously setting down both the oolong tea and the cappuccino, middle finger holding both handles, and then a vanilla latte for Cipher. Digging his notebook out of his pocket, he clicked his pen. “Will you be having any pastries today?”
The two exchanged a fast glance; they’d been so distracted that food wasn’t even on their minds. “Just a slice of quiche for me, please,” smiled Cipher lightheartedly.
Mydeimos nodded blankly as his pen moved, then glanced up at Phainon. “And you?”
Phainon was slightly taken aback at the sight of the warm lighting casting spidery shadows down Mydeimos’ cheekbones before he realized he was being spoken to. “Oh, uhm. Just an order of suncakes for me, please.” Right, because that's why he ordered tea as well. Totally not as a panic mechanism.
When Mydeimos bent his head to write once more, this time there was a small, almost unnoticeable smile on his face. “Good choice,” he muttered, and Phainon found himself straightening his posture like a dog coming to heel.
The waiter tucked the pen into his breast pocket and turned to leave. Phainon felt a sharp kick against his shin. Oh, right.
“One moment,” he stammered, his clammy hand gripping the table edge. Curiously, Mydeimos looked back with a slight tilt of his head, braid brushing his cheek. Phainon had the most inexplicable urge to touch it, to feel the texture of the hair beneath his fingertips.
Stop it. That’s weird.
There were simply too many things he could compliment him on until his overwhelmed brain finally settled on, “I like your body.”
Because that was the truth—Mydeimos had a killer physique! Those arms looked like they could crush melons, and he could see the figure of his pectorals through his apron. How much did he lift, Phainon wondered. How many reps? Was he on a special protein diet? If not already a gym god, he believed the man could surely succeed as a model. He had the face for it and…other attributes.
But apparently the others didn’t seem to agree. A heartbeat later, Phainon felt a hot stab of realization as he watched Mydeimos’ face fall, how that handsome smile faltered into something resembling discomfort. He heard Cipher’s elbow hit the table as her hand covered her mouth.
“Oh, my god. Wait a second—” Phainon stammered in horror just as Mydeimos’ eyes darted around the area, looking for an exit. “That is—no, I worded that wrong—”
“Those pastries will be out in a moment.” Mydeimos’ gaze lingered on him for an impossibly long second before looking him up and down, the corner of his lip twitching—was that disgust?—before he turned on his heel and made a beeline back to the bar.
The silence that stretched over the table was infinite, disturbed only by the “soothing” jazz that played over the cafe’s speakers.
Cipher was rubbing her forehead. “Phainon…”
“No.” His glasses lifted to his hairline as he hid his face in his hands, face burning with more shame than he’s ever felt in his entire life. What was he thinking? ‘I like your body’? Who says that?!
“Remind me to never be seen with you in public ever again. I’m going to the bathroom,” Cipher said as she hurriedly grabbed her bag.
Phainon lunged desperately across the table and grabbed her wrist as she stood. “Cifera, no. Please. Don’t leave me alone—”
She wriggled out of his grasp and suddenly burst out laughing so loud that the table beside them glanced over. “Oh, my god! That was—I’m sorry, I can’t keep it together. Yeah, hold on. I’ll text you.”
Phainon watched her go in mortification, finally sinking deep into his chair and puffing his hoodie up around his cheeks. This was really bad, not only for his self-esteem, but also that nagging ‘what-if’. What if Mydeimos did actually recognize him? What if he went online about this and told the world that Phainon was actually a creep that made a weird, pervy comment towards him at his own workplace? What if Aglaea saw it? Would she drop him? His sponsors? His platforms?
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He had half the mind to ignore it, already knowing exactly what Cipher had to say, but eventually pulled it out, shielding the screen with his arm from passerbys.
[11: 34 AM] C: Girl wtf
[11: 34 AM] C: that was BAD
[11: 34 AM ]C: like…REALLY bad.
[11: 35 AM] P: You think I don’t know that? You said give him a compliment!
[11:35 AM] C: I MEANT COMPLIMENT HIS HAIR OR SMTH, NOT SOME PERVERT SHOT AT HIS CHEST
[11:35 AM] C: I’m not coming out of this stall until you apologize to him. I’m srs.
[11: 37 AM] C: this random girl in here also agrees that you fumbled badly
[11:37 AM] P: STOP TELLING PPL???
Eventually, Cipher stopped responding to his desperate messages pleading for her help, her last response being a fifty-dollar Apple Pay donation. At least she wasn’t so embarrassed that she wouldn’t pay for their meal.
It took several minutes for Phainon to chalk up the courage to even get up out of his seat, another three to wander into the bar line. He feigned nonchalance, certain it would ease the dreaded panic that only dug deeper in his chest every time he saw a brief flash of Mydeimos, but his sweaty hands shook within his pockets. He’d met millionaires, dined with the CEOs of the world’s highest luxury brands, faced exhaustion-induced panic attacks in his changing rooms just minutes before he was meant to walk the runway, and yet apologizing for an accidentally creepy comment was the scariest thing Phainon had ever had to do.
Mydeimos was working the register when Phainon awkwardly shuffled to the front. He was tearing a spare receipt in half when he looked up and saw him, his expression wavering for barely a second before neutralizing once more. “Those pastries should be finished at any moment,” he said.
“About that. It’s not an issue if you could put them in a to-go bag instead? Something came up,” laughed Phainon, painfully aware of how pitched his own voice sounded.
“Not an issue.” Mydeimos shook his head. He grabbed a pair of tongs, opened one of the many wall ovens, and removed a steaming slice of quiche. The smell was salivating as Mydeimos pushed both brown paper bags across the counter towards Phainon. “Will it be cash or card?”
Phainon stammered, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Uhm, card. Hey, listen—”
“It’s ready.”
He held his phone screen up to the card reader until it beeped, finally seeing his chance as Mydeimos tapped away on the computer screen. “Hey, uh…I want to apologize for earlier. About what I said about your body. It came out completely wrong and—”
A light chuckle from Mydeimos made him stop in his tracks. “You’re fine. I understood what you meant.”
“You did?” The word astonished couldn’t even come close to what he felt in that moment. A major weight lifted off his chest in seconds. “Oh, what a relief! It’s just that you look like you work out and your physique is, like, very impressive. I wanted to compliment you but I sorta panicked and, yeah. I just didn’t want you to think I was some sort of weirdo or something.”
“That’s debatable,” muttered Mydeimos under his breath.
Unsure if he heard him correctly, Phainon leaned forward. “I’m sorry?”
“I asked if you’d like your receipt.”
“Yeah, sure.”
The printing machine hummed for a moment before the receipt slipped out. Mydeimos ripped it, but instead of handing it over immediately, he took his pen and scribbled something on it first. “Have a good day.”
“Yes, you too!” Phainon responded cheerfully, grabbing the bags and the receipt before slipping out the door. His heart thumped happily with relief—problem solved! No damage done!
He hastily texted Cipher to come out of the bathroom, and a heartbeat later she was at his side, snatching her bag of quiche and the receipt from his hands. “You did it? You didn’t fumble this time?”
Phainon puffed out his chest proudly as they walked back to her car. “Zero issues. And even better—he understood what I was trying to get across. In your face.”
Cipher shook her head in disbelief, eyes roving over the payment, chewing her food as she spoke. “Yeah, no. I don’t believe that for a second—” And suddenly she stopped, quiche crumbs falling from the corner of her mouth as she stared at the paper.
“Is something wrong? Did he overcharge you?” Phainon asked, leaning over her shoulder and narrowing his eyes. He saw what had surprised her so much.
Scribbled at the bottom of the receipt was Mydeimos’ phone number.