I love the way Dan Heng loves like the Night, but Phainon loves like the Day.
The rest of the crew is sound asleep when Dan Heng appears at your door, holding a cup of coffee in one hand, and a book in another. He's always in your presence, quietly so, but ever close. He breaks the silence softly; "I miss you", he says. Ever since he found you, like a seedling of gold held in the empty, dark cusp of the universe's palms, hidden away by evernight. The loneliness of never being near has continued, despite the closeness. "Stay close", he says, a smile on his face, tenderness seeping into the dulcet of his voice. He allows himself liberation; traces patterns over the skin of your back like constellations. Lulls you to sleep with planetary systems and star maps, lips grazing your forehead the way the moon dips on dark waters.
When Dan heng loves, it's sweet, and lingering. The way a moon allows herself to truly shine when the night is the darkest. The way he watches the curve of your lips, or the slant of your back, like etching into stone, until he memorises these memories. His hand always hovering, fingers only a breath away from touching your skin as he asks silently. His love seeps into you like vines into cobblestone. Time has only nourished what he feels for you.
When your head slumps over his shoulder, he promises one thing to himself – no matter the tides of fate that push and pull, he will forever stay tied to you, like the moon to her seas.
Phainon loves like the day.
He doesn't cry when you embrace him, allow the exhaustion to make his body shudder. He hugs, tightly, with strength thats almost a little too much. "Go only where I can see you", he says, sweat thumbing his furrowed brow with worry. When he watches over you, it feels heavy; duty and passion intertwining like lichen. You watch him struggle and tear, yet always end up on his knees in front of you. He kisses your palms, lets your fingers trace the alter of his chest, the pillar of his throat. Lets only you hold the lone flame when you carry it up the ruins of his soul into his cold, shut heart. The sear of his skin when you hold him close, breathless yet burning all the same; the Sun never lets up, after all.
But he's gentle. Peppers kisses on the side of your neck when you stir in your sleep, pressing his lips to the cartilage of your ear as he whispers for you to wake; gentle like the early morning Sun. His hands find yours underneath the covers, warm and all encompassing as they squeeze and press between each knuckle. He loves like the evening Sun – honeyed eyes always looking at you with all the love they can bear, drunken on the sweetness of your silhouette, watching the routine of you decompress from the day. Do what you want, as long as he can see you.
When phainon loves; he doesn't mean to be too much.
