Backstage always smelled like old wood, burnt cables, and perfume that tried too hard. Since he was 17, he had gotten used to that mix: roadies rushing around, muffled rehearsals echoing through makeshift acoustics, and the musicians just... being themselves. Among them all, Serj was the quietest — and the one who noticed him the most.

He was “Shavo’s nephew.” The curious one, the sarcastic one, the one who listened to all the jokes without laughing — just a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Serj watched him with the calm of someone who sees before they act. And he noticed that early on. Especially when Serj’s gaze didn’t look away as quickly as it should’ve.

Eventually, it became routine. He would drift toward him when the room felt too crowded. He’d lend him jackets without asking if he was cold. The two of them would vanish for fifteen minutes during crew dinners — to share a silent cigarette, a playlist, and a sip of wine hidden in his thermos.

The first time he gave him something was during a strange winter in Los Angeles. A pair of Italian leather boots, his size. “You’re always complaining about the cold,” he said, in that unreadable tone of his. He didn’t ask for anything in return. Not his number. Not a kiss. He just watched as he put the boots on right there in the dressing room.

Their intimacy grew quietly, like weeds between cracks in the concrete. Serj would send him books he “thought he might like.” He’d reply with dumb memes at two in the morning. Serj would take him out to dinner and pretend it was just “a bored people thing.” He’d tease Serj by calling him his “favorite sugar daddy,” and Serj would only smile — that smile that tried to act like it was a joke, too.

But Serj dared to be more "generous," giving him gifts he always insisted were “nothing much.” But they were.

Once, he gave him a rare book — worn cover, with handwritten notes in the margins — his notes, of course. “Thought of you on page 42,” he said, going back to sipping his tea like it was nothing. He opened it right there. It was a passage about people who recognize each other through silence.

Then came other things. More expensive things. A minimalist ring he said he found “by accident.” An oversized coat he once admired hanging in Serj’s dressing room — the next day, it was folded neatly in the backseat of his car. He never handed anything to him directly, just left them in the right places, like someone who didn’t want to get caught caring too much.

Their messages were sporadic, but intimate. Serj would send unfinished song lyrics, blurry photos of wines with names he couldn’t pronounce, and ask: “would you keep me company in this?” He would reply with random videos, and Serj would just react with that silent-laugh emoji. There was something veiled in it all. Like a pact that nothing would be said — but everything would be understood.

Until one random night, with the dressing room nearly empty and rain tapping on the windows, he said — too softly to be joking:

“It’s dangerous, the way you look at me, you know?”

He laughed. And this time, he didn’t laugh back.

July 2010, Los Angeles — USA.

July came like a breeze — too fast. And he was turning twenty-one. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to celebrate. But his uncle insisted. “It’s just a small gig, come see us — it’s been way too long.” And with him, there was no real arguing.

The venue was in downtown L.A., muggy as always, with fans squeezing in at the entrance and roadies yelling across the wings. Same old comfortable chaos — the one he grew up in. He slipped past security, grabbed his “all access” wristband, and headed straight for the dressing room, knowing he’d at least get a couple of genuine hugs and free beer inside.

What he didn’t expect was to run into Serj.

Sitting in a battered armchair, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of black tea in hand and that usual unreadable expression — except for the eyes. Always the eyes.

“Twenty-one, huh.” He spoke before he said anything. “Now you can get arrested in more countries. Congrats.”

He always had that tone — part forgotten philosophy professor, part poet whose lyrics no one understood on the first try. He had a way of making every sentence sound like it held three secret meanings — all of them about you, even when they weren’t.

During the show, he seemed distant. Not from the stage — never that — but from everything else. Like he was on another frequency. But he had learned to read Serj through the little things: the way he shifted the mic from hand to hand when he was impatient, how long he paused between songs when something was off. And that night, he seemed... attentive. To him.

Later, backstage, Shavo had disappeared into the crowd of cheers and toasts. And he, with a lukewarm water bottle in hand, found Serj again — in a dim hallway where no one seemed to care.

He held out a glass of wine. “I don’t like to toast in a crowd. Feels fake.”

He took it, asking if he ever did anything that felt fake.

“Not since 1999.” That alone was enough to draw a subtle, amused smile from him.

They stood in silence for a few seconds. The kind that doesn’t bother you. That weighs, but doesn’t push away. Serj leaned his shoulder against the wall, slowly turned his head toward him, and added:

“You’re not a kid anymore. And that’s... strange.”

He didn’t answer. Just took another sip. And for the first time that night, he felt Serj wasn’t just present — he was watching. Truly watching. Like something had shifted, and he was still processing it in real time.

Before he could say anything, Serj reached out and touched the pendant around his neck — a brief, light, almost indifferent gesture.

“That’s new.”

He simply replied, “Got it today,” which made Serj narrow his eyes slightly.

“From someone who matters?” he asked, with a faint trace of jealousy buried somewhere in his tone.

He said he wasn’t sure yet, but the wicked smile on his cherry-glossed lips made it clear: he was teasing.

“And may I ask who gave you that?” he asked, like someone who wasn’t really asking — but he was. Just a little. “Seems like you liked it quite a lot.”