Crose / Juno ! @idillycrose - Tumblr Blog

— BE MY MUSE

in their final year of college, a gifted art student and an acclaimed violinist cross paths through a project that was never meant to be personal. but slowly you realize, inspiration and affection can look a lot like each other.

pairing: mydei x f!reader

word count: 10.2k words

tags: modern au, college setting, artist reader, violinist mydei, fluff, angst, strangers to lovers, mentions of other chrysos heirs, made up mydei family lore, nsfw in future parts, i don't know what else tbh...

a/n: i'm so so incredibly excited to share this one with you!!! it's very special for me. even though this fic has been trying to become itself for literal months in my drafts... i really want this to be something beautiful and i'm working on it!! i hope you enjoy reading and find meaning in this work of mine. as always, thank you so much for reading. every comment, repost, like means so much to me!!! and feedback is always much much appreciated!!!

header art by insaneption on deviant art!!

PART ONE | PART TWO

“The theme is vulnerability.”

Aglaea’s silky voice fills your ears.

You think it should be easy, you’ve always been the type to choose art that prioritizes conceptuality than materialism. Ideas, meaning, or experience over objects or materials. This is your way of expressing yourself after all. Every color, every line, every stroke of your brush holds value across your canvas.

So when you hear it, it’s not a big deal at all. There is time until finals, and you have all the trust in your own abilities. Art comes as easily as breathing to you. As if it’s a limb extending from your body, a part of your very being, and a connection to your soul. Never once did your head hurt when it comes to art. It’s your language, you way of existing. And it hasn’t ever failed you.

There wasn’t a beginning of your art, and you know there won’t be an ending either. Art has always been, for you; and you will always be, for art.

The bright fluorescent lights burn into your eyes as your thoughts start to wander, and you’re already sketching out your work progress in your head.

You’ll start with a couple of different sketches, pick one of them to work on, choose your material, pick your colors, maybe change a thing or two as you go, and when it’s finished in no less than a month—well, it’s you, it shouldn’t be more than that—you’ll submit it to Aglaea with handsome victory and sweet pride.

And she won’t be surprised. In fact, you think no one would. You’ve made quite a name for yourself over the past four years in this school. Always ending the semester with top grades, never out of time, never out of line. Getting different sponsorships from various studios every other month, and some of your works have even sold out on some small museums.

That’s why you’re certain there won’t be any problems with this one either.

When Aglaea finally dismisses class, you pack your stuff neatly and make your way to the cafeteria. Castorice is already sitting by the window, chewing on some noodles that look way too soaked for their own good.

“That instant ramen looks gummier than the strawberry mochi you buy from across the road.”

She looks up at you with a disapproving look, yet her lips tug into a smile, “I was experimenting, okay? I thought you were all for trying out new things.”

“I am, only when those new things aren’t looking like they could come alive any second though.” you gently threw your bag to the seat next to Castorice, where her pointe shoes are hanging off of her powder-pink duffle bag.

“Aglaea is out for blood again.” you mumble as you take a seat across from her, “She has a whole theme for the finals. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she enjoys seeing senior college students suffer.”

Your lavender haired friend snickers from behind her chopsticks, “You say it like that’s not the case.”

You huff a laugh. “Either way, it’s not that much of a problem,” and gesture to yourself with confidence, “I’ll get it done in no time.”

Contrary to your prior statement—and the belief you’ve carefully cultivated with your past achievements—you do not, in fact, get it done in no time.

It’s funny, maybe—or more overwhelming when you think about it a second time.

But whatever it is, one thing is for sure: It’s not in your favor.

You’ve tried everything; roaming museums, studying pieces from your favorite artists, revisiting old works for self inspiration, morning walks, late-night walks… You name it.

You even took out your sketchbook in the middle of one of Castorice’s performances, but alas, nothing came out of it—which surprised you greatly because even with your limited knowledge on ballet, Cas never failed to mesmerize you.

You sometimes wonder how she’d have done as an art major—and feel a little relieved she didn’t, fearing she might have surpassed you by far.

A week passes in futile endeavors. And it’s not like you’re running out of time, but it still frustrated you. Any kind of problem along the way could be solved with enough push and some thought put into it. But there wasn’t any problem to solve, because there wasn’t a work in your hands to begin with. Which was a problem in itself.

Just when you were starting to think you might’ve lost all your creative spark, your dear friend, Phainon, came to your rescue.

It’s early in the morning when you’re pacing towards class, carrying a big canvas in your hands and struggling to keep your bag from falling off your shoulder.

Then from a distance, you see the white haired guy waving at you frantically, and in the blink of an eye, he’s next to you.

“Oh, great timing.” Phainon smiles in greeting, “I was about to call you.”

You drop your bag to the floor, it didn’t want to be carried anyways. “Call me? What for?”

“I’m invited to the concert on the weekend as a press photographer. I get to bring a second with me, wanna come?”

You tilt your head slightly,“Concert?”

“You haven’t heard? It’s all over the campus bulletin boards.” Phainon’s eyes widen in disbelief, “It’s this huge performance where various musicians from across the city take stage together.” he spreads his hands to emphasize, “We have quite a few joining from our school as well.”

At first, you want to argue. Say it’s going to be a headache and you don’t have the time. Which isn’t exactly wrong. You’re all for music and art and performances, that’s true. But with your confidence slowly slipping away from your hands, you’re not so sure you can afford to attend anything grand right now.

“I’d love to come, Phai,” you start, already shaking your head in rejection, “But I’m working on Aglaea’s final.”

“Wow.” he raises his eyebrows, “Using art as an excuse? Just how badly do you want to stay at home?”

You laugh at his joke, internally wishing it was indeed just an excuse, “Unfortunately, it’s true this time. I’m kind of struggling with this one.”

He raises his eyebrows even higher at that. Almost to say, ‘You? Struggling?’

“Damn, must be a real kicker then.”

“It didn’t seem that bad at first,” you sigh, “But now I can’t even find the proper inspiration to start. It’s like—It just doesn’t click.” You shake your head in frustration.

Your dear friend must’ve felt sorry at your deflated state, so he comes up with an offer.

“Tell you what,” he tips his chin, “Come to this performance with me, and maybe it’ll help with your process.”

You squint your eyes at him in confusion, he takes it upon himself to continue.

“You’re struggling to find inspiration, right? What if what you need is... Some sort of muse. Something to get you going.” a confident smile forms on his lips, “A stage where many musicians are showing off might be a great place to look for that.”

And that’s how you end up in a plain white dress, with hair tied up neatly in a bun, and heels that look way too pretty for how badly they hurt, at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night.

The place is grand, both on the outside and the inside. The building rose at the end of the street like an art piece itself, tall columns guarding its entrance, wide marble steps leading to heavy doors polished by decades. Warm golden light spilled from its arched windows, and the faint murmur of tuning instruments leaked into the evening air.

It took a good twenty minutes just to get in and find your seat. There were people with cameras who looked like they were doing some important work, and others in rich suits and elegant dresses who looked even more important than them.

And then there was you.

The inside was just as captivating as the outside. Bright, creamy walls and columns that extended from the floor to the high ceiling. You felt terribly small compared to how major everything seemed to be. There was a massive chandelier at the top that granted the lobby enough light and the marble floors glowed with it’s reflection.

Your seat was towards the back and to the end of the row. It wasn’t a perfect view but it was enough to catch a glimpse of the stage. You guess that’s the best a plus ticket your photographer friend gave you can do.

Speaking of Phainon, he wasn’t there with you. Even though you entered together, you knew he would be at the higher floors taking photos. It probably would be more entertaining with company next to you, but you’ll have to settle for enjoying the concert by yourself. You were here for the music anyways.

The concert started after a short while. The music was pleasant and the view was actually better than you thought it would be. Various musicians came to stage one by one and played their hearts out. It was nice, it was refreshing. You even managed to get a couple sketches in.

A woman’s flute solo, another one’s piano… It was all so beautiful.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

You didn’t have high expectations in the first place. Phainon offered you an idea but he didn’t promise anything. And you knew that when you agreed to it. The theme was something you haven’t tried before and even if you didn’t get to find what you were looking for, the music is nice. So you guess you can just enjoy it while it lasts.

But then, a single note plays out from a violin in the silence.

Your pencil stops.

Your eyes slowly move back to the stage, and hesitate, like they’re scared to see what’s up there.

Then you see him. A tall, blond man with his hair neatly tied low at the back, wearing a simple black suit with a crimson tie that matches the ends of his hair.

You don’t get to observe him much, because seconds later the piano joins him, catching your attention. Then the cellos start humming a quiet, low tune. A chill runs through you, and the hairs on your arms stand on end.

He plays with ease, as if music is something that just happens for him. And he play with heart, with soul. Nothing like what you’ve seen before. Not tonight, not ever.

It’s enchanting, it’s foreign—and you feel yourself drawn to it.

The music flows in the air. It runs through the red velvet seats, dances around the people, and finds its way to your heart. You find yourself unable to move, hands stuck in their place and ice cold, a tingle at the back of your neck, a soft burn in your eyes…

Just what is this?

Then, as if hearing you, he picks up the pace, the violinist. He speaks clearly, it’s impossible to miss it.

Hear me, he’s whispering one second, then shouting the next, witness me. You watch carefully. To see, to understand. What are you doing? How are you doing it?

Long, slim fingers move up and down on the neck of his instrument—delicate, yet present. He seems… scared? But also just as bold, just as vigorous.

He’s either casting spells with his bow, cursing you in some way, or you have gone mad, completely lost it.

His gaze stays low, he doesn’t look up, doesn’t let anything else catch his attention. It’s obvious. On that stage, it’s just him, his violin, and music.

When the whole orchestra joins him, you feel a skip in your heart. They harmonize and dance together. As if they’re all in agreement, all know what’s happening. Like they’re conversing, like they’re playing out a script written carefully.

The trumpets murmur in the back like a choir, the flute sings peacefully, the piano’s notes fall like feathers.

And at the center of it all, him.

His violin cries.

You don’t know how he does it, or what that even means. But you’re certain. That violin is crying, weeping as if it’s at the end of it’s days. Coming alive at the very hands of the man in front of you.

Just like what you were searching for—vulnerable.

After what feels like an eternity, the music gently dies away. The orchestra quiets down, and his motions come to a stop with a flick of his wrist. He takes a step towards the audience, brings his hand to his chest and bows down softly.

People stand up in their seats, loud clapping fills the building and bright smiles paint your vision. It lasts for a long while, a lot longer than average. And you close your eyes, a single tear slides down and drops to your hands, now clapping with the rest of the room. That’s when you know—

You’ve found it.

You don’t even think about it. The moment the performance ends, you spring up from your seat and hurry out of the room, your steps rushed, nearly tripping over your heels as you go. You make your way toward the back doors of the grand building.

You have to find him, learn his name, approach him, introduce yourself, and somehow persuade him into this. The urge feels almost instinctive, as if you’re being pulled after him.

But when you finally reach the place, he isn’t there.

Your eyes search every corner, trying to catch a glimpse of that tall figure, his golden hair, or his overwhelming presence. But you’re only met with a couple press members and some other musicians that went up to stage earlier in the night.

You feel your eyes burn again. This can’t be it right? Surely you find him somehow.

Your only hope, only lead. Something to keep you in, someone to make your art come true, and—a hand on your shoulder?

“What are you doing here?”

Oh, it’s him.

“Phainon?” your eyes widen, you didn’t even realize he was standing there.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the main halls?” he asks confused, “Did I take too long? Sorry, I was almost done.”

“No, no. It’s not that.” you shake your head, “I just—I needed to look for someone.”

“Look for someone?” his lifts his head up, his eyes wander for a second before coming back to meet yours, “Who?”

“The blond guy with red hair? The violinist.” you search his eyes, “It’s him. I need him.”

“Okay,” he drags out the word dramatically and pulls his hands back with a smirk, “Mydei is cool and all but—wow, didn’t know you were into that.”

“Not like that!” you snap, then pause, “Wait, Mydei? That’s his name?”

“Yep. Mydeimos. Mydei, for short.” he tilts his head, “He’s one of the performers that join from our school. Quite the deal, isn’t he?”

He goes to the same school as you?

“From us?” your eyes widen, “You know him? Can you introduce me to him?”

Phainon grins knowingly, “Found what you were looking for?”

“Yes.” you nod your head firmly, certain and final, “Exactly what I’m looking for.”

It turns out, Phainon does more than just knowing him.

He tells you the story of their meeting on your way back. They met each other in high school, same year, same class, and didn’t get along at first—like, at all. He tells you about how they would fight and bicker all the time, and race everything like even breathing is competition. And how they decided to apply to the same school, just out of spite for each other, and somehow both got in.

“And now?” you ask him while fiddling with your seatbelt on his passenger seat, “How are the two of you now?”

“Me and Mydei?” he glances at you momentarily, then pulls his eyes back to the road, “Well… We definitely aren’t like that anymore.”

“Are you close though?”

“Yeah… I guess you could say that.”

You bit down on your lips to stop the smile growing on your face. This is great. Phainon is a close friend of yours, and if Mydei is a close friend of his—then it shouldn’t be too hard, right?

Wrong.

This guys is impossible to get a moment with.

Your friend does everything in his power to help you. You get Mydei’s contact information, even though that feels a bit wrong. And Phainon let’s you know when he’s most available in his schedule—which feels even more wrong—so you have a chance to catch him around the campus.

But the only thing he texts back when you reach out is:

I’m busy right now. Will text back when I’m available.

Great. An automated message. And what’s with the cold tone?

You don’t want to keep pestering your friend with this matter. And you definitely don’t want to seem like a stalker by calling him or texting even more, that would completely blow your chance with him—if you have one, that is.

So while days pass, waiting for something, anything from Mydei, you decide you’re not just going to sit still and pray.

After doing your fair share of research, you find out, he really is quite the big deal, as Phainon said. This guy has not only already given multiple solo performances being only a twenty-two year old college student, he has also made headline after headline. Multiple interviews, many people after him, and a certain future.

No wonder he feels so out of reach.

He started playing when he was very young, but wasn’t really heard of until college. He loves music, clearly, and usually doesn’t say much about himself on interviews, only talking about performances or the more professional stuff like his coaches or sponsors and whatnot.

It feels desperate and, to be fair, a bit pathetic. Checking your phone every other hour to see if he’s reached out, paying extra attention to your surroundings while walking, knowing he’s much more closer to you then you thought.

You weren’t allowed to record during the concerto either, so all you’re left with is some photos that got published a night after and the echo of his violin in your head. Which isn’t enough to give you what you need.

Despite your attempts, you can’t seem to get to Mydei.

Then one morning, when you’re making your way to school—kicking tiny rocks along the road and huffing as you go—you catch a glimpse of something gold.

Spring is here, there is a faint breeze that kisses your cheeks gently and the air smells sweet. The sun is shining bright on your face, the trees are decorated with different shades of pink and green—and you feel the tiniest bit of hope blossom somewhere in you.

Could it be?

It’s only for a short second, and if you hadn’t raised you head just at the right moment, you would’ve missed it.

He turns a corner, and the air he leaves behind is enough to let you know.

You run after the man, the same way you did a couple nights ago—out of breath and desperate. He’s not going the same direction as you, but that doesn’t matter. This might be your only chance, and you will gladly chase it even if it means being late to your morning lecture by a few measly minutes.

When you turn the same corner as him, your eyes meet with his broad back. He’s wearing a simple sweatshirt and some sweatpants, his hair is down and untamed. He looks relaxed, completely the opposite of how he was while performing in front of a thousand people.

He’s walking a slow pace, unhurried, which works in your favor. You think about how to approach him; a tap on the shoulder, or maybe you should shout his name instead? Anything to get his attention. Fastening your steps, you reach your hand out. But then—

“Ow.”

Mydei stops abruptly, and turns around to meet you.

“Sorry,” he says simply, “I didn’t realize you were that close.”

He probably heard your steps, you think to yourself, then look up at him while rubbing your nose, making sure there aren’t any broken bones. What is this guy, a brick wall?

“It’s… fine. I shouldn’t have gotten that close in the first place.”

He nods faintly at that, and there is an awkward silence that follows after.

You avert you eyes and fidget with your fingers, while he looks at you with a straight face, not saying anything back. Now that he’s in front of you, you realize you don’t really know how to talk to him.

“So,” he starts, “Did you want something?”

Up close, you get to see his features much clearly. Something the back row of a big orchestra hall didn’t allow you to do.

And you realize, he’s handsome—or beautiful even. The kind of face that is loved and adored. Someone carrying the weight of being cherished. You can’t help but wonder who is lucky enough to love this man. Or… maybe on a second thought, he might be the lucky one.

His hair catches your attention next—bright, shining, the ends tipped in a burning red, blinding like a summer sunset. It looks smooth and soft, free in its own way. A lot less styled compared to what he had going on on stage, with the exception of a small braid peeking under his ear.

Then you look at his amber eyes—golden like his hair, but a lot more fiery—that are staring back at you now, and say—

“Be my muse.”

“I’m sorry?”

Mydei’s face takes a shape that you struggle to find the words to describe. His brows furrow in confusion first, then they lift back up, his eyes widening with the motion.

Want to know how to creep out a man? The address is right here.

“Okay, that wasn’t what I meant to say,” you wince, “Or–maybe it was. But not like that obviously!”

Mydei crosses his arms across his chest, gives a faint lick to his lips and furrows his eyebrows, letting you know you have his attention, as if urging you to go on. And so you do.

“Look, I know this’ll sound weird,” you smile weakly at him, “But I promise I’m not, like, a stalker or anything. I just tried reaching out to you and you wouldn’t answer so—”

You take a deep breath—quit stalling, just get to the point—you close your eyes firmly, let out that breath, then open them, and continue.

“I was at the audience,” you look at his eyes directly, “Around a week ago, at the big concert with various musicians. You took stage towards the end.”

He nods again, “That’s great to hear. Did you enjoy it?”

You let out another shaky breath. If only it was just that.

“Very much so,” you smile as the sound of the night rushes back to you, “I enjoyed it. In fact I loved it. So, I’m here to make an offer.”

Mydei raises a brow,

“Even though I greatly enjoyed it, my sole reason for being there that night was to find some sort of inspiration for my final.” You tilt your head towards where the school building rests, “I’m an art major, we go to the same school.”

He turns his head at where you’re pointing, then looks back at you, “I see.”

But it’s clear he’s not fully understanding what any of this has to do with anything.

“And this final I’m talking about,” you sigh, “Is really taking it out on me.”

“I’ve sketched, painted, scrapped, restarted—about a hundred times. Nothing works.” You pause, rubbing the back of your neck. “But when you were on stage that night… It was the first time in days I actually felt something click.”

His brows pull together again, though not as sharply as before, “Click?”

“Inspiration,” you clarify quickly. “The way you played, the way the orchestra complimented you—everything about it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it afterwards.”

You hesitate for a second before finishing.

“So I thought… maybe if I actually painted you—”

Mydei blinks.

“—as my muse,” you rush, “Not in a weird way! Just artistically. Strictly academically.” A sheepish laugh leaves you at the end of your sentence, “I’m the best at what I do. I cannot afford to get a grade below the expectation.”

“The best, you say?”

“That’s my reputation, yes.”

He stays silent, but you catch the way his eyes widen the slightest amount. He looks like he’s giving it a good thought, or maybe he’s just calculating how much of an idiot you are. You can only hope that’s not the case.

Then he lets out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“You know,” he says, “most people just ask for an autograph, or an interview, not to paint me as their muse.”

Your shoulders slump slightly, and your gaze lowers in defeat, trying to find comfort in the patterns on the pavement. You’re not stupid, he’s rejecting you without being rude about it—

“I’ll do it.”

You blink. Then snap your head up, searching his face for any insincerity.

“Really?” you ask loudly, “You agree? That easily?”

Mydei seems to be amused by your outburst, a peal of laughter leaves his lips. It’s a clear sound, coming from the chest.

“Really.” he nods, “But I have one condition.”

Condition? Well, it doesn’t matter. As long as he agrees, you think you can do with anything he says.

“Sure,” you beam at him, “What is your condition?”

“I want you to paint me with my violin.”

“Yeah, he agreed!” You kick the air with your legs, overjoyed with pride, “Can you believe? I didn’t even have to do anything.”

Castorice, on the other side of the line, hums in delight.

“That’s good to hear,” her soft tone graces your ears, “So, you have anything in mind?”

You roll on your back in your bed, playing with a piece of hair in between your fingers.

“We didn’t get to talk about the details much, I was running late for class.” you sigh, “But he said he wants me to paint him with his violin.”

Which is already what you were planning to do, so no arguments on that.

After his request, you simply gave a nod of your head and smiled at him sweetly. Then agreed on meeting up for a cup of coffee to talk about the painting and the process—which would be in about an hour from now.

He also saved your number on his phone so that you wouldn’t be having one sided conversations with his automated messages. You still remember the squint on his face and the small apology he muttered as he listened to your complaints.

“I gotta go now,” you informed your best friend, slightly pulling the phone from your ear to see the screen, “I don’t have much time left.”

She then gave a quick warning about updating her, you two exchanged some giggles over that, and ended the call without much ceremony.

You toss your phone beside the pillow and stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting the excitement settle somewhere inside your chest.

Just a painting. Nothing more. It’ll be alright.

Not wanting to waste more time than you already did, you get up quickly.

You get out of your pajamas, wear something decent, make sure you look presentable, grab your bag, and shove your sketchbook, pencils, and a small charcoal set inside. Just in case the conversation turns into an impromptu sketch session.

It probably won’t. But still.

Your phone buzzes just as you’re slipping on your shoes.

Mydei: I’m already at the cafe. Take your time.

Already? That diverts your eyes to the top of the screen. Twenty-four minutes. Is he always this punctual?

A second message follows.

Mydei: Well, don’t take too much time.

You can practically imagine the awkward little smile he must’ve had while typing it. A grin spreads across your face before you can acknowledge it.

You type back quickly.

Me: Omw!!

The walk to the cafe feels shorter than usual, probably because your brain refuses to sit still. You don’t know why it’s doing it, but it is. This isn’t some important commission or for some big contest either. It’s just your stupid final that Aglaea decided to turn into a struggle. And you’ll manage even if things don’t go that well with Mydei.

Still, with each step you take, the sound of your heartbeat rings louder in your ears.

When the cafe comes into your view, he is the first thing you spot from a distance. Sitting near the window, violin case leaning carefully against the chair beside him, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t seem to be drinking.

Mydei looks up the moment the door chimes. You walk over to the table, wearing a polite smile on your lips.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

He shakes his head, “I arrived early,” then gestures to the chair in front of him.

You eyes settle on his instrument while you get comfortable on your seat, “You brought your violin with you.”

“Yeah,” Mydei hums. It’s a sweet sound, you take note, “I come from practice.”

“I see,” you mutter under your breath, then find his eyes, “You seem to have a really packed schedule.”

“I guess you could say that,”

Mydei looks deep in thought for a second, then a small smile appears on his lips, it’s hard to catch and leaves as quickly as it comes, but it was there.

“But I like what I do,” he nods faintly, “So I don’t mind it.”

You want to ask, where does it come from? This love. Because it’s impossible to miss it, you’d need to be quite dense to miss it. Even when he steals quick glances at its way, you can see it. The way his eyes soften slightly, like meeting an old friend. There is history, unsaid words, and some sort of longing.

Not wanting to seem too curious for your own good, you settle for staying silent this time.

To your surprise, the conversation flows smoothly after that. He asks a couple questions about the progress, you ask back about what he is comfortable with or not, and settle on the time and days for your session.

After that discussion comes to an end, you pull your sketchbook out of your bag, flipping it open to a page of loose drawings. They’re messy, overlapping, quick gestures trying to catch an idea before it slips away. The date on the bottom takes you back to when all of this started, and you try to surpass the smile fighting for its place on your lips.

“I was thinking something more natural,” you say, turning the book slightly so he can see. “Not too staged. Like you’re just… playing.”

He gives a quick hum in acknowledgment.

“What are you going for exactly?” he looks into your eyes while leaning forward to catch a better glimpse of the sketches, “Do you have some sort of theme for this?”

Theme. Right. The theme.

You were so focused on actually getting the chance to speak to Mydei that the theme had slipped clean out of your mind until now.

Vulnerability.

For a second you picture saying it out loud—I want to paint you vulnerable. The thought alone makes your stomach twist. It feels intrusive somehow, like those opportunistic paparazzi that swarm at the mention of scandal.

Your eyes flick briefly to the violin case beside him.

He carries himself with a quiet sort of control. Straight posture, calm voice, movements measured and careful. Nothing about him suggests he would appreciate being reduced to something fragile on a canvas.

You felt guilt brimming in you. His love for his music. You don’t know what it means, you don’t know where it comes from.

Would he think you were mocking him?

Your eyes meet with Mydei’s for a brief second and you realize you've been silent for a beat too long.

“Strength,” you clear your throat softly, “I needed something powerful.”

“Powerful?”

“Yes,” you lie with ease, “Your music is exactly what I’m looking for Mydei. Powerful.”

You were lying through your teeth. Powerful? Maybe. But it definitely wouldn’t be the first thought that comes to your mind when you hear him. And it wasn’t how you intended to portray him either. You were going for frail, tender—vulnerable.

Mydei’s eyes linger on the pages. For a moment he studies the loose lines, the unfinished shapes of hands and a violin resting against a shoulder.

Then he nods once.

“I see.”

A wave of relief crashes into you, but it doesn’t completely loosen the tight knot in your chest.

After all, the lie sits heavy in the air, and you have a month of work waiting the two of you.

The studio smells of dried paint and concrete.

The weather is getting warmer and spring is slowly turning into summer, it’s not as cold as it used to be. Most of the students leave school early around this time of the year so it’s not as crowded either. Rooms and tools are left untouched for hours if not days and hallways are quieter than usual. You can’t say you hate it.

The wooden door makes a loud squeak as you push it open. Mydei steps inside after you, violin case on one of his hands and backpack on the other. He takes a moment to examine the room, looking like a lost child.

You can’t help but huff a laugh at the sight, “You can sit wherever you’re comfortable,”

He nods without looking, eyes still wandering around the room, and takes a seat a few steps away from you.

While Mydei gets settled, you busy yourself with setting up your supplies. You cross to the cabinets at the end of the room, pull out a large sheet of paper, and drag an easel back with you, its legs scraping softly against the floor.

You set it up where it won’t block your view of Mydei, then secure the paper in place before taking a seat.

Next come your tools. You pull a handful of brushes from your bag and drop them into a glass, then sharpen a few graphite pencils, lining them up carefully beside it. Tubes of oil paint, a box of crayons—anything you can find, really, even if they don’t quite belong together.

The first session is only supposed to be some sketches. Therefore you know you won’t need all of this. But the room is awkward, you’re nervous, and need to pass the time as much as possible while Mydei is doing his thing.

Then you hear the quiet click of clasps, the soft slide of wood against fabric.

You peel your eyes off of the sketchbook draped open on your lap and glance at Mydei’s way.

He handles the violin gently, but not delicately. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing. Just familiarity, something practiced enough to become instinct.

Clearing your throat, you straighten your pose, “You can start whenever,”

Then with a short nod again, Mydei starts playing.

He draws out a note at first, almost like testing the sound, then another, and another. They mesh together and fill the empty room with sound. You’re supposed to be drawing, examining, working right now, but you feel yourself unable to even lift a hand.

This is only your second time hearing him play, and it’s no less mesmerizing than the first one. A part of you wonders if you’ll be able to handle a whole month of this.

“I’ll be moving quite a lot while playing,” Mydei’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, “Will you be able to draw?” He murmurs without peering his eyes off of his bow.

It’s not condescending, he’s genuinely curious.

“I’ll be fine,” your pencil finally meets the paper, “I want to capture the moment anyway.”

He just gives a quiet hum after that, and silence settles between you again, only occupied with the pleasant sound of violin.

Moments pass like this. Mydei playing like it’s instinct, and you trying your best to do his beauty justice.

You sketch the curve of his posture first. The line of his shoulders, the way his head tilts, his fingers flexing on the neck of the instrument, his other hand relaxed, wrist slightly curved in.

In between shared glances and concentration, your curiosity gets the better of you, “Why did you agree to this?” you meet his eyes, “Not that I’m complaining, of course, but I didn’t expect you to say yes so easily either.”

Mydei seems to give it thought for a moment, then he answers back with a shrug,

“It was the look in your eyes, I guess,” he says, “I’ve never heard someone talk about my music like that.”

You feel your cheeks burn as heat rushes to your face. Was it that obvious?

“…What kind of look?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Mydei’s bow doesn’t pause, but the note he draws stretches just a little longer.

“Just—” he exhales heavily, like he is frustrated with himself, “It was as if you’re hearing me for what I actually am.”

And you know, somehow, that there is a deeper meaning to that. That it matters more to him than he lets on. Maybe it’s the way his fingers grip his bow more firmly, or the way his eyes drift off to somewhere beyond the room, but you see it.

You don’t have an answer back to it, which doesn’t help the atmosphere, so you just keep drawing him instead. Avoiding Mydei’s eyes and pressing harder on the page than you mean to.

The graphite darkens, and the light, you realize distantly, isn’t helping.

It spills from the fluorescent lamps at the ceiling, too bright and uneven, flattening everything it touches. It catches on the varnish of the violin too harshly, blows out the contours of his face, leaves parts of him in shadow where you don’t want them to be. You tilt your paper slightly, then back again, but it doesn’t fix it.

You exhale quietly through your nose.

And Mydei should’ve realized the frown on your face by now, because his sound slows and quiets down before he asks, “Something wrong?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” You wave your hands in the air, “It’s just the light causing some trouble. I never liked the studios of the school anyways. Nothing here screams art.”

He hums like that means anything to him, “Anything I can do?”

Your eyes drift from examining the lamps on the ceiling back to his face, “I, uh, I don’t think so? Not unless you know some art studio that doesn’t charge a fortune per hour, I guess.” You sigh.

Both of you sit in silence for a good minute, then agree to take a small break. Mydei lowers his violin and seems deep in thought, while you huff and puff to yourself, wiping off graphite from your fingers.

Just when you’re thinking the world is against this project since everything seems to be going downhill, Mydei’s hum brings you back.

“Actually,” he exhales lightly through his nose, almost a huff at himself, like he can’t believe he’s saying this, “My place has decent lighting. I live on a high floor and the living room has some tall windows.”

Your brows lift a little.

“You could use it. If you want. No pressure, obviously.” he says, a little softer. “If it’s weird, it’s weird. Just figured I’d mention it.”

A small “Oh,” is all you let out at first, “Yeah, um—yeah, that would be great actually. You sure you’re okay with this?”

He shrugs, “I don’t have that many guests and I live nearby, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The idea of going to Mydei’s house—to paint him, no less—possibly spending hours there, alone; is a bit weird, like he said so. But curse your stupid head because you are a bit curious, and maybe a tiny bit eager.

For the drawing, obviously.

“Alright,” you take a deep breath, “When are you available?”

“How about,” he pauses, “Right now?”

The walk to Mydei’s apartment is mostly silent. He isn’t much of a talker, you’ve realized over the little time you’ve shared so far. You are though, in contrast to him. But not right now. Not when your steps feel too light and your pulse sounds like the chorus of an upbeat rock song.

“We’re here,” he points at a building with his head. You only hum in response.

You take the elevator to the twelfth floor. Mydei steps out with his hands in his bag, searching for something. Then he takes out his keys, they jingle between his fingers before he puts it in the lock and the door opens with a soft click. A small violin charm catches your eyes before he pulls them back out, and you smile to yourself a little before stepping in.

His place smells weirdly clean, like, too clean. Almost makes you question if he even lives here. But you also think that’s kind of in character of him.

He has tall windows that light up the place nicely. The walls, or anywhere else for that matter, isn’t really decorated. It’s just simple furniture, some blankets on a couch, and a big plant on the corner that looks out of place. Maybe gifted from someone else?

You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, breaking the quiet, “Your place is nice.”

He gives a small thanks in response before crossing the room, pushing one of the chairs back with his foot, clearing space near the windows.

“Will this work?”

You step closer, tilting your head, already framing him in your mind. “Yeah,” you shrug, “Way better than the studio.”

A lot more intimate too, your mind reminds you, but you don’t mention that to him.

“Where do you want me?” Mydei asks.

You observe his living room again after that, with more intent than just trying to familiarize yourself with his home.

“It would be nice if we could catch the evening sun,” you hum, “Maybe it could hit you from the side?”

He gives a quick nod and gets moving. Mydei pulls a chair in front of the window, takes his violin back out of its case and sits down, posing the same way he did earlier in the studio, and starts playing. You don’t have all your tools here but a sketchbook should be enough for now. So you sit down in front of him and take it out, your pencil already in your hand.

And the silence is back.

It’s not too awkward, thankfully. But you really wouldn’t mind some more energy in the room. It’s not the stillness of the moment that bothers you—the music is enough to move it—but more so him.

Wouldn’t be so bad if Mydei just gave a bit more than he does, you think. It wouldn’t be horrible if you knew what it meant when his brow raised slightly to the left, or when he flexes his hand every now and then—like a sudden fire burnt his fingertips, when he doesn’t really give an answer but just hums quietly—even if it wasn’t a question, or when he does literally anything else.

You trace the outline of his jawline on your paper, sharp as a knife yet as fixed as stone. His violin rests against it, having already made a home for itself there long time ago.

“So,” you exhale, “Tell me more about yourself?”

His amber eyes rise up from his fingers, and he stares off at the wall in front of him for a few seconds. A few seconds that feel like eternity for you.

“There isn’t much to tell, really. I mean, haven’t you already read the papers?”

Such a dry tone.

“I don’t really care what the papers say. Surely you’d be a better source, no?”

Mydei’s eyes flicker, and he looks like he’s about to speak for a second. He parts his lips, gives a small lick to them, while breathing in heavily, you can see his pupils move back and forth on the pattern of his rug. You wait in anticipation while he draws out another note and the quiet tick of the clock in the room counts time. It all happens so quickly and you really get your hopes up this time,

“I think they do quite a good job, actually.”

Only to be let down.

“I see.” you don’t mean to sigh, but it comes out anyway.

“So you two are finally working together?” The white haired man asks you with genuine surprise.

“Yes, Phai, we really are.” you reply, “I don’t really know how it happened either. One day I was practically begging for him to say yes, and the other I was drawing him play, in his apartment.”

The wide halls of your school echo with your steps, loud and only. Your friend helps you carry your new easel to one of the studios, the drag across the floor joining your footsteps. The year is about to end soon, classes are almost over and everyone has been slowly wrapping up their works. You however are still stuck with a stupid sketch in your hands and a bunch of other questions in your head.

You’ve been thinking about your work, if you have enough time, if it’ll come out like you visualized, but most importantly, if you’re doing it right. Mydei has been nothing but generous towards you. He’s been kind and he doesn’t complain, you would even go as far as to say he actually enjoys it, that he’s looking forward to the end product.

It’s obviously expected that he would be curious or maybe even excited, but you feel like the way his eyes widen every time you make a slightly sharper flick of your wrist on the paper says something more about him.

You caught him peeking at your open sketchbook on the coffee table once when you two were taking a break. It’s a bigger one than your usual so everything is much more clear, more final on the pages.

“Like what you see?” you ask in between bites from the fruit he peeled for you.

He whips his head toward you, clearly not aware that you were watching him, “Sorry, it looks nice.”

“Don’t apologize,” you lick the juice off your thumb, “It’s you on the paper.”

The room is silent, actually silent this time. No violin, no pencil meeting paper, no huffing and puffing because of some wrong lines and a sore neck. Just you, him, and the cold peaches sitting on the table in front of you. Other than the occasional eye contact you two make (which almost immediately ends with one of you looking away in no longer than a second), and the soft taps of his fingers across the marble countertop, not much else is happening.

Making small talk with Mydei is difficult. Not because he isn’t much of a talker, although you’re sure that plays a small part too, but because he doesn’t share, you think.

Mydei keeps to himself. It’s been—what, three sessions so far? Which equals to two weeks of knowing and meeting Mydei. Yet your knowledge about him is still almost as limited as what the internet tells you.

It’s important to understand your subject for your drawing, yes, but putting all of that aside, you’re curious about Mydei. Ever since that stage, ever since feeling like your soul was leaving your skin, ever since running after him in heels that hit all the wrong spots on your feet, you’ve been curious about him.

And when you’re trying to get your sketch across a bigger paper, clipped on the wooden stand Phainon helped you drag into the studio, it happens.

A small ding from your phone interrupts your conversation.

Mydei: Do you think we could do a session today?

“It’s him?” Phainon’s blue eyes search your face with anticipation.

He’s enjoying this way too much, you think, but your friend is lucky because you have better concerns right now.

“Yeah, he’s asking to meet up.” You furrow your brows in confusion. Your next session isn’t due until three days.

“Like, an actual meet up?”

Phainon takes a step next to you, then leans forward to see your phone screen clearly, “A session?”

“Yes, that’s what we call them. But our next one still has some time, I don’t really understand why he’s asking for one right now.” You scratch your neck with your other hand, then mumble quietly, almost a question, “I mean it doesn’t even benefit him.”

Phainon snickers, “Maybe he just misses you.”

That earns him a slap on the shoulder.

You quickly type back, not wanting to make him wait.

Me: our next one is in three days iirc?

Me: but sure!! my schedule’s empty

Mydei: Sorry if it’s inconvenient. You can come over whenever.

Me: will be there in 20

“You’re excited,” Phainon jokes, “You sure this is strictly professional?”

Not really.

“Stop it already, oh my god,” you give a look to him, “I just don’t have anything better to do, and mind you, he’s the one asking.”

Phainon laughs, it’s a loud and unbothered sound. He definitely is enjoying this.

You’re in front of Mydei’s apartment in sixteen minutes since your last message.

The city is warm and the building is warmer. Your hair is sticking to your skin at the curve of your neck, your hands are sweaty from holding onto your bag too tight, and Mydei still hasn’t opened the door.

Well, that might be because you haven’t rang the bell yet, but we’re putting that aside.

It’s just the thought of showing up unplanned, or let’s say three days earlier than what was planned. Coming to his house and feeling like this is more than what the two of you agreed on, more than you trying to keep your eyes on only the parts you’re supposed to draw, more than him keeping quiet, keeping to himself.

Your fingers reach up to the doorbell, only for Mydei to beat you to it. The door opens with a fast swing, almost giving you a heart attack.

“Oh my gods, Mydei,” you rest your hand against your chest, “You scared the living crap out of me.”

“Sorry,” the blonde purses his lips, “I heard some noises so I thought I’d check it out.”

“Well, the noises were me.”

Mydei steps aside to let you in with another quiet apology, but you catch the way he dips his head low in hopes of hiding the small smile playing on his lips.

His place is the same as always, clean, quiet, everything you’ve gotten used to by know. But then you take another step in, and it hits you, the smell of something sweet coming from the kitchen.

“Sorry for asking so suddenly,” Mydei says as he locks the door behind you. “I know we said Friday.”

“It’s fine,” you answer too quickly. “I wasn’t doing anything important but, um, you—did you bake something?”

Mydei doesn’t give an answer immediately, just busies himself with taking your bag off your hands and places it somewhere in the living room. You don’t really push, you stopped doing that some time ago.

He walks toward the kitchen, you try not to stare at him while unpacking your stuff, yet you still catch your eyes following him from across the apartment as he fills a kettle with water. He’s dressed casually today, loose dark pants, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pale hair still slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it all afternoon.

Mydei turns back toward the counter, but not before you catch the way his jaw tightens slightly. “You want tea?” he asks after a moment.

“Sure.” You answer without making eye contact with him.

He doesn’t say anything else, so you begin setting up your pencils while he moves around the kitchen. Your eyes start wandering again. You notice how he hasn’t set up his chair like he usually does before you come, or how his violin is sitting on the couch already.

“You were practicing before I got here?” you ask.

He hums without turning, “Just some old ones I wanted to remember.”

Before you can say anything back, Mydei starts moving. He opens the fridge first, taking out a bowl with stretch film wrapped over it, then he takes out some pre-cut fruits, shuts the fridge, moves to a different part of his kitchen.

You watch all of it in silence.

And when you’re about to ask what’s the matter, a ding sound interrupts his movements. Then he puts on the oven glove resting on the counter, opens the oven and—takes out a cake?

“Huh, you really were baking.” you tilt your head, “Are you celebrating something?”

The kettle clicks softly in the kitchen. Which gives him his escape from answering your question, or so you thought. Because this time, Mydei opens.

“It’s my mothers birthday,” he’s quiet while filling the cups with hot water.

“Oh, is she arriving soon?” You ask with a smile, “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gotten something on my way here.”

You regret asking that as soon as the words leave your mouth, because it’s impossible to miss the way the air tenses around the two of you. The room is silent, again. Mydei gives a look your way, then he puts the kettle down slowly. He’s calm in a very unusual way, he moves slower, he even talks slower, you think. But you catch the way he grips the edge of the counter with his hands until his skins turns white.

“No,” he breathes, “No, she isn’t arriving. I celebrate it by myself.”

Then he looks at you. That’s when it hits you. Oh, stupid you.

You want to slap yourself across the face, lay on the ground and kick yourself in the stomach, but all you could do is raise your eyebrows slightly at the man in front of you.

The words catch you off guard for some reason. Not because of what he said, but because he offered it at all. Usually conversations with Mydei are like trying to catch water in your hands. He gives answers that are polite but thin, always enough to end the discussion before it becomes personal.

So this feels… different.

“I’m sorry,” you say before anything else comes out of your mouth that would make you regret coming here at all.

His brows pinch slightly, “Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know.” You give a helpless little laugh,

For a second he simply watches you. Then, surprisingly—

“She used to make that cake every year,” he points at the counter, “I’ve been continuing the tradition, I guess.”

The fondness in his voice is tiny, but unmistakable. And funny enough, this might be the most he’s ever spoken to you at once.

You’re terrified of ruining it.

“So…” you say carefully, “Why invite me over today?”

The question hangs in the air for a minute. You can almost see the gears turning in Mydei’s head, almost to say, Why did I invite her? And you think, or maybe you hope, he just needed company. Mydei, who has been celebrating his mothers birthday all these years, all by himself, needed you here today.

You don’t know what to feel about that possibility.

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” he laughs to himself, as if he can’t believe you’re here either, “I guess I thought you’d enjoy the cake.”

You stare at his face for a good minute, it’s probably only a few seconds in reality, but feels like a minute. With the way his golden strands frame his face, or the way the afternoon light hits his nose, the way his fingers wrap around the piping bag, the way he looks so vulnerable right now; it feels like an eternity actually.

Mydeimos, from the second you’ve witnessed him, felt so, so vulnerable. And you can’t help but see it every time your eyes catch his sights. But despite it all, despite all of the things you see beyond his eyes, all the burdens you know he carries, you still can’t help but smile a little when he looks into your eyes. The man just has that kind of effect on you.

“Yeah, I probably would,” you try to keep your laugh inside while walking up to him, “If only you weren’t absolutely murdering that cake right now.”

“I—” Mydei tilts his head to the side, like a lost puppy. It looks foreign on him, in all honesty. Not unwelcome though.

“Let me help. I’m actually part decent at this kind of stuff, you know, art and all.”

“Right,” he nods his head once, then hands the piping bag to you.

As you take the bag from his hands, you try to ignore the way your fingers brush against his, or the way he takes a second longer than necessary while giving it to you. Almost hesitant.

And you understand it. It’s not surprising that he would halter. It’s not surprising that his fingers, which have been strongly pressing to strings like hammers, yet also move like an irresistible force, would tremble slightly while giving the frosting filled bag to you.

Because it’s just frosting. But then it’s not.

It’s not just sugar, milk and cream. It’s today of every year. It’s Mydei sitting alone in his apartment and blowing candles for god knows how many times now.

The lemony scent hits your nose as soon as you wrap your hands around the plastic. It’s then accompanied with something sweet, like vanilla. And it takes everything in you to not look at Mydei as you squeeze the bag until the top of the cake is smeared in frosting.

“It smells nice,” you mumble, “Made it yourself too?”

“Lemon and vanilla,” Mydei hums. Knew it. “She used to love it. I probably never get the recipe right. It doesn’t taste the same. But the smell still brings some memories back, y’know.”

“What was her name?”

“Gorgo.” The word comes out as a whisper. Like it knows how heavy it is.

“That’s a beautiful name,” you smile, “I’m sure she would appreciate your efforts.”

Mydei let’s out a laugh. A breathy, small and quick one. But still, undeniably, a laugh.

“She would,” he shakes his head, “Then she’d slap me in the head for not making the cake correctly.”

The image makes you laugh too. And as Mydei takes out pomegranate seeds out of another bag, you imagine him, seven maybe eight years old, tiny footsteps into the kitchen, peering from the back of the door and watching his mom, Gorgo, prepare her birthday cake.

Maybe he would try to keep quiet. Maybe he’d go up to her and pester his mom about the cake. If we’re being honest, you don’t really know how small Mydei would be like. The same way you don’t know how he is now.

Or maybe that is slowly changing. Slowly, but it is.

“She didn’t use pomegranates, but I like the taste.”

“You’re telling me a lot about yourself today,” and as soon as the words leave your mouth, you regret them. You’re sure you’ve ruined it now. “Not that I mind or anything of course but—”

“I just think she would’ve liked you.”

The piping bag nearly slips from your hands.

For a moment, the only sound in the apartment is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside the window. You stare at the half-decorated cake. Then at Mydei. Then back at the cake.

Because surely he didn't just say that.

“I—I see,” you purse your lips, “What makes you say that?”

Mydei doesn’t answer immediately, just keeps decorating the cake with the red seeds.

He’s mostly quiet, mostly focused, competitive even though he doesn't show it, one hell of a musician, talented beyond his years, and he for sure knows how to make your chest tighten. Maybe it’s on purpose, maybe he just likes seeing you in this state. Or maybe you’re just delusional.

Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re holding your breath.

“I have a feeling she would,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal.

That’s when you raise your head to protest about how that’s so vague, but you silence yourself as soon as you catch him staring at you.

Amber eyes, golden hair dipped in sunset. A pronounced nose, a sharp jawline, and a face that seems almost sculpted rather than born. As if that weren't unfair enough, the afternoon sun wraps around him in gold, turning every feature softer and brighter.

He looks less like a person and more like an angel fallen from heaven. No wonder your heart is pounding hard enough to shake your ribs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. So quiet, you wonder if you’d imagined it. “Yeah, she definitely would.”

Then as if nothing happened. As if nothing changed, nothing has been said. Mydei turns back to the cake. He keeps putting the seeds on the cake, some to the side. He even tilts his head to the side at one point, like he’s really focused. On the cake.

While you’re stuck in your place, hands tight, chest tighter. The moment has passed. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

But you still smile to yourself as the lemony scent of the frosting fills the room.

end notes: thank you so much for reading this far!! this is of course not the end yet. i have 3 maybe 4 parts planned for this fic but we'll see where the road takes us. and the next part probably won't be up for some time as finals are around the corner :,) but i hope you'll wait for me patiently until then!!!

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Crose / Juno !