Sylus as a rockstar, but with a secret in the form of a husband no one knows | part 2
Zayne wakes up in the middle of the night and runs his hand over the empty half of the bed. It is cold. Still sleepy, he gets up and wraps himself in a warm robe, wandering through the house with his eyes closed toward the home studio. He doesn't need to know that Sylus has locked himself in there and lost track of time while working; it is simply a conviction that this is the case, based on many years of marriage.
He opens the door slightly, and the warm light from the hallway lamps slips in a thin line into the semi-darkness of the studio. Zayne freezes and looks at the figure of Sylus outlined by the light—powerful and bent over piles of texts, rewritten over and over again. Sylus is overly strict with himself. The way he writes lyrics for his music is more like a night hunt, in which he is a skilled predator, stalking his prey in the form of the words that most subtly describe feelings. It's worth it, and Zayne knows it, because he sees it every time Sylus brings him the final drafts — for evaluation by the person closest to him. Sylus trusts Zayne with his words, and that is the greatest act of trust on his part.
“Did I wake you up?” Sylus takes off his glasses and sets them aside, next to a pile of crumpled papers.
“No, I woke up on my own. The bed got too cold.” Zayne is still standing in the doorway, hesitating to enter the studio. This is Sylus's private space, and Zayne is trying not to disturb him.
“Come here,” Sylus beckons Zayne with a gesture. He weaves between the guitars and keyboards and stands next to him, looking at the small creative chaos on his desk. Sylus takes his hand and intertwines their fingers. “Want to help me?”
“Help you?” Zayne smiles and touches Sylus' cheek with his palm, stroking it. Sylus immediately begins to nuzzle it and occasionally nibbles Zayne's fingers. “You know, I don't even remember how to do this anymore.”
“You've said so many times that music is in the past, but I'm ready to remind you of your talent just as many times,” Sylus brings Zayne's palm to his lips and leaves a kiss on his skin. Zayne rubs the corner of his lips with his fingertip in return. They like to show their love through small, affectionate gestures.
Sylus likes to remind Zayne of their shared wild rocker youth. So many years ago they met at one of the big festivals. Up-and-coming bands got a chance to show themselves on stage in the middle of the desert, liters of beer and cigarettes, the scorching sun, and attempts not to die of excitement. Sylus catches Zayne's eye from backstage; Zayne catches Sylus's eye. Awkward attempts to talk and a first kiss two days later, with more excitement and saliva than words. Long text messages, signed copies of their albums for each other, and backstage meetings after concerts. Fogged-up dressing room mirrors and air thick with sweat and sex. Now it's all in the past. Now there's a shared home, a home studio, and married status. One of them still a rock star, the other a settled cardiologist who left music behind.
“That's flattery,” Zayne clicks his tongue in displeasure, but Sylus isn't fooled by his feigned discontent. He pats his knee lightly, beckoning Zayne to him.
“Sit down,” Zayne sits on his strong knee and feels Sylus's arm wrap around his waist. He can't resist burying his nose in his long hair and kissing him behind the ear, whispering softly, “No, it's not my fault that my spouse is a man of many talents.”
