┋ In a quiet 1800s village wrapped in war rumors, two childhood friends make a promise beneath fading sunlight—to meet again when the world stops burning. He remembers every detail of her voice, every goodbye. Time moves forward. Letters stop. But the promise remains, waiting where they once stood together.
includes: childhood friends, bad writing. yes. i'm warning you. bit of teasing hehe, phainon being a dramatic cutie, 1800s vibes.. i hope it gives off that vibe, i think i suck at writing synopsis, might be ooc (sorry..), divider credits to @/kodaswrld, art credits to whoever made it.. i seriously can't find the person who drew it :< found this art on pinterest.
word count: 3.99k (almost 4k)
pairings: phainon x fem!reader
୨୧ chapters — one | two | three | soon..
The air in the countryside is thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and damp earth. You stand by the weathered stone bridge, the hem of your dress brushing against the tall, swaying grass. To the west, the sun begins its slow descent, painting the sky in streaks of bruised purple and burning orange.
Phainon tilts his head, his cyan eyes scanning your face with a spark of genuine warmth. He looks like he's fighting a hidden weight, but his voice is light, almost teasing.
"You actually came," he says. He lets out a short, breathy laugh. "I half expected you to decide I was too much of a nuisance to keep a date with."
He steps closer, the grass crunching beneath his boots. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, pressed flower, holding it out to you with a slight, hesitant tremor in his fingers.
"A peace offering," he says. "For all the trouble I've caused you this month."
You reach out, your fingers brushing against his as you take the pressed flower. The petals are fragile, a pale yellow that mirrors the fading light of the horizon. You've known him since you were both children, back when your biggest worries were climbing the apple trees behind the village or hiding from the elders. That familiarity lingers in the way you look at him—knowing the exact way his smile hides a sigh.
Phainon watches you, his gaze softening. He shifts his weight, the leather of his boots creaking.
"[Name]," he says softly. The way he speaks your name carries a weight that wasn't there a few years ago. He looks away for a moment, toward the distant smoke of the village chimneys. "I keep thinking about how quiet this bridge is. It's almost too quiet, isn't it?"
He lets out a small, dry chuckle and steps a bit closer, the scent of old wool and rain clinging to his coat.
"Tell me something," he says, turning back to you with a sudden, mischievous glint in his cyan eyes. "Did you actually miss me while I was away, or were you just enjoying the peace and quiet for once?"
You let out a soft huff, rolling your eyes as you tuck the pressed flower carefully into the folds of your dress. The fabric of your skirts rustles against the grass, a sharp contrast to the heavy stillness of the evening.
"The peace and quiet was the best part," you tease, glancing up at him.
Phainon grins, the expression reaching his eyes this time. He leans his shoulder against the rough stone of the bridge, looking out over the water. The river below is a dark, shimmering ribbon, reflecting the first few stars appearing in the east. He looks relaxed, but there's a tension in his jaw, a subtle tightness that speaks of things he's not mentioning.
"Liar," he says. He turns his head to look at you, his gaze lingering. "You probably spent half your time wondering if I'd actually make it back in one piece."
He reaches up to adjust the leather choker at his neck, his fingers lingering on the strap. The wind picks up, blowing a strand of his white hair across his face.
"I can tell by that look on your face," he adds, becoming softer, more intimate. "You're worried, aren't you?"
You shift your gaze toward the river, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a confession. You keep your voice steady, though your heart hammers against your ribs.
"I was mostly worried about who would have to put up with your nonsense if you disappeared," you reply.
Phainon lets out a genuine laugh, the sound echoing softly under the bridge. He pushes off from the stone wall and takes a half—step toward you. The teasing light in his eyes flickers, replaced by something heavier and more honest. He looks at you as if he's trying to memorize every detail of your face.
"You always did have a way of making me feel like a nuisance," he says.
He reaches out, his hand hovering near your shoulder before he decides against the touch.
He pulls his hand back, shoving it deep into his coat pocket. The wind whistles through the grass, bringing with it the distant, metallic chime of a village bell.
"They're calling the men to the square," he says. His voice has lost its playful edge. It's flat now, grounded in a reality neither of you wants to acknowledge.
He looks back at the path leading toward the village, then back to you.
"If I have to go... if this lasts a long time..." He pauses, searching for the words. "I don't want the last thing we did to be arguing about whether you like me or not."
You reach out and take his hand.
His skin is cool, and his palm is calloused from years of reckless climbing and tinkering.
He freezes for a heartbeat, his fingers stiff in your grip. Then, he slowly closes his hand around yours, squeezing tight. His grip is almost desperate, as if you're the only thing keeping him anchored to the ground.
"[Name]," he whispers.
The distance between you vanishes. He steps closer, his chest nearly brushing against your shoulder. The scent of wool and rain is stronger now, mixed with a faint, metallic tang. He looks down at your joined hands, his thumb tracing a slow, trembling line across your knuckles.
"Promise me something," he says. He looks up, his cyan eyes wide and shimmering with a sudden, sharp vulnerability. "Promise me that no matter how long this takes, you'll still be here when I get back."
The village bell tolls again, louder this time. The sound is a harsh reminder of the clock ticking down. Phainon's expression flickers, the mask of the joker slipping entirely to reveal the terrified young man beneath.
"Pick a place," he urges, his voice dropping to a low, urgent plea. "And a time. Somewhere we can meet. Give me something to hold onto when everything else is just... noise and smoke."
“We still have a few days, right?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. "Let's spend it with each other till the day you go. And I'll tell you which place to meet."
Phainon stares at you. His grip on your hand tightens for a second before he lets out a long, shaky breath. The tension in his shoulders drops, and for a moment, the weight of the war seems to lift, replaced by a desperate, fragile hope.
"A few days," he repeats. He looks at the village, then back to you, a small, genuine smile returning to his lips. "I think I can manage that. I'm quite an expert at avoiding my responsibilities, after all."
He swings your joined hands between you, a ghost of his usual playful energy returning.
"So," he says, his cyan eyes searching yours.
"What's the plan, [Name]? Are we going to sneak into the orchards for some stolen apples? Or maybe we find a spot where the elders can't find us to talk about things we're too stubborn to say out loud?"
He lets out a soft laugh and pulls you slightly closer, his shoulder brushing yours.
"I'm all yours until the bells ring for the final time."
"The orchards. I know a tree with the sweetest apples," you say, a small smile playing on your lips.
Phainon's eyes light up. He gives your hand a playful tug, pulling you away from the bridge and back toward the rolling hills of the countryside.
"A challenge! I've always suspected you were hoarding the best spots for yourself, [Name]," he teases.
The walk is slow. The grass is tall and damp, clinging to the hem of your dress. Phainon stays close, his shoulder bumping yours every few steps. He talks about the most ridiculous things—a stray cat he once tried to train to fetch his boots, or the time he accidentally dyed his hair a strange shade of orange during a failed alchemy experiment in his youth.
The air grows cooler as you enter the shade of the orchard. Rows of gnarled, ancient trees stretch out around you, their branches heavy with deep red fruit. You lead him deeper into the grove, past the well-trodden paths where the village workers usually gather.
You stop before a tree that stands slightly apart from the rest, its limbs twisting toward the sky like frozen lightning.
"This is the one," you tell him.
Phainon looks up at the high branches, then back at you. He lets out a low whistle.
"Those are high. I hope you're planning on being my ladder, because I'm far too dignified to climb that without a proper cheering section."
"Dignified? Since when?" you ask, a playful glint in your eyes.
Phainon stops. He puts a hand over his heart in a mock gesture of offense, his expression shifting into one of exaggerated tragedy.
"I'm wounded, [Name]. Truly. After all the poise and grace I've exhibited in your presence these past few years, you cast me as a common hooligan."
He lets out a sharp, barking laugh and steps closer, his presence filling your space. He reaches up and tugs at the leather choker on his neck, a nervous habit that surfaces whenever he's trying too hard to be funny.
"Fine. You've caught me. I'm a disaster," he admits.
His voice softens. He leans in, his breath warm against your cheek. The scent of the orchard—sweet, ripening fruit and crushed grass—wraps around you both. He stays there for a second, his gaze dropping to your lips before he catches himself and pulls back just an inch.
"But I'm your favorite disaster, right?"
He glances back up at the high branches of the apple tree. A single, perfect red apple hangs from the topmost limb, glowing like a jewel in the filtered sunlight.
"I bet you ten credits that apple tastes like heaven," he says, his voice returning to its usual light tone. "And I bet you'll help me get it if I promise to let you have the first bite.”
"I'm not betting against you, Phainon. You're too lucky," you say.
Phainon stops. He looks at you, his expression shifting from playful to something quieter. He lets out a soft, thoughtful hum and rubs the back of his neck, his white hair messy against his fingers.
"Luck," he says. He looks up at the apple again. "Most people call it luck. I call it a habit of falling the right way."
He steps closer, the heat from his body radiating through the fabric of his coat. He doesn't move to climb the tree just yet. Instead, he looks at you with an intensity that makes the air feel thick.
"If I'm that lucky, [Name], maybe it's because I had you as a childhood friend to keep me from walking off a cliff."
He reaches out, his fingers grazing your cheek, a touch so light it's almost a question. His cyan eyes are searching yours, the mischievous glint replaced by a raw, honest longing.
"I mean it," he whispers. "Being around you is the only time I feel like the world actually makes sense."
He lingers there for a moment, his thumb brushing your skin. Then, as if remembering the bet, he blinks and jumps back a step, the mask of the gremlin snapping back into place.
"Right! About that apple!" He points a finger at you. "Since you've admitted my superior luck, you're officially my assistant. Now, give me a boost before I decide to just shake the whole tree down on top of us."
"Find your own way up, you disaster!" you exclaim, crossing your arms over your chest with a smug look.
Phainon gasps, his hand flying to his chest as he stumbles backward in a dramatic display of betrayal. He looks at you with wide, wounded eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitch.
"Cruel. Absolutely heartless," he declares, his voice loud enough to startle a few birds from the nearby branches. "I offer you my heart, my soul, and the promise of a heavenly apple, and you leave me to fend for myself against a tree?"
He lets out a huff and turns toward the gnarled trunk. He circles it once, squinting at the low—hanging limbs with a focused, almost intensity. He reaches out and taps a sturdy branch, testing its strength.
"Fine. I'll do it the hard way. Just don't cry when I get the best one and eat it right in front of you."
With a sudden, athletic burst of energy, he leaps. He catches a lower branch, the wood groaning under his weight, and swings himself upward with surprising agility. His movements are fluid, a remnants of those childhood days spent scaling every wall in the village.
He climbs higher, his boots scraping against the bark. He pauses halfway up, looking down at you with a triumphant, toothy grin.
"See? Pure grace."
As he reaches for the topmost branch, the limb gives a sharp, warning crack. Phainon's eyes widen, his balance shifting precariously as the branch dips low.
"Phainon! Get down from there!" you shout, your voice sharp with a sudden spike of panic.
The warning comes a second too late. The branch snaps with a loud, splintering crack. Phainon lets out a startled yelp, his fingers slipping from the bark as the limb gives way entirely. For a heartbeat, he hangs in the air, arms flailing, before gravity takes hold.
He crashes through a lower set of leaves with a chaotic rustle of greenery and a series of muffled thuds. He hits the ground with a heavy thwump, landing flat on his back in a heap of crushed grass and fallen twigs.
Silence falls over the orchard for a moment, save for the sound of a few apples bouncing away from the impact zone.
Phainon remains still, staring up at the canopy of the tree with a dazed expression. His white hair is now a nest of leaves and small sticks. One of his boots has come partially undone, and a streak of dirt smudges his cheek.
Slowly, he blinks. He raises one hand, opening his fingers to reveal a single, slightly bruised red apple clutched firmly in his palm.
He lets out a breathless, shaky laugh and looks over at you, his cyan eyes sparkling with stubborn pride.
"Told you," he wheezes, his voice strained but triumphant. "Pure... grace."
"You're an idiot! Are you hurt?" you shout, rushing to his side.
You drop to your knees beside him, your skirts bunching up in the dirt. Your eyes scan him quickly, checking for blood or anything obviously broken.
Phainon lets out a long, dramatic groan. He closes his eyes and lets his head thud back into the grass.
"I'm dying, [Name]. This is the end. Tell the village I died as a hero of the apple harvest," he says. He keeps his eyes shut, but the corners of his mouth are twitching.
He opens one eye, glancing at you. The dirt smudge on his cheek makes him look even more like a stray cat than usual. He slowly lifts the bruised apple, holding it out toward you like a sacred relic.
"But look. I got it."
He winces slightly as he tries to sit up, his movements stiff. He clears his throat, his voice losing the theatrical edge. He looks at you, the playful mask slipping just enough to show the exhaustion underneath.
"I'm fine. Just a bit... rattled."
He reaches up with his free hand, brushing a stray leaf out of his hair, though he misses a few that remain stuck in the white locks. He looks at the apple, then at you, his gaze softening.
"Your turn," he whispers. "The first bite. As promised."
"It's bruised. You failed," you say, leaning back on your heels.
Phainon freezes. He looks at the apple, then looks at you, his eyes wide with a look of sheer betrayal. He lets out a gasp that sounds like he's just been stabbed in the heart.
"Bruised? Bruised!" he exclaims. He holds the fruit up to the light, squinting at the small brown spot on its side. "This is a battle scar, [Name]! A mark of valor! I fought a tree and won, and you're critiquing the aesthetics of the prize?"
He flops back onto the grass with a heavy sigh, the apple resting on his chest. He stares up at the leaves, a small, fond smile touching his lips despite his protests.
"I can't believe this. I literally fall from the heavens for you, and I get a performance review."
He turns his head to look at you, the dirt on his cheek smudging further as he rubs his face.
"Fine. If it's so imperfect, I guess I'll just have to eat the whole thing myself. I'll suffer through the bruise in silence, as a martyr for your high standards."
He brings the apple toward his mouth, but he pauses, his gaze lingering on you.
"You're just saying that because you still want a bite, aren't you?"
You lean over him, reaching down to brush the leaves and twigs from his white hair.
Your fingers move slowly, plucking a jagged piece of bark from a stray lock. Phainon goes completely still. He stops talking, stops joking, and simply looks up at you. The apple remains resting on his chest, forgotten for the moment.
The sunlight filters through the canopy, casting dappled gold patterns across his face. Up close, you can see the fine tremor in his eyelashes. He looks vulnerable, stripped of the bravado he usually wears like armor.
"You're actually being nice to me," he whispers.
His voice is low, stripped of its teasing edge. He closes his eyes, leaning his head slightly into your touch. A small, contented sigh escapes him, and for a few seconds, the only sound is the distant chime of the village bell and the rustle of the wind in the orchard.
He opens his eyes again, his cyan gaze locking onto yours. The distance between your faces is small. He looks like he wants to say something—something heavy and honest-but he catches himself.
He lets out a soft, shaky breath and gives you a small, lopsided smile.
"If you keep this up, I might actually start believing you like me, [Name]."
"Don't get ahead of yourself," you reply, though you keep your hand lingering in his hair for a second longer than necessary.
Phainon lets out a soft, theatrical groan and sinks further into the grass. He closes his eyes, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"Heartless. Truly heartless. I fall from a great height, risk life and limb for a bruised piece of fruit, and I'm met with such coldness," he says.
He opens one eye, glancing up at you. The playfulness is there, but it's layered over a quiet, shimmering intensity. He reaches up and grabs your wrist, not to pull you away, but just to hold you there. His grip is gentle, his skin warm against your pulse.
"I'm serious, though," he whispers.
He looks at the apple resting on his chest, then back at you.
"Since we've only got a few days, let's make them count. No more hiding behind the usual banter. I want to know... what you're actually thinking about. The things you only say to the river or the trees when I'm not around."
The wind stirs the orchard, sending a shower of red apples tumbling from the branches around you. One rolls close to your knee, a perfect, unbruised sphere.
Phainon watches you, his expression open and hopeful.
"Will you tell me?"
"I.. I'm tired of this. Let's go back to the village," you say, pulling your wrist gently from his grasp.
Phainon blinks. He stays flat on his back for a moment, staring up at the canopy. The hope that had been shimmering in his eyes dims, replaced by a quiet, familiar resignation. He doesn't fight it. He simply lets out a long, slow breath and closes his eyes.
"Fair enough," he says. "Too much honesty for one afternoon. It's dangerous."
He rolls onto his side and pushes himself up with a grunt. He winces, rubbing his lower back, and shakes the remaining leaves from his coat. He picks up the bruised apple and tosses it into the air, catching it with a small, practiced snap of his wrist.
The walk back is quieter. The golden hour has passed, leaving the world in a deep, cooling twilight. You walk side by side, your shoulders occasionally brushing, but the intimate tension from the orchard has shifted into something more bittersweet.
As the first lanterns of the village flicker into view, Phainon stops. He looks at the distant lights of the town square where the soldiers are gathering. He looks at you, his expression steady, though his fingers tighten around the apple.
"We still have those few days," he says softly. "I'll find you tomorrow. Same time, same bridge?"
He offers a small, tentative smile. It's the look of a man who knows the clock is ticking, but is desperate to ignore the sound of the gears.
"I'll be there," you tell him.
Phainon's expression softens. He gives a sharp, single nod, his white hair shifting as he looks away toward the village lights. The tentative smile remains, though it looks fragile, like glass that might shatter if the wind blows too hard.
"Good," he whispers. "I'll hold you to that, [Name]."
He steps back, creating a small gap between you. He raises the bruised apple one last time, a playful glint returning to his cyan eyes.
"I'm keeping this as evidence of my victory, by the way. I'll bring it tomorrow. We can share the 'battle scars' together."
He turns and begins to walk toward the square, his heavy brown coat swaying with each step. He stops after a few paces and looks back over his shoulder, his silhouette stark against the deepening indigo of the sky.
"Get some sleep," he calls out, his voice carrying across the quiet path. "I want you wide awake tomorrow so you can witness more of my grace."
He waves a hand dismissively and disappears into the glow of the village lanterns, leaving you alone in the cooling evening air. The scent of crushed grass and bruised apples lingers around you, a quiet reminder of a moment that feels far too temporary.
You stop and look back one last time.
Phainon has almost reached the glow of the village lanterns. He pauses, his silhouette momentarily still against the backdrop of the indigo sky. He turns his head, catching your gaze across the distance.
Even from here, you can see the slight tilt of his head, the same way he looked at you by the bridge. He raises his hand, waving a slow, quiet goodbye. The gesture lacks his usual flamboyant energy; it's small, almost fragile.
As he finally turns the corner and vanishes from sight, the silence of the path settles around you. The orchard behind you is a wall of dark shadows, and the road ahead leads back to a home that feels like it's already beginning to change.
You stand there for a long minute, the cool evening air biting at your skin, staring at the empty space where he just stood.
— thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it ♡ i really hope i finish this fanfic and not put it on hold like how i did for the other previous phainon fic.. trust guys ahahaha.
— i haven't created a taglist but if you would like to be added to it, comment/ask <3
The spotlight that was once a dream to Phainon now became a reality he faced, in exchange of the home who sheltered him before everything else.
[THIS IS A REUPLOAD because i moved blogs :)]
Original Post Date: May 26, 2026
this fic contains: modern famous athelete! phainon, HURT/ NO COMFORT, engaged but didn't get married, phainon slowly starting to neglect you, blinded by fame and spotlight, oneshot, slowburn angst, no happy ending.
word count: 10.2k
notes: it's been awhile since i posted! i hope you enjoy this fic my fellow angst lovers! this fic's themes were heavily inspired by different songs which i'll actually recommend for you to listen to while reading! these are the following: circles (post malone), the apartment we won't share (niki), too little too late (laufey), francis forever (mitski), promise (laufey), oceans and engines (niki), the scientist (coldplay), strange (celeste), lifetime (ben&ben), and lastly, who knows (daniel caesar). happy reading!
The fame and spotlight were things Phainon had always sought.
Once a rookie basketball player, Phainon entered the pro-scene; people started noticing not only his skills, but also his determination. Millions of people around the world watched every step he made, every score, every victory, and every leap he made.
People adored him— his determination, his passion for the sport were the simple things people find themselves seeking in Phainon over and over again. Countless media outlets desperately squeezed even a single second just to interview Phainon, all for the chase of clout and trend.
The crowds cheered for him, banners were posted, billboards were made. You'd see his face on the news, on the roads, everywhere.
One can consider Phainon a successful man, someone with pure and determined ambition. He had everything; fame, respect, money…
But none of those were there in the very beginning.
You grew up with Phainon among the fields of Aedes Elysiae, your families knew each other too well. Known in the village for being a bright and happy boy who’d always help his parents with planting rice and corn.
After chores, he'd immediately pick up his rusty basketball and scurry over to your secret hideout, all furnished with his makeshift basketball ring made from carefully knotted vines and sticks, then he would spend his afternoon learning how to dribble and practice his three-pointer shots.
You were his first fan, his very first cheerleader. With every shot he'd make, you would always clap and cheer him on even more. And after those practices he would lay down on the ground beside you and chat together while sky gazing.
“One day, I'm gonna be the greatest basketball player!” He would beam brightly while resting his head on the patch of grass. “I'm gonna go to the city and become rich!”
His very first declaration of dreams— it was you who first heard his oath.
And you held that dream just as close to your own, being the daughter of a farmer, you've always wanted to leave Aedes Elysiae. To explore the world, travel to different cities, enjoy life.
Unfortunately, both of your parents didn't agree, life was much easier and less trouble in the countryside after all. A humble place where people didn't have to think much about what others would say; the community was driven by a close-knitted relationship.
But you wouldn't let such obstacles hinder the future you and Phainon wanted. To move out and live in the city, that wasn't just an aspiration that you held alone, but a joint dream of achieving more than what life offered you both
As years pass, you continue to grow older alongside Phainon, being an anchor of neverending support for his dreams. Until simple chats became stolen glances, awkward but lingering touches of hands. Seemingly quiet yet fulfilled silence while Phainon walks you home regularly, ‘to keep you safe’ being the reason for his offer even if nothing about the road home has changed since you were both little.
Just as your confusing relationship blossomed, you continuously did your best to ace every lesson the village teachers would give, giving your all for the sake of a brighter future. And everything paid off when finally, your parents let you go.
So you began your journey to Okhema City, a place filled with dreams and aspirations.
And before your departure for Okhema, Phainon hurried over, carrying the same heavy bags like you. He panicked, his face flushed while he breathed heavily.
“I'm going with you.” Phainon declared. His hand extended to reach yours, intertwining it gently while he looked at the road, his gaze too shy to meet your eyes.
“Well... I actually like you.” He scratched the back of his neck bashfully. “So I can't let you go by yourself just like that, alright?”
A simple declaration of affection; you can't help but lend a sheepish smile. Since when did you notice that his actions weren't so friendly anymore?
Was it his playful banters? Or those times he'd playfully poke fun at you, saying that he'll be crying if you ever get a crush on one of the people in the village?
Or those late night strolls alongside the fields together, sharing moments of solidarity and expectations about Okhema city once you're both allowed to leave Aedes Elysiae.
That line was long crossed. Realizing that Phainon slowly and surely crept his way into your heart, never planning to let you go.
At last, when the bus taking you both to Okhema City arrived, you held his hand tightly—stepping into the new chapter of your lives together.
The city was very… overwhelming, to say the least.
It's not that you didn't plan ahead, the sheer difference between the wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae and the towering landscapes of Okhema City kept you awake during your first few days.
The pressure was crushing, expectations everywhere barged in to you all at once without mercy, intending to keep you busy and fully occupied at every single opportunity.
It feels like all hope is lost. But not for Phainon.
Phainon kept you grounded, visiting you every single time after his part-time shifts. Sometimes with a bouquet of flowers; on other days, your favorite takeout order. But there would be days where he would bring nothing, only a sheepish smile and “I'm sorry I couldn't bring you anything tonight… I'm a bit tight on money right now..”
Deep inside, it didn't matter. On days where you forgot to eat or take care of yourself, Phainon kept you still, making sure that you would always remember how much he loved you.
Phainon made sure to let you know that he cherishes you. Still the same boy who you grew up with in Aedes Elysiae, except now he's mature; his aspirations clear, but his devotion for you runs deeper than anything else.
It took a whole year for you to officially adjust to your lives in the city, sending letters and having calls with your parents from time to time.
They would often tell you whatever was happening in the countryside, still sharing stories amidst the nostalgia and melancholy. It was then that you broke it to them that you’ve been dating Phainon for a year already.
A rocky start, having to balance everything all at once. But when everything finally settled, it was then that you both sat down and had a genuine talk.
“Let's move in together.”
You can still remember like it was yesterday, how Phainon's face lit up in pure joy over your decision— not wasting a single second and immediately agreeing. His arms wrapped around you with tender care.
The road to finding an apartment for two people was a rough experience you wouldn't want to experience again. Being two countryside dwellers with a limited budget while balancing everything else.
Phainon didn't really pursue higher education after moving to the city, keen to fund his personal goals of becoming a basketball athlete, he would spend everyday running through different part-time jobs to save up money for small league admission fees and new shoes.
To him, it didn't matter how long it takes to save up to finally reach his dreams. Talking about each other's financial progress while eating cheap convenience store ramen after a long day.
You on the other hand would focus with much determination for internships and part-time jobs while juggling university jobs. And at the end of the day, it's all worth it. Seeing Phainon welcome you back to your shared space with wide open arms and a container of your favorite takeout.
Life isn't so bad. You thought, amidst the fast-paced lifestyle of Okhema City, you found your anchor.
Balloons, hats, cake.. You stammer, making sure everything is at place.
Today is Phainon's birthday, clocking out early at internship and rushing to the mall to buy his gift. You glanced from behind the dining table chair, a paper bag inside it was a box of sports shoes.
Phainon had been talking about this specific pair of sports shoes with yellow and purple accents in it. Quite the shoe color combination, but alas, it's his favorite.
With sweaty palms, you wiped on your shirt as the door clicked open…
“Happy Birthday!” You opened the party poppers and the confetti. Phainon lightly jumped in surprise but started laughing. “Hey you scared me there for a second!”
He dropped his bags and immediately reached out for a tender embrace, his scent sweaty but it smells like home. He's home.
“Sweetheart, you didn't have to do all of this, y’know that?” He lightly pulls away and takes your cheek on to his palm; his thumb slowly brushes on your cheek with careful caress. But the surprise wasn't over. “Okay, you better close your eyes.” You grin. “I have another surprise.”
Phainon huffed playfully and closed his eyes shut with a happy grin. “There, happy?” He muses, loosening his grip so that you can move to wherever you are going.
“No peeking!” you demanded, jokingly sounding stern as you take the paper bag with the shoe box inside.
“Now, open your eyes.” The soft gentle request immediately made Phainon open his eyes. He glanced at the paper bag with confusion but accepted it when you handed it over to him. “Hm? What's this?”
He opened the paper bag and slowly took out its contents. And in the span of a second, he gasped and froze.
His dream sports shoes.
He shuffled his wavering gaze to you then back to the box, then back to you; trying to confirm if what he's seeing is right.
You didn't say a word, just nodded as his eyes swell up with tears, dropping the box and holding you in his arms again once more. “Thank you… Thank you so much… I.. Wow..” Phainon chuckles while sniffling. “You.. You really didn't have to..” His voice emits a shaky laugh. “You didn't have to..”
“But I did.” You gave him a proud smile.
He's done so much for you, sacrificed and gave you everything you needed; wanting to return the favor and show him that you cherish him just as much as he does.
And to Phainon, your smile mattered more than any sports shoes.
Three whole years have passed since you moved to Okhema City with Phainon.
After graduating and getting a stable job, you both managed to get a much more spacious apartment, now decorated with tiny trinkets and wall decorations.
The living room was occupied by a spacious sofa— Phainon who insisted that you should buy a very soft sofa, totally not for his afternoon naps.
And the kitchen; with a wide counter that can be viewed from the front door. Being quite the silly guy he is, he would sometimes sneak up behind you while cooking food, snaking his hands up your waist and holding you tenderly.
It was quite the funny predicament, especially when he'd whine like a child after you swat him with a spatula. Scolding your puppy-like boyfriend who then grovels on the sofa.
“You don't love me anymoooooore.” His sulky whines and wails would overlap with the sound of cooking, and you can't help but snort over his childish demeanor. Still the same bright but sulky boy from Aedes Elysiae.
“Sure whatever.” You sarcastically replied with a tight-lipped smirk. “Dinner's ready.” Phainon instantly jumped from his seat to help you arrange plates and ready for the long-awaited dinner. Even if he's sweaty and just came back from a rigorous training session, he'd always make sure to get home in time and eat dinner with you.
You developed a nightly routine with Phainon— after he presented to wash the dishes from dinner (you did the cooking and all, he doesn't want to add more to the things you did for him.) you'd have your nice warm bath and pajamas on, putting on a cooling mask, unaware that Phainon, who just finished his bath, would also take a cooling mask and put it on his face too…
“Do you even know what the mask does?” You would stifle a laugh while accidentally licking a part of the mask before putting it on with quite the jarring uneven sides. “Nah, but it does look fancy when you put it on soooo~” Phainon lay beside you, holding you in his arms as he cooed playfully.
The rest of the evening hours then get spent just chatting and talking about yours and his day. Until the cooling masks are free to take off, he'd then kiss your forehead slowly, and tenderly.
“Good night. I love you.”
“Augh, I miss youuuu…” His voice rang through the jagged call, it's like you can literally see his slumped whiny face while on the basketball court. “I wanna go hoooooomeeee..” He whined once more.
“Phainon! Break time's over!” Another voice caught the phone mic as the muffled rush of stuffing his phone behind with a whisper followed by “See you tonight!” as he drops the call.
You let the absurdity of the silence pass for a second, laughing to yourself as you finally got up from your office chair.
It's lunch time in the office, while your co-workers went out for drinks, you stayed in your cubicle while scrolling through your social media feed. Until your gaze landed on a trending article did your face went frozen.
Phainon's face is on National Television…
A few seconds pass once more, trying to register the sight in front of you. You followed with a rushed yelp, rushing to take a screenshot.
Oh my aeons, Phainon is trending.
When the article opens, there lay a recorded video of Phainon in his jersey, calling out to the viewers about his signature move.
“Worldbearing… HOOP!” he brazenly dribbles the ball, running to the ring and dunking it in with a charming wink and smile. So that's why he went viral.
Checking the post, hundred thousands of shares and reactions, the comment section filled with a shock ton of compliments.
[omg that guy is so cute! 😍]
[ts fire man keep it up w those dunks]
[Worldbearing hoop sounds cringe but anyways nice shot 👍]
And you agree, Worldbearing Hoop does sound cringe for a signature shot— Phainon has been gushing about calling his signature move like that, it burnt into your ears more often than you can personally admit. And at the end of the day, you got used to it.
And judging from the sudden shocking fame, you'll definitely be celebrating this milestone with him tonight.
You reached for the keys in your bag while holding a cake box on your other hand. You tried to hold back a smile, saving it for when you get inside but you can't contain the pride and joy you felt.
And so, you immediately went in as the door clicked open but got surprised when you saw Phainon inside, dinner already prepared.
“Oh you're back!” Phainon exclaimed, wiping his hands on the kitchen towel. He walked over to you with a smile but mixed with confusion when he saw the box. “Hm? What's that?”
The box intrigued him, carefully taking it from your hands as he examined it. He drew his look back at you and laughed when you showed the viral news article. “Ohhhh! That!”
“Yeah it exploded earlier this morning, I'm not surprised you caught wind of it.” He clasps his hands with you and walks you to the kitchen. The dining table filled with hot food. And without sparing another moment; you ate beside him.
Dinner tasted different because it was Phainon cooking, quite unusual since he doesn't really come home before seven thirty pm.
The view of the cake and a cozy dinner with your beloved made every sacrifice and hard work worth it in the end.
As months passed by, Phainon steadily grew an audience, some people would recognize him as the ‘Worldbearing Hoop guy’. Teens would take pictures with him, kids would beam with joy over his presence. The whole world is finally starting to recognize Phainon, even receiving a call from Aedes Elysiae, saying that the townsfolk have been talking about Phainon non-stop.
You both opted for an indoors dinner, Phainon reasoning out that he doesn't want people recognizing him outside and making you feel out of place.
Yet one evening, while blowing his hair dry after a shower, he looked at you with a giddy smile. “I got us a fancy dinner reservation tomorrow evening.” Phainon declared, he didn't even ask if you're fine with it. He just knows you'd be delighted.
He's right, it's been awhile since you both had dinner outdoors. A gentle change of place can help clear up your mind from time to time.
Phainon has been getting much more popular these days after all. In news outlets, social media feeds— even automated fan accounts that spam his famous phrase ‘Worldbearing Hoop!’
It's no wonder anymore that people recognize Phainon from head to toe, the handsome countryside boy who rose to stardom, now riding along the waves of fame.
And so you lay in bed beside him, facing each other. His gaze still at you; slowly dying down when he saw the worried look in your face. “Sweetheart, What's wrong?”
Phainon immediately scooted closer, examining your slightly furrowed eyebrows, and your conscious glance that tried so hard not to meet him.
“I'm scared.” was all you could mutter, unsure of what exactly to say. This wasn't the first time you both had worries and arguments, but you couldn't understand why this one felt more heavy than before.
And it seems that Phainon understood exactly what you meant, the hesitance in your eyes, your pursed lips that tried to steady itself.
“You won't lose me. Not now, not ever.” the promise was a gentle whisper, an oath that only you and him can hear. Amidst the numbing chaos of worry that tried to fill your thoughts, his voice calmed its way through you.
That was enough for you, you trusted him from the very beginning when you both had nothing. What more now that you're both slowly achieving your destined life together?
Sleep finally found its way into you, your body finally calming down after the gentle reassurance Phainon gave. Your body scooting closer to his as both of your legs tangled with his.
“I love you, good night.” You let out a soft mumble while he kissed your forehead tenderly, sealing a promise of devotion.
“I'm almost done!” you called through the bathroom door, sparing one last glance at the mirror before dinner.
You've done a pretty good job dressing up, but Phainon hasn't seen your look yet, and just that thought made you anticipate.
And when you walked out, his reaction did not disappoint in the slightest. “Wow.. I mean– wow..” He choked a breath. “Breathtaking…” Phainon mumbled.
Even with a twinge of bashfulness, he didn't hesitate to hold you in his arms, escorting you ever so intimately into the car he rented just for this occasion. “In you go, my lady.” He snickers, trying to sound like a professional butler.
Professional Butler would be quite an understatement though, considering how handsome he looks in that suit and tie. Like it's the first time seeing him in a fancy outfit, years after your village prom with him in Aedes Elysiae, where you first saw him rock a suit and tie, he wasn't exactly knowledgeable with hair styling yet.
But the glow up now is a delectable sight, he just looks so good that sometimes, you almost forget that this man loves you back.
The drive to the fancy dinner date that Phainon promised wasn't that long, just two traffics past the apartment complex you guys live in. And so when he parked the car outside the restaurant, his movements were calculated and posh.
Opening the door for you as always and offering his arm for you to hold on to. Honestly, what a gentleman.
Entering the restaurant, you can't help but feel in awe. The tables are draped in fine silk cloth, dinnerware in perfect arrangement while table napkins formed into beautiful white swans. Overhead, a crystal chandelier glossed the ceiling in light as the soft tunes of the violin and piano graced the atmosphere.
“Like it?” Phainon glanced at you, seemingly more interested in you than the fancy sight in front of him. All you could do was give him a nod while being escorted to your table.
Dinner went by a blur, everything was perfect, your banters and chatter filled the small space shared between you two.
“Do you remember when I would walk you back home from our secret hideout?” He grins. “You'd always insist but I did it anyway, I really wanted to spend time with you.”
You still remember those memories as clear as day, even remembering how ‘subtle’ he was with holding your hand to ‘protect’ you.
Now he's in front of you, you never expected that you'll one day be in this kind of relationship. Of all people, with the boy you grew up with. The boy you saw practice all afternoon in hopes to become a famous basketball player.
And to Phainon, these aspirations slowly start to become a reality. Everything being put into place, his hardships paying off as he finally reaches his dreams.
All that's left is for you to be a part of it, forever.
Slowly, he raised his hand above the table, a small velvet box on his palm. Phainon clears his throat but remains shaky.
“Ever since we were children, back in Aedes Elysiae..” Phainon opens, his voice subtly shaking. “You have always been my best friend… My number one supporter, since day one…”
Finally, he looks up to meet your watering gaze. “I wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for you– so…” His fingers brushed on the box one more time, slowly pulling it open… “You supported me from the very beginning. And now, I want you to be with me, forever.”
The box opens, revealing a glimmering diamond ring, in perfect silver cuts and shiny center.
“Will you marry me?”
Unlike the movies, getting engaged wasn't the most blissful and breezy feeling out there. Lots of papers to work with, planning and budgeting.
After a talk with Phainon, realizing that it's been months since his proposal, his hectic schedule and your office projects. You both decided to postpone the wedding until next year, to make way for both of your busy lives.
You looked at wedding venues on your way home, your mind drifting between flower arrangements and what to make for dinner tonight.
After a bit of hard work and contemplation on what to make, you set up the plates and looked at the time.
He's late.
Phainon has been leaving early these days after all, his schedule must be hectic. After winning in regionals two weeks ago, he must've had his head in training mode for the past few days.
And this nice warm dinner will definitely help him recharge.
So you sat, patiently waiting with a gentle smile, listening attentively to sudden door clicking sounds that might come anytime soon now…
He's awfully late…
Finally, the door clicked open at 8:13pm. His face was sweaty like he rushed over. “Hey! I'm so sorry I'm late… The press invited us for dinner.” He chuckles, putting his bag down and moving over to kiss you on the cheek.
“Hmm, dinner?” He hummed, but then bashfully looked back at you.. “I'm sorry… I already had dinner with the team..”
Oh… Well that's unusual.
They probably celebrated something big, that's why he was invited to a celebratory dinner with his team and the press.
“It's okay, there's always next time.” You smiled, your fingers struggling to grip on the spoon and eat; it went unnoticed to Phainon due to fatigue and so he went to the bathroom to freshen up.
Once in, you sighed sadly — not really understanding the welling sadness that's stuck on your throat, but you forced yourself to ignore it and move on for the night.
When you head to the bedroom after a shower, Phainon is on his phone, humming while scrolling. “Oh hey! Look, they made memes of me beatboxing on yesterday's talk show.” He happily flips his phone to face you.
The video shows a clip of Phainon doing an oddly funny dance while attempting a ridiculous beatbox. Everyone in the talk show started laughing and clapping.
Wait… Talk Show?
“You never told me you attended a talk show.” The confusion envelops your face, since when was he invited on a talk show?
“I didn't? I'm so sorryyyyy!” Phainon playfully pouts “I was so busy, babe.” he nuzzles beside you.
“Can I make it up to you, pleaseeee? We can watch the talk show together.” A gentle smile crept up your face, his cheeky grin wiping away traces of confusion in your eyes.
You opened the video on your phone and watched beside him, his shoulders calm while his arms wrapped around your waist. “Oh that part, they made me dribble one hundred times, it was insane.” He would laugh at certain parts.
It was a delightful sight, seeing your fiancé grow famous while still having fun and maintaining his passion for basketball.
Until one of the segments pried into his personal life.
“Say! Phainon, are you… taken?!” The sound effects emit a shocking sound as the camera slowly pans to Phainon. “Uh well… Nope!” he nods to the host.
Excuse me?
You slowly turned your head to look at Phainon who seemed to be sweating quite a lot..
“Well?”
Phainon gulps nervously “Well, the media managers told me to keep it under wraps… So I had to lie…”
Oh Phainon… You can't help but shake your head out of sudden disappointment.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart… I had to say that for your own safety y’know…” He lowers his head, pressing his lips on the knuckles of your hand. “ I didn't want people barging in your office and bombarding you just because we're engaged.” He adds, the concern in his eyes gently convincing yours.
Maybe he's right, the internet is a dangerous place after all…
And so, you went to sleep in his arms. Trying your best to ignore all the forming thoughts that are invading your head.
You didn't know how it exactly started.
He would send texts saying that he won't make it to dinner that evening. But then it became more apologies one after another.
Until he stopped informing you at all.
Another pattern that you slowly started noticing was that he gets home much later than usual but wouldn't miss telling you everything that happened in his day; he would start talking about the reporters asking his daily routine that kept him in shape, or what he would say to his opponents who tried mimicking his now famous signature move ‘Worldbearing Hoop’.
He was naturally gifted, born to stand in the spotlight as headlines continued to roar out his name. It was wonderful, seeing people finally recognizing all the hard work and efforts that you watched blossom since the very beginning.
Yet why does it seem that he's much more absent? Is the cost of fame really the disappearance in one's life?
It's not like you don't see him anymore, you still do every single day.
And yet his face seemed to appear much more on TV than in your own dining table.
You didn't realize it at first; it barely dawned on you that the apartment started looking duller and empty.
The living room had fewer items now, Phainon once called you to put some items you have out of sight. “Just as a precautionary measure in case the press media suddenly barged into the apartment.” was the reason he laid out.
You also started to cook portions for one person nowadays.
The arrows on the clock would tick nine—your food barely touched and almost cold, but you remain seated. It can even be considered a miracle if you finished your meal even when you barely can stomach any more than the lingering emptiness inside you.
The door creaked open as you washed the dishes, the floor would thud muffled steps from socks that would grow closer and closer. “Hey…” you feel someone kiss you gently on the cheek.
What a miracle, he's actually home early…
“I'm home.” Phainon would quietly reply, his head still close to yours, letting the silence pass for a few seconds, watching you scrub the plates; the small clacking sound of utensils doing its most to fill in the deafening silence.
“Welcome home.” was the response you'd choke out. A forced one, born from the confusion he had started giving you. “How was your day?” and still, you ask… Out of curiosity, out of concern.
“Same as always, training, filming, promotion, and interviews. Lots of them.” He replied with a sigh; complaining about the lack of something new. “How was work?” Phainon chimed back.
“It was fine. We've been preparing for a big project.” The situation at the office earlier was quite hectic. But you seem to feel like telling him how the boss actually commended your diligent work.”And my manager told me that I was–”
Phainon's phone buzzed—immediately latching away before you could even finish your sentence. He moves away “Sorry, I gotta take this call.” his small hums trying to pave way as he absent-mindedly walked out of the kitchen.
The smile that was creeping its way up to your face faltered—all you could do was watch him leave. And it would be extremely childish to protest and tell him not to take the call because what if that was important? It could be about his work, his athletic life, his fame. You wouldn't want to take that away from him now, would you?
Deep down you just wished that he'd drop that call for once and just listen to your day.
But it seems that even the simplest wish was something you do not have a grasp of. Not anymore, at least.
You tucked yourself under the sheets, the solemn humming of the AC creeping inside your ears, the glowing numbers gently basking a tiny warm light that blinks in the room. You descended deeper into the sheets, scramming for your trusted pillow to hug and fall asleep to.
The desperation to fall asleep instantly was immense. You're not even tired, you just want to fall asleep before Phainon comes in because you're still upset that he chose the phone call over you.
And maybe also because you barely had dinners together anymore.. Or because he comes home late nowadays… Or maybe—just maybe, you miss him.
Phainon wakes up beside you everyday, eats the same food as you; just not as much now, he leaves then comes back home, he's still there.
He's so close, yet so far away.
Now he's here, getting in the same sheets as yours, and you pretended to be fast asleep, not daring to even face him. Until you felt his warm large arms pull you close, the chills you had instantly melting into a puddle.
And you can't help but hug him back.
“Aha~ so you are awake.” He cheered quietly, his voice groggy from exhaustion. “The call earlier was a brand deal, I had to take it.” Phainon's fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the strands of your hair, bringing it close to his face and sighing on it dreamily.
“I'm sorry if I had to leave you all of a sudden.” He solemnly replied, his arms crept its way back to you, partly patting you gently to sleep. “I'll be coming home late tomorrow.” Phainon said, “No need to wait for me.” He quietly added.
It wasn't surprising anymore to say the least, since when did he inform you about that anyway? Even without telling you that he'll come home late, he already does.
As if to comply and just to get everything over and done with, you nod and sigh “Alright.” trying to lull yourself back to sleep even with the agony in your chest.
And Phainon seems to take note of this as he doesn't react back; his arms slowly loosening up as he himself goes to sleep.
Even with your eyes closed, the numbing and growing despair in your gut never died down, continuing to churn you upside down.
Phainon stayed true to his word.
When you woke the next morning, he was already gone, the bed is as cold as before he laid down last night.
You groggily sat on the edge of the bed, staring into nothing as you let your thoughts pass by.
When did he leave?
Finally, you rubbed your face sleepily and stood up to fix the bed, your mind racing with several thoughts.
I hope he's safe… Did he have breakfast already?
The questions flooded your mind so much it irritated you too.
And it's not like this was the first time he left before you even woke up, it's been happening for awhile after all.
Even with a heavy heart, you mustered the courage to make breakfast, each flip seemed heavier than usual. You'd eat at the table all by yourself, getting used to the silence that was once joy and laughter.
Getting ready for work, brushing your hair while staring blankly at the mirror, unsure of what to feel.
And then leaving for work with a heavy sigh, slipping into your work facade for the day.
In the office you were impeccable, flawlessly handling tasks and managing interns at your best capabilities.
Everyone adored you, looked up to you, and even fancied you. But it seems that your co-workers seemed to notice something off about you lately.
You're still on point with your tasks, yet your movements seem a bit more… sluggish; much slower than usual and that you'd glance at your phone much longer than usual.
And your co-workers are concerned, but that was the problem, they don't really know how to approach you because they don't know much about your life.
Aside from being a really great worker, the only fact that they know about you is that you're engaged, and that could probably be the reason.
You take the bus back home with a solemn sigh, opening your phone to check on whatever was happening with the internet.
It wasn't intentional but you find yourself looking at the newspage—your eyes landing at a wrenching article title.
‘Model spotted with Famous Basketball Athlete Phainon Khaslana entering a Hotel!’
‘Just this morning, the famous model and influencer was spotted entering the Okhema Hotel with the Basketball Athlete Phainon Khaslana.’
The rest of the article passed by you like a blur, your eyes firmly trying to reject the words it read.
There's no way Phainon would do that, the media often twists narratives to get popular and this is probably just another one of those cases. And yet you get shivers over the possibility.
What if it was true?
No. Phainon would NEVER do that to you.
You repeatedly convince yourself that it was a twisted narrative, he's definitely there for a reason, but not something that the media would fabricate.
And so you closed your phone, tucking it back in your bag with shaky hands as you held on to the armchair of your seat, looking outside the window to distract yourself of impending thoughts.
You let the food run cold that evening.
Sitting by yourself at the dining table, the ticking of the clock accompanied by the often sound of cars passing by rummaged through the empty noise of the house.
It was then at eleven o'clock when the door finally clacked open, revealing an exhausted Phainon. “Hey I'm home.”
Once he sets his duffle bag down the sofa, he notices the light coming from the kitchen. “Oh hey, why are you still awake?” He walked in and noticed how slumped you look while sitting; the meal on the table, cold and untouched.
It took you quite awhile to finally meet his eyes and when you did, it felt heavy.
You wanted to ask him so many things, but the words struggled to leave your mouth, so you settled with a quiet reply.
“I saw the article.” You dropped, and it was then that Phainon looked at you in panic. “Wait what? The hotel article?” He stammers. “Babe, that was a misunderstanding.”
“Castorice was being followed by a stalker. I was keeping her safe.” Phainon immediately staggers to you, holding both your arms, his gaze never left yours, holding firm sincerity in them. “You believe me, right?” He worriedly searched your eyes.
“Yeah I do..” your reply was slow and gentle. “Will you deny it to the public?”
Phainon scratched the back of his neck “Uh well…”
Did he hesitate?
The burning ache in your chest blared, you guys are engaged, shouldn't that be something that he's informing the public?
He frustratingly sighs, raising one of his hands to sweep through his hair “Yeah, I'll just tell them it was nothing personal. Although I bet they'll buy that.”
“Then why not just tell them that you're engaged?”
Phainon stops, he glances at you with absurdity “What? Why would I do that?” He chuckled nervously “We'll be fine without telling them!”
Your stomach dropped.
“Phainon, you cannot be saying that. People will think that you're still single!” You protested. “It'll be messy!”
“Look, there's no need to! Besides, if the world finds out, they'll be shambles! I don't want to go viral for lying to the internet when I told them that I'm single during the talk show, remember?” He shook his head. “If they find out, my managers will kill me, then what's going to happen to my career?”
“What's going to happen to us then?”
Phainon froze. Us? He never considered that. But the fame was wonderful, people are finally seeing him, recognizing the time and effort he put into making even his signature move.
Yet here you are, demanding and asking if he still cares.
“Babe, it's fine. We'll be fine.”
“I beg to fucking differ, Phainon.” You snapped, the words came out of your mouth before you could even think twice. “Why are you pretending that everything is fine?”
“What? Because it is–”
“No it's not.” the quiver in your voice finally comes crashing down the moment Phainon looked at you in disbelief. His brow furrowed as his mouth frowned.
“You leave early then come home late. You don't eat dinner here anymore.” You angrily listed, letting each word pierce through him deeply, emphasizing every sentence that came out of your mouth.
You're tired, fed up, and upset. And you just wish he'd cooperate to understand you.
“When was the last time we had dinner together?” you asked “You don't remember, do you? Because it's been WEEKS, Phainon.”
You clashed out of his arms and clenched your fists. “You get up early and go home late.” echoed in the silent apartment as he stiffened still, taking in every single word you say.
“When was the last time we had a long talk like this? Never. Because you're NEVER there anymore!”
Phainon looked in utter heartbreak, realizing how much everything has been paining you. “I got sick three days ago, where were you? Basking in fame and glory.” You choked a sob, hands starting to tremble from despair.
It's true, you did get sick three days ago, you contemplated whether to tell him or not, but you best believe he's busy. And judging from how he's seemingly minding the public before your own feelings, even if you told him, he wouldn't go home just for you.
“I…” He tried to find the words, but nothing would come out. “I didn't know…”
That sentence was enough to make you erupt into angry scoffs “Of course you DON'T know. Why would you?” You pissingly sneered.
The look in his face screamed everything you've always wished that he'd have; confusion, guilt, sadness all came crashing down at him at once. But before he could even get the chance to clear some things, you slowly moved away.
Exhausted and drained from all different kinds of reasons and excuses he would say to you every single damn day, you can't tolerate another one of those, for the sake of your own peace.
“Please listen, I–”
“I don't want to talk right now.”
All that was heard afterwards was the deafening echo of the bedroom door being slammed shut. And Phainon was left sitting on the chair, contemplating and questioning everything that just happened.
When you woke up the next morning, Phainon was gone, as usual. But you didn't bother, not anymore.
After the agonizing events of what happened last night, it really would have been best not to see him right now, because you know for yourself that you won't be able to hold an eye contact with him in such a state.
The unanswered and conflicted feelings continued to pool in your stomach, but you didn't care, you'll have to get used to it eventually.
How did it get to this? Were you always this conflicted and unreasonable with yourself? Pathetic enough to actually shut him out and leave him hanging.
I'm such an idiot. The words rang in your head, gripping every thought like a vice. Engulfing you in neverending self-loathing.
But then again, if Phainon really cared, he would've come back for you. Probably would've cancelled his agendas for today, maybe sit down and actually clear things up.
Yet the bed was empty, the only trace of his existence in this room was the muffled sound of his interview coming from the television.
The channel aired morning news, featuring Phainon in the Showbiz segment.
“Mister Khaslana! The whole world admires the way you achieved your dreams.” The reporter exclaims, moving the mic halfway to meet Phainon whose flashy smile remained polished and untouched. “Can you let us in on such a secret to your success?”
“Well you know, things do not happen overnight. You wake up with big dreams, to become an amazing basketball player, you work hard, play hard.” He smiled brightly, counting on his fingers as he lists out numbers. “Let's not forget our support systems! I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for my mom..”
And….? You sat by the bed and waited for him to mention your name.
But he never did.
“Excuse me?” was the first thing that left your mouth. What kind of audacity was that?
What happened to the late night cheap convenience store dates you had? Sharing beer and chicken in the living room after an afternoon of workout, and having a nice dinner nightly whether the tournament was a win or lose meant nothing to him anymore?
Outrageous can't even compare to the disbelief and rage you felt being disregarded and unacknowledged.
When you and Phainon left Aedes Elysiae to move to Okhema City, you had one thing in mind. To live life, and not just to survive. Working hard to afford the apartment you both cherished dearly, and even along the lines of hardship, there was not even a sliver of time where you didn't support him.
Now you saw the interview.
Was it all worth it? Making him dinner every single night, supporting him through ups and downs, wiping his tears of defeat, whispering assurances and promises, believing that one day he will be an amazing basketball player.
Your co-workers invited you for a drink after work, trying to cheer you up after noticing the decline not just from your performance but also from your looks.
Yet even the beer can’t seem to dissipate the pain you feel.
Three empty bottles of beer clank together on the floor, the noise resonating in your ears as everything in your vision gets blurry, obviously tips from the drink. Unknowingly, tears threaten to spill down your cheeks as you stagger your way home with a solemn gaze.
Upon reaching the door of your apartment, you scurried to grab your keys. But the door beeped open in surprise. Phainon stands there in confusion as you raise your head with surprise. “Oh you’re back early.” Your admission was cold but drowsy.
“But it’s 10pm.” Phainon protested, his eyebrows furrowed slightly as he moved away from the doorway, making way for you to get inside.
You can’t be bothered to bark back, but the impending need to defend yourself from his skepticism ruled over the rational answer to just be quiet and suck it in. “My point stands, you’re back early.” was all the reply you said.
Phainon scoffs, his steps trudged in front of you with defiance. “Are you still upset at me?” His eyebrows furrowed. “Can’t we just talk it out like adults?”
Talk like adults?
“Phainon, since when did you EVER want to talk it out like adults?” Your gaze slowly eyed him down, voice shaky while you clench your fist.
Unfair. Unfair. Unfair.
A small sound of contempt filled the air, “You are NEVER here anymore, Phai.”
Phainon couldn't even bother to raise his head, ashamed of all the words you've been barking at him, his demeanor tense and repulsive.
“Tell me, then.” Your shaky laugh cut through the agonizing silence. “Is the spotlight that good?”
And finally… finally, he met your gaze. His eyes were full of bewilderment and disbelief. “What do you mean?”
Maybe the confusion was enough of a telltale to realize that he really didn't understand, nor did he care.
“I'm saying that you have forgotten me.”
Silence filled the room, the ticking sound of the clock—water dripping from the faucet were the only things trying to salvage the tension built between you and Phainon.
He's been gone for months. Sleeping in the same bed, going home to the same place, yet you saw him on a screen more than in reality.
You'd wake up at night and look at his sleeping face, it's still the same man you love, but why does he look so unfamiliar now?
The aftertaste from the alcohol went unnoticed, the tipsyness gone; replaced by the lingering feeling of grief and numbness.
Did it really have to get to this?
Even when the silence continued to stretch the room farther and farther, the more you lost Phainon.
“Won't you even fight for us?”
He didn't answer, not just yet. He looked around, trying to come up with an answer. But nothing came out.
“This must be a misunderstanding, look. I didn't know you felt like that, I was busy.” Phainon moved closer, taking your shoulders into his hands as his voice turned shaky.
“Of course you are.” You yanked away. “You always are.”
The countless nights you waited for nothing, only seeing his face on the television while the food you made turned cold. When you wake up in the morning and all you get are notes that say ‘I left early, love you.’ did he ever mean it?
Now he's standing in front of you, anxious and unsure of what to do, and you can't help but feel a bit happy. You must be out of your mind, you shouldn't be feeling that.
But finally seeing him tormented, just like how he has been leaving you for the past months just made, maybe it wasn't so bad.
“I'm tired, Phainon.” the words he dreaded to hear finally left your trembling lips.
He knew this was coming, you knew this was coming.
Two people trying to salvage something that was long gone, the spoken words left in the air with no promise of mend.
Phainon didn't say anything, he couldn't. Conflicted and unsure of what he should do, realizing how he left you cold just to chase a sponge of spotlight.
The living room that once used to both be your haven of leisure now feels empty despite the two loudly thumping hearts that deafen each other's ears.
Their hearts beat loud, not out of love, but out of fear. Fear of what life will be, now that everything has been spoken.
So with trembling hands, Phainon mustered all his remaining energy, wanting to confirm everything at once.
“Are you leaving?”
The question hung heavy in the air for seconds. You didn't want to answer, but there was no choice. Everything is laid in front of you on a silver plate, he's letting you go, making you decide for yourself.
You wanted him to fight for you both, even just for a sliver.
But the look in his eyes was sure, no twinge of redemption, just acceptance, of what used to be, what has been, and will be…
“Yes..”
Phainon docked his head low, a small nod. He stayed like that for a few minutes, before sighing; gazing back at you with those sad longing eyes. “I'll help you pack.”
The rustic scent of boxes—the loud stretch of packing tapes were everything you've been hearing for the past hour.
After the confirmation from last night, you spent the entire morning getting moving boxes as soon as you woke up. The hunger and fatigue didn't even matter to you, as long as you finish packing up all your belongings quickly, you'll be able to leave.
And that's when the problem arose.
You don't exactly remember every spot and item you owned. Phainon didn't either, just putting all items that he supposedly believed that belonged to you in the unoccupied boxes. Even spending a couple of minutes on how you will be taking some of the silverware that you bought with both your money.
In the end, you didn't bother to take one. Maybe there really just some things needed to be left.
You moved forward, finished with the kitchen and bathroom. Heading to the living room to find Phainon sitting on the sofa, his shoulders are slumped while examining the ceramic decors with keen certainty that it belonged to you.
“Oh hey– I was just putting all these decors in the box..” He awkwardly paused. “I figured you might need some decorations for your new apartment.” His chuckle breaks through. “Since you know… You love decorating and all that stuff.. Ugh what am I even blabbering about, sorry..” Phainon stifled an embarrassing groan.
“Sorry about that… I'll keep my mouth shut.” He then goes back to determining the decorations.
He seems to be very occupied with the things in the living room, and for your own peace of mind, you need to keep your goals straight.
Pack my things, and get out of here.
That's it, that's the goal. And yet you can't help but glance at the walls that were once filled with portraits; the dreams you both shared.
Now all that's left were nail cracks that used to hang up frames of you two, the sticky spots of tapes and smudged glue was the only sight to behold.
Who knew it would be this dreadful? You kept to yourself.
Because no matter where you looked; everything is a remnant of what used to be bliss. The hallway now cold and empty, potted plants that used to glimmer now look pale and almost lifeless
You trudged back in the bathroom, the cabinets that used to have your shampoo, his soap, and the drawers that had extra stocks of floss and mouthwash left hanging all by itself. The bathroom is cold, but was it always this chilly?
Leaving the bathroom, you peered into the kitchen. You used to cook here. The spatulas are still hanging in order, the faucet clean and the plates are still intact, but it feels smaller.
It has always been a kitchen meant for two, but now—the stove slightly charred from months of use without cleaning, stacks of plates and utensils leave no room for sharing, at least, not anymore.
And you can't even bear to bring your favorite mug, the one Phainon gifted you on your birthday last year. Cute pastel colors with silly frog prints, the sight itself made you smile a little. It really was a cute mug.
Your gaze lands back to the empty boxes labeled ‘bedroom’. The last place you needed to clean up before you leave.
Even with a heavy heart, you walked inside. The sight is just as dreadful.
The bed that was once shared, now neat and tidy. Your house slippers set aside on a corner beside your table; still packed with your belongings. Curtains untied, its sleeves blocking sunlight and glow that tries to enter.
Was the room always this suffocating?
Years of intimacy and privacy was in this room, whispering secrets and promises that only you and Phainon will ever hear. The chatter and joy it once held, as both your bodies tangled together as you lay down, like two perfect puzzle pieces.
Waking up to the sight of your fiancé gazing at your face lovingly. On some days the opposite, his sleeping face is peaceful and calm.
But also a cold and sterile room that held unspoken signs of heartbreak and tension, when Phainon started to leave bed early without a word; hollow and empty without the weight of comfort.
The closet that held both your clothes, years of its creaking sound while being opened and closed ingrained in your brain and ears.
“Should I wear my trusty pair of yellow shirts and purple trousers today?” Phainon would always ask. It was a horrible choice of color, but it sure did its impact with giving the closet a pop of color.
You open the closet this time, staring at the hangered clothes. Your grip hesitantly holding on your shirts as you slowly pull them out and stack them on the bed.
Each stack felt heavier than the last one, the different fabrics did nothing to soothe the bubbling feeling of despair, each fold a silent goodbye to the home it had for years.
The clothes are stacked neatly on the edge of the bed while you open the box; putting each cloth carefully and precisely, afraid to mess up even a sliver of stack, each holds shaky.
Next was the desk table with your trinkets and items, just placed in a small box of belongings. The crocheted rose that Phainon gifted you for your anniversary lay still, untouched and slightly dusty.
You can still see the rugged edges of the thread, it was Phainon's first time making you something handmade after all, when he found out that you've been into handmade crafts, he didn't spare a single moment and gifted you one a week later.
And for whatever reasons it may be when you asked him why he made it, he simply replied “Because I can.”
Now you refuse to acknowledge the Phainon you have in your life. Like a stranger in the body of the man you loved so dearly. He was your world, your universe.
Yet you can't even look him in the eye anymore without feeling discomfort and unsure of what to do.
He's still Phainon, just not the one you loved.
Time and fame changed him; still wearing the same face, the same clothes, that same stupidly irresistible grin that not even once failed to make you smile.
The same Phainon that would rush home sweaty just to tell you how his day went while having a nice dinner together. The same Phainon that would whine if you don't sleep together. The same Phainon that would lie awake at night, just rambling about his dreams of becoming a basketball sensation; that people will one day recognize his signature move ‘worldbearing hoop.’
Which you think was really silly by the way, but it didn't matter because you believed that the world really will know its treasure one day.
Boxes neatly packed on the corner of the living room, each labelled according to where they were taken from. Phainon is still there, sitting on the sofa, his face unreadable as he glanced at you.
“You ready?” A simple question, it shouldn't have stirred turmoil inside you that heavily.
You've already said countless goodbyes to every nook and cranny of this house, so why can't you just say yes?
Everything is neatly packed, the house lost half of its life as everything you owned was kept tightly in one space.
How you wish you can just tuck away these lingering feelings too…
Phainon hurt you, left you alone, kept you in the dark, denied every single question and opportunity to show you to the world, the person who was there from the very very beginning. At best you should be punching him, slapping him, heck–even shouting words at him.
Now that you're face to face with him, you can't even utter anything, just this depressing invisible wall between you two. So close, yet so far away.
And Phainon felt the same. He really does, wishing that he did better.
But this relationship was beyond repair, you knew that. Fixing whatever is left are just scraps trying to become something it can never be.
“I'll call you a cab.” Phainon walked past you and out the door. The shutting sound at its loudest you've ever heard.
You clutched your bag tightly, the moving truck will deliver your boxes to your new apartment in a couple of hours. The time of departure ticked agonizingly slow yet so rushed…
One last glance in this living room, filled with memories and milestones. You'll be leaving, and never returning.
Your footsteps heavily clacked against the building’s cold white floor; icky and unbearable while your sweat slowly ran cold.
This is it.
With your bag in hand, you walked out the building. Phainon down the stairs on the sidewalk with the cab beside him, his eyes met yours—sharing a silent melancholic moment together for one last time.
Everything happened so fast… Yesterday was just another day of enduring the agonizing things that have been happening.
Here you are, a few steps away from leaving the life you lived for four whole years. The man you almost vowed to love ‘til the very last breath, holding the door open to your way out of his life forever.
You shouldn't be crying, not now. You need to stay strong.
So even with a heavy heart, you stepped closer, and closer. Feeling the edge of the open cab door with your own hands, looking at Phainon with slight uncertainty.
Am I really doing this?
It's as if Phainon could hear you, he gave a gentle nod; a forced smile.
You were the one who wanted this, you're going to be free and finally start anew.
So why does it feel so excruciatingly painful to let go?
A relationship that fell apart gradually as months passed by. Cannot be salvaged by anything else yet you find yourself clinging by a thread. Checking if Phainon still held on the other hand.
There was a time where he would move heaven and earth just for you, and even if he would change himself now, everything is already broken.
He knows that letting you go will be the best choice.
Without another word, you stepped inside the car. Sinking slowly into the seat as Phainon gently closed the door for you, his eyes glued to yours, not a stutter, not even a drip of hesitation.
Even with the tears slowly pouring out of his eyes, his gaze never faltered. Desperately boring at yours with the very little time he has left. Making sure your face is etched into his mind forever.
The doors are dreadfully closed shut. While your hands scurried to open the window out if desperation… Maybe, just maybe to look at him one last time…
And you can't help but feel your own eyes swell with tears.
You didn't cry when he wasn't there, you didn't spare a single tear when he denied any trace of your existence for the public media. Your heart was heavy every time you went to bed; you never shed a tear.
So why is it now that you cannot help but let the tears flow as the cab slowly starts to move?
Usually, people would be focused on the road now, looking at surroundings as a final goodbye.
But the only thing you find yourself looking at one last time is Phainon, as his figure slowly… gradually gets smaller…
Your eyes frantically scattered its gaze all over his face that starts to grow blurry…
Look.. Look at him, one last time. Just one more glance.
Just one more glance at that white hair you used to run your hands in.
One more glance at his beautiful eyes you could stare at for hours.
One more glance at those lips that whispered to you so tenderly with loving promises and kissed you goodnight.
One more glance at the face of the man you once saw forever with.
One more glance at the blurry face that finally disappears from your sight.
One more glance at the man you loved with all your life.
One more glance at the boy you grew up with and saw you through your ups and downs.
One last glance at Phainon, the boy from Aedes Elysiae that once held a part of your heart; now letting you go.
end notes: thank you so much for reading this oneshot! i cried a lot in the process of writing this fic and i hope i delivered it with the exact feelings i had while creating it. there might a lot of grammatical errors or typos there because i didn't exactly proofread much and english is not my first language.
hope you guys enjoyed this fic! (i might make a part 2 if everything goes well)
edit: Part 2 is in the works! the next part will be a mydei fic :)
It had been at least 10 minutes since whatever strange curse that had been cast on you took effect. You were just on your way out, as well! You prayed that one of your neighbors would open their doors and see you there, sitting half-conscious against your front door. Your limbs weren't listening to you, motionless and unresponsive. Your head was spinning, extremely nauseous from what was happening. Cold sweat was etching its marks on your skin.
Your eyes could only linger on your phone, just out of reach. Your ringtone sounded, and judging by the contact photo, it was Khaslana.
‘Damn, he must be worried’
But all you could do is sit there, on the verge of collapse. Whatever ambience that was humming in the background slowly drenched into cold echo, like the sound of whispers from beneath the sea.
You remembered your dream from last night. Then your mind drifted to the performance in a few days. You couldn't perform in these conditions. You didn't wanna let Khaslana down.
‘Khaslana…’
You really wanted to see him right now. Even if your eyelids began to fail you as well like every other muscle of your being.
“Khas…lana…”
When only silence responded to your weakened voice, you could only slowly sigh with weary regret. You closed your eyes. Then you opened them again.
Repeat.
Opening them became all the more challenging. Like forced drowsiness, strangling your senses to lull them into an unwanted slumber.
It was cold.
So cold.
It wasn't until your consciousness slowly slipped out like water escaping between your fingers, like sunlight slipping through the smallest crack.
Then, the universe heard your plea,
“[Name]!”
You barely caught the figure running towards you down the complex corridor.
(...)
“Hyacine, be careful!”
Phainon frowned, watching as your friend sped towards the hospital bed. Khaslana was next to you, his hand on top of his.
He stood up, turning to face the short pink-haired. She looked visibly distressed, her hair a mess and she was clearly dressed in sleepwear with a coat thrown on too in a hurry.
“Hello, Hyacinthia.” He spoke. “It's the first time we meet, I apologize for the circumstances.”
He felt guilty for calling Phainon in such panic, near tears when he saw you lie half-conscious by your front door like a ragdoll. Phainon had contacted Hyacine afterwards. The poor girl was near having a heart attack.
“Hello, Khaslana.” She greeted him, but her eyes were only on you. Khaslana didn't blame her. “Is she alright?”
“...She hasn't woken up. The doctors say she must've taken some form of muscle relaxant or something. They did a test earlier.”
Hyacine didn't look calmer at all.
“Oh [Name]...”
Khaslana looked back at you, sitting back down and staring. He just couldn't understand what had suddenly happened. You had been fine during training these past days, and you were just fine until now. He tried to think of anything that could've caused this.
Phainon had a look of worry tainting his features as well. He had only met you once before, but he couldn't help but empathize.
“Hyacine, you said something on our way here.” He suddenly spoke up. Hyacine looked over her shoulder at Phainon, silently asking for elaboration. She had been panic ranting in the car ride here.
“About [Name]’s coach.”
Hyacine's eyes widened a little before recounting the thoughts that spiralled through her mind when she tried to explain her theories to Phainon. It wasn't often the calm and collected nurse lost her composure like this.
“...I think Miss Caenis had something to do with this.”
That caught Khaslana's attention. He did remember how you told him about your meeting and how you planned on cutting ties with her after this performance. Could this have been a retaliation? A way of stopping you? From leaving or from performing? He knew she was extremely against him, for some reason.
“But to go this far…” His fist clenched on his lap, his brows knitting together in increasing fury.
Phainon looked over at his brother with even more concern. He knew Khaslana had a temper, and he didn't fancy him being reckless.
“Khaslana.”
“What?”
“I know you're upset, but please don't do something stupid.”
Khaslana looked away, glaring at the floor. He hated feeling helpless. It reminded him of your dream that you told him about.
I'll save you next time, I promise.
He promised you. And he couldn't break it.
“...I won't sit back and do nothing.” He muttered. “But I won't tear her limb for limb apart, if that's what you're worried about.”
Phainon sighed in relief. He really thought he'd have to call in their eldest to deal with Khaslana's insane temperament. Thankfully he didn't have to drag Reaver here.
“Good.”
Hyacine reached into her pocket for her phone.
“I'm… gonna call Hysilens and Cifera…” She excused herself. She needed to get the word to their two friends. They had no clue yet.
“Alright. Just tell us if you need something.” Phainon tried to give her a reassuring smile. It was difficult, seeing her demeanor so down. His eyes trailed back to his older brother.
“...What are you going to do?”
“I'll have to see.”
prev. 𖤓 masterlist. 𖤓 next
Synopsis: Every January since you were little, you would dream about a field of snow, waking up cold. That was happening until you went back home one January – when that same dream would end differently, in which the snow melted and you would hear a voice. That same voice was the one you would hear from a fellow figure skater that you met in your home town; his name was Khaslana. Now you can't seem to avoid this man, whether you're online or outside and fans can't get enough of you two together.
A/N: phainon lowk panicking bc khas might be out for blood.
. . . the sun sets another day, but your love prevails through the night.
WARNINGS ── fem!reader 、established relationship 、(it’s their wedding night) 、phainon whimpers & whines 、literally nothing else i wrote this off vibes 、MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
SUPERNOTE ── finals are taking me out and i just. Phainon i wish u were real to fuck my brains out. i’m so tired of thinking. (nonsense drabble just to feed the dash - might delete/private later)
WORD COUNT ── 948
BACK ARCHED INTO THE curve of a sinking sun, limbs taut like soaring stars, mouth hooting a broken chorus of pleased oh’s: the fruits of a steep, uphill battle laboring sweetly around your peak, promising the kiss of release so divinely, you weep beneath its embrace. At the behest of a scarred challenger, your pleasure is pieced like a puzzle, with analytical precision pushing you to the sweet, sunny peak — he’s been climbing, and climbing, and climbing, his hands now finally finding purchase on pebbled bosoms, exalting him to his divine right at the summit of chronicled games.
And it is he, only he, who can enjoy those fruits to their fullest potential. Pulling the skin from the flesh with a guttural groan, head sinking back on his shoulders, eyes rolling shakily. The taste of Heaven lingers over his tongue as he spits it unto you: tangy with sweat, sweet with ardor, heavy with passion. A mix of flavors only Phainon, the master climber, can achieve.
The moon pulls to cast over you, a lunar chill running over you in place of his solar warmth. Your bed, carved in pure, Kremnoan gold, roped in tendrils of leafy vines, creaks and rocks under you. Its squeals mirror yours, fleeting yet persistent, music to wake the night.
Phainon, the divine ruler of the heavens and hells, and all the mountains in between, trembles above you. He needs not say a word to tell you the truth, that crystalline glare has the words written in it. You push at the back of his neck, urging him closer, just to hug him, to feel the quakes in his muscles and the beat of his heart. Feeling it just to know that it’s because of you, and giving him the confirmation that it’s settled deep within you, too.
Those knitted brows and agape mouth are the only things you can make out through teary, starry eyes. It tells you why he’s stopped thrusting and just grinds on top of you, rutting deeply, roughly against you. Why it feels like your stomach is full of fireworks and their fuses are slowly kindling, and the smoke is slowly snuffing out your breath. You can't breathe, only gasp, clutching so tightly that your nails are rehoming in his shoulders.
You're speechless. Your eyes are blank; you can only see on the blacks of your heavy eyes. Fleeting glimpses of your day, of the last few years of your life, of what waits to come flicker in your head. You're grinning, so sickly and sloppily. There's nowhere else you'd rather be.
The two of you hold each other so closely, so tightly. There must be bits of your skin that are fusing by your sweat. Everything sticky, warm, wet, like a rebirth clogging your lungs and slithering through and out of you. You press your foreheads together, exhale and inhale each other so close.
Phainon’s voice cracks the second he tries to speak. “I'm so in love with you—” he squeaks, “I want to love you forever..”
You hold him tighter. Your legs are jelly around his waist but they keep him flush to you. Friction rubs at your clit, just the slightest tingling that births lightning bolts under your skin.
Your throat is so dry and tight but you huff anyway, “Don’t stop, Phai,” all groggily and hoarse.
He holds you down as his hips just grind against you. The movements are stuttery and slow, in tandem with the long drawn groan that surfs out. It decrescendoes into a feeble whine, and he buries his head into the crook of your neck, murmuring and whimpering against your damp skin. His messy head of hair rubs against your chin, like a dog nuzzling into you.
His sounds dance around in your stomach; your walls contract to the beat. “Oh, fuck,” he whines, muffled, “I'm gonna cum—my love, fuck—”
He seizes in your arms, his cock twitching inside of you. He breathes so gruffly and heavily against you as his arms jelly and he just lies on top of you, sandwiching you between him and the mattress. He's so heavy—you can feel the air pressing out of you.
Your eyes roll and your mouth hangs open. Your hips jump and your limbs vibrate. It feels like death is taking you; this must be Heaven.
You orgasm seconds after Phainon, a wisp of bated breath separating you. He hisses and winces and whimpers all at once, all directly to your core, all a show of vulnerability and transparency. A man so precious—sculpted like a god yet pliable like putty—is all yours, until death do you part, and then some.
Even as your brains slither out of your head and you're too far on cloud nine to think, he whispers to you. The vows you heard only a few hours ago; the promises to split the sky and pull the stars down for you, to carry your troubles for you and shoulder the weight of the world, just to keep you smiling forever. And if there ever came a time where you couldn't stand him, he'd do what he must, because your pain hurts him more than your absence.
How lucky he is to have a wife, who only looks better and better as the seconds pass, who cares for him at his rawest. You died and came back to life in your pleasure; he would kill and resurrect you again and again if you kept looking at him like that.
If he could be the center of your universe, and you his, you’d birth a new world together, where love is the only language spoken. He's fluent in you.
The spotlight that was once a dream to Phainon now became a reality he faced, in exchange of the home who sheltered him before everything else.
this fic contains: modern famous athelete! phainon, HURT/ NO COMFORT, engaged but didn't get married, phainon slowly starting neglecting you, blinded by fame and spotlight, oneshot, angst, no happy ending.
word count: 10.2k
notes: it's been awhile since i posted! i hope you enjoy this fic my fellow angst lovers!
The fame and spotlight were things Phainon had always sought.
Once a rookie basketball player, Phainon entered the pro-scene; people started noticing not only his skills, but also his determination. Millions of people around the world watched every step he made, every score, every victory, and every leap he made.
People adored him— his determination, his passion for the sport were the simple things people find themselves seeking in Phainon over and over again. Countless media outlets desperately squeezed even a single second just to interview Phainon, all for the chase of clout and trend.
The crowds cheered for him, banners were posted, billboards were made. You'd see his face on the news, on the roads, everywhere.
One can consider Phainon a successful man, someone with pure and determined ambition. He had everything; fame, respect, money…
But none of those were there in the very beginning.
-
You grew up with Phainon among the fields of Aedes Elysiae, your families knew each other too well. Known in the village for being a bright and happy boy who’d always help his parents with planting rice and corn.
After chores, he'd immediately pick up his rusty basketball and scurry over to your secret hideout, all furnished with his makeshift basketball ring made from carefully knotted vines and sticks, then he would spend his afternoon learning how to dribble and practice his three-pointer shots.
You were his first fan, his very first cheerleader. With every shot he'd make, you would always clap and cheer him on even more. And after those practices he would lay down on the ground beside you and chat together while sky gazing.
“One day, I'm gonna be the greatest basketball player!” He would beam brightly while resting his head on the patch of grass. “I'm gonna go to the city and become rich!”
His very first declaration of dreams— it was you who first heard his oath.
And you held that dream just as close to your own, being the daughter of a farmer, you've always wanted to leave Aedes Elysiae. To explore the world, travel to different cities, enjoy life.
Unfortunately, both of your parents didn't agree, life was much easier and less trouble in the countryside after all. A humble place where people didn't have to think much about what others would say; the community was driven by a close-knitted relationship.
But you wouldn't let such obstacles hinder the future you and Phainon wanted. To move out and live in the city, that wasn't just an aspiration that you held alone, but a joint dream of achieving more than what life offered you both
As years pass, you continue to grow older alongside Phainon, being an anchor of neverending support for his dreams. Until simple chats became stolen glances, awkward but lingering touches of hands. Seemingly quiet yet fulfilled silence while Phainon walks you home regularly, ‘to keep you safe’ being the reason for his offer even if nothing about the road home has changed since you were both little.
Just as your confusing relationship blossomed, you continuously did your best to ace every lesson the village teachers would give, giving your all for the sake of a brighter future. And everything paid off when finally, your parents let you go.
So you began your journey to Okhema City, a place filled with dreams and aspirations.
And before your departure for Okhema, Phainon hurried over, carrying the same heavy bags like you. He panicked, his face flushed while he breathed heavily.
“I'm going with you.” Phainon declared. His hand extended to reach yours, intertwining it gently while he looked at the road, his gaze too shy to meet your eyes.
“Well... I actually like you.” He scratched the back of his neck bashfully. “So I can't let you go by yourself just like that, alright?”
A simple declaration of affection; you can't help but lend a sheepish smile. Since when did you notice that his actions weren't so friendly anymore?
Was it his playful banters? Or those times he'd playfully poke fun at you, saying that he'll be crying if you ever get a crush on one of the people in the village?
Or those late night strolls alongside the fields together, sharing moments of solidarity and expectations about Okhema city once you're both allowed to leave Aedes Elysiae.
That line was long crossed. Realizing that Phainon slowly and surely crept his way into your heart, never planning to let you go.
At last, when the bus taking you both to Okhema City arrived, you held his hand tightly—stepping into the new chapter of your lives together.
-
The city was very… overwhelming, to say the least.
It's not that you didn't plan ahead, the sheer difference between the wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae and the towering landscapes of Okhema City kept you awake during your first few days.
The pressure was crushing, expectations everywhere barged in to you all at once without mercy, intending to keep you busy and fully occupied at every single opportunity.
It feels like all hope is lost. But not for Phainon.
Phainon kept you grounded, visiting you every single time after his part-time shifts. Sometimes with a bouquet of flowers; on other days, your favorite takeout order. But there would be days where he would bring nothing, only a sheepish smile and “I'm sorry I couldn't bring you anything tonight… I'm a bit tight on money right now..”
Deep inside, it didn't matter. On days where you forgot to eat or take care of yourself, Phainon kept you still, making sure that you would always remember how much he loved you.
Phainon made sure to let you know that he cherishes you. Still the same boy who you grew up with in Aedes Elysiae, except now he's mature; his aspirations clear, but his devotion for you runs deeper than anything else.
-
It took a whole year for you to officially adjust to your lives in the city, sending letters and having calls with your parents from time to time.
They would often tell you whatever was happening in the countryside, still sharing stories amidst the nostalgia and melancholy. It was then that you broke it to them that you’ve been dating Phainon for a year already.
A rocky start, having to balance everything all at once. But when everything finally settled, it was then that you both sat down and had a genuine talk.
“Let's move in together.”
You can still remember like it was yesterday, how Phainon's face lit up in pure joy over your decision— not wasting a single second and immediately agreeing. His arms wrapped around you with tender care.
-
The road to finding an apartment for two people was a rough experience you wouldn't want to experience again. Being two countryside dwellers with a limited budget while balancing everything else.
Phainon didn't really pursue higher education after moving to the city, keen to fund his personal goals of becoming a basketball athlete, he would spend everyday running through different part-time jobs to save up money for small league admission fees and new shoes.
To him, it didn't matter how long it takes to save up to finally reach his dreams. Talking about each other's financial progress while eating cheap convenience store ramen after a long day.
You on the other hand would focus with much determination for internships and part-time jobs while juggling university jobs. And at the end of the day, it's all worth it. Seeing Phainon welcome you back to your shared space with wide open arms and a container of your favorite takeout.
Life isn't so bad. You thought, amidst the fast-paced lifestyle of Okhema City, you found your anchor.
-
Balloons, hats, cake.. You stammer, making sure everything is at place.
Today is Phainon's birthday, clocking out early at internship and rushing to the mall to buy his gift. You glanced from behind the dining table chair, a paper bag inside it was a box of sports shoes.
Phainon had been talking about this specific pair of sports shoes with yellow and purple accents in it. Quite the shoe color combination, but alas, it's his favorite.
With sweaty palms, you wiped on your shirt as the door clicked open…
“Happy Birthday!” You opened the party poppers and the confetti. Phainon lightly jumped in surprise but started laughing. “Hey you scared me there for a second!”
He dropped his bags and immediately reached out for a tender embrace, his scent sweaty but it smells like home. He's home.
“Sweetheart, you didn't have to do all of this, y’know that?” He lightly pulls away and takes your cheek on to his palm; his thumb slowly brushes on your cheek with careful caress. But the surprise wasn't over. “Okay, you better close your eyes.” You grin. “I have another surprise.”
Phainon huffed playfully and closed his eyes shut with a happy grin. “There, happy?” He muses, loosening his grip so that you can move to wherever you are going.
“No peeking!” you demanded, jokingly sounding stern as you take the paper bag with the shoe box inside.
“Now, open your eyes.” The soft gentle request immediately made Phainon open his eyes. He glanced at the paper bag with confusion but accepted it when you handed it over to him. “Hm? What's this?”
He opened the paper bag and slowly took out its contents. And in the span of a second, he gasped and froze.
His dream sports shoes.
He shuffled his wavering gaze to you then back to the box, then back to you; trying to confirm if what he's seeing is right.
You didn't say a word, just nodded as his eyes swell up with tears, dropping the box and holding you in his arms again once more. “Thank you… Thank you so much… I.. Wow..” Phainon chuckles while sniffling. “You.. You really didn't have to..” His voice emits a shaky laugh. “You didn't have to..”
“But I did.” You gave him a proud smile.
He's done so much for you, sacrificed and gave you everything you needed; wanting to return the favor and show him that you cherish him just as much as he does.
And to Phainon, your smile mattered more than any sports shoes.
-
Three whole years have passed since you moved to Okhema City with Phainon.
After graduating and getting a stable job, you both managed to get a much more spacious apartment, now decorated with tiny trinkets and wall decorations.
The living room was occupied by a spacious sofa— Phainon who insisted that you should buy a very soft sofa, totally not for his afternoon naps.
And the kitchen; with a wide counter that can be viewed from the front door. Being quite the silly guy he is, he would sometimes sneak up behind you while cooking food, snaking his hands up your waist and holding you tenderly.
It was quite the funny predicament, especially when he'd whine like a child after you swat him with a spatula. Scolding your puppy-like boyfriend who then grovels on the sofa.
“You don't love me anymoooooore.” His sulky whines and wails would overlap with the sound of cooking, and you can't help but snort over his childish demeanor. Still the same bright but sulky boy from Aedes Elysiae.
“Sure whatever.” You sarcastically replied with a tight-lipped smirk. “Dinner's ready.” Phainon instantly jumped from his seat to help you arrange plates and ready for the long-awaited dinner. Even if he's sweaty and just came back from a rigorous training session, he'd always make sure to get home in time and eat dinner with you.
-
You developed a nightly routine with Phainon— after he presented to wash the dishes from dinner (you did the cooking and all, he doesn't want to add more to the things you did for him.) you'd have your nice warm bath and pajamas on, putting on a cooling mask, unaware that Phainon, who just finished his bath, would also take a cooling mask and put it on his face too…
“Do you even know what the mask does?” You would stifle a laugh while accidentally licking a part of the mask before putting it on with quite the jarring uneven sides. “Nah, but it does look fancy when you put it on soooo~” Phainon lay beside you, holding you in his arms as he cooed playfully.
The rest of the evening hours then get spent just chatting and talking about yours and his day. Until the cooling masks are free to take off, he'd then kiss your forehead slowly, and tenderly.
“Good night. I love you.”
-
“Augh, I miss youuuu…” His voice rang through the jagged call, it's like you can literally see his slumped whiny face while on the basketball court. “I wanna go hoooooomeeee..” He whined once more.
“Phainon! Break time's over!” Another voice caught the phone mic as the muffled rush of stuffing his phone behind with a whisper followed by “See you tonight!” as he drops the call.
You let the absurdity of the silence pass for a second, laughing to yourself as you finally got up from your office chair.
It's lunch time in the office, while your co-workers went out for drinks, you stayed in your cubicle while scrolling through your social media feed. Until your gaze landed on a trending article did your face went frozen.
Phainon's face is on National Television…
A few seconds pass once more, trying to register the sight in front of you. You followed with a rushed yelp, rushing to take a screenshot.
Oh my aeons, Phainon is trending.
When the article opens, there lay a recorded video of Phainon in his jersey, calling out to the viewers about his signature move.
“Worldbearing… HOOP!” he brazenly dribbles the ball, running to the ring and dunking it in with a charming wink and smile. So that's why he went viral.
Checking the post, hundred thousands of shares and reactions, the comment section filled with a shock ton of compliments.
[omg that guy is so cute! 😍]
[ts fire man keep it up w those dunks]
[Worldbearing hoop sounds cringe but anyways nice shot 👍]
And you agree, Worldbearing Hoop does sound cringe for a signature shot— Phainon has been gushing about calling his signature move like that, it burnt into your ears more often than you can personally admit. And at the end of the day, you got used to it.
And judging from the sudden shocking fame, you'll definitely be celebrating this milestone with him tonight.
-
You reached for the keys in your bag while holding a cake box on your other hand. You tried to hold back a smile, saving it for when you get inside but you can't contain the pride and joy you felt.
And so, you immediately went in as the door clicked open but got surprised when you saw Phainon inside, dinner already prepared.
“Oh you're back!” Phainon exclaimed, wiping his hands on the kitchen towel. He walked over to you with a smile but mixed with confusion when he saw the box. “Hm? What's that?”
The box intrigued him, carefully taking it from your hands as he examined it. He drew his look back at you and laughed when you showed the viral news article. “Ohhhh! That!”
“Yeah it exploded earlier this morning, I'm not surprised you caught wind of it.” He clasps his hands with you and walks you to the kitchen. The dining table filled with hot food. And without sparing another moment; you ate beside him.
Dinner tasted different because it was Phainon cooking, quite unusual since he doesn't really come home before seven thirty pm.
The view of the cake and a cozy dinner with your beloved made every sacrifice and hard work worth it in the end.
-
As months passed by, Phainon steadily grew an audience, some people would recognize him as the ‘Worldbearing Hoop guy’. Teens would take pictures with him, kids would beam with joy over his presence. The whole world is finally starting to recognize Phainon, even receiving a call from Aedes Elysiae, saying that the townsfolk have been talking about Phainon non-stop.
You both opted for an indoors dinner, Phainon reasoning out that he doesn't want people recognizing him outside and making you feel out of place.
Yet one evening, while blowing his hair dry after a shower, he looked at you with a giddy smile. “I got us a fancy dinner reservation tomorrow evening.” Phainon declared, he didn't even ask if you're fine with it. He just knows you'd be delighted.
He's right, it's been awhile since you both had dinner outdoors. A gentle change of place can help clear up your mind from time to time.
Phainon has been getting much more popular these days after all. In news outlets, social media feeds— even automated fan accounts that spam his famous phrase ‘Worldbearing Hoop!’
It's no wonder anymore that people recognize Phainon from head to toe, the handsome countryside boy who rose to stardom, now riding along the waves of fame.
And so you lay in bed beside him, facing each other. His gaze still at you; slowly dying down when he saw the worried look in your face. “Sweetheart, What's wrong?”
Phainon immediately scooted closer, examining your slightly furrowed eyebrows, and your conscious glance that tried so hard not to meet him.
“I'm scared.” was all you could mutter, unsure of what exactly to say. This wasn't the first time you both had worries and arguments, but you couldn't understand why this one felt more heavy than before.
And it seems that Phainon understood exactly what you meant, the hesitance in your eyes, your pursed lips that tried to steady itself.
“You won't lose me. Not now, not ever.” the promise was a gentle whisper, an oath that only you and him can hear. Amidst the numbing chaos of worry that tried to fill your thoughts, his voice calmed its way through you.
That was enough for you, you trusted him from the very beginning when you both had nothing. What more now that you're both slowly achieving your destined life together?
Sleep finally found its way into you, your body finally calming down after the gentle reassurance Phainon gave. Your body scooting closer to his as both of your legs tangled with his.
“I love you, good night.” You let out a soft mumble while he kissed your forehead tenderly, sealing a promise of devotion.
-
“I'm almost done!” you called through the bathroom door, sparing one last glance at the mirror before dinner.
You've done a pretty good job dressing up, but Phainon hasn't seen your look yet, and just that thought made you anticipate.
And when you walked out, his reaction did not disappoint in the slightest. “Wow.. I mean– wow..” He choked a breath. “Breathtaking…” Phainon mumbled.
Even with a twinge of bashfulness, he didn't hesitate to hold you in his arms, escorting you ever so intimately into the car he rented just for this occasion. “In you go, my lady.” He snickers, trying to sound like a professional butler.
Professional Butler would be quite an understatement though, considering how handsome he looks in that suit and tie. Like it's the first time seeing him in a fancy outfit, years after your village prom with him in Aedes Elysiae, where you first saw him rock a suit and tie, he wasn't exactly knowledgeable with hair styling yet.
But the glow up now is a delectable sight, he just looks so good that sometimes, you almost forget that this man loves you back.
The drive to the fancy dinner date that Phainon promised wasn't that long, just two traffics past the apartment complex you guys live in. And so when he parked the car outside the restaurant, his movements were calculated and posh.
Opening the door for you as always and offering his arm for you to hold on to. Honestly, what a gentleman.
Entering the restaurant, you can't help but feel in awe. The tables are draped in fine silk cloth, dinnerware in perfect arrangement while table napkins formed into beautiful white swans. Overhead, a crystal chandelier glossed the ceiling in light as the soft tunes of the violin and piano graced the atmosphere.
“Like it?” Phainon glanced at you, seemingly more interested in you than the fancy sight in front of him. All you could do was give him a nod while being escorted to your table.
Dinner went by a blur, everything was perfect, your banters and chatter filled the small space shared between you two.
“Do you remember when I would walk you back home from our secret hideout?” He grins. “You'd always insist but I did it anyway, I really wanted to spend time with you.”
You still remember those memories as clear as day, even remembering how ‘subtle’ he was with holding your hand to ‘protect’ you.
Now he's in front of you, you never expected that you'll one day be in this kind of relationship. Of all people, with the boy you grew up with. The boy you saw practice all afternoon in hopes to become a famous basketball player.
And to Phainon, these aspirations slowly start to become a reality. Everything being put into place, his hardships paying off as he finally reaches his dreams.
All that's left is for you to be a part of it, forever.
Slowly, he raised his hand above the table, a small velvet box on his palm. Phainon clears his throat but remains shaky.
“Ever since we were children, back in Aedes Elysiae..” Phainon opens, his voice subtly shaking. “You have always been my best friend… My number one supporter, since day one…”
Finally, he looks up to meet your watering gaze. “I wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for you– so…” His fingers brushed on the box one more time, slowly pulling it open… “You supported me from the very beginning. And now, I want you to be with me, forever.”
The box opens, revealing a glimmering diamond ring, in perfect silver cuts and shiny center.
“Will you marry me?”
-
Unlike the movies, getting engaged wasn't the most blissful and breezy feeling out there. Lots of papers to work with, planning and budgeting.
After a talk with Phainon, realizing that it's been months since his proposal, his hectic schedule and your office projects. You both decided to postpone the wedding until next year, to make way for both of your busy lives.
You looked at wedding venues on your way home, your mind drifting between flower arrangements and what to make for dinner tonight.
After a bit of hard work and contemplation on what to make, you set up the plates and looked at the time.
He's late.
Phainon has been leaving early these days after all, his schedule must be hectic. After winning in regionals two weeks ago, he must've had his head in training mode for the past few days.
And this nice warm dinner will definitely help him recharge.
So you sat, patiently waiting with a gentle smile, listening attentively to sudden door clicking sounds that might come anytime soon now…
He's awfully late…
Finally, the door clicked open at 8:13pm. His face was sweaty like he rushed over. “Hey! I'm so sorry I'm late… The press invited us for dinner.” He chuckles, putting his bag down and moving over to kiss you on the cheek.
“Hmm, dinner?” He hummed, but then bashfully looked back at you.. “I'm sorry… I already had dinner with the team..”
Oh… Well that's unusual.
They probably celebrated something big, that's why he was invited to a celebratory dinner with his team and the press.
“It's okay, there's always next time.” You smiled, your fingers struggling to grip on the spoon and eat; it went unnoticed to Phainon due to fatigue and so he went to the bathroom to freshen up.
Once in, you sighed sadly — not really understanding the welling sadness that's stuck on your throat, but you forced yourself to ignore it and move on for the night.
-
When you head to the bedroom after a shower, Phainon is on his phone, humming while scrolling. “Oh hey! Look, they made memes of me beatboxing on yesterday's talk show.” He happily flips his phone to face you.
The video shows a clip of Phainon doing an oddly funny dance while attempting a ridiculous beatbox. Everyone in the talk show started laughing and clapping.
Wait… Talk Show?
“You never told me you attended a talk show.” The confusion envelops your face, since when was he invited on a talk show?
“I didn't? I'm so sorryyyyy!” Phainon playfully pouts “I was so busy, babe.” he nuzzles beside you.
“Can I make it up to you, pleaseeee? We can watch the talk show together.” A gentle smile crept up your face, his cheeky grin wiping away traces of confusion in your eyes.
You opened the video on your phone and watched beside him, his shoulders calm while his arms wrapped around your waist. “Oh that part, they made me dribble one hundred times, it was insane.” He would laugh at certain parts.
It was a delightful sight, seeing your fiancé grow famous while still having fun and maintaining his passion for basketball.
Until one of the segments pried into his personal life.
“Say! Phainon, are you… taken?!” The sound effects emit a shocking sound as the camera slowly pans to Phainon. “Uh well… Nope!” he nods to the host.
Excuse me?
You slowly turned your head to look at Phainon who seemed to be sweating quite a lot..
“Well?”
Phainon gulps nervously “Well, the media managers told me to keep it under wraps… So I had to lie…”
Oh Phainon… You can't help but shake your head out of sudden disappointment.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart… I had to say that for your own safety y’know…” He lowers his head, pressing his lips on the knuckles of your hand. “ I didn't want people barging in your office and bombarding you just because we're engaged.” He adds, the concern in his eyes gently convincing yours.
Maybe he's right, the internet is a dangerous place after all…
And so, you went to sleep in his arms. Trying your best to ignore all the forming thoughts that are invading your head.
-
You didn't know how it exactly started.
He would send texts saying that he won't make it to dinner that evening. But then it became more apologies one after another.
Until he stopped informing you at all.
Another pattern that you slowly started noticing was that he gets home much later than usual but wouldn't miss telling you everything that happened in his day; he would start talking about the reporters asking his daily routine that kept him in shape, or what he would say to his opponents who tried mimicking his now famous signature move ‘Worldbearing Hoop’.
He was naturally gifted, born to stand in the spotlight as headlines continued to roar out his name. It was wonderful, seeing people finally recognizing all the hard work and efforts that you watched blossom since the very beginning.
Yet why does it seem that he's much more absent? Is the cost of fame really the disappearance in one's life?
It's not like you don't see him anymore, you still do every single day.
And yet his face seemed to appear much more on TV than in your own dining table.
–
You didn't realize it at first; it barely dawned on you that the apartment started looking duller and empty.
The living room had fewer items now, Phainon once called you to put some items you have out of sight. “Just as a precautionary measure in case the press media suddenly barged into the apartment.” was the reason he laid out.
You also started to cook portions for one person nowadays.
The arrows on the clock would tick nine—your food barely touched and almost cold, but you remain seated. It can even be considered a miracle if you finished your meal even when you barely can stomach any more than the lingering emptiness inside you.
The door creaked open as you washed the dishes, the floor would thud muffled steps from socks that would grow closer and closer. “Hey…” you feel someone kiss you gently on the cheek.
What a miracle, he's actually home early…
“I'm home.” Phainon would quietly reply, his head still close to yours, letting the silence pass for a few seconds, watching you scrub the plates; the small clacking sound of utensils doing its most to fill in the deafening silence.
“Welcome home.” was the response you'd choke out. A forced one, born from the confusion he had started giving you. “How was your day?” and still, you ask… Out of curiosity, out of concern.
“Same as always, training, filming, promotion, and interviews. Lots of them.” He replied with a sigh; complaining about the lack of something new. “How was work?” Phainon chimed back.
“It was fine. We've been preparing for a big project.” The situation at the office earlier was quite hectic. But you seem to feel like telling him how the boss actually commended your diligent work.”And my manager told me that I was–”
Phainon's phone buzzed—immediately latching away before you could even finish your sentence. He moves away “Sorry, I gotta take this call.” his small hums trying to pave way as he absent-mindedly walked out of the kitchen.
The smile that was creeping its way up to your face faltered—all you could do was watch him leave. And it would be extremely childish to protest and tell him not to take the call because what if that was important? It could be about his work, his athletic life, his fame. You wouldn't want to take that away from him now, would you?
Deep down you just wished that he'd drop that call for once and just listen to your day.
But it seems that even the simplest wish was something you do not have a grasp of. Not anymore, at least.
-
You tucked yourself under the sheets, the solemn humming of the AC creeping inside your ears, the glowing numbers gently basking a tiny warm light that blinks in the room. You descended deeper into the sheets, scramming for your trusted pillow to hug and fall asleep to.
The desperation to fall asleep instantly was immense. You're not even tired, you just want to fall asleep before Phainon comes in because you're still upset that he chose the phone call over you.
And maybe also because you barely had dinners together anymore.. Or because he comes home late nowadays… Or maybe—just maybe, you miss him.
Phainon wakes up beside you everyday, eats the same food as you; just not as much now, he leaves then comes back home, he's still there.
He's so close, yet so far away.
Now he's here, getting in the same sheets as yours, and you pretended to be fast asleep, not daring to even face him. Until you felt his warm large arms pull you close, the chills you had instantly melting into a puddle.
And you can't help but hug him back.
“Aha~ so you are awake.” He cheered quietly, his voice groggy from exhaustion. “The call earlier was a brand deal, I had to take it.” Phainon's fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the strands of your hair, bringing it close to his face and sighing on it dreamily.
“I'm sorry if I had to leave you all of a sudden.” He solemnly replied, his arms crept its way back to you, partly patting you gently to sleep. “I'll be coming home late tomorrow.” Phainon said, “No need to wait for me.” He quietly added.
It wasn't surprising anymore to say the least, since when did he inform you about that anyway? Even without telling you that he'll come home late, he already does.
As if to comply and just to get everything over and done with, you nod and sigh “Alright.” trying to lull yourself back to sleep even with the agony in your chest.
And Phainon seems to take note of this as he doesn't react back; his arms slowly loosening up as he himself goes to sleep.
Even with your eyes closed, the numbing and growing despair in your gut never died down, continuing to churn you upside down.
-
Phainon stayed true to his word.
When you woke the next morning, he was already gone, the bed is as cold as before he laid down last night.
You groggily sat on the edge of the bed, staring into nothing as you let your thoughts pass by.
When did he leave?
Finally, you rubbed your face sleepily and stood up to fix the bed, your mind racing with several thoughts.
I hope he's safe… Did he have breakfast already?
The questions flooded your mind so much it irritated you too.
And it's not like this was the first time he left before you even woke up, it's been happening for awhile after all.
Even with a heavy heart, you mustered the courage to make breakfast, each flip seemed heavier than usual. You'd eat at the table all by yourself, getting used to the silence that was once joy and laughter.
Getting ready for work, brushing your hair while staring blankly at the mirror, unsure of what to feel.
And then leaving for work with a heavy sigh, slipping into your work facade for the day.
-
In the office you were impeccable, flawlessly handling tasks and managing interns at your best capabilities.
Everyone adored you, looked up to you, and even fancied you. But it seems that your co-workers seemed to notice something off about you lately.
You're still on point with your tasks, yet your movements seem a bit more… sluggish; much slower than usual and that you'd glance at your phone much longer than usual.
And your co-workers are concerned, but that was the problem, they don't really know how to approach you because they don't know much about your life.
Aside from being a really great worker, the only fact that they know about you is that you're engaged, and that could probably be the reason.
-
You take the bus back home with a solemn sigh, opening your phone to check on whatever was happening with the internet.
It wasn't intentional but you find yourself looking at the newspage—your eyes landing at a wrenching article title.
‘Model spotted with Famous Basketball Athlete Phainon Khaslana entering a Hotel!’
‘Just this morning, the famous model and influencer was spotted entering the Okhema Hotel with the Basketball Athlete Phainon Khaslana.’
The rest of the article passed by you like a blur, your eyes firmly trying to reject the words it read.
There's no way Phainon would do that, the media often twists narratives to get popular and this is probably just another one of those cases. And yet you get shivers over the possibility.
What if it was true?
No. Phainon would NEVER do that to you.
You repeatedly convince yourself that it was a twisted narrative, he's definitely there for a reason, but not something that the media would fabricate.
And so you closed your phone, tucking it back in your bag with shaky hands as you held on to the armchair of your seat, looking outside the window to distract yourself of impending thoughts.
-
You let the food run cold that evening.
Sitting by yourself at the dining table, the ticking of the clock accompanied by the often sound of cars passing by rummaged through the empty noise of the house.
It was then at eleven o'clock when the door finally clacked open, revealing an exhausted Phainon. “Hey I'm home.”
Once he sets his duffle bag down the sofa, he notices the light coming from the kitchen. “Oh hey, why are you still awake?” He walked in and noticed how slumped you look while sitting; the meal on the table, cold and untouched.
It took you quite awhile to finally meet his eyes and when you did, it felt heavy.
You wanted to ask him so many things, but the words struggled to leave your mouth, so you settled with a quiet reply.
“I saw the article.” You dropped, and it was then that Phainon looked at you in panic. “Wait what? The hotel article?” He stammers. “Babe, that was a misunderstanding.”
“Castorice was being followed by a stalker. I was keeping her safe.” Phainon immediately staggers to you, holding both your arms, his gaze never left yours, holding firm sincerity in them. “You believe me, right?” He worriedly searched your eyes.
“Yeah I do..” your reply was slow and gentle. “Will you deny it to the public?”
Phainon scratched the back of his neck “Uh well…”
Did he hesitate?
The burning ache in your chest blared, you guys are engaged, shouldn't that be something that he's informing the public?
He frustratingly sighs, raising one of his hands to sweep through his hair “Yeah, I'll just tell them it was nothing personal. Although I bet they'll buy that.”
“Then why not just tell them that you're engaged?”
Phainon stops, he glances at you with absurdity “What? Why would I do that?” He chuckled nervously “We'll be fine without telling them!”
Your stomach dropped.
“Phainon, you cannot be saying that. People will think that you're still single!” You protested. “It'll be messy!”
“Look, there's no need to! Besides, if the world finds out, they'll be shambles! I don't want to go viral for lying to the internet when I told them that I'm single during the talk show, remember?” He shook his head. “If they find out, my managers will kill me, then what's going to happen to my career?”
“What's going to happen to us then?”
Phainon froze. Us? He never considered that. But the fame was wonderful, people are finally seeing him, recognizing the time and effort he put into making even his signature move.
Yet here you are, demanding and asking if he still cares.
“Babe, it's fine. We'll be fine.”
“I beg to fucking differ, Phainon.” You snapped, the words came out of your mouth before you could even think twice. “Why are you pretending that everything is fine?”
“What? Because it is–”
“No it's not.” the quiver in your voice finally comes crashing down the moment Phainon looked at you in disbelief. His brow furrowed as his mouth frowned.
“You leave early then come home late. You don't eat dinner here anymore.” You angrily listed, letting each word pierce through him deeply, emphasizing every sentence that came out of your mouth.
You're tired, fed up, and upset. And you just wish he'd cooperate to understand you.
“When was the last time we had dinner together?” you asked “You don't remember, do you? Because it's been WEEKS, Phainon.”
You clashed out of his arms and clenched your fists. “You get up early and go home late.” echoed in the silent apartment as he stiffened still, taking in every single word you say.
“When was the last time we had a long talk like this? Never. Because you're NEVER there anymore!”
Phainon looked in utter heartbreak, realizing how much everything has been paining you. “I got sick three days ago, where were you? Basking in fame and glory.” You choked a sob, hands starting to tremble from despair.
It's true, you did get sick three days ago, you contemplated whether to tell him or not, but you best believe he's busy. And judging from how he's seemingly minding the public before your own feelings, even if you told him, he wouldn't go home just for you.
“I…” He tried to find the words, but nothing would come out. “I didn't know…”
That sentence was enough to make you erupt into angry scoffs “Of course you DON'T know. Why would you?” You pissingly sneered.
The look in his face screamed everything you've always wished that he'd have; confusion, guilt, sadness all came crashing down at him at once. But before he could even get the chance to clear some things, you slowly moved away.
Exhausted and drained from all different kinds of reasons and excuses he would say to you every single damn day, you can't tolerate another one of those, for the sake of your own peace.
“Please listen, I–”
“I don't want to talk right now.”
All that was heard afterwards was the deafening echo of the bedroom door being slammed shut. And Phainon was left sitting on the chair, contemplating and questioning everything that just happened.
-
When you woke up the next morning, Phainon was gone, as usual. But you didn't bother, not anymore.
After the agonizing events of what happened last night, it really would have been best not to see him right now, because you know for yourself that you won't be able to hold an eye contact with him in such a state.
The unanswered and conflicted feelings continued to pool in your stomach, but you didn't care, you'll have to get used to it eventually.
How did it get to this? Were you always this conflicted and unreasonable with yourself? Pathetic enough to actually shut him out and leave him hanging.
I'm such an idiot. The words rang in your head, gripping every thought like a vice. Engulfing you in neverending self-loathing.
But then again, if Phainon really cared, he would've come back for you. Probably would've cancelled his agendas for today, maybe sit down and actually clear things up.
Yet the bed was empty, the only trace of his existence in this room was the muffled sound of his interview coming from the television.
The channel aired morning news, featuring Phainon in the Showbiz segment.
“Mister Khaslana! The whole world admires the way you achieved your dreams.” The reporter exclaims, moving the mic halfway to meet Phainon whose flashy smile remained polished and untouched. “Can you let us in on such a secret to your success?”
“Well you know, things do not happen overnight. You wake up with big dreams, to become an amazing basketball player, you work hard, play hard.” He smiled brightly, counting on his fingers as he lists out numbers. “Let's not forget our support systems! I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for my mom..”
And….? You sat by the bed and waited for him to mention your name.
But he never did.
“Excuse me?” was the first thing that left your mouth. What kind of audacity was that?
What happened to the late night cheap convenience store dates you had? Sharing beer and chicken in the living room after an afternoon of workout, and having a nice dinner nightly whether the tournament was a win or lose meant nothing to him anymore?
Outrageous can't even compare to the disbelief and rage you felt being disregarded and unacknowledged.
When you and Phainon left Aedes Elysiae to move to Okhema City, you had one thing in mind. To live life, and not just to survive. Working hard to afford the apartment you both cherished dearly, and even along the lines of hardship, there was not even a sliver of time where you didn't support him.
Now you saw the interview.
Was it all worth it? Making him dinner every single night, supporting him through ups and downs, wiping his tears of defeat, whispering assurances and promises, believing that one day he will be an amazing basketball player.
-
Your co-workers invited you for a drink after work, trying to cheer you up after noticing the decline not just from your performance but also from your looks.
Yet even the beer can’t seem to dissipate the pain you feel.
Three empty bottles of beer clank together on the floor, the noise resonating in your ears as everything in your vision gets blurry, obviously tips from the drink. Unknowingly, tears threaten to spill down your cheeks as you stagger your way home with a solemn gaze.
Upon reaching the door of your apartment, you scurried to grab your keys. But the door beeped open in surprise. Phainon stands there in confusion as you raise your head with surprise. “Oh you’re back early.” Your admission was cold but drowsy.
“But it’s 10pm.” Phainon protested, his eyebrows furrowed slightly as he moved away from the doorway, making way for you to get inside.
You can’t be bothered to bark back, but the impending need to defend yourself from his skepticism ruled over the rational answer to just be quiet and suck it in. “My point stands, you’re back early.” was all the reply you said.
Phainon scoffs, his steps trudged in front of you with defiance. “Are you still upset at me?” His eyebrows furrowed. “Can’t we just talk it out like adults?”
Talk like adults?
“Phainon, since when did you EVER want to talk it out like adults?” Your gaze slowly eyed him down, voice shaky while you clench your fist.
Unfair. Unfair. Unfair.
A small sound of contempt filled the air, “You are NEVER here anymore, Phai.”
Phainon couldn't even bother to raise his head, ashamed of all the words you've been barking at him, his demeanor tense and repulsive.
“Tell me, then.” Your shaky laugh cut through the agonizing silence. “Is the spotlight that good?”
And finally… finally, he met your gaze. His eyes were full of bewilderment and disbelief. “What do you mean?”
Maybe the confusion was enough of a telltale to realize that he really didn't understand, nor did he care.
“I'm saying that you have forgotten me.”
Silence filled the room, the ticking sound of the clock—water dripping from the faucet were the only things trying to salvage the tension built between you and Phainon.
He's been gone for months. Sleeping in the same bed, going home to the same place, yet you saw him on a screen more than in reality.
You'd wake up at night and look at his sleeping face, it's still the same man you love, but why does he look so unfamiliar now?
The aftertaste from the alcohol went unnoticed, the tipsyness gone; replaced by the lingering feeling of grief and numbness.
Did it really have to get to this?
Even when the silence continued to stretch the room farther and farther, the more you lost Phainon.
“Won't you even fight for us?”
He didn't answer, not just yet. He looked around, trying to come up with an answer. But nothing came out.
“This must be a misunderstanding, look. I didn't know you felt like that, I was busy.” Phainon moved closer, taking your shoulders into his hands as his voice turned shaky.
“Of course you are.” You yanked away. “You always are.”
The countless nights you waited for nothing, only seeing his face on the television while the food you made turned cold. When you wake up in the morning and all you get are notes that say ‘I left early, love you.’ did he ever mean it?
Now he's standing in front of you, anxious and unsure of what to do, and you can't help but feel a bit happy. You must be out of your mind, you shouldn't be feeling that.
But finally seeing him tormented, just like how he has been leaving you for the past months just made, maybe it wasn't so bad.
“I'm tired, Phainon.” the words he dreaded to hear finally left your trembling lips.
He knew this was coming, you knew this was coming.
Two people trying to salvage something that was long gone, the spoken words left in the air with no promise of mend.
Phainon didn't say anything, he couldn't. Conflicted and unsure of what he should do, realizing how he left you cold just to chase a sponge of spotlight.
The living room that once used to both be your haven of leisure now feels empty despite the two loudly thumping hearts that deafen each other's ears.
Their hearts beat loud, not out of love, but out of fear. Fear of what life will be, now that everything has been spoken.
So with trembling hands, Phainon mustered all his remaining energy, wanting to confirm everything at once.
“Are you leaving?”
The question hung heavy in the air for seconds. You didn't want to answer, but there was no choice. Everything is laid in front of you on a silver plate, he's letting you go, making you decide for yourself.
You wanted him to fight for you both, even just for a sliver.
But the look in his eyes was sure, no twinge of redemption, just acceptance, of what used to be, what has been, and will be…
“Yes..”
Phainon docked his head low, a small nod. He stayed like that for a few minutes, before sighing; gazing back at you with those sad longing eyes. “I'll help you pack.”
-
The rustic scent of boxes—the loud stretch of packing tapes were everything you've been hearing for the past hour.
After the confirmation from last night, you spent the entire morning getting moving boxes as soon as you woke up. The hunger and fatigue didn't even matter to you, as long as you finish packing up all your belongings quickly, you'll be able to leave.
And that's when the problem arose.
You don't exactly remember every spot and item you owned. Phainon didn't either, just putting all items that he supposedly believed that belonged to you in the unoccupied boxes. Even spending a couple of minutes on how you will be taking some of the silverware that you bought with both your money.
In the end, you didn't bother to take one. Maybe there really just some things needed to be left.
You moved forward, finished with the kitchen and bathroom. Heading to the living room to find Phainon sitting on the sofa, his shoulders are slumped while examining the ceramic decors with keen certainty that it belonged to you.
“Oh hey– I was just putting all these decors in the box..” He awkwardly paused. “I figured you might need some decorations for your new apartment.” His chuckle breaks through. “Since you know… You love decorating and all that stuff.. Ugh what am I even blabbering about, sorry..” Phainon stifled an embarrassing groan.
“Sorry about that… I'll keep my mouth shut.” He then goes back to determining the decorations.
He seems to be very occupied with the things in the living room, and for your own peace of mind, you need to keep your goals straight.
Pack my things, and get out of here.
That's it, that's the goal. And yet you can't help but glance at the walls that were once filled with portraits; the dreams you both shared.
Now all that's left were nail cracks that used to hang up frames of you two, the sticky spots of tapes and smudged glue was the only sight to behold.
Who knew it would be this dreadful? You kept to yourself.
Because no matter where you looked; everything is a remnant of what used to be bliss. The hallway now cold and empty, potted plants that used to glimmer now look pale and almost lifeless
You trudged back in the bathroom, the cabinets that used to have your shampoo, his soap, and the drawers that had extra stocks of floss and mouthwash left hanging all by itself. The bathroom is cold, but was it always this chilly?
Leaving the bathroom, you peered into the kitchen. You used to cook here. The spatulas are still hanging in order, the faucet clean and the plates are still intact, but it feels smaller.
It has always been a kitchen meant for two, but now—the stove slightly charred from months of use without cleaning, stacks of plates and utensils leave no room for sharing, at least, not anymore.
And you can't even bear to bring your favorite mug, the one Phainon gifted you on your birthday last year. Cute pastel colors with silly frog prints, the sight itself made you smile a little. It really was a cute mug.
Your gaze lands back to the empty boxes labeled ‘bedroom’. The last place you needed to clean up before you leave.
Even with a heavy heart, you walked inside. The sight is just as dreadful.
The bed that was once shared, now neat and tidy. Your house slippers set aside on a corner beside your table; still packed with your belongings. Curtains untied, its sleeves blocking sunlight and glow that tries to enter.
Was the room always this suffocating?
Years of intimacy and privacy was in this room, whispering secrets and promises that only you and Phainon will ever hear. The chatter and joy it once held, as both your bodies tangled together as you lay down, like two perfect puzzle pieces.
Waking up to the sight of your fiancé gazing at your face lovingly. On some days the opposite, his sleeping face is peaceful and calm.
But also a cold and sterile room that held unspoken signs of heartbreak and tension, when Phainon started to leave bed early without a word; hollow and empty without the weight of comfort.
The closet that held both your clothes, years of its creaking sound while being opened and closed ingrained in your brain and ears.
“Should I wear my trusty pair of yellow shirts and purple trousers today?” Phainon would always ask. It was a horrible choice of color, but it sure did its impact with giving the closet a pop of color.
You open the closet this time, staring at the hangered clothes. Your grip hesitantly holding on your shirts as you slowly pull them out and stack them on the bed.
Each stack felt heavier than the last one, the different fabrics did nothing to soothe the bubbling feeling of despair, each fold a silent goodbye to the home it had for years.
The clothes are stacked neatly on the edge of the bed while you open the box; putting each cloth carefully and precisely, afraid to mess up even a sliver of stack, each holds shaky.
Next was the desk table with your trinkets and items, just placed in a small box of belongings. The crocheted rose that Phainon gifted you for your anniversary lay still, untouched and slightly dusty.
You can still see the rugged edges of the thread, it was Phainon's first time making you something handmade after all, when he found out that you've been into handmade crafts, he didn't spare a single moment and gifted you one a week later.
And for whatever reasons it may be when you asked him why he made it, he simply replied “Because I can.”
Now you refuse to acknowledge the Phainon you have in your life. Like a stranger in the body of the man you loved so dearly. He was your world, your universe.
Yet you can't even look him in the eye anymore without feeling discomfort and unsure of what to do.
He's still Phainon, just not the one you loved.
Time and fame changed him; still wearing the same face, the same clothes, that same stupidly irresistible grin that not even once failed to make you smile.
The same Phainon that would rush home sweaty just to tell you how his day went while having a nice dinner together. The same Phainon that would whine if you don't sleep together. The same Phainon that would lie awake at night, just rambling about his dreams of becoming a basketball sensation; that people will one day recognize his signature move ‘worldbearing hoop.’
Which you think was really silly by the way, but it didn't matter because you believed that the world really will know its treasure one day.
-
Boxes neatly packed on the corner of the living room, each labelled according to where they were taken from. Phainon is still there, sitting on the sofa, his face unreadable as he glanced at you.
“You ready?” A simple question, it shouldn't have stirred turmoil inside you that heavily.
You've already said countless goodbyes to every nook and cranny of this house, so why can't you just say yes?
Everything is neatly packed, the house lost half of its life as everything you owned was kept tightly in one space.
How you wish you can just tuck away these lingering feelings too…
Phainon hurt you, left you alone, kept you in the dark, denied every single question and opportunity to show you to the world, the person who was there from the very very beginning. At best you should be punching him, slapping him, heck–even shouting words at him.
Now that you're face to face with him, you can't even utter anything, just this depressing invisible wall between you two. So close, yet so far away.
And Phainon felt the same. He really does, wishing that he did better.
But this relationship was beyond repair, you knew that. Fixing whatever is left are just scraps trying to become something it can never be.
“I'll call you a cab.” Phainon walked past you and out the door. The shutting sound at its loudest you've ever heard.
You clutched your bag tightly, the moving truck will deliver your boxes to your new apartment in a couple of hours. The time of departure ticked agonizingly slow yet so rushed…
One last glance in this living room, filled with memories and milestones. You'll be leaving, and never returning.
-
Your footsteps heavily clacked against the building’s cold white floor; icky and unbearable while your sweat slowly ran cold.
This is it.
With your bag in hand, you walked out the building. Phainon down the stairs on the sidewalk with the cab beside him, his eyes met yours—sharing a silent melancholic moment together for one last time.
Everything happened so fast… Yesterday was just another day of enduring the agonizing things that have been happening.
Here you are, a few steps away from leaving the life you lived for four whole years. The man you almost vowed to love ‘til the very last breath, holding the door open to your way out of his life forever.
You shouldn't be crying, not now. You need to stay strong.
So even with a heavy heart, you stepped closer, and closer. Feeling the edge of the open cab door with your own hands, looking at Phainon with slight uncertainty.
Am I really doing this?
It's as if Phainon could hear you, he gave a gentle nod; a forced smile.
You were the one who wanted this, you're going to be free and finally start anew.
So why does it feel so excruciatingly painful to let go?
A relationship that fell apart gradually as months passed by. Cannot be salvaged by anything else yet you find yourself clinging by a thread. Checking if Phainon still held on the other hand.
There was a time where he would move heaven and earth just for you, and even if he would change himself now, everything is already broken.
He knows that letting you go will be the best choice.
Without another word, you stepped inside the car. Sinking slowly into the seat as Phainon gently closed the door for you, his eyes glued to yours, not a stutter, not even a drip of hesitation.
Even with the tears slowly pouring out of his eyes, his gaze never faltered. Desperately boring at yours with the very little time he has left. Making sure your face is etched into his mind forever.
The doors are dreadfully closed shut. While your hands scurried to open the window out if desperation… Maybe, just maybe to look at him one last time…
And you can't help but feel your own eyes swell with tears.
You didn't cry when he wasn't there, you didn't spare a single tear when he denied any trace of your existence for the public media. Your heart was heavy every time you went to bed; you never shed a tear.
So why is it now that you cannot help but let the tears flow as the cab slowly starts to move?
Usually, people would be focused on the road now, looking at surroundings as a final goodbye.
But the only thing you find yourself looking at one last time is Phainon, as his figure slowly… gradually gets smaller…
Your eyes frantically scattered its gaze all over his face that starts to grow blurry…
Look.. Look at him, one last time. Just one more glance.
Just one more glance at that white hair you used to run your hands in.
One more glance at his beautiful eyes you could stare at for hours.
One more glance at those lips that whispered to you so tenderly with loving promises and kissed you goodnight.
One more glance at the face of the man you once saw forever with.
One more glance at the blurry face that finally disappears from your sight.
One more glance at the man you loved with all your life.
One more glance at the boy you grew up with and saw you through your ups and downs.
One last glance at Phainon, the boy from Aedes Elysiae that once held a part of your heart; now letting you go.
end notes: thank you so much for reading this oneshot! i cried a lot in the process of writing this fic and i hope i delivered it with the exact feelings i had while creating it. there might a lot of grammatical errors or typos there because i didn't exactly proofread much and english is not my first language.
hope you guys enjoyed this fic! (i might make a part 2 if everything goes well)
summary: in which you tell the lads boys that you haven’t shaved.
ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb
notes: MDNI / NSFW (obvi), they’re all eaters!!!!!! xavier is silly, zayne has an attitude, rafayel is dramatic, sylus #takesnobullshit, and caleb is strange…mentions of sex/sexual acts, fem terms used (!!!), that’s it (i think)
p.s. this is a silly spur of the moment post so if it’s awful ummmm kill me maybe!!!
a/n: i am not the type to care like At All about body hair in any capacity so i hope this was somewhat entertaining LOL. body hair no body hair anything WTV it’s all natural and all real do whatever you want ok love you bye…ty for reading (- -)(_ _)
Synopsis: Every January since you were little, you would dream about a field of snow, waking up cold. That was happening until you went back home one January – when that same dream would end differently, in which the snow melted and you would hear a voice. That same voice was the one you would hear from a fellow figure skater that you met in your home town; his name was Khaslana. Now you can't seem to avoid this man, whether you're online or outside and fans can't get enough of you two together.
A/N: i was gonna post this yesterday but i forgot...
Synopsis: Every January since you were little, you would dream about a field of snow, waking up cold. That was happening until you went back home one January – when that same dream would end differently, in which the snow melted and you would hear a voice. That same voice was the one you would hear from a fellow figure skater that you met in your home town; his name was Khaslana. Now you can't seem to avoid this man, whether you're online or outside and fans can't get enough of you two together.
Notes
𖤓 Modern!Au, social media!au, fem!reader, slow burn, cursing, potential injury descriptions, suggestive, a touch more supernatural/hints of fantasy if you squint, inaccurate depiction of professional figure skating, phai-triplets au,
𖤓 Same AU as my Phainon SMAU "Unemployment Hotline"
𖤓 Comment on the masterlist (this post) to be added to the taglist
option A works perfectly fine for me!! thank you for coming up with alternatives, it’s really thoughtful. Have a lovely day ❤️
Orbit (Dan Heng x Reader)
Synopsis: When Dan Heng returns after too long apart, you greet him exactly the way he expects. With too much enthusiasm, too little coordination, and all the love.
A/N: Hi anon. :) Thank you for your request and the kind feedback. From the way you phrased it, I got the sense that you were more interested in their dynamic and interactions than in the explicit reunion itself, so I focused on that. I hope this is what you had in mind. It made me smile while writing. ☺️ Enjoy. :)
Tags: Established Relationship. Reunion. Bubbly and Clumsy Reader. Soft Intimacy and Reunion Sex (fade-to-black). Laughter and Teasing. Domestic Warmth. Confessions.
Word count: 1326
⋆ ✦ ⋆
The door slides open and you don’t even think. You just move. One second you’re across the room, the next you’re colliding with him at full speed, breathless, half-laughing, half on the verge of tears. You nearly trip over your own feet in the process (of course you do), but Dan Heng catches you with practiced movements, arms steady around you.
“Still as graceful as ever,” he murmurs, voice dry but unmistakably fond.
“I’m enthusiastic,” you correct, face buried in his shoulder. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Absolutely.” You pull back just enough to look at him properly, hands already cupping his face like you’re checking to make sure he’s real. “You’re here. You’re actually here.”
His expression softens in that subtle way you’ve learned to read. “I’m here.”
“Good.” You kiss his cheek. Then the other one. Then his forehead. “Because I was this close—” you hold up your fingers with barely any space between them, “—to commandeering the Express and hunting you down myself.”
“That would have been ill-advised.”
“Probably.” You grin. “But I would’ve done it anyway.”
He sighs, but you catch the faint curve at the corner of his mouth. “You haven’t changed.”
“Why would I? I’m delightful.” You’re already pulling him toward the couch, hands linked with his, practically bouncing. “Tell me everything. Where did you go? What did you see? Did you miss me? Obviously you missed me, but I want to hear you say it.”
“You’re not going to let me catch my breath first?”
“Nope!” You plop down on the sofa and immediately pull him down beside you—except you misjudge the distance and end up half in his lap. “Oops. See? Enthusiastic.”
“I noticed.” But his arms settle around you anyway, like this is exactly where you’re meant to be.
You twist to face him properly, knees bumping his, invading every inch of his personal space without apology. Your hands find his face again, thumbs tracing his cheekbones. “You look tired.”
“I am tired.”
“You look good tired, though. Like… mysterious and brooding tired.” You lean closer, studying him with exaggerated seriousness. “Very ‘I’ve seen things’ energy. I approve.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Dan Heng says dryly.
“You should be. My approval is very sought after.” You’re running your fingers through his hair now, messing it up just because you can. “I really did miss you. So much. An unbearable amount, actually.”
Something shifts in his expression. Something unguarded and warm. “I missed you too.”
“Yeah?” You’re smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. “How much?”
“An embarrassing amount,” he admits quietly.
That breaks something loose in your chest. You kiss him before you can help yourself. Messy and enthusiastic and full of all the feelings you’ve been holding onto. He makes a small surprised sound but melts into it immediately, hands sliding to your waist to steady you.
When you pull back, you’re both slightly breathless.
“So,” you say, grinning against his mouth. “Scale of one to ten, how much did you think about me?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Eleven? Twelve? Twenty?”
He captures your mouth again instead of answering, which is basically an admission. You laugh into the kiss, hands fisting in his shirt to keep him close.
“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs.
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately.” But there’s no heat in it. Just affection, warm and steady.
You shift closer—impossibly closer, climbing fully into his lap now, knees bracketing his hips. “Hi.”
“Hello.” His hands settle on your waist, thumb tracing idle patterns. “Comfortable?”
“Very. You make an excellent chair.”
“That’s not what I—” He stops, shaking his head with a soft huff of laughter. “Never mind.”
You’re already kissing along his jaw, his neck, anywhere you can reach. “I’m really happy you’re back.”
“I can tell.” His voice has gone slightly rough.
“Good. I want you to know.” You pull back to look at him, hands framing his face again. “In case it wasn’t obvious from the full-body tackle and the excessive touching and the—”
He kisses you quiet, deeper this time, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck. You make an appreciative sound, fingers tangling in his hair.
“Your room or mine?” you ask when you surface for air.
“Closer?” he suggests.
“Yours it is.” You’re already pulling him up, stumbling slightly because coordination is a myth, but he steadies you with that same careful patience.
The walk to his room is punctuated by kisses and laughter. You keep stopping to press him against walls just because you can, and he lets you, which says everything about how much he missed you too.
When you finally make it inside, the door barely closes before you’re on him again, fingers working at the fastenings of his shirt.
“Eager,” he observes.
“Starving,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“You’re recycling jokes now. I must really have you flustered.”
“You always have me flustered.” He catches your hands, brings them to his lips. “You just don’t usually notice.”
That makes you pause, warmth blooming in your chest. “Dan Heng…”
“Come here.”
You do, letting him pull you close, letting him kiss you slow and thorough until you forget whatever you were going to say. His hands are careful but certain, mapping familiar territory like he’s relearning it.
When your shirt comes off (with some fumbling on your part that makes him smile), you immediately press against him, sighing at the warmth of skin on skin.
“Missed this,” you murmur. “Missed you.”
“I’m here now.” He guides you toward the bed, and you go willingly, pulling him down with you.
“You better not disappear again,” you say, trying for stern but landing somewhere around ‘fond.’
“I’ll try my best.”
“That’s not good enough. Promise.”
He looks at you for a long moment, something soft and serious in his eyes. “I promise.”
“Good.” You kiss him again, slower this time. “Because I don’t share well and I’ve already decided you’re stuck with me.”
“Somehow I don’t mind that.”
“You’re supposed to act more reluctant. Where’s your sense of drama?”
“I left it behind when I decided to love someone who trips over flat surfaces.”
You laugh, bright and startled. “You love me?”
“Was that not obvious?”
“Say it anyway.”
He brushes hair from your face, tender and deliberate. “I love you.”
“Even though I’m a disaster?”
“Especially because of that.”
You’re definitely tearing up now. “Well. Good. Because I love you too. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoes, smiling.
What follows is soft and unhurried—hands caressing, mouths mapping skin, quiet laughter when you bump noses or when your elbow catches his side by accident.
“Sorry,” you gasp between giggles.
“You’re not.”
“No, but I’m supposed to say it.”
He huffs a laugh against your shoulder. “Never change.”
You don’t. You fill the quiet with commentary (“Your shoulders are unfairly nice, by the way”) and observations (“Are you blushing? You’re totally blushing”) and the occasional joke that makes him hide his face in your neck, laughing despite himself.
“You’re impossible,” he says at one point, but his voice is so warm you know he means ‘perfect.’
“And you’re stuck with me,” you remind him, pulling him closer.
“Good,” he murmurs.
Later—much later—you’re tangled together in his bed, your head on his chest, his fingers trailing patterns on your back. The room is quiet except for the gentle hum of the Express and your matched breathing.
“Hey,” you say softly.
“Mm?”
“Welcome home.”
His arms tighten around you. “Thank you.”
You press a kiss over his heart. “Don’t leave me again.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Dan Heng.”
He tilts your face up to meet his eyes. “I’ll do everything I can to stay with you. Is that better?”
“Yes.” You settle back against him, smiling. “Much better.”
Outside, the stars drift past in their endless dance. The Express carries on through the cosmos, steady and sure.
And you’re both exactly where you’re meant to be.
⋆ ✦ ⋆
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)
Hii I have 2 questions abt your character analysises
On Phainon's you mentioned it wasn't completely done yet, would you add on to it in the future?
And on Da Heng's could you let us know if you might do another one on him and his newest version once you played the quests? :)
No stress ofc! I read through your posts abt your time management rn and work, so take your time with writing even more in depth stuff for us <3
How Phainon Loves (When Amphoreus is Saved) (Phainon x Reader headcanons)
Part 2: Life After Everything
Word count: ~ 5500 (yes, you read that right)
A/N: Hello! :) Thank you so much for your questions. It's genuinely my pleasure to write these and share my thoughts. I will absolutely do another version for Dan Heng once I'm finished with new quest content, yes. :) Now before I’ll get to the Phainon headcanons (long ones ahead), I need to mention:
PHAINON HAS LITERALLY INVADED MY BRAIN AND HEART.
He is the reason I started this blog. Send me anything about him (within my preferred tropes) and you can bet I will stay up until 4am writing it. I LOVE HIM.
I've been waiting for someone to ask for more because I have the most thoughts about him out of any character. These headcanons have been sitting in my drafts since July. He's my favorite, after all. I just felt anxious about posting the “long version” because he makes me more emotional than other characters (Aventurine being an exception).
So brace yourself. This will be SUPER LONG AND DETAILED. A mix between headcanons and snippets.
A note on context: We don’t know Phainon’s ending yet, and I can see his story going multiple directions. For these headcanons, I’ve chosen to explore a post-canon world where Amphoreus is saved and Phainon retains his memories but regains stability—however that might happen. He’s healing, learning to live, finding sanity again after everything.
(Yes, there’s a much angstier version of this possible, but this explores the hopeful outcome. The hero gets happiness this time.)
Warnings: There are explicit/NSFW sections. MDNI (Minors Do Not Interact).
Please note: I think Phainon enjoys sex a lot. So yes, there is smut. But in this case it’s not for the sake of smut. For this topic I found it important to make those passages fitting for Phainon's character. To show how intimacy connects to who he is, what he's survived, and how he loves. (Well, it's still a lot. :D :D)
I've formatted the explicit passages in red with dividers (─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───) before and after, in case you want to skip them or skip directly to them. :)
How Phainon Shows Love
Through words that won’t stay silent.
Phainon has always been wordy. Strategic speeches, diplomatic negotiations, rallying cries that moved people. But in peacetime, in love, those words transform into something softer and somehow more devastating.
He writes you poetry. Constantly. Obsessively.
Before, he read about beauty. Studied it, analyzed it, used it as fuel to keep fighting. This is what I’m protecting. This is what makes life worth saving. But now? Now he wants to create beauty. To preserve it. You are his muse, his subject, his reason to write.
You’ll find poems everywhere: tucked into books you’re reading, slipped under your pillow, left on the kitchen table beside your morning tea. Sometimes they’re polished and profound. Sometimes they’re messy, half-finished thoughts scribbled in the early morning because he woke up thinking about the way you laugh.
“Your smile is the dawn I fought to see again. Your voice, the song Amphoreus was always meant to sing. How do I capture light in words? How do I tell you that you are every beautiful thing I nearly died believing in?”
He’s embarrassingly earnest about it. Reads them to you with that intense sincerity that makes your chest ache. Asks if you liked the metaphor in the third stanza. Rewrites entire verses because “it didn’t capture the exact shade of your eyes.”
Through grand gestures that border on theatrical.
He shows up at your window at midnight—full Romeo energy—calling up with some wild plan.
“Come with me. Right now. There’s something you need to see.”
“Phainon, it’s the middle of—”
“The stars are perfect tonight. The streets will be empty. We can watch the sunrise. Please.”
And you go, because his enthusiasm is infectious, because he makes you brave enough for adventures, because saying yes to him feels like saying yes to life.
He takes you to ruins he wants to explore, markets where he haggles enthusiastically over antiques, places where you can see the whole horizon. Every experience is vivid with him. He notices everything, points out details you’d miss, makes the world feel more saturated somehow.
Through gifts he can’t stop buying.
Every time Phainon sees something that reminds him of you, he buys it. Every single time.
Books you mentioned wanting. Antiques that match your aesthetic. Fresh flowers because “they were the same color as that shirt you wore last week.” Random beautiful things—crystals, art, jewelry—that he presents with this pleased, almost shy expression.
“I saw this and thought of you” becomes his most-used phrase.
He’s particularly obsessed with finding antiques for you. Will drag you to every appraisal, every market, eyes bright with the thrill of the hunt. When he finds something perfect—something with history and craftsmanship and meaning—he presents it like he’s offering you the world.
“Look at the detail work. See how they carved the handle? This is 300 years old and still perfect. Like you. For you.”
Through introducing you to everyone.
This might be the most intense part.
Phainon is proud of you. Overwhelmingly, embarrassingly, publicly proud. He wants the entire world to know you exist, that you chose him, that you’re his.
Every person he meets gets the full introduction: “This is my partner. My life partner. My hope. My dawnlight.”
Sometimes he gets even more extra: “This is the person who makes me believe beauty is real. This is my reason for everything.”
You’ve learned to just smile through it. He means every word with his whole chest. There’s no irony, no exaggeration. Just pure, sincere devotion announced to whoever will listen.
Friends tease him about it. He doesn’t care. “Yes, I’m obnoxious about it. Have you seen Y/N?”
Through teaching you everything he knows.
Phainon loves sharing knowledge. Sword forms, philosophy, history, appraisal techniques—anything he’s learned, he wants to teach you.
Not in a condescending way. In an excited way. Like he’s thrilled to have someone to share this with, someone who wants to learn, someone who listens when he explains the historical context of this fighting style or the philosophical implications of that ancient text.
He’s a patient teacher. Encouraging. Will demonstrate the same sword form fifty times until you get it, hands gentle when correcting your grip, voice warm with praise when you improve.
“There. There. Did you feel the difference? You’re a natural. Try it again. I want to watch.”
Learning together becomes intimacy. His hands guiding yours. His body close, adjusting your stance. The shared focus, the little victories, the way he lights up when you understand something.
Through making you feel like the center of the universe.
When Phainon focuses on you, everything else disappears.
He remembers every detail you mention. Brings up offhand comments from weeks ago. Notices when you’re upset before you say anything. Reads your mood, your needs, your unspoken wants with the same strategic brilliance he used in battle.
You are his priority. His mission. His purpose.
It’s intense. Sometimes overwhelming. But never suffocating—because he’s not trying to control or possess you. He’s just… completely devoted. Utterly gone for you. Choosing you with the same absolute conviction he brought to saving Amphoreus.
“You’re everything,” he says simply, like it’s fact. “You know that, right? Everything good. Everything beautiful. Everything worth fighting for.”
And he means it. With his whole soul.
How Phainon Wants to Be Loved
Through touch that grounds him.
Phainon is a physical person—warrior, leader, someone who’s lived in his body as weapon, as a shell for something bigger than himself, for so long. Touch means everything to him.
But the touch he craves most isn’t passionate (though he loves that too). It’s soothing.
Run your fingers through his hair when he’s spiraling, and he melts. Completely. That golden sunshine boy becomes soft and vulnerable, leaning into your hand like he’s been starving for gentleness.
When the dark nights come—when reflection turns to remembering, when the weight of all he’s seen threatens to crush him—he needs your touch to come back. To remember he’s here, he’s alive, he’s allowed this.
Sometimes he’ll just reach for you without words. Pull you close, bury his face in your neck, breathe. You learn to read him: when he needs talking, when he needs silence, when he just needs to be held until the storm passes.
“Stay,” he’ll whisper. “Just… stay.”
And you do. Because grounding him grounds you too.
Through supporting his joys without making them cute.
Phainon has many hobbies now. Hobbies. The novelty of it still makes him smile.
He loves appraising antiques—gets genuinely excited about craftsmanship, history, the stories objects carry. He’ll spend hours examining a single piece, explaining its significance, marveling at details.
He wants you to care too. Not fake-care, but really engage with it.
When you bring him a new book you think he’ll like, or find an antique that matches his interests, or support his enthusiasm without patronizing it—that means everything.
“You remembered I wanted to read this. You listened.”
Yes. Because his joy matters. Because seeing him excited about appraisals or lost in a good book or eagerly explaining historical context is beautiful. Because he deserves interests that don’t involve survival.
Through directness that cuts through his spiraling.
Here’s the thing about Phainon: for all his confidence, all his leadership, all his strategic brilliance—he spirals about you.
Am I too much? Not enough? Overwhelming? Boring? Does this make Y/N happy? Did I say the wrong thing? Should I—
“You’re not too much. You’re exactly what I want.”
Clear, simple, unambiguous. Cut through the spiral with truth. He needs to hear it. Repeatedly, consistently, explicitly.
His confidence in fighting was absolute. His confidence in deserving love is… fragile. Growing. Needs reinforcement.
Tell him what you want. What you like. What makes you happy. Don’t make him guess. He’ll try to read you (and he’s good at it), but hearing it directly settles something in him.
“I like when you do that.”
“Yes. More of that.”
“I’m happy. You make me happy.”
Watch him bloom under that certainty.
Through seeing him—really seeing him.
Sometimes it’s his eyes that undo you.
Those eyes—that impossible blue, bright as sky, deep as ocean, ringed with gold like the sun itself. Otherworldly. Beautiful. Phainon.
You tell him. Over and over.
“Your eyes are incredible.”
“I could get lost in them.”
“They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
And Phainon gets bashful. This confident leader, this warrior, this man who faced corruption and destruction—he ducks his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips, color rising in his cheeks.
“You really think so?”
“I know so. I can see into your soul through them. I can see everything you are. All the light, all the hope, all the good you carry. And it’s beautiful.”
He goes very still. Very quiet.
Then, softly, almost wondering: “Nobody wanted that before.”
Your heart breaks a little. “What?”
“To see. Inside me. Into—” He gestures vaguely at himself, at his chest, at whatever he carries that’s bigger than just him. “People wanted the hero. The symbol. The hope I represented. But not… not this. Not what’s actually inside.”
You cup his face, make him look at you. Those blue eyes meet yours, vulnerable and open and so, so hopeful.
“I want this. I want you. Everything inside. All of it.”
The smile that breaks across his face is radiant. Pure bliss. Like you’ve given him something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.
“Say it again.”
“I see you. The real you. And I want all of it.”
He kisses you then. Desperate, grateful, overwhelmed. Pours everything he can’t say into the touch.
Later, when you’re tangled together, he’ll trace patterns on your skin and whisper, “You see me. You actually see me. Do you know how rare that is? How precious?”
You do. Now you do.
And you’ll keep telling him. Keep reminding him. Keep looking into those impossible eyes and letting him know:
I see you. The hero and the man. The symbol and the soul. The light and the ruin. All of it. And I’m not going anywhere.
Through choosing him actively, repeatedly.
Post-everything Phainon is learning that people can choose to stay. That love isn’t just momentum or desperation or fight intensity. That you can pick him again today, tomorrow, the day after.
He needs that choice visible. Spoken. Demonstrated.
“I’m staying.”
“I choose you.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Every time you say it, something in him settles. The fear—that this is temporary, that you’ll wake up and realize he’s too intense, too damaged, too much—quiets a little more.
You’re not staying out of obligation or pity. You’re staying because you want to.
That’s everything.
Through being his anchor when darkness comes.
There are nights when Phainon can’t sleep. When memories surface. When the weight of everyone he couldn’t save presses down.
He doesn’t want you to fix it. He knows you can’t. But he needs you there.
Sometimes he talks—processes out loud, works through the guilt and grief and impossible math of survival. Sometimes he’s silent, just needs to feel you beside him, solid and real.
So you do. Tell him about your day. Plans for tomorrow. Small joys. Mundane beautiful things.
You are his tether to the present. Proof that the fight is over. That he’s allowed to rest now. That living isn’t betrayal.
“I’m here,” you remind him. “You’re here. We’re both here. It’s okay.”
And slowly, he believes you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Physical Intimacy: The Sun and the Storm
The Intensity (And Why It’s Not What You Think)
Phainon is an intense lover. Let’s be clear about that upfront.
But his intensity isn’t about dominance in the toxic sense. It’s about presence. When he’s with you, you have his complete, undivided, overwhelming focus. You are the only thing that exists in his universe in that moment.
He’s a leader, yes. A warrior. A diplomat. Someone used to command, to strategy, to reading situations and acting decisively.
And yes, that translates to the bedroom. He takes charge often. Not because he needs control for control’s sake, but because he’s still learning to fully let go. Because directing, acting, doing is familiar territory. Because making you feel good gives him purpose.
But it’s never about suppressing you. Never about power over you.
It’s about worship through action.
What He Loves: Your Reactions
Phainon gets drunk on your responses.
The way you gasp when he does that particular thing. How your breath hitches when his hands find that spot. The sounds you make, the way you move, the look on your face when pleasure overwhelms thought.
He is obsessed with learning what makes you come undone.
And he’s not subtle about it.
“There? Is it there?”
“Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”
“Look at you. Look at what I do to you. You’re so—fuck—you’re so beautiful like this.”
He’ll spend hours—hours—just exploring. Testing. Learning. What pressure do you like? What pace? What words make you shiver?
It’s almost scientific in its thoroughness, except there’s nothing clinical about the way he watches you, the way his voice roughens, the way he clearly loves every second of this research.
Everywhere. Literally Everywhere.
Phainon, having spent years where privacy was a luxury and tomorrow was never guaranteed, has a very flexible definition of “appropriate location.”
Antique shopping turned into a heated makeout session in a back alley because you licked something sweet off your lips and he got ideas?
Yeah. That happens.
Quiet library where he’s supposed to be researching? His hand finds your thigh under the table, slides higher, and suddenly research is the last thing on either of your minds.
Beautiful vista he brought you to see? You barely see the view because his mouth is on your neck and his hands are everywhere and he’s murmuring about how you’re more beautiful than any landscape.
He’s shameless. Playful about it. “We could—right here. No one would see. We’d be so quiet.”
(You are never quiet. He loves that too.)
The Neck Thing (An Obsession)
If Phainon has a fixation, it’s your neck.
Soft skin. Sensitive. The place where he can taste and feel at once. Your pulse under his lips, proof you’re alive, you’re here, you’re his.
He kisses there constantly. Gentle brushes during the day. Lingering attention at night. Open-mouthed and deliberate when things get heated.
And he marks you. Not aggressively—never to hurt—but with clear intent.
“I want everyone to know,” he murmurs against your throat. “Want them to see. Want you to see.” He pulls back, examines his work with satisfaction. “There. Perfect.”
It’s not about possession in the toxic sense. It’s about proof.
Proof you’re his. Proof this is real. Proof that someone as beautiful as you chose someone as damaged as him.
When he sees the marks later—when you’re dressed and going about your day and there they are, visible evidence—something in him settles. Calms.
Mine. Y/N is mine. Y/N stayed. Mine. All mine.
Biting (But Not Like That)
He bites sometimes. In the heat of it. When he’s overwhelmed by how good you feel, how much he wants you, how perfect this is.
But it’s never about pain. He has enough pain, caused enough pain, witnessed enough pain. This is different.
It’s passion. Intensity. The physical manifestation of “I can’t get close enough to you” and “I need to mark this moment somehow” and “you undo me completely.”
Quick, hot pressure on your shoulder. The curve where your neck meets collarbone. Your bottom lip when kissing gets desperate.
Nothing that breaks skin. Nothing cruel. Just… intensity made physical.
“Sorry,” he’ll gasp after. “Did I—are you—”
“I’m fine. More than fine.”
“You drive me absolutely insane. You know that?”
Yeah. You know.
His Obsessions (And What They Mean)
Phainon has fixations. Specific parts of you that undo him completely. But it's never random. Everything means something with him. Everything connects to who he is, what he's survived, what you represent.
Your hands on his back and shoulders:
He's obsessed with the way you touch him there. Specifically there.
When you run your hands across his shoulders, dig your fingers into the muscle, trace the lines of his back—he melts. Makes these sounds, low and helpless, like he's been waiting his whole life for this exact touch.
"There. Right there. Don't stop."
It's more than just pleasure. It's symbolic.
These shoulders carried the weight of Amphoreus. Bore the responsibility of saving everyone. Held the world while it threatened to crush him.
And now you're touching them with tenderness. With desire. Like they're beautiful, not just functional. Like he's allowed to be wanted, not just needed.
When you dig in harder—when you leave marks there, scratch lines down his back in the heat of the moment—he comes undone.
"Yes. Mark me. Want to feel it tomorrow. Want to remember—fuck—want to remember you were here."
Proof that someone touched him with love, not just duty. That these shoulders can carry pleasure too, not just burden.
His obsession with your legs:
If you catch him staring at your legs—and you will, constantly—there's a reason.
"They remind me why I'm still standing," he admits one night, trailing kisses up your thigh. "You. This. The fact that I get to be here, touching you, alive and wanting. That's why I kept fighting. Why I'm still here."
He loves your legs wrapped around him. Over his shoulders. Around his waist. Tangled with his. Any configuration where he can feel them, grip them, kiss them, worship them.
It's grounding. Symbolic. A reminder that he's allowed to want things, to take pleasure, to be held instead of always holding.
When you wrap your legs around him and pull him closer, demanding, claiming—the look on his face is almost reverent.
"You have no idea what you do to me."
Oh, you have some idea.
Your lips (and why he can't stop kissing you):
Phainon is obsessed with your mouth.
Kissing you constantly. Deep, consuming kisses that taste like desperation and devotion. Quick pecks throughout the day. Biting your bottom lip just to hear you gasp.
He watches your lips when you talk. Traces them with his thumb. Kisses them like he's trying to memorize the exact shape, texture, taste.
"You have the most beautiful mouth," he murmurs against it. "Could kiss you for hours. Might actually do that. Just—stay right here."
It's about communication for him. Words and touch combined. Your lips speak, smile, kiss him back. Proof of mutual want, active choice, life.
And when you use that mouth to tell him exactly what you want, when you're direct and explicit and demanding—he nearly loses his mind.
"Say that again."
"I want you. Inside me. Now."
He groans like the words are physical touch. "You're going to kill me. Actually kill me. And I'll die happy."
Your bottom (because yes, he's a bit freaky):
Let's be honest: Phainon appreciates your ass. A lot. Unabashedly.
His hands gravitate there constantly. Gripping, squeezing, pulling you against him. When you walk past, he'll reach out and touch. Playful, possessive, appreciative.
"Can't help it," he says, completely unapologetic. "Have you seen yourself?"
During sex? He's obsessed. Loves the view from behind. Grips hard enough to leave marks. Makes these sounds of pure appreciation.
"Perfect. You're so—god—you're so perfect."
It's not just physical (though yes, he's very physically attracted). It's that he gets to want this. Gets to be a man who desires, not just a hero who sacrifices. Gets to be a little freaky, a little wild, a little bit free.
And you let him. Encourage him. Match his energy.
That's everything.
Your stomach (the grounding place):
Here's where Phainon gets unexpectedly tender.
He loves to linger at your stomach. Kissing softly, almost reverently. Hands splayed across warm skin. Just… breathing you in.
"What are you doing?" you ask, fingers threading through his hair.
"Memorizing. Grounding. Reminding myself this is real."
Your stomach is soft. Vulnerable. Human. The kind of softness he fought to protect, now gets to touch, gets to cherish.
He'll rest his head there sometimes, just listening to your breathing, your heartbeat, the sounds of life continuing.
And before he goes lower—and he will, with intent and enthusiasm—he always pauses here. Grounds himself. Centers himself in the moment.
"You okay?" you ask.
"Better than okay. Perfect. You're perfect. Can I—"
"Yes. Please."
And then that careful tenderness transforms into something more intense, more focused, more determined to make you fall apart.
But it always starts here. At your stomach. Where he reminds himself: This is real. I'm allowed this. Y/N wants this. We're both alive and here and wanting.
Positions: All of Them
Phainon likes variety. Experimentation. Figuring out what works, what feels good, what makes you both lose your minds.
He loves taking you from behind. Hands on your hips, watching the way your back arches, the angle that makes you cry out his name. Control and connection, being able to lean forward and kiss your spine, wrap around you completely.
He loves facing you. Eye contact, kissing, seeing every expression. Watching you fall apart. Swallowing your moans. “Look at me. Keep your eyes open. I want to see.”
But one of his favorites?
When you’re on top. When he gets to touch everything.
His hands map your body like territory he’s claiming for good. Hips, thighs, stomach, wherever he can reach. He guides your movements sometimes, setting pace. Other times he just holds on and lets you take what you need, watching with dazed wonder.
“You’re perfect. Fuck, you’re perfect. Don’t stop. Please don’t—yes, just like that—”
The view destroys him. Your face, your body, the way you move. Having you like this—taking pleasure from him, choosing this, choosing him—it’s almost too much.
Some days touch alone could undo him. Your hands on his chest, his shoulders, threading through his hair. The feel of you, moving, alive.
He comes apart. Completely. And he’s not quiet about it.
Dirty Talk (Because Of Course)
If anyone’s into dirty talk, it’s Phainon.
The man loves language. Loves communication. Loves words as tools, weapons, gifts.
And in bed? Words become something else entirely.
He tells you exactly what he wants to do to you. What he’s going to do. What he’s currently doing. A running commentary of praise and desire and desperate need.
“You feel so good. So fucking good. How do you—hah—how do you feel this perfect?”
“I’m going to make you come. Want to feel you. Want to hear you say my name when you—yes, yes, just like that.”
“Tell me what you need. Use your words. I want to hear you ask for it.”
But here’s the thing: he also needs to hear from you.
Needs you to tell him what feels good. What you want more of. Explicit direction that cuts through any spiral about whether he’s doing this right.
“Tell me,” he insists, voice rough. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want this. I want you.”
“Say it again.”
“I want you, Phainon. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
He groans like the words alone could finish him. Could make him come. Maybe they could.
Communication during sex isn’t awkward with him. It’s hot. Essential. Another way you’re connected, another way you’re choosing each other.
The Spiral (Craving vs. Fear)
Here’s where the trauma shows up most clearly:
Phainon oscillates. Wildly.
One moment he’s confident, playful, absolutely sure of himself. Taking charge, making you fall apart, clearly enjoying every second.
The next moment: “Is this okay? Am I—I’m not being too much, am I? If you don’t want—”
The shift can be jarring if you’re not prepared for it. But once you understand the pattern, you learn to ground him.
“I want this.”
“You’re not too much. You’re exactly enough.”
“I’m choosing this. Choosing you. All of you.”
Simple. Direct. Clear.
Watch him settle. Watch the fear dissolve. Watch him come back to confidence, to presence, to that overwhelming focus.
He’s learning. Slowly. That wanting things doesn’t make him selfish. That his intensity isn’t a burden. That you’re here because of who he is, not despite it.
But he still checks. Still needs reassurance. Still sometimes pulls back in the middle of things because what if this is too much what if you’re just tolerating this what if—
“Phainon.”
“Sorry, I just—”
“I’m the one who started this, remember? I pulled you into that alley. I initiated. Because I wanted to. Stop overthinking and kiss me.”
“…Yes, love.”
“You‘re doing so well.”
He groans. “Don’t say that unless you want me to completely lose my mind.”
“That’s exactly what I want.”
And he does. Lose his mind. Beautifully.
Needy Days (And Permission to Take)
Most of the time, Phainon is focused on you. Your pleasure, your needs, your satisfaction.
But sometimes—more often as he heals, as he allows himself wants—he’s just needy.
He’ll find you wherever you are, eyes dark, energy crackling with barely-contained desire.
“Can we—are you up for—I need—”
“Yes.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“I know that look. The answer is yes.”
Relief and heat flash across his face. “I promise I’ll make it good for you too. I just need—I need you so badly right now I can’t—”
“Then take. I’m yours. Take what you need.”
Permission granted, he’s on you. Fast, desperate, intense in the best way. Hands everywhere, mouth demanding, making these sounds—low groans and sharp gasps and your name like a prayer.
It’s different from his usual deliberate approach. Rougher. More frantic. Less about strategy and more about overwhelming need.
And it’s incredible.
Because Phainon unleashed—Phainon wanting without apology, without fear, without holding back—is a force of nature.
After, when you’re both catching your breath:
“Was that—I didn’t hurt you? I wasn’t too—”
“That was perfect. You’re perfect. Do that again whenever you need to.”
Phainon laughs, pulls you close, kisses your temple. “You’re going to regret saying that. I need you constantly.”
“Good.“
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Daily Life: Learning to Live
Mornings (Sunshine Personified)
Phainon is absolutely a morning person, and you feel it immediately.
He wakes early, energized, ready to seize the day with both hands. And he wants you awake too. Not because he needs company, but because he’s excited about the day and wants to share it.
“Wake up. Come on. You’re missing the sunrise.”
“Phainon, it’s barely dawn—”
“Exactly! The light is perfect. We should go to the baths. Or that bakery—they have fresh pastries in the morning. Or we could—”
His enthusiasm is infectious. Resistance is futile.
You learn to love mornings because he makes them feel like adventures. Coffee at sunrise. Walks through markets before crowds arrive. Training sessions where dew still clings to grass and the world feels new.
He’s affectionate in the morning. Cheerful kisses, easy touches, pulling you into hugs while explaining his plans for the day. Sometimes he wakes you with his mouth on yours, hands wandering, morning light streaming through windows.
“Good morning, beautiful. Sleep well? I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Morning sex with Phainon is enthusiastic, joyful, full of laughter when you’re both still half-asleep and clumsy. He’s playful about it. Teasing, grinning, making comments about being the best alarm clock you’ve ever had.
“Better than breakfast, right?”
“Your ego is showing.”
“You’re not denying it though.”
No. You’re really not.
Evenings (Deep Conversations and Quiet Reflection)
If mornings are sunshine, evenings are depth.
As the day winds down, Phainon gets quieter. More reflective. The energy that blazes during the day softens into something contemplative.
He loves long conversations at night. Philosophy, memories, hopes, fears. Topics that require darkness and intimacy to properly explore.
You’ll be curled up together, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, and he’ll ask: “Do you think we’re defined by our worst moments? Or do we get to be more than that?”
Sometimes the conversations are lighter. Discussing books you’ve read, antiques he wants to find, plans for tomorrow. But there’s still that depth to it. The sense that night makes everything more honest, more raw.
And sometimes he doesn’t want to talk at all. Just wants to hold you. Feel you breathe. Ground himself in your presence.
Those are the harder nights. When memories surface. When the weight returns.
You learn to recognize them. The particular quality of his silence, the way he holds you tighter, the tension in his shoulders.
“I’m here,” you remind him quietly. “Not going anywhere.”
“I know.” His voice is rough. “I know. Just… stay close?”
Always.
Food (Discovering Simple Joys)
Phainon is discovering that food can be pleasure, not just fuel.
He wants to try everything. Taste everything. Experience everything.
He drags you to new restaurants constantly. Street food vendors. That place someone mentioned. “We have to try this place. I heard they make this specific dish and apparently it’s incredible.”
Watching him discover flavors he loves is adorable. The way his eyes widen. How he immediately offers you a taste. “Try this. Try this. Isn’t that amazing?”
He’s also learned to cook. Messily, enthusiastically, with mixed results.
Some nights dinner is incredible. Other nights you’re both laughing after he somehow burns water.
“I don’t understand. I followed the recipe exactly—”
“You treated it like a military strategy, didn’t you?”
“…Maybe.”
“Cooking isn’t a battle plan, sunshine.”
“Clearly. This is a disaster.”
But he’s laughing. You’re both laughing. And later you’ll make simple food and eat it on the floor and he’ll kiss you between bites and say, “This is my favorite kind of night.”
Mine too, you think. Mine too.
Books and Antiques (Shared Passions)
Two of Phainon’s greatest joys: books and antiques.
Books because they’re knowledge, stories, beauty preserved in words. He reads voraciously—history, philosophy, poetry, fiction. Anything that helps him understand the world he fought to save.
When you recommend books to him, he treasures them. Reads them immediately. Wants to discuss them with you. What you thought, what he thought, which parts resonated.
“You knew I’d love this. How did you know?”
“Because I know you.”
Simple statement. Profound impact.
Antiques because they’re history. Physical proof that beautiful things endure. That craftsmanship matters. That people create meaning that outlasts them.
He loves appraisal. Examining objects, determining worth, learning stories. And he loves when you join him. When you get excited about a find, when you point out details, when you support this thing that makes him genuinely happy.
“Look at this.” He holds up a small carved box, reverent. “150 years old. Someone’s hands made this. Someone loved this enough to keep it all this time. And now it’s ours.”
The way he says “ours.” Like everything good is shared. Like his joys are automatically yours too.
Adventures and Stillness (The Full Spectrum)
Phainon contains multitudes.
Some days he needs adventure. Walking, exploring ruins, climbing to high places just to see the view. Active, physical, alive.
“Come on. There’s supposed to be an incredible vista from the peak. We can make it before sunset if we hurry.”
“That’s a four-hour hike—”
“Yes! Think how good we’ll feel when we reach it. Think how beautiful it’ll be. Please?”
How do you say no to that face?
Other days he needs stillness. Quiet reading side by side. Lying in the grass watching clouds. Slow morning coffee and easy conversation and absolutely nothing urgent.
He’s learning balance. That rest isn’t weakness. That peace is its own kind of strength.
You help with that. Ground him when the restless energy threatens to become destructive. Encourage activity when he’s been too still for too long.
“Want to go for a walk?”
“I was just thinking that.”
“I know. I can read you pretty well by now.”
“Yeah.” He smiles, pulls you close. “You really can.”
Meeting People (The Ultimate Extrovert)
Phainon thrives around people.
He’s naturally charismatic. Leader energy, diplomatic grace, genuine interest in others. People gravitate to him.
And he wants you there for all of it.
Every introduction includes you. Every conversation makes space for you. Every new person he meets gets told about you. Sometimes embarrassingly, always sincerely.
“This is my partner. Y/N is incredible. Have I mentioned Y/N is incredible? Because it is true.”
“Phainon, you’re doing the thing again—”
“What thing? The truth thing? Can’t help it.”
Social events with him are intense. He’s magnetic. Draws crowds. Tells stories with dramatic flair. Makes everyone feel heard and valued.
But his eyes keep finding you across the room. Checking in. Making sure you’re okay. Pulling you into conversations. Holding your hand under the table.
“You good?” he’ll murmur during a quieter moment.
“I’m good. You’re having fun.”
“I’m having fun with you here. Big difference.”
And when you’re ready to leave, he leaves immediately. No hesitation. Because people are great, socializing is great, but you are better.
Silly Moments (The Unexpected Joy)
Here’s a secret about Phainon: he’s kind of ridiculous when he’s happy.
Makes terrible jokes. Puns. Dramatic declarations.
Dances with you in the kitchen while food cooks. Badly. With full commitment to the bit.
Makes up silly songs about mundane activities.
Gets into play-fights that turn into wrestling that turns into kissing that turns into more.
Tries to teach you sword forms but keeps getting distracted by how you look doing them.
“No, your stance is. Wait. Do that again.”
“What, this?”
“Yeah. That. Just… one more time. For form. For educational purposes.”
“You’re not even looking at my footwork.”
“I’m looking at something. Very educational.”
He’s playful. Bright. Silly in ways he probably never got to be during the war.
And watching him be light—watching him laugh freely, joke easily, be young in the way he never got to be—is its own kind of beautiful.
This is who he is when he’s safe. When he’s loved. When he’s home.
The Healing (And Why You Matter)
The Truth About Post-Everything Phainon
Let’s be honest about something: Phainon is healing, but he’s not healed.
There are still nightmares. Still moments when the weight of guilt crashes down. Still days when he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to be this happy.
Some nights you wake to find him sitting at the window, staring out, lost in thoughts he can’t quite voice.
Some days the energy is frantic. Too much activity, too much movement, like he’s running from something internal.
Some moments he zones out mid-conversation, eyes distant, somewhere else entirely.
And you know. You know that beneath the sunshine and enthusiasm and genuine joy, there’s still darkness. Still trauma. Still the accumulated weight of being Amphoreus’s hope, its hero, its last stand against destruction. Who became destruction. Ruin.
But here’s what matters:
He’s learning that happiness isn’t betrayal.
That living, really living, not just surviving, is how he honors everything he fought for.
That love isn’t weakness. It’s strength. The thing that makes the fighting mean something.
And you? You’re the proof. The evidence. The living testament that beauty endures, that hope is real, that he was right to keep fighting.
What You Give Him
You give him permission.
Permission to want things. To be silly. To rest. To need. To be something other than hero, warrior, savior, symbol.
When Phainon spirals—when the craving and fear war inside him, when he’s convinced he’s too much and not enough simultaneously—you anchor him.
“I’m choosing you. Every day. Every moment. This is my choice and I’m making it.”
When darkness comes—when memories surface, when guilt threatens to drown him—you’re there.
“You did everything you could. You saved them. Now let them save you back by living the life they wanted for you.”
When he needs to move—restless energy demanding outlet—you move with him.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just—I need to—”
“Then let’s go. I’m with you.”
And when he needs stillness—when the world gets too loud and he needs to remember how to just be—you provide that too.
Your hand in his hair. Your breathing synced to his. Your presence, solid and real and here.
“You’re allowed to rest. The fight is over. You won. Now live like it.”
Why It Works
You’re not trying to fix him. You know you can’t.
You’re not treating him like he’s broken. You know he’s not. Not entirely. Not anymore.
You’re just… there. Steady. Certain. Choosing him on the hard days and the good days and every day in between.
And slowly—so slowly—he’s learning to trust it.
Trust that you’ll stay. That this is real. That he’s allowed to want things, to be happy, to live without it being temporary or contingent or earned through constant vigilance.
He’s learning that love isn’t something he has to fight for or prove himself worthy of.
It’s something freely given. Chosen. Mutual.
And that’s the greatest gift of all.
What Phainon wants, more than anything:
To write you poetry at dawn. To show you off proudly to everyone who'll listen. To make you laugh. To make you moan his name. To explore antique shops and distant ruins and every corner of this world he fought to save—with you beside him.
To be allowed to love you loudly, intensely, completely. Without apology. Without fear.
To learn that happiness isn't betrayal of the fallen. It's honoring them. Living the life they wanted for Amphoreus. Proving their sacrifice meant something.
To be your partner. Your lover. Your best friend. Your life.
Not the hero. Not the symbol. Not the warrior.
Just Phainon. The man who loves you with his whole heart and is learning—slowly, beautifully—how to let you love him back.
This is my life partner, he'll tell anyone who'll listen, eyes bright with pride and wonder. My hope. My dawnlight. My completion.
The reason I fought. The reason I won. The reason I'm still here.
My everything.
⋆ ✦ ⋆
A/N: If you made it to the end of this: wow. Thank you. Imagining a world where he gets to be happy, where the hero finally gets his reward, where he learns to live instead of just survive... that's everything to me.
Anon, your ask gave me permission to share all of this. So thank you. And please—please—keep the Phainon questions coming (or questions about other characters, naturally). I have notebooks full of thoughts and apparently no self-control when it comes to word count. :D
I’m more than happy to expand any of those themes or write something for what you have in mind.
Comments, reblogs and likes are always appreciated. They fuel me. :)
Don't know if you will accept this one because not everyone is comfortable with writing for pregnancy trope. But i will try. 😭
Imagine the reader is pregnant, and for some reason, she can't get to the hospital or opted for giving birth at home, and the labor starts with just the reader and the boys, how would they react? (Zayne would go well, I guess lol)
Anyway, I gotta say I am obsessed with your writing ✍️ 🤤🥰
It honestly took me forever to get this request done, but here it is—finally! I ended up splitting it into two parts, including a bit of my own experience with childbirth.
The main challenge was that, even when extreme, birth tends to follow a similar pattern. I didn’t want to lean into unnecessary drama, so I approached it differently: wrote one complete mini-fic and turned the rest into short drabble-style sketches, which I’ll be posting here.
You can read more about Xavier/MC’s story here.
I chose him simply because I hadn’t written anything focused on him in a while—and it just flowed (from pen... well, keyboard) that way.
CT/WT: birth scene, childbirth, emergency birth, home birth, water birth, airplane birth, snowstorm birth, intense emotional content, partner support, soft!men, vulnerable!men, protective partner, found family, twins, hurt/comfort, emotional intimacy, fatherhood, new dad energy, birth fic, drabble collection, first-time dad, emotional whump, soft smutless intimacy, love confession, trauma comfort, birth complications, raw vulnerability, medical emergency, no smut just feelings, domestic intensity. Headcanon!!!
🖤 SYLUS — The Moment He Realizes It’s Up to Him (Home Birth, Unprepared Conditions)
The Second It Clicks:
You gasp. Double over. He’s at your side in a heartbeat.
“Is it time?”
You nod. Pain. Panic. Wet warmth. His blood freezes — then boils. No hospital. No doctor. No help. Just him.
His First Thought?
“Fuck. No. Not like this. You deserve better.”
Not chaos. Not uncertainty. Not cold floors and towels that aren’t sterile. He’s Sylus — he controls everything. But this? This is the one thing he can’t delay, buy, or dominate. It’s coming. Now.
Terror?Not for himself. For you. For the pain in your eyes, the grip of your hand, the sheer fragility of the moment. His entire being rallies like a war horn blaring inside his chest.
“If the universe put this in my hands, then it’s getting the best fucking performance of my life.”
What he does first:He lowers you carefully to the bed. Kisses your knuckles, even as he’s barking quiet orders into a phone no one picks up. His voice is deep, steady. But his heart is galloping. He never lets you see it. Never lets his fear break through. You deserve certainty, and he’ll give it to you — even if he’s unraveling at the seams.
What He Says:“Kitten. Look at me.”
You do. Eyes wide. Brave. Terrified.
“You trust me?”
You nod.
“Then breathe. I’ve got this. I’ve got you. I always have.”
What He Feels:You’re vulnerable. And you’re still the strongest creature he’s ever seen. He wishes he could take the pain. Rip it from you and carry it in his own bones. But this is your war. And all he can do is be the sword and the shield.
“Don’t you dare break on me, baby. You’re almost there. We’re almost there.”
And when you cry out —Something inside him shatters. Not weakness. Not panic.
Love.
The kind that could burn cities. The kind that makes gods kneel. He wipes your brow with trembling fingers, and for the first time in years, he whispers: “Please. Just let me do this right.”
The First Push:Your nails dig into his forearm. Hard. He doesn't flinch. He leans in, forehead almost touching yours.
“That’s it. Breathe through it. I’ve got you.”
Your body trembles. He sees it — the pain, the fear, the fight. And God, he’s never loved you more than in this bloody, imperfect, holy moment.
The Next Contractions Hit:They're relentless. And so is he. He’s on his knees beside the bed now, sleeves rolled, jaw locked, hands steady but heart breaking.
“You're doing so good, kitten. So fucking good. I'm right here. Ride it. Ride it out. You're the strongest thing I've ever seen.”
He keeps talking because your cries are the sound of his soul ripping open. He wants to scream with you — but he doesn’t. He can’t. You need him iron-clad.
When the Baby Crowns:For a split second, he freezes. The sight undoes him. It's real.
His voice catches. He swallows hard. Then acts. Fast. He speaks softly but firmly. “Almost there. Just one more, baby. Give me everything you’ve got.”And when you do — when you scream and bear down and sob his name — the world shifts.
The Birth:The baby slips into his hands. Warm. Fragile. Alive. He catches it like it’s made of light. For a moment, he just stares. His lips part, but no words come. This. This is his child. His hands are shaking now. Bloody, trembling.
But when the baby cries? He lets out the most ragged breath of his life.
“You did it,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours. “You fucking did it.”
He ties and cuts the cord. Precise. Careful. Reverent. Wraps the baby in a soft towel and places it in your arms. And then? He just watches. Like the world cracked open to show him something he never thought he was worthy of.
When the Medics Finally Arrive:He doesn’t move from your side. Doesn’t let go of your hand. The men in white bark questions. He answers in clipped growls, still on alert. They try to move in too fast, and he snaps, “She’s fine. You move when she says so.”
The room is full now — but all he sees is you.
Afterward, When It’s Quiet Again:He sits beside you, one hand on your leg, the other gently stroking the baby's tiny back. His shirt is soaked, his knuckles still stained, his eyes rimmed red. He doesn’t speak for a long time. Just breathes in the shape of you. Watches you like you might disappear.
And then he says it, raw and low:“I’ve killed for less than the pain you just went through.”“You scare me,” he adds, almost smiling. “Because I didn’t think I could love you more than I already did.”A pause. His voice softens. “Turns out, I was wrong.”
How He Is With You After:
He won’t leave the room for the first 24 hours. Won’t sleep unless you sleep. Won’t speak unless it’s to you. Every time you shift, he’s there. Water. Blankets. Warm palms.
He touches you like you’re made of fire and stardust. And maybe you are. You brought life into the world — and now he’s a man who’s seen a goddess bleed and survive.
What’s Changed?
Everything. You’re no longer just the woman he worships. You’re the mother of his child. And he’s never been more dangerous, more devoted, or more in awe.
And when he finally holds the baby in his arms, whispering something in a voice only the stars can hear, you catch the look on his face — as if the king of the underworld just met the one soul that could make him believe in heaven.
🎨 RAFAYEL — Water Birth Gone Off-Script (But You're Still His Masterpiece)
The Second It Clicks:You gasp. A real one. Water shifts behind the door. He hears it — not the splash, but the silence that follows. Brush mid-stroke, he freezes in the studio. Palette still in hand. Then he hears you call his name. Soft. Urgent. Different. His heart misses a beat. Oh. Oh, fuck. It’s time.
His First Thought?“Cutie, not yet — where’s the damn midwife?” This was supposed to be smooth. Music, candles, soft towels, help. He practiced. Took notes. Learned everything. But you’re contracting, you’re gripping his arm like a lifeline, and that carefully prepared plan just drowned.
Terror?Only for a split second. Then? It turns into motion. His version of war. No armor. Just bare skin, water, and wild love. He tears off his silk shirt, drops to his knees beside the tub, and cups your face. Eyes blazing. Smile trembling. “You’ve got this. I’ve got you. Let’s be legends, sweetheart.”
What He Does First:Lights dimmed. Calm playlist turned off. That’s not helping. He speaks instead. Constant stream of velvet and madness — anything to keep you in your body. He checks your breath, strokes your arms, pours warm water down your back. He holds your thighs when the cramping gets too much. “Breathe, Cutie. Moan if you need to. Scream. I’ll scream with you.”
What He Says:“You’re the most divine creature I’ve ever painted and you’re not even trying right now.”
“Do you know what it does to me — to see you bring life into the world? I’m ruined.”
“I love you. You’re terrifying. It’s magnificent.”
“I’m not ready, but I’m so ready. Are you ready, sweetheart?”
He laughs and cries all at once. Classic Raf.
What He Feels:Absolute awe. Like watching a volcano give birth to the moon. You’re in pain, and he’d trade his soul to take it away —
But you’re also gorgeous. Power and surrender. Fury and grace. He watches you like a living epic, memorizing every second. And somewhere deep down: terror. Because he’s about to meet a little soul that already feels like the most important thing he’s ever waited for.
And When You Cry Out —He flinches like someone hit his body. Then kisses your forehead. Then your shoulder. Then your fingers. “I know, I know, my love. You can hate me right now. But when it’s over, you’re going to be a fucking goddess in my arms again.”
The First Push:He holds you. Literally. Behind you in the tub, your back pressed to his chest. Whispers in your ear like poetry, nonsense, love confessions. His hands steady your belly. His cheek presses to yours. “Push. With me. Right now. Pretend the stars are watching.”
The Next Contractions Hit:You sob. Scream. Curse. He laughs through tears. “That’s my girl. Go feral, baby.”
He doesn't pretend it's easy. He matches the chaos. You scream louder? He screams louder. You sob? He hums a lullaby in broken Lemurian. And when you break? He stitches you back together with every ridiculous, poetic, stupidly beautiful word.
When the Baby Crowns:He feels it before he sees it — the shift in your breath, the way your body tenses like a storm breaking. “Cutie — he’s here. He’s really here.”
He helps you lean forward, moves behind and then lower, one arm steadying you as he shifts to kneel in the water. And then he sees it — the beginning of everything. His voice is gone. His hands shake. But he stays.
The Birth:The baby slides into the water. Raf catches him like he’s catching a star falling into the sea. He brings him up gently, lets him cry, and then stares — completely undone. He places the baby on your chest with reverence. Then breaks. Just breaks. Weeps silently as he holds you both.
When the Medics Finally Arrive:He answers the door shirtless, soaked, with red-rimmed eyes and a feral look.
“Too late,” he snaps. “She did it herself. I just got to be lucky enough to watch.” Then walks past them, back to the bathroom, because he’s not done looking at you.
Afterward, When It’s Quiet Again:You’re in bed. Baby asleep. Candles flickering low. Raf’s lying next to you, propped on an elbow, fingers lightly tracing invisible constellations on your arm. His voice is almost a whisper. “You made something I could never paint. Not with all the colors in the universe.”
Confession:“I used to think love was chaos. Fire. Tragedy.” He swallows. “But you — carrying him, birthing him — you made me believe in something bigger than all that. Something gentle.” Beat.
“Still chaos. But now… now I want to live in it.”
How He Is With You After:He won’t stop touching you. Ever. Cheek pressed to your stomach. Hand around your ankle. Lips to your collarbone. He calls you his ocean, his cathedral, his everything. Gets jealous when the baby gets more attention, then sulks dramatically — only to melt the moment the baby yawns.
What’s Changed?
He didn’t think he could love more than he already did. But now he’s ruined. Completely, gloriously yours. He paints you every day. He stares at the baby like a spell. And every night, he murmurs: “Cutie, I would live a thousand lifetimes just to land in this one with you.”
🛩️ CALEB — 35,000 Feet Up, When the World Falls Apart (And You’re the Only Thing That Matters)
The Second It Clicks:Your breath hitches. You shift. Then freeze. He knows your body too well — something is off. You whisper, "Caleb…"
He looks at you. And in that one heartbeat, he knows. It’s happening. Here. Now. Too early.
His First Thought?“No.”Not like this. Not at cruising altitude. Not without equipment, backup, time. You were supposed to have two more weeks. He had a plan. A perfect one. And the baby just threw it out the emergency exit.
Terror?It brushes him. A ghost against the back of his mind. There’s a moment — sharp, almost blinding — where every instinct screams: get to the cockpit, take the controls, force the descent, get her to a hospital, make it stop. Not the birth — your pain. The helplessness. But Caleb is a fortress — fear doesn’t get through the walls. Not when you need him solid. Not when your breathing goes shallow and your fingers dig into his thigh. He shuts it out. Cold. Calculated. He stays. Right where you are. “Handle it.”
What He Does First:
Turns to the nearest flight attendant — she’s pale, shaking. “Get blankets. Towels. Water. First aid kit. Everything. Now.”Then he takes your hand. Squeezes once. He shifts the cabin — clears seats, turns it into a command zone. Straps you in, kneels in front of you like you’re his entire mission.
What He Says:“Breathe.” “Look at me, not the chaos. Me.”“You're safe. I'm here. I’ll get you through this.”“No one’s going to touch you but me. You hear me?”Low, controlled. The voice of command — but laced with something raw. The kind of voice that means he’d rip this plane open and land it with his bare hands if he had to.
What He Feels:Failure. Because this wasn’t the plan. Because he let you on this plane, knowing the risks. Because you’re in pain and there’s nothing he can shoot or order or carry to fix it. But above that — something bigger. Something anchoring. You’re about to give him a child. His child. And he’s never been more terrified or more in love.
And When You Cry Out —He stops breathing. Just for a moment. Then grabs a wet cloth, wipes your forehead, presses his mouth to your knuckles.
“It’s okay. I know. I know it hurts. Just hold on, love.”
He doesn’t flinch when you scream. He braces for you. Becomes your wall.
The First Push:
He helps you brace your legs. Talks you through it. Counts your breaths. His voice doesn’t shake. You’re gripping his shoulder like you want to break him — and if it helps, he wants you to.
“Push. Right now. You can do it. I know you can.”
The Next Contractions Hit:They come fast. Brutal. You’re soaked in sweat, sobbing, slipping in and out of focus. He holds your gaze. Forces you to stay present. “Stay with me. Just me. Eyes on mine.” He’s not just commanding your body now. He’s anchoring your soul.
When the Baby Crowns:His jaw locks. There’s blood. Pain. A sound from you that breaks something in him forever. But then—
“I see the head. One more. One big push, baby. Do it for me.”He’s never begged in his life. Until now.
The Birth:The baby slides into his hands — hot, wet, alive. He holds it like it’s a grenade and a prayer. He hesitates for a heartbeat, then moves on instinct drilled in from every medical video he obsessively watched in the weeks before. Wipes the face. Rubs the back. Hears that first cry. And his shoulders slump like he just survived a war. He lays the baby on your chest with military precision—
But his hands are shaking. And his voice is gone.
When the Plane Lands:Paramedics are already waiting on the tarmac. The moment the wheels hit the ground, he’s on his feet, securing the baby, then lifting you into his arms — no hesitation, no discussion. Your body wrapped in his jacket, his grip unshakable.
“She stays with me,” he tells them — low and final. He carries you down the stairs himself, eyes scanning every face like a soldier clearing a field. And when the medics move in, he doesn’t flinch — but he watches every hand. Every word. His eyes never leave you. He’s still on the battlefield.
Afterward, When It’s Quiet Again:
The baby’s wrapped and asleep. You’re in a hospital bed now, monitors quiet, lights dim. Caleb sits beside you — still in his flight-worn clothes, hands resting on the edge of the mattress like he’s holding the line. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you breathe. As if any second, the universe might try to take you again.
Confession:“I don’t know how to do this part.”
Soft. Almost a whisper.
“I know war. I know strategy. I know how to keep you alive.”A pause.
“But you just gave me everything, thirty-five thousand feet above the world. And I don’t know how to thank you for that.”
How He Is With You After:
Hypervigilant. Keeps you warm. Fed. Rested. Checks the baby’s breath every ten minutes. Doesn’t leave your side — not even to sleep. Carries you to the bathroom if he has to. Barely talks. Just does.
What’s Changed?
He always thought his job was to protect you. Now he knows — you are the reason he fights. You made life, in midair, with nothing but pain and instinct. He’s seen you soft. He’s seen you in love. Now he’s seen you divine. And no enemy will ever get close again. Not even turbulence. And definitely not labor at 35,000 feet — because he’s never letting you board a plane pregnant again.
He’s already planning the next birth. Controlled environment. Ground-level. Walls. Doctors. No sky. No chaos. Just you, safe — the way you were always supposed to be.
🧊 ZAYNE — Snowcrest Emergency (Twins, a Storm, and You in His Hands)
The Second It Clicks:You’re at the stove, stirring a pot of mulled wine, the scent of cloves and orange peel curling through the wooden walls of the chalet. Snow presses against the windows like a soft white fist. Then something shifts. You freeze. One hand goes to the edge of the counter, the other to your belly. Your breath catches — once. Twice. Too sharp.
Zayne looks up from the hearth, where he was stacking firewood. Sees your face. Sees your hands. His mind clicks into motion before you can speak. Contractions. Strong. Rhythmic. A month early. Twins. It’s happening. Now.
His First Thought?“No hospital. No OR. No neonatal equipment. Two infants. High-risk environment.” His mind races: What’s missing? What can he improvise? What matters most? You. He recalibrates in milliseconds. The plan has changed. You’re the plan now.
Terror?He doesn’t let it register. But for the first time in a decade, he feels his pulse spike without choosing it. This is not a patient. Not a clinical environment. This is you. And his hands — hands that saved hundreds — suddenly feel too slow, too human.
What He Does First:Takes control. Quietly, precisely. “Lie down. Left side. Pillows under your knees.”
Gets gloves. Clean cloths. Lantern light. Wipes the counter. Boils water. Checks your pupils, your breath rate, heart rate. Starts counting contractions. Voice — steady as marble. “Vitals are within threshold. We’ll manage.” He doesn’t say "I’m scared." He sets his jaw and becomes the machine you need.
What He Says:“Cut the noise. Focus on me.” “Deep breath in. Hold. Now exhale slowly.” “You’re safe. I have you. Nothing’s going wrong under my watch.” And softer, almost like it slips out against his control: “You’re not doing this alone. I’m here.”Then quieter still, barely audible over your breathing—
“I don’t want you to be afraid. Not with me.”
What He Feels:A depth of protectiveness so massive it short-circuits logic. He can’t afford emotion — so it burns quietly behind his ribs. Every sound you make, every twitch of pain — he catalogs it, files it, calculates it. But somewhere behind the math, something whispers: “These are my children. And she’s the one I never deserved.”
And When You Cry Out—He doesn’t flinch. But his jaw locks, and he moves faster. More towels. More warmth. Calmer voice. He adjusts your position, murmurs into your hair: “I know. I know, love. It hurts. You’re strong. You’re going to get them here, and I’m going to catch them. I promise.”
The First Push:““Push with the contraction. Not before.”He watches your breath, cues your muscles, syncs with your rhythm like surgery. You scream. He doesn’t blink. Just steadies your knee, keeps his voice low and close. “You’re doing it. This is the part that ends it. The worst is behind you.”
The Next Contractions Hit:They come harder, closer. You’re shaking. Your body starts to give. Zayne grips your hands, brings your forehead to his. “You’re not breaking. You’re giving life. Do it. I’m right here.”
He says it like a command. But his voice catches.
When the Baby Crowns:It’s fast. First twin is anterior. Textbook. Zayne’s gloves are slick, but his hold is perfect. The baby slips into his hands — screaming. He wraps, clears, breathes. Then glances up at you, and — for half a second — his breath stutters. One down. One more.
The Birth (Second Twin):This one’s trickier. Breech. Zayne’s hands move with silent grace, guiding you, shifting your hips, protecting you from the risk. It’s intense. It’s dangerous. But he handles it like a master. The second baby arrives blue. He doesn’t panic. Just acts. Clears airway. Stimulates. Waits — cry. Only then does his chest move again.
When the Medics Finally Arrive:He meets them at the door. Calm. Precise. These are his colleagues — people he trusts. He listens to every reading, watches every movement. They confirm what he already knows: vitals are steady. No signs of immediate risk. He should transfer you. He planned to.
But then you look at him — raw, pleading, exhausted. And he recalculates. “We’ll monitor here. Twelve-hour window. I’ll oversee everything myself.”
He’s already wrapping you and the twins in fresh blankets, resetting the monitors. His voice is steady. His posture sure. But his hand doesn’t leave yours. He’s not just responsible. He’s personally invested. In this. In you. In all three lives now resting in his hands.
Confession:He speaks only when you touch his wrist.
“I’ve never been this scared.” A beat. “And I didn’t let myself feel it. Until now.”
Another pause.
“You and them — you’re the only variables I can’t solve. And I think I’m okay with that.”
How He Is With You After:
Meticulous. Attentive. Understated. Charts feed schedules. Tracks sleeping patterns. Never wakes you if he can help it. Takes night shifts. Warms bottles. Still quiet. Still reserved. But touches you more often now — almost absently. A thumb to your wrist. A hand at your back. Like he can’t not.
What’s Changed?
Something in him has shifted — quietly, irreversibly. He was a man of logic. Now he’s a man of you. He doesn’t smile often — but when he looks at the twins, something in his eyes softens in a way he can’t quite explain. And every time you cry — from exhaustion, or joy, or pain — he presses a kiss to your temple and says, “Tell me what to fix.”
Even if he knows he never could. Because he’ll try anyway. For as long as you’ll let him.
Alright, guys! Your reaction to MC’s dramatic disappearance (and the even more dramatic meltdown from the LADs—especially Xavier 👀) has been absolutely wild! I can’t thank you enough! 💖
I couldn’t just ignore your cries of despair and leave you hanging, so... I wrote a continuation with Xavier. 😏🔥
If you didn’t suffer enough in the last part, well—buckle up. 😈 But seriously, I’m beyond grateful for all the love and engagement, and now I’ve got just one question... who’s next?! 👀💀
Previous Part
The door closes behind you with a quiet click.
Silence settles.
It doesn’t matter that the apartment is empty. Xavier is still here.
Not physically. But in the way the air still feels heavy with the weight of his words. In the way your phone stays too quiet, too still, despite how many times you check it. In the way his white hoodie—the one you never returned—hangs loosely around your shoulders, fabric slightly too big, smelling faintly of something cold, something distant, something unmistakably him.
You should take it off.
You don’t.
Not even when you curl up on the couch, pressing your face into the collar, trying to pretend that it doesn’t ache.
Trying to pretend that you don’t miss him.
But you do.
And it’s only been one night.
Day One – The Silence
The apartment is too quiet. Too hollow. The kind of silence that isn’t empty, but suffocating—thick with the weight of something unspoken, something unfinished.
Xavier doesn’t message you.
Not in the morning. Not in the afternoon. Not even at night, when the absence of his voice becomes unbearable, pressing down on your chest like a phantom weight.
You tell yourself it’s fine. That this is what you wanted. That he deserved it.
And yet, every time you reach for your phone—every time your fingers hover over the screen, itching to type something—anything—you stop.
Because if you start, you might not be able to stop.
And if you see his name flash across the screen, if you hear his voice—cold, restrained, the way it was when he told you to ask him again in six days—you might break.
And you refuse to be the first to break.
You told yourself you wouldn't do this.
Wouldn't pace the apartment, wouldn't reach for the door only to stop before your fingers brush the handle, wouldn't let yourself hover by the window as if expecting to see him below, walking with that same unshakable stride, hands in his pockets, the night folding around him like a living shadow.
You bite the inside of your cheek and turn away. This is ridiculous.
But it doesn’t stop your mind from unraveling the last time you saw him, the words that still sit on your skin like a bruise, aching, pulsing.
Two Weeks Ago
"You did it again."
Your voice was tight, measured, but it carried that dangerous edge, the one that meant you weren’t just angry—you were done.
Xavier stood in the doorway, his coat draped loosely over his shoulders, blood darkening the sleeve where it stuck to his arm. His own.
And yet, his expression remained unchanged.
"I handled it."
Effortless. Dismissive. As if bleeding out in the doorway wasn’t a cause for concern.
Your hands curled into fists at your sides. "You went into the No-Hunt Zone alone."
He exhaled slowly, unbothered, unconcerned. "Yes."
You wanted to shake him. Wanted to rip through that maddening, unflinching calm that always seemed to turn every argument into a chess match—where he never lost control, never let emotion slip past the surface.
"You promised," you said, quieter now, not because the anger had left, but because it was worse—quieter meant sharper, meant it was sinking in.
His gaze flickered. Not quite hesitation, but something close. Something annoyingly unreadable.
"I never promised," he corrected. "I said I’d be careful."
"You almost died last time," you snapped. "Or did you forget?"
A slow blink. "I don’t forget anything."
The weight of that truth settled like ice in your stomach.
"Then remember this." Your voice wavered just slightly. "You’re not immortal, Xavier."
His lips twitched, a fraction of amusement in the gesture. "Debatable."
You took a step forward. "You think longevity makes you untouchable?"
"I think," he said, tilting his head slightly, "that I’ve survived worse."
You stared at him. At the blood drying against his skin. At the way he stood so still, so effortlessly unaffected.
And that’s when you understood.
He had already made peace with his own death. And he expected you to do the same.
The thought made something break inside you.
"You want me to be a widow before I even get to be a wife?"
It came out before you could stop it, before you could think.
A flicker of something crossed his face—not shock, not emotion, but stillness. A brief, split-second pause.
And then, he shut it down.
"You’re being dramatic."
You stepped back as if struck. You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until you curled them into fists.
And then you laughed—soft, hollow, bitter. "You’re unbelievable."
"I’m realistic," he corrected.
That was when you left. You turned on your heel and walked out, before the frustration, the helplessness, the aching, consuming anger could drag you under.
And he let you go.
***
Now, you’re the one left behind.
You should have told him then. Told him how much it terrified you, the thought of coming back one day only to find his body on a slab, cold, lifeless, just another statistic in the war against Wanderers.
But you didn’t. Instead, you left. And now you’re here.
Alone.
Your phone is still on the table.
You stare at it for too long, the words forming and dissolving in your mind. You should write to him. It’s always been easier to write than to say it out loud. Because words—especially the ones that matter—come with too much weight, too much risk of cracking, of unraveling.
You start to type.
📱 You: Xav, I—
Your fingers freeze. You stare at the unfinished message for too long.
Then you delete it.
You sigh, rubbing your hands over your face, trying to chase away the exhaustion clawing at your mind.
At some point, you fall onto the couch, curling into yourself. The hoodie is still wrapped around you, the fabric worn and familiar, carrying the last traces of him.
Your eyelids feel heavy. Just for a moment, you close them.
A sharp vibration against the glass table jolts you awake. For a brief, heart-stopping second, you think it’s him.
Your fingers scramble for the phone, your pulse hammering, already too desperate for his name to appear on the screen.
Instead—
A message from a random, meaningless system notification.
You let out a slow breath. Your hands are shaking.
Because you had been waiting for him. Because some part of you still hoped.
You curl deeper into the hoodie, pressing your face into the fabric. And finally—you let yourself admit that you miss him too much.
Day Two – What Remains
The knock is barely there. So soft, so hesitant, like a ghost of sound rather than something real.
For a fleeting second—your heart leaps.
You open the door. The hallway is empty.
A cold draft brushes against your skin, slipping under the fabric of his hoodie.
But there, at your feet—a small black bag.
You kneel. Fingers brush over the label.
Painkillers. Electrolyte supplements. Emergency field rations. The essentials.
Your phone vibrates.
📱 Xavier: Take these.
You stare at the message, breathing out slowly through your nose.
A moment. A hesitation. Then—you type.
📱 You: Didn’t realize you made house calls.
📱 Xavier: I don’t. But you looked like you were about to collapse.
The words sink in too fast. Too easily.
Because of course, he noticed. Because of course, he knew. Because even now—even after everything—he’s still watching.
Your grip tightens around the phone.
📱 You: So you’re keeping tabs on me now?
📱 Xavier: No need. I already know how reckless you are.
A pause.
Then—
📱 Xavier: Take the damn medicine.
You press your tongue against the raw sting of broken skin, the inside of your cheek already torn from the habit, fingers hovering over the screen.
You could ignore him. Could let the pills sit untouched, just to prove a point. Instead, you close your eyes. And swallow the first dose dry.
It’s not an apology. Not even close.
But it’s something.
And that’s why it hurts more.
***
The night stretches long and restless.
You wake in intervals—too hot, too cold, too aware of the ache in your chest that no amount of painkillers can dull.
Somewhere between sleep and waking, your fingers drift over the phone again.
You hesitate. Then type—
📱 You: You said six days.
A second passes. Another.
Then—
📱 Xavier: I did.
A breath catches in your throat.
He answered.
You don’t know why that surprises you. You don’t know why you expected silence.
📱 You: Then why are you here?
The response comes too quickly.
📱 Xavier: I’m not.
It shouldn’t sting.
It does.
***
Morning comes slow and suffocatingly heavy.
You don’t want to move. Don’t want to pull yourself from the warmth of the couch, the stale comfort of yesterday still clinging to the air.
But the world doesn’t stop just because your heart is cracked along the edges.
So you get up.
Force yourself into autopilot—shower, dress, coffee that you don’t even drink.
Your phone vibrates again.
📱 Xavier: Eat something real today.
You exhale sharply, tilting your head back against the kitchen counter.
Then—you type.
📱 You: Didn’t realize you were my dietitian now.
📱 Xavier: I’m not. But someone has to be.
Your jaw tightens.
📱 You: I’m fine, Xavier.
📱 Xavier: You’re lying, but okay.
The breath punches out of you before you even realize you’ve been holding it. Because he sees through you. He always does.
And you hate him for it.
You want to be angry. Want to tell him to back off. Want to remind him that he left first.
But instead—
📱 You: Did you eat?
A pause.
📱 Xavier: Of course.
You don’t believe him. But you let it go.
***
The day drags forward, sluggish and unforgiving.
By the time night falls again, you’ve checked your phone at least twenty times. You tell yourself it’s just habit.
It’s not.
You curl back into the couch, fingers ghosting over the hem of his hoodie, feeling the fabric twist between your hands.
You don’t know what you’re waiting for.
You don’t want to know.
Day Three – Ghosts in the Rain
The rain is relentless.
It starts while you're still at work—a slow, heavy downpour that turns the streets into rivers, neon lights smearing across the wet pavement. You watch it for a moment through the glass, jaw tightening when you realize you left your umbrella at home.
Perfect.
By the time you finally step outside, the water is already pooling at your feet, seeping into your boots, soaking through the edges of your sleeves. You shove your hands deeper into your pockets, hunching your shoulders against the cold, and walk.
It isn’t far. Just a few blocks. Just enough time for the silence to creep in again.
Your phone stays still. Xavier doesn’t message you. You don’t message him.
You’re not even sure what you would say.
The air in the apartment is thick with dampness when you finally push open the door, shaking the water from your fingers. You toe off your boots, leaving a faint trail of wet footprints across the floor.
You reach for a towel—and stop.
Because there, just by the door, is a folded dry sweatshirt.
Not yours.
A white hoodie.
His.
And next to it, a small, neatly sealed packet. Heat packs.
Your stomach twists.
Your hands tremble as you reach for your phone, wiping away the water still clinging to the screen.
📱 You: You’ve got to stop breaking into my apartment.
A pause.
Then—
📱 Xavier: I didn’t. But you always forget an umbrella when it rains.
You exhale sharply, pressing your tongue against the sting of broken skin inside your cheek.
📱 You: Right. You’re psychic now?
📱 Xavier: No. Just observant.
You hesitate, running your fingers over the fabric of the hoodie before pulling it over your head. It’s warm, slightly oversized, carrying the scent of him beneath the clean detergent—something golden, like sunlight caught in the fabric, soft and caramel-sweet at the edges, but beneath it, barely there, something sharper, something darker, like the last trace of dusk before night takes over. Unmistakably Xavier.
📱 You: You’re really committing to this whole passive-aggressive monitoring thing, huh?
📱 Xavier: Aggressive. There’s nothing passive about it.
The response is instant. Too quick. As if he’s been waiting.
Your chest tightens.
📱 You: And yet, for all your keen observation, you still don’t seem to notice when you do the exact same thing.
A longer pause this time.
📱 Xavier: Clarify.
You roll your eyes. Of course, he’s going to make you spell it out.
📱 You: No-Hunt Zone.
📱 Xavier: That’s different.
📱 You: Oh? Because it’s you?
📱 Xavier: Because it was necessary.
You let out a bitter breath, pressing the phone against your forehead for a moment, closing your eyes.
📱 You: Right. That word again.
📱 You: I suppose me being gone was necessary too, then?
📱 Xavier: That was a choice.
📱 You: So was yours.
Another long pause.
For a second, you think that’s the end of it. That he’s not going to reply.
Then—
📱 Xavier: You’re still wet. Change before you get sick.
A sharp inhale.
📱 You: That’s all you have to say?
📱 Xavier: For now.
You stare at the screen.
For now.
It isn’t an admission. It isn’t anything close to forgiveness. But it’s not a dismissal, either.
It’s an opening. A crack in the wall.
You exhale, curl deeper into the hoodie, and let your eyes slip shut.
For the first time in days, the silence doesn’t feel quite as heavy.
Day Four – Running in Circles
You don’t sleep.
You try. You close your eyes, shift positions, breathe slow and deep, count the seconds, then minutes, then hours. But your mind refuses to settle. The silence is unbearable, pressing into your skin, sinking into your bones.
By the time the sky begins to pale, the city just beginning to stir beyond your window, you give up.
The clock reads 6:04 AM when you lace up your running shoes.
The air is sharp, crisp with the last bite of night still lingering in the wind. The streets are nearly empty, save for the occasional early commuter, their footsteps swallowed by the sound of your own—steady, rhythmic, a heartbeat against the pavement.
You push yourself hard. Harder than you should.
It’s reckless, this need to move, to exhaust your body so completely that your mind has no room left to think.
Because when you think, you remember.
You remember the way Xavier looked at you that night. How his voice never wavered, how he turned away before you could say anything at all.
"Ask me again in six days."
You push faster.
Your breath burns in your throat. The ache in your legs spreads, deep and insistent, but you don’t stop. You can’t.
You run until the edges of your vision blur.
Until the exhaustion feels like something you can hold, something real, something that drowns out the ache in your chest.
Until the smell of coffee pulls you to a stop.
You’re standing in front of the café before you even realize it.
Your fingers curl against your palms, your breath still uneven. The air inside is warm, rich with the scent of espresso, cinnamon, something familiar.
Habit. Instinct. A mistake.
But still—you go inside. Still—you stand at the counter, order without thinking. Still—you reach for the cup, staring down at the neat label printed on the side.
Cappuccino. No sugar. Just how he likes it.
Your fingers tighten around the cup. You don’t hesitate. You walk straight back to his apartment, jaw clenched, pulse hammering in your ears.
And without a second thought—you leave the cup by his door.
You don’t knock. You don’t wait. You just leave.
Your hands still tremble when you reach your own door. You exhale, rubbing at your face, trying to push down the erratic rhythm of your pulse.
Then—you see it.
A second cup. Sitting neatly on your doorstep.
Your breath catches.
Fingers shake as you reach down, pressing against the warmth of the cup, the familiar weight of it. The label stares back at you, bold and unmistakable.
Latte. Just how you like it. From the same café.
The realization slams into you like a fist to the ribs. You were thinking of him. He was thinking of you.
At the same damn time.
Something twists, raw and sharp, in your chest. Then, as if he feels it—your phone buzzes.
📱 Xavier: Pushing yourself that hard after days of poor recovery is reckless.
Your fingers clench.
📱 Xavier: I suggest reading this.
A link. An article. Something about the dangers of sudden overexertion without proper conditioning.
A laugh bubbles up, breathless, bitter.
Of course. Of course he would turn this into a lecture.
📱 You: You’re unbelievable.
📱 Xavier: Clarify.
You wipe at your face, not even realizing your skin is damp, whether from sweat or something else.
📱 You: I’m not a civilian. I’m a Hunter. A trained fighter, just like you.
📱 You: I might not have your experience, but I’m not fragile. I don’t need a babysitter.
The response takes longer this time. A long, stretching pause.
Then—
📱 Xavier: Noted.
The words are too even. Too carefully chosen.
You see it immediately. He’s upset. But instead of fighting back, instead of defending himself, he just—withdraws.
It infuriates you.
📱 You: That’s it?
📱 Xavier: Would you prefer I argue?
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, hard enough to sting.
📱 You: Maybe.
📱 Xavier: Why?
Because at least then it would feel like something. Because at least then he wouldn’t be slipping away from you, wouldn’t be treating you like you weren’t worth the effort.
You suck in a breath, trying to calm the wild, uneven rhythm of your heart. Then you do something stupid.
Something reckless. Something you’ll regret the second you hit send.
📱 You: Funny how you only care about my recklessness when it’s convenient for you.
Silence.
One second.
Two.
Then—
📱 Xavier: Understood.
Just that. No defense. No cold, razor-sharp argument. No more words at all.
You stare at the screen. Then you hurl the phone at the wall.
The crack is instant, the screen splintering on impact. It falls to the floor, dark, dead, useless.
Something burns behind your eyes, frustration, exhaustion, anger collapsing into something too heavy, too unbearable to name.
Your hands quiver. You press them to your face, breathe through the ache blooming in your chest.
Then—
You stand. You grab your coat. You don’t stop to think.
You need a new phone.
Because what if he messages you?
Because even now—after everything—you still want him to.
Day Five – The Breaking Point
Silence should be a relief.
After four days of his constant, cold precision—the quiet should feel like a gift.
But it doesn’t.
It’s suffocating.
For the first time since he left you standing in that room, there’s nothing.
No message. No sarcastic remark. No quiet proof that, despite everything, he still gives a damn.
The absence cuts deeper than you expect.
You go to work anyway. Because you have to. Because stopping means thinking, and thinking means tearing yourself apart with what-ifs.
***
"Our agent successfully retrieved the Aethor Core." Captain Jenna’s voice carries through the room, steady, matter-of-fact.
A holographic map flickers to life above the conference table, casting shifting blue light against the faces of those seated around it.
Your mission. Your work. Your risk.
You keep your expression neutral, spine straight, hands folded in front of you.
"Undercover infiltration into the Vasquez Syndicate was a success."
Murmurs spread across the table. You don’t move. You feel him before you see him.
Xavier.
Seated across from you, back straight, jaw locked, completely, unnervingly still.
You make the mistake of looking up. And that’s when you see it.
Not his usual sharp, quiet calculation. Not cold detachment.
No.
This is something else. This is contained rage.
It sits just beneath the surface—controlled, measured, but undeniably lethal.
Your stomach twists.
The Vasquez Syndicate. A name that sends ripples of unease through even the most hardened Hunters.
And you had gone there alone.
Undercover.
Without telling him. Without telling anyone.
You lower your gaze back to the table. Captain Jenna continues.
"Their leader was eliminated. Aethor Core secured. Minimal collateral damage."
The words should be a victory. You should feel something. Instead, your phone vibrates against your leg.
Once.
Then again.
Then again.
A steady onslaught of incoming messages.
Your fingers tighten against your thigh. You don’t have to check. You already know.
📱 Xavier: You have a death wish, then?
📱 Xavier: That’s what this is?
📱 Xavier: Of course. That makes sense. Why else would you walk into Vasquez’s den ALONE?
📱 Xavier: Did you think you were being clever?
📱 Xavier: Or was it a game? A test to see how close you could get before you were skinned alive like his last five victims?
📱 Xavier: Tell me, did you at least get a look at the furniture?
📱 Xavier: I hear human leather is in this season.
The blood drains from your face. You type quickly.
📱 You: Xav, I—
More messages slam into your screen before you can hit send.
📱 Xavier: Or wait—
📱 Xavier: Was it worth it?
📱 Xavier: Was the thrill of playing martyr that exhilarating?
📱 Xavier: You must have loved the dramatics of it. Walking through their front door, knowing exactly what would happen if they figured you out. How noble. How self-sacrificing.
📱 Xavier: I’m sure they would’ve written songs about you.
📱 Xavier: Would you like me to start composing one now?
Your stomach twists into knots.
📱 You: Xavier, stop.
📱 Xavier: Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?
📱 Xavier: Wouldn’t want that. Not after you’ve made me spend the last six days believing you were DEAD.
The breath catches in your throat.
📱 You: I wasn’t—
📱 Xavier: No? You weren’t?
📱 Xavier: Oh, forgive me. I must have been mistaken. You must have sent me a message before walking into the hands of a man who decapitates people for sport.
📱 Xavier: Oh, wait. You didn’t.
📱 Xavier: Because you didn’t tell anyone.
📱 Xavier: Because you thought you could handle it.
📱 Xavier: Because you think you’re invincible.
📱 Xavier: Because you learned absolutely nothing.
📱 Xavier: Because you’re a fucking idiot.
Your chest tightens, fingers shaking as you try to respond.
📱 You: I retrieved the Core, didn’t I?
The moment you send it, you regret it. The reply is instant.
📱 Xavier: Ah.
📱 Xavier: So that’s how little your life is worth?
📱 Xavier: A glorified rock?
📱 Xavier: Good to know.
You glance up, breath unsteady, and realize your mistake.
Because Xavier is looking at you. And his expression is unreadable.
No sarcasm now. No amusement. Just something flat and cold, buried beneath something much darker.
Your fingers tighten around the edge of the table.
You stand.
Move toward him, as if closing the space between you will break whatever this is, will fix whatever new fracture you’ve carved into the already fragile thing between you.
But the moment you take a step closer—he moves. A single flick of his fingers. A gesture.
Dismissal.
Like you are nothing. Like you aren’t even worth the fight.
And in his eyes—that unreadable fire.
You open your mouth. Try to speak. He beats you to it.
"You think I’m mad?" His voice is low, quiet, lethal. "You think this is anger?"
A slow, sharp inhale. Then—he stands. Looks at you like you’re a stranger.
"If you ever do something that fucking stupid again—"
A pause. A razor-thin breath.
"Don’t come back."
Silence.
It lands like a blow. It shatters something you don’t even have a name for.
And then—he walks away.
And for the first time, you wonder if six days was a mercy.
Because now—
You’re not sure this will ever end.
Day Six – Between Love and War
The knock against his door is sharp, deliberate.
No answer.
Your fingers tighten, knuckles aching as you knock again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
The realization sinks in slow, cold. You know where he is.
No-Hunt Zone.
Of course. Of course.
The hypocrisy of it claws at your ribs, burns hot behind your eyes.
He spent days throwing your choices back in your face, dismantling them with surgical precision, making sure you felt every ounce of his anger. And yet—he’s doing the exact same thing.
Alone. Again.
Without backup. Without you.
The fury in your chest solidifies into something unshakable.
You don’t think. You move.
You tear off your civilian clothes, slip into the gear that feels like a second skin, strapping on your weapons with methodical ease. Your mind is calm. Your body is not.
This isn’t just anger.
This is something raw, something bitter, something that coils too tight in your chest.
Because what if this is the time he doesn’t make it back?
What if he never even planned to?
***
You move fast, weaving through the crumbling skeletons of abandoned buildings, the faint blue pulse of your Hunter’s bracelet flickering at your wrist.
The fluctuations come sharp and erratic.
A Wanderer is near.
And so is Xavier.
The realization barely has time to settle before a hand clamps over your mouth, an arm hooking around your waist, dragging you back into the shadows of a half-collapsed structure.
You react instantly, twisting in his grip, but his hold is unbreakable. His breath is warm against your ear. Too steady. Too controlled.
"Tell me—" His voice is low, measured, lethal in its restraint. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
You rip his hand away, shove him back, your pulse hammering against your ribs.
"Shouldn’t I be asking you the same damn thing?"
His expression flickers—something sharp, something dangerously close to breaking—before it smooths out again.
"You shouldn’t be here."
You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. "And you should?"
His fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t argue.
The air crackles.
A pulse of energy shudders through the ruined cityscape, sending vibrations through your bracelet.
You both freeze.
The Wanderer is close. Too close.
And you were too distracted to notice.
A deafening shriek splits the air.
You barely have time to react before something massive crashes into view, sending debris flying, the force of it shaking the ground beneath you.
It’s huge.
Bigger than any you’ve ever seen. Darker. Hungrier.
And something is wrong.
Your Evol pulses—but weakly, like something is suppressing it.
You glance at Xavier, see the same realization in his eyes.
The Wanderer lunges.
You move at the same time.
Dodge. Shoot. Pivot. Strike.
Your movements are precise. Automatic. Perfectly in sync.
But something is missing.
Resonance.
You grit your teeth, adjusting your aim, but the energy won’t connect.
Because you’re too angry. Too furious with him to let yourself fall into sync.
And so is he.
Your focus wavers—just for a second, just long enough to throw your balance.
You stumble.
A mistake. A fraction of hesitation.
The Wanderer seizes it.
It moves faster than you expect, faster than anything that massive should be able to.
A pulse of energy collides against your chest, sending you sprawling.
A second strike is coming—you see it, but you’re too slow, your body still recovering from the impact—
And then Xavier is there. Between you and death.
His sword clashes against the incoming blow, deflecting it just enough to send the Wanderer skidding back.
His breathing is uneven. Not from exertion, but from something else.
Something like rage.
"Are you hurt?" His voice is taut, dangerous.
You shake your head, pushing yourself back up.
"I’m fine."
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from you. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like he’s assessing whether he just almost lost you.
You don’t have time for this.
"You really think you would’ve made it out of this alive?" You fire, voice shaking with frustration. "Look at it. Look at the size of that thing. And you came here alone."
Xavier exhales slowly through his nose. Controlled. Restrained.
"You came after me," he says, voice like a blade, slicing through the tension.
You shake your head, jaw tight.
"Of course I did. That’s what you do when you—"
The words catch.
His eyes are on you. Steady. Unwavering.
The air between you is thick, charged, buzzing with everything unspoken, everything you haven’t let yourself say.
Your fingers tremble around the grip of your gun.
"I—"
The Wanderer screeches.
The ground shudders.
You don’t think. You react.
Your hand snaps forward, closing over Xavier’s.
The second you touch him—
Resonance explodes.
A flash of light. A rush of energy so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.
The Wanderer staggers. Its movements falter.
You see the opening. So does he.
Two strikes. One shot. One kill.
The Wanderer dissolves. The air stills. The only thing left is a single Protocore, pulsing softly in the dust.
You’re both breathing hard, hands still locked together, neither of you moving.
And then—
His fingers tighten.
The world tilts, just slightly.
Xavier doesn’t look at the Protocore. He looks at you.
And when he steps forward, you step back, heat creeping up your neck.
But he doesn’t let you run. He cups your face, tilting it up until you have no choice but to meet his gaze.
"Say it."
Your pulse pounds.
"Xav—"
"Say it." His voice is low, demanding.
You swallow hard. You already said it once.
But now—he’s listening.
Now, there’s nothing between you but everything you’ve been holding back.
Your throat tightens. And then—you break.
"I love you," you whisper.
His breath stutters, caught between control and something raw. His hands slide lower, fingers gripping your waist, pulling you in.
And then—he’s kissing you.
Hard. Desperate. Unforgiving.
Your weapons hit the ground. His sword, your guns—forgotten.
The only thing left is this. The only thing left is him.
His breath is ragged against your lips, his hands urgent, searching.
"What good are my eyes if they can't see you?" he murmurs against your mouth.
"What use are my hands if they can't touch you?"
"Why do I need lips if not to kiss you?"
His forehead presses against yours. His voice is steady. Unshaking.
"And if you don’t let me love you the way I do—what’s the point of living at all?"
You exhale, shuddering. A quiet, breathless sound escapes you—half a sob, half a laugh, because of course he would say something like this, because of course it would be him. Your hands tighten against his shirt, gripping hard enough to ground yourself, to keep yourself from falling apart.
And finally—you let yourself hold him back.
***
The Morning After – Promises in the Sunlight
The world is quiet.
Not the heavy, suffocating kind of silence that has weighed on you for days, but something else. Something warm.
Your body feels boneless, satiated, exhausted in the best possible way. The bruises on your skin tell a story—some earned in battle, others left by a different kind of war, one fought in the dark, in whispers, in hands that refused to let go.
And then—you feel it. Eyes on you.
You blink against the soft golden light spilling through the curtains, twisting slightly to find him.
Xavier is propped up on his elbow beside you, one arm tucked beneath his head. His gaze is unreadable, too intense in the quiet morning light.
But he isn’t watching you. Not exactly.
His fingers trail absently over your skin, following the paths where the sunlight dances along your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your wrist. Mapping you.
The way his fingers move—it’s almost reverent. Like he’s committing this moment to memory, like he’s terrified it might slip through his grasp if he blinks.
You reach for his hand. But he beats you to it.
His fingers curl around yours, guiding your hand to his lips, pressing the softest, most devastatingly tender kiss to your fingertips.
It nearly steals the breath from your lungs.
You swallow hard, your voice coming out quieter than intended.
"Xav…"
His grip tightens, just slightly.
"When we met," he murmurs, voice low, steady, unshaking, "you promised me something."
Your brow furrows. You don’t move.
"You said I would be your partner," he continues, thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. "In everything. In battle. In your reckless plans. In life."
His eyes lift to yours, and the weight of his words settles deep into your chest.
You can’t look away. Not now. Not from this.
Your throat tightens. "Xavier—"
"Don’t apologize," he says smoothly, shaking his head before you can even start.
But you need to. Because you hurt him. Because you left.
Because even though you both made mistakes, you forced his hand.
He sees it in your eyes before you can say anything, and his fingers tighten just slightly around yours.
"This isn’t about apologies," he murmurs.
His other hand comes up, brushing along the curve of your cheek, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
"This is about what happens next."
You blink.
"I won’t force you to promise me anything," he continues, watching your reaction closely. "Not unless you mean it."
The warmth of his touch lingers against your skin, steady, grounding, heartbreakingly gentle.
"But I need you to understand something."
You hold your breath.
"I won’t make you worry again." His voice is softer now, more certain. More dangerous in its quiet conviction. "I won’t make you question whether I’ll come back. Because now I know how it feels."
Your eyes sting.
"Does that mean…" You hesitate, voice barely above a whisper. "No more No-Hunt Zone?"
The corner of his mouth twitches.
"Not exactly."
You open your mouth to argue, but he stops you with a single look. Before you can push him away, before you can get worked up, he leans in—pressing his forehead to yours.
His breath is warm against your lips.
"If I go," he murmurs, slow, careful, a promise wrapped in steel, "I take my partner with me."
Your chest tightens.
He’s serious.
This is his way of saying it.
His way of meeting you halfway.
His way of telling you that he’s not going anywhere without you.
You exhale slowly, pressing your forehead harder against his, letting the moment settle between you.
"...Okay."
The word is soft. Tentative.
But you mean it.
His fingers thread through yours, squeezing gently. The smallest, barest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Good."
He kisses you once, slow and deep, searing the moment into your skin.
And for the first time in six days—you let yourself believe it.
