Daleks Beware!

That feeling when you know the good streak is going to end soon. The suspicion that things are going too well. Chan felt it in his trainee days every time he got closer to success before being pushed back. He feels it when the day goes too perfectly in the studio and rehearsal, all for Chan to feel a sickness overtake him or one of the boys. He feels it in the sound of joy and the feeling that pairs with it, followed by the dread of knowing this high will wane off.

That dread followed him into sleep, and was only bated by the girl who he took into his arms each night.

Chan had once found comfort in the sound of an airplane engine from the inside seating. It meant he was doing something new, being somewhere new and exciting. Getting to see the world and explore what it had to offer was his specialty.

All that fills his stomach is that familiar dread. He finds himself wanting to hide from the world, because as of right now, you've fallen victim to his lifestyle.

Staff had informed Chan when the plane was refueling for the journey from Seoul to Milan of something out of nightmare. Of all the things that staff could've informed Chan of, he would've rather preferred that all of the luggage was lost in transit to the loading station.

They'd tried to be as calm and placating as possible, he'll give staff that. Not that Chan is easily angered so long as something can be resolved with communication. However, when he saw the look on their faces, it was all over.

You were on the plane, curled up in your seat in a cocoon of a throw blanket and his black distressed hoodie. Peaceful, an image of bliss with the hood drawn up over your face.

Staff had handed him a phone. Said phone had a simple picture. If it was a third party viewing, they'd have no idea what they were seeing. However, Chan knew better. That picture was taken from a strange angle, perverse and unbeknownst to the two subjects in the photo. A high angle from something like a building or a parking complex. Those subjects were you and Chan, a snapshot taken hours earlier when you and Chan were coming out of the company van before boarding.

It was unmistakably Chan in that photo, it couldn't be hidden. His blonde fringe was peaking out of his black Chrome Hearts beanie. There was a lack of people aside from staff and you-- sweet and innocuous to the photo as you clamber out of the van behind him. Empty handed, and Chan holding your carry on with a small Wolf-Chan keychain hanging off the zipper.

Worst of all, he's holding your hand. His eyes are forward, a small content look on his face. You look all sleepy and lax. It's such a simple action, barely anything that anyone should care for. But suddenly, your hand in his feels like the end of the world.

Not for him, but for you. Which you may never recover.

It's a dark photo. It's pixelated and rough and it still had Chan's heart sinking to stomach in such a fast decline, he'd rushed to the bathroom to dry heave over the bowl. He's thankful that Fendi had provided Chan with a private jet for Fashion Week. Chan doesn't know if he could've handled any more prying eyes than the one's on the internet who must've been dissecting that picture.

When he'd come back from the bathroom, and down the aisle to his seat, staff is already looking at him. He rubbed his clammy palms on his sweatpants and reclined in his seat. He hates the look on their faces, equal parts pity and "I knew this was a bad idea". Love was never a bad idea when it came to you.

You, who is still sleeping soundly. Who won’t wake up until Chan says so, to let you keep as much peace to yourself as possible.

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of what is waiting after this flight.

That was hours ago. And naturally, Chan has been a ticking time bomb with his head in his hand against the armrest of his seat. He couldn’t work on his beats. Music was just a reminder of why he was in this situation in the first place. That was the cruelty of being an idol, a suffering he never thought he’d feel.

Chan yearned for love for so long, and you fell into his lap like a blessing. Would it be taken away? Would the damage be too much to mend?

The jet is landed on the private strip, but there’s a week ahead of him with interactions and paparazzi. There’s fans and detractors. News outlets and media and messages and—

“Sweetheart…? We’re landed.” Be a leader. Do it for her. Be her brave man.

Chan’s voice tries to coax you away, running a crooked finger over your cheek. That was something constant, his comfort. He’d never give that up, he felt he was doing something right in this moment of strife in his mind. He pulls the hood back of your, no, his hoodie and watches your eyes go back and forth under your eyelids before they crack open to the harsh interior lighting.

It makes his chest hurt and his throat ache. You’re too peaceful for the news he’s about to don on you.

“Hey…” you whisper, voice all tired and rasped with sleep. Chan smiles lopsided, a boyish grin that wavers at the corners of his mouth. Be brave.

“Sleeping beauty… All good?”

“All good…”

God, he feels like the biggest bastard on planet Earth. Does someone have information on you by now? Are there netizens wishing ill upon you? Do they even know who you are, maybe someone found your private socials. What if they found your family, your job—

“Channie…? Are you good?”

You’d sat more upright while Chan’s eyes turned vacant and distant, like he was looking past you. He realizes his smile is vanished, the tips of his ears feel hot and pounding with the rush of blood. And if there’s one thing Chan isn’t, it’s a liar. He can be cheeky. He can tease. But this? This isn’t something he can shield you from. And that terrifies him to his bones.

You repeat his name again, more serious as you say “Chris?” and put a hand over his. He’s shaking like he’s been left in sub-zero temperature. But his temperature feels hot and clammy.

The sound of staff unloading his and your carry ons is like white noise. He feels like his clothes are touching him funny. His knee is bouncing a bit. And you’re still looking at him with those heartbreakingly soft eyes.

Your eyes look to staff, men and women who refuse to meet eyes with you. And that speaks volumes. Something’s wrong, they just carry on as if they know this behavior of Chan’s will take a minute to recoup. Your hand finds his, remembering an off-time something similar to this happened before.

Chan had come off stage after a performance and just slumped against you. Shaking. Vacant eyes, like now. Like if he didn’t focus on breathing, he’d forget how.

So, there you go. Taking his hand into his and rubbing soothingly.

“Hey, hey… Chris, look at me… Breathe, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You tell him to breathe, and Chan feels like it suddenly becomes harder. Because you can see he’s a wreck. You’re not supposed to see him like this, he’s supposed to take care of you, of everyone. He nods, hurried and childish, his eyes looking down at your hand. You said, “I’m not going anywhere”, but Chan doesn’t know if that’ll ring true in a few hours.

It’s just you and him, he ignores the sound of staff talking about him and what they should do with the situation in low voiced Korean.

“Chris… Talk to me, what happened?”

You’re such a sweetheart. Sweetheart. He knew he chose right in giving you that nickname years ago. You loved the Australian lilt in the way he said it, and he loved the way it made you permanent in his life. You’re so fucking sweet, you don’t even think for a second that something utterly terrible just happened.

Chan takes a deep breath, lungs filling and deflating in a few seconds. Rattling. How does he say this to you? How does he tell you that for the first time in his life, he might fail in protecting someone he loves? His voice comes out weaker than he expects it to, like a wince.

“There’s… they found out.”

He’s met with silence. A soft murmur from staff pretending to busy themselves with cleaning out the jet cabin. They’re really just making sure Chan doesn’t pass out on them.

You stop that sweeping motion of your thumb over his hand. He feels when you squeeze his hand for a millisecond. Such a sweetheart— you don’t need him to explain. Not when you’ve had conversations like this before. “Finding out”. It made it sound like the love that you both shared was something wrong. Illicit. Perverse.

Chan watches that fear spark in your face. He knows all your little tells, because now you’re not even looking at his own face anymore. But in a miracle from above, that little sweeping motion of your thumb starts up again. You’re comforting him.

“Alright… Okay, um… H-How did they… Walk me through it.”

He blinks twice. You’re an insane and stupidly amazing woman. He almost wants to laugh. He could’ve told you the sky was falling and you’d just… ask for the prognosis?

“Someone, um… took a, uh… a picture. At the airport, in the back lot… Staff is trying to trace the person back, um… Y-You can’t really see you very well, but I am holding your hands and luggage, which someone is totally going to research and stalk into—”

You coughed a laugh. A beautiful sound bubbling out of you that gives Chan a reprieve from his turmoil. A few heads of staff look at you warily. His eyes narrow, roving over you as a nervous, grimaced smile appears on his face.

“I’m sorry?” he says, voice cracking at the end.

“N-No, I’m… I’m sorry, even… Even when our relationship is leaked… you’re putting yourself first.”

“Don’t. Don’t start, sweetheart.”

Chan knows where you’re going with this, and you still sit upright all noble and so damn wonderful.

“You remember the first time we talked about this?”

How could he not? You’d been dating for 3 months, but Chan had already knew it was serious. Something built and crafted carefully to last. He wasn’t letting you get away. You were so insane, waking up at all sorts of odd hours to walk with him when the boys were asleep after he’d brainstormed some lyrics or instrumentals.

You’d walk side by side to the Han River. The city was quiet and lit up with city lights on the horizon that looked like stars reflected back on the water. He’d told you being with him wouldn’t be easy. Loving him wouldn’t be easy, was what he wanted to say.

You’d looked up at him like he’d said the dumbest thing ever, and said a cheesy line about “not wanting it if it’s easy”.

Chan grinned all square and dimpled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head to assuage his nerves. He’d then told you that he’d have to treat you like a secret. That he couldn’t love you as freely as he wanted, but he wanted you nonetheless. Told you he knew it wasn’t fair and he understood if you wanted a way out.

You’d flicked his nose and called him stupid. You said you knew what you got yourself into the moment that he said he was an idol. You made it clear in your little declaration that you weren’t going anywhere when you said jokingly, staring into the dark water of the river, “Someone will have to pry you from my cold, dead hands”.

Smitten. Absolutely in love with you. He knew you were serious, that’s how you loved. With pure intentions and strength.

So as he looks upon you now, and you ask him if he remembers the terms you’d both set up, the mutual understanding of how this would all go? He nods. A bit shy for even thinking you’d turn away and cower from this. You duck your head a bit to meet his gaze and smile when he averts his eyes again.

“Yes, this is scary. Believe me, Channie, I’m… I’m really scared right now—”

“Please don’t be scared, sweetheart.”

“Channie. Listen.”

That quiets him. Lips faltering for a rebuttal to quell you. He doesn’t like the thought of you being in fear. But he listens anyhow, even with the underlying discomfort.

“I’m scared right now. This very… finite moment. I told you I knew what I was getting into… It was bound to happen, okay? A-And yeah, we didn’t get to announce on our own terms, but… It feels kind of freeing, doesn’t it? Liberating.”

You truly are insane. Any other sane person would be hyperventilating at the idea of millions knowing of their relationship. Something seen as “taboo” in the industry yet here you are again. Calling the murder of your livelihood liberating.

Chan shakes his head, already tasking for the worst. “The second we get back home, I… I can’t even begin to prepare you for the shitstorm that’s on its way.”

“I know, Channie…”

“The company, I-I’ll— I’ll work this out over the week here, they’ll issue a statement, they’ll say I was just helping a staff member out of the van in the picture— We’ll be okay, you’re okay… Sweetheart, I can’t lose you.”

Chan is a rambling mess and you see his face turn a bit pink. His brain is picking through every worst scenario to prepare for it. He doesn’t even want to check his phone to see what people are saying about you. People claiming to be Stays wishing the worst for you. For him.

“You’re not losing me, I’m not going—”

“You can’t promise that. Not when… Not when they might force us apart.”

He’s not talking about distance people behind a screen. He means the company. Chan’s seen it his fair share of times before, and while Chan is more than welcome to date under his contract… This could get messy. What if the boys are dragged into this? If people started blaming his Kids for menial things, what if his relationship with you breaks their careers?

He studied your silent face. That familiar, pensive look. His clever girl, he knows it all too well. It’s the same face when you’re figuring out a board game with him, or deciphering the layers of music on his laptop when he shows you his proud work.

“No one has that power over us.”

Simple words. Chan swears his breathing stops for a moment before he releases it with a desperate whisper of your name.

“Sweetheart, I… I can barely protect myself in this situation…”

“Let me protect us for once… I-I can’t talk to masses or… your company, but let me fight for us. I’m not letting you slip away,” you whisper into his skin as your lips come down onto his cheek, pulling back to see a small determination in Chan’s eyes.

Staff alerts him that they have ten minutes of personal time left before it’s time to go to claim luggage and head to the hotel. Right, the Fashion Week event. He was allowed to invite you with him, even if you couldn’t be seen with him. Or next to him. Or talk to him.

It all felt like an even bigger slight against you. Sweetheart, darling girl, who he wants to declare his love from the rooftops.

Chan’s eyes meet yours, and you give him your signature, beautiful yet halfhearted smile. You’re trying to soothe him; and damn you, it’s working a bit. Even if it’s just a fraction. All he can do is endure. That’s what he does best.

He takes opens his backpack from under his seat, pulling out a medical grade disposable mask. His fingers ghost your skin as he places the loops around your ears securely. Even concealed like this he’d recognize you from a mile away. You say nothing as he tugs your hood back over your head, cupping the back gently with small little scratches.

“Just look forward. Don’t talk to anyone. Security should be around you, you’ll be behind me. If… If anything happens that makes you uncomfortable, say my name. I don’t care, baby, just… It’ll be fast. Customs. Bags. Van. Hotel. We’ll work it out there, yeah?”

A hastily formulated plan that is utterly him. Diagnostic.

A your lips tighten into a thin line before you exhale off nerves and exhaustion.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“I love you.”

Chan’s declaration is sudden and whispered. Like staff doesn’t deserve to hear it right now, his private tender moment. He doesn’t know why he says it other than the feeling that it fit right into the moment. You bring his knuckles up to your lips. A promise. You’ll be okay.

“I love you, Chris… I’ll be close by. Don’t worry about me.”

—

A shit show. Chan is familiar with those.

The first thing he sees through the glass after going through customs was a swarm of paparazzi, press, and fans welcoming him for the weeks ahead. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another airport arrival.

No, the problem was when you were spotted. And fuck, he’d forgotten that hoodie you were wearing was his.

Amidst the snapping of camera shutters and flashes, his heart is racing. He’s glad he too is wearing a mask on the lower half of his face, or you’d see how distraught he really was. Under the fabric of his tank top, his heart feels like it’s going to fly out of his chest.

Focus. Walk in silence. Make sure you’re safe.

The second thing Chan notices is that there’s more people than usual. Or maybe the walls of the airport in Milan are more narrow than he remembers. The provided security of four men suddenly seems like nothing. He does the math as he walks when his bags are handed to him:

You’re about 6 people away, tailing behind between staff and security. Don’t get distracted. I know you like sweets sweetheart, don’t look at the treats in the shops. God, I’ll buy you all the sweets you want when we’re at the hotel. Run you a bath and decompress to forget about this. Twenty minutes to the hotel, a ride should already be waiting.

The sound of people is louder. And the second Chan turns the corner and a guard opens the double doors of frosted glass, his heart sinks.

Cameras are naturally always on Chan. But for today especially, he wants them gone. Lenses, smartphones, all of it. Video equipment with recordings. A woman comes awfully close, to which he politely nods his head and continues walking.

More people swarm and he sees phones before he sees actual people. Security does their best to ward off these people, but he notices that with the amount of foot traffic, their entourage is moving slower. The sounds, the questions, the voices all grow more and more over time.

“Chris—”

His head is turned in a heartbeat. He doesn’t care if he makes a fool of himself, he’s stopped dead in his tracks and looking back for you with a bobbing head. His body is jostled by the movements of the tight fit, the arms of security banding away the swathes of onlookers.

Your head is down. You’re trying to move but you can’t. And someone has the audacity to grab at you by the arm? He’s cutting through his own people, ignoring how cameras are shoved into his face, ignoring how there’s so many bodies surrounding him as well. You’re being tossed around like nothing, a few phones trying to duck under your head, and Chan is with you in a millisecond.

“Don’t touch people, please,” he grits out as he forms a barrier between you and the people on your right side. Great. The crowd is held up, naturally as people wanted to convene to Chan. He has to add the formality of “please” as an afterthought. You’d want him to be polite. It’d be a meltdown if he said what he really wanted to.

What he wants to do is smack the phones out of every hand here and tuck you into his arms, walking out like a normal boyfriend would. He can’t afford that. Instead, his hand is ushered with a splayed palm between your shoulder blades. If Chan presses a bit into you to guide you further, he can feel the tension of your muscles.

The clamor of people asking him if this is staff or the “girl from the picture” irritates him to no end. Security was told by Chan himself to corral around you, not him. And for heavens sake, can someone figure out a way from this tight squeeze of a crowd?

Someone’s arm extends with a camera to catch a picture of Chan, and— SMACK! Right against the side of your head. The movement causes you to hiss in pain and fall into Chan. He watches your eyes squeeze shut and your eyebrows pinch in pain. And he’s seething.

“Absolutely not— We’re not gonna do that,” he mumbles under his breath as he gives a disapproving look to the man who is the culprit. His hand reaches out, rings on his fingers and all and shoves the camera lens away a bit roughly. It’s probably a thousand dollar camera lens, but you’re worth so much more. He can deal with the aftermath of that later.

I wanna smack that punk. Can I smack someone? Would you be okay with that? Probably not…

He’s then nodding a head to security to corral the man off. He keeps a tight arm around you, fingers itching to cradle your head to his chest. But he’s already doing so much, a display of affection would only make things descend further.

Nosy, mindless chatter about why Chan is being so protective of you. As if that should matter. He’d do that for any of the people around him. Instead, all that people care of is if this is his partner, either wanted to sneer or pry a glimpse into her.

Another hand reaches out with a phone and Chan doesn’t even think twice before wrapping an arm around your shoulder to shield you. It’s a bit forceful, and he’ll apologize profusely later, but it pulls you into his side. Chan mumbles a curse under his mask and his eyebrows turn taught together.

The motion of moving bodies in the cluster is much easier to maneuver now that they can pass through an opening directed by staff and security. He doesn’t look at you, but he keeps a steady hand on you. So much for laying low, but he could just stand by and let you get hurt.

The second the two of you get into the van that was sent outside of the airport, staff helping you in and loading luggage, he doesn’t say anything. He didn’t even stop for a photo-op. He doesn’t reply when staff asks if he wants water. White noise, an annoying pinching in the back of his ear.

And when the van is out of view, blacked out windows and all— Only then does he fuss over you, throwing off his mask.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, sliding across the back seat and hold you to him. Clammy hands cupping your face like a precious treasure. Your eyes frazzled and in shock, and it makes him whisper your name thrice into your hairline like a restoring prayer.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry— I was a total caveman back there, I had to grab you before anyone hurt you… You’re hurt aren’t you, from the cunt with the camera? Lemme see—”

Faster than the words can come out of him, Chan’s taking your mask off with gentle precision, but as fast as he can. Your hair is all mused when he draws back your hoodie, like a sleepy creature. But a few seconds ago you were just prey thrown into the den. He’s rifling his hands through your scalp, trying to see if you’ve got signs of bruising or bleeding where heavy equipment once stunned you.

“Tell me if it hurts— Fuck, fuck this shit. ‘M fucking pissed right now, sweetheart. I swear, if even a hair is missing here, I’m having words with everyone. Do you feel lightheaded… Can I get some water up here please?”

You look dazed, even with his soft touch, and Chan can’t tell if you’re going to sleep again or burst into a fit of nervous tears.

“Hey, hey, hey— Don’t do that, please— Talk to me, sweetheart.”

He brings his hands back down to cradle the sides of your face, keeping your eyes on him. That must’ve been intense and scary for you, he can’t even begin to imagine what’s going on in your head. You eventually clasp your hands over his wrists and let your forehead fall onto his shoulder, which makes Chan sigh in relief. At least you’re willing to be touched by him.

He slides his hands slowly up under the hoodie, under your shirt, to touch your bare skin. You’re safe. You’re okay. He doesn’t know if those internal words affirm him or you.

You lean into him, pressing your forehead into his neck. “I’m tired.”

“I know, my sweet girl… I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize,” you whisper, lips pressed into his neck and trailing down to his shoulder as you rest your cheek flat. Chan feels your breath over his skin. Evened out and calm, though a bit stilted.

“This is on me.” So quick to blame, he shakes his head and closes his eyes, holding you tighter and smoothing his hands over your spine.

“On you…? Because someone took a picture when you couldn’t control it?”

“I wish I could.”

“But you can’t, Channie…”

And he knows that all too well. His perfectionism consumes him sometimes, it bleeds into your relationship. Never touching you, but seeping into the ways that he can shelter you from the public.

Not like a secret. But something sacred in the profane of his eclectic life.

But he can’t. Simple words from you always feel the strongest, like he’s seeing the world in a whole new light. Like you’re some wise sage.

You’re not this unattainable being who’s out of his grasp. You’re right here. In front of him, with raucous laughter in a crowd that’s as contagious as your smile. Animals come to you in the street, and you immediately bend down to coo and pet. You have a way of looking at the world that proves to Chan that good things are all around.

He can’t do it perfectly, but he’ll try. Try his damn hardest to protect you even more, starting with talking to the company once you’re both home again.

Chan pulls back with pitiful eyes, smoothing his hands carefully over your head as they slide out from your clothes.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt…? You took a hit, hm? Sweet, brave girl…” Chan says as he smacks a kiss firmly onto your hairline. You hum and nod your head, just reminding yourself that no one’s taking him from you. Not a messy breakup through a company mandated NDA. Not a public statement. Not through apologizing to upset fans for being in love.

You look up at him and see every reason why you fell in love with him in the first place. His tact and grit. The concern and worry in his eyes. His soothing touch. How he loves with his whole chest.

“I-I had a welcome dinner for the event, but… Honestly, fuck that right now… I’ll send someone to represent me. You need me more— I need you.”

The van drives over bumps and cracks in the road, and it sways you against Chan. A small noise breaks in his throat and he wraps his arms around you, chin atop your head as the ride continues to the hotel.

—

Staying in the hotel room with you meant a complete detachment from any obligation that wasn’t… well, just you.

Fendi brand representatives were more than understanding of the situation, offering a box of sweets to send up to the room as temporary remedial support. You’d thought it was silly, a third party apologizing for something that wasn’t due to them.

You still accepted the box of pastries and cake, though.

Chan ran you a nice bath, as he’d promised to himself for you, sitting on the closed toilet lid and tracing his fingers over your back. He didn’t want to take his hands off you, not without thinking of the hands that were on you prior. Chan’s index runs down the back of your arm, where someone had attempted to pull you in that crowd.

You’ve got your knees tucked up to you, a plethora of lavender scented suds in the porcelain basin. Chan’s hands rake through your scalp to check for damage one last time before helping you dry off in a fluffy robe.

When it was Chan’s turn in the shower to clear his head, all he could think of was what to do with his anger. Letting the hot spray of water hit over him while you were probably lazing on the bed no doubt. You wouldn’t want him to hold onto his anger, but he couldn’t help it. When he was stripping to take his shower he was looking through all the buzz around you and him.

Photos from the airport. Saying Chan had a “meltdown”. Deep dives into who you might be, analyzing every minuscule detail to signs that you were always lingering under their noses. A clip of you getting hit in the head with the camera makes him want to gnaw on drywall until his teeth turn to sawdust.

He saunters out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, phone in hand and wet strands of blonde hair clinging to his forehead. Just as he presumed, you’re flipping through the room service menu, splayed out like a cloud.

You smile and turn a bit sheepish when you see his appearance. That lack of clothing that never fails to disarm you. He pushes his wet hair away from his forehead, and it sticks up in wild directions. Biting your lip, you singsong a “Hey, handsome.”

The tips of his ears turn red, but he just stares at you. Eyes darkened and expression sullen. Tired. Maybe it was the hot water, but you know he’s still thinking of earlier. How could he not?

“No updates from me. They don’t get a lick of a word from me for a while.”

Bubble. It sounds silly, but you know that’s the best punishment Chan can offer. It sends a message… or in this case, a lack thereof. You snort and sit upright, musing, “You’re doing the whole “punish-the-entire-class-for-three-people’s-wrongdoings” shtick, huh?”

The corners of his lips quirk upright, a dimple craters his face. “I mean it. This was an overstep. You know how much I hate that shit, baby…”

Chan huffs as he throws himself onto the bed, purring like a cat as he feels your nails rake up and down his skin. He closes his eyes, sighing the tension out of his body. His cheek is pressed against his folded forearms as he speaks.

“Sent some messages. People need to learn… Told them off a bit, took my picture down—”

“Your profile picture?” you interrupt, a small laugh escaping you as he frowns.

“It’s the best I can do without completely losing it on everyone.”

“Okay… okay, what’d you say in your messages?”

Chan opens his eyes and looks up at you, grunting as he sits up on his elbows to give you his phone. He was already in the Bubble app when he’d come out of the bathroom:

🫧 260223

🐺: It does not matter if I am with staff, a friend, the kids, a lover, etc. You do not behave like this. These people know who they are. You should know better, and it pains me to have to write this.

🐺: On a personal level, leave the people around me alone ffs. You’re here for the kids and I, not to push around the people in our lives. Do not write editorials on the people I hold dear to my heart. Don’t say bad things about my loved ones lol. I know them and you don’t.

🐺: My choices. My decisions. Accept them or don’t bother being a fan.

🐺: Diabolical.

🐺: Don’t stick your camera right in my face

🐺: Respect boundaries please

You look up from the phone and Chan isn’t looking at you anymore. Like he’s mulling over the thought of saying more on the messages. He pinches the lobe of his ear and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

“As for you… I’ve already emailed the company. We’ll announce it properly that you’re my—”

“Christopher, are you serious—?”

“—That you’re the love of my life… You’re mine, and you’ve been mine, and this whole day has been insane, but I don’t want… I don’t want peace if it isn’t with you.”

Stunned to silence. This is a major step in his career, in his life. But it was bound to happen, even if it wasn’t on your own terms. He watches your mouth flounder for words and sits up on his elbows again, taking your hand in his.

“Sweetheart… You’re not some dirty secret, you never were… You’re not illicit, you’re mine. I’m tired of hiding the things I’m proud of. You’ve every piece of me, yeah? The ones that no one sees. They’ve just been for each other,” Chan leans against the headboard and brings your hand over his chest, your touch feeling how erratic his heart is beating. He’s just as nervous as you are, even when he’s taking the lead.

Your eyes soften, throat feeling a bit tight with emotion. “What if… What if it goes bad…?”

“Then it goes bad.”

You laugh, a bit of a wet sound now that glossy tears are starting to pool in your eyes. He smiles so delicately, closing his eyes as he gives you slow popcorn kisses on your cheek to make you feel better.

“I learned that from a girl once. She’s amazing. She taught me that sometimes things are out of my control.”

“She sounds badass.”

Chan grins, a hand cupping the back of your neck as he watches you wipe salty tears from your eyes in closed fists. “She is. And I’m gonna tell the whole world about her. But… there’s a few things I’m keeping private.”

His nose brushes yours as he chases your eyes for contact. You feel your face heats with his intensity. How does he still manage to look at you like you’re the only woman on planet Earth?

“What would that be, Christopher…?”

“Oh, it’s Christopher again now, is it?”

He playfully kisses under your jaw and brings you down to play with him on the bed, keeping his arms tethered around you as you writhe from the tickling of his wet hair on your face.

“Keeping these moments private. When I have you to myself… Just like this," he mumbles against your skin, breathing in the smell of your skin and expelling warm breath against it. You always smell like something fresh to him. Something cozy and intimate that he can't put into words. "They'll know you as my girlfriend. It'll be official. And Stay can get off my ass about me being lonely... Let's order some food, yeah? Think I finally built up an appetite."

The remainder of the night is spent with the hotel curtains drawn at the balcony. Ordering whatever sounds most appetizing on the room service menu, and cozying up next to each other while trying to figure out how the TV channels work.

All he's ever wanted is for your ultimate happiness. Sometimes factors of life get in the way of that, but you're a constant. His Kids are a constant.

Chan watches you happily munch on a burger on the bed, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Pets your head a little before puckering his plush lips to kiss you on yours mid chew, much to your chagrin as you groan and pull away. He takes a bite of a pizza slice.

"Channie, 'm eating..."

"Okay? Swallow and kiss me."

"That's what she said."

"Minx..."

You finish your bite and turn your head properly, looking up at him with expectant wide eyes. It makes Chan want to squish your face until your eyes pop out. Cuteness aggression.

Instead he leans in a bit, closes his eyes, and brings a hand under your chin to direct your lips onto his. In his mind, he thinks there's nothing more perfect than this, and that's coming from the master perfectionist. He trusts that you enjoy this longing kiss as much as he does when your lips move against his.

A small sound escapes him, like pure want. He pulls back before it goes any further and he swipes all this food away so he can satiate his other hunger.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes out, shaking his head as if he can’t believe you’re his. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger and you don’t even realize it. You just cozy back into his side and continue to eat, watching stupid infomercials and snuggling against him.

Chan’s arm comes over your shoulder and stays. Pulling you closer, like he can fuse into you.

This is the best he can do. Chan’s nervous for the future, as he often is. But with you feeling like this against him, it’s an exciting kind of nervous. What was that word you’d said— liberating. You’re always right, aren’t you?

New terrain is exciting. Even if it terrifies him. Because you’re not going anywhere, even if he’s haunted by the prospect of seeing people come and go from his life. He knows you’re the one that locked him down.

No obligations for the week ahead. He’ll go through his ambassador work. Take some interviews and pictures, an editorial video. And at night, in the late hour of Milan, that’s when he’ll come alive. He’s going to take you to that small restaurant you wanted to go to so bad. To see architecture and cobbled streets in golden lamppost light.

Chan burrows his nose into your damp hair, whispers a sweet nothing, and closes his eyes. You’re the peace he strived for. Even when it comes with a storm, he’ll chase it away.

You're comparing tomatoes when your phone dings. It's Phainon. He's sent a cute text asking if you'd like to bet how long it'll take him to finish the same package of sugar cookies you’ve picked out. The answer would be one one night if he was sharing them with you. You would have put on a horror movie so you could startle him by sneaking your cold hands under his sweater because you can never help yourself when he always sprawls out against you with his tummy peeking through. Or, he would pick a slice-of-life and blame you for letting him do it because he's crying with his arms wrapped around you, pathetic and needy because he knows you’ll easily give into him. He’s right; no matter how cute, you think you love him so you'd kiss those tears away and he'd let you even when you have no idea where your relationship stands.

And now you're having a terrible time in the vegetable aisle because there are sugar cookies with light blue icing sitting in your basket, reminding you of Phainon’s eyes and the fact that he loves sugar cookies but not you because he isn’t here to—

“Starlight?”

You startle and almost drop the tomato you’re holding. There’s only one person who calls you that—a sappy pet name to match the equally sappy one you’ve gifted him—and you believe you could recognize his voice no matter the sound he made.

Immediately, he apologizes, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you.” You almost believe it would be easier to forgive him if he gave you a hug because he's wearing your favourite sweater of his; one that always feels so soft and smells like something uniquely him. “I was in the area,” he adds.

That's strange, so you say, “you live fifteen minutes away.”

“They didn’t have—” he cuts himself off, looking between the aisles on his right and left only to settle on a radish, which he picks up and waves around. “I needed this.”

“For what?” you ask. It’s evident he isn’t here for a radish and what you really want to hear is that he’s here for you.

He thinks to himself for a moment, staring at the vegetable. Then, he asks, “soup?” as if you should know.

“Phainon.”

“I lied,” he folds, aware that there is no fooling you of all people that saying his name is enough to convince him to tell you what he actually feels. “I missed you.”

“We’re in a grocery store,” you point out.

“Can I not miss you in a grocery store?” His head tilts with a difficult expression, as though he isn’t sure if you want him around with an answer like that. You do, you always do but it’s become harder and harder to pretend like everything is fine when it isn’t, which was exactly why you were alone amongst these aisles and missing him too.

“That’s not…” you trail off with a sigh, tightening your hold around the handle of the basket. This apparently brings his attention to it, so he takes it and slides it into the crook of his elbow like he always does whenever he is with you.

“When should I miss you if not always?” he asks, but you don't answer, afraid of how he would react if you tried to tell him that if he misses you so much, then the two of you should make it official. “I was hoping you'd answer my text and I could segue into spending time together if you wanted to.” He continues with a shrug, acting nonchalant despite how he fiddles with the radish in the way you know to be restless. “It's our usual night in, after all, so I ended up walking to your local grocer just so I would be ready to grab ingredients if you said yes, but you've been quiet lately and I didn’t want to bother you by asking outright.”

He's horrible for your heart, you decide; somehow making it more complicated than it needs to be in his consideration for you. So, you agree because you absolutely hate these nights without him too. “I guess we can meet at my apartment, then?”

“I don’t have my car,” he says meekly, returning the radish to the pile of vegetables.

“What do you mean you don’t have your car?” you bawk, “you walked here? It’s a fifteen minute drive from your place, Phainon!”

“Well, I needed to get the energy out. I was feeling a bit anxious…” he trails off, shifting from one foot to another and rebalancing his stance to find some way to settle how awkward he feels from your words. It’s impossibly cold out today, enough to be freezing that any sane individual would be bundled up, yet Phainon is missing a hat and you, a scarf.

“You’re anxious?” you repeat, knowing that it’s rare for him to share what troubles him so this must be serious. “What’s wrong? Did something happen back home or, maybe, did you take that bet with Cyrene and Hysilens knowing you may lose? You know you’re terrible on ice! You can barely keep yourself upright whenever you—why are you laughing?” You cross your arms with a pout as you lean towards him incredulously and huff, “you said you were anxious! Were you trying to get another rise out of me?”

Phainon is playful, and it’s partly why you're so confused. He's kind to everyone he meets—sweet, even—and he's respectful, which means he always knows what line to never cross, keeping others comfortable regardless of his quips and touchy tendencies. You thought it was friendly, at first, but then you noticed much of his behaviour was unique to you. An example of this is deliberately seeking out your affections, which you now assume this to be an instant of if he is capable of laughing despite his worries.

But he shakes his head and his expression tells you that he’s extremely content, as if he is a puppy who has been spoiled with treats and now nurses a full belly, ears drooped and tail flicking every few minutes. Or, perhaps it would be more fitting to compare him to a purring cat, but Phainon is nothing like Mydei and very much so Phainon. And this also means he is evasive as he answers, “no, I’m not anxious any longer so it doesn’t really matter.”

“But it does matter,” you say, because you also know that he frequently hides things from you not because he is secretive or dishonest, but because he hates letting you worry. At the same time, however, this always only makes you worry even more. “If you’re comfortable with it and want to talk it out, I’m always here. You know that, right?”

“I know,” he simply says.

“And you’re never trouble to me, no matter what’s happening in your life or even my own.” Remembering how you avoided him for two days—which is, not very long and really just normal when it comes to the whirlwind of existing, but you know it had been deliberate so that you could figure out your heart—you elaborate, “I may disappear for a little bit, but I’ll always come back.”

“And I'll wait for you.”

“Good.” You nod, more to yourself than anything at all.

And, for a moment, you stand there, while Phainon casts his gaze over the contents of your basket with a hum. “So,” he starts, “soup?”

“Yeah.”

Phainon moves beside you, taking the side you prefer him on so that he can loop his arm around yours before he tugs you to another aisle. Then, as you settle into your familiar pattern with him on a night like this, he says, “okay.”

The next few hours play out as they always do. It’s fun. It’s normal. It’s routine for every other Friday.

Phainon and you will cook dinner together. Sometimes you take the lead, and other times he does, but what remains the same is the kiss that happens every time you pass a bottle of spices to each other. Either you or him will hand it off, and the one who needs it says thank you and then subsequently shows that appreciation with a short peck.

When it happens again, you remind yourself that you aren’t dating, but you don’t stop it regardless. You don’t even think you're capable of it because you’d never not want to kiss him even if neither you nor Phainon questions the tradition.

Then, of course, you eat and you chat. And while you eat and chat, Phainon will sit across from you as your socked feet accidentally knock against his calf or vice versa, but it is, again, ordinary. It’s not playful flirting or some affection alike that of adolescents hiding their relationship from those around them. It's merely the casual sort of touch that happens when you're used to someone.

And because you are, Phainon is glued to your side on the couch, one arm tucked under your waist while the other slides across your belly so his hands can intertwine at your hip—or they are when his hand isn't stuck in the package of cookies. There's a blanket strewn across your laps and the heater is on despite how you wear a sweater, so it's terribly warm as Phainon is practically a furnace. You could say something about it but you won't, because if you did, the ache of being without him would be worse than anything else.

“I think I've eaten three cookies already and we’re only fifteen minutes into this movie,” Phainon informs you after swallowing a bite of a fourth.

“You do this every year,” you remind him, brushing a crumb away from his mouth only to yank your hand away when he pretends to nip your finger. You pinch his nose and then start counting the empty grooves in the package resting on top of your thighs as Phainon insists that it's easier to reach this way. “One, two… Yep, you have. Think you'll beat your record of how long it takes?”

“Don't say that,” he whines, only to snap off another chunk with his teeth.

Snatching what remains in his hands, you ask, “why not.”

Phainon watches you munch on the piece before taking another cookie to hold up to your mouth when you're ready. When you are, he smiles with a crinkle to his eye at the satisfaction of getting to feed you. “Because I'll want to beat it.”

“Good thing we’re sharing now so it won’t count,” you point out. But because you can’t stop yourself with the way he looks at you, you ruffle his hair, the strands soft between your fingers and smelling like his shampoo—all citrus and sunshine.

Phainon laughs and then glances at the television before focusing on you again, resting the side of his face against your bicep until the skin squishes as though he wants to be closer but simply can’t. “Do you remember what’s happening in the movie?”

“Nope,” you answer, adjusting your arm so that you can hook it around his shoulder, pulling him closer to you with little care of how the cookies slide across your lap and almost spill all over the blanket.

But Phainon only moves the package away, placing it on the table so he can take its place. He shifts and wiggles as he lays atop your thighs, so fussy that you can do nothing but laugh at how adorable he is as he nestles around you, facing away from the movie and towards you. When you cup his cheek, no one says a word and, eventually, you follow the silence into your dreams.

You wake sometime later, not even realizing that you and Phainon had fallen asleep. From here, you can’t reach your phone to check the time, especially with him still snoring softly. Your middle is warm with each buff of breath, him having turned completely to press his face into the soft fabric of your sweater.

You wonder how tired he had been to sleep this deeply yet still gone through the effort of seeking you out. But when you brush his bangs away to see his face more clearly and keep this quiet moment to yourself, a soft sound leaves Phainon’s throat before his face scrunches up and he rouses, bleary-eyed and incoherent as he tries to voice your name only to catch the word on a yawn.

“Good morning, sunshine,” you whisper, body curling on top of his so that all he can see is you.

“Good…” Phainon trails off, brows furrowing before he gaps and shoots up. Wanting to be a little more affectionate, you hadn’t expected that and aren’t able to pull away fast enough before his forehead knocks into yours with a low thunk. “Oh! I didn’t—Are you alright?” Phainon frets, hands cradling your face as he gently moves your head from side to side despite it only being a soft bump.

Laughing, you lean in and nuzzle your nose against his. “I’m fine, what about you?”

He nods and peers off to the side only for his shoulders to relax. “I thought it really was morning and I couldn’t believe I slept on you all night!”

“I wouldn’t mind,” you assure him. If Phainon can sacrifice his own comfort and make a terrible trek just for a chance to see you, you’re sure you can manage being sore for a little while so that he can rest. You want him to depend on you more, actually, preferably where you’re the first person he seeks out whenever something is wrong.

Phainon blinks, sheepishness finding him at the thought. Knowing him, he’s likely struggling with how much he would enjoy that against the very prospect you’re willing to face just for his sake. Just because of that, you try to kiss him but Phainon leaps from the couch with an exclamation, “it’s snowing!”

You follow after him as he rushes to your front door, swaddling yourself further in the blanket from the couch with how it feels strangely cold in the room. “It’s snowed almost everyday for the past week, sunshine,” you point out. “Tonight is no different.”

“But it is different,” he insists, unfurling you from the fabric, folding it, and then tossing it into the closet. Then, he rips his coat off the hanger so enthusiastically that you turn around with the intention of lying back down on the couch. Unfortunately for you, his arms snake around you, catching you where you stand. “And where do you think you’re going, starlight?”

“Back to safety,” you say, hands smoothing over the sleeves before grabbing hold of his wrists to release yourself.

He obeys only to spin you around, intertwining your fingers and squeezing tightly as if that would convince you when he insists, “we have to hurry.”

“Phainon.”

“It’s already snowing,” he whines, letting go of one hand just so you won’t move from this spot as he struggles to get your coat with the other. You assist him despite yourself and he smiles bright and wide. “Hurry—we have to hurry,” he repeats, helping you slip your arms through the sleeves. Once you start fixing your coat on your shoulders, he lowers to pull his boots over his feet.

“There’s no rush, Phainon!” you try to exclaim but a yawn catches you in the middle of your words as you find your own shoes.

Finished with tying his laces, he shoots upwards and places his hands on your shoulders to declare, “you hate me.”

“What?” you almost screech, stumbling as you hop on one foot, tugging your boot on as you try to watch his expression. He tries to muffle his laughter, but his face betrays him, and he knows this so he turns to face your closet again, looking for your hat and mittens. There’s a sound of a box falling followed by a tiny yelp.

Why doesn’t he just turn on the lights?

Instead, he repeats, “you hate me!” but his voice is muffled within the space of the nook and he almost tumbles over himself when your hand presses atop his back in an attempt to steady yourself when you move onto your next foot. You could, of course, do this with the wall, but Phainon is right here and you’ll do anything just to be close to him. And despite his declarations, he returns to you anyway, handing you your hat before dropping to his knees to help you with your shoes himself. His fingers work quickly, tucking your pants inside to keep the heat in and he looks up at you while he makes two bunny ears to form the knot when he double-checks, “is this okay? Comfortable and nothing feels tight?”

You agree with a nod, adjusting your hat until it covers your ears. “Thank you, Phainon.”

But because he’s so excited, he ignores your gratitude to insist again, "we have to hurry. Do you have your scarf? I can’t find it”

“No…” you trail off, guilty under his stare. “But!” you cut in before he can scold you, “it’s because it blew away when I went out with March, the twins, and Dan Heng two days ago.”

“Two days ago?” Phainon’s mouth turns into a frown. “Wasn’t that when we had a snowstorm?”

It was, but you had to see them when you realized that almost half a year has passed since you and Phainon started whatever this is. March advised you to just kiss him already but that was exactly the problem, so Stelle and Caelus began formulating some elaborate plan that you disassociated in the middle of while the five of you were standing outside. And because Dan Heng was having enough of the little winter wonderland photoshoot alongside the terrible advice, he told you to simply talk to Phainon, which means you spent all your time since then trying to figure out exactly how to do just that.

But you can’t tell Phainon this so you say, “March thought it would be a cool setting for some pictures.” Thinking the pun funny, you giggle a little but Phainon doesn’t follow suit so you stop with a pout.

He tries to scowl, actually, but it only looks like he’s pouting with you as he hooks his scarf over your shoulders and asks, “what if you got sick?”

“Says the one who walked all the way to the grocery store in my area for a radish he didn’t even buy!” you retort, whacking his hands away from the scarf.

“You were making soup!” he says, letting you pull his gloves over his hands.

“Oh! So you actually hate me,” you argue, returning his scarf to where it belongs to wrap it around his neck. Your fingers find the buttons of his trench coat, undoing the first so you can tuck the ends of the scarf inside and keep him warm. “You hate me because you couldn’t buy your radish.”

“I didn’t need the radish,” he laughs while he unwinds all your hard work just to offer you his scarf again. And before you can stop him, he grabs each end and uses it to tug you to him so that you end up stumbling into his chest.

“Then what did you need?” you say, tutting your chin up as he tucks the scarf into itself and pulls to tuck you in properly.

“An excuse to see you,” he answers, voice cheeky and playful to match the way he zips up your coat so fast that it nearly snags your chin. But when you peer up at him to complain, he’s looking at you with an expression you see so often from both him and within the romance movies the two of you like to watch so much.

Unfortunately, you weren’t able to decide how to properly talk to Phainon like Dan Heng told you to, so you avoid it again.

“This weather is terrible for a jacket like yours,” you remind him instead, knowing that the only way to clean his trench coat is by taking it to the dry cleaners of all places and there are a little over two more months left of winter that getting it cleaned now because of how horrible the weather is would be an unfortunate thing on his wallet!

Phainon flicks your forehead softly and before you can hiss, he’s already rubbing his thumb over the spot only to smooth his hand down the side of your cheek. The corner of his mouth twitches as his brows scrunch, trying to stop his laughter from bubbling up. And it seems he knows you realize this so he prevents you from grumbling at him again—which is partly for his own sake as you are always too cute to him—by saying, “it’ll be worth it, I promise.”

“Will it?” you challenge him.

“Yep!” He pops the sound, giving you a once-over with his eyes lingering on the way you look bundled up in his scarf before he opens the door.

And, for some reason, this terrible man doesn’t take the elevator to reach the bottom floor of your apartment, but the stairs. He takes two at a time, and you do your best to keep up, but Phainon’s height proves to be helpful in getting him just where he wants to go.

When he hits the landing, he turns and holds his arms out towards you with a goofy grin. You jump into him and let out a small oof as he catches you with a twirl that you’ll be embarrassed over if someone working security brings up the dangers of doing so.

It won’t matter, you suppose, because you only had two steps left so it was barely a jump and would they not also jump into the arms of someone like Phainon if the opportunity presented itself? You believe they would.

You also know that any chance of being scolded over this disappears when Phainon presses his mouth to yours.

The cold is biting at this time no matter how prepared the both of you are.

The rational part of you would rather be inside than out here; without even having to check the weather, you know that the temperature is well below freezing, the windchill terrible, and the amount of flurries falling from the sky tells you that there’s no chance this ends any time soon. Still, you can’t leave when he’s here—as happy as can be as he practically drags you towards the rising expanse of white.

“Be careful!” you call out, squeezing his hand in yours just so he’ll focus on you again.

He does when he looks over his shoulder and says, “of what?” He’s beaming with absolutely no worries on his mind, even less so when you’re here with him. But the answer does not come from you when he slips and brings you down with him.

Phainon twists, landing in a pile of snow that sinks with your combined weight like the puff of icing sugar that you fought over while baking together a week ago. You land on his chest because of course you do—he would rather you push him into the middle of an ice skating rink to fend for himself than let you get hurt.

The heat of him somehow seeps through his jacket as he holds you, and he smells more like laundry than his cologne, having faded throughout the day. Its scent is the same as the one that drifts up your nose every time you bury your face into his scarf, and the soft fabric of it makes you wish you could always be by his side or, even better, in his arms like this.

“I should have listened to you,” he sighs, overdramatic as his hands smooth up and down your back, ending at your hips only to tug you closer until there is no space between you. With your jackets on, there’s a lot of give to the embrace that Phainon has to wrap his arms around you even tighter to get you as close as he wants.

“Is this your way of telling me that I was right?” you ask, pushing up on your hands so you can look down at him properly. There’s a bit of snow on his nose, so you gently brush it away, but it’s not enough for you, leading you to nuzzle yours against his as if that would be enough to chase away his flush from the cold. “By squeezing me until I pop?” you continue.

“Should I say sorry in a different way?” Phainon’s head tilts, head disturbing the bed of white that he lays in, the ends of his hair vanishing within it. He’s grinning in that annoying way that you love; all confidence with only ruin in your path.

But it still hurts a little—the anxiety of not knowing if this is something definitive. You know Phainon, which is why you like him so much. You know what he likes and dislikes, you can recognize all his tells regardless of what emotion he shares or hides, and you know that he is nothing if not kind. He would never hurt you deliberately or string you along, and he definitely would never play with your feelings. Yet, it’s so hard to ask all the same—scary, especially, when you don’t want to lose him.

“Starlight,” Phainon mumbles, “why are you frowning?” One hand leaves your waist to cup your cheek, but there’s a bit of snow stuck to his glove so the frigid touch causes you to flinch. You lean into his palm anyway, wanting him to know that you could never naturally react that way to him. He realizes this so he pulls the fabric off his hand, and returns his touch to your cheek, warm and gentle.

“What are we, Phainon?” you ask, grazing your lips against the skin of his palm as if you could hide the way your mouth shapes the words. The dread that fills your gut is somehow worse than how cold everything feels.

Phainon only observes you, and you can see his eyes trace your features, but his hand never leaves your face, and his thumb continues to rub your cheek. “Does it matter so long as I’m with you?” he asks, and his voice is a low timbre when his eyes flick back to meet yours. His gaze is steady; a stark contrast with your own when you desperately want to look away.

“Of course it does!” you huff, trying to blink back tears when his words make your chest twist into knots. You don’t know if you could stay in this vague sort of relationship with him—you want to introduce Phainon as your boyfriend, you want to go on dates while wearing matching clothing no matter how ugly the colour combinations he picks, and you want to tell him you love him; you want everyone to know just how much.

“Don’t cry,” he practically begs, “please, don’t cry.” The words come out a bit breathless, as if all the air was sucked out of his lungs the moment he saw your lip tremble regardless of how sure you were that you wouldn’t tear up asking him—you promised yourself you wouldn’t even if he didn’t want to be with you.

Phainon’s hand moves to the back of your head while the other winds around your waist in a steadier, but no less tender, hold to bring you down next to him. And it’s not that cold even with your hat knocked askew because he makes sure your ear doesn’t touch snow, only the soft wool fabric of his coat over his bicep.

“Maybe we should go back inside,” he recommends. “Let’s warm up and talk about it properly.”

You try to steady your voice to say, “but we didn’t get to play in the snow.”

It’s silly, and because of it, Phainon laughs, but he sits up with you with a hand petting down your head. “Have you noticed that none of the streetlights are on?”

Looking around, you find that it is horribly dark out. It only feels brighter because of the way the snow reflects the light of the moon, and you’re lucky enough that there’s so much snow from the previous snowstorm and now that you can easily make out your surroundings.

“No way,” you start. “There’s a power outage?”

He hums in agreement and adds, “it looks like the storm is going to pick up and the roads will be bad too.”

It’s enough to calm yourself. No wonder it was so cold when you woke up, too, and Phainon must have noticed while he was rifling through your closet in the dark, followed by his avoidance of the elevator. At least, you realize, the security cameras wouldn’t have captured how you trapped Phainon in the stairwell for a minute or two just to steal a few kisses—ignoring how that reprieve only reminds you of the issue you’re currently having.

So, you and Phainon stand and dust the snow from each other's coats to make the trek back inside. Following the path from earlier, Phainon doesn’t let go of your hand as you take one step, a second, and another up the stairwell. And once you’ve returned to your apartment, you help each other out of your coats followed by your winter accessories.

When Phainon gets to his scarf, however, his hands linger as they unwind the fabric from your neck. He seems to hesitate for a moment, clearly wanting to pull you in again. You know it’s better to talk and figure everything out first but you lose your ability to make wise decisions with Phainon around.

Your fingers find his wrists as you lean upwards, and he immediately meets you halfway; the habit instinctual.

When you separate, it’s only to ask, “are we—you know—a ‘thing?’” It’s a terrible way to start, you admit, but after the kiss, it’s difficult to think of anything other than your desire for one more.

But Phainon, giddy with affection and more assured than you are, says, “I thought we already were.”

“Phainon, I’m serious,” you press.

He seems to understand this with how tense you seem, so unlike how you normally are when you’re with him. He asks, “do you want to be?” And his voice is much quieter, lacking any of his boyish charm and filled with something he only promises to you.

Throwing the words back at him, you say, “do you want to be?” You want to be on the same page for something as important as this, but Phainon is ever unchanging when he prioritizes you rather than simply meet your question with the answer you need to feel better.

Well, the reason for this is partly that paired with the fact that you are unaware that he also has the same anxiety you have.

Still, he takes a deep breath to prepare himself when he admits, “of course I do. I hate this ‘what are we’ thing we have going on.” Then, he grabs the blanket from the closet and then leads you back to the cough as he explains, “not because of you; never because of you, but it’s only good for Castorice’s fanfiction or that terrible romance movie we watched last week.” When he sits, his knee presses against yours as starts unfolding the blanket.

Assisting him, you adjust the fabric to properly cover the both of you and remind him, “you cried at the ending.”

“And you kissed my cheek to make me stop!” Phainon retaliates. Sinking into the coach, he lifts one arm so that you can settle into his side. Once he’s sure you’re comfortable, his hand falls to your shoulder and tugs you even closer so that he can look at you properly. It’s better to have conversations like this with proper eye contact, after all, and although sitting facing each other is enough, this lack of distance is not only your preference but his.

“That’s what I mean,” you say, “do you want to be my boyfriend, Phainon? You kissed me first when we went to see those sunflowers together in the summer, and we just…” you pause, frustrated with the lack of communication between the two of you as you wring your hands. He catches one of them to intertwine your fingers as you finish the thought. “We never talked about it after.”

“I didn’t know what you wanted,” Phainon explains, but his voice is meeker than you’ve ever heard it. He’s not looking at you anymore, equally as afraid of baring his heart to you. He even lets go of your hand, and it would have caused you to panic if not for him fixing his hold so that he can trace the lines in your hands.

“Why didn’t you ask?” you say, watching his finger dance across your palm and then back, repeating the motion again and again.

It’s nothing new, really. Phainon has always sought out your touch like a sunflower facing the sun, which is, in some way, ironic considering your little pet names for each other. And although you were upset with the ambiguity in his earlier words, you agree with him: so long as he’s with you, it doesn’t matter in the end.

Phainon doesn’t answer immediately, and when you think he will, he stops himself and thinks a little longer; composure fading the more he tries to decide how best to approach you with how he feels. Eventually, he settles with an admission that leaves him in a way that's quieter than before. “Becuase I was scared the answer wasn’t going to be me.”

You sigh out his name and your head shifts so you can look at him. He even looks away and his throat bobs as swallows down whatever he’s agonizing over, but he returns to you as always, even his expression is difficult, and even more because he’s distressed. Letting go of his hand, you bring it up to his cheek, trying to warm the cold skin there as you wonder, “why wouldn’t it be you?”

“I don’t know—there’s a lot of people who can make you happy,” he replies. Then, he lifts the blanket over both of your shoulders before his forehead drops to your shoulder just so you can’t see his face.

Wrapping your arms around him, you pull Phainon to you as you slide backwards until your body bounces softly against the cushion, but you never let go of him—you don’t think you ever want to. You try to tell him this when you say, “you make me happy.”

“There’s a lot of people who can make you happier,” he retorts. The words are practically self-sabotage, but you know he means this in their entirety; that if he could measure your joy, he would always want you happier somewhere else rather than whatever he believes he wouldn’t be able to provide.

It’s a difficult way to think, and you know many would struggle or even detest loving someone who doubts themself often by some form of insecurity. But you love him, and loving him is perhaps the least difficult thing you’ve ever done—maybe even more than breathing as the cliché goes. And although it’s foolish, you think you understand such clichés better because you paid less attention to the love stories filled with them and more to Phainon who you watched them with.

So, you tell him, “that’s impossible because they aren’t you.” You hold him tighter; squeeze him a bit longer as though the affection you have for him could leave you and enter him through the touch. “Are you telling me you just held it in? What about what you want?”

“Does it matter so long as I’m with you?” he repeats his previous answer with a warbled laugh, but all you hear is aching resignation. You can’t see him with his face tucked into your neck, but you can feel a few droplets wet your skin. He’s always been a crybaby when it comes to the cheesy romance movies he loves so, of course, he would be no different when it comes to his own little love story with you.

“It does,” you comfort him, fingers sliding through his hair just to pull him away to face you so you can wipe away his tears—so you can take care of him. “It always matters, especially if you’re with me.”

He laughs, a little rough and more in disbelief, but no less at ease. “What I really mean is: I was fine with not knowing what we were so long as you were with me.” The flush on Phainon’s cheeks deepens as he explains further, “as long as I was the only one you wanted to go grocery shopping with for dinner dates or watch bad movies with as an excuse to to hold hands, it didn’t matter as long as it was me you picked.”

He props himself up on one hand, and his other reaches out to take your hand so that he can press his lips to the back of. It’s chivalric and corny, but Phainon grasps this himself and turns playful, letting his teeth graze your skin as if he’ll bite down. Sometimes, you really do think he’s like your personal overgrown puppy, not realizing that it’s really because he has so much affection for you that he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“You’re silly,” you tell him.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you,” he corrects you.

“Really?” Tugging him back against the pillows, you hum, thinking to yourself even when you don’t need to figure it out because you’ve already known long before he kissed you in that field of sunflowers. “Because I love you too.”

“You must be silly like me, then,” Phainon says.

“Yeah?” you laugh, pressing your forehead against his.

“Can I have a kiss?” he asks instead, already leaning in so he can steal one from you.

You make a show of rolling your eyes, and Phainon responds by wiggling his fingers along your sides until you giggle. Instead of receiving a kiss from you, however, he decides to smear one to your cheek as a gift in exchange for your laughter.

When you calm down, you tease him, “that’s what you want?”

“When don’t I want one?” Phainon jests, but you both know that it’s less of a joke and more so an admission. You won’t say it—not now, anyway—but you always want one from him too.

“At least you’re aware,” you huff and your petulance matches your behaviour as you slide your hands under his sweater. At first, Phainon seems to encourage the touch, but then he feels how cold your skin is in comparison to his and he yelps. And this is followed by an effortless pout so you kiss him like he wants as an apology, knowing that he enjoys how selfishly you caress your hands across his waist—fair is fair, after all.

Neither of you are in a rush with the snow piling up outside, so you make sure to kiss him slowly, tilting your head to slot your slips together as you pull him firmly against you. Phainon is usually right; if the roads are dangerous, then that means you can’t drive him home and he will, fortunately, have to stay here with you. You don’t share this with him, but he seems to agree judging by the satisfied sound that leaves his throat when your tongue slides against his. And you know this because you actually haven’t kissed him like this before.

Usually, you exchange simple presses of your lips and a peck on the cheek or forehead; nothing deep and eager with you exploring his mouth to gain the pleasure of feeling his chest heave against yours. But now that you are, his arm is steady against your back; his hold firm so you can’t go too far despite being aware that there’s nothing either of you want more than each other right now.

Your fingers slide down the side of his waist, touch so light that you almost think you can feel him shiver, and you excuse the way his legs slip between yours to tangle together as him chasing the warmth of your body with no electricity to power your heater. For you, Phainon is hot enough—especially now that he’s thoroughly flushed—that you can confidently say that your affections are solely rooted in longing for him. You think he’d like to hear it too, so you pull away to take a deep breath despite nothing encouraging the separation in how a string of saliva connects your lips to his.

Immediately, Phainon’s hand cups your cheek, breaking the connection as his thumb traces the line of your mouth as he tries to guide you back to him. But your grin makes it difficult for him to get what he wants so his demand comes out as a whine when he says, “another.” Yet, you cannot deny how his voice affects you—rough and broken while lacking any of the politeness he usually has that he stares at your lips instead of your eyes; his desire very much clear.

“Greedy,” you say, the word grazing against his mouth just to tease him a bit more.

“But I’m your boyfriend, right?” he asks just to appeal to your affections. But you also know he says this just to make sure. The state of your relationship wasn’t said regardless of the understanding that you both now have of each other and the subsequent enthusiastic acceptance, so Phainon does look a bit hesitant as his gaze catches yours to properly ensure that this is what he is to you now.

“I want you to be,” you say, “is that what you want, Phainon?“ He nods with a breathless sort of agreement that you can’t stop yourself from continuing with some playful banter to drag out the moment and have him want more of you. “I guess I should give you another kiss, isn’t that right?”

He hums before leaning in after you made that intention clear. “We have nothing better to do when the power’s out.”

“We could sleep,” you suggest, despite being wide awake. Both of you took that small nap, so it’s only right that you stay up now, in exchange, ignoring how distracting Phainon’s hands are so distracting on your hips that sleeping is the last thing you want to do with him when he is snowed in with you.

“That’s boring,” he huffs, face scrunching up with the idea of doing anything other than being lovey-dovey now that you’re properly together.

Because you know him well, you peck him once—soft and quick, and try not to laugh when he almost complains when you pull away. Then, you challenge him as if there’s one thing you enjoy more than loving Phainon, it’s teasing him. “And kissing for a few minutes isn’t?”

“Are you saying it is?” The words come with a pinch to your cheek so you mimic him from earlier and try to nip his fingers. He only finds this cute, however, so he softly presses his lips to your forehead and hugs you tight.

You almost think that he’ll start rolling around with you in his arms—maybe even off the couch because that’s something silly Phainon would do—but he doesn’t so you don’t laugh that much and are able to say, although muffled into his chest, “I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it,” he argues, and his breath is warm on the top of your head when he presses his cheek to it. His chest rises and falls at a steadier pace, now, but you can still feel the way his heart races, still searching for you.

Phainon is impossible but you guess he’s yours, which means only you can debate him on something as insignificant as this. So, you say, “no, I didn’t,” and softly pinch his side as revenge from before. He doesn’t even react in the way you want, merely pulling away to look at you properly with a grin that lacks any of the worry that you found in him when this night started.

And his voice is confident and full of fondness, knowing this is a challenge that only you can fulfill when he dares you, “prove it.” The words make you laugh, and this appears to delight him as he follows after you with his own, much quieter as though he’s forcing it just to hear the joy in your own.

“How do you always get what you want?” you ask, fingers sliding up his spine until you can flatten your palm between his shoulderblades and pull him closer so your noses touch. You hope that you’ll only grow more and more familiar with him until you can map out every inch of skin the same way you know him remarkably well.

“Because you love me,” he declares, so matter-of-fact because there’s no use questioning what is simply the truth.

And because Phainon is right, you kiss him not just once, but a few more times after that.