The Chef and The Celebrity
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~Date: Unknown ~
~ Location: Unknown - interdimensional space pocket... for now ~
✨─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───✨
🐦🔥 [ Phoenix ☯ POV ] 🐦🔥
Phoenix had lived more lives than he cared to count since Solaris first broke him out of the Jailer System's direct control. Each world had forced him to relearn how to be "human," how to move through society without a system dictating his every breath. It was strange at first — unsettling, even — to have choices again. To move because he decided to, not because the Jailer System shoved him like a puppet on strings.
But freedom, even awkward, clumsy freedom, was still freedom.
And he needed it. He needed the knowledge, the experience, the soul power — all of it — before he could finally hunt down the ones who had imprisoned him and return the favor with interest.
Healing, unfortunately, was part of that process.
He had worked on his aversions one agonizing inch at a time. At first, even simple objects, places, or animals triggered violent reactions. Not because he disliked them — but because trauma had rewired him into a live wire.
Solaris had been the one to suggest exposure therapy.
"Introduce the triggers into your daily routine," Solaris had said. "Increase exposure by one percent each day."
One percent. Solaris had genuinely believed that was a reasonable number.
Still, it worked. Eventually after several worlds that is.
After a few lifetimes, Phoenix could pet animals without flinching, tolerate brief physical contact with people, and even allow others into his personal space — though only barely. He kept everyone at arm's length.
Except one.
He focused on learning in every life, growing stronger mentally and emotionally. It was not smooth. It was not easy. In the beginning, he still thought like a prisoner — waiting for the next command, the next punishment. But with time, and Solaris's steady guidance, he clawed his way out of that mindset.
By the last world, he had developed a fondness for small, cute things — animals, children, and tiny plants with ridiculous names. He could interact with them freely now. There were still many things he avoided, but he knew he would conquer them eventually.
He just wished he had made more progress before the Nursery anchored closer to their home plane.
Phoenix had honed every skill imaginable across those 365 mission worlds: acting, music, combat, politics, culinary arts, alchemy, medicine, technology, business, even running empires and criminal syndicates. He had lived through primitive eras and far‑future civilizations. He had mastered languages to the point he could learn new ones instantly.
He had become a one‑man multiverse résumé.
And yet, despite all that, he had never made real friends.
Well… except Draco.
Draco had been stoic, aloof, and seemingly asexual — a combination Phoenix found comforting. They had been business partners, roommates, and something that, to Phoenix, counted as dangerously close to friendship. To others, it would have looked like a polite business acquaintanceship.
But for Phoenix? That was practically soul‑bonding.
He pushed the thought aside. That life was over. Best not to dwell.
Seduction had been another skill he learned out of necessity, though he hated every second of it. Being asexual made the whole process feel like performing surgery with no anesthesia — technically possible, deeply unpleasant. He could fake it flawlessly, but he was screaming.
Phoenix wasn't stupid. He knew the odds of finding his destined mate were microscopic. And even if he did… well, he was too broken to be anyone's anything. He had accepted that.
Most days, he was an emperor of ice — cold, detached, unreadable. People kept their distance. He preferred it that way.
The only things he ever showed affection for were reading, writing, animals, technology, and the arts — culinary, musical, visual, mechanical. He loved creating things: jewelry, weapons, potions, sculptures, gadgets. He loved combining raw materials with alchemy and tech. At the end of every life, he stored his most precious creations with Solaris.
He had accumulated enough rare items to live comfortably for two hundred lifetimes. Solaris's pocket space had grown from holding six items to a hundred. Phoenix kept rare elements, ingredients, tools, cookware — anything he might need in future worlds.
He did not share. Some things were too precious. And he could not exactly explain where they came from.
Solaris explained the basics of dimensions and planes — two dimensions, each with multiverses, four planes, rulers above them, and an even higher tier above the Heavens. Phoenix did not push for more. Solaris would tell him when he could.
He trusted Solaris. Mostly. On good days.
Phoenix's thoughts drifted to his last life — the first time he had allowed someone to get even slightly close. Draco had been a constant, a quiet presence, a steady companion in a world full of noise.
Phoenix chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"Look at me," he muttered to himself. "Getting sentimental. Disgusting."
He sighed, letting the memories settle.
That life was over. A new one was beginning. And he had missions to complete.
Revenge to claim.
And, though he did not know it yet…
A soulmate waiting in the front row.
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~*~ Recalling the last world ~*~
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~ Nix ~
It was the end of his 365th world. Phoenix had tied off every loose thread with meticulous care: farewells spoken, legal affairs settled, and his frankly ridiculous fortune arranged exactly the way he intended. Then came the ritual he pretended wasn't sentimental at all. He stored his most precious belongings with Solaris, setting aside the pieces of that life he couldn't quite bring himself to abandon. Little fragments of memory, victory, and stubborn attachment—carefully tucked away under the guise of practicality. Solaris called it emotional preservation. Phoenix called it "organization." The truth, as usual, lived somewhere in between.
The majority of his estate would go to the only person who could reasonably be called his friend: his business partner, long-term roommate, and, to the shock of almost everyone, the person Phoenix trusted most. The rest would be donated to various charities, most of them focused on children and the underprivileged, along with his own foundation for "older children"—young adults who had aged out of orphanages with nowhere to go and no one to rely on. The foundation did more than provide shelter. It offered scholarships, internships, and entry-level jobs that did not require a university degree, giving them a chance to stand on their own before the world could crush them completely.
It brought him a strange kind of joy, satisfaction, and peace to know the organization would continue without him. Phoenix did not care much for people—or at least, that was what he told himself. Yet somewhere across the last few worlds, he had begun to care about children, especially those who reminded him of himself. The abandoned. The neglected. The abused. The orphaned. The ones born into poverty so severely that society treated their suffering as an inconvenience rather than a tragedy.
He wanted to do something for those who could not help themselves, because some quiet, stubborn part of him still remembered wishing someone had done the same for him. Not that he would ever admit that aloud. Phoenix was no hero, and he had never considered himself a good man. If anyone asked, he would claim the whole thing was a tax write-off—and, inconveniently, that it had produced some of the most loyal, hardworking employees he had ever known.
In practice, his charity housed and educated young adults who had nowhere else to go. Those who did not want, or could not manage, university were offered steady work and the possibility of advancement. Phoenix employed many people who had grown up in orphanages or survived severe poverty. In his experience, they were often the hardest workers, the sharpest learners, and the most capable people a company could ever hire. The bitter reality of that world was its cruel hierarchy; orphans and the impoverished were looked upon with such contempt that they were treated no better than stray dogs scavenging the gutters.
'The same as countless other worlds… the human heart can honestly be darker than a black hole.'
Because neither Phoenix nor Draco ever dated anyone, rumors followed them for decades. People insisted they had to be secretly involved. They were not. Not even close. Phoenix never understood why it was so difficult for others to accept that two men could be asexual, deeply compatible, and completely platonic.
Like Phoenix, Draco was stoic, cold, arrogant, and entirely (almost) apathetic to anything that was not work, cooking, reading, or cats. He also had mysophobia and could not stand sharing personal space or possessions with anyone—except Phoenix. Since Phoenix carried his own aversion to filth after far too many lives spent in wretched conditions, their strange "relationship" worked, almost too naturally. They were alike in ways that should have made them unbearable together yet somehow made them comfortable. If they had been capable of wanting romance with each other, they might have been a perfect pair. But that was never going to happen, no matter how many suitors pestered them.
'Now that was a headache. Maybe Draco was right after all. It might have been easier if we had married on paper. Then we would not have spent forty-plus years swatting away pesky flies, bees, and butterflies.' Phoenix snorted at the thought.
Draco had been drinking when he blurted it out, then laughed as if it were a joke. Phoenix had not thought much of it then. Now, he wondered if he should have accepted the offer of a contractual, platonic marriage just to save them both years of unnecessary irritation. It was too late now. That life was already gone, and there was no point dwelling on choices he could no longer change. Still, he could not help wishing Draco's soul the best in whatever life came next.
He could still hear Draco's voice. He could still remember the gentle smile Draco showed only to him. That, more than anything, unsettled Phoenix. Memory was supposed to be useful—something to catalogue, sort, and store away. This was different. This lingered. It pressed against his chest in a way he could not easily name. If not for Draco, Phoenix suspected it would have taken him at least three more lifetimes before he allowed anyone close enough to call them an acquaintance, much less a friend.
Draco had helped him in countless ways, and Phoenix regretted—quietly, bitterly—that he had never thanked him properly. He had never told Draco that he was the closest thing Phoenix had ever had to a friend. He had never dared admit that Draco had become something dangerously close to family. The end of that life had been harder than any other before it because, as Phoenix's time drew near, he found himself reluctant to leave. Not because of unfinished business. Not because of fear. Because leaving meant he would never see Draco again.
He looked over at Draco's picture and smiled, though the expression felt unfamiliar on his face. "Old man, I hope you are satisfied. I took care of your legacy. Your family cannot touch what we built—not in any shape or form—and neither can their children or grandchildren. Rest easy, my friend." He paused, the word catching in his throat. "Ha. I never called you that while you were alive, did I? But it is true. Thank you for helping me more than you will ever know. And… I'm sorry I never told you. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say."
Phoenix had waited until Draco passed so he could handle the arrangements himself. If it had been left to Draco's atrocious siblings, they would have drained his legacy dry and tossed his ashes away like trash. Knowing he had done one last decent thing for the only person who had cared for him in that life made his heart feel a little lighter. Lighter, but not healed. A thought surfaced before he could bury it. I wonder if I'll ever meet him again in one of his reincarnations.
Probably not. The chances were already impossibly low. Once Phoenix returned to his own dimension and home plane, they might as well become zero.
He truly hoped Draco's next life would be easier. He hoped the man would be born into a family that loved him, surrounded by friends who treasured him, allowed to live without the loneliness he had worn so gracefully. Phoenix did not know what to call that wish. Grief, perhaps. Affection. Gratitude. The words felt too small and too human, but he was beginning to recognize them anyway. With that thought, he got ready and crawled into bed, knowing this body would not wake in the morning.
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~*~ Back To Present ~*~
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That night, Phoenix left that world and returned to the nursery after gathering its soul power. He intended to sleep for one hundred and fifty years before doing anything else. It was fortunate, at least, that he had arrived back in the nursery this time.
When he woke, Phoenix startled violently. His surroundings had changed so drastically that, for one disoriented moment, he was not sure he was still in the nursery at all.
He bolted upright, gaze snapping across the space around him—only to freeze. Galaxies stretched in every direction, vast and luminous, spilling color through the darkness like living rivers of light. It was heartbreakingly beautiful. He had seen empires rise, stars die, oceans made of glass, and cities built beneath alien suns, but never anything quite so magnificent.
It took only a glance to know this was not the same place he had left before entering his last world.
'How did the nursery move like this? Solaris had to have done it, right?'
His thoughts were sluggish, pulled down by exhaustion and the ache he refused to name.
'I'll ask when I wake. For now… I just want to sleep. I want to forget how much it hurts to lose my only friend besides Solaris.'
With that final thought, he drifted back into a deep sleep as a distant, unfamiliar voice whispered softly, "Sleep well, my love."
'Wait… what?'
That voice. He had heard it before, at the moment of death in his last life before he broke free.
'Whose voice is that? Why do I keep hearing it? Is it an echo of some distant memory? If so, who did that voice belong to—and what were we to each other?'
He wanted to keep thinking, but exhaustion crashed over him like a tsunami. Before he could chase the thought any further, he was pulled under and fell deeply asleep.
As Phoenix slept, time blurred. A few hundred years passed, though he barely felt them. Even with that distance, the pain of losing Draco did not vanish. It dulled slowly, fading from a sharp wound into a deep ache, then into something quieter—an old bruise beneath the ribs, only noticeable when pressed. Phoenix disliked it. He disliked that a person's absence could remain inside him. He disliked that a life could end cleanly while the feelings from it refused to die. Most of all, he disliked that his own heart, stubborn and traitorous, had learned how to miss someone.
It had taken a long time for Phoenix to allow Draco into his tightly guarded heart. Once he had, Phoenix could no longer understand how he had endured life without him. They had been so close that outsiders mistook them for lovers, even though nothing romantic had ever existed between them. They were two platonic companions who could tolerate each other's constant presence, then something more than acquaintances, then lifelong friends—though Phoenix had never admitted that last part aloud.
In a way, Draco had been his life partner.
They worked together.
Lived together.
Built together.
Survived together.
They were basically married... 'Can two individuals be in a marriage together if they are completely platonic? How would that even work?'
Draco, like Phoenix, had never settled down. No matter how often Phoenix encouraged him to try dating, Draco refused. He always said he was happy where he was and would wait for eternity if necessary for his destined soulmate. Then he would smile that strangely sweet smile, eyes bright with some private amusement, wink at Phoenix, and shake his head with a quiet laugh.
Phoenix had never understood what Draco meant. How was anyone supposed to find a soulmate if they refused to date? It was not as if destined partners fell out of the sky and landed conveniently in one's life.
Destined soulmates were rare things written into the heavens—a bond meant to last for eternity, with fates irrevocably bound together across time, death, and rebirth. Even in the vast multiverse, such bonds were uncommon. Not that Phoenix was qualified to speak on the matter. He was asexual, emotionally avoidant, and had spent most of his existence apathetic toward everyone and everything except his missions and Solaris. At least, he had been that way until Draco quietly worked his way into Phoenix's life.
That was another reason Draco had mattered so much. The irritating little twerp had understood him in a way no one else ever had. Was that what a best friend was? Someone who saw the worst, strangest, most broken pieces of you and stayed anyway? Phoenix did not know. He only knew Draco was gone, and he needed to accept that they would never meet again. Even if they somehow did, Draco would not be the same. He would not remember. So why should Phoenix torture himself?
Since Draco had been his first real friend besides Solaris, Phoenix allowed himself time for the leftover feelings to fade. He told himself that was all they were—leftover feelings, inconvenient traces of a finished life. He would put them in the back of his mind where they belonged. He had to keep going. The more soul power he gathered, the closer he came to complete freedom from those who had imprisoned him.
With that thought, Phoenix closed his eyes and took several slow, calming breaths, releasing each one until his heartbeat steadied. He focused only on the sound of his breathing and shut everything else out. Grief. Affection. Gratitude. Longing. Human words for human things. He still did not know what to do with them, but he was beginning to recognize their shapes. Little by little, they were teaching him what it meant to be alive instead of merely surviving.
The realization was uncomfortable, almost frightening.
Emotions were not simple commands to obey or discard.
They overlapped, contradicted, lingered, and changed shape when he tried to examine them too closely.
He could miss Draco and still be grateful for having known him. He could ache and still feel lighter for understanding why. He could want freedom, revenge, silence, and connection all at once, even when those desires pulled him in different directions.
Perhaps that was what being human meant: not purity, not certainty, but learning to carry impossible things without letting them hollow him out. When his mind finally emptied into an infinite dark space, he drifted off again.
The next time awareness stirred, it did not arrive all at once. It came slowly, like light seeping through deep water. Phoenix felt the nursery before he saw it—the ancient quiet, the familiar pressure of protected space, the faint hum of Solaris's presence woven into the air. Yet beneath that familiarity was something new. A thread of warmth. A pulse of power that did not belong to Solaris. It curled around the edge of his senses, patient and watchful, as if it had been waiting for him far longer than it should have been able to.
Phoenix opened his eyes.
For a heartbeat, he did not move. The nursery was there, yes, but it felt changed by the memory of galaxies and the ghost of that impossible voice. Sleep well, my love. The words echoed somewhere behind his ribs, too intimate to dismiss and too foreign to accept. Before he could decide whether he wanted answers or distance, his gaze lowered—and stopped.
A small eastern dragon-phoenix waited before him, coiled with impossible grace, its presence far calmer than anything that powerful had any right to be. Its eyes were clear, ancient, and far too knowing. Then it bowed its delicate head and spoke with quiet reverence.
~ "Welcome home, dear Master." ~
~ ✨~🐉~ ☯ ~🐦🔥~✨~