Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The limousine moved as gracefully as it always did, gliding over the pavement and through the traffic like a polished, ebony snake. Elegant and designed to grab the attention of any passerby, it was a fitting way for a star to travel.

His driver was a professional. Slow turns, no speeding. Driving delicate enough to allow makeup touch-ups, if need be. There was never need for it, of course, but the option was there. Though honestly... it was laughable. The very idea of it. As if Andrealphus would ever allow himself to leave his penthouse with makeup anything less than flawless. He was always perfectly put-together. Perfection was his brand.

Inside the vehicle, the AC blared. Andrealphus didn't do well with heat. He sweat far too easily, it soured his mood, and generally made living unbearable. Naturally, Andrealphus, being Andrealphus, had turned a personal quirk into yet another brand thing. His personal touch, his trademark. A cornerstone of his image.

Ice.

A cool, serene smile, the expression equivalent of cotton candy. Tasty, but in the end, empty calories. Baby blue highlights in his pale blonde hair, poking out shyly out of curls too perfect to be natural. Matching nails. Outfits favoring cold blues and flawless, brilliant whites. He'd chosen to go monochrome today, with a thin, sleeveless sweater of pure white. Black, heeled sandals, and a matching skirt. Silver bracelets. The only splash of color was a creamy, short coat, more decoration than anything of substance.

Andrealphus leaned further into the leather seats, breathing in the scent of lavender. He kept the cabin perfumed. Leather had that scent to it that set his nerves on fire. Pleasant, but simply not his thing. He much preferred flowers.

The model fished his phone out of his handbag, like he always did during drives. Brief moments between jobs were the best time for checking what the world thought of him. And the world always had opinions aplenty to offer.

This week's titles were kind to Andrealphus. He scrolled through them languidly, soaking up the praise like a proud, haughty songbird.

"The Frost Marquis Dazzles his Way through the Spring Season."

"Andrealphus Marquette Stuns at the Morningstar Gala."

"What Could Be Next for the Fashion Industry's Favorite Darling?"

It went on and on. Tabloids. Glossy fashion magazines. News. Andrealphus was everywhere, and there was not a single negative word being said about him.

A public image that intrigued and entranced, but wasn't marred by any stain. In a word, perfection.

Just how he liked it.

Thumbing through his recent accomplishments was a lovely way to ease himself into what would, by far, be the least demanding day of his entire week. Not by choice, mind you. Andrealphus was practically forced to clear his schedule.

His partner was so unreasonable sometimes. Really, Vassago acted as though he wasn't a star himself. As though engagements could simply be cancelled on a whim, for something as trivial as a lazy afternoon.

Truly, the singer was an idiot. But, alas, he was Andrealphus’ idiot. He'd let Vass put a ring on him and everything. It had made global headlines, last year.

Andrealphus had protested clearing his schedule vehemently, but he'd caved in the end, after an hour and a half of bargaining over the phone.

Then, immediately after, he'd made another call and snuck a single, brief interview for a magazine. 8 AM, on the dot. There'd been some pushback from the magazine people about it being so early in the morning, but Andrealphus' agent had taken care of that. The supermodel's time was valuable, and if the Frost Marquis deigned you worthy of it, you either shut up and took what was offered, or you stepped out of the line.

The world had a way of bending to stars. Andrealphus liked that. He'd never gone out of his way to abuse it, but... he liked that. The prestige. The importance. The joy of asking, and being obeyed.

And yet, he'd gone and given Vassago exactly what he'd asked for. Double standards, if he'd ever seen them.

Still, cold as he liked to pretend he was, he couldn't deny that he was excited to see his husband. They'd been apart for a few weeks. Long tour. Those happened occasionally. Sometimes it was the other way around, with Andrealphus taking trips around the globe, chasing the next photoshoot or fashion show.

The model had never wasted much time agonizing over the way they lived. They were both public figures. They knew what their marriage would look like, going into it. Andrealphus was much too focused on his own career to spend every waking moment missing Vassago. He told the singer as much, whenever Vassago thought "his proud peacock was getting too lonely back at home, all alone."

Preposterous. Andrealphus was a perfectly self-sufficient man.

Still, there were moments. Coming home to that sprawling penthouse after a long day, only to be greeted by spotless, glittering walls, sterile furniture, and a cold bed.

Andrealphus preferred cold, but Vassago brought a certain warmth to his life that he could never hate, no matter how theatrically he whined about it.

His lips curved into a small smile on their own accord.

Andrealphus tossed his phone absentmindedly onto the seat beside him, and took to staring out the window. Outside, the streets grew narrower and less busy as the car drifted towards the outskirts. Billboards and skyscrapers grew scarcer, replaced by low-rise buildings and unremarkable stores.

Yes, there really was no denying it.

For all the model postured and complained, he would gladly spend another hour driving to the airport, if it meant seeing his husband there.

*******

The VIP suite, reserved for those who were willing to pay for the sake of privacy, was... serviceable at best, if Andrealphus were to be completely honest. It reeked of trying too hard. It wasn't that far removed from the way the model's own penthouse was decorated. And yet, it was in those subtle differences that it fumbled.

Instead of the pristine whites and grays, the walls were a drab beige. The art pieces, tossed haphazardly around the rooms, looked expensive and not much else. Some abstract attempt at a painting hung above the sofa. It looked more like a scene of a homicide—if the victim had happened to be some purple-blooded alien. A sculpture that seemed to be suffering from a severe identity crisis twisted in several directions at once, as though groping blindly for a helping hand.

Disappointing. The airport needed a better interior designer.

At least the couch was reasonably comfortable. It gave way pleasantly, without feeling like quicksand. The material was soft. It didn't squeak.

It bumped up the suite to a passable 6/10 on the whole, since he was in a good mood.

Although, if Vassago didn't show himself soon, the good mood was sure to curdle into something much more unpleasant.

One perfectly manicured nail tapped against the armrest. A sharp heel clacked against the polished floor as Andrealphus bounced his foot, slow and measured even in fidgeting. He'd gotten over the fact that five different engagements went down the drain for the sake of private catching-up with his husband. It wasn't ideal, but it was a minor sacrifice, all things considered. But sitting around doing nothing, when he knew the plane had landed almost an hour ago? That was just plain annoying.

Vassago was rich. More importantly, he'd talked Andrealphus' ear off during the last three days, complaining about how much he missed his "querido esposo gruñón." Surely then, he could afford to throw some money airport security's way, and persuade them to forgo a few security checks. After all, what was even the point of security checks after the passengers went off the plane? And Vassago was a star. Did they think he was going to throw that life away for—

The door all but burst open. Plastic wheels, ones Andrealphus was very familiar with—attached to that ratty, old suitcase he could never convince his husband to get rid of—whined like a dying cat as they moved across the floor.

"Andre! Mi corazón! Mi gruñón favorito! I've missed you!"

Vassago entered the suite with all the grace of a jack-in-the-box, and all the subtlety of a hand grenade going off.

Hair dyed a shocking red, streaked with gold, had been haphazardly wrangled into a half-collapsing bun. Strands of hair stuck out at random angles, some framing the singer's tanned face, some perked up like antennae. The look screamed "eccentric genius."

The trend carried on through to his fashion sense. Though... calling what he wore "fashion" felt almost insulting, considering Andre's profession.

A button-up slathered in some five different prints. Palm trees, flamingos, sunsets, and, most bizarrely, a single, lonely penguin. All rendered in impressively garish, eye-searingly saturated colors. The singer had paired that disaster with ripped jeans—the pair he'd "adjusted" himself. With a razor. He'd topped it all off with high-top sneakers that somehow managed to look both bedazzled and beat-up, and star-shaped, tinted sunglasses he insisted were his lucky pair, to be taken to every tour, lest his career vanish in a puff of smoke.

There existed no words in the English language sufficient to describe how much the ensemble made Andrealphus' stomach churn.

It didn't matter. He had no time to voice any complaints, either way. Not with Vassago abandoning his suitcase and flinging himself on top of the model like some overexcited golden retriever.

Andrealphus let out an extremely undignified sound, some freak lovechild of a shriek and an "oof," as he was blanketed in husband.

Vassago had the audacity to wriggle around, adjusting to make himself more comfortable. His husband's arms wrapped around Andrealphus' chest, bunching up his sweater. His coat, which he'd delicately perched on his shoulders with aesthetics in mind, was being hopelessly squished between his own back and the couch.

Vassago didn't seem the least bit apologetic, and he knew how much Andrealphus loathed his clothes getting messed up.

"What? No 'welcome back' kiss? Despiadado."

Andrealphus flashed him a scowl that could have wilted flowers. Plastic ones. The singer laughed, deep and honest. Andrealphus felt his chest vibrating softly against his own.

"No pouting." That gentle reprimand was all the warning Vassago gave his husband, before kissing him.

It was a bit messy. Not all that deep either. Just a brief press of their lips against each other. Just enough to smudge his lipstick. Vassago did that on purpose. He liked to taste-test Andrealphus' lipstick, the barbarian.

The model had picked accordingly. Strawberry—his husband's favorite fruit.

Vassago pulled back after a moment, though he made no move to remove himself from Andrealphus.

"I missed you," he mumbled quietly, almost to himself. There was unmistakable fondness in his voice.

Andrealphus returned none of it. "If you don't remove yourself from me in the next five seconds, you'll keep missing me, because you're sleeping on the couch."

"Ayy, not the couch, querido! I swear, you bought that thing just to make guests leave faster!"

Andrealphus blinked, unimpressed. "Then get off."

Vassago made a production out of rolling himself off of him, with a completely unnecessary grunt of effort, paired with theatrically dusting himself off, once he was back on his feet.

"Eres tan fría, mi amor."

Andrealphus sniffed, chin held high, face pointedly turned away from his husband as he sat up. He'd never bothered to formally learn Spanish, but repetition yielded some results nonetheless.

Vassago loved calling him cold. It was his favorite little jab.

"Excuse me for having standards and valuing some semblance of personal space, dear."

The way he said "dear" made it sound more insult than endearment, but they both knew he wasn't truly mad. When Andrealphus was genuinely incensed, it was a spectacle for the masses. Hissing—his partner had dubbed him an apoplectic goose, once—glaring, and making whoever upset him wish they'd never been born.

This was playing. The two were simply reacclimating to one another after a period of absence. Drinking up each other's presence.

Andrealphus wouldn't admit it, but... that warmth only Vassago could light in him thrummed from somewhere behind his ribs. Soft and constant, it pulsed like a second heartbeat.

"You never change, do you, cariño?"

Andrealphus graced his husband with a smile. Not one of those hollow, porcelain things he flashed the cameras. This smile was smaller. Barely more than an upward quirk of the lips. He inclined his head, his baby blue eyes meeting Vassago's large, warm brown ones.

"That's why you keep coming back, isn't it?"

Vassago smiled back at him. A radiant, boyish grin, with too much teeth and too little restraint. "¡No! I come back for you."

An altogether different kind of warmth blossomed behind his pale cheeks. His skin tone hovered in precarious balance between aristocratic and anemic. When Andrealphus blushed, he blushed.

His husband noticed. His smile became cheekier. "So much for El Marqués de Escarcha?" Fingers calloused from years of plucking at guitar strings traced a featherlight line against his cheek. "Look at that blush."

The model swatted his hand away. "Shut up."

Vassago shot him a knowing look. Andrealphus pointedly chose to ignore it. "Let's go already. This paint here is garish."

"You just like complaining, Andre."

The model didn't grace his husband with a vocal reply. All Vassago got was a single, haughty "Hmpf."

Andrealphus did take Vassago's hand, though, when the other man offered it with a flourish and a Prince Charming-esque bow. The singer even went so far as to gently drape Andrealphus' coat—now horribly rumpled—over the model's shoulders like a monarch's cape.

It could have ended at that. It didn't. Andrealphus, despite the fact he would rather drop dead than admit Vassago was right about something... did like to complain. It was one of his favorite pastimes.

He found himself a target in a matter of moments.

"Why did you go through the trouble of dragging that sorry excuse for a suitcase all the way here? I know you had more luggage with you, which you probably left to be packed up, like a responsible adult."

Vassago grinned. "I took this one with me because it's where I stashed the muy importante cargo." The singer waggled his eyebrows, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Andrealphus groaned. No dignity. No posturing. Just pure, annoyed resignation. "You didn't."

His husband's grin could have split his face in half, for how wide it got. "¡Si! Of course I did."

Andrealphus groaned again.

*******

Watching Andre watch him unpack was a spectacle. Truly, the event should have been broadcast on national television. It was a crime that Vassago was the only person entitled to this poetry in motion.

It all came down to the singer's "muy importante cargo," as he'd called it. At first glance, it looked ordinary. Clothes, mostly. A toothbrush. A few towels. Normal things you'd find in a suitcase.

But.

Expecting a but at any moment was a good rule of thumb when Vassago was concerned. He had a... unique way of going through life.

Nestled below—and sometimes wrapped carefully within—those clothes, were ziplocked bags. Small glass jars. Cheap, plastic containers, those disposable ones used for leftovers.

Andre blanched in that muy adorable way of his every time one of them resurfaced. Tiny jars of cumin were pulled from socks, tupperware filled with fresh, organic vegetables unwrapped from button-ups with psychedelic prints, like gifts from under a Christmas tree.

At present, his prissy peacock of a husband was sighing like an ailing emperor surrounded by incapable lackeys. The stiff, white couch served as his sprawling throne. Long, slender fingers worked the bridge of his nose. His icy blue eyes were closed, as though the sight in front of him had grown too horrifying to watch.

"Do we really have to go through this every time you come back from a tour, Vass? Every? Single? Time?"

Vassago answered without even turning, knelt on the floor, elbow deep in his suitcase, trying to figure out where he'd stashed the paprika. One hand briefly abandoned the task and popped up to toss a careless, dismissive wave in the model's direction.

"!Si, we do! If we didn't, you'd be living on smoothies and that watery sadness you call soup!"

Behind him, Andre huffed. Vassago's mind conjured a perfect, and more than likely accurate, picture of him lifting his nose up in the air. A vision of a diva, scorned and insulted.

"My meals are perfectly nutritious and very enjoyable, thank you very much."

Vassago paused what he was doing. Carefully put down the towels he'd pulled out on the floor beside him. Then, he turned around simply so he could give his husband the most doubtful, unconvinced look he could muster.

Andre did not appreciate that. If looks could kill, someone would be ghostwriting his next album right about now. And for the record, the model had stuck his nose up in the air.

Something about that just made Vassago want to laugh like a maniac. So he did.

His husband glared at him from start to finish.

Once the worst of the giggles passed, the singer did the only logical thing. He moved on to more teasing. He dipped his head and placed both hands over his heart, bending his back into an awkward half-bow.

"Ayy, sorry for laughing, corazon. Of course, of course, you are completely right."

He saw it. The beginning of a tiny, self-satisfied smirk. So, he continued.

"I guess that's why you're practically salivating whenever I cook. Because you're so full and happy with your tristeza acuosa."

The frail half-smirk vanished. Shattered, like a neighborhood window in the face of a particularly aggressively chucked baseball. A telltale blush dusted over his husband's too-pale cheeks instead. It told Vassago what he'd already known perfectly well. He was right on the money.

He poked further. He had to! It was too much fun, after being apart for weeks. Dios, he missed it! Missed him. "Is that why you're always complaining, Andre? Are you just constantly hungry?"

The model, with all the grace required of his profession, spun around on the couch until his back was fully turned to Vassago.

"I am not dignifying that with an answer."

Vassago scooted closer without bothering to get on his feet, butt dragging across the spotless floor. He didn't need to stand up. Vassago only needed to reach out.

His hand found one of Andrealphus' own.

The singer grabbed his wrist with a single practiced motion. Gently, of course. Just enough to tug. Vassago knew Andre. When he wanted space, when he truly wanted to be alone, he disappeared. Withdrew so deeply into himself no light could hope to reach him. This?

This was playing hard-to-get.

Vassago was perfectly equipped to deal with that, after so long. He knew what made Andrealphus tick. More importantly, he knew what the man liked.

Vassago pulled the model's hand towards his lips and kissed it. It was like sticking his lips in fresh snow. Ice-cold, Andre's hands. All his limbs were like that. They were a nightmare in bed, too. Cold feet against shins. Icy fingers on the back of his neck.

The singer didn't do cold. Winter was always a nightmare for Vassago. He was built for the sun, for summer, for dusty dirt paths and bustling, sun-warmed streets of cities both familiar and new.

Vassago kept kissing regardless. Andre was different. His husband was a cold worth braving.

Slowly, he inched his way up, over the back of his husband's hand, to the wrist, and halfway up the slender forearm.

That did the trick. Andre turned, looking down at him from his perch on the couch, like a prince about to reject a pauper who'd dared ask for his hand.

No rejection came.

"Don't crawl around on the floor, Vass. Your legs will go numb."

Vassago grinned like a lovesick idiot. Which, to be fair, he was. Even now, even after a year of marriage... that mix of insults and thinly veiled affection never failed to make his heart beat in a rhythm more rapid than even the most challenging of songs he'd performed.

"Ayy, mi amor, you do care."

The model rolled his eyes, neither acknowledging nor denying. As always. "I'm still expecting an apology. That was nothing less than slander, Vassy."

"That was the truth, and you know it, querido."

Andrealphus Marquette, one of the top models in the world, famed for his icy cool persona and ever-present smile... pouted. Those full, perfect lips of his, always slathered in the most delicious lipstick, pursed together subtly, but unmistakably. He looked like a child being denied dessert.

"I don’t go hungry."

He sounded like a child too, with that slightly too-shrill tone.

Vassago wouldn't have believed him either way. But... the "Frost Marquis'" own body chose that moment to betray him.

Andre's stomach gave a single, low, downright pitiful growl.

Vassago lost it. He let go of his husband's hand, flopped backwards onto his back, and cackled, clutching his stomach.

It went on for a while. By the time his laughter subsided, his eyes pricked with tears. His sides burned.

And above him... Andre blushed again. He looked like he wanted to glare, to say something harsh and cutting, but... nothing came out. The model simply sat, arms held over his chest, legs primly crossed. His face was caught somewhere between utter mortification and a scowl.

From the floor, Vassago smiled up at him. Andre met his eyes for a fraction of a second, before turning his head so sharply it was a wonder his elegant neck didn't snap.

The musician simply couldn’t stay silent.

"Sooo—"

"Not a word."

Vassago thought about obeying. For a moment. But where was the fun in being obedient?

"If you help me unpack the rest of this, I'll cook lunch. I finally remembered which pair of socks I stuffed the paprika into!"

The dull, muted thump of Andrealphus burying his face into the nearest throw pillow like a Victorian widow was answer enough.

*******

"¡No! ¡Retroceder!"

Andre looked downright scandalized. And adorable, frozen mid-step, those icy eyes of his blown wide. "I wasn’t going to touch anything!"

Vassago brandished the wooden spoon like a weapon, ready to defend the stove with his life if need be. Not that it would come to that. No, in reality, Vassago just reaaaaaally liked teasing his husband about his atrocious skills in the kitchen. That was one of those little things in life that never ceased to be fun.

"Doesn't matter! Whenever you get too close to a stove, mi querido, bad things happen. Usually involving fire."

Andrealphus had the decency to look slightly embarrassed, which was rare for the model. His eyes didn't quite meet Vassago's, and he fiddled with the very edge of a soft lilac blouse he'd changed into. Not enough to crease the fabric—Dios, of course not, Andre loathed that—but enough to have something to do.

"That was one time, Vassy," he muttered, quieter than usual.

"Si, amor, one time  you managed to burn the milk. How, I still have no idea." Vassago offered his husband an easy, fond smile. "Just proves that mi amado is a man of many talents, ¿no?

Andrealphus perked back up, all pride and overexaggerated haughtiness as he played along.

"Of course, dear. I am an inexhaustible well of talent. Cooking just happens to not be on the list."

Vassago laughed, head thrown back, red and gold hair he'd wrestled into an updo bobbing wildly.

"That's why I'm here, and you there, at a safe distance."

With that, he turned his back to his partner. He had to! ¡La salsa exigía su atención! It'd jeopardize his flawless reputation as a chef, if he let it stick to the pot after thoroughly bashing Andre for his lack of skill. Vassago would never let himself be like one of those curmudgeonly critics, whose only joys in life were heckling and nitpicking.

Behind him, one of Andre's ballet flats—because, even after a year of marriage, Vassago hadn't managed to convince him to get some silly slippers for wearing around the house— tapped against the floor like a demanding metronome.

Vassago, stirring with much more enthusiasm than necessary, but just enough to have fun, cooed without turning.

"What is it, my sweet, impatient, and probably absolutely starving darling?"

Andrealphus huffed. "That last one was uncalled for." The tapping of his foot stopped. "Is there anything I can help with? I picked out the wine already."

Prudent little peacock, his husband. Doing nothing left him antsy. Vassago knew that. But... what to pick? He was a disaster in the kitchen. Even the wine task had been invented on the spot, since Andre had, in his usual, subtle way, padded into the kitchen after him. He was always extra clingy after a period of separation—though Vassago knew he'd rather die than admit it.

Ah! Of course! He had just the thing!

"You could set the table, mi amor. That'd be a big help!"

Another huff, louder this time. "You don't have to treat me like a seven-year-old, Vass."

Vassago tossed him a dramatic wink over the shoulder, paired with a teasing smirk. "I know, I know. And I don't. I'd let a seven-year-old chop up some veggies, if they were careful!"

¡Progreso! This time he got an actual groan in response! It was good to know that his skills in annoying Andre hadn't gone rusty in his absence, even while Vassago was multitasking! Truly, he was ¡un genio! A master of his craft!

Still, grumbling aside, his husband did start rummaging through the various pristine, tragically underused cabinets, pulling out forks with fancy engravings and plates that screamed "art deco" and "trying too hard" simultaneously.

If not for Vassago, the entire kitchen would have been doomed to gather dust. Andre, the fiend, was definitely enough of a workaholic to live solely on catering and fruits that could be crammed into a blender. The tragedy! No cooking appliance deserved such misfortune.

Luckily, Vassago was there to save them from a fate of stagnation!

The singer cooked as he lived. With pure, unadulterated enthusiasm. Vegetables were cut so quickly and energetically, it was a small wonder he still had all of his fingers. Ingredients were tossed with the fervor of a fairy tale witch whipping up a cursed draught in her cauldron. He hummed as he stirred. Sometimes he sang, in a mix of English and Spanish comprehensible only to himself.

Vassago enjoyed cooking in the same way he enjoyed everything else. Without abandon, without restraint, and wholeheartedly.

Cooking for Andre, however, was special.

Vassago had never modeled. He wasn't that kind of musician. He did not chase endorsements. He sang from his soul, for his soul, not his wallet.

Even so, he knew the kinds of sacrifices modeling required. Seeing his husband eat something with actual taste never failed to bring a smile to his face.

Andrealphus was, among other things, scarily good at pretending.

His husband had this need to be perfect. To never be caught off guard, to shrug off any hardship, no matter how great. If he wasn't flawless, he was failing.

Vassago hated that. He hated the fact that he'd never managed to break that habit of his just a little more. He'd chipped away at it, si, with cuddles and reassurances and home-cooked meals, but he'd never been able to fully get rid of it.

That was why Vassago put his heart and soul into every meal. Why he insisted on breaks, and why he made it a point to call every single day while on tour, no matter the differences in time zones.

If slaving away for hours by the stove was what it took to lure those pleasant little hums and tiny, genuine smiles out of Andre, Vassago would do so without hesitation.

He still hoped that he'd help Andrealphus shed that habit, one day, no matter how unlikely it seemed.

But, if not, Vassago would chase those fleeting upward quirks of his lips and brave the cold that was his husband for the rest of his life. He had promised, a little more than a year ago. The ring—his wedding ring—worn like a pendant on a thin golden chain around his neck, was proof of that promise.

Vassago, despite how carefree he appeared, was well aware of his own flaws. He was a whirlwind. A firecracker and an erratic flame. Hardly a paragon of stability. But... the two of them had made a promise to love each other.

And Vassago kept his promises.

Chapter Text

Stolas sat.

The boy was perfectly still, huddled in the corner of the limousine, eyes purposefully locked onto the window and the streets beyond. His feet hovered just above the floor. His pale, bony hands sat primly in his lap, one over the other. The seatbelt dug into his chest, but he didn't dare lean fully into the seat.

The leather was probably expensive. Expensive cars always had leather seats, in the novels he'd read. He didn't want to scuff anything.

The car smelled odd too. Like flowers. Stolas liked flowers. He'd devoured the lone book on botany the orphanage had, though he couldn't figure out exactly what scent clung to the cabin. He hadn't had the chance to see—or smell—that many different flowers up close. Still, familiar or unfamiliar, what mattered most was that the smell really did cling. It was a pleasant one, yes, but... it felt like breathing through a noseful of petals. It made his head swim, just a bit.

He didn't complain, of course. Stolas Nighthart had learned years ago that silence was golden. It kept you out of everyone's way, and it kept you safe.

Besides, the man perched elegantly on the other side of the car didn't seem to be in a talkative mood. His eyes were firmly locked onto his phone. The only thing the tall, thin man—Andrealphus, that was his name, right—had said to Stolas so far was an airy "Go right ahead, darling," paired with an equally airy pat on the back while shepherding him towards the car.

That had been... well, Stolas didn't know exactly how long ago. He didn't have a watch. But it felt like a long time. His butt was beginning to go stiff from sitting.

Stolas had considered saying something, once or twice. However, every time he tried, his tongue went thick and unresponsive in his mouth. Each time his lips twitched, as if to form words, he thought better of it. It was smarter to wait to be spoken to.

Even if it was clear that that obviously wasn't happening.

It didn't bother him. Not... not that much. He liked silence. It was peaceful. And yet... the boy couldn't help but wonder. Was... was this how adoptions usually went?

Stolas, despite living in an orphanage, wasn't all that familiar with the process. He wasn't close with the other children, so learning from their experience was out of the question. Asking the adults too many questions wasn't smart either. They were nice enough, but none of them liked being bugged too much. What they told him, what they told everyone, was that things would be taken care of, once they found them a suitable family.

Still... he'd read a little about adopted kids. There was this one novel about a boy. His adoptive parents had meetings with him. A dozen or so! Going out for ice cream, visiting museums, getting to know each other. By the ending of the book, they were practically a real family! The man who'd adopted Stolas was a stranger. He'd caught a glimpse of him, two days ago, hugging the corner in the company of a social worker. Today, that same woman had told Stolas he was getting adopted.

The boy frowned, small lips pressing into a thoughtful pout. His eyes kept trailing over the passing buildings, but he might as well have been looking through them. Stolas was doing what he'd always done best. Overthinking.

It was silly, all things considered. There was no use thinking his adoption over. It had already happened, after all.

And yet... a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

"You need to be on your best behavior."

"Don't be needy."

"You got tossed away once already, and they were your actual parents. You'll be discarded again, if you're not careful."

Stolas gulped, doing his best to make it as quiet as possible. The workings of his own throat still rang so loud in his ears.

If he were being completely honest... he would have liked... a bit more time to prepare himself. Just a little more. Stolas didn't do well with new people. He was shy, and quiet, and too awkward. He knew what he wanted to say, but when the time came to actually say it, his brain short-circuited. Other times, he talked too much. When he got excited about something, it was hard to get him to stop. That's what the other kids had told him, a long time ago, when he'd still been trying to socialize.

His breathing picked up. A bit sharper than normal. A bit more shallow. His thoughts churned, and raced, and bubbled.

What if he did mess this up? Would he get returned to the same orphanage? Or another one? Would he be left on the streets, like that dog from one story he'd read?

No. No, no. He stopped himself, just barely. His fingers gripped at his knee, tight enough that his already pale skin went paper white.

Panicking would get him nowhere. He had to stay calm, no matter how impossible it seemed in the moment.

It took effort, but he managed to slow his breathing down to something less erratic.

Yes, he would have liked more time. More space to adjust to... all this.

But, he'd do his best, no matter what! Everything was scary right now, but maybe... maybe things would get better? Once they got home?

Home.

He had a home now, Stolas.

Apparently.

It didn't quite feel real.

*******

This was a horrible mistake. All of it.

Andrealphus should have never listened to any of them. Vassago, who'd first suggested this madness and planted the seeds in his brain. His agent, for encouraging it, calling it a PR stunt for the ages. And most of all, he shouldn't have listened to his father. Shax Marquette. A-list actor, a staple of the industry. The man who'd suggested that Andrealphus simply... cut through the red tape.

"You have the money, and you have the privilege. Use it. It's a good opportunity to take your image farther."

Andrealphus had his doubts from the start.

And yet, he had listened.

Here he was now, sitting beside the consequences of his actions. A newly minted father. He'd never envisioned himself as one, not even in his wildest dreams. The model hadn't particularly wanted to become one, either.

It felt wrong. The word "Father" sat like a shard of glass in his throat. A jagged piece of harsh reality that lodged itself deep and refused to budge. He couldn't say it. Couldn't even think it, without its sharp edges digging into sensitive flesh.

Andrealphus Marquette didn't have a father, growing up. He'd had a manager. A coach. A sir.

He couldn't complain about the results that such a childhood brought him. Fame. Fortune. Worldwide recognition.

Glittery nonsense, in the current situation. Loath as he was to admit it, none of those would help him with this. Not when faced with a frail-looking boy who was still staring out of the window, despite the fact the car had stopped more than thirty seconds ago.

Andrealphus took a long, measured breath through his nose. In and out. He curved his lips into a smile softer than the ones he fed to the cameras. At least he hoped it came out that way.

Perfection had gotten him this far in life. It would have to get him through this mess too. Help him hold it together until...

Until...

Until when, exactly? This wasn't a show he didn't want to attend. Not a boring gala to be slogged through, either. This was a lifelong commitment. A tectonic change that would affect every aspect of his career and life.

Fuck, what the hell possessed him to do this to himself? This was a mess. This was a mistake. It was—

No.

No. He couldn't get caught up inside his own head. It wouldn't help with anything.

Andrealphus would do what he'd always done, when things didn't go according to plan. Scream into a pillow or rage in the safety of solitude and privacy. But that would have to come later. Now, he had to act, and he had to do it without flaw.

The model cleared his throat delicately.

His tone was tinged with sickly sweet cheer which Andrealphus most definitely wasn't feeling. "Well then, that's our stop, darling. Time to get out."

The child obeyed instantly. Slender fingers—he had fine hands, the boy, very photogenic—poked at the seatbelt for a moment. Andrealphus thought of reaching out to help with the duffel bag at his feet—which held the entirety of Stolas' earthly possessions—while the boy was busy with the belt, but he thought better of it. Crowding Stolas would probably do neither of them any good.

Instead, Andrealphus simply stepped out of the car. Graceful as ever. No hint of stress. No note of anxiety. He padded over to open the door for Stolas with the same grace he walked runways. Long legs positioned just so, hair immaculate, expression blissful and empty.

The boy stepped out, bag in hand, eyes staring straight ahead. He had pretty eyes too, Stolas. A particular shade of brown... almost red, in a certain light. Truly striking.

It came as no surprise to the model. Of course the boy was pleasant to look at. That was the basis on which Andrealphus had picked. His father and agent were of one mind. "Find someone who'll woo the crowds."

Andrealphus listened, if only because he had no other criteria in mind. He didn't do children. He could tolerate them just fine. At a safe distance, where he couldn't be reached by sticky hands, runny noses, or ear-splitting crying.

The model had ventured only two requests, back at the orphanage, when the social worker reluctantly prompted him on what he was looking for. "Quiet and beautiful."

The woman had given him a looong, strange look, but she nodded, eventually.

Strange looks or not, she'd more than delivered. Andrealphus had most definitely been granted both. Stolas looked positively Victorian. A silent waif, haunting and ethereal in equal measure.

The man motioned for said waif to follow with a languid wave of one manicured hand.

"Here we are, dear. Our private slice of Heaven's up on the top floor. I just know you'll adore it."

The words tasted ashy on his tongue. There was nothing in them. Nothing of substance. No warmth, no joy. Certainly no honesty. Even all those pet names were tossed out simply because he felt awkward calling the boy by name.

Stolas felt too impersonal. Like a business partner you gossiped about behind your back. Son, on the other hand, made him feel like someone was bashing his head in with a rock. Or perhaps stabbing him in the stomach with a red-hot poker. He hadn't settled on the fine details yet.

Awkward pet names were the only option. Dears and darlings would have to suffice, at least until he figured things out. These sorts of issues were commonplace when people adopted, right? Little trip-ups and stumbles. Insecurities and moments of uncertainty. They probably happened all the time.

Time.     

It was ironic. That was all Andrealphus needed, right?

A bit of time to adjust to his new reality. To the fact that this boy was his now. His responsibility. To care for and protect. To parent.

Parenting was, in theory, supposed to make one feel joyous. That's what all those mushy family movies Vassago loved so dearly always pointed out, with all the grace and subtlety of a neon sign scrawled in Sharpie.

There was no joy. All Andrealphus felt was an icy, bone-deep terror, hastily shoved into some faraway, dark corner of his brain.

The model sighed inwardly. He really, really shouldn't have listened to his father.

He would have had the time he was so desperate for now, had he not insisted on waving away the rules and regulations meant to provide it to him. Those rules were, as Andrealphus was rapidly figuring out, there for a reason.

But, it was too late to whine over the fact he'd made a mistake. He'd already swan-dived confidently into this mess. All he could do now was try to swim. And hopefully avoid drowning.

*******

The boy clutched his duffel bag with both hands like it was the only thing keeping him from slipping through the elevator floor and fading away.

The straps dug into his fingers. Cold, hard plastic. Cheap, like everything else he owned. The brown pants were a bit faded from use in some spots, giving them the appearance of half-hearted camouflage print. The wine-red, long-sleeved shirt was a size too big, so only his fingers poked out from the edges of the sleeves. His shoes had little scuff marks on the heels. Those always bugged him. Stolas liked being neat. It made him feel calmer.

He wasn't enjoying the elevator ride much. The long drive in the car had been fine, but the upwards movement of the elevator very much wasn't agreeing with his stomach. The ascent was smooth, yet his knees felt like jelly regardless.

The man beside him hardly helped with easing the tension. If anything, he made the incessant buzzing in Stolas' head louder.

Andrealphus seemed intent on staring at his own nails. They were pretty, painted a cheerful shade of blue, the same as the highlights in his blonde hair. Still, Stolas doubted they required such close examination, as if they held all the secrets to the universe.

Not that he had any room to judge. Stolas himself was intently focused on the bottom right corner of the elevator, right below the buttons. There was nothing special about the spot. It was perfectly clean, like everything else. The decor, delicate filigree rendered in gold on black, was the same as in the rest of the cabin.

However, the corner had no sliver of Andrealphus poking into his vision, and that made it perfect for observation.

The elevator stopped eventually, with a quiet little chime that felt mocking in its cheerfulness. Andrealphus' heels clicked on the floor as he stepped forward. He glanced at Stolas over his shoulder, eyes not quite meeting.

"Don't fall behind, darling. We wouldn't want to forget you in there, would we?"

Andrealphus gave a quiet chuckle, though it was more of a breathy huff than anything of substance. He shot Stolas a small smile to go along with it, one that felt... no, actually. It didn't feel like anything in particular. It just hovered there, like a lost butterfly that had perched on the man's face by total accident. It probably vanished the moment the model looked away.

Stolas took a reluctant step forward. Just one. It was enough to cross the threshold. The elevator door closed behind him with a near-silent ding. "There's no going back now," put as clearly as could be, with no speech required.

The penthouse was... a lot.

Stolas liked words. He had an extensive vocabulary, much more so than typical for a nine-year-old, courtesy of all the books he read. None seemed fit to properly describe the sight.

Sterile came to mind before anything else. The stark whites, blacks, and grays certainly pointed in that direction. The space looked as though it wasn't merely kept clean, but rather like dust had been outlawed altogether.

Imposing was another one that seemed likely. The ceilings were ridiculously high. The windows massive, offering a view of the city skyline. The living room furniture seemed untouched, pristine, like it'd been purchased yesterday.

Awe-inspiring felt fitting as well. There was a sense of grandeur to the whole space. It made him feel unworthy, just standing there, two feet behind Andrealphus. The man, by contrast, fit right in with the decor.

...

No.

In truth, Stolas was just stalling for time. None of those words matched what he was feeling. It was something much simpler.

Scary was the perfect descriptor he was looking for.

The boy felt like an intruder. Or maybe a grave robber, who'd waded into the wrong tomb, and found himself surrounded by cursed gold. Everything, every piece of furniture, even the floor, screamed "expensive." Stolas felt like he was committing some grave sin by breathing the air in the room.

Andrealphus turned around again, ivory-colored coat swishing behind him like a tail. He hid his mouth with one unblemished, long-fingered hand.

"Your expression is priceless, darling," the model said. "What a shame there's no camera to capture it."

Stolas' lips parted, as though to say something, but no words came out. His brain short-circuited. Andrealphus tilted his head slightly, expectant. One perfectly plucked brow arched upward.

The boy closed his mouth.

Andrealphus blinked. "You are a quiet one, hmm, darling? That's all right. Talking is a bore, most of the time."

Shame settled like melted iron in his stomach. It bubbled, hot and thick. Stolas felt so, so very dumb.

He cast his eyes down, staring at his own shoes. It was what felt like the safest option, though the black marble of the floor contrasted so sharply with his worn sneakers that it made him feel uneasy. What if he was tracking dirt in?

The man hummed. "Is the floor that interesting? If nothing else, I know I make a better sight than that old thing."

The sharp clicks he'd already come to recognize as heels on marble rang out in the air. The model's toes, nails painted the same shade as the ones on his hands, poked into the edges of the boy's vision.

There was no warning of what came next.

Two soft, cold fingers tucked themselves under his chin. The boy startled, inhaling sharply through his nose. His entire body tensed on instinct, but before he could pull away, the fingers pushed. Gently. Practically no force behind the action, just enough to tilt his head upwards until Stolas' eyes were forced to meet the model's.

Andrealphus' voice was soft. "There we are, dear. No reason to hide that face of yours. It's a perfectly pretty one, you know."

"Say something. Say something! Say something!"

His brain was being very helpful. Screaming at him, while offering no actual advice. Really, Stolas was immensely grateful for the voice in his head.

Nothing came to mind. Should he return the compliment? Brush it off? Seem thankful? Stay silent? No, definitely not that last one. He couldn't stay silent, when Andrealphus had already commented on it!

Stolas spit out the first half-coherent thought that clawed its way through the panicked haze that had settled over him.

"Thank you, sir," he mumbled, barely audible.

Andrealphus pursed his lips. His fingers mercifully retreated, the hand they belonged to coming to rest on the model's cocked, bony hip. Stolas immediately took the opportunity to lower his eyes, his stare leveled somewhere around the man's chin. Just high enough that he'd hopefully avoid getting it "adjusted" again.

"Sir?" The man snorted. "You're very polite, darling. I promise I'm not that old." He shrugged, the gesture almost too casual, coming from Andrealphus. "Still, you can call me whatever you'd like."

The model paused. Tapped his foot on the ground in a steady, staccato rhythm. Grabbed ahold of a tiny corner of his blouse and took to rolling the fabric between two fingers. He looked... less perfect. Less like he'd been carved from the same marble that made up the floor.

"I understand this is... a big change, darling. If you need anything, you can say so."

Stolas nodded, if only so he'd have an excuse not to meet Andrealphus' eyes. "Yes, si—Yes."

The model's brows furrowed, just the slightest bit. He sighed softly through his nose, looking over his shoulder at nothing in particular.

That brief moment was apparently all it took for Andrealphus to compose himself. By the time he turned his attention back to Stolas, his smile was back in place, as airy as before. His hands gave a single, dramatic clap.

"Well then, darling! Time to give you the grand tour! Or the short version of it, at least. I have a shoot in an hour and a half, so I'll need to leave soon."

The model spun on his heel and made way for the stairs, gait measured. Stolas couldn't help but note the way it showed off every inch of the man's body in the most flattering way possible. Hair swished. Hips swayed. Heels clicked.

"Follow along now, dear. Your room is up here."

Stolas obeyed. He padded after Andrealphus, even though the stairs... made his stomach churn.

There were no guardrails. The steps were made of glass. Sturdy enough to hold Andrealphus's weight and handle heels, yes, but at the end of the day, still glass. Still see-through. Still set in a sort of winding pattern, probably meant to evoke some long-forgotten art movement. All they evoked in Stolas was vertigo.

He climbed them all the same.

The boy stared straight ahead as he ascended, trying to manage the impossible task of walking as slowly as possible, while also not falling behind. It wasn't working. Had he been alone, he would have stuck both arms out for extra balance. However, he wasn't alone.

Stolas sped up. His knees shook horribly, way worse than they had inside the elevator. His chest was tight. He felt as though no air was making it into his lungs.

Still, Stolas walked on, one wobbly step after another, eyes locked onto the tail end of Andrealphus' coat, as if it were a lighthouse guiding him to safety.

The seconds trickled forward, each one measured in years, but eventually, Stolas did make it to the top of the stairs.

Solid ground had never felt like such a luxury. He wouldn't have minded simply standing there for a minute or two, enjoying the fact that the fear of plummeting to his death wasn't gnawing at him. But there was no time to catch his breath.   

The model immediately took off down the hall, without even bothering to turn around and check on the boy. All Stolas could do was pick up the pace, now that he was finally, thankfully, on normal, non-transparent footing.

The hallway was... less imposing than the living room area, at least. The walls were painted a soft, pale blue. The doors were made of white, lacquered wood, with gleaming, brass handles. The carpet underfoot, the color of dense smoke, was thick enough to muffle the clicks of Andrealphus' heels. A few paintings, mostly of nature, littered the walls. Porcelain vases, with plastic flowers neatly arranged inside them, sat on the floor.

The man stopped in front of one of the doors, identical in every way to the rest of them.

From there, Andrealphus finally graced Stolas with a look, that ever-present smile already glued to his face as he turned around. And then he saw the boy. The smile dropped.

"Have you gotten even paler than usual, darling? Are you feeling alright?"

The boy froze, the usual "someone is speaking to me" panic gripping at him, only so much stronger. He probably had gone a bit white, after that climb. People usually went pale when they were terrified.

Still, Stolas lied. What was he supposed to say? That the stairs made him scared? That sounded as stupid as it was inconvenient. He didn't want to be inconvenient.

He tried to get his voice to sound as carefree as possible. Not that Stolas had ever been a particularly carefree person. "I'm fine." He attempted a smile of his own. Thin, brittle, barely there.

Andrealphus frowned.

Stolas froze. The already unconvincing grimace of a smile probably became that much more glassy. His mind raced.

Was this the end? Did he mess up?

The model exhaled through his nose again. "If you say so, dear," he said, shaking his head. The man's immaculate bangs swayed slightly.

For once, he didn't look away immediately. Andrealphus' stare lingered on Stolas for a long moment, intense and focused, like Stolas was a secret code that needed decrypting.

Whatever he was trying to find, he found. Or he gave up. In any case, the model looked away and pushed the door open. "Come here!" He called, stepping inside the room and disappearing from view.

Stolas came.

The room was... similar to the one downstairs.

Furniture that looked brand-new. Walls painted a neutral, light gray. Shelves that seemed to gape with emptiness. A massive wardrobe sat in the corner, too large for Stolas to ever hope to fill with clothes. A bed that looked enormous enough to drown him, neatly made.

And Andrealphus, standing on the carpet, identical in all but shape to the one from the hallway, with his hands crossed in front of him and his lips pursed, eyeing Stolas expectantly.

The moment dragged on, the silence between them sticky and thick.

The boy knew he was supposed to break it. It was what was supposed to happen, in moments like this. An outpouring of gratitude. Tears even, maybe. He'd seen some of the children crying while getting picked up by their adoptive parents.

"It's... very nice. Thank you, si—thank you. Very much. It's wonderful."

The words rang hollow, and he knew it. The model knew it too. He did a very good job of hiding the disappointment, but the twitch of his lips, and the way his eyes narrowed just the tiniest bit gave him away.

Andrealphus' response, when it came just a second later, showed none of what his face did. His tone was breezy, unbothered. "I'm glad you like it, darling. If there's anything you want changed, say the word and we'll do it."

Stolas shook his head. "It's perfect." This time, the words were so blatantly unconvincing Stolas almost cringed himself.

The man didn't comment on it, though he had to have noticed.

"Well then, I'll be off. Terribly important shoot, you know how those things are."

Stolas didn't know. He had no idea what a photoshoot entailed, nor what made this one in particular more important than others.

It didn't look like he was going to get a chance to ask, either way. Andrealphus was already moving with determined steps towards the door. However, the model stopped at the doorway, leaning on it slightly.

"I... I'll probably be gone until tonight. This director tends to nitpick." He trailed off, staring off to the side, towards the wardrobe. He pointed towards it with a tilt of the head. "You have some clothes in there. I had it stocked. Sizes were a guessing game, but I'm sure something will fit. And, if you get hungry, the kitchen is downstairs. The door on the left. You can handle that, can't you, darling?"

Stolas nodded again, then tossed in a quiet "I can," since that was a lot of words that Andrealphus had said. Offering just a nod in return felt like an insult.

The man fiddled with the edge of his sleeve this time, in the same, uncharacteristically hesitant way he'd done downstairs. "That's good," he said, more to himself. He offered Stolas a smile, one that seemed caught somewhere between fake and genuine. "Have a nice day, darling."

Stolas tried to smile back. He wasn't sure how well his intent came through. "You too."

Andrealphus' lips twitched a fraction of an inch higher. One hand rose a bit, fingers curling, as though he wanted to reach out.

Instead, he waved. It was an awkward, half-hearted thing, all stiff wrist and even stiffer fingers.

Stolas didn't wave back. A second later, the door closed behind the model.

The boy was alone at last.

It should have been comforting. Stolas felt safest when there was no one else around. Other people were either too loud, or mean. Sometimes they were both. A good book and a quiet nook had always been the boy's preferred company.

Now, the quiet pricked at his skin.

The room was too large. Too empty. Too expensive-looking. Too... too much of everything.

The duffel bag straps had all but embedded themselves in his fingers. They'd dug themselves in deep, and would probably leave marks. Stolas bruised easily. But... where was he supposed to put his bag, when everything felt so pristine? Was he supposed to unpack? Fold his clothes neatly and deposit them in that wardrobe, the one that looked like it cost more than some adults probably earned in a month?

The room was supposed to be his, but he couldn't possibly call it that. He was young, not stupid. Stolas was the one thing that stuck out like a sore thumb. The fact was perfectly obvious to him. An orphan in worn clothes did not belong in this glossy, perfectly polished space.

His stomach growled. Loudly. Stolas felt his cheeks heating up, despite being alone in the room. Breakfast had been hours ago. Stolas had been abducted—no, adopted, though it certainly felt like the former—shortly after.

The kitchen was downstairs, the model had told him.

There was no way Stolay would go down there. And no, it wasn't just because of the stairs, though they, too, were a part of his decision. The boy didn't want to touch anything. Not while he was alone. What if he broke something? Or made a mess? The risks were too great.

He would wait for Andrealphus to return. The model said he'd be back sometime tonight. Stolas could wait that long. One skipped meal wasn't that great of a deal! He could handle that.

His stomach growled again, like it was waiting for that precise moment to mock him. "No, you can't," the sound seemed to say.

Stolas could. He would. He would simply keep himself occupied! Sure, he had no books, but he'd make do. For starters, he would busy himself trying to figure out where he could put down his bag. There was bound to be some place in the room where it wouldn't feel like an eyesore.

He... he wasn't so sure the same could be said about him.

*******

The penthouse looked the same as it always did when Andrealphus returned after a long day of work.

Surprisingly.

He’d expected some measure of a mess, no different than the ones that welcomed him when Vassago was home. And yet... no sofa cushion was out of place, no furniture displaced, no crumpled clothes were lying around—those in particular had a habit of cropping up wherever his husband went. Most glaringly, there was no trace of the child.

The model wasn’t quite sure whether to feel relief or worry at that.

However much he didn’t want to admit it, his impeccable social grace, the greatest tool at his disposal... failed him utterly, when Stolas was concerned. His tongue tied itself in knots, and his brain worked with all the consistency of a bowl of lukewarm pudding. Posturing felt too insincere even for him, honesty terrifying and like he was overstepping.

Then again, everything felt like overstepping with Stolas. There was simply no way around it. The boy was a skittish thing. He drew back a mile for every inch Andrealphus tried to close.

And yet... he was Andrealphus’ skittish thing, now. His responsibility. And... Andrealphus was nothing if not responsible.

With great reluctance, the man continued his search, stepping further into the apartment.

Since the child wasn’t in the living room, the model expected to find him in the kitchen. It was only logical. It was dinnertime, more or less. Andrealphus had finished a fair bit earlier than he’d expected.

He was ashamed—just a little bit, but even a little was plenty, when the Frost Marquis was concerned—to admit that he’d been hoping for a traffic jam. Anything to delay him, so that his first meal with Stolas—he couldn’t call him his child yet—would have to wait until tomorrow.

No such luck. Andrealphus had made it home in record time. Right on cue for some bonding with his newly adopted child.

He seriously doubted that Stolas wanted to bond. Andrealphus knew he didn’t.

Still, he stood in front of the kitchen door all the same, hesitating like an idiot.

What was even there to be afraid of? At worst, he would be looking at more awkwardness. Unpleasant, certainly, but nothing world-ending. God knew he’d endured worse, with all the sycophants and schmoozers that flocked to him at galas and charity fundraisers.

Honestly, it was the unease he felt that annoyed him more than anything else. It made him feel weak, and that was something he couldn’t allow. Wouldn’t allow.

The man gritted his teeth and huffed sharply through his nose. Andrealphus Marquette did not hide away from his responsibilities, no matter his personal feelings!

He pushed the door open with more force than necessary.

The kitchen, with its gleaming, well-kept appliances and spotless floor, greeted him. Empty. Exactly as he’d left it, not so much as a single glass out of place.

It immediately set his mind on edge.

Had Stolas not eaten yet? Andrealphus had come earlier than usual for him, yes, but it was still fairly late. The child was nine. Surely he didn’t eat dinner at midnight. And even if he did, they hadn’t eaten lunch. The boy must have visited the kitchen at least once.

Andrealphus supposed it was possible that the child was merely tidy. He’d been an exceptionally tidy child, too. Had to be one, really. Schedules, timetables, days divided into neat little chunks. Picking up after himself... fit in well with the overall aesthetic.

Stolas was probably like that too. The model wasn’t overly familiar with how things functioned in orphanages. Still, it was more than likely that children living there were expected to clean up their messes.

Yes, it made perfect sense. Still... Andrealphus felt the need to check up on the boy. If he wasn’t in the kitchen, and he wasn’t in the living room, then he had to be in his own room.

He glided up the stairs and down the hall with his usual poise, but... inside, his guts twisted and tangled until they felt more like a ball of yarn than internal organs.

In a matter of minutes, the model stood in front of the door to the guest room—Stolas’ room, now—hesitating once again. Unlike before, this time, he was sure he’d find the boy inside.

Most parents would have probably enjoyed the certainty that came with knowing where their child was. It only caused Andrealphus’ anxiety to spike even higher.

He hated it. Hated it with a passion he usually reserved for huge, important projects, or moments of intimate reunion with Vassago.

The model didn’t do anxiety. Or insecurity. Or second-guessing. The Frost Marquis’ brand, his brand, was, and always had been, perfection. There was no space for worrying in that precise, carefully crafted mold.

"This was a mistake. All of it."

How very kind of his brain, to tell him what he’d already figured out earlier today. Truly, Andrealphus was beyond grateful for the brilliant deduction of his inner monologue.

The model was no idiot. Vain, yes. Less than eager to admit when he was wrong? Absolutely. Only fools liked admitting they weren’t in the right.

However... he couldn’t do anything but admit it, this time.

That pale attempt at a pep talk he’d given himself in the car before ushering Stolas inside was a big, bald-faced lie. Utter nonsense, really. Andrealphus wasn’t swimming, wasn’t making do, wasn’t making it work. The man was drowning. Already. The boy and he had only spent... what, a couple of hours together, followed by a separation that lasted just as long? It hadn’t even been a full day yet.

It was... embarrassing. Truly, horribly, embarrassing. Failure was never a fun pill to swallow. Especially for Andrealphus Marquette. It always tasted bitter and acrid as it slid down the throat.

The man shook his head sharply, immaculate curls bouncing from the motion. His eyes narrowed at nothing in particular, brows furrowing in a frustrated frown. Delicate hands clenched into fists.

This was... not something he would accept.

He would not be beaten. Not even by this situation. Not by anything.

So... Andrealphus opened the door. Slowly. Gently.

As expected, the child was in there. Not that it was easy to tell, at a glance.

Only the boy’s dark hair was visible. The rest of Stolas was buried in the blanket, wrapped so tightly around the boy that he resembled a mummy. And he was... obviously asleep. The model’s eyesight was sharp. The child’s chest rose and fell faintly below the covers, far too natural for faked sleep.

Andrealphus allowed himself a sigh. Disappointed, relieved? He wasn’t certain.

He was. He just wouldn’t admit it, even to himself.

There was no sense in waking the child just to say hello. They’d both—Stolas had had a long day. Letting him rest was only sensible.

Tomorrow. Talking, bonding, shared meals. It could all wait until tomorrow. Both of them could use the extra time apart.

The model cast one final glance towards the bed, feet hovering just shy of the room’s threshold. A tiny, incessant little voice in the back of his head whispered, coaxing him to check whether Stolas was truly asleep.

"It’ll just take a moment. You can be quiet, when you want to. Maybe… maybe he’d like you to wish him good night."

He dismissed the idea in seconds, of course.

Just as slowly as he’d opened the door, Andrealphus closed it. Took a few slow steps backwards. Unclenched his jaw, which he hadn’t realized he’d started clenching in the first place.

Tomorrow. He would do all those things tomorrow.