Seen This art trend going around and wanted to give it a try myself
Defo a lot of fun and tried a tone of new art styles like greek pottery for Phainon!!!
yeah I love characters who get trapped in timeloops where they have to endlessly watch the most traumatic events of their lives again and again with nothing they can do about it, especially when that event revolves around hurting someone they love or causing damage to themselves. hey what’s ptsd
prompt: phainon modern au based off of the song “the bells - jane kristiansen” (basically phainon lives in a time loop where hes caught in a catastrophe that kills him and everyone he loves including reader. the thing is, the time loop resets only to a specific point in time and phainon becomes the anchor of the loop and takes on the modern equivalent of the coreflames which is lingering fragments of the people he failed to save)
hi…. long time no fic??? did ygs miss me HAHAHAHAHA
anyway, i’m so sorry for the lack of posts.. i’ll start posting again soon trust! the lack of motivation + being busy as shit hit me HARD but the spark came back and i can say that this work is truly one of my favorites ever (i could be biased.. i love phainon..) enjoy reading!! mwah!!
- gn reader
- your dialogue is italicized, phainon’s is in bold
- proofread!
- 3.38k words
- all i can say is it gets better in the end
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taglist: @gabmanalo @mqtsunos ,, if you want to be added in the taglist, click here!
read under the cut!
phainon had learned that there were two kinds of mornings.
there were the mornings where he remembered, and there were the mornings where he wished he didn't.
this was the first kind.
he sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting against his knees, staring at the floor.
the apartment was quiet.
too quiet.
the washing machine had stopped.
the refrigerator hummed softly from the kitchen.
somewhere outside, a car passed through the street, tires whispering against wet pavement.
a bird landed on the balcony railing.
everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.
everything was wrong.
phainon looked at the clock.
7:43.
he already knew what would happen next.
the bathroom door would open.
you would complain about the water pressure.
you would walk into the kitchen.
you would forget your phone on the counter.
you would come back for it.
you would ask whether there was any coffee left.
he knew.
he knew all of it.
he had lived this morning so many times that he could have performed it blind.
and yet, when the bedroom door opened, his heart still stopped.
you stood there.
his shirt hanging loosely from your shoulders.
sleep still clinging to your face.
you rubbed one eye.
"why are you sitting there?"
phainon stared.
you frowned.
"phainon?"
he swallowed.
"nothing."
"you look like you've seen a ghost."
he almost laughed.
"maybe i have."
you stared at him.
then you sighed.
"it’s seven forty-three in the morning. please don't start being weird before breakfast."
there.
the same sentence.
the exact same sentence.
cycle 33,550,336.
you had said it then too.
cycle 29,881,004.
you had said it.
cycle 17,201,776.
you had said it.
cycle 4,003.
you had said it.
phainon lowered his head.
"sorry."
you walked over.
"you okay?"
"yeah."
"you sure?"
"yeah."
you studied him.
then, apparently satisfied, you turned around.
"coffee?"
"yeah."
"good."
you disappeared into the kitchen.
phainon remained where he was.
his hands were shaking.
he pressed them together.
thirty-three million five hundred fifty thousand three hundred thirty-six.
that was how many times he had woken up before this one.
thirty-three million five hundred fifty thousand three hundred thirty-six mornings.
thirty-three million five hundred fifty thousand three hundred thirty-six beginnings.
and thirty-three million five hundred fifty thousand three hundred thirty-six endings.
yet somehow—
this morning still hurt.
— — —
the coffee machine beeped.
you swore.
phainon smiled despite himself.
"you broke it again?"
"i didn't break anything."
"you always say that."
"because i don't break anything."
"last tuesday—"
"that was the machine's fault."
"last tuesday, you put coffee grounds in the water tank."
"...irrelevant."
phainon laughed.
you pointed at him.
"there. that's better."
he stopped.
"what?"
"you laughed."
he looked away.
"you were being stupid."
"still."
you leaned against the counter.
"you've been strange lately."
phainon’s smile faded.
"have i?"
"yeah."
"how?"
you thought for a moment.
"i don't know."
you looked down at your coffee.
"you just seem tired."
he was tired.
aeons, he was tired.
he was tired in a way sleep couldn't fix.
tired in a way that existed somewhere deeper than his bones.
he wanted to tell you.
sometimes, he almost did.
sometimes he imagined sitting across from you at the kitchen table and saying everything.
i’ve lived this morning millions of times.
i’ve watched the city burn.
i’ve watched you die.
i’ve watched everyone die.
i’ve carried the memories of people who don't remember me.
i’ve tried everything.
i’ve failed every time.
and I don't know how many more times I can do this.
but what would you say?
you’d probably stare at him.
then you'd tell him he needed sleep.
maybe you'd make him breakfast.
maybe you'd laugh nervously because you didn't know what else to do.
and then the cycle would continue.
so phainon simply shrugged.
"i’m fine."
you sighed.
"you always say that."
he looked at you.
"yeah."
for some reason, that answer made you quiet.
— — —
the first time phainon tried to change the future, he was fourteen cycles old.
he had taken you somewhere else.
a different restaurant.
a different street.
a different route home.
you had laughed at him for being paranoid.
"you’ve checked the map three times."
"because you're terrible with directions."
"you are literally the one navigating."
"exactly."
you had laughed.
and phainon had thought—
maybe.
maybe this was it.
maybe the universe was not as cruel as he thought.
maybe the catastrophe wasn't inevitable.
maybe he had simply been approaching it wrong.
they had reached the intersection.
the traffic light turned green.
you stepped forward.
a car came around the corner.
phainon grabbed you.
the car passed.
you stumbled backward.
"what the hell?"
phainon’s heart hammered.
he looked down the road.
the car continued.
nothing happened.
nothing.
you were alive.
he had done it.
he had changed something.
he laughed.
a breathless, disbelieving laugh.
you stared.
"what?"
"we’re okay."
"yeah?"
"we’re okay."
you looked at him.
"of course we are."
that night, Phainon went to sleep believing he had won.
at 2:13 in the morning, the bells rang.
the city disappeared.
and Phainon woke up again.
— — —
he learned quickly that the universe was flexible.
but it was not merciful.
change one thing, and another replaced it.
save someone from a car accident.
they died in a fire.
prevent the fire.
an earthquake took the building.
prevent the earthquake.
a completely unrelated event happened.
every path led back to the same place.
the world ending.
the cycle restarting.
the bells ringing.
and you—
always there at the beginning.
always gone at the end.
— — —
by cycle 100, phainon had become obsessed with schedules.
he had calendars everywhere.
his phone.
his laptop.
the refrigerator.
the walls.
he marked every important event.
he mapped every disaster.
he calculated probabilities.
he wrote down names.
dates.
times.
locations.
he created spreadsheets.
then databases.
then physical notebooks.
then encrypted files.
then notebooks again.
he filled entire shelves.
you once walked into his room and stared at them.
"what are all those?"
"work."
"you have that much work?"
"something like that."
you pulled one off the shelf.
phainon immediately stood.
"don’t."
you froze.
his voice had been too sharp.
"...okay."
he took the notebook from you.
"i’m sorry."
"it’s fine."
"no."
he looked down.
"i’m sorry."
you watched him for a moment.
then you nodded.
"okay."
you left.
phainon stood there with the notebook in his hands.
he hated himself.
he hated that he couldn't explain.
he hated that he couldn't trust you with the truth.
most of all, he hated that he had begun treating you like a stranger because he was terrified of losing you.
that night, he wrote one sentence.
i cannot save them if i forget how to live with them.
— — —
cycle 4,721.
you stole his shirt.
it was a stupid thing.
entirely insignificant.
you had spilled something on your own clothes.
phainon had handed you an old t-shirt.
"here."
you put it on.
"this is yours?"
"obviously."
"it’s comfortable."
"keep it."
you looked at him.
"really?"
"yeah."
you smiled.
"thanks."
the moment was so ordinary that Phainon nearly cried.
he didn't.
instead, he looked away.
the next morning, you were still wearing it.
"you’re still wearing that?"
"you said i could keep it."
"i didn't mean forever."
"you literally said, ‘keep it.'"
phainon sighed.
"fine."
you smiled.
"good."
the cycle ended three days later.
the shirt burned with the rest of the apartment.
cycle 4,722.
you stole the same shirt again.
phainon stared at you.
"what?"
"nothing."
"why are you looking at me like that?"
"you’re wearing my shirt."
"yeah?"
"you haven't stolen it yet."
you blinked.
"yet?"
he laughed.
"never mind."
cycle 100,000.
phainon owned seven shirts.
you had stolen six.
he gave up.
cycle 1,000,000.
he stopped caring about the shirts.
they were no longer clothes.
they were proof.
proof that even when the universe reset everything—
some things returned.
the same apartment.
the same coffee machine.
the same cracked mug.
the same shirt.
the same stupid jokes.
the same person standing in the kitchen asking if there was coffee.
maybe that was what kept him alive.
not hope.
familiarity.
there were cycles where you didn't steal his shirt.
those were the worst.
because phainon had become dependent on tiny constants.
if you wore something else, he became terrified.
if you took a different route to work, he panicked.
if you ordered a different meal, he watched you carefully.
if you laughed at a joke you had never laughed at before, his chest tightened.
he had spent so long trying to make the world predictable that unpredictability became frightening.
one day, you noticed.
"you keep staring at me."
"sorry."
"did i do something?"
"no."
"you keep saying that."
"i know."
you sat beside him.
"what’s going on?"
phainon looked at you.
"i don't know."
that was the first honest answer he'd given you in years.
— — —
cycle 8,291,203.
you found him on the apartment balcony.
it was raining.
phainon was sitting on the floor, back against the wall.
you opened the balcony door.
"you’re going to get sick."
"i’m fine."
"you are literally sitting in the rain."
"i’m aware."
you sighed.
then sat beside him.
"you know, you're allowed to not be fine."
phainon stared at the rain.
"i know."
"you don't act like it."
he said nothing.
you nudged his shoulder.
"talk to me."
"i can't."
"why?"
"because you'll forget."
you frowned.
"what?"
phainon froze.
he hadn't meant to say it.
you stared at him.
"what would I forget?"
he looked away.
"nothing."
"phainon."
"i’m sorry."
"you’re scaring me."
that sentence destroyed him.
because he'd heard it before.
millions of times.
but this time—
you sounded afraid.
he closed his eyes.
"i’m sorry."
you didn't push him.
you simply sat there.
and eventually, the rain stopped.
— — —
cycle 12,445,882.
phainon finally told you.
not everything.
he couldn't.
but enough.
you were sitting on the living room floor.
there was a takeout container between you.
a movie played silently on the television.
phainon looked at you.
"i’ve been here before."
you frowned.
"here?"
"this room."
"obviously."
"no."
he shook his head.
"i mean this exact moment."
you stared at him.
"i’ve had this conversation with you before."
"how many times?"
he didn't answer.
"phainon."
"millions."
silence.
you looked at him.
he waited for you to laugh.
you didn't.
"you mean you've dreamed about this?"
"no."
"you remember it?"
"every time."
your expression changed.
fear.
confusion.
then something softer.
"how many?"
he swallowed.
"thirty-three million."
you stared at him.
"that’s impossible."
“i know."
"then how—"
"i don't know."
he looked down.
"i don't know anymore."
his hands shook.
"i’ve tried everything."
you didn't speak.
"i’ve tried changing things. i’ve tried saving people. i’ve tried leaving. i’ve tried staying. i’ve tried killing the problem before it started. i’ve tried doing nothing."
his voice cracked.
"nothing works."
you were quiet.
"and every time?"
phainon looked at you.
"every time."
you whispered:
"and me?"
he couldn't answer.
and that answer was good enough.
you didn't remember.
of course you didn't.
the next morning, you woke up normally.
you didn't know you'd had the conversation.
you didn't know you'd listened to him cry.
you didn't know you'd held his hands while he shook.
you didn't know you'd promised to believe him.
you didn't know you'd told him:
"then we'll figure it out."
phainon remembered.
he always remembered.
and that was the problem.
— — —
cycle 20,000,000.
he stopped telling you.
because hope became dangerous.
you would believe him.
you would help.
you would try.
you would become attached to the problem.
and then the cycle would reset.
he couldn't keep doing that to you.
so he lied.
again.
and again.
and again.
cycle 25,000,000.
phainon forgot his mother's voice.
he realized it while washing dishes.
he froze.
the plate slipped from his hand.
it shattered.
he stared at the pieces.
he could remember her face.
he could remember her hands.
he could remember the shape of her smile.
but not her voice.
he sat on the kitchen floor.
the coreflames inside him burned.
he whispered:
"i’m sorry."
he didn't know who he was apologizing to.
maybe everyone.
maybe himself.
maybe the people whose voices were disappearing from his memory one by one.
then he heard footsteps.
you entered the kitchen.
"did you break something?"
phainon wiped his face.
"no."
you looked at the floor.
"there’s a plate."
"i know."
"you okay?"
"yeah."
then looked at him.
then at the broken plate.
then back at him.
"come here."
he blinked.
"what?"
"come here."
you helped him stand.
then you hugged him.
not dramatically.
just the simple embrace of someone who knew another person was hurting.
phainon’s arms remained at his sides.
for a moment.
then he held on.
his face pressed against your shoulder.
he closed his eyes.
he couldn't remember his mother's voice.
but he could still hear yours.
and suddenly, that was enough to keep breathing.
— — —
cycle 30,000,000.
he started recording things.
not disasters.
not dates.
not deaths.
memories.
he recorded himself talking.
he recorded you laughing.
he recorded the sound of the rain against the balcony.
he recorded the washing machine.
the coffee machine.
the train outside.
the church bells.
the sound of footsteps in the hallway.
he recorded everything.
because he had learned something.
memory wasn't permanent.
it was something fragile.
something that had to be carried.
so he carried it.
— — —
cycle 32,000,000.
the recordings began disappearing.
not literally.
phainon simply stopped recognizing some of them.
a voice would play.
he would know it belonged to someone important.
but he couldn't remember who.
that frightened him.
he deleted nothing.
he labeled everything.
mom.
friends.
home.
you.
he never labeled anything else.
— — —
cycle 33,000,000.
there were only 550,336 cycles left.
for the first time, phainon began counting down.
not because he knew why.
because he was desperate.
— — —
550,336.
he woke up.
you were wearing his shirt.
he almost laughed.
"still stealing those?"
you looked down.
"what?"
"my shirt."
you smiled.
"you’re the one who gave it to me."
"i know."
"then stop complaining."
he smiled.
"okay."
— — —
100,000.
you were making breakfast.
phainon stood in the doorway.
you looked over.
"what?"
"nothing."
"you’ve been staring for five minutes."
"i know."
"do you need something?"
"no."
you shrugged.
"okay."
you continued cooking.
phainon watched.
he tried to memorize everything.
the sunlight.
the sound of the pan.
the smell of food.
the tiny movement of your shoulders.
the ordinary quiet of the apartment.
he thought:
if this is all i get, let me remember it.
— — —
10,000.
you made the paper bell again.
you held it up.
"look."
phainon stared.
"still terrible."
"excuse me?"
"it leans."
"it’s supposed to."
"why?"
"it’s artistic."
"sure."
you laughed.
he smiled.
he kept the bell.
— — —
1,000.
phainon couldn't sleep.
you found him sitting in the living room.
"you okay?"
"yeah."
"you’re lying."
he smiled faintly.
"you always say that."
"because you're always lying."
you sat beside him.
"what’s wrong?"
he looked at you.
then at the paper bell sitting on the table.
"nothing."
you sighed.
"fine."
you leaned back.
"then i’ll just sit here."
phainon stared at the television.
neither of you spoke.
the clock ticked.
11:58.
11:59.
midnight.
the bells rang.
phainon’s eyes widened.
nothing happened.
the bells stopped.
he looked at the clock.
12:01.
the world was still there.
he stared.
you frowned.
"what?"
he whispered:
"nothing."
still there.
still there.
still there.
every day.
every morning.
every night.
nothing changed.
— — —
phainon stopped counting.
he was afraid.
not of dying.
he’d done that too many times.
he was afraid of being wrong.
what if this wasn't the end?
what if there were another 33 million cycles?
what if he'd miscounted?
what if the bells stopped because he had finally forgotten what they meant?
what if hope itself was another trap?
you found him sitting at the kitchen table.
"you look terrible."
"thanks."
"you know what I mean."
"i do."
you placed a cup of coffee in front of him.
"drink."
he looked at it.
then at you.
"thanks."
"you’re welcome."
you sat across from him.
for a while, neither of you spoke.
then you said:
"you know what i’ve been thinking?"
"what?"
"this apartment is really ugly."
phainon laughed.
"what?"
"the couch is terrible."
"it’s comfortable."
"it’s ugly."
"the table is worse."
"i like the table."
"of course you do."
you smiled.
phainon looked around.
the ugly couch.
the terrible table.
the cracked mug.
the refrigerator that hummed too loudly.
the washing machine that rattled.
the balcony.
the paper bell.
your stolen shirt.
home.
he finally understood.
he didn't want paradise.
he wanted this.
— — —
ten.
nine.
eight.
phainon stood on the balcony.
you stood beside him.
seven.
six.
the city stretched beneath you.
five.
the bells began ringing.
four.
you looked at him.
"what’s happening?"
three.
phainon smiled.
"i don't know."
two.
the coreflames burned.
one.
the bells rang.
and—
nothing happened.
for several seconds, neither of you moved.
the city remained.
cars continued down the street.
lights stayed on in apartment windows.
someone laughed somewhere below.
a dog barked.
a train passed.
the world continued.
phainon stared.
he waited.
one second.
two.
ten.
a minute.
nothing.
his knees gave out.
you caught him.
"phainon!"
he laughed.
he couldn't stop.
he covered his face.
his shoulders shook.
you crouched beside him.
"hey."
he couldn't speak.
"it’s over."
you looked at him.
"what?"
"it’s over."
you didn't understand.
but you smiled anyway.
"okay."
phainon looked at you.
for the first time in 33,550,336 cycles—
there was no next morning waiting to punish him.
there was only this one.
this apartment.
this city.
this moment.
you.
and the bells.
still ringing.
— — —
the next morning was different.
phainon woke up.
7:43.
he froze.
for one terrifying second, he thought—
again.
then he heard the washing machine.
the refrigerator.
a car outside.
he sat up.
the bedroom door opened.
you stood there.
wearing his shirt.
"why are you awake?"
phainon stared at you.
his eyes filled with tears.
you frowned.
"phainon?"
he laughed.
"nothing."
"you’ve been saying that a lot."
"i know."
you crossed your arms.
"you’re weird."
"i know."
you walked away.
"coffee?"
phainon smiled.
"yeah."
he followed you.
the apartment was small.
the coffee machine was terrible.
the couch was ugly.
the table was worse.
there was a paper bell on the windowsill.
and for the first time in his life—
ordinary felt miraculous.
— — —
years later, Phainon would still wake up sometimes in the middle of the night.
his heart would race.
his hands would shake.
he would look at the clock.
2:13.
he would wait.
for fire.
for darkness.
for bells.
for the world to disappear.
but nothing happened.
the city stayed.
the apartment stayed.
you stayed.
and eventually, the panic would pass.
on one particular night, he walked into the living room.
you were asleep on the couch.
his shirt was still in your possession.
it had faded over the years.
the fabric was softer now.
almost worn through.
phainon stood there for a moment.
he looked at the paper bell on the shelf.
he remembered making it.
he remembered millions of versions of it.
some crooked.
some beautiful.
some burned.
some lost.
one remained.
he picked it up carefully.
then he placed it beside you.
you stirred.
"what are you doing?"
"nothing."
"you’re weird."
"i know."
you closed your eyes again.
phainon smiled.
he turned toward the window.
outside, the city was quiet.
then—
a bell rang somewhere in the distance.
one note.
then another.
phainon stopped.
for 33,550,336 cycles, bells had meant endings.
now they meant something else.
not death.
not repetition.
not loss.
just time passing.
a reminder that the world was still moving.
that morning would come.
that tomorrow existed.
that some things could end without beginning again.
phainon looked back at you.
at the ugly couch.
at the old shirt.
at the paper bell.
at the home they had somehow managed to build out of all the things the universe had tried to take away.
