Chapter 19 – RAFAEL
Chapter
Nineteen
RAFAEL
The balloons are fucking ridiculous.
Phoenix insisted on them—bright metallic silver ones that say "Welcome Home" in that overly cheerful font that belongs on a kindergarten classroom wall, not in a pack house occupied by three emotionally stunted musicians and one mystery beta who’s apparently getting harassed by our psycho ex manager.
"They're perfect," Phoenix had said this morning, beaming like a kid on Christmas as he tied them to the back of the couch.
"They're stupid," I'd countered, but I'd helped him tie them anyway because arguing with Phoenix when he's in full golden retriever mode is like trying to stop a freight train with a wet paper bag.
Now we're standing here waiting for Rex to show up—discharged three days early because he's too stubborn to stay in the hospital despite the doctors strongly suggesting he remain longer—and those silver balloons mock me with their synthetic cheerfulness.
And then there’s the fucking cake.
Phoenix commissioned it from a bakery downtown that does custom designs. What he didn't tell me was that he'd given them his own artistic interpretation of the band to work with.
The result is... something.
Chibi Rex stands in the center, drawn as a tiny scowling knight in shining armor.
Next to him is chibi-Phoenix with his drum kit, looking like a happy Viking.
Then there's me, unnecessarily shirtless and my kraken tattoo looking decidedly noodle-esque. Bells stands in the middle, white hair drawn in spiky tufts, and the baker put gold sugar gems instead of eyes for some reason. It’s the scariest shit I’ve ever seen.
Rex is going to fucking hate this.
"The potatoes are adorable," Bells says as he comes out of Rex’s room in a white rabbit hoodie, leaning against the kitchen counter.
I blink. "The what?"
He points at the cake. “The potatoes. Why did they draw us as potatoes?"
Phoenix snorts, nearly spilling his coffee. "They're chibis, Bells. Not potatoes."
"Yeah, well, whoever made the cake can’t draw chibis. They look like potatoes with faces," Bells insists, and there's the faintest hint of amusement in those gold eyes. First genuine emotion I've seen from him in days.
"Well, your potato looks like nightmare fuel," I shoot back.
"My potato looks like it's dissociating while questioning all its life choices, which is accurate," says Bells. "And why is Rex a knight? His actually looks cool."
"Because he attacked Stephen," says Phoenix, grinning. "And he's chivalrous as fuck. You have no idea. He just hates men, so we only get his bad side."
Bells's eye actually twitches. "I see," he says in a flat tone.
Phoenix is full-on laughing now, that booming sound that fills the whole apartment. Bells cracks a smile at the sound, but it doesn’t reach his eyes as he takes a long sip of coffee.
Bells has been... off.
Not just stressed or exhausted, though he's definitely both. But there's something else. Something that makes him jump at sudden noises and check the windows compulsively and keep one hand in his pocket where I'm pretty sure he's gripping that bone-handled knife.
I know why.
Phoenix and I fished that card out of the trash can the day the flowers arrived. We didn't plan to—Phoenix was taking out the garbage and the card was conveniently sitting right there on top, impossible to miss, and we could read it without actually snooping.
The threatening words are burned into my brain. The elegant handwriting. The signature that was just a single letter B.
If Bells was telling the truth and the flowers did come from family, his family is psycho.
Phoenix and I had a whole silent conversation with just eye contact after reading it. Do we tell Rex? Do we tell Bells we know? Do we pretend we never saw it?
We decided on pretend.
"Should we hide and jump out when Rex walks in?" Phoenix asks, dead serious.
"Absolutely fucking not," I say. “I like being alive.”
“He wouldn’t kill us.”
“He might.”
Bells watches our banter with that same exhausted detachment he's been wearing like a second skin. He hasn't said much since the flowers arrived. Hasn't done much except exist in Rex's room like a ghost haunting the wrong house.
I want to ask if he's okay.
I want to demand he tell us what the fuck is going on.
I want to do something other than watch him slowly crumble while pretending everything's fine.
But Phoenix catches my eye and shakes his head minutely. Not yet. Give him time.
So I do. I give him time and space and all the things I wish someone had given me when I was drowning.
The knock at the door makes us all jump. Especially Bells, who goes a few shades paler.
Three sharp raps. Pause. Two more.
"Holy shit," Phoenix mutters, hand pressed to his chest. “Not even a text? Does he enjoy terrorizing people for sport?”
“Yes,” I say flatly, opening the door.
Rex Steele, in the flesh and bandages.
"Welcome back!" Phoenix says with golden retriever cheer, spreading his arms wide like he wants to hug Rex but knows better.
Rex steps inside, his movements careful and measured. Not weak, exactly, but guarded. Like everything hurts but he'll be damned if he shows it.
"Balloons," Rex says flatly, his eye tracking to the silver monstrosities floating behind the couch.
"And cake!" Phoenix gestures enthusiastically toward the counter. "It's chocolate. Your favorite."
Rex's visible eye lands on the cake. On the chibi versions of us. On the tiny knight that's supposed to be him but does look like a potato wrapped in aluminum foil now that I’m really looking at it.
"You got me a cake," Rex says, voice completely devoid of emotion.
"Yeah! Because you're home and you didn't die and you turned Stephen into ground beef and—" Phoenix cuts himself off, clearly realizing he's rambling. "I just thought... well, you know. Celebration."
Rex stares at the cake for a long moment. I brace myself for the explosion, for him to tear into Phoenix over potentially poisoned food if they recognize the potato band or whatever other excuse his brain manufactures to avoid accepting something nice.
Instead, he just nods once. "Thanks."
The word sounds rusty, like he forgot how to use it and had to dig it out from somewhere deep.
Phoenix lights up. "I'll get candles! We should do candles."
"We don’t need—" I start, but Phoenix is already rummaging through drawers, producing a pack of birthday candles from who knows where. We don’t even celebrate that shit anymore. Nash was the only one who insisted on it.
Bells shifts against the counter, and I catch his movement in my peripheral vision. He's watching Rex with an expression I can't quite read. Not fear. Not the usual hostility. Is he… concerned? And is he concerned about Rex or for him?
Phoenix arranges the candles on the cake and lights them with dramatic flair. The tiny flames flicker to life, illuminating chibi-Rex in orange.
The chibi starts melting.
"Oh shit, oh fuck, oh no—" Phoenix lunges forward, frantically blowing out candles. "I'm so sorry, Rex, I didn't mean to—your face is melting, the cake face I mean, not your actual—fuck, that came out wrong—"
Rex just stands there, watching Phoenix's meltdown with that flat expression that could mean anything from homicidal rage to mild amusement. The candles are all out now, but chibi-Rex has definitely seen better days.
Then I see it.
The smallest quirk at the corner of Rex's mouth on the left side. Not quite a smile. Not even close. But something that suggests he finds Phoenix's frenzied panic at least marginally entertaining.
It's gone so fast I almost think I imagined it.
"It's fine," Rex says, his voice still flat but lacking the usual edge.
Phoenix looks like he might pass out from relief. "You sure? Because I can order another one, or—"
"Phoenix." Rex cuts him off, but there's no venom in it. Just exhaustion. "It's fine."
But it's not fine.
None of this is fine.
Rex isn't angry, isn't lashing out, isn't being his usual aggressive self.
He's just... empty. Like someone hollowed him out and left only the shell behind.
It reminds me of those first few months after Nash died, when Rex would go days without speaking, would stare at nothing for hours, would exist in a state of such profound grief that even looking at him felt invasive.
I'd rather have angry Rex back.
"What’s the sleeping arrangement tonight?" I ask Rex as Phoenix cuts up the cake so we each get a slice with our chibi on it, because someone needs to address the elephant in the room before it tramples us all.
Rex's eye slides to me, then to Bells, who's still pressed against the counter like he's trying to meld with the granite. "I’ll take the couch."
"The couch?" Phoenix interjects. "You're six-five. The couch is built for normal-sized humans."
"I'll manage."
"Rex—"
"I said I'll manage." There's a hint of the old Rex in that tone. The one who doesn't accept help, doesn't need anyone, doesn't want to be reminded he's made of flesh and bone and not shadows.
"Raf and I can share my room and Bells can take Raf’s," Phoenix offers, and I whip my head around to stare at him.
"Excuse me?"
"What?" Phoenix shrugs his broad shoulders. "We've shared before. After shows, on the bus. It's not a big deal."
"That was different. That was falling asleep drunk after gigs. This is—" I gesture vaguely at the apartment. "This is planned sharing. Of a bed. For multiple nights."
"Oh my god, Raf, I'm not going to ravish you in your sleep." Phoenix rolls his eyes. "I'll stay on my side, you stay on yours."
I growl under my breath, but I'm already doing the mental math. Phoenix's bed is a king, and he's got that weird attachment to his Egyptian cotton sheets he won't shut up about. Theoretically, we could probably share it without being on top of each other.
"Fine," I say, because what the fuck ever at this point. "But I'm taking the side by the door. And if you snore, I'm smothering you."
"Deal." Phoenix flashes a bright grin.