Synopsis: AM 3355: The Midnight Frequency. A radio show for insomniacs and lonely hearts. Phainon, the host with a voice like comfort. And you, the caller he can’t stop thinking about. Some connections don’t need faces. Just frequencies that align around midnight.
A/N: Hi. :) Here comes the December 10 fic for my December event. :) Phainon’s eloquence is one of the things I love most about him. This radio AU idea has been on my mind since I first “met” him in-game in January.
I originally planned a short teaser for the December event, but once I started writing, I couldn’t stop. It’s softer and longer than I planned, but the yearning needed to unfold properly (so much yearning...). Side note: I had way too fun including easter eggs in this fic. :D
Companion playlist with all songs mentioned is available here if you’d like to listen along. I will also add the song list in my ending a/n.
Enjoy. :) May you find your frequency. ☺️
Tags: Slow Burn. Modern AU. Radio AU. Late Night Radio Host Phainon. Fluff. Hurt/Comfort. Mutual Pining. Flirting. Yearner!Phainon. Emotional Intimacy. Falling In Love. Phone Calls. Late Night Conversations. Voice Kink (subtle). Philosophical Tangents. Some Nods To Canon. Confessions. Music As Emotional Connection.
Word count: 7050
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It starts on a night when you should already be asleep. The kind of December evening where darkness falls too early and the cold makes everything feel more isolating.
Not a bad day, exactly. Just one of those long ones that drains something quiet from you. Errands. People. The ache behind your eyes that never quite lets up.
You lie in bed staring at the ceiling, phone screen dimmed, the room too quiet to rest in, too loud to breathe in. Music doesn’t help. Silence doesn’t help. Your thoughts keep circling back to every small thing you didn’t say, didn’t do, didn’t fix.
So, you do what you always do when sleep refuses to come:
You search for background noise.
Scrolling. Scrolling.
White noise. Old podcasts. Rain recordings. None of them feel right.
Then…
A tiny station appears in the list. One you’ve never seen before.
AM 3355: The Midnight Frequency
Live now.
The thumbnail is nothing but a dim blue light, almost like a lantern in fog.
You hesitate—because the hour is strange, and the title feels like something you’d find in a story, not your actual radio app—but something in you clicks play anyway.
The static hums. A soft chime.
Then a voice.
Warm. Soft.
A voice impossible to ignore.
A voice that sounds like it was made for the quiet hours of the night.
A voice that says:
“Good evening, night wanderers. Or perhaps… good morning, depending on how long your thoughts have held you awake.”
A pause. You can hear the faint shift of him adjusting the microphone. A soft inhale. Steady, unhurried.
“You’re listening to The Midnight Frequency, broadcasting to anyone who finds themselves awake at an hour they did not choose. The hour of confessions. Of clarity. Of quiet truths we avoid in daylight.”
Your heartbeat slows without meaning to.
“Tonight, I want to talk about cycles.” A breath, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
“Not the washing machine kind. Though I’m sure some of you are doing laundry at this ungodly hour. No, I mean the patterns we find ourselves caught in. The same thoughts at 2 AM. The same feelings we can’t name. The same comfort we seek in the same places.”
He lets that sit for a moment.
“Do you ever feel like you’re running in circles? Like no matter how far you go, you end up right back where you started?” His tone shifts—lighter, almost playful. “Pun absolutely intended, by the way. We’re on a radio frequency. Cycles are kind of our thing.”
Despite yourself, you smile.
“But here’s what I’ve been thinking,” he continues, voice warming. “Maybe cycles aren’t traps. Maybe they’re opportunities. Each time we come back around, we bring new understanding. New perspective. We’re not the same person we were the last time we stood in this spot.”
A soft laugh. “Or maybe I’ve just had too much coffee and I’m philosophizing at midnight. But if you’re awake right now, caught in your own cycle of thoughts… maybe that means something.”
He pauses, and the silence feels intentional. Intimate.
“Most of you are here because something is heavy tonight. Something unnamed. Something that sits in the chest where words don’t reach.”
His voice dips lower, tender. “If you’re listening to this, then perhaps you have too many thoughts too.”
“So tell me… what kept you awake tonight? Was it a heavy heart? A restless mind? Or something you wish you could say to someone but can’t?”
“If you feel brave, call in. If not, stay with me awhile. I’ll keep the light on.”
A brief pause. Intimate, almost like a hand extended toward yours.
“This is Phainon. And for the next three hours, I’m here with you. Let’s see what the night has to say.”
He pauses. “Tonight we open with Satie’s Gymnopédie No. 1. Let it wash over you.”
The piano begins. Simple, spare, achingly beautiful.
You close your eyes. You don’t even realize you’re smiling.
You lie there, stunned, listening to every note.
You weren’t expecting this. You weren’t expecting him. This eloquence. This warmth. This unshakeable gentleness undercut with something quietly aching.
You don’t call in. You just listen.
And something inside you loosens.
· · ·
It happens three days later. You’ve listened to his show every day, becoming attached to the quiet rhythm and the familiarity of the host, Phainon.
So you’re listening in today too. The soft piano fades out. There’s a gentle click. A light hum as Phainon leans toward the mic.
“We have our first caller of the night.”
Your stomach flips. You didn’t mean to press the call button. You really, truly didn’t.
But your thumb slipped. And now the automated voice says: You’re live.
Phainon’s warm timbre fills your headphones.
“Hello there. You’re on the air.”
You inhale, too sharply. “…Oh. Um. Hi.”
There’s a beat of silence. Phainon always sounds like he’s listening with his whole body.
“You sound surprised to be here,” he says, gentle amusement threading his voice.
“Yeah,” you admit. “I didn’t plan to call. My hand betrayed me.”
A soft laugh plays through the speaker.
“A treacherous hand,” Phainon muses. “But perhaps a wise one. Often the part of us that reaches out first is the part that needs something.”
Your breath stutters.
Why does he speak like this? Why is a radio host allowed to sound like this?
He continues softly. “What kept you awake tonight?”
You exhale slowly. “It’s nothing dramatic,” you say, suddenly self-conscious. “Just… one of those days where you feel wrung out for no reason. Like everything took more energy than it should.”
He hums. “Ah. Yes. The invisible heaviness. That kind of weight is often worse than obvious pain, because it gives us no story to point to. No reason to justify why we feel the way we do.”
Your throat tightens. He articulates it perfectly.
“Exactly,” you whisper. “It feels stupid to be this exhausted.”
“Exhaustion is never stupid,” Phainon counters softly. “It is an honest reaction to the demands of being human.”
You blink rapidly. You weren’t expecting to feel seen at 1:14 AM by a disembodied voice.
Phainon shifts, the microphone catching the faint brush of his sleeve.
“Tell me,” he says gently, “has your mind been loud today? Or quiet in that empty sort of way?”
You hesitate because it’s uncanny how close he gets without knowing you.
“…Quiet,” you admit. “But not peaceful. More like drained.”
“Quiet is not rest. Stillness is not restoration. Tonight, your mind is asking for gentleness.”
You close your eyes. He’s right. He’s so right it almost hurts.
There’s a pause, then you hear his voice again. “Do you usually sleep well?”
“Not really,” you confess. “Especially not on nights like this.”
“Then let me ask something simpler.” There’s a shift of paper, as if he’s leaning forward. His voice lowers, soft as silk. “What would help your heart feel less heavy tonight?”
You inhale shakily.
“…Music,” you say. “Something calm. Something that makes it feel like the world isn’t spinning.”
A soft exhale escapes him. “You have good instincts. I have just the thing.”
You hear the faint clicking of him cueing a track.
But before he plays it…
“Thank you for calling,” he says quietly. “Even if it was accidental.“ A moment passes. You can only hear his breathing.
“Some conversations don’t wait for permission. They arrive exactly when we need them.”
Your cheeks warm. “And thank you for talking to me,” you murmur. “You’re very easy to talk to.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then a subtle shift. A quiet, almost-surprised laugh.
“You’d be astounded how seldom I hear that,” he admits. His voice has gone even softer, almost intimate. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
“I do,” you say before you can think too hard. “Very much.”
A pause.
“Then call again,” Phainon murmurs, low and unhurried. “Any night you can’t sleep. I’ll be here.”
Your heart stutters. “O-okay.”
“Now breathe for me. Let the song hold you. This is Turning Page by Sleeping At Last. A quiet piece for quiet hearts.”
Music swells. Soft, steady, healing.
Phainon speaks one last time before the song fully takes over:
“Rest. The night has room for you.”
You lie back in bed, pulse fluttering like wings.
You didn’t mean to call. But now? You think you might call again.
Because the voice on the other end felt like someone turning on a light in a room you didn’t know was dark.
· · ·
You, absorbed in the intimacy of the night and the fragile illusion of anonymity, call again the next day.
“You’re on The Midnight Frequency. Who am I speaking with tonight?”
You inhale. “Uh…hi. It’s…”
You don’t even get to finish.
Phainon’s entire tone changes. That soft little oh in his breath. The microsecond of silence. “…You.” Warm.
He clears his throat, tries to recover. “Good evening. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
You laugh softly. “I couldn’t sleep. Again. Too many thoughts.”
That laugh does something to him. If listeners could see his face, they’d see his eyes soften instantly.
“I see.” His voice drops. “Then I’m glad you called.”
Your breath falters.
Phainon definitely hears it. “What’s on your mind this time?” He clears his throat. “…If you’re comfortable sharing,” he adds quickly, a touch flustered.
You hesitate. “I’ve been thinking about potential. About all the things I could be doing but I’m not. Like… am I wasting time? Am I in the right place?”
Phainon hums thoughtfully. “You know, that ties into tonight’s theme perfectly. Possibilities. Reaching for the unknown. And sometimes…”
His voice softens. “Sometimes we don’t even know which part of us has been slumbering or can come into existence until someone reflects it back to us.”
You hadn’t thought of it that way.
“Can I ask you something?” he says gently. “When you’re in a crowded room, do you ever feel like a stranger? Like everyone else is speaking a language you can’t quite hear?”
Your breath catches. “…Yes. Exactly like that.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, “here you are. Talking to a voice on the radio you’ve never met. And somehow that feels less strange than being surrounded by people you see every day.”
You can’t speak for a moment.
He continues, softer now. “I think that’s because real connection isn’t about proximity. It’s about recognition. Sometimes we meet someone—even just a voice—and feel like we’ve known them from another life. Like the universe bent just enough to let your paths cross exactly when they needed to.”
“Do you believe in that?” you whisper. “Past lives?”
Phainon laughs quietly. “Who knows? Maybe I’ve been a Greek warrior in some past life. Or a sparkling orator. Or a lonesome wanderer who didn’t belong anywhere. Depending on the day, I feel like I could be any of that.“
He pauses for a moment. “I think I believe in resonance. Whether it’s from this life or another… does it matter? The feeling is real right now.“
Your heart does something complicated.
“So what you’re saying,” you venture carefully, “is that I shouldn’t worry about wasting potential because maybe I’m exactly where I need to be?”
“Perhaps,” Phainon says, and you can hear the smile. “Or perhaps I’m just trying to keep you on the line a little longer.”
You laugh, startled. “Are you flirting with me?”
Silence. Just long enough to be interesting.
“Would it be terribly unprofessional if I said maybe?” His voice has gone warm, teasing.
“Probably,” you manage.
“Then let’s call it… philosophically adjacent flirting. Much more dignified. I‘m merely adapting to such depth.”
You’re grinning now. “That’s definitely not a real thing.”
“It is now. I just invented it. Radio host privileges.”
“Does that mean you can just make up words whenever you want?”
“Only when I’m trying to impress clever callers who catch me off guard.” A beat. “Is it working?”
Your cheeks warm. “…Maybe.”
His laugh is soft, delighted. “I’ll take that.”
Phainon clears his throat, feeling as if he’s said too much. “How about you tell me something that frustrated you this week? Sometimes it helps to just speak it aloud.” He pauses. “Or so I’ve been told.”
You tell him something small. A little moment from your week. Something seemingly mundane but honest. Something that occupies your mind even at night.
Phainon listens and answers with gentle humor, philosophical riffs, little insights that land perfectly because he hears between your words.
“Your voice sounds less tense tonight,” he says without thinking.
You freeze.
He freezes.
Radio silence for 0.7 seconds.
“…You can tell?” Your voice is tiny.
“Of course,” he says sincerely. “I‘m learning your rhythms.“
A beat of stunned silence on both ends.
Then he rushes to recover. “Ah. Professionally speaking, that is. As a host. I listen closely to all my callers….”
A lie. Everyone knows it. Especially the listeners.
You stifle a laugh. He hears that too.
“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Please don’t laugh. I’m already—”
He cuts himself off.
Absolutely not because he caught himself nearly admitting he’s flustered.
You smile.
“Nothing like that. You just make laughing feel so effortless. Natural.”
He inhales sharply. The monitor lights peak. Listeners everywhere lean in.
“I’m—” He stops. Tries again. “Thank you.”
He means it. Deeply.
You talk for another minute before you go.
“Goodnight,” you say softly.
“Goodnight,” he answers. “…Call again if you can’t sleep.”
There is no professional reason to add: “Or even if you can.” But he does. Straight into the mic.
And the chaos begins.
The moment the call disconnects, the text line explodes.
Messages flood the console faster than Phainon can read them.
· · ·
[nightowl_87, 1:47 AM]: CALLER #4 IS HIS FAVORITE OMG????
[sleepless_soul, 1:47 AM]: sir. SIR. you changed TONE. we heard that.
[midnight_tea, 1:48 AM]: this is not parasocial this is FACEOFF flirtation on public radio
[starlightvibes, 1:48 AM]: who is this caller and when is the wedding
[cornflowers-and-gold, 1:48 AM]: someone check on phainon he is CRUSHING HARD
[insomniac_blues, 1:48 AM]: i was folding laundry and now i'm pacing. this man is GONE.
[in-the-wheat-fields, 1:49 AM]: "learning your rhythms" phainon????
[waiting-for-the-dawn, 1:49 AM]: i fear for him. i fear for ME. i fear for the communication services.
· · ·
Phainon glances at the screen.
His face goes faintly pink. He clears the queue in absolute silence. Doesn’t address a single message.
Which, of course, makes listeners even more feral.
The second your call disconnects, he leans back in his chair and just stares at the ceiling for a full five seconds.
His hand slides over his face.
“…Learning your rhythms. What was I thinking.”
He drags his fingers through his hair.
Undone.
He reruns the call in his head.
Your laugh. Your voice saying “You’re easy to talk to.” The way you didn’t hesitate to call again.
He exhales, soft and disbelieving.
“Another call.”
He’s smiling. Again. He can’t stop.
He rests his elbow on the desk, fingertips against his mouth.
“This is very inconvenient,” he murmurs with a smile that betrays exactly the opposite sentiment.
He tries to start prepping the next segment.
Fails.
Repeatedly.
Finally he gives up, drops his notes onto the desk, and whispers to himself:
“All right. Get it together.”
He straightens in his chair. Rolls his shoulders back. Tries to reclaim professional composure, but the second the music fades and he speaks again on-air… his voice is warm in a way that everyone notices.
“Welcome back. And to our recent caller…I hope you rest well tonight.”
The messages immediately blow up again.
It’s Saturday night. A friend canceled your plans at the last second because they got a better offer. A party, a crowd, a noise you don’t quite belong in.
You lie awake anyway. Alone with the weight of being someone’s second choice.
By now you know the ritual: open the radio app, find the dim-blue thumbnail, press The Midnight Frequency.
You call in earlier than usual. You don’t mean to. You’re simply too full.
Phainon picks up on the first chime.
You start talking.
Your voice trembles. “Nothing dramatic. Just thinking. About routine. Meaning. Dreams.” A beat. Your finger hovers over the disconnect button.
“Don’t hang up yet,“ Phainon says. “Before we dive into tonight’s topic,” Phainon says, and you can hear the smile in his voice, “I have a confession.”
You lean forward slightly. “Oh?”
“I’ve been thinking about our last conversation. About the past, whether real or imagined, and about feeling like strangers in crowded rooms.” He pauses, softer now. “It made me realize something about myself.”
Your pulse jumps.
“When I was younger,” he continues, voice warming with memory, “I wanted to be a superhero. Cape, mask, the whole thing. I used to tie a blanket around my neck and jump off furniture, convinced I could fly.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself.
“There it is,” he murmurs, delighted. “That laugh. Good.”
Your cheeks warm.
“The funny thing,” he continues, growing thoughtful, “is that I think I became a different kind of hero. Not the cape-and-city-saving kind.” A quiet inhale. “But maybe… maybe the kind who keeps people company in the dark.”
Your throat tightens.
“Tonight’s theme is childhood,” he announces softly. “Not the glossy memory. The real thing. The fragile, bewildering, beautiful thing it was. The moments that shaped us. The ones we forget until someone asks the right question.”
He lets that settle.
“So tell me,” he says, voice dropping into something intimate enough to feel like a secret, “what did you want to be when you were small? Before the world told you what you should be?”
You swallow hard. The answer comes before you can overthink it. “I wanted to be someone who mattered,” you whisper. “Not famous. Just someone who made a difference to at least one person. Who could touch someone.”
Silence.
When Phainon speaks again, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. “You already are,” he murmurs. “To me.”
Your breath stops.
He clears his throat quickly. “I mean. Thank you for sharing that. It’s beautiful.”
Another pause.
“If anyone else is listening,” Phainon says, shifting back toward his host tone, though it’s still warm around the edges, “I’d love to hear from you. What did you dream of becoming? Call in. Let’s remember what it felt like to dream without limits.”
Music swells softly.
You sit there, phone still pressed to your ear, heart racing.
You already are. To me.
You call again. Not every night. You don’t want to intrude.
But often enough that the regular listeners start whispering about “Caller Four.”
Your voice is still soft, but no longer apologetic.
“I’ve been thinking about something you said last time…”
“I wanted to get your thoughts on this…”
“I liked the song you played after I hung up.”
And every single time, without fail, Phainon smiles.
You can hear it.
· · ·
One evening, snow has started to fall. You’re watching the big flakes drift quietly past your window, and for the first time in days… you feel at peace. Light. Like your lungs finally remembered how to breathe.
You turn on the show. Phainon sounds cheerful the second he starts talking. You can't stop smiling. After his introduction, he cues a song.
You immediately recognize it. Mr. Jones by Counting Crows.
Smiling without meaning to, you call the show.
“Welcome back.”
There it is again. That unmistakable tone shift. Only for you.
Listeners notice. He pretends he doesn’t.
Phainon is in a playful mood tonight, as if the snow has softened something in him too.
“I was hoping you’d call,” he says, warm and unguarded.
You nearly drop your phone.
He hears the breath you suck in.
He laughs. Low, warm, delighted. “Ah. I startled you.”
Your cheeks burn. Then, before you can think better of it, you say: “You can’t just… say things like that.”
“Like what?” His voice has gone purposefully innocent.
“Like you were waiting for me specifically.”
“But I was,” he says simply. “Is that a problem?”
You falter. “I—no, but—you have many listeners.”
“Mm. And yet somehow I can tell when you’re the one calling.” A pause. “Line 3 lit up and I just… knew.”
“That’s…” You struggle for words. “Slightly terrifying?” It‘s also flattering, but you don‘t mention that.
“For you or for me?”
“Both, probably.”
He laughs again, softer. “Touché.”
You gather courage. “So what would you have done if I hadn’t called?”
“Sulked,” he admits immediately. “Very unprofessionally. My producer would have been concerned.”
That startles a laugh out of you. “You’re telling me the eloquent midnight philosopher sulks?”
“Only about important things.”
Your breath catches. “I’m an important thing?”
Silence. Then, quietly: “You’re becoming one. Yes. I…the show would feel different without you.”
You don’t know what to say to that.
“Too honest?” he asks gently.
“No,” you whisper. “Just… unexpected.”
“Good unexpected or bad unexpected?”
“I’ll let you know when I can breathe again. So, tomorrow, probably.“
His laugh is helpless, warm. “Hah, I'll be waiting.”
After you hang up, he’s still smiling.
“That,” he tells the microphone, “is what joy sounds like.”
He cues a song. “This is Such Great Heights by The Postal Service. For anyone feeling a little lighter tonight.”
The song plays. Even after the show ends, he stays in his chair, smiling at nothing.
The next night, Phainon opens with a quieter tone. “Tonight we’re questioning everything. Life choices. The paths we took. The ones we didn’t.”
His voice turns contemplative. “I do this too, you know. Wonder if I made the right calls. If I should have done things differently. If I’m where I’m supposed to be.”
A pause.
“But here’s what I’ve learned: We can look at the bad things and ask ‘what if?’ Or we can look at them and ask: what good thing came after? Even something small.”
When you call that night, you mention a choice you regret.
He listens, then asks gently, “So what good thing came from it? What wouldn’t exist without that choice?”
You think for a moment. Finally, you whisper, “…I found your show.”
His breath catches. “Then I’m… glad you made that choice.”
He clears his throat, voice barely steady. “Let’s sit with that for a moment.”
“This is Crossroads by Calvin Russell,” he says softly. “For anyone standing at their own crossroads tonight.”
The song begins. Bluesy, raw, aching. His voice, weathered and honest.
Neither of you hangs up immediately.
You both just listen.
The next time, you sound calmer.
You ask him about philosophy. He asks you what you think about beauty.
“I think beauty is being seen. Not just looked at. Like when someone notices the small things about you that you didn’t think mattered. The way you laugh when you’re caught off guard. Or how your voice changes when you talk about something you love. Beauty isn’t just existing. It’s being recognized for existing.”
“Mm,” Phainon says, delighted. “That suits you.”
You stare at your wall for a full minute after hanging up, heart racing.
Phainon stares at the microphone for just as long.
A couple of calls later, it’s late. Later than usual. Phainon is in one of his playful moods. The kind where philosophy meets mischief.
“Tonight,” he announces, “we’re talking about honesty. The inconvenient kind. The kind that slips out at 2 AM when your guard is down and you accidentally tell the truth.”
He cues a song. “This is I Wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys. For anyone feeling brave enough to be honest tonight.”
The music plays. Intimate, yearning, direct.
When it fades, he opens the lines.
You call.
“Ah,” he says, and you can hear the smile. “There you are. I was beginning to think you’d abandoned me for more reasonable sleep hours.”
“It’s not even that late,” you protest.
“It’s 2:13 AM.”
“…Okay, it’s a little late.”
“A little?” He’s laughing now. “You have an appointment tomorrow, don’t you?”
“How do you know that?”
“You mentioned it last week. And you sound like you’re lying down.”
You sit up slightly, flustered. “Are you psychic?”
“No,” Phainon says warmly. “I just listen.”
Something in your chest tightens.
“So,” he continues, “what truth are you going to tell me tonight? Since we’re on the topic of inconvenient honesty.”
You’re quiet for a moment. Then, you start talking. “You know what’s wild? I’m lying in bed at 2 AM talking to a radio host I’ve never met, and this is somehow the most honest conversation I’ve had in… I don’t know how long. I don’t know what that says about me.”
Phainon laughs. Not his elegant public chuckle. A real laugh. Unguarded, startled, soft.
Silence follows.
You panic. “Was that… bad?”
“No,” he says, and his voice has gone gentle. “It was perfect.”
“Perfect how?”
“Because I was thinking the exact same thing.”
Your breath stops.
“I have conversations all night,” he continues quietly. “Dozens of calls. Hundreds of listeners. But when you call…” He pauses. “It feels different. Like I’m just… talking to someone who sees me.”
“I do see you,” you whisper. “Even without seeing you.”
Silence.
When he speaks again, his voice is rough: “That might be the most honest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Well,” you manage, “you did ask for inconvenient honesty.”
He laughs again, breathless. “I did. Though I’m starting to think I wasn’t prepared for such raw words like yours.”
“Should I apologize?”
“Absolutely not.”
It sounds like he is looking right at you.
On another evening, Phainon sounds more solemn. “Tonight’s theme: the things we carry,” Phainon says softly. “Not physical weight. But memories. Moments that shaped us. The ghosts of who we used to be.”
He shares something. A story about running through wheat fields in summer as a child, about the smell of rain, about how certain memories live in the body.
“What memory do you carry?” he asks. “What moment lives in you, even now?”
You call.
You tell him about your favorite summers. About the days spent in the garden, splashing water from the fountain around just because you could.
You tell him about discovering an abandoned gardenhouse, hiding little treasures there.
You tell him about a hill with a hidden hole where you built a secret base and had picnics with your friends later. Where you read in the quiet and idyll of nature.
You talk for 15 minutes straight without stopping.
“That’s beautiful,” Phainon murmurs. “Thank you for trusting me with that. It sounds like memories worth keeping.”
The way he says it makes you feel like you’ve given him something precious.
He pauses. “This next song always makes me think of childhood summers. To Build a Home by The Cinematic Orchestra.”
The piano begins, achingly beautiful. And you just sit there, smiling.
Two days later, you notice how his voice sounds different. Deeper, sadder. So you call, quickly talk about today‘s topic and ask how he is. He freezes. No one ever asks the host that.
After a long pause, “…I’m better right now.”
Your breath catches. He absolutely hears it.
You sit there for a moment after hanging up, phone still warm in your hand.
I’m better right now.
Because of you. He meant because of you.
Your heart hasn’t stopped racing. You press your hand to your chest and feel it beating too fast, too much, too honestly.
You’re in trouble. You know you’re in trouble.
But you can’t stop calling.
A few days later, you feel antsy. Restless. Aching in a way you don’t want to name.
You know why. You just won’t admit it.
So you call.
Your voice lifts—brightens—the second he answers.
And Phainon hears it.
You talk. You drift between small things and deeper ones. And eventually, without thinking, soft as breath, you say his name:
“Phainon…?”
You don’t even notice you’ve done it.
He does.
He goes absolutely still.
For the rest of the show, nothing can scrub the warmth out of his voice.
The inbox detonates.
One night, his theme is connection.
“Have you ever felt like you were meant to meet someone?” Phainon asks quietly. “Like your paths were always going to cross, no matter what?”
His voice is softer than usual.
“I used to think that was romantic nonsense. Fate, destiny, cosmic timing.” He laughs quietly. “But lately… lately I’m not so sure.”
He doesn’t open the lines immediately.
Instead, he cues a song.
“This is True Colors by Cyndi Lauper,” he says softly. “For anyone who’s been waiting to be seen.”
The music begins. Tender, achingly sincere.
You don’t call that night. But you listen to every word. Every note.
“I see your true colors…”
When did this happen? When did his voice become the thing you wait for all day? When did you start noticing the small changes in his tone, the way he breathes before he speaks, the specific warmth that enters his voice only for you?
You wonder if he’s talking about you.
You wonder if you want him to be.
(You know you do.)
(You’ve known for weeks.)
· · ·
[echo_listener, 0:43 AM]: he’s not even taking calls tonight
[voice_in_the_dark, 0:43 AM]: just playing music and talking about fate
[wavelength_wanderer, 0:44 AM]: “i used to think that was romantic nonsense” USED TO????
[the_hero_within, 0:46 AM]: he’s talking to someone specific and we all know who
· · ·
One day, you tell him he sounds tired.
Phainon clears his throat. “You recognize that?”
“I… notice things,” you whisper.
Phainon can’t speak for a second. “So do I,” he murmurs, softer than he means to.
Silence.
“Let’s both rest for a moment,” he says softly. “This is Flicker by Niall Horan. Close your eyes if you can.”
· · ·
[eternal-flame-chaser, 2:14 AM]: the way he said “so do I” IM PASSING AWAY
[signal_seeker, 2:15 AM]: this man has LEFT PROFESSIONALISM BEHIND
[late_night_feels, 2:15 AM]: someone call an ambulance. not for me. for HIM. he’s DONE
· · ·
It’s been three days since you last called.
Not because you don’t want to. Because you want to too much.
You’ve been listening every night, but not calling. Just hearing his voice. Learning the rhythm of his show. The way he opens, the topics he chooses, the songs he plays.
He played Finally // beautiful stranger by Halsey last night. You wondered if he was thinking of you.
You miss him. Which is absurd. You’ve never met him. You don’t know what he looks like. You only know his voice and his laugh and the way he talks to you like it matters.
But you miss him anyway.
Another night, another moment with too many thoughts circling in your mind. It’s past 2 a.m. You shouldn’t call. You do anyway.
But the moment the line clicks open, panic hits and you almost hang up.
You don’t even speak. Just a shaky inhale.
And Phainon—who has heard you breathe many times now—goes still.
“…Wait. Don’t hang up.”
Your hand freezes on the disconnect button.
His voice is soft in a way you’ve never heard:
“It’s you.”
You exhale shakily.
He hears the tremor.
“I knew it,” Phainon says, almost to himself. “Your breathing pattern changes when you’re nervous.”
You almost faint.
You whisper, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
He actually laughs. Small. Disbelieving. Wounded in the sweetest way. “You could never bother me.”
Silence. Only breath on the line. Yours and his.
You try again, voice tiny. “I wasn’t sure if I should call.”
He exhales sharply. “You never have to question that.”
“If the lines are open… you can always call. And I...” He pauses. “I want to hear you.”
You swallow hard. “Even when I don’t have anything important to say?”
His voice drops, warm and aching, “Especially then. Besides, importance lies with the beholder. And I like hearing you exist.”
You make a soft, startled sound and laugh openly.
Phainon’s breath catches.
“…There it is,” he whispers. “I’ve missed that.”
You manage, barely: “Phainon…”
And then, he says your name for the first time.
Soft. Careful. Like he’s afraid it might break in his mouth.
“…Stay on the line.”
The music comes in.
The episode goes to break.
But neither of you hangs up.
The “On Break” light flips red.
Holocene by Bon Iver plays. Ethereal, contemplative, suspended in time.
Phainon just sits there, staring at the console, one hand still hovering near the button that picked up your call.
His breath leaves him in a shaky exhale he absolutely did not mean to let slip.
“…it’s you,” he whispers again, like he’s trying to convince himself the moment actually happened.
He leans back in his chair.
Runs a hand through his hair.
Laughs once.
Not for the listeners.
Not for the microphone.
Just because he can’t help it.
“Of all nights… you call in sounding like that…”
He presses his thumb to his lower lip. A nervous habit no one ever sees.
He shouldn’t be reacting this much.
He knows that. He absolutely knows that.
He’s the host. You’re a voice.
But God, your voice.
The way it trembled. The way you almost hung up. The way you breathed when he said your name.
He closes his eyes.
Listens to that replay in his mind. Feels something tighten in his chest. Warm, soft, terrifying.
“…I need to get a grip,” he mutters.
He does not get a grip.
Instead, he leans forward over the console, elbows on the desk, head in his hands.
“Why did that… affect me so much?”
Because your voice always hits differently.
Because you’re gentle.
Because you’re real in a way he hasn’t let anyone be real to him in a long time.
Because he recognized you from a single inhale.
And because for one insane second, when you said “Phainon…” he felt like someone was reaching for him as a person. Not the host. Not the hero of midnight radio. Just him.
The producer taps the window, giving him a thirty-second warning.
Phainon straightens too fast. Composes himself. Tries to. Fails slightly.
His hand hovers over the console.
The music is fading.
He takes a breath.
“Alright,” he murmurs to himself. “Back on.”
He presses the button.
The show resumes.
But his voice carries a softness listeners instantly catch.
He knows they hear it. He blames it on the late hour.
(He knows it’s you.)
It’s later that same night.
He doesn’t expect you to call again so soon.
But the line blinks.
And somehow he knows.
He picks up before the second ring. “Good evening… or should I say, welcome back?”
Silence on your end. Startled, shy.
“Is it that obvious?” you whisper.
Phainon smiles audibly. “To most people? No. To me? Always.”
You make that small, soft sound again. The one that makes his heartbeat jump.
He shouldn’t ask. He absolutely shouldn’t ask. But he’s been thinking about your voice through the entire break.
So he says, too gently:
“You sounded upset earlier. Did something happen?”
You hesitate. He hears it. He always hears it.
“…It was a long day,” you say finally. “I didn’t want to bother you with it.”
He leans forward as if proximity could travel through the microphone. “If you’re calling me,” he murmurs, “you’re not bothering me. I’m here.” A pause. “Tell me what happened.”
You’re quiet. Long enough he nearly regrets the question.
Then, you murmur, “…I felt lonely.”
Phainon closes his eyes. Something in him breaks and softens at the same time.
“…Alright.” His voice is a hush now. “Talk to me.”
You tell him. Not everything, but enough. The kind of small, human hurts you don’t usually admit out loud.
He listens. And when you’re done, he says, “Thank you for trusting me with that.”
You laugh weakly. “I didn’t say anything important.”
“You said something honest. And I value honesty more than eloquence… though it seems we both enjoy the latter.”
Your breath catches. The tiniest sound.
Phainon hears it. Every fiber of him hears it.
He shouldn’t go further.
But he wants to keep you with him in this small house of midnight he’s built around your voice.
So he slips.
“Do you always turn to the radio when you feel alone?”
Your heartbeat stutters. He can hear the silence.
“Or…” He inhales, steady but trembling at the edges. “…is it just me you call?”
Absolute stillness on the line.
You finally whisper, “…Just you.”
Phainon exhales like the air has been punched out of him.
He swallows hard.
“…I‘m glad.”
His voice cracks on the word.
He clears his throat. Changes topics lightly, but the warmth stays in every word after.
· · ·
You don't call. It’s subtle at first.
Day 1.
Your usual call window passes. The line stays quiet.
Phainon doesn’t comment. He just checks the blinking switchboard every five minutes.
“We’ll be opening the lines again in a moment,” he says, smooth as ever.
But his eyes flick to line 3. Your line.
Day 2.
Still nothing.
His monologue is sharper tonight. Almost too polished. Listeners notice the lack of teasing warmth.
“Some nights feel quieter than others,” he murmurs during a break. “Even if nothing has changed.”
He doesn’t realize his producer is watching him, worried.
Day 3.
He is restless. Charming, yes. Witty, yes. But distracted.
A caller mentions loneliness and he inhales too sharply, because you usually call on nights like that.
“…Sometimes the person you expect to hear from simply isn’t there,” he says softly, voice dipping in a way that makes chat explode. “And you feel their absence more than you have any right to.”
Day 4.
Someone else uses your nickname by coincidence.
Phainon freezes. Actually freezes.
“Sorry,” he says after a beat too long, “could you repeat that? I thought… nnnh, never mind.”
When the call ends, he whispers, barely audible:
“Where are you?”
(He does not mean geographically.)
Day 5.
He opens the show with a softer tone.
“If you’re listening… I hope your week got easier. And I hope you’re sleeping safely.”
He does not name you. But everyone knows.
· · ·
It’s late. Later than you ever call. The phone blinks once.
Phainon sits up so quickly he bumps the microphone.
He doesn’t bother with intro lines. “You’re late.”
You inhale, startled. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Long day. “Life was… relentless this week,” you admit quietly. “By the time I could breathe, it felt too late to call. I didn’t want to intrude on your show when I had nothing coherent to say.”
“You don’t need to be coherent,” he says immediately. “You just need to be.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,“ you add quietly, feeling to raw all of a sudden.
“You don’t bother me.“ He pauses. “You steady me.”
Silence.
You talk for a while. Gently. Quietly. Your voice is softer than usual, weighted with exhaustion.
At some point, he asks: “Are you lying down?”
“…Maybe.”
“Good.” His voice has gone even softer than usual. “Stay like that. Tell me about your day.”
You try. Halfway through a sentence, your breath slows. Softens.
Phainon hears the shift instantly.
“Dawnlight?”
(He didn’t mean to call you that.)
Your breath catches. You heard it. The slip. The endearment.
But you’re too tired to ask. Too afraid.
“Are you still with me?”
A tiny inhaled sound. Then nothing.
You’ve fallen asleep.
On air.
Phainon flinches like he’s been hit in the chest.
“…Oh.”
He turns down the channel so your breathing doesn’t broadcast. He won’t let strangers hear that softness.
Then, off-air but still recorded in the studio logs:
“You must be exhausted.” His voice breaks into something unbearably gentle.
“You trusted me enough to fall asleep. Hah…”
He breathes out slowly.
“Sleep well,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay right here for a few minutes. It’s alright. You’re safe.”
He actually stays longer than a few minutes.
Just listening.
When Phainon finally disconnects the call, he touches the console with two fingers. Like he’s memorizing the moment.
Then, quietly, to himself, he murmurs, “How am I supposed to pretend this is just a show now?”
· · ·
The next night Phainon opens differently.
“Before we begin tonight’s broadcast, there’s something I need to say.”
He inhales, slow, steadying.
“There is a caller—one among many—whose voice has been a constant in this space.” His tone wavers. “Someone who speaks softly, but somehow says more to me than most people do face to face.”
He doesn’t name you.
He doesn’t need to.
“I realized something,” he continues, voice low, trembling with sincerity. “I care about this person. More than is appropriate for a late-night host.” A breath. “More than I should.”
Silence.
You are sitting on your bed gripping your phone.
He goes on, softer now. “If you’re listening—I hope you are—I missed you this week.”
His voice cracks. “I missed you in a way I wasn’t prepared for.”
He swallows audibly.
“And when you fell asleep on the line last night…I realized I don’t want to be a voice you call just because you’re lonely.”
A pause so deep it aches.
“I want to be someone you think of even on good days.”
Your breath leaves you. Completely. “So if you call tonight. I won’t pretend anymore.”
Phainon presses the button to open the phone lines.
His hand is shaking.
Line 1 flashes.
Line 6.
Line 3.
He exhales, eyes closing. “There you are.”
You don’t speak at first.
He doesn’t push. Just breathes, soft, relieved. Then, gently, he murmurs, “Tell me you’re real.”
You whisper, “…I’m real.”
A broken, quiet laugh escapes him. The kind you only make when something hurts in the best possible way.
“Good. Then let’s not hide anymore.”
Louis Armstrong’s voice comes through the speakers, warm and soft and impossibly hopeful.
“I see trees of green, red roses too… And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.”
And your life, from this moment on? Irrevocably tangled with his.
⋆✧✦✧⋆
A/N: Thank you so much for reading. :) I hope you enjoyed it. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. :)
I decided to end this oneshot here, at the moment where the connection becomes undeniable but still suspended in that midnight space between reality and possibility.
If you want a continuation where they finally meet, I'll be more than happy to write it. But for now, I think this quiet, hopeful ending is exactly where their story wants to rest. :)
In a field of forget-me-nots, two heroes sit side by side. Similar in spirit and mind. Talking about nothing and everything, the smiles on each other's faces continued to arise.
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