Chapter Text
i. starlight ˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚
Aether wakes up to the blunt force of his twin sister cannonballing onto his bed, because, of course, this is how he wakes up on a Monday: by the greeting of Lumine’s hair in his mouth and a shrill, reverberating “Wakey, wakey!” like she’s swallowed a microphone or chugged five cups of coffee, possibly both. There’s no in-between with her, just maximum volume and zero remorse; either way, Aether is definitely awake now – thanks – and this has him groaning, stretching his limbs like a freshly risen corpse, until his eyes finally open.
And there, like some smug little deity of havoc, stands the culprit herself. Lumine glares at him, brows drawn like a cartoon villain, but the half-smile betrays her. Already dressed for college, the overachiever. Such a Girl Scout. “Lumi… Why so noisy?”
“Heya, love? Where’s the remote for the TV? I’ve been looking all over.”
And that – that’s Venti, Lumine’s boyfriend of two and a half years, calling from the other room, voice casual, helpless, like he’s misplaced the Ark of the Covenant. Huffing, Lumine hops off Aether’s bed, already partially annoyed, but not totally. “Should be under the sofa!” she calls, sounding mildly piqued, though Aether knows that look, knows that tone. She’s more endeared than pissed, and this is her default when it comes to Venti. He could burn toast and call her from another room to tell her it’s burning, and she’d still roll her eyes (fondly) and help anyway.
That’s just how it is with them. Venti is hopeless, and Lumine, ever the high-functioning disaster manager, takes care of everything. Well, not everything, because Venti helps too, in his own subtle, almost invisible way. They balance each other like quiet counterweights. Lumine, the hands-on, sleeves-rolled-up girlfriend, and Venti, the mellow pacifist who decodes her like she’s an old diary he’s read a thousand times. Sometimes, Aether wonders if they’re the ones who share the mythical ‘twintuition,’ and not him and Lumine.
“Oh? …Ah! Found it! Thanks, love. You’re the best and I love you the most, my li – ”
“Little ball of sunshine, yeah, yeah. Love you too.” Lumine scowls, hands on her hips, the fondness spilling out of her in suppressed waves. She only gets this soft with two people in the world. Aether and Venti. Everyone else gets the hard glare and the sharper edges.
Aether laughs under his breath, still sprawled on the bed, watching his sister command the space in her oversized lilac sweater and washed denim pants. Her short golden locks, nearly identical to his, are already styled and tied in a neat powder blue ponytail. She looks effortlessly ready to conquer the day.
And, like clockwork, she turns to him. “What’re you laughing there for? Get up, I don’t want us to be late.”
He doesn’t argue. Just sits up slowly, letting the sheets pool around his waist, yawning like a sleepy animal blinking at sunlight. He follows Lumine out into the hallway, their footsteps marshy against the wooden floor, splitting ways only when they reach the kitchen-bathroom crossroads – Aether ducking into the bathroom and stripping off his clothes like peeling away the layers of a half-formed dream.
He doesn’t check the time, doesn’t need to. He’s long since synced his internal clock to the chummy cadence of the house. Judging by the hum of the television and the particular inflection of the announcer’s voice, it’s the weekday rerun of that cooking show that always airs at 7 a.m. Which means it’s probably around 7:12, give or take.
After his shower, he dresses in a plain cornflower-blue T-shirt, denim jeans, white sneakers, and his go-to camouflage hooded jacket. He grabs his phone from the foot of the bed, plugs in his earphones – just in case he feels like tuning out on the walk to campus, though that’s wishful thinking. With Lumine and Venti beside him, silence is practically extinct. They talk like they’re being paid per word.
But he doesn’t mind. He likes their noise. Seeks it out, even.
Breakfast is already served, favorably. He slides into one of the island chairs and digs into whatever Lumine’s whipped up. Today it’s chicken and waffles, with a side of avocado toast. A little fancy for a weekday morning, but Lumine’s like that. She keeps him on a diet for his work (not that he complains), and he respects her for it. Respects that she thinks about these things, so he doesn’t have to. She always thinks of him.
He takes a bite of the waffles and almost lets out a moan, the honey syrup and butter melting in his mouth like something holy. It’s divine. He sends a silent thank-you to the universe for giving him a badass sister who cooks like a brunch chef and organizes the apartment like a live-in goddess. Take note. She does this not because anyone asks her to, but because she wants the place clean. Always. She’s the mother they don’t have anymore, except somehow more.
Aether provides in his own way, doing what he can. He adores his little found family of two – especially his sister. He’d do anything to keep her happy, to make her laugh, to shield that small, stubborn light in her eyes. Sometimes, Venti teases them for being too close, calls it incestuous with a grin and a wink. But it’s all in good fun. Future in-laws, he says. Swordplay and sass.
The jokes don’t bother Aether. They’ve always been like this. Doting. Domestic. Familiar in a way that runs deeper than blood. Ride-or-die, though none of them like the idea of dying without a proper fight.
Lumine braids his hair while he finishes his meal, fingers deft and practiced. Venti, lounging across the sofa in the open living room, watches them like they’re some kind of morning TV special. “You look so wonderful together. I love watching you two do this every day.”
“And you look perfect and pretty sitting there, love,” Lumine replies, and though Aether doesn’t turn to look, he can hear the smile in her voice.
“Aw, thank you,” Venti coos, and just like that, the couple begins their constant back-and-forth – indulgent, teasing, a duet they’ve practiced to perfection. They’re like best friends, Lumine and Venti. Best friends who, you know, do it.
Aether snorts quietly to himself, remembering with vivid horror the many times he’s accidentally stumbled into a PDA minefield. The worst was that one time he was seconds away from shitting his pants, only to find them soaking in the bathtub together, kissing between lathers of shampoo like they were in a perfume ad. It’s terrifying, really, the possibility that one day he might walk in and see them mid-coitus on the couch, or God forbid, in his room – because they have slept there once after a night of drunken detours.
So… sure, they’re a pain in the ass. But Aether’s happy for them. He’s never seen his sister this radiant, not in years. Not since the heartbreaks, the ones that left her hollow-eyed and bitter. And somehow, Venti keeps her glowing, keeps her laughing. Two and a half years in, and her smile’s never looked brighter.
Brighter than ever.
Be that as it may, Aether has never really been in the mood to look for someone he could be like that with – entwined, inseparable, in love – not even when the people who’ve tried to shoot their shot with him have been, objectively, wonderful. He’s the only single one among the three of them, and not because nobody likes him. That’s not it. Not even close.
He’d just… prefer to stay single. For now. His last relationship didn’t end well, not after his ex found out what he does for a living. It all went downhill from there, and fast, like slipping on ice. And maybe it wasn’t even about shame – he doesn’t feel ashamed – but it still made things complicated, heavy. It left a sour taste. So he’s sworn off love temporarily, a little self-imposed celibacy while he finishes college. Because he’s not planning to quit that thing anytime soon. He needs it, whatever guilt people might attach to it, because it’s the only thing that works right now, that brings in actual money.
Enough money to keep a roof over their heads. Enough to cover tuition. Enough to keep Lumine from ever having to consider taking on that same kind of work herself.
That part matters more than anything.
Aether pays the bills. Shoulders both their tuition fees. Covers their phone plans, their monthly rent, the cost of being twenty-somethings with responsibilities and dreams that don’t come cheap. Lumine handles the groceries. She guards the apartment like it’s a fort, keeps it spotless, cooks, worries about their vitamins and the thermostat and whether the milk’s gone bad. She’s his sister and, in the absence of a mother, kind of his mother too.
And there’s no way – no way – he’ll ever let her touch the job he’s doing now. Just so they can afford to live like this. This semi-functional, quiet little domestic life of mellow breakfasts and university group chats. It has to be him. Never her.
She works part-time already anyway – floral arrangements at Tighnari’s flower shop – but the paycheck isn’t enough. It only goes so far. Groceries, toiletries, cleaning supplies, and sometimes, if there’s a leftover bill from a doctor’s appointment or an online order that got out of hand, she can stretch it that far. But it doesn’t cover electricity. Or water. Or project fees and field trip costs and textbooks with the brand of price tags that feel like robbery.
None of the minimum wage jobs they can legally take pays enough to do both: live and learn. Only this job, this specific job Aether found during a particularly desperate spiral on a particularly bleak night, hunched over his laptop, typing in “how to make money the EASIEST way,” offered him anything that resembled a solution.
It felt stupid at first. Insane, frankly. Like stepping into some feverish stranger’s skin. The first time he tried it, he was a mess. Terrified. His hands shook, and he felt like a newborn or a sapling or some wide-eyed deer trying to walk on stilts. But he got through it. And then again the next night. And again.
And soon… it stopped feeling weird.
No one recognizes him when he works. That’s good. He uses a pseudonym. Keeps things separate. No one judges him for it – not even Lumine, not when he handed her that first sweaty envelope of bills with a shaky voice and eyes too proud to cry but too soft to hold back. She didn’t scream, didn’t flinch.
She left the apartment in silence. Paid off everything they owed. Came back with a bag of groceries and said, plainly, “Don’t skip meals again.”
That was it. That was her version of forgiveness.
“Okay, done,” Lumine trills, and hands him a mirror.
He angles it toward himself and admires her handiwork. It’s the same style she typically braids for him – simple but neat – but every day, he makes up a different compliment, just to see her smirk.
“Very elegant. Thanks, sis,” he says, running his palm gently over the braid, toying with the hair tie looped around the ends.
“You’re welcome. You done with this?” She points to his empty plate and drained glass of milk.
“Yep.”
She nods and clears the dishes without needing to be asked. Aether heads off to brush his teeth, and within five minutes, they’re all gathered in the foyer, jackets zipped, keys in hand, earbuds tangled, and ready to spill out into the peep of day.
The walk to the subway is short, as per usual. They ride the train together, the three of them lined up like a strangely well-dressed set of nesting dolls. Lumine keeps Venti attached to her side, practically in a headlock, because the guy is a certified klutz – has tripped and face-planted more times than Aether can count. She holds onto him as though he’s made of glass. It’s adorable. They fit together like that.
And yet, sometimes, rarely, Venti snaps. Raises his voice. Gets all sharp and commanding. And when it happens, Lumine squeals like a teenager and makes a face that tells Aether she’s turned on. Not even subtly. And maybe that’s what love is, at least for them. Sweetness laced with serrated borders.
At their stop, Venti steps aside and gestures for Lumine to go ahead. She does, brushing his arm with hers, and he follows close behind. Aether comes last, like always, trailing them with earbuds loosely dangling from his pocket.
Before campus, they stop by the café wedged between the crosswalk and a tire shop, a little brick-walled place always filled with the scent of espresso and faint penitence. Monday morning, as expected, it’s packed. Everyone’s reeling from weekend withdrawal. Students shuffle through the space, resembling lemures with overpriced tote bags and nowhere to sit.
They fall into line. It takes a while.
Aether spots some faces he knows scattered among the chaos: Mualani and Yanfei tucked into a booth across from Lan Yan and Varesa, laughing over something on a phone screen. Layla’s passed out on a pile of books, and Ganyu, the calm sentinel incarnate herself, sits across from her sipping tea and reading from a highlighter-streaked printout. All psych majors. All tired. Aether briefly wonders if they ever take breaks. Probably not.
When they finally make it near the counter, Lumine mutters under her breath, “Oh, fuck yeah. Praise the motherfuckin’ archons,” and Aether snorts softly behind his hand.
But just as they’re about to order, the handoff barista shouts over the noise, “Sir! You forgot your headphones!”
Someone, a guy, emerges from the crowd, a few inches taller than the rest, black piercings decorating his ears like constellations, and a trail of tattoos rising up the side of his neck like ivy. He’s dressed plain. Dark blue shirt, dark jeans, but nothing about him is unremarkable. He jogs back to the counter to grab the forgotten headphones. “Oh, a lifesaver. Thanks,” he tells the barista, voice calm, low, polite.
And then he turns, scanning the crowd. Oozing confidence.
But then he sees Aether.
Freezes.
Just… stops. Like something caught in his throat. His body goes still, almost too still, and his eyes – indigo, ink-blue and crystalline like midnight – lock onto Aether’s face like he’s seen a ghost.
Aether blinks. Oh. Shit.
Now that they’re closer, Aether gets a better look: the tattoos are detailed, not random ink but art, vines and script crawling up below his collar, hinting at more hidden underneath. His hair’s just as dark as his eyes. He could be an art student. Or maybe that’s just Aether projecting.
Either way, this guy has… presence. Bleeding sex appeal. Self-possession that simmers instead of shouts. And suddenly, Aether is panicking. What if this guy knows? From there? From that place?
“Uh, hello?” Lumine’s voice snaps like a twig beside him. “Earth to you… whoever you are?” She glances at the guy, her tone all sass and narrowed eyes. “You need something from him?”
The stranger clears his throat. “Um, no. I just thought he looked like someone I know.”
“Well, get moving then. You’re kinda blocking the way? We’re gonna order.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”
He steps aside, but not before locking eyes with Aether one last time. It sends a jolt through his spine – hot, sudden. Aether watches, breath caught, as the guy turns and walks out into the sunlight like he didn’t just narrowly give Aether a heart attack. His eyes linger even after the guy vanishes into the sidewalk traffic, into the crowd beyond the glass.
He doesn’t think he’s seen them around before.
New student, perhaps? Could be. The semester’s barely a week old. New faces pop up all the time.
Still… he has a feeling this one’s going to stick.
As they stroll toward the university gates, sun dappling the pavement in fractured mosaics, Aether nudges Lumine with the side of his arm. “Do you think… that guy looked at me like that earlier because… they recognized me as…?”
She’s sipping her drink, sharing it with Venti, who, of course, is making a whole social event of their walk by nodding and cheering every person that so much as glances in their direction. Aether sometimes wonders if Venti is physically capable of walking through campus without creating a parade behind him.
Lumine hums thoughtfully, lips on the straw. “Hmm. I don’t know. Hopefully not. It’s an underground site where you do your calling, right? So I don’t suppose many people know about it. Unless…”
Her words trail off as their gazes meet. Both quiet now.
Aether’s stomach clenches. The university looms just ahead, a familiar sprawl of buildings and windows and chalk-stained walls. He shudders, not from the wind, but from the sheer force of the what-if. What if someone found out? What if the guy from the café had recognized him, not just as a bosom face, but from there?
He doesn’t know what the fallout would look like. Doesn’t want to know. The thought of it – of whispers traveling through classrooms, of judgment behind compassionate smiles, of friends drifting away without confrontation – it’s enough to make him dizzy. If it happens, they’d have to transfer. Drop everything. Pull out. File paperwork, uproot their lives, find a new apartment, a new job, and new friends. And Aether likes it here. Loves it, even. He’s built something real. Friendships that feel easy. Professors who get him. Spaces where he doesn’t have to explain himself.
The very idea of leaving makes his heart sink, a stone tied to something invisible and slowly being lowered into water.
They slow near the row of lockers. This is where they always part ways, each of them bound for different corners of campus, different lectures, different versions of the same exhausted hustle.
Lumine’s studying education. Says she wants to teach until she’s eighty, chalk in one hand and a cane in the other. Aether thinks it’s a beautiful plan. It suits her – structure and kindness in equal measure.
Venti, predictably, is studying musical therapy. The guy could pick up a leaf blower and turn it into a love ballad. He doesn’t need a degree, not really, just a certificate to let the world know what Aether already suspects: he was born to make people feel better. With chords. With lyrics. With warmth.
And then there’s Aether.
Studying art.
Photography as his major. Drama class as his elective because, well, he’s a softie like that. Says it’s poetic. Says he’s a cliché. Owns it. Kind of lives for it, actually.
So, yeah. Every day? Hectic.
He pushes open the door to his Fine Arts classroom, and before he even makes it down the aisle, Nilou springs up from the back row like a firework. “Aether!” she squeals, waving both arms like he’s just returned from war. She’s beaming. “We saved you a seat!”
Next to her, Mona and Kokomi are already settled in, grinning with that same look they always give him – like they’ve been waiting to breathe until he showed up.
Kokomi is the first to pull him into a hug. “Hi, Aeth. Looking pretty today.”
“Mmm, Lumine did the same braid again,” Mona teases, fingers immediately reaching up to twirl the tail of it between her knuckles.
“Still looks good, though,” Nilou adds, nudging Mona with a smile.
He rolls his eyes, smiling anyway, and leans in to plant a quick kiss on each of their cheeks like always. Ritual, matey. Natural.
They’re his girls. His trio. His best friends since freshman year, and three of the only people who know what he truly does for a living. He told them in pieces, testing the water with each reveal. And they held him, not in pity or confusion, but with something like solidarity. Trust. Mona was the first – brilliant, razor-sharp Mona – lost on the first day of class, who asked him for directions and ended up becoming a permanent fixture. Then she introduced Kokomi, who reads like it’s a competitive sport and loves quoting obscure psychology papers mid-convo. Nilou came later, transferring mid-term like a whirlwind, and got adopted into the group within days.
They’re all from the same department. They just… clicked.
The girls ask about his weekend. He tells them the standard: errands with Lumine, general cleaning, the average night work. They talk about their own weekend – apparently they’d gone out without him, but he doesn’t mind. He’d been busy. They always circle back.
Soon, the conversation veers toward gossip. The real juicy meat. Relationship drama. Campus sightings. Who’s dating who. Who’s possibly pregnant. Voices overlapping like a well-rehearsed symphony. Aether zones out, half-listening with a smile, pretending he could even begin to relate. Some of it requires having a vagina. Some of it requires giving a damn. He has neither, at the moment.
His gaze coasts lazily around the room, then straightens when the professor walks in. The usual rustling dies down. Xiao enters quietly behind the man, late, which is weird. The guy naturally arrives early, sits in the same spot next to the window, body tipped away from the world as if he’s hoping to dissolve into sunlight.
The professor notices the tardiness but says nothing, merely starts gathering his materials at the front.
Aether watches Xiao settle into his seat. Still distant. Still indecipherable. Despite taking the same courses for practically three years, they’ve hardly interacted beyond a nod. Xiao’s not shy, exactly, just contained. Reserved in a way that feels… intentional. Like he’s saving parts of himself for later. Or never.
Something about it is cinematic, honestly. The quiet kid near the window with the perfect jawline, the tragic eyes, the aura like mist on asphalt. People watch him. They just do. It’s probably in the rulebook of being young and mysterious and beautiful – people stare, speculate, wonder what your deal is. Aether doesn’t mean to be one of those people, but sometimes, he catches himself doing it anyway.
The professor claps once, drawing Aether back to the now. “We have a quiz today.”
And the room groans in unison.
“And after that, I’ll ask you to find yourselves a partner for a special project. It’s going to be in pairs.”
Nilou pumps her fists in triumph. “Hell yeah! Partner time!”
Kokomi and Mona light up instantly. “Us, obviously,” Mona drawls, already leaning over Nilou’s desk.
Aether chuckles, just about to agree – when the professor cuts in.
“Except you three. And that includes you, Aether. Go pair with someone else. I’m not allowing you to be partners again. Last time I did, you didn’t finish anything.”
Nilou gasps, all thespian-like. “Aww, what? That’s so mean.”
Kokomi shifts in her seat, cheeks pink. Mona sinks into her hoodie like a wilted flower.
Aether, for his part, bites back a laugh. He carried their last group project. Singlehandedly. He knows it. They know it. But he also knows better than to argue.
He exhales, long and slow.
Time to go find a new partner.
₊ ⊹
⋮
When the quiz and lecture concluded (sacred silence after an hour of scratching pens and the dull echo of the professor’s monotone voice), the class was immediately swept into the next mission – and that is to find a partner for the semester’s first paired art project.
Aether slouches in his seat as the professor, virtually whirring with excitement, pulls up a short skit on the screen to demonstrate how this would work. He clicks his remote like she’s unveiling the Sistine Chapel.
“It’s called painting-in-turns,” he punctuates, beaming. “You and your partner will each have your own easel. Sit across from one another. Paint a little. Then, swap canvases. Add to what the other started. Swap again. Keep going. No talking during the process. Just brushstrokes and intuition. At the end, you’ll both have two collaborative pieces that reflect your ability to communicate without words.”
Aether props his chin onto the heel of his palm, elbow perched on the desk, watching with mild amusement as a pair of overly dramatic actors in the skit mimed inspiration, dramatic hesitation, and faux-epiphanies between canvas trades.
It’s a cute idea. Cheesy, maybe. But cute.
And he’s ninety-nine percent sure she’d found it on TikTok.
Still, he likes the concept of it. Something raw. Synergetic. Artistic in a way that’s not about control but surrender – about trusting another person not to ruin what you started. There’s something deeply intimate about that, isn’t there?
He watches the chaos unfold as the video ends and students scatter like startled birds, pairing up immediately. Desks screech. Voices rise. Best friends lock eyes across the room and point at each other like “You. Us. Obviously.” His trio, predictably, is already darting around asking other students, thanks to the professor’s ruling that they can’t be together this time.
Aether stays still.
He lets his gaze meander. Most of the class is already out of their seats, milling about in small swarms, laughing and gesturing and plotting project logistics like war generals.
Almost everyone.
His eyes flick over to the far wall, where the windows sit glimmering in the late-morning sun, and land on the one person who hasn’t moved an inch.
Xiao.
Aether startles slightly, realizing Xiao is already looking at him.
Not casually. Not distractedly.
Directly.
Some of the girls from the class are hovering nearby, orbiting Xiao like curious satellites. Elbows nudging. Whispering. Peering over their shoulders. But none of them has approached him. Aether isn’t even sure they will. Xiao gives off the kind of energy that says please don’t, even when he doesn’t mean it.
Mona’s finger jabs at Aether’s shoulder. “What about you, Aether? Why aren’t you looking for a partner yet?”
“I don’t know. I can always do it later,” he mumbles, sinking a little further into his chair, pretending to be deeply interested in the grain of his desk. “No rush.”
She sends him a look. “Sheesh. Everyone’s found their partners at this point, bro. Just grab somebody and ask them, c’mon.”
Aether sighs through his nose and stands, brushing invisible lint from his pants to stall. He begins pacing across the room, hands in his pockets, asking here and there in half-hearted bursts, “Hey, you got someone?” Most replies with sheepish apologies, already locked in.
But he isn’t really trying, not entirely.
His eyes keep sailing – back to that window.
And Xiao.
The other boy hasn’t budged. Still sitting there, completely unmoved. Still watching. Or not watching now, actually. His head is down, eyes cast toward his lap, the intensity gone like a switch flipped.
Like he wants Aether to notice him first, and now that he has, he is acting like he doesn’t care.
And that… That does something weird to Aether’s stomach.
Alright. Fine.
He crosses the classroom with purpose, each step louder in his head than on the floor. Xiao doesn’t look up as he approaches.
“Hey,” Aether says, hugging his arms around himself.
“Yeah?” Xiao’s voice is soft, quiet. His head still bowed, as if sketching something in his mind that Aether isn’t allowed to see.
“Wanna be partners?”
This time, Xiao looks up.
Slowly. Golden eyes lifting, not guarded, just… cautious. Like he’s trying not to startle something.
“Sure,” Xiao says with a small shrug.
Aether blinks. “Oh. Cool. Um, when are you free?”
“Anytime. You?”
“Same. Um… I guess we should exchange numbers? So we can coordinate?”
He trails off, suddenly aware of how sweaty his palms have become. Unsure if he sounds casual or completely unhinged.
But Xiao, without hesitation, pulls his phone from his pocket. “Yeah. Okay.”
Aether blinks again. Fast.
He quickly rattles off his number, watching as Xiao types it in, his fingers moving with slow rigor. When Xiao saves it, he perks up again.
“Just text me.”
“Alright.”
And that’s that.
As Aether turns to head back toward his desk, he catches a devastating sight: his three best friends watching him like vultures. Arms crossed. Grins like sharks. Nilou has her chin propped in her hands, Mona looks smug enough to combust, and Kokomi – Kokomi, the nice one – was doing a horrible job hiding her glee.
He drops back into his chair, and they surge.
“What was that?” Mona demands, eyes gleaming. “Why was there phone involvement?”
“Nothing,” Aether answers, voice forced laid-back. “I looked for a partner. Like you girls asked me to.”
“With the hottest boy in our department?” Nilou raises a brow.
He snorts. “And?”
“And next time, you’ll be telling us how wild he is in—”
“ Shh! Mona!” Kokomi snaps, smacking her arm, bless her. Aether sends her a grateful nod.
Then again, the teasing continues. They chatter around him like a henhouse on fire, hissing supposition and giggling through their teeth. Aether feels his face heat up throughout it, the blood rising straight from his collarbones to the tips of his ears.
To make matters worse, when he glances up, he sees Xiao eyeing him from afar again. Briefly so. A peep. But it’s enough.
Aether slaps a hand down his face and slumps forward, burying it in the crook of his arms. His friends only cackle harder.
This is going to be… something.
₊ ⊹
⋮
The cafeteria is packed, but that’s nothing new to them (it never isn’t packed), and that’s exactly why they never eat there. The ceilings buzz like beehives, the floor scuffs with hundreds of sneakers and chair legs scraping concrete, and the acoustics turn every voice into a braying imitation of itself. So instead, they slip out to the track and field arena, which smells a shade of sun-scorched rubber and old grass, and they claim their established spot along the bleachers, the wooden planks still warm from the daybreak heat. A patch of sunshine belongs to them now, and they stretch into it like cats, unwrapping sandwiches and thermoses, setting out their plastic trays because it’s a picnic made by groove.
Kokomi is hyper-fixated on a manga volume, something newly released, limited print, impossible to find online. She says she needs to know how it ends, and so she barely touches her lunch – chopsticks limp in one hand while the other clutches the volume like scripture. Nilou keeps reminding her to eat, nudging her elbow gently, drawing the bento closer to her lap, but Aether knows that her efforts are for naught. Kokomi is lost to the pages, eyes gliding with the speed of inner urgency.
On the other hand, Mona is rationing. Again. “Low on Mora,” she mutters like a curse, eyes squinting at her tray, supposing it’s affronted her. She’s once again cutting down on spending, solely bringing rice crackers and a piece of fruit like she's surviving the apocalypse on vibes alone.
Aether wordlessly places more food on her tray, his leftover fries and a cup of pudding he no longer wants. He’s not very hungry today. He also hates it when money becomes a thing between them, as if it’s something they’re allowed to feel ashamed about. If he can help, he will.
She almost cries. Then kisses him, sloppily, dramatically, on the cheek, nearly knocking over her cup. “I love you, Aeth. You’re the best.”
“Maybe you should start working the same job as Aether,” Nilou quips, grinning as she knocks arms with Mona, whose pudding cup is now held aloft like a trophy.
Aether rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Wouldn’t recommend it.”
But Mona’s eyes light up like it’s a solid career suggestion. “Yeah, no, that actually seems kinda fun. Where should I apply?”
He gawks at her. Deadpan. Then lets a smirk slowly wrench at the corner of his lips, cruel in the way older brothers deride without mercy. “Are you sure? Can you handle flashing your tits for the camera and then getting jumpscared when your own family drops a huge donation just to tell you to put your clothes back on?”
That hits. Mona pauses mid-peel of the pudding foil. Nilou stops chewing. Even Kokomi – silent, eternal Kokomi – looks up from her book with one brow arched.
“Uh… okay, well,” Mona mutters, blinking hard. “Probably not.”
Conversation picks back up easily after that, a wind shifting across tall grass. Kokomi returns to her manga, Nilou chews thoughtfully, Mona devours the fries with new reverence, and Aether, for his part, lets the day lean against him like a sleepy passenger on a train. They talk about school, deadlines and professors, and that one guy who keeps wearing the same hoodie for two weeks straight. Then about hobbies. Mona is now practicing astrology and tarot, says she’s more or less figured out her natal chart compatibility with everyone in their group, and Nilou is inquiring about joining a ballet workshop. Kokomi’s begun dabbling in 3D animation on the side, sculpting humanoid forms out of digital clay.
And then there’s Aether.
Who just hit a milestone on the site he works at. Two hundred and fifty thousand subscribers. He hasn’t felt this mortified in his life.
They laugh about it, but the heat in his chest doesn’t quite dissipate. He can’t tell if it’s pride or embarrassment that remains. Maybe both.
Eventually, the topic circles, casually, like it wasn’t always going to end up here, and goes squarely on Xiao.
So it’s not just Aether, then. Not just his eyes that have been tracking the boy who never really enters a room so much as appears in it like vapor. Turns out the girls have noticed too. That he doesn’t genuinely seem to have friends. That he hovers in shared spaces like a spectre who forgot how to haunt.
They recall seeing him as early as first year – already known, back then, mostly for his looks. The kind of reputation built from glimpses, not words. He’d been in a band once, played guitar on stage at a campus event, but only as a sub when the regular guitarist got sick. The moment that guy came back, Xiao was gone again, back to the periphery.
He’s always felt peripheral, yes. Present, but only just. And that makes him enigmatic. Makes him valuable as a topic.
They split up later, as is customary. The girls head to their film lecture, walking together in a loose, zigzagging line. Aether climbs the stairs toward the topmost floor of the west wing building, bag slung heavy over one shoulder. The stairwell smells like dust and hallway bleach. He checks his itinerary twice, even though he’s memorized it. Still, he likes knowing. Likes having something to clutch.
His phone vibrates in his jeans, and he halts to fish it out. Just the alarm he set for this subject. A safety net in case he forgot. He swipes it off and tucks it away again, distracted—
And that’s when a body crashes into him.
The impact rattles through his spine. His knee nearly buckles.
Aether almost hits the floor, but hands catch him – fast and surprisingly careful – fingers brushing his waist, steadying him with an urgency that feels like skill retention.
“I’m sorry!”
He winces, breath caught in his chest, and looks up—
It’s… the guy from the café.
The one with the tattoos and the eyes like stormclouds after dusk.
He lets the guy help him upright, and for a moment, the touch lingers. Hands warm against his side, like they hadn’t quite decided to let go yet.
“It’s okay,” Aether rumbles, softly, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt even though nothing’s there.
The guy looks at him, blinks slowly, and Aether notes the length of his lashes. Long, absurd, like something sketched from memory.
“Oh. Hi. It’s you… Do you attend this class?”
Aether nods. “Yeah. …You too?”
“Yes, actually. I’m Scaramouche, by the way, but Scara is fine.” He smiles. Teeth white, tidy, so perfect they look like they came from somewhere expensive.
“Ah. Nice to meet you. I’m Aether.”
Scara gives him a strange look. Not impolite, just tilted, as though he’s seeing something interesting through a window. The smile averts, curling at one side. Almost a smirk. “Aether, huh… It’s nice to meet you, too.”
Aether licks his lips. Nerves. Tries not to think about it. “Wait, so—I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before. Are you…”
“Oh, yeah. I just transferred,” Scara relays, breezily. “Was supposed to come last week, on the first day, but I had stuff to do. Moved in with my best friend, had to settle a few things… I don’t wanna bore you with my life story. Sorry.” He laughs – easy, unselfconscious, the sort that melts air around it.
Aether chuckles too, can’t help it. “It’s okay.”
Then Scara pauses, like something clicks into place. He steps aside, gestures with a subtle hand. “Anyway. You’re coming in—I’m headed for the restroom.”
“Right.”
“See ya, Aether.” And he jogs off, effortless, like someone who’s used to being followed by attention.
Aether watches him go. “…See you.”
He walks toward the classroom door, and for some reason – stupid instinct, irrational pull – he turns back for one last glance.
Scaramouche is halfway down the hallway, turning a corner.
But just before he disappears, he sends a wink over his shoulder.
Aether’s breath catches.
His cheeks warm instantly, like some sicko lit a match behind them, and he swallows around a sudden dryness in his throat, shaking his head, muttering something senseless to himself as he ducks inside and searches for a seat near the back.
Why did he even look back?
₊ ⊹
⋮
Drama class today is precisely the thing Aether secretly loves. A close reading of a play, paired with an assignment to whip up either a reflective poem or a short original script. It’s the type of creative task that makes other students groan into their sleeves, but Aether sits unadulterated in his chair, notebook already halfway filled before the professor even consummates her instructions.
He’s not exactly a theater kid, and he wouldn’t say he’s some stage-door groupie either, but ever since Venti dragged him and Lumine to their first live production – something obscure with puppets and French dialogue – he’s been tacitly, almost scandalously obsessed. It was the way the lights dimmed, the hush that fell over visitors, the way actors seemed larger than life, even when they mumbled.
He told himself back then he’d give it a try. Just see what’s up.
And now here he is, sitting near the front, legs crossed at the ankles, pen in his mouth, hair braided and already a bit frizzy from the weather, feeling giddy over a scene about betrayal and missed trains.
Behind him, that Scaramouche guy sits.
He doesn’t just sit, though. He pokes. Literally.
Every few minutes, there’s a tap on Aether’s back, a nudge on his shoulder blade, sometimes a whisper followed by a huff of breath like he’s trying not to snicker.
“Why are we sitting like this? I feel like I’m at confession.”
“What’s up with that dude in the front? Has he blinked at all?”
“Oh my god. Are you writing a haiku or a novel? Your handwriting’s so neat, dude, it’s making me insecure.”
At first, Aether just chuckles quietly, looking over his shoulder now and then, amused. But after the third or fourth poke, he starts responding, writing short, snarky notes in the margin of his notebook and holding it up for Scaramouche to read behind him. At one point, they both laugh – actual laughter, not breathy classroom giggles – when a girl two rows ahead jolts awake with a start, having fallen asleep sitting straight up like a mummy.
Scaramouche keeps talking to him. Not because the guy wants something, not because he’s bored and looking for the next distraction, but because, Aether suspects, he doesn’t really know anyone else here. Doesn’t seem interested in knowing anyone either. It’s… enchanting. Something about how he leans in without asking. Like Aether’s already been chosen.
He doesn’t mind it. In fact, he kind of… likes it.
The class ends with a whoosh of paper and a groan of tired students, the professor calling out reminders and due dates as everyone starts packing up. On their way out, Scaramouche nudges him again – not with a poke this time, but a tap against his elbow.
“Hey. Can I get your number? So we can keep in touch. In case you wanna, like, bounce ideas. Or whatever.”
Aether hands it over without thinking. It feels natural, like saying bless you when someone sneezes.
“Saved,” Scaramouche chirps, thumb tapping his screen before he shoves his phone back into the pocket of his tight black jeans, denim clinging to him like sin, torn artfully at the knees in a way Aether pretends not to regard until it’s already been spotted. Too late. “I’ll text you later then.”
“Sure,” Aether replies, glancing down at his own phone. It’s time to go anyway. This was his last class of the day.
The professor dismisses them, and the classroom empties like a slow-draining sink. Aether swings his bag over one shoulder, adjusts the strap, and stands. Scaramouche is already up, falling into step beside him without invitation or comment.
They walk out together, not touching, not talking at first. It’s just easy. As though they’ve done this a hundred times already. The hallways are thick with bodies, the ambiance vaguely tepid from so many people moving at once, and yet it still surprises Aether – how unstrange it feels to have someone beside him. To not leave alone.
“How do you go home?” Scaramouche quizzes, as they round the stairwell toward the lower floor.
“I go home with my sister and her boyfriend,” Aether supplies. “We ride the tube together.”
“Oh.” Scaramouche pauses, then lets out a short laugh, light and boyish. “You mean that grumpy girl from this morning is actually your sister?”
Aether grins, catching the amusement. “No wonder we look alike?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s because she’s also my twin,” Aether adds, the pride palpable in his voice.
Scaramouche’s eyes go comically wide. “No wayyy.”
“Yes wayyy.” Aether giggles, playful now. It’s infectious, the banter.
They turn a corner toward the lockers, and the hallway swells with the sound of gabble and lockers slamming shut. A flock of students pushes past them in a tide of bags and limbs, a ripple of motion that threatens to sweep them up, and before Aether can react, arms wrap around him. Not hard, not desperate. Just… firm. Intentional.
Scaramouche holds him still, an arm curled protectively around his back, the other braced against the wall behind him, shielding them both like instinct.
Aether’s heart skips in a messy, stuttering rhythm – surprised not by the gesture, but by how easy it feels. How ordinary. How balmy.
Then, just as easily, the throng passes.
And they’re back at it, like nothing happened. Like no one’s heart somersaulted.
“No shit,” Scaramouche continues, unfazed. “That’s so cool though. Identical twins, yeah?”
Aether clears his throat, still trying to process the aftershock of being held. “Yep…”
Scaramouche hums again, low, thoughtful. “Same with my mom, then.”
Aether jerks, glancing over at him. “Your mom has a twin, too?”
“Yeah.” Scaramouche nods, stepping to the side as another group squeezes past. “They’re both girls. So, mommy and auntie are identical twins. Same hair, same eyes, same height. Literally carbon copies of each other.”
He makes a face then, wrinkling his nose in exaggerated dismay, and Aether titters. The sound slips out of him before he has time to second-guess it.
“You say that like it’s horrifying,” he rumbles.
“Because it is!” Scaramouche tosses his hands up, pronounced. “Imagine walking into the kitchen and not knowing which one’s about to ground you.”
Aether laughs harder, louder than he means to, and some students glance their way, but neither of them seems to care.
They’ve reached the lockers now, an amicable quietude settling between them as the hallway begins to thin.
Aether wonders, only briefly, what the odds are. Of having two strangers suddenly feel this easy to talk to in one week.
But maybe it’s not about odds. Maybe it’s something else.
“There you are. Aether!”
It’s Lumine’s voice, slicing through the hallway noise, a whistle through fog. Aether whirls around (almost guiltily), and sure enough, there she is, striding toward him with purpose, Venti floating dreamily behind her, as if being tugged along by an invisible leash.
She comes to a stop beside them, and her eyes – those flaxen, clear-cut blades – dart toward the boy standing beside her brother. And just like that, Aether sees the armor go on. The slight squint, the tilt of her chin, the internal defense mechanisms she wears like cologne.
“Oh. It’s you,” she utters flatly. “What are you doing talking to this guy? You know each other now?”
Scaramouche, composed, extends his hand with an easy grin. “Hi, I’m Scaramouche. Scara, for short.”
Lumine narrows her gaze, but takes the offered hand. “Hm. Lumine,” she replies, cool and clipped. They shake once, inelastic and short.
Then Scaramouche pivots, smooth as ever, to Venti. “And you must be the boyfriend.”
“Ah, yeah! Venti.” Venti grins as they shake hands, too, always the diplomat.
“Nice to meet you both,” Scaramouche says with a warmth that seems unalloyed, if not a little teasing. Then he turns back to Aether, offering a casual two-finger salute. “Well, I’ll get going. My roommate’s probably looking for me. Later, Aether.”
Aether doesn’t say much, just stands there, watching the new friend he’s made with a peculiar heaviness in his chest. Like something soft being left behind.
“Later,” he murmurs, almost too quietly.
They all watch the guy walk away, his silhouette dissolving into the crowd of dispersing students, the back of his hoodie bobbing slightly as he turns a corner.
“So,” Lumine starts, and Aether doesn’t even bother looking at her – he’s already rolling his eyes, fondly. Of course.
“Why are you talking to him?” she asks, like it’s a pop quiz.
“Relax, sis. We’re classmates,” Aether responds, thinly, beginning to walk again.
“Classmates? You mean in your drama class?” Her eyebrow climbs up her forehead.
He frowns a little. “Yeah. Wait, how did you know?”
She shrugs, hands arbitrarily slotted into the front pocket of her windbreaker. “Twin instinct.” Then she prefixes, “Besides, the guy seems like the theater kid type. Is he always that upbeat?”
Aether lets out a breath of laughter. “I don’t know. Don’t ask me. We literally just met today.”
They continue walking, heading toward the front gates of the university, weaving through knots of students and grazing backpacks. A breeze picks up, a faint one, sufficient to stir the hem of Lumine’s sweater and lift Aether’s bangs.
But then—
Lumine pulls him back, her hand curling around his forearm like a reflex.
“What is that I see on your face?” she demands, eyes narrowing in that older-sibling-by-seconds way that never fails to terrify. “Are you blushing? Do you find that guy cute?”
She fires questions at him like a tennis machine, relentless, and out of the corner of his eye, he catches Venti snickering into his hand, trying not to outright howl.
Aether blushes – for real this time. “Stop… No.”
His voice is gossamer. Pathetic. Not convincing anyone, least of all her.
Lumine scoffs, arms folded across her chest now. The stance of maternal disapproval. “Are you sure? You know I can see through you, right? I would know if you’re lying.”
Aether laughs, a bit breathlessly. “Lumine…”
But before he can recover, Venti (sweet, clueless Venti) decides to light the match.
“But you gotta admit, the new guy is kinda hot.”
Lumine nearly explodes. Her head snaps toward him so fast her ponytail whips over her shoulder. “Excuse me?!”
Venti immediately raises his hands, backpedaling with the grace of a seasoned boyfriend. “Love, just kidding! Alright? I’m kidding!”
Once his sister calms down enough to exhale without growling, they leave campus together, the three of them descending into the subway station, a weary but loving trio, confined by regimen and bickering. The thrum of trains fills the air, and the platform reeks vaguely of electricity and sultry metal.
As it is, they ride the tube home. Aether leans back against the wall near the door, eyes half-closed, trying to push Scaramouche’s wink from earlier out of his brain.
He fails.
When their stop comes, Venti says goodbye the usual way – arms wrapped around Lumine, fingers carding through her hair, a quick kiss pressed to her forehead while she pats him on the top of his head like he’s her pet instead of her partner.
“Bye, Aether. See you tomorrow,” Venti says, tossing him a wink of his own.
“Ah. See you tomorrow, Ven,” Aether replies, waving lazily.
And then it’s just him and Lumine, walking the last few blocks to the flat in quiet companionship. The sky’s already pinking at the margins, evening settling into that soft hour where everything shimmers like it’s been dipped in apricot light.
At home, they slip back into the tempo they’ve created over years of repetition. Lumine cooks – tonight it’s something with garlic and butter and rice – and Aether tidies up his room for later, clearing a corner, adjusting the lighting, making sure the cables aren’t tangled. They eat at the counter, side by side, like siblings in a sitcom. Then clean, then shower, one after the other.
Then it’s time for separate rooms. Separate peace.
Lumine lingers at his doorway, arms looped around his middle as she hugs him, snug and strong.
“Don’t stay up too late,” she mutters, voice muffled into his shoulder. “Goodnight, bro.”
“Night, sis,” he murmurs into her hair, eyes slipping closed for a second. Then, “I won’t,” he promises.
Even though they both know he will.
₊ ⊹
⋮
Aether enters his room and closes the door softly behind him. The world out there stays suspended in the hallway, but in here, within four lavender-gray walls and a ceiling that’s positively a little too low, he does what he always does at this hour.
The carpet presses secluded beneath his bare feet as he moves across the room, intimate paths already memorized in his bones. His desktop shines fairly in the dark, the default screensaver bouncing like a lone dancer across the screen. He doesn’t touch it yet. Instead, he walks over to the closet and opens it. The smell of fabric and lavender dryer sheets wafts out – sweet, comforting, eccentric.
Inside, the costumes await.
There’s a whole history in there. Two years’ worth of glossy vinyl and fishnet, laces and headbands, ductile fur and tight corsets and lustrous chokers. The outfits are lined like soldiers or lovers: dominatrix leather, anime schoolgirl skirts, nurse uniforms, cheerleader pom-poms, satin ballerina dresses in pastel yellow. New deliveries still show up like birthday presents he never asked for. The rule is simple: don’t repeat. Novelty is part of the illusion.
Tonight, he’s tired. His limbs are pliant with exhaustion, one that makes the idea of bending over for two hours feel like climbing a hill backward. So nothing complicated. No thigh-highs, no garters, no heels.
Maybe just… bunny ears. Or cat ears. Something stupid and money for old rope, and elementary.
He settles on the bunny. White and pink. Soft little things.
Before anything else, he freshens up; lip gloss applied in soft, adept strokes, face already cleansed and tender from his shower. He clips in his trademark earring, the tiny silver charm catching the light, and straightens the ears on his head with two gentle tugs. His robe is beige silk, cinched at the waist like a whisper. His hair, unbraided, tumbles down his back like poured honey, past his shoulder blades, all the way to his tailbone.
And just like that, he’s live.
The camera blinks red. His softbox light purrs quietly.
“Good evening, it’s me again,” Aether says, leaning forward toward the webcam, his voice dipped in false sweetness, lashes fluttering as he peers up – soft and coquettish. He cradles the front of his robe with both hands, shoulders tilted inward, playing shy for the ones watching. “How are you?”
The chat explodes.
Hi, baby
Hello sunshine I missed you
You look absolutely sexy tonight
fuck, I can’t wait to come on my laptop screen
hope i can fuck you babe
your face is so angelic holy shit so glad i found you
i wish i knew your name so i can say it once i cum all over my monitor
you’re the best thing in this site fuck. just fuck
He smiles. Just a smidge. One that says he’s heard it all before.
“Well, it’s nice that we can do this again. I’m quite excited to put on another show for you.” His tone is frugal, somewhat singsong. A whisper of a smile stitched with drama class polish.
The third donation drops. A pop-up window on the side of the screen. Then a fourth. A fifth.
Aether lets the robe fall open.
His bare chest greets the camera, skin pale and smooth, nipples pebbling marginally from the night air that leaks in through the cracked window. He exhales, breath stirring the corner of the robe as it slips down his arms. His viewership count ticks up like a slot machine hitting jackpot.
Four hundred and counting.
The chat begins moving too fast for him to read. Hearts and fire emojis scatter like confetti. Donations drop one after another, numbers blinking gold and red in the crook of the screen.
He shivers, partly from the cold, partly from knowing how many eyes are on him now.
This is what he does.
This is where the money comes from.
Aether is a sex worker. A camboy, specifically. This is his job. His livelihood. His dirty little secret that keeps the fridge stocked, the bills paid, the tuition flowing.
There are 3,500 camboys and camgirls on this site, Cambook. He is not unique. He is not special. But his numbers say otherwise.
Kokomi, Mona, and Nilou know. They’ve always known. No judgment, just quiet support. Aether had confessed it like a wound, and they’d dressed it with loyalty.
The site itself is obscure – practically sunken. Hidden under layers of the deep web. You have to know how to look. You have to want to look. You need a VPN or a willingness to sacrifice your IP address. Most people don’t even bother, and that’s what keeps him safe.
Probably. Surely.
There’s Pornhub, after all. There’s xvideos, YouJizz. Why would anyone from uni dig deeper? Why would they pay extra to find a face like his?
He’s careful.
Opening the drawer under his desk, he pulls out one of his vibrators – the cyan one – and taps the button once. It buzzes to life with a low, presumptuous drone.
He hefts it toward the camera like a magician presenting a wand.
“Alright,” he murmurs, gaze lowered. “To tell you all honestly, I’m a bit tired… College has been busy lately, so unfortunately, I can’t get too freaky for you tonight. But maybe we can just chill and… hang back.”
He smiles. Tilts his head. Waves the toy in a little circle, and the chat showers him in emojis.
He crosses the room to his bed, the sheets white and freshly made, patting the mattress like inviting an old lover to come lie down beside him. The webcam snags everything; perfect angle, perfect lighting.
Aether spreads his legs.
His shaft rests between his thighs, half-hard too soon. He arches his back a little, eyes heavy, lips parted. The headband stays on. The ears twitch with every adjustment of his weight.
He presses the vibrator to his entrance. Just a tease. Enough to make his stomach clench.
Even now, after all this time, his body still responds like it’s the first time.
The gasps. The shallow breaths. The obscene curve of his mouth.
He performs for them, yes, but also for himself.
Because maybe, just maybe, there’s something about being seen like this, being desired and praised and pulled apart with words that vanish after they’re typed… that feels better than silence.
Maybe.
By the time he’s done, his whole body is loose and trembling, sweat cooling on his back as the stream fades to black.
He’s earned over 450 donations tonight. 2,000+ new subscribers. Thirty-two new loyal patrons.
Too many eyes. Too much love. Too much money.
He powers everything down. The lights, the camera, the monitor, the throb in his head.
He dresses slowly. A T-shirt. Pajama bottoms. Something supple. Something his.
Under the covers, the cotton sheets feel colder than they should. The window’s still cracked, stars blinking overhead like they know what he’s done. Aether stares blankly into the dark, his body still humming from release, heart thudding slowly in its cage.
And then, his phone lights up. He almost ignores it. Thinks it’s Kokomi. Or Nilou. Or Mona, badgering him by sending memes.
But it’s not.
Two messages. Two unknown numbers.
+7-347-8372: Aether. This is Xiao. You must be sleeping now, so goodnight.
+7-129-9680: hey, aether! it’s scara from drama class. sleep well, sweet dreams :p