Page 67 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"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 meananything—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'rechibis!" 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.
