Chapter Two-Hundred Sixty-Nine: Unpacking

Chapter 269

Unpacking

Crouched beside the firepit, Celeste picked up a burnt snippet from a 1971 photo of Fabien and his family. Dressed in an Elvyra tank top, leather mules, and a denim skirt, she watched Gus, who was clad only in his underwear, as he poured beer into Lazaros’ loafer and drank from it. Celeste made a face.

Celeste: “That’s fuckin’ gross, man. Lazaros’ feet are ripe. Ugh.”

She fanned her face and glanced back in at the shut door of the master bedroom.

Gus: “Yeah, and Deimos’ feet are just as stinky.”

Celeste: “Ugh, I know.”

Her hair antenna stood up as she saw a moving van over at Jaxon’s. She jumped into the air over her house and landed on Jaxon’s lawn.

Celeste: “Need help?”

She asked the moving men carrying a couch. Celeste took it from their hands and hoisted it over her shoulder as if she were carrying a pool noodle.

Jaxon stepped out wearing a red leopard-print shirt, tight black jeans, and barefoot.

Jaxon: “What are you doing here?”

He asked her.

Celeste: “Helping Jordi move. I’m not helping you.”

She sneered at him. Jaxon drew back, looking hurt.

She took the couch inside and placed it in front of the TV.

Jaxon: “Can we move past this?”

He asked her.

Celeste: “No, ‘cause you lied to me.”

She said tersely. She went outside to grab the heavy, ornate terracotta chiminea—crafted distinctly in the shape of a smiling, radiant sun. Jaxon glared at the chiminea.

Jaxon: “What the fuck is that?!”

He hissed.

Celeste: “Uh, a fireplace for your patio?”

Jaxon: “Destroy it!”

He snapped.

Celeste: “Why? It was in Jordi’s stuff.”

She drawled.

Jaxon: “I don’t want it! I DON’T WANT ANYTHING THAT FAT BITCH OWNED!”

He barked.

Celeste: “Why, Jax? Ash wants nothing to do with Jordi, and Jordi seems not to want to bother them.”

Jaxon folded his arms tightly over his chest.

Jaxon: “Take it or garbage it. I don’t want it.”

He hissed between clenched teeth.

A pair of movers carried the saltwater tank inside and set it down in the master bedroom.

~

Celeste lept into her backyard and placed the chiminea on hers and Fabien’s patio.

Celeste: “I don’t know what his problem was. I think this is neat.”

She glanced back at the closed door of their bedroom.

~

The heavy bronze hands of the antique grandfather clock in the executive foyer chimed five deliberate times, their resonant tones slicing cleanly through the muffled hum of the Donati Tower. Across the high-altitude sanctuary of the executive suite, the sharp clatter of typewriters and the urgent hiss of telex machines began to wind down, yielding to the muffled hush of the day ending.

Jordi placed his gold-tipped fountain pen into its velvet-lined groove, capped the ink with a decisive snap, and let out a measured breath. Reaching up with both hands, he removed his square-frame reading glasses, folding the temples with fluid grace before slipping them into the interior breast pocket of his suit jacket. He smoothed the sharp lapels down over his shirt, ensuring the black tie remained centered with immaculate symmetry, before gathering the final sheaf of counter-signed coastal grid easements and sliding them into his leather briefcase. With a sharp double click of the brass latches, the corporate affairs of the Palm Tree State were locked away until tomorrow morning.

Stepping out of his private office, Jordi strode down the corridor toward the corner suite to bid Demetrio good evening. He was already extinguishing the smoldering stub of his final cigar into a heavy crystal ashtray, surrounded by a swirling halo of blue-gray haze.

Jordi: “Relays are balanced, and the coastal addendums are filed with municipal dispatch, Demetrio.”

He said smoothly, pausing at the threshold with his briefcase in hand.

Demetrio waved his hand through the smoke, a gravelly chuckle rumbling in his throat.

Demetrio: “Good work, Jordi. The council didn’t know what hit ‘em at noon. Get out of here—the grid will still be burning when you get back tomorrow.”

Jordi: “Have a good day, sir.”

He replied with an effortless nod.

He took the private executive elevator down past the sixty-five floors of corporate power, feeling the gentle descent until the doors parted onto the cool, subterranean expanse of the underground garage.

He approached his car. Unlocking the driver-side door with a satisfying mechanical clunk, Jordi tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat. He slid behind the steering wheel, loosened the top button of his collar, and pulled his tie knot down a fraction of an inch, shedding the rigid weight of corporate formality.

Sliding the key into the ignition, he turned it with practiced ease. The 3.2-liter mid-engine V8 snarled to life behind his head, a throaty, resonant purr that reverberated off the concrete pillars and stirred the garage’s quiet air. Jordi shifted the gated manual stick into first, eased off the clutch, and guided the sports car smoothly up the spiraling ramp, bursting out into the warm, golden glare of the late afternoon.

The heat of Pink Top City shimmered over the palm-fringed avenues as Jordi merged into the flowing traffic. Ahead lay the quiet suburban avenues, away from the demanding wattage of Donati, Inc., and straight back to Jaxon.

~

The late afternoon sun poured through the Venetian blinds of their bedroom, slicing warm amber stripes across the rumpled sheets. It was five o’clock, and Fabien was still completely knocked out. Exhaustion from the news Ichiro delivered to him had caught up to him, leaving him sprawled out on his side, face buried deep in his pillow. He was clad only in a loose pair of soft, green plaid pajama pants, his pale shoulders bare and his white hair a chaotic, tousled mop against the pillowcase.

Down at the foot of the bed, his bare feet stuck out casually past the hem of the duvet.

The door clicked open with barely a sound. Celeste slipped into the room. A mischievous grin spread across her face, her violet eyes gleaming as she spotted his completely defenseless feet resting right at the edge of the mattress.

She crept across the carpet on tiptoe, perfectly silent. Fabien let out a low, contented sigh in his sleep, utterly oblivious to the danger approaching. Celeste hovered at the edge of the bed, raised her manicured hands, and lightly brushed her long fingernails right across the sensitive arch of his left sole.

Fabien’s reaction was instantaneous.

A strangled gasp ripped from his throat as his whole body jolted like he’d been struck by lightning. His leg snapped upward in a frantic, spastic kick, but Celeste was already too quick, leaning down and lightly grabbing his ankle to keep him anchored. With her other hand, she went to town, dancing her fingertips in swift, fluttery circles right against the ultra-sensitive skin along his instep and the base of his toes.

Fabien: “CELESTE! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA! NON! WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!”

He choked out, twisting wildly in the sheets. His sleepy grogginess vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by pure, helpless laughter. He clutched the sheets in a death grip, trying to pull his foot away, his face turning bright pink against his white bangs.

Celeste: “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!”

She laughed, leaning in closer, her voice bright and teasing over his breathless giggles.

Celeste: “Five in the afternoon! You’ve wasted the whole daylight, pretty boy!”

To emphasize her point, she dragged two fingers right under the curve of his little toes. Fabien let out a high-pitched, breathless yelp, burying his face back into the pillow as his shoulders shook with uncontrollable, wheezing laughter. His free foot kicked aimlessly at the air, tangled in the green plaid flannel of his pajama legs.

Fabien: “CELESTE! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHON!! NON! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

He gasped, tears of laughter prickling at the corners of his green eyes.

Relenting at last, Celeste released his ankle and took a step back, crossing her arms with a triumphant smirk. Fabien instantly retracted both feet like a turtle pulling into its shell, curling into a protective ball beneath the blankets, panting hard and clutching his chest.

Celeste: “We need dinner, Fab! And you’re driving.”

Fabien turned over.

Fabien: “No. Leave me alone.”

He grumbled. Celeste knitted her eyebrows.

Celeste: “What’s wrong, Fab?”

Fabien closed his eyes.

Fabien: “I don’t feel like doing anything.”

She sat on the bed.

Celeste: “I saw the family picture in the firepit.”

Fabien turned over.

Fabien: “I don’t want to discuss this. How can anyone comprehend what I learned last night?”

Celeste: “I won’t know unless you tell me.”

Fabien drew a breath.

Fabien: “Ichiro paid me a visit as he always does, and told me I was born via surrogacy.”

Celeste tilted her head.

Celeste: “What does that mean? Like you’re like Tristan?”

Fabien shook his head.

Fabien: “No, but I may as well be, but no. I wasn’t born to be a God-Tier Etheressum.”

He replied, shifting his eyes.

Fabien: “So when parents can’t conceive naturally, they go through surrogacy and pay big money for it. The father’s sperm is inserted into the mother’s fertilized egg, and then it’s transferred to another woman’s womb, so she carries the baby for nine months.”

He explained.

Celeste: “Is that how you were born?”

Fabien drew a long breath with a pained look in his eyes and nodded.

Celeste: “What’s so bad about that, Fab?”

Fabien: “My parents CAN conceive naturally; my mother didn’t want to get fat, and my father didn’t want her fat, even though he is a fat fuck.”

He said angrily.

Fabien: “They wanted an adorable little prop without wanting it. They had me for social gravy, not because they wanted me! I was forced into horseback riding shows by my fucking father and once was forced to dress as a girl to advertise styling products for Mom. Oh, and law school.”

His jaw tightened.

Celeste: “Why did she dress you as a girl?”

Fabien paused.

Fabien: “Uh, well, the products were for little girls, and I wonder if Mom wanted a daughter instead of a son.”

He raked his fingers through his hair.

Fabien: “I don’t think those people would have treated a daughter any better.”

He sighed.

Fabien: “She told me before I was born, she wanted to name me ‘Fabienne’ until I was born and then it was ‘Fabien.’ ”

Celeste: “So no brothers or sisters?”

Fabien shook his head.

Fabien: “They didn’t want me, so why would they bring another kid they didn’t want? They got their adorable little prop.”

He said with hurt.

Celeste scratched her head.

Celeste: “My parents sold me to a facility to train to be a super soldier. I never knew how normal kids lived until I met you, Tristan, and Deimos.”

She stated.

Celeste: “Like you have nice bedrooms, you went to school with other kids, and didn’t have to go into a large furnace to test your durability or get shot at by soldiers or whatever crap. Then I had to kill the other kids in the facility—if the experiments didn’t kill them.”

Fabien knitted his eyebrows and pursed his lips.

Fabien: “Babe, I’m sorry you went through that, but are you telling me this because you had it worse?”

He asked her.

Celeste: “No. I guess I am ‘cause I don’t understand it. How can you miss or understand what you never had?”

Fabien looked away, pursing his lips.

Fabien: “Don’t misconstrue what I mean. I don’t believe Tristan, Deimos, or I had normal childhoods. We weren’t shoved into labs as guinea pigs, but… our childhoods were fucked up.”

He said as he raked his hand through his messy hair.

Celeste: “Then what is a normal childhood?”

She asked.

Fabien: “Ha, Blair’s. It’s so great that he never left it!”

He laughed bitterly.

Celeste threw her arms around Fabien. Fabien paused, and his expression softened. He slowly wrapped his arms around her.

Celeste: “I love you, Fab.”

He buried his face in the crook of her neck.

Fabien: “I love you, too.”

He broke the hug and pursed his lips.

Fabien: “I guess I should shower and get ready.”

Fabien dragged himself out of bed. He shuffled to the bathroom, the cuffs of his green plaid pajama pants brushing against the carpet. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, the cool tile floor instantly shocking the remaining grogginess out of his system. Fabien leaned heavily against the laminate countertop, blinking blearily into the mirror. His tousled white hair was sticking out in three different directions.

Reaching for his toothbrush and a tube of stripey mint paste, he set to work scrubbing the lingering sleep away. He rinsed, spitting into the sink and wiping his chin with the back of his hand, before turning his attention to the shower.

He reached into the stall and turned the knobs, waiting until the pipes clanked to life and thick steam began curling over the glass door. Stepping out of his plaid pants and underwear, he tossed them into the laundry basket and stepped under the roaring, hot cascade of water.

The warmth was an immediate relief against his stiff back and tired shoulders. He ran his hands through his thick, white locks, lathering in shampoo until the scent of floral conditioner filled the steamy room. Letting the water rinse the suds away, Fabien let out a long, relaxed sigh, leaning back against the wet tile with his eyes closed.

Fully awake now, Fabien shut off the taps, grabbed a fluffy bath towel off the rack, and wrapped it around his waist.

The bathroom was still thick with warmth, the mirror completely fogged over with a milky layer of condensation. Fabien used the edge of a hand towel to wipe a wide, clear circle in the glass, revealing his reflection—clean, wide-awake, and framed by damp white strands clinging to his temples and neck.

He leaned closer, running a thumb across his jawline. A light dusting of pale stubble had grown in over his long shifts, just enough to look scruffy rather than intentional.

Reaching into the medicine cabinet, Fabien pulled out a metal aerosol can of classic menthol shaving cream. He shook it vigorously, the little ball inside rattling against the tin, before spraying a fluffy, pillowy mound into his palm. The crisp, sharp scent of mint and eucalyptus instantly cut through the humid air.

With practiced motions, he smoothed the thick white foam over his jaw, chin, and upper lip, tilting his head back to check his coverage in the cleared patch of mirror. He ran the chrome head of his safety razor under the hot tap until the metal warmed up, letting the steady stream of water rinse away any loose residue.

Starting right beneath his sideburns, Fabien drew the blade down the curve of his cheek with smooth, confident strokes. The razor glided effortlessly through the foam, leaving clean, bare skin in its wake. He rinsed the blade with a flick of his wrist beneath the running faucet, sending little ribbons of white lather spiraling down the drain, before tackling the sharper angles of his jaw and the hollow of his neck.

He pulled a silly face at the glass—stretching his upper lip tight over his front teeth—to clean up the stubble beneath his nose with short, precise passes. One last rinse of the razor, and he stooped over the porcelain basin, cupping handfuls of cool water to splash away the remaining lather.

The cold water delivered a crisp, refreshing shock that chased away the very last traces of sleep. Straightening up, Fabien patted his face dry with a clean towel and ran his fingertips over his cheeks and chin. Completely smooth.

He wiped down the foggy mirror one more time, running his hands through his damp white hair to tousle it into its usual wavy shape, before grabbing a dash of aftershave from the counter and slapping it onto his fresh jawline with a sharp, invigorating sting.

Leaving the steamy bathroom behind, Fabien walked back into the cool bedroom with the towel still slung around his shoulders.

He opened his dresser drawer and grabbed a pair of green briefs, slipping them on. He then opened another drawer and rummaged through the stacks of band shirts until his fingers found a faded black Blue Öyster Cult tee, soft and well-worn with the iconic Agents of Fortune logo across the chest. He pulled it over his head, shaking his damp white curls out as the cotton settled loosely against his frame.

Next came a pair of stonewashed blue jeans. He stepped into the legs, buttoned the fly, and cinched his leather belt at the waist, letting the loose denim stack naturally over his bare feet.

From the back of his desk chair, he grabbed his favorite denim jacket—a broken-in, slightly oversized piece complete with metal buttons and a few subtle frays along the collar. Slipping his arms through the sleeves, he rolled the cuffs up to his forearms and felt instantly put together.

Fabien caught a quick glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror by the wardrobe: crisp jawline, tousled white waves, and the faded vintage graphic peeking through the open jacket. He fastened his signature jade-beaded necklace around his throat and stepped out of the bedroom.

~

Arriving home, Tristan parked in the garage and entered his mansion by way of the mudroom. Kneeling to unlace his Oxfords, he slid his sheer-socked feet out of his shoes and made his way into the kitchen.

Suddenly, strong hands slipped beneath his suit jacket, fingers darting against his ribs with playful, teasing intensity.

Tristan: “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HEHEHEHEHEY!”

Tristan’s composure shattered instantly as a sharp, breathless laugh escaped him. He bucked forward, his shoulders hunching up to his ears in a desperate attempt to protect his sides, but the digits only pressed deeper into the sensitive hollows of his torso. A series of high-pitched, melodic giggles filled the kitchen as he squirmed, his sheer-socked feet scuffing against the polished floor while he tried to twist away from the relentless, ticklish onslaught.

Tristan: “STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP! NOHOHOHOHOHOHO!”

He whined and wrenched himself away. He clasped his hand over his chest and wheezed.

Glancing behind him, he found Deimos grinning up at him. Deimos cupped the back of his neck, pulling Tristan down into an intimate, lingering kiss, which Tristan gladly accepted, closing his eyes.

~

He crowded Tristan back against the polished wood of his dresser, catching Tristan’s jaw in one hand with familiar, possessive certainty. Deimos leaned down to kiss him—rough, impatient, and tasting faintly of tea. Tristan’s long, white locks cascaded over his shoulders, silken threads tangling against Deimos’ knuckles as Tristan tilted his head back, a breathless smile catching on his lips.

Tristan: “Impatient tonight, aren’t we?”

He murmured against Deimos’ mouth, his fingers lightly catching the collar of Deimos’ tank top.

Deimos: “I just miss you…”

He muttered, his deep voice muffled against Tristan’s neck.

Deimos stepped back just enough to grip the hem of his tank, pulling it up and tossing it carelessly across his sofa. The sunbeams coming in through the windows caught the sheen of sweat across his broad shoulders and chest—a direct result of a long, humid summer evening and an unruly walk up the winding estate drive. The eagle-and-flag tattoo on his arm looked sharp against his skin, his chest rising and falling heavily as he rolled his shoulders to shake off the night’s tension.

Tristan’s gaze swept appreciatively over Deimos’ physique, a genuine, lingering smirk playing on his lips. Easing off his suit jacket, Tristan unfastened his tie, unbuttoned his vest, and unclipped his pocket watch. Deimos’ calloused hand took Tristan’s soft hand, leading him up to his bed.

Deimos had dropped down onto the edge of Tristan’s bed. With a careless flick of his heels, he kicked off his boots, then reached down and peeled away his thick cotton socks, tossing them aside.

A sudden, sharp wave of raw, unadulterated gym-grade and vinegar musk hit the climate-controlled air.

Tristan froze mid-step. His nose wrinkled instantly in profound offense, his green eyes widening and then wincing. He took half a step backward, raising his sleeve to shield his face.

Tristan: “DEIMOS! Mon dieu!”

He groused.

Deimos: “What?”

He asked, leaning back on his elbows, entirely unbothered as he stretched his legs out over the silk duvet.

Tristan: “What do you mean, what?”

He gestured emphatically toward the floor, looking as if a toxic spill had just breached his sanctuary.

Tristan: “You have weaponized your footwear. Those could strip the varnish off the floorboards. Did you run the entire way from the docks on foot?”

Deimos drew a rough breath.

Tristan: “Your feet stink!”

He snapped.

Deimos: “Tristan, I had a fucking rough day today, and I wanted to come home and make love to you, and then you do this!”

He threw his arms up.

Tristan: “Would it kill you to take a shower before we make love?”

He demanded with sharp exasperation. Deimos crossed his arms, remaining stubborn.

Deimos: “It isn't even that bad!”

Tristan: “Your feet belong in a morgue! It smells as though something crept into your footwear and perished!”

He snapped back, pointing an accusing finger right at him.

Tristan: “Get into my shower immediately and scrub them using that imported tea tree oil and eucalyptus scrub—the one I purchased expressly for your nuclear-grade stink!”

Fuming, Deimos bolted off the bed, throwing his arms up once more while Tristan stood his ground, glaring back with folded arms.

Deimos: “Well, EXCUUUUUUUUUUUUUSE ME, Prince Tristan!”

He snarled, dropping into a dramatic, sarcastic bow and marching off to the master bathroom.

~

Leaving the bustling downtown core, Jordi steered his car into the quieter, winding avenues of Papamos. The rhythmic growl of the V8 echoed off the tidy stucco walls and manicured hedges as he turned down their familiar street, easing off the throttle.

He guided the Ferrari up the driveway and brought it to a gentle halt. Cutting the ignition, the engine’s deep hum faded into the tranquil chirping of the evening crickets.

Jordi reached over to the passenger seat, lifted his leather briefcase, and stepped out into the twilight. He smoothed down the front of his black Italian-cut jacket, his zip-up leather boots clicking crisply against the driveway pavers as he walked toward the front door.

Unlocking the door, he stepped into the entryway and slipped out of his zip-up boots at the front entryway, setting his heavy briefcase onto the console table.

Jaxon stood in the center of the living room, arms tightly crossed over his chest, glaring at Jordi; his dark eyes flashed with an unmistakable, fiery temper. Jordi froze.

Jordi: “What’s wrong?”

Jaxon: “What’s wrong?! When you moved your stuff from your grandfather’s house to mine, one of the items was a tacky fireplace looking like a stupid sun that belonged to Lazaros’ and Blair’s fat girlfriend, Ashley!”

He snapped. Jordi hung his head.

Jordi: “Oh, Ashley’s chiminea was amongst those, huh?”

Jordi pursed his lips.

Jordi: “I guess they didn’t want it.”

He muttered.

Jaxon: “I gave that piece of junk to Celeste and Fabien, especially since Fabien LOVES trolling her two boyfriends!”

He said, his tone laced with hurt and anger.

Jordi sighed, his shoulders dropping as he loosened his tie further, his gaze flickering from Jaxon’s rigid posture to the living room floor. He wasn't surprised by the outburst; Jaxon’s temper had always been as volatile.

Jordi: “Jaxon, I didn't mean to bring any of that baggage into your home. It was just a piece of property I hadn’t sorted through yet, and I honestly didn’t think it would be a point of contention. If it’s caused this much trouble, I’m sorry. I never intended for you to feel like I was cluttering your life—or your space—with things you despise.”

He took a slow step forward, keeping his voice low and steady, trying to diffuse the tension.

Jordi: “I’m glad Celeste and Fabien have it if it’s going to cause this kind of friction here. Can we just... put it behind us? I’m exhausted, and I’d really just like to sit down and have a drink with you, not fight about a patio ornament.”

Jaxon looked away.

Jaxon: “It’s not just a piece of shit; it’s that you still have crap belonging to her!”

He said, tears welling in his eyes. Jordi knitted his eyebrows.

Jordi: “Jiro, listen to me.”

He said gently, approaching him slowly.

Jordi: “...It’s hard for me to look at anything I did for or bought for Ashley. It’s not due to any lingering feelings—I had none of those for them at all—but because of the sheer guilt that I allowed my loneliness to override any logic I had and let it go as far as it did.”

He said calmly, trying to de-escalate the situation.

Jordi: “I regret ever getting involved with them. I ruined a friendship, and this is why I find it difficult. I never loved them.”

He said, pursing his lips.

Jaxon: “She was all over you after Lazaros dumped her fatass!”

He huffed. Jordi nodded.

Jordi: “Jiro, do you think I was unaware of this? They can deny it all they want, but they turned to me after Lazaros dumped them. I always felt I was a rebound, and this added more to maybe my resentment; I don’t know.”

He explained and inhaled sharply.

Jordi: “During our friendship, not once did they ever flirt with me; they were gaga over Lazaros until he dumped them, and then they suddenly ‘love’ me.”

He said with irritation.

Jordi: “Believe it or not, I pick up on cues, too.”

Jaxon: “Because she sure as fuck doesn’t.”

Jordi’s head dipped, and he nodded.

Jordi: “I feel it’s for the best we’re out of each other’s lives.”

He concluded.

He locked his gaze on Jaxon and wrapped his arms around him.

Jordi: “Jiro, I’m truly sorry about this. I didn’t do this with the intention to hurt you or because of any ‘lingering feelings.’ It was my fault for not doing anything to discard of their stuff before I… left.”

Burying his face against the crook of Jaxon’s neck, Jordi kissed him softly. Jaxon let out a quiet shiver, his body softening into the embrace at the touch.

Jordi: “I am here with you now.”

He murmured gently, taking Jaxon's hand and weaving their fingers together. Guiding Jaxon's hand upward, he brushed his lips tenderly across his knuckles. A blush crept onto Jaxon’s face as he turned his head aside, a soft smile breaking through.

Jaxon’s smile deepened, the lingering tension dissolving completely. He looked up, his gaze softening, and gently stepped closer to bridge the remaining space between them. Rising onto his tippy-toes, Jaxon reached up, his fingers grazing the nape of Jordi’s neck, and pressed a lingering, affectionate kiss to Jordi’s lips. He closed his eyes and rested his hands on Jaxon’s waist.

~

On Celeste’s and Fabien’s patio, the sun-shaped chiminea glowed with a fierce, orange intensity, the flickering light dancing across the terracotta rays of its face so it seemed to flicker with a life of its own. Thick, gray smoke curled upward into the dark sky, carrying with it the scent of burning cedar and aged paper.

A small, wood-paneled radio sat on the edge of the glass patio table, the dial glowing a soft amber. The opening riffs of “Burnin’ for You” filtered through the speakers, the steady beat and melodic guitar perfectly matching the hypnotic rhythm of the flames. Fabien sat in a patio chair, a stack of glossy 1970s photographs resting in his lap.

Celeste leaned against Fabien, her eyes fixed on the fire. She watched as Fabien picked up a photo of a 12-year-old Fabien sitting stiffly on a pony, his face fixed in a forced, perfect smile. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the sun’s open mouth.

Celeste: “There goes the equestrian star.”

She murmured, her voice low over the music.

Fabien: “He was never a star. Just a prop. It was all for Basile.”

He replied, his voice devoid of its usual sharp wit.

Fabien: “You know…, this thing is tacky as fuck. I love it.”

Celeste: “Jax gave it to me. Said it was Ash’s.”

She drawled. Fabien shrugged.

Fabien: “One man’s trash is another man’s trashy treasure.”

He watched as the edges of the photo curled and blackened, the image of his younger self bubbling before dissolving into a glowing ember. He reached for a folded legal document next—something related to his law school enrollment—and fed it to the flames. The paper flared bright white for a second, illuminating the weary lines of his face before turning to fragile, gray flakes.

Celeste: “Does it feel better?”

Fabien leaned back, watching the smoke drift away toward Jaxon’s house. He felt the weight of the Blue Öyster Cult lyrics—the idea of living for the flame—settle in his chest. He reached out and took Celeste’s hand, his grip firm but gentle.

Fabien: “It feels like it never happened. Like I’m finally starting the story where I want it to begin.”

He tossed the last few scraps of his past into the fire. The sun-shaped chiminea roared happily, devouring the last of the lies as the song faded into the static of the night.