He stares into the mirror at his own icy blue eyes. Is he eight years old or twenty-five?
After a few seconds, as if failing to find what he was looking for, he tears his gaze away and shoves the glass of Russian vodka across the dressing table. His fingers drag over his swollen eyelid, smudging the black liner.
His hands tremble in the air. Only a fresh, swollen red line is visible on his forearm, and his eyelids keep drooping. No stylist is here—just the vodka bottle to keep him company.
_The PR team is having a stroke... Where the hell are you?! Ten minutes till the premiere!
Nathan barges in without knocking. Elma's clumsy attempt to hide the glass and bottle creates an unpleasant clatter. Then, without hesitation, he spritzes thick, bitter cologne over his slender neck. The alcohol fumes dissolve into the perfume. It doesn't take long for Nathan's black-suited figure to appear behind him in the mirror.
Elma's face suddenly brightens, his lifeless lips stretching into an exaggerated smirk.
_I'm tonight's star! How could they even start without me?
He coughs, adding a flush of red to his pale, deathly cheeks. Nathan's eyes scan him quickly, lingering on the fresh wound.
_You're playing games again. Makeup doesn't take this long... I can see the liquor bottle.
With irritation, Nathan pulls the bottle from behind the array of perfumes and examines the nearly empty contents. His forehead creases instantly. He feels like he's dealing with a child who's cruelly toying with him.
Elma simply ignores him. Another cough escapes, and he wipes the corner of his mouth with a tissue already dotted with tiny red stains. A fresh, bright red mark appears, but he quickly crumples the tissue in his fist.
_You know it calms my nerves... Just a little. Don't stress so much, or that pretty forehead of yours will wrinkle, and you're only thirty five.
With shameless audacity, he nudges Nathan's arm and leans closer to the mirror. The knuckles of his fingers whiten from the pressure. Nathan's scowl darkens.
I'm not stupid.
_What, you think I'm a kid? You went out again last night—you never stop at less than six shots! And this—
Nathan's masculine grip clamps around Elma's slender wrist, twisting it sharply.
_Where did this come from? This also for 'calming your nerves'?
Genuine exhaustion and worry flicker in Nathan's voice—maybe even controlled anger. But it's not like Elma doesn't know.
For a few seconds, their eyes lock—one fading, the other struggling.
But then a new smile curls on the young man's lips, and he easily pulls his wrist free. Nathan knows he can't force anything on him.
_A glass of champagne slipped from the waiter's hand. That's why I couldn't take the seventh shot~
A sigh of frustration escapes Nathan, but it's too late to argue. He just feels his hair turning gray.
_Just don't drown yourself in pills tonight, okay? You need to be on the red carpet now... Unless you want your father to—
Elma freezes for a second. But after a moment, he regains composure, tone unchanged.
_Afraid I'll trip, crack my skull on the stairs, and die? I'm coming! He doesn't need to worry... Neither do you.
But before leaving, he downs three Xanax with vodka.
There's no way he can face the cameras sober.
---
Everyone knows movie stars transform into different creatures on stage, but no one can figure out how Elma Naven suddenly becomes a confident, radiant presence—especially those who know him.
With those dark circles no concealer can hide.
That flawless smile never leaves his beautiful face, interview after interview, all executed perfectly.
Even as his slender legs wobble dangerously in his expensive shoes on the red carpet, that million-dollar grin never falters for the magazine covers.
_Quali sono i tuoi progetti per il prossimo film?
Elma turns in confusion toward a woman speaking Italian into a microphone. The international press badge makes him flinch.
_Signor Naven?
For a moment, his made-up face pales. The last traces of anti-anxiety meds fade from his bloodstream, and he glances back desperately for help.
_Non ne siamo sicuri, ma se ci sarà un numero 2, sicuramente non perderemo l'occasione.
Nathan answers smoothly in perfect Italian. A firm, masculine hand grips his shoulder, steadying him. The tremors in Elma's spine stop abruptly... He glances at Nathan and waits.
Waits...
The corner of his lips quirks mockingly. Only Nathan hears the whisper:
_Too bad I don't speak Italian but you do... Daddy would've loved seeing me panic.
Nathan finishes with the reporter, his knuckles and lips white.
Another whisper, just for them:
_I'm taking all your pills tonight. Just go to sleep... Promise me.
Elma laughs softly, carefree. Nathan knows about the stimulants, the alcohol—but does he know about the rest?
Even if he did, he wouldn't want to believe it.
_Of course, dear Nathan.
---
Technically, he didn't lie.
Elma doesn't take any more pills.
Which is why, at 1:30 AM, he stands by the Grand Hotel Los Angeles' massive window, flicking a lighter on and off.
The cigarette in his hand burns itself out more than he smokes it. Neon lights blur outside in the rare heavy rain, leaving only the lighter and cigarette to illuminate the room.
_Hmm... What's your new plan? What's your new game? Can I even guess?
He laughs, the sound more mechanical than anything. The lighter flicks on again, the small flame trembling delicately—just like him.
_You want me to make you money, but you love mocking me... I know you're watching me everywhere...why should I have to be...
Suddenly, a sharp paranoia jolts down his spine. He whirls around.
Red dots... glowing red dots...
His hand trembles for a second, and the lighter drops. He knows he covered them all before. But now, suffocating under imagined surveillance, his legs—strong all day—finally buckle.
_No cameras... There aren't any! I... I turned them all off! I know I did... I know !
He screams into the empty room, the echoes bouncing back. His thin, shaking hand clutches the small knife hanging from his neck. A day's worth of terror floods his fractured mind at once, and his legs give out.
_Hah...
The hand holding the cigarette shakily drags across his forehead. His eyes squeeze shut against the darkness, the cold wall behind his back the only thing tethering him to reality.
With terrifying speed, he plummets from the smirks, the wine glasses, the flashing lights—into the damp, rotting depths. He knows where he is now: one of the lowest points.
He can never trust the highs.
A sound between a moan and a mocking laugh escapes his lips. He hits his forehead. Once. Twice. Three times... Voices ring in his ears, but he can't make them out. Four. Five...
Midway through a strike he can't even count, his wrist is caught. Warmth from the hand holding him seeps into his skin.
No...
_Stop... Enough. Don't torture yourself like this.
It takes Elma a few seconds to focus, to recognize the face in the dark—to realize this hand... is warm. Like always, like its owner.It doesn't trap him.
His glazed eyes blink, then sharpen. He doesn't know how pitiful he looks.
Of course it's Nathan.
Of course it's him.
_How many cigarettes have you had? I tried making noise so I wouldn't scare you... Guess you didn't hear. Where are you?
Idon't know either.
Nathan's hand gently releases his wrist, then wraps around his clenched fist. With the other hand, he plucks the cigarette from between his fingers. It's almost entirely burnt, leaving a faint red mark.
_You nearly burned yourself...
There's something in Nathan's voice Elma has never quite placed—and never will. Something like real concern.
A few seconds later, his limp body is gathered into Nathan's arms. The weight of the world vanishes, as if no pressure touches him anymore. He hates this feeling, hates that he can't have it all and he can't trust it completely. He hates it, because he loves it.
Such confliction.
Nathan lifts him effortlessly.
_You should've been in bed by midnight. Darkness... isn't good for you. Isn't good for anyone.
The last words fade into a murmur.
Elma stays silent. By the time he manages to piece his shattered soul back together, he's already on the bed.
_It's just... tobacco. I didn't take any pills.
His voice sounds lost. He doesn't know why he needs to prove it to him, to say he didn't lie, that he never lies to him. Something about it irritates Nathan, as it should.
Elma's hollow laugh and empty eyes only make it worse. He can barely see the remaining innocence in him—what little is left.
_That's not enough for me. You know that. Ants are crawling under my skin—how am I supposed to sleep?
Nathan sits on the bed, staring down at his painfully honest face. The most honest he ever is... when Nathan picks up his shattered pieces at midnight, tapes them back together, and waits for them to scatter again.
But Elma is like a magnet—when his pieces break apart, they refuse to reconnect.
_I'll get you melatonin.
Nathan stands, finally able to breathe when he looks away. From the locked bathroom cabinet, he retrieves the purple sleep gummies and returns. Elma lies like a dead starfish, staring at the ceiling with eerie focus. Nathan knows he won't find any answers there—this is the thousandth time. Yet he hopes Elma sees nothing in the blank white expanse.
Nathan sits back on the bed, placing two gummies in Elma's palm. The boy's corpse-like neck turns stiffly toward him.
_You know he has twins, right? Besides me? Living happily in Moscow, thinking their dad's some hotshot director who bankrolls half of Hollywood, not me.
He squeezes the gummies between his fingers. Of course Nathan knows. This isn't the first time Elma's mentioned them—his half-siblings, the only blood family left besides his father. A family he's never met and probably never will.
_Everyone thinks he's like this.
He holds one gummy up, inspecting it under the light. The stupid purple brightens.
_What do you think I'd do if I ever met them? Burn them alive?
Nathan stares into his eyes. A flicker of something feral lingers in that lonely blue, but it's gone before he can focus.
_I don't think you'd do that.
Elma pops the gummies like pills:
_I'd just steal them. Then I'd tell them the truth. Maybe if they never wanted to go back to Dad, I'd keep them with me... At least then, someone would be on my side.
Nathan thinks to himself that these nights keep getting worse, and there's nothing he can do.
It's not new, the hurtful truth.
Elma chews the gummies, tasting nothing.
His lips twist into a strange, terrifying smile—like he's trying to shake something off, something that won't budge.
Nathan's frown deepens. He pulls Elma's stiff body up, propping him against the satin pillows. He doesn't even know why he does it.
_If just one person was on my side... If just one believed me...
Nathan stares into his wide, dilated pupils... and for a moment, his belief in Elma's sanity wavers.
But his answer doesn't change.
_I'm on your side. That hurt to hear.
Elma stares back. His eyes dart, as if Nathan can see the tangled threads of his thoughts snapping apart.
His lips twist.
_Oh, Nathan, Natee, Nate! How much are they paying you to stay? I could never afford you! Why don't you just fill some resignation form and run away? I'm dangerous!
His cold fingertips brush Nathan's cheek. The sharp words wound, but Nathan doesn't look away.
_ how can you say that ?I've been with you for ten years. Yeah, they pay me a lot. But I'd rather flush it down the toilet. I'm only here... for you. You know that. I—
The pain, affection, and hopelessness on Nathan's face tell Elma exactly what's coming. His hand fists Nathan's plain collar, pressing a weak, hollow kiss to his lips.
_Don't... That's not for you. That doesn't suit you.
A smirk twists his face—mischievous, but fractured beneath the surface. He turns back to the bed. Nathan isn't surprised.
_A wreck like me? No. Maybe it's time to quit, Mr. Davis. You're doing yourself a disservice.
Nathan's shoulders sag without his blazer. His frown trembles, but his gaze has never been surer.
_I'm not quitting. And you need to sleep.
_I will. But have you ever slept?
Nathan stays silent, staring only at his thin back.
---