"There he is."
His mom's voice sliced through the open kitchen, jolting Fedora so hard he nearly tripped over his own feet. He had been so deep in his inner spiral, so lost in the static of his own head, that he hadn't noticed he was fully immersed back into the physical world.
Fedora blinked, snapping his head toward the sound.
His mom, a slender, average-height woman with beautifully carved features and white-blonde hair that she wore like a crown, was already approaching him.
She held a spice-stained spatula in one hand, likely still warm from stirring a pot, looking entirely too vibrant and strong for a woman who had birthed a son of Fedora's age.
It was undeniably the source of Fedora's own impeccable genetic code.
Fedora's gaze dropped to her other hand, and he squeezed his eyes shut in immediate regret.
She was clutching a silver thermal food flask. It was a task, a chore he already hated before she'd even asked, yet one he knew he couldn't refuse.
"Good morning, Ma," he greeted her, his voice sounding dull and cloudy even to his own ears.
"Yes," his mom dismissed, a soft flick of her wrist waving away the pleasantry without even returning the greeting properly. Just as expected.
"We were literally talking about you," she began immediately, her eyes refusing to meet his.
"I thought you were not in... since you didn't come down for breakfast."
"How thoughtful," Fedora muttered under his breath, the sarcasm dripping off his tongue like venom.
His mom's routine: trying to play the part of the sweet, caring matriarch before delivering a task, was never going to stop being cringeworthy to him.
He was sure she heard him because she paused for a microsecond, her expression flickering as if she were analysing her next move, then she pressed on.
"I even asked the servants to check on you, but Sarah here…" She stole a quick glance toward the breakfast nook.
There sat Sarah, the "perfect" child, draped in majestic silk pyjamas on a high stool.
Her hands were wrapped gently around a porcelain cup that curled with aromatic steam. Fedora finally looked her way.
She took a slow, deliberate sip from the cup before waving softly at him, her face radiating the smug glow of someone who knew they were the house favourite.
Fedora reciprocated the gesture with a sharp, icy nod before being pulled back into the orbit of his mother's fake warmth.
"Sarah was so certain you were in, I even had to go—"
"Ma! What do you want me to do for you?" Fedora cut her off. Watching her force concern and perform motherly warmth made his skin coil; it was an irritation that reached deep into his marrow.
"Nooo! Fed, don't say such things. You make it seem like I'm only concerned when I need your help with something."
Fedora exhaled deeply, his gaze drifting toward the large windows where the morning sun was bleeding through the glass. He rolled his eyes with a dramatic, visible scrunch of his nose. Is the concern and care in the room with us? he scoffed internally.
He had already survived enough mood swings this morning; he wasn't about to let anyone add to his mental stockpile of capital B.S.
"...Anyway," Mrs Storm continued, her attempt at playing Mother Teresa having failed.
"It seems like you are going out. I want you to drop by your father's villa and give him this." She stretched out the silver flask toward him with a crusty, forced smile.
Fedora didn't protest. He didn't even hesitate like he used to. His mother was an overly religious woman; disobeying her will was an invitation for a full-blown, ear-bleeding sermon about scriptures and "demonic spirits."
He knew the script: if he said no, she'd blame the "demon behind why he is gay." He couldn't risk his ears bleeding that much, so he politely snatched the flask and pivoted toward the exit.
"Your outfit will make men sin," his sister chirped slyly.
She immediately buried her face back in her cup, hiding that annoying grin, the moment Fedora shot her a hard, knowing glare that dared her to repeat it. When he got no further reaction, he snapped his head back with sassiness.
"I thought as much... bitch, enjoy the spotlight," he murmured dramatically. He slammed the heavy front door behind him before either of them could utter another syllable.
He was fully aware that the moment the latch clicked, they would host another mini-session of their podcast on that kitchen counter, dissecting his life choices with "God-crazy" precision.
"Am betting on that," he said to himself as he glided past the guards.
A flood of greetings rushed in, but he ignored them; he loved the family money, but he wasn't used to being treated like an untouchable icon. For now, he just had to jog and deliver this goddamned flask.
*******
"Eiiiishh!"
Fedora let out a jagged, irritated grunt as he stepped out from the shade of a small kiosk and back into the unforgiving glare of the sun.
He used one hand to shield his eyes, his entire body and hair damp with sweat.
"Who even sent me to do this shit!" He cursed himself. Not only had he decided to jog way past his usual limits, but he had made the moronic decision to think he could literally jog from the main house to his father's villa.
"Could have taken a cab," he wheezed through hitched, shallow breaths.
He stood at the curb, refilling his water container, deciding he was going to rest for a moment before his legs gave out.
With his hands planted firmly on his waist, his forehead twitching with sheer exhaustion, he tried to calculate how much further he had to trek.
The thought alone made him want to curl up and sleep on the pavement.
Worst of all, this stretch of the street was isolated—the kind of road where people barely passed.
Finding a cab here was like finding a diamond in a coal mine. His gaze lowered to the concrete, and without hesitation, he dropped the flask at his feet with a dull clink.
Every sigh, every grunt, every slump of his shoulders was an undeniable sign of a man reconsidering every life choice he'd ever made. The beauty was gone; only pure, unadulterated frustration remained.
"Oh, God of heaven," he sneered.
"Why did I even agree to this when we literally have a driver? Wait…" He paused, the realisation hitting him like a physical blow.
This was intentional. This was one of his mother's "be a man" exercises.
" I am never doing this kinda shit again," he fumed, his eyes darting toward the horizon in a desperate hope for a lift.
If only he knew.
If he thought his day was already a disaster, it was about to get shittier.
To be continued...