MILKSHAKES AND MISUNDERSTANDINGS.
summary ⟡ You’re drunk, and now you’re Phainon’s problem. It really doesn’t help that you’re really pretty, too.
contains ⟡ 2.1k wc, gender-neutral reader, modern and college/university settings, fluff, drunk shenanigans, mc is implied to be short (shorter than phainon), mydei as your brother
part two
The music is still going strong inside the house, bass vibrating through the floorboards like it has something to prove. People laugh, drink, spill things, and dance badly. Phainon steps outside, fingers adjusting the strap of his backpack as he inhales the crisp night air. It’s too loud in there. Too many people, too much sweat. He’s halfway down the steps, ready to head to his car, when—
“Phainon!”
He turns, half-expecting someone to try and drag him back in. Instead, it’s Stelle, balancing you awkwardly on her shoulders like you’re a particularly clingy scarf. You’re giggling—loudly—arms dangling down her back as you hiccup into her hoodie.
Phainon blinks. “…Are you okay?”
“No,” Stelle says, grinning. “But not because of me.”
You choose that moment to mumble something incomprehensible into Stelle’s hair, which only makes her snort.
“You’re leaving, yeah?” she asks, eyeing the car keys in his hand.
Phainon nods slowly. “Yeah. Why?”
Her eyes light up with sudden mischief. That’s never a good sign. “Perfect! I need a favor.”
He narrows his eyes. “No.”
“You didn’t even hear what it was.”
“I don’t need to,” he replies flatly, already turning back toward his car.
But Stelle is persistent. She adjusts her grip on you and jogs forward, nearly dropping you in the process. “Wait—okay, okay, listen. I can’t leave. I’m the host, and there’s still like, fifteen people inside trying to start a game of strip Uno.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“It is!” she says, laughing. “Which is why I need your help.”
Phainon sighs. He already doesn’t like where this is going. “What do you want.”
“Just take them home,” she says, nodding toward you.
You look up at him through half-lidded eyes. “You have really pretty hair,” you slur, then burst into laughter for absolutely no reason.
Phainon stares at you. “Seriously?”
“C’mon,” Stelle pleads. “You two have classes together. You at least know each other.”
“Barely.”
“But you’re not total strangers. And you’re not drunk,” she adds with a meaningful raise of her brow.
He hesitates. You’re swaying now, your arms thrown dramatically over Stelle’s shoulder as you hum some off-tune version of a pop song. You’re a mess. But a harmless one, probably. A pretty one too, not that he wants to admit that part out loud.
“Why me?” he asks.
“Because I trust you not to murder them,” Stelle says, pushing you toward him. “And I’m desperate.”
He catches you out of instinct, your body slumping against his chest with a drunken sigh. You smell like cheap vodka and a hint of whatever overpriced cologne you wear. You blink up at him, dazed.
“Are we dating now?” you whisper.
Phainon flushes and looks away. “No. We’re going to your apartment. If you can tell me where it is.”
“I live… somewhere.” You smile proudly. “I can show you with my feet.”
“I don’t think your feet can walk right now.”
Stelle claps her hands. “Wonderful! This is going so well. Thank you, Phainon. You’re the best.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“You didn’t say no,” she sing-songs, already retreating toward the house. “Get home safely, you guys!”
And just like that, he’s left holding a very drunk, very warm, very giggly you, with no escape route.
You look up at him again. “I want milkshake,” you murmur.
He closes his eyes.
This night is going to be a problem.
The corner store glows like a little haven in the night—one of those 24-hour places that somehow sells everything from cough syrup to fried chicken to, thankfully, milkshakes. The bell above the door jingles softly as Phainon pushes it open with you half-limp under his arm.
The guy behind the counter barely glances up. The woman in the back, though—older, with kind eyes and a hairnet—offers a small smile as she wipes down the counter.
You’re humming.
Phainon glances sideways at you. You’re perched on one of those tall stools by the counter, your feet swinging because they don’t quite reach the ground. You’re humming something loud and off-key, the kind of tune that sounds like it came from a cartoon. Or maybe a kid’s show. He has no idea what it is.
But at least you’re not shouting. Or crying. Or breaking anything.
He’s seen all types. Angry drunks who punch walls. Sad drunks who sob into their phones. Touchy-feely drunks who hang off strangers. And the tantrum-throwers—the ones who scream at vending machines and accuse chairs of betrayal. But you? You’re just… weird.
Weird and wobbly and maybe two sips away from knocking over your own milkshake when it arrives. But harmless.
Pretty, too, he thinks yet again.
You gasp when the woman behind the counter sets down the milkshake in front of you—a towering swirl of vanilla and chocolate, with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry on top. Your eyes light up like you’ve never seen something so beautiful.
Phainon watches you, completely captivated.
Yeah… you’re pretty and cute. Dangerously so.
The woman chuckles as she hands over the second milkshake—his, much simpler. Just plain vanilla.
She wipes her hands on a towel and glances between the two of you. “Are you their boyfriend?”
Phainon nearly chokes on nothing. His hand shoots up in defense as his face goes red. “Oh—uh—no! No, no, no, nothing like that—”
But you’re faster. You turn to her, eyes wide with a dopey grin and whipped cream on your upper lip.
“We just started dating today,” you declare proudly. “I think I really love him.”
Phainon stares at you. The woman laughs, full-bellied and warm.
Phainon rubs the back of his neck, eyes wide. “N-No, ma’am! You’ve got it all wrong, I swear. We’re not dating. A mutual friend asked me to take them home—uh, safely. We barely even know each other.”
The woman just raises an eyebrow, still smiling.
“You’re a good man,” she says. “Not a lot of people would go out of their way for someone like that. And you’re only acquaintances?”
He laughs, awkward and strained. “Haha, yeah. That’s all.”
Then your phone starts ringing.
It’s not a sound he recognizes, which means it’s yours. You fumble for it with a dramatic groan, clearly annoyed at the interruption from your milkshake bliss. Your lower lip juts out into a pout as you dig the phone out of your bag and stare at the screen like it personally offended you.
Phainon watches you and, unbidden, a single thought pops into his mind: How is it even possible to be this adorable?
He exhales slowly and looks away, focusing on his milkshake instead.
You fumble with the screen, tongue sticking out in deep concentration before finally managing to answer the call.
Phainon tries not to listen—he really does—but he can’t help it. Not when it’s on speaker.
“Where are you?” a man’s voice says—deep, steady, a little stern. “You told me you’re coming home early.”
Phainon stiffens.
His milkshake suddenly tastes weird. Too sweet. Too artificial. It sits on his tongue like plastic.
Boyfriend?
His eyebrows pull together. There’s something tight in his chest. Annoyance? Discomfort? Jealousy?
Wait—what the hell is he even feeling?
You roll your eyes dramatically at the phone. “You’re sounding a lot like mom, De.”
Oh.
Phainon nearly chokes on relief.
Brother. Right. That makes way more sense. Still, he feels the heat creep up the back of his neck. Why was he even curious? You’re just classmates. Barely that. He’s doing a favor, that’s all.
“And you interrupted me!” you grumble. “I was enjoying my milkshake when you called.”
From the other side, there’s a sigh. “Sorry. Are you by yourself? Do you need me to come get you?”
“Nope!” you chirp, far too quickly. “My boyfriend is with me. We got milkshakes and he’s bringing me home.”
Phainon’s soul leaves his body. His hand freezes mid-sip. He slowly lowers the straw from his lips, blinking as the words echo in his skull.
My boyfriend is with me.
Silence stretches from the phone like a bomb waiting to explode.
“What do you mean by that?” your brother finally says, voice low and dangerous. “What boyfriend?”
Panic hits Phainon like a sledgehammer. He sees your mouth open—nope. Nope. Nope nope NOPE.
He snatches the phone from your hands before you can say anything else that might end in his funeral.
“H-Hello! Hi! This is—uh, this is not your sibling’s boyfriend,” Phainon blurts out. “I swear, we’re not dating! A mutual friend—Stelle—asked me to take them home because they couldn’t and—uh—it’s just a huge misunderstanding, they’re really drunk right now, I swear I’m not trying anything—!”
The line is quiet. Too quiet.
Then finally, “Do you even know the address to their apartment?” the man asks flatly.
“Uh—no. Can you…?”
“I’ll send it here.”
“Thank you!” Phainon says too fast, voice a little too high.
“…Whatever,” your brother mutters. A pause. “If you don’t bring my sibling home unharmed, I’m going to beat you into a pulp.”
Click.
Phainon stares at your phone.
He hasn’t realized he’s holding his breath until it comes out in one slow, shaky exhale.
Your brother is terrifying.
A ping snaps him out of it. He glances at the screen and sees the notification—a text from “De.” A dropped pin. Your address.
You, blissfully unaware of the chaos you’ve caused, are still sipping your milkshake with a dreamy smile.
Phainon rests his forehead on the counter for a second.
What the hell did I even get myself into?
By the time Phainon pulls up to your apartment complex, the milkshake incident and the accidental fake-boyfriend phone call have fried his brain into static. He parks the car carefully, shifts it into neutral, and sighs.
You’re asleep in the passenger seat with your head slumped against the window, a faint trail of drool on your chin. The milkshake cup is still cradled in your arms like it’s precious treasure.
God, you’re adorable even when you’re not doing anything.
Phainon rounds the car and opens your door, crouching to gently coax you out. “Alright, come on, you’re home. Up we go—”
You groan, eyes barely opening. “Is this heaven?”
“No,” he mutters, slipping an arm around your back, “it’s your apartment complex, which is definitely not the same thing.”
He pulls you out with minimal resistance, hoisting you bridal-style because your legs clearly don’t know how to function right now. You blink up at him, dazed, smiling.
Then he hears it—the heavy, deliberate thump-thump of footsteps behind him.
Phainon freezes.
He turns around slowly, instinctively holding you closer. And he gapes.
Standing in the soft yellow glow of the apartment complex’s outdoor lights is a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a black Kremnos University hoodie, arms crossed, jaw set, and a mop of unmistakably golden hair gleaming like a freaking anime character.
Phainon’s stomach sinks.
No.
No. No. No way.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he breathes.
Because the man standing before him isn’t just your brother.
He’s Mydeimos.
The Mydeimos.
The Golden-Haired Lion of Kremnos U. Captain of the basketball team. Star player. Media darling. Enemy of Okhema University. Phainon’s personal rival.
The same Mydeimos Phainon has spent three years trying to outscore, outrank, and outshine on the court.
And he’s your brother.
Mydeimos stops a few feet away and squints. Then his lip curls.
“It’s you,” he says coldly.
Phainon opens his mouth, but no words come out.
“You’re my sibling’s boyfriend, huh?” Mydeimos continues, like the words taste sour in his mouth. His eyes narrow, voice sharp as a knife. “Phainon of Okhema University.”
Phainon’s brain short-circuits. “Wait, no, hold on—this isn’t what it looks like—!”
Too late. You’ve stirred in his arms, letting out a sleepy sigh.
“I really, really love you, Phainon,” you mumble with a dopey grin before nestling against his chest like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Phainon’s soul leaves his body for the second time tonight.
Mydeimos raises an eyebrow. There’s a pause. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
He steps aside as Phainon carefully carries you inside and sets you gently on a couch. You’re out cold again, snoring softly.
When he turns back, Mydeimos is standing in the doorway, still as a statue, arms crossed like a final boss guarding the last checkpoint.
Phainon gulps as he walks himself outside the apartment complex.
“I know that look in your eyes,” Mydeimos says quietly behind him.
Phainon flinches, turning around and eyes darting up to meet his.
“You’re not getting my blessing.”
Then, without waiting for a response, Mydeimos turns on his heel and slams the door in Phainon’s face.
Silence.
Phainon stands there, in your apartment, with his heart racing, his face burning, and the distinct sense that his life has just gotten a lot more complicated.
© 2025 kominigiru.
note: i should really be writing hwftch but i decided to write a one-shot instead. i also dont know how apartments work so yeah 😁 hope this was an enjoyable read tho!! lots of love ❤️❤️
also posted on ao3!