#crystal delusions

[crystalcrys]

— frostbite forms your memories ❄︎

you don't like snow, in fact you hate it. but when your childhood best friend who has been gone for six years jumps back into your life, you think some things can change.

❅ pairing: phainon x f!reader

❅ word count: 16.4k words

❅ tags: childhood friends to strangers (?) to lovers, modern au, college setting, angst, fluff, idiots trying to fix things basically, overuse of the word snow... reader has a birthday in winter, they both have a sweet tooth, mentions of other chrysos heirs.

❅ a/n: IT'S HEREE!!! honestly i've been super excited to post this since it is my first big work and i'm a little nervous TT but i put a lot of time and my heart into it and enjoyed it a lot when writing it!!! i hope you will too and thank you so so so much for reading!!! feedback is much appreciated!!

You don’t really like snow. 

How it soaks everything wet once it melts away, the biting cold that seeps into your bones during winter, the annoying amount of layering that drowns you under your clothes, the blocked roads, the morning traffic… You could go on.

So to put it shortly: no, you don’t like snow.  

Your phone reads 10:23 by the time you manage to get past the campus gate. It’s December. It’s cold. And this project equals sixty percent of your grade.

All the late nights are showing themselves under your eyes, and the lack of food in your system is making it all the more difficult to tolerate winter.

Cipher is unapologetically apologizing on the phone to your ear while you make your way towards your class building. It was pretty much set that you would meet up around eleven but she has never been the punctual one and you know better than to take it personally. 

“I’ll be there in the blink of an eye, trust me! I’m almost already at the bus stop.” She chokes out confidently with the sound of a zipper being pulled on the other side of the line.

So you don’t really put your faith in her being here any less than thirty minutes.

“See you in an hour, Ci.” There is a loud gasp after that sentence. You just chuckle to yourself and decide to leave her with the pants that she’s having a battle with. 

The smell of frost lingers in the air as you take in the sight of the campus. The snow covers the usual chaos of people existing. It doesn’t take long for the image to form in your mind though: juniors trying to survive on finals week, a freshman begging their professor for extra points, students huddled together for warmth…

The University of Okhema.

It’s wide, it’s beautiful. And yet, it never really stops feeling foreign.

But there was once a time when this place was everything you’d ever dreamed of.

A time when merely mentioning the name would make your heart skip a beat, when you’d ask your dad to drive slower every time you passed by—just to catch a better glimpse of the big, gold stained windows.

You vaguely remember wishing your parents would get a house with the same windows as a kid, in hopes of feeling closer to your dreams.

Now all you can see when you look at the building is just some walls, cement, and a place for education with really nice pancakes for breakfast.

It lacks its old charm, not because anything actually changed. The campus is still the same as all those years ago—if not prettier—and the liveliness does bring comfort to you every once in a while.

The school can get wider and more beautiful each day yet you know you still wouldn’t be satisfied. There are just some things that the heart craves—that are not so easily found back.

You wonder how it would feel if things hadn’t gone so differently, if fate hadn’t challenged you with grief and longing for a special someone. If he was next to you, laughing, enjoying the school with you. 

It rings in your ears sometimes: the moment when you opened the acceptance email. Hugging your mom as the words died down in your throat. 

But when you first stepped into the school with an empty space both next to you and in your heart, you wondered, is this the way of life testing me? Was it supposed to be like this?

Now, when your vision blurs and you lose your footing, you think this must also be one of those moments, where things seem to be going in a way, much different than intended.

It all happens so fast. You only meant to steal a quick glance at the gold stained windows, just for a second, just like you did all those years ago. But it seems you’re punished for doing so. Because the next thing you know, you collide with someone head-on, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs.

As well as knocking your assignment papers from your hands, to the ground—which is soaked from the melting snow.

You hear the man in front of you stumble over his apologies while you struggle to steady yourself, “I am so—so sorry. That was completely my fault, I wasn’t looking where I was—”

The words blur together as you lift your head.

“…Phainon?” 

The name slips out before you can stop it. 

For a moment, the world seems to tilt again. Though this time it has nothing to do with losing your balance.

His face shifts into one of disbelief first, it’s raw and momentary, before it disappears and an uncertain smile forms on his lips,

“Hi?” Is the only thing that leaves his mouth, soft and tentative. Despite his smile, he sounds in much disbelief himself. 

A sharp sting of pain on your temple greets you, sudden and rooted. Then it slowly moves to the back of your eyes, making you blink a few times. And you feel your heart throb, the sudden raise leaving an ache behind in your chest. 

He looks a lot older than you remember. His voice is deeper now, his shoulders broader, his jaw sharper. He definitely didn't tower over you either. If you’d only gotten a glance while passing by, you think, you might’ve not even recognized him. Maybe six years just does that to people—stretches them into versions you don’t recognize at first glance. 

“How are you even—” you swallow the heat bubbling in your mouth, “What are you doing here?” 

The hostility in your voice doesn’t escape him and yet he tries—poorly—to ease the tension. “Well,” he blinks, “that doesn’t sound like a warm welcome.” 

“You’re back?” you ask, memories already sneaking their way into your bones. Biting and clawing at every corner.

The sound of children's laughter echoes in your ears first, sweet and ripe, bubbling in the air like something untouched by worry. Like they haven’t seen a day of unease. You would laugh at the simplicity of it.

Then you get hit with a strong, sugary smell. Something fresh out of the oven, waiting for those tiny, careful steps sneaking into the kitchen in the dead of night. A kid dragging a chair across the floor with all his might, making a sour face at the loud scratch. Another scrambling up after it as she tries to steady herself. You can’t quite recall the flavour, only the small, charming victory of finally stealing a bite of that glazed pie. 

But it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Yes, it’s only been, what, a week now?” he tilts his head in confusion, his voice bright and clear, “But I think I’m already getting used to things here–”

The words blur after that, you don’t remember the rest of his sentence. Just the cold biting on your fingertips and your eyes watering.

“Stop, please.”

“What?” 

His face drops, and you hear the genuine hurt coming from him, but you continue, “You can’t just come back, and—and—” you cut yourself off, taking a deep breath. 

You are shaking now. You want to believe it is from the low temperatures, or out of fear for failing your class—since the papers are beyond salvaging. But the truth lingers clear in the air. The snow, it seems, isn’t capable of covering that. 

“Oh,” he says softly, “I know how this seems, but give me a chance to—” he trails off for a short second, raises a hand, maybe to you, maybe to hold onto anything else. But it doesn’t quite reach anywhere.

Then he takes in a sharp breath, and continues, “To explain, at the very least.”

To explain. To explain? 

The absurdity of it is enough in itself to make you laugh.

He’s been back in your life for all of five minutes—after six years of silence, not so much as a phone call, and somehow he’s already worn through the last of your patience.

You bend down to gather your mush of an assignment, a tsk slipping past your teeth involuntarily. The smudged ink slides downwards in thin rivers as you lift up the sheets, the now soft and fragile corners of the paper dissolving against your trembling fingers.

“Did you think at all before coming here, Phainon?” the name doesn’t slip out as easily this time, now that you’ve come to your senses. Instead, it is accompanied with a shaky breath and a broken tone. You internally wince at the foreignness of it.

“Trust me-”

“Trust you.”

“I have thought about it. Gods, I have thought about—about a lot.” he's speaking quickly now. You’re not sure if it’s because his pulse is hammering just as strongly as yours, or because he is scared you’ll cut him off again. 

Maybe a bit of both. Maybe it is the longing and emptiness he felt in your absence. You hope it is that. Because imagining a scenario, where Phainon, your other half, didn’t miss you—is so much worse than the pain he caused you these last years. 

It’s selfish. But you think you could have that.

“Maybe we could… Sit down and talk?”

A long beat of silence passes. You stare into his eyes for a good ten seconds. He stares back with raw hope and the kind of intensity that only a certain shade of blue can carry. The steady rhythm of water dripping from your hands pulls a weary sigh out of you.

“I’m going to fail this class.” you say, entirely dismissing his request, and the fact that he is standing right in front of you. To be honest, you are amazed at your own capability to even speak.

He blinks at that. Guilt settling in his features, sharp and immediate.

“You’re not,” he says quickly. His gaze drops to the ruined papers in your hands, jaw tightening as water continues to drip between your fingers.

Another beat. Then, more carefully—

“I don’t… actually have a submission myself, yet.” He lets out a breath, almost sheepish. “I transferred in late. I was supposed to ask someone about partnering up.”

He can’t be serious.

“You can’t be serious–”

“So. Be my partner.”

“Oh my god.”

Yeah. Oh god indeed.

It’s not pushy. Not smooth. If anything, it sounds almost like a plea disguised as a solution. 

You fix him with a look, “Surely you don’t expect me to agree?” the disbelief in your tone evident.

“We can redo it. Together. You won’t regret it.” 

It’s not smart. Not even a little. And yet, somewhere beneath the pride and the common sense, you want to say yes. Because when all is said and done, you miss him. You miss Phainon.

It’s no big secret. Your best friend. Maybe somewhere, sometime in the past, something even more than that. The boy you were certain would always be there—shoulder to shoulder, reckless and laughing. Until death do us part, you’d declared once, dramatic and half-serious in the middle of some stupid promise neither of you thought would ever be tested. 

And yet, here you are.

So, yes. You miss him.

“I’ll talk to Professor Anaxa about the partnering.” Your silence gives him the room for hope. He gladly takes it. With faith in his voice, he continues like it’s settled, “He was pestering me about finding someone anyway, I’m sure he won’t see a problem.”

“I’m not partnering up for an assignment with someone that got into my life fifteen minutes ago.”

Ouch.

That one even hurt you to say out loud. So you can’t imagine what Phainon must feel like. But it isn’t completely false. 

His face shifts into one of—you can’t even put a name to it. He just looks young. Almost childlike. But a child stripped of his usual charm and joy and purity. A child who has seen bad days and is certain there is more to come. You almost want to slap yourself.

“Oh,” is the first thing that leaves his lips. 

You secretly wonder if he’s trying to speak less to hide something else. Something that will give away his hurt.

But Phainon has always been so out there. Whether it’s him, or how he feels. He doesn’t hide anything, doesn’t speak in riddles. Phainon is the exact opposite of mysterious. In plain sight, bearing himself to the world. Here I am, he would say, In all my glory. See me, hear me.

You certainly do know a lot about someone that got into your life only fifteen minutes ago.

“Can we… at least talk then?”

You hesitate.

“This is fucking crazy,” you mutter under your breath, running a hand through your disheveled hair, “I–I don’tknow.”

“Give me your number,” he says confidently, “I’ll call you.”

He doesn’t even give you the chance to respond, hell, you’re not even sure you can. He just shoves the phone into your hand and waits for you to put in the digits.

You tell yourself it would be a hassle to try to run away, turn him down, and smoothly ignore him every time you bump into each other in school. How much of it is honest, isn’t clear to you. But that doesn’t matter. In the end, Phainon leaves with a curt nod, one last lingering look, and your contact info on his phone.

He won’t call, you’re certain of it. And you’ll be left with the ghost of this brief meeting and an unsubmitted assignment.

So you watch silently as his silhouette grows further away, slowly shrinking smaller with each step.

“Twenty-six minutes!”

You jolt at the sound of Cipher yelling from behind you. 

She has her phone raised and she’s waving it around like a white flag, her cat-eared beret is slipping off her head and she looks as if she just came first—or maybe last—place in a marathon.

She’s about to make a smart remark before she follows your line of sight, her steps slowly coming to a stop next to you. 

“So,” she says carefully, dragging out the word, “ex-boyfriend or long-time-nemesis?”

You exhale through your nose.

“Something along those lines.” 

Your first meeting with Phainon happens just before the day of New Year’s Eve.

The streets of Okhema City are busier than ever. There is the scent of sweet rush in the air and some sort of spice that your nine year old self can’t really put her finger on. If you had to guess, you would say something between cinnamon and ginger. 

Every stall you set your eyes upon has way too many customers to even let you see what is being sold. But you already have what your tiny legs dragged you here for: Golden Honeycake!

The sweet aroma floods your senses as you draw in a deep breath, your mouth already watering at the sight of the delicacy resting in your hands. You’ve seen it glowing on screens, heard it praised in passing conversations, and even dreamed of it. Dreams that leave you waking up with a faint sense of loss, aware of the missing sweetness on your tongue.

This is it. This precious moment can not be ruined. 

But fate has other plans for you.

A group of boys only older than you by one, maybe two years. Chests filled with laughter, heavy footsteps. Then, without warning, a big red football—and a very dirty one at that—coming your way at warp speed.

Your sweet, tasty, beautiful Golden Honeycake: on the ground, just inches away from your polka dotted rubber boots.

You don’t even get a chance to glance at the pack of boys, they’re gone in the blink of an eye. And you’re left all alone with the heartbreak and grief of your Golden Honeycake.

Your mourning, however, doesn’t last that long.

“Those boys should watch where they’re going,” small fingers stretch towards you, covering the sight of tragedy beneath your feet, “or shooting, I guess?” 

You raise your eyes up to the boy in front of you—while he is clearly trying to figure out a better way to word out his disapproval for the ones who stole away your dreams.

His hair is bright, and so are his eyes, bright and brimming with life. There’s a certain shine to his smile, the kind that feels unguarded and overflowing with joy. It almost makes you want to smile yourself. Like his warmth spills past the edges, and he has more than enough to share it with the world. 

But when you get a better look at him, in contrast to all of this, you think he looks like—

“...Like snow.”

His outstretched fingers twitch in an awkward little motion, flinching as if you’d pinched him. “I—uh… I was actually asking if you’d like to share my Honeycake?” He steals a glance at the mushed dessert below. “Since yours seems kind of… un-edible.”  

You snort, taking his hand and letting him pull you from your crouched position, your free hand rising to hide your giggles. “You’re supposed to say inedible.”

“Does that mean you agree?” He asks with gleam in his eyes. Why is he that happy to be sharing his Honeycake anyway? You think you would kill a man if it meant you’d get to enjoy the dessert all by yourself.

“You would share it with me?” 

“Of course!” He’s laughing now, it’s a bubbly sound that comes from his chest and fills his cheeks. 

He doesn’t waste much time after that, eager to enjoy the sweet, dips his fingers straight into the Honeycake, unbothered by the mess. So you take it upon yourself to join him, lifting up a piece for yourself. 

“What’s your name?” you decide to ask him, since he was kind enough to share his dessert with you. 

The boy turns to you in a swift motion, you guess that’s just how he is—fidgety and restless. “I’m Phainon! From Aedes Elysiae” he beams a big smile at you, honey dribbling down the corners of his mouth. 

A short laugh escapes you before you can hold it, “Phainon? That’s a strange name.” You also haven’t heard of this Aedes Elysiae he mentioned. “Can I give you a nickname?” you continue without waiting for his response, “Hm… How about—” then you take a sharp breath, as if you’ve made a big discovery,

“Snowy!”

“Snowy?!” he blinks at you, genuinely baffled, “That’s my dog's name.”

“You have a dog?” you let out a shriek. 

“Yeah!” he grins again, his minor outrage already forgotten, “He is suuuper big.” He raises his honey-sticky hands in front of him, spreading them as wide as he can, “And fluffy too! I can take you to see him, if you’d like.”

You gasp at the thought. He’s so—vivid, your answer slips out before you can overthink it. 

“Sure,” you laugh. “I want to meet him.”

Phainon, indeed, does not call.

Instead, he finds you crumbled up in a corner of the school library with a tea that’s gone bitter from sitting too long.

You are trying to piece back your formerly researched information to gather back your assignment when he decides to invite himself to your table. “Working on something?” He greets you cheerfully, trying to maintain his voice quiet.

After your interaction the other day, you kept seeing Phainon around the school. You wonder if it’s because you’re unconsciously paying more attention to your surroundings, now that you know he’s back. Whatever the reason, he’s here now. In your orbit, just a walk on the campus away from you. 

The sight still makes you waver momentarily. 

He sits across from you with ease like the seat was reserved for him and runs his fingers through his light hair. 

The way he just sparks up conversation like he didn’t bump into you a couple days ago, after almost a decade, is quite haunting to you to be fair. The last few days you’ve been spending your nights thinking, pondering, turning right and left in your bed—after all that’s happened. 

Still, you try to keep composure, “Remember those papers that were quite literally dripping from my fingers?” you glance up at him, “Yeah, I’m trying to piece them back.”

You don’t mean to sound so hostile—or maybe you do, just a little. You can’t help it, okay? Not when his voice makes your ears ring, and staring into his eyes for too long makes yours burn with nostalgia. Not when you spent years, paranoid over him being alive or not. 

He does wince a little and sends an apologetic glance your way. That same, guiltful look settling into his features again. He seems to be doing that a lot, being sorry, and you’ve only interacted like—two times. 

“Sorry about that, again. I mean it.” and you know he does, but it doesn’t change anything now. 

“It’s… fine.” 

Is it really?

You feel a little guilty yourself for blaming him so much, because in all honesty, you weren’t really looking where you were going that day either. So it’s not like he’s completely at fault.

You know that there is another reason for your attitude towards him. He knows it too. But you keep telling yourself it’s because of your ruined project. And he doesn’t feel ready to dig deeper, so he keeps apologizing, pretending it’s for them too.

“It’s not just on you. So just stop worrying about it.” you shake your head, “There isn’t anything you can do anyway.”

He sends a smile at your way, bright and hopeful, “I did say we can partner up—” 

“I’ll manage, Phainon.” 

He falters for a second, but it doesn’t take long before his smile makes its way back onto his face. A bit bashful but still sincere. You feel a bit surprised by how quickly he gathers himself back up. 

“I will keep asking, just so you know, the offer will be up.” 

You don’t say anything back to him, just look at his face for a few more seconds. You let your eyes wander down to his lips, where his smile rests. And the familiarity of it almost gives you a headache. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you mutter quietly as you turn your attention back to your laptop, you can feel his stare on you though.

But Phainon isn’t content with the conversation just ending here, “Do you think you can give me a tour of the school?” 

You snap your head up so quickly the back of your neck hurts from the motion. A tour?

“Me? A tour?” you raise your eyebrows at him, “To you?” 

“Yes,” he lets out a laugh, short and sweet, “Is that so unbelievable?”

“I mean… I’m sure there are far more fitting people for this than me.” you say slowly, like you’re still digesting his words, “And also, haven’t you been here for—what was it?—a week now?”

“A week is a short amount of time for a school as big as The University of Okhema.” he states out like it’s a fact. He isn’t completely wrong, you’re aware, but it’s still weird that he would ask you of all people.

“And what do you mean ‘far more fitting people’? I’m sure you knew the school like the back of your hand even before you got in.” 

Another thing that isn’t wrong, and it bugs you. It bugs you that he’s so right all the damn time. And it bugs you that he speaks like he knows he is right, that he speaks like he knows you. It quite literally irritates you that Phainon knows you.  

You two lock eyes for a second—like you both want to speak on it, speak on the fact that you’re so familiar with each other but are pulling yourselves back.

“I—Of course I know the school… I’m just not sure if a tour is what I’m capable of.” you send a look at him, hoping that it looks at least a little sorry. (It isn’t.) “I can introduce you to people though? I have friends who would be excellent at that kind of thing—like Hyacine or Castorice—”

“I’d much prefer if it's you.”  

That makes something in your chest twitch, but you let out a sigh instead, “Like I said, I don’t think—”

“It’ll take like twenty minutes.”

Will he stop cutting you off?

“I thought you said the school was big.”

“I only need half a tour.” Okay, he’s grasping at straws now.

“Just explore yourself then!”

“I’m bad at that.” he shoots a grin at you, clearly enjoying the push and pull.

“I don’t have time for that Phainon. I have an assignment to—”

“Please!”

And there goes the final shred of your patience.

“Okay! Fine! God.”

He beams a victorious smile, like he just won the lottery. Which, you think, might not be that far off for him. 

Since when was he so pushy? But then again, this isn’t the Phainon who was young and scrawny. The Phainon who spilled out his juice while running to greet you or the Phainon who tripped over his own feet because he was too excited to see where he was going.

This Phainon is twenty-one years old, a lot older than your last time spent together. This Phainon is all smart comeback and getting his way with people. There are a lot of things that stayed the same, sure. But it is impossible to also not spot the differences. 

Like how his voice has changed. You remember it being high pitched and raw. Words spilling out like they come too quickly to his mouth. 

Now they drip with honey. He carries a sweet and gentle tone, bordering on what can be considered low. And every time he speaks, you catch yourself wanting to smile. A big and unguarded one. But that feeling leaves as quickly as it comes.

His laugh is just as you remember it though, radiant and genuine. Bright and hopeful at most times. He still fidgets more often than not and laughs like he can’t keep it in. His eyes are not so different either. Still a color as cold as winter sky, yet warming the soul like a welcoming hearth.

“I’d still like to meet your friends, though.” he tilts his head slightly, trying to catch your eyes.

That’s another thing that has changed in Phainon. He’s greedier than you remember—first asking for chances and to partner up with you, then for your time, a tour, and now to meet your friends, slowly working his way into your life.

“Yeah,” you avoid his gaze, “Maybe another time.”

He doesn’t like the deflection, but doesn’t stall on it either. Just gives a firm nod of his head and looks at you expectantly. 

With a heavy sigh, “Twenty minutes,” you wave your finger at him, “Not a second more.”

Phainon raises both hands in surrender, smile already creeping back. “I’ll treasure every one of them.”

Your eyes linger a second more on his face, regret already beginning to settle in. Then you quickly shut your laptop and shuffle it back to your bag. You raise to your feet and gesture for him to come along. Phainon happily follows behind you.

“Where have you not been to yet?” you ask, looking over your shoulder to him. 

“Uhh…The gym, I think. I’m familiar with the main halls, but I haven’t really been to most of the classrooms or offices either.” he stares at the ceiling like the answer is written up there.

“You want a tour of the gym?” you make a face at him.

“Not just the gym. Like I said, I don’t know my way around at all!” his voice raises a pitch higher, then he mumbles to himself, “This place is like a maze.” 

You let your steps come to a halt as you step outside the library doors. Phainon stops next to you. You pull up the collar of your coat higher to protect your face from the winter breeze. 

“It is like a maze,” you let out a breath, “And cold as hell, too.”

He glances sideways at you, but stays quiet—almost afraid there is more to come to that.

“The fucking snow is like—making it ten times more freezing.” you say, watching your breath form a cloud.

“You don’t like snow—” he pauses, then dips his head to reach your eyes, “—anymore?”

He sounds almost scared to add the last part to his sentence, as if acknowledging the obvious might shatter something he has been carefully trying to rebuild. As if speaking of the past is like speaking of the ill. Like it will bring bad luck should one of you mention it.

You don’t let your eyes meet his, instead focusing on the drifting flakes in the air. Not giving him what he wants: comfort.

“I don’t think so,” you murmur, “At least, not anymore.” 

He doesn’t say anything back, but looks like he wants to. You expect a quiet ‘You’ve changed’ or ‘Since when?’

But none of those come out, you only catch the way his eyebrows raise slightly from the corner of your eye.

You continue walking, trying to keep your mind from stalling on the former interaction. He, again, follows behind contently.

Ideally, this wasn’t how you wanted to spend your free period. You were happy with rotting away in the library and being depressed about your papers.

However, Phainon is an unyielding force. 

So, even though this isn’t exactly how he imagined his reunion being with you—getting shut down every two seconds and almost every word you say being a punch to the gut—he still insists on tailing you.

And you don’t completely hate it. You have accepted it, there is no denying it. Phainon—no matter how many years, no matter how many unanswered calls or unsent letters—will always be so dear to you. So you quietly let him; tail, follow, chase—whatever you want to name it.

“Come on,” you say, trying to lighten up the mood, “There is still half a tour I’m supposed to give you.”

He smiles at that, it feels a bit broken around the edges, but not dishonest. “Where is our first stop?”

“Let’s start with this gym you so desperately want to see.”

“Wha—” he stops in his steps, then runs to catch up to you, “I told you! It’s not just the gym!”

You shake your head fondly, a loud laugh escaping your lungs despite yourself, despite everything.

“Snowy, look! A caterpillar!” 

You crouch slightly, pointing with your finger at the tiny green thing inching its way across the garden.

“Everytime you say that, he will think you’re talking to him, you know.” Phainon mutters quietly from behind you, pointing at Snowy—the dog—with a tilt of his chin.

You glance at the snow-white fluffball at your side. He is already staring up at you with wide, hopeful eyes, tail wagging so hard his whole body sways with it.

Slowly, you turn your head back toward Phainon.

He’s looking at you too.

You let out a snicker and shrug innocently, “Maybe I wanted to call out to both of you.” 

Phainon snorts. “That makes no sense.”

“It does too.”

“It doesn’t,” he insists, stepping up beside you. “How are we supposed to know which one of us you mean if you only say one name?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Well… whoever comes first.”

Snowy barks, delighted, and presses against your leg. Phainon scowls. “That’s not fair.”

You grin up at him. “Sounds like a you problem, Snowy.”

The dog wags harder.

Phainon sputters, “Stop calling me that when he’s right there!”

You just laugh and let yourself roll onto your back, Snowy—the thirteen year old boy—plopping himself down next to you. A brr sound leaving his lips as soon as his skin makes contact with the marble floor.

“It’s getting colder.” he makes a pouty face at the thought of winter. 

“Don’t look so sad, Snowy,” another wag from the dog, you pet his hair from where you’re resting, “The winter isn’t all that bad. You won’t feel the cold if you wear thick enough. And there will be snow everywhere—we will be making snowmen real soon!” 

The boy seems to brighten up at the image, “You’re right.” he lets out a giggle, “In Aedes Elysiae, there is almost never winter. It’s so warm and sunny all the time. We fish when the weather is nice and—fish again when the weather is bad too…” he seems a little puzzled by his own thought but that only earns him another laugh from you. 

In the years you have spent together, you have learnt many things about Phainon. 

First, is that he loves talking about his homeland. He will bring up memories from his time there but he says he doesn’t have that many since his family moved to Okhema City when he was only nine, which also happens to be the time you two first met. He will tell you a lot of stories that he heard from his parents though. 

He will talk about how bright it is in Aedes Elysiae, how much he loved running across the golden wheat fields when he was little, or how everyone knew each other over there since it is only a small town. Saying it felt like everyone is family, and never ever lonely. 

You asked him once, “If you miss your homeland so much, why don’t you go back Snowy?”

He gave you a puzzled look at that, like the answer is clear as day, and you’re being slow on purpose, “Because of you, of course.” 

But when you tilt your small head at him he takes it upon himself to continue, “I mean, my parents also have their jobs here I guess. But I wouldn’t want to leave anyways, I wouldn’t want to miss you.” 

You think about that from time to time and smile to yourself.

Second, is that he has a total sweet tooth. You had your suspicions when you met upon him carrying a whole portion of Golden Honeycake all by himself. But as time passed by, it became clear, he loves sweets. 

He will occasionally ask his mom to make pies, cakes, or anything sweet—only for you two to sneak into the kitchen in the middle of the night and steal a piece for yourselves because you’re impatient like that. 

“Your mom will kill us if she catches us sneaking into the kitchen!” you whisper-yelled as tiny steps made their way across cold marble. Tip-toeing to the best of his abilities, Phainon answered back with a chuckle, “But she won’t! We’ll just get a tiny slice and shoo.”

“This cake is supposed to be for my birthday, Snowy!”

“And that is exactly why we’re doing this.” he shows you a big, pearly grin. And it is so heart-warming that you can’t bring yourself to argue beyond that.

Which brings us to your third thing you noticed about Phainon. He. Hates. Winter. 

It’s quite funny when you think about it, the nickname and all that, but that is the truth of it. Phainon is just not a fan of winters, or cold. You link that to his hometown being way too hot for Okhema’s ever-changing weather. The only time he’ll tolerate cold, it seems, is on your birthdays. 

“Snowy!” you drag the word much longer than necessary, leaning over him and tugging at the sheets he’s clutching like they’re the last line of defense between him and certain death. “Wake up! You promised we would play with the snow outside.”

Phainon groans, face half-buried in his pillow. One eye cracks open, unfocused. “But it’s so cold,” he mumbles between a yawn, voice thick with sleep. He somehow manages to cling to the blankets even tighter. How is that even possible? 

You plant your hands on his shoulder and shake him, “But it’s my birthday today. Please!”

His other eye snaps open. “Oh. Right.”

There’s a beat of silence—and then he abruptly sits up, blankets falling away as if the cold has personally challenged him. Swinging his legs off the bed in an urgent matter. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to pretend you aren’t his weak spot.

The second his bare feet hit the tiles, he jolts. “Okay, never mind. I’m going back to bed.”

You whine at him, “Snowy!”

“I’m kidding!” he laughs, it’s a smooth sound, reminding the world of his early age, “Come on, race you to the front door!” 

So, to put it simply, there is a lot to uncover about Phainon. 

He is all bright edges and easy laughter, playful, radiant, boyish in the way that makes the world seem lighter just by standing in it. He bubbles over with energy, dramatic when it suits him, grinning even when he tries not to. Being around him feels like standing too close to sunlight; warm, a little blinding, impossible to ignore.

Little by little, you’ve made your way into his life the same way he’s made his way into yours. And knowing Phainon the way you do now, you’re certain of one thing:

You don’t ever want him out of it. 

You clutch tightly to your scarf while trying to keep your steps steady, the snow crunches loudly under your boots. Your mind is busy with the recent events that took place: all the long nights to make your assignment perfect, then the appearance of Phainon, and his very persistent way of being around you. 

Wherever you go, Phainon, somehow, someway, seems to be there. 

After the stupid tour he makes you give, he just doesn’t stop appearing out of nowhere. 

Eating at the cafeteria? Phainon is ordering some silly dessert he hasn’t tried yet. Trying to find a spot at one of the lectures? Phainon also seems to be taking that course now. Running errands for Professor Anaxa? Surprise, Phainon is suddenly very interested in charity work. 

Or maybe he’s just incredibly lucky with being at the right place at the right time. Although you give very little chance of that being the case. 

And you hate to admit it, but his constant presence is working like he wants it to. He has said it when you first met, a week ago now, and he doesn’t seem to be changing his mind. He wants to be here, he wants to start over, a chance.

And you’re scared to death of the idea.

He catched you at the cafeteria once, enjoying a drink that they recently added to their menu.

“Is that new?” he almost makes you jump out of your seat, “I haven’t seen it before.”

You nearly spill the drink.

Your hand tightens instinctively around the cup, and you look up at him with a frown that arrives a second too late to hide the surprise on your face.

“You really need to stop doing that.” you look up at him.

Phainon shoots a smile at you and takes the seat in front of you, like he knows you’d allow him to anyway. Which is also another thing he needs to stop doing. Not like you would reject him or anything, but still.

“So… Is it new?” he asks again, pointing at your cup with his chin.

“Yeah,” you sigh, “They added it this week. Cinnamon something, I didn’t read the full name—Cipher mentioned it to me.”

He nods, serious as if it is critical information you’re spilling, “And your personal review?” 

A small smile forms on your lips. You can’t fight it, you don’t feel like it either.

“It’s good,” you bit down at your lower lip, thinking carefully before continuing, “It’s sweet, you would like it.”

Something momentary flashes across his face that lets you know that touched something deep in his chest. It feels… surprised? But also relieved. As if he’s happy you’re not completely ignoring him. His eyes soften only the slightest bit and the relaxing of his shoulders give away that they were tense a second ago. 

The sight makes you want to smile bigger. 

But you're not sure how long you can keep this up for. Pretending like he is some new guy you met on a misfortunate day. Ignoring the familiar feeling every time you catch his eyes, or the knot that forms on your throat when you laugh at one of his jokes.

It’s fun, it really is. Having Phainon around again, talking to him about silly things that don’t hold much weight. But you also know that at one point, there has to be an end to this.

Your thoughts come to a halt when you spot two familiar figures walking towards you. One of them waving his hand above his head, the motion is so exaggerated that you worry his arm might fall off. 

Then you hear the yelling of your name, a voice unmistakably belonging to a certain white haired man you know.

With a few quick strides, he stops in front of you. With Mydei following right behind him.

“You two know each other?” he raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. While you are confused about them being together yourself.

“Oh—yes! We actually—“ 

“We just met,” you cut him off quickly, “He bumped into me the other day.”

The face Phainon makes is like a punch to your stomach. 

You didn’t want Mydei to know. In all honesty, it wouldn’t be that bad. Mydei is a great friend and he would be understanding. But not when even the two of you don’t know what the hell is going on and you have no idea where you stand with Phainon.

Because of that, you lie your way through this conversation.

“My project for Professor Anaxa’s class was sacrificed during the clash,” you try to joke, “It wasn’t his fault though, so we’re good.”

Phainon takes a look at you, his expression unreadable. You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be relieved or scared from his lack of reaction. 

Then, with a smile that screams trouble, he goes,

“Yeah, funny isn’t it?” he turns towards Mydei, “But I offered to partner up for it in return, so we’re working on it together now.”

What?

“Wait, that’s not—“

“Oh? Is that so?” Mydei hums as his eyes find yours, “That’s good then. This guy over here can seem like a pain, but he’s surprisingly pretty good at what he does.”

Yeah, Mydei. I might have an idea. 

Is what you want to say, but instead you humor your own curiosity,

“How did you two even meet?”

“He started showing up at the gym recently,” Mydei points at the sports bags hanging on their shoulders, “He’s pretty impressive. We’ve been doing our workouts together.”

Phainon and sports?

You do remember his enthusiasm over the gym but you only thought he used it as an excuse to get you to give him the tour.

“I see,” you look over to Phainon, who’s now grinning widely. 

Mydei takes a careful look at both of you, then slowly asks, “How is the assignment coming along then?” 

“It’s going pretty well’” Phainon answers without missing a beat, meeting your eyes, “We only have a month left, so we’re working hard on it.”

A month left. Which isn’t that much time. And you only have back a quarter of what you’ve lost. In theory, you could gather back everything and submit it on time. But that would require three hours of sleep a day and running your body on coffee, for a month.

“Right, partner?” he asks with mischief written across his face.

“Yeah,” you mutter quietly, staring back at him, “It’s going swell.”

And that’s when you make up your mind. This needs to stop.

On the day of your fifteenth birthday,  you get shot in the face with a snow-ball.

Phainon rushes over to your side in quick strides, “Oh my god—Are you okay? I am so sorry.” his voice dripping with worry, he crouches down to where you rest still as a statue. 

You stayed perfectly still.

“…Why aren’t you moving?” he whispered.

Slowly, very slowly, you turn your head toward him, snow crunching in your hair. “I’ve died,” you announce in a broken voice. “Tell my mother I was brave.”

Phainon stares for half a second before snorting. “Idiot. You’re not dead.”

“I saw my life flash before my eyes!” you sit up in a swift motion which makes Phainon drop down himself.

“That was probably just the snow covering your eyes.” 

You don’t pay any mind to him, “I’ve been murdered on my fifteenth birthday. By Snowy the Second. By my best friend. Betrayal hurts more than frostbite.” you raise a hand to your heart and shake your head with dramatic flair.

Phainon laughs at your theatrics, “Will you stop with the nickname already?” 

You call him by his name most of the time now, but every now and then, you’ll throw in the stupid name to tease him sweetly.

He then reaches out and brushes a clump of snow from your cheek. His fingers linger for a second longer than necessary. “Your face has gotten all red.” He mutters quietly.

“Well yeah. It’s freezing!” you giggle.

A soft hum is all he lets out before taking your hand in his, raising to his feet and pulling you up with him.

“Come on, it’s time to go inside.” he says, still holding your hand tightly, “Or you’ll catch a cold.”

You follow him without saying anything, but the subtle downturn of your lips is evident.

“Don’t sulk.” he says without even looking at you.

“Wha— How did you even…?”

He turns his head back at you.

There it is. 

That bright, sun-like smile, playing on his lips. So beautiful, so full of life—you feel your lips curling up as if on instinct. No evidence of a scowl or the crease between your brows left behind.

It is moments like these that make you realize, time and time again, you love Phainon.

You love your stupidly charming yet just as clumsy, protective when necessary, and silly at all times, snow haired best friend. 

You love it when he smiles and when he pouts cutely, you love it when he’s with you, when he says he misses you, when he talks about his hometown and when he lets you speak for hours—not minding in the slightest even if it doesn't make any sense. You love spending your time with Phainon, spending your years, your life.

You love Phainon, with all your being. And you love that he loves you too.

So when his next words are spoken, it doesn’t come off as a surprise to you.

“Because I love you, and therefore, I know you.” 

It isn’t weird to hear him say it. It hasn’t been for a while. Ever since your early ages, saying you love Phainon—both to yourself and out loud—came as easily as breathing to you. Because what else can it be? That’s all there is. Love. 

When it comes to Phainon, love is an answer that is so honest, you wonder if everything else you’ve known in your life was a lie.

And when he says it just as easily, just as simply. You can’t help but feel your chest hurt. Your little fifteen year old heart, aching for this sweet boy.

“You’re right.” you laugh loudly, just as honest as his words, “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

This love you speak of, you aren’t so sure what it means. You know for a fact Phainon also doesn’t have that many thoughts about it either. But you don’t mind. You don’t think there has to be a name to it, or a label. He is your best friend. You love Phainon, and he loves you. As long as that doesn’t change, you’re happy.

He gives a gentle squeeze to your hand, and closes the doors to your backyard behind you as you step inside.

You two quickly take off your coats, scarfs, anything that is drowning you under the warmth of the house now. 

“It snowed a lot, huh.” Phainon stares outside from the glazed door, “Winter is hard, man. At least school is cancelled.”

“You say it like that’s the only good thing about it.” you huff as you pull on one of your gloves with your teeth.

“Is it not?” he bends down to gather the dismissed clothes and hangs them on the heater to dry them off, now the ghost of a smirk on his lips, “I can’t think of anything else important.” 

You furrow your brows at him, “You play too much.”

He laughs at your reaction, you pout even more to that.

“I’m only joking,” he looks into your eyes, his gaze warm enough to melt the building snow outside, “Happy birthday.”

“Took you long enough.” you say, smiling back.

He lets out a chuckle and starts walking upstairs to his room, you follow behind without being instructed to.

“So,” with a deep breath, “Do you have a wish, birthday girl?”

A giggle escapes you, “Yeah, actually.”

He raises an eyebrow as he pushes open the door to his room, settling onto his bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he pats the empty space beside him, an unspoken invitation, though you’re already moving to join him. 

He watches you climb up the bed with practiced ease, “That so?”

When you’ve taken a comfortable enough position, you answer back, “Yup,” you turn your head towards him, “And I’ve thought about it a lot too.”

“Well,” he says, “I’m listening.”

You take a good look at him then. A real one. And you notice the way he watches you, intensely, as though every word you speak is something akin to gold, precious, something worth holding onto. In that moment, every worry, every doubt, disappears in an instant.

“I want to go to The University of Okhema,” 

He raises his brows slightly, “I know,” a sweet smile forms on his lips, “You’ve said so, many times before—”

“With you.”

His smile drops slowly and his lips part the slightest amount. For a moment, he looks completely out of words and you feel your heart sink to your stomach. 

You ruined it, didn’t you? 

Your thoughts spiral instantly. Had he imagined something else? Were his plans different from yours? Does he not want to?

“I’m sorry—” you cut yourself of, “Just… Forget I said anything—”

“Yes.” Phainon reaches for you, his fingers closing gently around your hand, steadying it as it moves around helplessly in your attempts to explain yourself, “I’ll go with you.”

You hold your breath, looking into his eyes to catch any signs of something hidden, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. 

And you let go, feeling relief wash over you. Then with your other hand, you clasp over his too.

“Promise?”

His gaze becomes soft, but not any less sincere.

“Promise.”

“And you just agreed?” 

Cipher’s voice cuts across the cafeteria table, loud enough to turn a few heads. You stop absently tracing the rim of your—now gone cold—coffee, and glance up at her. Making a face that’s equal parts unimpressed and worried. 

“I didn’t agree to anything. We just… Well—He basically lied to Mydei, I couldn’t just call him out on it.”

A sigh leaves her lips as she presses her two fingers to the bridge of her nose, “Sweetie, you’re saying: this guy, who’s basically your ex-childhood-bestfriend, just disappears–”

“He didn’t just disappear,” you cut in. “It’s complicated.”

“—Continuing,” she shoots a look at you, “He vanishes for six years, waltzes back into your life, offers up to be your partner for the assignment he absolutely didn’t send skidding across drenched asphalt—”

“Technically, I also ran into him.”

“Details.” she waves that off immediately. “—and you’re thinking of saying yes?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

“And not even a proper apology,” Castorice adds, who is sitting next to you. Almost to herself, like she’s personally offended on your behalf.

“It does sound worse when you word it out loud,” you wince, “But back to our point, I still need that assignment and I could use the extra help, you know.” 

You try to make sense of the situation, and Cipher is already shaking her head,  “No,” she says firmly. “The point isn’t the assignment.”

You blink. “What?”

“The point,” Cipher leans forward, “is you and Phainon. Not the stupid project. Not the grade. You two.” 

Castorice nods her head aggressively, making it clear she stands with the cat-like girl in front of you.

Your fingers curl tighter around the coffee cup.

“He doesn’t just get to stroll back in after six years and act like nothing happened,” Castorice says quietly, almost comforting. “You don’t get to pretend nothing happened either.”

“I’m not pretending,” you mutter.

“You are,” Cipher counters instantly. “You’re deflecting. Hiding behind logistics. ‘Oh, I need the assignment.’ ‘Oh, I could use the help.’” she air-quotes with dramatic flair. “That’s not the issue. The issue,” she presses, softer now but no less intense, “is that he left. And now he’s back, and instead of asking him why, you want to partner up like it’s some nostalgic reunion episode.”

Your throat tightens.

“It’s not that simple,” you say quietly.

“Yeah, it probably isn’t. But it is the right thing to do.” Castorice takes a deep breath at your deflated state, then with a gentler voice, she adds, “It is clear you care for this Phainon guy, so just talk to him. Not for the papers or anything but about what the hell is going on.”

Silence settles at the table.

Then with a quiet but almost jokingly tone, Cipher mutters,

“You don’t just erase six years of silence with a shared Google Doc.” 

Your lips twitch despite yourself.

“I’m serious,” she insists, still, a snort leaves her lips too. “Before you sit next to him for hours working on that assignment, before you fall back into whatever rhythm you two used to have, you need to talk things out. Properly.” 

Taking a deep breath, you agree, “You’re right. He did keep saying stuff like explaining and talking things out when we first met. But… What do I do? Just go up to him and demand a sit-down?”

As if on cue, your phone lets out a sharp *ding* from where it rests on the table. 

You trade glances with each other before the girl next to you tips her chin toward the screen as if to say ‘There’s your head start’, and so you take the phone in your hands.

Unknown Number: I figured you wouldn’t pick up if I called, since my number isn’t saved on your phone. So I decided to just text you instead 🙂 Me: i’m guessing this is Phainon? Phainon: Yess. Wanna talk about that assignment, partner? ;) Me: are you still on campus? meet me in front of the cafeteria in 10? Phainon: Got it.

“He’ll be here in ten.” you raise your head from your phone and lock eyes with Cipher. She opens her mouth before closing it again, then shakes her head quickly and says, “Like… now?”

“Yes. Told him to meet outside the cafeteria.”

“Alright then. That was quick.” 

The pair leave not long after. Cipher studies you for a second too long, eyes scanning your face like she’s checking for cracks. 

Her hand squeezes your shoulder, firm and grounding. “Call us. Or text. Or send a carrier pigeon, I don’t care. If you need anything.” Castorice agrees with a firm nod.

You huff a quiet laugh. “I won’t.”

There’s one last look, before they finally turn and disappear into the stream of students, leaving you alone with your phone, your cold coffee, and the conversation you’ve been avoiding for a while now.

You’re not sure how much time passes after that, it can’t be more than five minutes though. With a heavy breath, you find the courage to get up and slide open the door. Just as you throw yourself out, you see the white haired man approaching from a distance. A cool breeze brushes against your cheeks, wrapping around you like a quiet embrace, as though trying to steady your nerves.

When he’s close enough for it to not be awkward, he gives a slight wave of his hand, “Hi.”

This feels oddly familiar. 

“Hey.” you greet him quietly.

Phainon stops right in front of you. His face is a soft pink shade from the cold and a smug smile is playing on his lips. Clearly very happy with himself for getting you to finally agree to working together.

Well, here goes nothing.

“So about—”

“Why didn’t you reach out, Phainon?” you don’t want to waste any more time, so you get straight to it.

“Oh…” he says, like he completely forgot about the fact that you two didn’t in fact meet just a month ago.

“Didn’t you want to talk?” you ask, voice coming out harsher than you intended.

“Oh,” he says again, a deeper tone this time, then his smile turns into something sour, “So we’re talking about that instead.”

Then with a sigh, “I know things weren’t easy, I… I saw it. But—” you cut yourself off to take a steady breath, and continue avoiding Phainon’s stare, “But after everything seemed to be better, I thought you would at least send a message, or—or a call.” you can feel your eyes burning with every syllable that leaves your mouth. 

But you won’t cry, you can’t. You want an explanation, a solid one. And you won’t get it out of him with tears.

“We—“ he starts, “We saved many people that year.” his voice unmistakably shaky, a broken tone, “But, we lost many too. It wasn’t easy at all, and I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you either.” 

It is also not easy for him to speak about this so openly, so suddenly—you’re aware of that. A year of dead people and trauma doesn’t erase itself that easily. Not without any traces left behind at least.

Yet you still want to dig deeper, reach deeper. Hurt Phainon the way you felt hurting.

You try to shake that thought away. He already is hurt, you remind yourself.

In moments like these, which are now unfamiliar to you. You remember wanting to hold his hands. And after a certain amount of time, you did. It took courage and an internal slap to your face but you did. 

The first time Phainon cried in front of you. You held out your hand to him, just like he always did for you. Interlocking your tiny fingers with his and saying whatever cheesy line your ten year old self thought would be comforting. 

But now, with everything unspoken between you, rust and dust settling on your words, and the silent recognition you two carry in every glance—you’re not sure you’re allowed to do that.

“I tried to give myself excuses,” you say, your voice thinning despite your effort to steady it. “I told myself it must be hell for him, going through all of that. I told myself he just needed time.” you swallow, the words catching like thorns in your throat. “So I waited. And waited. And waited.” Your breath falters. “But you never—never came back.”

A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, warm and humiliating, carving a quiet path across your skin. 

Well shit, you did end up crying in the end. 

You hear Phainon's breath hitch at the sight, yet he doesn’t budge. He doesn’t offer pity, doesn’t soften. But his hand twitches like it wants to reach for you.

“It was scary.” he says, “Seeing so many people leaving, one by one. That was the first time I tasted loss,” he looks into your eyes, “And it is brutal. I wanted to come back, maybe reach out in some way. But it has been too long by then, and I got scared.” he huffs a short, dry laugh at himself, “I didn’t know how you would react, I didn’t know what had changed after such a long time. I didn’t know if I still had a place by your side.”

“You would.”

“I know,” he smiles, a broken one, yes, but it is there, “Now I do. But back then… I didn’t. And it was a mistake. I knew that too, yet it still kept me from coming back to you.” 

The corners of his eyes are a pinkish colour now. And he is sniffling every now and then. There’s something almost painfully young about him at this moment, like a child who’s just had his favorite candy snatched from his hands. If you weren’t in such a sorry state, the sight might’ve even pulled a fond laugh out of you. 

“I’m so tired of pretending, Phai.”

It slips out, just like it did the day he bumped into you. Snow witnessing your story. Then and now, the same silent snowfall, the same unguarded moment. 

You don’t even realize you’ve said it. The words leave you in a whisper, tender and delicate, barely more than breath. Hell, you’re not even sure he heard it. 

But the look on his face tells you everything.

Your voice, soft and fragile as silk. Paired with the nickname, undid something in Phainon.

In the blink of an eye, arms wrap around you. Trembling, yet firm. Phainon clings to you as though you are the very breath keeping him alive, his grip tight with a desperation he cannot hide.

“I’m so sorry.” his voice comes out raw and quiet, then there is another sniff on your shoulder. “You don’t have to… We don’t have to pretend.” 

You feel bad. You feel horrible, even. Horrible for making him apologize like this, looking as if he’d get on his knees and beg you if the situation called for it. Yet hearing him be so open with you, does make somethings easier.

Then you feel him lay his jaw at the side of your head, “There’s so much I don’t know about you anymore. So much I missed.” 

You can’t help but melt at his touch, your body that was still as stone a second ago now resting against Phainon, relaxing more and more with every up and down his fingers draw on your back.

“But I want to change this.” he says sternly, “It’s probably really selfish, and stupid too. But… I want to fix what I can. I want to make it up to you. However long it takes. However you'll let me.”

Pulling back slightly from your position, you raise your head up to meet Phainon's eyes. He looks down at you too. His eyes have gone red, and his cheeks are wet with tears. You know you’re not so different yourself.

You also know, you were being honest when you thought this needs to stop, and when you said you were tired. Dragging this out longer than necessary is only going to make things worse. So you shoot a smile at him, which makes his eyes widen slightly.

“I missed you, Phainon.” you raise a hand up to wipe a tear from his cheek, “Welcome back.”

On the night of your fifteenth birthday, you thought you had everything you could ever ask from life.

You had a dream, a great wish to work towards, some good Golden Honeycake and your best friend by your side.

What more could anyone ask, right?

You were sleeping soundly before you woke up to the sound of the front door being knocked, so hard in fact, you thought whoever's on the other side might as well break it down at this point.

You parents had left for some business stuff right after the celebrations, so you were spending the night alone. 

A storm was forecast this morning, and it seems the warning was correct. You can see the rain running down your windows and it’s impossible to miss the thunder as it’s loud enough to rip the sky.

Who in their right mind would be out in this weather?

Not knowing what to do and being scared to death for your own safety, you considered your options—don’t do anything about it, call the police, call Phainon.

Right. Phainon lives just down the street. If anything, he would come to help you, wouldn’t he?

You reach for your phone on the nightstand, trying to find Phainon from your contacts in your drowsy state. It’s late, 00:14 to be exact. You would feel sorry for waking him up and asking him to come to your door in the storm. But this is an emergency, you think, and you can always apologize to Phainon later, right?

You jump off of your bed with a swift motion, bare feet meeting cold hardwood. The knocking gets louder and louder and you feel your soul leave with each heavy thud against the door. Still, you start ringing Phainon, slowly making your way towards the door with each step.

The rhythmic beep from the phone and the banging outside, paired with the heavy rain doesn’t help your nerves. And you’re pretty sure your heartbeat is rising with each passing second. 

Just when you start to think Phainon is taking excruciatingly long to answer the phone, you’re met with three consecutive beeps.

He’s not answering.

You’re not sure if the next move here is to hide any pray to whatever authority above or get out and confront the person who will be the reason you get night terrors.

Right when you make up your mind about sticking with the first option, you hear someone shout from the other side of the door. Your name and—wait, Phainon?

You rush to the door knob and swing open the door as fast as you can.

“Phainon?”

On your front door, stands a young boy. His white hair, as well as his clothes, are dripping, completely soaked from the rain. His face is red and he is trembling a crazy amount. You can only hope that it is from the cold and nothing else. But then you meet his eyes, which are just as red, and the sight makes you weak on your knees. 

Phainon, your best friend, looks like his whole world just came crashing down.

“Hey, hey, hey—” you try to calm him down, “Come in, it’s okay.”

Grabbing him by the sleeve, you pull Phainon inside quickly. He is either having some sort of attack, hyperventilating or—or something. But it is clear as day, something is wrong.

“Breathe with me Phai,” you sit down on the floor after closing the door behind him, dragging him down with you, “It’s okay, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I–” he tries, “There is–” but can’t find the words.

“Shh,” you hold his hands, “Look at me.”

The boy snaps his head towards you but the look in his eyes is like a claw at your chest. He looks so lost. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Phainon this helpless.

Despite yourself, your priority is to help your best friend, so you try your best to be whatever he needs.

“Deep breaths,” you say, “I promise we’ll fix whatever's wrong.”

Your words seem to be working as you watch Phainon gather back his right mind. He takes one last deep breath and looks into your eyes directly.

“Aedes Elysiae,” he starts, “My hometown—”

You give a reassuring nod to let him know it’s okay, he continues,

“Aedes Elysiae is flooding.”

What?

“We just got a call,” he squeezes your hands firmly, “We—We have to leave. I don’t know what’s going to happen I’m so—” he shakes his head, and you’re happy he doesn’t finish that sentence.

How does one even respond to that? Do you comfort Phainon? Do you ask him to stay? Is he going to be okay?

“...You’re leaving?”

Phainon, in his state, tries to smile at you to the best of his abilities. You guess that’s what you would expect from someone like him, someone like Phainon. Even when he is faced with calamity, pushing through with a smile on his face. As always; bright, warm and sweet.

“I am,” another tear slips past his eyelashes, “But I will be back, I promise.”

You feel your throat tighten at the words. He’s leaving. He’s making a promise to you, not about studying or growing up together, not about making snowmen on your birthday—but for being back. Because he is leaving.

Your eyes burn. You want to hold him, dig your fingers into his arms and make sure he stays seated. Make sure he’s safe and sound. Letting him go, the thought is so foul, that it feels like a sin.

“But…” this time, you are the one who is crying, “But Phai, you—you can’t—”

Phainon, the sweet boy he is, feels his heart ache just at the sight of you tearing up in front of him. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” he raises a hand to your cheek.

Maybe under different circumstances the pet name would draw a smile to your lips, make you avert your eyes shyly or your cheeks burn with affection. But now, it only makes you cry harder.

It’s funny. A minute ago you were the one holding Phainon and trying to make sure everything’s okay, now he is the one comforting you and wiping away your tears.

“Will you—” a big sniff, “Will you be okay?”

“Of course. We just need to go and help those in need.” a crease forms between his brows, you want to raise your fingers up to him and smooth it over with your thumb, but you don’t think you’re in any state to move.

“How long will it take?” you ask him, “How long will you be away from me?”

From your blurry vision, you see his eyes soften and an ‘Oh’ sound leave his lips, as if you were to speak any more, he would break right then and there.

“I promise you,” he starts, now both of his hands cradling your face, “I will be back by your next birthday.”

“And what if… what if you can’t?”

“Don’t be silly,” he wipes another tear, “Of course I will be.”

“Okay,” you say, breathy, “Okay, I believe you.”

And of course you do. Because it’s Phainon after all. No matter how shaky, how helpless or hopeless, no matter how much he’s crying and trembling, it’s Phainon. So you believe him.

“There we go,” Phainon says with a broken smile, “We don’t want our goodbye to be one filled with ugly crying, right?” he says as he rolls up his sleeve over his hands and rubs his eyes. You do the same after a second passes.

As soon as he is done, his hands find their way back on your face. Looking at you like some sort of gem, something precious, it only makes you more aware of the situation. This is the last time that you get to have a good look at Phainon. At least for a good while.

Then, that night, at 00:36, under the pale moonlight peering in from the windows and the thunder accompanying your silence, Phainon kisses you.

It’s not sudden, not explosive. If anything, it’s slow and deliberate. Lingering. There isn’t much motion, but it feels endless. You don’t know how long it takes and you don’t care. Phainon kisses you, and it’s endless. Not unfamiliar, not unexpected. Just very you and him, the two of you.

It feels just like the two of you.

When you part, his lips are trembling, and he looks like he’s about to cry again. You bring a finger up to him, glazing them over his lips. 

Then with your other hand, you hold his chin, “It’s okay, Phai,” you take a shaky breath, “I will wait for you.”

“I know,” he says, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingertips, “I will be back for you.”

It has been exactly one month since your devastatingly dramatic and way too ‘nostalgic-reunion of childhood lovers’ talk with Phainon.

Despite your aggressive approach to the idea when he first suggested it, Phainon—alongside with many other things he is—is very good at persuasion. It doesn’t take much effort with his bright blue eyes and your shared history anyway. So it’s not long before you agree to work with him.

Together, the two of you went to speak with Professor Anaxa and officially paired up for the project. On paper, the meeting itself went smoothly. Of course, that’s only half-true if we ignore the boring-into-your-skull type of looks from Anaxagoras. 

Still, the partnership was settled.

And so, you and Phainon began working on the assignment together.

It was, unsurprisingly, a bumpy road. You hadn’t expected things to be easy, not with history lingering quietly between every exchanged glance and unfinished sentence. Still, knowing it would be difficult didn’t make it any less exhausting to live through.

The work itself wasn’t the problem. Research could be done and disagreements could easily be solved. You already knew Phainon was painstakingly easy to get along with. He always had been. 

He’s the kind of person that smiles at strangers, strikes up easy conversation with the barista who works at the local cafe and helps elderly people walk across the road.

He moves like an irresistible force, warm and effortless, as though connection came as naturally to him as breathing. 

Everyone loved Phainon.

The real obstacle was the space between you, filled with half-remembered familiarity and careful distance, like walking alongside someone whose rhythm you once knew by heart but now struggled to match.

Sometimes the silence stretched too long. Sometimes conversations stumbled and fell apart before they could become natural. And sometimes, the awkwardness settled so heavily that even focusing on the assignment felt like an act of deliberate concentration.

Yet, despite everything, the project moved forward. 

And so did the two of you.

It was late at night in the campus library. The deadline for the submission was almost here, the assignment was nearly done, and let’s give credit where it’s due—you don’t think it would be without Phainon’s help.

Most students had already packed up and left, retreating from whatever soul-crushing school work had driven them there in the first place. 

The only sounds breaking the silence were the wind whistling sharply against the tall windows and the faint, persistent buzz of the fluorescent lights hanging overhead. Every so often, the lights flickered just enough to remind you how late it had become.

You and Phainon sat across from each other at one of the tables. Your laptop cast a glow across the desk, illuminating scattered notes and your tired eyes, with multiple Google Docs and far too many Wikipedia tabs left open. 

Phainon himself was writing down some last minute information he gathered from a decade old blog entry. Or that’s what you thought he was up to, until you lowered your screen and were met with a very asleep Phainon in front of you. 

He had his arms crossed over his notebook, and his head was resting on the sweater he folded into a make-shift pillow. He didn’t even look like he fell asleep by accident. Instead, it seems he just went to sleep. 

With a quiet sigh slipping past your lips, you stood and moved to his side, your own sweater draped over your arms. It was the middle of winter, and Phainon had never been particularly fond of the cold. 

Besides, the last thing you needed was for him to get sick when everything’s been going smoothly with the project, there wasn’t much time left after all.

Carefully, you lowered the sweater onto his back, trying not to wake him.

He stirred slightly at the movement, a faint, sleepy sound escaping him. Up close like this, with his usual energy quieted and his defenses absent, he looked… at peace.

And, you have to admit, a little cute.

But your thoughts were quickly interrupted with the quiet sound of a flick. Then the fluorescent lights started humming louder than usual, blinking every few seconds as if struggling to stay awake. They dimmed without warning, their steady glow weakening into a tired flicker before stabilizing again. Somewhere deep in the building, the electrical system groaned under the strain.

And in the matter of a second, your sight was—gone?

You quickly made your way back to your laptop in search of some source of light. Opening the screen back on in a swift motion as your eyes adjusted to the now dim environment. 

You are well aware there isn’t anyone else near enough to call out or talk to, and finding the security meant walking through the huge and dark library all by yourself—which, to be honest, isn’t all that appealing.

“Phainon?” you called out to him in hopes of waking him up without much ceremony. Phainon however, stubborn as he is, refused to stir.

Without giving it much thought, you run back to his side, placing your hands on his shoulders and shaking slightly, “Phainon, wake up. The lights went out and there isn’t anyone else in here.”

He shifted slightly and buried his head deeper into the sweater.

Okay, let’s try a different approach. 

“Please, Phai?”

The plea sounds awkward coming out of your mouth, and you want to pull your tongue out as soon as the nickname leaves your lips. You two have been trying to change things, make it easier—maybe not the same, but similar. But it doesn’t make it any less weird. 

Despite everything, that does it for him.

Phainon lifts his head up as quickly as he can in his drowsy state. There are lines forming on his cheeks and a checkered texture imprinted to his forehead from the sweater, you can’t help yourself but laugh a little. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice rough with sleep. 

“Yes, I wanted to go find the security or someone but it’s oddly quiet.” you look around in hopes of seeing any sign of life other than the two of you. 

He spares a glance to his phone’s lockscreen, 21:09. “It’s probably just an electricity shortage. I doubt it’ll take long before the lights come back.” 

Phainon sets his phone down on the table. Instead, opening his own laptop so there would be more light for the two of you. Without the bright fluorescent lights above, the library felt unfamiliar; larger somehow, the shelves stretching into darkness. 

The wind rattled faintly against the windows.

“…It’s really quiet,” you murmured.

“Libraries are supposed to be,” he said gently, eyes scanning the empty rows between bookshelves. After a moment, he glanced at you,

“You’re scared?” 

His voice was soft, but with the hint of teasing around the edges. You could see the slight twitch of his lips at the corners. “Are you aware of what time it is? We’re alone in an endless and very dark library in the middle of the night!” your voice going up an octave higher at the end. 

But to your dismay, Phainon just starts laughing, loud and explosive. Which makes you all the more confused. 

Clutching his stomach with one hand, “Endless.” he managed to spit out in between his laughs. 

“Phainon!” you swat lightly at his shoulder. 

“Okay, okay… I’m sorry,” he raises both of his hands in surrender, trying to calm down his laughter as he brings one finger to the corner of his eye to brush a tear off. This guy.

He pulls out another chair and gestures towards it with his chin, you sit down next to him with a stretched smile. The chair creaking faintly as you settle beside him, the sound echoing more than it should.

He sits straighter now, trying to stretch out of his sleep. Then, as if he just realized, he puts a hand to his shoulder and pulls off the sweater that you laid on his back earlier. He doesn’t say anything, instead, just spares a look your way.

You shrug, “You sleep like you’ve signed a contract with unconsciousness. I didn’t want you to catch a cold.”

“Thanks,” a low laugh escapes him, you find yourself smiling back. 

Whenever Phainon laughs, you think, it must be contagious—you’ve never been good at fighting against it. 

“That was probably one of the best sleeps I’ve had in a while” he murmurs, his gaze fixed beyond the tall window. Pearly flakes tumble from the sky in heavy clumps, drifting lazily before dissolving against the glass. 

“The one you had in the middle of a late night library surviving mission?” 

A soft sigh escapes him, “Yeah, funny isn’t it?”

But the quiet weight behind his voice doesn’t escape you.

“Having struggles with sleep?” you ask, trying to reach his eyes.

His head snaps toward you. There is unmistakable shock on his features first, then almost in an instant, it forms into a knowing look. Like he’s just realizing who you are. Like you reading him like an open book is a normal day activity and he shouldn’t be so surprised by it.

“They started a couple years ago…Five or six, I think.” 

There’s an innocence threaded through his words, fragile, almost hesitant. His voice sounds smaller than usual, like a child realizing playtime has ended long before they were ready.

For a moment, you say nothing. Scared to talk about the past, or maybe scared to talk about it to Phainon.

“I can understand that. I mean–I probably can’t, but… I know.” 

Phainon studies you, with curiosity etched into his face. Careful. Like he’s deciding whether stepping closer to this moment is allowed. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You would.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” you ask in an uncertain way, shooting a reassuring smile in his way.

He smiles back, “It would be distasteful,” but he continues, “Usually it is just… the voice of people, calling out. Some faces that I don’t remember who they belong to anymore.” 

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You don’t immediately know what to say.

Without thinking, your hand moves, stopping halfway across the table as hesitation catches up with you. Old instincts colliding with new boundaries.

You almost pull back. But a second passes, and you continue.

You reach out your fingers to Phainon, hesitant and scared as one can be, you gently brush over the skin of his hand. He flinches as soon as you make contact with him, like he woke up from a nightmare. Phainon lets out a breath that almost sounds relieved, but he doesn’t look in your eyes. You can’t really find the courage in yourself to look at his face either. 

“…You don’t have to remember everything for it to matter,” you murmur. “Sometimes your mind just keeps feelings longer than it keeps memories.”

Your hand remains where it is, light enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. He doesn’t.

Phainon’s fingers twitch beneath yours, uncertain at first—like he’s testing whether the contact is real. Slowly, almost cautiously, they settle against your hand instead of retreating.

“Sounds like something you would say,” he says after a moment, voice softer now. “Back then.” And the words should make things awkward again.

Surprisingly, they don’t.

Instead, a small laugh slips out of you. “I also said stuff like ‘Buying Golden Honeycakes must be our tradition!’” you raise your voice to mimic that of a little girl’s, “I don’t sound that enlightening now, do I?” you snort.

“It is our tradition though,” he replies immediately, offended on principle.

You blink at him. He blinks back.

And then, somehow, both of you start laughing. Not loudly, not explosively like earlier, but quietly, shoulders shaking, the sound blending into the hush of the library. 

In that quiet moment, between shared looks and youthful giggles, you feel the branches of something deeply familiar take root once more. Older now but familiar at its core. Evolving into a shape neither past nor present could fully claim.

You’re clicking the back of your mechanical pen in rapid rhythm by the time there is five minutes left for your class to be over. 

It has been around two weeks since you’ve submitted your assignment with Phainon and since then the only thing you two have been doing is spending your free periods together while waiting eagerly for the results.

You’d like to believe your relationship has gotten significantly better in the meantime. 

When you both have free time on your hands you go to the cafeteria and try out anything new that got added to the menu recently, and if you don’t have classes at all that day, you two go out together around the city and see any patisseries you haven’t yet. 

A month of forced proximity due to work was already a good start for you two, but now without any proper reason to be near each other, your hang outs feel much more real.

And you’d like to keep it this way.

Being next to Phainon, going on walks around the campus, trying some stupid dessert that makes your teeth ache, even playing with snow from time to time—It has been so refreshing, such a nice change in your life.

When the professor dismisses class, you hurriedly sling your bag over your shoulder and rush out of the room. Quick strides making their way towards where you said you would meet with Phainon.

Professor Anaxa is grading the papers. Today. And you promised each other you would see the results together.

When you see Phainon from afar, resting against a column just outside the building, you start pacing towards that direction. Your steps come to a halt once you’re right in front him, then you bend down and rest your hands on your knees to gather your breath. 

You exhale, “Has he—” another deep breath, “Have you checked it yet?”

“Woah—” he reaches out a hand to you, “Calm down—and no, I haven’t.”

“Why?” you glance up at him with one eye closed and your face scrunched.

He laughs at the sight, “I was waiting for you,” then holds you by the wrist and pulls you up, “I don’t think I can any longer though.”

You try to nod in your disheveled state, “Right. Yeah. Okay.”

“It’ll be fine,” he shows a reassuring smile, “We worked hard on this—especially you.”

You smile back at him.

Then without saying much, you both turn to your phones and open your emails.

“Are you ready?” he glances sideways at you.

“Yeah… Yeah, I’m ready.” 

“Alright, on three then.” 

“One,” you start hovering your finger over the screen.

“Two…” Phainon continues after you.

Then together, as if on beat, “Three.”

You click the mail with hesitance. A long list forms in front of you, then you start scrolling down to find your names with shaky fingers.

Cifera

Castorice and Polyxena

Hyacinthia

Mydeimos and Hephaestion 

Phainon and—

You close your eyes shut. A quick inhale, exhale. Then you open them slowly—

86/100 

“That’s…”

Phainon finishes your sentence for you, “That’s good, right?”

His enthusiasm is clear from his voice, but even if you didn’t hear him, it’s impossible to miss the way his face lights up at the results anyway.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, still trying to brush the shock off of you. Then with a clearer and much brighter tone, “Yeah! Oh my god Phainon—That’s more than good.”

Not being in control of your body in your ecstatic state, you wrap your arms around Phainon. He hugs back without missing a beat—as if he would do the same if you stalled for a second longer.

“Thank you, Phai.” you mumble to his shoulder.

“I’m pretty sure you would be getting the same results—if not a better one—if I didn’t ruin your former papers.” 

“Well,” you part to meet his eyes, “I wouldn’t be able to make it in time if you didn’t help me either.”

The corner of his eyes crinkle from how much he’s beaming at you, “Come on,” he raises his hand, shaking his car key in the air, “I’ll drop you home.”

“Actually, I had other plans for today,”

“Oh?” he raises his brows.

“Cipher and the others are waiting at the cafeteria,” you bit down on your lower lip, “After Professor Anaxa graded the papers, we thought we could hang out and celebrate if the results are nice.”

“I see,” he nods his head, then shows a kind smile to you, “Have fun then, tell them I say hi.”

“Why don’t you come and say it yourself?”

“...Sorry?”

“I think it would be more fun with you there,” you say, your face growing shy, “So come join us.”

Phainon looks like the sun itself just shone upon him. 

“Well,” he brings a hand to the back of his neck, “Who am I to decline the offer?”

So you gather up the courage, then take his hand in yours and drag him behind you as you make your way to where your friends are waiting for you.

When you two step in, still hand in hand and looking like you just came down from heaven, a long whistle meets your ears from one of the tables.

“Have I missed a chapter or…?” you hear Cipher whisper to Castorice who is enjoying her strawberry milkshake.

“Cipher,” you bare your teeth to her and try not to shoot daggers at your best friend’s way, “And everyone, this is Phainon. He is—” you glance up at Phainon, who’s waving at the group with his free hand, “—a friend.”

Mydei scoots further away on the leather seat and gives a firm bow of his head in greeting. A feeling of guilt settles in you after realizing he’s still very clueless about everything—you suppose you could fill him up with the details later.

You settle next to Castorice and watch as Phainon takes a seat himself next to Mydei. When greetings are exchanged, Cipher starts without missing a beat,

“So,” you’re already facepalming, “What have you two been up to, huh?”

“We just looked at the results,” you turn your head towards her, “Then came here as soon as we can.”

“Hand in hand.” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.

“People walk like that.” That’s not a great argument.

Cipher shrugs, “People in love.”

Castorice nearly chokes on her milkshake.

Phainon’s eyes go wide and you even hear a strange sound escape Mydei’s throat.

You try to throw your hands to Cipher from across the table, she just laughs hysterically and poor Castorice—who is stuck in between you two—is trying to ease the situation.

“Leave them alone, Ci. They just got here.”

“I’m being welcoming!” Cipher insists, placing a hand over her chest dramatically. “I’m gathering information. It’s my duty as her best friend.”

Phainon, to his credit, only smiles politely, though the tips of his ears have turned pink. “I hope I’m passing the inspection so far.”

Cipher gasps. “Oh, he talks smoothly too. This is dangerous.”

You sink lower into your seat. “Cipher…”

The table slowly drifts into lighter topics thanks to Castorice’s and your efforts—stories from the past month, about the process of the project, professors’ strange habits, and exaggerated predictions about grades. 

You get back at Cipher by bringing up her pretty-much-failing grade to the conversation. She tries to attack your pancakes. While Castorice brags about having the highest score out of everyone. Mydei listens with growing understanding, occasionally asking earnest questions that send Cipher into new rounds of laughter. Phainon fits in easily, answering when spoken to, smiling often, and every so often glancing your way like he still can’t quite believe he’s here.

When you glance at him, you catch him already looking at you. He smiles, small and quiet, as if sharing a secret only the two of you understand.

A couple days later after all the laughing and celebrating, you wake up with the loud ring of your phone across the room.

It’s a Saturday, and you’re pretty sure you didn’t set any alarms. Who the hell is calling you at this hour?

You decide if you turn back towards the sound, pull the pillow over your ears and ignore whatever emergency might be needing you—you can go back to sleep.

Much to your dismay, the sound doesn’t stop. Unwillingly, you hop off of your bed and drag your feet across the cold floor.

With one of your eyes still shut and the other one half-open, you peek at your phone's screen. Then with a swipe of your finger—

“Good morning,” a clear voice welcomes you.

“Phainon?” you open your other eye, “What could be so important that you’re calling me—” you take a glance at the screen, then bring it back up to your ear, “—at 9:17 in the morning?”

“It’s your birthday.” 

“I know it is—” 

Your eyes widen.

“Oh my god, you’re right! It completely flew over my head.”

“I figured you’d be too busy with the papers to think about it,” he says, you can already hear his smile through the line, “So I decided to take the matters into my own hands.”

“...What? What do you mean?”

Then, as if on cue, you hear a car honking down the street. You rush to your window with the phone set between your shoulder and cheek, then pull the curtains apart with a swift motion.

“Phainon, I swear to god if you—”

Parked right outside your building is a car you’ve grown to recognize over the past month. The window rolls down slowly and a very cheeky Phainon bends down in the car to reach your eyes almost immediately—like he knew the exact moment you’d look outside. 

With an infuriatingly pleased grin, he waves his hand in a small salute. 

“Phainon,” you say slowly into the phone, dread and disbelief mixing together, “It’s nine in the morning.”

“It’s your birthday,” he says like that changes everything, “Come on, get dressed. I have plans for today.”

You glance down at yourself—sleep-tangled hair, oversized shirt, mismatched socks—and groan.

“Give me—like, half an hour.”

“You have fifteen.”

You blink. “Phainon—”

“Fourteen minutes now,” he checks the watch wrapped around his wrist exaggeratedly.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he says, voice softening just slightly, “You’re still smiling.”

You sigh, defeated, resting your forehead briefly against the cool window glass as morning sunlight spills into the room through the open curtains.

“This better be worth it.” then you make a face at him through fogged glass and end the call.

Half an hour would give you comfort, while fifteen isn’t enough to do anything. Eventually, you’re locking your door behind you in twenty.

As soon as you turn your back, the cold winter kisses your cheeks gently, you feel a shiver run down your spine—you might’ve dressed appropriately but it still hasn’t been that long since you’ve woken up. 

Phainon seems to be bored of waiting in the car since he’s now out and leaning against its door. He pushes himself off swiftly and slowly makes his way to you.

“Well,” he starts, “Don’t you look nice.”

“Stop that,” you laugh into your hand, “I barely look presentable.” 

He makes a disapproving sound at that and brushes a hair off of your forehead, the action making your heart flutter in your chest. 

“I have a gift for you,” he mumbles while holding eye contact with you.

“A gift?”

“Yes,” he exhales, “It’s nothing grand, but I thought it would be fitting.”

Then, he takes a step away from you and gestures towards the car with a tilt of his head. You give a confused look at him but walk forwards anyway. When you’re in front of the car, you see it from the rolled down window, sitting in the passenger seat—

“Golden Honeycake?” you snap your head to Phainon.

Phainon shrugs, “Wanted to be the first one to share your birthday cake with you.” 

You feel tears well up in your eyes, “It’s been, like, a thousand years since the last time I had one of these.”

Phainon softens at the sight. He takes a step closer to you, then he brings a hand to your cheek, his thumb gently caressing the soft flesh. 

“You’ll make me cry,” he says jokingly, “So don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” you protest immediately, though your voice wavers enough to betray you. You laugh under your breath, shaking your head.

He responds back with another hum. The silence that follows isn’t awkward—it’s soft, lingering. Your breath fogs faintly and mixes in the cold between you.

“Thank you,” you say at last, quieter now. “Really.”

“You deserve it,” he’s eyes move around your face, “I’m still trying to make up for my past mistakes.”

You become suddenly aware of how close he is, how easily you could close the remaining distance, and you wonder if you want to—you do.

A nervous laugh escapes you, but it fades quickly, replaced by something softer. Your hand lifts almost without permission, fingers curling lightly around the front of his coat. The fabric is warm beneath your touch.

“I know something else you could do to make it up to me,”

Phainon’s breath hitches, but he asks anyways, “Oh yeah?”

This time, you’re the one who’s humming back. You don’t overthink it, don’t let the moment stretch longer than both of you can stand it. Instead, you lean in, stopping right before your lips touch Phainon’s—giving him every chance to pull away.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers.

Then he closes the distance.

The kiss is hesitant at first, almost cautious, like he’s testing whether this is real. His hand slides from your cheek to hold your jaw, warm and steady, and when you lean into him, all the doubt he had melts away.

It’s not rushed. Not overwhelming.

Just right.

And when you think this moment couldn’t get any better, you feel it, a single snowflake melting as it meets the warm skin of your hand, resting against the back of Phainon’s neck now. 

You part your lips and pull away slightly, Phainon follows like he hasn’t had enough of you yet, but stops when he sees the snow built up on top of your head. He brings one of his hands to brush off the chill from your hair.

“Setting the atmosphere, huh.” he mumbles, looking up at the sky, “Can’t say I don’t like it.”

Then he lowers his gaze to look at your eyes, and you find yourself admiring the scene in front of you.

Phainon, your childhood best friend, your lover—holding you in his arms on your birthday. The winter cold dancing around you, freezing this moment in time. 

Maybe you do like snow after all.

a/n: hi hi, yes, it's me again. thought i'd end this with a quick thank you again. i'm so grateful for everyone who reads this, or even if you don't, thank you. really. thank you for being here <333 you have no idea how much it means to me. i hope this one was a nice ride for you!!!

[crystalcrys]

— BE MY MUSE

in their final year of college, a gifted art student and an acclaimed violinist cross paths through a project that was never meant to be personal. but slowly you realize, inspiration and affection can look a lot like each other.

pairing: mydei x f!reader

word count: 10.2k words

tags: modern au, college setting, artist reader, violinist mydei, fluff, angst, strangers to lovers, mentions of other chrysos heirs, made up mydei family lore, nsfw in future parts, i don't know what else tbh...

a/n: i'm so so incredibly excited to share this one with you!!! it's very special for me. even though this fic has been trying to become itself for literal months in my drafts... i really want this to be something beautiful and i'm working on it!! i hope you enjoy reading and find meaning in this work of mine. as always, thank you so much for reading. every comment, repost, like means so much to me!!! and feedback is always much much appreciated!!!

header art by insaneption on deviant art!!

PART ONE | PART TWO

“The theme is vulnerability.”

Aglaea’s silky voice fills your ears.

You think it should be easy, you’ve always been the type to choose art that prioritizes conceptuality than materialism. Ideas, meaning, or experience over objects or materials. This is your way of expressing yourself after all. Every color, every line, every stroke of your brush holds value across your canvas.

So when you hear it, it’s not a big deal at all. There is time until finals, and you have all the trust in your own abilities. Art comes as easily as breathing to you. As if it’s a limb extending from your body, a part of your very being, and a connection to your soul. Never once did your head hurt when it comes to art. It’s your language, you way of existing. And it hasn’t ever failed you.

There wasn’t a beginning of your art, and you know there won’t be an ending either. Art has always been, for you; and you will always be, for art.

The bright fluorescent lights burn into your eyes as your thoughts start to wander, and you’re already sketching out your work progress in your head.

You’ll start with a couple of different sketches, pick one of them to work on, choose your material, pick your colors, maybe change a thing or two as you go, and when it’s finished in no less than a month—well, it’s you, it shouldn’t be more than that—you’ll submit it to Aglaea with handsome victory and sweet pride.

And she won’t be surprised. In fact, you think no one would. You’ve made quite a name for yourself over the past four years in this school. Always ending the semester with top grades, never out of time, never out of line. Getting different sponsorships from various studios every other month, and some of your works have even sold out on some small museums.

That’s why you’re certain there won’t be any problems with this one either.

When Aglaea finally dismisses class, you pack your stuff neatly and make your way to the cafeteria. Castorice is already sitting by the window, chewing on some noodles that look way too soaked for their own good.

“That instant ramen looks gummier than the strawberry mochi you buy from across the road.”

She looks up at you with a disapproving look, yet her lips tug into a smile, “I was experimenting, okay? I thought you were all for trying out new things.”

“I am, only when those new things aren’t looking like they could come alive any second though.” you gently threw your bag to the seat next to Castorice, where her pointe shoes are hanging off of her powder-pink duffle bag.

“Aglaea is out for blood again.” you mumble as you take a seat across from her, “She has a whole theme for the finals. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she enjoys seeing senior college students suffer.”

Your lavender haired friend snickers from behind her chopsticks, “You say it like that’s not the case.”

You huff a laugh. “Either way, it’s not that much of a problem,” and gesture to yourself with confidence, “I’ll get it done in no time.”

Contrary to your prior statement—and the belief you’ve carefully cultivated with your past achievements—you do not, in fact, get it done in no time.

It’s funny, maybe—or more overwhelming when you think about it a second time.

But whatever it is, one thing is for sure: It’s not in your favor.

You’ve tried everything; roaming museums, studying pieces from your favorite artists, revisiting old works for self inspiration, morning walks, late-night walks… You name it.

You even took out your sketchbook in the middle of one of Castorice’s performances, but alas, nothing came out of it—which surprised you greatly because even with your limited knowledge on ballet, Cas never failed to mesmerize you.

You sometimes wonder how she’d have done as an art major—and feel a little relieved she didn’t, fearing she might have surpassed you by far.

A week passes in futile endeavors. And it’s not like you’re running out of time, but it still frustrated you. Any kind of problem along the way could be solved with enough push and some thought put into it. But there wasn’t any problem to solve, because there wasn’t a work in your hands to begin with. Which was a problem in itself.

Just when you were starting to think you might’ve lost all your creative spark, your dear friend, Phainon, came to your rescue.

It’s early in the morning when you’re pacing towards class, carrying a big canvas in your hands and struggling to keep your bag from falling off your shoulder.

Then from a distance, you see the white haired guy waving at you frantically, and in the blink of an eye, he’s next to you.

“Oh, great timing.” Phainon smiles in greeting, “I was about to call you.”

You drop your bag to the floor, it didn’t want to be carried anyways. “Call me? What for?”

“I’m invited to the concert on the weekend as a press photographer. I get to bring a second with me, wanna come?”

You tilt your head slightly,“Concert?”

“You haven’t heard? It’s all over the campus bulletin boards.” Phainon’s eyes widen in disbelief, “It’s this huge performance where various musicians from across the city take stage together.” he spreads his hands to emphasize, “We have quite a few joining from our school as well.”

At first, you want to argue. Say it’s going to be a headache and you don’t have the time. Which isn’t exactly wrong. You’re all for music and art and performances, that’s true. But with your confidence slowly slipping away from your hands, you’re not so sure you can afford to attend anything grand right now.

“I’d love to come, Phai,” you start, already shaking your head in rejection, “But I’m working on Aglaea’s final.”

“Wow.” he raises his eyebrows, “Using art as an excuse? Just how badly do you want to stay at home?”

You laugh at his joke, internally wishing it was indeed just an excuse, “Unfortunately, it’s true this time. I’m kind of struggling with this one.”

He raises his eyebrows even higher at that. Almost to say, ‘You? Struggling?’

“Damn, must be a real kicker then.”

“It didn’t seem that bad at first,” you sigh, “But now I can’t even find the proper inspiration to start. It’s like—It just doesn’t click.” You shake your head in frustration.

Your dear friend must’ve felt sorry at your deflated state, so he comes up with an offer.

“Tell you what,” he tips his chin, “Come to this performance with me, and maybe it’ll help with your process.”

You squint your eyes at him in confusion, he takes it upon himself to continue.

“You’re struggling to find inspiration, right? What if what you need is... Some sort of muse. Something to get you going.” a confident smile forms on his lips, “A stage where many musicians are showing off might be a great place to look for that.”

And that’s how you end up in a plain white dress, with hair tied up neatly in a bun, and heels that look way too pretty for how badly they hurt, at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night.

The place is grand, both on the outside and the inside. The building rose at the end of the street like an art piece itself, tall columns guarding its entrance, wide marble steps leading to heavy doors polished by decades. Warm golden light spilled from its arched windows, and the faint murmur of tuning instruments leaked into the evening air.

It took a good twenty minutes just to get in and find your seat. There were people with cameras who looked like they were doing some important work, and others in rich suits and elegant dresses who looked even more important than them.

And then there was you.

The inside was just as captivating as the outside. Bright, creamy walls and columns that extended from the floor to the high ceiling. You felt terribly small compared to how major everything seemed to be. There was a massive chandelier at the top that granted the lobby enough light and the marble floors glowed with it’s reflection.

Your seat was towards the back and to the end of the row. It wasn’t a perfect view but it was enough to catch a glimpse of the stage. You guess that’s the best a plus ticket your photographer friend gave you can do.

Speaking of Phainon, he wasn’t there with you. Even though you entered together, you knew he would be at the higher floors taking photos. It probably would be more entertaining with company next to you, but you’ll have to settle for enjoying the concert by yourself. You were here for the music anyways.

The concert started after a short while. The music was pleasant and the view was actually better than you thought it would be. Various musicians came to stage one by one and played their hearts out. It was nice, it was refreshing. You even managed to get a couple sketches in.

A woman’s flute solo, another one’s piano… It was all so beautiful.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

You didn’t have high expectations in the first place. Phainon offered you an idea but he didn’t promise anything. And you knew that when you agreed to it. The theme was something you haven’t tried before and even if you didn’t get to find what you were looking for, the music is nice. So you guess you can just enjoy it while it lasts.

But then, a single note plays out from a violin in the silence.

Your pencil stops.

Your eyes slowly move back to the stage, and hesitate, like they’re scared to see what’s up there.

Then you see him. A tall, blond man with his hair neatly tied low at the back, wearing a simple black suit with a crimson tie that matches the ends of his hair.

You don’t get to observe him much, because seconds later the piano joins him, catching your attention. Then the cellos start humming a quiet, low tune. A chill runs through you, and the hairs on your arms stand on end.

He plays with ease, as if music is something that just happens for him. And he play with heart, with soul. Nothing like what you’ve seen before. Not tonight, not ever.

It’s enchanting, it’s foreign—and you feel yourself drawn to it.

The music flows in the air. It runs through the red velvet seats, dances around the people, and finds its way to your heart. You find yourself unable to move, hands stuck in their place and ice cold, a tingle at the back of your neck, a soft burn in your eyes…

Just what is this?

Then, as if hearing you, he picks up the pace, the violinist. He speaks clearly, it’s impossible to miss it.

Hear me, he’s whispering one second, then shouting the next, witness me. You watch carefully. To see, to understand. What are you doing? How are you doing it?

Long, slim fingers move up and down on the neck of his instrument—delicate, yet present. He seems… scared? But also just as bold, just as vigorous.

He’s either casting spells with his bow, cursing you in some way, or you have gone mad, completely lost it.

His gaze stays low, he doesn’t look up, doesn’t let anything else catch his attention. It’s obvious. On that stage, it’s just him, his violin, and music.

When the whole orchestra joins him, you feel a skip in your heart. They harmonize and dance together. As if they’re all in agreement, all know what’s happening. Like they’re conversing, like they’re playing out a script written carefully.

The trumpets murmur in the back like a choir, the flute sings peacefully, the piano’s notes fall like feathers.

And at the center of it all, him.

His violin cries.

You don’t know how he does it, or what that even means. But you’re certain. That violin is crying, weeping as if it’s at the end of it’s days. Coming alive at the very hands of the man in front of you.

Just like what you were searching for—vulnerable.

After what feels like an eternity, the music gently dies away. The orchestra quiets down, and his motions come to a stop with a flick of his wrist. He takes a step towards the audience, brings his hand to his chest and bows down softly.

People stand up in their seats, loud clapping fills the building and bright smiles paint your vision. It lasts for a long while, a lot longer than average. And you close your eyes, a single tear slides down and drops to your hands, now clapping with the rest of the room. That’s when you know—

You’ve found it.

You don’t even think about it. The moment the performance ends, you spring up from your seat and hurry out of the room, your steps rushed, nearly tripping over your heels as you go. You make your way toward the back doors of the grand building.

You have to find him, learn his name, approach him, introduce yourself, and somehow persuade him into this. The urge feels almost instinctive, as if you’re being pulled after him.

But when you finally reach the place, he isn’t there.

Your eyes search every corner, trying to catch a glimpse of that tall figure, his golden hair, or his overwhelming presence. But you’re only met with a couple press members and some other musicians that went up to stage earlier in the night.

You feel your eyes burn again. This can’t be it right? Surely you find him somehow.

Your only hope, only lead. Something to keep you in, someone to make your art come true, and—a hand on your shoulder?

“What are you doing here?”

Oh, it’s him.

“Phainon?” your eyes widen, you didn’t even realize he was standing there.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the main halls?” he asks confused, “Did I take too long? Sorry, I was almost done.”

“No, no. It’s not that.” you shake your head, “I just—I needed to look for someone.”

“Look for someone?” his lifts his head up, his eyes wander for a second before coming back to meet yours, “Who?”

“The blond guy with red hair? The violinist.” you search his eyes, “It’s him. I need him.”

“Okay,” he drags out the word dramatically and pulls his hands back with a smirk, “Mydei is cool and all but—wow, didn’t know you were into that.”

“Not like that!” you snap, then pause, “Wait, Mydei? That’s his name?”

“Yep. Mydeimos. Mydei, for short.” he tilts his head, “He’s one of the performers that join from our school. Quite the deal, isn’t he?”

He goes to the same school as you?

“From us?” your eyes widen, “You know him? Can you introduce me to him?”

Phainon grins knowingly, “Found what you were looking for?”

“Yes.” you nod your head firmly, certain and final, “Exactly what I’m looking for.”

It turns out, Phainon does more than just knowing him.

He tells you the story of their meeting on your way back. They met each other in high school, same year, same class, and didn’t get along at first—like, at all. He tells you about how they would fight and bicker all the time, and race everything like even breathing is competition. And how they decided to apply to the same school, just out of spite for each other, and somehow both got in.

“And now?” you ask him while fiddling with your seatbelt on his passenger seat, “How are the two of you now?”

“Me and Mydei?” he glances at you momentarily, then pulls his eyes back to the road, “Well… We definitely aren’t like that anymore.”

“Are you close though?”

“Yeah… I guess you could say that.”

You bit down on your lips to stop the smile growing on your face. This is great. Phainon is a close friend of yours, and if Mydei is a close friend of his—then it shouldn’t be too hard, right?

Wrong.

This guys is impossible to get a moment with.

Your friend does everything in his power to help you. You get Mydei’s contact information, even though that feels a bit wrong. And Phainon let’s you know when he’s most available in his schedule—which feels even more wrong—so you have a chance to catch him around the campus.

But the only thing he texts back when you reach out is:

I’m busy right now. Will text back when I’m available.

Great. An automated message. And what’s with the cold tone?

You don’t want to keep pestering your friend with this matter. And you definitely don’t want to seem like a stalker by calling him or texting even more, that would completely blow your chance with him—if you have one, that is.

So while days pass, waiting for something, anything from Mydei, you decide you’re not just going to sit still and pray.

After doing your fair share of research, you find out, he really is quite the big deal, as Phainon said. This guy has not only already given multiple solo performances being only a twenty-two year old college student, he has also made headline after headline. Multiple interviews, many people after him, and a certain future.

No wonder he feels so out of reach.

He started playing when he was very young, but wasn’t really heard of until college. He loves music, clearly, and usually doesn’t say much about himself on interviews, only talking about performances or the more professional stuff like his coaches or sponsors and whatnot.

It feels desperate and, to be fair, a bit pathetic. Checking your phone every other hour to see if he’s reached out, paying extra attention to your surroundings while walking, knowing he’s much more closer to you then you thought.

You weren’t allowed to record during the concerto either, so all you’re left with is some photos that got published a night after and the echo of his violin in your head. Which isn’t enough to give you what you need.

Despite your attempts, you can’t seem to get to Mydei.

Then one morning, when you’re making your way to school—kicking tiny rocks along the road and huffing as you go—you catch a glimpse of something gold.

Spring is here, there is a faint breeze that kisses your cheeks gently and the air smells sweet. The sun is shining bright on your face, the trees are decorated with different shades of pink and green—and you feel the tiniest bit of hope blossom somewhere in you.

Could it be?

It’s only for a short second, and if you hadn’t raised you head just at the right moment, you would’ve missed it.

He turns a corner, and the air he leaves behind is enough to let you know.

You run after the man, the same way you did a couple nights ago—out of breath and desperate. He’s not going the same direction as you, but that doesn’t matter. This might be your only chance, and you will gladly chase it even if it means being late to your morning lecture by a few measly minutes.

When you turn the same corner as him, your eyes meet with his broad back. He’s wearing a simple sweatshirt and some sweatpants, his hair is down and untamed. He looks relaxed, completely the opposite of how he was while performing in front of a thousand people.

He’s walking a slow pace, unhurried, which works in your favor. You think about how to approach him; a tap on the shoulder, or maybe you should shout his name instead? Anything to get his attention. Fastening your steps, you reach your hand out. But then—

“Ow.”

Mydei stops abruptly, and turns around to meet you.

“Sorry,” he says simply, “I didn’t realize you were that close.”

He probably heard your steps, you think to yourself, then look up at him while rubbing your nose, making sure there aren’t any broken bones. What is this guy, a brick wall?

“It’s… fine. I shouldn’t have gotten that close in the first place.”

He nods faintly at that, and there is an awkward silence that follows after.

You avert you eyes and fidget with your fingers, while he looks at you with a straight face, not saying anything back. Now that he’s in front of you, you realize you don’t really know how to talk to him.

“So,” he starts, “Did you want something?”

Up close, you get to see his features much clearly. Something the back row of a big orchestra hall didn’t allow you to do.

And you realize, he’s handsome—or beautiful even. The kind of face that is loved and adored. Someone carrying the weight of being cherished. You can’t help but wonder who is lucky enough to love this man. Or… maybe on a second thought, he might be the lucky one.

His hair catches your attention next—bright, shining, the ends tipped in a burning red, blinding like a summer sunset. It looks smooth and soft, free in its own way. A lot less styled compared to what he had going on on stage, with the exception of a small braid peeking under his ear.

Then you look at his amber eyes—golden like his hair, but a lot more fiery—that are staring back at you now, and say—

“Be my muse.”

“I’m sorry?”

Mydei’s face takes a shape that you struggle to find the words to describe. His brows furrow in confusion first, then they lift back up, his eyes widening with the motion.

Want to know how to creep out a man? The address is right here.

“Okay, that wasn’t what I meant to say,” you wince, “Or–maybe it was. But not like that obviously!”

Mydei crosses his arms across his chest, gives a faint lick to his lips and furrows his eyebrows, letting you know you have his attention, as if urging you to go on. And so you do.

“Look, I know this’ll sound weird,” you smile weakly at him, “But I promise I’m not, like, a stalker or anything. I just tried reaching out to you and you wouldn’t answer so—”

You take a deep breath—quit stalling, just get to the point—you close your eyes firmly, let out that breath, then open them, and continue.

“I was at the audience,” you look at his eyes directly, “Around a week ago, at the big concert with various musicians. You took stage towards the end.”

He nods again, “That’s great to hear. Did you enjoy it?”

You let out another shaky breath. If only it was just that.

“Very much so,” you smile as the sound of the night rushes back to you, “I enjoyed it. In fact I loved it. So, I’m here to make an offer.”

Mydei raises a brow,

“Even though I greatly enjoyed it, my sole reason for being there that night was to find some sort of inspiration for my final.” You tilt your head towards where the school building rests, “I’m an art major, we go to the same school.”

He turns his head at where you’re pointing, then looks back at you, “I see.”

But it’s clear he’s not fully understanding what any of this has to do with anything.

“And this final I’m talking about,” you sigh, “Is really taking it out on me.”

“I’ve sketched, painted, scrapped, restarted—about a hundred times. Nothing works.” You pause, rubbing the back of your neck. “But when you were on stage that night… It was the first time in days I actually felt something click.”

His brows pull together again, though not as sharply as before, “Click?”

“Inspiration,” you clarify quickly. “The way you played, the way the orchestra complimented you—everything about it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it afterwards.”

You hesitate for a second before finishing.

“So I thought… maybe if I actually painted you—”

Mydei blinks.

“—as my muse,” you rush, “Not in a weird way! Just artistically. Strictly academically.” A sheepish laugh leaves you at the end of your sentence, “I’m the best at what I do. I cannot afford to get a grade below the expectation.”

“The best, you say?”

“That’s my reputation, yes.”

He stays silent, but you catch the way his eyes widen the slightest amount. He looks like he’s giving it a good thought, or maybe he’s just calculating how much of an idiot you are. You can only hope that’s not the case.

Then he lets out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“You know,” he says, “most people just ask for an autograph, or an interview, not to paint me as their muse.”

Your shoulders slump slightly, and your gaze lowers in defeat, trying to find comfort in the patterns on the pavement. You’re not stupid, he’s rejecting you without being rude about it—

“I’ll do it.”

You blink. Then snap your head up, searching his face for any insincerity.

“Really?” you ask loudly, “You agree? That easily?”

Mydei seems to be amused by your outburst, a peal of laughter leaves his lips. It’s a clear sound, coming from the chest.

“Really.” he nods, “But I have one condition.”

Condition? Well, it doesn’t matter. As long as he agrees, you think you can do with anything he says.

“Sure,” you beam at him, “What is your condition?”

“I want you to paint me with my violin.”

“Yeah, he agreed!” You kick the air with your legs, overjoyed with pride, “Can you believe? I didn’t even have to do anything.”

Castorice, on the other side of the line, hums in delight.

“That’s good to hear,” her soft tone graces your ears, “So, you have anything in mind?”

You roll on your back in your bed, playing with a piece of hair in between your fingers.

“We didn’t get to talk about the details much, I was running late for class.” you sigh, “But he said he wants me to paint him with his violin.”

Which is already what you were planning to do, so no arguments on that.

After his request, you simply gave a nod of your head and smiled at him sweetly. Then agreed on meeting up for a cup of coffee to talk about the painting and the process—which would be in about an hour from now.

He also saved your number on his phone so that you wouldn’t be having one sided conversations with his automated messages. You still remember the squint on his face and the small apology he muttered as he listened to your complaints.

“I gotta go now,” you informed your best friend, slightly pulling the phone from your ear to see the screen, “I don’t have much time left.”

She then gave a quick warning about updating her, you two exchanged some giggles over that, and ended the call without much ceremony.

You toss your phone beside the pillow and stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting the excitement settle somewhere inside your chest.

Just a painting. Nothing more. It’ll be alright.

Not wanting to waste more time than you already did, you get up quickly.

You get out of your pajamas, wear something decent, make sure you look presentable, grab your bag, and shove your sketchbook, pencils, and a small charcoal set inside. Just in case the conversation turns into an impromptu sketch session.

It probably won’t. But still.

Your phone buzzes just as you’re slipping on your shoes.

Mydei: I’m already at the cafe. Take your time.

Already? That diverts your eyes to the top of the screen. Twenty-four minutes. Is he always this punctual?

A second message follows.

Mydei: Well, don’t take too much time.

You can practically imagine the awkward little smile he must’ve had while typing it. A grin spreads across your face before you can acknowledge it.

You type back quickly.

Me: Omw!!

The walk to the cafe feels shorter than usual, probably because your brain refuses to sit still. You don’t know why it’s doing it, but it is. This isn’t some important commission or for some big contest either. It’s just your stupid final that Aglaea decided to turn into a struggle. And you’ll manage even if things don’t go that well with Mydei.

Still, with each step you take, the sound of your heartbeat rings louder in your ears.

When the cafe comes into your view, he is the first thing you spot from a distance. Sitting near the window, violin case leaning carefully against the chair beside him, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t seem to be drinking.

Mydei looks up the moment the door chimes. You walk over to the table, wearing a polite smile on your lips.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

He shakes his head, “I arrived early,” then gestures to the chair in front of him.

You eyes settle on his instrument while you get comfortable on your seat, “You brought your violin with you.”

“Yeah,” Mydei hums. It’s a sweet sound, you take note, “I come from practice.”

“I see,” you mutter under your breath, then find his eyes, “You seem to have a really packed schedule.”

“I guess you could say that,”

Mydei looks deep in thought for a second, then a small smile appears on his lips, it’s hard to catch and leaves as quickly as it comes, but it was there.

“But I like what I do,” he nods faintly, “So I don’t mind it.”

You want to ask, where does it come from? This love. Because it’s impossible to miss it, you’d need to be quite dense to miss it. Even when he steals quick glances at its way, you can see it. The way his eyes soften slightly, like meeting an old friend. There is history, unsaid words, and some sort of longing.

Not wanting to seem too curious for your own good, you settle for staying silent this time.

To your surprise, the conversation flows smoothly after that. He asks a couple questions about the progress, you ask back about what he is comfortable with or not, and settle on the time and days for your session.

After that discussion comes to an end, you pull your sketchbook out of your bag, flipping it open to a page of loose drawings. They’re messy, overlapping, quick gestures trying to catch an idea before it slips away. The date on the bottom takes you back to when all of this started, and you try to surpass the smile fighting for its place on your lips.

“I was thinking something more natural,” you say, turning the book slightly so he can see. “Not too staged. Like you’re just… playing.”

He gives a quick hum in acknowledgment.

“What are you going for exactly?” he looks into your eyes while leaning forward to catch a better glimpse of the sketches, “Do you have some sort of theme for this?”

Theme. Right. The theme.

You were so focused on actually getting the chance to speak to Mydei that the theme had slipped clean out of your mind until now.

Vulnerability.

For a second you picture saying it out loud—I want to paint you vulnerable. The thought alone makes your stomach twist. It feels intrusive somehow, like those opportunistic paparazzi that swarm at the mention of scandal.

Your eyes flick briefly to the violin case beside him.

He carries himself with a quiet sort of control. Straight posture, calm voice, movements measured and careful. Nothing about him suggests he would appreciate being reduced to something fragile on a canvas.

You felt guilt brimming in you. His love for his music. You don’t know what it means, you don’t know where it comes from.

Would he think you were mocking him?

Your eyes meet with Mydei’s for a brief second and you realize you've been silent for a beat too long.

“Strength,” you clear your throat softly, “I needed something powerful.”

“Powerful?”

“Yes,” you lie with ease, “Your music is exactly what I’m looking for Mydei. Powerful.”

You were lying through your teeth. Powerful? Maybe. But it definitely wouldn’t be the first thought that comes to your mind when you hear him. And it wasn’t how you intended to portray him either. You were going for frail, tender—vulnerable.

Mydei’s eyes linger on the pages. For a moment he studies the loose lines, the unfinished shapes of hands and a violin resting against a shoulder.

Then he nods once.

“I see.”

A wave of relief crashes into you, but it doesn’t completely loosen the tight knot in your chest.

After all, the lie sits heavy in the air, and you have a month of work waiting the two of you.

The studio smells of dried paint and concrete.

The weather is getting warmer and spring is slowly turning into summer, it’s not as cold as it used to be. Most of the students leave school early around this time of the year so it’s not as crowded either. Rooms and tools are left untouched for hours if not days and hallways are quieter than usual. You can’t say you hate it.

The wooden door makes a loud squeak as you push it open. Mydei steps inside after you, violin case on one of his hands and backpack on the other. He takes a moment to examine the room, looking like a lost child.

You can’t help but huff a laugh at the sight, “You can sit wherever you’re comfortable,”

He nods without looking, eyes still wandering around the room, and takes a seat a few steps away from you.

While Mydei gets settled, you busy yourself with setting up your supplies. You cross to the cabinets at the end of the room, pull out a large sheet of paper, and drag an easel back with you, its legs scraping softly against the floor.

You set it up where it won’t block your view of Mydei, then secure the paper in place before taking a seat.

Next come your tools. You pull a handful of brushes from your bag and drop them into a glass, then sharpen a few graphite pencils, lining them up carefully beside it. Tubes of oil paint, a box of crayons—anything you can find, really, even if they don’t quite belong together.

The first session is only supposed to be some sketches. Therefore you know you won’t need all of this. But the room is awkward, you’re nervous, and need to pass the time as much as possible while Mydei is doing his thing.

Then you hear the quiet click of clasps, the soft slide of wood against fabric.

You peel your eyes off of the sketchbook draped open on your lap and glance at Mydei’s way.

He handles the violin gently, but not delicately. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing. Just familiarity, something practiced enough to become instinct.

Clearing your throat, you straighten your pose, “You can start whenever,”

Then with a short nod again, Mydei starts playing.

He draws out a note at first, almost like testing the sound, then another, and another. They mesh together and fill the empty room with sound. You’re supposed to be drawing, examining, working right now, but you feel yourself unable to even lift a hand.

This is only your second time hearing him play, and it’s no less mesmerizing than the first one. A part of you wonders if you’ll be able to handle a whole month of this.

“I’ll be moving quite a lot while playing,” Mydei’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, “Will you be able to draw?” He murmurs without peering his eyes off of his bow.

It’s not condescending, he’s genuinely curious.

“I’ll be fine,” your pencil finally meets the paper, “I want to capture the moment anyway.”

He just gives a quiet hum after that, and silence settles between you again, only occupied with the pleasant sound of violin.

Moments pass like this. Mydei playing like it’s instinct, and you trying your best to do his beauty justice.

You sketch the curve of his posture first. The line of his shoulders, the way his head tilts, his fingers flexing on the neck of the instrument, his other hand relaxed, wrist slightly curved in.

In between shared glances and concentration, your curiosity gets the better of you, “Why did you agree to this?” you meet his eyes, “Not that I’m complaining, of course, but I didn’t expect you to say yes so easily either.”

Mydei seems to give it thought for a moment, then he answers back with a shrug,

“It was the look in your eyes, I guess,” he says, “I’ve never heard someone talk about my music like that.”

You feel your cheeks burn as heat rushes to your face. Was it that obvious?

“…What kind of look?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Mydei’s bow doesn’t pause, but the note he draws stretches just a little longer.

“Just—” he exhales heavily, like he is frustrated with himself, “It was as if you’re hearing me for what I actually am.”

And you know, somehow, that there is a deeper meaning to that. That it matters more to him than he lets on. Maybe it’s the way his fingers grip his bow more firmly, or the way his eyes drift off to somewhere beyond the room, but you see it.

You don’t have an answer back to it, which doesn’t help the atmosphere, so you just keep drawing him instead. Avoiding Mydei’s eyes and pressing harder on the page than you mean to.

The graphite darkens, and the light, you realize distantly, isn’t helping.

It spills from the fluorescent lamps at the ceiling, too bright and uneven, flattening everything it touches. It catches on the varnish of the violin too harshly, blows out the contours of his face, leaves parts of him in shadow where you don’t want them to be. You tilt your paper slightly, then back again, but it doesn’t fix it.

You exhale quietly through your nose.

And Mydei should’ve realized the frown on your face by now, because his sound slows and quiets down before he asks, “Something wrong?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” You wave your hands in the air, “It’s just the light causing some trouble. I never liked the studios of the school anyways. Nothing here screams art.”

He hums like that means anything to him, “Anything I can do?”

Your eyes drift from examining the lamps on the ceiling back to his face, “I, uh, I don’t think so? Not unless you know some art studio that doesn’t charge a fortune per hour, I guess.” You sigh.

Both of you sit in silence for a good minute, then agree to take a small break. Mydei lowers his violin and seems deep in thought, while you huff and puff to yourself, wiping off graphite from your fingers.

Just when you’re thinking the world is against this project since everything seems to be going downhill, Mydei’s hum brings you back.

“Actually,” he exhales lightly through his nose, almost a huff at himself, like he can’t believe he’s saying this, “My place has decent lighting. I live on a high floor and the living room has some tall windows.”

Your brows lift a little.

“You could use it. If you want. No pressure, obviously.” he says, a little softer. “If it’s weird, it’s weird. Just figured I’d mention it.”

A small “Oh,” is all you let out at first, “Yeah, um—yeah, that would be great actually. You sure you’re okay with this?”

He shrugs, “I don’t have that many guests and I live nearby, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The idea of going to Mydei’s house—to paint him, no less—possibly spending hours there, alone; is a bit weird, like he said so. But curse your stupid head because you are a bit curious, and maybe a tiny bit eager.

For the drawing, obviously.

“Alright,” you take a deep breath, “When are you available?”

“How about,” he pauses, “Right now?”

The walk to Mydei’s apartment is mostly silent. He isn’t much of a talker, you’ve realized over the little time you’ve shared so far. You are though, in contrast to him. But not right now. Not when your steps feel too light and your pulse sounds like the chorus of an upbeat rock song.

“We’re here,” he points at a building with his head. You only hum in response.

You take the elevator to the twelfth floor. Mydei steps out with his hands in his bag, searching for something. Then he takes out his keys, they jingle between his fingers before he puts it in the lock and the door opens with a soft click. A small violin charm catches your eyes before he pulls them back out, and you smile to yourself a little before stepping in.

His place smells weirdly clean, like, too clean. Almost makes you question if he even lives here. But you also think that’s kind of in character of him.

He has tall windows that light up the place nicely. The walls, or anywhere else for that matter, isn’t really decorated. It’s just simple furniture, some blankets on a couch, and a big plant on the corner that looks out of place. Maybe gifted from someone else?

You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, breaking the quiet, “Your place is nice.”

He gives a small thanks in response before crossing the room, pushing one of the chairs back with his foot, clearing space near the windows.

“Will this work?”

You step closer, tilting your head, already framing him in your mind. “Yeah,” you shrug, “Way better than the studio.”

A lot more intimate too, your mind reminds you, but you don’t mention that to him.

“Where do you want me?” Mydei asks.

You observe his living room again after that, with more intent than just trying to familiarize yourself with his home.

“It would be nice if we could catch the evening sun,” you hum, “Maybe it could hit you from the side?”

He gives a quick nod and gets moving. Mydei pulls a chair in front of the window, takes his violin back out of its case and sits down, posing the same way he did earlier in the studio, and starts playing. You don’t have all your tools here but a sketchbook should be enough for now. So you sit down in front of him and take it out, your pencil already in your hand.

And the silence is back.

It’s not too awkward, thankfully. But you really wouldn’t mind some more energy in the room. It’s not the stillness of the moment that bothers you—the music is enough to move it—but more so him.

Wouldn’t be so bad if Mydei just gave a bit more than he does, you think. It wouldn’t be horrible if you knew what it meant when his brow raised slightly to the left, or when he flexes his hand every now and then—like a sudden fire burnt his fingertips, when he doesn’t really give an answer but just hums quietly—even if it wasn’t a question, or when he does literally anything else.

You trace the outline of his jawline on your paper, sharp as a knife yet as fixed as stone. His violin rests against it, having already made a home for itself there long time ago.

“So,” you exhale, “Tell me more about yourself?”

His amber eyes rise up from his fingers, and he stares off at the wall in front of him for a few seconds. A few seconds that feel like eternity for you.

“There isn’t much to tell, really. I mean, haven’t you already read the papers?”

Such a dry tone.

“I don’t really care what the papers say. Surely you’d be a better source, no?”

Mydei’s eyes flicker, and he looks like he’s about to speak for a second. He parts his lips, gives a small lick to them, while breathing in heavily, you can see his pupils move back and forth on the pattern of his rug. You wait in anticipation while he draws out another note and the quiet tick of the clock in the room counts time. It all happens so quickly and you really get your hopes up this time,

“I think they do quite a good job, actually.”

Only to be let down.

“I see.” you don’t mean to sigh, but it comes out anyway.

“So you two are finally working together?” The white haired man asks you with genuine surprise.

“Yes, Phai, we really are.” you reply, “I don’t really know how it happened either. One day I was practically begging for him to say yes, and the other I was drawing him play, in his apartment.”

The wide halls of your school echo with your steps, loud and only. Your friend helps you carry your new easel to one of the studios, the drag across the floor joining your footsteps. The year is about to end soon, classes are almost over and everyone has been slowly wrapping up their works. You however are still stuck with a stupid sketch in your hands and a bunch of other questions in your head.

You’ve been thinking about your work, if you have enough time, if it’ll come out like you visualized, but most importantly, if you’re doing it right. Mydei has been nothing but generous towards you. He’s been kind and he doesn’t complain, you would even go as far as to say he actually enjoys it, that he’s looking forward to the end product.

It’s obviously expected that he would be curious or maybe even excited, but you feel like the way his eyes widen every time you make a slightly sharper flick of your wrist on the paper says something more about him.

You caught him peeking at your open sketchbook on the coffee table once when you two were taking a break. It’s a bigger one than your usual so everything is much more clear, more final on the pages.

“Like what you see?” you ask in between bites from the fruit he peeled for you.

He whips his head toward you, clearly not aware that you were watching him, “Sorry, it looks nice.”

“Don’t apologize,” you lick the juice off your thumb, “It’s you on the paper.”

The room is silent, actually silent this time. No violin, no pencil meeting paper, no huffing and puffing because of some wrong lines and a sore neck. Just you, him, and the cold peaches sitting on the table in front of you. Other than the occasional eye contact you two make (which almost immediately ends with one of you looking away in no longer than a second), and the soft taps of his fingers across the marble countertop, not much else is happening.

Making small talk with Mydei is difficult. Not because he isn’t much of a talker, although you’re sure that plays a small part too, but because he doesn’t share, you think.

Mydei keeps to himself. It’s been—what, three sessions so far? Which equals to two weeks of knowing and meeting Mydei. Yet your knowledge about him is still almost as limited as what the internet tells you.

It’s important to understand your subject for your drawing, yes, but putting all of that aside, you’re curious about Mydei. Ever since that stage, ever since feeling like your soul was leaving your skin, ever since running after him in heels that hit all the wrong spots on your feet, you’ve been curious about him.

And when you’re trying to get your sketch across a bigger paper, clipped on the wooden stand Phainon helped you drag into the studio, it happens.

A small ding from your phone interrupts your conversation.

Mydei: Do you think we could do a session today?

“It’s him?” Phainon’s blue eyes search your face with anticipation.

He’s enjoying this way too much, you think, but your friend is lucky because you have better concerns right now.

“Yeah, he’s asking to meet up.” You furrow your brows in confusion. Your next session isn’t due until three days.

“Like, an actual meet up?”

Phainon takes a step next to you, then leans forward to see your phone screen clearly, “A session?”

“Yes, that’s what we call them. But our next one still has some time, I don’t really understand why he’s asking for one right now.” You scratch your neck with your other hand, then mumble quietly, almost a question, “I mean it doesn’t even benefit him.”

Phainon snickers, “Maybe he just misses you.”

That earns him a slap on the shoulder.

You quickly type back, not wanting to make him wait.

Me: our next one is in three days iirc?

Me: but sure!! my schedule’s empty

Mydei: Sorry if it’s inconvenient. You can come over whenever.

Me: will be there in 20

“You’re excited,” Phainon jokes, “You sure this is strictly professional?”

Not really.

“Stop it already, oh my god,” you give a look to him, “I just don’t have anything better to do, and mind you, he’s the one asking.”

Phainon laughs, it’s a loud and unbothered sound. He definitely is enjoying this.

You’re in front of Mydei’s apartment in sixteen minutes since your last message.

The city is warm and the building is warmer. Your hair is sticking to your skin at the curve of your neck, your hands are sweaty from holding onto your bag too tight, and Mydei still hasn’t opened the door.

Well, that might be because you haven’t rang the bell yet, but we’re putting that aside.

It’s just the thought of showing up unplanned, or let’s say three days earlier than what was planned. Coming to his house and feeling like this is more than what the two of you agreed on, more than you trying to keep your eyes on only the parts you’re supposed to draw, more than him keeping quiet, keeping to himself.

Your fingers reach up to the doorbell, only for Mydei to beat you to it. The door opens with a fast swing, almost giving you a heart attack.

“Oh my gods, Mydei,” you rest your hand against your chest, “You scared the living crap out of me.”

“Sorry,” the blonde purses his lips, “I heard some noises so I thought I’d check it out.”

“Well, the noises were me.”

Mydei steps aside to let you in with another quiet apology, but you catch the way he dips his head low in hopes of hiding the small smile playing on his lips.

His place is the same as always, clean, quiet, everything you’ve gotten used to by know. But then you take another step in, and it hits you, the smell of something sweet coming from the kitchen.

“Sorry for asking so suddenly,” Mydei says as he locks the door behind you. “I know we said Friday.”

“It’s fine,” you answer too quickly. “I wasn’t doing anything important but, um, you—did you bake something?”

Mydei doesn’t give an answer immediately, just busies himself with taking your bag off your hands and places it somewhere in the living room. You don’t really push, you stopped doing that some time ago.

He walks toward the kitchen, you try not to stare at him while unpacking your stuff, yet you still catch your eyes following him from across the apartment as he fills a kettle with water. He’s dressed casually today, loose dark pants, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pale hair still slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it all afternoon.

Mydei turns back toward the counter, but not before you catch the way his jaw tightens slightly. “You want tea?” he asks after a moment.

“Sure.” You answer without making eye contact with him.

He doesn’t say anything else, so you begin setting up your pencils while he moves around the kitchen. Your eyes start wandering again. You notice how he hasn’t set up his chair like he usually does before you come, or how his violin is sitting on the couch already.

“You were practicing before I got here?” you ask.

He hums without turning, “Just some old ones I wanted to remember.”

Before you can say anything back, Mydei starts moving. He opens the fridge first, taking out a bowl with stretch film wrapped over it, then he takes out some pre-cut fruits, shuts the fridge, moves to a different part of his kitchen.

You watch all of it in silence.

And when you’re about to ask what’s the matter, a ding sound interrupts his movements. Then he puts on the oven glove resting on the counter, opens the oven and—takes out a cake?

“Huh, you really were baking.” you tilt your head, “Are you celebrating something?”

The kettle clicks softly in the kitchen. Which gives him his escape from answering your question, or so you thought. Because this time, Mydei opens.

“It’s my mothers birthday,” he’s quiet while filling the cups with hot water.

“Oh, is she arriving soon?” You ask with a smile, “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gotten something on my way here.”

You regret asking that as soon as the words leave your mouth, because it’s impossible to miss the way the air tenses around the two of you. The room is silent, again. Mydei gives a look your way, then he puts the kettle down slowly. He’s calm in a very unusual way, he moves slower, he even talks slower, you think. But you catch the way he grips the edge of the counter with his hands until his skins turns white.

“No,” he breathes, “No, she isn’t arriving. I celebrate it by myself.”

Then he looks at you. That’s when it hits you. Oh, stupid you.

You want to slap yourself across the face, lay on the ground and kick yourself in the stomach, but all you could do is raise your eyebrows slightly at the man in front of you.

The words catch you off guard for some reason. Not because of what he said, but because he offered it at all. Usually conversations with Mydei are like trying to catch water in your hands. He gives answers that are polite but thin, always enough to end the discussion before it becomes personal.

So this feels… different.

“I’m sorry,” you say before anything else comes out of your mouth that would make you regret coming here at all.

His brows pinch slightly, “Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know.” You give a helpless little laugh,

For a second he simply watches you. Then, surprisingly—

“She used to make that cake every year,” he points at the counter, “I’ve been continuing the tradition, I guess.”

The fondness in his voice is tiny, but unmistakable. And funny enough, this might be the most he’s ever spoken to you at once.

You’re terrified of ruining it.

“So…” you say carefully, “Why invite me over today?”

The question hangs in the air for a minute. You can almost see the gears turning in Mydei’s head, almost to say, Why did I invite her? And you think, or maybe you hope, he just needed company. Mydei, who has been celebrating his mothers birthday all these years, all by himself, needed you here today.

You don’t know what to feel about that possibility.

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” he laughs to himself, as if he can’t believe you’re here either, “I guess I thought you’d enjoy the cake.”

You stare at his face for a good minute, it’s probably only a few seconds in reality, but feels like a minute. With the way his golden strands frame his face, or the way the afternoon light hits his nose, the way his fingers wrap around the piping bag, the way he looks so vulnerable right now; it feels like an eternity actually.

Mydeimos, from the second you’ve witnessed him, felt so, so vulnerable. And you can’t help but see it every time your eyes catch his sights. But despite it all, despite all of the things you see beyond his eyes, all the burdens you know he carries, you still can’t help but smile a little when he looks into your eyes. The man just has that kind of effect on you.

“Yeah, I probably would,” you try to keep your laugh inside while walking up to him, “If only you weren’t absolutely murdering that cake right now.”

“I—” Mydei tilts his head to the side, like a lost puppy. It looks foreign on him, in all honesty. Not unwelcome though.

“Let me help. I’m actually part decent at this kind of stuff, you know, art and all.”

“Right,” he nods his head once, then hands the piping bag to you.

As you take the bag from his hands, you try to ignore the way your fingers brush against his, or the way he takes a second longer than necessary while giving it to you. Almost hesitant.

And you understand it. It’s not surprising that he would halter. It’s not surprising that his fingers, which have been strongly pressing to strings like hammers, yet also move like an irresistible force, would tremble slightly while giving the frosting filled bag to you.

Because it’s just frosting. But then it’s not.

It’s not just sugar, milk and cream. It’s today of every year. It’s Mydei sitting alone in his apartment and blowing candles for god knows how many times now.

The lemony scent hits your nose as soon as you wrap your hands around the plastic. It’s then accompanied with something sweet, like vanilla. And it takes everything in you to not look at Mydei as you squeeze the bag until the top of the cake is smeared in frosting.

“It smells nice,” you mumble, “Made it yourself too?”

“Lemon and vanilla,” Mydei hums. Knew it. “She used to love it. I probably never get the recipe right. It doesn’t taste the same. But the smell still brings some memories back, y’know.”

“What was her name?”

“Gorgo.” The word comes out as a whisper. Like it knows how heavy it is.

“That’s a beautiful name,” you smile, “I’m sure she would appreciate your efforts.”

Mydei let’s out a laugh. A breathy, small and quick one. But still, undeniably, a laugh.

“She would,” he shakes his head, “Then she’d slap me in the head for not making the cake correctly.”

The image makes you laugh too. And as Mydei takes out pomegranate seeds out of another bag, you imagine him, seven maybe eight years old, tiny footsteps into the kitchen, peering from the back of the door and watching his mom, Gorgo, prepare her birthday cake.

Maybe he would try to keep quiet. Maybe he’d go up to her and pester his mom about the cake. If we’re being honest, you don’t really know how small Mydei would be like. The same way you don’t know how he is now.

Or maybe that is slowly changing. Slowly, but it is.

“She didn’t use pomegranates, but I like the taste.”

“You’re telling me a lot about yourself today,” and as soon as the words leave your mouth, you regret them. You’re sure you’ve ruined it now. “Not that I mind or anything of course but—”

“I just think she would’ve liked you.”

The piping bag nearly slips from your hands.

For a moment, the only sound in the apartment is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside the window. You stare at the half-decorated cake. Then at Mydei. Then back at the cake.

Because surely he didn't just say that.

“I—I see,” you purse your lips, “What makes you say that?”

Mydei doesn’t answer immediately, just keeps decorating the cake with the red seeds.

He’s mostly quiet, mostly focused, competitive even though he doesn't show it, one hell of a musician, talented beyond his years, and he for sure knows how to make your chest tighten. Maybe it’s on purpose, maybe he just likes seeing you in this state. Or maybe you’re just delusional.

Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re holding your breath.

“I have a feeling she would,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal.

That’s when you raise your head to protest about how that’s so vague, but you silence yourself as soon as you catch him staring at you.

Amber eyes, golden hair dipped in sunset. A pronounced nose, a sharp jawline, and a face that seems almost sculpted rather than born. As if that weren't unfair enough, the afternoon sun wraps around him in gold, turning every feature softer and brighter.

He looks less like a person and more like an angel fallen from heaven. No wonder your heart is pounding hard enough to shake your ribs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. So quiet, you wonder if you’d imagined it. “Yeah, she definitely would.”

Then as if nothing happened. As if nothing changed, nothing has been said. Mydei turns back to the cake. He keeps putting the seeds on the cake, some to the side. He even tilts his head to the side at one point, like he’s really focused. On the cake.

While you’re stuck in your place, hands tight, chest tighter. The moment has passed. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

But you still smile to yourself as the lemony scent of the frosting fills the room.

end notes: thank you so much for reading this far!! this is of course not the end yet. i have 3 maybe 4 parts planned for this fic but we'll see where the road takes us. and the next part probably won't be up for some time as finals are around the corner :,) but i hope you'll wait for me patiently until then!!!

[crystalcrys]

highly recommend reading with "i exist i exist i exist" by flatsound playing in the bg (or just in general it's such a beautiful song) since this whole drabble was inspired by that song but it's only 600 smth words so who cares ig

“Talk to me,”

A muffled plea from the other side of the door. Your lover calls out your name gently, softly. Tender like he’s afraid even speaking it too loud might break you. He isn’t too sure it wouldn’t, you aren’t either.

“What difference does it make?” The words come out bitter in between your quiet sobs. You don’t mean them to, but they do.

They burn your tongue, and burn the air between you two. They always do when you haven’t been yourself. They burn when you’re hurt and slap when you’re angry. It stings more than the nails biting at your palms or the ache in your temple. That’s why you always, almost immediately regret them.

Phainon doesn’t say anything for a while. Maybe he doesn’t know if it’s worth it? If it even matters? But you’re quick to remind yourself, that can’t be it. He simply must not know what to say. Maybe too scared to say anything at all.

“You always speak as if you’re willing to push people away,” he taps the wood with his fingers, holding a slow rhythm, “But you always let me in,”

It’s always a push and pull with Phainon. You, running away from everything almost all the time. Him, chasing after you always.

“So, let me in.”

And you do.

The door opens with a loud creak, and golden light finally spills in the dark room you’ve been sitting in. It’s not blinding, not even bright, but it is more than what it was. Your eyes take a few seconds to get used to the light. Then you see him. Phainon smiles brightly, warmly, lovingly at your face; swollen, burning, sticky from dried tears.

He doesn’t close the door behind him, doesn’t try to pull you up. Simply scoots over to where you’ve been sitting on the cold marble floor, settles down next to you and lets his broad body spill it’s warmth onto yours. You feel your fingertips twitch.

“Do you get tired?” Your voice comes out hoarse, broken.

“I do,” he doesn’t look at you, “Because I exist.”

You furrow your brows, relax them, then furrow them back. There’s an itch at the back of your head that makes you want to face him, reach his eyes. That’s what you think you need, and it is. But you pull yourself back, run away from the thought—afraid of Phainon seeing your red eyes and wet lashes too clearly; now that he’s here, now that the room has light.

So he reaches out instead. Isn’t this how it is, all the time, like you’re used to? Phainon, chasing after you always.

“I exist,” his thumb wanders your face. It plays around the dip of your eyes first, wiping some tears, then makes it’s way lower, reaching your jaw, chin, lips. His touch makes a home for itself on your face. “You do too.”

“I exist,” you whisper, “I exist.”

Phainon’s fingers leave your face. Then you feel his touch on your neck, slowly making it’s way down, playing with the bump of your collarbone. He keeps mapping out your skin, like he hasn’t done it a thousand times before. And the thought of Phainon—knowing you like the back of his hand, walking down your paths every morning and every night, whispering out your name with every breath he takes—yet still not letting you go, still chasing, still reaching, puts a smile to your face.

“There we go,” he sounds content with you, almost laughing, his fingers now pressing down to the bare skin of your shoulders.

You close your eyes, and the room—only barely visible with the amount of light spilling in from the door—becomes dark once again , “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” a firm squeeze to your hand, “I’m afraid too.”

[crystalcrys]

a quiet, intimate painting session with mydei where he becomes your canvas.

i'm honestly considering these as writing practice, and also to get the delusion out of me. and this is all over the place, but will probably turn into something bigger later on. so consider it a sneak-peek.

(the first part of this fic is now out btw!!! here ya go <3)

“Hold still.” 

Your eyes followed as the paint moved across Mydei’s face, slowly transferring from the brush to the dip below his eyes, all the way to his jawline. All shades of blue and gold and white painting this beautiful man.

He didn’t dare open his eyes, or move his head — just being there, letting himself be the subject of something yet to form. The two of you in your living room, no conversation, nothing else in your mind other than getting this perfect. Just the sound of your fan blowing softly, sitting across the room, accompanying your silence.

You took your time while moving your brush across his skin, watching him in the dim light shining from your windows. The setting sun outside casting a golden spell on Mydei’s figure. The shine on his bright locks, the little bump across his nose bridge, the curve of his cupid’s bow.

How mesmerizing.

Even with his eyes closed, you could still feel the warmth of his amber gaze. Even without any paint on, the man already seemed like something out of a museum. 

“Does it tickle?” He takes a moment before answering that, not out of surprise, just to honor the silence a second more. Something both of you have been scared to break for a while now. “…Kind of, yeah.” 

You take the brush away from his face, “Should I use my fingers?” 

Mydeimos opens his eyes upon your question, glancing at the brush near his cheek before looking at you. It doesn’t tell you anything, you can’t pick a meaning out of his staring, as usual. If it’s rejection, you think, he should be more vulgar than that.

Then you see only the slightest curve of his lips. His bangs falling down to his face with the movement. “Won’t that make both of us the art piece?” His words sound smug under his thick voice.

“You think me simply getting paint on my fingers will make me a piece of art?”

“I think you simply being is enough to count as art.”

You don’t say anything back after that. 

When there is a lump at the back of your throat, and when you catch your heart aching as if it will kill you itself, you’re certain you wouldn’t be able to speak anyways. 

He has an interesting way of viewing things. That’s a thought that has been circling your mind ever since he first agreed to this — whatever this is. 

“You and I must have very different perceptions of art then,” You mutter quietly, like you aren’t sure the words will come out right.

You see his eyes follow you as you make your way to the stool you set your paint on. Dipping your fingers in the cold paint one by one, ignoring the thoughts that crawl up to your mind about how this is sure to cause a mess.

You get back to your previous position and raise your hands up to his cheekbones, locking your eyes with him as if to ask permission.

Then you slowly start dragging your hand across his face, leaving stripes of color behind as your fingers make their way to his neck. Taking your time with your hands on his skin. It’s shameful, you’re sure of it, but still choose to hide behind excuses like how this is professional or just for your art assignment that is due next week.

 This is anything but professional.

“You’re getting bolder,” that earns him a look from you, but you shoot back, “Surely not as bold as you.”

“I was talking about art.” 

“So was I.”

That’s a lie.

And you both know it, but you continue. 

When you reach his collarbones, he doesn’t stop you, so you keep going. “This shirt is pretty much going to be ruined at the end of this.” You say with a hint of embarrassment that doesn’t match your actions.

“I don’t mind. It’s an old one anyway.” You think about suggesting to take it off for a second. That thought, however, leaves as quickly as it comes. 

Being that outright would surely turn this into something else.

And being honest to yourself, you don’t think you would mind it. However, consequences of our actions is a thing, and your biggest concern is getting this done without having to worry about that. 

So you keep dragging your fingers, one by one, back and forth on his skin. Until this beautiful man, who is delighted to be your canvas, turns into your very own art piece.

[crystalcrys]

okay, here, here's a little sneak peek from the planned phai fic to come—i couldn't wait...okay?

maybe not so little.. wc: around 1k

IT'S HERE NOW !!!

It all happens so fast. You only meant to steal a quick glance at the gold stained windows, just for a second, just like you did all those years ago. But it seems you’re punished for doing so. Because the next thing you know, you collide with someone head-on, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. 

As well as knocking your assignment papers from your hands, to the ground—which is soaked from the melting snow.

You hear the man in front of you stumble over his apologies while you struggle to steady yourself, “I am so—so sorry. That was completely my fault, I wasn’t looking where I was—”

The words blur together as you lift your head.

“…Phainon?” 

The name slips out before you can stop it. 

For a moment, the world seems to tilt again. Though this time it has nothing to do with losing your balance.

His face shifts into one of disbelief first, it’s raw and momentary, before it disappears and an uncertain smile forms on his lips,

“Hi?” Is the only thing that leaves his mouth, soft and tentative. Despite his smile, he sounds in much disbelief himself. 

A sharp sting of pain on your temple is the first thing that greets you, sudden and rooted. Then it slowly moves to the back of your eyes, making you blink a few times. 

He looks a lot older than you remember. His voice is deeper now, his shoulders broader, his jaw sharper. He definitely didn't tower over you either. If you’d only gotten a glance while passing by, you think, you might’ve not even recognized him. Maybe six years just does that to people—stretches them into versions you don’t recognize at first glance. 

“How are you even-” you swallow the heat bubbling in your mouth, “What are you doing here?” 

The hostility in your voice doesn’t escape him and yet he tries—poorly—to ease the tension. “Well,” he blinks, “that doesn’t sound like a warm welcome.” 

“You’re back?” you ask, memories already sneaking their way into your bones. Biting and clawing at every corner.

The sound of children's laughter echoes in your ears first, sweet and ripe, bubbling in the air like something untouched by worry. Like they haven’t seen a day of unease. You would laugh at the absurdity of it.

Then you get hit with a strong, sugary smell. Something fresh out of the oven, waiting for those tiny, careful steps sneaking into the kitchen in the dead of night. A kid dragging a chair across the floor with all his might, making a sour face at the loud scratch. Another scrambling up after it as she tries to steady herself. You can’t quite recall the flavour, only the small, charming victory of finally stealing a bite of that glazed pie.

But it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Yes, it’s only been, what, a week now?” he tilts his head in confusion, his voice bright and clear, “But I think I’m already getting used to things here–”

“You can’t.”

“What?” his face drops, and you hear the genuine hurt coming from him, but you continue, “You can’t just come back, and–and–” you cut yourself off, taking a deep breath. 

You are shaking now. You want to believe it is from the low temperatures, or out of fear for failing your class—since the papers are beyond salvaging. But the truth lingers clear in the air. The snow, it seems, isn’t capable of covering that. 

“I know how this seems, but give me a chance to–” he trails off for a short second, raises a hand, maybe to you, maybe to hold onto anything else. But it doesn’t quite reach anywhere. Then he takes in a sharp breath, and continues, “To explain, at the very least.”

To explain. To explain? 

The absurdity of it is enough in itself to make you laugh.

You believe you are slow to anger. Patient and measured. However, Phainon, it seems, is very capable of pushing you to the limit. He’s been back in your life for all of fifteen minutes—after six years of silence, not so much as a phone call, and somehow he’s already worn through the last of your patience.

You bend down to gather your mush of an assignment, a tsk slipping past your teeth involuntarily. The smudged ink slides downwards in thin rivers as you lift up the sheets, the now soft and fragile corners of the paper dissolving against your fingers.

“Did you think at all before coming here, Phainon?” The name doesn’t slip out as easily this time, now that you’ve come to your senses. Instead, it is accompanied with a shaky breath. You internally wince at the foreignness of it.

“Trust me-”

“Trust you.”

“I have thought about it. I have thought about everything.” He's speaking quickly now. You’re not sure if it’s because his pulse is hammering just as strongly as yours, or because he is scared you’ll cut him off again. 

“If we could just sit down and talk—that's all I’m asking for.”

A long beat of silence passes after that. You stare into his eyes for a good ten seconds. He stares back with raw hope and the kind of intensity that only a certain shade of blue can carry. The steady rhythm of water dripping from your hands pulls a weary sigh out of you, “I’m going to fail this class, you know.”

He blinks at that. Guilt settling in his features, sharp and immediate.

“You’re not,” he says quickly. His gaze drops to the ruined papers in your hands, jaw tightening as water continues to drip between your fingers.

Another beat. Then, more carefully—

“I don’t… actually have a submission myself, yet.” He lets out a breath, almost sheepish. “I transferred in late. I was supposed to ask someone about partnering up.”

He can’t be serious.

“You can’t be serious–”

“So. Be my partner.”

“Oh my god.”

Yeah. Oh god indeed.

[crystalcrys]

04:47

it is easy to love xiao.

the starry sky is blinking above you, the clock is showing 04:47, you are curled up under blankets in your balcony, watching the flickering leds reflect on his face.

“the sun will rise soon” he whispered tenderly, not sure you’re awake or not. 

you turned on your side, caressing his cheek with your knuckles. partly to let him know you’re awake, partly to feel his warmth, as if your bodies being pressed together wasn’t enough.

“it’s a sunday tomorrow, just enjoy this while it lasts” you whispered back.

and when it gets tough, you think being wrapped up in each other, limbs tangled together, your presence filling in his space… can fix everything.

in these moments, in this silence between you, it doesn’t seem so bad.

because xiao is easy. it may sound cheap but that’s the truth. to live with xiao is easy, to talk with xiao is easy, to joke with xiao, to celebrate with xiao…

to love xiao is easy.

he will give you reasons to love him, many in fact. they’re quiet but they’re plenty. 

you’ll find a reason with the way he brings your coffee to bed every morning, the way he folds your clothes for you after a warm bath, the way he’ll massage your shoulders to ease the tension the day built on you…

he will do all of these, and so, it is easy to love xiao.

“you’ll be tired during the day, then i will have to drag you around” he turned his head towards you, your hands now playing with a strand of hair at the top of his head.

“even so, i still think i would trade the energy i’d have tomorrow for this moment.” soft words spoken so much with care, with so much thought behind them. that’s how you intended it, and that’s how he receives them.

your love isn’t loud with xiao, it is much, but it isn’t overwhelming. it is just enough to fill in every hole, to make its way around your life. and being aware of this, you both know how to show affection in the simplicity of it.

so when he says “just go to sleep” with that careful look in his eyes, like even looking at you in a wrong way will break you, like you are made of light itself…

you know it means “I love you.”

because it is just that simple, that easy with xiao.

[crystalcrys]

— My Dear, Your Dearest

a series of your letters to your husband, diluc ragnvindr, during his absence.

tags: heavy (?) angst towards the end, major character death, that's all i can think of but be sure to correct me if i missed anything. wc: 2.2k words a/n: i'm sorry, i was bored... and ty for reading as always!

My Dear Diluc, It has yet been another morning without your presence. The sun shone the same, the birds chirped at their usual spot outside our house, yet you are not with me. It has been long since I’ve grown accustomed to our bed without your warmth, but the sting still lingers, and my eyes burn the same when I—

“Okay—just, what is this, my dear?”

“It’s my letter to you! I have been very lonely today you see, so I decided to write a letter to you in the hours of your absence.” You answered back with a playful grin.

The redhaired man, Diluc Ragnvindr, your lover; put the paper down on his desk—where you had left for him to find it earlier this afternoon—and flashed a knowing smile your way.

“Is that so?” he said while grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you to his lap.

You went down with a giggle and a soft bite at your lower lip, holding his neck to support yourself on his legs.

“Mhm, it was cold and silent in our house. Madeleine was out to run some errands so I didn’t have anyone to chat with either,” you murmured, tangling your finger in his hair at the back of his neck, “And I even baked some cake. Can you believe that?”

Your lover huffed softly, caressing your thighs gently, “You were that bored?”

You smiled back with a shrug, “It appears so.”

“Another one?” Diluc looked at you in disbelief as you helped take his coat out and hang it on the back of his chair.

“Just read it! I spent effort in writing it you know.”

You huffed, and a small pout appeared on your lips, which Diluc gladly erased with a small peck to the corner of it.

“If my dearest wishes so,” a small sigh but with no real annoyance behind it, “I shall read it.”

He cleared his throat as he picked up the letter to read it—

My Dear Diluc, You left before I woke up again, which is becoming a suspicious habit. How dare you leave your beautiful, smart, kind, funny, radiating, sweet—

“Wow, you really took your time with that one.”

“No interrupting please. Every word was written with intent and meaning.”

He takes a moment to take a deep breath, lets a small laugh escape him, and continues.

How dare you leave your beautiful, smart, kind, funny, radiating, sweet wife behind and attend to your gruesomely duties. She has been very sad you know.

“It’s true, I have been.”

That gets another laugh out of him.

I passed by the balcony where we once argued about whether dawn was worth waking up for. You said it was peaceful. I said sleep was better. I still stand by that—but I’d wake early if you stayed. Also, I walked past the study and resisted the urge to sit in your chair and dramatically sigh like you do. I call that growth. Be home at your usual time. I refuse to eat dinner alone, it doesn’t taste the same. Your dearest wife

Every day—as Diluc woke up and left the mansion to attend to his duties—you, as the beloved spouse, attended to your own duty, writing your husband letters.

It was time killing, and you didn’t want to ramble Madeleine’s ears off, so writing to your lover seemed like the best idea.

And the most fun part—you would get to see him read it and react to them every night.

You’d wake up, do anything else you needed to do, and when you had some free time you’d sit down and get to writing. Then leave it neatly on Diluc’s desk for him to come and find it.

After the fourth one he stopped being surprised and started expecting them. It became your routine.

My Dear, overly serious husband, Good news: I didn’t rearrange the wine cellar today. Bad news: I thought about it. I spent the afternoon in the garden and attempted to prune something. I remembered your instructions, “gentle, precise, thoughtful.” Naturally, I ignored all of that and went with instinct. If the plants survive, it will be out of spite.

Diluc turned to you with, let’s say, a sour expression on his face.

“I promise they’re fine!” you patted his shoulders from where you stood behind him.

“Sweetheart—” he gave up that sentence and turned back to the paper with a sigh.

Do you remember the time you tried to explain tannins to me for twenty minutes? I nodded the entire time and understood absolutely nothing. I miss that. Not the tannins—the way you looked so convinced I was following along. Come back soon tonight. I still need you to finish telling me about that one story with Kaeya. Always, Your dearest wife

Diluc, You came home late yesterday. I noticed, but I won’t make a dramatic point of it. Not like the time I waited up for you and fell asleep in your chair, only for you to carry me to bed and pretend it “wasn’t an inconvenience.” I remember you muttering the entire way.

“You know it isn’t,” he squeezed your hand while holding the paper with his other one, “I was muttering, because it is not good to wait until late hours to the point where you fall asleep on my chair.”

“What can I do?” you sighed theatrically, “I’m just hopelessly in love with you.”

“Hopelessly dramatic,” he corrected, though his grip on your hand tightened just a fraction.

You tilted your head, watching him from the corner of your eye. “Yet you still come to me every night.”

Diluc didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped back to the paper, though it was clear he wasn’t reading anymore.

“About that,” he exhaled quietly, “…Work has been getting more demanding lately,” he said at last, “There may be nights where I won’t return at all.”

You felt a sharp sting in your left side, “Not at all?”

“For two, perhaps three days at a time,” he clarified, then lifted your hand up, gently brushing his lips to your fingers. “It is temporary. But necessary.”

You leaned slightly closer. “And here I thought you just enjoyed my company too much to stay away.”

“I do,” he replied, far too quickly to pass as indifference.

That earned him a faint smile.

Then, softly he added, “I will return as soon as I am able.”

Days passed, and Diluc stayed true to his word.

He was gone like he said. But he returned after three days at most, again, like he said.

You kept writing your letters. Some you sent to him; others you left in his workroom, where they gathered dust on his desk, waiting patiently to be opened when he came back to the warmth of your shared home.

Diluc never wrote back. He was busy, that you knew. Still, he made sure to read every letter aloud when he was home. Even on nights when his eyes threatened to close between sentences, and you had to interrupt him, gently insisting he go to bed.

“I’m not tired,” he murmured, even as his eyelids dipped.

You only hummed in response, unimpressed.

“You said that last time too,” you reminded him, already taking the letter from his hands before it slipped. “And the time before that.”

You had already given up trying to convince him.

“If you’re going to read them, you’re going to sit down,” you said, nudging him toward the armchair instead of the desk.

He would sit down, get comfortable, and wait for you to hand him the letters. Then you would give them to him unwillingly and take your spot between his legs and snuggle up to his body.

It became you routine, replacing your old routine. It wasn’t ideal, him being exhausted almost every night and you being left alone most days, but it was all you had for now and you’d learn to embrace it.

My Dearest Diluc, It is the sixth evening since you left on your business trip, and the mansion feels unusually still without your presence. The halls are as grand as ever, the candles as warm, and yet everything seems to echo a little more than usual, as if even the walls have noticed you are gone.

Diluc left, as usual. Not for two or three days this time, but for an indefinite amount of time.

You didn’t want him to feel bad, you knew there wasn’t anything he can do about it. Work is work, and some sacrifices are necessary when you are Diluc Ragnvindr.

So you smiled warmly at your husband as he waved at you from on top of his horse. His silhouette slowly getting smaller with each passing second.

And when he was completely out of sight, you turned back, got into the house, rushed to your bedroom and started writing.

The staff continues their work diligently, of course. Madeleine keeps everything in perfect order, as she always does. Though I could tell she, too, noticed the change in the household’s rhythm. The servants move through the corridors with their usual grace, yet even they seem a little more subdued, as though your absence has softened the mansion’s usual energy. As for me, I have been trying to keep myself occupied. Dinner has been quiet. I have been eating in the smaller dining room instead of the grand hall. Madeleine suggested it might feel less empty, and she was right. Still, I catch myself glancing toward the door out of habit, as if you might walk in at any moment, removing your gloves and asking how the day went. I wonder if your journey is going well. I hope you are not overworking yourself. I know how easily you fall into that habit, convincing yourself that everything can be handled alone. It cannot, you know, not everything should be. I miss you more than I expected to admit, even to myself. With all my love, Your wife

Two weeks had passed.

The house had settled into a quieter routine, one you had never quite grown used to. Even the smallest sounds felt louder than they should: the soft closing of doors, the rushed footsteps of staff, the wind brushing against the tall windows.

That morning, a maid arrived at your door with a sealed letter.

You recognized it immediately.

You found yourself reading it twice. Then a third time, as if repetition might stretch the message into something longer, something more real.

A return.

Diluc has sent word that he is coming back.

So you did what you do best, what has become a habit for you for the last month. You sat down, and started writing.

My Dear Diluc, I received your message today. I must admit, I read it more than once. You are coming home. The winery feels different even knowing this. The silence no longer feels endless, it feels temporary, as if it has already started making room for your footsteps again. I find myself thinking about the simplest things—your coat by the entrance, your voice calling for the staff, the way you loosen your gloves after long days. I didn’t realize how many small parts of you I had grown used to until they were suddenly missing. I am… looking forward to your return more than I can properly express. The house will be warm again when you step inside. Please come home safely. Not quickly, safely. I will be waiting. Your wife

My Dear Diluc, It has yet been another morning without your presence. The sun shone the same, the birds chirped at their usual spot outside our house, yet you are not with me. It has been long since I’ve grown accustomed to our bed without your warmth, but the sting still lingers, and my eyes burn the same when I reach for your side out of habit, only to find nothing there. They told me you would not be coming home, that the road took you on your return from that work trip, far too suddenly, far too cruelly. Five months have passed since that night. An accident, they said. As if such a simple word could ever hold what it truly means to lose you. I spend the afternoons at out garden now, attending to the plants; gentle, precise, thoughtful. I’m not sure if I’m doing a good job, I think I regret not listening to your instructions now. Do you remember how I would fall asleep hunched over your desk? Waiting for you to come home like I used to. Now I just let myself sit at the edge of your chair every time I pass by the door. It doesn’t happen very often. Now I sit silently by your grave, still waiting for your arrival. It is not as comfortable, yet it seems it’s taken the place of your office chair I once clung so tightly to. They told me time would soften this. That grief, like all things, would eventually lose its sharp edges and become something softer, easier to carry. There is nothing soft about the absence you left behind. It is not a quiet thing. It lives in every doorway you once stood in, in every unfinished sentence I still speak aloud before remembering there is no one here to finish it for me. I went to visit your grave today, again, as always. The stone is still shining brightly, too clean for time to have healed anything at all. I sat there longer than I meant to, again, as always. Rest well, my dear Diluc, Your dearest wife

[crystalcrys]

my knees are KILLING me. so i came up with a solution... here you go.

Tender fingers squeeze your calves gently, slow and deliberate, sliding back and forth in an unhurried rhythm. 

Above you, the lights of The Astral Express shine brightly. Normally, you’d retreat to the Data Bank for something like this, but everyone is already asleep and you told Dan Heng you needed some air tonight. So you settle here instead, in the parlor car, where the ceilings feel higher and the air moves more freely than in that cramped old room your lover so contentedly claims as his own. 

You stretch under his touch when your legs start getting sore, his hands still for a short moment, but they don’t leave. Once you’ve found a comfortable position again, he continues his caressing. 

“Does it hurt here too?” he asks, thumbs pressing into a different spot. 

The relief, along with the pain, draws a quick mewl out of you. “Gods, I think it hurts just about everywhere.” that earns you a look from him, not with any real bite behind it, but certainly firm. 

“You should stop pushing yourself so hard. It’s catching up to you.” 

It is true that today was… let’s say, busier than usual. You’ll manage though, because that’s what you always do, right? 

“And you should stop worrying so much.” you plant a soft peck to his cheek, “It won’t be long before your hair starts getting all white.” A quiet snicker leaves your lips before you can stop it. 

“Maybe I will once you stop overexhausting yourself.” He shoots a look at you again.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, “Let me enjoy this.”

Dan Heng brings one of his hands to your face, and even though the loss of warmth on your leg earns him a glare, the immediate affection he shows by caressing your cheek makes up for it.

He draws little circles on your face with his thumb while the rest of his fingers are tangled in your hair. 

“You don’t have to tire yourself out to get my attention,” his eyes meet yours, “You know that, right?”

You smile at him, because how can you not when he’s being so gentle with you?

“I know, Dan.” you hum, “I’ll try to take better care of myself.”

Then you scoot towards him from where you’re resting and lay your head on his shoulders carefully, your legs still draped over his. 

“You better.” Dan Heng grumbles, but still lightly presses his lips to your temple.