Chapter Text
The morning spills gold into the Heartsteel apartment, sunlight dripping through huge windows like pure, liquid warmth. It lands on Ezreal first – sprawled across the leather couch, hair a careless halo of emerald against the cushions, an open notebook balanced precariously on his chest. His pen taps idly against the paper, chasing a melody that dances just outside his reach.
The room somewhat reflects him – a storm of scattered papers, guitar picks gleaming like tiny stars, the faint hum of a demo looping from a nearby speaker. And clothes, so many clothes left everywhere. It’s a total chaos, one might say. But it’s his chaos – bright, hopeful, alive.
He wakes up early for moments like this one. The house is still quiet, the usual noise of five other men crammed under one roof reduced to the quiet upbeat of the tune, soft creaks of the couch, and the occasional hiss of wind through the curtains. It’s in these stolen hours that he feels most like himself, unbound from the image the world expects. Here, he can think without interruptions, let his thoughts spill out freely like the sun across the pages.
For a moment, Ezreal is completely at peace.
And then, Kayn storms in.
The air suddenly shifts, sharp and heavy. Shadows trail him, ominous and dark, stealing what’s left of the sunlight. His steps are pounding against the tiled floor, immediately silencing the music, silencing Ezreal’s thoughts. Kayn is half naked – though, it shouldn’t shock Ezreal anymore, the guy’s too comfortable for his own good – wearing a pair of boxers and a flimsy crop top, last night’s eyeliner smudged into uneven crescents. There’s a barely contained fury in the way he slams the fridge door open, rattling the whole kitchen.
“You didn’t load the dishwasher again, shithead,” Kayn growls from across the room, holding up a dirty mug with an accusatory tilt. “It’s disgusting, Ez.”
Ezreal doesn’t even look up. “Good morning to you, too,” he sings, voice syrupy and insincere. He stretches, deliberately slow, letting the pen fall from his fingers. “You know, some people say caffeine improves your mood. Try it sometime.”
The tension between them crackles.
The room itself seems caught between them – sunlight pooling generously on Ezreal’s side, dim shadows clustering near Kayn, as if even the universe can’t reconcile their opposing energies. Kayn shoots him a glare, icy and unwavering, and Ezreal barely suppresses a chuckle as he realizes why. The dish rack sits empty, the sink piled high, no clean cups in sight. A soft laugh escapes him before he can stop it, more amused than apologetic.
Oops, his bad.
“Maybe if you stopped being such a constant pain in my ass, I wouldn’t need coffee to deal with you,” Kayn grunts, stepping closer. His slippers thud against the floor, dark and powerful, while Ezreal’s bare feet dangle lazily over the couch’s edge.
Ezreal finally meets his gaze, amber eyes glinting with delight. “I’m a pain in your ass? Sorry, sweet thing, next time I’ll use more lube.”
Kayn’s jaw tightens. His hands clench into fists, his shadows closing around Ezreal and threatening to swallow him whole. Ezreal only smiles at him brightly, blows him a kiss, and turns to his notebook, again. He can see Yone brooding in the kitchen, politely taking care of the forgotten dishes, the coffee machine on the counter sparkling with life. Kayn wouldn’t dare do anything, not with the older man ready to stop their fight when necessary.
Behind them, the rest of the house stirs to life – K’Sante’s booming laugh echoes from upstairs, Sett’s voice growling through a phone call, followed by a quiet ruffle of Aphelios’ clothes. But here, in the living room, it’s just them, locked in their endless routine of push and pull.
“That better not be a trashy love song,” Kayn’s gaze flickers to the open notebook on Ezreal’s chest.
And just like that, another occasion to tease comes by, another opportunity to make Kayn’s day a little more unpleasant. Ezreal smirks, sharp and radiant. He closes the notebook, shifting on the couch and taking up more space in the process.
“Why? Afraid I’ll write something about you?”
“You little shit,” Kayn growls, about to attack, standing above Ezreal like he’s not sure where to bite first. “As if you could ever get that deep.”
“Trust me, I can get deep–”
Neither of them notices Yone standing a few meters from them, arms crossed, watching them completely unimpressed. He looks tired, exhausted even, witnessing their bickering so early in the day. He’s not paid enough for having to suffer through all this drama.
“Boys,” he says dryly, cutting their conversation short. “If you two are done doing… whatever you are doing… Some of us would like to have breakfast in peace.”
Ezreal smirks, unbothered, while Kayn’s glare sharpens into daggers. But Yone’s already walking away, leaving them suspended once again in the glow of sunlight and shadow. See, I win – he wants to say, to bite at Kayn’s patience even more. But his eyes say it all. Kayn grunts, flopping on the couch and crushing Ezreal underneath him.
“Hey, what’s wrong with you!” Ezreal hisses, trying to push him off. It only makes Kayn grin wider, baring his sharp teeth to the singer. “You’re heavy. And you’ll make my shirt wrinkle!”
“Ow!” Kayn groans at the sudden jab to his ribs. “Fuck you, Ez! You have no right to occupy the whole couch. Besides, it’s my freaking shirt you’re wearing!”
“No, it’s not!”
“Yes, it is!”
“You’re an ass–”
“Take it off!”
Yone sighs over his coffee, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it might somehow drown out the chaos unfolding in the room. Lord, please lend me more patience, he begs silently, tuning out the clash of voices that ricochet off the walls like discordant instruments. The house never seems to rest, even in the early hours, peace feels like a fleeting dream.
Somehow, he’ll endure. He sends K’Sante a grateful smile when the man sets down a plate of breakfast, the aroma a brief comfort amid the noise. His hand finds its way to Aphelios’s dark hair, ruffling it lightly in thanks when he quietly offers to handle the dishes.
It’s going to be a long week.
***
The kitchen smells like burnt toast.
Ezreal is hunched over the counter, a sponge in one hand, a dirty plate in the other, eyes narrowed with the kind of concentration only reserved for grudging chores. He scrubs at the dishes like it’s personal, like he’s trying to erase the memory of Kayn’s sharp words from his mind.
“He could’ve just asked me to clean, you know.” He whines, looking back at Phel like he’s trying to find some validation.
Aphelios, leaning casually in the doorway, watches him with unreadable eyes. The soft gleam of moonlight from the window reflects off his bright silky pajamas, painting him in silver. He tilts his head, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the running water.
“Maybe you should just leave him be.”
Ezreal blinks as if the suggestion is some kind of rare offer. “What? Let him win?”
“He doesn’t deserve your energy,” Aphelios signs, his movements fluid but weary, the weight of the day evident in the slight lag of his fingers.
Ezreal pauses mid-scrub, the sponge dragging sluggishly across the plate’s edge. Kayn’s words are still there, sharp and loud in his mind, like static he can’t tune out. They cling to him – cruel, biting. Unfair. They always do, no matter how much he pretends they don’t.
Honestly, Ezreal doesn’t know when it all started – the exact moment that split them apart. It happened sometime after the band was formed, when they were still figuring out their dynamic, still trying to fit together in the cramped spaces of their shared house and practice rooms. At first, it wasn’t much, just small comments, little jabs mindlessly tossed back and forth. Nothing to take seriously, nothing to worry about. But somewhere along the way, those light pokes turned into something heavier.
Soon, their interactions stopped being a playful banter. They became a game, a constant back-and-forth that the rest of the band had to handle. What had once been light teasing turned into a rivalry that felt like it might explode at any moment. Kayn’s sharp words no longer felt like jokes – they were weapons, each one carefully aimed, meant to wound. And Ezreal, despite the sting, kept going. He couldn’t stop himself. It was like a reflex, like if he didn’t push back, it would mean he’s defeated. But with every cut, every cold sneer, something inside him twists, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop.
Now, their rivalry isn’t subtle anymore. It’s loud, it’s in-your-face, and it’s become a part of the routine, something everyone expects. The moment Ezreal and Kayn lock eyes, the air shifts, and it’s clear: something’s going to happen. And it always does.
The silence stretches until Aphelios moves, his presence steady but not intrusive. He signs again, slower this time, like he’s coaxing the thought into being, at the same time trying to make Ezreal understand.
“Why don’t you try something else?”
Ezreal turns slightly, brows knitting together. “What do you mean, Phel?”
Aphelios crosses to the table with quiet grace. He lowers himself into a chair, leaning back like he’s just settled into the day’s last reprieve. His hands move deliberately now, forming words with an easy rhythm that Ezreal has always found calming.
“You could use a distraction.”
Ezreal scoffs lightly, now fully turning to face him. “A distraction? What, like a new hobby?”
Aphelios tilts his head, unimpressed. There’s a beat of silence before he picks up Ezreal’s phone from the counter, his hands working the screen with practiced ease. The soft glow reflects off his calm, unreadable face as he scrolls, his fingers never hesitating. Then, without a word, he slides the phone back across the counter toward Ezreal.
Ezreal frowns, glancing down. The unfamiliar icon catches his eye, a clean, minimalist heart. Nothing flashy, nothing overdone.
“What’s this?” he asks, lifting the phone.
Aphelios smiles faintly, but his hands do the talking. “A distraction,” he signs again, his movements light but purposeful.
Ezreal’s lips part, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “It’s a dating app, Phel.”
Aphelios shakes his head, his expression steady but not unkind. He rests his elbows on the table, fingers moving with quiet emphasis. “You deserve something fun. Kayn’s not going to offer you that. ”
The words sink in, deeper than Ezreal expects. He hates how much sense they make, how much truth they carry. Kayn’s attention is always a razor’s edge, too painful to hold, too dangerous to linger on. Ezreal lets out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh, as he downloads the app.
“Ridiculous,” he mutters, shaking his head.
Aphelios tilts his head, his hands softening into a final, reassuring motion. “Just try it, Ez. ”
Ezreal lets the thought hang there. He imagines what it might feel like – someone seeing him as just himself. Not a pop star. Not Kayn’s constant target. Just… someone else, someone normal.
It shouldn’t feel appealing – this idea of putting himself out there, letting strangers into his life. Yet, somehow, it does. There’s something in the way Aphelios watches him, silent but resolute, that makes it seem less ridiculous.
He presses forward, his fingers moving with hesitant resolve.
“Fine,” he says, “but this is just to prove how bad your ideas are.”
“Good enough. Going to bed now. Enjoy.” Aphelios winks at him before scurrying off.
With a resigned huff, Ezreal pulls his phone closer, wet fingers hovering above the screen before he dives in. The app opens with a bright, friendly animation, a pink heart icon glowing on the screen. Too cheerful, too inviting, and yet, he finds himself navigating the setup without a second thought.
The bio section looms, and for a moment, he falters. What could he even write? He drums his fingers on the counter before typing a collection of vague words that feel safe yet playful:
Explorer133: Just looking for someone to text. Too pretty to be single.
It feels hollow, but honest enough to pass. He thumbs through the app’s clean interface, a space so deceptively simple it feels like it’s inviting him to linger, to get lost.
Maybe that’s the point, he muses. Maybe this is exactly what he seeks, an escape from the weight of his real world, where everything feels too loud, too sharp, too much.
His profile needs a photo. Of course, it does.
He scrolls through his camera roll, rows of professionally shot images glaring back at him like a parade of expectations. Each one feels wrong, too polished, too Ezreal. That’s not what this is supposed to be about.
Ezreal moves past them, ignoring the meticulously styled band photos, the selfies where K’Sante is flexing in the background, and the glamour shots their PR team loves. He keeps going until he lands on something older, buried deep in the archives of his phone.
It’s a mirror selfie, taken long before green hair and fame, back when he was just a guy with messy blonde strands and an oversized mirror in a cramped hotel room. His face is cropped out entirely, leaving only the curve of his frame – a lean silhouette in a bright blue tank top. The angle is casual, almost careless, but there’s something sensual about it.
“Perfect,” he mutters, a small grin tugging at his lips.
He uploads the photo, watching as the app processes it with a soft beep. It feels like a tiny rebellion – something just for him, untouched by the carefully crafted image the world expects.
When the setup is done, a soft chime confirms his profile’s completion. Ezreal leans back, exhaling deeply. He is reaching for the sponge, ready to return to his mundane reality, when the screen lights up again.
You have a New Match!
A match.
His heart skips a beat, and he immediately curses himself for the reaction. It’s just a stupid app. A distraction, nothing more. Yet as his finger lays over the notification, a strange anticipation coils in his chest – a flutter he’s not ready to name.
The ridiculousness of it almost makes him laugh. Curiosity tugs at him, and he taps the notification.
The guy’s profile is simple, yet something about it demands attention. There’s no face, just a single, striking photo – a muscular back, taut and powerful, with shadows carved deep into every curve. Long black hair flows down in a thick braid, resting over one shoulder.
The centerpiece of the image is a guitar slung casually across his lower back, polished wood catching just enough glow to stand out against the rough, toned expanse of skin. It’s draped low, leaving nothing to the imagination about what’s behind it – tapered waist, equally muscular backside.
Ezreal’s breath catches for a split second, a pulse of heat rushing to his face. It’s not just the photo, it’s the energy of it, the fact that someone like this might be interested in him.
And then, there’s the name: ShadowReaper. His bio is simple but maddeningly confident: Crazy but hot.
“Edgy,” he murmurs, lips curving into a tiny smile that he can’t quite suppress.
Ezreal stares at the photo for a moment longer than he intends, something about it pulling at him. It’s nothing special, it’s simple, even – but there’s a rawness to it, an authenticity that feels miles away from the world he knows.
He debates his next move. A small, inexplicable thrill buzzes through him. This app was supposed to be a distraction. And yet, here he is, captivated already. But that's just how he works, isn't it? He throws himself into everything like it's the most important thing in the world, even if it’s something as trivial as a random dating app. It's not about the app or who’s on the other end, really. It's the rush, the pull of something new, something different, something that might make him feel something.
It’s just how he is. His mind never settles for half-measures – if he's doing something, he’s doing it with everything he's got, no matter how silly or fleeting. It's like a switch flips in him, and suddenly, the world feels just a bit more alive. Every message, every notification, it will feel like a new adventure. He lives for that spark, for the deep dive into whatever he’s chasing, no matter how small.
And now, staring at his phone, a sudden, almost foolish feeling takes root in his chest. Maybe this, this stupid app, this chat, whatever it is, might actually be something worth chasing after.
Ezreal types his message quickly, keeping it light, friendly – maybe a little teasing, but he honestly can’t help himself.
[Explorer133]: Nice guitar. Do you play, or is it just for the aesthetics?
The answer comes faster than expected, but it’s not what Ezreal’s been waiting for, not really.
[ShadowReaper]: send pics
Ezreal blinks at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. It’s almost comical how quickly the shift happens, how the tension he’s been anticipating melts into something far more… typical. He lets out a soft, half-amused laugh, running a hand through his hair.
So much for the online etiquette.
He doesn’t really know what he expected, of course, this is a dating app, not some deep, meaningful connection waiting to unfold. His idealism was always a little offbeat, especially here. His own fault for assuming anything different.
[Explorer133]: Nice try.
He pauses, reading it over before adding:
[Explorer133]: Tell me more about yourself, and then we’ll see.
[ShadowReaper]: So you’re making me work for it? Fine.
Ezreal snorts, leaning back against the counter, dishes long forgotten. He waits, fingers tapping idly against the screen.
[ShadowReaper]: I play. Do you?
[Explorer133]: I am a rockstar, baby–
He pauses, hesitating over his words. It feels like too much – he’s stepping too close to the truth – so he deletes it, opting for something safer.
[Explorer133]: I don’t. Always wanted to learn, though. Maybe you could teach me? :3
[ShadowReaper]: aren’t you a sweet little thing
[Explorer133]: Trust me, I’m the sweetest.
[ShadowReaper]: we’ll see about that
The edges of Ezreal’s frustration begin to soften. It’s just texting, harmless and easy, but something about it already feels different.
A voice calls out from the living room, snapping him back to reality. “Ez! Dishes!”
“Relax, Yone!” he shouts back, quickly pocketing his phone. He looks down at the sponge, forgotten on the counter, and grins to himself. “Gee, I’m almost done, anyway!”
Maybe Aphelios was right. This already feels like a good distraction.
***
Ezreal lies stretched out on his bed, the faint hum of the city leaking through the cracked window. His phone glows in the dark, casting a harsh blue light across his face as he scrolls through his match’s profile for the tenth time. It’s not much to go on, just a username, a vague bio that hints at mystery, and a single photo that manages to be intriguing without revealing anything. It should frustrate him, but instead, it pulls him in, keeps him coming back to decipher every detail, every hint. Who are you, really?
He shifts on the bed, letting his arm drape lazily over his chest, phone held just above his face. The screen flickers as he scrolls back to their last messages. He catches himself grinning at the words, his mind filling in the pauses with a voice he doesn’t even know yet.
It’s ridiculous, this feeling. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. But maybe that’s why it feels so addictive, because for once, there’s no map, no plan, no goal.
A new message comes in, and Ezreal rolls his eyes. Seriously, who are you?
[ShadowReaper]: so explorer. what are you wearing?
[Explorer133]: Pajamas, my favorite shirt and some sweatpants.
He ignores the fact that it’s Kayn’s shirt that he’s still wearing, soft, worn-out, and comfortable, a few sizes too big. The fabric carries a faint trace of Kayn’s cologne, something sharp and musky that somehow lingers even after countless washes. It’s not like Ezreal to keep someone else’s things – he prefers his own order, his own brand-new things – but this one feels different. Maybe it’s because it fits him in a way nothing else does, like a long embrace that he doesn’t have to ask for. Maybe he’s willing to pretend a little longer that it’s actually his.
It’s easier this way, wearing the weight of someone else’s presence without having to admit to wanting it. Easier to tell himself that the shirt is just soft, just convenient, just the first thing he grabbed from the laundry pile. Because admitting anything else, admitting the way his fingers lingered when he found it crumpled on the couch, or the way it feels like Kayn’s shadow wrapped around his shoulders, isn’t something he’s ready for.
Ezreal pulls the hem tighter around himself, letting the oversized sleeves hang loose, hiding his hands. It’s almost funny how much comfort he finds in it. Almost. But not quite.
[ShadowReaper]: boring
[Explorer133]: Tell me about your biggest dream.
[ShadowReaper]: you know the saying, show me yours and i’ll show you mine
He pauses, the bounced-off question catching him off guard – despite it being him who asked it in the first place. Ezreal’s used to the interviewers asking that, but his answers are always rehearsed beforehand – new song, new album, concert tour maybe – never anything real.
[Explorer133]: Freedom.
It feels too honest, too raw, but he doesn’t delete it. He watches the three dots appear and vanish, the pause stretching long enough to make him second-guess himself.
[ShadowReaper]: Deep answer for a dating app
[ShadowReaper]: Are you kidnapped or something?
[Explorer133]: Or something, yeah.
Ezreal laughs, rolling onto his side. It’s funny, how this stranger can cut so close to the truth without even trying.
[Explorer133]: It’s just… expectations? I guess?
[ShadowReaper]: I get it. People always think they know who you are, what you should be
Ezreal’s heart skips a beat. It’s strange how the words feel tailored to him, like this anonymous guitarist can see right through his polished facade.
[Explorer133]: It’s so exhausting, you know? I wish I could be… just me.
[ShadowReaper]: you know, the faster you learn how to not give a fuck, the easier it gets. trust me, been there, done that
[ShadowReaper]: it sounds cheesy af but yeah, don’t let others define you
[ShadowReaper]: your cool ig
Ezreal grins at the screen, a warmth spreading through his chest. It’s been so long since someone understood without him having to explain.
The conversation flows into the early hours, jumping from favorite bands to guilty pleasure songs, from philosophies about art to wild dreams they’d never admit to anyone else. Somewhere in the back of Ezreal’s mind, he knows he should sleep, there’s rehearsal in the morning, and Kayn will be insufferable if he’s late, but he can’t seem to stop.
When the clock hits 3:00 a.m., ShadowReaper sends one last message:
[ShadowReaper]: still no pics?
[Explorer133]: Try again tomorrow, dude.
The reply is instant.
[ShadowReaper]: I will. sleep well.
Ezreal falls asleep with a phone clutched in his hands, an absent smile on his lips.