Celeste.

Phainon going to your home expecting to watch a movie but he gets stripped and leashed instead (he has discovered something new about himself that day)

ON EVERYONE'S SOUL INCLUDING MINE, THIS IS US yes US AS IN ME AND YOU!!! when puppy phainon is the subject:

The second he starts rubbing himself faster against your hand, you loosen your grip on him, placing both hands on his abdomen as you lean over to kiss him. He lets out a high pitched whimper in response.

'Not so fast, handsome. Did I say you could cum yet? hmm?'

'Hahhh~ n- no...'

'mhm. You know what happens when you don't behave, right?'

He shudders at your words, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes as he processes what you mean. Fuck, he can't bear to be edged again. His whole lower region is on fire, cock throbbing non stop and abs clenching and flexing every time he feels a hot, wet trail of his own arousal leaking down his length. He's aching so bad; Your hands feel good but it's not enough anymore. all he wants to do is feel your tight pussy around him and cum, over and over until you've milked him dry and he has nothing left to release.

'sorry....' he moans out, a choked sob escaping his throat after. 'I promise I'll- mmpphh- I'll be good.. just wanna.. just wanna cum..'

'I'll let you cum baby, you just gotta be patient. You've been really good so far, just a little while more and I'll let you feel my pussy, yeah?" He looks up and meets your gaze, nodding frantically as a fat teardrop slides down his pale cheek. Your lips immediately capture it, sucking the salty liquid away before smothering his face with another round of kisses. Slowly, your fingers creep back down to his pelvis, then further down to wrap round his thick, heavy cock again. He pulses, whining your name as his fists clench the bedsheets.

You can't help but rub your thighs together as you look at him now, whole body covered in a glossy sheen of sweat, every muscle tensed as he chases yet another climax. His abs are covered in heaps of his own milky fluid from previous rounds and you take the opportunity to reach down and lick up some of it. He tastes salty at first, but as you lap up his cum and swallow it, a bitter aftertaste lingers on your tongue.

Phainon watches intently as you clean him off, sucking in a sharp breath as he feels that familiar, itching ache in his overstimulated cock. Suddenly something in him snaps and he lets out a half squeal, half moan of surprise.

'w- waitwait, oh 'm gonna cum~!'

He loses control again as a particularly strong orgasm hits his exhausted body, throwing his head against the pillow as his whole form stiffens. Thick, hot ropes of cum spurt from his swollen tip and splatter all over your hand, some of it landing on his thighs and the otherwise pristine, white sheets. He's heaving and panting loudly, brows scrunched and face contorted in pleasure as he empties himself. This is the most he's cummed tonight, the sheer amount of it makes your eyes widen and your core drip with more slick as you watch his load slide down your skin.

'mmm.. good job, phai. Want me to sit on it now?'

'yes, hahhh~ yes please..' He gives you puppy eyes.

And that's how he is; always so pathetic and needy, always so eager for more.

“N-no no, need your hand. A little more and I’ll be good I promise,” he sniffles pitifully and his hand weakly grabs your wrist that was previously touching him. Nothing gives you the same satisfaction that seeing Phainon completely ruined for you does. As soon as you grasp him once more he throws his head back into mattress with a strangled moan.

You can tell that all your teasing is starting to get to him, bad. Unfortunately, Phainon is simply too lovable in his fucked out state, “okay then, I’ll give you more…” you make a show of spitting on his dick, letting your tongue loll out to make him watch your saliva slide out of mouth and on to his pretty pink tip. It’s a nasty display that sends him spiraling.

Between your spit and the copious amounts of pre cum he was leaking, you had more than enough lubricant to make the slide of your hand resistance free. The wet squelching sounds were about as adequate to a porno as it could get.

“Fuck, that’s too much!” his body tries to retract but a firm hand on his abdomen keep him in place. The erotic expression on his face wasn’t helping either. Brows firmly knitted together and his pristinely white lashes fluttering shut. It took every ounce of your self control to not shove your fingers down his throat when those pretty pink lips were parted so perfectly just for you, “I’m actually gonna cum if you keep—“

For the second time, you fully pull off him. The cry it elicits goes straight to your core, “I know, c’mere Phai,” you softly coo with your arms open. He practically slumps into your embrace. You let him stay like that for a few moments before asking him what you know he was really hoping for, “been so sweet, wanna finally get that reward?”

His head immediately perks up. He looks at you with those big puppy dog eyes that make you melt and nods enthusiastically. You shift your positions so you can rest comfortably against the headboard with pillows propped up accordingly and let him lean back against your chest. Gently, you place your own hand over his and let him set the pace. His breathing becomes unsteady once you guide him to move a bit faster.

Phainon tilts his head back towards you as his jaw falls slack once more and you take the opportunity to capture his lips in a delicate kiss. When you start pushing him a little further again, you find yourself swallowing his moans with every stroke, “there we go. You’re so good, let go whenever you want, Phai.” your sultry voice in his ear tips him over the edge after being denied for so long. He says your name like a mantra in breathy moans as thick white ropes paint his abs and cover your hands.

All of the tension leaves his body and he visibly relaxes against your chest. You stretch your arm out to the nightstand to grab tissues to wipe the both of you off a bit. Once you’re finished, Phainon is wrapping himself around you in a big bear hug and burying his face in the crook of your neck. He loves taking in your scent, claims it has a calming effect.

“Smells good, you used that new soap Aglaea brought back from her trip didn’t you?” his voice is muffled while basically talking into your skin. A small giggle finds itself in your throat and you bring a hand to rake your fingers through his snowy locks.

“Mhm, in fact, we can go wash up with it now.” your voice is jokingly suggestive which was your first mistake because if you give Phainon an inch, he’ll take a mile.

You were afraid to look back— afraid to see his face. Knowing that you might not come back.When you had entered Amphoreus along with Trabilizer and Dang Heng, Phainon had been the good friend, steady and reliable.

But for Phainon, from the moment he saw you, a quiet intensity had kindled in him, something deeper than admiration, something that tethered his heart to your

“Are… you going to leave me?” The question wavered, cracking halfway through as if he could not bare to know the answer.

No matter whether he wanted the answer or not. You chose silence. The longer you stayed, the harder it is to leave.

Without thinking twice, you took a big step forward. Suddenly, he moved. His gloved hands shot forward then wrapping around your leg and gripping tightly as if losing his grip would mean losing his beloved to void forever. His forehead rested just above your knee as his shaking and warm breath touched you.

“Please,” he choked as he tilting his head to look at you, tears beginning to fall while his voice was breaking. “Please, Please, Please—” Each word rang with desperation.

“I beg you...” he shook your leg uncontrollably. “Please... don’t leave me. I’ll—”

“I’ll promise” he gasped

“I’ll be your good boy.”

“I’ll do anything you ask. Just—”

His grip tightened, knuckles pale beneath the leather, his entire body trembling.

“Just.. stay. I can’t breathe without you here.”

-

The heavy oak doors groaned as you pushed them open, stepping into a grand, dimly lit hall. Velvet drapes framed tall stained windows, no wonder you couldnt get a glimpse, candlelight flickered across polished wood, and the air smelled faintly of old books and… white roses?

You barely had time to marvel at the sheer size of the place before you feel a large, looming presence behind your back.

The kind that prickles down your spine, locks your knees, makes you aware that you are very much not alone.

You froze. Every horror movie instinct screamed, Don’t turn around.

and of course you turn back.

and…well, not exactly what you expected from the whole “mysterious Victorian mansion” setup.

The man—if you could even call him just a man more than a giant—was huge. Broad shoulders, towering frame, long dark coat draped around him like he’d just stepped out of a reniessance painting. His hair was soft-looking, pale, and a little mussed, his eyes a strange, warm blue that should have been predatory but instead… sparkled?

"A human!! It's been so long since I've seen one! :D"

huh?

"...hi?"

He tilted his head, and for a second, you swore the movement was almost puppy-like.

“You’re drenched,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that carried way too much concern for a stranger. “Oh—wait, don’t tell me. Lost in the woods? Phone died?”

how does he know what a phone was?

Your mind scrambled for a response, but before you could ask him how the hell he knew what a phone was, when he looked like he should be writing poetry by candlelight in 1892. he was already moving, not in a threatening way, but with the kind of eager, bounding energy you’d expect from a golden retriever spotting a tennis ball.

“Come on, come on,” he urged, looping around you in a way that made you feel herded toward the sweeping staircase at the far end of the hall. “You’ll get sick if you stay like that, and don't worry, I'll give you some silver in case you don't feel safe around me D:"

He glanced back over his shoulder, flashing a grin that revealed unmistakably sharp fangs, and you felt a fuzzy feeling in your abdomen.

wait...he has fangs?...sharp fangs? and what did he mean by silver?

holy fuck he's a vampire?? Your legs refused to move. The hall felt bigger now, shadows pressing in, the thunder outside rattling the glass in the stained windows. You swallowed hard, eyes flicking to those fangs again. “I promise I’m nice!” he said quickly, as if sensing your hesitation. His hands came up in an exaggerated surrender pose before he winced. “Oh—wait, maybe that’s not convincing since, uh… y’know.” He tapped one fang sheepishly, then made a sort of awkward grimace-smile combo. “But really, I don’t bite people unless they really deserve it. Or, um… unless they say it’s okay.”

You had no idea what to say to that.

Before you could decide whether to bolt back into the storm or keep staring at him, petrified but not at the same time, he was already shrugging out of his long coat and draping it over your shoulders. The thing was heavy, smelling faintly of rain and that same white-rose scent clinging to the air. It hung almost to your ankles...and it had white fur stuck on it?

As you followed, the sound of your wet shoes squelching against the polished floor echoed embarrassingly loud. He didn’t seem to notice, his attention instead fixed on you like you were the most fascinating thing to have crossed his path in decades or even centuries in this case.

“How long were you out there?” he asked, voice warm with genuine concern. “The forest can get dangerous during storms. You didn’t see the wolves, did you?”

Your steps faltered. “…There are wolves?”

"Uh.. anyways... I'm Phainon!” He thumped a massive hand against his own chest. Your eyes quickly glance at his chest before looking at him dead in the eyes again. “That’s me. What’s your name? :3”

"Hm...How about you earn my name?" You said with a slight smile, feeling a bit more comfortable with this puppy vampire you just met. His blue eyes slightly sink, but then sparkle again, seeing the smile on your face.

"Oooo a challenge!! I accept, human!—three laughs and i'll get your name please"

Before you could agree—or correct him, he was ushering you toward the side of the grand staircase where a set of carved double doors opened into a parlor so absurdly cozy it almost gave you whiplash. A roaring fire in a marble hearth, thick rugs, shelves of old books and even older trinkets… it was all warm glow and soft shadows.

“Sit, sit,” Phainon urged, motioning you toward an armchair that could’ve swallowed you whole. “I’ll get you something warm to drink—oh! And maybe a blanket too." he came back with a steaming mug; he crouched down in front of you instead of towering above, his big frame folded in an almost comical way. God, he is still so huge despite him crouching infront of you.

You took the drink, your fingers brushing his, and you swear you felt your heart quicken and you bite the inside of your cheek to make sure you dont smile at him this early.

1st morning

The rain was gone, replaced by pale sunlight filtering through the stained glass. The colors bled across the parlor walls like someone had spilled liquid jewels everywhere. The fire had gone out, but you were still wrapped in Phainon’s coat, the faint rose scent lingering.

You sat up slowly, half-expecting the events of last night to be a very strange dream. But the giant, pale-haired vampire slumped awkwardly in a too-small armchair across from you, head tipped back and mouth slightly open and it made that possibility impossible.

and then...a soft snore escaped him.

As if sensing you were awake, his eyes blinked open—bright, impossibly blue even in the morning light. He perked up instantly, but winced a little due to the sunlight and quickly closed the curtains, causing the house to return to its gothic colour scheme.

“You stayed!” he said, sitting forward so quickly the chair groaned in protest. “Good. I was afraid you’d sneak out and I’d have to go into the sun to find you. And that would’ve been… bad.”

Your lips twitched. “You were asleep. How would you even know if I left?”

“I have really good hearing,” he replied matter-of-factly, then smirked widely, again revealing his fangs. You immediately look down at your lap, flustered, and your heart rose up by a mile.

why are you so flustered??

And then he continues—

“Also, I sleep with one eye half-open sometimes. Like a fish.”

A small laugh slipped from you before you could stop it. His entire expression lit up like he had won the lottery.

"Goddang it.."

“That’s one laugh!” he said, pointing at you triumphantly. “Two more and I win.”

“Oh, so we’re still doing that?” you asked, leaning back into the chair.

“Of course! I don’t give up on challenges.” He rose to his full height, stretching until you heard something pop in his shoulders. “But before I make you laugh again, you need food. Or breakfast. Or—do humans still call it breakfast? It’s been a while.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t had a guest in a while, huh?”

He grinned, a little sheepishly this time. “Not a living one, no.”

Your second laugh came quicker than you expected. fuckk why do you keep laughing so easily?? screw phainon

Phainon froze mid-step, then spun on his heel like a cat hearing a can opener. “Two!”

"I won't be laughing at all now!" You exasperate and huff, crossing your arms, looking at him in a teasing manner.

Phainon narrowed his eyes at your declaration, but there was nothing truly menacing about it—more like the exaggerated squint of someone pretending to be offended. “You think you can resist me?” His voice dropped, not in a threatening way, but in that deep, smooth rumble that made your stomach flutter despite yourself. “Challenge accepted… again.”

He turned fully toward you, and the shift made you instantly aware of just how much space he took up. Broad shoulders filled the doorway, coat hanging loose around him like it barely contained his frame. You suddenly understood why the chair last night had looked like it might give up under him—Phainon was built like a man who could pick up a whole tree and carry it for fun, which he could probably do/

When he grinned again, those fangs caught the light, and you felt your pulse skip. The thought that they could pierce skin in an instant made you… yeah, very aware of how close he was.

Phainon noticed your glance—of course, he did. He leaned forward slightly, tilting his head. "Are you okay? Oh no! are you sick? You are all reddish now D:"

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out except a sound that was dangerously close to an embarrassed choke. You immediately looked down, muttering something that sounded vaguely like “shut up” under your breath.

Poor Phainon thought he did something wrong.

♥ ♥ ♥

2nd morning

You were curled up in the parlor with a blanket (which you suspected he had heated near the fire beforehand, because it was perfectly warm), pretending to read a book while keeping an ear on his movements.

When he finally emerged, he was holding… something.

It was vaguely bread-shaped, steaming, and smelling… well, edible.

“I present to you—breakfast!” Phainon announced proudly, setting it on the table like a priceless artifact. “I made it myself. No poison, no blood, nothing weird, promise.”

You raised a brow. “That’s… reassuring?”

He plopped into the armchair across from you, grinning wide enough that the tips of his fangs showed. “I even measured the flour this time.”

“That implies you didn’t measure it last time.”

“...Correct.”

You didn’t laugh. Not even a smile. You just tore off a piece of the bread and chewed slowly, watching him over the rim of your cup. His grin faltered ever so slightly.

The whole morning was like that—Phainon trying, you not budging. He’d “accidentally” trip over a rug (you were pretty sure it was on purpose), tell you about the time he accidentally fell off a cliff (??) and a bunch of concerning stories more than funny.

You set your cup down. “I don’t think that’s a story you should tell while someone is eating bread you baked...Phainon 😨”

His grin widened. “Because now you’re picturing me pulling fighting bears for fish?”

You groaned and pulled the blanket up to your chin, deliberately avoiding his gaze. You could hear the way he shifted in his chair—leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and looking at you eagerly.

“You’re really going to keep pretending you’re immune to my charm, aren’t you?” he murmured.

Your eyes flicked up, meeting his for the briefest second. “Charm? Is that what you call… whatever this is?”

“Mm. I could call it something else,” he said softly, almost to himself. “But that might scare you off.”

Something in his voice was different now. it was lower, smoother, with a weight that made the air feel suddenly thicker. You swallowed, unsure whether you wanted to retreat or lean in.

Phainon leaned back with an exaggerated sigh, stretching his long arms over the back of the chair like a lazy cat. “Fine. Keep your walls up. See if it stops me from getting you to laugh.”

It was infuriating how confident he sounded, and what did he even mean?? . . . . . An hour later, the parlor was quiet except for the occasional crackle from the fireplace.

You’d finished your tea, the bread was gone, and you’d buried yourself in one of the thick, brick-shaped novels you’d found on a shelf. Phainon had wandered off earlier with a muttered “back in a bit,” and you’d half-expected him to forget you entirely.

The creak of the floorboards gave him away before you even saw him. He was carrying a stack of folded blankets and what looked like… a ridiculous amount of pillows.

“…What are you doing?” you asked, watching him dump the pile onto the sofa across from you.

"I think its called a pillow nest.."

"You mean pillow fort?"

you found yourself watching him work—his movements strangely gentle for someone with hands that big, the way he kept adjusting the blankets until they fell just right. When he finished, he stepped back and gestured toward it like he’d just unveiled a masterpiece.

“Thereee, Try it! :D”

You eyed him suspiciously but stood, shuffling over. The moment you sank into the mess of warmth and softness, you had to admit… it was perfect.

He must have caught the flicker of approval in your expression, because he practically lit up. “See? Told you. Best nest-maker in all of—”

“It's called a pillow fort,” you interrupted, turning back toward your book before he could see the way your mouth twitched.

But you heard him chuckle as you feel him behind you, then as you turn back—you are eye to eye with him, lips centimeters away, breaths on each other's skin, and heartbeat increasing. And then just for a second, you swear you saw his eyes glance to your soft cherry-flavoured lips.

Your breath caught, though whether from surprise or something else, you couldn’t say.

Phainon didn’t move at first—just stayed there, crouched in front of you, his height still somehow making you feel smaller than an ant. His gaze lingered for one, two heartbeats too long, flicking between your eyes and your lips in a way that made your chest tighten.

Then, almost imperceptibly, his grin softened.

“You’ve got uh..” He hesitated, reaching up slowly, like he was giving you time to pull back. The back of his knuckle brushed your lower lip, feather-light. “Crumbs.”

You blinked and continued to read your book, ignoring the tightness in your chest.

holy shit hes a cutie

♥ ♥ ♥

3rd morning

You weren’t even sure when you’d fallen asleep—only that the fire had been low, the pillow fort had been warm, and your eyelids had gotten heavier with every lazy flicker of flame. Somewhere between one page and the next, your book had slid from your hand, and then you fell asleep.

When you stirred, it wasn’t the morning chill that greeted you. It was… warmth. Heavy, solid, fluffy warmth pressing against your side. Blinking your eyes open, you froze.

A pair of round, dark eyes stared back at you from a very small, very fluffy face. Snow-white fur puffed out around its cheeks like clouds, and its tiny black nose twitched as it snuggled even closer. A jingling name tag caught the light.

Snowy :D

You blinked again. Then turned your head slightly.

And found another pair of eyes on you—these ones cerulean blue and sparkling.

Phainon was leaning against the arm of the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, watching you with that slow, warm smile that seemed to take up his entire face.

You groaned softly, burying your face halfway into the Samoyed’s fur. “I just woke up and I see two Phainons.”

He chuckled, deep and quiet, like it was a private joke meant only for you. “That’s a compliment, right?”

You mumbled something incoherent into the snowy's fur.

Snowy gave a soft, happy huff and pawed at your blanket, as if demanding you stay put. You reached up to scratch behind his ears—only to realize Phainon was watching that motion a little too intently, as if he could feel your touch through the dog.

“What?” you muttered.

His smile didn’t falter, but there was a hint of something else in his gaze now—something softer, heavier. “Nothing...you look happy"

“I was,” you said pointedly, “until I woke up to an audience.”

“Snowy’s the audience. I’m just the stage crew.”

You gave him a flat look. “You’re the entire audience, be for real.”

Snowy gave a tiny yawn and nuzzled into your side, making you let out a small squeal as you bury your face into his fur with a smile.

At this point, you had forgotten to go to home, and surprisingly lasted 3 days without your phone.

Phainon’s gaze lingered on you a heartbeat longer before he straightened, clapping his hands together.

"Alright!! i'll be making pasta! :D"

"You know how to cook pasta?" "I love pasta, so i learned how to make it myself :3"

And then, He walked toward the kitchen, you caught the way Snowy’s tail wagged just watching him go. And, annoyingly, you felt the same little flutter in your chest.

The sound of Phainon rummaging through the kitchen was… chaotic. Drawers opening and closing, cupboard doors creaking, the occasional clunk of something clearly too heavy to be dropped like that.

Snowy’s ears would twitch every time a particularly loud sound rang out, but he stayed right where he was, head in your lap, occasionally licking your wrist like you might disappear if he stopped.

You ran your fingers absentmindedly through his thick fur, the warmth and softness almost lulling you back to sleep. But then you head phainon humming.

It wasn’t loud, but it was surprisingly nice. Deep enough to vibrate faintly through the walls, he sounded like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

Your book lay forgotten on the armrest. You were too busy leaning just slightly toward the sound.

A few minutes later, he appeared in the doorway, flour dusting his dark suit, and his sleeves were rolled back to his elbows, a faint flush in his cheeks from the heat of the kitchen, and his hair tied back loosely with a pink bow clip.

"How..do you have a pink bow clip?"

"I found it in the woods while hunting meat for Snowy!" He grinned when he saw you smile at him. “Don’t move—pasta’s almost done. And I didn’t even burn anything this time.”

Snowy gave a bark, as if congratulating him.

You arched a brow. “How many times did you try before?”

"Too many to count, pretty girl"

He disappeared again, and you found yourself with your mouth open and eyes widened. You were burning up from the heat or his nickname.

pretty girl. pretty girl. pretty girl. pretty girl. pretty girl. pretty girl. he called you a pretty gir-

Snowy's bark returned you back to reality from your malfunctioning state as he returned with two steaming bowls, you were almost embarrassed by how your stomach fluttered more than your appetite. He set one in front of you, then sat down on the floor beside the couch instead of taking the armchair like before, knees drawn up, shoulder brushing against yours.

“This better be good,” you said, poking at the pasta with mock suspicion.

“Oh, it’s perfect,” he said easily, leaning a little closer. “I made it for you.”

"Ohh Snowy, how do you deal with such an infuriating owner D:"

"So mean!!" Phainon cried as Snowy gave out a small bark as a protest or an agreement, you couldn't tell because of how damn good this pasta was.

also sorry if you dont like mix sauce pasta.. i love mix sauce spicy pasta so..😭

The sauce clung to the pasta in a silky, rich coat, the tangy brightness of tomatoes cutting through the creamy smoothness of what could only be a perfectly balanced white sauce. There was garlic in there, faint but enough to give each mouthful a warm, savory depth, and just the slightest sprinkle of herbs—oregano, maybe? Basil? and some spice as well.

“…Okay,” you admitted after swallowing, “I was ready to insult you but-”

“But?” He was watching you like your answer will decide everything inhis life.

You jabbed your fork in his direction. “It’s good. Like… really good. Annoyingly good.”

That slow, pleased grin spread across his face, his sharp canines just barely peeking out. “Annoyingly good is my specialty.”

Snowy gave a small huff from where he’d curled up at your feet, like he was taking credit for this masterpiece too.

You took another forkful before you could think better of it. “Ugh. You’re going to make me stay here longer just so you can keep feeding me, aren’t you?”

Phainon tilted his head, his blue eyes softening in that way that was both disarming and dangerous. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched against your will. “…You even look smug.”

“Only because you’re enjoying it,” he teased, nudging your knee with his own before twirling his own fork lazily. “Besides, I told you—I like having you here. Makes the place feel…”

"Suffocating?"

"-Lovely, wait what?? NO!" He panicked at your response, saying gibberish at this point to defend how you are not a suffocatign presence in his mansion.

And then you finally laugh, tears forming at the corner of your eyes and a good blush on your cheeks, along with sauce on your lips.

You were beautiful.

You glanced at Snowy for distraction, but the fluffy traitor was already dozing, leaving you alone with Phainon's yearning stare at you.

"Wait, you added garlic in this, right? Then how are you eating this??"

Phainon chuckled at your concerned face and just said, "I only added garlic in your pasta sauce, don't worry, pretty girl, and...YOU FINALLY LAUGHED!! TELL YOUR NAME NOW!! >:D"

"(Name).."

"(Name).. such a pretty name for a pretty girl"

"You can't be saying words like this, Phai!"

For the first time, Phainon looked stunned and his mouth shut up. And..you also quickly shut your mouth continuingto eat the pasta in silence avoiding his gaze.

"I like it...Phai...call me that from now on."

"Phai <3"

You saw his pale skin turn redder and the temperature of the room increase.

♥ ♥ ♥

4th morning

You woke up to the faint smell of the fire still lingering in the parlor, but the space felt quieter and..suffocating.

The blanket was still warm—someone had clearly draped it over you sometime during the night, but there was no clattering from the kitchen, no humming echoing faintly through the halls. Even Snowy seemed more still than usual, curled up at your feet with his chin resting on your ankle.

You stretched and listened. Nothing.

It wasn’t until an hour later, when you wandered into the hall, that you saw him.

Phainon was halfway up the grand staircase, one hand on the banister, a faint smile plastered on his face, when he noticed you. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Morning,” he said, voice as warm as ever, but it was just… gloomier.

“Morning,” you replied, hesitating. “No pasta today?”

“Not today. Got… things to do in my room.” His gaze flicked to Snowy, who had padded up beside you. “Snowy, keep her company, alright?”

The Samoyed gave a small bark in reply, and then Phainon was gone, disappearing into the upper floor before you could think of something else to say.

Your fingers sank into his fur, slow and absentminded, whispering so quietly that even you almost didn’t hear it. "Snowy.. do you know what happened to him?"

And unfortunately, you can not understand dogs as Snowy simply barked gloomily. Man.. these two are connected by Bluetooth or something??

You squinted at Snowy. “...That was not helpful.”

He gave you the most tragic pair of puppy eyes you’d ever seen. You sighed, hugging the big fluffball closer. “Fine. We’ll figure it out ourselves.”

Phainon’s absence seemed to stretch into every room, like the air itself had lost a layer of warmth. Even the fire you tried to stoke back to life seemed reluctant to catch. You found yourself wandering from the parlor to the library to the kitchen, aimlessly touching things he usually left scattered around—half-finished cups of tea, a scarf draped carelessly over a chair, the little dish he used for sugar that was inexplicably shaped like a skull.

All were untouched.

Snowy followed you like a shadow, tail occasionally brushing your leg. You couldn’t decide if he was trying to comfort you or keep an eye on you like he’d been told.

By the time midday rolled around, you’d had enough.

You stood at the base of the grand staircase, arms crossed, glaring at the empty upper landing. If he thought he could just vanish upstairs and mope in silence without telling you what was going on—

Snowy whined softly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered. “I’m not snooping. I’m… checking.”

You climbed the stairs slowly, each creak in the wood making you more aware of how quiet the house had become. By the time you reached the hallway outside his room, you could hear faint movement inside.

You knocked gently. “Phainon?”

Silence.

Then, after a pause, his voice—closer to the door than you expected. “…Don’t come in, (Name)."

"Phai.. are you okay?"

"I-I'm okay..don't worry, pretty just working on something"

"If you say so, Phainon."

You lingered a moment longer, hand still on the doorframe, feeling the urge to push—just a little

There was a muffled scrape from inside, then the faint sound of fabric shifting, as if he’d just moved something out of sight.

Snowy pressed his cold nose against your ankle. You looked down at him, then back at the closed door. “…Fine. I’ll leave you to your work"

You tried to keep your voice light, but it came out thinner than intended.

The walk back down the hall felt longer than it should have, your footsteps sounding too loud against the quiet.

The rest of the day passed in a strange rhythm. You’d catch a shadow flickering under his door, hear the faint sound of a chair scraping, then nothing for an hour. He didn’t come down for lunch. He didn’t even yell from upstairs to ask if you’d eaten.

By the time evening rolled in, the fire downstairs had burned low again. You curled up on the sofa, pretending not to keep glancing at the staircase.

Snowy hopped up beside you, laying his head in your lap. His tail gave a small wag as if to say, He’ll come down.

“…Yeah.” You brushed a hand over his fur. “I just—”

The sound of slow, deliberate footsteps cut you off.

Phainon appeared at the top of the stairs, looking… tired. His hair was slightly mussed, his shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, and the bottom of his lip was chewed on a little with small blood dripping down his lip. And..it was obviously his.

“Hey,” he said softly, almost hesitant.

You sat up a little. “Hey yourself. Productive day of… secret things?”

He gave a small, real smile, but still subdued. “Something like that.”

"Well, you want to sit beside me?"

"I was just checking up on you, pretty. I'll go back to my room :)"

You simply nod at his words, trying to seem okay with his reaction but in fact you were incredibly disappointed.

Lonely.

♥ ♥ ♥

5th Morning

You woke to a silence so complete, it felt like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

The fire was cold now, only a faint dusting of ash in the grate. The blanket on your shoulders was the same one from last night, but it didn’t feel freshly warmed—just leftover heat from your own body. Snowy wasn’t at your feet this time. In fact, the room felt painfully empty.

You sat up slowly, listening. No clinking cups from the kitchen. No footsteps pacing above. Not even the faint hum you’d grown used to hearing from somewhere deep in the halls.

The mansion had always been quiet, but this was different. This was the kind of quiet that made you second-guess whether you were alone at all.

You padded barefoot into the hall, expecting Snowy to come barreling around a corner at any moment. He didn’t. The staircase loomed ahead, still and dust-moted in the soft morning light. No figure leaning casually on the banister. No blue eyes catching yours in that half-smile.

You tried the base of the stairs first, calling up softly. “Phainon?”

No answer. Not even the creak of movement.

Snowy finally appeared from somewhere down the hall, padding toward you with slow, deliberate steps—ears tilted slightly back. He didn’t bark. He didn’t wag his tail. He just sat at your feet, staring toward the upper floor like he was waiting for something that wasn’t coming.

A prickle of unease crawled up your neck.

You went halfway up the stairs before you realized it—the air was cooler up here. Not cold enough to see your breath, but cold enough to feel it sink into your skin. You stood outside his door, straining to hear anything.

Nothing. No scrape of a chair, no rustle of fabric.

“Phai?” you tried again, softer this time. “If you’re in there…”

Still no answer.

Snowy pressed close to your leg, and you could almost swear he was trying to herd you away from the door. You stayed there another long moment, waiting, before finally stepping back.

You descended the stairs slowly, each creak sounding too loud in the empty house.

Snowy stayed at your heels this time, his nails clicking faintly against the polished wood. You kept glancing over your shoulder—half expecting to see a tall, broad silhouette at the landing, leaning there with that happy, puppy-like smile of his. But the space behind you stayed empty.

You wandered through the main floor again, past the library, the drawing room, the tall windows whose light seemed too pale today. The shadows stretched differently, thinner in some places, thicker in others, like the house itself was breathing in ways you couldn’t quite catch.

Snowy nosed your leg, his ears flicking.

You squatted down, scratching gently behind them. “Where is he?” you murmured.

Snowy only whined softly, then padded toward the back hallway—the one you hadn’t explored yet.

You sigh and slowly start walking towards the room.

You followed Snowy down the back hallway, your steps muffled by the thick, faded runner beneath your feet. The walls here were different—less polished than the front of the house, the wallpaper peeling slightly at the edges, the frames on the wall crooked as if no one had touched them in years. Dust floated lazily in the shafts of pale morning light slipping in through narrow windows. The air felt heavier here, carrying the faint scent of something metallic under the old wood and faint lavender.

Snowy padded ahead with an unhurried but deliberate gait, glancing back every so often to be sure you were still following. His tail was low, not tucked but not relaxed either, and his ears twitched at sounds you couldn’t hear.

You passed a set of closed double doors with frosted glass panels, the kind that blurred shapes but let through light. You almost stopped there, thinking you saw a flicker of movement beyond, but when you looked more closely, it was only the shifting of the shadows from the trees outside. Snowy didn’t even glance at them. He kept moving, leading you toward a door at the far end of the hallway.

This one was plain, no carved wood or brass embellishment—just a matte, slightly scuffed surface with a tarnished knob. The paint around the frame was chipped, revealing darker layers beneath, like the door had been here much longer than the rest of the hall. Snowy stopped in front of it and sat, looking from you to the door, then back again.

Your fingers brushed the doorknob as you put your cheek against the door.

"Hello..Phai?"

Silence.

"Phainon, C'mon, answer this please, you are worrying me"

This time, you hear a breathy growl and a breathless answer.

"Pretty?..No what are you doing here..go away!"

Your stomach sank. “You think I’m just going to walk away when you sound like that?”

He gave a low, humorless laugh that faded almost immediately. “Sweets just go..”

The air in the hallway felt colder, like the temperature was dropping by the second. You noticed the faintest flicker of shadow under the door, and then you turned the cold doorknob.

The room beyond was dim, lit only by thin slats of light cutting through the shutters, dust motes spinning lazily in the golden beams. The smell was different here—warm skin, sweat, something faintly metallic beneath it, and a low, thrumming note in the air that made your pulse skip.

Phainon stood in the middle of the room, barefoot on the old hardwood. His white shirt clung damply to him, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the front unbuttoned enough to reveal the deep line of his chest. The skin there was flushed, slick, marked by a scattering of old, pale scars that caught the dim light like silver threads. His breath came in ragged pulls, each exhale hitching like it cost him effort to keep standing. His hands were curled tight at his sides, nails biting into his palms, knuckles pale.

He wasn’t looking at you at first—his head was bowed, hair shadowing his eyes—but when he did glance up, it was like staring into a storm barely contained. His irises seemed darker, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted as if every breath was a fight to keep control. The sight rooted you in place, an unshakable awareness in your gut that you were staring at something unguarded and dangerous all at once.

“…Shit,” you breathed without thinking. “How are you like this?”

His jaw tightened, his breath shuddering. “Sweets,” he rasped, the word low and frayed, “go. Please—just go.” There was no teasing lilt, no gentle warmth in his tone this time—only strain, like the sound of someone holding back an avalanche with their bare hands.

"What the hell?? Phainon, are you sick?!" You quickly run to him despite his warning as you put out your hand on his cheek to check his temperature, and he was burning up.

Phainon flinched hard, his hand snapping up to grip your wrist—not rough enough to hurt, but firm enough that you couldn’t pull away. His breathing hitched again, and you could see the muscles in his jaw working, his teeth grit like he was holding back words he didn’t dare speak.

“Pretty,” he said, voice hoarse, “you don’t… you don’t get it.” His eyes flicked to your lips, then back up, and the sharp swallow in his throat made your own breath falter. “You can’t touch me right now.”

“Well, too bad,” you shot back, even though your pulse was skittering. “You feel like you’re on fire—what the fuck is happening to you?”

He shook his head once, a sharp, almost desperate motion. His grip loosened just enough for you to feel the tremor in his fingers. “Not sick,” he muttered,

“Phai…” you whispered, feeling the first prick of unease mix with the stubborn urge not to leave him like this.

Fuck it.

You quickly led him to the bed in the corner of the dimly lit room. Everything was messed up. The pillows were scattered, the bedsheets were half put on the bed, and papers were everywhere on the floor.

As the gigantic man flops onto the bed with a whine. You quickly turn your back to get something, a wet cloth to put on him, but then a strong hand pulled your hand in his.

His fingers wrapped around yours like a man drowning, and the sheer strength in the grip made you stumble half a step back toward him.

“Don’t,” Phainon ground out, his voice low and strained, threaded with something that made your pulse stutter. You glanced over your shoulder, and the sight of him sprawled there was almost enough to make you forget what you’d been doing—shirt clinging to the sharp planes of his chest, collar loose enough to frame the thick line of muscle down to his sternum. His skin glistened faintly in the muted light, the flush spreading from his throat down over his collarbones.

"Phainon, you're burning up-" His breathing hitched again, eyes squeezing shut as if the contact itself was both a relief and a torment. “Just—don’t leave,” he whispered, the fight in his tone thinning into something more desperate.

Your throat tightened, that uneasy knot in your stomach tangling with something heavier. “Then tell me what’s going on.”

He opened his eyes at that, the flicker of something wild in them.

"Blood...haven't had blood in a long time.."

A cold ripple went down your spine. “You could’ve told me—”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” His grip on your wrist tightened, just enough to make you aware of the disparity in strength. “It’s not safe when I’m this far gone. For anyone.”

You swallowed hard. “Then let me help you.”

That got a reaction—a low, almost pained laugh, short and humorless. “Help me? Sweets, the only thing that would help me right now is the one thing I can’t take from you without—” He stopped again, his gaze dragging from your face to your throat in a way that made your breath falter.

“…Without what?” you asked, even though part of you already knew the answer.

"Without taking too much.."

You shifted closer, kneeling beside the bed so you were eye level with him. Your hand slid from his wrist to his cheek, brushing away the damp strands of hair clinging to his skin. And then, you tilted your head, baring the pale line of your neck and letting the collar of your shirt slip lower, exposing the curve of your collarbones.

A low, almost broken whine slipped past his lips as he surged forward—fast enough that your pulse spiked, but slow enough for you to see the restraint straining every inch of him. His hands came up to cradle your face, then slid down to your shoulders, pulling you flush against him.

The heat of him was overwhelming, his breath ghosting over your throat as he hovered there, trembling. His voice was a rasp in your ear. “Gods, you smell…—” He cut himself off with another shudder. “Sweets, I—”

“Phainon,” you whispered, your hand curling in the back of his shirt. “Do it.”

He broke.

The sound he made was halfway between a groan and a growl, his mouth pressing to your skin with desperate reverence before his fangs pierced you. The pain was sharp, but it melted almost instantly into a strange, heady warmth that seeped through your veins.

He whined against your skin, low and unrestrained, drinking deep in messy, impatient pulls like a man starved. One hand gripped your waist hard enough to make you gasp, the other fisting in the fabric at your back as if anchoring himself there.

You swore you could feel his pulse syncing with yours, the heat of him bleeding into you until the world narrowed to the wet sound of him feeding and the quiet, needy noises he couldn’t seem to stop making.

Your knees felt weak, but you didn’t pull away. If anything, you tilted your head further, letting him in. “Good…” he murmured between swallows, the word half-slurred. “You taste…—” Another whine cut him off, muffled against your skin.

His mouth trailed lower, then back up, fangs grazing in a way that sent a dizzy shiver racing down your spine. Each bite was hot and wet and unrestrained, his lips dragging over the curve of your throat like he couldn’t decide whether to drink or just claim you entirely.

You barely had time to catch your breath between the sharp pricks and the slow, greedy pulls. His tongue traced the line of a fresh mark, soothing it, before he sank his fangs in again—messier this time, his jaw working like he couldn’t get enough.

“Phainon…” you breathed, voice breaking, the sound more a plea than anything else.

He groaned at the sound of his name, the vibration rolling against your skin, and then he was pressing, hungrier, mouth finding every patch of exposed skin along your neck and collarbone, biting, sucking, and kissing in frantic need. You could feel your pulse flutter under each new mark, the heat pooling in your chest and spreading outward until your limbs felt weightless.

The room seemed to tilt around you, the air thick and heady. All you could focus on was the wet drag of his lips, the intoxicating pull at your veins, and the soft, almost broken noises you couldn’t stop making.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his mouth was red, his eyes blown wide and fever-bright. “…Sweets,” he rasped, breathless, like your name alone was enough to unravel him.

His lips were back on you before you could answer, crushing, messy, fevered—like he was trying to drink you in with every sense he had. The sharp nip of his fangs bled into open-mouthed kisses, the wet heat of his mouth trailing from your jaw to the hollow of your throat. Each press was unsteady, desperate, tasting of hunger and something achingly human beneath it.

Your fingers tangled in his hair without thinking, pulling him closer, and the low, needy sound that tore from him nearly undid you. His hands were everywhere, gripping your hip, sliding up your back, holding you as if he let go for even a second, you’d vanish.

He broke from your skin only to mouth at the corner of your jaw, hot breath fanning over your ear. “Please…” The word cracked, and then he was pressing hurried kisses along your throat, jaw, cheek—like he couldn’t decide where to settle.

“I’ll—” His voice hitched between kisses, the heat of his mouth smearing along your skin. “I’ll be your good boy… just—” He whined then, a sound so raw it went straight through you. “Just don’t leave me.”

Your pulse kicked hard at his words, heat coiling low in your stomach. The grip you had on his hair tightened, anchoring him there, and you managed a breathless, slurred murmur, “Won’t leave you…”

The effect was immediate. His whole body seemed to shudder, breath catching before a slow, almost relieved growl rumbled out of his chest. “Good…”

In the next moment, the world tilted. You barely had time to gasp before he’d swept you off your feet, pressing you down onto the soft give of your bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, his broad frame caging you in, eyes fever-bright and fixed on you like you were the only thing that existed.

Then his mouth was on you again, hot and insistent, fangs sliding into a spot lower on your neck. The pull was immediate, greedy, his jaw working as if he couldn’t get you fast enough. Each draw sent a dizzy rush flooding through you, warmth spreading outward in molten waves.

He didn’t stop at just feeding, his mouth wandered, dragging over the curve of your throat, catching on your collarbone before returning to your pulse with an unrestrained hunger. The wet sounds of him drinking mixed with your uneven breaths, the tension between you coiling tighter with every messy, lingering kiss he left behind.

When he finally drew back just enough to breathe, his lips were red, his gaze heavy-lidded, and he had a crazy, drunk look on his face. "So good...my pretty girl..."

In your amusement, you forget the fact that Phainon was even there in the first place. He noticed you earlier as he was countering his opponent's argument.

His speech froze mid-way, gentle blue eyes zeroing on your visage like a dog seeing his owner from far-away. He immediately brightened, posture straightening before realizing that you weren't looking at him, no, you looked at the young scholar with that lovely smile— a smile that the man in front of him did not deserve.

Phainon, in his stupor, did not notice the confused expression his opponent was giving him. Didn't even realize that he stopped talking and was gritting his teeth while his eyes stayed on your face, looking both hurt and enraged.

As the scholar was about to speak, maybe ask what the hell was going on with him, he halted his movements when the chyrsos hair suddenly whipped his head to face him. And boy, did his body take a screenshot when he saw Phainon's face.

Phainon managed to tear his eyes away from you, his gaze more hostile and body rigid as he looked straight at the scholar. The chrysos heir looked at the young scholar in front of him, eyes roaming up and down before frowning.

Just what was it that caught your attention?

Does it matter? If he shows just how much better he is compared to the man you're paying way too much attention to, you'd realize how much better Phainon is compared to him. An easy solution.

So, Phainon spits out words like it's a sword fight rather than philosophical debate. He cuts through the scholar's arguments as if it's paper, sharp and absolute. His tone is a lot more hostile, the spite nearly palpable but no one would ever believe he'd be capable of such a thing. Instead, they see it as fiery passion, wanting to defend the side that he believed in.

Of course, his debate opponent noticed it. Almost stepping back in fear that the chrysos heir would actually draw his sword and ask for a physical fight right then and there.

You noticed it too, eyebrows raised in bewilderment as you look at the white-haired deliverer who circled the scholar as if he was prey.

It was not the usual way Phainon debated, at least not to young scholars with aspirations and stars in their eyes. This was a tone he'd use when he's in a council meeting with Aglaea, solemnly stomping down any argument the old fossils gave with firm words as he restrained himself from banging his fist on the table.

What in Kephale’s name is he thinking? A bright mind should be cultivated, not destroyed. You doubt the man hadn't even been in Okhema for too long, perhaps a freshly graduated student from the grove.

The crowd's whispers grew louder, focused on the thrilling debate in front of them. Not that you'd personally call it that anymore, it's more verbally abusing your juniors and destroying their career than a debate.

Phainon was nearly shouting, body language exaggerated as he countered every argument flawlessly. The young scholar still kept fighting but looked like he was on the verge of collapsing if this went on any further. He looked as if he was about to cry…

Well, this turned boring really fast. You sighed, turning back to leave.

You felt someone shove past you, and you nearly toppled over but caught yourself in time. As you were about to glare at the offender, you saw the retreating back of the scholar and felt a little bad.

He decided to run…

You don't blame him, you'd run too if you were in his shoes. Phainon has never been this brutal in any of his debates, usually maintaining a neutral tone and he definitely hasn't used the words ‘fool’ and ‘ignorant filth’...until now.

Best to leave now, you'll find out what's got his panties in a twist when you're more interested.

“Let's walk in the market together,” You stopped in your tracks as you felt a gentle grip on your shoulder. “It's a nice day out.”

You look up at him, expression neutral as you click your tongue. “Sure, we're walking the same route anyways.” It's two in the afternoon, almost time for Aglaea's summon.

Ignoring the eyes of the crowd, you brush his hand off and continue to walk towards the marmoreal palace. Phainon, as always, slows his strides as he matches your walking pace. He always does this, like he'd die if he doesn't walk side by side with you whenever you're together.

“You weren't looking at me earlier, was it not to your liking?” Phainon casually asks, smiling as he gauges your reaction.

“It's okay,” you say, tone neutral as you ignore the obvious staring. You should've just ignored the damn crowd and went on your merry way.

Phainon hums, his same smile never disappearing but you can tell something's bothering him. “The scholar,” he starts, finally looking away from you. “You seemed really interested in the scholar, your full attention was on him.”

“I found him interesting, that's all.” You don't even want to entertain this conversation but you do, “A bright mind like his will be a wonderful addition to Okhema.”

Phainon's heart feels like it's slowly shriveling the more you talk. He always feels this way whenever you praise anything in front of him, it's deplorable how easy you impact his life. A single look from you could dictate whether his day would be tolerable or the best fucking day of his life.

“His argument was flawed, flimsy and fragile as his ideals.” Phainon spoke coldly, “If the professor was here, he wouldn't even think twice before failing him.”

…Didn't he fail to graduate for like ten years or something?

You almost laughed, but held it in. “It was impressive that he still tried to come up with a counter–argument as you were filleting him on the spot.”

His smile almost fell off.

Phainon clenched his fist so tight that it was shaking, whether from deep sadness or anger wasn't relevant. “I did well too, no?” He murmured, looking like a kicked mutt on the side of the road.

You can only roll your eyes, entertained by the idea that he's actually fetching for compliments right now. Like the sadist that you are, you kept quiet, neither denying and agreeing with his statement.

By the time you reach the palace, Phainon has gotten eerily quiet. The poor thing looked shaken up, bright blue eyes now a darker hue as he no longer had a smile on his face.

Walking through the pillars, Phainon stares at your silhouette through his peripheral vision. Mind working through each and every word he spoke during the debate. Seriously, being impressed because the man fought despite being verbally beaten to the ground? Phainon could do that too, he'd done it a lot when he was still a student, his professor's words were brutal but he endured them all.

Even now, you aren't looking at him. It pains him, the weight of the world a little heavier on his shoulders when you aren't giving him a lick of attention. Has Kephale's coreflame always been this hot? It's searing through his flesh by now.

A touch from you would no doubt alleviate his misery, your whole being was his only solace in this fake world. If Phainon weren't so utterly devout, he might’ve called you mean for reducing him to such a state. But he's just a slave to your whims, letting himself get swept by your tides.

Doesn't mean he won't voice out how dejected he is though, “Please look at me?” he pleads, voice trembling with desperation.

You ignore him, obviously. Hurrying your pace so you don't have to deal with his usual lovesick shenanigans.

“Honey?” he tries, mellowing his voice into something soft and desperate, just the way you like him to be. You stubbornly keep your eyes to the pathway, sighing obnoxiously loud so he can hear how annoyed you are.

“Baby?” he tries again, only for you to quicken your steps once more, almost to the point of jogging.

It's all futile, Phainon doesn't even have to exert energy to catch up. His long legs could walk faster than you even with normal strides.

Phainon bites his lip, “Pretty? Look at me, c'mon…” he whines.

You mutter a few indistinguishable words under your breath before finally turning back, “We're gonna be late, I don't want to deal with Aglaea's sermons.”

As you were about to scold him further, you shut your mouth as soon as you see small droplets running down his face. Of course, he'd do this again. Why are you even surprised? You should've expected that a week of ignoring him would lead to this.

Phainon sniffles, eyes puffy as more tears slide down his face. He's pouting, bottom lip trembling as he looks at you with pitiful eyes. Have mercy on me, that's probably what he's trying to say.

He knows how you are already, putting your entertainment first before anything else. The only reason you chose him as your lover was because you found him the most fun to tease (and also because every other suitor mysteriously fucked off). It still hurts him though, when you get bored and ignore him for a few weeks before finding him entertaining again.

You switch from extreme affection to near disdain but it matters not. Not to him. He doesn't care about the way Aglaea looks at the both of you with a bit of disgust. Doesn't care about the grim expression on Hyacine's face whenever Phainon talks about the way you stood him up again on your date. Doesn't care for the disturbed look of Mydei as Phainon violently tears titankins apart, imagining them as those who look at you with lustful gazes.

The flame-chase journey is nothing but false hope, there is nothing left for him now. Oh, how the stars he used to dream of as a kid pales in comparison to your irises. The warmth of the sun does not compare to your hands when you caress his face, lips molding together like puzzle pieces. There is nothing more grounding than your presence; the earth does not balance him, it's you who does. The fragile thread tethering his sanity is you, always you.

Everything is but an illusion, the only ‘truth’ in Amphoreus is your love and his rage.

“Oh, wretched thing…” you wipe away his tears, cradling his face with your hands. Phainon only cries harder, sobs wracking through his body, simply because you like it. Without fail, the only way he'd catch your undivided attention is when he's shaking from deep sadness, tears dripping down uncontrollably.

His misery gives you entertainment, and there is nothing more important to you than your own laughter and happiness.

Phainon plays both foolish consort and sole jester of your bloody court. It is not cruel to him, a man stricken with grief and despair so deep that cruelty and love blur together. You can't inflict any pain that he hasn't already felt tenfold.

When he cries, he cries hard. Phainon likes to delude himself that you're doing this for him– that his sadness is not for your amusement but so he could let out some of his frustrations. You like it when he's vulnerable, the emotion that washes over his physique is relief. He doesn't need to hide when you are here, he can be free of any duty and obligation.

Phainon strips himself raw, now bare to you as Khaslana. His hands grip yours tight, holding your palms to his face and keeping them there. You can't leave me, he doesn't say but you know. There is nothing else for me but you, he doesn't say but, again, you already know.

Ah, poor Khaslana.

To have met such a cruel fate. To have met such a cruel lover.

Khaslana may no longer be the same man, millions of cycles have erased what semblance of morality he once had, but he has always been yours. Even from the very start, when he walked among the masses as Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, his heart has always longed for your gaze. You did not give it to him then, since his hatred for you burned brighter than his adoration, and he did not allow himself to indulge in the addicting substance such as you.

But it no longer matters now.

Khaslana is too far gone. Everything exists to be used as a fuel for destruction, why fight futilely against fate? Does he not deserve to rest?

Khaslana finds your existence to be a miracle, an undying light among debris of destruction. Somehow, you have never once died before him. Always managing to find him on the brink of death, in the middle of a warzone, your footsteps light as a feather. You do not hold him nor bend down to look at his dying body properly— you simply stand beside him, back turned as you watch the skirmish. There was no love, but you stayed. You stayed, and that's all that matters to him.

He is tired, tired of the meaningless cycle of life. Khaslana once theorized you to be one of Lygus’ allies, but after dying so many times, he hasn't seen you react to the administrator at all.

Once, maybe twice, he had seen you look at the sky with so much hatred that it made his own hatred look trivial. It was a moment he could never forget, as he breathed his last, he fell in-love once again.

Khaslana can no longer hope, no longer fight for a better future for his family. Not when everything is a futile descent to despair. Instead, he wishes to hold you in his arms and have you cradle him in return. The scorching abhorrence deep within your soul warms his cold body, making it known that he is not alone.

You may deny it, sighing deeply whenever he asks about destruction or how you felt about the prophecy– you state, unimpressed, that you don't have much of an impression on the fate of your world, or the fake sky but he knows deep down that you know a lot more than him.

Your cruelty might drive him to tears but unlike the many things in his life, you stay. As if you were born to eternally stand by his side. The only deserving witness to the sun's glorious ascension and Phainon's death.

“Don't worry, beloved Khaslana. You will never be alone as long as I am here.” you place a chaste kiss on his cheek, brushing the stray hairs from his face. Khaslana does not look at your empty eyes, but he clings to you tighter.

In this lonesome road, you and him will walk a path of mutual destruction and bring forth a dawn so bright that it consumes even the divine. His wretched hands will hold your fragile figure, mend the cracks of your soul using whatever's remaining of his.

If this indifferent world takes you before him, let it be known to the gods that his hatred will subsume yours and bring imminent destruction to the cosmos who did nothing but watch.

But, for now, Khaslana will lower his head to the skies, all for the sake of keeping you in his arms. You can struggle, run away, and even drive a sword through his heart if you wish but it will change nothing.

Luckily for him, you do none of those things. You stay by his side, spiteful and adoring, loving and disdainful of his existence. Khaslana doesn't mind, the fact that you are next to him is all that matters.

Your cruelty is welcome as long as it's only him receiving your grace. So, quit looking at ants undeserving of your attention and look at him instead.

“Done crying? Hurry now, the others are waiting for us.”

“If you link your arms with mine, I'll stop crying.”

And you do, smiling softly as you loop your arms through his.

Peep how you called him 'beloved Khaslana' rather than 'my beloved Khaslana'. Feel free to theorize why that is.

Love this fuckass miserable guy with all my heart, i truly wish the best for him but hes just so....easy to mess around with so have this!!

He grumbled, the sound muffled. ” Not yet..” he answered, and to that, you hummed, the sound vibrated his whole being, it was a simple hum of acknowledgement. Maybe that's what made it worse? That you were not paying attention to him although he threw himself at you the moment he entered the room.

Your scent suddenly seemed stronger now, engulfing him whole and leaving him dizzy, his hand trailed up and down your waist. An innocent touch—you would say if you weren’t feeling his growing bulge against your thigh.

You decide to ignore it, a little mean yes. But he hadn’t made any moves yet, no? Why not let him get needier.

Phainon’s hands still traced your sides, he sighed. A shaky sound, he felt guilty. You were trying to cuddle and lull him to sleep yet there he was getting all hot and bothered from a simple whisper and your steady breathing against his ear.

He couldn't help himself, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against him. His half-erect cock aching already, he hoped you'd notice. That you'd put down your stupid telestale and give him the attention he yearns for!

Subtly — or so he thought — he moved his hips against you, exhaling slowly. The small friction was not enough, it only made him more frustrated. Moving once and twice again. It didn't quench his need; it served the opposite, as if a sinner in hell had been granted a vision of heaven. A thirsty man offered one drop of water, left wanting more rather than being satisfied.

If you would only put that damn telestale down.

A flicker of hope beamed inside him as you shuffled under him, yet it quickly died down when he realized you were just adjusting to feel more comfortable. He whined a little, and you sighed.

“Are you just gonna keep humping me like a puppy in heat?” you said. Voice steady and cool, not even glancing at him.

He should've felt ashamed, shy or humiliated yet all your words went straight to his dick. He was fully erect now. A whine left his mouth as he felt his crotch brush against your thigh. Your condescending tone made him more excited.

“Well, won't you pay attention to me then?” he says, you tsked at him. “Always so needy..” you tossed your telestale and you felt his widening smile and giggle against your shoulder. Quickly replaced by a gasp once you ran your hand across his large back.

He was a tall, well-built, and strong man, yet he always found himself putty in your hands.

Your hand finds its way in his hair, pulling his head up to look him in the eyes, his half-lidded gaze, burning with need, told you everything you needed to know. Well and the straining hard cock poking your thigh too.

He looks in your eyes a few seconds before leaning in to kiss you, yet you stop him with a glare.

“Who said you could kiss me?” you say, less of a question more of a warning. And he couldn't help but just obey, whining as he buried his head between your breasts and sighing.

“Aww, you want a kiss, hm?” you stroked his hair. “I can give you a few.” His head immediately lifts up, and you could almost imagine a tail swishing right and left behind him, resembling a cute, excited puppy.

“Such a puppy..” his heart throbs at the nickname, although embarrassing. He always liked it, always wanting to be your puppy.

You grab his chin and pull him closer, kissing his cheeks and forehead. Then the corner of his lips. He closes his eyes and sighs. He looked more relaxed, as if each kiss had lifted some weight off his shoulders.

You hum and look at him, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes lovestruck. His hips moved against your thigh ever so slightly, and he gripped your waist tightly. Your intent gaze on him makes the few seconds of silence feel like an agonizing eternity.

“Say, darling, you wanna be good for me?” You ask, knowing the answer already.

He immediately nods, biting his lower lip in anticipation. His hands travel down to squeeze your hips.

You chuckle at his eagerness, “I thought so.” And just like that, you pull him closer, catching his lips in a slow kiss, nipping at his bottom lip, then licking it once he whines. His hands now settle on your nape, pulling you closer, trying to devour what he can from your lips, losing the rhythm you set for the kiss, he gets greedy. His tongue swirled against your own. Your eyebrows furrow, you tug his hair rather harshly to remind him of who is in charge now, and his eyes roll back.

You return to kissing him slowly. Pushing your tongue inside his mouth and taking your time dragging it against his, your hand let go of his hair. Now, caressing his throat, you can feel him shiver, his hands shaking as they grip you.

Your hand wrapped around his neck, squeezing it, and the moan he let out had your underwear drenched. You squeeze again as the fervor of the kiss increases. He didn't know if he should focus on kissing you back or on the grasp of your hand on his neck, cutting off enough oxygen for him to start feeling dizzy. As if he wasn't already suffocating from your presence.

Drool fell from the corner of his lips, quick gasps for air left his mouth and he felt like he could cum just from you choking him and making out with him.

You pulled back and licked your lips. The grip on his neck was loose now, allowing him to breathe, pulling his face up you could only stare in awe at the view in front of you.

Phainon, red as a ripe tomato. His chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, lips swollen from your harsh treatment, and parted slightly as he exhaled. Drool falling from the corner of his mouth, half-lidded eyes looking at you with a burning want. Ready to take whatever you'd give him.

You just want to tease him.

“On your knees, puppy.” Phainon didn't waste a second before going on his knees in front of you, his hand resting on your calf, giving you that pleading look. His hand slithered from your calf to under your knees, pushing your legs apart and slotting himself in between them. His face is leaning on your inner thigh.

You tutted “ah ah, not yet, pretty thing.” You pushed him back and he obeyed with an annoyed whine. “Hands on your knees,” you ordered, and he did as you wished. His hands gripping his knees and digging into his flesh. “So obedient, aren't you…” You raise your leg and lay your foot on his thigh, running it up then back down once it nears his crotch.

Each slow drag of your foot on his thigh sent electric waves through his body, and his nails dug deep into his knees. Holding himself down by a thread, “You live for teasing me, dawnlight.” Phainon said gruffly. Chuckling a little, his eyebrows knitted and a hiss left his mouth once your foot settled on his bulge, rubbing the top of the tent slowly.

“Really now? I say you quite enjoy it.” You whisper, applying a little more pressure on his cock. Watching him squirm and struggle to keep himself in check, his hips buckle up to meet your touch, grinding against your foot slowly. Small sighs left his lips. His cock straining is his pants, looking for delicious relief.

“I'm surprised, puppy. You held yourself pretty well…” You move your foot against his crotch faster than before, yet still slow in general. “wanna get a reward, hm?”

“Yes.. Oh Titans- yes.. ” he choked out, face burning and hands aching to feel you under his fingertips, to get a hold of you in any way he can.

“Treat yourself, pretty.”

Phainon wastes no time, wrapping his hand around your ankle and kissing the dorsum of your foot then your inner ankle, making his way up through your calf, kissing each inch like it was worship. Sighs left his lips, his tongue dragged and teeth nipped at your inner thigh. You exhale shakily “You're so beautiful…” he says like a mantra.

Phainon whispers sweet nothings as he kisses your skin, pushing your skirt up to your stomach. Leaving you in your underwear. He looked at the wet patch forming in it and leaned in, burying his face between your thighs, licking your clit through your underwear.

Your hands tangled in your hair and he pulled you closer by the hips, pushing your panties to the side and sighing, his hot breath hitting your core pleasantly, Phainon’s tongue dragged around your entrance, his nose brushing against your clit as he drank up your essence, tasting like sweet honey on his tongue.

You moan once his tongue laps at your cunt, dragging it in and out then circling your clit, suctioning it between his lips and giving it small licks then adding a mixture of pulling with his teeth. Groaning when you pull his hair, sending vibrations that have you arching your back and grinding against his tongue.

Phainon kept licking and sucking your clit, his cock nearly exploding from the teasing earlier and now the small gasps and shy moans you were letting out, you were still trying to be in control. He felt like a starved animal, each noise you made had him jolt, his cock twitching and aching.

His tongue is working on you faster, a merciless rhythm, your moans got louder, your thighs shook and he groaned again, his arms wrapped around your hips. Shutting down any attempt of running from what he was giving you, he moaned shamelessly as you gripped fistfuls of his hair and pulled at them.

His tongue flattened against your clit, the muscle moved up and down with a little pressure. The pooling heat in your stomach broke and you came with a long string of moans, some of his name and some praising how good he's making you feel. Your essence gushing out and staining his face.

Phainon let out a strained groan, still licking your now overstimulated clit. His grip on your hips tight, leaving you to only take more.

“Phainon!! Stop- stop! I already came!!” you exclaim, trying to regain the dominance you had over him, your eyes rolling back as he still lapped at your cunt with the same intensity, your thighs shut tight around his head. He groaned and forced them back open.

“please- Hah,, please darlin’ just one more.” he said between licks and sucks. “Just one more, yeah? I promise. You can give me another. Won't you?” phainon gave you a pleading look, and he was back to suckling before pushing two fingers inside your weeping cunt, curling them at just the right places.

Mewls left your mouth as his fingers worked inside you harshly, trying to force another orgasm out of you. It didn't take long for you to start clenching around his fingers, your hands pushed at him trying to escape the immense pleasure, yet your hips chased his fingers. Looking for the bliss they had to offer.

Phainon chuckles “you're so pretty like this..“ his voice is deep and strained, vibrating on your clit and having you moan loudly, reaching the brink of ecstasy once again, rather quickly thanks to the immemse overstimulation.

he followed, his tongue weakly licking off what he could as a wet patch grew larger in his pants, his aching cock finding some relief from watching your expression shift into that of bliss as you released on his mouth and fingers. Thick ropes of semen stained through his pants, although it was the least of his concerns.

He was too focused helping you come down from your high, he watched with hearts in his eyes as you caught your breath. A hand on your mouth, your chest raising and falling. Looking down at the sight of him covered in your slick between your thighs. His stained pants catching your attention.

“Fucking loser, did you cum just from eating me out?” you managed out, a little mean but he deserved it because he didn't listen to your order of stopping.

What you didn't expect is the harsg slap to your oversensitive clit and cunt, a chuckle coming from him.

“It's really cute that you think you're still in charge. It's my turn now, baby.” and you go wide eyed as he pressed your legs up to your chest, his other hand coming down to unzip his pants, freeing his cock that had been screaming all night. Rubbing it against your slit, the red angry tip resting on your throbbing clit.

“Not fair.. this is not how i wanted it to go.” you whine, trying to keep yourself from moaning and just begging him to wreck you.

“Nothing is fair, dawnlight.” he coos at you and leans in to kiss you as he slowly bullies his thick cock inside you, inch by inch. His tip kissing your cervix and length stretching you, pushing against all your sweet spots.

He stays still for a second, relishing in the sensation of your tensing walls clamping around him after waiting for so long, he takes in the feeling and the sight of you under him. He leans down to kiss you again.

“cmon you-.. Phainon, please..!” you whine and he chuckles, kissing the corner of your eyes "whatever you want i give you, darling." and he sits back up, watching as he pulls his cock back out, leaving only the head in. Then watching it disappear inside you as he drags it back in, your tightness around nearly making him cum right there.

“mm.. Look so fucking good writhing on my cock” he pressed on your lower abdomen, the intensity of his thrusts increasing, he guided your legs to wrap around his waist “See how- hah.. See how nicely it fits in you, hm? Made just f’me… all mine.”

His thrusts are now torturous, angled to keep prodding at that sweet spot that had you rolling your eyes and digging your nails in his back, leaving red crescents and scratches on him like ownership marks.

"Mhm, still think anything's fair, baby? Hah- can you even think with my cock buried deep in you like this?" he rubbed your clit then gave it a slap, earning a whimper from you. "too dumb on my cock hm? Already gonna cum for the third time, yeah? Hah... You feel so fucking good, wish i could keep you like this."

“ah hah-! Pha- phainon.. Please!” you beg, when you know he can't deny you anything. “Cum with me, dawnlight. Let me- hah.. Let me fill you.” he whispers against your neck, his voice an Octave lowet and you can't help but do as he says.

Your third orgasm hits you like a truck. Throwing your head back and moaning, legs forced open to accommodate for phainon. Cunt stretched and full to the brim as he pressed on your abdomen.

You spasm around him and he groans, shooting his load of semen deep inside you with a groan of your name. His grip on you leaves red handprints on your skin.

He slumps on top of you with a few slow drags to ride out both of your highs, he's still buried in you. His head rests on the crook of your neck, your sweet scent filling his nostrils and calming him down. You wrap your arms around his shoulder and sigh.

“I love you, phainon.” you kiss his temple, and he kisses your neck in return “i love you too, [name].”

He suddenly flipped you over to rest prone on your stomach, his cock twitching and coming to life against your ass. Running his hand all over your body as he rested his chest on your back.

"seriously phainon?! I was right calling you a dog in heat..." you complain, or pretend to.

"sorry, but declaring your love to me while i was still inside you really had me going again. Plus, i'm still not over how hot you looked actin' all bossy and calling me puppy." he murmured against your neck, kissing it and nipping at it.

All you can do all night was mewl under him and take it all.

A/n: ayeee on a scale of one to ten how would you rate my first time writing smut 😎 seriously this was pure self indulgence because im so horny over phainon today👉👈.

The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older. 

It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”

The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”

Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air. 

You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.

This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself. 

Except…nothing happens.

The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”

And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you. 

And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea. 

“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.

“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe. 

“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”

He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind. 

“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”

“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”

“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust. 

“And I’m going home,” you say flatly. 

You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)

But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”

“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.

“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”

“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”

He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.

(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore. 

(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore. 

Still, he always does in front of you. 

Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)

It happens on a Friday night.

You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited. 

Until you’re not. 

You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do. 

It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there. 

It guts you. 

You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)

In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )

You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon. 

“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”

“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”

He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text. 

But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”

“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”

“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”

“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”

He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that. 

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”

“Then don’t,” he offers.

You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.

“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”

“Are you buying?” you perk up.

He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”

You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.

He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his. 

“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.

“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”

“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.

He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”

“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”

“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”

“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)

“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”

“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”

“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.

You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh. 

Your eyes widen as you realize. 

Oh.

Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over. 

There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.

“Yo, what the fuck—”

“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)

“Who the hell are you—”

“What’s your fucking problem man—”

“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)

Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means. 

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily. 

Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange. 

Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face. 

“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”

“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”

He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”

“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”

“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)

“You’re still a crybaby!”

“Am not!”

“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)

He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”

“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.

“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore. 

But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature. 

But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”

He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”

You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”

(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it. 

You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)

It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon. 

“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)

“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.

“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”

“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”

“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.

“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share. 

He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes. 

Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different. 

“What?” you ask.

Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”

You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.

His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his. 

“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.

You don’t ask what he means. You already know. 

It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now. 

You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him. 

“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”

It won’t.

It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.

“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”

“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.

And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on. 

He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders. 

“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”

“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.

“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly. 

“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”

You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)

“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”

“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease. 

“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”

“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)

“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”

“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”

He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”

“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.

Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever. 

His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him. 

“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”

“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”

“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.

“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”

“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”

He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”

“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”

With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give. 

He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears. 

“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.

He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”

You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”

“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”

You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound. 

It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that. 

Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.

“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.

“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you. 

He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm. 

“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.

“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”

“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”

It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of. 

“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.

“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers. 

He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”

“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you. 

“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”

“Good,” he hums. 

His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.

“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”

“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”

“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”

He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.) 

“When did they change for you?”

“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”

“On your first date that broke your heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swinging things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”

“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin. 

He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.

You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”

His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe. 

“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”

And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it. 

“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”

“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”

He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp. 

He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily. 

“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it. 

He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”

You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady. 

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

“More than okay,” he says, voice strained. 

“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again. 

It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion. 

“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…” 

He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”

“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one. 

(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before. 

Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you. 

The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.) 

It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.

“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this. 

This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him. 

“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”

With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon. 

“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”

Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need. 

“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”

“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls. 

“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.

“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace. 

It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly. 

“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”

“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”

“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit. 

Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.

He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak. 

When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.

“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.

“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”

“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”

You snort. “Is that why you cried?”

He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”

“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.

“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”

“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”

“Yeah?” he beams.

“Yeah,” you grin. 

(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants. 

He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.

And then it rains. 

It rains hard.

You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it. 

You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water. 

He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.

“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”

He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder. 

This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you. 

And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life. 

“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”

“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out. 

“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.

But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.

So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching. 

You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand. 

“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks. 

You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed. 

Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you. 

Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.

It’s that simple. It always was. 

He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”

“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”

He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently. 

“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”

You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you. 

You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three. 

“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”

“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little. 

“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy. 

And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you. 

“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”

You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”

“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”

“Still you,” you snort. 

He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”

“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”

(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)

You finish the sketch, take out the crayons, and begin coloring. Minutes pass; you hear some shuffling and rustling, then finally, a voice, gentle and clear as the crafted melodies you have sung.

“Can I color too?”

You look beside you where the sound came from, where you see a blur of blue and white. It’s a boy—there’s a boy sitting right beside you and peering over your sketchbook and you cannot see his face.

Either he had mistaken you for a close friend of his or it’s normal for him to be this friendly to a total stranger.

“No.” You simply answer, before scooting a little away from him and resuming your work. You add details to the fish on the left, adoring it with sparkles and a reddish pattern.

The boy follows and keeps the same distance.

“Why not?” You don’t answer, so he pursues like a relentless fire. “I’m not going to ruin it.”

This time you finally look at him and you see it—hair, the reflection of snow, and a pair of eyes that holds the skies within. It’s a beautiful blue, adoring and soft; the kind of hue you have heard your provider tell you when she mentions this place called ‘ocean’. You’re sure you can see yourself in them too as he keeps his gaze on yours.

“It’s not about ruining it.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know you.”

Not like you know anyone here, though. You’ve always kept your distance from everyone, nothing good is going to ever come out of making bonds in this grand play of life and death. You look back to your artwork. 

Silence falls in the small space between you and him, in the gap between that can be easily closed if he were to push a little closer, but he seemingly abates and you’re about to let out a sigh (of relief?) when he speaks once more.

“I’m Phainon.” He beams a grin at you when you look at him again. “Nice to meet you!”

It feels like there are floating flowers and stars surrounding him when he speaks, and you’ve come to realize and accept the fact that this stubborn child is not going to give up. So you simply just relent and give him the boxes of crayons, bringing the sketchbook closer to him.

You don’t see him but you feel it—the sparkle in his eyes and the utter warmth that clings to his smile. You think you never want to see it.

“Ah, you smudged it.”

“Oh, wait. Let me fix it quickly.”

“You ruined it even more!”

“Oops, sorry.” He looks at you while scratching the back of his head, his somewhat insincere face completely rendering his apology useless.

“Don’t look at me like that. We can just do this,” he picks up a different crayon, one that stands out from the background, and begins doing whatever he is planning while you watch. It’s not like you don’t have the energy to stop him—and maybe you actually do—, but curiosity triumphs over you as your eyes follow the movement of his hand. “Ta-dah! I present to you: Fishnon!”

There’s another fish standing beside the one you have drawn now, except this one looks a little messier—mixed in the blur of colors and blue, laid on top of the hues like a coveted stain, but it stands out in the array of pigments, nevertheless.

“Fishnon…?” You don’t know why you question it nor what you are even questioning for, but your eyes are glued to the paper, specifically to the newly-added fish with a sword. Oh, and the two fishes are now holding hands.

“Yeah, Fishnon! It’s Phainon and Fish combined.” 

He’s rather enthusiastic. And it’s stupid. Like extremely stupid.

Phainon’s art skills are not much developed compared to yours and his fish persona looks ridiculous standing beside the one you have drawn. But for some reason, the tight knots in your chest eases just enough to make you breathe again. You don’t realize you’ve been holding it.

“It looks just like you.” You say, adding details to Fishnon.

“As it should.”

And somewhere between here and there, in this moment under the carefully drawn skies, he calls for you in a kind tone (you don’t recall ever telling him your name) and you can feel something shift deep within you. Something soft, warm, slowly unraveling itself.

It’s high time in noon, meals are being served, and it feels like a curse has been cast on you.

Ever since then, your eyes betray you—always seeking blue, and whenever you find it, it’s already gazing back.

The thing that has you scratching your head and wishing to slap yourself is that it always follows with that stupid smile—that stupid grin with that dumb face and those annoying eyes that crinkles into crescents.

You stab your fork harshly on the pea that it scratches against the plate’s surface. It bursts under the tines, its guts smearing the porcelain. The poor vegetable colony probably cripples in fear of being the next victim.

“Is this seat free?” 

You don’t look up. You don’t need to. His voice is unmistakable—honeyed and light, like the choir’s song before they curdle into screams.

“Yes.”

“Can I sit beside you?”

This is why you never try to know anyone. Not only is it a waste of effort but it will do nothing but harm. Bonds here are rotten fruit born from a splendid tree, dangling from a branch just to be plucked and crushed underfoot. The Garden’s love is a slow poison, and Phainon gulps it down like communion wine. You’re not sure who to blame here, but is there really anyone to do so? Was this a sin?

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is:

“Go ahead.”

It all feels so foolish. Like pull-your-hair-out stupid, what-the-hell-did-i-get-into foolish. Despite averting your eyes away, your gaze only returns to him soon after like a pair of magnets that can never be separated—and perhaps he simply was just like that, how irritating he may be even if doing nothing. There was a certain fascination in how he can remain rather optimistic and happy despite the circumstances he is in.

Your gaze drags back to him. Always to him.

Phainon eats like someone who still believes food is a gift, not fuel. He peels the crust off his bread, arranges his carrots into a smiley face, hums between bites. Alive. Too alive.

“Are you always eating alone?”

You shrug, “I’m used to it.”

He leans in, elbows on the table, breadcrumbs clinging to his lips. "Let’s always eat together," he declares, as if it’s that simple. 

He’s going to die in this place; he will be trampled on and reduced to nothing but another pretty corpse onstage, and the only thing that will ever be remembered of him are those hues of stolen skies that glimmer like stars in their wake and hair like falling snow, and the only one who will remember is you.

"Suit yourself," you mutter, but your hand is already stealing a carrot from his tray.

He laughs, bright and startled, and you hate how it settles in your ribs like a second heartbeat.

ii.) let it consume you, it must consume you, allow your body to return to ashes

You’ve noticed this before but Phainon is really well-cared for.

In every moment he had pestered you —leaning into your space with that infuriating grin, humming off-key hymns—and in every moment that you had indulged him, you have never seen him unkempt clothes or tattered fabrics. He appears to be pampered, meticulously attended to and looked after—it almost feels like every joint of his are strung, his movements controlled and calculated. Everything about him is so well-maintained it practically exudes that he is beloved by the aliens.

But not now.

Not with the bruise blooming across his cheekbone like a stain, not with his shirt torn at the collar, rust-brown blood smeared down his chin, dripping on his pristine-white shirt.

Your eyebrows knit into one, “What did you get yourself into?”

He had never struck you as someone who would get into meaningless squabbles. 

Earlier, whispers slithered through the halls: A scuffle near the dorms, a group of boys throwing punches against one another, a chorus of gasps. You ignored it—until you couldn't and you found yourself with your hand on his wrist and running away with him. And so here you are, inside one of the vacant art rooms—your art room, the one reeking of turpentine and stolen solitude—tending to his wounds with a careful efficiency like handling a porcelain vase.

You dig through the kit that you retrieved from your room: half-dried alcohol, cotton balls pilfered from the infirmary, bandages fraying at the edges. Supplies you’d hoarded for yourself, for the days when the weight of the Garden’s hymns threatened to crack your ribs open. 

You’ve never thought that you were going to use it in this way. I mean, sure, they are eventually going to be used to clean up wounds, cuts, or whatever, but you’ve only done it to yourself.

Doing it for someone is different. This—closeness and something unnamed that sinks into your bones, that engraves warmth in your lungs, that makes your hands tremble—is different.

He laughs—a nervous and embarrassed sound as he darts his eyes to the side. His collar is red. “Let me explain.”

You work in silence, dabbing at the split skin of his lip and he takes it as a sign to continue.

“They started it.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“They called you a freak.” Your hand doesn’t falter, even as your pulse stutters.“They called me one too, but that’s whatever. Then they dragged you into it, said you were—”

You press particularly hard, shoving the cotton into the gash of his knuckles. squeezing alcohol out of it that seeps directly into his wounded skin. He yelps.

“—OW! Okay, okay! Mercy!”

“Don’t do that ever again.”

Don’t make it so easy.

Don’t let them see you bleed. Don’t let them hear you care. But he does, he always does, and that’s what makes it devastating—like a tragedy waiting to be written with the ink of your blood and papers of your flesh.

Phainon’s smile is lopsided, a fractured thing, too bright for this rotting world. Blood is still trickling from his lip. "Worried about me?"

You want to strangle him. You should have let him bleed out on the floor, should have let the surveillance catch him and apprehend him, you could have.

You tape the bandage over his knuckles too tight, relish the way he grits his teeth. "I’m worried you’ll get us both in trouble."

He leans in, close enough that you taste copper on his breath. "Too late for that."

Outside, the tree’s shadows stretch long across the fields, and for a heartbeat, you let yourself loathe him. Loathe the way his lashes catch the light like gilded wire. Loathe the way his pulse jumps under your fingertips, alive and reckless and his. Loathe that he’s here, now, ruined—for you.

He is a cosmic masterpiece carved by the stars themselves.

A divine joke, what a terrible sense of humor the universe has. A boy built from sunlight and sonatas, now bleeding onto your hands because he thought your name was worth defending.

You press your thumb to the bruise on his cheekbone, smearing the violence deeper. This is how love feels, you think: like swallowing a shard of glass and calling it sacred. Like watching a god kneel in the dirt and knowing you are the blasphemy that brought him low.

“What are you thinking?” His voice is soft, mingling with your tangled breaths.

“Nothing.” You say, closing your eyes and inhaling the scent of the crushing abyss that awaits for your fall.

You will remember the exact shade of red his blood makes against your skin, long after the stage burns his voice from the light.

“Did it hurt?”

Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, wrenching it aside to reveal the jagged letters carved into his skin. PHAINON—a filthy scar that glares at you, one that should have never existed.

You were subject to an excruciating procedure of having your names burned into your skin, a brand that will forever remain in your being, a foul stain. You don’t like it, you don’t like the pain, the screams that only the walls and machinery can hear; everything about it was disgusting.

Phainon tilts his head back so you can see the engraving better. “Not really,” he simply says, like he’s discussing the weather. “I didn’t feel anything at all.”

“You’re a bad liar, Phainon.” Your thumb gently glides over the engraving and his breath hitches—just once—when you trace the A, the I, the N, as if you could rewrite him with your hands.

“Okay, yeah. It hurt a lot.” A shadow flickers across his face—there and gone, like a fish darting into deeper water. “But it’s just skin anyway,” he murmurs.

Just skin. As if the both of you don’t know that skin is the first thing they take from you.

You release his collar with a sigh, “Whatever.” But he catches your wrist before you can retreat, his hand wrapped around right above where your name is engraved. He smiles, tilting his head like a curious hound: “Why do you care?”

The question hangs between you, sharp as a guillotine. You could lie. You could say it’s disgust, that it’s nothing else beyond the warmth that spreads on your skin that touches his, that it’s fear and repeated nightmares of his blood on your hands.

“I resent you.”

His thumb strokes your inner wrist, right over the vein. “I know.”

Of course he knows. He’s always known.

You resent the way he grins through bloodied teeth, the way he hums and runs around like everything is just a mere game. You resent that he chose you—a hissed sit with me, a crayon shoved into your hand, a thousand tiny violations of your solitude that you allow anyways.

Hatred, you’ve learned, is the closest thing to love this place allows.

This rotten land doesn’t teach you how to cradle someone’s face gently—it teaches you to bite. It doesn’t teach you whispered confessions—only how to carve your devotion into flesh, letter by letter, until the wound never closes.

"You’re disgusting," you say, and your fingers dig into his engraving like you want to peel it off his bones.

Phainon laughs, breath hot against your cheek. "Yeah." His other hand slides up your spine, nails catching on fabric. "You too."

It almost feels like a vow.

You hate him. You hate the way his breath hitches when you claw at his back. You hate how he licks the blood off your skin, how he steals food from the cafeteria trays to leave in your room, how he burns brighter every time you try to push him away.

Most of all, you hate that he’s right—that this is love, here in this rotting cradle.

Love is teeth breaking skin, it is holding someone’s heart just to feel how hard it struggles, it is watching the aliens mark him for slaughter and thinking, Mine, mine, mine.

“You shouldn’t have followed me that day,” you mutter.

“You were drawing a fish,” he says, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does.

The air between you is thick with the scent of something cruel and soft at the same. His grip tightens, not enough to bruise, but enough that you feel the ridges of his fingerprints like another brand.

“Does yours still hurt?” he asks suddenly.

You could lie again. Instead, you yank your wrist free and press your palm to his chest, right over his heartbeat. You lightly push him away, glaring, “Yes.”

He exhales, sharp, like you’ve stabbed him. Then he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. “Good.”

Phainon does not believe in love the way they tell it, in the way endless adoration and worship is tangled into one golden thread that ties you to another person, but he believes in you, in this anger, hatred, warmth, in the way your nails dig into his engraving like you want to peel his name from his flesh and swallow it whole. 

It’s ugly. It’s his.

And that’s close enough for him.

(He will adore you for a very, very long time.)

It’s starving, gnawing.

The guilt is a living thing inside you—a parasite with needle teeth, chewing through your ribs, gorging itself on the soft pulp of your shame. It festers in the hollows of your lungs, swelling with every breath, until you choke on the stench of your own rot. 

You want to claw it out. You try—digging your nails into your sternum, as if you could peel back skin and snap your bones apart to reach it. But it’s slick with bile, writhing deeper every time you grab hold, leaving your fingers glistening with the proof of your sickness.

Every thought is a crime.

You should have pushed him away harder.

You should have let him hate you.

You should have been cruel enough to save him.

But you weren’t. And now, the competition looms like a guillotine blade, and all you can taste is the sour tang of regret on your tongue, the way it coats your teeth like rust. You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to tear your own skin off if it means escaping the weight of what you’ve done—what you’re still doing—by letting him stand this close, by letting him believe, even for a second, that you can protect him, that he can protect you, that you are safe in this tight space you have molded for yourselves.

“You’re not going to die!”

This was the first time Phainon has raised his voice at you.

It cracks through the air like a whip, raw and desperate, and you flinch like he’s struck you. His hands are fists at his sides, trembling, his knuckles white with the force of it. There’s something wild in his eyes—something terrifying, something alive—and it makes your stomach twist.

"Say it," he demands, stepping closer. His foot knocks against yours and your vision spins as you fall back into your bed, your body welcomed by the soft mattress. He hovers over you, hands caging the sides of your face: "Say I’m not going to die."

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

The silence is worse than a lie.

Phainon’s breath hitches, and for a single, horrifying moment, you think he might cry. But then his jaw sets, his shoulders squaring like he’s bracing for impact, and he laughs—a sharp, broken sound that scrapes down your spine. It dies like a record slowly breaking down and he pulls you up in his arms, cradling you close to his chest, his face buried in the crevice of your neck.

“I can never understand you at all.” His words vibrate against your neck, warm and damp with something too close to tears.

You chew the inside of your cheek until copper floods your tongue, your hands trembling by your side instead of embracing him too. You don’t offer any words of comfort but you allow him to pull you close, let him hold you—you allow this. This fragile, fractured closeness where your shadows merge into one grotesque shape on the wall, a two-headed creature bound at the ribs but never at the hands. 

Yet it is not enough, it feels like you’re still far from him, like you could easily slip away from his grasp, and it makes him scared.

“Do you want to leave?”

“But where do we go?” There’s nothing else for you out there. Perhaps there was a time, a spur-of-the-moment decision when you had run away with him, slipping through the cracks to be greeted by crimson skies, vastly different from the perfect cerulean illusion you are used to seeing. You'd run until your lungs burned, Phainon's hand welded to yours, both of you laughing like the world couldn't catch you, but that was it.

“Anywhere.”

“There’s no ‘anywhere’ for us.”

“Then the rebellion, I’ve heard—”

“And what, Phainon? What happens after that?” Your voice cracks like dry earth. "What happens after that? We trade one collar for another? Die faster?"

The words linger between you, sharp as the scent of ozone before a storm.

Phainon's fingers dig into your waist, his breath hot against your skin he begins trailing his mouth up your neck, like he’ll eventually meet god at your lips. A salvation, a small prayer.

"We could fight."

"We are fighting," you snap. "Every single day. And look where we are."

The competition looms in three days and you can hear the ringing in your ears, the humming, and you cannot ignore it. You will lose yourselves one way or another, and that is a tragedy, a certainty, that had loomed over you, that had awaited you.

The only thing you could do was to lie there, tangled in each other but impossibly separate, his heartbeat thundering against your chest where yours should be answering. 

Phainon's hand slides up your spine, pressing you closer like he can fuse your skeletons together. "Tell me to stay," he breathes.

"Why?"

"So I have a reason not to go."

Your fingers finally move—not to push him away, but to clutch the back of his shirt, twisting the fabric until your knuckles bleach white. The cotton stretches taut between you, threads straining like the last fraying ties to sanity. His warmth seeps through the thin material, burning your palms, but you hold tighter—as if you could stitch him into your skin with just your desperation alone.

"Stay," you whisper.

It's too much. It's not enough.

There’s a wet, broken sound—and suddenly his arms are crushing you against him, his face buried in your hair. You feel the exact moment his resolve shatters; the tremor that runs through him, the way his shoulders curl around you like he's trying to shield you from the world, from himself, from the inevitable.

You are so terribly, devastatingly alive together.

Alive in the way open wounds are alive—raw and pulsing and too tender to touch. Alive in the way a noose is alive when it snaps taut. Alive in the only way the world has allowed you to be: achingly, horrifyingly, beautifully alive, even as death crouches in the corner.

iii.) until the world stills, until you weave your hands into mine, until death embraces you

Inherently, every human is afraid of dying.

You’ve watched him on the big screen as he performs, as he tramples over every single person he is faced against, as his numbers rise higher and as it declares his win; his victory flashing as he smiles—that brilliant, broken smile—and bows like the good little performer they've molded him to be.

But you always see what they don't.

The way his fingers twitch at his sides when he thinks no one's looking. The barely-there tremor in his shoulders as he walks offstage. The single bead of sweat trailing down his temple that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the knife's edge he's balancing on.

He does the same for you, he watches every single one of your performances with a glimmer in his eyes, like pride and adoration, but something else also stains the hues—fear, anxiety, and everything that makes his fingers tremble and his mind muddled. It’s raw and rancid.

It's in the way his breath catches when you hold a high note a second too long. In the way his lips move silently, mirroring your lyrics like a prayer. In how he searches and reaches for you after every round of yours, his trembling fingers skimming your wrist, your jaw, the pulse at your throat—as if to remind himself that you’re still here and alive, and the knowledge sits between you like a third body in bed.

The screen glimmers, your profile and his beside each other blinks mockingly. It’s like a death sentence. No, it is a death sentence.

The air hums with static as you walk toward the stage, each step heavier than the last. Anakt Garden's constraints had been suffocating, but this is akin to drowning in open air.

You've always thought Phainon would die under these lights. That his blood would be the one to stain the stage crimson, his final note ringing through the speakers as the audience cheered his demise. You'd imagined it so often the scene played behind your eyelids every night—his blue eyes going dull, his snow-white hair matted with red, his hand slipping from yours as the life left him.

Perhaps you’ve changed by now.

The bars of your scores compete against one another, numbers flashing across the screen in a cruel mockery of choice. You’ve cut your lines short, fallen into a note lower than you’re supposed to sing; you'd practiced this for weeks in empty rehearsal rooms—how to make imperfection look accidental, how to falter just enough.

Then you feel it—something cold punching through your neck, sharp and sudden. A gasp tears from your throat as warmth spills down your skin.

Phainon's eyes widen in dawning horror as your fingers twitch in his grasp; you swear you could hear him calling your name out in panic. He sees it before you do, before you even realize what is happening—the dark bloom staining across your clothes, the way your lips part to speak but only blood spills forth. Your knees buckle, and he moves without thought, catching you as you collapse against him.

Oh, you think, distantly amused. You’re dying.

And, oh, you are dying. The realization comes with startling clarity, with something almost like relief, and it feels euphoric like warm honey flooding your veins. It makes your chest ease as if you could ever breathe again—like the time he had shown you his ridiculous art piece with pride. Because you are the one dying, because you are the one bloodied and the crimson staining the stage is yours. You are dying, desperate and violent, but it’s you.

His arms tighten around you, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your temple. The audience's cheers fade to white noise as he presses his forehead to yours, his tears mixing with the blood on your lips. "We're okay," he chokes out, the words a desperate incantation. "We're okay, we're okay."

You can feel his heartbeat where your chests press together, wild and frantic and alive. So alive. More alive than you'll ever be again. The thought should terrify you. Instead, it settles in your bones like peace.

You kiss him instead of answering. His mouth tastes like the candy he stole from the cafeteria, like the salt of your shared sweat, like last chances. And when you pull away, his sob cracks through you like gunfire. You want to tell him it's alright. You want to tell him to run. Instead, your fingers find him, twining together one final time as the world narrows to the blue of his eyes, the warmth of his hands, the sound of your name on his lips.

You and him could have done so much more if you were on earth, instead of whatever rotten, disgusting stage this is. The thought comes unbidden, sharp as the pain radiating through your chest. 

You could have had lazy mornings in sunlit kitchens, his humming drifting over sizzling pans. Could have traced the constellations on his skin without counting the scars. Could have stood before stained glass windows, vows spilling from bloodied lips not in desperation, but devotion.

Instead, you get this: his tears hot on your cheeks, his voice breaking around your name, the metallic tang of your last breath clinging to his tongue.

You don’t want to die, you never wanted to die—perhaps the feeble attempts of not caring whether you’ll end up bloodied either on stage or on dirt were simply just things to lessen the growing void of fear that gnaws at your heart, to make it painless. But it hurts, it hurts so bad, you can feel it; your body feels cold, everything feels cold, your eyes are becoming blurry, and everything around you is fading into nothing. You don’t even feel Phainon’s arms wrapped around yours, gently cradling your existence within his grasp as if you’re going to slip away—because you are.

It all dawns on you. You feel selfish, you’re being selfish. Stupid, reckless, selfish. You’re going to leave him alone in this hell, with nothing but the memory of your blood on his hands and the echo of your voice in his ears. The realization claws up your throat, bitter as bile. You want to take it back. Want to scream. Want to beg for more time—just one more second, one more breath, one more chance to tell him—

“I know,” He presses his lips to your forehead, lingering like he could imprint himself there. “You’re not being selfish, I know.”

Of course, he does. He’s always known you like the back of his own scarred hands—known the way your bravado cracks at the edges when the lights dim, how your "I don't care" always meant "I care too much." Known that beneath all your sharp edges and bitten-off words, you were always the one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant he could stand in the light a moment longer.

“Please,” You plead for the first time in your life, and it hurts to speak but you still do, fingers tightening weakly in his shirt. “Forgive yourself.”

The both of you had made this decision knowing it won’t end well. 

And you murmur it: the three words that have caused all of this mess, the confession that started your slow descent to madness. They taste sweet as stolen sugar on your dying tongue, bittersweet as the candy he used to slip into your palm. His arms tighten around you like he could rewrite fate through the sheer force of his embrace, and he wishes he could.

PHAINON WIN.

BRO IS NOT MIZISUA