Summary: You’re a survivor within this madness call scenarios. A madness where you’re force to clear the various scenarios made to entertain the higher beings. Running and fighting against monsters and humans alike. The scenarios twisted and tested your morality in the name of writing a grandiose story. However despite the madness wilting away your sanity and fueling your hatred toward it, a certain constellation had been there from the beginning. Watching over you, lending you a helping hand without asking much in return.
Pairing: Constellation!Phainon/Khaslana x f!reader
Tags: Modern au, orv au, alternative universe(cannon-diversion), slow-burn, blood and violence, cursing, murder, suggestive, explicit content, questionable morality.
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[Masterlist]
You’re woken up by the system, congratulating you for surviving the third scenario. Then giving you the reward befitting of the scenario’s difficulty.
Since you don’t have any plan for the day due to the dungeon being raid by a lunatic, you decide to just laze around in your green zone. However your food supply is depleting as the day gone by.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said you could hunt monster]
A shiver run down your spine just remembering the horrendous monsters you’ve seen so far.
As if sensing your trouble, Phainon console you through the blue screen.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said you don’t have to worry]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said you have him]
Miraculously, you do feel slightly at ease. At times like this, you thought you made a good decision choosing Phainon as your supporting constellation, “You know, Phainon. If you were in a relationship, you’ll make a good partner.” You blurt out.
The blue screen did not appear as quick as usual. You imagine the surprise colouring his face although you had never seen him before. Nonetheless, you imagine his surprise look, eyes widen, mouth slightly agape wondering how should he respond.
Maybe you were right about that because Phainon hadn’t send a single response even after minutes has passed. “Don’t tell me, you’ve never been in a relationship before.” You tease but he still didn’t respond.
Concern, you called his name. “Phainon.”
Again, not a single respond was given.
“Phainon, are you mad?” You asked. What if you accidentally poke at an old wound?
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said he was looking for a stove]
‘Oh, good. He wasn’t mad.’ Relieved, you left the conversation behind, “What stove?”
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said you can used it to cook monster’s meat]
“Do I need seasoning?” You need to know that before cooking any meal. You’re not just going to eat bland food now, would you?
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said it’ll be alright without seasoning]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said cooked monster meat are juicy]
That sounds delicious but the real problem is could you hunt monster? On your way to Chungmuro, the only monster you have encounter is the specter.
“Phainon,” You rummage through your pouch, searching for the item dropped by specters you’ve killed. “can I eat this?” You shows him the stones.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, shake his head]
If the spirit stone is not meant to be eaten, then what is the used of it? You can’t just let it rot in your bag.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said it will amplify your trauma]
“Then, is this a torturing device?” If it could amplify someone’s trauma, it wouldn’t be too different from torture. ‘If that’s the case, I might need this for later use.’ The spirit stones return to the safety of your pouch.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said it would be difficult to use as torturing device]
That’s unfortunate for you, “Why is that?”
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said once you eat the spirit stone, you will temporarily become a ghost species]
Getting your trauma amplified and become a ghost species temporarily on top of that. It does not sound very appealing to you.
[Constellation who’s a masochist added that monsters species cannot attack you nor will human]
On a second thought, it might be of help to you.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, send a meteor to Constellation who’s a masochist’s location]
[Constellations who likes thrill whistle loudly and close their ears]
[Constellations from absolute good avert their eyes away]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, warn you to not used it]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said it does not worth the trouble]
You blink at the respond. He’s not that aggressive usually, this small thing in your possession must be a big deal for him to react that way.
“Relax, I’m just asking.” Then Phainon bombard you with another responds telling you to never take the spirit stones. He even go as far as telling you to swear an oath. “Alright, I won’t eat it.” You reassured.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, let out a sigh of relief]
Unfortunately, it was a short relief until you open your mouth, “Unless—”
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, forbid you from eating the spirit stone]
“Hear me out first, would you?”
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said it’s the end of discussion]
“Alright, fine. I won’t.” At least you didn’t swear the oath to him.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said you must swear]
“Fuck you.”
For a moment, there’s no reply from him but it’s just a moment.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said swear the oath, not swear at him]
“Although you’re being specific, I’m still not doing it.” Why would you have the spirit stone if not to use it?
Who knows maybe tonight or tomorrow, you’ll be force to step out of your green zone and fend for yourself. Why not use the item that could save your life?
If what that masochist constellation said is true, you’ll be invisible to both monsters and human. Isn’t that a bit too good? If you ignore the fact it will amplify your trauma— it’s a good deal.
In a reassuring tone, you speak to Phainon. “I can handle my trauma very well.”
[Constellations who had been watching you are side eyeing you]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, raise his eyebrow]
“... Aggressive but it’s well handled.” It’s not the typical way of handling trauma but it keep you sane somehow—so it work.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said you still need to swear the oath]
“My trauma is not that bad.”
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said to not downplay your trauma]
Seeing the conversation is not going anywhere, you decide to just swear the oath to him. “I swear,” You pull out a spirit stone out of your pouch, raising it up in the air as if to make a point, “I won’t use this stone no matter the circumstance.”
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, nod]
*****
Phainon let out a relief sigh. “She’s so stubborn.” Messaging his temple, exhausted. In front of him is the numerous screens from Star Stream, one of them showing his incarnation sitting quietly in her green zone. While some are showing incarnations who claimed to be prophets.
Then, there are two screen separated from the others. One showing the man who stabbed his incarnation, and other screen showing a blurry face man with his group hunting monsters.
Phainon narrow his eyes at the two incarnation who he’s been keeping an eye on since the end of the first scenario.
He’ve overheard Olympus speak of singularity as of late, his curiosity get the better of him and checked on the subject of their topic.
Through the screen, he heard his incarnation calling for him. [“Phainon.”]
He send an indirect message to her as a response.
“You’ll protect me, right?” A hint of doubt and anxiety lace into her voice.
A fond smile grace his lips, his hand tracing over his incarnation’s image. “Of course.” He whispered as if it could reached his incarnation’s ears. “Without doubt.” He promised.
*****
There’s this thought that stuck with you since the apocalypse begin.
Phainon is generous. In fact he’s very generous and lenient that you almost feel bad for being difficult a moment ago but at the same time, your gut is telling you something is going to happen.
You pull out your phone that’s on the verge of dying with crack everywhere but it still dutifully display the current time on the lock screen.
[2 p.m.]
You turn off the phone and put it back into your pouch. Saving the battery as much as you could until you find a powerbank or a replacement for it. Although you doubt, you’ll be using it often.
One thing for sure, you’re bored out of your wit. For the first time since the apocalypse start, you could actually feel boredom haunting you like a ghost haunting some poor soul.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, ask what’s wrong]
“I felt bored.” You confess. It wouldn’t hurt to confine your trouble to Phainon.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, ponder]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said that’s a good thing]
At the response, you arch an eyebrow at him—precisely, at the screen. “Why is that?”
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said it means you feel safe]
“Now that you said that.” You wonder back to the past few days. Never once did you feel completely safe despite sleeping soundlessly at night.
In fact, you’re constantly on edge with the thought that everyone would stab you if you let your guard down, just like how the passengers kill each other in cold blood during the first scenario. Though it’s a one-sided massacre, that one scenario made you realized how dangerous human can be when push to a corner.
Not to mention, law did not exist anymore and nothing is keeping the beast in human’s skin in check.
Beast in human’s skin.
You look up. The ceiling greet your sight but it’s not your main focus, you’re looking at him. At your sponsor who had been on your side since the start of this apocalypse.
Beast in human’s skin.
Phainon who had been nothing but kind and generous, supporting and lenient. If he hadn’t hint you of the screwdriver at that time, you would have been dead.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, look at you]
Beast in human’s skin.
Closing your eyes shut, you laid down on the cold floor. “Since I’m bored, let’s talk about something.”
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, apologize]
“Are you busy?” A question shoot out of your mouth, curious evidence in your tone.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said he won’t be able to accompany you for a few days]
Phainon don’t usually leave you for long. The longest he ever did was just an hour or two. Him leaving you for days made you slightly anxious just thinking about it.
But since when did you become too dependant to him? Would there be consequences if you keep relying on him?
“It’s alright, I can take care of myself.” You reassured, waving your hand and smiling as if it could lessen his worry, that is—if he truly is worry for you.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, truly feel sorry]
“Don’t be like that.” The usual reassured tone slip past your tongue like honey. “I’ll be fine.”
The real question is, would really you be fine on your own?
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said he’s sorry]
“You don’t trust me with myself?” You jokingly ask which he response too quickly.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said yes]
An offended gasp escape your lips, “How could you say that?”
[Constellations from absolute good agree with Constellation, Prisoner of Flames]
Just how unreliable are you in their eyes even those hypocrite don’t trust you with yourself?
*****
The third scenario begin without delay, however this time you feel quite lonely that your sponsor isn’t around to lift the mood.
Despite the monsters roaming around you, the percentage shown through the survival rate haven’t change at all which is reassuring when Phainon isn’t around.
The greatsword rest next to you, in case the dokkeabie decide to screw you over and the worst case scenario happen.
Before Phainon left, he give you a stove mean to cook monster’s meat and 20,000 coins for emergency use. Also reminding you to not put yourself in danger and run whenever your survival rate drop too low. Afterward, you haven’t heard anything from him.
“Phainon.” You call him over but the usual blue screen with his modified nickname haven’t shows up. “Must have been very busy.” You mutter.
[Constellation who’s a masochist said you’re like a wife denying her husband’s death]
A cough left your throat but it was drown by the growl from the nearby monsters. You reach over the nearby drink. Quenching your dry throat, “Why so ominous?”
[Constellation who’s a masochist said you’ve been calling Constellation Prisoner of Flames for the past 30 minutes]
“Because I’m bored.” Phainon will have something to chat about if he’s around but not tonight. He’s not around and you couldn’t sleep without him talking your ears off.
The thought that you’re too dependant to him made you wonder how are you going to survive without him if he’s gone for good.
Nonetheless, you survive the second day without much trouble but the constant growl from the monsters around keep you awake the whole night.
A yawn left your lips as you stare yourself in the mirror. Since Phainon isn’t around, you couldn’t properly take a bath because some pervert of constellations are watching like a hawk would their prey. Though they give you coins when they get to see your bare ankles or thighs, it still make every strand of hairs in your body to stand still in disgust.
During the day, you try to catch a wink of sleep in some quiet corner and that quietest corner just so happened to be near the dungeon. Where that lunatic man had the teenage girl guarding it strictly so he could hoard all the rewards.
“Unnie.” The teenage girl call with a raise eyebrow. The sword still sheath in her hand as she seize you. “You don’t look like someone who catch a wink of sleep.” She added.
[Survival against this individual: 70%]
[85% chance for this individual to agree with you]
Maybe due to the lack of caffeine in your blood, the question slip out of your mouth. “Can you let me sleep for an hour before you kick me out of here?”
The girl blink a few time, “Since you’re cool, of course!” Then she sat beside you, her sword resting against her shoulder. With a confident grin she reassured, “Don’t worry, I got your back, unnie.”
“Thank you... You are?”
“Lee Jihye.”
“Thank you, Lee Jihye.”
“Anytime!”
Not even a minute passed, your eyelid drop and you feels like you’re falling from somewhere high. Very high in fact.
Then a growl, not from monster but from a stomach stir you awake almost immediately.
Lee Jihye who was nearby almost pull out her sword of it’s sheath the moment you jolt awake. Then her stomach grumble and followed by yours, who haven’t had breakfast yet.
To avoid the awkwardness, she suggest hunting some monster together and since it would help you get used to killing monster, you agree.
Therefore, you encounter a... Bizarre group. Actually, there’s this one member who’s pretty weird in your eyes. Not that he had done anything to earn the irk from you— it’s just his face. If you had to describe it, you could only say, blurry as if a glitch is hiding him from you.
However, what worry you is your calculation skill.
[S4#v1%@ l ®@te / 391#@%]
[Err0r!]
This is the first time the skill shown an error. Especially when your sponsor isn’t around, adding to your trouble but your confusion fall short after you and Jihye decide to help the survivors to the station.
The way back is quite awkward, the teenage girl did not seem like she’s in the mood for some chat and the survivors doesn’t look like they want to start any conversation after fighting the specters.
Though it was short live until the blurry face man decide to proclaim that he’s a companion of Yoo Jonghyuk.
Although you don’t know who that person is. Judging from Lee Jihye’s reaction, you could guess that’s the name of the teenager’s master and maniac who stabbed you on the shoulder.
Lee Jihye turn to you with a serious look, “Unnie, can you keep an eye on them? I’ll go get master!” She said then run off before you could reply.
You want to refuse actually. Why would you want to be within the vicinity of your stabber? Knowing what kind of ruckus he cause back when he first arrived here, you certainly don’t want to be on his bad side— let alone crossing path with him again.
“You are that person’s companion?” You ask as a matter of confirmation.
The man smile with confident, “Yes. I am Yoo Jonghyuk’s companion.”
[T+3 (8#!8# 9f 7#is p3®s aon @#$ 1738%]
‘He’s a maniac too.’ You assumed. Noting that you should put some distance with this man specifically because last time you check, Yoo Jonghyuk can still be within prediction of Possibility Calculation.
As far as you know, someone unpredictable is hard to deal with.
“All of you must have been very tire.” Come the polite smile to your face, “Did you know about the 3rd Scenario?” It wouldn’t be too bad to strike a conversation a little since the teenage girl did ask you to keep an eye on them while she fetch her master.
After all, if that girl’s master can sense your presence and didn’t hesitate to stab someone with his sword. Who knows what will happened if you were to get on her bad side.
You converse while resting with the group. Therefore, you manage to get their name in that conversation.
“How did you distribute food to other survivors?” Lee Hyunsung with book and pen in hands ask, keen on taking note of every detail.
Remembering the days when Yoo Jonghyuk arrived at this place, he didn’t bother to take care of the survivors who come with him other than Lee Jihye. Since then, the survivors had been relying on that girl to hunt monster for them. That’s too long of an explanation, so you cut it short. “That girl just now is the one who hunt monsters for the survivors.”
“The survivors?” Kim Dokja who claimed to be a companion of Yoo Jonghyuk raise an eyebrow. “You’re not relying on Jihye too?”
That hurt your pride for some reason. You’re older than Lee Jihye and weaker than her but you couldn’t bring yourself to rely on her to bring food to the table. You’re not that shameless at least. “No, we just so happened to hunt monsters together at that time.”
“I see.” Kim Dokja yawn, completely bored. Though the glance thrown to your direction goes unnoticed, ‘She must be another extra who will die later.’ He thought. From what he observed, there is nothing worth noting from your character profile. Even the name of your sponsor doesn’t ring a bell to him.
You wonder where has that teenage girl run to because it’s taking longer than you expected. It’s to the point of you leading the newly arrived group to the restroom. Thankfully, the other survivors don’t have the courage to approach you or the group.
“What is that green zone for?” Yoo Sangah pointed toward an unoccupied green zone and two survivor fighting over it with bruises all over their face.
Seeing how confuse she was, you decide to explain to her. “People like to call it room, you should find one immediately before the third scenario begin. It’s essential if you want to survive tonight.” All of you climb the stairs, letting the fight over the green zone continue.
The murmurs of crowd enter your ears, alerting you of what’s awaiting upstairs. Arriving at the first floor, you find a crowd of survivors begging to be let in into a certain green zone.
You remembered coming across the biggest room in Chungmuro when you first arrived. Unfortunately, it was claimed by a grumpy old man. Phainon alerted you to not get on such person’s bad side, thus you avoid the owner til this day.
A kid run past you, hurrying toward the crowd. Wasn’t he the same kid currently with the guy who claimed to be Yoo Jonghyuk’s companion?
Yes, it’s the same kid actually.
“Kid, wait—!”
The kid had disappear into the crowd and before you could followed through, everyone hurriedly dispersed. The panicked painted across the crowd is enough to spell trouble.
“Sangah-ssi, please hold onto Heewon-ssi.” Kim Dokja left the unconscious woman to Yoo Sangah and rush toward the dispersing crowd, chasing after the kid.
[SU4:7v@l r07e* 1-1uπ664&]
Seeing the undeciphered screen, you hesitate to lend a hand. Although you avoid the grumpy old man till now, the hushed whisper of his capabilities is enough for you to know that you couldn’t win against such person.
The syllables of your name fall off of Yoo Sangah’s lips as she beg you to help with Lee Hyunsung looking at you expectantly next to her.
Did you help? No.
Why would Phainon warn you to not get on that grumpy old man’s side if not to put you away from danger? Even the probability of you dying is significant enough for you to know that you must not do anything that would upset him. If possible never made contact with him.
But those pleading eyes are poking at your conscience as second turn to minute. However the sound of notification grab your attention.
Ding!
It was your skill that could finally work properly again.
[The chances of situation to escalate further is 37%]
Ding!
[The chances of situation to escalate further is 25%]
“Don’t worry.” You reassured, there’s one person that could put your survival at risk at the same time capable of putting people like Gong Pildu in check with his strength alone.
[The chances of situation to escalate further is 14%]
Then the lunatic come to the rescue. Of course, you left as soon as you sense his presence nearby. The chances of you getting swept up into this mess is pretty low but you dare not take any chances.
Though it’s not long before the group find you again before the scenario begin. Not to kill you, just asking if there’s any empty room left in the station.
You have no idea if there are any vacant rooms left, you don’t have the heart to give these people false hope, so you told them that you don’t think there are any left.
Maybe karma is getting at you for leaving the group on their own when that lunatic in black coat appear.
Or maybe it was when they asked you for help to search for any vacant room so they can occupy it because as soon as the scenario begin, the dokkeabie added a new rule where some room will disappear.
Unfortunately, yours is one of them.
The green zone disappeared instantly, causing the monsters to snap their head toward you simultaneously. Hunger crystal clear in their eyes. Not wasting any second the herd of monsters swarm you like bees would to invader.
[Warning!]
[Survival rate decreasing tremendously!]
[Survival rate: 54%]
The hold on your greatsword tighten as you smash the closest monster with it’s hilt then slicing the monster behind it in two. As if not wanting to give a moment of respite two monsters jump across the corpse, snapping their jaw open. With a forceful swing, the blade slash through the monsters’ bone.
After killing four monster consecutively, your lungs is gasping for air, your legs shaking from both fear and exhaustion. You’re drained, both physically and mentally simply by facing the monsters.
For a moment, you’re certain that you wouldn’t get used to living within this lawless world.
A deafening roar echo on the station wall, drowning all dying scream of other survivor.
[100% chance for two large monster to attack simultaneously]
Just as the system warn, two monster twice your size spring forward, their feet stomping onto the floor, leaving a den behind.
[5,000 coins has been invested to strength]
[Strength lv. 20 -> lv. 30]
[4,600 coins has been invested to stamina]
[Stamina lv. 8 -> lv. 20]
[4,900 coins has been invested to agility]
[Agility lv. 7 -> lv. 20]
[Survival rate: 56%]
Though, you increase your stats, the percentage shown by the system does not brought you any security.
Another large monsters approach, the survival rate drop.
[Survival rate: 55%]
Resisting your fear, you took the risk to run toward one of the approaching monsters. It’s claw wide open, ready to grab you. Swiftly, you dodge, sliding between it’s legs and slashing it’s belly open. Blood spurt on the floor as the monster’s inside decorate the white pristine floor.
Without second wasted, you throw the bloody greatsword straight to the other large monster’s head. Blood spurt to the ceiling before the monster fall lifeless along with it’s kin.
Where is Phainon when you need him the most?
You curse under your breath, taking the greatsword off the monster’s skull and slash the incoming monster in half. “Phainon!” You shout, voice hoarse and desperate but there’s no answer from him.
A monster lunge forward, jaw wide open, ready to sink it’s teeth to your right leg. Quickly you lift your leg, letting the monster to slide across the floor with a screeching sound.
You stomped onto it’s head, breaking it’s skull, molding the head flat with red liquid spurt put of it’s ears and nose. Once again you swing the greatsword and the floor is bath in blood, the smell of iron made you dizzy and nauseous but you must push through it.
[Activating Stigma, Let There Be Light lv. 1]
A blinding light left the monsters in daze, giving you a chance to escape death’s clutch. With great effort, the greatsword slash the dazed monsters’ head in one swing.
Like a repeated motion, you use the stigma again then kill the dazed monster. However, there seems to be something ripped out of you after using that stigma multiple time.
[You have drained all your mana]
[Due to insufficient mana, the Stigma effect is cut in half]
Unfortunately, just as the system message appear, the effect from your stigma only effective against monsters that were near you. In no time, you’re once again swarm by monsters.
[Warning!]
[Survival rate decreasing tremendously!]
[Survival rate: 13%]
Ignoring the system, you stood your ground. Slashing every monsters that dare to open their jaw against you with the greatsword until you’re push to a corner.
[98% chance your head will be chomped]
At the long warning, you duck under as a monster appear and crash onto the wall above you. Swiftly, you strike it with your fist, sending the monster flying to it’s herd. A growl vibrate next to you, a ground rat like monster’s gaze remain lock on you as it raise it’s claw, swiftly you used the greatsword to block the strike.
[100% chance your shoulder will—]
Crack..!
The sound of bone shuttered cause you to glance over your shoulder. Another ground rat got you. It sunk it’s teeth deeper into your flesh, you could almost hear something tore apart. Momentarily, you let go of the greatsword. Using your fist to strike it’s head but a sharp pain course through your left leg, loosening your strike’s force slightly.
Another monster bite onto your thigh as it pull away with it’s teeth pierce deep in your muscle. Then a scream tore through your throat as an unbearable pain pierce your stomach. With blurry vision, you only see monsters sinking their teeth over your flesh, tearing you alive.
Your weapon is no where to be seen, your functioning hand try to pry every monsters off of you but it was an obvious failure when another keep latching their teeth to your skin. Leaving you helpless and terrify.
[Survival rate: 3%]
[Constellations who likes thrill roar in joy]
[Constellations from absolute good are praying for you safety]
[Survival rate: 2%]
[Constellations who likes thrill are cheering for you]
[You have been gifted 1,500 coins]
“I’m not...” going to die. You thought, at least not as your flesh being ravaged by monsters. Your free hand reaching over your pocket where another spirit stone is stored.
You swallow the stone whole. The pain numb before you feels like you’re falling from a high place.
[You have become a ghost species]
[Survival rate: 1%]
*****
Amidst the golden wheat, with misshapes clay in hand, Phainon sense something had happened to his incarnation.
Quickly, he open the Star Stream channel. Eyes searching for the familiar figure of his incarnation through the screen but what greet him is only a swamp of monsters and endless terrified scream from dying survivors.
His eyes then caught sight of a familiar greatsword abandoned on the floor—bath in blood. Not far from it is a swamp of monsters—feasting, then there’s a monster chewing a leg just a meter away from the swarm and two monsters fighting over a piece of torn clothe.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, ask what he had missed]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, ask where is his incarnation]
[The constellations in channel BIR- remain silent]
[A Constellation from absolute good told Constellation, Prisoner of Flames what had happened]
PART I OF THE "WHAT WE TELL THE WINTER" MINI SERIES
title: To Breathe a Different Element
pairing(s): Phainon x GN! Reader
word count: 7.4k
tags: Modern AU, Pining, University Setting, Fluff, Romance
synopsis: Phainon is an architecture student who sees the world in blueprints and equations has his entire world reordered when he notices a thoughtful classmate in a new light. He maps your habits from afar, until a moment of shared vulnerability gives him the chance to bridge the distance between the two of you, building a fragile, unexpected connection.
masterlist
I. A SHIFT IN ATMOSPHERE
The Tuesday in mid-October was not marked on any calendar as significant. The sky was a seamless sheet of worn flannel, damp and close, and a steady, patient rain fell on Kephale University, polishing the cobblestones of the quadrangle to a slick, dark sheen. In the cavernous belly of Marmoreal Hall, in room 200, the air was a mix of familiar scents. Ancient oak worn smooth by generations of restless hands, the mineral tang of chalk dust, and the moist, sheepy odor of woolen coats steaming gently on radiators that clanked and muttered like disgruntled old men.
Phainon sat in his kingdom: the last seat of the back row, far right. Here, his long legs could stretch into the aisle, and his broad shoulders did not brush against a neighbor. He was a study in monochrome contrast: hair like a shock of arctic moss, stark white against the charcoal cable-knit of his sweater. His face was all angles—a sharp jaw, a straight nose, high cheekbones—below which his eyes, a luminous and unsettling cyan, were usually downcast.
Today, they flickered between the professor’s droning soliloquy on Derrida and the intricate architecture of the ceiling. His notebook lay open, not to notes on the instability of meaning, but to a meticulous, technical drawing of the lecture hall’s ribbed vaulting, each line ruled with geometric precision.
You were present in his awareness, as you had been for weeks, filed under a heading of calm respect. You occupied the third row, left of center. You were the student who asked questions. Not the frantic, hand-waving kind, nor the long-winded attempts to showcase personal brilliance, but quiet, pointed interventions that seemed to slice to the heart of the professor’s own ambiguities.
Phainon’s mental notation was characteristically sparse: Quiet voice. Incisive. Listens with entire body. Laughs genuinely, but rarely. You were a datum in the ecosystem of the room, a consistent and pleasing variable in his peripheral vision.
On this Tuesday, the professor, a man shaped like a pear and possessing a similarly soft, slightly overripe voice, was grappling with the concept of the “center.”
“The center,” he intoned, wiping his glasses, “is not a fixed location, but a function. It permits the play of structure, but is itself outside of that play. It is, in Derrida’s terms, a paradox.”
A palpable fog of confusion settled over the room. Phainon’s pencil continued its steady course along a parabola, his own focus a stable center against the theoretical chaos. Then, he saw you shift. It was a small movement, a straightening of the spine, a slight tilt of the head. Your hand rose, not in a thrust, but with a calm, inevitable lift, like a buoy rising on a steady swell.
“Professor.” Your voice was clear water in the dusty room. It didn’t seek volume; it commanded a different kind of space, one of focused attention. “If the ‘center’ is always a function, not a presence, then isn’t the very act of seeking a center itself a kind of necessary fiction for discourse?” You paused, letting the question hang. “We have to pretend there’s solid ground, even as we acknowledge it’s quicksand. Otherwise, we couldn’t even begin to talk. The fiction is the foundation.”
The professor blinked, his mouth opening slightly before sound emerged. “An excellent… an excellent, if rather despairing, point. You’ve just articulated the fundamental, tragic paradox of modern critical thought.”
You did not preen. You didn’t even smile in satisfaction. Instead, you nodded slowly, your expression one of deep absorption, as if you were turning the professor’s confirmation over in your mind, testing its weight and edges. Then, your highlighter, a slender cylinder of neon yellow, rolled from the desk and clattered softly to the floor. You bent to retrieve it.
In that mundane, human moment, the universe conspired.
A narrow, rain-weakened beam of light, having struggled through the grime of a high clerestory window, finally pierced the gloom of the hall. It fell not as a spotlight, but as a painter’s wash, a diagonal slice of pallid gold. And it found you. It lit the crown of your head, traveled down the slope of your neck, and settled on the profile of your face as you bent and rose.
For Phainon, the world did not go silent. It became profoundly specific.
The scratching of pens, the rustle of pages, the symphony of coughs and creaking chairs—they receded into a soft, diffuse mix of auditory threads. His own pencil froze mid-arc. What he experienced was not the thunderclap of “love at first sight,” but something far more seismic. A quiet, absolute reordering of his perceptual universe.
The light did not make you beautiful; it revealed your particularity with devastating clarity. He saw the way the fragile light caught the downy hair on your temple, turning it to a faint halo. He saw the precise curve of your ear, the elegant line from jaw to throat, the shadow your lashes cast on your cheek—a shadow so delicate it seemed drawn with a single-hair brush. He saw the focused intelligence in the set of your brow, now relaxed in contemplation, and the unconscious grace of your hand as it closed around the highlighter, your fingers curling with a gentle certainty.
And then, you straightened. The light caught your eyes as you glanced at the retrieved object, and for a fraction of a second, they seemed to hold not just the reflection of the weak sun, but an internal luminosity of their own.
A sensation bloomed in Phainon’s chest. It was not a spark but an unfurling, a deep, radiant warmth that spread outward from his sternum, flooding his limbs, filling the very cavities of his bones. It was terrifying in its intensity and utterly tranquil in its certainty. It was accompanied by a cognitive click so profound it was visceral: a sense of recognition. It was as if he had spent his entire life studying a vast, fragmented text in a forgotten language, and in this single, illuminated moment, you had provided the lost Rosetta Stone. The chaotic symbols resolved into a coherent, breathtaking message.
Oh.
The thought was not a word, but a foundational shift in the geology of his self. It was the quiet, earth-splitting realization of a continental plate settling into its destined place.
Oh. It’s you.
The graphite point of his pencil, pressed unmoving against the page, snapped with a tiny, sharp crack. He looked down, dazed, at the vandalized perfection of his drawing. A small, dark smudge marred the clean lines of his imagined vault, a chaotic mark on his ordered blueprint. When he managed to lift his gaze again, the moment had passed. The beam of light had shifted, dissolved into the general gray. You were writing in your notebook, the highlighter now idle beside it, just a student again.
But for Phainon, nothing was the same. The very air in Marmoreal 200 seemed ionized, charged with a new and potent electricity. Every rustle from your direction was a seismic event. The scent of damp wool and chalk was now underscored by an imagined note—of rain on skin, of paper, of something uniquely and indefinably you. He did not understand it. He could not name it. But he knew, with a certainty that bypassed all logic, that his internal atmosphere had been permanently altered. He was breathing a new element, and its source, three rows down and to the left, was now the quiet, gravitational center of his entire world.
II. THE CARTOGRAPHY OF A CRUSH
In the wake of the Tuesday in Marmoreal 200, Phainon underwent a metamorphosis of observation. The quiet intensity he had once directed at vaulted ceilings and structural diagrams now turned, with the force of a redirected river, onto a single, living subject.
He became a reluctant, feverish cartographer, obsessed with mapping the contours of a country he had never dared to imagine visiting. His soul, once an orderly archive of facts and figures, was now a wild garden, thick with unnamed, flowering emotions, and he was both its frantic gardener and its first, bewildered prisoner.
His study of you was conducted with a dual methodology: the cold precision of an empiricist and the desperate, lyrical hunger of a poet.
He first mastered your temporal geography. Philosophy (Tuesdays/Thursdays, 10 AM, Marmoreal). Victorian Literature (Mondays/Wednesdays, 1 PM, Oronyx Hall).
You were a creature of elegant punctuality, arriving exactly seven minutes early, never breathless, always settled. Your spatial coordinates were more revealing. You favored the north library, the third-floor carrel by the large, west-facing window that framed the gnarled limbs of the historic oak grove. You claimed this territory every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon from two until five, a ritual as dependable as the college bells.
Phainon, in response, established his own outpost. A second-floor balcony seat that offered a diagonal, elevated view of your chosen carrel. A spread of architectural folios—Palladio, Vitruvius—became his camouflage. For hours, his luminous cyan eyes would lift from drawings of perfect Roman arches to the far more compelling sight of the top of your head, the slope of your shoulders as you bent over your work. The simple, rhythmic sight of you turning a page was a sonnet.
He cataloged your habits with devout attention. You drank black coffee from a chipped, sea-green mug, its glaze worn where your thumb rested. Your literary taste was not for the showy or the theoretical; he glimpsed a collection of Mary Oliver, a volume of Tennyson, their spines softened by use. You underlined not with frantic highlighting, but with a single, firm line of graphite, a physical commitment to a thought.
On Thursday afternoons, you would pack your bag at five and disappear not towards the dorms, but into the small, limestone annex housing the University Archives. Through a half-open door one evening, he saw you there, sleeves rolled to your elbows, handling a ledger from 1892 with a reverence that was almost tactile. You used a soft, white cloth to dust the cover, your movements so gentle they seemed to be a form of conversation with the past. The sight struck him with a physical force, a tightening in his chest that was part awe, part profound longing.
He memorized the physical grammar of your being. Your walk was a revelation: not the head-down, hurried scuttle of a stressed student, but a purposeful, observant stride. You looked at the world—the grotesques on the rain spouts, the frantic gathering of starlings on the lawn—with an engaged curiosity.
When you read something that pleased you, a tiny, private smile would touch the corner of your mouth, a secret he felt privileged to witness. When puzzled, a delicate furrow would appear between your brows, a single vertical line of concentration he yearned to trace and soothe. The simple act of you tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear was a gesture of such unconscious grace it could halt his breath.
His own behavior transformed into a masterpiece of calculated awkwardness. The tall, charismatic figure with the glacier-white hair, who once moved through Kephale’s quads like a solitary spire, now plotted paths with the nervous intensity of a field marshal. His heart, a formerly reliable metronome, became a wild, fluttering thing against his ribs.
He orchestrated "spontaneous" encounters with a clumsy precision. Timing his exit from Marmoreal to coincide with yours, he would appear at the massive oak door just as you approached. His hand, large and long-fingered, would shoot out to grasp the iron handle.
“I’ve got it,” he’d murmur, his voice deeper than he intended, his gaze fixed resolutely on the stone arch above your head. To look directly at you in such proximity felt like staring into the sun—dazzling and dangerous.
You’d glance up, surprise melting into that warm, open expression. “Thanks, Phainon.”
His name in your voice was not just a word; it was a key turned in a lock deep within him, opening a chamber he hadn’t known existed. He would nod, a stiff, economical motion, and fall into step beside you for the short walk across the portico. The silence between you was charged, humming with the volume of his unspoken thoughts.
The incident on the quadrangle was unplanned, a gift from the capricious autumn divinity. It was a blustery Wednesday, the wind whipping the last dry leaves into frenzied spirals. He saw you leaving Mnestia Hall, arms impossibly full, a stack of thick novels, a binder, and a large artist’s portfolio threatening to become a sail. He was about to change his course to intercept when a gust, sharp as a whipcrack, seized the portfolio. Papers—sketches, printed images, notes—erupted into the air, a blizzard of your work.
Phainon moved. There was no thought, only pure kinetic response. His long legs covered the distance in a few strides, and he dropped to one knee beside you on the damp grass, where you were desperately lunging for escaping sheets.
“Allow me,” he said, the words a low, steady anchor in the chaos of the wind. His hands, accustomed to the precise delineation of load-bearing walls, now gently captured fluttering pages of Pre-Raphaelite reproductions and dense blocks of your handwritten analysis. He was careful, reverent. He then took the teetering tower of books from your arms, his fingers brushing the soft cable of your cardigan. The contact was a spark jumping a gap, a current that lit up his nervous system.
You sat back on your heels, breathless, a smudge of grass on your trousers. “Oh, Titans. Thank you. My ambition outraced my practicality.”
“Lateral wind load,” he said, the engineering principle leaping automatically to his lips as he neatly ordered your papers. “It’s an often overlooked dynamic force. The structure must be designed to withstand it.” He slid the papers back into the portfolio, securing the flap firmly.
You laughed, and the sound seemed to momentarily still the wind around them. “So I am a poorly designed structure today.”
“A beautiful one,” he almost said. The words scorched his throat. He swallowed them and said instead, “Just one in need of minor reinforcement.” He stood, then offered his hand to help you up. When you took it, he felt the surprising strength in your grip, the slender architecture of your bones. He did not let go of your hand immediately as you steadied yourself, a silent transfer of stability.
He carried your books and portfolio all the way to the library. The walk was a silent, profound communion. He learned the portfolio contained your research on Pre-Raphaelite medievalism, and you confessed, your voice tinged with a vulnerability that pierced him, “It’s overwhelming sometimes. You dig and dig, and you’re just hoping to find a coherent thread in the dark.”
You had reached the library steps. He stopped and turned to face you, the books a tangible barrier between your bodies. “Excavation is the first principle of a stable foundation,” he said, his cyan eyes meeting yours with a newfound courage. “The darkness isn’t empty. It’s full of material. You are finding its shape.”
You accepted the stack of books, your fingers sliding beneath his as you took the weight. This time, he allowed the contact to linger, a conscious, brave decision. Your skin was warm. For a breathtaking second, the world contracted to that single point of connection, the rough pad of his finger against the smooth back of your hand.
You didn’t pull away immediately. You looked up at him, your gaze searching his face as if reading a newly discovered text. “Is that how you see everything? As a problem of… structure and foundation?”
“Everything has a structure,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “Even confusion. Even feeling. It has weight, tension, balance. The task is to understand its form.”
A smile dawned on your face, one he had never seen before. It was not the polite, acknowledging smile of a classmate, but something deeper, warmer, an acknowledgment of a shared frequency. It reached your eyes, lighting them from within.
“Thank you, Phainon. Truly.”
He stood rooted to the spot as you climbed the steps and vanished into the dim library entrance. The autumn chill meant nothing. He was incandescent. That night, in the stark silence of his room, he replayed the encounter—the feel of the papers, the sound of your laugh in the wind, the weight of the books in his arms, the seismic touch of your hands. He opened the leather-bound journal that had, without his conscious decision, ceased to be about buildings.
Under the glow of his desk lamp, his precise hand wrote:
October 28th. 3:15 PM. Wind velocity approximately 18 mph from the northwest. They had a grass stain on their right knee. Their notes on Rossetti are in blue ink. Their own questions in a softer black. When the papers scattered, they did not cry out in frustration. They laughed. They laughed at the chaos. Today, for approximately 3.7 seconds, our hands were in contact. The world, in that span, was a perfectly engineered truss, and that point of contact was the keystone. All forces were in balance. All weight was borne. I am the structure, and I am forever altered.
III. THE CRAFT OF CONNECTION
The turning point, the moment the solitary cartography of his longing began to yield a shared atlas, arrived not in a gentle epiphany, but in the stark, fluorescent-lit trenches of finals week.
The North Library, usually a haven of quiet industry, had become a temple of silent, crackling panic. Phainon, sustained by a chemical cocktail of strong black coffee and raw willpower, was burrowed in the sub-basement stacks, chasing a footnote on the lateral thrust of French Gothic buttresses. The air smelled of dust, mildew, and despair.
It was in a dim canyon between European Art (800-1499) and Medieval Socioeconomics that he found you. Or rather, found the absence of you.
You were collapsed on the worn linoleum floor, a massive, open tome on Italian Renaissance patronage spread like a fallen wing across your lap. But you weren’t reading. Your forehead was pressed to your drawn-up knees, your arms wrapped tightly around your shins, forming a fortress of misery. The most telling sign was the subtle, seismic tremor in your shoulders—the silent, shuddering breath of someone who has hit a wall.
Phainon stopped as if he’d walked into glass. The sight was a violation and a revelation. Your curated composure, the graceful strength he’d mapped so diligently, had been utterly deconstructed. A violent conflict erupted within him. The instinct to retreat, to grant you the privacy of your breakdown, warred against a more fundamental, tectonic urge: to stand between you and any source of pain, even if that source was a pile of books and your own exhaustion.
The floorboard groaned under his weight. He took one step, then another, his shadow falling over the open page of the book.
“(Name)?” His voice was a rough whisper, stripped of its usual reserve by fatigue and a sudden, clawing fear.
You flinched, your head snapping up. Your face was a landscape of distress: eyes glassy and red-rimmed, cheeks pale and blotchy. You swiped at your face with the back of your hand, a gesture that was more childlike and vulnerable than anything he’d ever seen from you. It felt like a physical blow to his sternum.
“Phainon.” Your voice was a frayed thread. You attempted a smile, a grimace that twisted into something worse. “Titans, sorry. Ignore me. It’s just… the wall. I’ve hit it.” You gestured limply at the book. “This is all names and numbers. Medicis, Sforzas, ducats. It’s a ledger of dead men’s vanity, and I’m supposed to find the soul of art in it. And I have a paper on Keats’s odes that feels like glue, and a political theory deconstruction that’s just… semantic smoke.” A fresh tear, bright and defiant, escaped and traced a path to your jaw. “I’m so tired I can’t see straight.”
He did not offer empty platitudes. He did not hover. Instead, he slowly sank into a crouch before you, his back against the opposite shelf, bringing his large frame down to your level. In the narrow aisle, he didn’t loom; he enclosed. He became a barrier between you and the rest of the desperate library.
“The patronage system,” he said, focusing on the most tangible brick in your wall. His tone was analytical, a deliberate calm. “Explain the obstruction.”
The concrete question was a lifeline. You drew a shaky breath, grasping it. “It’s transactional. Soulless. The art feels like a receipt. I can’t make the beauty fit with the banking.”
Phainon looked at the open book, at a full-page plate of Masaccio’s The Tribute Money. His mind, a precision instrument for parsing forces and systems, engaged. He saw not a religious scene, but a diagram.
“It’s not a receipt,” he said, his voice dropping into a softer, more intimate register. He pointed, his finger not touching the page but tracing shapes in the air above it. “Look. See the patron here, in the corner? He’s smaller, integrated into the narrative, but separate. It’s not just humility. It’s strategic placement. A load-bearing calculation.” He moved his finger to the center of the fresco.
“The primary load here is spiritual, narrative, divine. The patron is a supportive structure—a flying buttress for the soul of the piece. His wealth isn’t the point; it’s the material. The marble, the lapis lazuli, the hours of the artist’s life. His placement in the composition is the engineered solution. He is saying, ‘My capital provides the scaffold that elevates this message. Remember my name.’” He finally met your watery gaze. “It’s all structural engineering. Piety, power, prestige—they are just different vectors of force. The art is the architecture that resolves them.”
You stared at him. The tears stopped, replaced by a look of dawning, awe-struck comprehension. You looked from his intense, focused face back to the painting, as if he’d handed you a decoder ring.
“A calculation,” you whispered. “You see it as… a resolved force diagram?”
“I see everything as a structure,” he admitted, a raw honesty in his eyes. “Even this.” He gestured vaguely at the space between you, at the shelves, at the palpable anxiety in the air. “Your stress is a load. You are attempting to support the entire weight of three disparate projects on a single, central column. Your focus. It has exceeded its tolerances. It must be distributed.”
He asked for your deadlines, listening with the concentration of a diagnostician. His mind processed, categorized, triaged.
“The Keats paper,” he pronounced. “That is your dead load. Constant, emotional, dense. Set that foundation first. Get its weight properly settled. The patronage is a live load—dynamic but predictable. Memorizing a schematic. I… I could visualize that for you. A chart. Timelines, connections of influence. The political theory is a wind load, lateral, confusing, but it flows around existing frameworks. You are not building from scratch; you are analyzing turbulence.” He paused, the offer hovering like a held breath. “I have notes. They are visual. I could… bring them. Tomorrow. After the archives?”
The relief that softened your features, that lifted the terrible weight from your posture, was a reward more potent than any academic honor. It was sunlight breaking through a storm ceiling.
“Phainon,” you breathed, your voice regaining some of its texture. “That would be… I don’t know what that would be. Yes, please.”
He helped you gather your scattered belongings, his movements efficient and gentle. As you walked out of the stacks together, something had fundamentally shifted. The thread of his observation was no longer a solitary filament; it had been looped and gently knotted. A shared line now existed, delicate but definite.
True to his exacting nature, he was waiting the next evening outside the archives annex, a large, flat portfolio under his arm. His pulse thrummed in his throat, a frantic counter-rhythm to the steady winter rain. You emerged, looking fatigued but no longer shattered, and when your eyes found him, your smile was the warm key that persuaded winter to let go.
The “chart” was not a chart. It was a masterpiece of informational architecture. Rendered on heavy architect’s vellum with fine-line pens and subtle watercolor washes, it was a sprawling, beautiful mind-map. Flowing, organic lines connected familial houses—Medici, Borgia, Sforza—like the branches of a mighty tree.
Nodes contained not just names and dates, but tiny, exquisitely detailed sketches of key artworks: the dome of the Florence Cathedral, a fragment of a Botticelli gown, the stern face of a papal bust. Arrows indicated flows of money and influence, color-coded by type (banking, ecclesiastical, martial). It was a narrative and a blueprint, fused.
You were silent for a long moment, your fingers hovering over the vellum as if it were sacred.
“Phainon,” you finally said, your voice hushed. “This is… this is breathtaking. You drew all this? The little Filippo Lippi angel…”
He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, his shoulders hunching slightly. A faint, pink flush crept up his neck. “It’s just data visualization. My cognition is… spatial.”
It was a confession. It was a piece of his interiority, translated into a form he hoped you could appreciate.
That first study session became a prototype for many others. The two of you colonized a small, secluded table in the library’s east wing, surrounded by a fortification of books and coffee cups. Conversations began with Kantian ethics or the properties of tensile steel, but your paths were never straight. They meandered.
You learned about the boy who saw bridges as frozen music, who found profound honesty in a beam that didn’t hide its strain. He learned about you who collected stories like others collect sea glass, who saw in every character the fragile, flawed architecture of a human soul trying to bear the weight of its own existence.
The first true, mutual laugh happened over Wuthering Heights. You were defending Heathcliff’s passionate fury as Romantic necessity.
“He’s a catastrophic design flaw,” Phainon stated, utterly sincere, tapping his pencil against your copy of the novel. “All that uncontrolled thermal expansion, rage, jealousy, with no allowance for movement in the structure. He’s like an overheated beam, buckling and warping everything around him. Catherine is the only load-bearing wall on that entire moor, and he systematically erodes her mortar. It’s not a tragedy; it’s a forensic engineering report on progressive collapse.”
You had just taken a sip of hot chocolate. A sputter turned into a cough, then into a helpless, shoulder-shaking laugh that you muffled in your sleeve. “He’s a force of nature! A storm!”
“A storm is a predictable load pattern,” he countered, but a real, unguarded grin was breaking across his face, transforming its severity into something bright and astonishing. “He’s a localized seismic event with poor soil integrity. No foundation. All he does is transfer his destructive load onto everyone in his vicinity. It’s grossly inefficient.”
“You’re ridiculous!” you gasped, laughing, throwing a pretzel from your snack bag at him. He caught it deftly, his grin widening as he popped it into his mouth.
He was falling. It was not a plunge, but a gradual, irrevocable subsidence, like bedrock settling into its eternal shape. Every shared silence that was comfortable, not empty. Every spark of debate that felt like building something together. Every time you leaned in to examine his sketches, your hair brushing his wrist.
He loved the unique topography of your mind, the way you approached a text like an archaeologist, brushing away dust to find the shape beneath. He loved the gentle pragmatism in your hands as you described preserving crumbling documents. He loved that you listened to his structural analogies not with politeness, but with genuine, curious insight, making him feel his worldview was not alien, but simply a different, valuable blueprint of reality.
Winter formalized its occupation, sheathing the world in ice and a profound silence. The semester ended. The holiday break stretched before him—a vast, empty site. He returned to his family’s minimalist house, a place of clean lines, quiet voices, and aesthetic coldness. He was a ghost in a perfectly calibrated machine. His journal entries became stark monuments to absence.
December 22nd. The city’s festive lighting is an inefficient grid, glaring and devoid of warmth. I analyzed the suspension system of the bridge on the drive home. Father discussed market projections. I kept turning, a comment about the cantilever of a balcony or the poor ergonomics of a staircase half-formed on my tongue. The space where they would have been, where they would have understood, is a void. It exerts a new kind of gravitational pull. This silence is not quiet. It is a load I do not know how to bear.
IV. THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE
The second semester began not with a bang, but with the quiet, profound settling of a foundation. Your friendship was now a settled, comfortable fact—a warm, well-lit room in the otherwise stark architecture of Phainon’s life. You texted him absurd snippets overheard in the cafeteria. You saved him the seat to your left in Marmoreal 200, a silent ritual that filled him with a possessive, quiet joy. Then, one biting January morning, you appeared beside his usual table in the student union, a fortress of engineering textbooks, holding two steaming paper cups.
“I come bearing a libation,” you announced, your voice cutting through his focus on stress tensor equations. You placed the cup before him with a soft tap. “Black, right? For the engineer who is, functionally, the load-bearing wall of my entire academic existence.”
The casual, affectionate precision of your words—you remembered how he took his coffee—unmoored him. A wave of pure, dizzying feeling, warm and terrifying, crashed through his chest. He could only nod, his throat too tight for speech, terrified that if he opened his mouth, a confession would spill out with the steam.
“Thank you,” he managed, the words rough. The coffee tasted like a sacrament.
His small, self-selected circle noticed the seismic shift. Over lunch in the noisy hall, Hyacine, her biologist’s eye missing nothing, put down her fork. “You’re smiling. At your phone. It’s chemically unnerving. Who are you and what have you done with our resident monolith?”
Cyrene, all kinetic energy and artistic flair, leaned across the table, a grin spreading. “It’s the archivist, isn’t it? The one with the quiet voice that apparently short-circuits your whole system. I saw you two by the periodicals. You were looking at them like they’d just derived a new law of physics.”
Phainon deflected with talk of parabolic load distribution and the inefficiency of the union’s heating vents, but his protests lacked their usual solidity. The secret was a living thing now, too large for the confines of his ribs, pressing against them with every beat of his heart.
Yet, this deepening friendship forged a new, more exquisite torture. Before, the risk was a simple, binary rejection. Now, the risk was catastrophic ruin. Your companionship had become a critical, load-bearing element in the structure of his daily happiness—a beautiful, arched window letting in light.
To confess his love felt like taking a hammer to that very pane, gambling that he could replace it with something more glorious, but tormented by the vision of irreparable shards and a permanent, chilling draft. He was trapped in a paradise of his own making. Every casual touch you made—a hand on his arm to get his attention, a shoulder bump as you walked—burned like a brand.
Your easy trust, your open, luminous friendship, was both a gift and a sentence. He loved you with a completeness that had become a second, heavier skeleton within him, and the weight of its silence was beginning to stress his every joint.
Then, the snow arrived.
It began in the afternoon as a speculative flurry, a few dreamy flakes past the lecture hall windows. By evening, it was a solemn, relentless fall, a great white hush smothering the world. Campus was transformed into a sketch in charcoal and white chalk, all sharp Gothic lines softened under a pristine blanket. It was the night before the Winter Formal, an event Phainon had dismissed to Cyrene as “an exercise in inefficient social engineering and auditory overload.”
He was returning from the 24-hour engineering lab, his mind a humming grid of calculations for a truss bridge model. The world was profoundly silent, a sensory void broken only by the rhythmic, satisfying crunch-crunch-crunch of his boots through powder so fresh it squeaked. The antique iron lamp-posts, each wearing a tall, fluffy cap of white, cast overlapping pools of apricot light on the snow, creating a series of intimate, glowing stages. It was on one of these stages, at the wrought-iron entrance to the secluded Philosophy Garden, that he saw you.
You were alone. A long, charcoal coat, your boots, and that scarf—the crimson one he loved, a bold, vibrant slash of color against the infinite white. You were standing perfectly still, head tilted back, face upturned to the black velvet sky. Your eyes were closed. You held out a mittened hand, palm open, patiently catching the falling flakes, watching each unique, crystalline star land and dissolve into a perfect, tiny bead of water on the wool.
You looked like a spirit of the quiet winter, a figure from a stained-glass window depicting serenity. The sight did not strike him anew; it acted as a catalyst. It gathered every scattered moment of the past months, the October light on your cheek, the sound of your question unraveling a paradox, the electric touch of your hand in the wind, the trust in your eyes over his hand-drawn chart, the shared laughter over Heathcliff’s fractured foundation, and fused them in the furnace of his heart into a single, unbreakable truth.
The weight of his silence became an intolerable load. It was compromising his integrity, warping the very beams of his soul. He had to offer it to you. He had to lay this love, this vast, intricate, soaring cathedral he had built in the hidden chambers of his being, at your feet. The potential consequence, even if it was total, devastating collapse, would be cleaner than this slow, internal crumbling. It would be an honest failure.
His feet changed course without consulting his brain, carrying him toward you through the deep, pillowy drifts. His heartbeat was not a frantic bird now, but a deep, resonant drumbeat, the solemn cadence of a pilgrim approaching an altar. The universe contracted to the circle of lamplight, the silent, swirling descent, and you.
The sound of his approach—the crunch, the soft whump of displaced snow—made you turn. Flakes clung to your eyelashes like minuscule diamonds, stars caught in a dark net. Your expression shifted from peaceful abstraction to recognition, and then to a soft, wondering curiosity as you absorbed the look on his face: intense, unguarded, stripped bare of all its usual charisma.
“Phainon,” you said, your voice as soft as the settling snow. “I didn’t think I’d see anyone else out here. Shouldn’t you be calculating the snow-load capacity of the library roof?”
A faint, ghost of a smile touched his lips, but his cyan eyes remained serious, fixed on yours with a burning, clarion intensity. “I was,” he said, his voice low, the cold air turning his words into small, visible ghosts. “But then I saw you standing here. And all my calculations failed.”
The statement hung between you, different in substance and weight from anything he’d ever uttered. You fell silent, your gaze searching his face, sensing the tectonic shift in the atmosphere, the vibration in the very ground beneath your feet.
He stopped an arm’s length away. The snow fell in a silent, shimmering curtain, isolating you both in a world of white and gold.
“(Name),” he began, then halted. He looked down at his own bare, reddening hands, then back up at you, drawing a deep, bracing breath that filled his lungs with icy air and irrevocable resolve. “I need to speak. I have been… drafting this in my mind for months. Trying to find the right design. The correct, load-bearing vocabulary. But some forces… they defy schematic.”
He took a step closer. The very air between you seemed to crystallize, charged with the cold and the immense, radiant heat of his contained emotion.
“I have admired you since a Tuesday in October, under a worn-flannel sky. I learned the cartography of your days. I have watched you move through the world with a curiosity and a compassion that… that recalibrates my own instruments.” His voice grew rougher, urgency sanding away the last of his restraint. “But I am not an observer. I’m not merely standing by. I’ve grown attached to you in ways I can’t quite step back from.”
He saw the sharp, startled intake of your breath, a small, white cloud in the space between your faces.
“Every question you ask constructs a new room in my mind. Every thoughtful silence you hold is a corridor I wish to walk with you. Your smile is the only luminosity I care to measure. You have built something inside me, (Name). A cathedral. It is vast, it is beautiful, and it is terrifying in its scope. And I cannot live in the blueprint any longer. I must inhabit it, or see it demolished.”
Another step. He was close enough now to see the individual snowflakes melting in the strands of your hair, the rapid, fluttering pulse at the base of your throat. His hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly at his sides.
“I love the architecture of your mind. I love the music of your laughter, especially when I am its cause. I love the gentle, reverent strength in your hands when you handle broken, historical things. I love the quiet ferocity with which you care for ideas, for stories, for people.” His voice dropped to a raw, passionate whisper, each word a stone laid in a confession that was his life’s work. “I care for you… more than I can ever fully say. With every load-bearing beam, every rivet, every foundational stone of my being.”
Then, he fell silent. The confession hung in the frozen air, as real and crystalline as the falling snow around it. He had stripped himself bare, exposing the gleaming, vulnerable framework of his soul. He stood before you, no longer the tall, charismatic student, but a man offering his whole, trembling heart, awaiting its verdict. The potential for transcendent joy and absolute devastation existed in perfect, paralyzing equilibrium.
You did not speak. For a long, suspended moment, you simply looked at him. Your eyes traveled over his face—the tousled white hair now frosted with snow, the bright cyan eyes, usually so analytical, now dark and deep with vulnerable, unguarded feeling, the strong line of his jaw tight with the strain of his honesty. You saw the quiet giant who held doors, who made sense of your chaos with beautiful, hand-drawn maps, whose presence had become as steady and reassuring as a north wall. You saw the profound depth of the love he had just confessed, a love that had been intertwined, silent but strong, into the very fabric of your friendship.
A single tear welled in your eye, overflowed, and traced a warm, defiant path down your cold cheek. It was not a tear of pity or shock.
Slowly, almost reverently, you lifted your hand. You didn’t touch his face, not yet. Instead, you brushed the accumulated snow from the shoulder of his thick coat, your mitten moving with a tenderness that shattered his final, internal defenses.
“All this time?” you whispered, your voice thick with an emotion he dared not name, but that kindled a wild, desperate hope in his chest.
“All this time,” he affirmed, his own vision blurring. “You were the only structure that ever mattered.”
Another tear followed the first. Then, a slow, radiant, breathtaking smile began to dawn on your face, a sunrise after the longest, coldest night. It lit your eyes from within, melting the last of the perpetual winter in his soul.
“Your calculations,” you said softly, taking the final half-step that eliminated all space between you. Your mittened hands came up to cradle his cold face, the wool soft against his skin. “Your calculations were off by a magnitude of infinity.”
He stopped breathing. The world hinged on your next words.
“Did you ever consider,” you continued, your voice trembling with a joy that mirrored the dizzying hope now singing in his veins, “that the other side of your blueprint… might have been drawn simultaneously? That another architect was at work, admiring the same, strange, beautiful landscape? The quiet strength, the mind that sees poetry in forces and frames, the unexpected, steadfast sanctuary of a man who looks like a winter storm but feels like the only true shelter?”
A sound escaped him—a sob, half-laugh, half-disbelief, pure feeling given voice. He leaned his forehead against yours, a gesture of utter surrender and dizzying, soaring hope. The snow fell around you two, crowning your heads, blessing their sealed space.
“I adore you so much, Phainon,” you whispered, the words a warm breath against his chilled lips, the most beautiful sentence ever engineered. “I think I’ve felt this way since you explained my stress as a load-bearing problem. Since you caught my papers in the wind. Since you looked at me like I was the only interesting structure in the world.”
And then, you kissed him.
It was not a tentative kiss. It was a confirmation, a seal, a homecoming. It was the perfect convergence of two solitary blueprints into a single, magnificent dwelling. His arms came around you, strong and certain, pulling you tightly against the solid wall of his chest, lifting you slightly off the ground as he returned the kiss with all the pent-up passion of his silent months. It tasted of snow and cold air and the incredible, warming sweetness of reciprocated love. It held the silent understanding of shared glances, the warmth of borrowed notes, the electric thrill of debated ideas, the profound comfort of found companionship, all distilled into this one, perfect point of contact.
When you finally parted, breathless, foreheads still touching, the world had been remade. The falling snow was no longer a cold curtain, but a celebration, a silent confetti. The silent, walled garden was no longer empty, but a sacred, private cathedral of your own.
He kept his arms around you, unwilling to let even an inch of space come between you again, his large hands splayed against your back, holding you to him as if you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
“I don’t have a design for this,” he murmured, his voice husky with emotion, his cyan eyes gazing into yours with a wonder that would never, ever fade. “For a happiness this complete. It defies all my models.”
“We’ll draft it together,” you whispered, smiling, brushing a melting snowflake from his eyebrow with your thumb. “One day at a time. A forever kind of structure. The kind that stands.”
Phainon smiled then, a true, full, unburdened smile that reached his eyes and lit them with a cyan joy brighter than any summer sky. He kissed you again, gently this time, a promise, a beginning. Under the falling snow, in the golden pool of lamplight, the solitary cartographer had finally, irrevocably found his true north, and the architect of a lonely heart had come home. The great, silent epiphany was complete, and its name, warm and sure on both of your lips, was love.
March 18th. The bridge project is finished. The work is done, but it feels small now. I’m writing this down because I need to say it to myself again. I loved you in pieces first. I loved the way you think. I loved your quiet hands in the archive, and the specific way you laugh.Then, today, I loved all of you at once. I told you. You said it back.
It wasn’t like drawing a final line. It was like finally understanding the purpose of the foundation I’ve been standing on all this time. All my maps and notes were just me trying to build a path to this moment.
I’m not an observer anymore. I’m yours.
This journal is over. Whatever we write next, we write together.
in which: all the times phainon had to ditch you mid-date, and the one time he didn't.
warnings: 8.2k wc, superhero!au, gn!reader who is not a superhero, the chrysos heirs are the avengers basically, hurt/comfort, fluff, sloppy making out, sfw, happy ending, slight yandere!phainon, both parties are very in love with each other, a lot of food mentions bc i love to eat so, edited but i'm not happy with this.
a/n: finally got this one out of the drafts, it was really fun experimenting with this fic, while i'm not proud of the end result, i can't really say i necessarily dislike it. either way, i hope you'll enjoy!
extra #1, outtake #1
~ ONE:
Dating a superhero is not for the weak.
It's a lifestyle that requires bouts of patience and wrestling with anxiety over whether or not your lover will come home from a mission that's been running too long for your liking. It requires understanding that you may not always be the first choice, not when civilisations will always need him more and lives are what he saves. It requires immense mental capacity and unconditional love, especially when the superhero you're dating is Khaslana.
A widely revered figure and the face of the renowned group: The Chrysos Heirs, he is loved by all. His image iconic, the visage of a heroic entity with two wings sprouting from his back and a ginormous sword that he swings around so easily, moving it like an extension of his arm.
But Phainon, the man behind Khaslana, is loved by you. Snowy hair with blue eyes, his true identity is kept a secret from his public one, and this one is yours.
While fans will cheer and gush over the silhouette of his other persona, the saviour of Amphoreus comes home to you, welcoming him with open arms… and also to tease him with all the Khaslana merch you love buying.
Phainon doesn't really have it in him to feel embarrassed when you wear it so proudly, bouncing around the house in a yellow and purple hoodie that mimicks his superhero form, watching with a proud smile; seizing the heart of the man who holds the weight of the world on his back.
That said… there are also downsides to having a superhero as your significant other.
"I'm so excited to try out this café, I've been seeing them all over my feed," you gush, hand waving around enthusiastically as Phainon tightly holds your other one, watching with a fond smile. "I want to try the pomegranate cream cake, or their dromas-shaped roll!"
The sun was shining gently that day, a nice breeze blowing through the metropolis of Okhema. Ascent Hour had just begun, so the streets were starting to grow busier and busier, but you and Phainon decided to head out early that morning to try a new place that was going semi-viral online.
It was going seamlessly, the store wasn't too busy when you entered, and the weather was perfect for an impromptu picnic.
"Hey! If you like my drink so much, then get your own!" You scold as your boyfriend lifts your cup up to his lips, taking another generous gulp.
"I can't help it," he grins, "you just have better taste."
You glare at him from the corner of your eyes, raising your food to your lips. "It's mine, though."
"I paid for it, don't I deserve a little bit of renumeration?"
"Taking my food is a step over the line."
"Alright, I'm sorry my love," he kisses your cheek as you bite down, his glasses pressing into the side of your face.
When you raise your drink, he latches on to the straw before you could even react, the reaction time and instincts of a superhero being something you could never dream of overpowering. All you can do is let out a cry of defeat as he finishes the last of it without remorse.
"Phai! You meanie."
His smile is anything but apologetic. If anything, seems like the bastard is quite happy with himself.
"I thought your job was to save people, so why are you tormenting me?"
A muscular arm is wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against the white-haired's side, personal space completely eliminated as he rubs his face against yours. "You're the only one I can torment, and I love it."
"Whatever. You owe me."
"I'll make it up to you, sunshine."
You pout but forgive his transgression regardless. Conversation flows, topics jumping around quite a bit, you mentioning something you wanted to read, recommended by your coworkers, Phainon talking about how he's going to meet with Mydei soon to train for an upcoming marathon; all mundane little things.
However, tranquility is a luxury when you're dating a Chrysos Heir, because the morning is cut through with an invasive buzzing on his watch. A sound that indicates he needed to be urgently summoned, despite how inconspicuous it was.
A flash of annoyance crosses his face, eyeing the watch like it was a minor inconvenience.
Well, to him it was. To you, it was a signal of distress.
"You should probably get going," you say, and there's a small pout on his face when he looks up at you.
"I should. I'm sorry for having to leave like this."
"It's fine, just another day being a hero. Text me when you're done, okay?"
He nods, handing you his card from his wallet. "Get yourself another drink before you go."
"Phainon, I can pay for it-"
"I was planning on buying it myself, but I'll probably be busy."
You press a fleeting kiss to his lips as a farewell, one that he burns into memory. "Stay safe, Phai."
"Please," he scoffs, "the bad guys are going to regret it when they see me."
You roll your eyes and swat away the kisses he blows at you.
Keeping his promise, you return to the café to buy the exact same drink he had stolen, browsing the pastry catalogue mundanely while pretending like your larger-than-life boyfriend's presence wasn't dearly missed. Maybe you should buy something sweet for him to enjoy when he comes home.
That afternoon, the news report of another successful Chrysos Heirs mission in the city of Janusopolis. The anxiety you've been nursing all afternoon is only quelled when you receive a text from Phainon, the notification ceasing the uneasiness in your gut.
My Hero <3: I'm okay. I'm on my way home now.
My Hero <3: I love you.
~ TWO:
Your eyes scan the passing crowds every so often, keen on the lookout for a certain white-haired and his blond friend, both of whom are quite hard to miss, yet you can't find them, each face as unfamiliar as the last. Until-
"Boo!"
Hands slam down on the back of the wooden bench you were sitting on, and you jolt in surprise, a small yelp slipping from your lips.
"You-" you guffaw, turning around to see the entertained grin of your boyfriend.
He even has the nerve to laugh at you.
"Phainon!"
"I'm sorry, sunshine, I didn't expect you to be so scared!"
You rise from the bench with crossed arms. "Can't blame me to be scared when you slapped my seat so hard, you should hold back your strength sometimes."
"And you can't blame a man who is just excited to see the love of his life." He rounds to embrace you in a tight hug, pressing you right into his warm, sweaty body that had just ran the distance of a marathon. You complain about his grossness into his skin, hitting his shoulder, but he doesn't relent, not even as Mydei approaches him with an unimpressed expression.
"Let me go before Mydei thinks you're a clingy leech."
"He already thinks I am a clingy leech," Phainon murmurs, but lets you go reluctantly, allowing you to take a step back and turn to the tattooed man.
"Hey, Mydei. How was your run?"
"It was good. We both set a new personal best."
"Mine was faster."
"By one second. You just pressed the 'end run' button sooner than I did, you cheat."
Phainon gasps, but you cut the bickering short. For a pair of superheroes who are powerful enough to destroy a city with one punch, their mentality regresses into that of schoolboys when they're around each other.
"Save the accusations for later. Still good to come over for dinner, Mydei?" You ask.
"If the invitations still up for grabs, then I'd love to."
The white-haired hero butts in. "As long as you admit that I was faster than you!"
You gently flick Phainon's forehead and he cowers at the sudden pain, pouting at you like you had done something worse. "Stop instigating fights, Phai, or I'll make you fend for yourself while Mydei and I enjoy some nice warm meals."
"Fine," he wraps a tight- almost possessive, arm around your waist. "I'm starved, lets go home."
An annoying buzz slices through the atmosphere, coming from the wrist of both men.
Another call.
Phainon glances down at you like a kicked puppy, an apology already brewing in his eyes.
"It's fine," you say before either of them could say anything. "I understand completely."
"Sorry, Y/n, this couldn't have come at any worse of a time." The blond mumbles, eyes down at his watch.
You glance up at your lover, your hand coming to hold the one thats around your waist. "I'll still cook. As soon as you're done, come home and eat, okay? You too, Mydei, and if Castorice is available too, invite her as well."
"What if it's really late?" Phainon asks, voice quiet and guilty.
"I don't care what time, just come home," you rise up to place a quick kiss against his lips before gently urging him to leave.
What you expected to be a night filled with company is spent alone, with nothing but the sound of food cooking and music occupying the empty space. You worriedly wait for any sort of message from Phainon, glancing every so often at your phone as you plate, as you eat, as you clean, as you wrap the leftovers.
Nothing ever comes. Not until near midnight, after you have spent the whole night trying not to tug your hair out.
My Hero <3: Coming home now, sunshine.
My Hero <3: Are you still awake?
You: yeah, i'll wait up for you guys.
My Hero <3: We'll be there in 20!
My Hero <3: Castorice says she'd love to come too.
You: perfect! what about hyacine?
My Hero <3: She needs to go home :(
You: that's fine, i'll see you soon.
My Hero <3: Thank you, my love.
True to their word, twenty minutes later, there are superheroes sitting on your dining table with heated up meals in front of them. Fatigue clings to your eyes, and you're actively battling sleep as you listen to the three chat, but you try to absorb the moment as much as you can, conversing with Mydei about the ingredients you used and the new grocery store that just opened nearby, talking to Castorice about Pollux and everything she might be up to.
They leave a few minutes after their plates are cleared, thanking you sincerely as Phainon walks them down and out of the apartment complex.
"I'll do the dishes," he murmurs softly, engulfing you in a hug from behind when he returns.
"Are you sure?"
"You've had a long day, babe, go sleep."
"Not as long as yours."
He scoffs. "Sunshine, please, I know you're any moment from crashing."
You laugh, deciding to relent. "Alright. Come to bed soon, okay?"
A pair of lips press against your forehead, his arms squeezing you tightly for a moment before letting you slip away.
~ THREE:
There's a low whistle behind you. Phainon's appreciative gaze is what greets you when you turn toward the source of the sound, and like a magnet drawn to metal, his hands snake around your waist. His touch is gentle, reverent, treating you like delicate china and your breath hitches when his fingers graze over a sensitive spot.
His smirk only grows when you shudder against him.
"I almost don't want to leave now," he murmurs before pressing dainty kisses along the shell of your ear. "I mean, it'll be fine if we cancel now, right?"
You stop his hand from going snaking down any lower, giving him a weak glare through the mirror. "You wanna cancel our anniversary dinner because you can't keep it in your pants?"
"My sunshine looks so beautiful, I wanna show you how you make me feel."
"After," you scold, going back to adjusting your hair in the mirror.
"Fine," he doesn't detach from you, glued to your back like a koala, except he towers over you and keeps admiring your reflection with hearts in his eyes. Every so often, he places a kiss somewhere he can reach, and you placate him with a ruffle of his hair before going back to getting ready.
Music plays softly from your phone, and he hums along intermittently, vibrations thrumming along your back.
"You good there, babe?" You ask after a completing your final touchups.
He blinks slowly, "yeah, just admiring the view."
"Ready to go?"
"Ready whenever you are, sunshine."
You shiver at the feather-light kisses he presses along your jaw, giggling at the ticklish sensation while trying to create some distance between you.
"I can't help it, just can't believe you're mine."
He's throwing hearts with his eyes right now, and if you turned your head to the left slightly, you would have seen the tenderness brewing behind those blues.
The walk out is surprisingly peaceful. Phainon keeps his hands to himself like a respectful gentleman, save for the touch on the small of your back, and the way he knelt down to help put your shoes on. You don't comment on the small kiss he places on the side of your knee just before he stands to his full height.
The night is going seamless, but what goes up must come down, because only a few minutes after you place your orders, a buzzing from his wrist interrupts the warm ambience.
Both of you fall silent, and the candle flickers vividly as his face contorts into a series of emotions. It looked like it physically pained him to leave you.
"Go," you urge. "Before it's too late."
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
He can't leave you, not when you look so perfect and you've both been looking forward to this night for a long time. That's awful, you don't deserve that at all.
His watch still buzzes frantically as his heart fights with his brain.
"The night was only just beginning-"
"Phainon." You say decisively. "Go."
Reluctantly, he pushes out of his chair with a look that says he clearly does not condone this, even as he places a farewell kiss on the back of your hand, even as he powerwalks out of the restaurant, already unbuttoning his suit. Still, his gaze lingers at you, savouring the sight before he goes and punishes whoever has stolen him away from you.
You lean back into your chair with a disappointed sigh. Once again, Phainon was whisked away away from you, and now it was just you in this vast, bustling restaurant, a candlelit dinner with no one but yourself.
How sad.
When the waiter came to check up on you, pointed look in the direction of Phainon's chair, you told him something important came up. You hated the way humiliation creeped in your ribs as you tried to save face, defending your lover with no hesitation, even if the empty spot on the other side of the table told another tale.
You really did try to insist that it was important, the fate-of-a-city-hangs-in-the-balance kind of importance, but the waiter murmurs a conflicted 'alright' before coming back with your food and an extra glass of refreshments with more side dishes- on the house.
The night ends far earlier than you expected, walking out of the restaurant with his dish packed away securely in your hands.
You wait for him when you get home, methodically getting unready with soft music in the background, fitting the big bouquet he got you that morning into the largest vase you could find, killing time with mundane activities that you were not anticipating for your anniversary.
When sleep tugs at your eyes, and he still hasn't come home, you bite your cheek nervously. Him working so late was not a rare occurrence, but the ache has never been easy to quell, not when the only remedy is blindly trusting that Phainon will come home in one piece and he'll be beside you in the morning when you wake.
You: going to bed now, text me when you see this
You: love you, stay safe
It's 3am, nearing 4 when Tribbie's portal sends him back to his living room, Khaslana form cramped in the coziness of your shared space, the outermost feathers of his wings just narrowly missing the delicate decorations you've placed around the space. Weeping golden cracks close, jagged edges soften, halo and weapon disappearing into nothingness, it's Phainon who turns off the nightlight you set for him.
It's Phainon's tired footsteps that trudge against hardwood floors as he makes a beeline for your shared bedroom, kicking his clothes off layer by layer on the way, discarding tailored fabrics in the hallway as his heavy heart aches.
It's Phainon who breathes a sigh of relief when he sees you, lying peacefully asleep on the bed.
Your back is facing him, body snug under the covers as he quietly crawls over to you, hands reaching for whatever he can grab as he lays behind you, wrapping you up in his embrace.
He feels the way your chest slowly expands against his, how warm your hands are from being nestled under the covers, how adoration thrums through his veins, even as he does something as simple as holding you.
Despite his drowsiness and the way his body begs for sleep after such a demanding mission, his heart is restless.
Se sits up and leans over you, admires what he can of your expresion through the little light that filters through the windows.
The love of his life that he has to, devastatingly, let down more often than he'd like.
He lowers his lips to your cheekbones and places a lingering kiss on your skin. He presses more, and more, and more, hoping to engrain his love into you, to let it seep through your pores and into your veins so you know the magnitude of his devotion.
Titans, he adores you, what would he do without you?
It's unfair that life has to take him away from you. Vaguely, his mind rewinds to the night, how quickly you masked your disappointment when he was being summoned, how you tried to reassure him with that unsure smile of yours, how he never wanted to leave you at a table alone again, even if you are the one pushing him away.
You really are just too selfless.
Isn't that what he loves about you, though?
"Phainon?" You rustle, whining softly. He freezes, face hovering mere centimetres from yours as you turn to him, "is that you?"
He gulps, guilt settling in his gut at disturbing you. Yet, he can't bring himself to feel completely bad about it, especially not when its your voice he gets to hear, raspy from sleep or not. "Yeah, sunshine, it's me."
"What time is it?"
"Late. I'm sorry for waking you."
Your hand comes to his face, awkwardly patting around before they find his cheek; the exact spot you love cradling, and he sinks into you like sand. "It's okay," you murmur, "I'm glad you're safe and sound."
"Yeah," he whispers, "I'm glad, too."
"How was the mission?"
"Went off without a hitch. But our date-"
"Right, your food is in the fridge, got takeaway."
"That's not what I was trying to say. I'll plan another one soon to make up for it, I promise. No distractions this time."
"Rest first, Phai," you scrunch your nose, "and wash."
"Do I smell?"
"Like a superhero. Yeah."
He smiles, and he's sure you can hear it in his words. "Isn't that a good thing?"
"No, I don't like it," you murmur bluntly before retreating back under the covers, tucking them up to your chin.
"I'll go clean up then."
"M'kay."
With one last, very long kiss to your temple, he pushes off you.
~ FOUR:
Phainon is already awake when you open your eyes, the vacant bed beside you already made, but the low hum of the coffee machine whirring tempts you away from your cozy spot. Bare feet hitting wooden floors, he greets you with a warm, loving smile, exercise shirt hugging the planes of his chest and arms.
"Good morning!"
You mumble back the pleasantry, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. "Where are you headed?"
"I've been called to HQ, incident reports… something like that. Thought I might as well make a morning run from it."
"What'd you do?"
He makes this guilty looking face. "Might have accidentally destroyed a few top floors."
"Phai!"
"It's fine! No one was hurt because evacuation went smoothly, besides, it was for the bigger picture- don't give me that look! Nevermind, I made you coffee." He sets the steaming cup before you with a kiss to your forehead. "Oh, also, I'll reschedule our anniversary date at another place, maybe a rooftop restuarant this time?"
"Are you sure you'll make it this time?"
The hand that was playing with your hair stills, and you feel the atsmosphere shift. You feign ignorance as you take a sip of your homemade drink that was exactly to your liking, the method perfected years ago by Phainon.
"Sunshine?" He begins, voice abnormally sweet.
"Hm?"
"Is there something you want to say to me?"
"What do you think I have to say?"
His cheek twitches. "If you're upset at me, you can say it outright."
Phainon watches you set down your cup, turn to face him, and throw your arms around his neck, standing up on your toes to reach his height. He looks you right in your tired eyes, momentarily glancing down at your lips that are jutted out in a small pout.
"Do I look mad?" You ask.
"You look like the love of my life," he's about to lean in until you push at his chest, stopping him.
"Don't try appease me by flirting. If you're going to book an anniversary dinner, make sure it will go uninterrupted. I understand emergencies are inevitable, but I just want to have you to myself at least once."
He nods, snowy hair bouncing enthusiastically. Of course, he promises, but you're getting tired of over-exercised promises and redundant oaths.
Still, you love him too much. You'll always love Phainon.
"You're forgiven, you should probably get going now," you straighten his collar and pat down his broad shoulders.
"I should but… can I get a goodbye kiss first?" His blue eyes shine with want and his hands firmly hold your hips, pulling you to his chest. He cranes his head to your height, chasing after your lips for something you won't grant.
"Don't, I've got morning breath," you warn.
"I don't care," he murmurs, mouth slotting against yours, drinking the air from your lungs.
When you try to make space, he simply follows, selfish and heedless when it comes to you. He'll keep taking everything you give until he's satisfied, and even then, Phainon is no better than a bottomless pit of greed, trying to press himself closer to try and mould your atoms together.
When he parts, your heavy breaths circulate between you, head beginning to spin.
He leaves a few minutes later, with a promise of a date and catching up on all the kisses he's missed.
Goodness, was he serious.
The coolness of the sheets beneath you are a stark contrast to the buzzing beneath your skin, the heat above you completely encompassing and wild as Phainon's mouth is everywhere. From your left, you hear the rustle of sheets, his hand bunching the fabric into a tight ball as his other hand runs up your leg, folding your thigh to sit snug against his hip. The delicate fabric of your outfit falls with the action, and when he parts, a string of saliva connects your tongue with his.
When you joked about a second round of dessert, you were not expecting him to drag you out of the restauarant, speed down empty streets so fast that you were holding on to the car door for dear life, and begin slobbering all over you in the elevator. Pressing you up against the mirrors, he began before the doors could even slide shut, hands all over your face, waist, hips, ass- anything he could grab.
Between kisses, hot licks, and bites, are confessions are love being etched into your skin. As you unbutton his suit, hands snaking underneath his lapels, he glues his mouth to your neck, panting.
When you sit up, he follows, obedient when you sit him on the mattress instead. His eyes unsubtly glance down at your half-exposed chest as you crawl over his muscular body, drinking up the view of his sky blue eyes that are now cloudy with desire. Gone was the heated beast who wanted nothing more but to devour your skin, replacing it was a compliant lover who shuddered with every sinful touch.
You lower yourself over his crotch and he rolls his head back, grunting.
"My hero is so handsome," you coo, brushing strands of his hair aside, revealing more of the flush that's crawled to his face.
"Ha- calling me that now ? Does it delight you?" He chuckles, hiding his flusteredness behind light jokes, but a drag of your finger along his sternum and abdominals has his muscles clenching.
You hum. "It does delight me to see you so susceptible, because I'm the only one who can have you like this. Right?"
"Yes, the only one," he whines.
"What about Khaslana?"
"What about him?"
"Is he mine too?"
He moans when you lick a stripe up his neck, helping you take off his shirt as he nods desperately. "Yours, I'm all yours, Khaslana too, all of me has been yours and will always be yours."
You smile. "Good boy-"
His hands tangle into your hair, pulling your mouth right to his. His tongue is quick to dart out and brush against your bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth.
A shrill buzz cuts through the air.
Phainon loudly sighs as he glares at the watch on his wrist. You fix the neckline of your clothes and roll off him, watching him violently tap some buttons on the screen to silence it. Then, he leans over you once again, arms on either side of you as you're lying against the sheets, giggling at the featherlight kisses he places along your mandible.
"Ph-Phai, you should probably leave now."
He grumbles. "One more kiss."
One kiss turns to several more, until you're pushing him by the shoulders, urging him to leave. Which he does so very reluctantly, grumbling under his breath the whole time.
You go to bed alone that night, an unsettling premonition stewing in your gut as you tuck the covers over your chin and try to ignore the heavy void beside you. When you wake, Phainon's side of the bed is completely unblemished, cold to the touch, no indication that he had ever been here. A call of his name is met with silence and any indication of life beside you is nonexistent, not even a message on your phone from him.
Maybe the mission ran longer than expected.
You refresh your messages and news constantly, obsessing over any update or new notification like it'd be the salvation you were hoping for, an indication that you were approaching the light at the end of the tunnel. You pick at your skin and bite at your nails and run your hands through your hair, but nothing gets him home faster, nothing grants you the sight you truly wish to see.
Even as you stare out at the Okheman horizon on the balcony, mentally praying to the stars for him to come home.
Stillness is something that does not exist while living with Phainon, so in his absence, silence beats louder, time moves slower, and stagnation exists in the periphery, slowly closing in.
After two nights of missing his warmth and buzzing around the apartment with anxiety, there's a heavy knock on the front door. Your heart spikes, head spinning to the source of the sound. In the haven of your apartment, living room walls coated by cold sun rays, atmosphere occupied by the thrum of your running dishwasher and the video playing from your laptop, the voice you've been waiting to hear slices through it all.
"Sunshine? It's me."
The journey from the couch to the front door is completed in a blink, finally remembering how to breathe when you see him.
"Phainon," you whisper.
He's completely worn-down, eyebags prominent, shoulders slumped, but affection still gleams on his face and he's not beyond a gentle smile of reassurance.
"You're home."
He slumps into your open arms, finding no issue leaning all his weight against you. His snowy hair brushes against the side of your neck as his arms bring you as close as humanly possible, the fatigue weighing him down like iron.
"Let's get you to bed, superhero."
Unceremoniously, he collapses onto the mattress with a grunt, sprawled over the covers.
"Do you need water? Some snacks, maybe?"
He shakes his head and simply reaches for your waist.
"I just need you," he grumbles, pulling you down to him.
When your body is flush against his, head underneath his chin and legs intertwined, he sighs in relief and a ghost of a smile makes its way to his face. For the first time in two days, the silence is peaceful, and not a stark reminder of who is not here with you, of who cannot stay by your side all the time.
You press your face closer to his neck and listen to his heartbeat
~ FIVE:
It's almost ridiculous how the universe goes out of its way to spite you.
While you sat pretty and patient outside the Okheman Archives Museum, waiting for your artifact-enthusiast of a boyfriend to show up, your excitement for the date was stomped out before it could even begin. Especially after how hard you tried to get tickets to this highly rated 'Amphorean History in Ceramics' exhibition, which you would have never attended if it weren't for him and his passion in appraisal.
You even put more consideration into your work outfit today so it'd be gallery-appropriate, and you had been looking forward to this tradition of sorts for the whole day… only for a call from the man himself to dimish it.
"Don't cook tonight, okay baby?" He yells over the phone, wind whipping through the speakers. "I'll be home before dinner, we can get takeout- your favourite, and watch that movie you've been meaning to see, okay?"
"Okay."
"Sunshine… what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong, Phai, just-" you pinch your nosebridge and swing your bag over your shoulder. "Be safe out there."
"You know I will. I gotta go now, I love you."
"Bye."
"Wait, you can't leave without saying-"
You disconnect the call and shut off your phone… though not without a follow-up message.
You: i love you
Tucking the device into your bag, you begin the trip back home with the setting Okheman sun beaming into your eyes, and the wind blowing hair out of your face quite violently; just what you need after your superhero of a boyfriend cancels on you for the nth time.
When you found out about Phainon and Khaslana being one person, you were understanding and accomodating at first, and obviously freaked out that the nerdy, innocent-looking, puppy of a man you called your boyfriend had the ability to move planets. Despite how surreal it was, you knew what you were staying for. Missing nights, waking up to him not being there in the morning, sudden calls- none of these were foreign nor out of your expectations.
You kick a stray pebble in the road with a little too much force, and wonder if you were being too childish.
Can you even justify being upset with him when lives were at stake?
But how can you be second to the whole world in your own relationship?
Phainon barges through the front door at 8:30pm with bags of takeout, dumped haplessly on the kitchen counter in favour of clinging to you, wailing, acting nothing like his stoic, superhero counterpart.
"Don't ever hang up without saying 'I love you' back!" He whines loudly, rocking you back and forth in his arms while you took the food out from their containers. "A message won't suffice, and I don't care if you're upset at me, you have to say it every time, or I'll call you until you pick up!"
"And if I don't?"
"I'll call you over and over again, until it's your voice I hear and not your voicemail that tricks me every time."
"Won't the other heirs get mad at you if you pull that stunt? Especially Lady Aglaea?" The white-haired falls silent.
A quick raise of your eyebrow declares victory, but he's not satisfied at all, so he tugs you into his chest, keeping you there while demanding him to stop suffocating you in his pecs. It wasn't until he made you promise him that you'd never hang up on him again without an 'I love you' that you were finally set free from his iron grip, gasping for air.
Immediately, he's by your side again, big, blue eyes shining down at you. "Can you say you love me?"
"Right now?"
"Well, in my humble opinion, you should always love me."
Good grief. You roll your eyes and grab a plate. Unfortunately for you, he is the man that has your heart in a merciless headlock.
"I love you, Phainon."
~ SIX:
The Titans were testing the bounds of your strength.
After all this pent-up frustration that had nowhere to go, who knew that disaster striking in your own home city would become the be-all-end-all?
The day began with a long stroll to start the morning when all of a sudden, a bang to your right was heard, followed by the crumbling sound of concrete. Phainon had shielded you immediately, tugging you into the safety of his chest until it all went quiet.
Chaos erupted a split second after.
Cars beeping, people screaming, pushing others on the pavement, all running away from the settling debris and smoke that drifted into the clear Okheman skies. Your own heart began racing, but through it all, you could still make out the sound of Phainon's watch urgently beeping.
With the disaster right before him, you wondered why he wasn't making an immediate break for it.
Until you realised it was you he still tethered to, hands on either side of your shoulders, trying to guide you to safety by urging you to follow him. What on Amphoreus was he doing?
"Phainon! Stop worrying about me!" You exclaim, prying his hands off you. "Go! Go now!"
"But I need to make sure you're safe!" He insists.
"I'm fine, but there are people who aren't. They need you!"
"I also need to be with you!"
"How are we having this conversation right now- go!"
His eyebrows furrow even deeper, "at least let me escort you out of the block. The other Heirs can manage without me, c'mon."
"No, Phainon!" You shriek, heart dropping to your feet when you see a civillian free-falling from the top of the high-rise; mere seconds away from a gruesome end while everyone's beloved superhero was still standing in front of you as stubborn as a mule.
Khaslana wouldn't get to him in time, even with his inhumane abilities, it was a losing fight, and you could possibly be the reason someone's life couldn't get saved in time-
A flash of glowing red catches the victim, snatching him from the air. Following suit, a trio of superheroes on a rocket, soaring through the sky and destroying larger pieces of debris.
You heave a sigh of relief, thanking Mydeimos, Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon mentally.
"Deliverer!" Mydei bellows, his roar echoing through the streets and effortlessly reaching where you and the man he was calling for stood.
Finally, finally, Phainon makes a move in the right direction, turning around with a sour expression on his face.
"Go," you push at his back. "Go!"
When you get home, you slump against the door and sink, exhausted. The security guard downstairs asked about your safety before informing you that the Chrysos Heirs already subdued most of the chaos, now left to chase down the organisation that started this.
'Thanks to them, we sleep better at night' he cheered with a dip of his hat before the elevator doors closed.
Your throat is still sore from how hard you had to yell at Phainon. The itch at the back of your throat persists, forcing you to think back to how unmoving Phainon was. Even while within distance of the incident, it took a fearsome cry from Mydei to finally get Khaslana moving.
Has this… ever happened before? Have you ever been the reason Khaslana was too late to save someone?
All the times his watch buzzed yet he didn't move a muscle, eyes shining so brightly with guilt as they bore into you as if you were the one physically affected, like the time after the café visit, at your anniversary dinners, just then- you slam your empty cup into the sink.
Are you hindering his duties?
Khaslana enters your apartment through Tribbie's Infinity Gate.
The portal whooshing open in the middle of your living room, and out from the frame, steps the magnificent hero; a melting pot of gold, divinity, and terror. To you, he is none of those things; you look at him and see the love of your life who reserves his softest of smiles for you.
He hovers his way over to you.
"You okay? Not hurt anywhere?"
You shake your head. "What about you? How did the mission go?"
"Good. Fast."
"Phai, you know I love you, right?"
"Of course I do, sunshine."
You bite your lower lip and cast your gaze down at your lap, a whirlwind of emotions swirling behind your eyes. His clawed hand gently prompts you to look at him, sharp fingers curled around your cheek, your smooth skin a humane contrast to the ragged edges that make Khaslana Khaslana.
Khaslana isn't exactly human- no, he's half-beast and half-demigod, but still, his heart aches at how sad you seem.
"Baby," he croaks, "what's wrong?"
"Do you think it's better if we parted ways?" You ask meekly.
He freezes, silence stretching tensibly. For one moment.
Two.
Three.
He scrambles to his knees, bones hitting the floor with a dull thud as his hands cling to your thighs. "Y/n, if this is a joke then it's not funny. Is this how you're punishing me? You know I'm-"
"It's not a joke."
He makes a sound akin to a wounded animal, superhero form crowding the space around the coffee table as his wings flutter wildly; a mirror of his frantic emotions, the ones he can't show as the stone-faced Khaslana. The grip he has on your thigh is very telling, the way he digs into your skin like an anchor onto a seabed.
"Why?"
"With the most recent call, the casualties that were just narrowly avoided…" you inhale deeply before exhaling shakily. "It's best that I don't interfere with what you do, maybe… there's just no space where we can work on top of your duties."
"Don't say that," he pleads, "you couldn't be more wrong, don't say things like that."
"It's true though."
"It's not, I need you. I don't care if there's no 'space' for us, I'll carve it out, I'll make it happen, I'll do anything as long as you're here with me."
"It's not just that, though. I-" you falter, tearing your gaze away to look past him. "I overestimated how strong I am, but all the time I've spent worrying over you has worn me down. I don't know how much longer I can go wondering if you're okay or not, this isn't healthy."
"Y/n," he whispers your name like it's sacred, "please tell me you don't mean that, please."
"I do mean it. I love you, but this is killing me slowly."
"Then- then I'll fix it, I'll do anything, just wait a little longer, please. I'll talk to the other heirs, they'll understand! Especially Teacher Tribios and Lady Aglaea, they'll find a solution-"
Your fingers curl around his. "There's no permanent fix, Phai. I'll just always be here, anxiously waiting to find out if you're still breathing or not, but Amphoreus needs you. These two things will never change, you can't fix one to save the other."
"So you're already giving up without giving me a chance?"
"I can't love both Phainon and Khaslana."
You're not happy with him.
He's heaving at this point, hands shaking where they hold onto you so tight, doubling over his own hiccups and sobs as his heart breaks at the idea of you not being in his life. Of not making coffee the exact way you like it. Of not turning off a light that you leave on so he doesn't have to stumble through the darkness when he comes home at awful hours of the night. Of not coming home to you after a successful mission, of never having his safe haven and comfort place again.
Your absence, an emptiness he'd have to shoulder for the rest of his life, grieving over what he could have done to stop you from leaving.
That's not acceptable to him. He doesn't want that reality.
"Please," Khaslana begs into your skin, head pressed into your lap like a beggar. "Stay with me. You're the one that matters to me most. I can't do this if you're not here."
"I'm making it easier for the both of us."
"You're being stubborn. You think losing you makes things easier for me? No way," he shakes his head aggressively, "not in this lifetime, or any other."
"But you're a hero. Everyone loves you."
"I don't care what I am to everyone else, I care about being yourhero."
"You are my hero, Phai, but- but maybe it's better to be one at arms length."
He jolts up, blazing eyes holding your gaze. "No, never at arms length, please. Not with you. I'll do anything."
Suddenly, his weapon manifests from glowing light. A smaller version of the claymore he iconically wields, but it still holds the ability to slice through Amphoreus' crust with little effort… and he holds it dangerously close to his right wing.
"W-What are you doing?" you ask anxiously.
"If it wasn't for Khaslana, would you stay with me?"
"I'm not asking you to choose between Phainon or Khaslana, please, put your sword away!"
"You're asking me to choose between Khaslana or you, and if Khaslana is the problem" his golden eyes darken, "then I'd kill him without hesitation."
Your breath hitches when he raises the weapon above his head. One swing and it'd slice the feathers smooth off.
Frantically, you encase his warm fist with your colder hands, a pathetic attempt at stopping him that he obeys nonetheless, keeping his hand raised and frozen while staring up at you, at your mercy.
As if you had the strength to overpower him.
"Phainon, stop, don't do this."
"I'm going to lose you otherwise," he whispers.
"Don't dismember yourself for me!"
"Then how else will you stay?"
"But Khaslana is your-"
"I don't care," he hisses, his fury beginning to bubble, threatening to spill over. It's not directed at you though, Titans, it could never be because of you. "If Khaslana is the reason you want to leave me, I'll destroy him."
"Don't do that!"
"What other choice do I have?"
You bite your lip. "I won't go. I'll stay."
His wings flutter. "Really?"
"Really."
"But what about your-"
"I'll stay, Phainon."
The sword in his hand disappears and he all but collapses on you, torso thrown over your thighs as he sobs, the ache of almost losing you slowly dissipating as you play with his hair.
Every coax of your hand running along his back has him slowly transforming back into his regular form; wings shrinking back, hair turning back into a brilliant shade of white, the blues returning to his eyes only emphasising his sadness as he looks at you like you're the most precious thing he has.
"Never leave me," he whispers, voice raw while rubbing circles on your calf. "Please, I could never survive that heartbreak."
You don't say anything, just let him cry while slowly watching him turn back into the Phainon you know; the man that is yours and yours alone, but is draining your will to have.
His now-human hands wrap around your wrist tightly, bringing it up to his face as he desperately nuzzles into your palm, clinging onto whatever warmth you will spare. "Tell me you love me."
"I love you."
He chokes over his own sobs, tears falling onto your skin as your thumb collects some of the crystals, but his cries only worsen when you bring your other hand up to his cheek as well, cradling his face as Phainon holds onto your wrists with a vice grip, terrified you might slip away.
You:where are you!! >:(
You: don't tell me you got swept away by another mission
You huff at your phone, obviously displeased as you shove the device into your pocket with more aggression than necessary. The nerve of this man! What happened to being punctual?
He has the tickets, after all, if he doesn't show up (again), you wouldn't even be able to get in!
"There you are!" You jump out of your seat and take long strides toward your white-haired boyfriend, arms crossed and eyebrows slightly furrowed, beyond hiding your annoyance. He's breathing heavily, and sweat coagulates at his hairline, covering his forehead in a slight sheen.
"Ow, ow, ow!" He yelps when your fingers pinch his ear. "I got really caught up at the bank, they were being so slow! Mercy on me, sunshine, please!"
You sigh, letting him go. "Alright."
Phainon smiles softly when you let him wrap an arm around your waist, bringing you flush to his side. "I'm sorry, are you mad at me?"
"It's fine. I was just afraid you wouldn't show up… again."
"I wouldn't miss this for the world."
"Don't say that. Remember what I said about false hope?"
"Sunshine," he frowns, that familiar ache in his chest persisting when you refused to even glance up at him. "Y/n, you know that I-"
"It's fine, Phai."
He would honestly rather you just stab him, a wound from Dawnmaker would be easier to mend compared to all the metaphorical ones you've been throwing at his heart recently.
You grab his hand, wrapping your fingers tightly around his. "C'mon, lets not waste any more time standing around."
Inside the museum, you keenly listen to every fact Phainon conjures as he points at random artifacts, humming deep in thought as he reads the engraved plaques near them. Even as you pass by exhibition after exhibition, he keeps spewing facts that even tour guides spontaneously join in and begin discussing with him.
All the while, you hold onto his arm tightly, nodding and humming thoughtfully with not much else to contribute, just thankful to finally spend time with him.
Phainon's just grateful you haven't ran away yet, putting extra effort into making sure you're entertained and not bored by some historic relics that you only came to see because of him. He had to do some of his own research beforehand, scrolling endlessly through wikipages, his poor teleslate beginning to overheat with how many tabs he had open.
But… anything for you, he surmises.
Every so often, his fingers ghost over the pocket of his trench coat, making sure that the ring is still there.
Truthfully, he hadn't gone to the bank, he went to the finest jeweller in town (per Aglaea's recommendation) and spent hours inside, navigating through dozens of rings just to find the one for you, and it had to be no less than perfect.
To say he got a little caught up was an understatement. By the time the velvet box was in his hands, he realised he only had fifteen minutes to dash halfway across downtown.
Could you really blame a man in love for trying? Especially after a recent scare, and how close he was to losing you, he was not going to repeat that mistake. The world may love Khaslana, but Khaslana loves only you, and Phainon will happily devote the rest of his life proving it to you.
Summary: You’re a survivor within this madness call scenarios. A madness where you’re force to clear the various scenarios made to entertain the higher beings. Running and fighting against monsters and humans alike. The scenarios twisted and tested your morality in the name of writing a grandiose story. However despite the madness wilting away your sanity and fueling your hatred toward it, a certain constellation had been there from the beginning. Watching over you, lending you a helping hand without asking much in return.
Pairing: Constellation!Phainon/Khaslana x f!reader
Tags: Modern au, orv au, crossover au, alternative universe(cannon-diversion), slow-burn, blood and violence, cursing, murder, suggestive, explicit content, questionable morality.
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[Masterlist]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, giddily look at you]
“Phainon.” You called his name yet again for the 33rd times—or was it 34th times— that day.
Ever since he told you his name, Phainon had been pestering you to call him by his name. You assumed it wasn’t his real name but treat it as if it’s his real name.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, smile happily]
Does it annoyed you? Yes, it does but you had a feeling that it’s been a long time since he heard his name from someone else’s mouth.
Well, whatever made him happy. If he’s happy, he wouldn’t have any thought to discard you.
Since you come to Chungmuro, Phainon teached you things such as terms you don’t understand like incarnations, constellations, dokkeabi and Star Stream. Describing the picture you couldn’t see with your own eyes.
It’s easy to digest his teaching in one day. The problem is the fact, he couldn’t tell you much about the scenarios. Although he reassured that there’s an end to scenario, he didn’t tell you how many scenario are there to deal with.
With a shake of your head, you dismissed the thoughts. Instead you focus on the task at hand.
What if there’s hundred or not thousand of scenarios that you must complete? Could you really reach the end? But would it really be ‘the end’?
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said this movie have too many drama]
“I know.” You adjust your sun glasses then turn the newspaper’s page, not really reading through the content as your attention is solely on the verbal fight happening two table away from you.
To distract your mind from the apocalypse, you thought about checking out the movie theater. Thinking that the projector might still be working, you set off with the hope you could watch some movie in peace.
When you step on the entrance, you accidentally triggered a hidden scenario. Thus, here you are enjoying the drama unfolding in front of you. Who would have thought you could get the best seat in this drama?
[Some constellations said you are being a hypocrite]
[Some constellations said you are being a busybody too]
“It’s not like any of you stopped being a busybody.” There are times where the nosy constellations tried to peer into your past by dangling coins and some magic thing when Phainon was away. Unfortunately, that doesn’t work because Phainon always find out and send them a warning.
“There’s a saying here that said, ‘If you can’t stop them, join them.’ I’m applying that saying as we speak.” That’s the truth, sometimes you just need to join in when no one’s on your side.
Thankfully the main leads are busy throwing insults at each other and the barista is too busy listening to them than you to judge you for talking to air.
[Some constellations ponder at your words]
[Some constellations likes your view]
[Constellation who’s a masochist welcome you]
[You have been gifted 300 coins]
[You have been gifted 100 coins]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, ask if you like this kind of movie]
Honestly you’re not picky with movie’s genre as long as it worth to watch.
Nonetheless, this movie’s atmosphere you’re currently in give you a sense of normalcy. A couple arguing in the middle of cafe, the barista just minding her own business behind the counter with her ears picking up every sip of tea and the bustling city being the background noise.
It’s as if the apocalypse never happened.
“Yes.” You replied mindlessly as you watch the main leads choose to yell out to the world how they love each other. Thus ending their argument with passion kiss and promises.
The barista secretly took picture of the couple as she giggle in joy. She must be delighted because her ship did not sunk to the bottom of the sea.
You stopped yourself from gagging at the blunt affection and buried your nose between the newspaper instead. ‘Yes, this does bring back memories.’
[Some constellations gagged at the sight]
[Some constellations are crying in disgust]
[Some constellations wipe their tears with coins]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, silently laugh at your reaction]
+++
[You have reach the end credit]
+++
Seeing the notification, you’re ready to leave but an out of place bottle caught your eyes, “What’s that?” You pointed at the round glass bottle in the display glass.
The barista took out the bottle and hand it to you. “It’s on the house!” She exclaimed.
Blue particles begin to envelope your surrounding. Within a few blink, you’re in the theater’s hall again with the movie poster slashed roughly.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said once you’ve ‘watched’ the movie, you won’t be able to watch it again]
“That’s sad.” You muttered, you can’t hide inside the movie again if things go awry for you.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said don’t be discouraged]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said there should be another movie with the same genre]
Feeling a little better, you read the item’s description in your hands.
+++
[Mana Potion]
After being consumed, permanently increase mana stat by +1.
+++
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said there are things that you could brought back to reality]
“Does that only apply to item like these?” You hold up the mana potion, “The disguise clothes doesn’t count as item.”
[The Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said items originally from the movie does not count as item]
“Damnit, I bought those with my own money too.” You should go and demand a refund with the dungeon’s boss when you see them. Although those money will likely be useless in apocalyptic world.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, smile at you]
[You have been gifted 1,000 coins]
“Thank you.” You smile back
Phainon told you many times to never reject gift given by constellations. Especially coins.
Knowing your circumstance, rationally, you don’t have any reason to reject the freebies given by these higher beings. Although it make you look like a pitiful beggar, you rationalized it was for the sake of your safety. If you must take advantage of these beings’ kindness to survive, then you could be a little shameless. Even if it was Phainon.
Without further ado, you drink the mana potion and went to the second floor of the theater. On the way, you avoid movies with genre action and thriller like a plague. Why would you have to role play when your life genre had become action and thriller?
Nevertheless, you did not let the opportunity go to waste as you enjoy the little illusion of normalcy you could grasp. While also grabbing any items that could be brought back to reality as a side mission.
Time passed quickly that you reach the fifth floor with variety of potions in hands. You chose to consumed them before exploring further in case someone decide to stole it.
[You have enter reward room]
[Only two item can be taken as reward]
Since you’re the only one who enter this dungeon and reach this point. There’s a lot of choice for you to chose from.
Browsing through numerous reward, you pick up a pair of pouch where the storage’s size is triple the size of regular school bag. Strapping one of the pouch to your thigh and the other to your arm, fastening the belt so none of it would fall off easily. Now you could carry your spare clothes and necessary with ease. Moreover, you don’t have to worry about your bag being stolen anymore.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, nodded at your choice]
[One more item can be taken as reward]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, raise up his hand]
You thought of picking a weapon for yourself since you have Weapon Proficiency skill but what exactly would you need? There’s a lot of weapons on display but you can only take one.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said you can let him pick for you]
For a moment you ponder about it. Since he’s been there to guide you through scenarios, you can have some faith in him to choose something that would ensure your survival.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, pointed at the greatsword]
At the end of displayed weapons, a greatsword lay in it’s glass case. Carved to it’s silver edge is inscription you don’t know the meaning of. Not a single rust in sight and shining as the light reflect on the blade’s surface as if it’s polished diligently everyday by it’s wielder
“I don’t think I can lift that.” You quickly response.
Had Phainon pick a sword or an axe, you wouldn’t mind because they are easier to wield than a greatsword. Not to mention if you were to compare it’s size with you, it could smack your chin once you loose grip by accident.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, chuckles at your cluelessness]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, insist you take the greatsword as a reward]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said it will be useful]
At his insistent you pick up the greatsword. Surprisingly it was light as if you’re holding a wooden stick and not a metal forged into sword. You lift it up, swing it once—twice then come the third swing. You gape in awe at how effortless it is to swing the what seem like a heavy sword.
Amidst your awe, the item’s description appear in the blue box. Informing you of it’s story.
+++
[Greatsword of Damnation]
Grade: Replica
Story: The greatsword was forged with the ore of earth’s core, melt with the flames of destruction and cool in reveries of sea. Once it was completed, the blade gain consciousness. Only those it deem worthy can wield it, for those it deem unworthy shall meet their end as soon as their hand touch it’s hilt. Through it’s lifetime only 3 people has wield it, along with it’s master, they brought damnation to injustice and evildoers.
Effect: Increase the wielder’s Agility by +1.
+++
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said he have a gift for you]
[You have received your first Stigma]
[Stigma: Let There Be Light have been acquired]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said this is his small gift]
“Small gift...?” You doubt this is a small gift because from what you remembered of Phainon’s teaching, stigma is a skill that couldn’t be obtained easily. Nonetheless, you thank him out of gratitude.
Although the problem is how are you going to fit the greatsword into the pouch tied to your thigh. You try to stretch the pouch mouth open and forcefully shove the greatsword in.
After some great effort, you finally decide to exit the dungeon. Strangely enough, the way back to the exit is too silent for your liking. All you could hear is the sound of your footstep against the floor, echoing in the empty theater. Even Phainon has gone quiet for some reason.
Ding!
[Warning!]
[Survival rate decreasing tremendously]
“What?” You scan the empty theater, wondering what could be so dangerous for the system to warn you.
[Warning!]
[Survival rate decreasing tremendously]
Not knowing what to do, you called over your sponsor. “Phainon?” Your hand grabbing the greatsword hilt and pulling it out of the pouch but it’s quillon got stuck.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, tell you to hide]
Your brows knitted together, he seem to know something that you don’t— or rather, he knows exactly what’s threatening your survival but you quickly search for some place to hide. Jumping over the cashier counter and hiding yourself in the cabinet as footstep reverberate in your ears.
A man in black coat enter the dungeon, each step is like a stroll in the park as he walk pass the cashier counters. Not suspecting anything but for a second he halt.
Sring!
A blade stabbed through the counter. The man pierce the blade deeper into the material before pulling the sword out, blood bathing the tip of his sword. “Corpse...” The words left his mouth as if confirming his suspicious. Wordlessly, he flick the sword causing the blood to splattered to the floor.
“Corpse.” He sheath the sword and continue to leisurely walk toward one of the poster. A light flash down on him, his body turning into particle before disappearing completely.
[Constellations heave out a relief breath]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said you can get out now]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said you have done well]
The cabinet’s door swing open, you crawl out of the cramp space. Wincing everytime your bleeding shoulder move too much. Your vision slightly blurry from tears. ‘That bastard stabbed my shoulder!’ You curse angrily.
You tear the sleeve of your clothe, using it to dress your wounded shoulder. Although it was clumsy, fortunately the bleeding has stopped.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, urge you to leave the dungeon as soon as possible]
Although you want to lay down and let the pain on your shoulder to sooth in. The rational part of your brain agree with Phainon.
There’s a chance that same bastard will appear again while you’re trying to catch a break. If he could sense you just now, who knows what will happened to you if you encounter him again.
Without wasting another second, you left the dungeon in a hurry. Before you head to where the other survivors are supposed to gather, you took the time to change your clothes.
You don’t want to be a sore thumb when you try to blend in with the rest of the survivors. Also you want to hide your wounded shoulder as much as possible so the bastard wouldn’t be able to recognize you easily.
The panicked murmur from the distance made you wonder as to what has the other survivors up to this time. Until you reach the stair and see the green plates everywhere.
You also see some new faces as you quietly descend down the stair.
Ding.
+++
Main Scenario #3 - Green Zone (Day 1)
Category: Main
Difficulty: C
Clear conditions: Occupy a green zone in the station and survive the monsters that emerge each night at midnight. This scenario will last for 7 days.
Time limit: 8 hours
Reward: 1, 000 coins
Penalty for failure: -
+++
Ding.
“What’s this?” You read through the scenario’s condition. ‘It doesn’t sounds too bad...’ On paper, the scenario doesn’t look that hard but if it’s put to practice, would it be that easy?
[Survival rate: 10%]
Why is your survival rate so low?
Ding!
[The Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, instruct you to find a green zone as soon as possible]
The other survivors already rush toward nearby green plate, claiming ownership before others could. Some fight over the green plate, some negotiate, some even gang up on those weaker than them.
From the corner of your eye, you caught sight of a boy killing another survivor for the green zone. Baseball pointed to your direction.
Since you have no intention of fighting over the zone yet, you decide to use the old friendly way instead. Ignoring the trembling boy, you begin searching for vacant zone.
Fortunately, you did find one after avoiding bloody fight every so often on your way. Occupying the green zone, your survival rate shoot up to 75% instantly.
[The Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, advice you to stay within the green zone for the time being]
You don’t think much of it and decide to follow Phainon’s advice. Beside, you’re done exploring the dungeon and looking at the time, it is time for you to hit the hay.
With no second wasted, you sleep for the rest of the night while the other survivors with no green zone are struggling with the scenario.
Unlike yesterday, you couldn’t go to the dungeon to have a taste of normalcy because the bastard who stabbed you has been hoarding the dungeon all for himself. He even had a teenage girl guarding the entrance to prevent anyone from entering.
Although you have no qualm regarding that matter at the moment.
With sheathing frustration, you call your sponsor’s name, “Phainon.”
[The Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said to use peaceful method first]
You pointed at the person who just stole your green zone. “That’s mine. I just left it for 5 minutes to brush my teeth and comeback to this.” You complain to your sponsor.
“This is mine now!” The person shout, his hand clutching to your food supply and a dull knife directed to you, trying to scare you off.
[Some constellation sigh at your foolish decision]
Five minutes earlier you foolishly left your food supply at the green zone while you have some time for yourself. Thinking it could mark the zone as taken but the plan did not work as you had imagine.
Now not only did you lose your green zone, you also lose your food supply to some random stranger.
Sighing to yourself, you opt for peaceful method as Phainon suggested. “You’re standing on my zone. Please, return it back.”
“Finder keepers. It’s mine now.” He smirk as if he had won a lottery.
It is a lottery if you consider how scattered food is since the apocalypse start.
“Why are you so smug?” You retort, dumbfounded by the person’s remark. “You do know you just stole from me, right?”
The man scoff, “Then next time, don’t leave your room and food just like that.” As if to rub salt to your face, he added, “But I doubt you’ll survive even if you stand here all day. If you’re lucky enough, you can whore yourself out of trouble.”
Your eye twitch at his remark.
[The Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, is glaring at the thief]
[The Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said you can use force]
[You have been gifted 4,000 coins]
[Some constellations are jealous of Constellation, Prisoner of Flames’s generosity]
[Constellations from absolute good are enraged by the thief’s words]
[Constellations from absolute good demand the thief to apologize]
[Constellations who likes thrill are cheering for action]
Ding!
A new scenario arrive before you could sort through every messages.
+++
Bounty Scenario - Take back what’s rightfully yours
Category: Bounty
Difficulty: E
Clear conditions: Reclaim your items from the thief.
Time limit: None
Reward: 300 coins
Penalty for failure: ???
+++
After the scenario screen pop up, your personal skill also shows up.
[Survival against this individual: 60%]
“60% is not enough.” You mutter under your breath. You’ve made up your mind to beat this thief up to the pulp.
With the system confirming your victory, you land a punch across the thief’s face. Sending him flying out of your green zone, leaving the zone unoccupied.
“This is also mine.” You snatch the bag containing your food supply and occupied the green zone as if nothing happened.
[The Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said you should land another punch]
The stranger laid helplessly on the cold floor with bruised cheek and bleeding nose. The knife he used to threaten you with is out of his reach, thus leaving him defenseless.
You walk closer to him. Amidst his daze mind, his eyes still followed your closing figure. Fear overwrite the pain on his cheek as he stumbled backward.
“I—I’m sorry!” He blurt.
Without mercy you stomped onto his private part causing him to roar out a cry across the station. The nearby bystanders mourn over the lost of his private part, averting away their gaze, closing their eyes and closing their thighs as if they’re the one who’s in his position.
[Constellations who likes thrill are laughing with joy]
[Constellations from absolute good close their eyes]
[You have been gifted 1,000 coins]
[You have cleared the bounty scenario]
[You have obtained 300 coins as a reward]
[The Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, hum in delight]
[You have been gifted 1,000 coins]
[Survival rate: 90%]
[The Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, ask why you’re just standing there]
“Phainon.” You look at the air as another blue screen appear as if acknowledging you, “It’s refreshing!” You exclaimed.
Now you understand why your colleges told you to give the rage room a try. Turn out it’s pretty effective to relieve some stress.
[The Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, nod]
The nearby bystanders immediately scattered, afraid they will soon become your next victim.
[Survival rate: 93%]
***
At the dungeon entrance, a man dress in black return from hoarding most of the reward in the dungeon. Without delay he approach the teenage girl who he had tasked to guard the entrance so no one other than him can enter.
“Master!” The girl excitedly approach him, a sword similar to the man in her hand. “Master, there’s a cool unnie downstairs! There’s a jerk who stole her room and food, then he get punch by the unnie and get his private part stomped.” She excitedly speak, “But you’re still cooler, master!” She add a thumbs up.
“I see.” He acknowledged before heading downstairs.
“Are you going to take her too?” The girl ask, a hint of excitement lace on her voice.
Her question was left unanswered by her master who remain silent until they each reached their respective room.
30 minutes before the third main scenario begin. Yoo Jonghyuk took the opportunity to survey the survivors in Chungmuro. In his previous round, there’s no one who’s impressive enough for him to recruit. Thus, he didn’t bother to involve himself with those in Chungmuro.
However, due to a certain encounter with a self proclaimed prophet. Yoo Jonghyuk thought in this regression, something could change. Even if it was as small as dust, he want to see what had change from the previous regression.
The survivors begin fighting over the green zone—or “room” for easier term. Nevertheless, none of the survivors dare to lay a hand on Yoo Jonghyuk or Lee Jihye because he caused quite a ruckus when he arrive yesterday.
One particular survivor remain calm through the chaos, busy eating biscuit and drinking a can of soda as if watching a movie’s scene happening in real life.
[Activating Eye of Sage]
“Unimpressive.” Yoo Jonghyuk whispered. There is nothing special regarding this unusual woman other than a slightly higher stat. Therefore he conclude his surveying and return to his room.
[Personal skill False Facade is strongly active]
[The Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said he’s gone]
A sigh of relief heave out of your lips as you put down your drink. ‘That was close.’ Had it not been for Phainon warning you of your stabber, you would have thought that man was just an overly handsome model.
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said you should rest]
[Constellation, Prisoner of Flames, said he will keep watch]
A smile bloom across your face, “Since you offer, I will.” For some reason, having Phainon around made you at ease. Maybe you don’t have to find a way to break the contract after all.
Like the nights before, you bid him goodnight the moment your eyelids begin cast downward. “Goodnight, Phainon.”
The day end with you sleeping through the chaos once again.
***
Sitting amidst the golden field, was a man. Hair as white as snow and eyes as blue as sky’s canvas glaring harshly at the palm of his hand, spark of probability swirl like a breeze then disintegrate to dust.
A heave of breath left his throat, he lay down against the golden wheats. Fixing his gaze at the sky and then the blue screen showing the sleeping incarnation.
His rough hand tracing over the image in the floating screen. Fondness dancing in those eyes, no longer stay the harsh gaze as he whisper, “Goodnight.”
Summary: Heartbreak is a natural occurrence for all beings, but that doesn't make it easier to deal with. For you, this means having to deal with walking in on your soon-to-be husband sleeping with another woman in your bed. You mourn what could have been, and curse what is. You pray and pray to the gods with the hope that you can garner some sympathy, only to realize that two gods in particular are more than eager to give you their affections.
Chapter Tags/CWs: god!au, mentions of cheating, vaguely based on the eros and psyche myth, reader is Aglaea's disciple, Mydei and Phainon are together and looking for a third in reader, mentioned Aglanaxa
III. Month of Evernight
In the Month of Evernight, the sun grows more dimmer than usual. People and creatures alike fall asleep more easily, and their instincts and emotions replace all thoughts and reasons, making tasks more difficult to complete. The new Time has yet to reveal why they had made this so, but it is for certain that the constant fog in your mind is this month’s doing.
For some reason unbeknownst to you, you felt more and more compelled to visit the shrines as of late. You were not necessarily one to be considered a religious zealot, but your loyalty to the goddess of romance was not one to be doubted. Every day, you would tend to her shrine with diligent yet gentle care, assuring that the pristine golden roses were upheld to perfection. But recently, it hasn’t just been Aglaea’s shrine that you cared for—the shrines of the Worldbearer and the Lance of Fury called to you now, eager to be seen and heard. And in your kindness, you granted them the same courtesy your patron goddess received.
It started out as simply maintaining the quartz pillars around them, cleaning the delicate stone with gentle care. But then it evolved into something more attentive, gracing the shrines with offerings and candles just as you would with the goddess of romance.
You couldn’t pinpoint why the shrines now captivated you. You weren’t as religious and devoted as the worshippers of Khaslana, nor were you as much of a warrior as the devotees of Mydeimos. But they seemed to beckon you, coaxing you to them like a siren’s song. The feeling was hardly malicious, too, feeling more like a gentle calling rather than a shout. You suppose that the saying about the Month of Evernight making you become more prone to acting on instinct is true…
You were so steeped in your thoughts as you cleaned the shrine of Strife, you hardly noticed that you had bumped into someone.
“You ought to watch where you’re going, little disciple. Not everyone who comes to this shrine would be as nice as I am,” a low voice rumbled beside you, though despite their words there was no malice in their tone. You looked around, trying to find the owner of the voice that called out to you before having your gaze finally land on them—or rather, his torso. You had to crane your neck up, up, and up just to finally meet his golden gaze, his arms crossed as a look of what appeared to be a mix of both amusement and stoicism graced his features.
You didn’t like to ogle at people—you personally thought it was quite rude to stare—but with this stranger? You could hardly help yourself.
It was like he was blessed by the god of strife himself, firm muscles shaping his body like a living fortress wall. Red markings swirled along his olive skin as though they too lived and breathed, on view for all to see like a proud lion. The descriptive of him being a lion wasn’t far off either, his ash blonde hair tinged with red at the ends like a lion’s mane after gorging itself on a meal. If one were to call this man anything less than divine, you would have rightfully thought them a liar.
You had only just realized that you were most likely staring at him, as foretold by a look of expectancy on the man’s face. “Ah, please forgive me… I was so engrossed with cleaning the shrines that I hardly noticed anyone else was here…” You mumbled softly, still trying rather hard to not stare at the god of a man in front of you. “Had I known, I would’ve just moved out of your way—” The man merely sighed through his nose, shaking his head as he raised a hand to stop you. Oddly enough, you listened to the silent command.
“There is no need for apologies from you, little disciple. I cannot fault someone for being as attentive to the gods as you are. If anything, I should be the one apologizing. As such is custom in Kremnos, I must absolve this conflict,” he said smoothly, holding out a gauntleted hand out for you to take. “Let us first introduce ourselves. I am Mydei of Castrum Kremnos, a warrior of sorts. And you are?”
You paused for a moment, taken aback by Mydei’s courteous behavior. You half expected him to tell you off, or even yell at you for being so foolish to even be near him, but this… It intrigued you very much. And so, you took his hand with a gentle tilt of your head as you told him your name. “I must say, Mydei… as much as I am very intrigued by your offer of wanting to make things right, I couldn’t possibly ask that of you. An honest mistake is an honest mistake, no?” You spoke softly, shaking his hand gently before releasing it. “I think we can both apologize to each other in this instance, and since apologies have already been said, I think we are quite even, don’t you?”
Mydei’s eyes widened ever so slightly, then chuckled. “Quite the diplomat at heart, aren’t you? Alright, I suppose it is even, little disciple. As much as I’d like to contest, I’ve been taught it’s quite rude to deny the wishes of one so beautiful,” he hummed, a barely there smirk as he looked down at you. “Tell me something, though. What would a disciple of Aglaea be doing here, maintaining the shrine of a god so violent and unruly as Strife? I wouldn’t think anyone would wish to be here beside fellow Kremnoans.”
Mydei had a point, you realized. Romance and Strife were two separate ideals, so it wouldn’t make sense for you to be maintaining this shrine. But even as he said that, a thought formed in your head: one that, in your opinion, would have made the god of reason smile down upon you. “You could consider it odd, I suppose. Truthfully speaking, I don’t know what I’m doing here either,” you mumbled softly, moving to the shrine to gently light a candle. “It is often said that Romance and Strife go hand in hand, I suppose, two sides of the same coin. Strife is a part of Romance, and Romance is always followed by Strife. But to me, the two needn’t be separate halves of a whole. So, I clean the shrine just as I would my Ladyship’s. For the two are inseparable.”
The Kremnoan stayed silent, as if digesting this newly given thought. “I never took you to be both a diplomat and a philosopher, little disciple. Are you certain Cerydra and Anaxagoras haven’t blessed you as well?” Mydei chuckled, shaking his head as he moved to stand by you by the shrine. “But then again, I suppose I haven’t seen many people be as open minded as you are when it comes to Strife. Too many think that the Lance of Fury is only a burden of war and rage, that it is endless carnage…” Mydei seemed to go quiet for a moment, then shook his head once more as he looked at you. “But you? You seem to know that endless strife is not what I– I mean what Mydeimos wants. You understand that strife is everywhere, but it is up to the individual to brave it. It is up to Mydeimos to be the strife that this world needs, so that others may be at peace.”
A soft bell rang throughout the halls of the collective temple, signifying the beginning of the Lucid Hour. You sighed, getting up from the shine and dusting off your robes. “That must be the lunch bell… Has it really been that long since I started cleaning?” You wondered out loud, moving to face Mydei with a gentle smile. “Nonetheless, it was lovely talking to you, Mydei. Although, I must ask you… Your name is very similar to that of Lord Mydeimos. Is there a connection between the two of you?”
Mydei froze, looking up at you like a stag caught. “Well… My mother named me after him. Says that I was blessed by him to be a strong warrior one day, and I suppose she was right,” he merely stated, getting up with you and gently offering you his arm. “Let me walk you to lunch. As repayment for earlier.”
Well, you certainly weren’t going to deny that.
“I’m terribly sorry, of what part of ‘let me work my magic’ did the two of you not comprehend? It’s like I say something into one of your ears and it goes out the other!” Aglaea chastised, her hands on her hips like a mother giving a stern talking to her children. And in a way, she certainly was; both Khaslana and Mydeimos stood before her like children who had broken a priceless artifact, shuffling on their feet with shame as they couldn’t stand to look at her. It mattered not if these were gods of unfathomable power, for when faced with Aglaea’s wrath, any god could feel small under her gaze.
“Not to even mention that you two have started to practically buzz with energy now since they’re cleaning your shrines. Do I need to tell Hyacinthia to ease the winds guiding them to your altars? It certainly seems like it!” Aglaea huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose with a forlorn sigh. “I swear, the things I do for romance to persevere…”
Khaslana pouted slightly, moving to attempt to placate the goddess. “Look, we’re really sorry, Aglaea… We just— we can’t stand by anymore! It’s obvious that they’re getting lonelier and lonelier by the days, and I don’t know how much more of it I can take,” he pleaded his case, looking down at his lifelong mentor with a gentle frown. “Both Mydeimos and I agree on one thing: we don’t know how long we can last waiting for them when we both know we can care for them. It’s torture.”
Mydeimos nodded in agreement, albeit it was less convincing with how he tried to seem a bit smaller in the wake of Aglaea’s stern anger. “He has a point, Aglaea. I did my best to follow the plan as well, I truly did. But talking with them today… Never in my long, long life have I seen a soul so understanding and yet so neglected in their wants and needs. I can tell it’s eating away at them from the insides, and we all know what a sickness loneliness is. Would you want that for your disciple, or even yet: would you want that for Anaxa?”
Aglaea paused, the comment catching her off guard. But she knew, within her golden blood, that Mydeimos was right. Loneliness was a sickness, a sickness that she combatted for the lovers of the world every day and night. What kind of patron goddess would she be if she couldn’t allow her own disciple to overcome this disease?
The romance goddess sighed, shaking her head before turning to the two other gods. “Alright. You both have a point. I would be a terrible patron if I let my disciple suffer through this plague any longer. Tomorrow, the Month of Cultivation will start. What better time to issue the start of a blossoming romance than at the start of spring?” Aglaea chuckled, moving to gaze over the clouds with a soft gaze, watching you walk about the market. “Cifera has already shown she’s ready to enact the plan, and whether or not my disciple knows that you two are the aliases Phainon and Mydei will be in the hands of fate. That is, if Tribios is willing to make it fate.”
The two gods seemed to light up with joy. At long last, their beloved will be in their arms? It was a feeling of joy unlike anything felt before. “At long last… I might as well get their room prepared then, shouldn’t I? They deserve only the best, after all,” Khaslana beamed, the halo behind him glowing just a bit brighter. “Though… maybe they’d like to sleep in our bed, Mydeimos?”
The god of strife only sighed, rolling his eyes at his lover’s antics. “I doubt it. Do you know anyone who would want to sleep in the bed of two strange beings who just show up into their lives and say ‘we want you to marry us’?” Mydeimos snorted, crossing his arms with a slight smirk. “Perhaps in time, Deliverer. But let them get used to us, ease into being with us. They are still mortal, after all.”
Khaslana laughed sheepishly, a faint blush on his cheeks. “Well yeah… but when the time comes, it won’t be for long. I think that would be quite the happy ending.”
synopsis — two years ago, mydei distanced himself from you after blurring the line between a friend and something more. now, the both of you will be headlining for the biggest music festival of the year. the melody is there. so are some lingering feelings. [2.4k wc]
notes from zoey ୭˚. ᵎᵎ — so . school saw that i got the prologue out and thought that it'd be funny to give me a crap ton of school work . kinda funny . regardless still managed to get this out !! currently my term/sem break so ig thats not surprising but hopefully i can post chap 2 faster :,) ending is a tad bit rushed but i hope u all still enjoy !!
prologue ☆ ch. one ☆ ch. two (coming soon) ☆ masterlist
"an email came in, [name]!"
your manager, tribios — who you now affectionately call 'tribbie' — exclaims as soon as she entered the recording booth, looking at you as you tune your guitar.
next thing you know, she shoves her tablet onto your lap, much to your half-asleep surprise. "what? tribbie, it's barely even 8 in the—"
your words get stuck in your throat as soon as you read the words. you've been invited to headline at Okhemix. That's probably the biggest honor you could've been given in your entire career. Only the best of the best get invited. The fact that you're a part of that now? It's like a dream come—
"you'll also be co-headlining with another artist! miss cerydra told me about the offer earlier. though, she didn't mention who it is just yet…"
—true. oh.
you take a deep breath. it's fine. it's not like you and the rest of your members are the only singers in the world. besides, it could be even better for you — it could be someone like robin, or STELLΛRON, or even hysilens. it would be good publicity. the possibilities are endless.
so, keeping your head held high, you ask, "that's fine. any idea on when we'll find out, though?"
to that, tribios has an answer, "we'll have a meeting later at 2 PM, with the manager of their band, as well as their frontman."
for a moment, you freeze. frontman. it's a guy. that clears out your earlier guesses.
then again, they could still be someone you know and admire. maybe it could be one of your seniors, like blade, or caelus, or…
actually, you aren't sure who else. but you have high hopes. what are the chances it'll be him, right? sure, strifeborne is one of the most popular bands at the moment, but it's not like they're the only artists out there. besides, they've already had a bunch of big shows these past few months. they need a break from the spotlight, right?
"alright," you cough out, realizing you've pretty much been staring at tribios for a hot minute without saying anything, "2 PM, right? i won't forget, promise. i'll even ask aglaea to make sure that my clothes are presentable."
after all, these past few shows, you personally requested to make your attire look a bit more edgy — which isn't wrong or a bad thing at all, it's actually good — but you want to look a bit more approachable for the meeting, all while keeping your style.
"perfect! dan heng should be able to pick you up around 1 PM, just so you aren't late." tribios smiles, clearly happy that you're just as enthusiastic as she expected you to be. the red-head practically skips away like a ray of sunshine, leaving you alone in the recording studio once more.
a frontman, you think to yourself, thoughts beginning to spiral, as long as it's not him.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
the KREMNOS building was massive, to say the least. not to mention, the whole place looked expensive. like you could touch a wall and get fined for touching private property. fortunately for you and tribios, a guard — verax leo, if you aren't mistaken — escorts you to the empty meeting room, telling the both of you that the manager and the mysterious frontman should be arriving soon.
if you're being honest, all hope pretty much vanished the moment dan heng informed you that you'd be heading to the KREMNOS building. it's a relatively new company compared to yours, Chrysos Records, only being founded about three years ago. not a lot of artists are signed to the company — only STELLΛRON, The Galaxy Rangers, and strifeborne.
anyone but strifeborne, you silently pray to yourself, resting your head against the soft cushion of the couch before hearing the sound of a door opening, followed by tribbie tapping your shoulder before getting up to greet the pair.
you stand up, adjusting yourself before turning, only to meet the eyes you’d spent so long trying to forget.
mydei. but it felt wrong calling him that now.
what started as the greatest news you've heard all month — which was full of good news for that wretched band — now turned into an absolute nightmare. then again, you can't be too surprised, can you?
strifeborne has had hit after hit with their recent releases, always hitting top of the charts every time. every other day, you see different news articles and interviews featuring none other than mydeimos. it was practically meant to happen, with Okhemix being a few weeks from now, it'd be stupid of them not to pick two of the biggest bands to headline.
if this were to happen a few years earlier, you'd actually be happy about this. but, no, you nailed the coffin shut once you saw that mydei officially unfollowed you on all his social media accounts. and, to make matters worse, one of the most popular songs from their latest album hits a little too close to home.
and the songwriter? none other than mydei himself.
a part of you can't help but wonder how he's feeling right now. if he's just as shocked as you are, or if he already predicted this reaction.
you shouldn't care. you don't want to care. he doesn’t deserve the luxury of being in your mind, not even in passing.
but damn it all, you wanted it to haunt him. you wanted it to sting every time he hears your name in an interview or see your face in a poster, just like how it hurts you every single time. you hoped it lingers in his mind in the silence after a show.
"wow," you start, only to get a elbow jab from your manager that the other pair couldn't see, "i mean— hello, hi, i'm [name] from ELYS143. it's a pleasure to be co-headlining with you."
in contrast to mydei, his manager is a lot more warm and inviting towards you and tribbie, offering you a soft smile, "please, the pleasure is all ours! i'm strifeborne's manager, hyacine."
the rest of the talk is pretty much just between the two managers, who seem to hit it off pretty well — you wouldn't be surprised if they'll start talking about things that aren't related to Okhemix once they exchange contact information.
…speaking of the two managers, they seem to have disappeared together to another room completely, leaving you and mydei together. alone. with no one else around.
"didn't expect to you to be here," you start, breaking up the awkward silence. though, your tone isn't exactly the most welcoming — who can blame you? he kisses you two years ago, started acting like you were a burden in his life, and now he's looking at you like an annoying fly?
"trust me, i wouldn't be if i'd known you would," mydei answers, his voice just as gruff and deep as you remember. you already want to leave, but this is an opportunity of a lifetime. you'd have to be insane to reject headlining at Okhemix just because your ex 'best friend but also the guy you kissed and had feelings for' is going to headline with you.
so, you decide to be the bigger person, "let's just get through the festival without any problems or crazy news articles. it's just three nights, right? all we have to do is co-headline. you'll be fine."
"of course. i've worked with weaker vocalists before."
there it was. you already knew that the first snide comment would be coming from him. you were always more civil one, you tell yourself.
“so have i. nothing new for either of us," you reply with a fake, 'nice' smile, but inside? you wanted to throw hands with this piece of crap — you couldn't care less if he could easily win without even trying, you just wanted to land a punch on his stupid face.
fortunately, it doesn't come down to that, as the two managers come out from the other meeting room, giggling together like a pair of high school girls leaving a classroom after a funny lecture.
"alright, miss [name], mydei," hyacine starts, clasping her hands together with that same inviting smile on her face, "we can start planning today, if neither of you mind."
mydei crosses his arms over his chest, eyes fixed on his pink-haired manager. "sure," he starts, his tone sharp, "as long as someone can act professional for once."
it doesn't take a genius to figure out who that 'someone' was, and you swear that it nearly caused a damn vein to pop. "excuse you? just so you remember, i've been doing this longer than you—"
"right!" your manager cuts in, attempting to cool down the tension before the both of you start bickering — because who knows how long that will take — "so, let's talk schedules…"
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
a week later, after communicating with mostly hyacine, both managers, as well as ELYS143 and strifeborne, officially started the first rehearsals, deciding that it's best to do it in the actual venue so that you can 'really immerse yourself in the environment,' or whatever tribbie was saying.
unfortunately for you, phainon and cyrene won't be able to come join since they were visiting their parents for the weekend, which you think is fine, considering it's just the first rehearsal. you guys have always worked best under pressure. but it also meant you were left alone in the limousine with your manager, which means she's the sole recipient of your irritated rant.
"i want to kill him."
"i know, [name]."
"of all people, it had to be him? you know how many other talented bands there are? i mean, no offense to castorice and cipher, they seem lovely, truly, but i can't say the same about their fucking lead—"
"miss [name], miss tribios, we're here," dan heng interrupts your heated rant, carefully stopping in front of the stadium — the very stadium you'll be performing at in a few weeks time. it's like a dream, almost.
it is a dream. one that you've wanted to fulfill for the longest time.
and, as much as you do adore your bandmates, you wanted to fulfill this dream with… someone else.
but that's in the past. you fix your hair so that it looks a bit neater, grabbing your coffee cup from the cup holder, quickly opening the car door before the paparazzi catch sight of you during your band's short break period.
the stadium is huge. fortunately, Okhemix is well-known for always being protective of the artists that perform, so you're pretty confident that a creepy fan won't be able to break into your dressing room or try to climb on the stage mid-performance. still, it's better to expect the unexpected.
"hey~ you must be [name], right?" a voice you've never even heard before calls out, making you whip your head around in surprise, only to find out that it's cipher — one of mydei's bandmates. the drummer, if you aren't mistaken. she's really good, honestly.
"um, yeah," you awkwardly start, trying not to look like you just saw a ghost, "cifera, right?"
the cat-like woman only laughs, looking at you like you're a court jester, "so formal! but no one really calls me that these days. just call me cipher. slips off the tongue easier, wouldn't you say, [name]?"
well, in any case, you don't really need to introduce yourself. or, at least, that's what you thought.
"so, you're the famous situationship, huh?" cipher smiles, but her words end up throwing you off.
it takes you a moment to process what the hell she just said, but before you can reply, mydei makes his presence known by clearing his throat, and it takes every bone in your body not to sigh and roll your eyes at the mere sound of it. "you're late."
"miss hyacine didn't give me a specific time to arrive," you counter, begrudgingly turning around to face him. "also, my two other bandmates won't be coming. but they promised to make it up to you next practice."
'even if they really shouldn't have to,' you think to yourself, but you know better than to let that thought out verbally.
in the middle of your bickering, cipher quickly makes an exit — some crappy excuse about getting a drink for the three of you — so, that left you and mydei alone in the stadium. not even your managers were here.
still, you don't let that deter you. you're going to perform at the biggest music festival in the whole world, even if it's with the very last person you wanted. you can't mess up anything.
so, much to your dismay, you do practice with mydei, who is arguably the most important person you should be practicing with since you're both vocals and lead guitarists of your respective bands. it's important to make sure that all of your lines, chords, and everything in between.
…what you hate is how good of a duo the both of you two can be when you're not at each other's throats. you don't even notice how long you've been practicing until you realized that the stage wasn't as brightly lit compared to earlier, only to turn around and watch as the sun slowly set.
"you sounded good today."
for a moment, you're a bit caught off-guard by mydei's random, almost genuine compliment. he isn't even being snarky about it. "…uh, thanks."
that sounds awkward. you can tell that he's thinking the same thing, too. but you can save yourself the embarrassment. "you too."
…or not. it sounds a little awkward, saying it out loud like that.
but suddenly, after being gone for hours, cipher returns, soda cans in hand, "what did i miss?"
for the first time today, outside of that practice performance, you and mydei look at each other, agreeing on something for the first time since high school — where the hell has this girl been and why is she acting like she was only gone for five minutes rather than five hours.
unfortunately for you, tribios comes in, which means you'll be leaving in a few minutes. you look back at mydei, who only nods at you in silence. it's been a while since you've had some type of camaraderie like this.
after hours of performing, you return to dan heng's limousine, relaxing against the seat and thinking about the whole day. it felt… different. slightly less hostile.
"also, miss hyacine and i scheduled an interview for you two. you know, so people will know more about the both of you outside of your performances." tribbie comments. throwing you off your little thinking bubble.
"what."
"tomorrow morning! early," tribbie chirps. "you two are the face of this collab, remember?"
you blink. twice.
…is it too late to reconsider this whole 'band' thing?
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