Chapter 19 – RAFAEL #2
Bells looks between us, those amber eyes tracking the conversation like it's a tennis match. "You sure about this? I can just—"
"You're taking Raf's room," Phoenix says firmly. "It's settled. No arguments."
Rex hasn't moved from his position near the door. He's watching all of this unfold with that unreadable expression. His fingers tap against his thigh—once, twice, three times—that tell Phoenix and I have learned means he's processing something he doesn't like.
"I'm going to rest," Rex announces suddenly, already turning toward the hallway.
"Wait!" Phoenix calls after him. "The cake! You didn't even have any—"
"Not hungry."
The door to Rex's room closes with a click that somehow sounds louder than a slam.
Phoenix deflates like he’s a mylar balloon himself. "Well, that went great," he mutters, serving the three of us plates.
"What did you expect?" I ask, taking a bite of my cake. It’s pretty good, actually, now that my chibi has melted enough it doesn’t feel like cannibalism. "Rex to actually celebrate something?"
"A guy can dream."
I glance at Bells, who’s just standing there, ignoring his cake. "You should eat," I say, keeping my voice neutral. “You look wiped.”
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit. You've barely eaten anything in three days. Phoenix will cry if you don't at least try it."
“I don’t cry that easily,” Phoenix mutters.
That gets a ghost of a smile out of Bells. Just a flicker, but it's there. He picks up a fork, takes a tentative bite, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
"You doing okay, Bells?" I ask.
His fork freezes halfway to his mouth. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
“Because you haven't seemed okay since your family sent you flowers,” I say with a shrug.
We stare at each other across the counter, and I can see him debating. Weighing whether to tell me to fuck off or actually talk. Phoenix has gone quiet, pretending to study his own slice of cake while obviously listening to every word.
"I'm fine," Bells says finally, and it's such an obvious lie that I almost call him on it.
Instead, I just nod and take another bite of cake. "Alright. But if you need anything—and I mean anything—you tell us. Yeah?"
He studies me for a long moment, searching my face for something. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he nods. "Yeah. Okay."
We finish the cake in relative silence. Phoenix cleans up, humming some melody I don't recognize. Probably one of Nash's. He does that sometimes, often like it’s subconscious.
"I should probably move my shit," I say, standing up and stretching until my spine pops. "Since apparently I'm getting evicted from my own room."
"It's for a good cause," Phoenix says cheerfully.
"That cause being what, exactly? Your weird need to play house?"
"My weird need to make sure everyone's comfortable and safe, yes." Phoenix's expression grows serious. "Bells needs his own space. And you and I are both big boys who can share a bed without making it weird."
"You're making it weird right now by saying ‘big boys’ and 'making it weird.'"
Bells shakes his head, but there’s that ghost of a smile on his lips again. "I'm gonna get my shit, too," he mutters, already heading for the hallway Rex disappeared into. "Thanks for the cake, Phoenix. My potato came out great."
"They're chibis!" Phoenix calls after him, but Bells is already gone, rapping lightly on Rex’s door.
Brave.
"I'll meet you in your room," I say to Phoenix. "Need to make sure there's nothing weird in mine for Bells to find."
"Like what? Your secret diary full of emo poetry?"
"Fuck off," I grumble, but I'm already moving down the hallway.
My room is smaller than Rex's fortress and Phoenix's comfortable cave, but it's mine.
Dark blue walls covered in old horror movie posters and prints I've collected over the years.
A queen bed with black sheets and a duvet printed with a coffin from edge to edge.
A desk cluttered with bass strings, sheet music, and empty coffee mugs.
I do a quick scan, looking for anything personal I don't want Bells finding.
The photos of my family go in a drawer. My abuela's rosary gets tucked in my jacket pocket. The book I’m reading, clothes for tomorrow, the letters from my sister—the ones where she talks about her kids, about her divorce, about how worried she is that I'm throwing my life away on music—those go in my overnight bag.
Everything else can stay. Band shit, music shit, the organized chaos that makes sense to me.
Phoenix’s door is already open, which is very Phoenix. An invitation. A welcome.
I step inside and immediately regret every life choice that led me here.
Phoenix's room looks like a fucking nest.
That's the only word for it. He's got pillows everywhere.
On the bed, piled in corners, stacked against the walls like he's building a fort.
Blankets in varying textures draped over furniture.
String lights wound around the headboard, casting everything in a warm, soft glow.
It's cozy as fuck, which somehow makes it worse.
"Welcome to the cuddle zone," Phoenix says from where he's already stretched out on the bed, arms spread wide like he's trying to demonstrate just how much space there is.
"I hate you," I mutter, setting my bag down.
“No you don't.”
I grab one of the pillows and hurl it at his face. He catches it without looking, grinning like the smug bastard he is.
“I might after tonight,” I say.
"Left side is yours," he says, patting the mattress. "I'll stay over here in my designated cuddle-free zone."
"There better be a designated cuddle-free zone, or I'm knocking on Rex’s door in the middle of the night."
Phoenix laughs his ass off.
But I'm already pulling off my boots, setting them by the door. The bed is comfortable, I'll give Phoenix that. Figures he’d splurge on a premium mattress. The sheets are cool and soft, and when I sink down onto my designated side, I have to suppress a groan.
Phoenix grabs the remote, flipping through streaming options. "Movie?" he asks even though he’s already found one. The Creature from the Black Lagoon. Definitely not something he would pick on his own.
He’s annoyingly considerate.
The opening credits roll, and I settle back against the pillows, trying to find a comfortable position.
Phoenix is a respectful three feet away, true to his word about staying in his zone.
But the bed dips slightly toward him because he has fifty pounds on me, and I have to actively fight gravity to keep from rolling against him.
My body slowly relaxes despite my best efforts to stay alert. The bed is too comfortable. Phoenix's room is too warm. The day was too long. Somehow, I end up with my arm draped over Phoenix's thick torso, my face pressed against his shoulder.
And I’m too tired to give a shit.