"Wow, honey, it's amazing," he replies with his face basically glued to the phone, analyzing every detail like it's the greatest piece of art since Michelangelo's Pietà.

Your eyes sparkle and you spend the rest of the call describing how you decorated your shared house in great detail.

On a random day blessed by the gods, when your schedules fit well enough for you to spend some quality time together while on campus, you gasp again. But it's not the A tier, Major announcement gasp, it's more of a C tier, I found my favorite pair of socks again and I wanted to share that with you gasp.

"Did I tell you we're about to have a baby?" you casually drop. Phainon stares at you, blinks, raises his brows, then shakes his head like he's just been struck by something.

"I'm sorry?"

"In Tomodachi Life," you specify (thank Kephale).

"Oh," he says. How would a normal person react to this information? "How do you know?"

"This bubble telling you your Miis have something to tell you appears on screen, though I didn't have the time to check. But that must be it because that's how it happened the previous five times."

Five?

Phainon's face becomes the color of a pomegranate seed.

After this, it takes a week or so for him to stop physically avoiding you, and then another three days so that he can look at you in the eye. Although his face still flushes when when you bring up that wretched game.

It's okay. One day he'll be normal about this.

ʬʬ.astronote.com phaimii needs to pay child support

Of course he doesn't say that aloud. He's practiced his inside voice enough to know that is not socially acceptable to say to a person you've spent so little time with. Against all odds, it's quite hard not to let the thought subconsciously slip. In the way he holds you, speaks about you to those who don't know you, finds himself staring at your empty ring finger more often than he likely ought to.

In his head, you arleady are his wife.

However, if you were to be against the idea of marriage, do not think for a second that it would be enough to deter Phainon. His resolve isn't so shallow, quite the opposite. Your love doesn't have to be limited, stipulated by some stupid piece of paper — how could something as vast as his affection for you ever be quantified by something material? Phainon just wants you to be his lover. (Although, he must admit, "wife and husband" do have a nice ring.)

Would you run away if asked your opinion on marriage before your first anniversary?

As aforementioned, he still is more than capable to be normal about you, naturally. So one day, when you return to your place after a shopping spree and give him a runway of everything you've bought together, Phainon sits at the edge of your bed, leaning back on his arms, staring at you with sparkling eyes and that dumb lopsided smile, as any dutiful hus— I mean, boyfriend (sorry — Freudian slip) should. You strut up to him before giving him a little twirl, jean shorts low on your hips and heels clicking against the floor. Stylistically speaking, it's an usual combination. Not that he, of all people, knows anything about fashion. But you seem to like it, not to mention the fact that you look gorgeous in everything.

The hyperawareness Phainon has over his own body is as admirable as the stiffness of his posture is unnatural. He has to physically clench in order to hold back from reaching for your waist when you turn around in one of those long skirts you love. She's just having fun. Don't make this weird, he tells himself while sweating bullets.

Then comes the moment you get tired. You stuff everything back into the paper bags with half the mind to mentally note what you should return before kicking off your heels to sit down at your vanity. Various sets of colorful jewelry await you, gliting under the artificial light.

"This one is nice, right?" you ask.

And Phainon isn't sure what to focus on. The hair brushing against the skin of your neck? It's natural and slightly messy, but captivating nonetheless. Or is it the vibe it's supposed to give? Your nails look nice, too. He remembers you sending pictures of this specific set right after you got them done. It's fascinating how well the color compliments your skin. Wow, this new tank top is nice— oh no, wait, it's the same you always sleep in. Are you wearing makeup? Or perhaps is it one of the four necklaces you're wearing that you want him to focus on?

"Yeah. It's beautiful, sweetheart."

But what really makes him lose it is when you move onto the rings. They're sold in lots, leaving you the choice to either stack them or wear them individually, although you choose to do the former. With your thumbs, forefingers, and middle fingers now occupied, you wonder where to place this last ring. And when you mindlessly slip it onto the fourth finger of your left hand, it's like something enters Phainon's body.

"Do you know that technically means you're engaged?"

You're tempted to shy away from the intense blue of his eyes. You swallow.

"Hm? Oh, I wasn't thinking of that. I mean, I could still wear it on my right hand," you say. And you have no idea what sort of witchcraft, law of assumption shit Phainon is pulling on you, but the word 'DON'T' clearly flashes in your mind, red and glaring.

The ring stays on your left hand. Then something like a cartoonish light bulb lits up above your head.

"Do you like it when I wear it on my left hand?"

Never before had you seen Phainon flush this shade of red. His face goes from piggy pink straight up to the color of a ripe watermelon's insides. You're unsure whether the ultrasonic whistle he emits is an internal scream or a way for his system to blow off steam in hopes of lowering his body temperature.

You raise an eyebrow. "Do you?"

"Yes." You don't know how he manages but he says this with his lips completely sealed (he'd make a fine ventriloquust), and given the darkening color of his skin, not even oxygen can slip past them.

"Oh, you like the idea of people thinking we're engaged?" you tease some more, though you're genuinely moved. And Phai nods his head hard and fast enough to give himself brain damage. "Aw, my hubby is so cute!"

Yeah, good luck explaining 911 what your emergency is.