who's gonna hold you?

19, never have been serious about anything but phainon and jershu

[mafuyuh]

[elysiumae]

drag path.

⟢ pairing: qifrey x gn!reader

⟢ word count: 13.6k

⟢ tags: master x apprentice relationship, eventual exmaster!qifrey x brimmedhat!reader, ambiguous age gap, reader's age is undefined, qifrey x olruggio being gay for each other, suggestive allusions to olrufrey having sex, explicit body horror (eyeballs being out of their sockets), lowkey codependency, reader is kinda manipulative if you squint, spoilers for manga

"The selfishness behind my reason for taking on pupils made me ill. But they'd never have to know that. So I decided that I would put every fiber of my being towards becoming a good educator. Only now do I realise just how foolish that, too, was." Qifrey takes on an apprentice to keep the silverwood at bay. It works. (It works too well.)

⟢ chapters: one | two | three | four

IV. YOU ALREADY KNOW HOW IT WILL END

Healing magic—the kind that interferes directly with the natural order of the body—has been forbidden since the Day of the Pact. This tenet the Knights uphold without compromise. Yet the punishment for transgressing is not merely death but forgetting—a complete eradication of every memory that has to do with magic. Like bark, peeled and stripped from a birch tree; the offender hollowed out, an empty shell of who they used to be.

Like every witch, Qifrey knows what becomes of those sent to Adanlee. Not under any circumstance can he allow the same fate to befall you.

Qifrey's arms nearly buckle under his weight as he struggles to his knees again, breath gurgling wetly within his left lung. The effort alone almost blacks him out. But Qifrey cannot stop. Because the moment you hear the Brimmed Hat's offering, that insidious seed of hope will take root inside you just as the silverwood did in him—and Qifrey would rather die than allow you to destroy yourself for his sake.

Fire roars.

The Brimmed Hat barely jerks back in time just as a wall of flames rips across the square. The heat is so intense Qifrey gasps, each shallow breath scorching the back of his throat, eye stinging, burning. But then it's Olruggio who hurtles out of the smoke-filled sky—a whirlwind of charred sleeves and singed robes, but otherwise unharmed—and the sight brings such relief Qifrey almost doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. He takes in the tableau at a glance, bright blue eyes darting over the battlefield, before they catch on the dark stain spreading through the white of Qifrey's robes, his ashen pallor. Olruggio's face goes slack with horror.

"Qifrey! What—"

Olruggio sounds dangerously close to panicking, which isn't the best of signs. Qifrey must look almost as terrible as he feels. Don't worry about me, he wants to say. There are far more pressing matters to be concerned about right now. But it's too many words, and Qifrey hasn't the breath.

"Stop… my apprentice…" Copper floods his tongue, hot and thick, but he swallows it down and forces up a trembling hand. The Brimmed Hat's grin widens at the other end of his accusing finger. "Forbidden magic… to save me…"

His words are barely comprehensible to his own ears, but understanding flashes across Olruggio's face nonetheless. His gaze snaps towards you and then back to Qifrey. For a brief moment he looks torn—dread and uncertainty warring openly across his soot-streaked features—and Qifrey knows what he is thinking. It's like wagering on a roll of the dice with Qifrey's life hanging in the balance; every moment spent arguing, hesitating—is another second his condition continues to worsen. Too long and he might bleed out before help arrives. But if Olruggio stands aside and lets this happen, Qifrey will never, ever, be able to forgive him for it.

Fortunately, Olruggio's indecision only lasts a moment. Olruggio plants his feet between you and Qifrey, the singed hem of his cloak swishing around his ankles as he turns to face you fully. Your expression darkens.

"Don't get in my way, Mr. Olruggio."

"Look, I know what you're thinking." Olruggio raises his hands slowly as though approaching a cornered animal, just as likely to lash out as it is to bolt. "You're worried about your master, and you want to save him. Believe me, so am I." His voice emerges steady but Qifrey instinctively tunes to the fine tremor beneath, the urgent strain. He's afraid, too. "But this isn't the way."

You remain silent for a long moment. The square lies hushed beneath the lingering crackle of distant flames, the hiss of cooling stone.

"Then," you say quietly, eventually, "can Mr. Olruggio save my master?"

If Qifrey had to pick a moment when everything crossed the point of no return, it would be here—your question hanging in the smoke-thickened air, Olruggio's silence answering for him before his mouth can. There is no half-hearted reassurance, no comforting lie quick enough to overcome that hesitation. Olruggio knows it as well as you do.

"Please," Olruggio says, and this time his voice is softer, almost pleading. "I don't want to hurt you."

In the narrow gap between Olruggio's sleeve and side, your gaze finds Qifrey for a brief second—and then he is standing in the atelier again with papers spilling to the floor and one hand on the door, unable to face the accusation in your eyes. Now, however, something more painfully fragile wavers behind them instead.

I'm not going anywhere, Qifrey wants to say, suddenly desperate. Again and again, for as many times as you need to hear it. But before he can say anything, do anything at all—the moment has already slipped through his grasp.

Your wand cuts across your quire.

The dark clouds gathering low at the foothills shudder and break apart at your spell. Water coalesces midair, droplets gathering like glass beads on gossamer strings. They swell into a churning mass above the square, swirling violently until with a flick of your wrist they splinter—into thousands upon thousands of razor sharp needles, glittering coldly like shards of glass embedded into the smoke-darkened sky. A cloud of deadly rain, simply awaiting the command to fall.

The Brimmed Hat claps enthusiastically at the display. "What a pretty spell!"

It's magnificent, but all Qifrey can feel at the sight is horror. He has never taught you this, never taught you magic to harm another—yet Qifrey recognises the spell all the same. It'd been a sunny afternoon the day he'd insisted on a picnic; a brief intermission stolen between lessons after you'd spent weeks indoors studying. But the flowers had already gone to seed by then, leaving the slopes outside the atelier green and empty stemmed, and Qifrey could tell you were disappointed despite your lack of complaints. So he'd drawn his wand and filled the hillside with flowers made of water instead—rampion and daisies, trefoil and cornflowers—every species and genus he could call to memory. But not even magic could grant them a living bloom's fragrance, and their petals had been colourless and cold to the touch. Yet when you turned back to him there'd been the faintest hint of a smile on your face nonetheless; and later, you'd asked him to teach you that spell.

The very spell you've now turned against Olruggio.

Olruggio throws up a shield of fire just as the needles fly. Qifrey can't see past the cloud of steam that erupts less than a second later, but the furious hissing of water vapourising in an instant tells him that Olruggio's barrier held. You're already drawing your next spell, however; hand moving in those confident, bold strokes Qifrey has become so intimately familiar with, and the steam in the air siphons into a long, trailing ribbon that writhes like a live snake in your grasp.

Olruggio dives aside with a shouted curse just as it snaps towards him. It strikes stone with a crack so deafening Qifrey's ears ring, the ground where Olruggio'd been standing only moments before exploding into a shower of cobble and mortar.

"Olruggio!" he cries out, but Olruggio doesn't seem to hear him, attention wholly consumed by dodging your blows. You're not holding back—it's the only reason you're managing to hold your own against a witch of Olruggio's calibre—and Qifrey can see the way his friend constantly deflects instead of retaliating, always choosing the option least likely to hurt you. Yet every spell you cast aims to incapacitate at best and main at worst, and Qifrey can only watch in horror as you send a blade of water slicing towards Olruggio's throat.

Olruggio barely twists to evade it. The blade flashes a hair's breadth from his jugular but catches his shoulder instead, and blood soaks through his sleeve almost immediately. Olruggio stumbles back with a harsh grunt of pain, one hand flying up to his bleeding arm.

"Fuck…"

Qifrey wants to scream. Or perhaps cry, or run, or throw himself between the two of you, force this nightmare to end before either of you can inflict another wound upon the other. But his body stubbornly refuses, limbs so heavy they might as well be made of lead. You don't hear the cries that never make it past his bloodied lips, and Olruggio hasn't even regained his footing before your next spell is complete.

Once again, moisture strips itself from the air. It surges skyward where it twists and coils upon itself—and as Qifrey watches one massive, batlike wing unfurls from the churning mass followed by another. A monstrous beast emerges from amidst the torrent like a hatchling breaking out of its shell. Its maw opens in a soundless roar.

Olruggio staggers back a step, face paling as he stares up into the snarling jaws of the dragon. For a brief moment, Qifrey cannot tell what he is thinking. Then something shifts across Olruggio's expression—depair, perhaps, or resignation—and his shoulders sink by the barest fraction, as though he has finally accepted a truth he's been fighting not to see.

"I'm sorry."

Before Qifrey can conceive just who that apology was meant for, the dragon lunges. Olruggio's wand flicks in a perfect circle.

Stone and dirt tear upwards in a rumble powerful enough to shake the foundations of the entire village. They rise and rise and rise—into a massive wall, tall as a fortified tower—until it collides headlong with the dragon. Water explodes in every direction. Like a raging torrent it rushes, drenching the square in surging wave, filling Qifrey's nose and mouth. Familiar terror floods Qifrey's veins for a moment, the cold reaching all the way into his bones. Almost like drowning in that box, all over again…

Qifrey collapses to the ground the second the water recedes, coughing and spitting it from his mouth. But Olruggio's spell doesn't stop there.

The wall collapses forward and races across the square once more. Your eyes widen, wand already halfway to your quire—but you are just a fraction too slow. It crashes into you with enough force to send you flying, and Qifrey's mouth falls open in a soundless scream.

You hit the edge of the square hard enough to bounce. Your small body skids across the broken cobblestones before rolling once, twice, before crumpling into a motionless heap. The silence that follows is deafening in Qifrey's ears.

"Apprentice,” he chokes out wetly. You don't move.

Qifrey forces himself upright, but he doesn't even make it a couple of paces before he collapses to his knees again. His entire mouth tastes of iron. Pain radiates throughout his entire side, black spots flickering in and out at the edges of his vision, but Qifrey barely notices any of it. All he can see is you—limp and lifeless, like a discarded doll. Your hand, lying pale against the cracked cobblestones, half-hidden beneath the torn edge of your cloak.

"Apprentice," he says again, and the word leaves him as a dreadful, breathless cry instead.

He tries to drag himself over to you. But the ground is slick with mud and Qifrey's fingers have gone numb. There is an incessant sound in his ears that drowns out everything else—he cannot hear anything over it other than the sound of his body scraping over stone, his own laboured breathing. He blinks and it is as if minutes have passed; when he opens his eye again there is a hand pressing hard over the wound at his ribs, trying to stem the flow of blood. He shoves weakly at it, struggling to wrench himself free.

"Qifrey!" Olruggio's voice sounds disembodied, strange, as though his head is being held under water. A firm hand clamps desperately around his shoulder. "Stop moving—you're making your injury worse! Stop—"

He can't. Qifrey yanks himself from Olruggio's grasp with what little strength he has remaining and crawls, trying to hold on to consciousness with each shuddering breath. You are only a few feet away, now. So close that he can see the water pooling in the hollow of your palm, spilling in rivulets down your wrist.

But his knee slips in a puddle and he crashes heavily to the stones. Agony flares so fiercely in his chest that he almost passes out. This time, his arms refuse to lift again. Qifrey claws at the mud anyway, dragging himself the rest of the distance before reaching out with a shaking, bloodstained hand.

"Apprentice," he whispers.

His fingers strain toward yours, but the last of Qifrey's strength deserts him before they can touch. Darkness envelopes the remnants of his vision like a spell, and the last realisation Qifrey has before everything goes black is this:

It's raining.

Qifrey's dreams usually comprise of darkness.

It's difficult to explain, the difference between dreaming of darkness and nothing at all. Both look very much the same when one's eyes are closed. But Qifrey is intimately familiar with their distinction—darkness is clawing at smooth metal until fingertips split and bleed, the sound of echoing screams swallowed by relentless rain. Terror with no shape or end, the certainty of being trapped somewhere no one can reach. It's what he'd spent the first few years dreaming of after Beldaruit pulled him from the ground, after all.

And it's all that surrounds him now.

Consciousness gradually trickles back into him, like woodcruour bled from a silverwood tree. His senses return in fragments: first the hushed voices by his bedside, their murmurings too indistinct to distinguish, and then the faint camphorous of crushed herbs.

Spineneedles, his muddled mind supplies, although why the scent stirs such comfort he cannot recall. But pain follows closely behind, sinking between his ribs until even breathing becomes too much, and sleep mercifully drags him under once more.

 The next time Qifrey opens his eye is to a familiar ceiling. It still takes him some time to recognise where he is—lying in one of the medical spire's narrow cots, a light blanket pulled carefully up to his shoulders. Watery half-light filters in through the far window in soft shades of iridescent blue. Qifrey lies unmoving for a moment, lethargy clinging to his limbs like tar, before the tip of his tongue probes slowly at the back of his teeth. White willow bark and feverfew—both herbs you'd used to steep for him whenever the pain behind his eye grew too severe. The taste is so familiar it aches, the ghost of your presence lingering even in the hollow of his mouth.

Realisation cuts through the dense fog clouding his thoughts. Qifrey lurches upright at once—and immediately pain ignites throughout his chest like oilpaper set alight. Even dulled with anodynes it is enough to make his head spin, and Qifrey hunches over the side of the bed with one arm wrapped himself, the wisps of a pained moan slipping out from behind gritted teeth.

The door flies open. "Qifrey!"

Olruggio is at Qifrey's bedside in an instant, firm hands catching him by the shoulders before he can topple from the cot. "What in the world are you doing?" Olruggio demands, hastily shifting an arm behind Qifrey's back to support him as Qifrey groans. "You’ve been awake for all of ten seconds and you're already trying to tear your stitches open. One of your lungs was punctured, for crying out loud!"

"My apprentice—"

"Could you try being concerned about yourself for once?" Olruggio grunts, his exasperation fraying at the edges. He grabs Qifrey by the arm again when he tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed. "Argh—seriously, Qifrey! You have the survival instincts of a moth throwing itself at a bonfire!"

Qifrey pushes weakly at Olruggio's chest, uncaring. "I need to know if they're—"

"Stop squirming and I'll tell you."

Now that stills Qifrey at once. Olruggio glares at him for a few moments longer as though fully expecting him to make a run for it, but when he doesn't, Olruggio's vice grip on his arm finally loosens. His shoulders sag. "Fine. They're fine. A few contused ribs and a mild concussion, but nothing life-threatening. You, on the other hand…" Olruggio sighs through an exhale, lips pursing as though he wants to say more—but thinks the better of it and shakes his head instead.

Qifrey barely hears the rest. Fine. You are fine. Relief floods through him, more potent than any opiate or sedative. It's so overwhelming that he is struck by the sudden urge to curl into a fetal position beneath his blankets and simply cry until there is nothing left in him. The image of that day is still etched starkly into his mind: the dreadful stillness of your body sprawled across broken cobblestones, wand-hand gone slack beneath falling rain. He remembers terror swallowing every other thought and the near certainty that he had been too late—that he had watched you die only a few inches beyond his reach.

But you hadn't. Olruggio said you were fine, and so you must be.

Qifrey looks up properly at Olruggio then. His beard is longer and more unkempt, and he's wearing the same clothes he had been in Hearthglen. The shadows beneath his eyes have deepened to the colour of old bruises. Olruggio looks as though he hasn't slept properly in days.

"What happened after I passed out?" Qifrey's question comes out stilted, his voice hoarse and scratchy from disuse. Olruggio huffs, turning away.

"I'm not completely sure—it's like everything happened at once." He crosses his arms over his chest but pauses, wincing slightly. Right, Olruggio's shoulder… "The Brimmed Hat disappeared in the middle of the chaos—I don't know whether they fled or simply decided they'd had enough—but by the time I reached you they were already gone. I brought you here through the nearest windowway as fast as I could."

"The one in Azmar?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Thank you."

The conversation peters out awkwardly. Olruggio stares down at his folded arms while Qifrey keeps his eye fixed on the blankets pooled in his lap. When he speaks again, his voice is so quiet Qifrey almost misses it.

"You had us all scared out of our minds, Qifrey."

The quiet rawness in his words makes Qifrey's chest ache. Duller than the pain in his ribs, but far harder to breathe around. Qifrey picks at a loose thread on the blanket, unable to look his best friend in the eye.

"I'm sorry for making you worry, Olly," he says, softly. This much, at least, he can say with complete honesty.

"I'd much rather you show your remorse through your actions than your words," Olruggio grumbles, but he looks marginally more mollified than before. He reaches for the pitcher on Qifrey's bedstand and pours out a generous amount into a cup. "Drink up."

Qifrey does, obediently. He doesn't realise how thirsty he is until he begins to drink; he drains that cup and then another, until his lungs smart and he has to pause. Olruggio watches Qifrey wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Qifrey doesn't know how long he's been unconscious, but it must be a significant duration to leave Olruggio looking so haggard—well, more haggard than usual, at least. You must be worried too. Qifrey will have to apologise—for frightening you, for failing to protect you as a master should, for leaving you alone and vulnerable when you'd needed him most. But whatever happened in Hearthglenn with the Brimmed Hat can wait.

Right now, Qifrey only needs to see you.

"I'm feeling better now," Qifrey says. He doesn't even have to lie—the water has done him much good, and Qifrey can feel some strength returning to his limbs. He pushes the blanket aside. "Which room is my apprentice in? I'd like to make sure they're alright."

Olruggio doesn't answer. He's standing by the bedstand with his back half-turned to Qifrey, busied with tidying the sundries. Perhaps Olruggio didn't hear him.

"Olly," Qifrey repeats, more clearly this time. He shifts towards the edge of the cot, one hand braced against the mattress to support his weight. "Where are they? I want to see them."

Olruggio's shoulders tense. Perhaps, in retrospect, that should have been Qifrey's first indication that something was very, very strong. But lethargy still clouds his mind like a morning brume, and Qifrey is too late to recognise it for what it is. Slowly, Olruggio turns to face him, though his gaze falls between Qifrey's shoulder and bandaged chest, just short of meeting Qifrey's eye.

He hesitates. A cold weight sinks in the pit of Qifrey's stomach like heavy stone, earlier relief curdling into dread.

"Olruggio, where is my apprentice?"

According to the timepiece on the mantel, it takes Olruggio about a whole clockmark to properly answer—bronze innards ticking, oscillators whirring. But to Qifrey it feels like an eternity. Olruggio is normally so candid one would call him almost brutish with his words, so seeing him fumble and wince in an attempt to placate Qifrey's distress only sends it ratcheting higher. He is unable to elude Qifrey's persistent hounding, however; he cracks eventually when Qifrey tries to force himself from the cot despite his protests, brittle eggshell fracturing beneath pressure.

"What do you mean, you had them locked up in the Tower of Tomes?"

Olruggio hesitates at Qifrey's raised voice, the blunt edge of his teeth worrying over his bottom lip. He looks pale with nerves but Qifrey cannot bring himself to be considerate, not after hearing what Olruggio just said.

"Qifrey, let me explain—"

"Then explain." Olruggio flinches.

"I didn't know where else to send them, alright? You were unconscious and the healers didn't know when—if—you would wake up at all and I just—" Olruggio's hand rakes agitatedly through the dark mess of his hair before it falls back to his side where it hangs, clawlike. Qifrey's own trembles where he grips the edge of the cot, chest tight—whether it's from the half-healed wound or his rising dismay, Qifrey doesn't know. "The Tower—I have a friend who owes me a favour there, and they agreed to watch over your apprentice until you woke." Olruggio's eyes dart towards Qifrey before they drop to the foot of his cot again. "I thought… I thought it would be best for you to do it, as their master."

The healing spire is spelled to keep its interiors perfectly warm like the rest of Deepwater Castle, but Qifrey's blood runs cold regardless.

"Do what, exactly?"

Olruggio's mouth twists in that uneasy, restless way; the way it always does when there is something he must say but doesn't want to. But it doesn't stop him from getting the words out, this time. "Turn them in to the Knights Moralis."

"You're treating them like a criminal—"

Olruggio's expression tightens. "They tried to kill me, Qifrey. You saw it with your own eyes."

"They were worried about me," Qifrey argues back immediately. "The Brimmed Hat was manipulating them—"

"And they very nearly cast forbidden magic!" Olruggio throws his hands up, visibly frustrated despite the guilt that still mars his face. "Not only that—they attempted collusion with a Brimmed Hat! I'm not—I'm not just your friend, Qifrey. I'm the Watchful Eye of your atelier, and I have a responsibility to report what happened whether they're your apprentice or not." Olruggio's voice falters, but he wrestles it down with remarkable control despite the tense situation. "The Knights will have to be told."

It's a terrible realisation, that there is no convincing argument to be made. And perhaps Qifrey already knows that deep down, which is why he doesn't try to wrack his mind further for one.

His heart pounds hard and fast in his throat. "Report me as well, then."

Olruggio goes still. "What are you talking about?"

Qifrey takes a deep breath and lifts his eye to meet Olruggio's. "They're my apprentice—therefore, their conduct is my responsibility." He knows this is unfair—to force Olruggio into such a choice, wielding their relationship as leverage against the duties of his post. But the thought of you standing before the Knights in chains, terrified and alone again, leaves no room in him for shame. "If you intend to hand them over to the Knights Moralis for something they nearly did, then you should deliver me together with them."

"You're being unreasonable—"

"I'm being their master!"

Olruggio's jaw tightens. For a moment Qifrey thinks that this might be when Olruggio's infinite patience finally snaps—when his words might turn ugly or cruel in a way Qifrey has never witnessed firsthand, were Olruggio capable of such a thing. But then the anger in Olruggio's expression drains all of a sudden, leaving nothing but quiet weariness in its wake.

"Only their master?" he asks, almost tiredly.

Olruggio's unspoken accusation hits Qifrey like a blow to the chest. For a moment Qifrey finds himself unable to breathe—it slips between his ribs and unearths the buried shame he has spent so long refusing to name, like a tracker led unerringly by a guidance orb. Had Qifrey truly been so obvious? All this time, had the ugliness he'd been trying so hard to conceal been showing through?

Some frightened part of Qifrey wants to deny it—lying is, after all, all he's ever learned to do, and Qifrey has done it to Olruggio often enough that it should come easily now. But one look at his best friend's eyes, burning blue like twin candleflames in the dim light, steals every half-formed falsehood from his mouth.

His silence is confession enough. Qifrey drops his gaze to his hands, unable to hold Olruggio's any longer. Shame crawls up his throat. It's all too much—Qifrey wants to tear off his own skin and flee, a twiglizard abandoning its own tail to escape. Because this is Olruggio, who had saved him the first time fate allowed them to cross paths, unaware that it would become the foundation for all of their relationship that followed. The whole world could turn its back on him and Qifrey could bear it, but not Olruggio.

"Qifrey," Olruggio says helplessly, and just the sound of his name in Olruggio's familiar timbre is too much. Qifrey squeezes his eye shut until it stings, trying to block out the sudden rush of hot tears behind his lid.

"I didn't—I didn't mean to." The words escape him before he can stop them. Choked and wet, as though his guilt might somehow be sufficient to render iniquity into innocuity. "I really didn't, Olruggio, I swear—"

"I know."

"I was just going to be their master," Qifrey continues, almost miserably. "I just wanted—all I wanted was to teach them magic and watch them grow. Oh, Olly, I never meant for it to become—"

"I know, Qifrey."

Olruggio’s hand settles heavily on his shoulder. Gripping tight, dragging him back from the brink. Still warm, somehow, despite everything, and Qifrey's gaze lifts, unable to help it. It's almost cruel, he thinks despairingly, that he can find no trace of digust or condemnation in Olruggio's eyes. Only quiet sympathy, and something so profoundly sad it hurts to look at—like an open, still weeping wound.

He waits for Olruggio to speak, but Olruggio remains silent. Perhaps it is for the best. There are no words that could comfort Qifrey, and no version of the truth that would hurt less, anyway.

 

The atelier is quiet upon Qifrey's return.

The door creaks softly on its hinges when he pushes it open, the sound echoing in hollow space. Qifrey's shoes scuff lightly on the flagstones as he steps across the threshold—he still feels weak and loose-limbed; symptoms the healers had warned wouldn't dissipate until a week or so later. They'd been reluctant to discharge him at all, to tell the truth, but Qifrey had insisted. Sinocia had sighed while Ermile's crossed arms said everything on her mind, but Qifrey's persistence won out in the end.

That Olruggio had been easiest to convince unmoors Qifrey somewhat. In every scenario, either real or imagined, it is he who would be most adamant that Qifrey recuperate properly before setting foot out of the spire. But Olruggio hadn't spoken a single word of protest the entire journey back to the Downs; instead he'd remained inscrutable and silent—leaving Qifrey to run his fingers over the dark silk tied to his hat again and again, unable to divine the thoughts occupying Olruggio's mind.

"Your apprentice is waiting for you in their room," Olruggio told him, when the pegasus carriage had dropped them off just a few feet from the atelier's door. He pressed a key etched with a locking spell into Qifrey's hand, then hesitated. "I'm envious, you know."

Qifrey had been caught off guard. "Of what?"

"How much you love them."

Those words sit heavy in Qifrey's chest as he climbs the stairs to the upper floor. There is no hiding any longer, not after Olruggio has seen through him so transparently. These inappropriate feelings will have to be excised and fed to the fire sooner or later—preferably sooner, before they have the chance to root themselves any deeper. Yet the moment Qifrey stands outside your door, familiar woodgrain melding against his fingertips in anticipation of reunion, every concern fades away to nothing in comparison to the person who is behind it.

Qifrey pushes the key into the lock.

The soft glow of a completed spell emits from within the keyhole, followed by a quiet click. Qifrey sets his hand to the knob but does not turn it—all of a sudden, he finds himself overcome. What sort of expression will you be wearing, when he opens that door? Anger? Hurt? Worse still, will you have retreated behind that quiet, guarded composure of yours once more—the one that gives nothing away and asks for nothing in return? Qifrey does not know if he could bear it.

Before he can muster sufficient courage, however, the door flies open of its own accord. And then you are there—standing in the doorway, hand tightly gripping the other side of the knob. Alive.

Qifrey does not manage to catch what expression is on your face, in the end. The instant you see that it is him, you surge forward and throw yourself into his arms with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. Qifrey staggers back half a step before he instinctively wraps both arms around you, holding you as tightly as his injuries will allow.

For those few seconds, nothing else exists: only your warmth enfolded within his embrace, heart beating in tandem with his—close enough that your ribcages could mesh together were it not for the separation of skin and flesh, and yet Qifrey still feels like it isn't enough. He counts every breath you take against his collarbone and relishes in the sensation of each one; it is proof—proof that you are alive.

"Master. Master." It takes him a moment to realise, with some degree of horror, that you are crying. It's an awful, near foreign sound—Qifrey has never heard you cry before, not once in all the years he's been your master. "I thought you—I was so afraid. Master…"

"Shh. Shh. I'm here." His fingers swipe gently at the tears wetting your cheeks, but when they continue to fall without ceasing, Qifrey laughs a little helplessly. "Oh dear…"

You're inconsolable. The thought of you alone and afraid in that Tower, not knowing if he would ever wake, twists painfully in his chest. Yet some part of him shamefully finds relief in it—that you are clinging to him, still crying into his robes; despite everything that has happened, you do not seem to hate him.

"I heard you sustained a few injuries," Qifrey says, lowering himself carefully into a crouch before you in spite of the painful twinge behind his ribs. His hands stay on you even as he moves, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to let go. He takes the opportunity to study you closely; you're dressed in a fresh set of plain robes, and aside from the gauze taped to your left temple, you seem otherwise unharmed. There's no indication that you've been interrogated or mistreated during your time in the Tower. "Are you still hurting anywhere?"

It takes you a while to calm yourself, though not nearly as long as he would like. Eventually you shake your head wordlessly, eyes shiny and nose a faint red.

"No."

"Are you certain? I will be quite upset if I find out that you are lying to me."

You sniff once. "Master should be more concerned with his own well-being."

Those words again. "Olly said the same thing." The words slip out of him without thinking, half-humoured and wholly-defeated—but the moment the name leaves his mouth, your expression falls. Guilt passes over your face like a shadow.

"I'm sorry," you say quietly, "for hurting Mr. Olruggio. I know Master—"

Qifrey stops you before you can say any more. "I understand why you did it." He squeezes your hands gently in his, careful of the still-healing scrapes on your palms. Your eyes dart up to meet his, hesitant. "I won't… pretend what happened wasn't dangerous, or wrong. But you thought I was dying, and someone used that fear against you. It's this master's fault, for putting you in such a situation in the first place. I promise it will not happen again."

The words are as much a vow to himself as to you when he speaks them aloud. Qifrey will have to be more careful. Quicker, smarter, better prepared. Whatever thread of interest that the Brimmed Hat might have caught hold of, Qifrey must sever it before they can further entangle you in their machinations or schemes. He will not allow whatever horrors happened to him all those years ago to so much as touch you.

He is still deep in thought when you speak.

"Shouldn't we be seeking out the Brimmed Hat instead, Master?"

The notion is so baffling that for a moment, Qifrey doubts whether he has heard you correctly. "You want to seek out the Brimmed Hats?" he repeats, staring at the straight line of your mouth, the determined set of your shoulders. But you nod with perfect seriousness, eyes dropping to where his hands are clasping yours.

“They said they have a cure for Master’s silverwood,” you say quietly.

The word on your lips alone is enough to send a chill down his spine. Silverwood. Stars, how could Qifrey have forgotten. Or rather, been foolish enuogh to hope hat you would?

His laugh comes out first too quick, then too gentle. "My dear apprentice," Qifrey says, deliberately softening his voice to a comforting hum, "whatever the Brimmed Hat said that day was nothing more than a lie designed to frighten you. I assure you—"

"Master needn't lie to me." Your fingers tighten around his wrists—and then it is you stepping closer, eyes fixed upon his with terrible clarity. "The Tower of Tomes; the whole time Master was unconscious, I read everything I could find about the silverwood—every book, every record. I understand now—I understand why Master kept it from me. Master can't ever let himself be happy or at peace, or the silverwood takes over his body. That's the reason Master took me in, isn't it?"

Horror unfurls within him like a slow poison. It is cruel irony, truly, that the silverwood in him has never been more silent. But Qifrey had never meant for you to know this—so why are you setting the weight of his sins upon your own shoulders?

"No," he says, but his denial comes out faint.

"But it's all right now. Master doesn't need to worry." The words spill from you in a rush, your lashes fluttering rapidly—almost feverish in their intensity. "Now that I know, I can help Master. I'm good with plants—I daresay my knowledge surpasses that of every witch on the Peninsula. And I'm confident I can find out more about the silverwood, too! Experimenting on another human host would be unethical, of course, but there is nothing else more efficient…"

"Stop."

"And the Brimmed Hat—they mentioned there is a way to help buy Master more time until a cure is found. That means such a spell must exist, Master."

"Stop."

"If we find that Brimmed Hat again, I could ask them—"

"I told you to stop it!"

Qifrey slams his hand against the wall. His strike is so violent the entire doorframe rattles in its place, and whatever you'd been about to say next dies in your throat as you flinch back.

Self-abhorrence fills him like a cloudburst overrunning a river, but the fear has sunk too deep to allow him to soften. It claws up his throat, turns every breath desperate, every word vicious.

"Master—"

"The Brimmed Hats are dangerous. They are not saviours, and they are not healers. Healing magic is forbidden, and they know that better than anyone." Qifrey's fingers curl against the doorframe until his knuckles turn bone white. Only then does he realises that he is shaking. "They will twist their words and manipulate your emotions to get you to use forbidden magic. You cannot."

You swallow. Your voice, though trembling, still carries that faint edge of determination when you speak. "But if it can help Master, why should it matter whether it is forbidden or not?"

And there it is. His greatest fear, spoken aloud at last. Some wiser part of Qifrey should have seen this coming, the day you had brought home those spineneedles stained with your own blood and said, I don't like to see Master in pain. But Qifrey has never been wise, only selfish, and the next time it happens will not be serpentines but—

"Didn't I teach you what happens to witches who cross that line?" Qifrey demands. Every of his words comes out as a harsh whisper. "Do you not remember any of it? Forbidden magic does not suddenly lose its consequences because its caster means well, and the Brimmed Hats never offer help simply out of the kindness of their hearts. You cannot trust a single word they say!"

"And so I should trust Master instead?"

Qifrey goes very still.

But you don't stop. "Master has kept this from me all this time. He told me his headaches were nothing, and that he would be fine." Your eyes are bright, clenched fists trembling at your sides. "Master looked me in the eye and lied to me every single day! The Brimmed Hat was more honest with me than Master has ever been."

"That's not—"

"Would Master have ever told me?" Your voice cracks. "Or would he have just slipped away without a word one day, and abandoned me all over—?

"Enough." Qifrey cannot bear to listen to you sound like thaat any longer. Not when he knows that he is the cause for it. He turns away abruptly and bites down on his lower lip until the taste of iron blooms across his tongue; only when he is certain he has regained his composure does he speak again. "This conversation is over. Tomorrow, I'm confiscating every book you have on pharmacognosy." For a moment Qifrey contemplates burning them—to ensure every foolish ambition of yours is reduced to ash before you can stray further down this dangerous path. But the thought of you hating him even more than you must already do cuts him too deeply. "If I ever catch you looking into the subject of a cure again, I'll—"

"—expel me from your atelier?" you finish for him, bitterly.

The thought does cross his mind briefly, but in that instant Qifrey knows that it would not be enough. He is certain of it. You would leave, grieve and hate him, but it wouldn't stop you from searching. You'd run headfirst into ruin with both hands outstretched if you thought there was a chance it might save him.

"No," Qifrey says. What he says next will hurt him more than it will you, he thinks. "I'll wipe your memories myself."

For a moment, there is nothing in your face at all. No anger, nor defiance—only a stunned, hollow disbelief, as though Qifrey had reached inside you and cut some thread holding you together. Then your expression crumples, folding inwards, and your mouth trembles once before you force it flat.

"I understand, Master."

Somehow, beyond any of the words the two of you have exchanged today, this is what wounds him deepest. The ruin he has made of the one good thing he was meant to protect. The realisation that meeting him might not have been a blessing at all, but your greatest misfortune.

"I should never have taken you in."

The words escape him barely above a whisper. But in the pin-drop silence of the room, you hear them all the same.

Qifrey hadn't thought you could make an expression more heartbreaking than the one already on your face, but somehow you do. The anguish that flickers across it is almost enough to make him wish he could take the words back.

You step back as though you've been struck. Qifrey nearly reaches for you on instinct, but his hand falters halfway between you. Who is Qifrey to try and comfort you, when it was he who hurt you in the first place? He hasn't the right.

You push past him before he can say anything, shoulder shoving hard against his arm as you hurry from the room, as if you can't stand being in his presence for a second longer. And then you are gone—down the stairs and out of sight, leaving nothing but the fading echo of your footsteps behind.

Qifrey remains where he is for a long moment. The hand that had been half-lifted towards you slowly falls back to his side, where it curls into a tight fist—if only to prevent himself from reaching for you again. Something damp touches the left side of his face. Qifrey absently lifts his fingers to wipe it away, and only then does he understand.

Tears. He's crying.

The realisation does not move him immediately. Qifrey stands there, surrounded by the silence and your absence, until all of it becomes too much to bear. Then, slowly, as if his body belongs to someone else, Qifrey crosses the room to stand over your desk. He picks up an empty inkwell.

And presses it to his cheek.

By the time Qifrey emerges from his room, the sky outside is as dark as the ink staining his fingertips, and you still have yet to return to the atelier.

The guidance orb sitting on the counter is the only thing keeping him from doing something rash. A scented sachet smelling faintly of lavender hovers within it—turning lazily, oscillating on occasion—but otherwise pointing steadily in the direction of Azmar Village. You might have thought to seek out the baker's daughter again for comfort or companionship, or perhaps you simply wish to be rid of his presence for a time. But having you out of his sight so soon after everything stirs an irrational fear in him, and some part of him is itching—no, clawing—with the need to fly there right now and drag you home himself.

But despite the unease, maybe it's better this way. It would be too easy to mistake possession for protection right now, and Qifrey doesn't trust himself to know the difference. Perhaps some distance is exactly what you both need, and Qifrey—

Qifrey is just so tired of fighting.

He shoves his hands under the vapour bubble, scrubbing hard as if the friction would scour away the impulse loitering beneath his skin. The water runs until it is cold. Still dark smudges cling stubbornly to his knuckles and the creases between his fingers, refusing to wash out.

He wrings out his hands in frustration, jaw tightening as he does. Water drips down his wrists and onto the floor.

"Stars," Qifrey mutters to himself. "I need a drink."

Stashed discreetly in an upper cabinet behind a row of preserve jars are two moderately sized, round bottomed flasks. The first is a silvernectar mead—sweet and pale gold, the kind of thing meant for celebrations rather than a night like this one. The other is dark as a bruise and twice as potent, gifted to him by some minor lord a couple of years back in exchange for diverting a flood on his territory.

"This twenty-year Willowgrape vintage is strong," the servant had joked as he pressed the bottle into Qifrey's hands, "It could probably kill a horse."

Perhaps that's what he needs right now. Qifrey grabs it off the shelf, glass cool and heavy in his hands as he walks—out of the kitchen, up the stairs, across the catwalk—boots echoing faintly on wood. He comes to a stop before a familiar door.

Qifrey hesitates, knuckles hovering over wood. Surely he's imposing—Olruggio has his own wounds to nurse tonight, his own silence to keep. He deserves a night of peace away from Qifrey as well. But before Qifrey can lose his nerve and withdraw, the door swings open on its own.

Olruggio stands on the other side. His eyes flick briefly to the bottles in Qifrey's hands, then back to his face. Neither of them speak.

Then Olruggio steps aside, and lets him in.

Qifrey clutches the wine to his chest as Olruggio sets about clearing a space for them to sit, shoving books and loose papers into somewhat neater piles with the practiced ease of a man used to his own clutter. Despite the mess there's a warmth to the room that is uniquely Olruggio's—tasseled pillows and worn rugs scattered across the floor, the embers of a fire left to burn low throughout the evening—that Qifrey had tried to replicate when you'd first taken residence in his atelier. He'd never managed to get it quite right.

Olruggio kicks aside a stray blanket and gestures for Qifrey to sit. He does, lowering himself carefully onto the nearest cushion. The ache in his ribs flares briefly before settling to a dull throb.

The two of them drink in silence, pouring the wine out of cracked cups that Olruggio produces from amidst the clutter. Qifrey knocks back one cup after another but barely tastes any of it—only the fiery burn as it goes down, sharp and bitter in the back of his throat. But it numbs the sting of the wound carved across his heart ever since the two of you had fought, at least, and that is what Qifrey needs most of all right now.

Olruggio doesn't comment. He simply refills Qifrey's cup when it empties between sips of his own, gaze fixed on some indistinct spot beyond the window. The firelight catches the edges of his face, carving shadows into the space just beneath his jaw, and Qifrey finds himself watching the way his friend's throat moves when he swallows. But eventually even the silence becomes unbearable.

"Aren't you…" Qifrey hesitates. "… going to ask what happened?"

Olruggio's cup pauses halfway to his mouth. His eyes meet Qifrey's over the rim, firelight flickering within their depths. "Would you tell me if I did?"

Qifrey swallows, hand curling tentatively into the fabric sitting over his knee. He's aware of the answer as much as Olruggio is. The drink has loosened his tongue somewhat, but Qifrey knows that he cannot tempt himself any further beyond this point. Because there is so much he wants to tell Olruggio—the reason for the distance he's kept, why he had left the Great Hall so abruptly, even every terrible thought he has ever had about you. The silverwood. Oh, the silverwood. That if it weren't for this cursed tree, Qifrey would have fallen at Olruggio's feet years ago and begged his forgiveness for everything.

But that would bring him too much relief. Instead, Qifrey confesses. "I'm scared."

Olruggio watches him for a moment—a dog eyeing a bone left just out of reach, unsure if it should bite. Then, slowly, he sets down his cup and straightens up to listen. Still caring, despite everything. Despite how little Qifrey deserves it.

So Qifrey tells Olruggio what he can. About how his failure in Hearthglen might have set you upon a dangerous path, and the subsequent argument the two of you had because of it. The guilt that gnaws at him, knowing you only did any of that because you care so deeply for him as your master—and the quieter, uglier shame beneath that, the certainty that he is undeserving of affection so pure. By the end of it his words are coming out slower, the bottles between them dangerously close to empty. Qifrey isn't sure when he started slurring, only that the room has gone warm and unsteady and almost muggy at the edges—in a way that has little to do with the fire.

And Olruggio—at some point, Olruggio had reached across the low table to put a hand on Qifrey's shoulder. He looks, Qifrey thinks blearily, squinting through the wine-thick fog creeping in on his mind, so sad.

"You don't have to bear it alone, Qifrey," Olruggio says.

The words are soft enough to wound. Olruggio is always making this sort of expression around Qifrey these days, and it stings Qifrey to know that he is the cause for it.

Perhaps this is what spurs Qifrey's impulse, to impetuously shove the table between them aside and kiss Olruggio; except he misses; so inebriated that his lips land hard at the corner of Olruggio's chin instead. For a blurred moment there is only the clumsy tangle of limbs and blankets, the two of them knocked half-sideways into the cushions. Olruggio's body is tense and rigid beneath his. Then, just as Qifrey's mind clears enough for shame to catch up and he begins to withdraw, mortified—Olruggio's hand finds the back of his neck, and pulls him back down to properly meet his mouth.

Olruggio doesn't miss.

The kiss is hot and messy, all teeth and too much tongue. Olruggio's other arm snakes around Qifrey's waist—one hand still curled in the hair at Qifrey's name—and pulls him forward without breaking the kiss until Qifrey is straddling him, his knees bracketing Olruggio's hips. He tastes of the wine they'd shared but on Olruggio's tongue it turns honeyed, intoxicating and sweet. Qifrey's head spins. Each touch seems to immerse him in a muggy daze yet every inch of his skin feels like it is burning up in a fever, so sensitive to the calloused fingers stroking his jaw, heat pooling low in his stomach. Qifrey never knew it could feel so wonderfully, mind-numbingly good. He moans into Olruggio's mouth when the hand at the nape of his neck squeezes, and it is as though every bone in his body has gone liquid, pleasure shivering down his spine.

When they break apart it's with a soft, wet sound, and for a brief second there is a gossamer-thin string of spit connecting their mouths before it snaps. Qifrey's eye darts upwards, unable to focus on anything except the reddened hue of Olruggio's lips, still glistening.

Olruggio swallows hard, throat bobbing. "Qif—"

"Please," Qifrey whispers. He slides his hand up Olruggio's chest until his fingers find the edge of his collar, his other hand dropping down to Olruggio's belt. "Help me forget. Just for tonight."

Olruggio hesitates for a long moment. His blue eyes are so dark in the wavering firelight that they appear almost black. "You know this won't fix anything."

Qifrey's throat tightens. "I know."

"And you still want this?"

"Yes, yes." Qifrey tries to kiss him again but Olruggio catches him by the chin, forces him to still. Qifrey nearly whimpers. His grip is firm but not harsh, tilting his face up until Qifrey has no choice to meet his gaze. Olruggio looks up at him as though he can see straight through him; down to the marrow of his bones, the rotten heart sitting in his chest. "Please, Olruggio—"

Olruggio's hold on him doesn't relent. Qifrey feels caught in the open, a rabbit with one leg snared in a trap. "But that's not the same as wanting me."

"Does it have to be?"

The question, whispered hoarsely in its shame, slips out before Qifrey can catch it. It hangs in the air between them like residual smoke. Olruggio's expression flickers—something quiet passing briefly across his face, unreadable—before it settles into resignation.

"No," Olruggio finally says. "I suppose it doesn't."

The words are barely out before Olruggio is moving—pushing at Qifrey's hip until it is he beneath Olruggio instead, cushions pressing into his shoulder blades, the base of his spine. Qifrey's heart pounds so loud he is certain Olruggio must be able to hear it. But if he does, Olruggio gives no indication—instead his hand wraps around Qifrey's ankle, pushing his knee up and to the side—and then his fingers are slipping beneath the hem of Qifrey's robe, rucking up the fabric until they find the straps cinched around his upper thighs.

Qifrey's breath hitches, hands gripping the pillow beneath him. Olruggio leans in.

And this time, he doesn't ask any more questions.

Qifrey wakes to the pale grey of dawn filtering through Olruggio's curtains, the cloying smell of sweet wine and stale sweat still lingering on the sheets, and the slow, sinking realisation of what he's done.

He lies still for a long time, counting the heartbeats between each breath. Next to him Olruggio is still fast asleep—one arm thrown over his eyes as he snores lightly, bare chest rising and falling beneath the rumpled sheet. The same blanket that Qifrey had gripped with white-knuckled hands as Olruggio pushed into him for the first time, his embarrassingly loud cries muffled into its linen weave. Qifrey does not dare look any higher.

He should leave before Olruggio wakes up.

But Qifrey's body refuses to move. His limbs feel heavy, weighed down by guilt and something that feels akin to shame, though he can't name exactly what it is that he is ashamed of. The sex? The using? The fact that he'd crawled into his best friend's bed like a wounded animal and taken what solace he could without once asking what Olruggio needed—or wanted—in return?

Yes. All of it.

Qifrey sits up carefully, wincing when his lower half twinges. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, careful not to jostle the bed as he gets shakily to his feet. His clothes are scattered haphazardly across the floor. Qifrey gathers each item one by one in the muted half-light, moving furtively as though he can erase the night by absconding with its evidence.

"Running away?"

Olruggio's voice is rough with sleep. Qifrey freezes, halfway through pulling his shirt on. He turns his head slowly to find Olruggio propped up on his elbows, the blanket pooled around his waist. His hair is dishevelled, eyes still heavy and half-lidded with sleep, but there is a quiet knowing in them that makes Qifrey's stomach want to drop straight to the floor.

"I was just—" Qifrey starts, but the words die in his throat. How is he supposed to lie to Olruggio's face now, after he's had Qifrey red-faced and sobbing into his shoulder, after he'd watched Qifrey come apart on his cock? The memory surfaces, vivid and unbidden, and Qifrey can already feel the beginnings of a lurid flush creeping up the back of his neck. "I didn't want to wake you," he offers instead, lamely.

"Well, it didn't work. Your thoughts are too loud."

Qifrey finishes pulling on his shirt, fingers quickly lacing the straps at his thighs with practiced movements. He cannot look at Olruggio, despite the way he can feel his eyes on his back. Neither can he look at the rumpled sheets on the bed, or the empty wine bottle tipped over on the floor, or anything else that might remind him of the sounds he'd made in the dark. His fingers fumble with the straps at his throat, the leather suddenly stiff and uncooperative under his touch. Qifrey tries twice, then thrice, but when his attempts remain frustratingly unsuccessful he gives up and lets his hands fall back to his sides.

Finally, there is nothing left to delay the inevitable with. Swallowing, throat as dry as sandpaper, Qifrey turns around to face Olruggio.

"Last night—" Qifrey begins.

"Don't apologise." Olruggio's voice is surprisingly gentle when he interrupts. His expression is unreadable but his eyes are steady, fixed on Qifrey with some sort of wordless understanding that feels heavier than any accusation. "It doesn't have to be something we talk about."

"But—"

"We're friends, aren't we?" Olruggio says simply. "Friends help each other."

For a moment, only their quiet breaths fill the silence between them. Qifrey's hand fidgets with the door handle, brass cool against his skin, but finds himself unable to open it. Friends. For some reason the word sends a wave of nausea rolling in his stomach. If Olruggio spoke only the truth, and last night was nothing more than a careless tumble in the sheets between close companions, would there be such aching pain behind his eyes when he looks at Qifrey now?

"Thank you," Qifrey whispers, regardless. The words are woefully inadequate, but they are all he has.

He doesn't look at Olruggio as he pushes open the door. For the first time, selfishly, Qifrey wishes he had his palm quire in hand, the familiar three-pronged spell inked carefully on its second-to-last page. But the mere thought of expunging the night from Olruggio's mind brings too much relief, and Qifrey can already feel its branches shifting beneath his skin.

So Olruggio has no choice but to remember.

Outside the door to his own atelier, Qifrey hesitates. His mind turns itself over and over gain, and despite the hours he had lain awake the night before, thinking of the words he should say to make things right, he still comes up empty. A satisfactory apology eludes him—he cannot find the right arrangement of syllables to undo what he has done, cannot find a way to say I am sorry for hurting you again without it sounding like a hollow echo of every other time he has failed you. But more than that, Qifrey is afraid. Afraid that you might not be willing to listen, that you might have finally reached the final straw of your adoration. Something in him cringes at the thought of your rejection—as deserved as it is.

He hates that this is all he seems to be able to do. To you, to Olruggio—to every person who has ever been precious to him.

Qifrey exhales slowly, forcing his trembling hand to still on the latch. Azmar is not too far from the atelier. Qifrey will quickly make himself presentable, rehearse his apology in his head on the journey there. And then—

The door swings open in front of him.

You stand in the doorway, the morning sunlight curving across your profile, casting half of it into shadow. Qifrey's breath catches—not just from the sight of you, but the sudden unease writhing in the pit of his stomach. When did you return to the atelier? Was it just this morning? Or perhaps… his mind trails off, unwilling to finish the thought. Qifrey glances up to find you looking at him with wordless intent, expression inscrutable. Your eyes drift downwards, settling on his neck.

A second passes, and then another; still your gaze does not falter. Discomfort scrapes beneath his skin, and Qifrey's hand rises unconsciously to shield himself—fingers brushing awkwardly along the side of his throat—and then he feels it. The straps, undone, still loose at his collarbone where he'd failed to fasten them. And beneath his fingertips, the throbbing bruises left by Olruggio's mouth last night, still tender and aching to the touch.

His heart sinks in his chest.

Qifrey cannot move. There is not a single word that he can think of that might explain this away, the marks like hot-iron brands burned into his skin. He stands frozen, hand still at his throat.

Then you speak.

"Good morning, Master," you say, calmly. "I made tea."

The normalcy of your response unnerves him more than anger would. Qifrey cannot help but feel as though he is treading on the surface of a frozen lake, unable to see the hairline cracks spanning the ice underfoot, unsure which step will be the one to finally send him through. But then the corner of your mouth lifts, and Qifrey realises, with a terrible ache, just how long he's been waiting to see that expression directed at him again. How desperately he's been craving proof that he has not lost it all.

"Would Master like some?"

"Y—yes," he answers too quickly. "Yes. I'd like that."

You turn back towards the atelier. And like a coward Qifrey follows you inside, footsteps trailing quietly after yours, and lets the door close behind him without another word.

The weeks that follow settle carefully into a fragile rhythm. The atelier and its occupants return to a semblance of normalcy—tea in the mornings, spell theory and practice in the afternoons, quiet evenings spent in front of the warmth of the hearth. You hand over your books obediently and do not bring up the silverwood again. All these combined nearly lulls Qifrey into a sense of security—almost makes him forget the argument ever happened in the first place, its dark stain gradually washing out like watercolour beneath incessant rain. But it also makes him apprehensive—too fearful to disturb this fragile peace, afraid that a single misstep might shatter it all over again.

So he says nothing, when you begin leaving the atelier more often on your own.

Because of this, Qifrey finds himself unintentionally spending more time in Olruggio's company. After the sun has gone down and the atelier has grown too quiet for him alone, Qifrey lingers in the kitchen and shares a cup or two with his oldest friend while the fire burns low.

But never more. Qifrey has learned his lesson, now.

He brings it up only once, on an evening when the sunset stains the low-hanging clouds burnt sienna and fading gold. A note sits on the kitchen table, detailing that you have gone to Kahln to pick up some books on compound spells in your neat handwriting. It is a perfectly reasonable request. You've been spending more time in your room lately, intensely focused on preparing for your fourth test—The Goodwill of Her Grace. Passing this would allow you to graduate from his atelier and be recognised by the Great Hall as a fully independent witch. It is what Qifrey has always wanted for you: your own path, your own magic, a future that belongs wholly to you.

But yet he finds himself staring at the empty chair across from him, worry sitting quietly beneath his ribs. It is not silent, and neither is he alone. But the atelier simply feels different when your presence is absent from it, and he hates that he is sensitive enough to notice.

"They're gone again," Qifrey comments quietly. He says it thoughtlessly, the words slipping out without intention, but it's enough to make Olruggio glance up from his cup. Qifrey tries to ignore it, but the restlessness in him refuses to settle; he rises and begins to pace, until he finds himself standing by the window facing the road to Kahln. The sun is disappearing beyond the hills in the distance, shadows stretching slowly across the downlands.

You're more than capable of taking care of yourself now. Qifrey knows this. Still, it does little to assuage his concern.

“You’re worried they’re still upset,” Olruggio observes. Qifrey doesn't answer, knows that he is right.

Olruggio is quiet for a moment. He turns his empty cup over in his hands slowly, before he speaks. "Your apprentice is at the age all young witches begin to seek their own independence," Olruggio says carefully, his voice taking on that cautious tone he always slips into when he's unsure of how Qifrey will receive his words. "It's what you've been preparing them for, isn't it? Perhaps… perhaps a little distance will be healthy for them." He hesitates, thumb tracing the wettened rim of his cup. "And maybe for you, too."

The words settle in the tenuous silence between them. Eventually Olruggio continues.

"They care about you, Qifrey. That much is obvious." Olruggio's voice softens. "I think all you need to do right now is give them some space. Let them sort through their own thoughts."

Your apprentice cares about you.

Qifrey is fairly certain that Olruggio means to be reassuring. But he does not know the whole truth, the full extent of the knowledge you've unearthed—the reason why those words are not a comfort but a warning. He looks at the face of the man who'd once stood in your place and cared too much—who'd seen the ruin the silverwood made of him and decided that he was an acceptable sacrifice in Qifrey's stead.

The thought of you stepping willingly onto the same pyre, content to be razed to ash, keeps him awake long after Olruggio has returned to his own side of the atelier. Eventually Qifrey finds himself sitting alone in the dark, wondering how many more months he will let pass before he finds the courage to say what he must.

Tomorrow, Qifrey tells himself. I'll do it tomorrow.

But tomorrow always becomes today, and today always ends up being never. The weeks grow into months. And the things left unsaid grow heavier with each passing day, until one day Qifrey realises the silence has become a spell of its own—one he no longer knows how to break.

Then one day, Qifrey realises it has been too long since he's last seen you.

He tells himself it is nothing at first. You are studying hard, still taking the rose glowtarts and fewberry jellies he's been leaving outside your door. You've always been like this when something wholly captures your attention—disappearing into books, notes and research until the rest of the world falls away. It's not unusual. Qifrey has to remind himself not to worry excessively; he does not want to become another source of pressure, hovering over your shoulder when you're trying to focus.

But this time, something feels off.

Qifrey occupies himself with chores. He spends the morning tending to the weeds that have sprung up along the walls of the atelier, then reorganising a shelf of spell supplies that he'd only finished arranging a week ago. Anything that keeps his hands busy, that stops him from glancing too often towards the stairs. If you need anything, you will come to him.

That is what he keeps telling himself.

Eventually, unable to ignore the unease gnawing at him, Qifrey finds himself standing outside your door. He hesitates there longer than he should, knuckles hovering just above the wood.

He's being ridiculous. Qifrey knows that. You are his apprentice, no longer a child. You are allowed your privacy—your own time, your own thoughts, your own space. And yet…

“Apprentice?”

No answer. He knocks again, a little louder this time.

"Apprentice? Are you awake?"

Still nothing. Frowning, Qifrey puts a hand to the handle. It does not turn.

Qifrey feels like he's been plunged headfirst into icy water. He has never explicitly forbidden it, but you've never locked your door before—never had reason to. The realisation hits him with the force of a physical blow, and then his hands begin to shake.

"Apprentice," he calls, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Open the door, please."

For an elongated moment, there is nothing but silence and the rapid thump of Qifrey's heart in his own ears. Then, faintly, muffled through wood—a sound.

A low groan of pain.

Fear takes over before reason can catch up. Qifrey steps back and, without thinking, drives his shoulder into the door with all his body weight behind it. Once, twice, until finally, the lock gives with a sharp crack.

Qifrey bursts into the room only to find you collapsed on your knees next to the bed, hunched over yourself with one hand clutched to your face. The heavy smell of rust and iron is what hits him next, so thick it clogs his nose. His gaze drops to the floor, where something dark and liquid drips steadily between your knees.

Horror floods through him at once. "Apprentice—"

Qifrey is across the room in an instant, shaking hands gripping you by the shoulder and dragging you upright. He's far too frantic to be gentle. "What happened? Where are you hurt?" His voice comes out sharper and higher than he intends, panicked and breathless. "Why didn't you call for me? We need to get you to the medical spire right now—"

But you only look up at him and smile. Blood slips between your fingers and trails down the curve of your cheek, falling like raindrops from your chin. Your hand is pressed tightly over your left eye, and Qifrey cannot get a clear enough view to piece together what happened. His mind races through every possibility. A fall? An accident? Some spell gone terribly awry?

His hands search frantically for something to stem the bleeding, but can find none within reach. His own robe will do—Qifrey reaches for the hem, ready to tear it—but before he can, your hand settles over his, stopping him. He glances up, heart pounding in his throat, and finds you still smiling.

"Ah." You sound almost pleased, though for what reason he cannot possibly fathom. Why would you sound like this? Why would you look at him like this when you are bleeding, when something is so clearly, terribly wrong? "Perfect timing, Master. I was just about to look for you—I have a spell I wanted you to see."

"This is hardly the time to be—"

"Watch."

Before Qifrey can ask what you mean, you reach for one of the sheets scattered on your table and press it against your bleeding eye. Qifrey barely has time to take in the concentric rings, the unfamiliar sigils woven between your precise lines—before the spell begins to glow. Light seeps through the conjuring ink, and Qifrey watches in frozen horror as the blood on your face slowly recedes. When you pull the paper away, the skin around your left eye is whole and unmarked once again, as though the injury had never existed in the first place.

You've healed yourself. This is no simple time reversal or counter-clock spell—Qifrey can tell from the dried flecks of blood still clinging to your lashes, its faint remnants along your closed eyelid. His breath comes out short and uneven, mind struggling to reconcile with what he has just witnessed.

You have just cast forbidden magic in front of him.

You are still speaking, explaining the technicalities and calibration of the healing spell—but Qifrey can hardly comprehend a word. The words wash over Qifrey like water over stone, fragments of sound swallowed by the pounding in his ears. His eye drifts around your room like an untethered boat, unable to look directly at the truth that has just unfolded before him. All he finds is disorder—you're surrounded by crumpled seals and crossed out sigils he vaguely recognises, and steel instruments of various shapes and sizes of purposes beyond him lie scattered on your bed. But only one thing is clear—that in his attempt to bury his own problems, to keep you from a tragic fate of his own causing—Qifrey has only pushed you beyond the point of no return.

His gaze finally comes to a stop on your table. Sitting in a small glass jar, suspended in clear brine, a familiar eye looks back at him through glass. The same eye Qifrey has spent years looking at from across the table through tea-brewed steam and watched search his face carefully for approval, praise, attention. The one he has spent nights trying not to dream of, the way it holds him in place without needing a word. It floats there—iris dark and empty, pupil dilated and fixed on him just as it always did in life.

Bile rises sharply at the back of Qifrey's throat. He bites back a choked sound, stumbling back when his knees suddenly buckle beneath him.

"Master—"

Qifrey whirls around only to find you looking back at him. It is then that he sees it—silver branches, like slivers of moonlight frozen into bone, extending out of the socket of your left eye. Their leaves curl outward delicately. Face to face like this, it is though Qifrey is staring into a perfect mirror—of the curse that has haunted him for his entire life.

"It took multiple attempts," you're saying, seemingly unaware of the horror that has overtaken him. Still explaining, as though this is nothing more than a difficult spell from a textbook you've been trying to perfect. "Did you know, Master? The silverwood rarely takes root in people because they hold too much anxiety. But after my first few tries, I realised I could increase my chances of success if I—"

Qifrey does not hear the rest. His hands move before his mind does, and he grabs you by the shoulders, pinning you against the bedframe. You gasp when your shoulder collides with solid wood, but Qifrey cannot stop—cannot even notice how tightly he is holding you with the panic tearing through him. His mind is filled with nothing but the sight of silver branches and empty eyes, the irreversible proof of what you've done.

"What did you do?" Qifrey can hardly recognise his own voice, an ugly sound caught between a cry, a roar, a scream. "What did you do?!"

In response, you only tilt your head as though the answer should be obvious. "I infected myself with a silverwood, of course. The Brimmed Hat from before gave me a seed that day." Qifrey's heart sinks. "Like I said, not much is known about the silverwood, but I wanted to be of use to Master. I knew Master wouldn't be happy if I experimented on someone else, though, so I—"

"Happy?" The word tears out of Qifrey, half-hysterical, half in disbelief. His fingers dig into the softness of your upper arms, so tight it almost tears through fabric. He wants to reach into your eye and yank out the silverwood before its roots can spread any further within you, but he knows better than anyone that it is too late now—that it has already woven itself into your flesh, your skin, the very marrow of your bones. "Happy? Did you think that I would be happy if you sacrificed your own eye to become a test subject? Did you think that casting forbidden magic for my sake would ever bring me happiness?"

Your expression softens.

"Perhaps not," you admit, your voice quiet, almost apologetic. Your hand reaches up to cup his cheek, thumb tracing tenderly over the scar tissue there, and it is only tthen that Qifrey realises his entire body is trembling. "But Master's silverwood… it's quiet now, isn't it?"

Qifrey stares. He had not noticed until you said it—the familiar ache in his chest, the constant pressure behind his missing eye, the low thrum of the parasite that has lived in him for years—has gone still. For the first time in a long while, the silverwood is completely silent. The truth of it tastes like poison in his mouth.

Qifrey stumbles back before you can say more. You are simply not listening. "This is madness. This is ridiculous." He wrings his hands together, fingernails leaving crescent marks against his pale skin in their distress. "No. No, no, no. You cannot be allowed to continue down this path."

"Is Master going to turn me in to the Knights Moralis, then?"

Qifrey stares down at the forbidden spells scattered across the floorboards like fallen leaves. His heart pounds painfully against his ribs, rabbit quick. Olruggio had already protected you once by hiding what happened in Hearthglen, but this—this cannot be concealed from the Great Hall forever. Not with what you've done. And far worse than that—Qifrey knows you will not stop. You believe that this is the only way to save him, and you've already proven that you will stop at nothing if you think it will spare him pain.

Without another word, Qifrey lunges.

You grunt in surprise when your back hits the ground, papers scattering like startled birds taking flight. Qifrey pins both wrists in one hand when you struggle against him, pressing them above your head with an iron grip, settling his weight firmly over you. Your strength is nothing compared to his. With his other hand, he slips off his hat.

The sequence of actions is burned into Qifrey's memory. The removal of the pin, the undoing of the flap. A familiar three-pronged spell unfolds before his eyes, oblivion etched in ink as dark as a moonless night. He raises the hat over your head with a shaking hand.

Now. Qifrey must do it now.

But he cannot move. Because Qifrey understands, intimately, what it would mean. It is memories that make a person—the accumulation of moments, the weight of shared words—two plants growing side by side, until their roots intertwine beneath soil and their leaves reach for the same light. Memory erasure spells are imperfect, imprecise things; for who can truly define the boundaries of a memory, the extent of sorrow from one's tears?

The apprentice he has raised and grown to care for, the person he has come to love more deeply than he can ever allow himself to admit—all of it might be erased. All of you.

The memories spill out, unbidden, like a flood of water through a broken dam. I want to cure Master. I don't like to see Master in pain. Meeting Master was my greatest fortune. Master can't ever leave me. I love Master. Master is everything to me.

Master. Master. Master.

The word echoes, a repeated refrain cradling his crying heart. And Qifrey—he cannot do it. The hat slips from his trembling fingers, and it falls to the floor with a soft thump.

His breath comes out in ragged, uneven gasps. His head is spinning. Qifrey cannot see through the tears blurring his vision—hot and relentless, spilling down his cheek without permission. He is drowning in his own despair, so consumed by it that he does not realise you have pulled yourself free until his face is cradled in your hands, thumbs brushing away the tears that refuse to stop falling.

"Then, Master must love me as well," you whisper. Your voice is soft at the edges, without an ounce of triumph or satisfaction—as though you are aching just as much as he is. "Oh, Master."

You say it like a prayer, a lament. Qifrey only weeps harder, his shoulders shaking. Everything—his shame, his failure, his helplessness, all of it—is too much to bear.

"Since Master tried to erase my memories, it is only right that I get to cast a spell on him in return," you say gently, through his sobs. "An equal exchange."

Before he can ask what you mean, Qifrey feels your lips against his.

The kiss is soft but aches like a bruise—a collision of everything Qifrey has never dared to say aloud, everything he's been too afraid to name. Qifrey can taste himself on your lips, the salt of his own despair mingling with the heat of your breath, and it breaks something open within him. He does not know how long it lasts—seconds, minutes, an eternity—but when you finally pull back it is like every cell in his body is crying out for you, already mourning the loss of your warmth.

And then you move. You slip out of his trembling hands, and Qifrey watches you cross over to the window, silhouetted against the pale light of the moon. You pause only for a moment, your hand resting on the frame, and look back at him.

His greatest fortune, his most terrible curse.

"There," you whisper softly. "Don't ever forget me, Master."

And then you are gone.

The window is empty. Moonlight pools on strewn papers, spills across scattered inkwells. The room is quiet, save for the sound of his own ragged breathing. Qifrey's hand reaches out, grasping at empty air.

And all he can do is scream.

[lumiambrose]

static ft. Phainon

・❥・2k words - smut mdni he's obsessed with you, you're his favourite streamer. and it seems you've taken quite the liking to him too

phone sex, surprisingly a lot of plot, maybe ooc phainon for a bit (very shy at the start), texts are indicated with italic (good luck trying to figure out who's who)

you'd been streaming for three hours when the donation popped up.

khaslana_xiv donated 200$: "you're literally so funny i can't breathe. peak once again."

your chat absolutely lost it. hundreds of messages rolling past, mostly emojis, mostly people calling him down bad. you laughed, genuine and a little surprised, leaning into your mic.

"khaslana! oh my god, thank you so much that's so sweet!" you were grinning. chat was feral. someone typed HE'S DOWN ABSOLUTELY BAD and another followed it with marry him.

you knew the name. hard not to. khaslana_xiv was in almost every single stream, always in the top of the leaderboard, always with donations that made your eyes go wide. he didn't spam chat or act like a creep. just showed up, consistent, tipped generously and occasionally said something earnest enough to make your whole face warm.

after the stream ended you sat in the dim blue glow of your monitor for a moment. pulled up the donation history just to look.

khaslana_xiv. two hundred tonight, one fifty last week, a hundred the week before that. comments always clean. always kind.

you chewed your lip.

then you sent him a discord request.

he accepted within four minutes.

hey, just wanted to say thank you properly, your donations are always so generous and i feel bad just thanking you on stream lol

the typing indicator appeared. disappeared. appeared again for a long time.

oh. hi. yeah, no, it's really okay, you don't have to. i mean i wanted to, i just really like your streams.

well i'm glad to have you around

you smiled at your screen.

how long have you been watching?

about eight months. i found you through a vod someone clipped and then i just. watched everything. all of it. i had a lot of free time

all of it? that's like 400 hours of content

i know

..phainon

that is genuinely insane

i know that too

you were laughing now, properly. he had this quality to his messages, this slightly shy sincerity. like he was saying the honest thing and immediately scared that he'd said it. it was endearing in a way that felt a little dangerous. you kept going anyway.

it didn't happen all at once. these things never do.

you texted back and forth for two hours that first night, about nothing in particular. he was funny in the quiet, dry way that sneaks up on you. he talked about a place he grew up, somewhere remote that sounded more like a myth than a real location. he had this streak of idealism running through everything he said, this absolute refusal to be cynical, and it made you want to poke at it, test the edges of it, see if it held.

it held.

by the third night you were texting him before bed. by the first week it was constant. comfortable in a way that felt surprising, like finding a door in a room you thought you knew.

then one evening he said, i keep thinking about the stream where you were eating that noodle cup at 2am and talking about having no one to talk to at night. you seemed lonely.

you stared at that message for a long time.

i was, you typed back.

me too, he said. still am, mostly. except for this.

the silence after that felt warm rather than empty. you sent a voice memo instead of typing, just a soft hi into the dark of your room. he replied with one too, and his voice was low and careful and a little rough at the edges, and something in your stomach went tight.

you have a nice voice, you typed.

so do you. obviously. i've listened to hundreds of hours of it

god, you really don't hold back do you

you asked

i did, you admitted. then, before you could think better of it: send me a photo

another long pause.

like of me?

no of your kitchen, yes of you

the typing indicator ran for almost a minute. then a photo came through.

you weren't prepared for that.

he was sitting in what looked like a bedroom, warm lamplight cutting across one side of his face. light hair, a little dishevelled. jaw that could cut glass. eyes that were light, almost golden in the photograph, wide and a little uncertain, like he wasn't sure what expression to make. he was wearing a plain dark shirt and one hand was raised towards the camera like he'd been about to lower the phone when he took it.

well, you typed.

is that okay?

khaslana. you're gorgeous. what the hell.

the longest pause yet.

oh.

really?

really really. why do you sound shocked

i don't know. i didn't think i'd be anything particularly…

stop, you said. you're hot as fuck. i'm looking at this photo and i'm being a little bit embarrassing about it actually

now i need to see a photo of you being embarrassing about it

and something shifted. you could feel it in the texture of the messages. the shy sincerity was still there but something else had slipped in underneath, something warmer and more deliberate.

you want me to be embarrassed?, you typed.

maybe a little, he said. is that bad?

no, you said. call me.

the call connected after one ring.

"hi." his voice was softer than the voice memo, a little breathless. like he'd been waiting for this and hadn't quite believed it would happen.

"hi," you said. you were already lying down, phone against your ear, room dark.

"this is surreal," he said. "you know that, right. this is surreal for me."

"good surreal or bad surreal?"

"good. very good." a pause. "you look exactly how i imagined you'd look when you were off camera."

"and how's that?"

"softer," he said. "more real. i like it."

your breath came out slow. "khaslana."

"phainon," he said. "you can call me phainon. that's what people who know me call me."

"do many people know you?"

"no," he admitted. "not really."

"phainon," you said, testing it. he made a small sound at the other end. "you've been watching me for eight months."

"yes."

"and you've thought about me."

a pause. "yes."

"what did you think about?"

longer pause. his breathing changed, just slightly. "do you want me to actually answer that?"

"i'm asking, aren't i?"

"your voice mostly," he said, slow, like he was choosing each word. "the way you laugh at your own jokes before you finish them. the way you tuck your hair back when you're concentrating. and sometimes…" he stopped.

"sometimes?"

"sometimes i thought about what it would be like if you were talking to me. specifically. not the stream. just me."

"like now?"

"like now," he said quietly.

you shifted against your pillow. "and what do you want to do with me now that you have me?"

the silence was thick and hot. you could hear him breathe.

"i want to make you feel good," he said. and the shyness was dissolving, you could hear it going, like ice in warm water. "i've thought about it a lot actually. what you'd sound like."

"yeah?" your voice dropped low.

"yeah." his matched it. "are you in bed?"

"i am."

"what are you wearing?"

"not much," you admitted.

a soft exhale on his end. "okay," he said, almost to himself. like he was steadying something. "okay," he said again, but different this time. lower. like he'd made a decision. "touch yourself for me."

your breath caught.

"phainon—"

"you set this up," he said, and his voice had an edge now, this unexpected quiet certainty to it. "you called me. so let me make it worth it. touch yourself and tell me what you feel."

god.

you slid your hand down your stomach, slow, and the sound that came out of you was involuntary. "warm," you breathed. "i'm already—"

"already what?" he pressed.

"already wet."

a low sound from him, barely audible. "from talking to me?"

"from hearing your voice. from that photo." you pressed two fingers against yourself and bit your lip at the pressure. "phainon. what are you doing right now?"

"touching myself," he said plainly. "thinking about you."

"what are you thinking?"

"what you'd feel like around me," he said. "whether you'd be loud or quiet. i think you'd forget to be quiet."

"keep going," you managed.

"i think about laying you out and taking my time," he said, steadier now, unhurried, like something had unlocked. "i've thought about it so many times. watching you on stream, hearing you laugh and thinking about what you'd sound like if i had my mouth on you instead. if you were making those sounds for me."

"fuck," you whispered.

"are you touching yourself properly?"

"yes." you worked your fingers in slow circles, the pressure building already, humiliating how fast. "phainon—"

"i want you to push inside," he said. "two fingers. for me."

you did. the sound you made was embarrassingly wet and open and you heard him inhale sharply through the phone.

"yeah," he breathed. "like that. keep going."

"i can't believe you," you said, half-laughing, half-gasping. "for someone who came off so nervous—"

"you asked to see me and to call you at midnight," he said, and there was something almost warm in the edge of it, almost amused. "i think you knew what you were doing, sweetheart."

you had. obviously you had.

"how does it feel," he asked.

"good. so good. i keep thinking about your hands."

another low sound from him. his breathing was unsteady now too, the rhythm of it breaking up. "tell me," he said.

"they look big in the photo. i keep thinking about them on my hips." you curled your fingers and gasped. "phainon. what do you sound like when you—"

"you'll find out," he said, rough at the edges. "keep going. i'm close."

you worked yourself faster, the wet sounds of it audible through the phone, shameless now, past caring. his breathing was ragged on the other end. you could hear the slick rhythm of his hand.

"you're my absolute favourite," he said suddenly, through a breath, barely coherent. "you know that? eight months and you're still my favourite person and i don't even— fuck—"

"phainon," you gasped, "i'm gonna—"

"yeah," he said, urgent, "come on, let me hear you—"

you came with his name in your mouth, hips pressing into your own hand, thighs clenching around nothing. the sound that came out of you was broken and open and embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your bedroom. and then he made a sound too, low and rough and desperate, and that made you flutter all over again even as you came down.

silence.

then breathing. both of you, unsteady and warm.

"you didn't tell me you were going to be like that," you said finally.

"like what?"

"confident. once you got going."

"you told me i was hot," he said simply. "i believed you."

you stared up at the ceiling of your dark room, chest still rising and falling too fast, thighs damp, the ghost of the orgasm still humming through your legs. outside, the world was quiet. your monitor had gone to sleep. somewhere through the phone you could hear him shifting, settling and it was somehow the most domestic and intimate thing imaginable given what had just happened.

"i meant it," you said softly.

"i know," he said. "i know you did. that's the thing about you. you say what you mean." a pause. "i've always liked that about you. even just watching. you never pretend."

your eyes prickled, which was absurd, which was so out of proportion to what this was supposed to be. but there it was.

"stay on the phone," you said. "just for a bit longer."

"i wasn't planning on going anywhere," phainon said, his voice was warm and low and quiet, the sound of someone who had been lonely a long time and had just, finally, found somewhere to put it down.

Taglist: @inu1gf @143-ilyuu @irethepotato @mikemsmm @bbladie @sky-casino @thetwinkims @elemayooooooo @angelhqlo1111 @valberryboos @yazjvea @calypsolstice

©lumiambrose ─ do not translate, repost, copy any of my works

[shisasan]

July 26, 1920 Letters to Milena by Franz Kafka First published : 1952

[shisasan]

July 26, 1920 Letters to Milena by Franz Kafka First published : 1952

[shisasan]

July 26, 1920 Letters to Milena by Franz Kafka First published : 1952

[bunni-v1]

Phainon but he just loveeeesssss having you on his lap. Loves lifting you in any form, really. He’s a little bit of a show off in that way, picking you up with just one arm and parading you about Okhema like it is his proudest accomplishment. Yet, his favorite remains having you sat upon his lap.

So many ways to do it, and so many scenarios which it’s appropriate to do so. (Is there really, Phainon?) There is, of course, the classic and most publicly appropriate in which you settle yourself diagonally across his lap. It’s not the most comfortable for him, he has to remain a stiff and sturdy seat, but that’s no worry for the Deliverer of Okhema!

There is also the single thigh, another that he pulls out often. He has to support the whole of your weight in this one, which he much prefers. He also gets a wonderful feel of your plush tummy and thighs without others giving him looks for it. Well, others who don’t know him. Well enough, that is.

He occasionally even has you sit between his legs, leaving enough room for your rear to slot right against his crotch. This one… isn’t pulled out often for numerous reasons. Mostly because it gets him too excited, but also because it’s lacking most of his favorite parts of you being in his lap. Particularly the sitting on him one.

The favorite, though, he cannot do in public for fear of Aglaea’s wrath. Not that he cares for sharing your visage in intimacy with others in the first place, but it does make him sad he can’t have you as he likes all the time.

Nothing is more intimate than having you above him, thighs shaking, as he guides you to sit upon him. A ruler to their throne, he likes to say, there is no seat in Okhema more suitable for you. Those terrible, strong hands of his are deceptively kind as he eases you onto him. Careful not to push too far, supporting your weight until you can take him to the hilt.

Even then, the ride is hardly his favorite part — not that he can say he’s not a fan. Truthfully, what Phainon loves the most about having you on his lap, facing him? He can kiss you as much as he pleases. He could care less about the way you clench around him, or the shake in your legs as you come undone. Any man could do so, any man could pretend to care for a night then disappear, and you know this too.

That is why your kiss, the slotting of your lips against his is more intimate than any position he could have you in. It is a promise of devotion, a reminder that you have chosen him. Through millions of cycles, spanning endless choices, you have always chosen him. Those lips of yours have only chosen to touch his, and they will only ever choose him.

So, yes, Phainon loves having you in his lap for endless reasons. To show off, to proclaim, to pleasure. Yet, in that big heart of his, the only good reason to have you there is to reseal your promise to each other. Again and again and again, until Amphoreus breaks into a new dawn.

[bunni-v1]

Phainon but he just loveeeesssss having you on his lap. Loves lifting you in any form, really. He’s a little bit of a show off in that way, picking you up with just one arm and parading you about Okhema like it is his proudest accomplishment. Yet, his favorite remains having you sat upon his lap.

So many ways to do it, and so many scenarios which it’s appropriate to do so. (Is there really, Phainon?) There is, of course, the classic and most publicly appropriate in which you settle yourself diagonally across his lap. It’s not the most comfortable for him, he has to remain a stiff and sturdy seat, but that’s no worry for the Deliverer of Okhema!

There is also the single thigh, another that he pulls out often. He has to support the whole of your weight in this one, which he much prefers. He also gets a wonderful feel of your plush tummy and thighs without others giving him looks for it. Well, others who don’t know him. Well enough, that is.

He occasionally even has you sit between his legs, leaving enough room for your rear to slot right against his crotch. This one… isn’t pulled out often for numerous reasons. Mostly because it gets him too excited, but also because it’s lacking most of his favorite parts of you being in his lap. Particularly the sitting on him one.

The favorite, though, he cannot do in public for fear of Aglaea’s wrath. Not that he cares for sharing your visage in intimacy with others in the first place, but it does make him sad he can’t have you as he likes all the time.

Nothing is more intimate than having you above him, thighs shaking, as he guides you to sit upon him. A ruler to their throne, he likes to say, there is no seat in Okhema more suitable for you. Those terrible, strong hands of his are deceptively kind as he eases you onto him. Careful not to push too far, supporting your weight until you can take him to the hilt.

Even then, the ride is hardly his favorite part — not that he can say he’s not a fan. Truthfully, what Phainon loves the most about having you on his lap, facing him? He can kiss you as much as he pleases. He could care less about the way you clench around him, or the shake in your legs as you come undone. Any man could do so, any man could pretend to care for a night then disappear, and you know this too.

That is why your kiss, the slotting of your lips against his is more intimate than any position he could have you in. It is a promise of devotion, a reminder that you have chosen him. Through millions of cycles, spanning endless choices, you have always chosen him. Those lips of yours have only chosen to touch his, and they will only ever choose him.

So, yes, Phainon loves having you in his lap for endless reasons. To show off, to proclaim, to pleasure. Yet, in that big heart of his, the only good reason to have you there is to reseal your promise to each other. Again and again and again, until Amphoreus breaks into a new dawn.

[madaqueue]

sweet giggly sex with your fave where your noses are touching and you’re laughing into each other’s mouths and when you clench around him his moan is breathier than normal and you’re happy and safe and in love

[madaqueue]

sweet giggly sex with your fave where your noses are touching and you’re laughing into each other’s mouths and when you clench around him his moan is breathier than normal and you’re happy and safe and in love

[shuridelights]

FATE/STAR RAIL NIGHT 4.4 SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT!

besides the fact that TB didn't seem to have a visceral reaction to seeing Phainon in the real world, I am glad for his character consistency.

Fighting against Saber for the Holy Grail, even knowing that bringing his friends and loved ones to the real world was going to be a fleeting experience! The slight chance of freedom and escape is enough for him to give it his all... 🥹

Saber clocking him down knowing it was not a heartfelt wish, rather something born of his recurrent guilt... We had so little time with him but it feels like a lot 😭

His glee when fighting, his everlasting curiosity... 🥲

[mochigen001]

A drawing of Quifrey for a friend~.

Making reverse shading was one hell of an experience and I didn't like it (⁠｡⁠ŏ⁠﹏⁠ŏ⁠)

But~~~!! I'm super happy of the result!!! (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

[shuridelights]

sir... sir... Qifrey.... Master Qifrey...

[mochigen001]

A drawing of Quifrey for a friend~.

Making reverse shading was one hell of an experience and I didn't like it (⁠｡⁠ŏ⁠﹏⁠ŏ⁠)

But~~~!! I'm super happy of the result!!! (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

[lysarion]

╰ DEVOTION, THROWN INTO CRUCIBLES ／ PHAINON ⟢

SYNOPSIS: you have known phainon as the boy who liked to play tag, disliked hide and seek, and a god with great responsibility. unfortunately for you, he hides too many secrets.

𖥔 WORDCOUNT: 3.3k ┆ 𖥔 TAGS. @amorsial @cinerias @shoyosluver @hirokasama @uzxotic @anqelkoz @leafyonz @suyeomiiee @ddurandals @007-archives @officialkatzline -> taglist is being reworked! feel free to send in an ask (off-anon) or comment if you'd like to be tagged in future works ^^

𖥔 WARNINGS: au where the chrysos heirs are actual gods. mentions of blood, violence, and weapons. character death. potential ooc (i haven't written for the guy in a hot minute okay....) not fully proofread; expect mistakes!

♪ FINAL NOTES .ᐟ an order of a blue cup with blood orange & cranberry tea, a splash of lemon juice, and a cheesy vegetable garden tart for TEA99. this has highkey changed from the initial idea but wtv!

It's almost laughable how you painfully want to wrap your fingers around Phainon's neck in a vice grip. Alas, you can't do that—not without any immediate and lasting repercussions, at least, and you'd rather not be the cause of Anaxagoras's headache. As much as you loved annoying the god, Phainon had already taken up that post.

"What's gotten you in such a sour mood?"

And on cue, the pensive expression on your face shifts into a nasty sneer. Without another word, you grip the basket of harvest to your hip just a tad tighter when another pair of footsteps walk with you. You bite your tongue hard. Hard enough to draw blood when steady but scarred hands take the woven thing from your grasp.

"You, if it wasn't obvious enough," you bark out, arms crossing over your chest—unsure what to do with them now.

Phainon only laughs, that bellowing sound that poets would describe as sunlight dripping like molten wax under the summer afternoon. It's an annoying, grating sound you'd much rather avoid. But he's persistent. At being helpful, at being a gentleman, at never knowing when to give you a moment of peace since you've become Cyrene's handmaiden.

For a god bearing the world's responsibilities, Phainon sure had enough time on his hands to come and talk your ear off.

"Well, that's not a nice way to greet a friend."

"We're not friends, my lord."

The formality bleeds in like a familiar habit. When you're at the steps of your goddess's temple, you snatch the basket from his hands with haste, leaving him stunned at the foot of the stairs as you march your way up. You don't look back; you force yourself not to when he shouts.

"Tell Cyrene I said 'hello'!"

You only roll your eyes as you mutter. "Go do it yourself."

The following morning, Phainon is there. Of course he is; he's a god—just not yours. As Cyrene had informed, every ruling divine residing in Amphoreus was cordially invited to a simple get-together. 'To maintain a close bond!' she had explained when you asked. And in a sense, you understood why she does it.

He's seated next to her, perks of being childhood friends before inheriting their titles, you suppose. Romance is to Phainon's left, and Reason is next to her. You hide a smile behind your chalice as Trickery pounces toward your side, already whispering the townsfolk's recent gossip. Strife is across from Phainon, leaning back on his chair as he recounts another tale from his recent escapades in dealing with the Black Tide's army. Death is next to him, silent but not invisible, swirling the drink in her purple palms, laughing with the Sky quietly as Worldbearing is scolded.

Passage is running late, so is Law and the Ocean. Not unknown prospects to you—you were the one to deliver the news to Time after all.

It's such a normal sight, one you didn't and wouldn't have believed even as Cyrene retold the events of the previous gathering. Everyone was lathered in ambrosia, flour, and laughter as they attempted to cook. A very human affair for beings that mortals look to for guidance and protection. If you hadn't taken your goddess's blessings, you'd have remained ignorant of such a strange, familial connection between them.

"And what about you?" Cifera drawls out, yellow-manicured fingers dancing across your arms. You ignore the pin-prickling feeling of another pair of eyes raking over your figure as you try to hide in your own skin.

You can only throw the goddess of trickery a wry smile, "Nothing out of sorts. Definitely paling in comparison to your mischief."

Cifera preens at your unabashed gloating over her name. Her feline-like eyes focus on your own as she tries to make a grab at your chalice. "Oh, don't be like that! Surely something interesting must be going on in your little life."

"If there was, I'd be racing to tell you," you argue. Not necessarily a lie, after becoming a demigod, you find yourself indulging in the presence of your little thief if you aren't running around to finish your duties.

"Cifera, leave the attendant alone." Romance warns.

With a roll of her eyes and a hidden chuckle from you, Cifera bids you farewell and scurries back to her seat next to Strife.

Cyrene beckons you over, having already noticed the clouds obscuring your face. She always has, ever caring for the people that surround her—divine and mortal alike. It delivers a short pang of guilt in your heart as you assure her with a wave of your hand. How lucky you are to have been graced by the blessing of a gentle god like Cyrene. Maybe that's why you leave the scene.

You can't bear to indulge in her charade. No matter how many times she tells you that it will grow easier over time, it has not. It has become painfully difficult to face all of them with the knowledge that you are stuck. Looping in cycles that threaten and bind your existence to one focal point you cannot derive from.

It is cruel; it is unprecedented—it is entirely unlike her. How Time can cradle you so softly, a gentle smile easing your worries and simultaneously forcing all of your cards out of your hands when you least expect it. Cyrene is not a punishing god to attend to, but she is infinitely hard to understand.

"Leaving so soon?" A smooth voice asks just a few feet from where you stand in the balcony overlooking the Temple of Evernight. You sigh heavily when you wait for a few minutes, and Phainon doesn't leave. It seems like he has no plans of leaving you alone.

"Shouldn't you be indulging in honeycakes and ambrosia by now?" You ask with an annoyed lilt to your voice. Much to your horror, Phainon has taken your reply as an invitation to chat as he takes the spot next to you. You ignore how your shoulders are nearly touching.

"Flavour fatigue," he explains. "I still can't believe Mydeimos can down so many plates of those!"

You don't offer him anything—not a word, not even a spared breath in his direction. It's as if you're actively holding your breath when he invades your space. Not one wrong inhale when the air carries the scent of wheatfield and drying sunshine, and you'll forget all that you've worked for.

Phainon clears his throat, failing to keep his composure as the air between you turns awkward. He's started tapping on the marble, eyes unsure where they can and can't land without you snapping. You almost snort at the stupidity of it all. He's a god for goodness' sake! One who holds your entire fate in the palm of his hands. And yet here he is, fixing his chiton, his hair, and shuffling from one foot to another just to appear unbothered.

How has this buffon taken the title of a god when he's like this with you?

"I'm retiring for the night. Enjoy the rest of your evening." You say, cutting through the silence after you couldn't take any more of it. The path of some peace and quiet was so clear in your mind—just a few heavy strides into the temple, turn right, and you're in your quarters—but it can never be that simple when Phainon is involved. It's as if he's allergic to not meddling in affairs he shouldn't.

"One moment, I still want to—"

"My Lord, unhand me."

He glares, not at you. You've noticed he's always done that—avoiding his more divine features from your periphery as if you weren't partially god yourself. It infuriates you, but not in the way it should. Phainon's actions appear arrogant, as if wedging a giant wall between you. A reminder that he is a full god, while you can only scrape off a fraction of it to even stand beside him. Phainon has never done that—never made you feel any lesser; hell, he treats you better—and that's the problem.

"Please," he pleads with you as his other hand envelops yours, bringing it to his lips as his breath ghosts over your skin. He is warm. No, that's not right. For all the words you have used to describe Phainon, it is not 'warm'. Scalding would be much better. "I just need a moment of your time to tell you that I…"

The words catch in his throat. He looked almost in pain, as if someone had stabbed him through the heart with a blade meant to incapacitate him for all eternity. Under the Evernight's glow, where the fireflies have decided to dance and the breeze to go still, Phainon's eyes are shadowed by an emotion you cannot begin to name.

"I…" He tries again, his hold on your hand growing tighter as his teeth catch his bottom lip. No further words escape him, and he takes it as a cue to finally resign himself to his fate.

You grit your teeth. The force is so hard you feel it crack like the earth in your own jaw. You pry your hand away from him, rubbing at the skin of your wrist raw as you glare. Phainon looks defeated; it annoys you. He looks defeated as you spare him no glance when you turn to leave.

Phainon thinks his curse is not that he has to bear the world and all its people. He thinks he's cursed with never having to hold you again.

"Distracted," a gruff voice points out as he cries out in pain. His hands instinctively come to rub at the sore spot on his head as Mydeimos drops the wooden sword in front of him.

"How rude!" Phainon exclaims with faux irritation. "I was thinking."

"Dangerous game," Mydeimos replies, dropping to sit cross-legged in front of Phainon. His chin is propped up against the heart of his gloved palm, the gold of his necklace and bracers catching the morning rays like a dream catcher. "What's gotten you so up in the clouds? I doubt even Hyacinthia can pluck you out of it."

When Phainon doesn't reply, Mydeimos only hums.

"Is it the attendant? The one always at Cyrene's side?"

It's embarrassing how fast the mention of you catches his attention.

Noticing his failure at subtlety, Phainon hides behind a closed fist and clears his throat. The actions do little to stop the sly smirk that breaks out on Strife's face. Suddenly, he is a boy again. In the wheatfields of Aedes Elysiae, hiding behind their pale golden light, he hears your giggles calling out to his sister. It suddenly feels too hot, which is ironic because that's all he's ever felt—after inheriting the coreflame of Worldbearing, Phainon can only run warm.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Mydeimos says, already getting up and dusting down his pants.

Phainon furrows his brows at the comment. "What does that mean?"

"You've been in this dance of hot and cold since I've met you," the prince shrugs. "You're hot, they're cold. You're perpetually a bumbling mess of poetry, while they remain a straight composure. Laughable, really."

"I am not!" Phainon denies, rising from his seat, taking the wooden sword with him.

Mydeimos only laughs. Filled with mirth and youth that neither of them is familiar with. "Oh, please. You can do better than that."

With a glare, Phainon takes up arms. His pretend blade aimed at his companion as he challenges, "Try me then."

A grin breaks out on Mydeimos's face. He stretches his arms in front of him, cracking the sleeping bones in his neck as he beckons Phainon forward.

"Up and at it, Worldbearer."

"I still don't see why you can't just say it openly," Cyrene admits, her fingers drawing lazy patterns over the blanket across her lap. Phainon can only shift in his seat as he peels an apple for her. Normally, it would be you in his position. But Cyrene has sent you away on an errand with Lady Tribbios, and who was he to deny his sister anything when she rarely asked for it?

He only chuckles nervously, placing another skinless piece on the plate of her bedside table, making sure to avoid the cracking of her porcelain skin when she reaches for it. "You know why, Cyrene."

Surprisingly, she doesn't jump to correct him. That she doesn't, in fact, know he's tiptoeing around the subject. All Phainon is met with is a tentative hum, the sound of her coughing, and the falling of his wooden seat as he jumps to rub soothing circles on her back when she coughs.

"We don't have enough time," he murmurs. Cyrene's hands gripping his chiton with frail strength. The sight of her, so weak and unable to stand on her own as the world breaks and becomes anew, never fails to spark that igniting hatred simmering in the pit of his stomach.

How unfair and cruel this world is to Cyrene, who has done nothing but love it wholeheartedly.

Your name falls gently from her lips when Cyrene pulls away, "They can't wait forever, you know? At some point, in some way, they'll learn the truth. I think it would comfort them greatly if it came from you, Phainon."

His throat runs dry. As if on command at the sound of your name, Phainon looks away. The words sit heavily on his tongue, waiting to run loose and find you. But he has never been good at hide-and-seek; he much preferred tag. It's a much simpler game, no rules or limits—he can run wherever and for however long he wishes. And right now, he wants to run. Back into that village hut where blood remains a foreign concept only known in fairytales and ballads, where swords did not break skin, and where you would come find him and take him home when the sun has decided it no longer wished to see the world.

"Why won't you tell them, Phainon?"

"I can't," he says through gritted teeth, his head falling to Cyrene's shoulder as her arms, as weak as they are, come to embrace him. "I mustn't drag another into this mess."

"Oh, Phainon. It isn't your fault."

He wished to believe that, truly, he did.

But how can a God ascend to divinity without blood drying under the beds of his nails?

News travels fast even without Passage's assistance, you realize. Prophecies, divine readings, these are no foreign subjects to you—you've learned to master them after becoming a demigod yourself. What your goddess has not told you is the lingering panic that will settle in your veins when you hear of them.

"Time has fallen!"

It rings and rings, turning your limbs into stone as the people around you start running. They shout, they cry, they look to you and beg for guidance. You are a demigod—a hand-picked attendant to Time herself—but you offer no consolation. You stay rooted in the market's frenzied state. It's as if your mind has turned into a river of uncertainty, before a pebble drops and shatters the silence like glass.

You run.

You've never been good at tag—never as good as him. Your lungs are too greedy; they ask for air even before you take off. Your legs are not strong; they can't hold out for more than a few minutes, nor can they cross miles as they were just numbers being recorded on parchment. You much preferred hide and seek. A set of rules and a limited time. Because when the final grain drops in the hourglass, you'll know the game is done.

Now you know why Phainon didn't like it so much.

The reaction after stagnation is immediate. You barrel into the temple, into Cyrene's private quarters. Weaving between any and every guard that stands in your way. And when you knock down the elaborate gate that separates you two, you are out of breath, and you are tired.

How cruel a game it is—to believe that even time can run out.

"What have you done…?" you ask, voice breaking as you fall to your knees. The cold marble kisses your skin as tears spill from your eyes. "What have you done to her, Phainon?"

He doesn't reply. Phainon just stares—at the blood, then at the blade in his hand, and then at you.

Your name falls from his lips, waking a trail of cold nerves across your arms as you shake your head, refusing to believe the sight in front of you. "You weren't supposed to be here."

"That wasn't my question. Whether I was or wasn't supposed to be here matters not—!"

"You're supposed to be with Lady Tribbion in the market."

"What have you done to her, Phainon!"

"You weren't supposed to see."

"Answer me!"

"It was supposed to be a secret between us two."

You don't know what compelled you to action. Maybe it was the anger, maybe it was something else. Regardless, you run. Dagger obtained from a hidden pocket in your garments, and you charge. Metal point aimed at Phainon's chest as you toppled him off his feet, the ceremonial blade Cyrene would use in rituals clattering loudly as it fell beside him.

A pained cry leaves you, the dagger aimed high before you can attempt to plunge it into his heart. He stops you—of course he does—by seizing your wrists before you can nick his skin. Tears freely flow from your eyes now. They drop one by one like falling stars onto his cheeks. Now only do you realize the lack of light in Phainon's eyes. He looks like a corpse walking on pure instinct.

"What have you done?" you parrot again, your weapon shaking as you struggle against his strength. "What secret have you been hiding that involves her death! Answer me, Phainon!"

Phainon smiles bitterly, "Time runs out."

"Don't start being philosophical on me now, you wrench."

He can only look away at your words. At his reaction, you can only laugh in grief.

"I thought you hated hide and seek. So why now are you hiding from me?"

"Please don't," he pleads, bottom lip shedding golden blood from how harshly Phainon has been biting down on it. Tears spill from his shadowed eyes with his grip still unyielding on your hands. "Please don't look at me. Not now, not when I've done something you cannot forgive."

"You plead with me now?" Disbelief envelops your voice as it cracks. "Do you take me for a fool? An ignorant attendant who hasn't noticed anything wrong? You think so lowly of me, Phainon, despite claiming the opposite."

"You don't understand."

"Then make me! For the love of god Phainon, please, make me understand."

You've known Phainon for a long time. He was the boy you saw with wooden swords and a blue cape, running the fields amok and leading younger children in 'adventures'. You were more involved with his sister, Cyrene, a girl blessed with reading cards.

"Please, Phainon. We can make this work."

You don't recall ever playing with him, though. He liked his freedom—unrestrained by rules and expectations from games. You were the opposite. You liked the certainty and repetition.

"We have to, Phainon."

He liked your difference. It fuelled his fantasy of being the sunshine to your gloom, the knight to your regent. Never in his life did he think his little play of your romance would turn upside down. Because he was never meant to be the sun, Phainon had too much hate in his heart to be that pure. And he couldn't be a knight; he was too guilty for such a role.

"I'm sorry, but we can't."

Because Gods could no longer play games like tag or hide and seek. Those were activities meant for mortal souls. Neither of you was human anymore. But when gods do decide they want to play pretend—blinded by nostalgia for when they were but a speck of dust in the grand cosmos—it always ends the same.

Someone always ends up crying.

© 𝓵ysarion 2025 — do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[astersz]

between eternal pages; phainon x reader

contents: wc 1.2k. takes place post-amphoreus. hurt/comfort; mainly wordvomit. just an exercise to get me back into writing

The dock is uncomfortable.

This is, selfishly, your first thought when you find your spot next to Phainon. The bumps of the nailheads along wood that has not been sanded propely would turn most away, but he sits anyway, as if it's made a spot for him, and he's never left it. In many ways, you wish that he never had to.

Phainon looks over at you, and his pupils dialate, warm sun expanding against the endless sky. You know that thereafter he will be your second, third, and fourth thoughts.

"Knew I'd find you here." You grin.

He laughs, and it's strange, strange to hear it once more, before it is relieving. There was a short stretch of time in which you worried you'd never hear him laugh again, that the sun would set and let you shiver in the dark. But he'd always burn on for you, in the end.

You think that might worry you even more. This easy laughter is just that; too easy. Phainon is beautiful and brave and tender and sincere, everything and nothing, and this is how you know he can also be a liar.

"Was I too obvious? If we're not careful, we might have Mydei pestering us soon enough." He inches a hand out to your side, glancing to the sea as he speaks, and you intertwine your fingers.

Rolling your eyes, he elicits laughter, and you damn him for being so disarming. "Really? Aren't you always pestering him, actually? It seems to me he manages to flip your bait back onto you, more than you actually manage to bother him."

He narrows his eyes at this, frowning. "Aren't you supposed to be in my corner? See, this is how I know he's bothering us— he's turning you against me without being here!"

His fingers dive for your sides and you quiet a shriek, flinching at your own ticklishness. You recognize what the brief grab really wants to ask and as he starts to inch his hands back to his sides, you hold them with your own.

Phainon exhales, smile slipping, the simple act too simple to make into a shield for himself, and he must understand that you understand because he's silent for a beat after. It's one you're grateful for, because he steels himself and smiles again.

"How was your day?" He bids, polite and simple. You raise an unimpressed brow at such small talk. "Come on now, is it so wrong to want to know how my beloved is doing?"

Beloved. Even with pretenses upheld, the word still rings true, his voice slipping when he says it, unable to hide the weight of the word. It makes your heart flutter, so you let his questioning slide for now.

"Fine, good. I bought us some groceries…maybe splurged on a few trinkets. There was this sun catcher I found, you'll have to see it when it's brighter out. It's beautiful, you know?"

It made me think of you, you don't say.

He nods, then narrows his eyes. "Did you go antique hunting without me?"

"Never! This one's brand new. I wanted to make sure it was as bright as possible."

"Trying to blind me, then?" His voice runs accusatory, and his hands torment your sides once more, but this time they don't try to pull away after you giggle.

"Your accusations wound me, y'know," you huff. "If there's one thing I never want, it's to hurt you. I'd sooner take the fall in your stead."

Phainon's expression hardens, something like worry etching itself onto his face, although you know that it never truly left. When he speaks, the words run soft like the waves lapping against the dock, a barely concealed storm hiding under the water.

"I can't allow that, can I? I won't allow it, not…" Not ever again, goes unsaid. He swallows, and shudders out a laugh.

"I came to understand my responsibilities long ago. Ensuring your safety is one of them. Even if I burn up and fall apart, I know that this is my role to play, if it comes to you. I've never wanted anything else." Phainon makes eye contact when he says it, but his gaze really feels as though it's looking through yours. You brush your thumb over his cheek, squeezing, and are rewarded with the full weight of his gaze. He swallows.

You present a gentle smile.

"I've never wanted anything but your happiness," you offer.

His breath hitches, pained. Even as you undo him with every word, he tries to hold strong and stubborn. "I know. But you don't— you don't understand, what happens when I'm selfish. Or when I'm not selfless enough. It's what's gotten us to here, today. I can't just turn away now."

Herein lies the problem; you also know of, at least, the torment he and even others suffer when he is so endlessly compassionate. He burns up with it, until you're left to find nothing but charred ash.

You wonder in this instant how many times you have died at his blade, a cost born of his hopes to be selfless enough to one day drag in peace. Even if peace means he will catch flame, and burn until he is naught but still-warm embers.

The idea goes unsaid, but it echoes in your mind. Such a question would make him turn away, but you find it only makes you want to draw him in closer.

"You're not turning away. I'm right here. Even if more things come, I will find you." You trace down his throat, stopping at his collarbones. "I always did, right?"

Phainon's mouth opens, but it is the only sound out of him, words ash on his tongue. For all of his famed debates, he was never quite good at arguing with you.

"We're here today. And I'm safe, even when you haven't been by my side all day, even when you're torn between what you need to do," you continue. "So I'll always wait, for you to return, and for you to just be a bit more selfish. I can wait through everything, because it's you I've always wanted, and nothing more."

Your fingers drift down, to around his waist, and in the same breath you press your head to his chest. To remind him that someone wishes to hear the beating of his own heart.

"Tomorrow, you can splurge on antiques. And pair two decorations together in an ugly color combination, to drive me crazy because I know you've learned better." It's a merciful shift, because you've noticed the tears barely formed in his eyes.

Phainon laughs, nervous, but real. "Do you think so low of me?"

"Yes. You're not as glorious as you seem, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. You're lucky you're wonderful enough to keep me coming back.

He smiles, arms reaching around you. "Is it so bad that I want you to stay?" You catch the tinges of nervousness there, still seeking confirmation.

Bringing up a hand to stroke his hair, your heart bursts at the seams with a love you can't quite hide.

"No. It isn't bad at all."

a/n: i'm sorry this is such a messs...i've been in such a block because of my perfectionism that i haven't been writing. figured it was about time i at least get something out lmao

[gojonigiru]

FAKE IT 'TIL YOU MAKE IT

You’ve been invited to your cousin’s destination wedding. Fortunately, the flight and accommodations are already taken care of. Unfortunately, showing up without a date isn’t an option. Asking your best friend, Phainon, to be your plus one seems like the perfect solution—that is, until your family assumes he’s your boyfriend.

⟢ FEATURES: phainon x f!reader, modern au, fake dating, fluff, friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, LOTS of denial from mc (i swear the first half of the fic is just her denying everything haha it’s sickening <- wrote it), possibly ooc anaxa, phainon being a tease

⟢ WORD COUNT: 14,306

⟢ NOTE: my writing was dog water (inconsistent) here i’m not gonna lie so please excuse it bwahahahah. you know what took me so long to finish this chapter? anaxa. he doesn’t really have a lot of lines but i don’t know how to write him without being too??? not anaxa???? good luck to me writing the next chapter because he’ll be there too x___x and yes, you’re not seeing things! there’s actually going to be a third part to this (maybe even a fourth too with the rate i’m going ,,,) bc i feel like i’ve been working on this for too long and i’m kinda sick of phainon nyahahaha /lh pls enjoy!!!

⟢ CHAPTERS: one┇two┇three

⟢ ALSO ON: ao3

PHAIKE DATING PLAYLIST <3

The coffee shop is empty.

The lights are still on, but there are no customers left—only the low murmur of voices behind the counter. Caelus, March, and Dan Heng are clustered together, clearly mid-conversation, when March is the first to notice you. Her eyes light up immediately and she practically vibrates where she sits.

“Boss Ma’am! Mister Phainon!” she chirps, waving both hands like she’s been waiting for you all day.

Caelus follows her gaze next, grinning the moment he spots you. “You guys got back early!”

Dan Heng turns last. “Welcome back, Miss.”

“Yeah,” you say, setting your bag down by the counter. “We wrapped things up faster than expected.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. Too early to be exhausted, but too late for customers. You look back at them.

“Actually,” you say, “you guys can head out early tonight. I’m thinking of closing up soon.”

March tilts her head. “Closing up early?”

You nod. “Phainon and I need to talk about some things.”

In an instant, Caelus’s grin sharpens, March’s eyes sparkle like you’ve just dangled the promise of premium gossip in front of her, and even Dan Heng looks curious.

“We can help clean first,” Dan Heng says almost too casually. “There’s no rush.”

“Yeah!” March hops off the stool. “We can finish up the remaining dishes and wipe everything down. It won’t take long!”

Caelus stretches, hands folding behind his head. “Might as well make ourselves useful before you kick us out, right?”

The other two nods in agreement.

“You kids don’t really have to—”

Dan Heng cuts you off, even softly shaking his head. “It’s fine, Miss,” he says.

March claps her hands together. “Oh! Before we start… do you guys want drinks?”

You glance at Phainon, who only smiles at you. You sigh. “Just water is fine.”

“I’ll have the same,” Phainon says.

March clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Only water? You old people are boring.” And then almost immediately, she brightens. “Coming right up!”

She darts toward the back, Caelus following behind her with enthusiasm and a dramatic salute sent your way. Dan Heng, on the other hand, trails after them more quietly. Their voices fade into the back, replaced by the clink of dishes and the sound of running water. And just like that, the front of the cafe is quiet again.

It’s just you and Phainon now.

You clear your throat. “Let’s sit,” you say, gesturing toward a table.

Phainon nods easily and pulls out a chair for you before taking the one across. He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the backrest.

“Okay,” you begin, folding your hands on the table like you’re about to negotiate a business contract instead of fake date your best friend. “Ground rules.”

Phainon rests his forearms on the table. “Alright,” he says, “I’m listening.”

“So, first of all—we need a timeline. If anyone asks, we’ve been dating for… not too long.” You grimace. “If we say it’s been years, my mom will interrogate me about why I never told her.”

Phainon hums in agreement. “A few months then?”

“Three?” you say immediately. “I think three is safe. It’s long enough to seem stable, but also short enough to explain why it’s not… public knowledge.”

He smiles faintly, nodding. “Three months it is.”

“Second—” You bring up two fingers, “public displays of affection. We shouldn’t overdo it. It’ll look suspicious.”

“How much is ‘not overdoing it’?” he asks.

“Like… casual? Holding hands or maybe an arm around the waist is necessary. But—strictly—no kissing.”

Phainon looks contemplative. “Not even a peck?”

You stare at him.

He raises both hands in surrender. “Just clarifying.”

“No kissing,” you repeat, firm. “Absolutely not.”

It feels more like a reminder for yourself than for him, words coming out sharper than you intend, like you’re drawing a line using a permanent marker rather than a pencil.

Kissing is not casual—at least not when it involves you and your best friend who you most definitely do not have feelings for anymore. It’s not like lacing fingers together or resting a hand on someone’s waist for the sake of performance. And you already know yourself well enough to understand that you wouldn’t be able to file it under just pretend.

You’d think about it later—alone in your room, staring at the ceiling—and replay it frame by frame. You’d wonder whether it felt real to him or if he’d just been acting. You’d analyze the pressure of his lips, the tilt of his head, the breath between you. You’d probably memorize it and that would ruin everything.

You don’t think you can look at Phainon the same way ever again if that happens.

“Okay,” he says easily, softly.

“Good,” you say, quick. “Glad we’re aligned.”

Phainon doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks thoughtful. “Alright,” he says. “No kissing.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes your ears burn. You clear your throat. “Next—pet names.”

His brows lift slightly. “We’re also making up pet names for each other?”

“Yes,” you say, and you hate that your voice comes out a little firm. “Couples have them all the time. I think it’ll be weird if we don’t.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Okay. Let’s test some out then.”

That sounds like a terrible idea, but— “Fine,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel fine. “You go first.”

He doesn’t hesitate, “Baby.”

You inhale wrong. “Absolutely not,” you cough out, choking on absolutely nothing and everything at the same time.

He tilts his head. “Too much?”

“Way too much! That’s— no. I feel like our fake relationship would get exposed immediately if I tried calling you that.”

“Alright.” He taps his chin. “How about ‘babe’?”

You deadpan. “That’s even worse.”

“Worse?” His mouth curves first—slow and crooked—and he ducks his head slightly, like he’s trying and failing to contain his laugh. “How is that worse?”

“It just is!” you whisper-shout. “I would rather walk barefoot across gravel. I would rather fake my death.”

He finally bursts into laughter, and you hate that he’s enjoying this. You really do because he’s not even trying to hide it.

His shoulders shake a little, and he has to look down for a second like he needs to compose himself. When he looks back up at you, his mouth is still curved and the corners of his eyes crease again—those small lines that only ever show up when he’s genuinely amused. And as much as you want to be annoyed—because he’s teasing you and you’re trying to have a serious discussion about fake dating boundaries—you can’t ignore the stupid, traitorous flutter in your chest when you hear him laugh and see him smile at you like that.

You cross your arms to compensate, like that will physically contain the ridiculous skip under your ribs.

“I don’t see what’s funny,” you mutter, even though your voice lacks bite.

He exhales, and the sound does nothing to help. He’s laughing right in your face and you think you shouldn’t react like this. But there’s something about the way he does it—like he finds you genuinely entertaining. And you hate that your body responds to that.

You hate that you have to look away for a second because if you don’t, you might start smiling too.

“Stop laughing,” you grumble.

“I’m not,” he says, even though he’s biting back another laugh.

Liar.

“Okay,” he says once he finally reins himself in, though there’s still a smile tugging at his mouth. “Your turn.”

You narrow your eyes. “My turn to what?”

“To practice calling me using pet names.” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Last I checked, there are two people in a relationship. You can’t veto all of mine and not contribute. That’s not how this works.”

You open your mouth to retort, but he continues, “If we’re going to be believable, we both need to practice.”

He stares at you, just a little expectant. That little tilt of his head, the soft look in his face, the way his lips curl slightly—it’s like he’s daring you to refuse. And you realize: you can’t say no to that face. Not that face—not the one that looks at you like you’re the only person in the room, like he’s waiting for you to cooperate, like it would break his heart if you didn’t. Not when he’s smiling that infuriatingly soft smile that somehow makes your chest flutter despite every warning bell in your head screaming at you to stay logical.

“Fine,” you mutter, finally relenting, because trying to resist that expression feels like punching the sun. You swallow, immediately wishing you hadn’t admitted defeat. “…Idiot.”

He gasps dramatically. “Hey, that’s not nice!”

He leans back slightly, hand pressing to his chest like you’ve wounded him, but the performance is completely undercut by the crinkle of his eyes.

“I gave you nice pet names,” he continues, voice full of mock offense, “and you insult me?”

“It’s affectionate!” you insist.

“In what world?”

“In ours!”

Then he laughs again, shaking his head. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

You glare at him. “You’re annoying.”

“And you love me,” he says easily, grinning. “My turn again.”

Your brain stumbles.

What?

You? Love him? You absolutely do not.

Well… you do. You obviously do because he’s been your best friend since high school. Because he used to sit next to you during class and slide you snacks when you forgot lunch. Because he knows the exact tone of your voice when you’re about to cry and the exact tone when you’re pretending you’re alright. Because he’s seen you at your worst and stayed.

But that’s it. That’s all there is to it.

It’s not—

It’s not the kind of love that—

You do not love him like that.

You don’t blush because you’re in love with him; you blush because he’s teasing you. Anyone would blush because it’s embarrassing. He’s weaponizing pet names and telling you that you love him like this is some kind of experiment and you are simply reacting like a normal human being under psychological pressure.

You love him because he’s familiar. You love him because he’s safe. You love him because he’s been around long enough to feel permanent. And that’s normal—it’s reasonable and absolutely not romantic.

And yes. Okay. Fine. There was that phase—that one embarrassing and completely short-lived high school crush.

You were sixteen. He had just started wearing his sleeves rolled up for no reason. He laughed at something you said during chemistry class and you thought about it for three days straight. You overanalyzed the way he texted. And you wondered—briefly—what it would be like if he ever looked at you different.

But that was years ago! It was small and harmless—the kind of crush that happens when you’re around someone all the time and your brain decides to experiment with feelings just to see what sticks.

And nothing stuck. You got over it. You moved on.

You dated other people. You lived your life. You stopped thinking about what it would feel like if he ever laced his fingers with yours or whether he’d ever call you pretty in a serious voice. That phase passed quietly without drama, so that’s proof, right? Proof that this—whatever this is right now—isn’t anything.

You don’t have feelings. You’re not secretly holding onto something unresolved. You’re not waiting for him to notice you. You’re not hoping he means it when he says things like that.

You’re so caught up in your thoughts and feelings that you don’t even notice he’s moved closer until you feel a light touch against your cheek. You jolt.

Phainon’s fingers are there, brushing gently against your skin. “What’s wrong, lovely?” he asks, voice low and soft as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Lovely. The pet name keeps echoing in your head.

What is he doing? What is actually wrong with him???

You stare at him.

He’s closer than before—close enough that you can see the tiny crease between his brows; close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. His expression is no longer teasing—it’s searching. He studies you for a moment longer, then his thumb brushes lightly along your cheek again almost absentmindedly.

“Hey,” he tries again. This time, he taps your forehead with a knuckle lightly. “Is my girlfriend still with me?”

He says it so easily and casually like it fits in his mouth—like it belongs there with him.

You are aware of your pulse in your throat, in your ears, and in your fingertips. You are aware that he is still leaning toward you, still close enough that you can see the tiny details on his expression. You are aware that your face feels so hot it’s almost uncomfortable.

My girlfriend. He called you his girlfriend.

Your mouth opens slightly, but your thoughts scatter in every direction. You can’t tell if you’re embarrassed or shocked or something worse. You can’t even tell if this is still a joke or if he’s just committing to the bit with terrifying confidence.

He studies you for another second, then concern flickers across his face.

“Did I break you?” he asks.

You blink once. Then twice.

You are, in fact, broken.

Your brain is trying to process that this is all just pretend. He’s just doing and saying things for practice. But the way he’s looking at you doesn’t feel like practice.

It feels like—

“I hope I’m not interrupting!”

You jump so hard your chair scrapes against the floor.

March stands a few steps away, tray in hand, eyes wide and sparkling in a way that says she absolutely thinks she’s interrupting something. And Phainon is still leaning over you, though he eventually pulls away like he wasn’t in a rush to move in the first place. And as if nothing strange just happened, he turns to March with an easy smile.

“No, you weren’t interrupting at all,” he says, light and unbothered. “Are those our drinks?”

“Yup!” she chirps. “I made iced tea instead because while water is healthy, it’s so boring!”

She sets the glasses down and two straws, but her eyes flicker between the two of you. The look on her face says she definitely saw something.

“There you go! Call for me if you guys need anything else!”

“Thanks. We will,” Phainon replies.

March presses her lips together like she’s physically holding something in—the smile on her face trembling—before she turns away. The look she throws over her shoulder is way too knowing. Then she pivots toward the back with suspicious speed, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. The door swings shut behind her a little loudly.

You just know she’s about to tell the others and reenact whatever she thinks she witnessed. You exhale slowly.

“Oh, you—”

You cut in before Phainon can finish. “We should stick to calling each other by our names,” you say, because if you don’t, you’re worried he’ll casually drop another pet name that will fry your brain.

He pauses. “Oh.”

For a second, you think maybe you sounded too intense. Maybe you should’ve laughed, or framed it as a joke—at least something rigid—but the he chuckles like it’s nothing.

“Alright,” he says. “Are you okay now?”

And you answer, quick, “Yeah.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You sure? You looked a little…” He hums, searching for the word. “…out of it.”

You were not “out of it”. You were internally combusting because he casually said girlfriend like it was a regular noun and not something that rearranged your internal organs. But instead of admitting something as embarrassing as that to him, you say, “Yes. I’m fine.”

He studies you like he’s deciding whether to press. Then he shrugs and takes a sip of his iced tea. “If you say so. So what next?”

Right.

Focus.

“How about…” You pause, buying yourself a second to shove your pulse back into its cage. “How we got together? My mother would ask something like that.”

“Oh, yeah. She definitely will,” he agrees easily. He takes another sip, then adds, “Your mom’s a little nosy.”

That makes you laugh. It slips out of you, light and fond and helpless. “She is, isn’t she? She likes to gossip a lot.”

Phainon grins. “Looks like you’re actually fine then.”

Your face warms. “I just told you I am.”

“Well,” he says lightly, “can’t blame a guy for worrying about his girlfriend.”

There it is again—that word. It lands so casually in his mouth like he’s just saying “coworker”. Like he’s saying “friend”. Like it doesn’t echo in your head three times before settling somewhere dangerously soft in your chest.

Why does he seem so unaffected by it?

Is he really just good at pretending? Is this just method acting to him? Or is this what it looks like when you’re normal about things? When you don’t spiral every time a word brushes too close to something you buried years ago?

Maybe it’s just you. Maybe you’re the only one assigning weight to syllables. Maybe he’s just playing along like he promised. Maybe you’re the one making it weird.

You drag your gaze down to your glass.

Ignore it. Ignore him. Ignore the way your heart did that small, traitorous skip.

Focus.

You clear your throat. “Since we’ve been friends since high school, we can just say feelings developed gradually. Like… one of us finally said something eventually.”

“Yeah?” he says. “Which one of us did?”

“You?” you answer, though it comes out uncertain. “I think you’re the type to confess first.”

“Am I?” There’s something in his voice you can’t quite put into words, and you catch yourself trying to pin it down.

Was it a drop in his tone, a pause before he spoke, or the way the syllables stretched a little differently than usual? You can’t tell and that’s the problem—you feel it, but your mind has no word for it. It feels unsettling and strange because you’ve known him for so long that you think you could read him. You’ve built years of familiarity on that certainty. But ever since you asked him to be your plus one… something shifted.

One day you were just friends who understood each other without trying. The next you’re sitting across from him wondering why you can’t tell what he’s thinking anymore.

Before, you could look at him and just know. Now when you look at him, you second-guess.

“Well…” You fiddle with your straw wrapper, folding it in half, then again, then tearing it straight down the middle. “You’re definitely better with words than I am. And you’re braver.”

And that part isn’t even exaggeration—it’s just fact. He’s always been the one who speaks first. The one who raises his hand. The one who fills the silence instead of letting it swallow him whole. While you… you’ve always needed a minute.

He laughs, soft and almost pleased. For a moment, you wonder if you just imagined everything earlier. “That is true.”

You look up at him flatly, mostly because you need something neutral to hide behind. “You didn’t even try to deny it.”

“Why would I?” he replies easily, leaning back in his chair. “You said it yourself already.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real weight behind it.

“So that’s our story?” he asks. “I confessed first?”

“Yes.” You nod, hoping the movement feels more convincing than you do. “You confessed first.”

There’s a small pause, just long enough for you to think the topic has passed. Then you hear him hum, thoughtful. “And what did I say?” he asks lightly.

Your brain short-circuits. “…What?”

“If I’m the one who confessed,” he continues, “what did I say?”

You stare at him, waiting for the grin that usually follows a setup like this. He just looks back at you. You scowl.

“We are not improvising a confession scene right now.”

“Why not?” he says. “If someone asks for details, we should have them.”

“No one is going to ask for the script.”

“Your mother might,” he counters. “My aunt might.”

“We can just deflect if my mother asks,” you shoot back. “And your aunt isn’t even invited to the wedding.”

Phainon grins, and there it is—that familiar expression, the same one you’ve known for years. It smooths something out inside you instantly; the strange distance you thought you felt earlier loosens its grip. You suddenly feel silly for even thinking anything had changed at all.

“This is already detailed enough,” you insist. “We have a timeline. We have who confessed first. We don’t call each other by nicknames. That’s sufficient.”

But your brain, traitor that it is, has already started filling in the blanks.

You picture him sitting across from you like this, except there’s no rehearsal, no agreed-upon pretense—it’s just the two of you and a question that isn’t rhetorical. You imagine him saying your name the way he does when he means something, before admitting he’s liked you for a while. That his feelings weren’t sudden. That the sudden realization just crept up on him one day and how he tried to ignore it and how he didn’t want to anymore—

Stop.

You blink and force the image away before it settles anywhere permanent.

“Fine. Maybe… maybe you said something simple,” you decide. “Nothing dramatic, no long speeches. Just that you liked me… and asked me if I wanted to try.”

“And what did you say?” he asks and his voice is softer now.

Your throat feels drier than it should. You take a second before answering, “I said yes.”

Because of course you did. In this version, there’s no hesitation—no second-guessing. You don’t overthink it. You don’t ask for time. You just say yes. Why wouldn’t you? It’s fake. This is fake. You’re just constructing a believable narrative for this pretend relationship. That’s all.

But why does it feel like you just admitted something real?

“Alright,” he says. “I like that version.”

You can’t look at him.

You pick up your glass and take a long sip of the iced tea even though you’re not particularly thirsty. The cold helps; it gives you something else to focus on because if you look at him right now—if you meet his eyes while your chest feels like this—you might start wondering whether he’s picturing the same version you are.

And that is not a road you’re prepared to walk down.

So you keep your attention on the glass. On the ice shifting when you tilt it; on the faint condensation dampening your finger; on literally anything that isn’t Phainon sitting across from you.

And then, suddenly, he asks, “Should we practice?”

Your brain doesn’t process his words at first, still busy replaying the imaginary confession you definitely should not have imagined. It’s like your thoughts are buffering.

Putting the glass down onto the table with a soft thud, you say, “What?”

“I said we should practice.”

“…Practice what?”

“You know,” he says, “like holding hands.”

You stare at him like he just suggested the two of you try skydiving indoors.

“Why do we need to practice that?” you ask, baffled. “We’ve held hands before—what’s so different about doing it now?”

You have, technically.

Crossing streets once traffic lights go red and he’d just grab your wrist and pull you along without looking back. At crowded festivals where he’d hold you close so you wouldn’t get separated in the sea of people. Or that time at the park when a very aggressive goose decided you were its mortal enemy and Phainon dragged you away—

“It’s different from before because we have to make it look like we’re actually in love,” he replies.

Oh. Right. Of course.

Hand holding as friends is way different from hand holding as a couple. And you said it yourself earlier already—public displays of affection shouldn’t be overdone, but holding hands is fine.

It’s literally the lowest tier of couple behavior. People do it absentmindedly while talking. People do it while grocery shopping. People do it while scrolling through their phones with the other hand. Which means your heart should not be reacting like you’re about to perform an open-heart surgery on yourself.

“Fine,” you say. And before your brain can spiral into another dissertation, you extend your hand across the table.

Then he reaches out.

His hand is bigger than yours—that’s the first thought that appears for absolutely no reason. You’ve known this for years—this is not new information—yet your brain treats it like a shocking revelation.

His fingers slide between yours one at a time, like he’s solving a puzzle and the correct solution is your hand. Then his palm settles against yours and your fingers instinctively tense for a second before relaxing again. His grip adjusts automatically, just secure enough that your hands stay together. Then his thumb brushes against your knuckles, as if he’s testing the feeling; or maybe he’s checking if you’re about to yank your hand back and run.

You don’t, but now you’re very aware of everything.

The texture of his skin. The way your fingers fit between his. The slight pressure where your palms meet. The tiny shift every time he moves his thumb. The fact that your pulse is currently pounding in your fingertips like it’s trying to escape.

Why are you noticing this much? This is literally just holding hands, and it’s not even like this is new. But as your fingers sit there, neatly laced with his, you vaguely remember sitting in class years ago and wondering what it would feel like if Phainon ever laced his fingers with yours.

And now it’s here and it’s happening and you wonder how sixteen-year-old you would have reacted.

You glance up.

Phainon is already looking at you.

“Looks like we’re ready then,” he says lightly, and you nod.

You nod because there’s nothing else you can bring yourself to say. All you can think about is the warmth of his hand intertwined with yours and the way they fit together so naturally as if they were made to belong there.

From the back, you hear March’s delighted squeal and Caelus’s audible gasp. The sound hits you like a gunshot.

You yank your hand away from Phainon so fast the chair legs scrape lightly against the floor as you twist around. Your hear hurried footsteps, a muffled “GO GO GO—”, something clattering, and the back door slamming shut with a loud bang! that echoes through the cafe.

Silence follows.

You stare at the door, then sigh—a long, tired, deeply resigned sigh that comes from the soul of someone who knows that somewhere behind that door March and Caelus are currently reenacting the entire thing to Dan Heng.

You slowly turn back around.

Phainon hasn’t moved; he’s still in the same position you’ve left him, except now he’s looking down at his hand—the same one that was holding yours a moment ago. His fingers flex absently, like he’s testing the space where your hand used to be.

You don’t think much of it. Instead, you narrow your eyes at him.

“You did that on purpose.”

His gaze lifts. “Innocent until proven guilty,” he says mildly.

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “You saw March and Caelus. Their heads were literally sticking out of the door.”

There had been hair—very noticeable and very pink hair. And beside it, an unsubtle tuft of gray that absolutely belonged to someone who has the subtlety of a marching band.

“You’re accusing me of a lot right now,” he says.

“You laced your fingers with mine after you saw them.”

He exhales through his nose, briefly looking down at the table like he’s caught somewhere between defending himself and enjoying the accusation too much. When he looks back up, he’s smiling.

“Maybe,” he says. And then he laughs.

“You’re so annoying.”

“It was still good practice though,” he says. “You want me to try holding you by your waist next?”

Your brain immediately supplies a very vivid mental image of his hand resting there—warm, steady fingers spread lightly at the curve of your side like it belongs there—and that alone is enough to make your cheeks heat up.

You glare at him to compensate. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”

He laughs like that was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “You and your kids’ reactions make it fun.”

“Well, my kids have classes tomorrow, so let’s end things here,” you say, crossing your arms. Then another thought occurs to you, and you narrow your eyes at him. “And you—don’t you have work? Why are you always free?”

Phainon shrugs, easy and casual like the answer is obvious. “It just so happens that I don’t have flights when you need me.”

You study him for a second, not entirely convinced.

Your mind drifts back to something Aglaea said before—that you seem to be the only exception to his busy schedule. At the time, you’d dismissed it immediately. A coincidence, you’d insisted—bad timing on everyone’s part and good timing on his. But now that the idea has resurfaced, it refuses to go away easily.

You’re about to question him about it, but he speaks again before you can get the words out.

“Can I drive you home?”

The question is simple, but something about the way he says it makes your brain pause for a second and it’s not because the offer is unexpected. In fact, he’s driven you home countless times before: after late-night study sessions years ago, after work shifts when the buses are sparse, or after dinners with friends when everyone else disappeared one by one.

So no, the offer itself isn’t strange. If anything, it’s expected—which is probably why you only sigh and shake your head.

“It’s not like you’ll let me say no, anyway.”

“That is true,” he agrees immediately with absolutely no shame whatsoever. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “And I promised Aglaea I’d return you back in one piece.”

You stare at him for a moment, before rolling your eyes. “Wow,” you mutter dryly. “How chivalrous of you.”

“Well… what can I say,” he says, smug. “I’m a man of my word after all.”

You scoff under your breath. Then you push your chair back and stand, the legs scraping softly against the floor. The table between you is littered with the remains of your drinks and you pick them up automatically.

Yours is nearly empty, nothing left but watery ice cubes clinking against the glass. His, on the other hand, is still half full.

“I’ll let the others know we’re done here,” you say. “Should I ask if they want a ride?”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you notice the way Phainon’s expression changes. He stares at you like you’ve just said something stupid.

You blink at him. “What?”

He keeps staring. The silence stretches and you feel a tiny flicker of irritation spark in your chest. “What?” you repeat, more defensive now. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Phainon exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly as if reconsidering his entire life. He lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck. “Nothing,” he says, then sighs again. “Sure. You can ask them.”

The words come out calm, but there’s something in his tone that makes you narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. Still, you decide not to question it further and you flash him a smile instead.

“Great.” You gesture toward outside. “You can start the car and wait in there.”

Phainon straightens in his seat and immediately brings his hand to his forehead in a sharp, exaggerated salute. “Okay, Boss.”

“Stop.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“I swear—”

“Yes, Boss Ma’am.”

“Phainon!”

He grins, clearly delighted with himself. You shake your head, trying to look annoyed even though you’re smiling.

“Just go,” you say, as you turn toward the hallway leading to the back.

“Aye aye,” he replies.

Behind you, you hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, followed by the faint rustle of him grabbing his keys. A moment later, the soft chime of the front door rings as he steps outside.

When you step into the kitchen, the first thing you notice is that all three of them are gathered close together. March, Caelus, and Dan Heng are standing near the prep counter like a tiny council meeting has just taken place. The moment the door swings open, their heads turn in unison.

March’s entire face lights up, and she immediately waves both hands in the air like she’s been waiting for you. “You guys are done, Boss Ma’am?” she asks brightly, practically bouncing in place.

You walk over to the sink and set the two glasses down. “Yeah,” you reply casually as you turn the faucet on. “Did you have a great time eavesdropping?”

March lets out a tiny giggle and ducks her head, suddenly looking very guilty. “I wasn’t— well—”

Before she can finish fumbling through an excuse, Caelus jumps in. “I promise we didn’t hear anything!”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Really?”

He grins sheepishly. “Well… we did see something.”

You sigh, turning back to rinse the glasses as you shake your head. “Right,” you say. “You and March made sure to let us know you did.”

March giggles again, this time covering her mouth with both hands. Caelus rubs the back of his neck, chuckling as well.

Then, Dan Heng speaks, “Are you and Mister Phainon finally together?”

The question catches you off guard, and a warm flush spreads across your face instantly. “Y-Yeah,” you stutter. You clear your throat, brushing right past it. “Anyway! Do you guys want to ride with us?”

March squeals. “Really?!” She spins towards the others, eyes sparkling. “Can we go with them please?!”

Caelus makes a face. “Let’s not—”

“We wouldn’t want to intrude, Miss,” Dan Heng says.

“What? Of course not!” you protest, waving your hands, sending little flicks of water into the air. “You won’t be intruding on anything. I asked, and Phainon said it was fine.”

The two boys exchange a look, then turn in unison to glance at March—who’s still staring at them expectantly, practically buzzing with hope. Dan Heng sighs.

“…Alright,” he says. “Since Miss said so, then we’ll take the offer.”

March lights up and jumps in joy. Caelus shakes his head.

“Great!” you say, smiling.

And it’s only as you turn back to the sink, reaching for a towel, did it hit you.

Finally?

Your hand stills for a moment. You frown slightly, staring down at the counter.

…What did he mean by that?

✉︎ My Favorite Cousin Ever

Aglaea: How did the conversation go? You: We went over everything. Rules, backstory, what we call each other, PDA You: How long we’ve been “dating” Aglaea: I trust it went well? You: I think so You: Though he was weirdly calm about it all Aglaea: That’s just how he is. Aglaea: And you? You: I don’t know, Agy… You: I guess I’m a little scared Aglaea: Of what? It’s just Phainon. You: That’s the problem. It’s Phainon You: I don’t want to ruin things between us 🥲 Aglaea: You won’t. Not unless you start overthinking everything. You: You make it sound so easy, Agy Aglaea: Because it should be. You’re the one complicating things. Aglaea: Tell me. Do you still have feelings for Phainon? You: I was over him, Agy You: But then this whole fake dating thing happened and now I’m not so sure Aglaea: 😪 Aglaea: And what are you going to do now? You: I’m going to pretend nothing changed Aglaea: That’s a terrible plan. You: It’s the only one I’ve got Aglaea: Then at least remember it’s fake. Aglaea: Don’t start believing your own act. You: I’ll try Aglaea: Good. Now get some sleep. You: Thanks, Agy 🥺 I love youuuu! Aglaea: And I love you.

✉︎ Aglaea + Phainon

Phainon: Aglaea, hello! Aglaea: Do you need something? Phainon: Not even a hello? :( Aglaea: Hello. What do you need? Phainon: :D Phainon: I come bearing a humble request! Do you happen to own any shirts or tops that match your cousin’s dress? Aglaea: The same color or something that just complements it? Phainon: Same color would be ideal! Aglaea: Alright. I’ll find something in the same shade. Phainon: You’re a lifesaver! Aglaea: You know, matching outfits will make things more believable. Why not match the entire time you’re there? I can lend both of you clothes. Phainon: That’s actually genius. I’m in! Aglaea: I’ll inform my cousin. Anything else? Phainon: Not at the moment. Phainon: Unless there’s something you want to say to me? :D Aglaea: There is, actually. Phainon: What is it? Aglaea: You’re an idiot. Phainon: Unprovoked?? I’m being attacked for no reason :( Aglaea: If you think this is unprovoked, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought. Phainon: That’s harsh! I’m sensitive, you know :( Aglaea: No, you’re not. Phainon: Haha, fair! Aglaea: Good luck with your fake dating arrangement. You’re going to need it. Phainon: Hahahahahahaha Phainon: That obvious, huh? Aglaea: Painfully so. Phainon: Don’t worry. I’ve got it handled Phainon: Have a little faith! Aglaea: 😪 Aglaea: Good night, Phainon. Phainon: Good night, Aglaea!

FEBRUARY 8

You leave for Lushaka today.

The flight is in a few hours. Your suitcase is already packed by the door. Your dress—Aglaea’s dress—is somewhere safe, handled by someone far more competent than you. And Phainon is coming to pick you up.

You stare at your ceiling, then drag a hand down your face.

The apartment feels quieter than usual, like it knows you’re about to leave it behind for a week. You move through your morning routine on autopilot—shower, clothes, a quick check of your bag for the fifth time (passport, a book, wallet, charger, your ticket even though it’s digital). You hover by your suitcase after, staring at it like it might suddenly sprout legs and run away.

Your phone buzzes.

✉︎ My Favorite Cousin Ever

Aglaea: Are you ready? You: As I’ll ever be Aglaea: Good. Aglaea: Phainon will be there in 20. You: How do you know that?? Aglaea: He texted me. You: Why is he texting you??? Why didn’t he tell me??? Aglaea: Because I asked him to make sure you get to the airport in one piece and don’t forget anything important. You: Hmph You: And you? Aglaea: You’ll see me at the airport.

The conversation ends there.

You shove your phone into your pocket and move faster after that—putting on your shoes, double-checking the stove even though you know you didn’t use it, glancing around your apartment one last time like you’re about to disappear for months instead of days.

Right on cue, there’s a knock on your door.

You absolutely do not rush to open it. You walk at a completely normal pace, wiping your hands on your dress before reaching for the knob. You open the door—Phainon is there.

He’s dressed casually: a simple shirt and a jacket, sleeves rolled up, and jeans. His hair is a little tousled, and when he sees you, he smiles. “Good morning. You ready to go?”

“Good morning,” you echo. “I’m all ready.”

He glances past you into the apartment, then back at you. “You sure?” he asks.

“I already checked everything,” you say, defensive. “Five times.”

He shrugs. “Sixth time’s the charm.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but step aside anyway, gesturing vaguely behind you. “Fine. Go. Inspect.”

He hums, slipping past you like he lives there. He does a quick lap around your place, peeking into the kitchen, glancing at the counter, the couch, the table. You hover near the door, arms crossed, watching him like you’re waiting for him to fail some kind of invisible test.

He pauses by your coffee table and picks up your keys. You freeze.

“Okay… so maybe I did forget something,” you admit.

He holds them up between two fingers, turning back to you with a look that’s way too pleased with himself. “Sixth time’s the charm,” he repeats.

You walk over and snatch them from him. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you’d be locked out when we get back,” he says, and you hate that he’s right.

“Whatever,” you mutter, grabbing your bag and heading for the door. “Let’s go before I forget something else and you get another ego boost.”

He laughs softly behind you, and you try very hard to ignore the way the sound settles somewhere warm in your chest. You step out into the hallway first, and you barely get two steps in before he reaches past you and grabs the handle of your suitcase.

You blink, caught off guard. “I can—”

“I know,” he cuts in, already pulling it along like it’s his by default. “I want to do it, though.”

You stare at him for a moment longer than necessary, then turn back around to lock and close the door because there’s nothing to argue about. He’s already doing it, and it’s not like you really mind.

The two of you walk down together. He rolls your suitcase down the steps like he’s done it a hundred times (he probably does, given his profession), and you trail behind. Outside, his card is parked just where you expected. He pops the trunk before you even reach it, and again—without asking—lifts your suitcase in like it weighs nothing.

You hover beside him almost awkwardly. “…you know you don’t have to do everything, right?”

He shuts the trunk and looks at you. “I know.”

“Okay… I just thought—”

“Like I said, I want to do it,” he says. “You and I both know I like helping.”

You sigh. “Of course you do. Your childhood wish was literally to fulfill your friends’ and family’s wishes.”

He grins like that’s exactly the response he wanted, then walks around to the driver’s side. You follow, sliding into the passenger seat out of habit more than anything else. His car always smells faintly like something clean and something warm—like fabric softener and coffee that’s no longer there but somehow still exists in the air.

You buckle in, setting your bag on your lap, and by the time you look up, he’s already starting the engine.

He glances at you briefly. “Seatbelt?”

You tug on it pointedly. “Already on.”

“Good.” There’s a small pause, then he asks, “You forget anything else?”

You think about it for a second. Your keys are in your pocket. Your phone is in your bag. Password, checked. Wallet, checked. Charger, checked.

“No,” you say, more certain this time.

He nods once, satisfied, then he pulls out and you’re off.

The drive to the airport is uneventful. There’s no awkwardness, no weird tension, no pressure. Nothing dramatic happens. The fake relationship arrangement doesn’t even get brought up.

At one point, you reach into your bag to check your passport again and he doesn’t say anything, just glances over and then back at the road. At another, he hands you a bottle of water without looking, like he already knew you were about to get thirsty.

You don’t question how he knows—you never really have.

By the time you arrive at the airport, it doesn’t feel like a big moment. You think it should. You’re leaving for a week. You’re about to see your family. You’re about to pretend to date your best friend in front of people who will absolutely analyze everything. But instead, it feels… normal.

Your family’s private jet means there’s no long lines, no crowded terminals, no rushing through security with a million other people. Still, there are steps—check-ins, confirmations, small formalities that need to be handled.

And somehow, even in that, there are moments.

He takes your suitcase out the trunk before you can even reach for it, and you don’t even bother stopping him this time. When you’re at the counter, he stands so close to you that if you shifted slightly or turned around, your arm would brush his and you’d be face to face with his chest. You hand over your documents. He hands over his.

At some point, he leans in over just a little and you feel his breath ghost over the shell of your ear, “You’re holding your passport upside down.”

You look down. You are.

You flip it quickly, heat creeping up your neck. “I knew that.”

“Of course you did.” You don’t look at him, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

You step onto the apron with Phainon, both your suitcases rolling smoothly in his hands. Your family’s jet isn’t hard to miss; it’s just parked a short distance away. You’ve seen it a hundred times before—rode it a couple times even as a child.

You hear Phainon whistle next to you. “That’s yours?”

Right. This is his first time seeing your family’s jet.

You let out a short laugh. “Yeah.”

“Must be nice,” he says. Then he gestures forward, smiling. “Come on, then, pumpkin.”

You grimace. “Don’t call me that.”

“Yes, princess.”

You elbow him lightly.

The two of you don’t get far before you spot them.

Aglaea is already there—beautiful, composed, and put together, like she belongs in every space she steps into. Beside her is—

“No way,” you say as you approach, because there is absolutely no way what you’re seeing is real. “You’re Agy’s plus one?”

Anaxa looks up from whatever he was doing, and his expression shifts into something faintly amused. “Good morning to you too,” he says. Aglaea sighs from beside him.

“No, but seriously— you?” You look at Anaxa, then at your cousin. “He’s your plus one?”

Phainon laughs beside you, clearly entertained.

Anaxa crosses his arms. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Uh… Yes?”

“Right.”

“I mean— sure, we’re all friends,” you say, “but I thought Agy would be bringing Tribios. You two are basically like cats and dogs.”

“Can we not do this right now?” Aglaea pinches the bridge of her nose. “He’s here and he’s my plus one. End of discussion.”

“That settles that then,” Phainon says rather cheerfully. He nods toward the other two easily like nothing happened at all. “Did we keep you waiting?”

Aglaea shakes her head. “Not at all. We just got here ourselves.”

Anaxa then glances at the two of you, gaze lingering for just a second too long. You narrow your eyes at him slightly in suspicion. He smiles.

Ohh. I don't like that.

“So,” you say, turning back to Aglaea, “everything ready?”

“Yes. The crew’s already finished most of the preparations. We can board whenever we’d like.”

The four of you start moving toward the jet, suitcases rolling across the tarmac. You’re mentally running through your checklist again—passport, wallet, charger—when Anaxa speaks.

“I know about your arrangement, by the way.”

You stop walking. Phainon stops walking.

The wheels of your suitcase screech slightly as it lurches to a halt beside you. You stare at the back of Anaxa’s head because he’s still moving, completely unbothered, like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you.

You turn to Aglaea. “You told him?”

She doesn’t look at you right away. “He would have figured it out anyway.”

“But why?”

“I know it’s supposed to be something just between the three of us,” she starts, calm and measured, “but Anaxa isn’t going to tell anyone about your predicament. And is he not your friend, too? I think it’s better that he knows now than letting him figure the two of you out on his own.”

You open your mouth, then close it.

She’s not wrong—that’s the frustrating part. Anaxa has known you long enough to know when something is off, and he’s the kind of person who would notice things. If he’d spent even just half a day watching you and Phainon, he would have arrived at his own conclusions.

Still.

You look at him. He’s glanced back now, expression hovering between neutral and entertained. “I’m not going to snitch on you to your family, I assure you,” he says.

“You better not!”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” Anaxa glances at Phainon then, though brief.

Phainon clears his throat beside you. You turn to look at him. He flashes a placating smile at you, the picture of innocence.

“Right,” you say, mostly to yourself, and you grab the handle of your suitcase and start walking again because standing in the middle of the tarmac is not going to make any of this better. “Wonderful. Great. Everyone knows. Let’s move on now.”

Aglaea falls into step beside you. You don’t look at her. She doesn’t say anything, which means she’s waiting for you to work through it on your own.

“I’m not upset with you, Agy,” you murmur to her.

“I know,” she says.

You exhale. “I just would have liked a warning.”

“Would you have agreed if I’d asked first?”

You think about it honestly for a second. “…probably not.”

“Then you understand why I didn’t.”

You do. You hate that you do, but you do.

You walk the rest of the short distance in silence, and when you reach the steps of the jet, you let Phainon take your suitcase again without arguing—mostly because you’re tired of fighting small battles this early in the morning, and partly because it’s Phainon, and he was going to do it anyway.

When you step inside the cabin, it is warm and familiar and slightly too loud, layered with overlapping conversations. It’s got that particular energy of people who haven’t seen each other in a while and are making up for lost time.

You immediately clock most of the faces—cousins, aunts, uncles, and some family friends you recognize but can’t name immediately. The space is comfortable and well-appointed in that way that stops being impressive once you’ve grown up around it, though you notice Phainon isn’t beside you anymore—he’d peeled off just outside to handle the luggage with Anaxa.

Then your mother sees you.

“There she is!”

You barely have time to brace yourself before she’s crossing the cabin with your father right behind her, both of them wearing the kind of expressions that make you feel like you’re twelve again and coming home from a long trip.

Your mother reaches you first, pulling you into a hug that’s tighter than the occasion calls for, and you hug her back automatically, laughing a little despite yourself.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart.” She pulls back to look at your face, hands on your shoulders, studying you the way she always does—like she’s checking that everything is still where she left it.

Then your father steps in, quieter but no less warm, and wraps an arm around you briefly. “You look good,” he says simply.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Your mother spots Aglaea next and immediately pivots, opening her arms. “Aglaea! Come here.”

Your cousin steps forward and accepts the hug gracefully, returning it with the kind of practiced warmth that comes from years of being folded into your family’s orbit. Your father greets her as well, and for a moment, the four of you fall into easy small talk—how was the drive to the airport, how has the studio been, how long has it been since they last saw each other.

Then your mother turns back to you, and the shift in her expression is immediate. “So,” she says, “where is Phainon?”

Right on cue, the cabin door opens behind you.

You turn. Phainon steps in, slightly windswept from being outside, straightening the front of his jacket as he scans the cabin. His eyes find you first, and then he clocks your parents standings right beside you and smiles, easy, like he’d been expecting this exact moment.

Your mother makes a sound you would describe as delighted.

Aglaea smoothly excuses herself with a small smile before stepping away into the cabin, leaving you standing there with absolutely no buffer.

Your mother is already moving toward Phainon before he’s fully crossed the cabin, waving him over with both hands like she’s flagging down someone she’s been waiting for. Phainon doesn’t miss a beat—he meets her halfway and when she pulls him into a hug, he returns it with the same ease he does everything.

“It’s so nice to see you again, ma’am,” he says when she lets go, warm and genuine. “It’s been a while.”

Your mother lights up completely you almost have to look away. “Oh, you remember me! Of course you do—you were always such a sweet boy.” Then she waves a hand at him, almost dismissive. “And stop calling me that! Just call me Mom since you’re my daughter’s boyfriend now.”

Your heart skips a beat at that.

“Haha, okay, Mom.” The word rolls out of him naturally, and your mother looks like she could float. Then Phainon turns toward your father and extends a hand. “Sir.”

“Not sir—call me Dad now.” Your father bypasses the handshake entirely, grabbing Phainon’s outstretched hand and using it to pull him into a quick hug instead, with one firm pat landing on his back.

You watch all of this happen, smiling with your whole face because you are in front of your parents and that is the only acceptable expression to be wearing right now.

Phainon glances over at you from beside your father, and the look on his face is calm but also amused, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking and finds it genuinely funny.

You keep smiling. He keeps staring.

Your mother notices, of course, because your mother notices everything. She glances between the two of you and sighs contentedly, like she’s watching something she personally arranged come together exactly as planned.

“Well,” she starts, pleased with the world, “I’m so glad you’re both here.”

Your father settles back slightly, hands in his pockets, looking between you and Phainon with the quieter version of the same satisfaction your mother is wearing openly on her face.

“So,” your mother says, folding her hands together. “How long have you two been together?”

You glance at Phainon. He glances at you. It lasts maybe half a second, just something long enough for something to pass between you.

Just like what we practiced.

“Three months,” you both say at the same time.

Your mother blinks, then breaks into a wide smile, clearly reading the synchronization as something far more romantic than rehearsal. Your father makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh.

“Three months,” your mother repeats, as if savoring it. “And you kept it from me for three months.”

“We wanted to be sure first,” Phainon says, smooth and easy, and you could have not said it better yourself so you simply nod along like that was always going to be your answer too.

Your mother turns to your father with an expression that very clearly says I told you so without using any of those words. Your father receives it with the patience of someone who has been on the receiving end of that look for decades.

“Well,” your father says, returning his gaze to the two of you, “I’m glad you’re here, Phainon.”

Phainon smiles. “I’m glad to be here, sir—” He stops himself, and glances at your father. “Dad.”

Your father nods once, satisfied, like that was the correct answer.

“We won’t take up too much of your time now,” your father says. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up once we land. Your mother’s already made dinner plans.”

“Dinner,” your mother confirms, pointing between you and Phainon like she’s booking a reservation on the spot. “Just the four of us once we’re settled in Lushaka.”

“We’d love that,” Phainon says, and you nod beside him, smiling.

“Good.” Your mother looks satisfied in the way she gets when something she wanted has been granted to her before she even had to ask twice.

She reaches put and pats your cheek once affectionately, then Phainon’s arm, and then your father is already steering her gently back toward their seats. You watch them go for a second, then exhale.

“First obstacle done,” you say, though mostly to yourself.

“We’ll survive,” Phainon says, smiling.

The two of you make your way further into the cabin, looking for seats, and then that’s when it happens. Your aunt catches your eye from across the cabin and makes a beeline for you. Her gaze lands on Phainon and stays there.

“This is your boyfriend?” she says, not quite asking, reaching out to grab your arm.

“Yes,” you say.

“How handsome!” She’s already looking at him like she’s appraising something. “Oh, you did well. You did so well.”

Phainon laughs, gracious about it in a way you could never be. “Thank you, auntie.”

That does it—the auntie alone sends her. And where she goes, the others follow.

You spend the next several minutes being passed between relatives like a relay baton, except the baton is you and the thing being examined is Phainon standing next to you. There are cheek pinches—yours, not his, which you find deeply unfair. There are comments about how good you look together, about his height, his face, about how polite he is, about how your grandmother would have adored him.

One of your older aunts grabs both your hands and then his and holds them together like she’s performing a blessing. “You’re going to have such gorgeous children,” she says with complete sincerity.

You laugh because the alternative is you combusting. “We’ve only been together three months.”

“And? Your uncle proposed to me after two.”

You have no response to that.

Then another aunt claps her hands together and looks at Phainon directly. “So when’s the wedding?”

Phainon tilts his head, and the smile that settles on his face is relaxed and warm and just happy enough that you almost believe it yourself. “We just started dating, auntie,” he says, “but who knows—maybe if she catches the bouquet during the ceremony, ours could be next.”

The collective reaction from your aunts is immediate and extremely loud. Meanwhile, your face goes completely hot.

You turn to Phainon with your eyes wide and your mouth open and you smack his arm with the back of your hand. He doesn’t even flinch—he just laughs, bright and unbothered, like he didn’t just say that to a captive audience of your most excitable relatives.

“You—!” you start.

He’s still laughing.

“I can’t believe you,” you whisper, which only makes it worse because now he’s looking at you with such expression—the one that’s fond and amused in equal measure—and your aunts are watching all of this and sighing like it’s the most romantic thing they’ve ever witnessed.

You grab his arm and pull. “We’re going to sit down now,” you announce to no one in particular, already steering him away before anyone can ask a follow-up question. There are both delighted and disappointed sounds behind you. You don’t look back.

You find two empty seats near Aglaea and Anaxa and drop into yours with the energy of someone who has just survived something. Phainon settles in beside you, still smiling and unruffled.

Aglaea looks up from whatever she’d been reading. She takes one look at your face and understands. “The aunts?”

You nod tiredly. “The aunts.”

Anaxa glances at Phainon. Something passes between them, and you haven’t even looked much further to identify what it could mean before Anaxa looks back down at his phone without comment.

You sink a little lower in your seat.

The pilot’s voice comes through the speakers much later, letting everyone know they’d be taking off in the next minute or two. Around you, the cabin settles into that pre-flight quiet—the rustling of seatbelts, the last few conversations tapering off, and people shifting into their seats properly.

You buckle in, glance out the small oval window beside you, and then look at Phainon. “Have you ever been assigned to fly one of these?” you ask. “A private jet, I mean.”

He looks up from where he’d been adjusting his seatbelt. “Yeah, a few times. I don’t take them often though.”

“How come?”

He tips his head slightly, considering how to explain it. “Private flying is more luxurious on paper, but it’s a lot more exhausting than a commercial flight.”

You frown. “How?”

“On a commercial flight, I’m responsible for flying the aircraft,” he explains. “On a private one, I’m responsible for the entire aircraft. Loading the luggage—and that stuff gets heavy—cleaning the cabin, restocking everything, the toilets—”

“You clean the toilets?”

“I clean the toilets.” You stare at him. He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s part of the job.”

“What about when the client hires attendants?” you ask.

“It helps,” he says,” but it doesn’t change the fact that as the pilot, I’m still ultimately responsible for everything on board. There are physical and operational tasks that fall on me regardless of who else is there.”

You’d always known in the vague, general sense that Phainon’s job was demanding—the odd hours, the unpredictable schedule, the way he sometimes looked genuinely tired in a way that sleep didn’t entirely fix—but there was something about hearing it laid out plainly like that. And although he did say he doesn’t take these kinds of flights all the time, the luggage and the restocking and the responsibility that didn’t end when the flight did made it feel more concrete. He gave—gives—a lot to his job.

“That sounds really exhausting,” you say.

Phainon looks at you. Then he smiles and reaches over to flick your nose, gentle, before settling back in his seat. “You’re cute,” he says.

Your face warms and you rub the area he touched softly. “I’m being serious.”

“I know,” he says, still smiling. “That’s what makes it cute.”

You turn back toward the window because that seems like the safest place to look right now. You don’t say anything else, and neither does he. But when the jet lifts and the ground falls away beneath you, Phainon’s shoulder is warm where it presses lightly against you, and you find that you don’t particularly feel like moving away.

The cabin settles into its cruising quiet sometime after takeoff. Around you, conversations have tapered off, replaced by the sounds of people finding ways to pass the time. You’ve got your book in your lap. Phainon, somewhere along the way, had pulled out his phone and put his earphones in, and you’d both drifted into your own separate silences.

You’re somewhere in the middle of a chapter when you feel it—a slight shift of weight, and then his head comes to rest on your shoulder. You go completely still.

His breathing has already evened out, which means he’s genuinely asleep.

You look up.

Aglaea is already looking at you, while Anaxa is asleep beside her, head tipped back. You stare at her and she raises an eyebrow. You make a face that you hope communicates the full scope of what you are experiencing right now. She only blinks—like a cat who has found the situation beneath her to intervene.

How helpful…

You face forward again. Okay—you think—this is fine. People fall asleep all the time; sometimes on each other even. It’s a long flight and he’s tired—you literally just learned how exhausting his job is, so this is completely reasonable and normal and you are not going to make it weird by thinking about it too hard.

But I’m already thinking about it too hard!

His hair is slightly tickling your neck. His shoulder is warm where it presses against your arm. You are painfully aware of the weight of his head and his breathing and the fact that if you turn even slightly, you will be looking directly at his face.

So, you do not turn. You attempt to read the same paragraph you left earlier—only to fail four times. You read it a fifth time, but the words are all just shapes now and you can’t retain a single word. You close the book and set it on the table.

You stare out the window and try to think about nothing, which is to say you mostly think about Phainon sleeping on your shoulder and how your heart has been racing since then.

Eventually, your eyes get heavy.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

The first thing you register is a sound—a soft, short snap and it pulls you through the layers of sleep. Your eyes open slowly, and that’s when you feel it.

Your cheeks is against Phainon’s hair. Your arms are around him, hands loosely wrapped above his elbow, his arm tucked neatly against your chest like you’d decided somewhere in the middle of sleep that you needed something to hold onto. His head is still on your shoulder, still asleep.

You look up.

Aglaea is lowering her phone with the satisfaction of someone who has just accomplished exactly what she set out to do. When she sees your face, she says nothing. She simply sets her phone down the table calmly.

Your mouth opens, and she tilts her head slightly. Don’t wake him up, the look says. You close your mouth.

You look down at Phainon, still asleep and completely unbothered by all of this. Then you look back at Aglaea, who has picked up her book and is now reading it like nothing happened.

You exhale through your nose as quietly as possible, and reach over with the hand not currently wrapped around Phainon’s arm. “Phainon,” you say softly, and touch his arm. “Hey… Wake up.”

He stirs slowly. His head lifts from your shoulder. He blinks once, straightening up and running a hand briefly through his hair. Then he looks at you, still soft around the edges with sleep. “Are we landing?”

“No,” you say. You’ve already unlooped your arm from his without drawing attention to the fact that it had been there in the first place. “But we’re almost there, I think.”

He nods and leans back in his seat. He rolls his neck once, then glances over at you with a smile. “Did you sleep?” he asks.

“A little,” you say.

Across the table, Aglaea turns a page.

The jet touches down an hour later and everyone starts gathering their things, and you’re stuffing your book back into your bag when you feel Phainon’s hand brush against your shoulder—to let you know it’s time to move—and you nod and stand.

The heat hits you the second you step out of the vehicle, thick and salty and immediately making your dress stick to your skin. And the sky above Lushaka is so blindingly bright and blue you have to squint against it as you make your way down the steps.

The apron is already busy by the time you get there, family members spilling out in loose clusters, hugging and laughing and talking over each other, and you spot Elora almost immediately in the distance. She’s standing near the front with a man you assume is her fiance.

Your aunts and uncles go first, swarming toward Elora with delighted noises, and you watch from a distance as she gets passed around from hug to hug.

You, Phainon, Aglaea, and Anaxa hang back because you’d all gone to grab your luggage first while everyone else had already been shuffled ahead, and you’re honestly fine with being last—you’re in no rush to get swept into whatever this reunion is going to turn into. But then, Elora’s eyes land on you from across the open and her whole face lights up.

She starts walking over before you’ve even finished bracing yourself, and you feel your stomach drop because you know exactly what’s coming—you can already see it in the way she’s opening her arms. You plaster on the kind of smile you reserve for customers who complain about their coffee being hot even though they asked for it hot.

“You made it!” Elora says, arms already wrapping around you in a hug that smells like expensive perfume, and then she pulls back just enough to press a quick kiss to your cheek, and you just stand there for a while before finally lifting your hand and patting her back twice.

It’s awkward and you know it is and you can feel Aglaea’s gaze on the back of your head, but you can’t help it. Your body just doesn’t know how to do warm and easy with Elora.

“I’m so glad you came,” she adds, stepping back, and her smile doesn’t waver even a little.

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks for having us...”

Her eyes flick briefly past your shoulder, and you don’t even have to turn around to know who she’s looking at. Elora’s gaze stays there, and then she tilts her head slightly.

“Is this your plus one?” she asks.

“Yes,” you answer. “He’s—”

“Phainon!” She cuts in before you can even finish, and the way she says his name comes out delighted, and she’s already stepping past you to get a better look at him. “Am I right?”

“That’s me,” Phainon says easily, and he offers her a smile that’s polite enough to pass for genuine if you didn’t know him as well as you do; though you catch the way his eyes flick briefly to you before settling back on her.

“Wow,” Elora says, drawing the word out. She looks at him the way you’d look at a car you’re thinking about buying. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! Never in my life would I have thought I’d get to meet my cousin’s boyfriend ever.”

Ugh, you think, I hate her!

She says the word boyfriend like she’s trying it out, even though you never once used that word in your RSVP. You just said plus one and left it at that, and you feel irked because she took one look at a name in an email and ran with the most exciting version of the story without even bothering to check.

She’s the one who put me in this mess!

“Right,” is all you say, but she’s entirely unbothered and uninterested in whatever else you have to say. Her attention is solely on Phainon now.

“So how did you two meet, exactly?” Elora asks Phainon. “I’m dying to know!”

“High school,” Phainon says. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

Elora smiles, bright. “That’s so sweet! Honestly, I’m just surprised, you know? You’re clearly very handsome, very put together—” she gestures vaguely at him, “—and I guess I just didn’t expect someone like you to end up with someone like… my cousin.”

The words land easily and casually, wrapped up in a compliment so you can’t even call her out on it without sounding like you’re the one being difficult, and you feel your face go warm. Not from embarrassment, but from something closer to irritation—the old and familiar kind you’ve spent years learning to swallow rather than spit back out.

Phainon doesn’t miss a beat. “I got lucky,” he says simply, and he reaches over, settling a warm and steady hand at the small of your back. “And she’s not hard to notice, really.”

There’s a deliberate emphasis on those last few words, small enough that Elora might not even catch it, but you do. And so does Aglaea, who you can hear making a small sound behind you that’s suspiciously close to a laugh she’s trying to hold in.

Elora blinks, and something flickers across her face briefly before she smooths it back into that same easy smile. “Of course,” she says. “I just meant it as a compliment.”

“I figured,” Phainon says, still smiling. And you think, not for the first time, that you’re really glad he’s on your side.

Elora is quick to move on from Phainon—like flipping a page before anyone can dwell too long on the last one—and her attention swings toward Aglaea and Anaxa standing just behind you, luggage still in hand.

“Aglaea!” she says, voice climbing back up into that bright and delighted register, and she steps forward to pull your other cousin into a hug that Aglaea returns with the same practiced warmth she gives everyone. “You look stunning as always. I swear you get more intimidating every time I see you.”

“You flatter me,” Aglaea says.

Elora giggles and then her gaze drifts to Anaxa, who hasn’t said anything yet. “And you must be Aglaea’s plus one,” she says, extending a hand toward him. “I don’t think we’ve properly met yet. I’m Elora.”

“Anaxagoras,” he says, shaking her hand once.

“Anaxagoras,” she repeats, testing the name. “That’s certainly a memorable name. How long have you and Aglaea been together?”

Anaxa doesn’t even blink when he says, “Long enough.”

Which, technically, isn’t a lie since they have been friends for years, but it’s vague enough that it tells Elora nothing at all, and you have to bite back a smile because you know exactly what he’s doing—giving Elora just enough to chew on without actually feeding her anything.

“Well, you two make a striking couple,” she says, undeterred, clapping her hands together. “Honestly, I don’t know how you all keep finding people who look like they walked out of a magazine. Must run in the family.”

Her eyes flick toward you for a brief second when she says it, long enough for you to catch it. You feel Phainon’s hand press slightly firmer against your back, like he caught it too—but neither of you says anything. And then Elora seems to remember something, glancing back over her shoulder before reaching out to tug a man close by the sleeve.

“Oh, right, I almost forgot,” she says, pulling the man into the little circle you’ve all formed. “Everyone, this is Nikolas. My fiance.”

Nikolas steps forward with an easy, almost sheepish smile—the kind that immediately feels warmer than anything Elora’s said in the last five minutes.

“Hi,” he says, giving a small wave like he’s not quite sure if a handshake or a hug is more appropriate and would rather not overstep. “It’s really nice to finally meet you all. Elora’s told me so much—I feel like I already know everyone.”

“Good things, I hope,” Aglaea says, and there’s the faintest curve of amusement at her mouth.

“Only good things,” Nikolas says, laughing a little.

He turns to you next, and his smile doesn’t shift into anything performative the way Elora’s does. “You must be the cousin who owns a cafe,” he says. “It’s great to finally put a face to the name.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” you say.

He glances at Phainon beside you before speaking, “And, of course, the boyfriend. Nice to meet you too, man.”

“Likewise,” Phainon says, and this time his smile looks easier and much more genuine, like he’s already decided he likes Nikolas a lot better than the bride.

Elora claps her hands together at once, drawing everyone’s attention back before the conversation can wander any further. “Okay, we’ll catch up properly tonight, I promise, since we’ve got a family dinner planned once everyone’s settled in,” she says. “But for now, everyone should head to the villa first and get some rest. It’s been a long flight and I don’t want anyone falling asleep during appetizers.”

“We’ll see you tonight then,” Aglaea says, already steering the group toward the cars waiting at the edge of the apron.

“See you tonight!” Elora calls after you, and Nikolas gives one last easy wave before the two of them turn to greet the next cluster of relatives making their way down the steps.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Beside you, Phainon leans down slightly to your ear, voice low enough that only you can hear it, “Nikolas seems nice. How does someone like that end up marrying her?”

“Even I don’t know the answer to that,” you mutter and he laughs, and the sound helps loosen something tight in your chest that’s been sitting there since the second Elora’s arms wrapped around you.

The limousine rolls to a stop in front of the villa, and the driver comes around to open the door for you and the others. You step out, and behind you, Phainon is still climbing out of the car, looking around like he’s trying to memorize every detail of it before it disappears.

“Okay, so,” he starts once he’s beside you, voice pitched low with something like disbelief, “riding in a limo is actually insane. Like… genuinely. I don’t think I’ve ever sat in a car that had a mini fridge in it before until now.”

“Phainon, it’s just a car,” you say, though you’re smiling a little at how wide his eyes still are. If he had a tail, you just know it’d be wagging uncontrollably right now.

“It’s not just a car to me,” he says. Then he gestures back toward the other two limousines pulling up behind yours, doors opening and relatives spilling out onto the gravel in twos and threes. “And your family owns three??”

“Five, actually,” you say a little absentmindedly, already reaching for your bag. “The other two are probably back home in Amphoreus.”

Phainon just stares at you.

“What?” you ask, letting out a huff out of amusement. “You look ridiculous.”

“Five,” he repeats, like the number physically hurts him to say out loud. “Your family owns five limousines and I only found out about them now. And we’ve been friends for how long?”

“A long time,” you say.

“Yes, a long time,” he echoes. “And in that long time, you never once mentioned that your family owns a small fleet of limousines. I’ve known you since we were thirteen—thirteen!—and I’m only now learning this.”

“Well… The topic never really came up during past conversations,” you say, shrugging. “Our family owns a yacht too, if you want to know, and I think that’s far more interesting than a limousine.”

He shakes his head slowly, looking almost betrayed. “Okay, but then why did you even go to a public school? If your family has this kind of money, you could’ve gone anywhere. Some elite private academy with a uniform that probably costs more than my rent.”

You don’t even think twice about the words leaving you or how they might land when you say, “Then I wouldn’t have met you.” Because it’s genuine and it’s true—the same as the skies and waters of Lushaka being blue.

And Phainon goes still.

You glance over at him and he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking somewhere off to the side, ears going faintly red, jaw working like he’s trying to find something to say and coming up empty every single time, and you feel a smug satisfaction settle in your chest in your chest at having finally, for once, been the one to fluster him instead of the other way around.

“Are you—” you start, teasing, but before you can finish, Elora’s voice rings out from somewhere near the villa’s entrance.

“Everyone, if I could have your attention for just a second!” she calls, waving an arm to draw the group closer. “I know you’re all tired so I’ll make this quick. I just want to show you to your rooms so you can all rest before dinner.”

The crowd shifts and drifts toward her, and Phainon clears his throat beside you, still not quite meeting your eyes and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “that’s so unfair” before he grabs both your suitcase and his and starts walking—just a little too fast—toward the villa.

Elora leads the group through the villa room by room, pointing out names on little cursive place cards taped beside each door, and one by one relatives peel off with tired, grateful sighs. Eventually, she stops in front of a door near the corner of the hallway, tapping the little card taped to it.

“And this one’s yours,” she says, glancing between you and Phainon.

You blink at the door, then blink again when you realize that there’s only one card—both with your names written on it—which means there’s only one room and you need to share it with Phainon. The thought of staying in one bedroom with your fake boyfriend hadn’t even crossed your mind until now.

“Wait,” you say, almost in disbelief. “Just one room?”

“Well, you’re a couple,” Elora says in a tone that says like this should be obvious. “It’d be strange to put you in separate rooms, wouldn’t it? People would talk.”

Your mouth opens, but absolutely nothing comes out because your brain has apparently decided to short-circuit at the exact moment you needed it the most. You can feel your face heating up—can feel the way your grip on your bag tighten. But Phainon is already moving, sliding smoothly into the silence you left behind.

“Of course,” he says. He speaks so easily and unbothered like he already prepared for something like this to happen. Like sharing a room with just you and him is absolutely okay and normal for him. “Thank you so much for showing us around, Elora. We really appreciate it.”

“Oh, of course, anytime! I just want everyone to be comfortable and I figured—”

“We should probably get settled in before dinner,” he cuts in—still smiling, still polite—already reaching past you to push the door open. “Thanks again!”

And before Elora can get another word out, his hand finds the small of your back and he’s steering you inside. The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound that leaves the two of you standing alone in the middle of the room.

Outside, you can just barely hear Elora’s voice moving further down the corridor—”Aglaea, Anaxa, you two are just down this hall”—already onto the next set of names and doors, the two of you forgotten and left behind in favor of the rest of the tour.

Your eyes catch on the bed immediately. One bed, and it’s not even a particularly large one. You look at it, then back at the bed, doing quiet, frantic math in your head about positions and space and how exactly two grown adults are supposed to share something built for one person without it being A Whole Thing.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Phainon says, setting both your suitcase down near the foot of the bed. “I’ve slept in far worse.”

You look at the floor. It’s tiled and hard and looks unforgiving. Then, with a sigh, you say, “Phainon, it’s fine.” You set your bag down before you can talk yourself out of it. “I don’t mind sharing the bed with you. I trust you.”

He looks at you, assessing. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say. “So please, no need to sleep on the floor.”

“You’re accepting this much easier than I thought,” he says, and there’s something curious in the way he says it. Like he expected more resistance, more flustering, more of the reaction you gave Elora in the hallway moments ago.

You think back to what Elora said—about people talking, about how strange it would look like if you and your supposed boyfriend weren’t even sharing a room during a whole week of family events—and you sigh again, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“It’s not like we can really do anything about it,” you say. “Beside, we can think of this like a sleepover. You know… like the ones we used to have before with the others.”

Phainon raises an eyebrow. “Those were more like torturous study nights. Anaxa made sure of that.”

“Still,” you say, “we all slept together in the same room.”

He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, though there’s no real protest left in it. “Fine,” he says. “Though maybe we should put a pillow in between… Just so I don’t accidentally squash you in the middle of the night.”

“You are pretty heavy,” you say.

He laughs at that, shaking his head as he drops down onto the other side of the bed to test the mattress. “Wow. Okay.” He looks over at you, grinning. “Well, now that that’s settled, should we unpack for now? Or do you want to rest first?”

You glance at the suitcases still sitting by the foot of the bed, then out the window where the light outside has started shifting into gold over the water in the distance.

“Let’s unpack,” you say. “If I lie down now, I don’t think I’m getting back up before dinner.”

“Fair point,” he says, already pushing himself up off the bed and reaching for his suitcase.

You watch him for a second before you get up too and grabbing your own, and the room settles into something easy and quiet. It’s just the two of you moving around each other, familiar in a way that almost makes you forget—for a moment—that any of this is supposed to be pretend.

© 2026 kominigiru.

taglist: @ofcdimi

end note: i actually didn’t know how to end this chapter and the ending seemed kinda rushed but i’ve been writing this chapter for too long now and i feel bad for those who have been waiting since january akdbahfhsh

thank you to maemae for giving me the idea of “there’s only one bed” trope!! bwahahaha i can’t wait to do something about it…. (rubs hands together) 🪰 and for those who voted for phainon falling asleep on reader, yay for you! 😋

the amount of research i had to do for this chapter was ABYSMAL (not really) but it was actually so fun learning new things LOL i felt like a nerd (in a good way!!) writing the conversation between the mc and phainon during the plane scene. it’s not really relevant to the fic but phainon is a senior first officer. they’re basically the co-pilot and second in command—right after the captain (either the junior captain or the senior). in my head, both mc and phainon are in their late 20s (either or between 27-29yo. also imagine pining for someone for 11+ years 😅) and phainon can technically upgrade to a junior captain position but he just chooses not to because their schedules are a lot more flexible than that of a junior captain and they still need to work during weekends and holidays while a sfo is guaranteed to have off days on weekends. i think it suits phainon a lot, especially in this fic if you consider the fact that his schedule is almost always free when it comes to mc :D

also… you apparently don’t need tickets for privately owned jets but i’ve explicitly written last chapter how elora bought tickets for everyone (ᵕ ´ᗜ`) my bad!!! i should’ve researched much earlier before writing the email parts euuuu. i will not be removing it though so let’s just pretend the e-tickets are needed ,,,

[majestic-ruiqing]

text taken from this post

images taken from chapters 37 and 38 of the witch hat atelier manga