Chapter Text
It was another peaceful morning as Freodore slipped out of bed. He was not one to waste time rotting in bed, although not rushing like he was in a military boot camp, he gave himself some cozy minutes before stretching lazily then headed straight to the bathroom. It was always a need to make sure he looked clean and presentable, although he didn’t think he would plan to go out at all today. He still had a lot of work he needed to get done,
He padded down the stairs, expecting stillness as usual, but the faint sound of kitchenwares clinking against each other curling up from the kitchen caught his attention.
Freodore slowed in the hallway. A white hair man busied at the counter, hair mussed from sleep but already pulled into something resembling order, sleeves pushed high as he whisked eggs with uncharacteristic focus, looking oddly charming still. He was humming a song, an oddly familiar melody. Already so energetic early in the morning, Freodore thought. Then, the smell of cinnamon and butter hit him. Ah yes, French toast — Kaelix’s one dependable specialty. Not that he would complain though, it’s a nice breakfast after all, especially when made by someone he loved so dearly.
It was rare to see him awake before the sun had climbed high. Rarer still to see him so absorbed, his tall frame swaying slightly as if he was dancing. Freo stepped forward quietly. He swore he didn’t intend to, but still unintentionally startled Kaelix somehow. The man jumped and spun, blue eyes wide before breaking into that radiant, puppyish grin.
“Furi Furi! Good morninggggg” Kaelix bent down without hesitation, nuzzling his cheek against Freo’s as if greeting him after a week apart. Freodore stood still, letting him. The warmth of Kaelix’s cheek brushing his own, the faint smell of vanilla clinging to him. So ticklish, he thought. When Kaelix finally pulled back, Freodore patted his head like comforting an excited puppy, lips tugging into a lazy smile. “Good morning, Kaelix.”
Satisfied, Kaelix returned to his work, humming again. Freodore drifted toward the counter, setting out his tools for coffee with practiced precision. The measured grind, the press, the steady pour — this was his ritual, the quiet order that balanced the chaos of the others.
Before he managed to ask Kaelix what was that familiar song he was still humming along, a yawn carried from the stairs. Soft brown hair appeared in the doorway, sticking in all directions, eyes barely open, drowning in a shirt too large for him. The fabric slipped against his collarbone, doing nothing to hide the scatter of marks blooming across his neck.
Kaelix nearly dropped the pan, gasping loudly as he took the scene in. “Without Kaelix?!” he cried, pointing in mock outrage and covering his mouth as though scandalized. “Oh. Seible, you. Yes you, you hate me, specifically.”
Seible bursted out laughing, carrying a bit of laziness, stumbling forward in a weird walk, leaning his whole body weight against Kaelix with eyes closed, who immediately brought him into a hug so tight despite still holding a spatula in his hand. “Don’t pout, Kae-chan,” Seible cooed, voice sticky-sweet, “if you want it, you gotta beg for it.”
“What what what what did you sayyy?? You’re sick! Oh my god?! It’s 7 in the morning hello?? I need you to behave!”
Freodore lowered his gaze, focusing on the steam curling from his cup. He understood perfectly well what had kept Seible up last night, but he’s not interested in dwelling on it. “Good morning, Seible,” he said softly.
Seible slipped free of Kaelix and padded over, hooking his finger through Freodore’s pinky as he leaned close. His eyes, heavy-lidded but bright, lingered on Freo with quiet affection. “Good morning, Furi-chan.”
Freodore let him, as always. He pinched Seible’s cheek lightly, a fond smile flickering across his lips.
“Furi-chan, can I kiss you? You look so cute already this early in the morning.”
That made Freodore flustered, averting his gaze.
“…….…. Yeah.”
Seible giggled as he pressed his lips so softly against his cheek.
“Hey! What about my kiss? And why did you get to kiss Freo!”
“Now now Kae-chan, so demanding. What did you do to deserve this huh?”
Kaelix gasped loudly again, “You’re so mean to me!! You don’t like me! Freo, are you seeing this?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but the eggs are saying hello.” Freodore pointed at the pan and Seible laughed.
“Arggggg, my perfect runny eggs! Seible you’re responsible for this!”
“What?! Why me?”
…
Kaelix finally managed to finish plating everything as the main distraction, Seible, had gone to wash up. “Breakfast is served!” he announced, setting the dish down. “Seible should come down in a few minutes, but,” he glanced around. “Where’s Zeal?”
“Still in bed, probably,” Freodore took a sip of his coffee before standing up, turning toward the stairs. “I’ll wake him.”
….
The door was half-open. Freodore knocked lightly, more out of habit than necessity, before stepping inside. The curtains were drawn, but enough morning leaked through to sketch out Zeal’s naked form against the sheets, blanket only covering up to his stomach, displaying fully the marks Seible left behind, which Freodore tried to ignore. His dark hair fanned across the pillow, his chest rising in an unhurried rhythm that made the room itself seem slower.
Freodore stepped closer, slowly kneeling down beside the bed. Zeal’s eyes were closed, the violet hue was nowhere to be found, but Freodore was not sure if he was still sleeping. His fingers gently tucked away some strands of Zeal’s hair, pausing midway as the man shifted. He hummed, the sound was hoarse and low.
“Zeal, didn’t you say you have an early schedule today?” Freodore spoke in his softest voice possible. And as he slowly retreated his hand, another hand flew up to grab it, then as if realizing it was a too sudden and rough act, the grasp loosened, preparing to pull away. Freodore chased it, earning a smile from the black hair man as he intertwined their fingers together knowing he was given permission.
“What time is it, Freo?” He finally opened his eyes, just by a little bit though, voice rumbled so deep.
“It’s almost 7:40. Kaelix finished making breakfast already.”
“Hm…. French toast?”
“You know him. Yours was made without gluten of course.”
Zeal chuckled so deep and low, then pressed a gentle kiss on his lover’s hand, slightly rising up. The blanket slipped even lower, revealing his lower abdomen. Freodore immediately removed his hand and stood up, not hesitant to head straight out.
“You should be quick, don’t want you to have a cold breakfast. I will make you a fresh cup of coffee, so you won’t commit the crime of microwaving it again.”
Zeal blinked at the sound of the door clicking closed, looking down on himself, then clawing at his messy hair.
“Ah… I made him uncomfortable again.” He frowned at himself.
….
The breakfast was filled with slow chats and banters from Zeal, Kaelix and Seible. Freodore as usual, only added in when needed, he preferred to listen and laughed along with them, letting their cheerfulness “infect” him.
He took on the responsibility of washing the dishes (his least favorite thing to do because he had to get in contact with the grease) as Zeal had a meeting with the new singer for his unreleased album (he was running late), Kaelix had his modelling job, and Seible needed to be at the company today, he’s the promoting manager after all.
After he finished drying all of the dishes, he made a cup of coat tea and headed upstairs. As he thought that his day was gonna unfold like how he had planned, his phone rang aggressively, it was one of his important clients. He had a… not so good feeling before reluctantly picking it up.
The client’s voice, hurried and sharp: a change of plans, a new demand, and an insistence that he come in person to their office in the city. Freo put down the phone and pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at the quiet lines still unfinished on his desk. He wanted to say no. He almost did. But he knew better than to pick a fight over something so small. He needed to stay professional, it was what his whole career was built upon.
He dressed with his usual precision — shirt crisp, jacket straight, boots that never went out of style. Looking presentable was a habit that clung to him even when he didn’t feel like being seen. His reflection in the mirror was sharp and composed. He smoothed his aquamarine hair back with a practiced touch, though part of him already felt tired of the effort.
The train was crowded. The city was louder than he liked, its glass buildings catching the midday sun until everything gleamed. The client’s office was high up, in one of those towers that made people crane their necks from the street. Freo stepped into the lobby, sleek and impersonal, then into the elevator that carried him higher than he cared to be. He watched the numbers tick upward, each one a reminder that his deadlines were waiting to be finished at home. He sighed.
The meeting room was all polished surfaces and clipped voices. His sketches lay on the table, spread out for review. For a while, the discussion stayed on the sudden change in colors, fabrics, shapes — familiar ground. But then, inevitably, the comments came.
“You have a good eye, Freodore,” one of them said, flipping a page without really looking. “Though honestly, anything would look better if you wore it yourself. With your face, even the dullest design would shine.”
Another laughed, gaze lingering on him longer than the work. “Yes, maybe you should consider being the model instead. It’d be good publicity. Beautiful faces sell faster than good ideas, after all.”
Their words were smooth, but their eyes crawled over him, evaluating something he hadn’t put on display. Freodore’s jaw tightened. He gave the same polite smile he always did, though inside it burned. Their words, their gaze, all disgusted him. They weren’t even looking at his work properly.
He thought, suddenly, of home — of how Kaelix would praise his designs with childlike awe, calling him “cool” and sometimes giving very helpful feedback. Of how Seible would study the details, cooing about clever stitches or clean lines with genuine delight. Of how Zeal, steady as ever, would treat his creations with the same respect he gave him, never separating the art from the artist. Of how each of them would treat the pieces of clothing he knitted for them like they’re the most precious thing in the world. They loved him for the things he did, not just the way he looked. And for a moment, the thought made the sterile boardroom feel even emptier. He felt so tired all of a sudden.
He excused himself midway, slipping into the bathroom. The quiet there was heavier, the hum of the air vent the only sound. He leaned against the sink, breathing slowly. He suddenly thought of something and pulled out his phone.
[Will you be home tonight?]
He sent a text to their group chat, but not expecting immediate answers. They were all busy — Kaelix probably drowned in bright light, Seible stuck in projects, Zeal drowning in studio deadlines. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and returned to the room, face composed once more.
The meeting dragged on another hour. By the time it ended, he was worn thin, his head aching from too much fluorescent light. He stepped back into the elevator, and only then pulled out his phone again. Three messages waited.
Kaelix, of course, first: “YESSS I’ll be homeee, miss you already Furi Furi💛❤️🥹🥹😚😚” — a flood of emojis that almost made him laugh.
Zeal’s was quieter, deliberate: “I’ll be home. Don’t tire yourself out before then.”
Seible’s, last as always, came with a teasing curl: “Of course, Furi-chan. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Freodore exhaled, the corner of his mouth tugging into the faintest smile. His hard day felt lighter instantly, as if the effort had been worth it just to come back to this.
On the way home, he stopped at the bakery near the station. The staff greeted him with polite cheer, the scent of sugar and butter rising warm from the counters. He scanned through the pastry options for today. For Seible, he picked a beautiful-looking strawberry tart — delicate, glossy, sweet, just the way he liked. For Kaelix, a big cheesecake — no fruits, nothing that might trigger his allergies. For Zeal, a flourless dark chocolate mousse, rich, gluten-free. And for himself, a simple tiramisu, one that was bitter than most would like, its bitterness cutting through the sweetness around it.
He carried the box carefully, as though the pastries were a secret gift. Not grand, not dramatic, but something he knew would bring them each a smile. Something that said: I thought of you, all of you.
When he reached the house, the light was already softening into evening. The first thing he saw were signs of them: Seible’s polished leather shoes tucked neatly by the door, Kaelix’s coat thrown over a chair, and Zeal’s bag resting against the sofa like a quiet sentinel. They were home.
The weight in his chest eased. He set the box gently on the counter, slipped off his own coat, and started up the stairs. He knocked on Kaelix’s room first, the one close to the stairs the most. He waited, but no sound came. He hesitated before opening the door to peek inside. No one. So he moved to Zeal’s room which was right next to it. He knocked, but again no sound, he peeked in, also no one. He blinked. Then, they must be in Seible’s room right? Where else could they be? But before he managed to knock on Seible’s door, he heard noises coming out, the kind of noise that he always avoids hearing: loud moans and some wet noises. The moan was from Kaelix, then Seible’s cry and Zeal’s deep voice followed.
He never felt interested enough about these kind of things, the sound alone made him a bit uncomfortable, but he’s not a child, he knew enough to be aware of what the other three were doing.
Then came their laughter. Freodore froze. His hand lowered. The box of pastries downstairs suddenly felt very far away. Something hollow and unfamiliar welled up inside him, sharp in its silence. He lingered by Seible’s door for a moment longer, listening, though every sound pressed deeper into his chest. Then, without a word, he turned away. His steps were quiet, almost too careful, as if he feared the floor might betray him.
Back in the hallway, the house felt heavy. He thought of going to his own room, closing the door, shutting the world out. But the silence there would only echo. Instead, he descended the stairs again, each step slower than the last.
The pastry box sat neatly on the counter, the ribbon still tied. He stood before it, staring. The thought of their intimacy spilling from upstairs, tangled and breathless, against the small, fragile sweetness he had brought home — it felt absurd. Like a joke he hadn’t meant to tell.
His hand hovered over the lid but didn’t open it. His throat tightened. He pulled his coat back on, slipped his shoes into place, and stepped outside.
The evening air hit sharp and cool, carrying the faint smell of damp pavement. He drew it into his lungs as if it could wash away the stone lodged beneath his ribs. It didn’t. The weight stayed, dense and unfamiliar.
It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly, never was. He had never wanted what they had upstairs, never felt the same urgency in his body. And the sight of them showering each other with love would always warm his heart, because the love they shared for one another was an equal whole. He knew that much. But the sound of them together, the intimacy that flowed so easily between them, struck at something he hadn’t expected. A hollowness he couldn’t name.
He walked slowly down the street, hands buried in his pockets. The city was quieter here, the shops closing one by one, their shutters rattling as if to remind him that everything belonged somewhere. Everyone belonged somewhere.
He belonged too. Didn’t he?
The image came unbidden: Kaelix’s ridiculous grin smeared with cream cheese, Seible’s delighted gasp at strawberries, Zeal’s soft hum of approval over chocolate. He had chosen each piece for them. He had thought of them. He always thought of them.
But right now, they weren’t thinking of him.
The thought pierced, sharp as glass. He tried to shake it off, telling himself it wasn’t fair, that he was being selfish — they loved him, he knew they did. They had never mocked his distance, never pressed him harder than he could bear. They respected his silence, his space, his boundaries. They had always been gentle.
And yet.
And yet the ache spread, quiet but insistent.
He felt like what he gave them was just love on a surface level, he couldn’t give them what they wanted, what they desired, the most basic human need, which he never understood why it never existed in him. He knew they had never demanded it from him, never even hinted at disappointment. But the thought still dug its claws into him.
The world around him had taught him enough. From quiet observations, from friends and colleagues, from the way people whispered when relationships broke apart. Love, they said, wasn’t enough. Love needed a body, a bed, something physical to tether it, or else it would float away. He had watched couples smile through dinner one month and split bitterly the next, blaming “incompatibility,” the polite word that always circled back to sex.
He had never understood why something so fleeting could weigh so heavily. He didn’t need it. He didn’t care for it. But knowing that didn’t mean he could expect the same from the others.
When they first began, this had been the stone at the bottom of his heart. He had told them plainly: I don’t feel it, not the way most people do. I don’t think I can give you that. He braced for hesitation, for disappointment. Instead, they had only reassured him. They respected him. They said their love would not change. And he had believed them, because he had seen how easily they could satisfy one another without him.
But today, it hit differently.
Maybe it was the way he had come home carrying something fragile for them, only to find himself outside the circle again, because what he brought was too simple. Maybe it was the accumulation of nights when he had walked past closed doors, hearing noises fade into softer sounds, leaving him in silence. He had told himself it was fine, that their warmth found him in other ways. And most of the time, it was enough.
But standing here, with the sound of their voices pressed together above him, it wasn’t.
Freodore stopped under a streetlight, the glow spilling pale over his shoulders. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes against it. He hated himself for this sudden weakness — for wanting something he couldn’t even define. Not their sex, not their hunger, but something else. Something that would prove he was part of them in the same way, even if he didn’t want to enter their rhythm.
He pressed a hand lightly against his chest, as if to ease the heaviness there. The night air brushed his skin, but it wasn’t enough. It never would be.
He wanted to go home. He wanted to crawl into the circle of their arms, to be held until the stone in him cracked apart. He wanted Kaelix’s warmth pressed clumsily against him, Seible’s sly voice curled with affection at his ear, Zeal’s steady presence grounding him. He wanted to believe that was enough.
But tonight, they were already wrapped around each other. And he was outside. Alone. Cold. And worst of all, part of him still felt quietly glad for them — that they had found what they needed, that they could give each other the other thing the world called essential to love.