Renrei130.𖦹˙/Anaxa’s Dearest Angel⭑.ᐟ

Caleb is for the ones who Had a twisted hell of a home and being out there with friends, enjoying the adventure, riding bikes together, spend all summer day outside are the only cherished and good memories they have about their days as a child

Caleb is for the ones who Always wished for a brotherly figure who would protect them from everyone and everything because so many times they were hurt by the world

Caleb is for the ones Who Endure everything as long one person believes in them, only one is enough to be their guiding light when the darkness is all-consuming

Caleb is for the ones who Dream of a simple domestic life with their beloved, having their own garden with apple trees and a field of flowers

Caleb is for the ones who Always show a strong facade on the outside but are suffering and hurt on the inside. Nobody knows what they are really going through because they only show their sunny side

Caleb is for the ones Who Are tired of being independent, who want a pillar to rely on, someone who takes care of them for once. Where they can let loose and just be weak and needy.

You could hear the audience screaming as the current song—one of the hits of his new album Golden Blood, titled False Prophet—drew to a close on Anaxa’s final, haunting note. You smiled to yourself, thinking, they always go wild at this one. Your fingers fiddled with the hem of one of the pieces for the next outfit; a deep teal satin top with a low V-neck and jabot collar, wide sequinned sleeves and cuts at the shoulder, which went with a pair of black flared trousers and a glimmering red pendant around his neck. 

You designed it when Anaxa told you he wanted a look which would ‘dazzle the audience’. Something that catches the light, he had said, so they can’t tear their eyes away. 

The door swung open, and Anaxa staggered into the changing room, downing a glass of water as he entered. Knowing this routine like the back of your hand, you swiftly moved behind him and slipped the top he was wearing off over his head. His pale skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, and you could feel him shaking as you peeled away the trousers. 

Anaxa tended to be jittery during costume changes. It was an inevitable consequence of adrenaline, time pressure and exertion onstage—but even so, this time it was particularly notable. 

“Are you okay?” you asked, pulling the next pair of trousers up his skinny legs: long and tight-fitting, made from smooth black nylon and flared at the hems with crimson ruffles which fluttered like flames when he walked. He nodded, the line of his jaw tight. Under the harsh lighting, he didn’t look like an untouchable star. He looked vulnerable and frail and underslept. 

You weren’t convinced by his response, but you knew pushing him at a time like this would only make things worse, so you stayed silent as you tugged up the zip. The metal was worn down by sweat after so many performances, and the zip caught halfway up. You muttered a curse and tried again. It refused to budge. Anaxa didn’t say a word, but you could tell he was growing impatient by the way he clicked his tongue and his forefinger drummed on his thigh.

Public image was integral to Anaxa’s success and his vision. He was divisive. Not only did he know this, he revelled in it and took advantage of it, using his fame to make clear his views and challenge the status quo as he saw fit in both artistic and social spheres. Though he deplored mindless approval, people flocked to him religiously, as if he was some radical philosopher shaking the foundations of the world and offering the key to enlightenment. 

Costume and makeup were essential to maintaining this image, which is where you came in. The music was taken care of by Anaxa and his band and was groundbreaking in its own right, but without a striking visual presence to back it up, its impact wouldn’t spread as far. He needed a look to match his message. 

You’d gotten swept up into this movement purely by coincidence, when Anaxa was a budding star but his name wasn’t known like it was today. Looking back on it now, it was clear he was always destined for greatness, though at the time you hadn’t thought much of him. He was a passing name who had a couple of big hits on music rankings but who would probably sink into oblivion after a few months. 

You’d been working in retail at a small but well-reputed independent clothing store which specialised in hand-made products, with the vague dream of becoming a fashion designer or stylist or something of the sort. You had always had a knack for sewing and makeup since you were little, and your employer Aglaea was kind enough to encourage your creative talents, granting you the opportunity to produce and sell some of your own clothing. It’s partly thanks to her that you were where you were now.

One day in the winter Hyacine, Anaxa’s friend and agent (though you didn’t know it at the time), came into the shop, saying she was looking for a new jumper. You showed her around and talked for a bit before her eyes were drawn to a white and burgundy turtleneck. She asked whose handiwork it was, and you admitted that you had made it the previous year. She bought the jumper and, sensing that she might be a good customer to keep around, you mentioned that you also do makeup, if she was interested in that kind of thing. Hyacine said she had some time and suggested doing it right then. 

You were happy to do so and touched her up a little, casually chatting in the meanwhile about inconsequential things. She mentioned Anaxa’s name in passing and asked if you had heard any of his songs. You replied that you had heard one on the radio the other day—The Only Truth, you think it was called? Oh, yes, that one’s a hit, she replied with a smile. Once you were finished, she gave you a generous tip and left. 

Around a week later, she returned and told you that her friend-slash-co-worker wanted to see you. Who? you had asked. The person I mentioned to you last week, she had replied. Anaxa. 

After your shift was over, you went over with her to his place. The flat was large, with an eclectic mix of contemporary art and furniture populating the floors and walls. At first glance it looked chaotic, but the more you returned to that flat, the more you realised every item was arranged with careful consideration, in line with the personality of the man you got to know. 

You still remembered when you saw him for the first time, sitting at the piano, his long fingers boredly plunking out a few notes. His profile was facing you, meaning you only saw his eyepatch and the way the afternoon light caught his paper-white skin. He was attractive in a frail, vampiric kind of way.

“So, you are the one Hyacine mentioned,” he had said, throwing you a glance from the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the piano. “I want you to do my makeup.”

“Alright,” you replied. His demeanour was a little off-putting, but as a retail worker of three years you were used to putting up with rudeness. If this guy was really an up-and-coming musician, it was even less of a surprise. “What do you have in mind?”

The hint of a smile had flashed across his lips. Sharp, with a hint of cockiness. He turned to you. “Surprise me.”

You’d said that you hadn’t brought your palette with you, but Anaxa said it was of no matter and waved you in the direction of the bathroom, where you discovered an extensive array of colours and brushes. You still preferred your own set, but this would do. 

As you stood in front of him, determining which colours would suit him best and how bold to make it, you were strangely nervous. This felt like a test of some sort. Eventually you decided to go for something a bit more out-there, since judging by his interior design Anaxa was the type who was fond of experimentation. You powdered his face and gave him a sweeping wing of red eyeshadow—he’d been wearing a pair of red drop earrings that day which you thought would pair well with the colour. On the underside of his eye you used a green brush to add some more subtle detail and contrast. You’d wanted to ask about his eyepatch, but you didn’t quite dare. It still looked quite good with the eyepatch on, anyway: there was an interesting asymmetrical look to it. 

When you were finished, you handed Anaxa a mirror. He turned his head this way and that, eye narrowed, saying nothing. Finding the silence unbearable, you said offhandedly, “I think it would look good with green hair.”

He’d made a noise of consideration and swiftly sent you away. You weren’t sure whether that meant he hated it or whether this was normal conduct for him. 

You got your answer when, a couple of weeks after that, he called you over again. His hair was dyed a pale green and he wanted to know what other colours would go with it.

This exchange continued for a few months—Hyacine or Anaxa would call you over, you would try out some makeup or suggest a few outfits, and you would be sent away. Hyacine kept in contact with you while Anaxa only seemed to acknowledge your existence when asking you for advice or a favour. You quickly learned that he disliked being called anything other than his full name, which was Anaxagoras, and that he had radical views about politics and religion which found their way into his songwriting. He was extremely particular about his appearance and gave you detailed instructions about the desired effect. The remaining room for interpretation, often rather narrow, was left to you, and grew a little wider as time went on.  

You admired that about him, both back then and still in the present. Unlike you, who was always jumping between projects and unable to decide which area you wanted to specialise in or make grand plans for your future, he knew exactly what he wanted. 

Meanwhile, Anaxa’s name grew. He brought musicians over to his flat, performed gigs, even used some of your looks during public appearances. A couple of times he commissioned you to design some clothing items. Nothing much—a shirt here, a pair of stockings there—but you did notice that over time you had become some sort of unofficial consultant-slash-stylist. You were paid when your service was asked after, but the requests came inconsistently: sometimes you were over a few days in a row, and sometimes he didn’t call you for weeks. You’d quietly begun hoping they would hire you properly at some point. Was it delusional to think that was a possibility? Should you bring it up, or was that too impolite? 

You were spared from worrying too long about it. One day in July, you got a call from Hyacine. She said she was offering you a job to work as Anaxa’s stylist. You could negotiate the specifics of the pay later, but when she mentioned the general bracket, your jaw almost dropped to the floor. But it would involve a lot of travelling, she’d hazarded, in case that might put you off.

You jumped on the opportunity. You hadn’t realised how eager you were to leave your small neighbourhood behind until the chance was presented to you. Your family was a little hesitant about it, but willing to support your decision as long as you were sure about it. You were. You thanked Aglaea for her kindness and support before embarking on your new life—one which was far wilder than you could have imagined. 

You discovered a little late that you were expected to take care of other things beyond clothing and makeup—namely, hair styling. You charged through a nine-month long hairdressing course, shortening it to five months through sheer drive and strength of will. 

The first time you cut Anaxa’s hair was a disaster and he refused to speak with you for days afterwards. Afraid that you would lose your job, you hastily eked out a second chance from him and tried again, with more success this time. Meanwhile, the green hair seemed to have stuck and had become a staple of his public image. 

You got acquainted with the rest of Anaxa’s crew—Hyacine you already knew, but there were also a handful of core musicians he worked with, including Castorice, the keyboard player, and Phainon, who played the bass. You didn’t have much to do with the music side of things, though: if Anaxa was particular about his appearance, he was even more pedantic when it came to his music, entrusting its creation only to himself and, on occasion, Castorice and Phainon. Your time was taken up by measuring, sewing and dipping into different art mediums. You worked on increasingly creative and avante-garde projects with artists and designers from around the world, especially when he began to tour. Anaxa never stayed with one style for long, shedding personas like snakeskin, so you were always looking ahead and trying to figure out the next look. 

Anaxa had a good physique, with long, spindly limbs and defined musculature, though his thin frame made him look more delicate than strong. You often had the sense that he would shatter if you poked him too hard. In fact, he was a little too thin, given the way the outlines of his ribs and collarbone were visible under his skin and the hollows underneath his cheekbones. Yet the jutting bones and dark shadows, paired with the semi-translucence of his sheet-white skin, lent him a slight uncanny, almost otherworldly appearance, like he was some creature from beyond the skies masquerading in human dress. It was easy to see why he captivated people. There was a certain allure to his eccentricity, his self-assured way of striding forth and proclaiming himself to the world. 

Though, just like a man who fell to earth from the stars, sometimes you felt that he was very distant from the rest of you, even when surrounded by crowds. As far as you were concerned, Anaxa may have belonged to another universe entirely. 

At last, the zip went up. You breathed an inward sigh of relief and made a mental note to replace it as soon as possible. Ideally after today’s performance once you got back to the hotel. 

You were reaching for the satin V-neck when Anaxa turned to you. His gaze was hazy and unfocused, the look in his eye almost erratic. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Was he sick?

You swallowed. “Anaxa…?” 

He pulled you against him and smashed your mouths together. 

The kiss was messy, verging on desperate. Your lips crashed into each other and moved without any sort of rhyme or rhythm. Anaxa clutched your waist with a white-knuckled grip and your face with his other hand. Your hands slipped on his bare skin as you struggled to get a hold on him—to push him away, or pull him closer, you didn’t know. You were too shocked to think straight and too exhilarated to do anything but kiss him back. There was a definite thrill in it; in kissing this man whom millions swooned over in the matchbox of a backstage changing room while crowds roared his name outside. 

The crowds! A flash of clarity pierced through your adrenaline-induced stupor. He was half-naked and had to be back onstage. You tried to pull back, gasping out between breaths, “Anaxa—you’re on in three—”

He ignored you and kissed you harder. He was gripping you hard enough to leave bruises and the force of his kiss almost hurt. You flung yourself into him and kissed back, matching his frenzied hunger. With blood rushing in your ears and your heart pounding against your rubs, you realised that you wanted him. You wanted him for yourself, and you hoarded the sight of him like this: undressed, unkempt, human. It was a stolen glimpse of a side of him which nobody else but you was privy to. 

You pulled apart when you had a minute and a half left before he was due back onstage. You were both panting hard and shaking all over. With quaking hands you pulled on his top and adjusted it to be straight, smoothing out the flared collar and wide sleeves, then touched up his makeup. As soon as you were done, Anaxa ran out onto the stage. You sagged against the mirror in relief. 

The rest of the concert went smoothly. The crowd loved it. After it was over, you all piled into the car and headed towards your hotel. 

Anaxa looked exhausted as he slumped into the back seat. The rest of you made light chatter on the way back, discussing the high points and what tweaks to make for next time, but he was silent, staring out of the window with a blank expression on his face. Hyacine tried to ask after him and start a conversation, but he brushed her off with a few clipped replies. 

It was past one o’clock by the time you arrived in the hotel. Some of the others stayed in the lobby to chat, but you were exhausted. Once you bid good night to everyone and congratulated them on another successful concert, you headed to the lift to go to your room. Anaxa joined you wordlessly on the way up. Your rooms were on the same floor, so it made sense. 

As the lift slid up the elevator shaft, you were silent, standing next to each other, the distance between you somewhat small, somewhat far. Neither of you mentioned what had happened in the changing room. When the lift arrived with a ding, you exchanged a curt goodbye and went in different directions down the corridor to your respective rooms. 

You opened the door, sat down on your bed and stretched your arms above your head. A series of worrying cracks responded. Stifling a yawn, you thought, Time to replace that zipper. 

You took out the flared trousers and laid them out on the bed before fetching your sewing materials and the spare zippers you carried with you. Delicate metal things like zips were always the most susceptible to breaking after continuous use. You unpicked the old zipper—some of the teeth were corroded, and it was a miracle you had managed to get it closed at all earlier—before sewing on the new one. It was a little fiddly and you were tired, so it took you longer than usual to complete.

You were just finishing up when you heard a knock on your door. Supposing it could only be one person at this hour, you walked over and opened it. Anaxa breezed in without so much as a greeting and settled himself down at the edge of the sofa. “I want your advice,” he said flatly, staring at you from across the room.

You crossed back over the room and sat on the opposite side of the sofa. “On a new look?”

“On a song.”

“Oh,” you said after a moment. You were pleasantly surprised, but more than a little confused. Anaxa came to you for advice about styling, make-up, all the such: for his public image. But not his music. Never his music. 

You knew that questioning his choice, however, would only irritate him, so you sat back and pretended to look like you were in your element as he played a track on his phone. 

You were by no means a novice when it came to music—you’d always enjoyed listening to the radio as a child, and by now you’d been around Anaxa’s crew long enough to be familiar with all kinds of styles—but being familiar with music and being able of offering meaningful critique were two different things entirely.  

“What do you think?” Anaxa said once the track stopped playing. He was watching you very closely. 

“I like it,” you replied. “I think it’s good.”

His stare sharpened. “Only ‘good’?”

You realised your mistake and hastily rectified it. “No, no—I mean, it’s brilliant. Really.”

This appeared to satisfy him somewhat. He leaned back in the seat, kicking his legs out in front of him. “And you have no criticisms, or improvements to make?”

You shook your head. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s perfect.”

Something passed over his expression. Without another word, Anaxa stood up, walked towards the door, and nodded at you once over his shoulder before leaving.  

You stared after him in bemusement over the sudden change of mood. It wasn’t exactly out of character for him, but you couldn’t help but be struck anyway. Left alone in the room to think over it, you couldn’t help but feel you’d gone wrong, somehow. Disappointed him, perhaps. Maybe even offended him. But for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out how. Did he want you to critique it? He should know that wasn’t your area of expertise. Was it something to do with what happened earlier? Maybe, but if so the connection was beyond you. 

It wasn’t worth agonising over in any case. You showered, brushed your teeth, and collapsed into your bed. As you laid there, waiting to fall asleep, you reflected on your relationship with Anaxa. To be honest, you didn’t exactly know what it was. You had known for a while now that you found him attractive and, like many others, were drawn to his inexplicable gravity—but you’d never thought you were attracted to him like that. Now you realised you may be wrong. Dreadfully, painfully wrong.

You’d also never got the impression that he saw you as much more than a convenient person to have on hand and occasionally ask for advice. It may as well be anyone in your position for all he cared. True, there were things he confided to you in those fragile confines of the changing room, but he probably told Hyacine those things, too, right? …Right? 

And if he didn’t, what then? You turned over and closed your eyes. This—whatever ‘this’ was—probably wasn’t feasible. Between his passion and his music, you doubted Anaxa had any patience for things like personal entanglements. You had your hands full enough as things were, too. You just needed to get through this tour and then, maybe, you could consider the possibility of addressing that.

In the meantime, you had to take it one song, one change, one show at a time. That was how it started, after all: letting Anaxa take the lead, as was his forte, and waiting for his call. Whatever he asked of you, you were happy to provide, but you weren’t about to put yourself out there hoping for miracles. That liminal asylum of the changing room—and the secret exchanges it concealed—was enough.