DAYAGOLD🤩

Omar thumbed through his socials, growing nauseous as he took in the neverending comments directed at, what he could only guess was, him after the total fiasco that occurred a few hours ago.

“Guys, he has to be really sick! Don’t you remember how he still went on stage with high fever?”

“I love you Omar! I really hope you’re okay!”

“This guy again. He’s such a fucking drama queen!”

“I’ve always been a huge supporter of Omar but I really did not like the way he handled things last night. Quite disappointed in how unprofessional the whole thing was… I hope he does better in the future.”

“Embarrasing!”

Slamming down the phone, he screwed his eyes shut to block out the negativity. It was useless. Every word seemed to burn itself right into his retinas.

He really shouldn’t let it affect him but how could he not when it was his face plastered over each and every post?

Even if it wasn’t really him everyone was talking about.

Simon came to, to the most blinding light he had ever seen in his life, stabbing him in the face. Followed shortly after by what he could only describe as hysterical screaming.

His heart dropped to his stomach as he let out an even shriller screech of his own.

Simon wasn't fully aware of his surroundings but it was impossible not to feel the air in the room change as everything came to a halt.

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the light. He could make out thousands of people staring up at him in shocked silence.

What the hell was happening?

“The fuck?” he whispered softly to himself, gasping in horror as he heard it echo loudly across the room.

He was on stage. That was obvious enough. But how the hell had that happened when the last thing he remembered was riding around Bjarstad with Rosh and Ayub?

Forcing movement back into his body, Simon clutched the mic stand in front of him, growing painfully aware of the way his sweat slicked curls were sticking to his forehead and the tight top he was wearing was constricting his every breath.

He swayed.

The crowd began mummering to themselves.

Simon needed to do something fast.

“I- I’m sorry. I don’t- I don’t know…”, he started.

It made Simon feel five again. Just like when he had performed on stage for the first time and his nerves had caused him to burst into tears and throw up all over his hand-me-down shoes.

Oh God. He was going to be sick

Simon pushed the microphone away with an urgency and began running.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t yet noticed the high heels replacing the usual sneakers on his feet.

His ankles rolled out from under him, throwing him forward towards the audience. Simon caught himself just in time but now he was hunched over in a dangerous position, and the bile in his throat refused to go back down once he had made it easy enough to come up.

He spewed.

The front row of the audience screamed as they got splattered.

Simon’s eyes watered from the effort and sheer humiliation of throwing up. He blinked his tears away, gagging still, and regretted it instantly because he could now see the disgust written on all their faces.

It was enough to make him swallow the profuse apology he was about to make, kick off his heels in desperation and floor it.

Not his finest moment.

Simon ran off stage, ignoring the calls of concern after him. He sped down what seemed like an endless back stage corridor before he found a door he hoped led to the washroom.

Luck was on his side. Simon bolted the door shut and gasped for breath.

His body relaxed enough to let him vomit up the remaining contents of his stomach. He retched, wondering if he was trapped in a nightmare.

After a good while, he drew himself back up and turned to the sink to wash his mouth out.

He gawked at the man staring back at him.

It wasn’t him. Or at least not the him he remembered.

This person shared the same face but there were lines etched in that Simon didn’t have yet. His face was wider, lacking some of the softness Simon’s still carried.

His hair was cut short, which Simon had never done in his life, and reflected a reddish hue in the bathroom light. Most shocking of all were the makeup and physique.

He looked as if he had let Madison go ham on him. His eyelids were somehow dark and iridescent at the same time. They were thickly lined with some sort of black pencil marks that Simon had smudged while rubbing his tears away.

His lips were covered in lipstick Simon wouldn’t have touched with a ten foot pole. The longer he looked, the heavier it felt on him.

The man in the mirror would have been able to take heavy. His shoulders were broader, muscles bigger than Simon could ever imagine him having, even if he worked out day in and day out.

It couldn’t be him! But the resemblance was uncanny.

Had he somehow forgotten the past decade of his life?

A loud banging on the door jolted Simon out of his thoughts.

“Omar? Is everything alright?”, came an unfamiliar voice.

Omar?

Simon reached for the door handle, conflicted between wanting to know more and keeping himself hidden for as long as possible. Maybe if he held his breath long enough, the man would go away.

“I know you’re in there.”

Damn.

“It’s okay if you need some time,” the man continued, “But we need to let Alva know if you’re up for continuing the show.”

Simon stayed silent.

“Listen, we’re just worried about you,” said the man cautiously, “These things happen. Can you let me in?”

Simon backed away from the door as the knocking started up again with renewed urgency.

“Please, let me in,”

His palm slammed the door.

“Omar, let me in! ”

“Who is it?” Simon asked.

Silence from behind the door for what felt like eternity.

“...Joel?”

Whoever Joel was, his confusion was evident even through the thick door separating them. He had said his name so hesitantly, like it should have been obvious to Simon who he was even though Simon had never heard of the guy in his life.

Summoning whatever bravery Simon had left in himself, he cracked the door open an inch.

The man standing outside was drenched in sweat and panting as if he had run the whole way there too, which was highly possible considering how quickly he had caught up to Simon.

“Oh, thank God!” he exclaimed, pushing his way into the toilet, “You almost gave me a heartattack.”

Joel gave him a once over.

“You look like shit!” he said, “But at least you’re not dead. Never do that again!”

Joel took his hand and led him to sit down. Raising the back of his palm to Simon’s forehead, he frowned.

“Fever. You’re burning up. How are you feeling?”

Bad.

“I dunno,” Simon mumbled.

“That’s alright,” Joel said softly, lifting a small water bottle to Simon’s lips. Simon gulped it down, thirstily.

His friend (?) busied himself with tending to Simon, wiping down his face with some wipes and getting him into a large hoodie, which Simon was eternally grateful for.

“You know,” Joel said slowly, looking Simon in the eye as if he was going to deliver some grave news, “You’re going to hate this, but we should really cancel the show.”

Simon didn’t answer. Guilt broiled in his stomach. This wasn’t even his show to cancel.

“Your fans will understand. Don’t jeopardize your health just cause you think you owe it to them. You have got to start looking after yourself better, Omar,” he said, his voice growing steely.

Simon shrank. Even if going onto stage sick wasn’t a choice he had made, it was the kind of choice he would.

“Okay”

Joel looked relieved, tension leaving as if he had been expecting Simon to put up a fight.

“Do you want to say a few words to the crowd before we go to the hospital? I think Adnan can drive us.”

The thought of facing the audience again caused Simon’s stomach to churn.

“No!” he yelled. “It’s okay.”

Joel stared at him in shock before quickly schooling his expression back into something more neutral.

“Alright…I think we should get you checked soon. Can you stand?”

Could he? Simon pushed himself up shakily and wobbled a few steps before Joel caught him.

“Sit back down. I’ll call Alva to get a stretcher down here. Don’t worry, everything is going to be alright, Omar.”

Simon couldn’t take it anymore.

“Who’s Omar?”, he blurted out.

Joel gaped at him like he had grown another head.

“Who’s..Omar?” Joel repeated in horror.

“Yes.”

“You are!”

“I’m not!” Simon protested, feeling like the walls were closing in on him. “There’s been some kind of mistake!”

The smile Joel flashed him at that was pained. He fished his phone out from his pocket and started typing furiously.

“Wait,” said Simon, “You’ve got to believe me!”

“Sure,” muttered Joel distractedly, still stabbing at his phone.

“I’m..I’m Simon…Eriksson,” he added as if that would help.

That made him look up from his phone.

“The little gay boy from the prince show?” came Joel’s manic whisper.

Excuse me?

Joel let out a sound Simon couldn’t even describe and brought his phone up to his ear, turning around as if that could somehow prevent Simon from hearing them talk about him.

“We’re so fucked”, he overheard, “…he’s got to be dying or something. He thinks he’s Simon Eriksson. Yes! That one! Come faster!”

Well that was rude.

And intriguing. Joel seemed to know who he was. Even though that seemed like cause for alarm, Simon still felt some comfort knowing he hadn’t drifted into another plane of reality entirely.

The next hour was a blur. The adrenaline of being in such an unfamiliar situation had worn out and left Simon in a haze. A stretcher had been rushed in. More people whose names Simon couldn’t grasp had drifted in and out of view.

The only name that did stick was the one they kept repeating at him.

Omar, Omar, Omar.

Simon was starting to get sick of the guy, whoever he was.