I think one day, at an art exhibit just past closing, Rafayel loses his phone. And it's a big exhibit, one that's spread out across multiple rooms because Thomas had wanted it that way; had wanted to be able to separate Rafayel's paintings by motif. But that did make it a terrible place to lose a phone.

The three of you split up, everyone keeping their ears open as you get entrusted with being the one to get his phone ringing. It takes quite a few rooms of searching, but down the hall and 15 calls and 47 texts later, Thomas shouts that he hears a vibration. You come jogging down, and he tells you that the vibration isn't good in this kind of room; it echoes too much—could you maybe send a text?

So you do.

And then you hear it. It's brief, loud, and then the room is silent.

Thomas's head twists slowly, his gaze even slower. He opens his mouth. Pauses to think. Opens it again.

"...Did you just...snort?"

"What?" You blink. "Why would I do that?"

You both look at one another, each with a brow cocked, and huff out a laugh in unison. Thomas blows it off, "it's been a long day. I must be hearing things. Try again?" So you do.

But Thomas wasn't hearing things.

No. It sounded like you were fucking snorting. A classic mid-laugh, coming from the belly-type snort in your specific cadence.

You start speaking before Thomas can, "—I SWEAR I am not—"

—Thomas grabs your phone, eyes glued to your face as he sends another text.

Snort.

Thomas's eyebrows almost touch. "What the actual—"

It sounded like it was coming from behind one of the paintings.

You race forward. No fucking way that was your snort. Why in the hell were you hearing your snort in a dignified art gallery where paintings worth millions of dollars lined the walls? It couldn't be. It better not. You bark at Thomas to do it again, now. And when you hear it that one last time, you pinpoint the easel in question, turn it on its back and—

"—my phone!"

You're still holding onto it when you and Thomas regroup with Rafayel. Your cheeks are a few degrees hotter than when you left him, but Rafayel still gives one of them a peck anyway, unaware.

"Thanks cutie." He gives you one more peck just cuz. "Now we can finally get outta this—" but you don't let him finish.

"—Rafayel Qi." Both men flinch. Instinctively, Rafayel whips his head to Thomas for guidance—because what was that tone and why did it make him want to shit himself—only to find that Thomas had become the walking embodiment of the stone-face emoji right now. Oh fuck.

He slowly pans back to you.

"...Love of my life?" You glare at him.

"...Keeper of my heart?" You glare at him.

"...My beautiful muse and most merciful bodyguard?" You glare at him. Hard.

"Rafayel," you grit out. "Why. Is the sound. Of my SNORT—your ringtone?"

Silence. Thomas closes his eyes. Hopefully Rafayel was smart about this but in the event he was not: no witness, no crime.

"Oh, that."

Thomas squeezes his eyelids even tighter together.

But Rafayel just exhales in relief. He laughs.

"Cutie it's my favorite sound!"

—And that's how I think you discover that Rafayel has a favorite sound. Yes, you do eventually get him to change the ringtone. But yes he certainly fights back at first. Throws in a little pout. And you hate to admit it, but hearing his reasoning does make you a little more reluctant to not have your snort sounding off at fancy banquets and in front of Rafayel's peers.

That night, the two of you bicker in the loving and playful way you always do, all the way back to his studio. You keep trying to be serious and end up in giggling fits instead. Exasperated, and dangerously close to snorting again, you try to compromise—just use any other sound, okay? There have to be other noises I make that are more pleasant? Maybe even a list of favorite sounds? Even just the top five.