⤹ sfw, oneshot, lohen's idea of domesticity is a little skewed at the end, may be ooc im still getting a handle on his character, kind of an analysis?, not beta read
(1.8k words)
cross-posted on ao3
For a man like Lohen, routine is a nightmare.
Perhaps the life of the expedition had changed him irreversibly— waking up in the wilderness every morning, never knowing for sure if he'd eat that night, sleeping with a hand around his dagger just in case a stray monster managed to wander past the night watch… perhaps it had been his childhood kidnapping that made him into this— a nocked arrow quivering against the bowstring. Always itching to be fired straight into the heart of the enemy, unable to stay in one place without a trained hand holding him back.
Or perhaps he had simply always been this way.
In any case, the original statement remains true. Lohen cannot stand a daily routine.
As his fellow knights grew accustomed to life in Mondstadt again, welcoming back their old habits, Lohen was forced to watch them grow far too comfortable. The same knights that he would go on morning patrols with through the wilderness now spent their mornings off casually watering plants and laughing with friends in the street. The same knights that would previously spend their nights polishing up their weapons in preparation for the next battle were now heading to the bar after their shifts, casually and jovially downing drink after drink without any concern over who would watch over them in their drunken stupor.
Lohen couldn't understand the desire for such simple things. These new routines of theirs only encouraged complacency— not to mention, they were also unbelievably restricting. Why spend time on things like sweeping leaves off your neighbor's porch, or catching a child's lost cat, when you could be spending that time getting stronger? Did his comrades not feel that itch under their skin when they sat too still? Could they not feel themselves splitting apart at the seams without something new? Were they really so content to remain exactly as they are? To remain so slow and weak and powerless and mortal?
Trying to understand it made Lohen's head spin. Those at the top of the food chain controlled everything beneath— If Lohen himself were nothing more than a rabbit, he would fight every day to claw his way up to the top with the wolves. He couldn't think to comprehend how someone could remain happy knowing that one day, they'd be eaten by a larger predator, and there would be nothing at all they could do about it.
Yet perhaps the most confusing of all was you.
You, who has never picked up a weapon in your life. He asked you about why, once— while watching you flit around your home to and fro as if cleaning the dust from your windows would be of any real benefit to you.
"I just never felt the need to, I suppose." You had looked at him a little curiously, but given him a smile when you answered nonetheless. Lohen found himself at a loss on what to say in return to that. It was absurd. Even as a young child, Lohen had been around weapons. His first toy was a handmade wooden bow from his parents— and even now, he never left his home without at least one dagger tucked up his sleeve.
But you were perfectly happy never to touch a weapon in your life. You were the very epitome of everything Lohen despised about himself. Slow. Weak. Powerless. Mortal.
And yet, for some reason he was unable to place, Lohen couldn't bring himself to hate you for it.
Instead, he found himself drawn into your presence like a moth to a flame. After his late night trips into monster camps he would end up at your door after every injury without fail, leaving puddles of blood on your porch step. You welcomed him in every time, your hands as gentle as the breeze as you ushered him into the warmth of your home.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," He'd joke, lightheaded from the blood loss— and you'd laugh in that way that reminded Lohen of the bells that chime around the city during Windblume. It was easy, in the dark of night, to ignore how his heart fluttered at the sound. It was less easy to ignore in the morning, while he helped you to scrub his bloodstains off of your porch.
But he had to wonder— When you touched him so carefully, to wipe the blood from his face with a damp cloth, to disinfect his numerous wounds— did it count as holding a weapon?
Lohen liked to think that it did. Perhaps it made him feel safer with the concept of your weakness; by having him around, you basically had a weapon on hand. A dangerous, volatile weapon, who was likely to cut the hands of whoever were to wield him, but a weapon nonetheless.
It certainly makes him feel safer now, standing at your doorstep out of uniform with a basket of fresh fruit in one hand and a dagger tucked into his other sleeve. Returning to your home feels a bit like returning a sword to its sheath— tucked away neatly so it can't cut anyone, while still remaining on the body of its owner in case of an emergency. While indulging in your weakness, Lohen is also keeping you safe at the same time. His presence alone is akin to that of a weapon, after all of the training he has gone through to twist himself into one.
Lohen tosses the thought of you owning him like a weapon around in his mind a bit, and finds rather quickly that the idea isn't entirely unpleasant to him.
"Lohen!" The door creaks a little when you push it open, and theres flour dusted across your cheeks. Your eyes don't even scan him for weapons before you're welcoming him inside, a grin tugging at your lips like it belongs there. "Come in, come in! I'm just baking right now, I'll put this down and we can chat!"
The knight can only shake his head, raising up the little basket of fruits he brought along with him. You brighten at the sight, and Lohen is a bit dazed by the fact that you hadn't even noticed that he was holding something. If someone had come to your door with a knife, would you have still opened it? Worse, still— would you have even been able to fight back?
Lohen can't ponder that thought for too long before you're approaching, keeping your powder-covered hands away as to not stain his clothes.
"Ehh, don't worry about that," Lohen finally said, his response feeling just a bit too late to be natural. "I'll help out. We can use some of the stuff I brought."
"Alright, alright. But you can't complain when I put you to work!" You laugh, and Lohen is once again reminded of the Windblume bells. "Why'd you bring this over, anyway? Some special occasion I'm forgetting?"
"Hm? Oh— Just consider it a… 'friendship fee'. They were a gift from my team, and they'd just rot at my place."
The lie slips out easily. In truth, Lohen had seen them for sale on the way to your home, and thought immediately of how you'd smile at the sight of such a gift. You seem somewhat content with his explanation, however, scoffing under your breath about how you don't need any kind of payment for your friendship.
Somehow, the word 'friendship' feels incredibly flimsy when Lohen thinks about you, but he makes no effort to correct himself in the moment.
"What're you making, anyway?" Lohen finally asks, clearing his throat a little as he sets the basket down on your counter.
"Apple pie!" You brush against his side as you eye up the fruits in the basket, carefully plucking out the ones that you deemed acceptable. Your touch feels hot against his side, even through his shirt. Lohen has to take a shaky breath in, the burn of your touch more delicious than any other pain he's ever felt. "Lucky you brought extra, I was worried I wouldn't have enough."
You set the handful of apples down in front of him one at a time, making a neat little row across the counter. Right next to them, you place down one of your kitchen knives. You carelessly leave the blade pointed at yourself, and Lohen can't stop himself from reaching over and pointing it towards himself instead when you aren't paying attention.
"Here, cut these up for me? With the both of us working, it should be a lot faster!" You turn away after that, busying yourself with finishing up the batter for what it likely the pie crust.
Seeing you so domestic was… almost frightening. Whether you realized it or not, this life you lived was unbearably fragile. One wrong move and this world you've built would come crumbling down into a heap. You'd be left defenseless, your simple routine of dusting windows so the sun shines through and baking on weekends for no reason in particular completely useless at leaving you prepared for such an outcome.
Lohen swallows hard, his throat suddenly feeling tight as he picks up the blade you left for him. It was hard to imagine himself ever living in such a fragile, gentle world with you. You turned your back away from him like you hadn't just given him a knife, trusting him wholly not to run the blade through your chest. He never would, of course, but there was no way you could ever truly know that.
His grip tightens around the knife in his hand, the sensation both familiar and foreign.
Out of the two of you, it was clear that you were the weaker party. You couldn't fight, you didn't own weapons, and you were overwhelmingly trusting of him. Perhaps to a fault.
So why was it that Lohen still felt that it was him? Why was it that his hands felt so useless when he saw your smile? Why was it your face he saw in his mind every time he lost a battle?
In an act of uncharacteristic obedience, Lohen turns away from your form and begins cutting up the apple you placed in front of him. He isn't sure when he became so invested in this domestic routine of yours, but imagining a life without it makes his stomach roll uncomfortably.
Lohen has trained himself into a weapon— but for you, he finds that the idea of living in a domestic routine suddenly doesn't sound too terrible. If you asked, he would gladly cut up apples for you while you baked. He would scrub his blood off your porch. He would fight off any monster that dared to look your way.
And this soft life you lived… Lohen would just have to become twice as strong to protect it in your stead.
summary: You’ve lived through his descent into obsession countless times, through fire and ash, through the birth of the man you fear he will become. And in every cycle, Phainon doesn’t remember. Until he does.
There’s a lone tear slipping past the corner of his eye. It runs hot down his cheek, and his hand rises instinctively to wipe it away.
He sits up slowly, drenched in that familiar fog that comes after dreaming too deeply—too vividly. His gaze lingers on the wall in front of him, unseeing, blank, his breath shallow.
The tear is gone, but the ache it left behind stays.
It’s always like this.
Every time he closes his eyes, it begins the same way.
The Marmoreal Market.
You, a bag of fruit in hand. A thief lunging. He, stepping in. Saving you. Always.
And just as it begins the same, it also ends the same.
You in his arms. Lifeless. Cold. Smoke and cinders in the air, blood on his hands, his voice screaming your name. Screaming like he could stitch your soul back together with the sound of it. Screaming like he could bring time to a halt if he just tried hard enough.
He doesn’t know what to call these anymore. They’re not dreams. They can’t be.
He rises from bed slowly, his movements stiff. He walks to the basin and splashes water on his face, watching himself through the ripples. His reflection stares back: haunted eyes, drawn lips, the shadow of something ancient beneath his skin.
There’s a heaviness clinging to his ribs. Like grief. Like guilt. But there’s no reason for it. At least not in this life. At least not yet.
You’re still alive.
He hasn’t even seen you in days.
Still, you haunt him. You, and a dozen versions of you, splintered across impossible timelines that twist behind his eyes every time he sleeps.
He doesn’t know why. Doesn’t understand it.
In the dreams, you say things he’s never heard you say. Sometimes you look at him like you already know what he’s going to do next. Sometimes you run.
And sometimes—those are the worst times—you die by your own hand.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
They feel so real. The weight of your body in his arms, the heat of the fire, the sting of smoke in his lungs—it doesn’t fade with waking. It lingers. Clings to him like a second skin.
He’s not sure how long this has been happening.
At first, he thought it was nothing. A strange dream, an echo of a day that hadn’t happened. But now… they repeat.
Always you.
Sometimes, the other Chrysos Heirs.
Strangers he’s never met, speaking like old friends.
Moments that never happened, yet feel truer than the life he’s living now.
He’s started writing them down. Names, faces, fragments of phrases. He hides the pages beneath his mattress, afraid someone might find them and think him mad.
But he’s not mad.
He knows your voice better than he knows his own. And he knows the look on your face the second before you die—even if he doesn’t understand why it happens, or how.
His hand tightens on the edge of the basin. Water drips from his fingers to the floor. It’s too early to make sense of anything, but he already knows what he’ll see when he steps outside.
The same sky. The same breeze. The same path to the market.
He doesn’t know what draws him there, but his body moves before his mind can catch up.
He reaches for his coat, but his fingers fumble. It takes two tries to button it. He doesn’t notice until the third that his breath has gone shallow again.
It’s not fate. He’s long stopped believing in that.
But if there’s a chance you’ll be there—if there’s any way he can get ahead of the dream before it begins again—
Then he has to try.
Even if it’s just a delusion. Even if it means nothing.
Because he doesn’t think he can survive another moment watching you die.
It always begins the same way.
The Marmoreal Market. The scattered voices of early day. He walks through it all like it’s a memory come alive again, even though he swears he’s awake.
And there you are.
His feet stop without thinking. There you stand at the center of the square—half-turned, framed by the crowd. The moment holds in place like a painting he’s seen too many times.
There’s the thief—lunging, brushing against you—then pain, swift and sharp, knuckles to ribs. The man crumples with a grunt to the ground. And Phainon is left standing over him, hand curled, breath even.
It’s instinct now—the way he moves, the way his body answers before thought. He puts the man down with practiced ease, as if he’s done it a hundred times before. Not just in this life, but in others too. In dreams that feel like memories. In scenes that play out again and again, like a script written into his bones.
(He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t beat fate. He’s too slow—or maybe his timing is just right.
Either way, he failed to do what he needed.)
The crowd whispers. He doesn’t hear any of it.
He’s already looking at you.
You haven’t moved. You’re looking down at the thief like this has all played out before. Like you’ve already counted the beats of it in your head.
He can feel it—that wrongness. That pull behind his ribs. That ache that starts before you even speak.
He bends to retrieve your bag, fruits still bundled safely inside. He straightens and holds it out to you.
Your fingers don’t reach for it. You just stare.
His smile stays in place. He tilts his head, watching for the smallest sign of change.
“Hey…” His voice is soft, careful. “Are you alright?”
You answer like you’ve done it before. “Yes, thank you.” Then, “Sorry.”
He should be relieved that everything is playing out as it always does. But it doesn’t feel right. Not anymore. Because when you take the bag, your fingers barely graze his. Your touch is lighter than air, like you’re afraid to linger.
He doesn’t know when your touch started feeling like a ghost’s.
“I was worried for a moment,” he says. “You looked pale.”
“I’m fine.”
A lie. He knows that now.
The guards come. They drag the groaning thief away. The crowd disperses. The square empties. All the noise fades except for your heartbeat—or maybe it’s his. He isn’t sure anymore.
You begin to walk, and Phainon moves with you. As always. He matches your pace like he was born to.
“You always carry too much on your own,” he says, voice lighter than he feels.
You don’t laugh. You don’t even smile.
He watches your hand tighten around the handle of the bag, and something in his chest twists.
“I’ve missed seeing you,” he says.
You don’t answer at first. Then, with that same rehearsed rhythm, the one that always comes: “I’ve been busy.”
Those three words. He hears them in his sleep.
He nods like he understands, because that’s what you expect. “Teaching the children, right?”
You nod. Your eyes don’t meet his.
The script continues. But he doesn’t say the next line. Not this time.
Something inside him buckles—something small, almost imperceptible. And instead, he speaks what has been lodged in his throat for weeks now.
“Do you not get tired?”
He sees it then. The way you freeze. Your steps falter. The shock in your expression isn’t mild—it’s sharp, wide-eyed, real.
“What do you mean…?” you ask, voice tighter than he’s ever heard it.
Phainon doesn’t look away.
You’re scared.
He’d endured the sight of your death a hundred times. But your fear, alive and breathing and aimed at him, is a new kind of cruelty.
“You work so hard,” he says. His voice is calm, too calm. He’s unraveling and doesn’t know how to stop. “You wake up before the Lucid Hour. You teach all day. You give and give and give.”
He leans in, just enough to meet your gaze.
“Do you ever think of stopping?”
You don’t speak. He continues, quieter now.
“You don’t have to carry it all alone. You have me. I’d take all of it from you, if you let me. The work. The weight. The burden.”
He would. He means it. If you handed him your suffering, your exhaustion, your fears—he would take them all without hesitation. He would burn for you.
You force a smile. It’s thin. Weak.
“I… I don’t mind. I like the work.”
“But does it make you happy?” he asks. He watches your throat work around the weight of that question.
“I think…” He swallows. “You’d be happier if you didn’t have to pretend.”
He sees it—the flicker of panic. You step back.
The way it wounds him is instant and deep, like a blade slipped between his ribs.
You’re afraid of him.
“You’re scared,” he says. It’s not an accusation. He couldn’t even muster the anger if he tried. Just a quiet truth, spoken into the hollow between you. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
You open your mouth. Close it again. Then: “I need to go.”
He doesn’t try to stop you.
“Okay,” he whispers, stepping aside.
You walk away.
He doesn’t move. He watches until the crowd swallows you whole. Until you disappear from view.
He stands alone in the square, fists clenched at his sides.
Phainon wakes with the image of you still pressed into the back of his eyes.
It’s always there now—your voice, your hand slipping from his, your body crumpling like something unmade. It lingers in his chest like a burn that never stops aching.
He doesn’t wait for the day to decide itself.
He dresses quickly. In the dream, he wouldn’t see you until later—after a chore, an errand, something meaningless. But not today. He chooses you.
Whatever Aglaea might have scheduled for him can wait. He leaves before anyone can stop him.
By the time he reaches the Court of Seasons, the laughter of children reaches his ears. His eyes scan the surroundings.
No sign of you. His heart clenches. He takes a breath, shaky.
The children turn at the sound of his approach. Their voices rise in delight.
“It’s Lord Phainon!”
“Are you here to play with us?”
He softens his steps, crouching slightly so he’s eye level with them. He offers a smile. “Hello,” he says warmly. “Don’t tell anyone I’m here. It’s supposed to be a secret.”
They giggle and crowd closer.
One bold girl squints up at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for someone,” he says honestly.
The children exchange knowing looks. “You mean our teacher?”
Phainon’s smile flickers into something softer. “Yes. I was hoping to see them.”
“They’re not here yet!” another child pipes up. “But they will be soon. They always come with books and treats sometimes.”
He chuckles, low and fond. “They’ve always been like that.”
“Do you know them?” a boy asks curiously.
Phainon’s gaze turns distant. “Yes. We’ve known each other for a long time now.”
They accept this answer with the innocent ease only children can muster. He entertains them while he waits—lets them tug at his sleeves, tells a silly story, kneels on the concrete when they demand it. But his eyes never stray far from the path you’ll come from.
And when he sees you, everything in him stills. You’re carrying a basket. You look tired, but alive.
You’re here. You’re still here.
His smile grows wider, and for a moment, it feels too big for his face. He doesn’t stop it.
He rises to his feet as you approach. The children swarm you with greetings, but all he can do is look at you like you’ve returned from the dead.
(You’re still here, his mind insists.)
“It’s good to see you again,” he says. “I was waiting with the children for you. They’re really good kids.”
“They are,” you say, but your eyes flick to him warily.
He wants to shrink beneath that look, but he’s too selfish for that. Instead, he gives in to the moment. Laughs when the children boast of their manners. His gaze finds you mid-laugh, searching for something—approval, amusement, anything.
You give him nothing.
“You’re not busy today?” you ask.
“No,” he replies, almost instant. “I made sure I had free time today so I can spend it with you.”
That gets your attention. He sees your hesitation. Sees the way your lips part, then close again.
(You’re still here, he tells himself again, as if the thought alone could keep you from leaving.)
“You didn’t have to trouble yourself.”
“It’s no trouble,” he says, and means it. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Your expression doesn’t change. The children begin pulling books from your basket. One of them tugs at your sleeve, and you kneel.
Phainon kneels too.
When his hand nearly brushes yours, it’s not intentional. He goes still, startled by the closeness—his palm suspended in the air like a held breath.
He looks at you, uncertain, waiting. “Can you give me some, too?” he asks, voice soft, almost pleading. As if trying to cover the truth that he reached for you without thinking, for no reason other than to touch you. To feel you.
(You’re still here, the voice continues to chant, like a heartbeat he’s afraid will stop.)
He sees your disbelief. Hears the sharp flatness in your tone when you say: “These are for the children.”
Still, he smiles. “Well, can’t you spare a few for a friend?”
You stare at him too long. Long enough that he begins to doubt you’ll give him anything at all. Then, you sigh. You reach into the basket and press two biscuits into his open hand.
(You’re still here, he repeats, as the warmth of your touch lingers in his palm.)
“I will only give you this much and no more,” you say firmly. “You understand?”
His other hand lifts in a mock salute. “Yes, teacher!”
The children laugh. Phainon laughs with them, but his fingers curl too tightly around the biscuits. He holds them like they’ll disappear the moment he lets go. Like they’re the only proof he has that you’re real. That you’re here. That this isn’t just another echo of a dream.
(They crumble a little in his palm.)
You turn from him again—your voice warmer, now directed toward the children. You start handing out the cookies.
Phainon watches you from beside the basket, unmoving. He keeps the biscuits nestled in his lap—still in his hand—like a relic. If he eats them, they’ll be gone. And if they’re gone, he’s afraid you might vanish too.
Then, the story begins. You read. Phainon doesn’t hear most of it.
He watches the way your lips form each word, the way your voice rises and falls with each sentence. His eyes trace your every gesture, memorize every blink, every curl of your fingers around the page. He watches you breathe. Watches the slight tremble in your hands when his gaze lingers too long.
And when you glance at him—just once, just briefly—his heart seizes. He clutches the cookies tighter.
You’re still here.
You run.
You don’t look back.
You don’t see if he chases—because looking back feels like giving him permission. As if one glance over your shoulder might pull you back into his gravity, might undo your instincts and betray your fear. Because if you do look, you’re afraid he’ll still be standing there, watching you with those eyes too full of knowing. And if he is—if he’s still there, remembering—you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to run again.
So you run. You run as if your life depends on it.
The winding paths of Okhema blur past your vision. You don’t hear your own breathing over the rush of your pulse pounding through your ears. You don’t stop until you reach the sanctuary of your door, trembling fingers fumbling with the lock, your shoulder pressed against the frame as if you expect it to burst open any second.
But it doesn’t.
No footsteps. No voice. No knock.
Just silence.
You sink to the ground.
It hasn’t even been that long since this cycle began and already everything is wrong.
“Why…?” you whisper. The question slips out before you can stop it. “Why now?”
You clutch your head. You squeeze your eyes shut. You feel the press of tears behind your lids but you refuse to let them fall.
You’ve done this before.
You’ve done this so many times.
Every iteration, every quiet death, every slow-burning end. You know this world like the back of your hand. You’ve walked these streets, taught these children, shared these fruit-laced sweets a thousand times over.
You’ve counted your breaths in the moments leading up to destruction. You’ve learned exactly how long it takes for a man to unravel. For love to rot into obsession. For reverence to turn into ruin.
You know what comes next.
Flames.
Ash.
A sky choked with smoke and prayers that go unanswered.
Phainon, beloved by all. Phainon, the Chrysos Heir. Phainon, who is not yet the man cloaked in black, but who always, always becomes him.
You know what he becomes.
You know who he becomes.
And you know what he does when you die in his arms—over and over and over again.
But this time… It’s different. He remembers.
He looked at you and spoke in words he never should have known. His eyes held timelines in them. His voice cracked with a grief you haven’t taught him to feel yet.
He wasn’t supposed to remember. That was the mercy of it. Now, he’s skipping steps. Deviating. The clock is ticking faster and the hourglass is spilling sideways and you’re not sure you can keep up.
“What changed?” you whisper, nails digging into your scalp. “What did I do? Where did I go wrong?”
You did everything the same. You stuck to the script. It’s him who’s deviating from what was supposed to happen.
“I keep seeing you die.”
Your stomach twists. You taste bile.
This time, it isn’t just his obsession. This time, it’s remembrance.
And if he remembers how it ends—if he remembers losing you, if he remembers the flames licking the bones of this world, if he remembers that it was all his doing—
Then what happens when he decides to stop the cycle from repeating?
What happens when he decides not to lose you again?
What happens if this time, he doesn’t wait for the end?
What if he burns everything first?
You curl into yourself, hands over your ears, trying to quiet your thoughts. But your heart won’t stop pounding, and you can still hear his voice.
Still see his eyes.
Still feel the weight of fate shifting beneath your feet.
You’re not ready for this.
You’re not ready for him.
There’s only one way out of this loop, and it’s always been the same: die, and let it reset.
You’ve never done it this early because you never had to. The pattern has always been cruel, yes, but it was also reliable. You know its shape. You know it like the back of your hand. But just as Phainon has deviated… so will you.
So you rise, stiff and aching, as if the fear has seeped into your bones. You move toward the kitchen, slow but deliberate. Your fingers skim the counter, brushing past the scraps of flour and crumbs left from this morning’s work.
Your eyes land on the knife.
The same one you used to slice the fruits. The same one you held with such care for the children. Now, you take it into your hands again, and it feels heavier than it should.
You grip the handle tightly.
If this timeline is doomed to spiral into chaos, you won’t stay to watch it crumble. If the flame is coming sooner, then you’ll end the wick before it burns. You won’t wait for the fire. You won’t let him become that again.
You close your eyes, press the tip of the knife to your chest, and let the blade sink in.
One moment, Phainon is being chastised by Aglaea for neglecting his duty. Her voice is calm, elegant as always—not angry, but laced with that disappointment that weighs heavier than fury. Phainon isn’t sure which is worse: her wrath or her disapproval. Either way, her words wash over him like rain on stone—heard, but not held.
The next, he blinks—and he’s back at the place where his dreams always begin.
The Marmoreal Market.
His gaze darts around, disoriented by the sudden shift in scenery. The crowd mills about around him, laughter echoing nearby. Voices rise and fall, merchants bark out prices, and somewhere in the distance, he hears the battering of hammers against steel and iron.
When he finally processes where he is, his breath stutters.
Why?
Why is he back?
Why now?
Did something happen? Did you—?
No.
No, no, no.
You died, didn’t you? Just like in the dreams.
Only this time, he wasn’t there to hold you. Wasn’t there to stop it. Wasn’t there to see the light fade from your eyes.
He thought… not chasing after you would be enough. He thought giving you space might calm the dread he saw trembling behind your eyes. He thought it would prove he could be patient.
But maybe patience was the wrong answer.
Maybe you didn’t need space. Maybe you needed him.
(And now—)
Why?
Why did you die?
How did you die?
What did he do wrong?
What did he miss?
Why did it happen?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
WHY?
WHY?
His gaze scans the market—desperate, frantic. He sees the thief. The same one. The same scene playing out like it always does. The man skulks toward an unsuspecting stranger, hand twitching toward a loose pouch.
But it’s not you. You’re not the target. You’re not even here.
No…
No. No, no, no. N̷̨̳̤̳̜̭̹̓̎̋̿̍͗O̸͕̯͌̽͆͗̍̓͗̒͜.̶̜̘̯̝͇̑͆͂̓̅͊̀̎
Where are you?
This isn’t right. This isn’t how it goes. This never happened in any of his dreams.
He hears someone shout—“Thief! Help!”—the crowd beginning to ripple in alarm.
But he doesn’t move—doesn’t even look—because this time, he won’t play the hero. Not when you’re missing. Not until he sees you.
He turns on his heel and sprints—not to the scene, not to the noise, not to the adoring gasps of bystanders calling him savior.
He goes to you. He chooses you.
Your home is just as he remembers. It looks just like it does in his dreams. The path still lined with wind-chimes you never had time to take down. The little pots you filled with plants. Everything familiar.
He knocks once, then twice—all gentle. He tries to temper his voice, calling your name in soft imploring tones. He tells himself you’re just resting. That you overslept.
He doesn’t want to scare you. He would never scare you. But when you don’t answer…
He knocks again. Harder. Louder.
His voice rises despite himself. “Open the door,” he says. “Please—open the door.”
Please.
Please.
PLEASE.
…
Nothing.
You’re not answering. You’re not here.
He presses a hand against the wood. His head follows, resting gently, forehead to the doorframe as something hollow curls beneath his ribs.
note: i thought it was a good idea to retell the first chapter from phainon’s perspective 😓 but as u can see, i left out the part where phainon revealed his visions. purposely did that bc it just felt unnecessary atp
also, i’ll be taking a break for a little while. i will be back tho so don’t worry :> just need some time to think and plan for this series. i will still be online from time to time (all the time basically lol) so i’m not actually gone gone. that’s all so thank you all so much for reading! hopefully this chapter did not disappoint 💔
before he is a soldier, before you are the princess, and in between the titles that separate you, you think phainon might simply be yours.
— pairing: soldier!phainon x princess!fem!reader
— tags & warnings: romance, angst, light smut (unprotected sex, virginity loss), slow burn. childhood friends to lovers!au, royalty!au, secret romance!au. coming of age, first love, love confessions, mutual pining, etc. profanity, class differences, misogyny.
— word count: 23.5k
— song rec: above the time by iu.
i). When you are young, they assume you know nothing.
There is a boy inside your room.
He has hair the colour of snow, and eyes the colour of the sea just before a storm: blue and wild, darting around the room like a thief caught in the act. There is a wooden sword strapped to his belt, too long for his waist and carved with clumsy symbols he must’ve etched himself. He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too busy peering out the arched window behind your bed, standing on his toes, breath fogging up the glass.
You sit up, clutching your silk coverlet to your chest. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
He jumps. Spinning around, he stumbles over the corner of the rug and nearly crashes into the gilded leg of your writing desk.
“Oh stars, don’t scream,” he says, voice a frantic whisper. “I wasn’t trying to—I didn’t know it was your room, I swear.”
You blink at him. He looks about your age—nine, maybe ten—but he’s dressed in the dark training leathers of the palace guards-in-training, the sleeves rolled up unevenly, like he’d tugged them up in a rush. His hair sticks out in damp curls, and there is a smear of dirt on his cheek.
“You’re the soldier boy,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “The one who knocked over the archery targets last week.”
His cheeks turn bright red. “That was an accident.”
“You lit one on fire.”
He clears his throat. “Also an accident.”
Silence stretches between you. It’s early in the morning—early enough that the sun hasn’t begun its ascent yet, and the moonlight filters through your gauzy curtains, casting silver stripes across the rug where he stands frozen, as though your room was a stage and he’s forgotten his lines.
“What’s your name?” you ask.
“I’m Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” he says, straightening a little. “I’m going to be the captain of the royal guard one day.”
“That’s a big dream,” you say, lifting your chin.
“Well, I already made it into the palace, didn’t I?” Phainon says, grinning.
You try to glare at him. You’ve never had someone your age sneak into your room before. You’re always surrounded by ladies-in-waiting and stiff-backed tutors, and the only boys you ever see are princes visiting from other kingdoms, always polished and dull.
Phainon looks like he tumbled in from the wild.
You scoot over and pat the empty space beside you on the bed. “If you’re hiding, you might as well sit down. Mistress Calypso wakes early. You’ve got maybe twenty minutes.”
His eyes widen. “You’re not going to tell?”
“Not unless you snore.”
Phainon beams. He kicks off his boots and climbs onto the bed without hesitation, flopping beside you with a sigh loud enough to echo. “I hate sword drills. Master Gnaeus makes us practice stances before breakfast.”
“That sounds dreadful,” you say, wrinkling your nose in sympathy.
“You’re different from what I imagined a princess would be like,” he says, glancing at you sideways with his cheek squished against the pillow.
“You’re not what I imagined a soldier would be like, either.”
“What did you imagine, then?”
“Taller,” you say. “Quieter, maybe. Less… floppy.”
“I am not floppy,” he says, affronted, and attempts to sit up straighter—only to sink back down with a groan. “Maybe a little.”
You stifle a giggle behind your hand. It bursts out anyway, small and silver like a bell. Phainon turns to look at you properly then, eyes sharp despite the pillow flattening his cheek. Up close, he smells like grass and horsehair and smoke.
“I meant it, though,” he says. “You’re different.”
“How so?”
“You didn’t scream. Or ring that little bell by your bed. Or call for a guard. You didn’t even look scared.”
“I am scared,” you say solemnly, then lean closer and whisper, “You’ve got a sword.”
Phainon scoffs, lifting the wooden hilt an inch from his belt. “It’s not even sharp. Watch.”
He draws it with a flourish—too quickly, catching the edge of your coverlet and nearly decapitating one of the embroidery swans. You both freeze. Then you burst into laughter, rolling onto your back as Phainon fumbles the sword back into place, mortified.
“You’re not very good at using it,” you declare between gasps.
“I’m a knight-in-training,” he insists, and you’re not sure whether he’s more annoyed or embarrassed.
“You’re going to make an excellent captain one day,” you say, and this time you mean it, not as a tease but as something quiet and true. “You’ve already snuck past five guards and a chambermaid to get in here.”
“Six guards,” he corrects proudly. “And the chambermaid was asleep. I left a biscuit on her tray so she wouldn’t be too cross.”
You smile. “That was kind of you.”
Phainon shrugs, but his cheeks are turning pink again. “Is it alright if I hide in here more often? It’s peaceful. Smells nicer than the barracks, too.”
“What do the barracks smell like?”
“Feet. And soap. And Gaius, who eats too many onions and sweats in his sleep.”
“Ugh.” You grimace.
“Exactly.” He yawns, eyes fluttering. The adrenaline is wearing off, you can tell. His limbs are getting heavy. “Your bed’s nice, too. Like a cloud. I bet princesses don’t have to wake up before dawn.”
“I do,” you sigh. “To learn embroidery and dance steps and which fork to use at state dinners.”
The boy—your friend, now, you suppose—shakes his head in solidarity. “We should run away.”
“To where?”
“I don’t know. The stables. Or the forest. I’ll bring my sword, and you can bring snacks.”
You glance at him. His lashes are long. One of them has a bit of fuzz caught in it. “What if we get caught?”
“Then I’ll protect you,” he says sleepily.
You decide you quite like the sound of that. Outside, the sky is starting to lighten. The first birds begin to chirp.
You reach for the corner of the blanket and pull it over the both of you, just enough to shield him from the dawn. “Go to sleep, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. I’ll wake you before Mistress Calypso comes.”
Phainon mumbles something that sounds like a thank-you.
(You end up falling asleep, too, and only wake when Mistress Calypso shakes your shoulder with a fond—if exasperated—frown and reprimands you for sleeping in late. The mattress beside you is cold.)
“I won’t fall asleep this time, I swear it!”
You squint at him through the veil of sleep still clinging to your lashes. Phainon is back, dirtier than before, with a fresh scrape on his cheek and leaves in his hair, as though he wrestled a tree on his way in. He crouches by the edge of your bed, grinning like he didn’t vanish without a word the first time.
“You told me you’d wake me up before Mistress Calypso came!” he says. “I nearly got caught. And Master Gnaeus gave me a talking-to for sneaking out of the barracks in the night.”
Heat floods your cheeks, and you look away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
“I had to dive into a laundry basket,” Phainon huffs, flopping onto the carpet. “A laundry basket. Full of damp sheets.”
You try to hold in a laugh. You really do. But it escapes in a small, muffled burst, and once it’s out, you can’t stop. Your shoulders shake beneath your blanket, and Phainon turns his head to glare at you from the floor, betrayed.
“It wasn’t funny,” he says. “I smelled like lavender and mildew all day.”
“You smell like moss now,” you say in between giggles, pointing at a leaf stuck behind his ear.
He swipes at it with a scowl and misses.
Still grinning, you lean over and pluck it out for him. Your fingers brush his curls for only a second, but it’s enough to make something fizz strangely in your chest. Phainon must feel it too, because he goes very still, eyes flicking to yours.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
“Why’d you come back?” you ask, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
You wait. He fidgets with the hem of his tunic.
“And I didn’t want you to think I didn’t want to be your friend,” he adds, finally. “Or that I was in trouble. Or that I didn’t want to come back.”
Your fingers curl into your blanket. “I didn’t think that.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Do you want the pillow this time?” you ask, scooting to one side of the bed.
Phainon lights up like a lantern. “Do you want to sleep on the floor?”
You throw a cushion at him. He catches it, and then he clambers in beside you, wriggling under the corner of your blanket. You both lie on your sides, facing each other, noses a breath apart.
Outside, the wind rattles against your window panes. Inside, your shared silence is warm.
“I really won’t fall asleep this time,” he promises, blinking slowly.
You smile at him, drowsy, and mumble, “Me too.”
(“Stars above,” comes a voice, fond and faintly amused. “Gnaeus, come look.”
You stir. Phainon groans softly and buries his face in your pillow. You open one bleary eye to see Mistress Calypso standing beside your bed, arms folded over her golden skirts, lips pressed together in an almost-smile.
A heavier tread follows, and then Master Gnaeus pokes his head into view, all sharp grey stubble and frowns. “If this is what passes for night training nowadays, I’ll eat my scabbard.”
Phainon jerks awake at that, sits bolt upright, and nearly knocks his forehead into yours. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—I mean I was just—”
“Hush, little boy,” Mistress Calypso says, waving a hand with a smile so maternal, it could unmake gods. “No one is turning you into stew.”
“You should be running laps,” Master Gnaeus mutters, squinting at you both. “Instead you’re sneaking into the princess’ chambers like some scruffy raccoon.”
“He didn’t sneak,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “He was invited.”
“Oh, pardon me,” the captain of the royal guard says, mock-offended. “I didn’t realise he needed your permission, little princess.”
Mistress Calypso nudges him with her elbow. “Stop scowling, old wolf. You’re just jealous no one invites you to secret sleepovers.”
Master Gnaeus grunts but doesn’t deny it. He watches the two of you for a long moment—your hair mussed from sleep, Phainon trying to smooth his tunic into something that looks presentable—and then sighs through his nose like it pains him to find this sight charming. “I’ll expect you on the training grounds in ten minutes, mud-boy,” he says, turning away. “No excuses. Not even royal ones.”
Phainon nods fervently, already sliding off the bed.
Mistress Calypso’s gaze melts into warm affection as she adjusts the corner of your blanket. “Don’t let him make a habit of it,” she says, voice ripe with mischief, before turning and following Master Gnaeus outside your chambers.
Phainon hovers by the edge of your bed, sheepish. “I’ll come back tonight.”
“Bring fewer leaves next time,” you say.
He grins.)
Weeks pass, and then months, and years, and before you know it, you have more responsibilities thrust upon your shoulders.
Mistress Calypso teaches you about the bleeding that occurs once every moon, about the blossoming of youth. She speaks gently but frankly, brushing your hair back with fingers that have seen a dozen girls come of age before you. You try not to flinch at how grown-up it all sounds.
Your dresses get longer. Your voice becomes more measured. The halls you once ran through with muddy slippers are now places you walk with your chin held high and your hands folded neatly at your front. Even your laughter has changed—no longer loose and careless, but quiet and reserved, meant to be polite rather than real.
Phainon changes too.
You hear of it more than you see it, through whispers in the halls and idle remarks from the guards. He’s fast, they say, too fast for someone who’s only eighteen. He’s clever with a blade, and quicker with his words; reckless, often, but brilliant. Master Gnaeus’ favourite headache.
The maids speak of him more airily, with giggles and cheeks dusted pink. He’s too pretty for a boy with dirt on his cheeks and calluses on his hands, they say. He smiles as though he’s got more than enough happiness for everyone to share, and walks like the world already belongs to him. Mistress Calypso calls him a menace with more than enough charm to spare, but her eyes always twinkle when she talks about him, as though she remembers the mornings where she would find both of you tucked into your blanket together.
Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch glimpses of him from the tower windows: a blur of movement on the training grounds, sweat-slick hair clinging to his neck, his tunic darker from exertion. You never call out. It wouldn’t be proper. He never looks up.
It becomes easier, in time, to pretend that’s enough.
But one day, when the afternoon sun glows warm against the stone and the air carries the scent of crushed grass and coming rain, you find yourself standing for longer than usual by the window. Down below, the soldiers run drills in neat lines, their movements sharp and practiced. Phainon is among them. You spot him immediately. His posture is looser than the others’, less rigid, as if the rules don’t apply to him in the same way. His strikes are precise, his footwork quick, and even when he missteps—just once—he recovers with a grin and a flourish that earns him a clipped bark from Master Gnaeus and a smothered laugh from the younger boys.
Your fingers curl against the sill. You turn from the window before he finishes the set, something fluttering too hard in your chest to name. When you find Mistress Calypso in the solar, you surprise even yourself with your question.
“May we walk in the grounds today?”
She blinks at you, embroidery needle paused mid-stitch. “The gardens again?”
“No,” you say, and then, quieter, “Past them.”
Her brows rise but she doesn’t press. “Very well,” she murmurs, “but wear your hood. And don’t dawdle.”
You don’t. Your footsteps are eager, your heart beating a rapid staccato against your ribs. Mistress Calypso nearly trips over the hem of her skirts trying to keep up with you, and only then do you slow your pace.
It’s strange, walking so close to the training fields—stranger still to do it on purpose. The clang of steel and barked commands fills the air, but you keep your chin high and your steps even, even when your gaze shifts.
You spot him across the yard—older, taller, with broader shoulders and a sharpness to his movements that startles you. He’s sparring with someone larger, someone stronger, but Phainon doesn’t falter. He fights with all the wildness he used to bring to your bedtime stories, all the fire you remember from summer nights long past.
And then he stumbles—on purpose, you think, because in the next breath he ducks beneath his opponent’s swing and knocks the wooden blade from their hands. He laughs and shakes his opponent’s hand good-naturedly anyway.
Your chest aches.
Phainon turns, wiping sweat from his brow—and freezes when he lays eyes upon you.
You look away first, heat blooming at the base of your throat, but Mistress Calypso only huffs a quiet breath beside you. “I should speak with Master Gnaeus about the training rota,” she says, already stepping away. “Stay on the path. Don’t let your feet wander where your thoughts do.”
You nod, but she’s already moving, skirts sweeping behind her. You glance down again. Phainon is closer now, walking towards the edge of the field with a slow, lazy gait that you think is deceptive to his swiftness.
“Princess,” Phainon calls, just loud enough for it to reach you. His voice is deeper now, roughened like sandpaper against what you remember he used to sound like. “I thought you forgot how to look at me.”
“I haven’t,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I just forgot what you looked like.”
He laughs at that, ducking under the fence railing. “Well, I’ve gotten handsomer. Taller, too.”
You tilt your head. “More arrogant.”
“That, too,” he agrees, grinning. “But I can’t be blamed. I’ve been told I’m Master Gnaeus’ worst nightmare and his finest pupil. Possibly in that order.”
“I’ve heard,” you say, folding your hands in front of you and trying to still the ache in your chest.
He studies you now, something softer threading into his expression. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you.”
“Not all of it’s bad,” Phainon says, squinting at you. “You stand straighter now. You don’t stumble over your words when you’re angry.”
“I never did,” you murmur, lifting your chin.
“My mistake. You were always very dignified. Even when you threw a candlestick at my head.”
“That was once.”
“Twice,” he corrects, “but who’s counting?”
You laugh a little, soft, and it eases something in your chest. For a moment, he just looks at you—not in the way the courtiers do, calculating and distant, or the way the maids do, fawning and fearful. Phainon looks at you like someone who’s known you muddy-kneed and sleep-mussed and still thinks the sight of you in silks is something worth staring at.
He rubs the back of his neck. “They’re changing your guards, soon.”
“How do you know that?” you ask.
“I overheard Master Gnaeus talking to your father,” he replies.
You frown. You only ever see your father at mealtimes, because being the king and queen of a kingdom is tough work. Busy as he was, he still used to feed you peas and carrots and tickle your sides until you giggled, when you were much younger.
The older you get, the less you see of him. Your mother passed away whilst giving birth to you; your father focuses on managing his kingdom. Mistress Calypso, your nurse since birth, is the closest maternal figure you’ve had.
“Is it for a reason?” you ask.
“They’re saying it’s precautionary. Something about tightening security.” His tone stays easy, but his expression flickers. “Gnaeus will choose them himself.”
“And what are you telling me this for?” you say, pressing your fingers together, tight.
Phainon leans in a little—not improper, not indecent, but enough that you catch the scent of leather and sweat. “Because if you asked,” he says, low, “he’d assign me.”
“To stand outside my door?”
He shrugs, mischievous again. “I wouldn’t fall asleep on duty. Other than that, it’ll be just like the old times.”
You arch a brow, schooling your features the way Mistress Calypso taught you, though something bright and treacherous stirs inside your stomach. “The old times didn’t involve you standing guard. They involved you sneaking into my bedroom through the window and pretending not to be the one who knocked over the inkwell.”
“Yes, and I was excellent at both,” Phainon says unabashedly.
“You were terrible at both,” you retort, and though your voice is steady, it lilts in a way it hasn’t in months. “You always got caught.”
“Only because you told on me.”
“Because you blamed it on the cat.”
“That cat had it coming.”
You almost smile, and turn your gaze back to the training grounds, where the other boys are starting up again. Phainon follows your glance, but his eyes are already half on you.
“I mean it,” he says, quietly.
You don’t look at him, but the wind catches your cloak and lifts it slightly. The sun warms your cheek. “Mean what?”
“That I’d take the post. If you asked.”
Your throat works around a sudden lump. “It wouldn’t be your decision.”
“No. But you’ve always had a way of… making things happen.”
You do look at him then. His smile is subdued now, and something in his eyes—not fire, but resolve—burns steadier than it did in the boy who declared he would be captain of the guard as soon as he met you. It would be selfish of you to say yes. It would be reckless to want him near, not as a guard or a shadow by your door, but simply as himself.
“It would be improper,” you say.
He nods, accepting the words. But his voice, when he speaks, is gentle. “A lot of the world is. Doesn’t mean we don’t live in it.”
You open your mouth to say something, then close it. The path is still quiet, though you see Mistress Calypso crossing the grounds to come back to you. The scent of rain is stronger now.
“I’ll think about it,” you say.
Phainon steps back and bows. “Then I’ll wait.”
You watch him go until he reaches the far end of the field, and his figure blurs again into motion and shouts and sweat and steel. Mistress Calypso joins you and, guiding you by your elbow, ushers you back into the palace walls, fretting about the possibility of rain.
(You think, just maybe, you will ask Master Gnaeus.)
The next morning, the palace is quiet. Mistress Calypso has gone to oversee the linens, and your lady-in-waiting has excused herself to fetch your embroidery kit. You walk alone, steps echoing faintly through the stone corridors. You know where you’re going. You’ve rehearsed the words in your head all night.
The armoury smells of oil and dust and old leather. You spot Master Gnaeus standing beside a weapons rack, arms folded, eyes narrowed as he surveys the group of boys cleaning the rust from old spears. His presence is imposing, but you know he’s always had a soft spot for you and Phainon, after having had to wrangle the both of you away from each other. The memory brings a smile to your lips; Master Gnaeus had once called you and Phainon as inseparable as a sunflower and the sun.
He notices you before you speak.
“Your Highness,” Master Gnaeus says, his gravelled voice breaking through the clatter of metal. He straightens, folding his arms tighter, though something gentle flickers across his expression. “You’ve no business in the armoury unless you plan to spar.”
“I’ll keep my slippers away from the blades,” you say, smiling faintly.
The boys around you fumble into bows or hasty salutes before returning to their tasks, whispering to each other as you pass. Gnaeus jerks his head towards the back, where it’s quieter, away from nosy ears and adolescent posturing. You follow, skirts brushing the dusty floor. Once inside the small side chamber—a storage room that smells like iron and cedar—you turn to him.
“You always did have that look when you were about to ask me something I’d say no to,” he mutters.
You gather your words with care. “I heard you’re changing the guard outside my quarters.”
“You heard correctly. It’s overdue. Your father agrees.”
“I’d like to request someone specific,” you say.
Master Gnaeus smiles, almost knowingly. “Is that so?”
You nod, folding your hands in front of you to keep them from fidgeting. “Phainon.”
“Of course.” Gnaeus lets out an odd sound, a cross between a chuckle and a groan.
“He’s capable,” you say quickly, before he can wave you off. “You trained him yourself. He’s fast, observant, loyal—”
“—and reckless,” the commander cuts in, raising a brow. “Too familiar with you. Too stubborn.”
“But you trust him.”
“You do know what it would mean, having him stationed at your door?”
“I am not a fool,” you say. “I know what it looks like.”
“Looks aren’t the issue. It’s what it stirs up,” Master Gnaeus says. “People in this court and kingdom live for whispers. If they catch even a hint of impropriety—”
“There won’t be any,” you interrupt. “He won’t so much as look at me in the wrong way.”
Gnaeus snorts. “That’s the problem. He already does.”
“Then make him prove otherwise,” you say, holding his gaze even as your heart—that traitorous organ—races inside your rib cage.
Gnaeus studies you—eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like he’s chewing on something he doesn’t want to swallow. “That boy’s been sniffing around the assignment list all week,” he mutters finally, more to himself than you. “Didn’t say a word to me, of course.”
“He said he’d do it if I asked,” you murmur.
“Of course he would. You could ask him to walk into a fire and he’d do it without blinking,” Master Gnaeus says gruffly. He sighs deeply, as though the weight of his years and the weight of your request are the same. “Fine.”
You blink. “Fine?”
“He starts next week. Trial basis,” Gnaeus grumbles. “And gods help him if I catch him dozing off or sneaking you sweets. One wrong move, and he’s back in the kitchens peeling onions for the stew.”
A small laugh escapes you. “Understood.”
“And you,” he adds, pointing a thick finger at you like you’re ten again and have just hidden a training sword up your skirts, “are not to coddle him. Or distract him. Or lure him away from his post by any means whatsoever.”
“I would never.” You give him a solemn nod, fighting a grin. “Thank you, Master Gnaeus.”
He waves a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. You two were as inseparable as a sunflower and the sun—”
“You remember!”
“I remember how much trouble the sun got in when the sunflower followed it into the courtyard past curfew,” Master Gnaeus says, low and thoughtful. “He’s not a little boy anymore, and neither are you a little girl. Be careful, Princess.”
(You slip past the boys and their spears, rushing to the stables where Master Gnaeus said Phainon would be. Your feet cannot take you there fast enough, but you lift your skirts up and urge yourself to move faster. You find him brushing down one of the younger horses, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He has hay in his hair, and he hums under his breath, soft and tuneless.
“Phainon,” you call, breathless.
He glances over his shoulder, and when he sees you, his smile blooms so fast, it nearly knocks the wind out of you. “Princess. You’ve either come to drag me to a duel or to tell me something reckless,” he says, tossing the brush aside.
You come to a stop in front of him, cheeks flushed, not from the run but from the way Phainon looks at you: bright and open, like you’ve brought in the sun with you.
“I asked Master Gnaeus,” you say, “and he said yes.”
“You did?”
“He agreed. You’ll start next week, on a trial basis.” You bite your lip, watching his expression shift. “But he warned you not to doze off or sneak me any sweets.”
Phainon grins, wide and boyish and blinding. “Too late for that.”
Before you can say anything more, he steps forward and takes your hand—just briefly, just enough to squeeze your fingers once, quickly, like he might not be allowed to again.
“I won’t let you down,” he says, low and certain.
“I know,” you say.)
There is nothing you can do to quell the rush of excitement that jolts through your body when Phainon arrives for his first night of duty. It bubbles warm beneath your ribs, a spark fanned into flame, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from grinning like a fool.
He stands in the hall outside your chambers, a far cry from the boy who used to steal apples from the kitchens and blame it on the stablehands. Now, he’s clad in the full regalia of the royal guard: black and silver, crisp and ceremonial, the metal of his breastplate catching the flicker of fire. The insignia of your house is etched into the clasp at his shoulder, a small gilded sun. And yet, there are still remnants of him that remain unchanged—the ever-messy hair that no brush can tame, the faint smudge of ink on his fingers, and the tilt of his mouth, cocky but never cruel.
“Your Highness,” he says, voice pitched in that deliberate, court-appropriate register, before giving you an exaggerated bow. “Reporting for duty.”
You arch an eyebrow and fold your arms, trying not to laugh. “You’re late.”
“I was ambushed,” he says, straightening up, “by the cook. I barely survived.” Phainon reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small parcel, wrapped in linen and still faintly warm. He holds it out with both hands. “She said you’d requested for apricot pastries yesterday.”
“That’s very kind of her,” you say, and then smile, giddy and childish. “They’re for you.”
“For me?” Phainon blinks.
You nod, suddenly shy. “A thank-you. And to celebrate your first day on duty. I’d hoped to deliver it myself, but…” You trail off, sheepish. “The kitchens were busy today.”
He looks down at the parcel in his hands as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Then, slowly, his fingers curl around the edges of the linen wrap, careful and reverent. The torchlight makes his blue eyes look brighter, and when he glances up again, something in his expression softens, his usual wit quieted into something gentler.
“You always were the generous one,” he says.
“I wasn’t generous when you broke my reading tablet and—as always—tried to blame the cat,” you point out.
Phainon huffs a laugh, then shifts his weight, leaning just slightly closer. “In my defense, that cat hated me.”
You fight the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when you’re wearing a royal crest.”
“We’ll keep it between us,” he says, with a conspiratorial wink. Then, softer: “Thank you. Truly.”
You let yourself smile at that. You can hear the faint clatter of boots down the corridor, the echo of a servant’s voice, but here, in the little alcove outside your chambers, it feels like the rest of the palace has fallen away.
“You’ll be stationed here every night?” you ask, though you already know the answer.
“Until the king changes the rotation,” he confirms. “But Master Gnaeus gave me the impression that won’t be happening any time soon.”
“Good,” you say, trying not to let your relief show too obviously. “I think I’ll sleep better with you outside.”
Phainon smiles at that—an unguarded thing, a little crooked, a little too fond. “I’ll keep the shadows away,” he says.
You nod, then take a slow step back towards your chamber door, fingers brushing against the iron handle. “Don’t let the candle burn out. If you’re cold, there are spare blankets in the antechamber. And if anyone bothers you—”
“I’ll glare at them until they run screaming,” he finishes, mockingly solemn. “Very professional. Very terrifying.”
You shake your head, laughing softly. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He holds up the pastry bundle. “Fuel for my duties.”
You open the door, pausing one last time to glance over your shoulder. He’s already stepping into position beside the frame, posture straight and expression composed—but his eyes, when they meet yours, are still bright with warmth and mirth.
“Goodnight, Phainon.”
“Goodnight, Princess.”
(When you finally lie in bed, heart hammering and cheeks warm, you wonder how on earth you’re meant to sleep with him just outside.)
Three nights after, sleep evades you wholly. No matter how many times you shift, how tightly you tug the covers over your shoulders, how deeply you breathe, rest dances just out of reach. The candle on your bedside table has long since burned out, and the coals in the hearth pulse faintly. The air is neither warm nor cold, yet you feel restless.
Eventually, you give up. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and reach for your shawl, wrapping it around your shoulders and knotting it loosely at the front. Phainon will still be awake, won’t he? You smile a little.
The palace is quiet when you open your door, quieter still when you step into the corridor. The flickering torches lining the hallway cast gentle amber light, and the stained-glass windows above them scatter moonlight into fractured gems across the floor. Your bare feet make no sound as you walk.
Phainon stands just as he has every night since he took up the post: beside your chamber door, one shoulder leaned against the wall. He’s not in full regalia tonight, only his black tunic with silver edging and a loose cloak fastened at his collarbone. His hair is, as always, a wild thing—too stubborn to stay neat, despite his best efforts. He straightens at the sound of your approach, though he doesn’t seem surprised.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he says softly.
“I tried,” you say, hugging your shawl tighter and crossing your arms over your chest. “The bed refused to cooperate.”
“A shame.” His gaze drifts towards the other end of the corridor, scanning it briefly, then returns to you. “Is this a formal inspection, or am I being graced with your company?”
“Depends. Do you want to be inspected?”
He hums thoughtfully. “I’ll take my chances.”
You let out a quiet laugh, and take a few slow steps closer, until you’re standing just across to him, back to the opposite wall. The stone is cool even through the layers of your shawl. His eyes follow you, not in the way of a soldier watching for danger, but something fonder. Master Gnaeus’ words echo through your head, but you squash it. It is nighttime now, and no one else is there.
You slide down the wall, careful, until you’re seated across from him on the cold stone floor. The hem of your nightgown brushes your ankles, and your shawl slips slightly from your shoulders as you settle your arms around your knees. You don’t fix it. It feels too gentle a moment to disturb with fussing.
“I thought I might find you awake,” you murmur.
Phainon sits down as well, crossing his legs. He watches you without speaking for a long while, his head tilted slightly. “I told you I wouldn’t sleep on duty,” he says.
“Master Gnaeus would be proud,” you agree solemnly. He cracks a smile at that, and shifts slightly so his knee brushes yours. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything.”
“Are your favourite things still the same?” you ask.
He leans back against the wall and thinks on it. “Some. Not all. I used to think the best sound in the world was the call to market in the city square at first light, before the crowds set in. Now I think it might be the way the torches crackle in the hallway when it’s too quiet to hear anything else.”
You glance at one of those torches now. It pops, like punctuation to his words.
“I still hate wearing the ceremonial gloves,” Phainon adds, tugging at the fingers of one hand, though he’s not wearing them now. “They make my hands sweat and I can’t hold my sword right.”
“You always said they felt like trying to write with wool tied around your fingers.”
“They still do,” he says, grinning. “I still think the kitchens make the best bread before sunrise, when no one’s had the chance to ruin it yet. And I still don’t like pears.”
You press your cheek to your knees, watching him through your lashes. “You used to say pears were fruit pretending to be water.”
“They are. Pick a side, I say.”
You laugh again, louder this time, and then fall quiet. “And… is Lyra still your favourite constellation?”
“Yes,” he says. “That won’t change anytime soon.”
You nod, something warm and fluttery settling inside your rib cage. When you don’t speak, he adds, “Your turn.”
“I still dip my bread in tea when no one’s watching. I still hate wearing slippers—too stiff. I prefer walking barefoot, even when I’m not supposed to.”
“I noticed,” he says, with a wry glance to your feet.
“I still sleep facing the window,” you continue, “even though it gives me the worst light. I still read by the hearth until my eyes ache. And I still braid my hair when I’m anxious, even if I undo it right after.”
He watches you closely, eyes roving over your features like you’re a scripture he’s memorising. You swallow, suddenly self-conscious, and say, “I still love marigolds. Even if they do smell like dust.”
“Because they look like little suns,” Phainon finishes for you, so easily that it knocks the breath out of your lungs.
Your eyes meet his. Neither of you looks away. He leans forward just slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s something cruel about time,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t wait for us to grow into the people we need to be. It just expects us to be them anyway.”
“I missed you,” you say before you can talk yourself out of it.
“I missed you, too, Princess. Every single day.”
You shift your hand and your fingers brush against his. “I should get some sleep,” you whisper.
He nods, but doesn’t move. “Will you be able to?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I’ll stay until you do.”
You push yourself to your feet slowly, and he rises with you, less like a friend now, and more like the soldier he has grown into being. “Goodnight, Phainon,” you say.
He bows his head slightly. “Goodnight.”
(What is this aching, this yearning, that settles itself behind the bones of your chest and nestles itself deep into your heart? It pulses with every beat, quiet but insistent, like a secret knocking at the inside of your ribs. You press your palm there as if you could smooth it away, but the warmth of Phainon’s voice still rings in your ears, and the ghost of his hand brushing yours won’t leave you be.
You return to bed, but the sheets are colder now, lonelier somehow, and your thoughts spin in endless, silent circles. You don’t get a wink of sleep, not like this, and Mistress Calypso tuts over the abysmal state of you come the next morning.
When you describe this strange ache to her, her motherly eyes soften in understanding, and her lips curve upwards in a knowing smile. “Oh, my dear child,” she sighs, and says nothing more of it.)
ii). When you’re older, you think you know it all.
Years pass. You are older now, not prone to childish whims and fancies anymore, or perhaps you are, but you’re forced to keep it hidden. Your father deems it necessary that you sit by his side during court meetings. You are to pay attention and make note of stately affairs, but you are not meant to speak, your father had told you sternly. It had stung, just a little, but Mistress Calypso comforted you by saying that your father was merely afraid you would surpass him in wit and knowledge.
Thus, you spend less time with your needlework and more time in the palace halls, and so, Master Gnaeus had only deemed it fit that Phainon gets a promotion. He is now your personal guard, and the distinction is not a small one. It means he is no longer posted just outside your door at night but follows you throughout the day—into the great hall, the colonnades, the gardens, and even the stifling court meetings where noblemen drone on about wheat prices and border tensions.
He stands a step behind and to your right, hands clasped at his back, eyes ever watchful. He rarely speaks, save for short exchanges or quiet jests whispered under his breath when no one else can hear. You’ve learned to school your expression well, to stifle your laughter behind the pretense of a cough or a delicate touch to your lips.
Today, the sun slants through the high windows in angled beams, catching dust motes in its golden light. You sit with your hands folded neatly in your lap. Your posture is impeccable and your gaze is fixed on the speaker, though your mind drifts.
Phainon shifts behind you, just slightly, and the movement pulls your attention like a tide. Even without looking, you can sense him—solid, steady, unchanged in most ways. Yet, two years has carved something finer into him, like a sword honed again and again on the whetstone. His face is sharper now, his presence heavier, though never suffocating. You wonder if he notices the changes in you, too.
As the meeting finally draws to a close and the courtiers begin their ritual of shuffling and bowing, your father rises. You do, too, bowing your head as expected. He doesn’t spare you a glance, his attention already swept towards his advisors.
Phainon steps forward, a half-measure closer. “Boring as ever,” he murmurs, too low for anyone else to catch.
You glance up at him, lips twitching. “I’ll add that to my notes.”
He smiles, but only faintly. “You’re doing well.”
The simple words settle in you more deeply than they ought to. You nod, grateful, and start walking, the long train of your gown whispering over the marble. Phainon falls into step beside you, just far enough to be proper. You don’t speak as you make your way down the corridor. You don’t have to; the silence between you both is companionable now, a familiar quiet like the hush before dawn.
But you’re aware, more than ever, of how much space he takes up in your world—and how little room you’re allowed to show it.
So you walk, head high, voice quiet, fingers itching by your sides for something you cannot name. When he opens the door for you and you pass through first, you pretend your heart doesn’t falter.
You are older now. You are wiser. But still—still—he is the softest thought you carry.
“Do you think we can visit Marmoreal Market today, Princess?” he asks.
“Why? So you may see your precious baker girl once more?” you say, allowing a sly smile to play at your lips.
Phainon exhales a laugh, low and amused, as he follows a pace behind you down the corridor. “She has a generous hand with the honey glaze, that’s all,” he says innocently.
“And a generous bosom, if I recall.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he replies with too much earnestness to be sincere.
“You’re a terrible liar,” you say.
“Terrible at many things, Your Highness. Lying is simply the least dangerous of them.”
You shake your head. He’s always been like this: clever in a way that toes the line between impish and careful. He knows just how far he can go, how much he can tease without overstepping. You, for your part, never quite want him to stop.
You reach the landing where the hallway forks—one way leads to the royal chambers, the other to the open terraces that overlook the city. The late spring breeze filters through the carved stone arches, warm with the scent of wisteria.
You pause, turning your face towards it. “Let’s go,” you say, already veering off the expected path.
“To the market?” Phainon asks, ever the guard, ever the rule-follower—but he follows anyway.
“To the terraces,” you amend. “The market can wait until you’ve made your peace with the fact that your baker girl does not, in fact, love you.”
“She doesn’t have to love me,” Phainon says breezily. “She only has to give me free pastries.”
You laugh, startled at the honesty of it, and you don’t miss the way his eyes flick towards you at the sound, like he’s collecting it to keep. The two of you walk in step now, no longer master and guard, but friend and companion. There are things you do not say: how his presence is a balm; how his nearness steadies you in ways even your lessons cannot; how in a court full of power plays that treats you as nothing more than a precious accessory, he is one of the only people who speaks to you like you’re simply a person.
When you reach the terrace, you rest your hands on the balustrade, staring out at the sea of rooftops and chimney smoke below. He stands beside you, just close enough to share the view. The wind lifts your hair gently, teasing strands loose from their pins, and you make no move to smooth them back. Phainon leans his forearms against the stone railing beside you. You glance at him from the corner of your eye.
“You’ll get in trouble for slouching like that,” you say.
“I’ll get in trouble for far worse one day,” he says, not looking at you.
The words land between you, light as falling ash and just as hard to ignore. You don’t respond right away. Instead, you look out again, watching how the light glimmers off the glass domes and copper roofs of the kingdom. It’s beautiful in the late afternoon, with the shadows lengthening and the air warming with the promise of summer.
“Would you ever leave?” you ask.
“Yes,” Phainon says, after a moment. “If it was the right reason. If it meant protecting something, or someone, I care about.”
When you breathe, the air catches in your chest and stays there, unmoving. “And would you come back?”
Phainon tilts his head towards you. “That depends. Would you want me to?”
You finally turn to look at him, the wind catching the hem of his cloak and the light catching in his eyes. He’s not smiling now.
“I don’t think I’d like the palace very much without you,” you admit. The words are too small for what you mean, too fragile—but they’re what you can give, and he seems to understand that. His gaze softens. Something in his expression shifts, like the drawing of a curtain.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to stay,” he says, and you think you can see the trace of a smile return, though it’s smaller than usual.
You lower your gaze before you can say something foolish. Before you reach for his hand, or let your shoulder brush his, or ask him if he ever thinks about things he shouldn’t.
“Phainon,” you say lightly, chasing the heavy quiet away, “when you go to the market, you ought to bring back something for me. Pastries, or maybe dried figs.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” he says with a playful bow of his head. “Though if I bring the wrong kind of figs, like I did last time, will I be banished to the dungeons?”
“Only if they’re sour. Like last time.”
“Then I’ll make sure to taste all of them first.”
You smile to yourself, turning your face back towards the sun. It’s easier this way—to pretend, to flirt with jest and hide everything you mean in the spaces between the words. You don’t know if he feels the same, or if this is all just duty and loyalty gilded in affection for his childhood friend. But for now, it’s enough. It has to be.
(You wonder what happens when a princess and her guard cannot stop looking at each other with fondness.)
“There are reports of the Northern Kingdom rallying for war, Your Highness,” says Master Gnaeus, voice grave as it cuts cleanly through the silence of the chamber.
The candlelight flickers against the polished marble floors, throwing golden shadows against the walls. At the centre of the great hall, the court is gathered—noblemen in their brocades and ribbons, advisors with scrolls and ink-stained fingers, the occasional general in muted armour trimmed with the kingdom’s colours. All eyes are on the man standing near the raised dais.
A hush falls in the wake of Gnaeus’ words. Tension coils in the room like smoke. You feel it settle in your bones, even as you sit perfectly still, hands folded in your lap like you were taught. You do not speak. You are not meant to.
Beside you, your father—the king—does not react at first. His face remains unreadable, cast in part shadow from the sun filtering through the high stained-glass windows. He is a man who does not betray emotion easily, whose command is forged from control.
“And the severity?” he asks.
“More than rumours this time,” Master Gnaeus answers. “Our border outposts have reported movements. Small skirmishes, targeting mainly the farmland on the border. They haven’t attacked anyone outright, yet.”
Your father drums his fingers once against his armrest. “What of the Southern provinces?”
“They remain neutral,” the commander of the royal guard says, “but neutrality seldom lasts when coin and blood are promised. The North is testing us. They are measuring how far they can reach before we push back.”
Lady Caenis, ever eager, ever cunning, rises from her seat near the front. Her ceremonial rings clink softly against one another as she clasps her hands behind her back. “If I may, Your Majesty.”
The king lifts a hand. “Speak.”
“We may yet avoid full war. The prince of Castrum Kremnos is expected to arrive at our court in three months’ time. His father has long sought favour with our kingdom.”
Several heads turn at this. The name holds weight—Castrum Kremnos is a mountain city-state fortified by steep walls and a fearsome army, known for surviving three major invasions without surrendering an inch of land.
“They are not without ambition,” Lady Caenis goes on, “but they are strategic. If we were to offer an alliance, formal and binding, before the North makes its move—before they choose a side—we could secure a military partner unlike any we’ve had before.”
“An alliance of what nature?” your father asks, though you’re certain he already knows the answer.
Caenis smiles with well-practiced diplomacy. “A royal one.”
You are acutely aware of your surroundings: the rustle of a silk sleeve to your left, the distant creak of a high window shifting in the wind, the flicker of torchlight behind the throne. But louder than all of that is the silence that follows. Your name is not spoken—but it doesn’t need to be.
A royal match. A marriage.
You remain unmoving, as you have been trained. But your breath catches ever-so slightly at the back of your throat. You don’t let it show. You focus on the cold edge of your seat beneath you, the feel of your gown’s embroidery beneath your fingertips.
“A marriage,” your father echoes.
Caenis inclines her head. “The prince is said to be capable and respected by his men. It would be a… strategic match. Kremnos’ military strength paired with our control of the trade routes would ensure no northern force dares to strike. We have a strong enough army to hold off their advances until the prince arrives.”
The weight of the room shifts, as if the very air bends towards your father. Everyone is watching him—but he is not watching them. He is watching you. His gaze turns slowly and fixes on you in full for the first time that day. You meet it, though your heart is thundering somewhere behind your ribs. You have always obeyed. You have always listened. Still, some part of you—that foolish, tender part—had hoped you would be more than a pawn on a royal chessboard.
There is no cruelty in the king’s eyes, but neither is there softness. There is only that strange, piercing contemplativeness, like he is studying you through smoke, measuring something that can’t be weighed with scales or numbers.
Behind you, Phainon is still as stone. The distance between him and you that has always been proper now feels unbearable.
(“Princess,” Phainon starts, later, when he accompanies you back to your chambers. “You’re to meet with the seamstress after the meeting.”
“Tell her I am unwell,” you say, hurrying down the corridor as fast as you can. It isn’t a lie; you do feel ill, your stomach roiling and roiling uncomfortably.
“Princess,” Phainon says again, keeping pace with you. “I understand this is sudden, but—”
“You don’t understand anything!” you snap, harsher than intended. Your words echo in the corridor, clipped and cold.
He falters just slightly, enough for you to notice out of the corner of your eye. His jaw tightens, though he says nothing. Loyal as ever. Silent as ever. You regret it instantly. Your footsteps slow; the tightness in your chest presses deeper now, regret curling alongside the sickness in your stomach.
You stop a few paces ahead and close your eyes for a breath. “I’m sorry.”
He approaches again, careful. “You’re not well,” he says, as though offering you permission to feel as overwhelmed as you do.
“No. I’m not,” you say.
He nods once, gently, and then says, “I’ll tell the seamstress you need rest.)
The throne room is overwhelmingly vast when it is just you and your father standing inside it. Your footsteps echo against the marble as you approach the dais, the train of your gown trailing behind you. The light through the stained glass paints the floor in fractured colours—crimson, gold, deep sapphire—but it does little to warm the air between you. Your father watches you with cool detachment from the foot of the throne, hands clasped behind his back. His crown sits slightly askew on the crown of his head.
“I would like to leave the palace,” you say, the words coming faster than you’d meant. You swallow and lift your chin. “Just until the prince of Castrum Kremnos arrives.”
Your father arches a brow. “Leave? And where, exactly, would you go?”
“To the coast,” you say. “To the summer manor. I won’t be idle—I’ll continue my studies with Mistress Calypso—”
“Your nursemaid?” he interjects, a faint sneer in the word.
“She is my governess as well,” you say. “I’m not asking for leisure, Father. I… I feel ill here. I haven’t been sleeping. I find it difficult to breathe within these walls.”
There is a long pause. A crow calls somewhere beyond the windows. Your father regards you a moment more; then, he exhales once, short and dismissive. “You may go,” he says. “There is no use for you here until the prince arrives anyway.”
You flinch, just slightly, but you nod. He doesn’t notice, or perhaps, he doesn’t care.
“You may take your guard and Mistress Calypso,” he says, already dismissing you with a wave of his hand. “I’ll not have the court talking of you dragging half the palace to the shore for your whims.”
“It is not a whim,” you say before you can stop yourself.
“Is that so? Very well, then. See to it that you leave tomorrow before dawn.”
“Yes, Father,” you murmur, dipping your head even though he no longer faces you. You remain where you are until he disappears into the adjoining corridor, footsteps echoing until they vanish entirely. Only then do you lift your gaze again and let your shoulders sag.
The next morning dawns muted and grey, the sky still heavy with the last clinging fingers of spring. Your trunks are packed by the time the sun crests the horizon, and Mistress Calypso waits patiently near the carriage. Phainon stands beside it, already in travel leathers, a pale grey cloak draped over his shoulders and a sword belted at his hip. He helps you into the carriage without a word, though his eyes linger on you longer than usual—not as a guard, but as someone who has quietly noticed how tired you’ve become.
The journey to the coast takes most of the day, winding down through green hills and old roads, past vineyards not yet in bloom and sleepy villages with bright rose bushes. The sea appears at last like a sliver of melted silver along the horizon, widening with each turn of the road until it swells fully into view—vast and blue and endless, the waves curling like ink upon the shore.
The coastal town lies nestled in the curve of a shallow bay, its rooftops the colour of worn terracotta and its buildings pale from salt and sun. It smells of brine and fish and rosemary, and the narrow streets are paved in rounded cobblestones that shift slightly beneath the wheels of the carriage.
The manor sits just beyond the town proper, high on the cliffside and overlooking the water. Pale limestone walls rise from wild green, sea-thistle and tall grass climbing up the stones. Ivy winds around the old balconies and shutters. The air here is sharp with the scent of salt and the sea, but it is clean. For the first time in days, you inhale without feeling caged.
Phainon and manor’s maids begin unpacking the trunks, while Mistress Calypso busies herself with inspecting the interior for dust and damp. You slip away quietly, sandals crunching over gravel, until you find the narrow path that winds down to the town below.
You aren’t alone for long. Phainon catches up with you, as he always does. “Princess,” he chides, “don’t walk away like that.” But you smile at him widely and he softens, shaking his head.
The coastal folk are not the court. They do not bow or stare. Few even seem to recognise you.
You pass through the open-air market with your hood pulled loosely over your shoulders, but it’s more habit than disguise. The baker merely offers a polite nod as he stokes his oven; the fishmonger continues haggling with a hunched old woman, and the children dart barefoot through the plaza fountains, trailing laughter. Here, they do not see a princess and her guard. They only see a boy and a girl, walking through streets unfamiliar to them.
Phainon walks half a step behind you at first, out of instinct more than instruction, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. But as the crowd thickens and the scent of roasted almonds and sea-brine swells in the air, the stiffness in his shoulders begins to loosen. A boy juggles apples near the fountain and nearly drops one at your feet. You catch it before it rolls away and toss it back with a grin.
“You should be careful,” Phainon says, though the corners of his mouth tilt upwards. “If anyone did recognise you—”
“They haven’t,” you say, tugging him towards a stall where seashell necklaces hang in neat rows. “And they won’t.”
You buy one with a pale pink conch strung between two tiny ivory beads, trading a copper coin from the hem of your sleeve. The merchant gives no second glance; he simply pockets the coin and moves to the next customer. Phainon watches you quietly.
“You’ve changed,” he says after a while, once you’ve wandered beyond the edge of the market, towards a low stone wall that overlooks the bay.
“Have I?” you ask, settling on the wall with your arms around your knees.
“You’re… lighter,” he says, and then immediately flushes, like the word has embarrassed him. “I just mean, you seem more at ease. I haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”
“I suppose my father trading me off to some prince I’ve never met from some kingdom I’ve never seen will do that to a person,” you say. You lower your gaze to the water. The tide has begun to turn, waves curling in slow arcs towards the shore.
“I think,” Phainon says, “you could ask your father to let you stay for longer.”
“He might prefer it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” you say. “But it’s still true.”
A gull cries overhead. A boat rocks gently in the harbour, its sails furled tight. The air is cooler now, and the stars begin to prick through the veil of twilight, soft and faraway. You reach into your pocket and pull out the seashell necklace, the pink conch warm from where it’s rested against your skin. Without a word, you hold it out to him.
Phainon blinks. “For me?”
“For the boy who’s always chasing after me,” you say. “Consider it a reward.”
He takes it gingerly, like it might vanish if he isn’t careful. Though he doesn’t say thank-you, he loops it around his wrist.
(When you return to the manor that evening, Mistress Calypso eyes your wind-tangled hair with something like fond disapproval, but she says nothing—only sets a cup of chamomile tea on the table and reminds you to take your tonic before bed. That night, the waves sing you to sleep, and for the first time in many weeks, you rest.)
“Isn’t it cruel, Phainon?” you say, walking through the market once again, the next week. “I always thought parents were supposed to love their children no matter what. My father did love me, when I was very young, but it was so long ago that I hardly remember.”
Phainon walks beside you in silence, his eyes scanning the street as if the right words might be hiding between the bread stalls and spice carts. The market is livelier today—someone is playing a tin whistle near the fountain, and the sweet scent of cinnamon buns wafts through the warm air. You pass a stall draped in bright fabrics dyed indigo blue and pomegranate red. Children dart around your legs, laughing, their feet kicking up dust. But all you can think about is how far away the palace feels now—how far away you feel from it.
“Sometimes, I wonder if I only think he loved me because that’s what children are meant to believe,” you continue. “But the older I got, the quieter it became, as though his love faded with time, the way stars disappear at dawn.”
Phainon exhales slowly. “It’s not meant to be that way,” he says. “But it happens.”
“Did it happen to you?”
He shrugs. “My parents were bakers. They had too many mouths to feed to waste time on affection. But they gave me bread when I was hungry and kept me warm. Maybe that was love in their own way.”
“I think I would have rathered bread and warmth, too.”
A wind stirs, carrying with it the faint tang of approaching rain. You tip your head back towards the sky. The clouds are heavy, charcoal grey and swollen, rolling in fast from the sea.
Phainon notices it too. “We should—”
His warning comes too late. A single drop of rain lands on your cheek, followed swiftly by another on your brow. Then the sky breaks open all at once, a sudden, sharp curtain of rain that scatters the marketplace into bursts of movement. Children squeal and dart into open doors. Merchants scramble to cover their wares with linen and oilcloth. You laugh, startled, as the rain soaks through your sleeves in an instant, the hem of your dress sticking to your ankles.
“Come on,” Phainon says, reaching for your hand without hesitation, and you let him, your fingers slipping into his with a familiarity you don’t allow yourself to think about. He tugs you under the cover of a narrow alcove just beside a shuttered pottery stall. It’s cramped, the two of you standing close with your shoulders brushing, the sound of rain pounding the roof overhead.
The rain comes heavier now—thick sheets of it, washing the colour from the sky and smearing the edges of the market into pale, trembling silhouettes. It’s as if the sea itself has leapt into the clouds and poured down onto the town, soaking everything in its path. The cobblestones are already slick, puddles forming in the dips between them. Water rushes in rivulets along the gutter, swirling with petals from the overturned flower cart you passed by just minutes ago.
You shiver, rainwater dripping down your temples. Phainon’s cloak is coarse and rain-damp, but warm. It smells faintly of him: sun-dried linen and leather polish, salt and steel. He undoes it; and wraps it over your shoulders as he fastens it clumsily at your throat, his fingers brushing the hollow of your collarbone, and you don’t move. You barely breathe.
His touch lingers, fingertips ghosting over your skin like he wants to do more. Then, he draws back, expression shuttered.
The alcove is carved into the curve of an old wall, likely once part of the town’s inner ramparts. Its stone is damp and moss-slick behind your back, but you don’t dare shift. If you move, if you speak, you’re afraid everything will spill out—and it’s not the kind of truth you can shove back once spoken.
You stare at the market, though it’s empty now, save for the most stubborn vendors crouching beneath makeshift coverings. A woman pulls a basket of apples under an awning with an exasperated grunt. A dog scampers down the alley, drenched and wild-eyed. You try to speak—to untangle the knot growing steadily tighter inside your throat—but your voice fails you.
“Phainon…” you say, soft and shaking, eyes still fixed on the grey blur beyond the archway. You cannot look at him.
He doesn’t respond, though you feel him shift slightly beside you. Waiting. Listening. The words are right there: You make me feel safe. I don’t know how to exist in the palace without you. I think I’ve fallen—
“I—” you try again, but your mouth closes around the rest. Nothing comes. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his cloak where it bunches at your chest.
It’s too much. Everything is too much. The chill from your soaked gown clinging to your skin, the ache in your chest that’s grown bigger every day you’ve been at the coast, the quiet way Phainon looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching—it all unravels you from the inside.
You press your back harder against the stone wall and slide down just enough that your shoulders slump and your knees bend, curling in on yourself like the fragile thing you’ve spent years pretending you’re not. Phainon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t touch you, either, but his presence is steady and unwavering, as it always is.
Your breath fogs in the cool air, heart racing and thoughts tangled. You wonder if he knows—if he’s always known—and you’re simply the last to understand what you’ve become, what you’ve come to need.
The rain hammers down around you both. The marketplace stays empty. The skies remain grey. Still, he stands beside you, silent and stolid, as if he, too, cannot speak the thing that lies heavy between you.
(It’s as if you are children again, scolded for playing too long by the fountains in the courtyard. Mistress Calypso clucks her tongue as she pulls the soaked cloak from your shoulders and ushers you through the manor’s side entrance, both you and Phainon dripping water onto the tiled floor. You don’t resist when she pulls your hands into hers and frowns deeply at your cold fingertips.
“Idiots,” she admonishes. “Running around like storm-chasers. Look at you both: half-drowned and already flushed.”
You’re too cold to argue. The fever came on fast—maybe it had been waiting for the first excuse to bloom. Your limbs ache; your skin is too warm and too tight. Phainon’s face is pale, lips tinged with grey, but his hand steadies you at the elbow as you waver on your feet. You don’t make it to your own chambers.
Mistress Calypso directs you both to the same guest room at the end of the east wing: closer, easier, warm. The fire is already lit. One of the maids must have stoked it while you were gone, and the flames crackle gently in the hearth, casting soft amber light across the stone walls.
She has you both strip out of your damp clothing behind a screen, averting her eyes though she’s seen you in worse states since infancy. Fresh linens are brought, and the manor’s softest night things, smelling of cedar and rose. You pull the wool shift over your head with trembling arms, and when Mistress Calypso guides you to the wide feather bed, you don’t protest.
You don’t even realise Phainon has followed until the mattress dips under his weight. “You’ll share,” Calypso says briskly, tucking blankets around you both. “You’ll warm faster that way. Don’t argue; I’ve had enough of your foolishness for one day.”
Phainon shifts beside you, awkward and uncertain, but says nothing. It’s the first time you’ve shared a bed since you were children who knew nothing better. You’re both too exhausted to protest her orders, and truthfully, neither of you want to be anywhere else.
She lays a damp cloth on your forehead, then Phainon’s. Her touch is gentle now, brushing hair from your temples, fingers cool and firm. “Try to sleep,” she says. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
You nod faintly. When she leaves, the room settles into silence, punctuated only by the pop of firewood and the wind outside whispering through the shutters. Phainon lies on his back beside you, stiff as stone. You, curled slightly on your side, are close enough to feel the warmth of his arm beneath the blankets, though not quite touching.
“I can hear your teeth chattering,” Phainon mutters eventually.
You smile weakly. “They’ve a mind of their own.”
Feverish and trembling and tucked beneath thick quilts like unruly children, you finally sleep, pressed into the silence you cannot name and the warmth you cannot speak of yet.)
“The prince of Castrum Kremnos will treat you well, Princess,” Phainon says one afternoon, as the two of you walk a winding trail that cuts through the windswept cliffside. The sun is veiled by thin clouds, casting a soft, silvery sheen over the sea. “I’ve never met him, but I know a soldier who has, and—”
You stop walking. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you turn towards the edge of the overlook. Below, the sea churns, restless and dark, rolling and breaking against the jagged rocks far beneath. The air is sharp with salt and cold with the promise of another rain.
“Princess?” Phainon turns to look at you. His voice falters into silence.
“Please don’t call me that,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t respond, but he waits. Always, he waits.
You wrap your arms around yourself, the breeze tugging at the hem of your light wool cloak. The wind toys with your hair, and curls it at your temples. You can’t bear to look at him, so you look at the horizon instead—where the sky meets the sea, blurred in shades of pewter and indigo.
“I don’t want him to treat me well,” you say. “I don’t want to be treated like anything. That ship will arrive soon, and when it does, I’ll meet a stranger. I’ll smile at him, and I’ll dine with him. I’ll be paraded beside him in silks and jewellery, while the court whispers about how well the match turned out. And in time, I’ll be expected to love him—or at least tolerate him—and bind myself to him before the gods and bear his children in a kingdom I have never seen.
“And none of it will have anything to do with me. Not with what I want, or what I fear. There are other ways to secure alliances, Phainon, but they do not care.”
Phainon stands with his arm at his sides, but there’s tension in his shoulders. He doesn’t offer empty comfort. He knows better. Instead, he listens.
You glance at him, then, catching his gaze. “Doesn’t that sound like a sentence to you?”
“It sounds like a prison,” he says, voice soft.
You search his face, fingers tightening around your cloak. “If I did not bear the title of a royal,” you say, barely more than a whisper, “would you treat me differently, Phainon?”
He draws a slow breath, and when he exhales, something in him loosens. His gaze drops to the earth for a moment, and then returns to you. “Yes,” he says. “I would.”
Your throat tightens.
“If you weren’t a princess,” he continues, quieter now, his voice roughened by something that aches, “I’d steal your hand in the street. I’d kiss you when you looked at me like that—when you see something you want to show me, too. I’d braid wildflowers into your hair just to make you laugh, and I’d call you by your name, your real name, until you were sick of hearing it and asked me to never say it again.”
Your heart kicks hard in your chest. His words are simple, but each one is a tether pulling you further into the confines of your rib cage.
“I’d take you dancing at the summer festival,” he says, stepping closer. “Not in a hall with stuffy walls and bowing nobles, but barefoot in the town square, beneath paper lanterns, with music spilling out of open windows. And I’d hold you so close, no one would doubt what you meant to me.
“I would have written poems about your smile, even if I was no good at it. I’d have carved our names into the old fig tree by the palace gates. I’d bring you honey cakes when you were cross at me. I would have walked beside you—everywhere—not as your guard, but as the boy who accidentally climbed through your window and the man who loved you.”
Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t look away.
You take a step towards him, lips parting, the confession trembling just behind your teeth. “Phainon, I—”
The words falter. Your voice breaks and nothing comes. You clench your jaw against it, but the surge of feeling is stronger than pride, stronger than caution. So instead of speaking, you slump down to the ground, sitting down with all the grace of a weary heart. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, trying to hide the tears that threaten to spill.
Phainon is beside you in seconds. He crouches low, but doesn’t touch you—doesn’t press. He simply sits there, knees drawn up, watching the wind rake through the tall grass and whip the water below.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I can’t say it. I don’t know how.”
There is no one here, in this secluded spot, and even if there was, the coastal folk don’t know you. It’s this logic, you’re sure, that compels Phainon to wrap his arms around you, tentatively, and draw you to him. You fold into him as though you’ve done it a thousand times before, as though your body knows something your tongue is still afraid to say. His chest is warm, the fabric of his tunic soft, and when you press your cheek against it, you feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat underneath your skin.
The sea below crashes against the rocks in a rhythm older than names. Overhead, gulls wheel and call out across the sky, and the clouds—those heavy, brooding things—have begun to break apart, letting through faint bands of light. The wind is calmer now. The storm has passed, but something in you still trembles like a girl lost in it.
Phainon’s hand shifts to the back of your head. He cradles you against his body.
“Don’t be sorry,” he says into your hair. “There’s no need to be sorry.”
You stay like that, wrapped in him, while the wind combs gently to the grass and the scent of the sea clings to your skin. Your dress is muddy, and your shoulders ache, but here, in the quiet hollow between cliffs and sky, you are allowed—for the first time in what feels like forever—to simply be.
You don’t speak again for a long while. You let the silence hold you both. When at last you lift your head, his hand falls away, but he doesn’t move far. He watches you with that same unreadable expression—half-guard, half-man—eyes the colour of deep sapphire skies.
“I’m scared,” you say.
“I know.”
“If I asked you to take me away from all of it, would you?”
He doesn’t say anything. His gaze drops to the earth once again, and he holds you close and buries his face into the crook of your neck.
(“I would want to,” he says finally, lips warm against your skin. “More than anything.”)
The halls of the manor are dark by the time you return. The oil lamps have been extinguished, and the shutters latched against the rising wind. The others sleep in the opposite wing—Mistress Calypso, the maids, the steward—and only the distant hum of cicadas and the gentle creak of wood frame the silence as you walk side by side, like children sneaking back in from mischief.
You reach your chamber door, and Phainon stops as he always does. He lingers just a pace behind, like a shadow unsure of its shape. A week ago, he might’ve bowed and stood outside your threshold with the discipline of a man sworn to service. But tonight—tonight, something hangs unfinished between you. Unspoken. Unburied.
You turn the key in the lock and open the door. He begins to step back—but your hand reaches for his.
He stills immediately, and the look in his eyes is not confusion. It’s caution, hope barely daring to surface. You don’t speak. You simply tug, gently, and he follows. You shut the door behind him, lock it, and turn to find him watching you. Your heart hammers, thunderous in your chest.
Phainon gives you that lopsided grin, the one that used to irritate you for how easily it made your guard drop. “My, Princess,” he says. “How very forward of you.”
You arch an eyebrow, walk past him to the chaise without a word, and throw one of the embroidered pillows directly at his chest. He catches it with one hand, chuckling.
“Do all royal invitations come with threats of smothering?” he says.
“Only for the most insufferable guests.”
“So violent,” Phainon teases. “Should I be worried?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” you reply. “That depends on how much more teasing I’ll have to deal with tonight.”
“More, probably.”
You watch him, waiting—for a joke, a quip, another deflection—but he simply stands there, silent, watching you in return. He sets the pillow down carefully. The candlelight plays against his jawline, his collarbone, the faint line of a scar along his knuckle you weren’t witness to him earning. He’s right in front of you. You ache.
Toeing your sandals off, you sit down on your bed, patting the spot next to you. Phainon obliges, unlacing his boots and unclasping his cloak.
“Will you indulge me once more?” you ask.
“Of course,” he says. “Of course, I will.”
“If I wasn’t a princess, and you weren’t my guard, and we were just two people alone in this room,” you say, unwavering despite the nervousness that flits inside your chest, “what would you do with me?”
Phainon stills, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers on your face for a long, measured beat, as though he’s trying to decide if you really want the answer. If he is allowed to say it out loud.
But he leans in slightly, voice low and steady. “I’d start with your hair,” he says, and your breath hitches.
“I’d take it down,” he murmurs, fingers moving slowly, carefully, to the pins holding it in place. One by one, he slides them free, until the last piece falls and your hair tumbles down around your shoulders. He doesn’t touch it, yet; he watches it fall like silk over your collarbones.
“I’d run my hands through it,” he continues, “because I’ve spent months wondering how it feels. If it’s as soft as I imagine. If it would slip through my fingers, or tangle there and stay.”
He lifts one hand, and brushes a lock behind your ear. Your skin burns beneath his touch. “And then?” you whisper.
His gaze drops, and a quiet smile plays at his lips—something almost shy. “Then I’d trace your face, slowly, with just my fingertips. Your cheekbones, your jaw. I’ve watched you turn away when you’re not trying to laugh. I’ve watched your mouth tighten when you’re fighting not to speak your mind. And I’ve always wondered what you’d look like if you let all of that go.”
“I’d kiss the space between your brows first,” he says, brushing his knuckle there, “because you furrow them when you’re reading. When you’re worried. Then your nose—because you scrunch it when you’re annoyed, and it drives me mad.”
You let out a quiet breath of laughter, and he grins. “Your lips,” he says, voice dipping, “I’d take my time with. You always speak so carefully. I’ve always wanted to see what you’d say when your mouth is only mine to kiss.”
“Your neck,” he goes on, and his voice is like velvet now. “I’d kiss the hollow of your throat, and the curve where your shoulder begins. You hold tension there when you’re trying not to show you’re tired, and I’d kiss you to make you feel better.
“Your hands—they’re so small compared to mine. But they’re strong. I’d hold them open, palm to palm, and kiss each finger, because I want to know what touches the world before it touches me. Your chest, because that’s where your heartbeat lives. I’d rest my head there and listen.
“I’d trace the line of your waist. Hold your hips steady beneath my hands. Kiss the softness of your stomach where no one else dares to be tender. I’d go slow,” he whispers. “Learn the map of your body like a pilgrim, not a thief. And if you asked me to stop, I would. But if you let me…”
“Phainon,” you whisper.
He closes his eyes, like your voice is something holy.
“And then?” you ask, again.
“I’d kiss you,” he says, and his eyes flutter open, “until your lips were red, until you forgot how to speak. I’d find every place on your body that makes you shiver, and claim them all.”
Your hands find the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling into it. You pull him closer. “Do it, then.”
He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t tease. He merely leans in and kisses you. It begins soft, a brush of lips. But the second time, it’s deeper—warmer. It’s as if you’re making up for every time you looked at each other and turned away; every secret glance; every second you stood too close and did nothing.
His hands rise to your face, cradling your cheeks as your mouth parts beneath his, and your fingers move up his chest, over his shoulders, dragging his shirt with them. He shrugs out of it without breaking the kiss, and you marvel at the heat of his skin, at the strength of it. Every inch of him is sun-browned and scarred, hard-earned.
Your hands find the hem of your dress, and slowly, you lift it over your head. You sit bare-chested before him, skin kissed by firelight, heart beating so loudly, you’re sure he can hear it. Your arms twitch to cover yourself, but you don’t.
Phainon’s gaze sweeps over you, not with hunger, but with awe.
“You’re—” He swallows. “You’re so beautiful.”
You duck your head, bashful, but Phainon will have none of it. He closes the space between you again, kissing you like he’s trying to commit the shape of your mouth to memory. His hands tremble slightly when they touch your skin, moving carefully across your ribs, your waist, as though he’s still not sure he’s allowed. You guide him. You teach him.
You lie back against the pillows, and he follows, bracing himself above you. You undress each other slowly, fumbling at times, laughing once when his belt catches on itself and breaks the moment.
You touch, explore, learn. You whisper when something feels good. He listens. He mirrors your movements, unsure at first, and then with more confidence, brushing kisses over your collarbone, the swell of your breast, your stomach, like you’re a language he’s finally been permitted to speak.
When he pushes into you, it’s slow and careful. You clutch at his shoulders, eyes locked to his, you breath stuttering in your chest at the stretch and burn and fullness of it. He goes still, watching your expression, concerned and cautious. You nod.
He presses his forehead to yours, and the movement begins—gentle, uneven, his hands cradling your hips. You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper. The ache turns to pleasure, a pulse in your core that builds and builds, and the sounds you make only encourage him: little gasps and whimpers, your name on his lips, his on yours.
There are no titles here. No barriers. Only two bodies moving together under candlelight, tangled in silk sheets and first loves.
You cry out as pleasure crashes through you, seizing your limbs, your breath, your thoughts. He follows soon after, gasping into your neck, trembling above you; he is, you think, a man who’s finally been allowed to feel everything he’s been denied.
(“Is it strange that I don’t want the sun to rise?” you whisper into Phainon’s throat. He’s tucked your head under his chin, while his fingers trace patterns onto your spine.
“Not strange,” he whispers back. “Cruel, maybe. But not strange.”
You shift slightly, enough to press your cheek against the warmth of his collarbone. His skin smells like salt and cedar, and something softer—like the sheets between you, like sleep.
“If morning comes,” you murmur, “it all goes back to how it was.”
“I know,” he says. You feel the breath he lets out, the way it lifts his chest just slightly; then, he adds, “But it’s not morning yet.”)
Dawn comes cruel.
The pale light bleeds in through the gaps in between the drapes, casting the room in watery gold. You blink slowly from where you lie tangled in the sheets, eyes adjusting to the dim light. Phainon is already awake beside you—half-dressed, back half-turned, one hand dragging down his face in exhaustion or disbelief, or something in between.
You sit up, letting the silk slip from your bare skin, and watch him for a moment. There’s a softness to his posture, something almost boyish in the slope of his shoulders and the way the morning light outlines the curve of his neck. A purpling mark blooms at the base of his throat—your mark—and something about that fact knots your stomach with heat and something else you dare not name.
“We should’ve slept,” you say, voice rough with sleep.
“We did,” Phainon says, not turning.
“For an hour.”
“Better than none.”
You rise and cross the room. Your fingers brush the back of his hand as he laces up his bracers—not for armour, just for show. “You should go,” you whisper. “Mistress Calypso always wakes early, and if she finds you here, no explanation will suffice.”
He smiles faintly at that. “I know. I dived into a laundry basket because of her, remember?”
You laugh softly, but the sombre thought of him leaving wedges in your mind like a splinter. Phainon seems to realise it, too, because he simply nods once with no protest or drawn-out goodbye; just the quiet acknowledgement of what the world expects. He leans down, presses a kiss to your shoulder, then the inside of your wrist, and finally the corner of your mouth: a promise and a farewell folded into one.
When he slips out, the door closes with a soft click. You exhale.
You move through the rest of your morning on instinct—pulling on a light gown, brushing the knots from your hair, fastening a necklace you don’t even remember choosing. You find Mistress Calypso in the parlour, seated in an armchair with her book on her lap and her cup of chicory in her hand.
“I wish to visit the marketplace today,” you say. “The sea air is good for me, and I want to walk before the sun climbs high.”
“As you wish, Princess,” she says. “I’ll send one of the girls with you.”
You smile. “I’d rather go alone, if I may. I’ve grown tired of fussing.”
“You always were a stubborn little thing,” she sighs.
“Would you have liked me soft-spoken and obedient?”
“Stars, no. I wouldn’t know what to do with you.” She waves you off, and you leave before you can change your mind.
Outside, the market stirs to life with colour and noise. The scent of salt and fruit and spice fills the air as fishermen arrange their catch and fabric merchants unfurl bolts of dyed silk to flutter in the breeze. Shopkeepers shout over one another, offering baskets of ripe pomegranates, jars of preserved lemons, bundles of thyme and bay leaf, and combs cut from metal. You walk slowly past the stalls. A younger girl thrusts a petal-stained hand at you, offering a bundle of dried flowers with uncertain eyes. You buy it immediately.
Phainon appears eventually, as he always does. You find him standing just beyond a barrel of olives, his arms folded, posture loose. He wears no armour today, and there is no sword tucked into his belt. He only wears his simple shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and a sardonic little smile on his lips.
“Is it dangerous to let the princess wander alone?” you ask when you reach him.
“More dangerous not to,” he quips.
You grin and link your arms together, pulling him with you. You share grapes and honey-coated figs. He dares you to out-bargain a spice merchant, and you do, though the old man throws in an extra pouch just for your smile. Phainon nearly gets pickpocketed by a boy no older than ten, and ends up giving him a coin anyway.
When you walk past the stalls selling sweet loaves of bread, some of the older women smile knowingly in your direction. One offers you a braided loaf of bread with lavender baked into the crust. Phainon insists on paying for it, and the baker swats his hand away.
“Let a soldier buy a gift for his princess,” Phainon says, exaggeratedly courtly.
“Buy it for your wife, then,” the old woman retorts, winking.
You leave with warm bread, a small jar of honey, and cheeks that refuse to cool.
Later, with the heat rising and the stalls beginning to close, you and Phainon slip away from the crowded square and walk down to the narrow, pebbled shoreline. The beach is quieter here, tucked behind a rise of sand and sea-worn grass. Pebbles clack underfoot as you both step closer to the water’s edge. You kick off your sandals, letting the cold saltwater lick at your ankles.
Phainon sits first, knees bent, arms draped across them. You lower yourself beside him, knees drawn to your chest, head tilted back towards the endless stretch of sky. Your fingers graze his over the sand.
For a while, neither of you speaks. The wind plays with the hem of your skirt. A gull shrieks in the distance. Phainon says something, low and teasing, about kidnapping you onto a fishing boat and vanishing into a life of anonymity. You laugh. You tell him you’d hate the smell of fish guts, but your hand doesn’t leave his.
“I could stay like this forever,” you say eventually.
“I know.”
You look at him. “But I won’t, will I?”
“No,” he says softly. “You won’t.”
It hurts more than you expect, that simple truth.
“Princess!”
You both jolt at the voice—breathless, hurried, and too close. A maid stumbles over the rise behind you, skirts bunched in her hands, cheeks flushed with exertion and panic. When she spots you, her face nearly crumples with relief. “I’ve been looking everywhere,” she pants. “Please forgive me—there’s news. A messenger has come from the capital.”
You straighten at once. “From the king?”
She nods, still catching her breath. “He carries your father’s seal. He’s waiting at the manor.”
Behind you, Phainon has already risen. He’s gone silent again, every part of him falling back into his role: the guard, the shadow. You brush the sand from your dress, your pulse suddenly loud in your ears. The sea wind picks up, and suddenly, the morning is no longer yours. The world has come to collect you.
You trudge back to the manor, not bothering to fix your appearance. Let the messenger see you wild-eyed and wind-snared. Why should you care? Phainon’s offer of running away suddenly seems ironic, and you bite back the sudden laugh that bubbles up your throat. The maid rushes ahead, her slippers slapping unevenly against the stones, but you walk slower. Your feet drag through the fine grit that clings to your soles, and the humidity makes sweat bead at your temples.
Phainon doesn’t speak. He walks beside you at a careful distance, eyes forward, hands clenched into fists at his sides. You want to reach out, just once more, and say something small. But you don’t; if you do, you might not stop.
The manor gates loom up ahead, black iron wrapped in ivy, and beyond them, the sun-splashed courtyard where the roses are still in bloom. A shadow waits at the threshold. The messenger is tall and narrow-shouldered, dressed in the king’s colours—deep blue and silver—and he carries a leather satchel with the royal seal. His eyes flick over to you with the barest hint of surprise. You wonder if it’s the sand on your calves or the flush on your cheeks he notices first.
He bows. “Your Highness.”
“You’ve come a long way,” you say, dipping your chin, just slightly.
“I bring a letter from the king,” he says. He extends the sealed parchment, and you take it with hands you hope don’t shake. The wax glints blood-red in the afternoon sunlight, imprinted with the crest you’ve seen since childhood, familiar and final all at once.
You break the seal with the nail of your thumb. The parchment unfolds stiffly, the script inside unmistakable. Your father’s hand: ornate, precise, and devoid of warmth.
The prince of Castrum Kremnos is to arrive at the capital in two weeks’ time. His arrival must be met with the dignity and preparation befitting our kingdom and future alliance. You are to return immediately and make the necessary arrangements.
You are not to delay. Your presence is required.
— By Order Of The Crown.
(You glance at Phainon, stricken, wanting nothing more than his arms to wrap around you and soothe away the tension in your shoulders like he’d told you he would last night.)
iii). If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.
The prince of Castrum Kremnos looks rather like a brute: long, messy hair, bright golden eyes that rake over your face, robes the colour of red rubies, and strong arms that look like they could crush a boulder. Yet, when he takes your hand in his and presses his lips to your knuckles, his fingers are gentle.
“Princess,” he says, after he straightens up. “It is an honour to finally meet you.”
You tilt your head to the side in greeting. “Welcome to our kingdom, Prince Mydeimos. I trust your journey here was pleasant.”
He smiles, and his eyes gleam like coins freshly struck. “Long,” he replies, “but not unpleasant. I do hope it will have been worth the ride.”
You withdraw your hand with care, suppressing the urge to wipe it against your skirts. Behind you, the courtiers shift in interest. Somewhere near the dais, your father watches with thinly veiled satisfaction, his expression the mirror of a man who has already counted his gain.
“Mydeimos,” he says, voice echoing throughout the hall. “We are pleased to host you. You must be tired. I’m sure my daughter will be happy to show you the gardens after you’ve had a moment to rest.”
“If it pleases you, I’d be glad to give the prince a tour,” you say, schooling your expression.
“Excellent,” the king says. “Then it’s settled.”
Mydeimos’ golden gaze flicks to you again, appraising. “I would be honoured.”
The moment the two of you step past the threshold of the great hall, into the quieter, sun-warmed corridor beyond it, it feels like slipping out of a costume. The marble walls hush the sounds of courtly interest behind you, and the breeze filtering in from the open arches smells faintly of lemon blossoms.
You lead him in silence for a while. Mydeimos falls into step beside you without complaint. His presence is large, but not overbearing, his footsteps heavy but measured. The sword strapped to his back shifts slightly with every step, a quiet reminder of who—and what—he is.
When the garden gate swings open with a soft creak, you both step into a world of colour and calm: roses spilling over trellises, white hydrangea blooming in the shade, and the soft burble of the fountain in the centre where ducks often gather in the early morning.
“Impressive,” he murmurs, gaze trailing over the grounds. “Your kingdom is fond of beauty.”
You glance at him. “Is yours not?”
“We don’t have the same luxury of fertile grounds,” he says simply. “But we do what we can.”
You walk slowly towards the edge of the reflecting pool. Mydeimos stops beside a small cluster of marigolds, crouching to inspect one without plucking it. His fingers are rough, but he touches the petals with unexpected care.
“You know why I’m here,” he says after a moment. His voice is low but not unkind. “There is no sense pretending otherwise.”
“The alliance was finalised only weeks ago,” you say quietly. “My father moves fast.”
“He’s trying to protect what he can,” says Mydeimos. “And he thinks a marriage will keep the borders from collapsing.”
“He is probably right.”
He looks up at you. “That doesn’t mean either of us has to enjoy it.”
“I have no interest in being your wife,” you say.
“I suspected as much.” Mydeimos sounds resigned.
“My heart belongs to someone else,” you say, softer now, “though no one else knows. It’s… complicated.” If you are to be wed to this prince, he must, at least, know the truth.
To your surprise, he doesn’t scoff or sneer. He only nods once, slowly. “Then I won’t insult you by asking if it’s returned. But I will promise this: if we are forced into this arrangement, I will treat you with respect. I won’t make a mockery of you.”
There is something sincere in his voice, you think. Something lonely, too. “Thank you,” you say. “That’s more than I expected.”
He straightens up, brushing the dust from his hands. “I’d prefer to have a friend in this, if nothing else.”
You consider him—messy hair, calloused hands, and eyes like summer lightning—and nod. “I would like that very much.”
He smiles at you, this time less like a prince and more like a boy your age who has also had to grow up too fast. “Then it’s settled,” he says. “At least between us.”
“I suppose it is,” you agree, giving him a smile of your own. “Tell me about Castrum Kremnos, my new friend. I have never visited, though I’ve heard many things about it.”
Mydeimos turns towards the hedge-lined path, and you follow his lead, walking in slow, companionable silence for a few steps. “Many things,” he echoes with a dry laugh. “Let me guess—bleak stone cliffs, soldiers with no tongues, and children raised to fight?”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “Is that not the truth?”
“It’s not the whole truth,” he says, somewhat wistfully. “We do have cliffs, yes. Our mountains overlook the ocean, and the citadel sits high above the sea. It’s built into the rock itself. The wind there howls in the winter and makes you feel like you might be swept into the sea if you step too close to the edge. But in the spring… the fog rolls down like a veil, and everything smells of salt and wild herbs.”
You imagine it: the sound of crashing waves below stone towers, boys training with swords in the mist, women weaving thick wool in candlelit halls. You ask, “And the people?”
“Stubborn,” he replies. “Proud and practical. Not particularly good at small talk.”
You laugh at that. “I can’t imagine how you survived court, then.”
“Barely,” he admits, glancing at you sideways, a grin tugging at his mouth. “But I’m adaptable, even if I’d rather be sparring or riding.”
You reach out to brush your hand against the soft lavender lining the path. The breeze stirs the petals and sends their fragrances trailing through the air. “I don’t think I expected you to have a sense of humour.”
“I’ve been told that a lot.”
He says it so matter-of-factly that it makes you laugh again, and this time it feels freer, lighter than it has in days. You almost forget that you had worried yourself sick over this man, feeling so ill at the prospect of marriage that you’d put yourself through a self-imposed exile. But it was worth it, you remind yourself, because you now know that Phainon is yours and you are his.
“I think we’ll get along just fine, Prince Mydeimos,” you say honestly.
He gives you a short, mock bow. “Then I’ve accomplished something today. Although… I have told you about my kingdom, boring as it may be. It is only fair that you tell me something about yourself, Princess.”
The path begins to curve back to the courtyard. In the distance, the bells begin to chime the hour.
“I am madly in love with my soldier,” you say, surprising even yourself with your candour.
He straightens, clearly startled—but not offended. If anything, he looks intrigued, his golden eyes narrowing slightly, the tilt of his head more thoughtful than disapproving. “That,” he says slowly, “is quite the answer.”
You don’t flinch, though your cheeks warm. You lift your chin and meet his gaze squarely. “I assumed you wanted honesty.”
“I did,” he admits. “Though I expected a more… diplomatically evasive kind of honesty.”
“I’ve had enough of diplomacy for today,” you say. “You asked who I am. That is who I am.”
Mydeimos studies you for a long moment. “Does he know?”
“Yes,” you say. “But it changes nothing.”
You expect a sigh, a frown, some bitter commentary on alliances and duty. Instead, he hums, low and contemplative. “Then he must be brave. Or foolish. Or both.”
“He’s many things.” You smile faintly. “Brave among them.”
“I won’t ask who he is,” Mydeimos says. “It doesn’t matter to me, and I suspect it wouldn’t be wise for either of us to say more than we already have.”
You nod in agreement. He offers you his arm, and you place your hand in the crook of his elbow. “Thank you,” you murmur.
“For what?”
“For not being angry.”
“Ah.” His mouth quirks. “I might be. Later. In private. When I’m alone and wondering what sort of fool I’ve been made into. But right now, I think I quite like you.”
You don’t suppress your grin as you walk in silence back through the hedge gate. It is a tentative friendship, not created out of roses and vows, but made out of something oddly sturdier—honesty in the face of expectation, and the quiet understanding between two people playing parts in a story neither of them wrote.
(“Well, Princess,” Phainon says later, when you make your way back to your chambers. “What do you think about the prince of Castrum Kremnos?”
“Must we talk about this here?” you ask, rolling your eyes with fond exasperation.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m curious.”
“He is perfectly agreeable, Phainon, but he is not you.”)
The corridors of the palace are quieter in the late evening, steeped in amber torchlight and the sounds of the servants returning to their quarters. You move swiftly, the hem of your gown caught up in your hands to keep it from dragging on the stone. Phainon walks a pace behind you, silent but solid, a shadow at your back that warms rather than frightens.
You slip through an archway that leads into the west wing—a part of the palace few use, half-forgotten in the shuffle of royal life. It’s not entirely abandoned, but it’s private enough. The corridor ends in a small vestibule with high, narrow windows and an alcove half-swallowed by trailing ivy from the outside garden wall. It is, in essence, a hidden corner of stone and moonlight.
You turn to face Phainon as soon as you’re sure you’re alone, chest rising with the breath you’ve been holding in all day. “We only have a few minutes.”
He doesn’t ask if it’s a good idea. He doesn’t ask if you should be here. He simply steps forward, steady and certain, and brings his hand to your cheek.
“I hated seeing you walk beside him,” Phainon murmurs.
“I know.” You lean into his touch. “But I had no choice. My father expects—”
“I know,” he says. “You don’t have to explain.”
There is nothing but the sound of your breathing and the distant chatter of wind through the ivy. His forehead rests gently against yours. His fingers graze your wrist, and even that is enough to make you shiver. You tilt your chin up, and he kisses you, soft at first, slow and sure. Your hands twist in the fabric of his tunic, and—
You hear someone clear their throat behind Phainon.
You jolt back as if burned, heart leaping to your throat. Phainon instinctively moves in front of you, his hand flying to the hilt of his blade out of habit, until he realises who stands at the edge of the corridor.
Prince Mydeimos leans against the archway, arms folded across his broad chest. His golden eyes gleam in the dim light—far more amused than angry. “Well,” he says lightly, “I was looking for the stables. Imagine my surprise.”
Neither of you speaks. Phainon tenses like a drawn bow, and you feel your shame blooming hot across your cheeks.
But Mydeimos raises one hand, palm outward. “Relax. If I was going to cry treason, I’d have done it already.” He pushes off the wall and steps closer, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Though I must say, soldier, you’re either very bold or very stupid.”
Phainon doesn’t respond. His jaw is clenched so tightly, you want to soothe his skin with your thumb.
“Mydeimos,” you begin, voice low, “please—”
“Don’t worry,” the prince interrupts. “I’m not here to tattle like a child. I told you before—I like honesty.” He looks between the two of you. “And this… this is honest, isn’t it?”
You nod slowly.
Mydeimos sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Well. It complicates things, but I suppose it makes my position easier to refuse when the council starts pushing for wedding dates.”
You blink. “You’re not going to—?”
“No,” he says, smiling a little. “I may be considered one of the best warriors around, and not very well-versed in matters of the heart, but I know enough, Princess.”
Phainon finally speaks. “You won’t tell?”
Mydeimos shrugs. “It’s not my secret to tell. But if you value her, soldier, you’d better be careful. The king may be blind, but the court is not.”
The prince disappears with a rustle of his cloak and a low whistle trailing behind him, as though he really means what he said—that he won’t tell. The corridor grows quiet again; the lack of his presence leaves behind a vacuum. You don’t move. Phainon does. He steps away from you, the warmth of his body vanishing as if a door has slammed shut between you both. His jaw is tight. His hands curl into fists at his sides, and when he finally speaks, it’s not the softness you’re used to—it’s something harsher, brittle and breaking.
“You can’t let him do that.”
“What?” you say, disoriented.
“You should’ve stopped him.” He turns to face you fully now, eyes dark and unforgiving. “You should’ve told him the truth—that you’ll marry him. That it was just a mistake. That this—” he gestures between you, his voice rising—“whatever this is, it ends now.”
The words knock the breath out of your lungs. “Phainon—what are you saying?”
“You can’t let him call off the engagement because of us,” he says.
“He said he doesn’t want to marry me if I don’t want to,” you argue, stepping towards him. “He said he understood—”
“He’s being kind!” Phainon shouts. “Because he’s honourable! Because he’s giving us a chance to walk away before this escalates any further!”
“You want to walk away?”
“I want you safe,” he says. “This is not safety. This is selfishness. We are selfish. Do you think I don’t want you? Gods, I want you more than I want to breathe. But if it means your father sees your reputation torn apart in court, if it means Castrum Kremnos turns its fleets away and innocent people die on the borders, then yes. I want to walk away.”
“Don’t put all this on me,” you say.
“I’m not!” he bites back. “I’m as guilty as you are. But you’re the princess. You’re the one they’ll parade down the aisle and pin like a jewel to someone’s throne. Not me. I’m just the stupid son of some village baker with a sword. I was never supposed to climb through your window all those years ago.”
“You don’t get to decide that!” You push past him, chest heaving. “You don’t get to act like this is just a lapse in judgement. You don’t get to—to kiss me and hold me and touch me, and—and then just run the moment something happens!”
“I’m trying to protect you!” he yells.
“Then stop pretending it’s about me,” you say. “Stop lying and admit it. You’re scared.”
Phainon freezes. “Of course I’m scared,” he says, low and bitter. “You think I want to watch you marry another man? You think I want to hear the bells ring and know you’re standing at an altar I’ll never be allowed near? I want to kill every man who’s ever looked at you the way I do. But I don’t, because I can’t. Because I’m not supposed to. I’m nothing. I’m a sword in your father’s army. That’s all I’ve ever been.”
You’re shaking now, rage and grief tangled together so tightly you can barely breathe. “Then why did you ever touch me?” Your voice breaks. “Why did you let me fall in love with you?”
He lifts his eyes to yours, and when he speaks, his voice is a whisper of war-torn resolve. “Because I thought—just once, I thought—that maybe the gods had made a mistake.”
“Then fall out of love with me,” you whisper, venomous and hurt. “Go ahead. If it’s for the kingdom, if it’s for the people—fall out of love with me, Phainon. And I’ll fall in love with Mydeimos like I’m supposed to. I’ll do my duty.”
Phainon’s face crumples. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Princess.”
You square your shoulders. You don’t cry. You won’t give him that. “I mean every word.”
(You cry and cry and cry yourself to sleep that night, streaks of saltwater running down your cheeks and your nose. The next morning, there is a different guard standing outside your doors.)
“Do you find this banquet particularly riveting, Princess?” Mydeimos nudges your shoulder, with the same ease he has shown you since your friendship.
You blink, pulled from your thoughts by the touch of his shoulder against yours. The ballroom is a blur of warm candlelight, colourful gowns, and laughter that sounds too bright to match your current state of mind. You haven’t tasted a single bite of the feast. You haven’t truly slept since that night with Phainon. Your eyes flick towards the far end of the hall—towards the empty space near the guards’ post, where he should be. But he’s not there.
He hasn’t been anywhere.
“Sorry,” you say. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Clearly,” says Mydeimos, a wry smile tugging on his lips. “I’ve been singing a ballad to you for the last five minutes. You didn’t even flinch when I rhymed ‘goblet’ with ‘sorbet’.”
That earns the faintest laugh from you. Mydeimos doesn’t push more than that. Instead, he reclines back slightly in his chair and surveys the grand room as if it’s a chessboard. “I have been thinking lately,” he says.
“A wonderful feat, Prince,” you tease him, and he smiles, just once, quickly.
“Indeed. But I have been thinking about how strange it is… how much power we let titles have.”
“You’re a prince,” you say, glancing at him.
He lifts a shoulder. “Precisely. And yet, I didn’t choose it. I didn’t earn it. I was born with a crown on my name and a sword in my hand and told the world would make way for me.” He takes a sip from his goblet, watching the wine swirl like blood amidst gold. “Meanwhile, I’ve seen men sharper than any general be dismissed because they didn’t speak with the right accent. I’ve seen women with more grace than any noble be cast out because their blood wasn’t ‘clean’ enough for court.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell the council about me and Phainon?” you ask.
Mydeimos doesn’t answer right away. He studies you, eyes glinting with something far more serious than his usual jesting nature. “No,” he says finally. “I didn’t tell them because I don’t believe love should be a privilege reserved for the highborn. And because… I don’t think either of you deserves to be punished for wanting something honest in a world this rotten.”
You drop your gaze to the still-full plate in front of you, food long gone cold, because your appetite has vanished. “You really think it’s honest? Even when it hurts so much?”
“I think,” Mydeimos says, “that anything worth wanting is bound to hurt. But it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
The music swells again, a string quartet weaving a lively melody as men and women line up to dance.
“Come, Princess,” Mydeimos says, offering you a hand. “We must salvage what little enjoyment is left in this banquet, don’t you think?”
You look down at his extended palm, hesitant, and then place your hand in his. His grip is warm. He leads you to the centre of the ballroom, where nobles glide like swans across the marble. The music swells into a sweeping waltz, ornate and majestic, like everything else in this place: grand and golden and only beautiful if you don’t observe too closely. You don’t look for Phainon this time. It already hurts too much.
Mydeimos settles one hand against the curve of your back, the other clasping yours. He moves with a grace that belies his broad demeanour, not stiff like the courtiers who danced only to be noticed, but smooth, fluid, as though music lives in his bones. You let yourself be led, each step a distraction from the turbulence in your head.
“My mother used to dance like this,” Mydeimos murmurs. “Always a bit too fast. My father used to say she was trying to outrun the court.”
You glance up at him. He’s watching the crowd, not you. “She sounds wonderful,” you say.
“There are few things court life respects less than a woman who defied expectation,” he says, eyes flicking to the high dais where the elder lords sit. “Fewer still who remembered her for more than the silks she wore.”
“Your mother was… Gorgo, wasn’t she? Didn’t they call her the Sapphire Princess?”
“Yes. For her eyes. Never for the fact that she broke a treaty engagement and nearly started a civil war because she refused to be sold off like cattle.”
“She was supposed to marry the northern lord, wasn’t she?” you ask.
Mydeimos nods, spinning you gently in between phrases of the music before returning you to him. “She was betrothed to the very man whose army threatens your borders now. But then came my father—Eurypon, the commander of the Castrum Kremnos army. He was a war hero, but he was common-born, and entirely unacceptable for that fact.”
You smile softly. “But she chose him.”
“She did,” he says, gaze finding yours, “and nearly lost everything for it. Her father threatened exile. The court was scandalised. Yet… they married. Their stations were close enough—barely—that it could be spun as political, not romantic. She reminded the court that without Eurypon’s army, her home kingdom of Argyros would have fallen to siege three winters earlier.”
You’re quiet, absorbing this. “She married for strength?”
“She married for conviction,” he says. “And she gambled her kingdom on it. My father was no noble, but he was necessary, and sometimes, that’s all the crown cares about.”
You close your eyes, your mind reeling with ideas now, after Mydeimos told you about his parents. “Phainon, he—he told me he was going to be the commander of the royal guard one day. It was his dream. Master Gnaeus is fond of him, certainly, but he cannot let favouritism come in the way of electing the new captain.”
Mydeimos’ eyes twinkle. “How convenient that you have one of the most skilled warriors of the nation visiting your court, then, Princess.”
(The banquet is not over yet, but you excused yourself early and now, you search for Phainon. You walk fast at first, then break into a near-run, your slippers skidding slightly on the polished stone floors as you hurry down the palace corridors. Your heart thunders louder than the orchestra ever could. You don’t entirely know where you’re going—but your feet do.
Phainon is not on duty tonight, but there are places he goes when he wants to be alone. Places even the guards forget; places he showed you when you were young and guileless. You remember them all.
You find him behind the old watchtower in the eastern wing, where the wall juts out just enough to be missed unless you know to look. The alcove is dim, lit only by moonlight slanting through the high windows. He stands there with his back to you, armour unbuckled and resting on the stone bench beside him. He’s in a plain shirt now, his hands braced against the wall, head bowed.
For a moment, you simply look at him, relief and frustration warring inside you. “Phainon,” you call.
He stiffens, and doesn’t turn. “Go back, Your Highness.”
You ignore the sting in his voice, the distance in it. “I will,” you say, “after you listen to me.”
“I have nothing left to say.” Phainon moves to reach for his armour, but you step forward, blocking his path.
“Then you’ll listen out of duty,” you snap. “If not to me, then to the princess of your kingdom, who is issuing you a command.”
Slowly, Phainon lifts his eyes to yours. The anger in them is subdued, like embers glowing between ash, but it is there. “Is that what we are now?” he says bitterly. “Orders and rank?”
“You told me, once,” you say, “that you were going to become the captain of the royal guard.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” you say. “Everyone knows you are the top candidate for the next position, but Master Gnaeus cannot let his affection for you and me affect his decision-making. If you were to become the captain of the royal guard, then we—” You stop yourself there. “You have a chance now, Phainon. Mydeimos is here, and the court is already restless with the border skirmishes from the north. If war comes, they will need strength. They will need leadership.”
He shakes his head, turning away again. “They’ll never choose me. I’m no one.”
“Then make them choose you. Challenge Mydeimos to a duel.”
“Are you insane?” he says.
“I’m serious,” you say. “He’s a prince, yes, but he respects strength. And the court does, too. If you defeat him—or even come close—they’ll have no choice but to remember you. There are other ways we can secure this alliance, Phainon. And if you become the captain of the royal guard, they cannot say anything about us staying together, because our ranks will be nearly equal.”
Phainon ducks his head and curses under his breath. Then, he looks up at you, and his anger cracks. “You think I can survive fighting a prince and the court?”
“If there is anyone who can, it is you.”)
Dawn has barely begun to stretch across the horizon, but the court is already assembled around the patch of training grounds used as a sparring ring. Nobles in rich brocades and glinting jewels watch from the colonnades, expressions schooled into polite interest or thinly veiled dread. The dew has not yet dried from the stone, and a thin mist curls around the edges of the courtyard, ghostlike.
There is no music, no fanfare; there is only the rustle of silk and the occasional murmur of speculation passed behind a gloved hand. The duel is not public in the usual sense—no civilians, no celebration—but it is undeniably a performance. Every glance, every breath, every footfall will be judged.
On the eastern platform, the king watches from his elevated seat, robed in black and silver, his crown slipping down his forehead. His expression is as if it is carved from stone. You stand just beneath him, close enough to hear the way his ringed fingers tap once against the arm of the chair, right next to Master Gnaeus. You force your spine straight, your expression passive, but your nails leave crescent-shaped indents on your palms. You are not allowed to show favour here: not for Mydeimos, the foreign prince and your suitor; and certainly not for Phainon, your oldest friend, your hidden heart, and your last defiance.
The rules were made clear the moment Phainon approached the council chambers and issued the challenge. If Mydeimos wins, the alliance will be sealed by marriage between him and you. Phainon will be exiled for insubordination and interference in royal affairs.
If Phainon wins, the alliance will be negotiated through trade and defense treaties instead of marriage. He will be named the next captain of the royal guard, by merit and recognition.
At the far end of the ring, Phainon steps forward first.
He is silent, face unreadable beneath the steady press of expectation. His silver-white hair is tied back, his armour plain but fitted with care—worn in places, the leather softened from use. He carries no insignia. The hilt of his sword glints at his back, catching the early sun in flashes as he moves with calm, deliberate steps to the centre of the ring. He does not look at you.
On the opposite end, Prince Mydeimos arrives with significantly more fanfare. His entrance is flanked by two of his personal guards, though they peel away before he enters the sparring ground alone. He is dressed in deep crimson, edged in gold, and his armour is polished to an almost absurd shine. His twin swords rest easily at his hips, curved slightly and sheathed in scabbards inlaid with foreign script.
Phainon does not extend a hand. Mydeimos doesn’t seem surprised. They say nothing, but they bow their heads as the king rises. The hush that falls over the courtyard is instantaneous. When he speaks, his voice carries without effort.
“Let the court bear witness to this sanctioned duel—its terms already set, and its consequences clear. Combatants, you will fight until surrender or incapacitation. Death is forbidden.”
He motions for Master Gnaeus to step forward, and that old man, with his father-like fondness towards you and Phainon, calls out: “Begin.”
Just like that, the world narrows down to two figures moving swiftly across stone.
Phainon moves first—not charging, but closing the distance quickly, decisively, blade angled low. Mydeimos watches him, lips curling into a faint grin, before drawing one sword and blocking the first strike with a clean, practiced motion.
Steel meets steel, and the sound echoes throughout the courtyard.
The duel begins as a dance of testing: quick jabs, dodges, parries. Mydeimos is faster, his footwork more fluid, spinning lightly on the balls of his feet with the ease of someone trained since birth for pageantry and power. But Phainon is relentless. He fights like a soldier, not a showman, waiting for Mydeimos to overextend.
They are matched blow for blow, sword ringing against sword, the courtyard captivated by the clash of wills. Dust rises around them in golden clouds, sun now creeping past the pillars and spilling onto the marble arches.
Mydeimos breaks the rhythm first. He feints left, then spins behind Phainon and lands a glancing strike across his shoulder. Phainon stumbles but does not fall. He turns, grits his teeth, and retaliates with a blow that Mydeimos barely manages to deflect. Sweat beads on their brows. Blood blooms through Phainon’s tunic where the blade cut—but he doesn’t slow. If anything, it fuels him. He ducks low, aiming a swipe at Mydeimos’ legs, but the prince leaps back, laughing under his breath.
“You’re better than I expected,” Mydeimos says through panted breaths. “But is it enough?”
Phainon does not answer. Instead, he drops his centre of gravity, shifts his stance, and surges forward.
There is a moment—barely more than a blink—when everything shifts. Mydeimos lifts both swords in a cross-guard, but Phainon’s strike doesn’t aim for the swords. It aims just past them—forcing Mydeimos to twist, exposing his side—and Phainon slams his elbow into the prince’s ribs, making him grunt in surprise and pain. Mydeimos staggers. One of the blades flies from his hands.
Phainon doesn’t let up. He drives forward, his movements tighter now, every swing more urgent. Mydeimos parries one more strike, two—but his footing is off. He is sweating hard, slower than he was.
Phainon knocks the last sword from Mydeimos’ hand. Then, he levels his blade at the prince’s throat.
You realise you’re holding your breath when Master Gnaeus steps forward again and announces, “The duel is complete. The victor: Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, a member of the royal guard.”
Cheers do not erupt. The court is too stunned for that. But murmurs rise, and heads turn. Even the king’s eyebrows raise fractionally.
Mydeimos stares at the sword pointed at his neck, then raises his hands in surrender. Surprisingly, he laughs—just once, rich but tired. He steps back, out of reach, and bows. “Well played,” he says. “I hope you make a fine captain, soldier.”
Phainon lowers his blade.
You do not move. You can’t—not when every gaze is trained on him. Not when the weight of the court settles like lead on your shoulders, pressing into your chest until your lungs feel tight. Phainon looks up, and for the first time since the match began, his eyes find yours. There is a flicker there—just a flicker—of something that is soft, meant for you and you alone. It’s not a smile, not quite. It’s a promise. A plea.
But he does not reach for you. Not with the king mere steps above. Not with nobles whispering into goblets and adjusting their gem-encrusted jewellery. Master Gnaeus is already striding forward to escort him from the ring, murmuring something low that you cannot hear.
Your fingers twitch at your sides. You imagine what it would feel like to run to him, to place your hand against the scrape on his cheek and whisper, “You did it,” over and over again into the space between his breaths. But you cannot.
So instead, you force your hands into stillness and let your eyes speak in the language you’ve both learnt too well: restraint; longing.
Phainon holds your gaze for one heartbeat longer than wise. Then two. Then, with the barest incline of his head—a bow meant for the crown, but perhaps tilted just slightly in your direction—he turns and follows Gnaeus from the ring.
You remain in place. Behind you, the king speaks, announcing the revised terms of the alliance. There is clapping. The courtiers resume their performance of diplomacy. You follow Mydeimos back into the palace.
(“Tell me the truth, Prince Mydeimos,” you say. “Did you lose to Phainon on purpose?”
Mydeimos blinks, then lets out a soft, almost wounded laugh. You’re alone now, or close enough. The colonnade is empty but for the afternoon sun hanging high above your heads and the low hum of distant music echoing from the feast halls. Mydeimos leans against a stone pillar, arms folded, his tunic stained from the duel and a sheen of sweat shining on his forehead.
“Do you really think I would do that?” he asks, looking at you not with offense, but with something quieter. “Throw a duel in front of the entire court? Humiliate myself in front of your father, the king, and the council, when I am a guest in your kingdom?”
You don’t answer.
He sighs, pushing himself off the pillar and taking a few steps short steps closer. “Your soldier bested me. That is the truth of it. I didn’t expect him to fight like that.”
“Mydeimos—” you start, but words fail you. What can you even say, that would be kind to this mighty prince from a mighty kingdom, but also your gentle friend, who promised he would treat you well even if the marriage were to go through?
“I didn’t lose on purpose,” he says again, gentler this time. “But if you’re asking me if I regret it?” He tilts his head, golden eyes studying yours. “No, I do not, Princess. It was an honour to fight against such a skilled warrior. I meant what I said—he will make a fine captain of your guard.”
“I know,” you whisper. “Thank you, Mydeimos.”
“Hush, now,” Mydeimos says with a chuckle. “Friends do not thank each other for such trivial things.”)
Your father summons you to the throne room before the court meets the next morning. Mistress Calypso untangles your hair and pats your cheek, and tells you to not keep him waiting.
The throne room is nearly empty at this hour—quiet, hollow, the banners of the kingdom fluttering faintly in the stale wind. Light from the high windows spills across the polished floor, catching on the familiar stained glass windows. You walk with steps too loud and a heart beating even louder.
The king sits alone on the throne. There are no courtiers, no scribes, and no guards, save for two flanking the doors behind you. There is only your father, his crown placed on his lap and his shoulders wrapped in a robe, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The moment you bow, he speaks—not with rage, but with something closer to weariness.
“I would’ve rather heard the truth from your mouth than have to pry it from a sword fight,” he says.
You keep your head bowed. “I did not think it would change anything.”
“You’re my daughter,” he says. “You’re the heir to a kingdom and the last piece of a woman I loved more than life itself. Of course it would’ve changed something.”
Silence stretches like a shadow between you. Then, in a voice that surprises you with how small it sounds, he adds, “Do you think me such a tyrant that I would barter your happiness away without care?”
You glance up at him. The lines on his face are deeper than they were a season ago. “I only wished to protect the kingdom,” he continues. “You are smarter than I am, daughter, for you have done better than I in securing an alliance with Castrum Kremnos.”
“Father…” you trail off, unsure.
“I have not spoken of your mother to you,” he says, “and it is a great folly on my end. I have not been a good father to you, and she would despise me for it. She was wittier than any noblewoman who has ever graced this court, and ten times as beautiful. She was a commoner, yes, the daughter of a tailor, but she had fire in her blood and stars in her eyes.
“She used to say that fate is only a thing to curse when it doesn’t give you what you already knew you wanted. She would’ve liked Phainon. Gods help me, I think she would’ve told me to step aside and let you choose him.”
“But it was not in vain, father,” you interject. “Phainon was given the chance to prove himself and to the court that there is a reason why Master Gnaeus always favoured him.”
“Do you know,” he says, “the first thing your mother said to me? I was in disguise, wandering the markets, trying to discover the commonfolk’s woes in my kingdom. I had not been prince for long. She looked me up and down and said, ‘You walk like a farmer, but your boots are too clean. Who are you fooling, really?’ She never let me pretend to be anything less than I was.”
You allow yourself the tiniest smile. “She sounds like she would’ve terrified the court.”
“She did. And me, most of all.”
He looks down at the crown in his lap then—polished, heavy, too bright for the early hour. “I have worn this longer than I should’ve. My father died too soon. And I… I have tried not to repeat his mistakes, but I see now that I made different ones. I thought to guard you by turning you into a symbol. I forgot to see the girl who craved a parent’s love and had to learn how to stand taller than every man in this court, alone.”
“Father,” you begin, “I was never alone. I am everything I am now thanks to the people around me: Mistress Calypso’s motherly gentleness; Master Gnaeus’ fondness for me; Phainon’s steadfast, unwavering presence; and now, Mydeimos’ kind friendship. You have not been very kind to me, father, but I have more than sufficed with what I have.”
“I am sorry,” he says at last, swallowing hard. “For nearly binding your fate to someone your heart did not choose.”
“But I have chosen,” you say. “And Phainon has chosen me.”
He studies your face then. Not as a king studies an heir, but as a father studies a daughter grown too quickly—half pride, half sorrow. “Then may the gods bless what I nearly ruined,” he says, and rises from the throne with more effort than he shows. He places the crown back on his head, the gold glinting in the pale morning light.
“Let it be known,” he declares, “that the match was the Princess’ will, not mine. May the court know her judgement surpasses even my own.”
The throne room is full by the time the sun reaches its highest point, with courtiers and nobles lining the marble aisles in their finest dress. You stand beside the dais, dressed in formal regalia, but your hands are warm—not from nerves, but from where Phainon’s fingers briefly brushed yours beneath the folds of your robe when no one was looking. At the foot of the dais stands Master Gnaeus, his weathered face solemn but proud. Beside him, Phainon kneels, one fist pressed to the floor, his head bowed.
“Rise, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” your father says, voice ringing clearly through the chamber.
Phainon stands. Sunlight cuts through the windows, catching on the dull bronze of his breastplate at the clean line of the sword at his hip.
“By the authority vested in me as sovereign,” the king continues, “and with the recommendation of Master Gnaeus himself, I name you Captain of the Royal Guard. May your sword be the shield of this kingdom, and your loyalty its unbreakable spine.”
Master Gnaeus steps forward. In his hands, he carries his old sword—notched from years of use, the hilt worn by time. “I have served three kings, and fought more battles than I care to count,” he says, placing the sword flat between his palms. “But I have never met a soldier with a truer heart than this one.” He turns to Phainon and holds the sword out. “I was a younger man when I carried this into battle. Now I give it to one younger still, but stronger, steadier, and far more stubborn.”
Phainon takes the blade, kneeling once more—not to the court, not even to the king, but to Master Gnaeus himself. You catch the gleam in his eyes as he rises. He meets your gaze across the floor, and the faintest smile passes between you like a shared secret.
Mydeimos steps forward next. Dressed in his ruby-red ceremonial garb, he bows to your father, then to you. “It is with honour that Castrum Kremnos finalises its alliance with your realm. But I would be remiss if I did not also speak personally.”
He glances at you, his gaze kind, if bittersweet. “Your Highness, thank you—for your companionship and your presence. You were never obligated to give me either. I have learned more than I expected, and I carry no bitterness at how things have turned out. In truth—” he turns his gaze to Phainon—“I look forward to fighting beside a warrior like you in the campaign against northern raiders. Your reputation, it seems, is well-earned.”
Phainon nods. “I look forward to having you at my side, Prince.”
The moment settles—a rare, rare peace shared between kingdoms and warriors and people who have each made their choices. Your father raises a hand.
“Let this court bear witness to the dawn of a new alliance,” he says, “and the beginning of a reign led not by fear or ambition, but by strength, and by choice.”
Cheers rise like a tide, and the stained glass above scatters the light like jewels across the floor. Phainon sidles over to your side, no longer covert, but open and proud. He leans ever so slightly closer.
(“Is it always this loud when you win a fight?” he says.
You don’t look at him, but your smile answers for you.)
iv). Look at us, it’s like we’re one.
There is a man inside your room.
He has hair the colour of snow and eyes the colour of the sea before a storm, and he gazes at you with a smile you can only think to describe as terribly lovesick. The hour is late, and the moon spills silver through the open windows of your bedchamber, pooling in quiet puddles across the stone floor and the silken-smooth sheets. The hearth crackles low, casting flickering gold across the canopy above you. Outside, the castle sleeps. Inside, you don’t have to.
“Mistress Calypso is very proud of you, you know,” you murmur. “She would not stop raving about how the little boy who used to climb in through my window every night is now the captain of the royal guard, off to fight along with the prince of Castrum Kremnos two weeks from now.”
You turn your head, letting your nose nudge against Phainon’s jaw, where the faintest hint of stubble tickles your skin. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, legs hooked in between yours, and he smells like grass and leather and cedarwood. The shell on the necklace you’d bought for him, wrapped around his wrist, digs into your skin just slightly.
Phainon exhales a soft laugh, the sound low and warm against your temple. “I think Mistress Calypso just likes that she no longer has to pretend she doesn’t see me sneaking out of your window at dawn.”
“She always did turn a blind eye,” you agree. “But we were so young then, so what could she do about it?”
“Barred your windows, probably,” he answers solemnly. “But she is like a mother to you, and does not have the penchant for such cruelty.”
You stifle a laugh into his shoulder, fingers brushing over the fabric of his tunic where it’s wrinkled from your embrace. He shifts so you’re nestled even closer, his thumb drawing gentle patterns on your hip beneath the sheets. “Two weeks,” you whisper, quieter now. “That’s not very long.”
“No,” Phainon says. “But it’s long enough to kiss you a hundred times.”
“You speak like you don’t plan on coming back.”
“I do. But the north is cold, and war is colder. If I’m to leave, I’ll leave no words unsaid.”
You lift your head to look at him. His sea-storm eyes meet yours, steady and full of the kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache.
“I’ll return to you,” he promises. “If there is breath in my body and strength in my limbs, I will always return to you.”
You reach up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the spot just below his eye. “I’ll be waiting. With the same window open, just in case you forget the door exists.”
He grins then, boyish, beautiful, and yours. “I might climb it anyway. For tradition.”
You laugh, and he kisses the sound from your lips. There is no rush now, no secret to keep. There is only the moonlight, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the quiet promise of love that spreads between you like an oath sworn in fire and sealed in starlight.
a/n: thanks for reading! comments are very much appreciated ♡ also thank you to @lotusteabag for beta reading & letting me ramble about this fic with her, and for being my biggest supporter ever! the first section’s title was taken from cardigan by taylor swift; the second was my own; the third was from emma by jane austen; and the fourth was taken from above the time by iu.
Summary: You suddenly vanish off the face of the universe with no trace for months. One day, the Astral Express receives a message from someone from another world, Amphoreus.
Note: I'm, like, still behind on HSR quests, so the newly added characters (Jiaoqiu, Moze, Mydei, Phainon, and Anaxa) will be out of character since I didn't meet some of them, nor have I interacted with them as much as I have with others. I'm going to be posting new fanfics based on the options from the poll from a while ago. The next fanfic that will be posted/updated is the LADS fanfic because it came in third place. My Discord server has been officially open for a little over a week now, but the link has expired. New Discord server links will be linked at the end of the fic. Anyway, I don't post anywhere else but on Tumblr (Genshinluvr), Ko-Fi (also Genshinluvr/Aaliah_exo), and AO3 (Aaliah_exo).
Warnings: Newly added characters will be ooc due to being behind on HSR quests, slight yandere Sunday?
Word Count: 8.3k
It’s been seven months. Seven months since you went missing, and no one has heard a single thing from you. No one— from the Herta Space Station to Jarilo-VI to the Xianzhou Luofu to Penacony— has given the Astral Express crew any updates on your whereabouts. There aren’t any sightings of you despite there being a search party working tirelessly to find you. Heck, even the Aeon of Destruction can’t get a hold of you, and it’s driving everyone crazy. The Astral Express remains in Penacony, assuming you’re probably lost in the Dreamscape, like how you were when you first set foot on the Planet of Festivities. But much to everyone’s dismay, there have been no sightings whatsoever.
The Astral Express crew stands before Sunday, Aventurine, Robin, Boothill, and Gallagher, all waiting to hear the possible updates on your whereabouts.
Sunday shakes his head, sighing. “I’m sorry, but there have not been any sightings of [Y/N], Mr. Yang. We have done everything we can to search for them, but it’s like they have disappeared without a trace.”
“Please tell me this isn’t like the similar incident a while back when it was [Y/N]’s first time visiting Penacony,” Aventurine sighs, rubbing his temples. “You all need to put them on a leash if that’s the case.”
Dan Heng, Caelus, and March glare at Aventurine in response to his comment. If only that were the case, because when that happened a few months prior, you were found hours later, safe and sound. But it’s been seven months. Seven. Months.
Gallagher glares at Aventurine and elbows him in the ribs, causing the blond man to grunt. “I’m sorry, Aventurine, but are you new here? The Astral Express crew has requested us to search for [Y/N] for seven months. [Y/N]’s been missing way longer compared to the first incident.”
Before Aventurine can retort, Dr. Ratio approaches from behind and smacks him upside the head. Aventurine’s head snaps in Dr. Ratio’s direction, rubbing the back of his head while scowling at him. Dan Heng sighs, shaking his head.
Dr. Ratio crosses his arms over his chest. “Have you tried contacting the Aeon of Destruction about [Y/N]’s whereabouts? They seem rather…” Dr. Ratio trails off, looking around Penacony as if trying to find the right word to describe your and Nanook’s relationship, “close with one another.”
Welt sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose before explaining to Dr. Ratio that your and Nanook’s bond is special. Not special in the sense that an Aeon is attached to a human from another dimension, but special to the point where you two can communicate and meet each other through dreams. Caelus furrows his eyebrows. He could’ve sworn that the relationship between you and Nanook had been explained plenty of times before.
“The Aeon of Destruction somehow channels his power to bring someone from another fucking dimension to our world is pretty damn impressive,” Boothill mutters, stroking his chin. “Never knew that was possible, but if you really want something or someone, anything is possible.”
Everyone makes their way back to The Reverie, now standing in the lobby of the hotel. As the Astral Express crew is getting ready to return to the Astral Express, a large group of familiar faces approaches.
“General Jing Yuan, what brings you here?” Dan Heng asks, trading looks with Caelus.
Jing Yuan smiles at Dan Heng and props his hands on his hips. The General subconsciously scans the crowd, searching for a familiar face. The very same face that suddenly disappeared off the face of the universe without a trace. Much to his dismay, the General does not see the face he yearns to see again after so long. After not receiving a response from the General of the Xianzhou Luofu, Dan Heng clears his throat.
Jing Yuan blinks and rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “I, and the others, are here to inform you all that we have yet to find [Y/N],” Jing Yuan replies, his smile slipping off.
“And judging by the look on your faces, none of you has been successful with the search either?” Blade asks, crossing his arms over his chest while scanning the hotel lobby.
Welt shakes his head. With the large crowd gathering where the Astral Express crew is standing, guests at The Reverie Hotel can’t help but stare with curiosity. A large crowd of people from outside the Planet of Festivities, with members of The Family among the crowd, is bound to draw mass attention.
“Let’s talk on the Astral Express. With matters like this, we don’t want to draw unwanted attention.” Welt says, motioning everyone to follow.
On the Astral Express, everyone gathers in the Parlor Car, staring at the large hologram of the maps the Astral Express crew has visited. The same place you could have disappeared to, but failed to be traced in any of the locations.
“Have any of you tried reaching out to Nanook by chance? The Aeon of Destruction is linked to [Y/N],” Luocha mutters, never taking his eyes off the hologram map for a second.
Caelus rolls his eyes. “The only person who can get in touch with Nanook is [Y/N]. Aside from that, none of us,” Caelus gestures to him and the other Astral Express members, “has a way to reach out to the Aeon.”
Moze rolls his eyes and pinches his glabella, annoyed with the outcome of the situation. “Great, so we’re at another dead end.”
The Shadow Guard throws himself on the nearest chair and buries his face into the palm of his hands. While Moze knew you for a short period of time, your presence grew on him, and Moze grew quite fond of you (even though he doesn’t want to admit it). For you to suddenly disappear without a trace for seven, almost eight, months feels suspicious. You didn’t even bring your phone with you, which is strange because Moze could’ve sworn that your screen time is past twelve hours a day.
“I will do everything in my power to find [Y/N] and bring them back safe,” Argenti says, placing his hand over his heart.
Sampo huffs, plopping down on the couch. “Not if I find my gumdrop first! I’m sure [Y/N] would rather have me save them than someone in a full suit of armor. What are you? Their knight in shining armor?” Sampo mutters, looking off to the side while pouting.
Argenti raises his eyebrows at Sampo’s comment, the corner of his lips curving up with amusement. Clearly, anyone with eyes can see that Argenti is, in fact, your knight in shining armor. There’s no denying it because he is the only one in full armor while others wear some armor in other parts of their bodies as an accessory.
“We can’t just sit here and do nothing. If we give up now, who knows what could happen to [Y/N] the longer we stall,” Gepard says, hands balled into tight fists. “I’m sure they’re somewhere out there. We can’t give up.”
Luka holds his hands up, raising his eyebrows at Gepard’s outburst. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who’s saying that we’re giving up? I've got all the time in the world to look for [Y/N]. In fact, the longer this drags out, the more motivated I feel to keep on pushing,” Luka says, jumping in one spot while stretching his shoulders.
While the men converse with each other and plan out the next step, Jiaoqiu's ears perk up when hearing something strange. The muttering around him makes it nearly impossible for Jiaoqiu to pinpoint where this strange noise is coming from. The foxian healer closes his eyes and listens closely, drowning out the chatter around him. There’s a beeping sound coming from somewhere in the Parlor Car.
“Does anyone else hear that beeping noise, or am I going crazy?” Jiaoqiu speaks up, grabbing the other’s attention.
Everyone in the Parlor Car goes silent, trying to hear what Jiaoqiu is hearing. The longer everyone sits in silence, the louder the beeping becomes for Jiaoqiu. The foxian healer gets up from his seat and slowly walks to where the beeping is coming from, his ears perked up, twitching each time the beeping goes off.
“You have an interstellar message. Please check it promptly,” says the system.
March peeks from Welt’s shoulders, confused. “Interstellar message? Who could it be from?” March mutters, crossing her arms over her chest as she watches the older man tap on the screen.
Almost immediately, a hologram of the sender of the interstellar message materializes before everyone. The man, muscular with shoulder-length ombre blond and red hair, crosses his arms over his chest, staring—no, glaring—at everyone in the Astral Express. The man doesn’t say anything, but continues to glare at whoever his eyes land on.
The blond man clears his throat. “Is this the Astral Express?” He asks, his deep voice filling the silence of the Astral Express.
Welt nods. “Yes, this is the Astral Express. May I ask who I am speaking to?” Welt asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I am the Crown Prince of Kremnos, Mydeimos, but you can all call me Mydei. Several months ago, the world of Amphoreus received a distress signal about a missing person who goes by the name of [Y/N].” Mydei says, letting his arms fall to his side.
After hearing the mention of your name, everyone in the room immediately straightens up and walks over to where the hologram of Mydei stands. From the other side of the hologram stands the glorious Crown Prince of Kremnos, who tries to keep his composure while ignoring the bickering in the background. Mydei’s yellow eyes scan every person who shows up on the hologram.
“We should demand a reward for finding this missing person!” The white-haired man loudly whispers from behind Mydei.
The greenish-gray-haired man scoffs in response. “Are you an idiot? Who would demand such a thing after discovering—”
Mydei’s head snaps in the duo’s direction, shutting them up immediately. Mydei scowls at them, as if telling them to shut the hell up and let him speak to the people on the hologram. Mydei takes a deep breath and turns back to the Astral Express crew (and others), fixing his composure.
“Helloooo? What were you going to say about [Y/N] and the distress signal?” Sampo asks, waving his hands to grab the Crown Prince’s attention.
Gepard sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose while shaking his head. “Have you ever thought of keeping your mouth shut? Let Mr. Yang speak to the Crown Prince of Kremnos.” Gepard mutters, glaring at Sampo from behind his hands.
Sampo laughs and gives Gepard and the other men on the Astral Express an apologetic smile before gesturing for Welt to take over. Welt sighs, turns back to the hologram of Mydei, and nods to the Crown Prince to continue where he left off. Mydei goes into detail about finding you in Amphoreus, heavily injured and unconscious, barely hanging onto life.
Caelus’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. “What do you mean [Y/N] is in Amphoreus!? How did they end up over there?! We have yet to set foot in your world!” Caelus exclaims, running his hands through his hair.
The white-haired man pops up on the hologram beside Mydei. “That’s a mystery for us, too! Imagine how confused we were when we saw an outsider, who fit the missing person’s description, in our world.”
An arm appears out of nowhere on the hologram, grabbing the white-haired man by the ears. “Dammit, Phainon. Don’t butt into conversations that has nothing to do with you,” a mysterious voice hisses, yanking Phainon out of view.
“But Anaxa!” Phainon whines, swatting at the arm while being dragged out of view.
Mydei rubs his temples, sighing and shaking his head. The Crown Prince apologizes to Welt before proceeding where he had left off before being interrupted by Phainon and Anaxa.
“If you wish to see [Y/N], you are welcome to do so. That is why I reached out to the Astral Express, because I know you all have tirelessly searched the cosmos for them. However, there is an issue…” Mydei trails off.
Dan Heng stares at Mydei, fists clenched at his side. “What is the issue aside from [Y/N] being heavily injured?”
Phainon peeks from Mydei’s shoulders. “You’ll have to see for yourselves. It’s best to be here in person when given more information on their condition,” Phainon says before disappearing.
And with that, the communication between the Crown Prince and the Astral Express ends there. Gallagher sighs, crossing his arms. “The Aeon of Destruction is not going to like this if we ever get in touch,” Gallagher mutters, shaking his head.
Gallagher is, in fact, correct. The moment you open your eyes and find yourself in a strange place, floating before a giant being—a handsome giant being— you nearly have a panic attack. Sure, the giant white-haired being is handsome and shirtless, but seeing someone that huge is certainly a sight to behold.
The giant person suddenly disappears and is now standing before you as a regular-sized human. What is a regular-sized? He’s over 193 cm, practically towering over you like a skyscraper. His tough demeanor crumbles as he pulls you into his arms, letting out shaky breaths.
“You’re okay, little one. I’m so glad to see that you’re okay,” the white-haired man whispers into your hair, caressing your head.
You subconsciously wrap your arms around his waist, melting into his warm embrace. You can’t find the words to describe how you feel. The stars around you glimmer, casting a gentle glow. Everything feels so familiar, and yet, you don’t remember this person standing before you. You pull away from the hug, staring up at him, wordlessly.
The man cups your face in his large hands, looking deep into your eyes. “Little one, is there something wrong? Say something,” he pleads, gently brushing your cheek with his thumb.
You continue to stare at the man, breathless. He looks and feels so familiar, and yet you don’t remember his name or the memories you two once shared before regaining your consciousness.
“Who are you?” You whisper.
Hearing your question causes the world around you and this mysterious man to shake and crumble. You look around, terrified of what’s happening. The man in front of you quickly regains his composure, trying to remain cool, calm, and collected for you.
The man reaches for your hand and gently squeezes it. He then pulls your hand towards his face and presses a delicate kiss on your knuckles. “My name is Nanook. I am the Aeon of Destruction,” he says, his eyes never leaving your face.
“Nanook…” you whisper, staring at him with awe.
The universe around you starts to fade along with Nanook. You look at Nanook, panicked. Nanook sighs, shaking his head. As the world around you fades, you start to hear voices around you. It’s like you’re underwater; the voices are muffled but gradually becoming louder as you regain consciousness.
“Dear Aeons! They look horrendous!” Someone gasps in horror, startling you awake.
The room goes silent.
“Keep your voices down, dammit! Look what you did! You scared them before they could even fully regain their consciousness!” Another person, with a heavy southern accent, hisses with a smack accompanying the voice.
You crack your eyes open, flinching and squinting when the ceiling lights blind you. You cover your eyes for a moment, trying to adjust to the brightness. Once you have adjusted to the brightness of the room you’re in, you can’t help but be startled when you’re met with multiple eyes on you, staring at you with anticipation.
The redhead in full armor sighs, placing his hand over his chest. “Oh, thank Idrila, you’re okay,” the man says, beginning to walk towards you, only for a blond man (also in armor) to stop him by grabbing his shoulder.
“Mx. [Y/N], how are you feeling?” The man with wings for ears—wait, he does have human ears too… are the wings real?— asks, approaching your bed with a man with long blond hair.
You stare at each man in the room, not saying a word. They all trade looks, worried that the injuries you have sustained may have a greater impact than anticipated. The man with long blond hair stands over you, reassuring you that he’s going to check up on you after getting a nod of approval from the Crown Prince.
“Everything seems fine from what I’m seeing,” the blond man murmurs.
A tall man with long white hair turns to the Crown Prince, crossing his arms over his chest. “This Phainon person mentioned wanting to talk about [Y/N]’s condition in person. What is it that you want to discuss with us, Mydei?”
The Crown Prince opens his mouth to respond, only to close it before he could get a single word out. Mydei turns to you, giving you a fake smile. “We will be right back,” he says, giving the guests a look and gesturing for them to leave the room.
Confused, everyone slowly piles out of the room, muttering under their breath. The man with long blond hair soon follows the others once the majority of them have left the room. You watch the door close, now alone with your own thoughts. These men seem to know you, but you don’t know them. Or do you? You don’t have any recollection of any of these men, but this strange feeling in your chest feels unbearable. Out of all the injuries you have sustained, the one that hurts the most is your head. You subconsciously reach the back of your head, feeling the bandages wrapped around your head. The gauze feels thick and hard under your touch. You inspect your body, staring at every bandage, gauze, and cast hugging your body.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY LOST THEIR MEMORY?!” Someone bellow from the other side of the door.
You shrink back into the bed, only to hit the back of your head against the bed frame. You groan, clutching your head, closing your eyes. Gentle yet calloused hands cover your hand, making you peek from one eye while continuing to clutch your head.
“Don’t hurt yourself, now, little one,” Nanook murmurs, kneeling beside the bed.
You stare at Nanook with wide eyes, questioning how he managed to enter your room without being seen by the others outside the door. Before you can say anything, the door opens and the men file into the room, only to stop when they see Nanook beside you.
The foxian man crosses his arms over his chest, sighing. “See, I told you all that I wasn’t hallucinating.”
The blond-haired man with a fedora chuckles, propping his hands on his hips. “It’s good to see you again, Aeon of Destruction. Who knew that Mx. [Y/N] can summon you just like that?” the blond man chuckles.
Nanook glares at the group of men in front of you and proceeds to tuck your hair behind your ear, eyeing every part of you with concern.
You clear your throat, eyes drifting over to the Crown Prince. “How long have I been out for?” You ask, your voice hoarse.
“You’ve been unconscious for four months. You’re very fortunate that you didn’t succumb to your injuries,” Mydei says, crossing his arms over his chest.
The gray-haired man narrows his eyes at the Crown Prince. “You’re telling me that [Y/N] has been in Amphoreus for four out of the seven months they were declared missing? And you didn’t inform us about this?”
“Moze, I understand you’re frustrated with the situation, but it’s best to calm down—”
The man with long, dark hair shakes his head. “I agree with Moze, Dr. Ratio. The search for [Y/N] could’ve been cut short if we were informed of [Y/N]’s conditions and whereabouts three months ago.”
You press your lips into a thin line, unsure what to say, nor do you want to interfere with whatever is happening. From what you have gathered, you went missing for seven months and were in Amphoreus the entire time. You’re injured, but got lucky and didn’t die. Either you were truly lucky, or it’s a cruel fate because now you have to live to recover from these injuries, not only that, but you lost your memory.
A month later, you’re sitting in the hospital garden, still in Amphoreus. Of course, you’re not alone— these men refuse to let you be alone in another world. Within a month, you’re reintroduced to the eighteen (twenty-one if you count Anaxa, Phainon, and Mydei) men you once knew before your amnesia. They’re nothing but sweet and will spoil you with every chance they get.
Sometimes, when you’re in need of a girl friend to chat with, March and Himeko (who also had to reintroduce themselves to you) would spend time with you. They would tell you everything you have forgotten about, and what has happened within the seven months you have vanished off the face of the universe. You can’t help but feel loved after hearing how much people cared about you despite not being your family. Speaking of your family… what happened to them? You’re brought out of your thoughts when someone waves their hand in front of your face, trying to grab your attention after you have zoned out.
“I brought you lunch! I heard it’s a local specialty on Amphoreus,” Caelus says, plopping down in front of you and placing the plate on your lap.
You smile at Caelus. “Thank you for bringing me lunch, Caelus. I feel bad for having you guys run around to bring me things while I’m sitting,” you mutter, grabbing the silver cutlery.
Caelus smiles and kisses the side of your head without thinking, causing you to freeze momentarily before quickly regaining your composure. You peek from the corner of your eyes to see Caelus’s reaction, but he continues to dig into his food and eat like nothing happened.
“Are you sure you’re okay, [Y/N]? You haven’t been acting like yourself,” Dan Heng says, entering the garden with his lunch in his hands. “We’re all worried about you.”
You smile at Dan Heng and nod wordlessly. Caelus’s actions threw you off, but it’s not like you didn’t like it. It felt familiar for some reason, as if he had done this plenty of times before you went missing and lost your memory. What are you to these men?
You proceed to eat the lunch Caelus brought to you, lost in your thoughts. While eating and zoning out, someone reaches towards you and wipes the corner of your lips, pulling you out of your head. You lock eyes with Sampo, who grins at you as a result. Your face heats up, and you quickly look away, unsure of how to process what has happened. Sampo snickers at your reaction before plopping down beside you, sandwiching you between him and Caelus.
“What’s keeping that pretty head of yours occupied, gumdrop?” Sampo asks, nudging your side before scarfing down his lunch.
You shake your head. “It’s nothing. I’m just zoning out as per usual. You know how I am,” you joke. “I think. I don’t even know who I am or what I’m like before this freak accident.” You mutter, shoulders slumping after realization hits you.
The men trade looks, their hearts sinking into the pits of their stomachs. It’s been a month since they have reunited with you in Amphoreus since your sudden disappearance, only to find out that you sustained life-threatening injuries along with having amnesia. It’s a long road to recovery, but thanks to Amphoreus’s technology, Luocha and Jiaoqiu’s medical knowledge and skills, your healing journey was shortened.
Although most of your injuries have healed, your memories have yet to be restored. So, every man has decided to make it their mission to get you to fall in love with them again! While you and they aren’t exclusively dating—well, with Nanook, that’s a different story— they want to get you to fall in love with them again, little by little.
It started just fine at the beginning of the new month, but then they realized that it was taking way too long, and some people (Sampo, Caelus, Argenti, etc.) aren’t nearly as patient as the others (Mr Yang, Jing Yuan, Sunday, etc.). While that is happening, Nanook’s been feeding you small information about how you end up in another dimension. Though Nanook didn’t outright say that he brought you to his dimension because he took a liking to you, he didn’t want to scare you off and potentially break the bond you two have with each other, for who knows how long you’ve been in their dimension.
As for the men who occupy the world you and the others are currently in, they have been silently watching you from a distance. However, Phainon has been more than eager to befriend and get to know you more. He’s the sweetest and most welcoming person on Amphoreus. Despite not knowing each other much, he tries to make you feel comfortable and would banter with you at every chance he gets. Mydei, on the other hand, has been trying to keep it professional, but would sometimes let his demeanor slip and spend time with you after he forces the other men to leave your temporary room. Mydei has been telling you tales of his battles and exploration, and is incredibly proud of his achievements.
As for Anaxa… he’s a little bit aloof in your opinion, mainly because you don’t know him well enough. On days when you don’t have visitors (incredibly rare, but there are days when the men aren’t allowed to spend time with you for over two hours), Anaxa would pop by your room and teach you about Amphoreus, going on tangents about philosophy and other things your mind cannot comprehend at the moment (because he pops by at the ass crack of dawn while you’re still sleeping, peering over you and watching you sleep until you wake up because you can feel his eyes burning holes into your head).
“What the— Anaxa!? What are you doing here? The sun’s not even up yet!” You whisper loudly, rubbing your eyes with your knuckles.
Anaxa holds up a book thick enough to knock someone out with one hit. “Would you like to hear more reasons why I challenge the prophecy?” Anaxa asks, peeking from the top of the book.
You and Anaxa stare at each other in the darkness, not saying a word. Sometimes you forget that whenever Anaxa goes on one of his tangents, you tend to fall asleep, but Anaxa doesn’t mind one bit because he gets to talk to someone. Even if they’re knocked out asleep, then again, he will catch you up to speed on what you missed out on after falling asleep. It’s kind of cute. You let out a long sigh, turning on your side and hugging the extra pillow to your chest.
“What the hell, sure.” You shrug.
Anaxa’s eyes light up as he pulls up a seat beside your bed before starting.
Gepard kneels before you, grabbing your unoccupied hand. “How’s your head feeling?” He asks softly, massaging your knuckles while staring at you intently.
You smile at Gepard, squeezing his hand in return. “My head’s feeling okay, I guess. It’s extremely frustrating that I lost my memories and can’t do anything about it,” you reply, smiling at Gepard ruefully.
Boothill struts up to you and Gepard, sitting on the chair's armrest. “I think if we hit you on the back of your head just as hard as you hit your head eight months ago, maybe you can get your memories back!” Boothill smiles, crossing his arms over his chest, looking smug.
You stare at Boothill, mouth agape. Gallagher, Sunday, Mr. Yang, Blade, Mydei, Anaxa, Dan Heng, Luocha, and Jiaoqiu all sigh simultaneously, shaking their heads in disapproval. You rub the back of your head, unsure how to respond to Boothill’s suggestion.
Luocha rubs the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “Boothill, that’s not how it works. Giving [Y/N] another head injury will not recover all of their memories,” Luocha mutters, giving the Galaxy Ranger the side eye.
Before you can say something, someone places their hands on your shoulders, startling you. You look up to see Nanook standing behind you, glaring at Boothill. Ah, he probably heard Boothill’s suggestion. Nanook grabs you by the waist and throws you over his shoulders. The men around you grumble with protests, crossing their arms over their chest while glaring at the Aeon of Destruction.
“Wait, Nanook, I’m still eating.” You protest, peeking from Nanook’s shoulders. “Put me down, I want to finish my lunch.” You pat the Aeon’s shoulders, trying to get the man to put you down.
Nanook wordlessly hands you a cup of Immortal’s Delight. You stop what you’re doing and stare at the sweet drink in his hands before grabbing it. You take a sip and hum happily, the sweetness flooding your taste buds.
Luka looks away, his face almost as red as Argenti’s hair. “Hey, I don’t know if you’re aware of the length of the hospital gown, but…” he trails off, the redness of his face traveling up to the tip of his ears.
Your eyes widen and your hand shoots up to cover your exposed ass. It’s not like you’re completely naked underneath the hospital gown, but you didn’t want anyone to see your underwear! You unintentionally flashed everyone in the garden, good heavens. Nanook immediately places both hands on your butt, covering your underwear from everyone’s sight while glaring at every person.
Gallagher huffs out a laugh, leans back in his seat, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Why are you looking at us like it’s our fault that we see [Y/N]’s underwear? You’re the one who lifted and tossed them over your shoulders,” Gallagher shakes his head.
Nanook rolls his eyes and turns around, walking towards the building with you draping over his shoulders, slurping down the Immortal’s Delight without a care in the world. Once you and Nanook are out of earshot, Argenti stands up and starts trailing after the two of you.
Aventurine raises his eyebrows. “Uh, where are you going, Argenti?” Aventurine calls out to the redhead.
Argenti turns around, crossing his arms over his chest. “Following after [Y/N] and Nanook, what does it look like? I refuse to let them have some alone time while we sit to the side,” Argenti replies.
Argenti turns around before continuing to follow after you and the Aeon, making sure not to get too close or else he’ll face Nanook’s wrath for trying to cockblock. After hearing Argenti’s response, the others immediately leave their spots (with their food and drinks) and follow Argenti.
Another month goes by, and there’s finally some progress with your memories gradually recovering. As days go by, bits and pieces of your memories will hit you randomly throughout the day. Sometimes these memories from however long ago would hit you while you’re sleeping, making you assume it was just a dream, when, in fact, it was not a dream at all.
“I had a dream where I got lost in Penacony and had to be saved by Gallagher,” you passively mentioned at breakfast one day.
Mr. Yang clears his throat. “That wasn’t a dream, sweetheart. It happened nine months ago,” Mr. Yang replies, no longer eating his breakfast.
You stare at the older man, mouth agape. Wait, huh?! The people sitting around you all nod in response to your questioning look.
You shake your head and wave your hand in front of you, still trying to process the information that your dream was actually reality, but it happened before your disappearance. “Wait, so that wasn’t a weird nightmare?” You squeak, staring at Mr. Yang and the others in disbelief.
Himeko and March give you a sympathetic look, both patting and rubbing your shoulder with comfort. You lean back in your seat, letting the information sink in. March reaches for your Immortal’s Delight, handing it to you, hoping it’ll snap you out of your inner turmoil. You wordlessly take the sweet drink from March’s hand, taking a sip of the drink while you continue to stare at the table in front of you. The longer you stare at the table and mindlessly sip the Immortal’s Delight, you can’t help but find yourself trying really hard to recall things that happened before you magically appeared at Amphoreus.
“What about the time I died? Is that real, too?” You mutter, looking up at the men through your lashes.
Everyone in the room was tense at your question. Out of all the things you could’ve brought up, you chose one thing no one wants to remember. Jing Yuan clears his throat, placing his cutlery down on the plate.
Jing Yuan crosses his arms over his chest. “That is something we do not bring up or talk about for very good reasons, [Y/N],” Jing Yuan states.
The mere tone and body language of the General of the Xianzhou Luofu sends chills down your spine. It’s not that you’re afraid or nervous, it’s something you’re not used to. From what you can recall, Jing Yuan has always been sweet to you and would spoil you with every chance he gets. However, this sudden shift in tone and body language when you brought up the topic of your death was something you didn’t expect.
You hesitantly nod. “Okay, I won’t bring it up,” you mutter against the straw.
Later that day, you’re in Eternal Holy City Okhema, hanging out with the others. While the others are engrossed in their surroundings, you sit to the side, trying not to be engulfed by your inner turmoil. Blade sits beside you, occasionally glancing at you. You close your eyes, sighing.
“What’s on your mind?” Blade mutters.
You hug your legs to your chest and rest your chin on your knees. “A lot of things are occupying my thoughts, Blade. It’s been nothing but bothersome,” you whisper, pressing your lips into a thin line.
“What could be occupying your head? It’s better to let things come to you naturally, no?” Dr. Ratio mutters, now sitting beside you while ignoring the glare Blade shoots in his direction.
So much for having some alone time with you.
You puff your cheeks out in frustration and run your hands through your hair, tempted to tug at the roots. That is what you’re doing, letting all of your memories come back to you in bits and pieces without trying to force them to return to you. Dr. Ratio grabs your hand, gently pulling it away from your head, and places your hand onto his lap. Blade narrows his eyes at Dr. Ratio, as if he’s mentally plotting the man’s demise.
“You guys already know how I am. Why can’t you guys tell me a few memories you have of me to help speed up the process?” You grumble, watching Dr. Ratio play with your hand.
“If we did tell you a memory we have of you, would that really help you regain your memory?” Sunday interjects, now standing before you with his hands propped on his hips. “I understand that it’s frustrating to walk around with little to no memory of who you and those around you are, but you cannot force yourself to regain your memories.”
You huff in response, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re regurgitating information I already know, Sunday. At least, once we return to the Astral Express, I won’t have to deal with your calculating stares. You kind of intimidate me, Sunday.”
Sunday stares at you, unsure whether he should be offended by your comment or feel relieved that you remember that you find him intimidating. Wait, does he have a calculating stare? Sunday turns to Blade and Dr. Ratio for confirmation, only to see both of them nodding already without having to ask verbally.
You quickly interrupt before Sunday can ask, “Don’t take it personally, Sunday. I usually find pretty people intimidating, and you happen to be one of them.” You shrug, rubbing your now throbbing temples, “You and those pretty angel wings behind your ears.”
Sunday stares at you with amusement, the corner of his lips curving up. The halovian looks away, his cheeks turning bright red at your compliment. Oh, Aeons, if only you two were alone, then he could finally snatch you up for himself and claim you as his and his only. The mere thought of sharing you with other people, such as the Aeon of Destruction—a being that has nothing but lust for blood and destruction— disgusts Sunday. Is it too late to snatch you away for himself? This time, he will take you to the edge of the cosmos so no one can find both of you. It’ll just be you and him in another universe with no one else to interfere. He will make sure that no one can find both of you this time.
“Hello, hello. What are we talking about over here?” Jiaoqiu asks, approaching your group with Moze by his side.
Moze crosses his arms over his chest, staring you down. “You’re not up to something, are you?” The gray-haired man asks, raising his eyebrows at you.
“What?! No! And even if I am, how would I pull it off with amnesia?” You grouse, glaring at the Shadow Guard.
Your glare doesn’t faze Moze as he and Jiaoqiu sit across from you, Dr. Ratio, and Blade. On the other hand, Sunday continues standing, deep in his thoughts, while staring at you. Dr. Ratio, Blade, Jiaoqiu, and Moze raise their eyebrows at Sunday before looking at each other, checking to see if the others around them notice Sunday’s strange behavior.
“Hey, you six! How’s it going over here? Are you guys enjoying Amphoreus after being here for two months?” Phainon asks, approaching your group with a cute smile.
The five men don’t respond to Phainon at first, all staring at him with varying expressions. When Phainon’s cute smile morphs to an awkward one after not receiving an answer, Jiaoqiu politely answers for the group. Phainon turns to you, looking at you from head to toe, craning his head to look at every detail of you. It’s not new to you to have Phainon examine you, but for the others, it looks like he was shamelessly checking you out. Perhaps he’s doing both, who knows!
Mydei struts up to you, his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s time to return.” The Crown Prince states, not leaving room for protests.
“Huh? Already? But then I’m going to be holed up in my room doing nothing until tomorrow,” you mutter, staring at the Crown Prince in disbelief.
Anaxa stands beside the Crown Prince, holding up the same thick book he was rambling about a few days ago. “If you’d like, I can go over some things you missed out on after you fell asleep,” Anaxa suggests, flashing you that charming smile of his.
You stare at Anaxa and Mydei for a moment, conflicted. You could ask someone to get your phone for you, so you can keep yourself occupied while you’re on bed rest, but since you don’t remember your password and didn’t activate face recognition, that’s out of the options. After thinking for a few minutes, you shrug, looking at Anaxa.
“What the hell, sure,” you said, allowing Anaxa to drag you.
Even though you’ve been gaining your memories little by little, Mydei has advised you not to leave Amphoreus until you recover all of your memories. It sounds impossible because those who suffer amnesia can either regain their memories after a week, or it’ll take months. Heck, in some cases, there are people who never fully recover their memories after having amnesia. That’s one of your biggest concerns, but you’ve been quite fortunate not to have to be the third option.
Despite being almost a hundred percent recovered, you wake up in your temporary room to a room full of red roses—not just any red roses, but the same red roses that are named after a certain Knight of Beauty. You rub your eyes, trying to process what you see. How in the world did Argenti manage to sneak over dozens of red roses into your room while you’re asleep?
Argenti stands at the edge of your bed, smiling at you. “Good morning, my beautiful red rose. What do you think? Only someone as beautiful as you deserves to wake up to being surrounded by roses.” He asks, gesturing to the wall of flowers surrounding you two.
Before you can respond to Argenti’s question, Sampo’s loud sneeze interrupts you. Everyone in the room flinches. You stare at Sampo, seeing him sniffle and rub his nose. Sampo gives you a sympathetic look, rubbing the back of his head.
“Are you okay, Sampo?” You ask, scooting close to the edge of the bed.
Sampo waves off your concern. “Oh, don’t worry about me, gumdrop! I’m just having slight allergies right now. Nothing to worry about! I can pop an allergy medication, and I should be fine,” Sampo says, giving you a thumbs up before sneezing into the crook of his arm.
Sampo turns to look at Luocha with an expectant stare, only for the blond man to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh. Luocha digs into his pocket and pulls out a medicine bottle, handing it to Sampo without question. You raise your eyebrows at Sampo and Luocha. It seems like Luocha’s prepared for this specific moment.
Luocha shakes his head. “Don’t question it. I have to be prepared somehow, unless you want him to sneeze over twenty times in one day,” Luocha mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.
The longer you stare at the roses around you, the more you can’t help but yearn for the outdoors. You hug your legs to your chest, resting your chin on your knees with a soft exhale. The men around you stare at you worriedly, wondering if you’re not satisfied with the number of roses in your room. If you want more, they can certainly get you more! All you have to do is say the magic word, and they shall make your dreams come true.
Mr. Yang props his hands on his hips. “Is there something wrong?” He asks, examining you closely.
You smile and shake your head. “Not really, Mr. Yang. But I do want to know one thing…” You trail off, pressing your lips into a thin line.
Would they even allow it if you asked them? They wouldn’t be against it, would they?
“And that is…?” Dan Heng asks, raising an eyebrow at you.
Oh, fuck it. It’s not like they’ll be keeping you imprisoned on Amphoreus.
“When can I return to the Astral Express? How come you guys are allowed to return to the Astral Express, but I have to stay here?” You ask, leaning against the headboard of the bed.
After regaining consciousness, everyone would stop by Amphoreus and keep you company, but when it’s bedtime for you, they board the Astral Express for the night. Heck, some of them would return to Penacony, the Xianzhou Luofu, Jarilo-VI, and the Herta Space Station to tend to their duties.
Then there’s you: stuck on Amphoreus in your hospital room with nothing to do but watch the skies change color. Sometimes you’re allowed to walk around the hospital, but only if you’re given permission. Luocha would assist the doctors with your treatment, making sure you’re healing properly, and he would keep you company during your checkups (which are every other day). As for Jiaoqiu, he makes sure you take your medications—yes, by making you eat spicy food. It works, if you have to be honest. But it does make you use the toilet more than you would like, but hey, if it works, it works.
Moze raises an eyebrow at your question. “What? Are you not enjoying your time on Amphoreus?” Moze mutters, looking at Mydei, Phainon, and Anaxa from the corner of his eye.
You rub your temples, shaking your head. “What’s there to enjoy when I’m constantly cooped up in this room?”
“Uh, that’s not true! Remember, you were chilling in the hospital garden for lunch and we were at Eternal Holy City Okhema not long ago!” Boothill interjects, only to falter. “Now that I think about it, you seem more like a prisoner than a visitor on Amphoreus.”
You scoot to the edge of the bed and stand up, stretching your legs. “I understand that my stay in this hospital is to monitor my healing progress, but I should be allowed to stop by the Astral Express once a week to say hi to Pom-Pom. I miss the little guy.”
Gallagher shrugs, nodding his head. “I mean, they have a point. Luocha and Jiaoqiu have been helping with the healing process; they should’ve been able to stop by the Astral Express after being mostly healed from their injuries.”
Despite being cooped up in your hospital room most of the time, Nanook did find ways to keep you entertained. Whenever you fall asleep, Nanook visits you in your dreams. He would create a world for you, a world you have never seen before (it could be Amphoreus; you have never explored Amphoreus before, so how would you know?). The skies are pink and blue; it’s warm but not uncomfortably warm. Every time you fall asleep, you and Nanook meet in that very same world, spending time together until you wake up.
You snap out of your thoughts when Dr. Ratio taps your forehead, trying to grab your attention. You grab Dr. Ratio’s finger, staring at him blankly.
“Daydreaming while we try to explain to you about your conditions? How disrespectful,” Dr. Ratio mutters, reaching to pinch your nose.
You smack his hand away and try to mimic him, only for him to grab your wrist and pull you into his arms. You’re tempted to protest, but getting a hug from Dr. Ratio is quite rare in your case. You don’t know the man long enough to breathe the same air.
Sunday glares at Dr. Ratio from afar. “Oi, would it kill you to be careful with them!?” Sunday hisses.
Dr. Ratio raises his eyebrows at Sunday, smirking with amusement. Dr. Ratio pats your head without taking his eyes off of Sunday. If anyone stares at Sunday long enough, maybe they’ll see steam coming from his ears.
Caelus clears his throat. “You can return to the Astral Express. You’ve been cleared by your doctor this morning before we started setting up the red roses in your room,” Caelus says, shrugging his shoulders. “If we do that, I would like to volunteer to show you my bedroom renovations!” Caelus props his hands on his hips with a proud smirk.
You stare at Caelus, mouth agape. Were you gone for that long?! Caelus walks over to you, scrolling on his phone to find pictures of his newly renovated bedroom on the Astral Express. The gray-haired man hands you his phone, letting you swipe through the photos. Caelus has a bar, bathroom, gaming area, and living space in his room.
You look at Caelus, handing his phone back. “Are you looking for a roommate by chance?”
Caelus snickers. “As long as the Aeon of Destruction doesn’t bunk with us, yes, I am looking for a roommate.”
“Not going to happen.” The men simultaneously say, glaring at Caelus.
March glares at Caelus. “We have our own rooms on the Astral Express for a reason, Caelus! Besides, [Y/N]’s room is cute and comfortable! Your room is doing too much on the Express,” March huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.
You shrug. “I think it’s an introvert’s dream. It’s kind of like a studio apartment, but on a train.”
March suddenly gasps, marching over to where you stand and cups your face in her hands, eyes wide with wonder. “Wait, does this mean you have your memories back!?” She shrieks, shaking you back and forth.
You squeeze your eyes shut and place your hands over hers, gently squeezing them. “I mean, they’ve been coming back little by little, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Luka furrows his eyebrows at you, walking towards you and March. “Wait, does that mean you remember what happened before you vanished for months?”
You shake your head. “Not really? I don’t remember that much. I remember most things that happened before I magically appeared on Amphoreus.”
People around you groan at another (temporary) dead end on the mystery of your disappearance. After getting you checked out of the hospital, everyone returns to the Astral Express, carrying the roses back to the train. As for Sampo, he’s giving you piggyback rides to the Astral Express so he wouldn’t have to carry his allergies onto the train. While your group is ahead, Phainon, Mydei, and Anaxa fall behind.
“Are we really not going to tell them?” Phainon mutters. “They’re going to hate us for this if they ever find out themselves.”
Mydei shakes his head, clutching the roses to his chest. “There’s no point in telling them. I’m sure [Y/N] will inform them when they remember. That is, if the trauma didn’t block out the memory,” Mydei mutters.
Anaxa shakes his head. “I’m sure they’ll be fine if they find out themselves. Besides, if I recall correctly, this isn’t the first time [Y/N] died in this dimension.”
What they don’t know won’t hurt them, right?
Note: Again, I sincerely apologize for not updating the HSR series in so long ;v; I'm still behind on the game. I have yet completed the Xianzhou quest with the Wardance and March being on the path of Hunt. While I work on the Love&Deepspace fanfic (it won't be too long since it's about 95% completed in the drafts), I'm going to try to catch up on HSR. It's going to take some time, though. I was informed that the Amphoreus quest from the start to the current quest is about 28 hours. If you're interested in joining my Discord server, the invite to my Discord server can be found [HERE]! The Discord server invite links will be different every time I post a new fanfic, and these links have expiration dates. Anyway, to all my new and returning readers, keep in mind that I ONLY post on my Tumblr (Genshinluvr), Ko-Fi (Genshinluvr/Aaliah_exo), and my AO3 (Aaliah_exo)! Nowhere else except Tumblr and AO3!
Taglist: No taglist for this update:) will be making a new one in the future
Read more of my works on my Grand Masterlist, which contains every masterlist I have created! | Maybe support me by tipping me on Ko-Fi or by reblogging my fanfics! ^^ I will also be posting exclusive fanfics on Ko-Fi as well very soon! I might post all of my stories there, too, but who knows? You can also tip me on Tumblr if you'd like as a way to show support! ^^
"Y/N? How… how do you know them? Did they mention me? No, forget I asked. They are... someone I trust. Their presence is—" he clears his throat, looking away... reassuring, though they can be reckless at times. If you’ve crossed paths with them, then I hope you recognize their strength and... their worth. Just... don't trouble them unnecessarily."
"Y/N? Hmph, what about them? They’re… someone who insists on sticking around, no matter how many times I tell them they shouldn’t. I don’t know why they put up with me, but… I suppose their persistence is admirable. They have this annoying way of making the world feel less… empty. Not that I’ll ever admit that to their face. Now stop asking me such pointless questions. There are more pressing matters to deal with."
"Y/N? They’re mine. No hesitation, no question about it. They’re the one who brings light to my world, and I’d do anything to protect them. But they’re stubborn, always pushing themselves too hard. I keep telling them to let me handle things, but they never listen. Anyway, speaking of handling things, I still have three commissions left today. There’s a Hilichurl camp to clear, some supplies to deliver, and oh, almost forgot there’s that merchant who needs help crossing the mountains. Better get to it before sunset."
"Y/N? Ah, they’re... well, they’re like a breeze that calms the restless winds in my heart. Their presence is something I—ah, I’m rambling, aren't I? I suppose I’ve said more than I intended. It’s just… they have a way of making me forget about everything else. They’re strong, capable, yet… they don’t always realize it. But I suppose I worry too much. I… I should stop talking about them so much. Ha-, I tend to get carried away when it comes to things I care about. Hmm, what was I saying again? Oh, right. The wind."
art by @/kodokunoakashi on twitter, edited by me !!
angst. an eensey weensey redemption at the end
xiao, zhongli, wanderer, neuvillette x gn!reader
[ centuries after their lover’s passing, they finally are able to rest in your ghostly touch. ₊˚ෆ ]
Perhaps the day he had found your lifeless body, eyes long fluttered closed and splatters of red decorating your throat was the day Xiao began falling apart.
He knew it from the start, that your death would be inevitable. You weren’t like him - a weary soul who had traversed these lands for thousands of years in search of a refuge that Teyvat had never provided for him. No, you were like the evening’s first star, brilliantly shining and setting the entire night sky ablaze. A warm glow that sparked flames wherever its light reached. He was one of many fortunate enough to be caught in your spiraling trap, those cursedly charming grins and a laugh with the innocence of a child. Your sweet warmth was addicting, and once he had a taste, he couldn’t get enough of it. Was that why the adeptus found himself leaving his corner of the inn more and more often, just to trail by your side? Maybe this was the reason he had found himself expressing something on his lips that he had never before?
Fragments split your face in his memory. Years, decades, centuries had passed. To the outside eye, all that could be observed was that the yaksha was particularly more elusive than before, only having briefly appeared once or twice before mortals. With ignorant and foggy minds, they’d declare that the Conqueror of Demons must feel despair over the sudden death of Rex Lapis, and they’d just leave it like that. An open question hanging in the air with no answer to pair it with.
Xiao didn’t know if he still had tears left to weep.
His brethren that he had lost so many years ago had robbed them with their passing, and they were nothing left but an empty remnant of once had remained. A shapeless echo… yes, perhaps that was what he was now. All that knew him were certain that your passing had stolen a part of him that would never recover. The fragments of emotion that you had left with him had only dissipated with time, and he despised himself for it. Shards that danced in his vision as he hefted his spear, whirling it with precision and slaughtering all in its path. They had dared lay hands on you. They had taken whatever resolve he had left. Now, he was but a shell, hollow without your embrace.
It’s cold.
Sometimes, he heard your laugh on the wind, and he’d whip around, expecting to see you there, but only to be met with the terrible, terrible silence, and all the adeptus could do was laugh bitterly. Crystalline drops of tears would threaten to roll past the barriers of his carefully crafted facade, and he’d curse at himself, grasping at his chest with heavy breaths and blown eyes.
He didn’t deserve to cry. No, not after he had failed to protect you. Guilt, self-loathing, karma, all of it… it bound him down with red tendrils that burned against his skin. Pain bloomed throughout his body, a brilliant crimson that stained his clothing, an anguish that he ardently welcomed. His vision dimmed, and his honey eyes which had long since lost their light slowly shut, embracing the darkness that reached for him.
Darkness, so how come when he opened his drowsy lids, all he saw was light?
“Xiao?”
A familiar voice, one that had blurred with time, yet now rang clearly in his senses. Those excitement-filled eyes, that mischievous curve on your lips, and the warmth of your fingers with his. The grass prickled at his back, and the scent of blooming wildflowers filled the air with its spring sweetness.
A smile tugged at his lips. His sorrow spilled from his eyes. He almost could’ve laughed at your concerned gaze, and with a bandaged heart he pulled you closer in his arms. His wounded voice was barely a whisper. “Thank you… for waiting for me all this time, love.”
He still remembers it. It’s a sight that’s been burned into his eyes. The way his composed expression had collapsed, how his disgraced self had fallen to his raw knees. Zhongli had held you then, feeling the precious warmth leave your body, listening to the thrum of your heart slowly ebbing away.
He had been seconds too late to hear what you had spoken in that moment, and only saw the wordless utter on your moving lips, the raspy, labored breaths, until they ceased to nothing but silence. How could something void of sound be so unequivocally loud? The silence rings in his ears, like a horrible testament of his broken contract. That bright moment the two of you had shared seemed centuries ago, an abstract painting of something that couldn’t have possibly occurred. With a beaming face, you had held his larger, gloved hand with two of your smaller ones, grinning at his touch.
“Let’s always be together, okay? No one can keep us apart!” You laughed to yourself at how red the man had grown at your words, and then stared fondly at the silver band he had placed on your finger a day prior, when he had kissed your hands and uttered his words of confession. Red dusted your cheeks at the thought, and to the wide-eyed man, you looked simply ethereal, with the way your lashes fluttered with every blink and the way your cheeks were warm with a smile.
“Yes.” Zhongli had been starstruck by you, so utterly breathless at how speechless a mere mortal could make him. It was astounding, how your smile seemed to steal his words away. He wanted to do nothing but to freeze those seconds, to place them in a glass and cherish them and relive them in a loop that lasted eternity.
Oh, what’d he do to see the way your lips curved upwards into a cheeky grin that you’d display just for him, the snarky comments leaving your mouth, and the way you laughed at his subtle reactions.
It’s only been two hundred years. Should he say “already?” Time passes slow, then fast, fluctuating without any thought of the man in mind. At times, when the clock strikes midnight and moonlight spills into the courtyard like liquid silver, the seconds slow into minutes and the minutes slow into hours, and he’ll gaze out onto the grassy fields where the two of you used to stroll hand-in-hand, and he’ll allow himself a moment of reminiscence. In other times, the world speeds up around him, and the incompetent man is unable to keep up. Your funeral was one of those times. How could he simply walk away from your framed portrait and declare, “that’s that?” Liyue had suffered a terrible loss, yet only he seemed to register that. How come?
Some days, he’ll talk to himself, as if you’re beside him. His words meet empty air and he smiles vacantly, holding a hand that isn’t there and kissing the lips of someone who is long gone. Your shadow is everywhere. He can’t escape it, but that’s okay. He doesn’t want to. Zhongli allows those remnants of you to linger and dance in the wind with the reddening leaves. By the bridge, excitedly petting the stray dogs, calling each and every one of them the name that you’ve bestowed upon them. A sight Ganyu would have loved to see. Or in the branches of a particular tree, laughing down at him with a giggle like birdsong, taunting words. “Would you look at that? Up here, I’m even taller than you, Zhongli!”
And every time he hears your transparent, faded voice, he can’t help but smile, despite how hopeless he feels. You’re gone, and that’s the truth, so where’s the harm in bathing in your afterimage just a moment longer?
He knows it isn’t you. It can’t ever come close. As centuries blur and whirl past, and he finds himself departing to the more secluded spaces of Liyue’s wilderness, he decides it’s time. His nation no longer needs him. The reason he had for living is gone, and the heart that had once been so lively has dulled.
Would it be too foolish to hope that when he opens his eyes, you’ll be there, waiting for him?
“Xiansheng? Come on, come on sleepyhead, wake up already!” Pause. “Oh, will this do the trick?”
And then there’s warmth on his cheek, the feeling of your lips against his skin, and he feels alive, for the first time in those archon-forsaken years. He knows what he’ll see, when he opens his gilded eyes that are shimmering with dew. “Yes, love. I’m here.”
Betrayal. Those sickening words you had spoken to him, sweet beyond belief… Wanderer hissed through his teeth, holding his hands over his ears as his tears fell to the earth and soaked into the dark earth.
Yes, at that time he should’ve known. The truth you spoke to him was simply too good to be true - a fantasy that could never be attained. Yet he had been swayed by your smile and fell for your warmth, and since then had been willingly trapped in a void that was you, with no intention of escaping. It amazed him, almost, how he can smile in this moment, albeit however sour it is. What more proof did he need? To be unable to stay somber in the moments of your passing, did that not just prove how flawed he was? How undeserving?
He detested it. No wonder why you had left this world. It was a pain to even be by his side. Words without “love” and a chest that did not thrum with flusteredness could never convince you to stay beside him. Once again, someone he yearns for has cleverly slipped through his fingers. From the beginning, he was a sinner. A worthless puppet incapable of feeling a shred of what you held for him.
Red dripped from his fingers as they clawed at the earth, as he bends into himself with ugly wails. Could you see him now, wherever you were? Tears flowed freely from his eyes, not heeding his mutters for all of it to cease. He wanted it to end, all of it, the suffering that he felt and the emptiness he could never fully elude. The fatui, his mother, they’d all laugh at him with pointed fingers if they saw him now, wouldn’t they? His flushed cheeks are stained with salt and his throat was raw from his shouts. The blood pooling around your body has already cooled, and your fingers that were intertwined with his had already grown cold to the touch.
“Woah, Wanderer, your skin is really cold! Aren’t you hot at all? It’s summer!” You had stared at him with a childlike fascination, holding his hand in yours, poking it for extra effect, only growing more astonished.
“It’s nothing to be impressed over.” He cleared his throat into his fist, yet did not let go of your hold. “If anything…” At the time, his words had not completed themselves, yet his gaze had trailed to your own hands, and he had kissed the back of them with a cheeky half-smile. I like yours. They’re warm. There had been an inkling of naive hope, that your life could fill the void in his, and perhaps that was what allowed his plastic expression towards you to grow into true ones.
“H-Hey, c’mon…” His voice broke, unsteady like the legs of a newborn fawn. He took your blood-stained hand and pressed it to his cheek, only further wetting it with his tears. “This isn’t funny, you know, you can… you can stop now…”
Look how broken he’s become, stooping as low as to speak to a corpse.
That was only a decade ago. Every morning, the ache of its recollection brings a fresh dose of misery. Every evening he lulls himself to sleep by repeating the words you once said, imagining the stroke of your hands tangled in his hair, imagining your sunbeam-like smile as you gazed down at him fondly.
Really, what’s the point of living with you gone? Could he really call it “life?”
Those questions still remain sharp in his mind as he sputters out a cough, glancing down at the blade in his shattered chest, positioned right where his heart should have been. Cold, unforgiving steel, driving down and tearing apart. Wanderer blinks up at the cursed heavens above and heaves out blood that leaves a lingering red on his lips, and he can’t bring himself to cry anymore. He spits out a final damnation at Celestia before slipping away, eyes closing as he finally-
“Wanderer? Where’s your hat? You aren’t wearing it today?”
Your voice. It breathes life into his empty soul. Warmth. He wants to hold it, hold you, ever closer like he never had the courage to. His violet eyes spring open as he sits up with a start, his disheveled garments flinging about. “Y-You-!”
“What’s with you today? You’re acting strange, silly. Did you eat something you shouldn’t have?” You grin stupidly, an idiocy he finds all so lovable. The twinkle in your eye - you’re alive. You’re breathing and you’re existing before him. A final grace that he can’t thank whatever for enough.
There’s the sound of wind, and then you find yourself tightly wrapped in his embrace, your shoulder stained with his tears that spill despite how much he doesn’t want to show you this weakness. He buries his face into you, and you can feel the ghost of a smile against your skin. “I’ve missed you. So, so much. Please, please, don’t leave me again.”
Lifeless, your body lay, along the shores and lapped by waves stained crimson. That day, Fontaine realized what it was like to truly rain, not a few drops, or even spring showers. Water fell endlessly from the skies, a downpour that may never end, an all-swallowing sea from the heavens that swallowed all unfortunate enough to be caught in its path. Irony clouded the skies, and Neuvillette found himself broken into pieces he didn’t know how to put back together.
His efforts to understand the human population were in vain. A complete, utter failure. How could he possibly judge, knowing the world despised him? Knowing that the scales were upturned and that nothing could ever be just? Your death, it was unfair. Unfair to the world and unfair to he who held you ever so dear. But what else could he do but continue his oversight? Quitting his position wouldn’t bring you back. Nothing would. He could hear your cheery voice in his ear, and the hint of a pout, a chiding tone. “Neuvi, you can’t quit! Let’s all try our best, okay?”
The days where you were by his side were the happiest. Fontaine had become akin to Sumeru’s desert, the sun blazing overhead and the moon shining brightly at night. Yet, how come the people of Fontaine had seemed upset at the skies for his contentment? They begged for rain, begged for their dying crops, to the point where you were forced to distance yourself from the man for days at a time, just the unrelentless sun would cloud over and perhaps a drop or two of rain would be squeezed from the heavens.
If he had known you would leave so soon, he would have never permitted you to depart from his side. If he had known you would pass this world and traverse to the next, he would have held you with every ounce of his soul, he would have declared his love for you over and over, he would have placed the ring he had been saving in his pocket, the one he slipped on his finger whenever he was at a particularly difficult trial.
So many “what if’s.” None of them would materialize. Once again, his efforts would fall short. Once again, he’d lose someone.
The tea was hot. It burned his tongue, yet he couldn’t feel a thing. You, the clearest of springs and purest of waters, had set his own sea into a never-ending storm. Lightning struck and its own surface churned choppily with enough rage to devour a nation. The second tea cup that was on the other side of his office desk remained untouched, the contents slowly cooling into nothingness. A something that could never be.
“Hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don’t cry~” He could hear it when he shut his eyes for what he hoped to be the final time, your voice from the mist that shrouded his mind, and he wanted nothing more than to embrace the owner of it. How could he possibly heed your words, when he felt his tears slip past his eyes, flowing as unperturbed as a river? Your back is facing him, but you know he’s there. You glance back with a fond beam, extending your arms outwards. An invitation. One that he’d readily take, any time, every time.
He would never enable you to slip from his grasp again. He allows you to engulf him in your arms, he allows you to stroke your thumb on his face and wipe away his salty tears, he allows you to brush his hair behind his ear and press butterfly kisses into his closed eyelids. Your warmth floods his body, and with a smile he takes the ring he’s saved for you out of his pocket, and fulfills his regrets as he slips it onto your finger, a final tear rolling down his cheek. “There’ll be no more reason to cry, not anymore.”
(a/n) this further proved to me that writing angst is so fucking mind destroying but at the same time provides this sort of quiet sorrow that you aren't able to attain anywhere else
and for some twisted reason this is literally one of my favorite things ive like. ever written. holy shiiiii
໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife
Summary: Mikey smells the food from your bento box, and you offer him a taste. | Genre: Fluff | Warning: None that come to mind | Words: 2.5K
‘Ah, something smells so good, Ken-chin,’ you heard someone say so cheerfully loud and close by it broke your train of thought and causing you to look up only to find one of your upper classmate’s heads peeking into your classroom.
Since it was lunch break, and there weren’t that many people around, his dark eyes easily scanned the room and the few students there until they ended up on you and your friend, more importantly, on your opened bento.
‘Is it yours that smells so goooood~?’ he asked and without any hesitation, he came into the room causing everyone to stop talking and the air around you to freeze a bit only for a panic vibe to settle across the room and students as that upper classmate who entered was followed by his much taller friend also an upper classmate.
Your friend next to you swallowed and even if just a tiny bit, you felt them move away from you while the upper classmates Sano Manjiro and Ryuguji Ken walked toward your desk like they owed the place which they might as well have. It was no secret that the members of the Toman gang could do whatever they pleased in your school whether it was failing most of their classes or skipping without any consequences. You were certain even the teachers and administration were too scared of them to act against them and so they walked around the school if they felt like it causing everyone to be on the lookout.
You felt drops of sweat slowly fall down your back under your uniform, and you didn’t blame your friend one bit that they tried to act like they weren’t a part of whatever was supposed to happen.
Youwished you weren’t a part of whatever was about to happen since these guys and their gang were no joke.
‘It smells even better up close,’ said Sano leaning so close to your open bento he could practically take a bit out of your fish.
You watched the scene speechless as you were never this close to a gang member let alone the gang leader. He looked somehow shorter now. You knew for a fact that Sano was short, you saw how visible was the height difference between him and Ryuguji as they constantly walked everywhere together, but somehow as he was this close to you looking so relaxed with a lazy smile on his face yet humor or joy at the rest of it, he seemed smaller as if friendly.
Pocket size
You should be thanking the deities; he didn’t hear you say that.
You wanted to say something. Maybe thanked him for complimenting your food because you worked hard to prepare it, but the moment he leaned away and opened his eyes those words got lost inside your throat at how empty the black irises looked.
What a sad look on such a young and handsome face, you couldn’t stop yourself to think for a split second wishing you could make his eyes lighten up even if just a bit.
‘Oi, oi, enough of this. Leave them and let’s go,’ said Sano’s tall companion, and the gang leader let out a dejected sigh, ‘Alright, but only if you buy me something to eat. I’m hungry.’
‘Hey, leave my wallet out of this-’
‘Excuse me,’ you said suddenly shocking your friend, who flinched and started to furiously shake their head while also surprising yourself and the two boys standing in front of your desk.
You felt a bit strange being watched by their eyes, but you already spoke, so it wasn’t like you could stop yourself from carrying on what you wanted to say.
You looked away from them and reached into your bag before you pulled out another nicely packed bento.
It had the same content as the one you were currently eating so it would be a safe bet to say that if Sano liked the smell of yours, he would surely enjoy this one as well.
His face looked puzzled, and you didn’t blame him because you were sure it must have looked strange to pull out another bento like that, but you tried not to get too embarrassed by it in front of them, ‘If-if you want you can have this one, Sano-senpai. It’s the same food.’
Ryuguji started to protest, ‘Hey, don’t just give out free food to him-,’
But Sano’s hands already greedily snatched it from your hold and offered you a grin so bright and adorable, it would be easy to think of him as a cute little guy instead of a ruthless gang leader, ‘Well, aren’t you the sweetest,’ he said and opened his eyes that looked directly into yours now causing the nice grin on his lips to look a bit different. Not necessarily less nice or insincere, but a bit sharper now.
‘I’m sure it will be delicious,’ he said and turned to his friend raising the bento above his head and doing a little dance with his new prized possession, ‘Ken-chin, look, what that sweet person gave me. Let’s go eat right away.’
You heard the other boy mutter something like ‘you can’t just take that’,but the shorter blond was already by the door before he turned back to you with another wide grin that reached his eyes even if it didn’t make them come alive either.
Still, it made him look a bit like a little kid which was strangely cute even for a gang leader in your mind.
‘Arigatōgozaimasu, I will return the bento to you later, Kohai-chan,’ he called out referring to the status that you were his lower classmate since he probably didn’t even know your name. Why would he anyway?
He then disappeared out of your view as if he was never there, and the moment Ryuguji left as well with a single raise of his hand in a goodbye, it felt like the danger had passed and all of your classmates who were inside the room for the whole exchange let out a collective relieved breath.
A second later some other classmates rushed in as they were too afraid to enter when they learned Toman leader and one of its captains were inside the room. Everyone started to talk among themselves or you and your friend stating how brave you were and not to be worried that you had to give your lunch to such delinquents.
You tried to explain you didn’t have to do it, and that you offered out of your own free will, but it seemed no one would believe anyone would be bold or stupid enough to talk to them and offer on their own. Last of all you.
Your friend seemed to be the only one who understood what you did, but still showed nothing but concern over your choice, ‘You shouldn’t have done that, what if he now decides you should always bring him lunch? That would be horrible, wouldn’t it?’
Well, it didn’t sound like the best possibility for your future relationship with the gang leader, but at the same time, it wouldn’t be the worse one either given your personal reasons.
‘Also, how come you had a second bento on you like that?’ asked your friend, but you shook your head and waved the question off just in time for the next class to begin saving you from having to answer.
The news spread a bit, and by the end of the day everyone knew the Toman leader took your bento since you walked around hearing nothing but your name and bento everywhere you went throughout the rest of the day.
You were getting a bit annoyed by it since you didn’t really have a good reason to give him the bento or at least a reason you wanted to share with the others.
‘Oi, Kohai-chan,’ said a cheerful voice in an almost childlike manner causing your friend to freeze in their track and start to shake while you offered them a sympathetic look hoping it would ease their worry.
You turned around and were greeted by the dark eyes of the Toman leader you fed today as well as the not-so-subtle stares of a bunch of members which you only recognize because they were in their Toman jacket’s now and sitting on their bikes.
Your friend looked very stressed and honestly, you didn’t feel completely comfortable too, but the grin on Sano’s face told you it couldn’t be that bad and made you relax a bit to the same level you usually got when you were with a new friendly enough person. Still nervous, but not completely panicked, ‘Hello, Sano-senpai.’
‘Cute,’ he chuckled upon your choice to call him that before he handed you the bento. It looked properly washed and packed again but was empty due to its lightness when you took it from his hands.
Ah, so he ate it. That’s good.
‘Gochisousama deshita!’ he thanked you sounding very sincere and cheerful, ‘It was even more delicious than it smelled. You’re a very talented cook,’ he praised you with a certain ease and confidence that was so new to you, you couldn’t help but feel the warmth creeping into your cheeks.
His dark eyes widened for a moment before they visibly softened around the edges and even if just for a second you thought you saw a small twinkle of something like feeling or life inside them, ‘Ah, Kohai-chan, you’re very pretty when you blush like this.’
You opened and closed your mouth with widened eyes as no one ever said anything like that about you in general let alone to your face and with such boldness. Was he aware people could hear him? It felt more than a bit embarrassing even if nice.
You pulled the bento closer to your chest, ‘You-you shouldn’t say things like that so carelessly, Sano-senpai.’
His tender smile never left his face almost making up for how empty his eyes looked, ‘Not even if they are true?’
Your heart skipped a bit, and if possible you felt even hotter than you had a moment ago surely going from pink to full-on red in front of his eyes.
You swallowed letting out a weak, ‘Oh?’ because how could you possibly respond to something like that? In less than five minutes he made you feel brutally warm and nice inside without seemingly any effort. Wasn’t he the leader of one of the toughest gangs in the city? So why was he so charming and good to you right now? He didn’t even look like a gang leader at all if it wasn’t for those empty eyes. But even so, he looked really handsome and not all that bad or at all.
‘Tomorrow, you could make me some dorayaki,’ he said causing your train of thought to get lost again, ‘Huh?’
‘I knew it,’ whispered your friend beside you, but immediately tensed as they realized they spoke and got some attention shift to them now.
‘They’re my favorite,’ he explained well at least said as if that explained it, and you realized your friend was right because now it seemed the Toman gang leader viewed you as his person chief and would expect bento from you every day.
You didn’t have too much time to think about them, ‘I can’t wait to see how they will taste coming from your hands.’ As if he was trying to picture it, he suddenly snatched one of your hands that wasn’t crushing the bento against your chest and inspected it, ‘Oh, you burned yourself a bit cooking, right? You need to be more careful,’ he said, but you barely heard him as your brain short-circuited over the fact that he was holding your hand between his.
His hands are more ruined than mine. Probably from all the fighting, but they’re so warm.
Almost like the warmth that lacked in his eyes radiated from his hands as they held onto yours instead.
‘Say,’ he started shifting your focus from your touching hands to his face, ‘Ken-chin said you could have two bento boxes because you were planning to give them to someone you care about. Were you? You should tell me now though,’ he said, and even if it might have sounded frightening if you told someone that Toman gang leader, The Incredible Mikey, asked you something like that, given how he seemed to look almost like a child with his lips slightly pouting either at the idea or his friend, you couldn’t help but giggle a bit.
Upon hearing you do that, he looked up at you blinking.
You sobered a bit and explained, ‘No. It wasn’t made for anyone special in my mind. I just…I just liked the idea of having it if someone didn’t bring theirs, and I always make too much. If I don’t finish it, I offer it to someone on my way home or feed the cats in my neighborhood.’
You really wished your friend wasn’t around to hear that as they looked at you surely thought that sounded weird as hell, but given how Sano’s confused look shifted into that of an absolutely joyful one and some more sparks of life came to shine from his dark eyes, you didn’t think it was the worse thing in the world to be considered weird at that moment.
He should be this happy more often.
‘I’m so glad,’ he said and finally let go of your hand and put on a bit of a fake-serious face that only made him look silly, ‘So tomorrow, alright? Don’t forget. Kohai-chan.’
You nodded dutifully with a small smile of your own, ‘Dorayaki. I will do my best, I promise, Sano-senpai.’
You had to admit, it felt good to know your cooking would have a purpose for once other than to feed you.
He seemed satisfied enough with your response and waved you and your friend goodbye before lazily walking back to his subordinates. His eyes still looked empty, but your heart expended at the memories of how you got those small sparks of life to appear inside them just now.
It felt really good to have such an effect on a person.
Once he was far enough, your friend snatched your shoulders looking horrified, ‘Are-you-are you dating the Toman Leader now?!’
Your eyes widened as a sense of embarrassment overtook your positive attitude from a moment ago, ‘Dating? I don’t think so. I’m just going to make him lunch.’
Right?!
Bonus:
Your nervous friend started to drag you away, so you didn’t notice the Toman Leader still watching you go until you disappeared out of his view with a fond expression on his face and even more light inside his dark eyes.
Seeing him in such a state Baji couldn’t help but lean closer to Draken and asked, ‘Who was that just now?’
Mikey turned to them before the taller boy could answer and much to Draken’s annoyance pulled on the brightest and laziest grin ever before he proudly with just a tiny bit of a pink blush playing across his cheeks said, ‘My future wife.’
Koniec
A.N: Thank you for taking the time to read this. English is not my first language. 😊 I hope you and your loved ones are safe. Have a nice day 😊
Summary: You and Chishiya are dating and most of the people at The Beach know about it. The people who don’t, are the new comers. One new comer in particular, doesn’t seem to get the hint that your taken. Since your so blind to the new guys advances, you just think he’s being friendly and you become friends with him. Chishiya on the other hand, looks at this situation as one that could take you away from him.
Warnings: established relationships!au, emotional Smut, vaginal sex, nipple play, unwanted flirting, reader is too nice for her own good, past neglectful parents, insecurities, jealousy, and Spoilers For The Manga.
Inspired By: THIS POST of mine.
Rating: 18+
。・°°・°°・。 。・°°・°°・。 。・°°・°°・。
Chishiya can’t believe what he’s witnessing right now.
He’s sitting at a table, hands flat on top of it, and staring at you wide eyed.
Your across the table from him, but not facing him. You’re laughing up a storm, and lean forward inch by inch each time the new comer in front of you says something remotely funny.
Aguni recently brought back a few new people from a game they last went to. He said they had potential on being a good group of militants. Chishiya thought, on the other hand, that they were all just extra dumb asses that didn’t need to be at The Beach.
One new comer in particular, he disliked more then all of them. This guy, out of all the new comers, was the only one not getting the hint.
Hello! Can you write something with female Y/N and Chishiya? She helped him with something and is injured after that. She fell or burn her back or hit her head, but pretends that nothing happened since she think he doesn't care and the injury it's getting worst by days, Chishiya didn't notice at first and he just don't understand why Y/N is not talking with him but lets it go, then the day of game comes and they both have to play and Y/N faints few hours before registration. He is panicking suddenly aware of his own feelings towards her and he is SO worried and feels guilty. I hope you can add a lot of angst but fluffy end? I'm sorry if this is messy, english is not my first language 😭 Thank you!
Of course! And don’t worry your English is great 😊 I hope you enjoy! ❤️
Panicked Confession | Shuntaro Chishiya
{Alice In Borderland Masterlist}
Character(s): Chishiya (ft. Kuina, Usagi, Ann, Hatter)
Summary: You get badly burnt while saving Chishiya in a game, but made sure he knew nothing about it. Just before leaving for the next game, you pass out and Chishiya finds you, causing him to panic
You, Chishiya, Kuina and Usagi rushed through the bottom floor of the building. Flames were curling in the air around each side of you, quickly closing in to eat you alive.
All four of you had almost completed the game, being the only players left after the last puzzle of the building. It was a diamond game, a game of intelligence. You were lucky to have been with Chishiya, as Diamonds games were his specialty.
You were all sprinting across the room, together in a tight pack so the flames don’t manage to touch you. You were panting, feeling your lungs collapsing in on themselves, but you had to press on. Only a few more steps before you could jump through the glass window at the end of the room, which was quickly being engulfed.
Suddenly, you saw Chishiya, who was running next to you, trip on a loose bit of debris laying on the ground inconveniently. You looked back and saw him holding his ankle in pain.
Of course, just your luck.
You all stopped abruptly, skidding along the floor and looking back to Chishiya in fear. He saw you all, his eyes widening.
“What are you doing?! Go!” he called out, wincing in pain.
You looked towards Kuina and Usagi, watching as thoughts spiraled around their heads to figure out what to do. The flame was too close behind Chishiya for it to be safe, if someone was to help him, they would have to risk their life doing so.
Both Kuina and Usagi shook their heads and looked away. They turned away from Chishiya and began jogging towards the window again. You froze. There’s no way they would just leave him like that.
“Guys!” You called out to them. They turned to you with fearful expressions painted on their face. “What are you doing?!” You asked, fear and worry dripping from your words. You had to make up your mind soon or you would be burned to a crisp.
Kuina motioned for you to come to her. “Y/N, there’s no time! We have to go!” you could tell she felt awful about this decision, but you weren’t giving up just yet.
You looked back at Chishiya laying on the ground. He was staring at you with a worried expression, wanting you to hurry up and leave him. You couldn’t leave a friend that easy to die. You had to at least try.
You let out a big sigh and lifted your aching legs to race towards Chishiya. He began yelling at you the moment you started running. “No, no, no! Go Y/N! What are you doing?!”
You ignored his shouting and quickly knelt down beside him to lift his arm around your shoulders. You weren’t going to lose anyone else, you promised yourself that after your friends died in the first game you played after appearing in the Borderlands.
Chishiya kept arguing and shaking his head as you tried to lift his body. He was surprisingly heavy for someone his size. “Y/N, go! There’s no time! You can’t save me!” he at screamed you, becoming more desperate with every plea.
You continued to ignore him and began dragging him along towards the window, where Kuina and Usagi were already working on breaking the glass with debris from around them. “You’re not going to off yourself that easily Chishiya as long as I have a say in it,” you rasped out, struggling to keep upright with the extra weight on your shoulders.
As your heart pounded in your ears and you felt the fire become hotter and hotter around you, you suddenly felt an incredibly sharp pain across your spine. The sensation spread all through your body, from your head to your toe, making you cry out and almost collapse to the ground, but you stayed strong.
Chishiya had given up arguing with you, using his good leg to take a bit of his body weight off your pained shoulders. With his help, you managed to move much quicker, limping and staggering your way towards Kuina and Usagi, who had broken the window and were now waiting for you to come, yelling at you to hurry up.
You didn’t look back; you didn’t want to see how close the flames were. You knew it would do nothing but make the situation worse.
As you neared the window, you slowed down as Kuina ran out to help you lift Chishiya up and out of the window. You were relying completely on adrenaline at that point, having lost all of your strength through running and carrying Chishiya.
You managed to lift yourself through the cracked window, earning a few cuts from the leftover glass on the way, and collapsed onto the grass ground below you. A large barrier from inside the room (probably manufactured for the games) closed over the destroyed window as you fell, being lucky to be the last out of the four of you to escape. The flames were locked in, unable to harm you.
The four of you laid on the grass, panting and trying to regain your breath. As your adrenaline calmed down, the pain of your large burn mark set in. You covered your face with your hand and silently screamed against it, trying to drown out the searing pain somehow. You couldn’t worry the others, not after what just happened.
**************
The next couple of days was nothing but a struggle for you. As soon as you arrived back from the game, you stumbled your way to Ann’s medical room. She took a closer look at your burn wound, applying whatever she had to try and reduce the chance of it getting infected. But unfortunately, that didn’t reduce the pain.
After allowing Ann to wrap a bandage around your upper back to protect the wound, you slowly made your way back to your room on the upper floor. You didn’t want to rush yourself in case you made your wound worse, so you took your time in getting there.
Unfortunately, it was a bit too much time, as you managed to bump into Chishiya who popped out from around the corner. A small panic raised within you; you didn’t want Chishiya to see you like this! It’s embarrassing enough to like someone you had no chance with, but for them to see you stumbling and holding onto the wall because you can’t even keep yourself up? No, not today.
You stood more upright than before, giving Chishiya your best fake smile. “Hey Y/N,” he said, walking past you. You breathed a sigh of relief. Well, that wasn’t too bad.
You started to walk again before you heard Chishiya call out from behind you. “Oh, wait Y/N!”
You turned around, biting your tongue so you didn’t let out a yelp of pain as the skin on your back twisted with your movements. “Yeah?” you acknowledged him.
He gave you a half-hearted smile. “Thanks again, for earlier. I would’ve been a goner if you hadn’t risked your life like that for me,” he said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. You’ve never seen him thank someone before, so you were shocked.
“Oh, it was no big deal! We should all help each other out, considering we haven’t really got anything else other than each other,” you said, smiling happily. You felt all giddy from him acknowledging the fact that you risked yourself for him.
“Yeah, but it was still pretty cool of you. Even Kuina and Usagi were willing to leave me there,” he chuckled as his own joke.
You laughed and shook your head at him. “I’m sure they were just doing what they thought was best for everyone else in the moment.”
Chishiya nodded and gave you a small wave. “I’ll see you tomorrow night then! Hatter let me know in the meeting this evening that you and I are together again. I’m glad though, because you seem to have the skill and brains to get through some tough games.”
You were flattered by his compliment. “Thanks, you too though! We would have burnt to a crisp if it weren’t for you during that diamond game tonight.”
The small talk was killing you. You just wanted to get back to your room and wallow in the silence that engulfed it. At least there, you could suffer from your burn wound a little louder than out in the public eye of The Beach.
Chishiya laughed at your statement. “No, I’m sure with you there it would’ve been fine,” he said back, making you smile wider.
“I’ll see you later then,” you exclaimed, waving a hand at him. He waved back with a grin on his attractive features before he turned around and continued down the hall with his hands tucked into their usual spot in his hoodie pockets.
You let out a big sigh of relief. That was close. You felt the pain seeping through your body the longer you stood there, hoping for Chishiya to just end the conversation. You felt guilty, it may have looked like you were trying to escape, since you were slowly backing towards the corner. Hopefully, he didn’t notice.
You stumbled the rest of the way towards your room, wincing and hissing in pain on the way. It felt like Ann didn’t do anything at all, but you couldn’t blame her. She had extremely limited resources and could only leave to search for more every few weeks.
When you finally made it to the door of your room, the familiar number engraved onto the middle of it, you gripped the handle and walked inside.
You collapsed onto your bed onto your stomach. There was no way you would be able to sleep on your back with this kind of pain, so you had to resort to either on your side or on your stomach.
Let’s just say, you had a restless sleep.
****************
You were hoping after a night’s sleep that the pain from your back would have disappeared at least a little bit. But you couldn’t have been more wrong. If anything, it had become worse. You probably managed to roll onto it a few times during the night, reopening any part of the wound that had sealed up over the time you’ve had it.
It took you far too long to get out of bed in the morning. You groaned and moaned in frustration as you crawled your way out of the duvet, almost collapsing off your bed. You felt rather pathetic, but who wouldn’t after not being able to do the simplest of tasks from a wound.
As you were walking to your closet to look for something to wear, you remembered you had to go see Ann again that morning. She had told you last night to return to her medical room the next morning so she could reapply a new bandage onto you, in case the other one gets bacteria or blood on it during the night somehow.
You quickly put on your usual swimmers to wear around the hotel and the black hoodie that you wore most of the time when you got cold. You didn’t want to risk anyone else seeing your wound. The gaping burn mark across your upper back was bound to attract unwanted attention.
You made your way down the hall to go see Ann again. There was nobody in the halls around the rooms due to it being close to noon. You slept in longer than you expected.
You slowly walked down the couple of flights of stairs, making your way to Ann’s medical room on the lower floor. The walk down to the lobby felt longer at that moment than it ever had.
You approached the door with the red cross along the front of it, indicating the medical room. You were about to lift your hand to turn the doorknob before you heard a loud voice yell from further down the corridor.
You shifted your eyes and saw none other than Chishiya striding down the hallway with his usual cocky smirk painted across his face. Of course, you had to run into him out of all people.
“Y/N! Wait!” he yelled as he jogged up to you.
You stayed silent, waiting to hear what he had to say. You wanted to ignore him and just walk into the medical room to see Ann to avoid any kind of questioning or suspicion from him, but you knew that would only make him more curious.
“Hey, you alright?” he frowned, questioning you. He reached out to place a gentle hand on your forearm, but you flinched away before he could touch you.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answered, trying to sound normal. The piercing feeling that your wound brought you began to make its way around your body again, making you slightly shift and shake. ‘Of course, it just has its moment while I’m talking to the one person that I don’t want to look like a weakling in front of,’ you thought to yourself in your head.
Chishiya frowned at your flinch, but seemed to shake it off quickly, moving onto something else. “So anyway, where were you this morning?” he asked, leaning closer to you.
“I-I was in my room. I had a late sleep in,” you said, gripping the doorknob to the medical room.
“Oh, weird. Do you remember what we talked about yesterday?” he said with a smirk on his face.
‘Oh shit, he’s mocking my bad memory,” you thought, feeling embarrassed.
“Um… no? Should I?”
“You, Kuina, Alice, Usagi and I were going to meet up this morning to steal some food from the kitchen and take it to the rooftop. You didn’t show up near the pool where we said we were going to meet!” he exclaimed. He was laughing, obviously not caring too much about your forgetfulness.
You thought for a second. You did recall having that conversation. You guessed that you forgot about it because you were so focused on trying to reduce the pain from your burn. Even if you did remember, as if you would’ve been able to run away from the chefs in the kitchen after taking the food with this injury.
“Me and Kuina even knocked on your door. You must have been really knocked out if you didn’t wake up from Kuina’s loud yelling.”
He then raised his eyebrow and smirked. “Unless you were hiding from me?”
Your could tell he was obviously joking, but he wasn’t far off from being right. That has been your intention since last night, but trust Chishiya to figure you out quickly enough.
You heart rate picked up from his accurate accusation. “Uh, sorry Chishiya, but I really have to go,” you mumbled out, giving him a quick fake smile before walking into the medical room and closing the door behind you.
Chishiya’s mischievous smirk fell from his face. You didn’t even give him a chance to say goodbye, and you seemed oddly nervous from his accusation that you were avoiding him. He felt somewhat hurt. Were you trying to avoid him?
He shook off his suspicions and continued down the corridor to the lobby to find something to entertain him for the meantime. You wouldn’t try to avoid him, would you? Perhaps he’ll confront you about it later.
*************
You were laying in your room reading a book when you heard the usual ring of the bell that was Hatter’s signal for everyone to move down to the lobby to prepare for the night’s games.
“Shit! Is it that late already?” you asked no one, glancing over at the digital clock on your nightstand.
You panicked and saw it was the time that you would head out to games. You said to yourself earlier that you would give yourself an early mark so you could get down there at the right time, considering you would be slow due to your condition, but you got distracted by your book and lost track of time.
You rushed to your feet a little too quickly for your body’s liking, causing the pain of your wound to shoot across your back without mercy, making you yelp in pain and fall forwards.
You managed to catch yourself before you face planted into the ground. You let out a few deep breaths, trying to regain your strength while the piercing pain became worse from your insistence.
You pushed yourself off the ground, placing your foot underneath you and attempting to stand to your feet. You had to make it to the cars at least, you knew if anyone found you at The Beach during game time, they would mark you a coward, or worse: a traitor.
You cursed under your breath and let out pained sobs as you tried to get to your feet again. But unfortunately, your body just wasn’t on your side at that moment.
Your feet gave out underneath you and your head pounded, causing you to feel dizzy and suddenly nauseated. You leant forwards as you emptied the contents of your stomach out onto the floor, gagging on the taste of it in the back of your throat.
Your eyes began to feel heavy, not being able to take the pain and stress you were under. You managed to roll yourself to the side so you wouldn’t land in the pile of vomit and lay yourself across the floor safely before you face planted.
“Fuck,” you rasped out, feeling helpless at that moment.
You couldn’t do anything as your vision narrowed, passing out from pain on the floor of your own room, no one around to help you.
*************
“Hello again everyone! I would like to say a few words before we all get into our groups and drive to our games!”
Hatter’s usual booming voice thrusted across the crowd in front of him. Another night, another gathering. Just like every other day.
Chishiya stood at his usual spot in the back, leaning against the cement wall and rolling his eyes at Hatter’s words. He never seemed to have anything useful to say. Just some preachy words that created false hope.
‘How about for a change, he gave us some advice? It would probably spare some people a few headaches,’ Chishiya thought to himself.
He stood on his toes and tried to search the crowd for the top of your head. He was becoming anxious. You would usually be down in the lobby by now.
He was more nervous due to the way you’ve been acting all day. Usually, you two were joined at the hip twenty-four seven, but the only time he saw you that day was in the morning when you walked into the medical room.
He wondered why you were going in there. You never went to Ann unless it was for something drastic, but you seemed completely healthy and unharmed.
As the time ticked on, Chishiya became more and more worried. You would never skip out on a game; you were too afraid of being caught by the executives for that.
Hatter finished off his nightly speech with the list of groups and which number wristbands go where. Chishiya didn’t even care to pay attention as everyone began making their way towards the entrance of the hotel where they would pile into the cars and drive off to the games. He ran the opposite way, clambering up the flights of stairs to reach the level your room is on. If you had to be anywhere, it would be there.
He powered his legs into a sprint, having to brush his white locks out of his face once or twice due to them getting in the way. He eventually arrived at your room, stopping and panting to regain his breath.
He knocked on your door quietly at first, not knowing if you were asleep or something. “Y/N?” he called out through the door. “We need to head off to the games. Did you not hear the bell?”
When he received nothing but silence as an answer, he took it upon himself to walk in to see if you were there. He opened the door and peeked his head around the side, being careful in case you were indecent for some reason.
As he walked in further, his heart dropped as he saw you laying on the ground passed out.
“Y/N!” he exclaimed, rushing over to your body and kneeling beside you. He lifted your head onto his lap gently and immediately checked your neck for a pulse. A small feeling of relief flowed through him when he felt the beat of your heart on his fingers.
“Oh my god Y/N, what’s happened to you?” he stressed, tapping your cheek with his hand to see if you would wake. He was beginning to become more worried as time ticked on. He glanced over at the clock on your nightstand and saw that it was getting later. He had to wake you up before registration closed for all the games.
He lifted you up from under your arms, using all his strength to pull you into your small bathroom. He placed you gently on the tiled floor, stuffing a towel underneath your head for support. He quickly shifted your body around, trying to look for any source of injury that caused you to pass out. He froze when he noticed a few stains of blood on the back of your hoodie. He quickly lifted the hem of your shirt to see what was causing the stains.
His eyes almost popped out of his head from the sight. He gasped at the huge burn wound on your back, stretching across from your shoulder blades to your waist. The bandage that Ann had wrapped around it had come loose, hanging off your abdomen carelessly. His heart filled with guilt as he examined it more closely. Why didn’t he look after you?
He immediately put two and two together and realized that you had probably passed out from the pain of the burn mark.
He stood up from his position on the floor and grabbed a small cloth from your towel rack, running it under the water from the tap. He knelt back down next to you and carefully placed the wet fabric against your wound. He was so afraid of hurting you, but he had to do what he could to make you better for the game.
“Oh, come on, please wake up Y/N,” he breathed out. Stress and anxiety filled his tone, making the air more tense.
“Please wake up, please be okay. I love you, please don’t die Y/N,” he suddenly felt small tears gathering in his eyes as he stood up quickly to refresh the cloth that he was using to clean the burn.
He felt his hidden feelings begin to pour out of his mouth. He couldn’t handle the strain seeing you like this was having on his emotions.
He brought the cloth back, but this time he turned you over slightly so he could place it on your face. Your eyes were still shut tightly, not showing any indication of opening.
Chishiya ran the fingers of his other hand along your cheek, tapping softly on your skin, hoping that you would wake up from the physical contact. He felt desperate. He has never felt this helpless before, not even in games.
He allowed his few tears to fall down his cheek, lifting your head and pressing his forehead against yours. “Please wake up, we have to go. Just wake up and I’ll take care of you,” he mumbled out with shaky breaths.
He didn’t know what else to do. He could do nothing but hope.
A few minutes passed with Chishiya just holding you and pressing the cold cloth onto your face, trying to make you open your eyes. And eventually you did.
Chishiya breathed in a huge sigh of relief when he saw your eyes flutter open slowly, dazed and confused. He smiled and kept the cloth pressed to your face, caressing your cheek with his thumb.
“Oh, thank god,” he breathed out, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and bringing you into his chest for a close hug. You groaned loudly at the contact as Chishiya accidentally placed his hand on your wound.
“Chishiya, be careful,” you rasped out against his chest. He flinched away immediately and apologized.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, lifting you up under your arms again. You groaned, not being able to stand up on your own yet. Chishiya kept you close to his chest as you leant against him.
He managed to clean you up with you leaning most of your body weight on him. He helped you wash out your mouth and clean your teeth to get rid of the taste of vomit and reapplied the bandage that had fallen off your wound. He did it all with such care and concern, being afraid of hurting you or overwhelming you with anything.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the games?” you asked after you had finished rinsing your face.
“I noticed you weren’t at the lobby when Hatter called everyone, so I ran to your room and found you,” he answered, fixing your hoodie on your back from when he had to lift it to clean your injury.
“So, everyone’s gone?” you asked with a worried expression. Chishiya nodded, leaning on the sink next to you to check your face to see if you were alright.
“But if they find us, they’ll mark us as traitors!” you exclaimed, fear filling your head.
Chishiya placed his index finger on your lips to shush you. “Shh, only if they can hear us. We can just stay in here and be quiet, and hopefully no one suspects that we’re missing,” he said, smiling to calm you down.
You searched his eyes for any uncertainty but chose to let it go and just listen to him. “Okay.”
You both sat side by side on the floor of your small bathroom, Chishiya running his hand up and down your arm to keep your anxiety away. After a while of comfortable silence, you spoke up.
“Thanks, Chishiya, for helping me. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be lying on the ground next to a pile of my own puke,” you laughed at yourself.
Chishiya giggled. “It’s okay. I care about you Y/N, I couldn’t just leave you there.”
You looked at him with sparkling eyes, being taken back by his statement. “Really?” you asked, not believing him.
He smiled lovingly and caressed your cheek with his fingers. “Of course, I’d do anything if it was to help you.”
You thought you would have a cute moment together, but that flew out the window when Chishiya slapped you lightly across the cheek. Not enough to hurt you, but enough to bring a shocked expression onto your face.
“But next time, tell me when you’re hurt instead of trying to hide it from me like an idiot! You really think you’d be able to hide something like this from me?” he scolded you like a mother, but you giggled at his reaction.
“Yeah, I’ll tell you next time. Why did I ever think I could keep something from someone with an intelligent mind like yours,” you teased, leaning closer to his face.
Chishiya raised his eyebrows. “Hm, thanks, I guess? Not sure if that was a compliment or if you’re poking fun at me.”
You chuckled. “Take it however you want,” you whispered. You finally closed to space between you, allowing your lips to clash against his. Chishiya let out a shocked sound, but quickly melted against you and accepted your kiss.
You both sat on the floor of your bathroom, moving your mouths together while Chishiya tried hard to place his hands on you without touching your burn mark. You appreciated his care, but he ended up having to awkwardly place them on your upper arms, rubbing up and down them slowly.
You pulled away first, making Chishiya chase your lips as you moved away, making you giggle. “There’s my thank you gift,” you said cheekily, leaning away from him and back into your seating position.
Chishiya pouted at you. “That’s it? That was barely a kiss!” he argued, trying to move closer to you, wanting more of your affection.
“Chishiya, your tongue was in my mouth. I think that clarifies as a kiss,” you stated, placing your hand on his mouth and pushing him away gently. “Maybe let down that tough guy persona more often and take care of me, maybe then you’ll get more kisses.”
Chishiya leaned back and frowned. “Fine, but don’t expect this to be the norm now. I’m not going to let you control my personality just for a bit of affection.”
Well, that was a lie.
Author’s Note: Every Chishiya fanfic I’ve written has had some sort of angsty moment in it 😂 this man is going through it
genre: headcanons / fluff, just lots of domestic sweetness
note: this post is sfw, but this account contains nsfw content. please do not follow if you are a minor.
❥ You were the one who proposed first. It started as an off-handed remark: Hey, Aki, have you ever considered getting married? Without fully understanding what you were implying, he replies, I'm not sure, but I wouldn't mind being married to you. Needless to say, you popped the question not long after.
❥ You'll never forget the look on Aki's face when you asked him to marry you: his eyes were wide, and his face was flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. When he tried to speak, all that came out were incoherent stutters, but as he knelt down and hugged you, you heard him whisper, Yes. I'd love to.
❥ You consider yourself fortunate that your job has always allowed you to live comfortably, your salary easily enough for two people to live off of. For the first time in, well, ever, Aki doesn't have to be working himself to the bone all the time. He isn't used to this, and it took some adjusting to, but once he settled in his new peaceful lifestyle, he grew to really take a liking to it.
❥ Aki enjoys dwelling in something simpler, in a quiet sense of home. He finds comfort in the little things, in taking care of day-to-day tasks and the household chores. When you come home, a smile on your face once you see what he made for dinner, the stress leaving your shoulders when he tells you how he took care of everything — Don't worry about anything at all, you can relax now. When he's able to help you, to let his beloved feel at ease, it makes it all worth it.
❥ He's always been a chef at heart, so Aki enjoys making you dinner every single night. He asks you what you'd like to eat tonight before you leave for work, and he gives you a few suggestions if you aren't sure. He makes a mental note of all the ingredients he needs to pick up from the store. Then, he prepares dinner in earnest, expertly chopping vegetables, adding spices and having a taste to make sure it's perfect. He always plans it perfectly so that as soon as you come home, you'll have a delicious hot meal ready for you.
❥ Over the months and years you've spent together, Aki has memorized all of your preferences. He knows what flavors you like, and he remembers what you don't like; he always excludes those things from the recipe.
❥ You're no stranger to breakfast in bed, either; Aki will crawl out of bed as softly as possible, cooking quietly in the kitchen, careful to avoid stepping on the floorboards that creak. He'll brew some hot coffee, waking you up with a kiss to the forehead, a steaming mug and a plate of pancakes in his hands. Good morning. Did you have sweet dreams?
❥ When you arrive home from a long day of work, Aki takes your coat off your shoulders at the door, hanging it on the coat rack. He unites your shoes for you, then wraps his arms around you in a warm embrace, his hand tenderly holding the back of your head. The very first thing he says to you each and every time is, Welcome home, I missed you so much. How was work?
❥ And when he can tell that you've come home stressed and upset, he wastes no time, pulling you into a tight hug the second you've walked in the door. Bad day, huh? C'mere. Let me hold you.
❥ Aki makes you boxed lunches in the morning for you to take to eat at work. He makes sure each one is a balanced meal, with enough nutrients to get you through the day. There's always a hand-written note tucked inside, wishing you a good day at work, and reminding you of how much he loves you. Have a good day today. Hey, there's a festival going on downtown tonight, would you like to go? Let me know later. I love you. :)
❥ If you happen to forget your lunch on the counter, Aki will drive all the way to your work just to hand it to you. He pretends not to overhear when you start bragging to your co-workers about how much of an amazing husband he is, but he's smiling to himself on the entire drive home.
❥ Honestly, he'll never get used to you calling him your husband. It always makes his heart flutter and warmth rise to his cheeks. He still can't believe this is real, that he is married to the love of his life, and gets to spend the rest of his days peacefully beside them. After everything he's been through, he thinks he deserves it.
❥ He frequently admires his wedding ring, turning it over and rubbing his thumb along the smooth surface when he's reminded that it's still attached to his finger. Real, tangible proof of your marriage, proof that you belong to each other. Aki's heart skips a beat just looking at it. Sometimes, whilst you sleep, he'll grasp your hand and admire your own ring, too.
❥ You don't think you've done your own laundry since Aki moved in — He's always done it for you. He quickly learned what goes in all of your drawers, and how you like to organize your closet. When he washes your clothes, he seperates the whites from the darks, and he uses a special fabric softener that leaves them smelling divine. He folds all of your clothes neatly, and if you wish, he'll even pick out outfits for you, arranging everything so that you never have to worry about what you're going to wear in the morning.
❥ Aki makes sure every single chore is handled before you even come home. Dishes? Yep, he's already washed them, dried them, and put them away. Trash? He took it out ages ago. You don't have to stress about any of it.
❥ As he cleans the house, dusting every surface, he admires all of your knick-knacks, all of your belongings that have blended with his since you've moved in. He's extremely careful with your things, setting them back exactly where they were. A soft smile settles on his face when he gazes at the photo frames of you and him, and all of the pictures you've taken together.
❥ There's photos from your honeymoon (his arm is around you, you're kissing his cheek), and your wedding (he's crying like a baby at the altar, his hands clasped in yours). When you took visits to both his hometown and your own, you look lots of pictures of the scenery. And there's even shots from your various vacations, including his favorite picture of you that he's ever taken — You're at the beach, the waves washing over your toes, the sunset illuminating you perfectly. You look amazing, but honestly, Aki thinks you're stunning in every single one. He feels delighted to be reminded of those memories.
❥ Aki's favorite part of housework is tending to the garden. He waters the flower beds with a watering can, and then carefully tends to the soil of the plants. The best part is harvesting everything he's grown — tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, strawberries — and letting you have a taste. He'll chop up the cucumbers into slices for you, he'll make a cake out of the strawberries and feed you a slice. Is it good? Tell me what you want me to grow next year. I was thinking lettuce would be nice, I can make us some salads.
❥ He still has much to learn, but Aki managed to pick up sewing in the time while you're away at work; if you ever rip your clothing, or if the washing machine ever snags a button, he'll sew it back up for you, just the way it was.
❥ Although you tend to be busy, you and Aki have a designated date night where you always spend time with each other. Sometimes you go out to a fancy restaurant. Aki helps you pick out a glamorous outfit, does your hair for you, and stands behind you, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head as he clasps your necklace. Oh, you look so perfect, sweetheart. I can't believe I get to call you mine.
❥ He opens the car door for you when you arrive, and he allows you to hold his arm as you step out. When you sit down, he pushes in your seat for you. And of course, he orders for you, too. If there's something on the menu you said you might want to try but weren't sure if you'd like it, that's what he orders, and he's sure to give you a bite. If you enjoy it more than what you ordered, he'll swap your plates. And if you choose to order something out of your comfort zone, he orders your favorite, so that if you dislike your meal, he can just give you his. Aki spends more time helplessly staring at you than he does eating, anyways.
❥ But, if you're not feeling up to anything crazy, Aki is perfectly fine spending date night staying in. You'll cozy up on the couch, a blanket over your bodies as you watch whatever movie you've been dying to see. Aki pops homemade popcorn for the two of you. When you fall asleep on his shoulder, he turns off the television and carries you to bed in his arms.
❥ Aki wouldn't force you to, but if you wanted to take his last name, he'd be absolutely overjoyed. He would be honored to give you such an important part of himself. A smile tugs at the corners of his cheeks whenever he watches you sign paperwork with Hayakawa, and tears well in his eyes when the two of you visit the graves of his family, reminders that he isn't alone anymore, that you're his family now.
❥ Each night, you have a routine of telling Aki how your day went. Aki recounts everything he managed to get done today, and you tell him about anything exciting that happened, or rant to him about all of your stresses. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, and Aki rubs slow, soothing circles on your back.
❥ He listens intently to every detail, praising you for your accomplishments: You finished that big project you were telling me about last week, didn't you? You've been working so hard love, why don't we do something special tomorrow to celebrate? Or, comforting you when you've had a shitty day: I'm sorry, baby. I don't understand why your boss has to be such an ass sometimes. If there's anything I can do to help you out tomorrow, just tell me.
❥ And yes, Aki knows that you really need your sleep for the busy day ahead, but sometimes, he just can't help but keep you up. It's not his fault you're so perfect he can't stop staring. You certainly can't blame him for wanting to kiss every inch of your sleepy face over and over again, until there isn't a single place his lips haven't pressed to.
❥ If you can't fall asleep, Aki holds you close and hums you a lullaby. It's some dumb love song he heard on the radio that reminded him if you. He can't remember the lyrics, but he still remembers the melody.
❥ You quickly discovered that when he gets really comfy, drifting into a deep sleep, cuddled up beside you, Aki snores a little. Not very loudly, just a quiet, low hum each time he breathes. You're sure he doesn't know, and you'll never tell him. You find it absolutely adorable, and his gentle snores always help to lull you right to sleep.
❥ Before he met you, Aki would have terrible nightmares every time he slept. It was unavoidable — Nightmares about his family, about devils, reenactments of every memory he's ever tried to forget. But now, as he drifts off in your arms, he has nothing but good, pleasant dreams.
❥ Aki will try his best to make sure you are never late for work, offering his assistance in the morning in any way he can, but if you ever are late, it was probably because he didn't want to let you go. He grumbles in your ear when your alarm goes off, his arms around you pulling you closer to his warm body. You say something about needing to get ready, but he just holds you tighter, sleepily mumbling, Just five more minutes.
❥ Your morning routine has been carefully woven into his. Aki brushes his teeth beside you, so close his shoulder is nearly touching yours. As you brush your hair, he ties up his, and once he's done, he's wrapping his arms around your waist and peppering your shoulder with gentle kisses. When you're showering, he writes cute love messages on the fogged up mirror for you to see when you get out. He never forgets to give you a goodbye kiss before you leave for work.
❥ Aki is always paying careful attention to your health and his own, so it isn't often that either of you fall ill. He always reminds you to take your vitamins in the morning, and he makes sure the meals he prepares are as balanced as possible. But, in the unlikely case that you happen to get sick, Aki takes the best care of you.
❥ He can tell you're not feeling well when you wake up stuffy and exhausted. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead, and when he feels the heat radiating from your skin, he shuffles out of bed to grab the thermometer. You have a terrible fever. Stay home today, sweetheart. I'll call your boss for you.
❥ He makes you easy to digest meals, he brings a wet washcloth and lays it over your forehead. Don't even think about getting out of bed, because Aki will make certain you're getting plenty of rest. If you're bored, he has no problem sitting next to you and reading you a book until you fall into a peaceful slumber. He doesn't care if it's gross, you can sniffle and wipe your nose all over his t-shirt and he won't mind. He'll hold your hair for you and softly stroke your back if you have to throw up, and he'll toss your pile of used tissues while asking you if you need some more.
❥ You tell him to sleep on the couch that night so he won't catch your sickness, but he never listens; he sleeps with his arms around you without fail. You'll be alright, just rest up. I'm here if you need anything.
❥ If you come home from a particularly bad day, Aki will immediately run a warm bubble bath for you. I'll have the bath ready for you soon, darling. Do you need anything else? He lights some nice smelling incense and candles. Then, he helps you strip down and slip into the relaxing hot water. Before he leaves to toss your clothes in the washer, he asks if you want him to bring you anything to drink, or if you'd like a shoulder massage.
❥ It wouldn't be hard to convince him to come in the bath with you. He'll let you lean on his chest while he washes your hair, his fingers gently scrubbing your scalp until you feel like you could fall asleep right then and there. And of course, he dries you off afterwards, wrapping your body up in a warm towel he took straight out of the dryer.
❥ Even if it makes it more difficult, he always keeps an arm linked with yours while he does the dishes, or a hand intertwined with your own when he's preparing dinner. If he absolutely can't, he takes regular breaks just to pepper your face with kisses.
❥ Aki also takes breaks from cooking dinner just to slow dance with you in the kitchen when your favorite song comes on the radio. He doesn't have the best rhythm, and he's still trying to get the hang of it — He apologizes for stepping on your toes, you simply laugh and kiss his lips.
❥ When the weekend comes, you and Aki like to spend the night drinking at home, sitting on the balcony and watching the twinkling stars. Aki always seems to end up getting just a little too drunk, his face flushed out, his words slurred when he babbles every little thing that comes into his mind. You're so perfect, you know that? C'mere, I wanna kiss you.
❥ If you go out to drink instead, Aki is always the designated driver. He watches you carefully, making sure you don't drink too much, keeping his arm around you when the bar starts to get busy. He never has a lot to drink himself so that he can drive the both of you home safely.
❥ Aki has no problem driving you anywhere, really. He's probably the best driver you know, and he always asks you if your seatbelt is on before he even shifts the car out of park.
❥ If you ever bring up the idea of starting a family together, Aki immediately turns into a blushing mess. He isn't opposed, not at all, in fact. The idea makes him feel warm inside — Settling down with you, raising a family of his own, growing old together with the one he loves. He'd be there by your side for the whole thing, helping you paint the walls of your spare bedroom, or taking care of the kids while you're away at work. He'll finally quit smoking for good, like he's been meaning to do for a long while. You're both still a little too young to think about it now, he figures, but sometime in the future, he'd love to have that kind of life with you.
❥ Your parents love Aki, that's just a given. He's so polite, kind and sweet, and so willing to help at every turn. He feels truly elated whenever he gets the chance to impress them with his cooking. He'll always participate in your family traditions, no matter how odd or unfamiliar. Honestly, your parents are happy for you, and it makes his heart feel full to know they're glad to call him their son-in-law.
❥ Aki will kill all the bugs in the house if you're too scared of them. You don't have to fear spiders ever again when he's around, just call for him to come take care of it and he'll come running with the bug swatter.
❥ He never, ever forgets an important date. Aki already has the most lovely day planned out for the two of you on your anniversary months in advance, and he's up until 12 in the morning baking you a delicious cake the day before your birthday.
❥ If you prefer, Aki will be the one to schedule all of your doctor's appointments for you, and he has no problem always being the one to call if you're ordering take-out.
❥ He tries his hardest to understand all of your interests, and he diligently remembers even the smallest of details about yourself. Oh, when you were in grade school, you went on a trip to the aquarium that you never forgot? Aki takes you there on your days off, and he always recalls which exhibits are your absolute favorite. He asks you questions about your hobbies, and enjoys watching you partake in them. He'll even try to learn them if he can, so he can enjoy the things you love together alongside you.
❥ Aki tells you he loves you at every opportunity. I love you is the first thing you hear when you wake, and the last thing you hear before you fall asleep. At the altar, he said it as a promise, a declaration to be in love with you for the rest of his life. And he says it now, breathlessly, in between every kiss he places on your lips. I love you, more than anything. You're the one I want to be with for the rest of my life, I'm sure of it. I couldn't imagine living without you, my angel.
❥ Aki is forever grateful to wake up every morning by your side, your face being the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes. In many ways, he doesn't understand how he got so lucky, fortunate enough to live such a perfect life. If anything, he promises to never take it for granted, to love you and care for you until it's all over. You changed his life, and he wants to make sure every single day, you know you mean more to him than all of the stars in the glittering night sky. He's glad to call himself your husband, and he's even happier to be able to call you his.
cw: F!reader, she’s shorter than him, sliiightly suggestive moment .. MDNI
Sigh he’s… really good at being a boyfriend. He’s intimidating but sweet all at the same time.
He loves a nice passenger princess and loathes sitting beside you while you drive. Not that he doesn’t trust you, just… your technique behind the wheel has him stressed.
“No no please don’t merge now i'm not sure if— woah, okay that was close now just— noo stop we don’t turn here! Baby do you not know the—check the — okay pull over actually! It’s okay I can drive! It’s fine, please let me drive.”
He calls you a menace to the streets 😔
He likes to go to concerts and house shows with you. Ugh he loves an indie punk mosh pit for sure. He doesn’t seem like he’s that into it in the moment—maybe listening with a little head nod while his hands remain secured around your waist, glaring at people who shove into you, but you can tell in the flush of his cheeks and lit up eyes that he’s thoroughly enjoying his night.
He has the advantage of always seeing the stage with his height, something you say he takes for granted when some equally tall guy decides to stand directly in front of you. But Aki has enough audacity to nudge you both in front of any perpetrators whenever your vision is blocked.
Lest we forget… this man has no manners! To most people, Aki can be direct to the point of rudeness—his demeanor could even be described as harsh.
Especially when it concerns his sweet little girlfriend. He doesn’t fuck around when it comes to you. He’s protective. He cares about your comfort and safety before anyone else’s and isn’t afraid to hurt feelings that aren’t yours.
Not that he doesn’t know you can stick up for yourself—he respects your ability to handle most situations. But he also knows when you shouldn’t have to handle it yourself. If somebody at the bar won’t stop grabbing your arm and you’re uncomfortable, Aki will be the one to tell them to back the fuck off.
If some man makes a joke about your outfit being slutty, Aki will be the one to back hand him across the face! He knows you could have done it but it’s nothing you needed to mess up your nails over.
He’s cute in little ways you wouldn’t expect. For example, you didn’t imagine when you first met him that this 6’4” cigarette-smoking death machine was into cartoons and animation but damn!! He is.
He’ll watch wholesome shows with you like sailor moon with the straightest face, looking bored out of his mind with his arm over your shoulder, then turn to you when it’s over like “that was delightful :)”
He has a small trinket and keepsake collection <3. And he’s not embarrassed about it. He will shamelessly steal a little frog keychain he finds under the seat in his uber and place it on his night stand beside his miniature Radio Flyer wagon and the light blue rock you found for him. The rock supposedly looks like his eyes, he thought the gesture was cute.
He wants to match his jewelry with yours. Lets you pick out the earrings you want and asks you to get him a pair too, sliding his credit card into your hand while he looks at watches through the glass at the store.
He knows they’ll be nice and look good on him—he trusts your taste and style recommendations explicitly—but he also wants to match because it makes him feel more connected with you.
He’s a touch possessive. He likes to be reminded you’re his. And he’s yours. He wants you wearing his clothes, he wants you borrowing his cologne, and he’d never admit it but he likes when you leave the house with love bites on your neck.
Not that you mind—honestly he’s earned the right to possession after taking such good care of you all the time.
It took you a while to get through your pretty head that Aki likes helping and caring for you.
Like he’s into it if you’re needy… triple and quadruple texting, calling him to ask for rides, pouting if you can’t hold his hand… you make him feel valued.
But even when you’re not needy he enjoys going out of his way to make your life easier.
He’ll do your dishes when you don’t ask, make your bed, give massages. You don’t have to mention it.
“Noo you don’t have to do my laundry Aki, I swear. You surpassed your chore limit today like, long ago.” He’ll retrieve the towel he used to dry dishes and be like I needed to wash this anyway, I’ll just throw your stuff in the machine with it!
He uses your claw hair clip to hold his hair back when he’s doing stuff around the house. <3
He also religiously adheres to the sidewalk rule <3
So emotionally intelligent it’s insane. This man is in therapy & it shows in his communication; he knows how to word things gently but honestly!
“It’s valid to feel that way. For sure, s’just.. I disagree that you need to go to those lengths for her when she keeps blatantly disregarding your feelings.”
He’ll let you smoke one of his cigarettes if you’re reeally persistent but he’s always weird about it.
“Just… wish you wouldn’t. What if you got lung cancer or something.” “Oh yeah? Maybe I’ll catch up and I can get it the same time as you.” He’d roll his eyes. “Ha ha. Y’know it’s different when I do it.”
“How so?” “I’m tough. and you’re not even addicted yet.”
He loves getting domestic with you! Cooking together with his phone playing quiet background music, watching a movie with you in his lap, letting you do your skin care on him. These are by far Aki’s favorite activities.
Heavy on the skincare part—Aki was blessed with perfect skin since birth so he never really put much thought into cleansers or anything, but the first time you did a facial for him was one of the best days of his life.
You’d laid him down on your bed, straddling his waist with a towel full of products laid out next to you, and Aki said it felt like you were about to perform surgery. You wet his face with a damp cloth then, and started rubbing some mysterious soap into his skin with a touch like warm flower petals. Your hands felt so soft. When you started wiping some fruity scented blue gel over his skin after, it felt so soothing he almost moaned. The whole thing was so relaxing he had a dream about you washing his face again when he fell asleep that night. He never explicitly told you how much he loved your skincare, but you picked it up when he started asking you to do him next every time you washed your face at night.
You’re his sensitive little baby so he never goes overboard but… Aki does tease you sometimes 💔. He can’t help it—he was an older brother once, so tasteful bullying is kind of ingrained in his DNA.
Like you oversleep then almost rush out the door with an inside-out shirt and toothpaste on your chin and he instinctively says you look scrungly. There’s a pause then he apologizes.
Or you’ll say you didn’t think pulp fiction was that insanely good of a movie and he’ll move your fresh cup of tea onto one of the really high selves only he can reach until you take it back.
He’ll also mention it immediately if you’re ever stinky. Fresh from the gym? Forgot to put on deodorant today? Aki can tell and he will let you know. <3 He’s nice enough to accompany you in the shower though!
AKI : As aki fixes his tie for the work day, he makes his way to the kitchen where you stand preparing his lunch. You don't have to do such a thing. He's told you this many times because he can do it himself if he actually wants to. He doesn't though, because he'd have to make lunch for the two other people he lives with, and buying lunch is easier anyway. But you always insist on doing it whenever he tries coaxing you to stop. You love to. And it's never a problem preparing two extra for denji and power. They're always the first to grab their lunch while your boyfriend holds the last place. Even now, he maintains that spot. "I'm leaving." He tells you, grabbing his lunch while leaning into you to capture your lips for a quick kiss. But you dodge swiftly by placing the dishes you used into the sink.
"Power and denji are outside waiting for you. Have a nice day." Aki is taken aback by your speed. You were just here, and now you're there. "Yeah, you have a good day too, okay?" He leans in yet again, but you step back. "Yeah, I will." And you flash him a smile which meets your eyes. "Okay. I'll give you a kiss first, then I'll go." Yet again, he dips his head to kiss you, and you back away. He stares at you, baffled. What were you doing? He brushed his teeth. You're talking to him, so he didn't do anything to get mad, and you also brushed your teeth, so what was the problem? As he's thinking of a logical answer, you turn away from him while an almost inaudible chuckle comes from you, and he now knows this is one of your games. Aki lightly grabs you by the waist and pulls your back to his chest.
"You and your stupid games." He tells you with a small smile before turning you and connecting your lips. You try pulling away, and your lips do part, but the hold on your waist doesn't budge. Instead, he places a kiss on your right cheek, then your left, followed by your nose, chin, and finally, forehead. "I love you." He declares with a sly smirk. Your eyes can't help but roll. He never lets you finish your pranks, he figures out what you're doing before you can tell him yourself, but still, when he ruins your pranks, you get this aki. Cocky, sly, playful and even everyday aki who's quick at being tired of someone's antics. "I love you too." You echo, and he places one more kiss on your lips, lingering there for a prolonged time. When he parts from you reluctantly, it leaves tingles in its wake.
DENJI : "Did I do something to get you mad?" Denji asks you tiredly as he trudges from the bedroom to the living room couch, where you lay comfortably. "No," You admit. "Why? Do you think you did something to get me mad?" He shrugs haphazardly and sits painfully close to you. His body almost but not yet lay atop your own. "You weren't in bed with me." He elaborates, and you smile at his cuteness. "I don't have to be in bed with you all the time when I wake up." He huffs at that. What were you even saying? Do you understand how lost he was to not see you next to him doing whatever you do to pass the time while he slept? It was heart-stopping. Maybe he was being dramatic in your eyes—and the eyes of most—but to him, it's not being dramatic if his heart did, in fact, stop when he woke up to your side of the bed empty. You were always by his side when he woke up. Naturally, a few scenarios came to mind which caused him to worry: maybe you left him, or a devil attack happened while he slept.
"But it's better if you did." He argues. You're confident he won't relent on the matter, so you wager, "Tell me what I can do for you to forgive me?" It takes him a minute to think of something, then he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes not yet rid of the slumber from the night before. "Kisses." He states, and you shrug. "Easy enough." He leans into you with his eyes closed, expecting you to do the same, but the kiss seems to be . . . lost, perhaps? What are you waiting for? Did you hear him? Were you even looking at him? He opens one eye to peek at you, and he gasps dramatically. You weren't looking at anything. Your eyes are closed, your head is reclined back, and your face holds an expression of disgust. He quirks a brow at that. What's wrong? Does his breath stink? Probably, he hasn't brushed his teeth, favouring to search for you as soon as possible.
"I'll be right back." He tells you and rises off your body. You open your eyes quickly to grab his arm. "Where are you going?" "To brush my teeth. Isn't that why you don't want to kiss me and why you were making that face?" The obnoxious laugh that fell past your lips couldn't be helped. "Why are you laughing? Was I wrong?" He asks as he's taken back yet again within mere minutes. "Your breath does smell, but that's not why I didn't kiss you. I was trying to prank you." You confess, and he flops onto you, making you let out a pained huff. "You always pull pranks on me." He pouts at your face, and you squish his check together. "I'm sorry. Kiss?" He nods and closes his eyes, awaiting your lips to collide with his and again, they don't. He hears your giggles before he has the chance to question you. "I don't want a kiss anymore." He declares, his voice sorrowful as he holds onto your body tighter despite being mad at you.
MAKIMA : You can admit you probably shouldn't do such a prank on your girlfriend for more than one reason. 1. You don't think she will understand the concept of your little game right away, and 2. you're not entirely sure how she will react. But the exciting ball rumbling in your chest will you to do so anyway. The scene is set in motion when she returns with your favourite drink in hand from the local tea shop near your apartment. "Here." She places it into your hands, and you thank her. You take a sip. Instantly heat fills your mouth. When you swallow, it warms your insides like a cosy hug. You hum in satisfaction. "Thank you again makima." The smile that stretches across your face is magnetic, as she does so also and leans into you. But your head sinks down, and your lips capture the rim of your cup. Another satisfied hum escapes you. "This is really good." You say.
"You wanna taste it?" You shove the cup into her chest. She dips her head again, hands in her coat pockets, and takes a tiny sip. "It's alright." She comments and places her hand on your lower back, nudging you to walk on. Before you get the chance to take a second step after your first, her head is falling into yours with her lips slightly puckered. "Aren't you thirsty?" You ask, louder and more high-pitched than you intended for it to sound. "You're sure you don't want anything from here?" You can clearly see from her questioning eyes, raised brow and parted lips that formed a small opening that she was taken back by your questions. "I'm fine . . . Did I do something? You can tell me if I did. You know that, right? I'll try to fix it." She steps closer to you. The proximity has your already racing heart skipping beats. "Did someone do something to you?" She looks around.
No one seemed suspicious. Then again, you shouldn't judge a book by only its cover. But she left you out here for a few minutes. Even if someone indeed do something to you, they'd be long gone by now. But maybe she'd be able to find them if you gave her a description of their appearance. You can tell the gears in her always-working brain are taken up a few notches. There aren't many clear signs. To most, there aren't any at all, but her usually collected eyes are slightly frantic as they scan the streets of tokyo. "Nothing happened." You conclude. "I was messing with you." "Messing with me?" Your nod is hesitant. "Yeah." You didn't know what you expected her to do, and giggling certainly wasn't something you anticipated. "Why are you laughing?" "No reason." She tells you. "Let's go home." Though much time has been spent together, makima still remains a mystery to you at times.
YOSHIDA : You knew what would happen if you pulled an act like what you were about to do to your boyfriend. You knew, but that didn't stop you from doing it. "I'm back babe." You hear him announce his arrival from your bed. Unlike any other day where you would rush out to greet him with a warm hug, then gaze at each other with soft eyes filled with all of the love in the world, followed by a delicate kiss, you stay where you are with your back to the door, wrapped in your shared blanket which is extremely comfortable, and continue to scroll through the feed on your socials. "Babe?" He says softly and gently. "I'm home. Are you sleeping?" His footsteps approach the bed, and you feel his eyes on you. And though they aren't, they feel too close for comfort. They were always so intense with love, but they feel like he's trying to pierce into your mind and soul. As if he's trying to read your every move and figure out the reasons behind them.
"Babe?" He calls again and makes his way to your side of the bed where you lay, now getting a proper look at you. Yoshida crouches down at eye level with you. "I got your favourite." A box with the logo you're all too familiar with is placed near your stomach, but you don't budge, which has your boyfriend rubbing the back of his neck, hanging his head low, and a sardonic sigh to leave him. Not because he's nervous—never that—but because he has to put up with your games. "Well, I'm gonna hop in the shower, and if you'd like, you could join me for a movie." He tries to kiss you, but you turn your back to him at the last minute. An amused smirk stretches across his face at that. You try it, you try to get to yoshida, try to get under his skin. You try to irritate and get him angry, but he never does. You try, but his skin is made of iron, and instead of getting him furious or even pouty, you're the one with smoke coming out of your ear, supplying a frown along with it. It's always like that. It's yoshida's thing.
He's very good at it. And it's no difference now as you trudge through the hallway to the living room where your boyfriend lays on his back watching whatever airs on the t.v. "Yoshida?" As if your life is a comedy movie, the t.v replies with yes. You don't miss the slight shake of his body. He found it amusing. Of course, he found it humorous. "Yoshida?" You repeat and crouch in front of him. You brush back the hair falling into his face, but they flop back where they're most comfortable. There wasn't anything to be sorry for in your eyes, regardless, like the other times you pulled meaningless pranks on him, all you needed to say was, "I'm sorry." He looks at you for a moment, then opens his arms, making room for you on the couch. "At least you gave it your best." He tried reassuring you as you climbed onto him. But you retorted with, "It never works though." Your pout quickly deepens at your bad luck. "And it never will, but you can keep trying." Yoshida says, trying to make you feel better, but if anything, it makes you hopeless.
