Chapter Text
2008, October 19
The metal bar was doing what metal bars do best: trying to shake itself apart.
The music was loud enough to feel in the bones, bass crawling up Elias’s spine and settling somewhere behind his ribs. Beer, smoke, leather, and sweat. Flickering red lights caught on chains, rings, dark eyeliner, patched jackets. Everyone looked half-feral, half-religious.
Elias had arrived at the university like a shadow that had learned how to walk upright. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but his face was soft in a way that confused people: delicate features, large dark eyes, pale skin that seemed to glow under bad lighting. His black hair always fell into his face no matter how carefully he styled it. He dressed in layered goth chaos. Long coats, lace shirts, silver jewelry, stylish shoes.
Their table was full, as usual.
Miranda was laughing too loudly, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, gesturing wildly as she told a story no one could fully hear.
Catherine kept interrupting her just to contradict details, boots hooked around the rungs of her chair.
Steve was nodding along earnestly, while clearly missing half the conversation, shouting “WHAT?” every thirty seconds.
Ken was already mid-monologue about how metal culture had been co-opted by late capitalism, pipe in hand, completely unbothered by the fact that no one had asked.
Ema sat slightly apart, eyes drifting across the room. She sipped her beer slowly, noticing who was drunk, who was not, who was pretending not to look at whom.
Elias sat among them. He smiled softly, listening more than talking, leaning in when someone spoke directly to him. The music was loud. Really loud. He already knew ears would start ringing as soon as he got out of the bar.
At some point, he wasn't sure when, he felt like.. someone was looking at him.
He lifted his eyes without fully turning his head.
The table next to theirs was crowded with metalheads: big jackets, patches, long hair, raised voices, empty glasses multiplying fast. They were louder than the music, rougher, messier, spilling into each other’s space.
In the middle of them sat one particular guy. A guy Elias had seen before since he enrolled in university.
Medium build, deceptively strong, with long honey-blond hair that looked unfairly good no matter how little effort he put into it. He had the kind of wild, handsome face that made people do double takes. Big green eyes and a small goatee under his lip that he was probably way too proud of.
He was the classic dude-bro metalhead: band hoodies, worn boots, always a beer in hand.
That guy talked constantly. If there was silence, he filled it. If there wasn’t, he talked over it. And what came out of his mouth? Burps, sex jokes, bad impressions and a shocking amount of commentary about “boobs,” delivered with the confidence of someone who genuinely thought this was charming.
That night he was drunk. That was obvious immediately. He was laughing at something someone said, mouth open, head thrown back... then, abruptly, his gaze snapped forward.
Straight to Elias.
And it stayed there.
He didn’t pretend not to stare. Didn’t look away when Elias noticed. His eyes were wide, dragged over Elias, curiously, as if he’d just spotted something fascinating and couldn’t decide whether to poke it or not.
Elias's first instinct was to look away. But he didn't.
Around him, Miranda was still laughing, Catherine was mid-argument, Steve had knocked over a beer, Ken was saying something about dialectical materialism, and Ema had noticed the stare too. Her eyes flicked from the metalhead to Elias, then away again.
Elias didn’t smile. He didn’t frown either. He just held the gaze for one suspended second longer than was safe, long enough to confirm it: This wasn’t accidental.
2008, October 22
Elias sat with his friends at one of the central tables in the university library.
Steve had a laptop open, typing and whispering curses under his breath.
Miranda was highlighting something aggressively, occasionally stopping to scribble notes in the margins.
Ken was writing by hand, fountain pen scratching dramatically across paper, as if performing scholarship.
Catherine was just staring at a stack of books. She had put a sticky note on them that said "Fuck that shit."
Ema was absorbed in a thick book on Renaissance art.
Elias had "De Profundis" open in front of him.
Words lay exposed on the page like a confession meant only for him. Pain, love, exile, beauty. Something about it settled deep in his chest. He could already tell this was a book he would carry with him for a long time. A book that understood.
Very Oscar Wilde.
Very gay.
He was midway through a paragraph when the library shuddered.
Not literally, but audibly.
Behind them, chairs scraped loudly against the floor. Someone dropped a backpack with zero regard for acoustics. Loud whispers followed.
Laughter snorted through noses that had never learned restraint.
Catherine stiffened.
She turned in her chair, eyes narrowing. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” she muttered under her breath. “It’s those guys that frequent the Black Orchid.”
Elias’s focus fractured.
He looked up first, then slowly turned around.
A group of metalheads had invaded the table behind them, bringing with them the energy of a world that did not believe in libraries.
Jackets thudded onto chairs. Drinks—drinks, in a library—were pulled from bags. Someone immediately started arguing about where to sit.
And there he was.
The guy.
He sprawled into his chair, immediately spinning it slightly just to see if it would make noise. It did.
The guy grinned, whispered something to one of his friends and laughed too loudly at his own joke.
Someone shushed them from across the room.
“Relax,” the guy stage-whispered back, entirely too audible. “We’re scholars.”
Elias watched without meaning to. Not openly, just enough to register movement, sound, presence.
The guy leaned forward, knocking someone’s elbow. Apologized loudly. Immediately did it again. Pulled out a notebook, then abandoned it in favor of doodling a dick in the margins.
“Mark, shut the fuck up, man,” one of his friends hissed.
Mark.
The name landed softly and stayed.
Elias felt it settle somewhere inside him, clicking into place like a missing piece. Mark. Simple. Blunt. Almost too ordinary for someone so… much.
Mark, still grinning, finally sat still for approximately five seconds before leaning back and whispering, “I can’t do silence, man, I start hearing my own heartbeat and that's terrifying."
Catherine snorted. Miranda bit her lip to keep from laughing. Steve looked vaguely confused. Ken glanced back. Ema didn’t look at all.
Elias looked down at his book again, fingers resting on Wilde’s words.
He didn’t read.
2008, October 25
The city bus was already a mistake before it even arrived.
It hissed to a stop at the campus like an exhausted animal, doors opening to reveal a tightly packed mass of bodies, backpacks, winter coats and... a dog? People poured in. Fewer people poured out.
The driver stared ahead with the dead-eyed calm of someone who had seen everything.
Elias took a breath and squeezed inside.
It was hot immediately. Too hot. The kind of heat that came from bodies pressed too close, air recycled into something damp and heavy. He grabbed a pole with one hand, coat pulled tight around himself. He hated enclosed spaces, hated the feeling of being trapped, but town was this way, and walking would’ve taken an hour.
Somewhere to his left, Catherine was also fighting for survival. She had been pushed so far off the floor that her boots were barely touching it, suspended between two tall girls who seemed completely unbothered by the concept of personal space. Her face was frozen in a look of pure, simmering rage.
The bus lurched forward.
Elias closed his eyes for half a second.
Then the doors opened again.
No.
No, no, no.
A familiar voice hit the air before the body did.
“Oh hell yeah, this is my kind of puzzle.”
Elias opened his eyes.
Mark stood at the door, grinning like this was the best thing that had happened to him all day. Backpack slung over one shoulder, hair loose, completely unbothered by the fact that there was objectively no space left. He assessed the crowd like a challenge had just been issued.
“C’mon, move a little,” Mark said cheerfully, already pushing his way in.
Someone protested. Someone laughed. Someone made room.
Against all laws of physics and decency, Mark managed to squeeze inside.
The doors slammed shut.
And suddenly, horrifically, Mark was pressed between the door and Elias.
Elias’s back hit someone's boobs. His chest tightened instantly, breath catching. He could feel Mark’s warmth, the solid press of him, the presence of another body with no escape route. His pulse jumped into his throat.
Mark shifted.
“Oh! Sorry, dude,” he said loudly, adjusting his stance. “Sorry for, uh… whatever you’re gonna feel on your leg.”
There was a beat.
Then laughter. Everywhere. Sharp, sudden, uncontained.
Elias felt his face burn.
Mark, emboldened, continued. Because of course he did.
“Chicks say I’m pretty packed down there,” he added with a grin, completely shameless. “Like, sorry bro. I’m really sorry.”
The bus erupted.
People laughed openly now, shoulders shaking, someone actually clapping. Catherine let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a threat.
Miranda, somewhere further back, was absolutely losing it. Even strangers were smiling, complicit, entertained.
Elias wanted to disappear into the floor.
His body was screaming—claustrophobia, overstimulation, humiliation—all crashing into each other at once. He stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, trying not to react, trying not to give Mark anything. He could feel Mark shifting again, completely comfortable, totally at ease inside the spectacle of himself.
Noise. Bodies. Attention. Laughter at someone else’s expense.
Mark glanced up then, just briefly, and met Elias’s eyes.
For half a second, something went wrong.
Elias wasn’t laughing.
Wasn’t scowling.
Wasn’t reacting at all.
His face was still, pale, eyes wide, focused. Watching. For a split second, Elias felt it himself, that strange sensation of recognition without context. Like catching your reflection somewhere it shouldn’t exist.
Mark’s smile faltered.
Not fully. Just enough.
Surprise, first.
Then something colder.
Fear, maybe? But not of Elias. But of what Elias might have noticed.
Because Elias wasn’t looking at the joke. He wasn’t looking at Mark’s body, or his mouth, or the performance. He was looking past it. Through the noise. At the strange, hollow space underneath where something had been carefully buried and violently ignored.
Mark felt it.
The sensation was subtle but immediate: the awful, naked feeling of being recognized in a way you didn’t consent to. Like being caught without your costume when you hadn’t realized you were still onstage.
Then the bus hit a bump, Mark laughed again, and the moment vanished.
Elias swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the pole. He didn’t know what he had seen. He didn’t have words for it. He only knew that there was a fault line there.
2008, October 29
Tuesdays in the dining hall always smelled the same: pasta and tomato sauce.
Elias sat with the girls at one of the long tables near the windows, plastic tray in front of him, fork moving absently as he listened.
Miranda was enthusiastically critiquing the food (“It’s bad but, like, honestly bad”), Catherine was poking hers with suspicion and Ema was eating, as if respecting the ritual despite its flaws.
Elias didn’t mind it. He liked the predictability of Tuesdays. The blandness. The way no one expected anything else. The quiet—
CRASH
The sound cut through the dining hall like a gunshot.
A tray hit the floor. Plates shattered. Cutlery skittered across tiles. Sauce splattered in an abstract, tragic pattern.
There was a split second of stunned silence.
Then... applause.
Loud, exaggerated, absolutely unearned applause.
Elias looked up slowly.
Across the hall, surrounded by a familiar cluster of metalheads, stood Mark.
Mark froze mid-motion, hands still half raised like he’d been caught in a photograph. His tray lay in ruins at his feet, pasta slowly bleeding across the floor. For one suspended moment, he just stared down at it.
Then he bowed.
A deep, theatrical bow.
“THANK YOU, THANK YOU,” Mark announced loudly, spreading his arms as his friends whooped and clapped harder. “I’ll be here all week!”
Someone whistled. Someone yelled, “Encore!” A nearby table joined in, laughing.
Catherine groaned. Miranda was already giggling.
Mark crouched down, inspecting the mess with exaggerated seriousness. “This,” he declared, “is what happens when you give a man power.”
A cafeteria worker was already approaching, expression carved from pure disappointment.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Mark said brightly, standing up too fast. “Gravity attacked me. Completely unprovoked.”
The worker pointed toward the cleaning station. Mark saluted her. Wrong hand. Too enthusiastically.
2008, October 31
The fog sat low and heavy, swallowing sound.
It was barely seven in the morning, the kind of hour that didn’t feel real yet. Elias stood alone at the bus stop, shoulders hunched inside his coat, breath fogging the air in small bursts. The cold seeped through everything, shoes, fingers, thoughts.
The 7:20 bus was a myth.
It came when it wanted.
7:10. 7:15. 7:30. 7:45.
No one knew. No one trusted it.
The area was dead quiet.
Rows of cheap apartment blocks crouched behind him, identical and tired, built only to house students who couldn’t afford to live closer to town. Beyond them, empty fields stretched out into nothing. A mini market stood at the corner like a rumor. Always there, never open. Across the road, massive shopping centers and car dealerships glowed faintly, artificial and distant, like a different world entirely.
Elias liked this hour.
No eyes. No noise. Just fog and waiting.
The bus came at 7:10.
Perfect.
Elias stepped on, nodding briefly to the driver, and took a seat by the window. The bus was almost empty. It pulled away fast, skipping stops without ceremony, gliding past places meant for factory workers, mechanics, people who existed at hours Elias never quite understood.
He relaxed.
He might even make it to the dining hall early enough for decent coffee.
Then the bus stopped.
Abruptly.
In the middle of nowhere.
Elias frowned.
The stop sign read something stupid like Little Field.
There was nothing there. No buildings. No houses. No shops. Just fog, wet grass, and a field stretching into nothing.
And then...
Mark got on the bus.
Elias froze.
What the fuck.
Mark looked wildly out of place this early in the morning. Hair loose, jacket half-zipped, backpack slung over one shoulder like he’d just emerged fully formed from the fog itself. He nodded at the driver, paid and stepped inside like this was perfectly normal behavior.
From all the empty seats—all of them—Mark walked straight down the aisle and sat in the seat directly in front of Elias. He stretched, cracked his neck, yawned like a cat that had survived the night somehow. Then, casually, he turned around in his seat.
“Oh—HEY.”
Too loud. Way too loud.
“I think I see you in the Black Orchid like every Friday, dude,” Mark said, pointing vaguely at Elias like he was confirming a theory. “You’re always there with the three goth girls, right? Like, full coven.”
Elias blinked.
“I’m Mark, by the way,” he added, immediately, as if silence might kill him. “You are?”
“Elias,” Elias said quietly.
That was all he managed.
Mark nodded like this was excellent information and then, without pause, kept going.
“Yeah so listen, dude,” Mark said, leaning back and gesturing wildly, “I see you guys every Friday and that’s usually when I’m alone by the bar, annoying the bartender, ‘cause it’s alternative night and my usual guys, this bunch of fuckers, they’re too hardcore for anything that isn’t Slayer or Megadeth or Kreator.”
He scoffed loudly.
“They’re always like, ew what’s that shit, I can’t listen, oh my god my ears are bleeding, and I’m like BRO, relax, it’s literally Kyuss, or Queens of the Stone Age, or Planet of Zeus, like are you twelve?”
Mark shook his head in genuine anguish.
“And then there’s all the melodic death stuff, and gothic metal, and doom, oh my god, one of them once said that Anathema sounds like elevator music and I was like, dude, are you fucking serious right now?”
He leaned closer, eyes wide with conviction.
“So none of them wanna come with me, but Friday is my favorite day, man. Like I need to get drunk listening to this stuff. There’s this song—okay—I swear to god it’s a sex song, but like… sad sex. You know? Like emotionally devastating sex.”
Elias said nothing.
“My Wine in Silence,” Mark continued reverently. “How do you not get drunk to that song, man? How.”
He slapped the seat.
“So. I was thinking. We should team up. Like, you, me, the girls. Friday. Let’s go together. You gotta tell them.”
Mark grinned, open and fearless.
Elias’s brain did a little calculus.
Oh shit. Here we go again.
Another metalhead.
After the girls.
All of them, probably.
Catherine is going to be so pissed.
She’s going to murder me.
Fuck. What do I say?
Mark’s smile widened, somehow.
“So,” he added, cheerful and immediate, “let’s exchange numbers, huh?”
The bus hummed softly around them, fog sliding past the windows like a held breath.
“Okay,” Elias said.
2008, November 2
The creperie was the place they usually went when they missed lunch. Two wobbly metal tables spilled onto the sidewalk, menus printed on fading paper, prices suspiciously low in a way that suggested questionable life choices had been made somewhere along the line. Cars passed too close. Someone’s speaker down the street was playing something tinny and distorted.
Elias sat with The Girls, a paper-wrapped crepe cooling slowly in his hands.
He had put this off for as long as humanly possible.
“…so,” he said finally, staring at the powdered sugar like it might save him, “I kind of… met the guy.”
Three heads snapped toward him.
“The guy,” Catherine repeated.
“The one from the bus?” Miranda asked.
“The one from the bus,” Elias confirmed. “And the dining hall. And the bar.”
Ema stopped chewing.
“He’s coming tomorrow,” Elias added quietly.
Silence.
Then...
“WHAT.” Catherine exploded.
Miranda blinked. “Coming… like coming with us?”
“Yes,” Elias said. “To the Black Orchid. Tomorrow. Friday. He invited himself. He asked for my number. I gave it to him. I panicked.”
Catherine shot to her feet so fast her chair screeched across the pavement.
“MARK?” she yelled, like she was invoking a demon. “THAT Mark? The one who treats public transport like an open-mic night for sexual harassment?”
“He wasn’t—” Elias started.
“IF THAT FUCKER STARTS WITH THE ‘OOOH YOU LISTEN TO EXODUS, TELL ME THREE ALBUMS’ NONSENSE,” Catherine continued, stabbing the air with her fork, “I SWEAR TO GOD THERE WILL BE PUNCHES THROWN.”
Miranda reached out instinctively, grabbing Catherine’s sleeve. “Hey! Hey hey hey, deep breaths. Violence is not the answer.”
“It absolutely is,” Catherine said, eyes blazing.
Ema, meanwhile, had gone very still.
Too still.
She slowly reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and stood up.
“I need to make a call,” she said calmly.
She walked three steps away, dialed, and waited.
“Steve?” she said when he answered. “Hi. Are you busy tomorrow night?”
Pause.
“Yes. Yes, this is serious,” Ema continued. “I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”
Another pause.
“No. No kissing required. Just… proximity. Intellectual proximity.”
She glanced back at Elias, eyes sharp.
“There’s a metalhead,” she added flatly.
Longer pause.
“…Thank you.”
She hung up and sat back down, taking another bite of her crepe like nothing had happened.
Miranda stared at her. “You just fake-booked Steve?”
“Correct,” Ema said.
Catherine dropped back into her chair, rubbing her temples. “I knew this would happen. I felt it in my bones. Men like him don’t just exist quietly. They invade.”
“He seems funny though?” Miranda offered carefully. “Like, chaotic-funny. Maybe he’s cool? Maybe he just… talks a lot?”
Catherine turned to her slowly. “Miranda. Love of my life. If he says the word ‘boobs’ even once, I will go feral.”
Elias stared at his crepe, guilt pooling in his chest.
“I didn’t know how to say no,” he admitted. “He just… talked. And then suddenly it was decided.”
Miranda softened immediately. “Hey. That’s not on you.” She smiled gently. “We’ll handle it together.”
Ema nodded once. “We observe. We evaluate. We neutralize if necessary.”
Catherine cracked her knuckles.
“Friday,” she said darkly, “is going to be interesting.”
Across the table, Elias swallowed.
2008, November 2 (after midnight)
Elias was awake.
Of course he was.
His desk lamp cast a circle of light over sketchbooks, pencils, erasers worn down to nubs.
Outside, the housing complex was quiet in that artificial, suspended way, too still to be asleep, too late to be alive.
Elias sat cross-legged on his bed, sketchbook balanced against his knees.
On the page: an extraordinarily handsome man.
Not anyone specific. Just the concept of beauty taken too far, sharp cheekbones, heavy-lidded eyes, a mouth that knew things. Shadows carefully worked into collarbones, throat, hands. Elias was very good at this. He had always been very good at this.
The phone rang.
Elias startled so badly he nearly stabbed the page with his pencil.
He stared at the screen.
KEN
He hesitated.
Then answered.
“Ken?”
“ELIAS,” Ken boomed immediately, voice crackling with theatrical urgency. “I have been informed.”
Elias blinked. “It’s… past midnight.”
“Yes,” Ken said. “Which is when truth reveals itself. Are you alone?”
“I—yes?”
“Good. This is a sensitive matter.”
Elias sat up straighter, heart rate inexplicably spiking. “Okay.”
“Who,” Ken demanded, “is Mark?”
Elias closed his eyes.
“Oh my god.”
“DO NOT deflect,” Ken continued. “Catherine approached me tonight with the emotional intensity of someone preparing for war. Miranda followed ten minutes later with baked goods and plausible deniability. Both asked me to be their fake boyfriend.”
“…Both?” Elias said weakly.
“Yes,” Ken said. “Independently. With different arguments. Catherine framed it as ‘defensive strategy.’ Miranda framed it as ‘just in case he’s weird.’”
Elias dragged a hand down his face. “Ema asked Steve.”
Ken inhaled sharply. “Of course she did. Efficient. Ruthless. I respect it.”
He paused.
“Now,” Ken continued, lowering his voice dramatically, “tell me about this man who has caused the spontaneous fabrication of heterosexuality among my closest associates.”
Elias stared at the drawing on his lap. The man’s eyes stared back, knowing, amused.
“He’s… a metalhead,” Elias began.
Ken scoffed. “That explains nothing and everything.”
“He’s loud,” Elias continued. “Very loud. Talks a lot. Drinks a lot. Says… things.”
“Sexual things?” Ken asked eagerly.
“Yes.”
Ken exhaled like a scholar presented with a disappointing but expected footnote. “Tragic.”
“He’s not mean,” Elias added quickly. “Just… chaotic. And kind of intense.”
“Does he know,” Ken asked slowly, “that you are...”
“No,” Elias said. “I think. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Ken hummed thoughtfully. Elias could picture him pacing, pipe in hand, mustache twitching with intellectual concern.
Then Ken laughed—sharp, delighted, dangerous.
“Oh,” he said. “This is excellent.”
Elias groaned. “Ken.”
“No, no,” Ken continued. “This is narratively rich. A man who weaponizes noise meeting a man who weaponizes silence? Friday is going to be operatic.”
“I don’t want it to be operatic,” Elias said miserably. “I just want to drink my wine and listen to music.”
Ken ignored him.
“So,” he said, “I told both Catherine and Miranda yes.”
“What?!”
“Obviously,” Ken replied. “I refuse to let Steve monopolize the fake-boyfriend market. Also, I want a front-row seat to this sociological experiment.”
Elias lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
“This is a disaster,” he muttered.
Ken smiled into the phone. Elias could hear it.
“No,” Ken said softly. “This is my moment.”
He paused.
“Also,” he added casually, “if this Mark fellow hurts anyone, emotionally or otherwise, I will destroy him in public discourse.”
“…Thank you?”
“Sleep well, Elias,” Ken said cheerfully. “Draw something beautiful. Friday awaits.”
The line went dead.
Elias lowered the phone slowly.
He looked back down at his sketchbook.
The handsome man on the page seemed to smile at him.
Elias sighed, picked up his pencil again, and kept drawing.
2008, November 3
Friday night at the Black Orchid felt like the universe had decided to misbehave on purpose.
The bar was packed, bodies, smoke machine fog, leather jackets, chains, boots sticking to the floor. Red lights pulsed lazily, making everyone look half-devil, half-tired. Doom metal crawled out of the speakers, slow and heavy, vibrating in the chest.
They had claimed their usual territory near the side of the bar, close enough to the speakers to feel important but far enough to talk without screaming.
And already it was chaos.
Ema sat impossibly straight beside Steve, her leg crossed elegantly over his. One of her hands rested lightly on his knee, like a chess move. Steve looked like someone who had been drafted into a role he hadn’t rehearsed for, trying very hard not to sweat, nodding politely at everything Ema said, occasionally adjusting his glasses with seriousness.
Miranda leaned across the table, glaring at Catherine.
“No, because obviously Ken is my boyfriend tonight,” Miranda said, gesturing emphatically. “We make sense visually.”
Catherine scoffed. “Absolutely not. He agreed to me first. Also, I’m emotionally prepared to weaponize him.”
Ken, standing between them with a drink in one hand and his pipe inexplicably already lit, looked thrilled.
“I refuse to be owned,” he announced. “But I am open to being symbolically deployed.”
“That’s not an answer,” Catherine snapped.
“That’s the only answer,” Ken replied smugly.
Elias sat slightly apart, watching the performance with mild disbelief.
“…No one asked me,” he said finally, a little quieter than intended.
Three heads turned.
Miranda tilted her head. “Elias.”
Catherine frowned. “Oh. Oh no.”
Ema didn’t even look at him. “That would never work.”
Elias blinked. “Excuse me?”
Miranda reached out and squeezed his arm gently. “You’re… too emotionally complex.”
“And too stylish,” Catherine added immediately. “No one would believe you’re straight.”
“You look like you cry to music on purpose,” Miranda said apologetically.
Ken nodded. “You radiate interiority.”
Elias stared at them.
“…Wow.”
“We love you,” Miranda said quickly.
Elias took a long sip of his drink, wounded but not surprised. “I hate all of you.”
Then the door opened.
Cold air rushed in, slicing through heat and smoke.
Mark walked in.
Leather jacket. Band shirt. Hair loose, glowing under red light like it had been personally styled by chaos itself. He scanned the room immediately, grin already forming.
Chaos began.
“Oh no,” Catherine muttered.
“Oh yes,” Ken whispered delightedly.
Mark spotted Elias almost instantly.
His face lit up like he’d just found a familiar landmark in hostile territory.
“ELIAS!” Mark boomed, voice cutting clean through the music. “DUDE!”
Heads turned. Several.
Elias felt his soul withering.
Mark barreled over, weaving through people with no regard for personal space, clapping Elias on the shoulder like they were old friends.
“You made it!” Mark said, beaming. “I told you! Friday is sacred!”
He glanced at the table.
“Oh shit—hey!” he added, nodding at the girls. “Coven’s here. Nice.”
Catherine stared at him like a loaded weapon.
Miranda smiled diplomatically.
Ema’s hand tightened slightly on Steve’s knee.
Ken leaned forward, eyes bright. “Ah. You must be the catalyst.”
Mark squinted at him. “You smoke a pipe.”
“Yes,” Ken said. “Against God.”
Mark laughed loudly. “Sick.”
He turned back to Elias, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “Dude, they’re playing good shit tonight. Like sad shit. You feel it?”
Elias did feel it. In his chest. In his bones. In the way the night had tipped from dread into something stranger.
Something unpredictable.
This wasn’t the chaos they had prepared for.
This was worse.
This was group chemistry.
Friday night did not go according to anyone’s contingency plan.
Mark did not hit on anyone.
He did not say boobs.
He did not make a single weird comment.
Instead, somehow, impossibly, he fit.
He talked.
And talked.
And talked.
More than Miranda.
Miranda, for once, was outpaced.
“So anyway,” Mark was saying, hands moving like he was conducting the air, “I’m telling you, man, alternative night is the only thing keeping this city from complete cultural collapse—”
“Agree,” Ken said immediately, eyes alight. “Absolutely agree. It’s a countercultural necessity.”
Catherine blinked. “When did you two become friends?”
“Five minutes ago,” Ken replied. “I find him… compelling.”
Mark grinned. “I like this guy. He’s weird but confident about it.”
Ken beamed. “High praise.”
Steve, who had been quietly listening with growing interest, leaned forward. “You said you were at the student rally in ‘06?”
“Oh yeah,” Mark said casually. “Got my ass absolutely handed to me.”
Everyone froze.
“What,” Miranda said gently, “do you mean by handed.”
Mark took a long drink and waved dismissively. “Police charged. Batons. Chaos. I tripped over someone yelling about neoliberalism—classic mistake—almost got beaten unconscious.”
Elias stiffened.
Steve’s eyes widened. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah,” Mark continued, completely unfazed. “I panicked, ran into this random building—I think it was a dental supply warehouse? Hid there for three hours. No phone signal. Just me, a mop bucket, and my thoughts.”
Ken stared at him. “And this did not radicalize you further?”
“Oh it absolutely did,” Mark said cheerfully. “Anyway—pipes.”
“What,” Catherine said.
Ken leaned in, delighted. “You smoke?”
“Only occasionally,” Mark said. “My uncle had one. Very grounding. Like… slow masculinity. Thoughtful masculinity.”
Ken made a sound of deep appreciation. “YES.”
Ema raised an eyebrow. Steve mouthed what the fuck at Elias.
Mark turned to the girls, still talking, still warm, still unthreatening.
“So yeah, I’m loud, I know that,” he said, shrugging. “But I swear I’m not an asshole. I just get excited.”
Miranda smiled. “You’re… not what we expected.”
“Good,” Mark said. “Expectations are prisons.”
Catherine studied him carefully. “You haven’t flirted with anyone.”
Mark blinked. “Was I supposed to?”
“No,” Catherine said quickly. “No. Just observing.”
Mark laughed. “Nah. You guys are cool. Also you all look like you’d eat me alive.”
Ken nodded approvingly. “Correct.”
Then—finally—Mark noticed Elias properly.
Not just his presence.
His glass.
He stared.
“Wait,” Mark said slowly, pointing. “Are you… drinking wine?”
Elias glanced down. “Yes?”
Red wine. In a metal bar. Completely unbothered.
Mark’s face lit up like he’d uncovered a conspiracy.
“OF COURSE you are,” he said triumphantly. “This makes so much sense.”
Everyone groaned.
“Okay,” Miranda said. “Here we go.”
Mark leaned closer to Elias, animated. “Listen. Goth guys in metal bars always drink wine.”
“That’s not a thing,” Catherine said.
“It IS a thing,” Mark insisted. “Beer is for aggression. Wine is for feeling. Goth guys don’t want to fight—they want to suffer artistically.”
Ken slapped the table. “Astute.”
“You’re not here to get wasted,” Mark continued, nodding at Elias. “You’re here to brood. To listen to sad songs and think about life.”
Elias felt his ears heat.
“…I just like wine,” he muttered.
Mark smiled at him. Less loud. More curious.
“Yeah,” he said. “I figured.”
By the time Mark got properly wasted, the night had softened around the edges.
The music had slowed into something heavy and indulgent. The lights felt warmer. The bar felt smaller. Time had started doing that thing where it folded in on itself.
Mark had switched drinks at some point. No one was entirely sure when or why.
Elias noticed when Mark leaned in too close, squinting intensely at Elias’s glass like it was an ancient artifact.
“You know,” Mark said solemnly, finger hovering an inch from the rim, “I’ve been thinking about this.”
“Oh no,” Catherine muttered from across the table.
“The wine,” Mark continued, nodding gravely. “The choice of wine.”
Elias sighed. “Mark—”
“No, no,” Mark interrupted gently, raising a finger. “This is important.”
Ken leaned in immediately. “I agree. Continue.”
Mark turned fully toward Elias now, eyes glassy but focused in that drunk way that felt dangerously sincere.
“Beer is linear,” he said. “Beer is conquest. Beer is ‘I drink this and then I punch a wall or cry in a bathroom.’”
“That’s… vivid,” Miranda said.
“Wine,” Mark went on, “is circular. Wine is reflection. Wine is sitting with your feelings.”
Elias blinked.
“You don’t drink wine to forget,” Mark said, voice dropping. “You drink wine to remember better.”
Ken made a small, reverent noise.
“And goth guys...” Mark added, pointing at Elias like he’d cracked the code of the universe, “You guys don’t want to dominate the night. You want to merge with it.”
Elias felt heat creep up his neck. “I—”
“Which brings me,” Mark said suddenly, straightening with effort, “to Dionysus.”
Everyone froze.
Steve whispered, “Oh my god.”
“Dionysus,” Mark repeated, eyes shining. “God of wine. Ecstasy. Madness. Theater. Queerness.”
Ken slammed his drink down. “YES.”
“Dionysus wasn’t about order,” Mark said, swaying slightly. “He was about breaking the rules in a way that felt holy. Drunk men crying. Men dressing like women. Everyone fucking with everyone. Music too loud. Feelings too big.”
Elias stared at him.
“You drink wine,” Mark said softly now, leaning closer, “because you’re not afraid of that. You’re already halfway there.”
The music pulsed. Elias’s heart did something uncomfortable.
“And metal bars,” Mark continued, suddenly cheerful again, “are just modern temples to Dionysus. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Miranda echoed faintly.
“So when I see a goth guy drinking wine in a metal bar,” Mark said, smiling crookedly at Elias, “I’m like—yeah. That guy gets it. That guy isn’t here to perform. He’s here to experience.”
Elias swallowed.
For a second, Mark’s grin slipped again. Just a crack. Something raw underneath.
“I wish,” Mark said quietly, “I could drink wine without everyone thinking I was trying to be ironic.”
Then Mark laughed too loudly and slapped the table.
“ANYWAY,” he announced, “I need another drink.”
Ken was already standing. “I’ll come with you.”
As they staggered off, Catherine leaned toward Elias.
“…Why is he like this,” she whispered.
Elias watched Mark’s back disappear into the crowd.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly.
The night crossed a line somewhere between Dionysus and bad decisions.
No one could pinpoint the exact moment Mark became absolutely shitfaced, but there were signs.
Very clear signs.
It started with the laughter.
Not normal laughter. Not even loud laughter. This was the kind of laughter that came from deep inside the lungs and escaped without permission—sharp, explosive bursts that made strangers turn around and reconsider their life choices.
Mark was bent in half, gripping the edge of the table, laughing at something he himself had just said.
“I—” he wheezed, “—I can’t—bro—my own brain is attacking me—”
He slapped the table.
A glass rattled.
Steve flinched.
“I think,” Steve said cautiously, adjusting his glasses for the sixth time in a minute, “he may be past the point of political discussion.”
Mark straightened suddenly. “NO—WAIT—Steve—listen—listen—what if capitalism—”
He lost his balance mid-sentence and grabbed Ken for support.
Ken, equally drunk but infinitely more theatrical, threw an arm around him. “YES,” Ken declared. “Collapse into me, brother.”
They nearly fell over.
Miranda stared at them, blinking. “Wasn’t he… articulate?”
“This happens,” Catherine said slowly, watching Mark attempt to bow to the jukebox, “fast.”
Mark waved at a random person walking by. “HEY! You look like you’ve forgiven your dad!”
The person did not stop.
Steve leaned toward Elias, voice low and frightened. “He’s not going to vomit, is he?”
“I don’t know,” Elias said honestly.
Ema sipped her drink.
“This is the expected trajectory,” she said calmly. “He burned through self-control early.”
Mark was now laughing again, head tipped back, hair sticking to his face. He started clapping at nothing.
“This song!” he announced loudly. “THIS SONG is about dying beautifully!”
“It’s about loss,” Miranda said gently.
“SAME THING,” Mark yelled.
Catherine crossed her arms. “I don’t understand how he’s still upright.”
“Momentum,” Ken said wisely, swaying. “And unresolved feelings.”
Mark suddenly turned, eyes wild, and locked onto Elias like he’d just rediscovered him.
“ELIAS,” he boomed. “MY WINE PROPHET.”
Oh no.
Mark stumbled forward and leaned far too close, breath warm and heavy with alcohol. Elias instinctively caught him by the shoulders.
Big mistake.
Mark immediately relaxed into the contact.
“You’re real,” Mark said, squinting. “That’s good.”
“Mark,” Elias said carefully, “how drunk are you?”
Mark considered this.
“Me?” he said. “I'm not drunk.”
Then he laughed again and tried to hug Elias.
Steve gasped.
Miranda made a noise of pure confusion. “Why is he bonding with him?”
Ema smiled faintly.
Ken raised his glass. “To chaos finding its axis.”
Elias, meanwhile, had gone very still.
Mark was too drunk to stand properly. Too drunk to be left alone. Too drunk to navigate reality.
Someone had to take him home.
Elias looked around the table.
Steve looked terrified.
Miranda looked emotionally unprepared.
Catherine looked like she’d rather fight God.
Ema looked done.
Ken was absolutely not fit to escort anyone anywhere.
Elias sighed.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll take him.”
Everyone turned to him.
“You?” Miranda asked.
Elias nodded, already bracing himself. “Yes.”
Mark grinned, slinging an arm around Elias’s shoulders like this was destiny.
“BEST decision of the night,” he slurred.
Elias tightened his grip, heart pounding.
“…Where do you live?” he asked.
Mark paused.
His smile faded into thoughtful seriousness.
“Wow,” he said. “That’s a really personal question.”
Elias closed his eyes.
This was the true chaos.
And it was walking, laughing, and leaning entirely on him.
By the time Elias accepted the truth—that Mark was not going to successfully direct them anywhere—the city had become a blur of wrong turns, drunk philosophy, and deeply unhelpful instructions.
“No, no,” Mark insisted, pointing vaguely at everything, “it’s like—past the thing. You know. The big… sky.”
“That’s not a direction,” Elias said, hauling him upright as Mark tried to sit on a closed kiosk.
“It is if you feel it.”
Elias stopped asking.
He took Mark home.
His home.
The apartment was small, cold, barely furnished. Elias kicked the door shut with his foot while Mark immediately wandered in like a haunted object, touching things he shouldn’t.
“Nice cave,” Mark murmured, patting a bookshelf. “Very… monk.”
“Sit,” Elias ordered, pointing at the bed.
Mark sat.
Then stood.
Then sat again.
Then went very still.
“Oh,” he said softly.
Elias’s instincts screamed.
He barely managed to grab a trash bin before Mark leaned forward and—
Yeah.
It was bad.
Elias held Mark’s hair back with one hand, stared at the wall with the thousand-yard gaze of a man who had accepted his fate, and listened to the violent consequences of excessive philosophy and wine.
When it was over, Mark slumped back, breathing hard.
“…Sorry,” he mumbled.
“It’s fine,” Elias said automatically, because apparently he was this person now.
Mark wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, squinted at Elias.
“You’re… really nice,” he said, with the gravity of a revelation.
Elias handed him water.
Mark drank some. Spilled some. Lay down fully clothed and passed out within thirty seconds, mouth slightly open, hair everywhere, completely defenseless.
Elias stared at him for a long moment.
Then he sighed, grabbed a blanket, and covered him.
Morning came cruelly.
Grey light. Cold air. The sound of Mark waking up like a man who had angered several gods.
“Ohhh no,” Mark groaned. “Ohhh no.”
Elias was sitting at his desk, half-asleep, sketching absent-mindedly.
Mark sat up slowly, winced, then froze.
He looked around.
Not his room.
Not his bed.
His eyes landed on Elias.
“Oh,” he said.
Memory flooded back all at once.
He buried his face in his hands.
“I—” he started, then stopped. “Did I… throw up?”
“Yes,” Elias said calmly.
Mark peeked through his fingers. “Like… where?”
Elias pointed.
Mark stared at the bin.
Then—unexpectedly—he laughed.
Not loud. Not performative.
Relieved.
“Oh thank god,” he said. “Okay. That’s fine.”
“That’s fine?” Elias echoed.
Mark nodded seriously. “Absolutely.”
He swung his legs off the bed, posture suddenly earnest despite the hangover.
“Listen,” he said. “There’s a rule.”
Elias raised an eyebrow.
“If you vomit in someone’s house,” Mark continued, “and they don’t kick you out?”
Elias waited.
“You’re best friends now.”
Elias blinked.
“That’s the law,” Mark added. “Ancient law. Social law.”
“Of course it is,” Elias murmured.
Mark smiled at him—smaller than usual, softer.
“Thanks for taking care of me,” he said quietly. “Most people wouldn’t.”
Elias felt something shift. Something settle.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
Mark nodded, then paused.
“…Can I have some water and maybe forgiveness and also never drink wine again?”
Elias handed him the glass.
“We’ll see,” he said.
And somehow, without meaning to—
That was the beginning.