#but whatever that's a problem for future me

[milk-is-stable]

SFTH Hunger Games - Tribute Interviews

The Reaping

HA-HIYA! Welcome to the first ever Shoot from the Hip Hunger Games TRIBUTE INTERVIEWS, hosted by ME, the one and only ANDRE BEETROOT! Hooo, ladies and gentlemen today's gonna be a great day, it's the day before the greatest competition that you have ever seen, and we're gonna sit down and talk with each of our incredible tributes tonight!

First up from the beautiful luxurious District 1, we have Janusz and Alexa!

AB: NOW, the two of you hold the distinction of being two of our youngest tributes this year, can you tell me all about yourselves and what skills you're bringing to the competition today! Janusz: Um, I don't really know, I'm just a janitor's son...Alexa, she is the one with the skills and the talent. Alexa: But I don't think dancing will really help in this case...besides, I don't want to hurt anybody! I didn't want this! AB: Ah, but the two of you are very cute, and who knows, if the audience falls in love with you, they could shower you in enough gifts that you come out on top!

Now, for our next tributes tonight we have THE Power Couple of the century, from District 2 please welcome Caesar and Juliet!

AB: Now, the two of you are MARRIED, how does it feel going into the games with that weight hanging over your heads? Caesar: Yes, of course it's devastating, but we are going to stick together no matter what. Juliet: We will not allow Rome to fall without us, whatever it takes. I made a promise to Maximilian that we would overcome the odds and do whatever it took to preserve the empire. Caesar: ....wait, what do you mean you promised Maximilian? AB: UH OH, sounds like there might be trouble in paradise! Keep an eye on these two, folks, they're sure to deliver on the battlefield!

Coming up now from District 3, we have quite the peculiar pair, let's get a huge round of applause for Janae and his older brother Johnnyyyyy!

AB: Now Johnny, I hear you have an incredible gift, please, tell the audience all about it! Johnny: I, um...I have these dreams sometimes, and um...well, you see, um...what happens is.... Janae: My brother has supernatural premonitions, and acting upon those premonitions allows him to alter the future before it becomes fixed in time! So good luck trying to get anything past him, he'll always know exactly what to do to keep himself alive! AB: You're lucky to have such a powerful brother looking out for you! Let's hope the future holds good things!

Let's hear it now for our next tributes coming from the deep blue waters of District 4, it's Julian and Jasper!

AB: Tell me gentlemen, do you have any strategy going into tomorrow's games? Julian: Um, I'm just hoping not to get in any of the more dangerous tributes' way, I suppose... Jasper: Well, this isn't the first time that I've dealt with someone trying to kill me, so if I just do what I did last time then I'm sure I'll be able to come out on top! AB: HAHA, confidence! I like it!

Next up we have a real ELECTRIC set of tributes, from District 5 we have two young men sure to spark your interest, it's Jim L and John Hobson Junior!!!

AB: So my friends, tell us, why do you think YOU will be the one to take home the ultimate victor's crown in these games? Jim: I know I don't look it, but I've got a temper and I know how to use it! It's probably better for people to just avoid me in the arena than to get on my bad side. Junior: I'm a problem solver, and I also know to never underestimate the power of an alliance! Working together is always smarter than trying to do things all on your own. AB: Only time will tell, my friends, only time will tell!

OKAY everybody I want you to give me a huge WOO HOO CHOO CHOO for our incredible tributes from District 6, Clarissa and Benjamin!

AB: How does it feel coming out SMACK in the middle of the night's festivities? You've seen half the tributes speak before you and now half will speak after. Clarissa: I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous, but I think that the young man earlier was right, alliances are key. I definitely have some tributes now I'm thinking of approaching in the arena. Benjamin: Not to mention some tributes that it'd be smart to avoid...I certainly know who I wouldn't want to cross. AB: Yeah yeah yeah, I bet you do!

Speaking of people you wouldn't want to cross, coming up here from District 7 are two tributes who are no strangers to dealing with the extreme dangers you may find in the arena, we have Michael and Priscillaaaaa!

AB: Each of you has faced down certain death before, is that right? Michael: I have, and everything I went through taught me lessons that will serve me in that arena. Working with others, being resourceful, keeping your wits about you and making hard choices...all of that is key to survival. Priscilla: .....yes, what he said. Especially the part about working together. I think that sticking by people who have your back is very important. AB: Well we'll certainly be watching closely to see if that holds true!

Now folks, put your hands together for our sensational tributes from District 8, we have Jimmy and the one and only Robin!

Robin: IT'S SCOTTISH ROBIN TO YOU, YOU POMPOUS SHITHEAD! AB: .......Ah. I don't like you. Jimmy: Well that's not fair! What'd he do to you? AB: Just super annoying right out the gate, isn't he? Robin: OH I'M THE ONE WHO'S ANNOYING? NOT YOU, WITH YOUR STUPID FUCKIN COAT AND VISOR? Jimmy: Yeah! Honestly, your outfit really could use an upgrade, I know a great tailor actually, if I can just figure out how to get into his shop- AB: ALRIGHT THEN, that's enough of these two, out you get, go on.

NOW, to represent District 9 we have the beautiful blue-eyed Hugh and the lovely lady Inga!

AB: So how does it feel to be here on the day before the games finally begin? Hugh: It's all a bit overwhelming to be honest...I don't really know much outside of plants, but that does mean I know how to survive in the wild. And I'm brave! I won't just lie down and accept my fate. Inga: I also know how to survive in the wild, to forage and hunt and find food and shelter, and I even know how to deal with dangerous wildlife. I feel very prepared, and I'm certain that with some help from sponsors, I could take the entire competition by storm! AB: WHOA, amazing confidence from the young lady, let's see if she has the skill to back it up!

HEYO everyone you've seen many tributes tonight who are compliments to one another, but get ready now to see some polar opposites, from District 10 we have Peter Steven aaaaaaand MARTY!

AB: The two of you are no stranger to hardship, do you think what you've gone through in your life has been enough to prepare you for the arena? Peter: Well, I do like spending time outside! So it'll be nice to do some of that for a change. And there have been people on before us who seem like they'd be good ones to make allies with...but I'm no fool. I know what I have to do if I'm going to make it home to my mom, and I'm ready to do it! Marty: If you ask me, what most of these tributes lack is the proper *cough cough* conviction. I mean, let's face the facts! Twenty three of us are going to die in the next week, and even if I'm not one of them then I'll probably die in the month after! So may as well make the most of the time we've got...if those sponsors really want to see a show, then they know who to help. I'll make sure they have a...fantastic time. AB: ........HAHA, COOL!

Now ladies and gentlemen it's astonishing that it happened once, but the fact that it's happened TWICE, I can hardly believe. Please welcome our second set of sibling tributes, from District 11 it's Pinocchio and his sister, Maria Clarissio!

AB: Maria, as an older sister, how does it feel knowing you may not be able to protect your brother in the arena? Maria: Well...I've already failed him once before. And living with that failure hanging over my head these past months has been more than I can bear. You have to promise me something, Pinocchio. Promise me you'll do whatever it takes to win the competition and get home to Papa. Pinocchio: But sister, what about you? Maria: It doesn't matter what happens to me. Papa nearly lost you once, and it almost destroyed him. Don't let that happen again, okay? AB: OH MY GOSH, you two are gonna make the waterworks come on all across the audience!

Now finally tonight we have our amazing tributes from District 12, we have the rock solid Chip and the salacious Sally Xavier!

Sally: Hey! I'm only 17, don't be weird, alright? I've had enough of men being weird in my life already. AB: ANYWAY, tell me what your strategies are for dealing with your fellow tributes! Sally: Well, I know I don't look very strong, but I do know how to work well with people, and I have a few tricks up my sleeve that could surprise you. Don't count me out just yet! Chip: Look, telling you while they can hear me doesn't sound like the smartest move, to be honest. If I tell you my strategy now, then they could make a plan around it. I'll keep those cards close to my chest for now, thanks. I'm here to try and win, not make friends with someone I'll have to turn around and kill. AB: Ah, a social butterfly versus a lone wolf! We'll see who fares better tomorrow!

Ladies and Gentlemen and ALL other configurations of being I hope you had a FANTASTIC time watching our show tonight! I hope you got to know our tributes a bit better, and are ready to place your bets on who will be the one to be crowned the victor! We here at Capitol TV want to know your thoughts, so share them with us below or in this poll!

Once again I have been your incomparable host ANDRE BEETROOT, and the Shoot From the Hip Hunger Games begin TOMORROW! Good luck to all our tributes, and may the odds be ever in your favor!

GOOD NIGHT EVERYBODYYYYY!

— — —

Navigation:

The Reaping (previous)

Day 1: The Bloodbath (next)

Masterlist

[cryoculus]

— TRACK 04: GUILTY ⟢

aidonia is in the rearview, and the future is yours to take. but as your connections with the band deepen further, you find yourself toeing across the boundaries of what should and shouldn't be.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 8.5k (ongoing)

★ tags; rock band au, found family, hostile acquaintances to friends to lovers, grief/mourning, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

★ notes; hi <3 i was supposed to have this up on here yesterday, but real life got in the way and i completely forgot lol!! as always, thank you saur much for the reception of the previous chapters!! really warms my heart.

★ header art cr; sarhiyu on x & ig

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

The signal came back sometime that evening.

First as a faint flicker of bars, then solid enough to get a call out. Aglaea stepped out to contact the label the moment she was able, her voice tight but professional as she recounted everything for the higher-ups back home. Power followed not long after, humming back to life in a blink that felt both underwhelming and miraculous. The flickering panic of the blackout gave way to a tired kind of normal.

The show in Aidonia was officially pulled. There was no way to reschedule when the roads are covered in snow, and fans were promised full refunds. Tribbios handled most of the damage control, coordinating with local venues and media to get ahead of speculation. Come morning, the snow had let up a little, but it was enough for you all to get a move on.

None of you talked about what had happened in Tribbios’ suite. 

By the time the tour bus rumbled back to life and pulled out from the frost-stiffed hotel parking lot, Aidonia was just another name in the tour itinerary. Missed, marked. and moved on from.

You’re at your usual corner at the back of the tour bus, laptop balanced on your knees, and a weak signal blinking in the corner of the screen. The heater hums low beneath the bench, a small mercy against the cold that still clings to your bones. Everyone else is scattered in their own little silences—some pretending to nap, others just staring out the foggy windows.

You scroll through the band’s shared cloud, mostly looking for something to keep your mind busy. A setlist doc, rough rehearsal footage, old draft folders with half-named files and outdated timestamps. It feels safe here, in the admin side of things. 

But then it finds you again.

That file.

Not only did the person who edited this retain your horrible spelling, but he made sure to change the file format just to mock you. For a moment, your eyes flicker towards the front, where you know Mydei is sitting. He’s got headphones on with his eyes shut, but something tells you he’s far from asleep.

You dismiss the file with a flick and a huff of breath, shutting your laptop and stuffing it back into your bag. Now’s not the time.

The air still feels cracked open in places, too raw and brittle to touch.

So you’re surprised when Cipher plops down beside you with a cup of something hot clutched in both hands and a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s never been the awkward type. She grins through chaos, flirts with disaster like it’s her personal hobby, but right now she looks…uncertain.

“Hey,” she says, softly.

You glance over with a curious look, nodding in acknowledgement. 

She hesitates before speaking again, which is the second red flag. “I, uh… I wanted to say sorry. For what happened back at the hotel.”

“...To me?”

“Yeah.” Cipher fidgets, turning the mug in her hands. “I kind of…mentioned you like you were part of the problem. That’s not what I meant.” 

You don’t say anything just yet, letting your silence feel comfortable enough for her to keep talking.

“Being snowed in definitely fucked with my head, but... I was angry,” she admits quietly. “At Aglaea, the silence, the way we’ve all been pretending like we’re fine when we’re clearly not. But I shouldn’t have pulled you into that. You didn’t know about the whole rule, or whatever the hell it was.”

There’s a weight behind her voice that you’re not used to hearing. A sort of vulnerability that doesn’t dress itself up in sparkle or sarcasm.

You exhale, shifting your gaze to the window. “You didn’t pull me in. I was already there.”

Cipher nods slowly, biting the inside of her cheek. “Still. I made it sound like you were the reason no one talks about him. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You meet her gaze, finally. “Neither did Hephaestion, did he?”

Her eyes flicker, like the name hits her in the chest and scrapes on the way down.

“No,” she whispers. “He didn’t. Not to us anyway.”

Her voice is raw, stripped of all the usual luster. “Heph was kind. Stupidly kind. Even when he was tired. Even when it cost him. I think… I think part of me got used to believing people like that can’t break.” She swallows. “But they do, and it was too late when we realized.”

The guilt in her voice bleeds out slow and quiet, like a wound that never fully closed. Suddenly there’s pressure building in your chest.

Because you remember watching Cipher from afar. Chaos incarnate. The one who lit up every stage like a sparkler burning at both ends. Back when you were just a shadow behind a screen, she felt untouchable—louder, brighter, too electric to hold. You used to think that if she ever cracked, she’d do it with a punchline. Keep smiling through the smoke.

But most of her fire was real.

Cipher was the first to congratulate you after your debut show. The one who stayed up late with you, noodling through some half-formed song you both knew was going nowhere. The one who knocked on your door in Dolos and dragged you out for a night you didn’t know you needed.

Now she’s here beside you in the low hum of a darkened tour bus, grief softening her edges.

No jokes. No glitter. All that lingers is ember after the flame.

The distance you once felt seems to be dissolving. All that noise between who she was to you then and who she is to you now... It narrows into something small and human. For once, you see her clearly. Not as a firework, but a person left blinking in the dark, once the sparks have all faded.

“I didn’t know him like you did,” you murmur. “But I wish I had.”

Cipher nods again. “Hephaestion would’ve liked you. He always liked people who gave a shit.”

Her words sting just a little.

Because you hadn’t given a shit, not at first—not about him. You’d been too focused on hiding. On keeping your past fan-life buried deep, sealed off from this new, shinier present where you weren’t some anonymous handle obsessing over a band, but a real part of it. 

Yet here she is. Trusting you with a piece of a story you were never meant to be part of.

You turn to her again, eyes soft. “Thanks. For telling me.”

Cipher exhales, nods, and leans her head back against the seat. Her eyes drift shut, but not in sleep, only silence.

You both sit there in the lull between storms, the road stretched long and uncertain ahead.

The bus pulls into a highway gas station just past noon.

No more snow. Only wet roads and gray slush melting under a pale, forgiving sun. Everyone seems to breathe a little easier.

Garmentmaker powers down the anxiety alerts. Phainon hums something tuneless under his breath while Castorice carefully picks out snacks. Even Mydei wanders off toward the drinks aisle without that usual tension in his shoulders. You grab a pack of potato chips, a drink, maybe something sweet. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and for a second, the world feels like it's unpaused.

Outside, Tribbios rounds everyone up.

She’s standing near one of the green plastic tables bolted to the pavement, paper bag in one hand, sunglasses pushed up on her head. Her voice cuts through the highway noise.

“Alright, gather up! I’ve spoken with Aglaea. We’re taking a detour.”

That gets everyone's attention as you all glance at her expectantly.

Tribbios continues, “Before we head to the next stop, we’re heading to a nearby town—small place, nothing fancy, but I made some calls. They’ve got a community center with an open recreation hall. We’re doing a little impromptu team-building.”

Groans ripple through the group, but she holds up a finger.

“Don’t even start. You don’t have to sing, you don’t have to play, you don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. But we’re showing up. Together.”

Someone mutters, “Please say this doesn’t involve trust falls.”

She simply grins. “No trust falls. But it will be something grounding. The center’s hosting a lowkey open mic session. Locals only. No press breathing down our necks. No stage lighting that can render you clinically blind. It’s a place where we can remember how to be people again.”

A beat of quiet passes. Then Aglaea, still sipping coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her upright, gives a small, exhausted nod.

“Fine,” she says. “But we don’t stay long.”

Tribbios flashes a thumbs-up. “Three hours tops. Then we hit the road.”

The town’s only fifteen minutes off the highway, but it might as well be a different planet.

You’ve gotten used to glass towers and rhythmic traffic of bigger city states. Here, the buildings are squat and sun-faded, old bricks clinging to paint jobs from a decade ago. The roads curve softly around weathered homes and shuttered bakeries. Here, the trees aren’t ornamental. They simply grow.

Castorice leans over from her seat behind you, voice hushed. “Think we have fans out here?”

“If we do, they’re the kind that still burn CDs.” Cipher snorts, still sprawled across the aisle with a bag of marshmallow popcorn.

As the bus rolls deeper into the town, past the rusted gas pumps and schoolyard fences, something inside you twists. It’s not just the strangeness of being somewhere so quiet. It’s the fact that no one here seems to care who you are. Or what the hell just blew up back at in Aidonia.

It’s almost peaceful.

The recreation hall comes into view in seconds: wide, low-roofed, with flaking white paint and a notice board out front boasting yoga nights and bingo tournaments. The words COMMUNITY OPEN MIC are written in colorful marker on a taped-up sign by the door.

The bus slows. Someone stretches. Someone else yawns.

You clutch your jacket closer as you step off. The air smells like earth and trees. Like a place that doesn’t expect anything from you.

Maybe that’s exactly what you all need.

The floorboards creak beneath your boots as you step inside, worn lines from long-forgotten dodgeball games stretching across the scuffed wood. In the corner, someone strums an acoustic guitar, clumsy but heartfelt, the chords drifting lazily through the space. There’s coffee in paper cups, cookies stacked on fold-out tables, and someone’s grandmother knitting in the front row without sparing a glance toward the stage.

It’s far from glamorous. But in its own way, it’s charming.

Garmentmaker’s already unpacked their camera gear, moving with eerie, fluid precision between tables, adjusting tripods with a grace that makes even mundane angles look cinematic.

“Tribbios said this’ll make good ‘contrast material’ for the tour reel,” they say as they float past. “Aesthetic tag: Band Rebuilds in Rustic Amphoreus. Thoughts?”

You give a soft laugh. “You forgot emotionally devastated edition.”

Eventually, the band disperses. 

Phainon’s the first to strike up a conversation with a local, his easygoing charm folding neatly into the warmth of the room. Cipher, of course, is sampling cookies like it’s a formal competition. Castorice and Anaxa whisper over the sign-up clipboard, nudging each other toward it with half-hearted resistance. Mydei hangs back, still near the entrance, hands jammed in his pockets.

Then—Aglaea.

She’s at the edge of the room, looking wildly out of place in her pressed black slacks and blazer over a band tee. Her gaze is fixed on the wall of thank-you notes and photos tacked up near the old piano. She doesn’t see you approach, or maybe she pretends not to.

“Hey,” you say, quiet.

She doesn’t flinch. “This wasn’t part of the original plan.”

You nod. “Yeah, but maybe the original plan sucked.”

That gets the smallest twitch of her mouth. You stand beside her for a moment, both staring at the cluttered bulletin board like it’ll explain what the hell you’re supposed to do with all this—loss, tension, silence.

Then she murmurs, barely audible, “He’d have liked it here. Hephaestion. He was…always better with small rooms.”

You don’t say anything, but you give her an imperceptible nod.

The music pauses moments later. Tribbios claps twice from across the room, gathering the band like ducklings. “Alright, listen up!” she chirps, practically glowing under the twinkle lights. “Let’s make some magic today, shall we? Think of it as an emotional karaoke session with fewer regrets.”

She scans the group. Then her finger lands squarely on two people.

“Mydei. Diana. You’re first.”

It takes a second to register. Your name and his, spoken in the same breath, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You freeze. So does Mydei.

“Why us?” you blanche, sharp and stunned.

Tribbios simply grins. “I believe in symmetry.”

Cipher lets out a wolf-whistle. Castorice claps like someone just got engaged.

Mydei shifts his weight but doesn’t argue. He heads toward the stage with a slow, deliberate gait, the kind that buys him time. You trail behind with a skittering pulse. As you both climb the steps, your companion makes a move toward the mic stand until Phainon calls from where he’s leaning against the wall.

“Switch it up! Let Diana take the vocals, and get Mydei on the strings again.”

“Seconded,” Anaxa agrees with half a smirk. “We’re sick of hearing that bastard’s voice.” 

The small space erupts in quiet laughter from the rest of your bandmates, and the sound of it loosens the tension that’s been coiling around your ribs for days. You glance at Mydei, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he exhales through his nose, shoulders lifting in a subtle shrug. He takes the stool, and props the borrowed guitar on his lap without much thought.

The mic crackles as you touch it.

“Um, any requests?” you ask the room, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

One of the locals grins and shouts, “Surprise us!”

You stand there, trying to will your pulse to slow. The spotlight feels too hot, like it’s burning every thought and breath into sharp focus. Mydei, on the other hand, is already settled in. He adjusts the guitar with that casual precision you can never quite match, eyes scanning the room, and then, just as smoothly, he looks up at you.

“So,” he begins, fingers curling around the frets like they belong there. “How about we do workigntitledotmp3?”

Your stomach lurches. “Oh my god. Can you stop calling it that?” 

“Why? That’s what you named it.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’ve listened to it on repeat a few times. Took a guess at the chord progression.”

You want the floor to swallow you whole. The laughter from earlier feels like it’s miles away now. Your palms sweat against the mic. While this is not the first time you’re hearing of Mydei’s knowledge about that stupid demo, finding out that he listened to it repeatedly is a different story. 

“Seriously?” you groan. “You’ve—?”

Mydei’s grin catches you off guard, like a rare sunrise breaking through clouds. 

“Come on. It’s your song, remember?” he says again, but the softness in his voice makes it feel like he’s not just coaxing you into playing. He’s handing you the moment, like he’s sharing a piece of his own truth.

That’s the worst part.

It is your song.  A relic from a night you couldn’t sleep, poured out like a secret. Now it’s here, about to be exposed under the stage lights and his fingertips.

Note to self: send that cursed file off to digital purgatory later. 

Seconds later, you nod. Just once.

Because what else is there to do, when someone hands your own heart back to you and asks you to sing?

The lights overhead hum faintly. Somewhere in the back, Cipher leans forward, popcorn paused midair. The mic is warm beneath your fingers, but your voice still catches in your throat. When Mydei plays the opening chord, your heart nearly stumbles.

He really did listen to it.

Then, your mouth opens before your fear can catch up.

 

I’m more than the silence I taught myself to keep A name behind glass, too careful to speak Built all these walls out of fear I’d break But a cage is a cage, no matter the shape

So let it fall, let it burn, let it echo inside Let the truth in my chest be the thing I don’t hide If I’m meant to shatter, then let it be loud— I’ve lived in the shadows, but I’m stepping out.

 

Mydei finds the rhythm quickly. It’s not flashy or polished. You can tell it’s been a while since he played something for himself, much less a song that barely existed until now. But each chord comes out steady, as if he’s anchoring the room to give you space to fly.

Your voice rises into the second verse, so much stronger now.

 

I wore my doubt like a second skin, Danced on the edge but never gave in. But I’m done with shrinking to make space for the storm, I’m not small—I’m a universe, still being formed.

So let it fall, let it burn, let it echo inside, Let the truth in my chest be the thing I don’t hide. If I’m meant to shatter, then let it be loud— I’ve lived in the shadows, but I’m stepping out.

 

You don’t dare look at him yet, even if you can feel Mydei beside you, catching every breath you take with the press of his fingertips against the strings. It’s like you're speaking in a language only the two of you know, and you don’t want to shatter the spell with a single glance.

 

I won’t apologize for the way I ignite, This voice was never made for staying quiet. I’m done pretending I don’t want more— My name’s not a whisper. It’s a roar.

 

The last chorus crests like a wave you’ve been chasing your whole life. Each word strikes clean and resolute, carried by the burn of Mydei’s guitar beneath you. He doesn’t push the melody. He just follows, like he’s always known where you were going.

Then, with no grand finale or perfect cadence, the song ends.

The weight of it settles around you like something earned. Your chest lifts with a breath you didn’t realize you’d held since the first note. Mydei sets the guitar down with care, a soft click of wood on wood. When he looks at you, you can still see the ghost of a smile beneath those warm, golden eyes. 

As the applause breaks, you realize this song never really belonged to you alone. It was always meant to be shared.

When you step down from the stage, neither of you says anything. But something passes between you anyway. It’s both quiet and electric, something that settles just beneath your skin.

You’re not sure if you want to give it a name. 

Up next on Tribbios’ itinerary is Cipher, who’s dragging a slightly reluctant Castorice behind her like it’s just another night in Dolos. They stumble through a sugary pop duet once they get around to it, giggling more than singing. Somehow, that only makes it better.

Phainon follows with a borrowed harmonica, joining a local girl in a surprisingly sweet back-and-forth that leaves the crowd swaying. Then comes Anaxa, half-speaking, half-singing a smoky story-song about highway ghosts and forgotten gods. It’s weird. But completely on-brand.

Even Aglaea steps up. Her song sounds like a long drive through rain. She doesn’t wait for applause when it ends, just walks off with her usual grace. Tribbios jumps in to lift the mood, belting a melodramatic power ballad and, halfway through, accepting a kazoo from a stranger like it’s a trumpet solo. 

During the interlude, your eyes catch on Cipher weaving around the stage, nervous energy radiating off her in waves. It’s the same jittery restlessness she had when she apologized to you on the tour bus. You start to wonder what’s got her wound up again, right up until she beelines for Aglaea with a tight-lipped smile.

You’re too far to hear their conversation, but the way their shoulders drop, the soft exhales, and the quick, relieved hug they share—it's enough to fill in the blanks.

Later, while the others finish a chaotic group cover of something vaguely punk and absolutely off-key, you settle into a folding chair with Garmentmaker’s tablet. You scroll: blurred mid-jump shots, wide grins, messy chords, fleeting glances.

But something makes you stop. 

It’s a photo of you and Mydei, taken just after the last note faded. He’s turned toward you in the soft wash of stage light, bangs framing the glow of his amber eyes. The look on his face is open in a way that feels rare. He isn’t smiling exactly, but neither are you. 

As you stare at the photo, something stirs deep in your chest. It feels like a sudden surge of warmth that spreads slowly, settling into the spaces that were waiting to be filled. Then your eyes lift to the scene before you: all the people who’ve welcomed you into this disaster of a band.

Loud and alive and indisputably yours.

Aidonia is behind you now, the snow, the silence, the fallout. Whatever waits on the next stage, the next road, the next night—

You’ll meet it like this.

Together.

[Original Tweet by @PulsePopDaily – now deleted]

EXCLUSIVE: Is The Flamechasers’ newest guitarist hiding a very devoted past? 👀

Fans are connecting dots between “Diana” and a once-mysterious mega fan who ran the largest account in the fandom. Full theory & receipts here 🔗 [link]

Top Replies:

@ GoldenDamselInDistress: y’all will accuse a girl of anything if she knows the setlist too well

@ NothingBurger123: not saying it's real but… that 2017 Tumblr post? uncanny

@ Hehehehehe: uhh am i the only one who thinks this is a red flag

@ GODNAXA: it’s giving Black Swan energy and I’m here for it

@ MydeisMic: okay but if it is her… that’s actually iconic??

Everyone is back in the game in no time. 

After that much-needed wind down, you play every song on the setlist with twice the confidence you had on the opening night. It doesn’t take a genius to know that your bandmates are faring much better now, as well. The next three stops fly by in a blur of sold-out crowds and perfect cues. Five weeks into the tour, you don’t just feel like you’re keeping up. 

You feel unstoppable.

Feedback from the label seems to be mostly positive. Aglaea finally looks less like she’s carrying the weight of the world and more like she’s just managing a band again. That’s partly thanks to Tribbios, who told Garmentmaker to force her into breaks the second her emotional readings dipped below a certain threshold. Still, no algorithm can fix burnout on its own. Aglaea only started breathing easier because the rest of you showed up and held the line.

The sixth stop is in Carmitis, a city cradled by pale green hills and washed in gold at dusk, where the horizon burns like molten steel when the sun begins to drop. You’ve never done a soundcheck half-dazed by the sky before, but there’s a first for everything.

When Tribbios told you this was Aglaea’s hometown, it made perfect sense. The place has her kind of presence—striking, composed, impossible to overlook. Not the type of beauty that sneaks up on you, but the kind that announces itself the moment it walks into a room. Just like her.

You can see that she’s at ease here. The band, too.

Everyone seems to know the local venue staff by name, and Aglaea makes a point of introducing you like you’ve always belonged. You try to wave her off, stammering that it really isn’t necessary, but she gives you a look that cuts through any excuse.

“Lest you forget,” she says, with that cool edge only she can pull off, “you’re part of the team too.”

For the better part of the evening, everything runs like clockwork. You tear through the setlist with your usual moxie, each note sharper than the last. But just as the final chords fade and you’re ready to launch into the closing act, the lights dim, and something unplanned flickers to life on the stage screen.

A surprise fan project.

None of you were briefed on this. Your bandmates exchange puzzled glances, clearly just as blindsided, eyes flicking toward the unfamiliar video rolling in front of a cheering crowd.

But when you spot Tribbios peeking out from backstage, she gives you a look that reads loud and clear: Just go with it.

The video fades in with a soft glow, met by an audible wave of surprise and delight from the crowd. Someone’s layered a slowed-down instrumental from the band’s debut single under the footage. It’s warm, nostalgic, full of reverb and care.

It opens with flickering clips of the band over the years: Cipher with shorter hair. Castorice clumsily adjusting her amp mid-show. A rare moment where Anaxa is the one laughing, and Phainon is mildly disgruntled.

Then comes a clip of Hephaestion. Larger-than-life as always, grinning wide as he throws his arm around Mydei mid-interview. The crowd cheers louder.

You’re not thrown off by it. You’d been a fan back then too. Before Diana, before the stage. Seeing Hephaestion on the screen doesn’t shake you. If anything, you find yourself smiling.

Part of you wonders if most of the fanbase has truly accepted you into this space yet. You know from experience how long fan projects take to put together—how they’re often in motion for months before they see the light of day. It wouldn't be unusual to find yourself absent from something like this, especially considering how much has changed in such a short time. You’d almost resolved to let the rest of the band have this moment, to simply smile and move on out of courtesy.

But then, the music shifts into a more upbeat track, the rhythm as infectious as you remember. The energy in the room pulses along with the song, and suddenly, newer clips start to flood the screen. More recent moments, clearly captured by someone who’s been woven into the band's orbit since the tour started.

There’s Mydei, grinning with the crew while setting up gear before the Okhema show. Phainon and Castorice, hilariously off-beat, attempting a terrible dance challenge onstage in Sabany. Anaxa with his mouth wide open in deep, oblivious sleep as Cipher tries and fails to drop a piece of chili into his mouth.

The crowd erupts in laughter, and it’s impossible not to smile. It’s so perfectly...them. These are the little moments between the chaos of shows, the kind that never make it into official footage but tell the real story of life on the road.

Then, there you are.

Your first show with the band. That solo where you leaned too far back and nearly toppled over—only to catch yourself at the last second, spinning the recovery into something that looked intentional. The crowd never knew, but they cheered like you meant it all along.

Then comes a slow pan: your silhouette framed in golden hour light during soundcheck in Dolos, fingers ghosting over frets as the stage hums beneath your boots.

Somehow, they even dug up a clip that moment. The one where you and Cipher are doubled over in laughter beside the tour bus, nearly wheezing, as Phainon mourns the tragic loss of his ice cream cone. The one knocked clean out of his hand by an oblivious Mydei, who still swears it wasn’t his fault.

You laugh at first. A soft, startled sound that slips out as the crowd roars with delight over Phainon’s theatrics. But as the next few clips play, the smile on your face starts to falter.

Because it isn’t just about the jokes or the spotlight.

They’re showing you.

Not just the polished moments, but the awkward starts—the missed notes, the way you used to grip the neck of your guitar like a lifeline. Candid flashes of quiet, caught when you thought no one was paying attention. The grit in your jaw when you pushed through another long rehearsal. The light in your face when the music took over and you forgot to hold anything back.

The way you kept showing up, not to prove anything, but because somewhere along the way, this stopped being a dream and started feeling like home.

Your eyes sting before you can stop it. One blink too long and the tears slip free, warm and fast. You try to laugh it off, to wipe at your cheeks, but your breath catches somewhere in your chest and refuses to come out steady.

Castorice is the first to notice. She nudges a hand into yours, fingers gentle and sure, like she’s grounding you without needing to be asked. Anaxa leans in from the other side, pretending not to look too directly at you, but the way he shifts his shoulder in front of yours feels like a shield.

You sniffle, try to hide behind the curtain of your hair, but it’s no use. 

The final montage begins to slow. The colors dim, the music softens to a hum. Then, across the screen in clean, glowing text, the last frame lingers:

Thank you for being our light in the dark.

The silence after the screen fades is thick with feeling. You can barely breathe past the lump in your throat. You don’t even try to wipe your tears anymore, but Anaxa begrudgingly pulls out a handkerchief from his tight leather pants for you to take. Of course, you blow your nose into it without a second thought. 

Just when the silence starts to feel like it might swallow you—

“Oh no,” Mydei says, with exaggerated gravity. “Looks like we’ve got a problem.”

You lift your head, just barely. The audience holds its breath with you.

“Our lead guitarist,” he goes on, pausing for effect, “is absolutely, completely inconsolable.”

Laughter ripples across the crowd, warm and easy. You hear a few awws sprinkled in. Someone yells, “We love you, Diana!”

You press a shaky hand over your mouth, a laugh escaping through the tears. Castorice squeezes your hand. Anaxa mutters, “You’re stealing the encore,” but his smile says he doesn’t mind.

Mydei walks over, unhurried and steady, his eyes locked on yours. He leans in just enough for his voice to reach you—low and private, meant for no one else.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

Because, naturally, this is the show he decided to go shirtless. The stage lights catch the sweeping red tattoos that blaze across his chest and the curve of his arms, every line sharp and intentional. His torso looks sculpted—like something out of myth, all effortless strength and impossible detail.

And he’s looking at you.

“You feeling alright?” Mydei murmurs, his hand brushing lightly against your back.

You nod. Kind of. But the spot where he touches you burns even when he pulls away. 

“You sure?” Mydei tilts his head, smiling in that way that’s all quiet mischief and something gentler underneath. “I can tell them to roll the blooper reel next. That’d really finish you off.”

That makes you laugh for real. It’s breathless, a little cracked, but genuine.

He straightens up, raising his mic. “Alright, looks like we’re keeping the show after all. You ready for us?”

Once the heartfelt fan project wraps up, you deliver the last song for the evening. Your fingers move on their own, riding the music like a wave you were born to ride. The lights flare, the crowd sings louder than the amps, and for one breathless stretch of time, it feels like the universe exists only in this moment—sweat and sound and starlight.

Then the last note hits. Mydei throws his head back, letting the echo ring out as Phainon crashes the cymbals like a firework.

Silence, for just half a second before the crowd explodes.

People are on their feet, screaming, chanting, holding up phones and lightsticks and hand-painted banners. Some are crying. Some are laughing. But all of them are alive with the same wild current pulsing through your chest. You’re still catching your breath when Mydei turns to the crowd, hair clinging to his face, chest heaving.

“This—” he pants, gesturing to the sea of people, “This was one for the books.”

Castorice takes your hand. Cipher waves dramatically to the front row. Anaxa pulls off his jacket and throws it into the pit, because of course he does. Phainon lifts his sticks to the sky like he’s offering them to the gods. Mydei moves forward and you all fall into step with him.

“Carmitis, you’ve given us your voices, your hearts, your light. We’re gonna carry that with us to every stop ahead.”

The crowd screams back, thunderous and loving.

Then the band’s frontman turns to you with an unfamiliar glimmer in his eye, “Oh, and if you see our lead guitarist sobbing again, just know—it’s because you’re all too damn sweet.”

You cover your face, laughing into your hands as the others hoot and whistle and give you playful shoves.

Tribbios’ voice crackles through the earpieces. “Final bow, kids. Let’s make it good.”

And so you line up, shoulder to shoulder. Aglaea’s watching from the wing, her hand over her heart. Garmentmaker gives you a subtle thumbs-up from the lighting rig. Even the crew is beaming.

You all bow together. One movement, unified.

Something you wouldn’t trade for anything else in the world.

Backstage hums with movement. The kind of chaos that feels earned—high-fives from techs, congratulations from the venue crew, a water bottle pressed into your hand as someone passes. Your body’s still vibrating with leftover stage energy, but already you can feel it beginning to ebb, that delicate shift from performance to person, spotlight to shadow. 

The show’s just ended, your adrenaline still tapering off as you and the others trail toward the exit, weaving past venue staff and local press. The security detail usually handles this stretch well, keeping the band insulated from anything unscheduled. But tonight, someone slips through.

“Diana!” a voice calls, sharp and cutting through the din like a needle. “Is it true you used to run firescapes? The biggest Flamechasers fan account on Twitter?”

Your heart misfires instantly.

Your steps carry on, automatic and numb, but your breath hitches and the smile you’ve worn since the encore fades from your lips like steam on glass.

The reporter holds a phone up, recording whatever scoop he can get from you. The flash is off, but you feel the heat of it anyway. You don’t even have time to process what expression you’re making. Your past, the one you kept buried under layers of name changes, fake email addresses, and silence, is cracking open.

Your bandmates are a few steps ahead, laughing about something Castorice said. None of them hear it. None of them see you falter.

Except for one.

Fortunately, security peels the reporter away before it can turn into a scene and soon enough, you're all piling into the shuttle back to the hotel. The others are still riding the buzz of the show, laughter echoing, voices overlapping with excitement. But you can’t seem to match their rhythm.

Not when the question keeps echoing in your head.

Is it true you used to run firescapes?

You swallow hard. The name alone feels like a live wire.

How could he have known? You were careful, meticulous, even. Not even the current mods knew your real identity. You’d scrubbed every trace, buried it years ago, left it behind. At least, you thought you had. Fuck. You can already imagine the headlines once word gets out. 

“You good?”

Phainon’s voice hauls you back to the present. 

Your designated shuttle seatmate is staring at you with one part curiosity and two parts concern. His voice stays easy, laid-back as ever, but there’s a quiet weight beneath it. Like he’s giving you room to lie if you want, but hoping you won’t.

You shift, suddenly aware of the tension in your spine.

You want to say yeah, all good, or something breezy to match his tone. But even as he tosses in the occasional quip to whatever conversation is happening a row over, you know better.

He heard what the reporter had asked. 

The words don’t come easily. You’ve kept this part of yourself buried for so long that it doesn’t feel like a secret anymore. It feels like something anchored deep inside, always there, holding you steady but uncomfortably heavy. Part of you that wants to shove it all back down, and convince yourself the reporter was just guessing. That Phainon didn’t actually hear, and pretend none of it matters now.

But it does. Of course it does.

You half-expect him to pick at the corners, to pry something out of you. Any sane person who just found out their newest member could be a crazy fan would exercise that sort of caution. Yet, Phainon doesn’t breathe a word of it. He simply lets the question hang in the air like it’s your choice to answer. 

Ultimately, it’s his patience that helps loosen something in your chest.

Your fingers twitch in your lap, restless, and you trace the edge of a fold in your jeans, the way you used to ground yourself when you were nineteen, posting concert clips under a name no one knew. You remember the surge of excitement whenever a post caught fire. The way it felt like belonging. The way it made them—the Flamechasers—feel a little closer.

You press your lips together.

“You... You heard what that reporter said, didn’t you?”

Phainon doesn’t answer right away. His blue eyes shift to the window, watching the city lights blur past as if he’s lost in thought. When he finally speaks, his response catches you off guard.

“Do you want me to say yes or no?”

Your brows furrow. “Sorry...?”

He turns back to you with a small, lopsided smile. “It sounded like something that’s none of my business. So I’m giving you a choice: do you want me to say I heard it, or keep pretending I didn’t?”

You should want the easy out. For Phainon to just shrug it off and go back to chatting about setlists or late-night food runs. But the cat’s already halfway out of the bag already, and somehow, the idea of letting him believe a lie feels worse than the risk of the truth.

You sink back in your seat, the confession dragging behind your ribs.

“It’s true,” you murmur. 

Cipher shrieks somewhere in the back, and while that normally wouldn’t have fazed you, you visibly jolt at the noise. It’s a reaction that isn’t lost on Phainon, but he affords you enough grace not to point it out. 

“I see,” he says. “You haven’t answered my question though.”

...That's what he cares about?

“Aren’t you going to tell the others?” you ask with a frown. “We have all sorts of protocols set in place for obsessive fans, so—”

“Are you an obsessive fan?” he asks, cutting you off gently.

Your mouth opens, then shuts. “No? I mean—I don’t think so. I just... loved the band. A lot. In a maybe-slightly-too-intense-but-not-unhinged way? Ugh. I don’t know.”

Phainon chuckles under his breath, the sound soft and unbothered.

“That’s good enough for me.”

Part of you expected judgment. At the very least, some unease. Surely the universe would be demanding payment for all the secrets you’ve smuggled into this life by now. But instead, Phainon just leans back, like your confession weighed nothing at all.

When he casually shifts the conversation—I think I need to replace my snares, they’re starting to sound a bit off—you realize the moment’s passed.

No pressure. No expectations. 

But even with Phainon’s quiet acceptance, the unease doesn’t leave you.

It lingers in the corners of your chest, coiled tight, like a thread pulled taut but never snapped. You glance around the shuttle. Cipher is giggling at something Castorice said while Tribbios and Aglaea are talking in hushed tones. Anaxa’s got his headphones back on, staring out the window. Right next to him, Mydei is half-asleep with his head tilted back, the one who obviously poured out more energy than the rest of you.

They all look...unburdened.

That’s what makes your stomach twist. Because Phainon might be willing to let it go, but what about the rest? Would they be that easy? That kind? Or would they see you differently?

You swallow hard and look away, guilt settling in even as Phainon leans his head back, content to let the silence stretch. He’s already made space for the truth.

But you can’t shake the fear that the others might not.

You thought you’d feel better by now.

The adrenaline’s long gone, replaced with a hollow kind of quiet that settles deep in your chest. Outside your hotel window, the city hums softly beneath the dark—streetlights stretching into quiet halos, distant cars slipping by like whispers. Somewhere downstairs, the band’s celebrating, but you’re here alone, and that’s how you want it.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You were just about to crack open your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys, ready to finally wrestle with that unfinished demo. The awful file name seems to glare at you from the screen, a passive-aggressive reminder of how long you’ve neglected it. But tonight, you figured, was as good a time as any. You needed something to keep your hands busy. Something to keep your mind off everything else.

That was the plan, until you hear someone knock on the door of your hotel room.

You think about ignoring it. You’ve already passed on the group’s celebratory drinks—“just tired,” you told them, which wasn’t entirely a lie—and the last thing you want is Cipher trying to guilt-trip you into joining late. But of course you cave. Of course you open the door, but it’s not Cipher that’s standing on the threshold.

It’s Mydei.

But he looks different somehow. Loose in the shoulders, sprawling tattoos peeking through a half-unbuttoned shirt, one hand braced on the doorframe and the other holding a dark green bottle.

“Didn’t see you downstairs,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Those bastards told me to make sure you didn’t get spirited away by the vending machine ghosts.”

“The what?”

“You know. Hotel haunts. Always by the vending machines. That’s what Phainon told me.”

You stare at him. “Are you... drunk?”

“Not yet.” He holds up the bottle: Velkaria Bloodwine. It’s smooth, easygoing, tastes better than it should for how dangerously drinkable it is. Expensive, too. “Wasn’t in the mood for a party either. Figured I’d share with someone less loud.”

There’s a pause. Long enough for you to wonder if this is pity, or worse: concern thinly veiled as company. Despite himself, Mydei doesn't push. He just raises a brow, waiting for your verdict. 

After a beat, you step aside and gesture him in. “Only if you let me keep working.”

“I’ll be a ghost,” he says, slipping past you with the kind of ease that always makes it feel like he belongs in whatever room he enters.

Mydei settles right next to you on the sofa, kicks off his shoes, and starts pouring out two fingers of wine into the glasses from your minibar shelf. There are no words for a while, just the sound of your keyboard tapping and the faint clink of glass.

You hate how comforting it is, the quiet, the company. Especially coming from him.

Because most of the time, Mydei is cool and remote, wrapped in that untouchable, quiet of his. You’re never quite sure where you stand with him. But tonight, he’d been unusually attentive in a way that caught you off guard. He asked if you were feeling alright while his entire damn chest was on display. And you, very valiantly, had to stop yourself from spiraling into one of your deranged ex-fangirl daydreams.

Now he’s here in your hotel room pouring drinks. Like this is some long-standing tradition between the two of you and not absolutely insane.

You don’t know what version of him this is, but it’s disarming. Maybe a little unfair.

“Are you finally going to name that file or are you just building a shrine to it?”

You shoot him a look, but it’s half-hearted at best. “It’s a work in progress.”

“Everything is,” Mydei says, bringing the rim of his wineglass to his lips. “But not everything can be performed as an impromptu duet in the middle of nowhere.”

For some reason, your heart skips at the fact that he remembers the recreation hall. That was weeks ago—you’ve already forgotten the name of the town. But not the way it felt to perform a song you wrote together. At the time, you brushed it off. Didn’t let yourself linger on it. But now, sitting here alone with him, the memory hits different.

The realization curls warm and awkward under your skin, and suddenly your face is burning with embarrassment.

You should tell him to go. You should guard this space the same way you do your secrets. But instead, you let yourself breathe in the silence that settles between you like warm smoke. It’s neither heavy nor sharp. You’re simply just two people too tired of the noise.

“Thanks,” you say quietly when you retrieve your own glass. “This is wine, isn’t it?”

Mydei grunts. “It’s fermented pomegranate juice.”

“So... Wine?”

He chuckles into his drink like he doesn’t know what to do with you. You sure as hell don’t know what to do with him. But the corners of your mouth tug upward anyway, and the silence that follows is easier now.

The project loads on your laptop, sluggish and messy, a patchwork of uneven synths and ghost track layers you’ve been too annoyed to clean up. It starts playing from a random marker. You wince.

Mydei leans forward, brow creasing. “That’s the chorus, right?”

“No,” you groan, scrubbing back a few seconds. “That’s the mess before the chorus.”

He hums, nods, then points at your screen. “Your mids are crowding each other. That guitar line could be cleaner if you isolate it.”

You blink at him. “I knew you were involved in producing our songs, but not to this extent.”

“I’m not. I’m just annoying.” He takes another sip. “Play it again.”

You do. Again and again, with a few tweaks each time. Mydei gives you his thoughts in single sentences—concise and thoughtful, never pushy. It’s almost infuriating how he speaks less than you do but still ends up being right more often than not.

Somewhere between exporting a new version and looping the second verse, your wineglass gets emptier. Then it’s refilled. And emptied again. The room softens. Your laughter spills easier. He says something about your synth patch sounding like a broken traffic light, and you almost choke from laughing too hard.

Time skips like a scratched record. You’re not sure how long it’s been when you realize how close Mydei has gotten. One of you must’ve leaned in. Or both. He’s angled toward you now, shoulder brushing yours, watching the screen from over your arm.

When you glance up, his face is right there. 

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between your lungs and your lips. The distance between you could be measured in heartbeats. 

Up close, his features are unfair. Sharp in a way that still manages to feel soft, like how dusk blurs the edges of sunlight. His bangs fall just slightly into his eyes, that deep, burnished gold catching the glow of your screen, turning them molten. You hadn’t realized how long Mydei’s lashes were. Or how his mouth, usually so unreadable, looks almost gentle now, the faintest curve resting at the corner.

You should look away.

But instead, you’re cataloguing him like a fool: the way one brow arches more than the other when he’s focused, the way he smells faintly of old cologne and wine and something darker underneath, like cedar smoke or thunder about to break. The worst part? He’s watching you too. Not in the casual way people glance around a room.

He’s looking at you like there’s a question in his mind and you’re the only answer that fits.

The demo has stopped playing. The glass in your hand has gone warm. You can’t tell if the thudding in your ears is the leftover bass line or your pulse losing composure. You should move. Say something. Laugh it off, maybe. But the words don’t come, and your body won’t listen.

Then, Mydei tilts his head just slightly. His gaze flickers from your eyes to your lips.

Nothing about it is subtle.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “So are you.”

His mouth curves, just slightly. “Guess we’re both guilty.”

There’s a pause, light but loaded. The kind that stretches between two people suspended in a moment that might become something else if no one stops it.

It would be so easy. The room is quiet, the lights low, your skin humming from the wine and the proximity and the way his gaze doesn't waver. He’s close enough to count your breaths, to see the hesitation flicker across your face. Something waits at the edge of all this silence; something fragile, and bright, and irreversible.

But then you remember who you are. Who he is. And what crossing that line would mean for the both of you. 

Maybe in another life, you’d let it happen. You’d lean in. You’d chase the heat gathering between you until it tipped into flames. But your body moves before your heart can answer. A blink, a breath, a laugh that comes too fast and a little too loud.

“You make staring at someone sound like a felony,” you say, aiming for playful, missing by an inch.

That gives you room to shift back in your seat to put space between you. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to breathe. Then, your eyes flick to the screen of your laptop, where the demo’s still frozen mid-loop.

“You gonna help me fix the synth patch?” you ask, quieter now. “It’s still clashing with the bass line.”

Mydei’s reply takes a second. “Did Cipher really help with this? She’s usually... more precise than this, even on her chaotic days.”

He laughs, but there’s something brittle underneath it.

You ignore it. Or try to. “Hey, you’re the one who said even the producers couldn’t tame this thing.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than the one before. Like something that had opened between you has quietly, carefully, closed again. Mydei doesn’t offer up a retort of his own. He simply leans forward, fingers finding the keyboard with practiced ease, as if that moment never touched him at all.

But as the track stutters back to life, you can feel it. In the way your pulse stumbles. In the way he doesn’t speak for a long time.

The music plays on. Everything’s back where it was.

Except it isn’t.

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[inkskinned]

it mattered because when my brother asked me what if this is the happiest you'll ever be? the best you'll ever get? the thing i felt was fear, not peace. everybody thought you were so perfect for me. even i thought you were "helping me grow". i had to challenge every internal clock. make myself more thoughtful, more kind, more beautiful.

i told my therapist it was good because i like the changes i made and there's something so strong about saying i did that. the problem is that i can like the difference all i want, but i changed for you. something akin to getting your name tattooed, all my progress is stamped with fuck you.

it was the happiest i'd ever been and also the best i'd ever gotten. i would still get in the car and think what the fuck just happened.

[leupagus]

I forgot that a) I'd written this and b) that it can basically work as a prequel to deep breath and off you go.

Here's some more I wrote like a month ago when I thought "haha this is a neat show with a fun little cast, but I'm sure it won't be a new hyperfixation or anything"

-

He gets back to Pittsburgh with almost thirty minutes to spare before his shift starts — the day shift, part of his deal with Robby and the neverending nightmare that is the Pitt schedule. It’s probably not a great idea to pull a twelve-hour shift immediately after flying across the country, but Jack gives a metaphorical shrug and drives straight to PTMC. It’s not like he’s going to make good choices anyway, and this beats getting blind drunk and punching a wall until his knuckles bleed.

“Hey, the prodigal son returns,” cheers Robby, from where he’s leaning against the Hub’s partition. He looks happy, as well he should — he’s taking a week off himself, courtesy of taking Jack’s night shifts this past week coupled with Heather’s fraying patience. “Did you turn out to know the way to Santa Fe?”

“The song’s about San Jose, not Santa Fe,” Dana says, circling around the partition to give Jack a brisk kiss on the cheek. “Thank God, someone to rescue me from these maniacs.”

“Might be a little bit of a frying pan/fire situation, slugger,” Jack says. “Plane was delayed, I just got in about forty-five minutes ago. So I might end up hallucinating around two or three p.m.”

“Oh boy,” Dana says. Without even looking up as she thwacks Robby on the shoulder.

“Ow, what,” Robby whines.

“Did you even ask him how he’s doing?” she demands. Since Jack spent a worryingly large portion of his time before, during and after the funeral sending thumbs-up emojis to the group chat’s questions about his mental state, Jack thinks that’s a little bit overkill. But Dana’s always had this weird idea about how emotions need to get expressed, or whatever.

“He just walked in the door,” Robby points out. “Also, I counted twenty-eight thumbs-ups he sent us in the group chat over the weekend.”

Dana gives him the fish-eye from over the tops of her glasses. “How do you get laid on a regular basis,” she asks, flabbergasted.

“It’s a mystery to me too,” Robby says, before turning to Jack. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Jack sighs, and makes shooing motions at Robby. “You, leave.”

Heather, who’d been one of the only people to act like a normal goddamn person about Dad dying and all, had spent the weekend complaining over text about Robby. Since complaining about Robby was one of his favorite things to do, Jack was delighted to offer whatever advice or commiseration he could; it wasn’t until Saturday, while him and Ma were getting comprehensively shitfaced in Dad’s woodworking shed, that Heather had made the horrifying confession that she was fucking Robby. Again.

Warnings and dire predictions of disaster had done nothing to convince her of the error of her ways; instead she kept asking how she could convince Robby to take some time off. I want to talk to him about what he wants out of this, and I can’t do that if he can just run away to the Pitt if he starts catching feelings.

Jack suspects the worst thing for any possible future between Robby and Heather is for Robby to catch any more feelings than he already has, but that’s Heather’s problem. Just tell him you rented a bang shack for a week and get some lingerie and idk handcuffs, he’d proposed, which weirdly wasn’t well-received. But she ended up getting a cabin down in the Monongahela National Forest, so really, who’s a “crass caveman” now?

Even with the prospect of Heather Collins in lacy underwear doesn’t seem to be getting Robby out the door any faster, though. “Are you sure, man?” he says, frowning at Jack. “I can stick around—"

“No you can’t,” Jack says, continuing his shooing motions. “Seriously, get out of here. Heather’s going to kill me if you do that fucking Minnesota Goodbye shit today.”

“And bury you where they won’t even find the body,” Heather says as she breezes past, one of their new medical students trailing after her like a baby duck.

“I’m not even clocked in and I’m already facing workplace harassment,” Jack complains.

Dana laughs. “Sounds like something you should bring up with the Chair of the Department.”

“Yeah, uh,” Robby says, as eloquent as ever as his gaze trails after Heather. It’s extremely hilarious and pathetic all at the same time. Jack is very, very happy for them both, not the least because there’s room for one suicidal ideation case in the Pitt and Jack has dibs. He wants better than that for Robby, a man who’s dragged Jack out of more holes than he can count. He just doesn’t want to know the details.

“Well said,” he says, and goes off to find Ellis.

He finds Mohan instead, looking ever-so-slightly crazy in West 13 with an anesthetized head lac and an impressive pair of bags under her eyes. “Dr. Abbot,” she chirps as he hesitates at the doorway. “How was New Mexico? I’ve heard it’s beautiful, I’ve never been. Not to most of the Southwest, actually — I was in Las Vegas a couple years ago for my cousin’s wedding, I guess that counts? But I didn’t leave the hotel, I was something like three weeks out from my certs and I’d brought all my books and study materials with me. I forgot an actual dress for the wedding, ended up borrowing my other cousin’s spare suit. Somewhere or other there’s a bunch of pictures with me and the bridesmaids like I’m a lesbian Casanova.” She stops talking abruptly and frowns. “Was all of that out loud?”

“Sure was,” he says, amused. Even sleep-deprived and babbling, she’s still a sight for sore eyes. “How long have you been here?”

“What time is it?” she asks, continuing her work on the laceration. Her stitches are perfectly in line, not a tremor in her hand.

“Seven a.m.,” he says. He leans up against the doorsill and watches her for a few minutes. It’s not the best use of his time, but he hasn’t seen her for more than a week and he knows she won’t mind. Won’t even notice, probably. She has nice hands — not dainty so much as deft, like she’d taken piano when she was a kid. There’s an assurance to the way she touches things, careful but firm, like she knows exactly what every movement means.

“What day?” she asks.

That yanks him right out of his daydreaming. “Samira, tell me you haven’t been here for over twenty-four hours.” He’s going to have to kill Robby and then get killed by Heather.

“I will not tell you that,” she says cheerfully.

“Why?”

“Because like all emergency medicine doctors, I have a finely-tuned sense of avoidance.” She finishes the last stitch and takes off the sterile paper covering. The patient, a 39-year-old waiting on the ICU, doesn’t stir. “And my aunt and uncle are in town and have taken over my apartment and if I have to stay there one more second entertaining them and my annoying cousin who’s just gotten accepted early admission to Carnegie-Mellon, I will probably kill them. Or at least maim them. So I’m here instead, and I think that’s very professional of me, actually.”

“Lotta homicidal impulses happening tonight,” Dana warns him, coming up beside him in the doorway. “You sure you want to stick around?”

“Why the hell didn’t Robby or you send her home?” Jack says, sticking his thumb over at Mohan.

“Because I’ve got an aunt and uncle just like ‘em,” Dana says unsympathetically, patting him on the shoulder, “and because I thought it’d be funnier to leave it with you.”

Tentative title is "Dana once offered to spread the rumor that she and Jack were sleeping together just to get the gossipers off his back, but Jack truthfully told her that everyone would know she was too good for him" although it might be a little long

continued from this, because there is nothing funnier than a middle-aged doctor who keeps getting nonconsentually paired up with every hot colleague at his hospital and would like it all to Stop Please.

-

Jack’s used to it, is the thing. Has been for his whole life; he’s the only boy in a family of five, with all the attendant you-must-carry-on-the-family-name expectations. Starting when he was about nine years old, people had questions about every girl he talked to. Ooh she seems nice, oh what’s her name, ooooh do you liiiiiike her? He’d probably be more annoyed about it except for the fact (which his mom liked to remind him at every opportunity) that the first time it ever happened was with Leslie, who he married as soon as he could and stayed married to as long as he could.

Turned out it wasn’t long enough, but the point is that he honestly can’t remember a time when people didn’t take a weird, invasive interest in his personal life.

“What personal life, out of morbid curiosity?” asks Lena, peering at him over her glasses. “Also why are you here?”

It’s 0300 the night of (technically, the morning after) Pittfest; the custodians are still getting the last of the rooms cleaned up after the chaos, but everything else is more or less back to normal. Jack managed to get almost four hours’ sleep before his bum leg prodded at him with phantom pains, the kind that only go away when he’s giving himself some actual pain to focus on. So here he is on his night off, and the charge nurse is giving him shit.

“Ow,” Jack remarks, pressing his hand over his heart. “Starting to feel a little unloved, boss. Didn’t you miss me?”

“Didn’t have a chance to,” says Lena, with a twinkle in her eye. “You left four hours ago, remember?” 

“Like it was a mere four hours ago,” he says agreeably. Lena’s mean as shit to most of the attendings and actively violent with HR, but she’s got a soft spot for Jack, which is usually a good thing.

Except for times like this, when it leads her to add, “But sounds like someone on days loved you plenty.”

“Oh, no,” Jack mutters, and tries to brace for it even as he scans the board — relatively easy night so far, Ellis and Shen and Yao with four patients each and Chairs down to an eight-hour wait. “What’d you hear, boss?”

“I heard that Doctor Mohan was very impressed with you,” Lena coos, just as Shen goes striding past.

“Woah, we talking about Sam? Dude,” Shen says, and offers what Jack assumes are very supportive finger guns. “She was talking about that little warzone crike kit you pulled out for hours. So after you guys left, did you and her—” He makes little pah-pow noises, his eyebrows raised interrogatively.

“You call her Sam?” Jack says, not sure if he’s more disconcerted by the noises, the nickname, or by the brand-new rumor that he’s shtupping Mohan. “And no, we didn’t, and no,” he adds, turning to point at Lena, “she wasn’t. Isn’t.”

“Wasn’t isn’t what, hon?” Lena asks innocently. 

Ellis, walking past with Janie, slows down with a way-too-alert expression on her face. “Who wasn’t isn’t?”

“Nobody,” says Jack, at the same time as Shen says, “Sam,” and Lena says, “Doctor Mohan,” with relish.

“Ohhh, so that’s finally happened?” asks Janie, clasping her hands together. Jack hates all of them and is going to ask for a transfer to a hospital in Anchorage. Or Mars, that weird rich guy must need doctors for colonizing Mars, right?

“No, it hasn’t happened,” he says, as level as he can manage. “Just like it hasn’t happened with… let’s see, last year it was Dr. McKay, year before that it was Nurse Jesse, year before that it was you,” he points to Ellis, who looks as grossed out as he’d been at the time. “Yeah. So thank you to all my yenta people—” he’ll have to ask Robby about the plural of yenta is— “but Dr. Mohan and I are not dating, nor are we…whatever that finger guns thing was supposed to imply.”

“It was supposed to imply fucking,” Shen says helpfully.

“You know, they had a betting pool on the two of us at one point,” he says, just for the joy of seeing all the color drain out of Shen’s face. Then multiple GSWs come sailing in from the ambulance bay and they’ve got to deal with that, and he hasn’t even put his bag down yet.

[sforzesco]

WINTER BREAK

much like marriage matches, the stakes are pretty high for getting into the cardinalate. you might be a little on edge if the brother that's been earmarked for the role isn't really jazzed about the whole thing, in addition to trying to convince the pope that it's in his best interest to let this happen.

A Renaissance Court: Milan Under Galeazzo Maria Sforza, Gregory Lubkin

eventually I'm going to get the whole cast of sforza siblings drawn. there's just. a lot of them.

[wandixx]

I have an idea that includes two person love square because identity shenanigans are always fun, but I have no idea what they should do, despite having fun dynamics between them, like:

"Of course they're dating" said Public Opinion about Miss Martian and Phantom, right after she broke his heart a bit by telling him she was in love with someone else (Megan's long distance best friend, Danny). Before this happened, Phantom was overly flirtatious to both Miss Martian and Megan, so she asked Danny what to do about "This one guy in my sports team" and his advice is to tell him to "Fuck off". She does exactly that, without quite understanding the weight of the word and Phantom is stunned into obedience (and he understands that no means no)

Anyway, I need help with actual... plot. Situations I put them through, because I'm determined to write it. They would be cute together imo.

[fraternum-momentum]

sometimes it feels surreal as to how many people r following this blog, i kinda feel like a hamster in an enclosure running on the wheel thing and i am being observed

[ladystardustinblackjeans]

I really relate to this problem, and thank you for your advice! If i may add on in the hopes that it's helpful:

What helped me with getting confident in my own decisions:

Start small. Sounds silly but i was so terrified of doing something wrong unless i ran it by someone else, that i didn't even post comments on the internet or held opinions on discourse fandom stuff i didn't get from someone else. Start smaller. It helps to practice, and also practice getting over the panic that at least for me often set in after expressing an opinion, or thinking i did something wrong. And when i actually wasn't happy with my decision, it wasn't that serious because it was anonymous fandom wank and i could practice strategies for processing mistakes and applying what i learned to future decisions in private over not very consequential incidents.

Get practice! I already mentioned fandom wank and i implied media analysis. I further recommend reading aita posts. It helps you see what other people do about various life situations, and you can develop an opinion on things and also examine it from various perspectives from the comments of other people who read them.

Start taking charge of small shit in your life! What posters do you want to hang up? Tell someone confidently your favourite band. Develop a favourite bird and colour and way to eat potatoes. And tell people about it. Practice making decisions where you don't ask anyone for advice (or, what that amounted to for me functionally, permission). Voice your opinion to your parents on small inconsequential stuff that won't get you in trouble. Get used to the fact that the world doesn't end when you do it.

Do something forbidden. Not illegal, not something that would get you in trouble. But something that breaks a rule your parents actively or indirectly set up. Or someone else set up, whatever works for you. It's helpful if that is about your living environment or your body.

Related to that: you don't have to tell them everything. Goes extra for breaking a small subjective rule they set up. You can just do it anyway and not tell them. And it's important for autonomy to not report every detail to whoever is held in a place of authority over your personal life by you. Because that person should be you. And until it is, let's work towards that goal step by step.

Stop second guessing your own decisions. If i thought "oh i could go for a glass of water right now", i would often think right after "do i really need it? There is several factors to consider of why that might be inconvenient (when it really wasn't). Am i sure i need that glass of water, am i sure i want it that much?" Like hello it's a glass of water. It's an awful experience to be at the point where you do this kind of shit to yourself. Make sure you trust your own physical and emotional feelings.

You will make mistakes and regret and be unhappy with decisions you take. Just as you are probably unhappy with stuff your parents decide for you. This is inevitable, and part of growing up. It's fine. You're learning. You can't learn without making mistakes. And don't think you're too old for this, this should have been your teenager phase but it didn't happen like this, so you have to play catchup. Happened to me too. My method for dealing with mistakes: apologise if possible, make amends wherever possible, and analyse where things went wrong so you learn from it and don't make the same mistake again. And then don't ruminate more on it, it won't help.

I’ve found a lot of your posts about autonomy and infantilization helpful.

Do you have any advice for how to break out of self-infantilization, especially when you’ve been sheltered?

I grew up with strict parents and always thought I’d figure out how to be confident and independent when I went off to college.

But for a number of different reasons (including the pandemic) , I socially isolated myself and talked myself out of going out and trying new things, ex. I put off driving until I was 23, which limited where I could go.

And now for financial reasons I live with my parents while looking for a job.

I feel very immature for my age, like I don’t know how to start making decisions for myself without always asking for advice from someone else. I feel like I’m struggling with the transition to independence that most people go through from 15-18.

I can relate to some of this, and yeah, the aspect of financial and material dependence makes it difficult. One thing I would point out is that there's noting wrong with asking for advice, including from your parents (if you trust their advice!). Being autonomous doesn't mean figuring everything out on your own. Outside perspectives are good! But if you're asking ME for advice, I would suggest just being mindful of the difference, in your mindset, between asking for advice and asking for permission.

I think a lot of young people, even when they physically separate from their parents, get stuck in the "needing An Adult's Permission" mindset, and basically turn their boss/landlord/professor/doctor/therapist/partner into their substitute parent. And then if you do live with your parents as an adult (which I did! I still do, despite interludes of being elsewhere!), it's even easier to slip into the childhood mentality of submitting and needing permission. And it can take time and effort to break out of that mentality.

So I think my advice for keeping your advice-seeking from slipping into self-infantalization would be: -seek advice from multiple sources and use your own judgment to filter through it -seek advice from sources other than older people and authority figures. seek advice from people younger than you! -interact with people both older and younger than you as peers. tumblr is great for this! I never check anyone's ages, so I interact with 15 year olds and 50 year olds equally! I volunteer to be your middle-aged friend! -try to decouple money from decision-making in your mind. this is hard, because we live in a classist, capitalist, economically exploitative world. this was hard for me as a broke, dependent, unemployed young adult -- to break free of "I'm not a real adult yet because I don't have money" (an attitude actively encouraged by my family at the time) to "I don't have money to do most of the things I want, but of the things I can do, the things I don't actually need money for, I deserve to be in charge of." -if you don't have kids (you don't mention having any, so I'm assuming you don't), go make friends with people your age who have kids. offer to babysit, if that's something you're into. it's hard to think "I'm baby" when your peers have actual babies. That's all I can think of for now, but I mean, this is really hard. Life transitions are always hard, but we live in a world that makes this especially hard. And expensive. And that constantly lies to us about it. So just. Stay strong. Be yourself. All that good stuff. Oh, and one final thing: As you get older (which is inevitable, because time passes) do not forget everything you learned about ageism and youthlib. Older people have such selective memories and lack of empathy for their younger selves. To fight ageism, we have to align with our own younger selves.

[lemonadecandy103]

It has come to my attention that we do not yet have a Barbie & Ken mugshot meme for our darling duo

Anticipate me watching both the Barbie movie and PPP this summer!

[mylove-thresher]

I fucking hate this but I’m NOT gonna try drawing it again. No. I won’t.

[silkentine]

I want to live!

Here’s a really messy painting I made of Robin that’s been living in my procreate gallery for a while now and I’ll probably never do anything more with it so I slapped a gradient map on it and called it a day.

[favouritefi]

Reminder to self to fix this wip later

[tubbytarchia]

Dear anonymous. I talk about characters. I'm not hating on Pearl and I'm very much not hating on Pearl the CC. Her POV literally just hurts me on a deeply emotional level because I'm invested in her character. I thought I made that clear

[graveyardrabbit]

it seems that every time I think to myself “hey, I’m really tired and/or having more joint pain than usual this Saturday morning. I’m still going to do my usual morning walk but I’ll keep it low-key today, maybe 30 minutes tops” I always end up doing some kind of parkour nonsense because there just happens to be a really interesting creature in the area that I don’t usually see there and I Need To Look At It

which is to say, I spent an hour and a half following a seal around the bay this morning

[b1mbodoll]

have to make Another masterlist.

[steveharrington]

mickey 17 didn’t fully stun me like i was hoping but i kinda can’t stop thinking about 18 saying he hates 17 and 17 saying but… im you…. and 18 saying im not you. WOW