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The last song on the playlist played on repeat, while the final pair of customers left the venue, dragging their feet between picky giggles and shameless groping. This moment would have marked the end of an ordinary night at the live house, if not for the “incident” from a few hours ago.
Waiting for the inevitable, Zeal remained behind, calmly wiping down the bar. As a gesture of compassion toward his coworker, he had resolved to wait until the latter entered and sat down beside him to unload his complicated feelings.
The customers’ laughter faded right in time for the countdown:
“Three… two… one…” he marked with a soft smile, just as the other burst through the front door with a slam.
The man of complaints made his entrance, taking only a second of his time to flip the “Open” sign. Without another word, he made his way to where Zeal was already waiting and let himself collapse—his lower half landing on the cushioned stool, and his upper half sprawling across the bar that had just been polished.
“Kaelix, I just finished cleaning that side,” Zeal pointed out with a slightly furrowed brow, but without any trace of annoyance toward something he had already anticipated.
“Can’t you be more compassionate with your friend? After the night I’ve just had…” the other lamented with a pitiful tone.
Zeal chuckled quietly at the white-haired man’s attitude, who rarely let go of his good mood and usual smile. Although it was true that, after a day as hectic as today, the one who had taken the brunt of it all did deserve a bit of empathy.
“If a customer ever gives you that much trouble again, you can always call the police, you know? Idiots deserve to be treated like idiots. Don’t feel bad about it.”
“But that’s rude! No one likes getting into trouble with the police,” Kaelix replied.
“But you can’t be carrying the burden of dealing with the drama of two drunk fools. Look at how your eye turned out.”
Unconsciously, Kaelix brought a hand to his right eye. While he couldn’t see it, the swelling was proof enough of the blow he had taken without a hint of hesitation. And that wasn’t the most unfortunate part of his face: a split lip, a vertical scratch on his forehead, a bruised jaw, and the other eye irritated. His glasses and hair had managed to hide the signs of the fight until the end of the night, but now, in the slouched position he was in, Zeal could see his entire face.
“I didn’t know it was going to end like that…” he added with a small sob.
“No one could have predicted it, Kaelix.”
“Now Seible will have to clean up the club’s image too…”
“He’s smart, he’ll know how to talk to the sponsors.”
“And besides… I hate losing.”
Zeal let out a sigh of surrender. Sometimes, it was better to simply let the other complain and not try to argue. It would be more helpful to accompany him in his grief.
There was a reflective silence while Zeal finished polishing the other side of the bar, and once he set his tools aside, he crouched down to reach for another type of tool that would be helpful tonight.
“You know what? You’re going to help me with something.”
“More work?! You really have no compassion…”
“Shut up and sit up straight,” he ordered, placing a tall glass in front of Kaelix.
The dark-haired man got to work, showing off his skill with the cocktail shaker he used every night. He began by mashing some fresh raspberries and mint leaves in the mixing glass. Then came a splash of dark liqueur with the scent of red fruits, a few citrus drops, and a touch of floral syrup and honey. Next came the ice, and with both hands he shook the mixture elegantly, as if choreographing every move solely for Kaelix.
Kaelix simply watched in silence, letting his colleague serve him whatever it was he was preparing. He wasn’t a fan of alcohol, but it didn’t bother him either—especially not when it was made especially for him.
“You know I’d never get you drunk,” Zeal said with a smile, still shaking.
“I wasn’t thinking that.”
“Good. I thought of this drink after the incident. The girl seemed to like it so much that I started reducing the amount of alcohol little by little.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Because that way, that idiot had to keep paying round after round to try to get her drunk. And she could stay sober enough if anything went wrong.”
“Don’t you think the drunkenness comes from the belief that you’re drunk?”
“Exactly. It’s not really harmful to her body, but it would put her in a mental state tolerant enough of that man’s idiocy,” Zeal finished with a shrug.
With the mix complete, he poured the thick contents into the glass in front of Kaelix, letting the sweet-and-sour, refreshing aroma reach both of their senses. Visually, the red color resembled that of a raspberry, but after pouring one final liquid directly into the glass, it turned a deeper, more intense red—foamier than it was at first.
“I like the color…”
“Of course you like the color…” he laughed, as if the words carried a double meaning.
The proud bartender finished his creation with the subtle decoration of a red berry and another mint leaf floating on top of the drink.
Kaelix looked at the cocktail, then looked at Zeal, waiting for some kind of approval to take the first sip. Once it was given, he was about to bring his lips to the rim of the glass when, all of a sudden…a circuit blew and the lights of the entire live house flickered.
The electrical failure hit the stage first—its overhead lights shorted out in seconds. But they weren’t the only ones. Several support lights along the bar went dark, and the warm overhead lights followed suit. Only the red lights remained, casting the entire room in a shadowy glow that devoured every other color.
Both individuals at the bar looked at each other, knowing what—or rather who—had caused such a failure.
“Freo! That’s enough, let the techs handle it tomorrow morning!” Zeal shouted from his spot, but got no response in return.
As Kaelix fixed his gaze on the glass, noticing how its liquid had turned almost black in reaction to the new lighting, Zeal clicked his tongue and went off to look for the culprit. Seconds later, he returned with Freo, arms crossed, whom he ordered to sit beside Kaelix at the bar—right in the perfect spot to receive his proper scolding.
“You two need to learn your limits. Look at all the damage you’ve caused just because you don’t know how to ask for help. You can’t carry everything on your shoulders or you’ll end up ruining the place—or your own faces.”
“I was trying to fix the wiring from the panel,” Freo explained, as if his intention wasn’t already obvious to the others. “That way Seible wouldn’t have to call the technician in the morning.”
“And now you’ve given more work to Seible and the technician,” Zeal reproached. “Your mistakes cost us money.”
“Hey! Police officers don’t charge for stopping fights!” Kaelix defended himself—with a certain degree of truth.
“But your beautiful face attracts the customers. And just look at it now…”
The choice of words was just right to lower the spirits of both men. While Kaelix looked at Zeal with a certain guilt, Freo shot him a glare filled with anger that, Zeal knew, wasn’t entirely directed at him.
The incident had involved three people: a woman, a husband, and a lover. One could say a fourth, if bad luck were a physical entity playing a role in the scene. First to arrive were the woman and the lover, who—ignorant of life’s coincidences—entered the live house for a good time with drinks and music. They could have easily blended into the crowd and had a night as successful as anyone else’s, if not for the fact that, some time later, another group of men in business attire would enter the bar with the same intentions.
Only these didn’t get the chance to enjoy themselves before chaos broke loose.
The husband recognized his wife immediately, and a whole spectacle began between one shameless drunk and another with anger issues. Fists and shouting sparked the commotion, eventually pulling in Kaelix, who tried to separate them both. The bouncer took the rage of the wife, the lover, and the husband—everyone who got involved ended up unloading their emotions onto Kaelix’s face, also destroying Freo’s hard work in the process. They stumbled into glass, couches, and ended up rolling across the meticulously arranged stage. Some cables were ripped, the sound equipment took a hit, and a few tools were wrecked.
It wasn’t until the police arrived that the show ended, and not until every last customer finished gossiping about the commotion that the coworkers were able to reflect on the situation.
A glass was also placed and served for Freo, who declined it immediately.
“I’m not in the mood to drink tonight. Thanks Zeal,” he replied with his usual courtesy.
“It’s alcohol-free. Just some acidic infusions. Try it,” Zeal coaed, winking.
Caught between trust and skepticism, Freo took a sip out of sheer politeness, not expecting much.
However, his senses were surprised by a sweetness with citrus hints that caressed his tongue. His eyes widened as the slightly bitter, bold liquid slid down his throat. It wasn’t unpleasant—in fact, it was unexpectedly thrilling.
"What's wrong, Furi-furi? It's good, isn't it? Though it does have a bit of alcohol in it."
Seeing Freo’s quick blink, Kaelix didn’t hesitate to sip his own drink. The experience mirrored his friend’s. The pain of the night and the earlier scolding faded, giving way to a casual conversation about flavor.
Zeal made another batch, confident the two would want more.
After a few minutes, the clock struck twelve—but it seemed that those drinking had no rush or even any awareness of the time. At some point in the conversation, as was usual in his work, the dark-haired bartender had become nothing more than a background presence to the conversation between those enjoying the drinks at the bar.
“I feel a little hurt, you know…?” said Zeal during a lull in the chatter.
“Huh?” Kaelix responded, not having caught a single word.
“Nothing. I’m leaving now,” he announced, sliding a key toward Freodore. “Don’t forget to clean up and lock up when you leave.”
Freo didn’t pay much attention to Zeal’s words either; instead, he continued sipping his drink, which he was enjoying so much, and went on with the conversation—about who knows what triviality.
“I didn’t intend for things to happen… but maybe I gave them a little nudge. Just in case…” thought Zeal. From the doorway, after stepping out, he locked the door himself and, with a mischievous smile on his face, walked away.
Back to the two at the bar, the conversation had taken on a more serious tone than it appeared. What had started as shared complaints had turned into an explanation of how a synthesizer works.
“You’re not supposed to mess with the levels,” Freo clarified, taking a small sip from his glass. “They’re calibrated for a reason.”
“I had no idea each knob has a name,” Kaelix replied, resting an elbow on the bar. “I thought you just turned them until something sounded good.”
“That’s exactly what you’re not supposed to do.”
“Then why make them so accessible? Anyone curious could turn them on purpose.”
“Are you talking about yourself?” Freo chuckled subtly.
Beyond the lesson, Freo had likely solved a mystery: for weeks, the sound settings had been oddly off. He hadn’t been naïve—he’d long suspected Kaelix was behind it—but he never had the heart or timing to confront him. Now, it just seemed like a funny comment. And it was even better seeing Kaelix get caught in the act.
“Now that you know, are you going to tell me what you did to channel 7?” Freo asked, raising an eyebrow while suppressing a smile.
"Seven… would that be the guitar channel? Well… I just equalized it," he replied, making an effort to recall the technical terms from Freo’s earlier explanation. "It sounded a little low, so I adjusted the bass."
"Wrong. That’s not equalizing. That’s sabotage."
"It depends... not if you liked how it sounded."
Silence followed that statement. Intentional or not, such a simple comment shifted the atmosphere. The lighting and setting carried the weight of that change. Kaelix couldn’t hold the gaze—it was as if the sentence itself held a deeper meaning, a feeling he wasn’t ready to face. Freodore, however, remained steady, as always.
"I like your performances for more than just how you sound," he began to speak sincerely. "You have stage presence. Charisma. Your singing isn’t about being pleasing to the ear—it’s about how you leave your essence in every song." Freo set his glass aside and leaned sideways on the bar, resting one arm as a pillow. "It’s not about creating new sounds. It’s about the emotion you transmit every time you step on stage. It’s a new kind of experience I wouldn’t want to miss while we’re working together on this."
The words hit like a truck, and it was the game that Kaelix himself had started which left him in checkmate before his drinking companion. Was Zeal telling the truth when he said the drink didn’t have much alcohol? Because right now, the world was spinning, and all Kaelix could focus on was the man in front of him.
Leaning onto his side over the bar, Kaelix mimicked the posture. Now they looked directly into each other’s eyes. No ulterior motives, no performance. Just the unspoken conversation of steady gazes and silence. Under the red light, Freo’s almond-shaped, pink-tinged eyes appeared almost black, pearlescent. And Kaelix wondered: should he respond with his usual mischief… or let the silence drift them both toward dreams?
"So you do have some level of interest in me after all, huh?" he finally asked, clumsily.
"I’m just being honest. There’s nothing wrong with recognizing someone’s work."
"But I’m not just someone."
"You know what I mean."
"Ha! You’re as cold as always, Furi-furi."
"And you’re a clown."
With that, Freo broke eye contact and sat up straight. His glass still held a quarter of the drink, which he downed in one swift motion. There’s no way this doesn’t have at least a little alcohol, he thought, feeling the bitterness that had been hiding beneath the sweetness all along. A warm flush crept up his face, along with the familiar dizziness of mixing two liquors.
His gaze, already clouded, traced over the only thing he could still focus on: Kaelix’s slouched figure. His messy white hair partially veiled his forehead. His lips—red. The dull red of his natural color, the red of the drink staining his lower lip, and the red of fresh wounds: blood still lingering at the corners of his mouth from a fight that hadn’t quite healed.
Freo swallowed dryly.
He raised his left hand with a specific intent to touch, but stopped mid-air when he was caught by Kaelix’s gaze from below. Silence once again, until one or both deigned to break it. Freo pulled back his hand and redirected the touch to Kaelix’s shoulder, and gave a few awkward pats.
"Either way, I doubt you’ll be able to perform next week," he said, clearing his throat. "Not in the state you’re in. You might spark rumors."
Kaelix sat up and frowned slightly, seemingly unaware of his wounds until someone else mentioned them.
"Does it look that bad?" he asked, concerned.
"You should’ve treated your wounds from the beginning. If you don’t, they’ll get infected. Idiot."
"Hey—no name-calling!"
"Let me take a look…"
Without giving him a chance to react, Freo stood and placed both hands around the back of Kaelix’s neck, allowing a closer view of his face. The distance between them increased and shortened, since although there were no obvious signs of drunkenness, Freo, having stood up suddenly, let the dizziness sway his body back and forth, with no control over direction and not enough awareness to stop it. Kaelix, on the other hand, couldn’t control the rhythm of his heartbeat.
So close… so reachable...
Freodore, likely just concerned about the injuries—the injuries—were the least of Kaelix’s concerns. He turned his head entirely in the direction Freo guided to examine the bruises on one side and the other, going over each living trace of the confrontation.
It should’ve hurt, but the real ache right now came from holding back….
"Don’t bite your lip," Freo scolded quietly.
Freo’s brow furrowed lightly, his eyes narrowing with focused care. From this close, Kaelix could notice things beyond the indistinguishable tones of his irises. They were truly sharp, from the inner corner to the outer edge; his lower lid was lined with tiny lashes barely visible to the eye, while the upper lid was outlined by a dark line he knew full well was purple eyeliner. Some strands of hair interrupted his view, others framed it, allowing it to take center stage. And more than just the color and detail, Kaelix noticed his pupil slowly dilating.
"Does this hurt if I do this?" Freo said, breaking his immersion.
"...No," Kaelix whispered, having no idea what area Freo was pressing on.
The words that slipped from his mouth shifted his focus—now, to Freo’s lips. With a fine and slender curve, they contrasted with his other equally symmetrical features. They seemed to move in sync with his words, and Kaelix could only think about how they contracted and stretched with each syllable. The pinkish color, similar to his own, was rimmed by a deeper red left by the drink. Would they taste like mint, honey, liquor, or raspberry? He wondered. Would the flavor fade with a touch or paint the surroundings with the same color? He was dying to know.
"And what about this…?"
A sharp sting at the corner of his lips didn’t bring him back to his senses; on the contrary—it drove his desire even further. An uncontrollable magnetism dragged him forward, leaving no room for protest or regret. In an impulse, he pressed his wounded lips to Freodore’s.
His hands gripped the edge of the cushioned seat—the only gesture that still held any control among his bold movements. Unlike his lips. They devoured Freo’s with hunger, alternating between the lower and upper without restraint, kissing with a frenzy what he had been waiting for all night.
All these months, yearning.
With closed eyes, oblivious to everything except that mouth, he tilted and angled his head in total immersion, as if those seconds of kissing could consume him entirely.
"Kaelix…" Freo’s voice was barely a muffled groan. "Stop…"
But Kaelix was unable to process his plea.
Freo’s heart beat wildly—not from excitement, but desperation. His hands, at first stiff, tried to gently push Kaelix’s chest, but nothing changed. He tried again, firmer this time. Still nothing.
"Kaelix, no. Stop."
His voice broke the atmosphere.
Kaelix, still too caught up, seemed not to hear him—much less to have any control over himself. But the air was running out, and just as impulsively as it had begun, Freo pulled away. He stepped back. Then again. His back hit one of the tall bar stools. Finally breaking the kiss that had trapped him, he gasped for the air he had been missing.
Eventually, and after several moments, Kaelix came back to himself too. He filled his lungs not only with air but with guilt over his actions. He figured he had been lucky not to be slapped, but even without that, the situation itself was terribly uncomfortable. Even… grotesque… of himself.
Should he apologize? Of course he should. But with that, should he confess? And if he did, what level of sincerity should he use? How much of his confession would Freo believe? How much of his feelings could he express in this state? A whole sea of contradictions and dilemmas flooded him, while he waited for the well-deserved scolding from the one he had just wronged. Moments ago, he couldn’t take his eyes off him, and now, he couldn’t even look.
But he had to say something.
"Freo… I…" he dared to begin.
"Don’t keep talking."
The words, sharp as knives, hit Kaelix in the gut. The butterflies of nervousness that once fluttered in his stomach now left behind a nauseating emptiness. The words of rejection he had been so afraid of—now well earned by the actions of a madman.
And suddenly, before either of them could say anything more, Freo turned and left the room, disappearing into the darkness behind the backstage curtain.
The air Kaelix had been holding in escaped in a sigh full of frustration and melancholy. Just a few seconds, and a moment of vulnerability, had been enough for everything he’d been holding back to spill out in one impulsive act—if not revolting, at least non-consensual. Kaelix slumped back into his seat, finding himself face to face with the empty glass he had finished several minutes ago, the raspberry soaked in cocktail the only thing remaining inside.
He tilted the glass over his mouth, letting the fruit fall onto his tongue. He didn’t chew or swallow immediately, but let it rest there, gently pressing it with his tongue and palate, extracting the liquid it held. Bittersweet—but more bitter than sweet. Sweet were his lips, the traces of honey and mint he had taken from them, softer than any fruit, warmer than any liquor, more addictive than any cocktail he’d ever tasted.
How do you make a feeling timeless when time itself threatens it?
How do you break the gap between longing and patience without falling into despair?
In hindsight, all his approaches so far answered the same impulse. Whether disturbing his senses, messing with the sound levels, contradicting him, or blurting out nonsense—it was all for him. To get his attention. To calm his own heart. That had always been the reason.
His Freo… madly adored by him.
Madly swept away by the addiction to longing.
With closed eyes, he swallowed the fruit he had enjoyed so much. And with it, went the cowardice that had ruled him. There was nothing more to do, no one to blame. Now it was just him, alone with his feelings.
He let out a long sigh, and in doing so, it was as if he emptied himself of everything—everything but his determination.
Then, he placed his hands firmly on the bar and pushed himself up slowly, as if the floor weighed him down, as if his body feared to face what his mind had already accepted. He stood—not with the lightness of someone recovering, but with the gravity of someone surrendering to judgment.
More sober than ever, carrying only the weight of his remorse, he brushed off his clothes with a clumsiness almost symbolic. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to fix it without success, with the absurd hope of somehow covering the damage to his face.
He took a step, determined, with all the will still left in his body.
But he didn’t manage to take the second.
He stopped in his tracks.
Freo had returned.
With the posture of royalty, he walked in with his gaze fixed ahead, not faltering in his stride. One hand swayed at his side, while the other clutched a small, light-colored plastic box. But beyond that particularity, what struck Kaelix the most was the calm reflected on Freodore’s face.
"Why did you stand up? Sit down."
Though the order was received, the dumbfounded state caused by the other’s natural composure made it a bit hard to obey. Kaelix’s feet tangled, and his body ended up falling backward into an armchair, on the opposite end of the barstools. The fall was sudden, but he didn’t even have the breath to complain, as usual.
This small stumble made Freo frown slightly.
"You’ll have to lean over, then, so I can reach your face," he said calmly, and immediately sat beside Kaelix on the couch.
They now shared the same seat, the space between them limited, but not uncomfortable. Instinctively, Kaelix scooted over toward his side of the sofa, maintaining the distance he thought prudent to avoid bothering Freo. However, he couldn’t have cared less. Instead, he took the box and opened it on his lap, revealing its contents… a first aid kit.
Freo took off the gloves he’d been wearing and replaced them with plastic ones, almost without hurry, as if there were nothing more important to do. He rummaged through the compartments of the kit until he found cotton and alcohol, and with the same expertise with which he handled everything he touched, he took Kaelix’s jaw and turned it toward him, pulling him closer without asking, as if the touch meant nothing.
He started with the wound on his forehead.
"Ahg!" Kaelix winced.
"Oh! Sorry, I’ll do it gently…"
There they were again, wrapped in an atmosphere so mundane and familiar that Kaelix needed only to close his eyes to remember the exact moment he began to fall in love with Freo. How could he break his vow to preserve the innocence of his beloved’s heart? Without burdening him with feelings as bold as his own, or with responsibilities that shouldn’t belong to someone who perhaps only considered him a friend. But at the same time—how could he contain this love, when it overflowed so intensely, so fiercely, that it was almost impossible to hide it behind subtle words or in the constant search for attention?
Loving him from afar meant protecting him. But loving him without being able to show it… hurt more than any other feeling.
If only the pride of having him near were enough.
If only access to his heart—even if not romantically—could be sufficient.
That, at least, would be the closest thing to a dream life.
The view he adored so much began to blur with tears. Of powerlessness, of rage, of melancholy and nostalgia. A single tear slid down his cheek—a tear of pure emotion, one he didn’t want to end...
Freo, who had been focused on his task until now, was taken by surprise. His eyes widened, and his hands tensed.
"Does it hurt that much?" he asked innocently.
"Yes… it hurts too much…" Kaelix admitted, tears soaking his cheeks.
More than the words themselves, it was a sequence of events that hadn’t made sense until that moment. Freodore seemed to understand something. In fact, he had always been considered the most perceptive, but it wasn’t until he saw Kaelix breaking with pure emotion that he realized it wasn’t really the medicine that hurt…
He lowered both hands and looked at the boy in front of him. Somehow, he refused to speak his heart aloud, but cried as if he wanted to pour out his entire soul. A lethal contradiction that, more than moving him, was… irritating.
Freodore sighed, frustrated by the contradiction—and maybe at himself too.
"You really…" he murmured, barely audible.
Without saying another word, he gently took Kaelix’s face and brought it closer to his own. The kiss that followed was soft—barely a touch, held just a few seconds longer than allowed. Eyes closed and lips pressed lightly together, the body temperature of one passed into the other in those few seconds of contact. A short but precise kiss, which Freodore hoped would have a calming effect on his companion.
"Stop crying, Kaelix. I’m not angry," he whispered to his lips. "I’ve known for a long time…"
Kaelix’s heart trembled, and the tears stopped.
"You knew? But how did you—?"
"It’s not like you’ve been subtle about it either. I figured it out a long time ago."
"But I thought I was—?"
A finger was placed on Kaelix’s lips in a sign for silence.
"Don’t keep talking, or you’ll open up your wounds more." he murmured, and without giving him space to argue, he resumed his task. With a cotton swab, he began to treat the corners of Kaelix’s lips. "That’s also what I meant earlier… I’m not angry. But if you don’t stop moving and talking, you’re never going to heal."
That was enough to dispel any remaining negative thoughts Kaelix had about the situation. It was still, in essence, an act of recklessness on his part—but Freo admitting that the moment hadn’t been as dramatic as it felt… lifted some of the guilt and gradually formed a smile on his face.
It wasn’t a full confession, but the mere fact of being understood—and somehow accepted—was enough for tonight. Or at least, until Freo stopped scolding him while he finished treating his lips.
"Done. Now try not to—"
"And what about you?" Kaelix asked, not letting him finish.
Freo frowned slightly at the interruption, but still continued the conversation.
"What do you mean?"
"Do you like me?"
The question landed with such blunt force that made him pause. Reading between the lines was one thing—but an open confession out of nowhere was not exactly his style. Without replying immediately, Freo focused on packing up the medical supplies. His hand trembled slightly as he closed the bottle of alcohol. Barely perceptible—but still, Kaelix noticed.
"That’s not the subject right now. You haven’t even said that—"
"I like you," he admitted, just like that. "I like you a lot, Freo."
Any room for doubt was countered immediately by Kaelix. Without warning, he dared to lean forward until their foreheads touched. A gentle but firm pressure; an intimate space between them that made Kaelix instinctively close his eyes, as if making a loving plea.
"I want to kiss you once again. Please..." he whispered.
Kaelix’s voice became ethereal to Freodore’s ears. Although one was clever enough to be brazen without even lifting his gaze, Freo was taking in every inch of his face. He moved just slightly, careful not to touch the wound on Kaelix’s forehead, and mindful of the swelling around his eyes… but that seemed to be the only thing holding him back.
As for the lips, instead of being a source of pity, they became more and more irresistible. He had just treated them with his own hands, yes… and yet, the only thing he wanted now was to feel that warmth again—a third time.
The silence stretched a few seconds longer. Freodore didn’t move, but his eyes said everything. They looked at Kaelix as if trying to memorize the exact way he breathed, as if each blink were a temptation he didn’t want to resist.
Finally, as if something invisible inside him broke free, Freo sighed. A quiet surrender.
He closed his own eyes and needed only to lean in a few more millimeters to find Kaelix’s lips once more. With the same tenderness, he placed a hand on his cheek and began kissing his upper lip gently.
That was the invitation.
What followed was Kaelix, and his uncontainable impulsiveness.
His hands felt no shame at all, and immediately circled Freo’s waist. He pulled him closer in an embrace that, while lacking grace, was pure. He had crossed the line of what was allowed, yes—but only to the extent of wanting to hold him. This closeness excited him even more to deepen the kiss.
Their heads tilted in sync, as if they shared a silent agreement on which direction to take. Their breathing began to quicken—not from desire, but from contained emotion. They made brief pauses, only enough to catch their breath and return to the gentle warmth of the other.
The taste of his lips was sweet, just as it had been the first time. So sweet it melted in his mouth like sugar, and slid over his lips like honey. Kaelix was lost in a warm ecstasy he didn’t want to leave. Again and again, kiss after kiss.
Their eyelashes trembled, just like their hands, which now began to move with timid curiosity. Freo caressed Kaelix’s neck, feeling the heat of his skin, the pulse of his breath, so in sync with a racing heart. Kaelix, for his part, felt how the other’s body—tense at first—relaxed more and more in his arms, as if entrusting him with his weight was a silent surrender. He responded with the same protection, just as he had always wished.
Minutes passed without a trace of reason. They had been so close, so intertwined, they already seemed to have found the exact place they belonged—a quiet refuge among kisses filled with tenderness.
But with the passage of time came Kaelix’s desperation at the thought that this moment might end. It was such a longed-for dream, such an impossible one, that he only allowed himself to live it tonight. Unconsciously, the pressure of his kiss intensified, driven by fear. And immediately, it was calmed by Freo.
"Hey… I’m here," he murmured, still catching his breath. "There is plenty of time."
Their eyes met, and in that silence heavy with meaning, Freo offered a small smile.
"I like you too… I like you a lot."
Kaelix returned the smile—trembling, but genuine.
That night, the only thing brighter than the red lights… was the glow in their eyes. Sincere and nostalgic gazes, full of a love so deep, so eternal. A love they promised never to hide again.