Phenomenon

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A rainy English morning. Somewhere on the outskirts of London, in an old shabby house, lived three guys who were just starting their path to fame. Paul was a pale-haired, skinny guy who dreamed of success and saw only music in his dreams. This morning he was sitting on a creaking wooden chair in the kitchen, mindlessly strumming the guitar strings with his thin, cold fingers. In addition to the sound of numerous raindrops on the windowsill, someone could be heard rummaging around the apartment.

“Paul, stop torturing the guitar, my ears are already drying out,” a dark-haired boy, slightly taller than the guitarist, ran into the kitchen.
Morten. A local fashionista with a pretty face. At least, that's what you would think when you first looked at him. It's not surprising, Harket was really good-looking, just what you need for a soloist. Morten approached the kitchen cabinet and, opening it, sighed with displeasure. He turned sharply and, frowning, strode into the room. "Mags, have you seen the paint?" was the only thing Paul managed to get out of him.

Apparently, the hairspray had run out again. Which meant that the whole apartment would now reek of the suffocating smell of paint, because Morten would try to style his hair with it. Paul sincerely envied his friend's ingenuity. Perhaps Morten was a god of strange but resourceful solutions, which was very useful given their lifestyle: in a one-room apartment in London without wallpaper, heating or electricity, because all the money they spent only on the studio and food. And even in such conditions, he experimented with his image on a regular basis. Which surprised not only the guitarist, Magne also sincerely did not understand Morten's constant desire to improve his own appearance.

Paul leaned back in his chair, resting his head on the cold tiles, and closed his eyes. For some reason, thoughts about Morten tired him out much more than the moments when they spent six hours in a row reworking “Take on me” without achieving the desired result. It was strange, and he could easily explain this phenomenon, but even deep down he denied the only explanation. Throwing aside the next unnecessary thoughts and putting the guitar aside, he got up from the chair and headed into the room where Magne was sitting, drilling the notes with a thoughtful gaze.

"What are you doing?" It would be hard to find a more banal and absurd question than this. In any case, dying of boredom in silent anticipation, it is difficult to talk about something smart and diverse. All they had to do was survive until the evening. The evening when they would once again remake "Take on me". Deep down, Paul was already sick of the eternally repeating melody and how critical he was of himself and his colleagues. However, he did this for a reason, because in order to create something masterpiece, you have to squeeze everything out of yourself to the last drop.

"Well, you said that the melody is like a gum commercial," the keyboard player said, not taking his eyes off the piece of paper. "I'm trying to figure out what needs to be changed." "Just sitting in a room and looking at a piece of paper, you won't understand or do anything." A voice came from the bathroom. "You need to experiment and pick out notes on your instruments."

"Well then." Magne casually put the piece of paper on the bed he was sitting on. "Since I'm no longer of any use, I'll go buy something to eat, we don't really have anything left." With these words, putting on a light black jacket, he slammed the door behind him.
Paul sat down on the bed where Magne had been sitting a few minutes ago and looked out the window with a thoughtful expression. A fog-covered London opened up before his eyes. All grey and emotionless, devoid of any colour. The raindrops continued to play a strange melody, tapping on the ground and the windowsill. The fog did not allow him to see anything further than two or three buildings that stood a pair of metres from their house. This view did not inspire any sense of joy, on the contrary - the cold penetrated the bones, and the fog seemed to disorientate, although there was obviously neither the former nor the latter in the room. Only the voice that came from behind him helped him to relax somehow. Morten often liked to sing something while doing his makeup or hair, and his voice was simply angelic. His voice struck Paul from the very first meeting, it was soft and viscous, like hot caramel. Suddenly the magical singing stopped and Paul heard the bathroom door open. Without turning around, he looked from the window to Morten. Paul had guessed right after all, Morten really had styled his hair with paint. The dark locks on the back of his head were neatly combed, while the dye-white bangs were fancifully tousled. The guitarist always liked this kind of contrast, because it madly matched the singer's face, with his prominent cheekbones, sharp chin and narrow blue eyes. Paul looked away again at the window, because he saw nothing new, once again this peacock who knew his worth looked stunning. Waaktaar himself never considered himself the same, he did not consider himself his equal, because he never shone with either charisma or appearance. Not to mention that the guitarist couldn't even imagine in his thoughts that this peacock would ever give him a chance with his terribly strange feelings. But he couldn't come to terms with these feelings - they came to him too often and too often left him alone with pain in his soul every time some girl stuck to him in another club. He needed to do something about it, otherwise he would continue to suffer with it. He was so deeply buried in his own thoughts that he didn't notice how Morten was already sitting next to him.

"A depressing sight," Harket noted with a seemingly feigned sadness, crossing his legs.
"Yeah..." Paul answered.

The lead singer seemed to be peering into the dark depths of the London streets. At some point, his head ended up on Waaktaar's shoulder. He himself didn't know if it was by chance or if he had put it there on purpose. But in any case, he didn't want to take it away. And Paul's heart skipped two beats at that moment. He glanced nervously at Morten, who was peacefully looking into the distance, as if he hadn't noticed what had happened. That same smell of paint that had somehow not yet spread throughout the apartment hit his nose. The guitarist had no idea what it meant or if it meant anything at all. After waiting a little, Paul, as if by accident, timidly put his head on his head, putting one arm around his shoulders. They sat like that for a long time, without a single idea of what to do next. However, now looking at this foggy and rainy capital, Paul no longer felt the cold, as if he felt a strong warmth from the person sitting next to him.  At some point, they simultaneously, as if on command, looked at each other. And in both of their eyes, there was only one question: "Is this just a coincidence or something more?" What's most interesting is that they both wanted to hear only one answer, but neither of them could give it. The words seemed to get stuck in their throats, not allowing them to make a single sound. "It's now or never," Paul thought, and without another second of hesitation, he pulled him in for a kiss. "If he rejects me, he will reject me. I've been through worse." He thought. And his heart began to burn as soon as he felt someone else's arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer.

"I hope..." Paul began, when they finally pulled away from each other. "This isn't just a coincidence that we'll try to forget about?"

"Huh, I'm sure your hope is well-deserved." Morten replied.

"So..." Before the guitarist could finish speaking, Morten hugged him.

"This is definitely not a coincidence."

They were ready to sit like this, hugging each other for a long time, until they heard Magne's hurried steps outside the door. Perhaps he is the only one who should not know about this accident.