Chapter Text
The TV flickers in the dimness of Frederick’s apartment. The VHS tracking is slightly off—horizontal lines occasionally disrupting the picture—but neither of them moves to adjust it. Frederick sits on the left side of the sofa, the side closer to the TV, where he can hear it better. Orpheus sprawls beside him, taking up more than his fair share of space, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
It’s their third episode of Murder, She Wrote. Frederick’s not even sure if he can follow the plot anymore.
“She should’ve known it was the butler,” Orpheus says, tapping ash into the glass tray on the coffee table. “All of the signs were there. In the narrative.”
“You say that about every episode.” Frederick allows himself a small smile. “And you’re wrong half the time.”
“I’m wrong a third of the time.” Orpheus takes a drag, exhales slowly. The smoke curls toward the ceiling, caught in the blue glow of the screen. “I am getting much better at predicting formula. It’s all about understanding structure, repetition, the architecture of mystery…”
Frederick watches him from the corner of his eye—the way Orpheus’s free hand gestures as he speaks, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead. They’ve been doing this since they were children, Orpheus talking about stories and the bones beneath the narrative. And Frederick listens, anchoring him when he threatens to float away in abstraction.
Twenty years. They’ve known each other for twenty years.
“Speaking of architectures,” Frederick says, reaching for his own drink—gin and tonic, more tonic than gin, condensation pooling on the glass. “You were going to tell me about your latest manuscript. Identity V, correct?”
Orpheus’s eyes light up the way they always do when somebody remembers the things he’s said in the past. “You remembered the title.”
“Of course I did.”
"It's—well, it's still early." Orpheus shifts, accidentally knocking his knee against Frederick's. He doesn't move away. "But I think it could be something. A manor, a game, people with secrets. Everyone's running from something, or toward something, or both. I want to explore identity as performance, you know? The roles we play, the masks we wear."
Frederick nods, watching the way Orpheus’s smile reaches his eyes. He’s always been so expressive when he talks about writing—hands moving, face animated. It makes it easier for Frederick to follow, though after twenty years, he’s learned to read Orpheus in ways that have nothing to do with just hearing.
“And you?” Orpheus asks, stubbing out his cigarette. “The music industry is cutthroat. Are you sure you’re ready?”
“I’m ready.” Frederick keeps his voice measured. “I’ve been composing since I was seven. I’m more than ready.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Orpheus’s expression softens. “I just mean—you don’t have to prove anything. Not to me.”
The words settle in Frederick's chest, warm and unsettling. On screen, Angela Lansbury is explaining something to a police officer, but Frederick can't focus on it. The background noise makes it harder to pick out dialogue anyway, and right now, Orpheus is more important than Murder, She Wrote.
“I know,” Frederick finally says after a heartbeat of silence. “But I want this. I want to create something that matters.”
“You will.” Orpheus says it with such certainty that Frederick almost believes him.
They fall into comfortable silence, watching the climax of the episode unfold. Frederick should feel content—this is how they’ve spent countless evenings, after all. Summer stretching before them, the future bright and malleable, their friendship as constant as gravity.
But then Orpheus sits up straighter, suddenly more animated in a way that makes Frederick’s chest tighten.
“Oh—I almost forgot to tell you. About the new housemate situation.”
Frederick keeps his expression neutral. He’d almost forgot about that. “Did you find someone to room with me?”
“Not just someone.” Orpheus turns to face him fully, tucking one leg under himself. “Frederick, he’s perfect. His name is Joseph—Joseph Desaulnier. He’s a photographer for Time Magazine and many of his works have been featured in newspapers all over the world.” His hand gestures are more fluent, his smile vibrant. “He comes from Paris, and he’s looking for somewhere to stay while he establishes himself, and we spoke at that gallery opening last week, and—”
“You went to a gallery opening?” Frederick interrupts. “I thought you found those places ‘stuffy.’”
“Edgar dragged me along,” Orpheus says, waving this away like it’s inconsequential. “But that’s not the point. Joseph is… my God, Frederick, he’s fascinating. A true protagonist stepping out of a tragedy. Melancholic in this really profound way, carrying some beautiful sadness. His work is all about memory, preserving moments before they disappear. He sent me a few of his photographs in the mail, and I swear I could write a hundred full novels about the stories in them.”
Frederick’s hand squeezes his glass. He knows he should say something supportive, encouraging, but the words stick in his throat. He has never heard Orpheus talk about someone like this. Not since—
“He reminds me of Italy,” Orpheus continues, and Frederick’s stomach drops. “Do you remember? When we were twelve and visited Florence in the summer. The way everything felt saturated with history and beauty and this gorgeous decay? That’s what his photographs feel like. What he feels like.”
Italy. Orpheus is comparing this… complete stranger to Italy.
Frederick remembers that summer. He remembers Orpheus's wonder at the old libraries, the way he'd dragged Frederick through every museum and church and piazza, talking ceaselessly about art and time and meaning. He'd never seen Orpheus so alive, and feeling both privileged to witness it and terrified that he could never make Orpheus feel that way himself.
"When is he moving in?" Frederick asks. His voice comes out level. Professional. Like he's asking about a business arrangement.
"Next week." Orpheus grins—actually grins, open and boyish and rare. "You'll meet him, obviously. I think you two will get along. He's quiet, like you. Artistic. He's twenty-five, so a bit older, but not in a condescending way. More like... worldly?"
If Orpheus notices the frost in his tone, he doesn't acknowledge it. He's already reaching for another cigarette, still talking about Joseph's exhibition in Paris, about his technique, about the way he frames light and shadow. He’s going on about the melancholy, the tragedy, how this Joseph character is everything perfect and glorious and everything that Frederick knows he isn’t.
Frederick turns back to the television, where the credits are rolling. The actors’ faces freeze, then jump as the tracking glitches again.
Instead of standing to adjust it, instead of acknowledging Orpheus’s excitement, he sits in the flickering blue darkness and feels the summer heat press against the windows like a warning.
As soon as the episode ends, Frederick reaches for the TV remote and shuts it off, the screen going black.
“I should probably head out.” Orpheus stands and stretches, his shirt riding up slightly, exposing a strip of pale skin. Frederick has to turn away. He checks his watch. “It’s getting late, and I still need to finish reading through Joseph’s portfolio. He sent me copies of his work and I need to give him proper feedback before he arrives.”
Frederick nods. He can’t find himself to say anything—he shouldn’t.
“Same time next week?” Orpheus asks, already gathering his cigarettes and lighter from the table.
Frederick stands too, smoothing down his shirt. “Of course,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll even pick up some of those awful lemon cakes you like from the bakery.”
Orpheus beams at him—genuine, an unguarded smile that makes Frederick’s chest ache. “You always remember.”
The week blurs before Frederick's eyes.
He wakes to a knock at the door—slow, tentative, as though the wood might crack under any real pressure. Frederick groans, vision hazy as he sits up, hair disheveled from a week of late nights. Orpheus had called on Monday, gushing about Joseph and how 'enchanting' his black-and-white portraits were. On Tuesday, Orpheus woke him at six in the morning to ramble about an 'inspiring' French proverb Joseph had taught him.
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday... all of it Joseph, Joseph, Joseph.
The knock comes again, more insistent this time.
Frederick runs a hand through his disheveled hair, cursing under his breath as he stumbles out of bed. The sunlight streaming through the blinds tells him it’s well past morning—probably noon, maybe later He’d stayed up until 4 AM the night before, composing, pouring his frustrations into piano keys and sheet music. It’s the only way he knew how to process any of this.
With a sigh, Frederick makes his way out of his bedroom and down the hall. He knows he’s a mess, and he knows just how inappropriate and improper this is—but this Joseph character is coming into his space. His home. Although the idea of getting a housemate was originally Frederick’s, Orpheus was the one who took the initiative to find one for Frederick.
And whether or not he chose wisely is something Frederick will soon find out.
He opens the door.
Joseph Desaulnier is exactly as Orpheus described, which is the worst part. He is slight of frame but holds himself with a terrifying, aristocratic posture. His hair is tied back in a loose, elegant ribbon, snowy white strands framing a face that seems too delicate for the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hallway. He wears a crisp dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a vest that looks vintage, timeless. A heavy-looking camera hangs around his neck like a talisman.
He looks like a photograph someone forgot to colorize. Beautiful in a way that feels almost impossible, almost unfair
"Frederick Kreiburg?" Joseph's voice is smooth, his English melodic.
“That’s correct.” Frederick tries to keep his voice even, his posture straight despite his wrinkled Ohio State tee shirt and flannel sleep pants. “And you must be Joseph.”
“I am.” Joseph’s gaze flickers over Frederick—not judgmental, just observant. The way a photographer might look at a subject, assessing light and shadow and composition. “I apologize if I woke you. Orpheus told me to arrive at noon, but perhaps I should have called ahead.”
“It’s fine.” It isn’t, but Frederick steps aside anyway. “Come in.”
Joseph steps inside, moving with a quiet grace that makes Frederick hyper-aware of his own shuffling gait. The apartment isn’t large—a modest living room connected to a small kitchen, a hallway leading to two bedrooms and a bathroom—but Joseph seems to survey it like he’s cataloguing every detail. The morning light catches dust motes suspended in the air, and Frederick suddenyl wishes he’d cleaned.
“It is… smaller than I expected,” Joseph says, and Frederick’s jaw tightens before Joseph adds, “I like it. It feels… lived in. Warm. I much prefer it to big, empty spaces.”
Frederick tries to take the compliment. He gestures vaguely toward the hallway. "Your room is at the end. Bathroom is across from it. The kitchen—" He pauses, watching Joseph's eyes track the movement of his lips. "You can use whatever you need. I ask only that you clean up after yourself."
“Of curse.” Joseph sets down his single suitcase—leather, old but well-maintained. “I do not intend to be a burden. I keep to myself, mostly.”
“Orpheus said you were quiet.”
Something flickers across Joseph's face at the mention of Orpheus's name. Not quite a smile, but a softening. "He speaks of you often, you know. Frederick, the composer. His oldest friend." Joseph's accent curls around the words, giving them a weight Frederick isn't prepared for. "He admires you very much."
He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them, aware of how defensive the posture looks. "We've known each other since we were children."
"Twenty years, he told me." Joseph tilts his head slightly. "That is a long time to know someone."
“It is.”
The silence that follows isn’t comfortable, but it’s not hostile either. Joseph seems content to let it sit between them, his gaze drifting to the upright piano against the far wall. Sheet music is scattered across the top—Frederick's 3 AM scribblings, half-finished compositions he’d rather not explain.
“You are a composer,” Joseph says slowly. It’s not a question.
Frederick exhales, a little sharper than intended. “I do.”
“You have a beautiful piano.” Joseph takes a few steps closer, eyeing the piano as if it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. “It looks well-used. Loved. I respect that.” He looks up, meeting Frederick’s tired gaze.
Joseph asks something, but Frederick can only pick up a few words—how long—before he replies, his answer flat.
“Since I was seven.”
“I see.” Joseph’s smile is warm, but it doesn’t reach his icy blue eyes. You must have lots of skill.”
“It takes practice.”
“As does photography.”
The words hang in the air. Frederick isn't sure if he's meant to respond, so he doesn't. He shifts his weight instead, painfully aware of his wrinkled pajamas, his uncombed hair, the sleep still crusted in the corners of his eyes. Joseph looks like he belongs in a gallery. Frederick looks like he belongs back in bed.
Hospitality. Right.
"I can make coffee," Frederick offers. The words come out stiff, reluctant. "If you want."
Joseph turns from the piano, hands clasping behind his back in that precise way of his. His lips move in response, and Frederick catches kind and do not drink coffee and something about agité—agitated? His hands, maybe. Something about his hands.
Tea, then. Frederick latches onto what he understood and doesn't ask Joseph to repeat himself. He's learned that asking too often makes people uncomfortable, makes them slow their words and raise their volume like he's a child. Better to fill the gaps himself.
"I have Earl Grey," Frederick says, already moving toward the kitchen. "If that works."
"That would be lovely."
The kitchen is small, barely enough room for one person to move comfortably, but it feels like a refuge. Frederick fills the kettle, sets it on the stove, turns the burner on. Familiar motions. Predictable outcomes. Behind him, he senses rather than hears Joseph hovering in the doorway—a presence, a shift in the air, a faint displacement of light.
Frederick gestures at the small table pushed against the wall without turning around. "You can sit."
A pause. Then the soft scrape of a chair against linoleum. Frederick exhales, some tension loosening in his shoulders now that Joseph is no longer standing behind him, no longer watching his every movement with that quiet, cataloguing gaze.
The kettle begins to heat. The coffee maker gurgles to life. Frederick keeps his back to Joseph, watching steam curl from the spout, letting the silence stretch between them like a held breath.
This is what Orpheus has been talking about all week. This elegant stranger with his vintage vest and his camera and his beautiful sadness. Frederick had imagined someone insufferable—pretentious, maybe, or condescending in the way that worldly people sometimes are about those who've never left Ohio. Someone he could justify resenting.
Instead, Joseph sits quietly at his kitchen table, asking nothing of Frederick except hot water and a tea bag. Patient. Undemanding. Content with silence in a way most people aren't.
It's worse, somehow. Much worse. Easier to hate someone who gives you reasons.
The kettle whistles, and Frederick pours the water over the tea bag, watching the color bloom and spread. He finds the honey jar Orpheus left here months ago—something about a recipe he never made—and sets it on the table beside the steeping mug. His own coffee he pours black, no sugar. He wraps his hands around the warm ceramic and leans against the counter rather than sitting down.
Distance. He needs distance.
Joseph adds honey to his tea with slow, deliberate movements. One spoonful. Stirred three times, exactly. The spoon set down parallel to the mug's handle, and there’s something almost ritualistic about it, something that speaks to routine and precision and order.
Frederick watches despite himself, cataloguing details the way Orpheus would, the way Joseph probably does with his photographs. Long fingers, pale and steady. No rings. Neat, trimmed nails. Photographer's hands, Frederick thinks, and then resents himself for noticing.
The silence stretches. Outside, a car passes, engine fading into the distance. The refrigerator hums. The clock above the stove ticks, each second loud in the quiet.
Joseph's lips move. Frederick catches fragments—apartment and quiet and appreciate—and pieces together meaning from context and shape. Something about the silence. Something about preferring it.
Frederick nods. It seems like the right response.
Joseph's gaze flickers to him—a quick assessment, barely there before it's gone. Frederick wonders if he noticed. If he caught the slight delay, the way Frederick's eyes had tracked his mouth. Most people don't, not right away. Frederick has spent his whole life learning to compensate, to read lips and fill gaps, to guess at words he didn't hear and respond as though he did.
Orpheus knows, of course. Has always known, has always sat on Frederick's left, has always faced him when speaking, has always touched his arm rather than calling from across a room. Twenty years of small accommodations, never discussed, never made into a thing.
Frederick wonders if Orpheus told Joseph. Probably not. Orpheus is careless about many things, but never about Frederick's secrets, but still. The thought settles uneasily in his chest, another vulnerability exposed to this stranger Orpheus can't stop praising.
Joseph lifts his tea, takes a slow sip. Sets it down again. His gaze drifts toward the window, watching the afternoon light fall across the parking lot, and something in his expression shifts. Softens. Like he's seeing something Frederick can't.
He frames light and shadow, Orpheus had said. His work is all about memory, preserving moments before they disappear.
Frederick looks at the light. It's just light. Pale and ordinary, filtering through dusty blinds, illuminating nothing special. He looks back at Joseph, who is still watching the window, tea cradled between his palms. There's something distant in his expression now. Something far away.
Frederick's chest tightens with an emotion he refuses to name.
The phone rings.
Frederick nearly drops his coffee mug. The shrill electronic tone cuts through the kitchen silence like a knife, and he sets his cup down harder than intended, ceramic clacking against the counter. Joseph doesn't startle—just turns his head toward the sound with that same measured calm, as though telephones ringing are simply another detail to be catalogued.
"Excuse me," Frederick mutters, already moving toward the living room where the phone sits on its cradle beside the sofa.
He picks up on the third ring. "Hello?"
"Frederick," Orpheus's voice crackles through the receiver, warm and animated in a way that makes Frederick's stomach clench. "Is he there? Has he arrived? What do you think?"
Frederick glances toward the kitchen doorway. Joseph remains seated at the table, hands wrapped around his tea, gaze politely averted. Giving him privacy. Of course he is.
"He's here," Frederick says, keeping his voice low. "We were just having tea."
"Tea. That's perfect. That's so—" A burst of static swallows the rest of Orpheus's sentence. Frederick presses the receiver harder against his ear, straining to catch the words. "—exactly what I hoped. You're being hospitable. I knew you would be."
"I'm not a monster, Orpheus."
"I never said you were." There's a smile in Orpheus's voice, audible even through the poor connection. "I just know you can be... reserved. With new people. And Joseph is—he's special, Frederick, he really is. I want you two to get along."
Frederick's jaw tightens. "You've mentioned."
"Have I been talking about him too much?" A pause. When Orpheus speaks again, his tone is softer, almost sheepish. "I have, haven't I? Edgar told me I was being insufferable. He used that exact word. Insufferable."
"Edgar wasn't wrong."
Orpheus laughs—that bright, unguarded sound that Frederick has been cataloguing for twenty years. "Fair enough. But listen, I was thinking—I want to come over tonight. To celebrate Joseph's first day. The three of us, together. What do you say?"
Frederick hesitates. The three of us. Like they're already a unit, already something cohesive and complete. Like Joseph hasn't been in his apartment for less than an hour.
"Frederick? Are you still there?"
"I'm here." He exhales slowly. "What time?"
"How does 6:30 tonight sound? I'll bring dinner. There's a pizza place—Donato's. Joseph mentioned he preferred the texture there." A brief pause, weighted with something Frederick can't quite identify. "He has... particular preferences. About food. Textures and such. I want to make sure he's comfortable."
The texture. Frederick files this away, a small piece of information that explains nothing and everything. Particular preferences. The way Joseph stirred his tea exactly three times. The way he set his spoon down parallel to the handle.
"Yes, 6:30 tonight is fine," Frederick says.
"Wonderful. I'll see you then. And Frederick—" Orpheus's voice softens again, the static crackling around the edges of his words. "—thank you. For doing this. For letting him stay. It means... it means a great deal to me."
Frederick swallows. "I know."
"I'll see you tonight."
Frederick hangs up before Orpheus can say anything else, before the warmth in Orpheus's voice can settle any deeper into his chest. The receiver clicks back into its cradle, and Frederick stands there for a moment, hand still resting on the phone, staring at nothing.
6:30. Orpheus and Joseph and pizza from Donato's, chosen specifically because Joseph preferred the texture. Already Orpheus is learning him, accommodating him, making space for his particular needs in that effortless way he has.
Twenty years, and Frederick has never heard Orpheus talk about anyone like this.
He takes a breath. Composes his expression. Returns to the kitchen.
Joseph is exactly where he left him, tea half-finished, gaze now fixed on the sheet music visible through the doorway. He looks up when Frederick enters, something questioning in his expression.
"That was Orpheus," Frederick says, the words coming out flatter than intended. "He's coming over tonight, bringing pizza."
Joseph's face does something complicated—a flicker of warmth, quickly schooled into something more neutral. "That is very kind of him."
"He said it's from Donato's." Frederick watches Joseph's reaction carefully, though he's not sure what he's looking for. "Apparently you prefer it."
"I do." Joseph's voice is matter-of-fact, unembarrassed. "The crust has a particular texture I find... agreeable. Many pizzas are—" He pauses, searching for the word. "—overwhelming. Donato's is consistent."
Frederick nods slowly. It's such a simple explanation, offered without defensiveness or apology. Just a fact about himself, stated plainly.
"I should shower," Frederick says abruptly. "Before tonight. Make yourself comfortable, Joseph. The television remote is on the coffee table—however, the closed captions need to stay on."
Joseph's gaze flickers to him again, that quick assessing look. Frederick wonders if he's revealed too much, if the mention of closed captions has given something away. But Joseph only smiles, nods, rising from the table with his empty mug.
"Thank you kindly for the tea," he says. "And for your hospitality."
Frederick retreats to the bathroom before he can respond, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. His reflection stares back at him from the mirror—tired, disheveled, utterly unprepared for any of this.
He checks the clock. Four hours to compose himself.
He turns on the shower and tries not to think about the way Orpheus's voice had softened when he talked about Joseph's preferences. Tries not to think about Italy, about summer light, about twenty years of wanting something he's never been brave enough to name.
The water runs hot, and Frederick steps under it, letting the sound wash over him until it drowns out everything else. For now, at least, that will have to be enough.