[phantasmallussion]

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You die in his arms, again. He holds you like he's trying to carry all the lives you'll never get to live. (eight paragraphs, eight letters, one final silence)

content: phainon x gn!reader, angst?

word count: 1k words

note: just finished 3.4 and i'm definitely not okay (╥╯﹏╰╥)ง... a very short one this time, a quick self-indulgent word dump fueled by ✨️emotions✨️

contains spoilers from 3.4!!!

It begins the same way it always does. You don't even need to look to know it's him. His arrival stirs the wind, sending ripples across the golden wheat fields that stretched endlessly. He remembers this place and the land remembers him; it knows the shape of his footsteps, the pressure of his silence, and the weight of his presence; it knows the way your coreflame trembles inside of you when he is near. You remain where you are, hands clasped in feigned calmness behind your back, pretending as if you can't feel his heavy gaze behind you. But eventually, inevitably, you turn. There is no surprise in your voice as you greet him with his name, "Khaslana". The same way there is none in his when he replies, "you knew I would come."

Love has never stopped you from standing in his way. You don't know how many times this has happened, you don't remember any of the past cycles. To you, this life you're living is as real as it could be. But even without the weight of memory, something inside you still refuses to surrender the coreflame entrusted to you into his awaiting hands. To let things end so simply is just not the kind of person you are. You, who grew up as a warrior in your own unique way, who has golden ichor flowing in your veins and conviction etched into your bones. No version of you—not even one—has ever chosen to give up the coreflame willingly. "We've done this before," you tell him as you step closer, parting the tall wheat stalk with your steady advance, "you say your piece and I refuse then we fight and I die." "And when tomorrow comes, the universe resets so we can do it all over again."

One heartbeat of silence stretches between you as time goes on. Even now, after so many shattered tomorrows he still cannot bring himself to be the first to draw his blade. "If I could get you to give it up, you might live," he begs pleads says, voice barely a whisper above the wind, "please don't make me take it." You almost pity him—almost—but even that is not enough to stop you from shaking your head, "that's not who I am." "I know," he replies and yet he will still forever hold onto that hope.

Violence was never meant to be your language. When you first met him all those years ago, you never would have expected this to be how it all ends. And yet here you are now, weapon in hand, raised in his direction. "People say the meeting of fists is a language of its own, and the clashing of swords is art in its purest form," you begin, confidence imbued into your voice even when your hand trembles very slightly for just a fraction of a second. "In that case, will you join me for one final duet, Khaslana?" And he does, he always does. Dawnmaker is by his side in an instant; his blade meets yours in a familiar rhythm, as if every strike is a step in a familiar dance neither of you cared to properly remember but knows the steps to by heart. A silent melody no one else can hear, a waltz of sorrow and desperation shared between two souls. And though your steps are steady and your stance unwavering, your heart has long since started beating the final tune.

Even now, with the ending already in plain sight, you keep going not because you think you'll win but because you refuse to fail without a fight. As your strength begins to falter in the face of his absolute might, it is him who hesitates. As your strikes lose their precision and your swings grow weaker, it is him who staggers and flinches with every blow that lands. As your arms ache and knees buckle, it is him whose movements dull and eyes dim. As your body finally fails you and the gravity of all the lost tomorrows pulls you down to the awaiting arms of the ruined gold-stained field below, it is him who rushes forward to your side and tries to hold you tight in his arms. Because no matter how many cycles he had gone through and despite all the consequences, he never learns how to let you fall gently.

You lay there in his arms, golden blood seeping through the gaps of his fingers onto the golden fields below. Your blood is warm where it touches his skin but he barely registers your fragile heat; the warmth of your living body quickly fading, even as his own scorches everything it touches. His tears never reach you, they vanish as soon as they fall, disappearing into vapour the moment they leave his eyes, lost like everything else he has tried to hold onto. So he clutches you tighter in his embrace, not to keep you safe but to remember how it felt to hold you at all. And in this cruel imitation of closeness, he wonders if you ever truly will forgive him for his selfish decisions.

Only silence answers him in your stead. But it is that silence that inflicts the deepest wounds, for there is no forgiveness in the way the wind stills as your coreflame slowly appears before him. No wind, no breeze, and certainly no final words; just the soft illumination from your coreflame casting faint dancing shadows upon his eyes. Khaslana slowly reaches his hand towards it. The heat of your coreflame bleeds into his skin like the coming dawn, and he closes his eyes, just for a second, to pretend this ending is a mercy. To pretend he doesn’t hear how the silence between your heartbeats feels like a goodbye.

Unspoken, the words he longs to tell you once again die on his tongue. He never said them when it mattered, never soon enough and never loud enough. And now there is no more opportunity left to try. After all, tomorrow, the world will end. Tomorrow's morrow, he will come again; he will hold out his hand hoping you will choose to live, and you will look at him the way you always have and say, "We've done this before."

end note: i wonder if anyone can find the word hidden among the lines? *coughs* acrostic *coughs* (˵ ¬ ⩊ ¬˵)

[phantasmallussion]

To My Dearest, From Your Angel

A letter never sent, from a guardian always watching

content: platonic guardian angel!sunday & gn!reader, sunday pov, angst

word count: 1.5k

note: finally got my sunday! so here's a little sunday post on a sunday (∩˃ᴗ˂∩)✧ trying out a first person character pov too

You first met me on a Sunday like today.

It was in the Pavilion's back gardens, where the flowers were blooming and the air thick with the scent of sun-warmed roses. Above us, blue slowly melted into gold as the evening sun brushed its soft lights across every leaves and petals.

I remember the sound of your steps on the gravel path, slow and hesitant, like you weren't sure you were supposed—or allowed—to be there. You were still so small then, dressed in neatly pressed clothes and posture stiff, trying to fold yourself into something the Family would approve of. But your eyes, they always wandered. Towards the flowering trees, the cloudless skies, the open gate no one else noticed. That's how you found me.

I was standing beneath the old apple tree, the one just past the broken sundial. Your wandering gaze reached me and you tilted your head, curiosity peeking through those sparkling orbs. I smiled—gently, i hope. My mouth moved, forming the syllables of a greeting.

But you didn't hear me. You couldn't. They used to say children are supposed to be able to hear angels. But you... well, you had already learned to stop listening. Nonetheless, you still stayed, you didn't run or scream. You just blinked, once, twice, then stepped forward.

And from that moment, I decided to stay.

Later, you named me Sunday.

Because you didn't know my name. Because that was the day we met. Because, as you said later, in the years where you would talk to the empty air without knowing why 'you felt like the golden hour—soft and slow and kind, like safety wrapped in light, like the world could stop spinning for a moment and I wouldn't mind'.

So I became Sunday, named after a day of warmth and rest.

But the truth is, you never really knew me beyond the quiet friend you made one Sunday evening. You never knew you had a brother, and you most certainly never knew I was him. The Family had erased all traces of me well, there were no portraits and no stories. Not even Robin remembered me, not really. I was just a dream, an imagination, a friend she thought she made up. But I remembered her, and I remembered you.

And maybe that's what made me your angel in the first place. For the moment I died, I chose you.

You were always the kindest to Robin.

Even when the elders scolded you and demanded perfection in your every action, you turned your body into a shield and hid her behind you so she could laugh more freely for just a little longer. You learned all the rules so she wouldn't have to. You learned to stay silent so she could speak.

She told you one night she had a dream. Of a boy with starlight in his hair and molten gold in his eyes, who built her a stage in her bedroom and decorated it with paper stars and hanging banners, who sat among the plushies in the audiences and clapped the loudest when she sang.

"He said I deserved to sing on a bigger stage one day," she whispered, voice barely louder than the silent night breeze. "It had felt so real. Like maybe we had an imaginary brother or something."

You didn't laugh then. You just looked at the garden again, like it was hiding a secret you hadn't unraveled.

And I stood there, watching from the edge of the doorway, wings trembling from the ache of being remembered.

There were many other quiet days like that.

Sometimes you would sit beneath the tree where we first met, an open book resting on your lap, fingers idly tracing the edge of nearby flower petals as if hoping they would whisper a secret back. They didn't, they stayed silent. But I would mouth small stories and silent reassurances from right beside you, even if you couldn't hear them.

Sometimes you would stroll around the winding garden paths, I would walk right by your side, our footsteps never quite in sync. But sometimes, even on days when you couldn't see me, you would pause in your steps to smile in my direction as if you could feel my presence.

But as peaceful as those days were, they couldn't follow you into every hour. The world outside the garden was much colder. You carried the weight of the Family on your shoulders, behind tired eyes and too-long silences.

And at night, when your walls slipped and the memories you didn't know you had came clawing back, as your body twisted under the covers and hands clenched tight around the sheets in fear, I always remain by your side.

Even if you couldn't hear me or feel me, I whispered words of comforts anyway, rubbed soothing circles in the air just behind your shoulders. And I like to think that maybe—just maybe—I can bring you some peace and comfort from the way your breathing calms.

But comfort wasn't always enough and there were days even I couldn't soothe. Days when the sharpness didn't come from dreams, but from the voices in the waking world.

Those people never raised their hands, but their words are more than enough to cut. And you who were still so young and still learning how to breathe again, had to bear it all with lowered eyes and folded hands.

When they scolded you for speaking too softly, for walking too slowly, for not meeting their absurd image of you. I wanted to be there and stand between you and their sharp words. But I couldn't, because they cannot hear me, they cannot see me, I cannot interfere at all with things in the living world.

My only connection, the only one I could ever reach... was you. And even that is slowly fading away.

As you grew older, you stopped visiting the garden as often.

Your days became filled with studies and the ever-increasing burden of obligations. Responsibilities quietly wove themselves into your life, stitch by careful stitch, until they looked like a part of you. You wore duty like a tailored suit, measured and pressed, too tight in places you never complained about. The Family's expectattions settled over you like invisible threads, tugging at the edges of your soul, pulling you into their shape.

And slowly, I began to fade from your world.

The days when you would look right through me increased with the passage of time. Oftentimes you walked past me without a pause, like I was just another shadow you happened to see through the corner of your eyes. You stopped talking to the air. You forgot the name you once gave me.

That was when I first realised, when I started to understand, that guardian angels aren't meant to stay forever. We are only supposed to be there for a time, long enough to protect and long enough to love, but never long enough to stay.

I have to learn how to let go. But for now I shall stay.

Time passed.

Your voice grew stronger, your stance more confident. You learned how to navigate discussions, the art of words is now your weapon.

One day you met someone. My first reaction was hatred. I was wary, cautious, afraid that you would be hurt once more. But that never happened, they didn't break your heart. You were truly happy; that was all I had ever wanted.

I stood by your side the night you told them about the garden. You took them there, showed them the broken sundial and the old apple tree. You touched the bark where I used to lean as you rambled about your day.

"I think I used to come here a lot, when I was little," you said. "It always felt safe."

My chest ached. Not from sorrow, just from feeling too much.

The next time I saw you was on your wedding day.

You stood beneath the canopy of white and gold, draped in joy and looking radiant underneath the morning light. Now, your smile reached your eyes and your steps no longer hesitant, you had grown into someone who no longer needed to fold themselves into someone they aren't.

And Robin, she sang that day. Her voice steady and warm, like silk coated in sunlight. The little child who once sang on a tiny bed stage to an audience of plush dolls, now sang for the world. For you.

I'm glad she found her stage.

You found your love; she found her dream. As for me, I was never meant to stay forever.

So as the music drifted softly, I stood at the edge of the aisle, just beyond where light met shadow. Taking one final glance at all the sights around me and reminiscing on the events that led to today.

I held the letter I would never had the chance to give you. And read the words you would never hear.

A thank you. A goodbye. A prayer that maybe someday, somewhere beyond this life, we could all be together again—not as memories, but as who we were meant to be.

You, me, and Robin.

end note: i.. actually finished writing that final letter too... but can't fit it into any of the scenes here. ehh ╮(￣▽￣"")╭

[phantasmallussion]

The Equation of Us

In which Phainon is a hopeless chemistry student who finally understands the subject by falling hopelessly in love and turning every exam into a love letter.

content: phainon x gn!reader, modern university au

word count: 1.7k

note: i wanted to make something before his banner drops, so here's an attempt. this is my first time writing phainon, so i'm so sorry if it's bad or ooc. formatted on phone, so the format might be a bit off as well.

I. Phainon is Bad at Chemistry (Until He Isn't)

Phainon is, by all definitions, a disaster at General Chemistry.

It's not that he doesn't try. He studies, shows up to classes, and even volunteers to mop the lab floor when someone drops the potassium-filled beaker again. But there is just something about acids, chemical bonding, and thermodynamics that just... won't stick.

Until you came along.

Somehow, the moment he started associating chemical principles with you, everything clicked. Like how ionic bonds are one-sided love. Or how magnetic fields reminded him of the ways you make his heart pull sideways when you walk into the room. Soon his notes are no longer filled with the complicated jargons and diagrams as was shown by his professor, Anaxagoras, on the board but is instead replaced with little doodles and analogies connected to you.

Suddenly, chemistry is Phainon's favourite subject. Not because he's good at it, but because every question feels like a metaphor for his hopeless crush.

II. A Guide to Chemistry (Written in Phainon-Speak)

(Or, a glimpse into Phainon's notebook)

He's doomed. And Mydei, his best friend, is now aware of it.

They were studying together after classes, reviewing notes and discussing lessons. But this study session has long devolved into Phainon drawing stick figures of you and him with electrons drawn between them. He has not been paying attention to any of Mydei's words for the past 15 minutes and Mydei is starting to be annoyed at the lack of response. So he turned his gaze to his silent friend and came face-to-face with a very concerning list of things.

✧ Note A: Bonding Types ○ Ionic bond: When someone gives away everything—like I would, if they asked. One-sided, but powerful. Painful and devastating, very me-coded. ○ Covalent bond Shared electrons = shared food and drinks. Strong and stable. Very couple-coded. ○ Hydrogen bond Small and fleeting, like when their hands brushed against mine once and I couldn't breathe for three minutes.

✧ Note B: Magnetic Fields Technically it is formed when charges move. But also, when they enter a room and all my atoms realign. North Pole, South Pole? All irrelevant, my compass only points to them.

✧ Note C: Activation Energy The minimum energy needed to start a reaction. For me, that's three hours of inner turmoil, two hours of Mydei pep talks, and one caffeine overdose just to text them: 'hey do u wanna study together later maybe if you're free haha'.

✧ Note D: Chemical Equilibrium When the forward and reverse reactions are equal and occur at the same rate. It's like when they flirt with me by accident and I flirt back on purpose, they get flustered and I get flustered, we both freaked out and retreated at the same time. Balance. Equilibrium achieved. Both parties suffering.

"You're gonna fail both chem and romance in the same semester at this rate."

"HEY!!"

Mydei is tired and exasperated.

But Phainon? Phainon has never understood chemistry better.

III. Midterm Examinations and the Paper That Started It All

Phainon's Chemistry Midterm Paper

(Graded by: Professor Anaxagoras Professor Cerces)

Comment (all written in Cerces' handwriting): Professor Anaxa has refused to grade this paper properly so I have taken the liberty of grading it in his stead.

Question 1: Define polar vs non-polar covalent bonds. Answer: A polar bond is like when I like them more than they like me. Unbalanced, but still connected. A non-polar bond is when we're both blushing idiots too afraid to confess. Equal, with maximum tension. (I prefer non-polar, personally) Comment: Full marks.

Question 2: Describe an exothermic reaction. Answer: An exothermic reaction releases heat into the surroundings. Like when they laughed. Or when they brushed my hair back last Tuesday and I short-circuited. Pretty sure I melted internally. 100% heat released. No regrets. Comment: Correct. Also, too much detail.

Question 3: Explain Le Chatelier's Principle. Answer: When a system is disturbed, it shifts to restore balance. If I start ignoring them (usually by accident), they start sending me dog memes. When they forget to reply, I send them stupid chemistry puns. We always shift to equilibrium, return to chaotic harmony. It's the balance of love. Comment: Scientific accuracy = ✔️ Emotional damage = also ✔️

Question 4: What is an intermolecular force, and how does it differ from intramolecular force? Answer: Intermolecular = between separate molecules = the gravitational pull I feel when they walk by. Intramolecular = inside the molecule = the feelings I try to supress but fail to contain. TL;DR: both are responsible for me being completely stuck on them Comment: Perfectly phrased. It's brilliant, but also tragic.

Extra Credit (Free Response): What does chemistry mean to you? Answer: Chemistry is the invisible pull between two elements. Sometimes reactive, sometimes dangerous. but sometimes... just right. They are the element I wasn't supposed to discover, but now that I have, I don't think I'll ever be inert again. Also, please pass me. I need this for graduation. I'll even name my next molecule after you. Comment: A+ Score. And do note that the one who graded this paper is me, Cerces, not Anaxa.

Final Score: 85/100. PASS.

IV. And The News Spreads

It starts small.

Anaxa "accidentally" leaks a few lines to Aglaea in the faculty lounge. A student nearby heard their conversation and got their hands on the original paper. An anonymous student submitted it to the school zine as a meme; it somehow passed checks and got published under the title "Chemical Bonding: The Sappy Edition". The zine was quickly stopped soon after but word still spread faster than flu season in the dorm halls.

But they weren't just laughing at it, they were studying with it. Freshmen started using it as study guides. Then came the memes, the academic forum post, and a bootleg version was reprinted under the name "Chemistry of Love 101" in a study zine.

And Phainon... Phainon became a chemistry icon.

V. The Dreaded Day (But This Time Phainon Is Ready)

Phainon walks in early with a confident stride and sit front and center. He was calm. Too calm. Anaxa side-eyes him from his position on the podium.

A few hours later, the exam papers had all been collected and ready for grading. Anaxa's hands reaches for one at random. He took a quick glance at the answer, then stared hard at the name column, and finally released a huge sigh. Today is going to be a long day.

Then, one afternoon, the results came in

Students filtered out of the lecture hall in waves, clutching their graded papers with expressions ranging from mild horror to cautious joy.

You were sitting on the steps outside the chemistry building, drink in one hand and phone on the other, scrolling aimlessly. The air was buzzing with noise and the breeze was warm. You honestly didn't expect much from today—maybe a nap, maybe existential dread. But what you certainly didn't expect is for Phainon to stand in front of you, nervously hugging a stack of papers like it contained both his future and his grocery list.

"Hey," he said.

You looked up. He was flushed, hair a little messy, expression nervous but hopeful.

"Hey," you answered, smiling. "You okay?"

He hesitated, then dropped onto the step beside you with a dramatic sigh.

"I'm about to do something dumb," he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow at that. "Is it the same kind of dumb as replacing Mydei's sugar and salt bottles, or...?"

"No, like—emotionally dumb," he said, then pulled a single sheet from the middle of the stack and held it out. "Here. Read this."

You blinked. "You're... giving me your final exam paper?"

"Just look at it. Please?" he said, eyes wide and weirdly intense. "I swear it's not about the grades."

You took the page. At the top was his name written in familiar scrawl.

And right below that is what you could recognise as Anaxa's handwriting:

Grade: 100/100

Comment: I refuse to ever lay my (singular) eye on this paper again. I recommend you send these "texts" to the actual recipient instead of my grading inbox.

You snorted. "Already promising," you said, flipping the page.

What followed is less like a science exam and more like a romantic thesis disguised as academic desperation.

Some carefully selected excerpts from Phainon's finals:

"A chemical reaction must overcome activation energy. I overcame mine the day I met them."

"Endothermic reactions absorb heat. But being around them is exothermic, they make me burn and I will do so happily."

"Stability constant, K = [Products]/[Reactants]. And I am more stable when they are near."

"When I say I love them, it's not hyperbole. It's data. Proven through every beat of my heart and every laugh of theirs that knocks the air out of my lungs. They are the catalyst and I am hopelessly, irreversibly reacting."

And at the very end, written almost like a postscript, is your name followed by "will you be my equilibrium?"

You stared at the last line for a long moment, something warm and strange tightening in your chest. Beside you, Phainon was silent. You turned your head. He was staring straight ahead, hands fidgeting on his lap, as if afraid to look you in the eye.

"You really wrote all this?" you asked softly.

He let out a breath that trembled at the edges. "Yeah. I didn't think Professor Anaxa would read the whole thing. I was just—y'know—sleep deprived, emotionally compromised, and full of caffeine."

You traced the margin of the paper with your finger.

"But I meant all of it," his voice was firm although he still wasn't looking at you. "Even if i flunked, i figured i should try telling the truth, just once."

You reached into your bag and pulled out a red pen of your own. Phainon blinked as you uncapped it and scribbled something at the end of the paper, then passed it back to him.

He read it. Paused. And nearly fell off the steps.

Beside the black ink of his own handwriting is your newly added words written in red.

"will you be my equilibrium?"

Grade: 100/100

Comment: Yes. Always."