Ezzra

Aventurine has severe abandonment trauma. Everyone he’s ever loved has died. When someone he cares about pulls away from him, even for self-protective reasons, it doesn’t just make him sad—it triggers something deep and painful. He spirals. He panics. He assumes you’re leaving because of course you are. Everyone does.

So this fic gets messy and a bit painful before it gets better. It’s not just “Aventurine reassures you and everything is fine.” It’s two people with serious insecurities and communication issues unintentionally hurting each other, then learning to work through it together.

But it does get better in the second half. I promise. :) (I’m a gentle soul, after all.) And the ending is hopeful and healing. They both grow. They both learn to communicate. They choose each other.

I really hope this story gives you what you were looking for, even if the path there is a bit more emotionally complex. Please know that I love Aventurine with all my heart. He‘s made me feel so, so much. Writing him true to his core is my way of showing that love. I hope it comes through. :)

(And yes, this was another one of those fics where I cried while writing. But they were cathartic tears, don’t worry. :))

Take care of yourself, and thank you again for the request. 💙

Warnings: Moments of unintentional emotional hurt. Angst and emotional distress. Relationship conflict and emotional strain. Jealousy. Insecurity. Fear of abandonment (both reader and Aventurine). Communication difficulties and avoidance behaviors Self-destructive thought patterns and self-worth issues. Also some fluff.

Word count: 5645

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The distance starts small.

A text that goes unanswered for hours. A conversation cut short with “I’m tired, sorry.” The way you turn away in bed, curling into yourself instead of reaching for him like you used to.

Aventurine notices immediately.

Of course he does. Reading people is what keeps him alive. The slight hesitation before someone speaks, the micro-expression that betrays a bluff, the shift in body language that signals danger. He’s spent his entire life calculating odds and reading tells.

So when you start pulling away, he sees it. Counts each instance like cards in a deck, tracking the pattern, trying to determine the hand you’re playing.

Day one: You don’t kiss him goodbye before work. Just a distracted wave, eyes not quite meeting his.

Day two: His text asking about dinner gets a one-word response three hours later. “Sure.”

Day three: You’re asleep—or pretending to be—when he comes home.

By day four, he’s certain. This isn’t coincidence or stress or a rough week at work.

You’re avoiding him.

The question is why.

He gives you space at first. Maybe you need time to work through whatever this is. Maybe you’ll come to him when you’re ready. He’s patient when he needs to be—has waited out longer games than this.

But patience, he’s learning, feels different when the stakes are personal.

By day seven, his apartment is full of gifts.

Your favorite tea from that shop three districts over appears in the kitchen. The book you mentioned wanting sits on the coffee table, wrapped in careful paper. Fresh flowers—your favorite ones, the ones that are difficult to find this time of year—materialize in a vase by the window.

He doesn’t stay to see your reaction to any of them. Doesn’t ask if you noticed, doesn’t seek acknowledgment. Just provides and disappears, the way he always has.

If I give enough, maybe you’ll remember why you stayed.

It’s transactional thinking, and he knows it. Knows it’s not healthy. But it’s all he has.

You thank him politely for each gift. Smile that careful smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. And the distance remains.

By day ten, the gifts stop.

He starts coming home late.

Not because he’s busy—though he tells you he is, messages sent at odd hours about IPC business and complicated deals that need his attention. In reality, he’s sitting in his office staring at his phone, willing you to call. To ask where he is. To show some sign that his absence matters.

You don’t.

The silence in the apartment becomes oppressive. You occupy different spaces, moving around each other like strangers sharing a temporary shelter. When you do interact, it’s painfully polite.

“Did you eat?”

“Yes. You?”

“I’ll grab something later.”

“Okay.”

Conversations that say nothing. Carefully neutral. Excruciatingly safe.

He starts taking assignments he doesn’t need to take. Mentions them casually over breakfast—the only meal you still sometimes share, though you’re usually looking at your phone instead of at him.

“I’ll be gone for a few days. Pier Point needs someone to handle negotiations.”

You glance up briefly. “Okay. Be safe.”

That’s it. No “I’ll miss you.” No “Do you have to go?” No reluctance at all.

He doesn’t go to Pier Point. He stays in a hotel twenty minutes away, ordering room service and playing games on the expensive carpet, phone face-up on the table beside him.

You never call.

By day twelve, something in him shifts.

The fear that’s been building—the sick certainty that you’re leaving, that you’ve already left in every way that matters, that he’s just waiting for you to make it official—curdles into something sharper.

Anger. Defense. The instinct to hurt first, before you can hurt him worse.

When he comes home that night, you’re reading on the couch. You look up when he enters, and for a moment, something flickers across your face. Relief? Concern? He can’t tell anymore, and that terrifies him more than anything.

“You’re back,” you say quietly.

“Observant as always.” The words come out colder than he intends. Or maybe exactly as cold as he intends.

You flinch slightly, and he hates himself for the satisfaction he feels at getting a reaction—any reaction.

“How was Pier Point?”

“Fine.” He drops his jacket over a chair, doesn’t look at you. “Tedious, mostly. Though there was this lovely stranger at the hotel bar. Very good at card games. We had an… interesting conversation.”

It’s a lie. A calculated cruelty. A test.

He watches your expression from the corner of his eye, sees the way your fingers tighten on your book.

“That’s nice,” you say, voice carefully neutral. “I’m glad you had company.”

You don’t ask what kind of company. Don’t ask what “interesting” means. Just return to your book like he hasn’t essentially told you he spent time with someone else.

Like you don’t care.

The anger flares hotter.

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

You look up, confused. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.” He laughs, and it sounds wrong even to his own ears. “Maybe something that indicates you give a damn? Or is that asking too much?”

“Aventurine—”

“Because if this—” he gestures between you “—isn’t working for you anymore, you could just say so. I’m a big boy. I can handle rejection. Done it before.”

The words are weapons, designed to wound. Designed to make you angry, to make you fight back, to make you feel something other than this maddening distance.

Your face pales. “That’s not—I’m not—”

“Not what? Not done with this?” He folds his arms, and the gesture is pure Aventurine—casual, controlled, untouchable. “Could’ve fooled me. You’ve barely looked at me in two weeks. Barely spoken to me. You turn away every time I get close. So forgive me for drawing the obvious conclusion.”

“You think I want to break up?” Your voice is small, disbelieving.

“Don’t you?” He’s committed to the bit now, even as something in his chest screams at him to stop. “Why else pull away? Why else avoid every conversation, every touch, every—”

“Because I’m terrified!”

The words burst out of you like they’ve been held back too long, too forcefully, and suddenly you’re standing, book forgotten, hands shaking.

“I’m terrified that you’re going to wake up one day and realize you made a mistake. That I’m not—that you could do so much better than me. Than this.”

Aventurine goes very, very still.

“What?”

“You want to know why I’ve been distant?” Your voice cracks, and you hate it, but you’re too exhausted to care anymore. Two weeks of this, two weeks of trying to protect yourself, trying to pull back before he can push you away—

“Because I’m tired of feeling like a placeholder. Like you’re just killing time until someone better comes along. Someone more interesting, more clever, more worthy of someone like you.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

He’s staring at you like you’ve spoken a language he doesn’t understand. The performative anger drains from his face, leaving behind something raw and unguarded.

“You think…” He stops. Starts again. “You think you’re a placeholder?”

“Aren’t I?” The words taste bitter. “You could have anyone, Aventurine. And I’m just—I see the way people look at you. The way you charm everyone without even trying. You’re brilliant and beautiful and you make everything look easy, and I’m…”

You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly cold. “I’m just me. Why would you want this when you could have anything?”

“Stop.”

The word is sharp enough that you actually do, the rest of your self-deprecation dying in your throat.

Aventurine isn’t smiling anymore. Isn’t performing. The mask has cracked, and what’s underneath is something you’ve never seen before. Something raw and hurt and angry.

“You think I’d use my time on someone who doesn’t matter?” His voice is low, dangerous. “You think I’m that bored? That cruel? That I’d let someone into my life, into my home, into my goddamn bed, just as a—what, a temporary amusement?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You implied it.” He takes a step forward, and you notice his hands are shaking. Actually shaking. “You pulled away from me for two weeks, and you think I’m the one looking elsewhere? That I’m just—what, shopping around for an upgrade?”

“You didn’t even notice I was struggling—”

“I noticed immediately.”

The words explode out of him, too fast, too raw, and he stops himself. Turns away. Runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that’s completely unlike him. Uncontrolled, frustrated, human.

“I noticed,” he repeats, quieter now, and somehow that’s worse. “Day one. Hour one. The moment you started pulling away, I knew.”

You stare at his back, at the tense line of his shoulders.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Because I was trying to figure out what I did wrong. Running through every conversation, every interaction, every single moment to find where I fucked up badly enough that you decided you were done with me.”

He turns back to face you, and his eyes are too bright.

“Because that’s what I do. I calculate. I strategize. I count cards and read tells and run probability analyses until I know every possible outcome. It’s how I survive. It’s how I’ve always survived.”

His voice drops. “Except with you, I never know. And that terrifies me.”

The confession hangs between you like something fragile and dangerous.

“You think you’re the one who’s replaceable?” He moves closer, and you can see it now—the fear barely concealed beneath the anger, the desperation in the set of his jaw. “Everyone I’ve ever loved is dead. Everyone. My family. My people. My entire culture, erased like it never existed. And I’ve spent years convincing myself that’s just how it works. That I’m the common denominator. That I’m the curse.”

“Aventurine—”

“That caring about me is a death sentence.” The words keep coming, like a dam has broken. “So when you started pulling away, when you stopped looking at me, stopped touching me, stopped—”

His voice cracks.

“I thought, ‘There it is. Y/N finally figured it out. Y/N finally realized loving me isn’t worth the cost.’”

Your heart breaks. “That’s not—”

“I thought you were getting out before I could ruin you too.” He’s close enough now that you can see the shimmer in his eyes, the way he’s barely holding himself together. “And I couldn’t even blame you for it because you’d be right. Everyone who stays close to me ends up paying for it. That’s the pattern. That’s the only constant in my life.”

“Stop,” you whisper, reaching for him. “Please stop.”

He catches your wrist. Not hard, but firm. His thumb presses against your pulse point like he’s counting the beats, grounding himself in the proof that you’re real.

“You want to know what I’ve been doing for two weeks?” His voice is hoarse. “Trying to memorize you. Every detail. Every expression. The way you take your coffee, the sound of your laugh, the exact shade of your eyes in morning light. Because if you were leaving, I wanted to remember. I wanted to keep something after you were gone.”

Tears spill down your cheeks. “I wasn’t retreating because I don’t love you—”

“Then why?”

“Because I didn’t think I deserved you!” The words rip out of you. “Because every day I wake up next to you and think, ‘This is it. This is the day he realizes he settled.’ I see the way people look at you, Aventurine. The way they want you. And I’m just… ordinary. I’m not special enough to keep someone like you.”

He goes completely still.

“Ordinary,” he repeats, like the word is foreign.

“Yes.”

“You.” Another step closer. “You think you’re ordinary.”

“Compared to you—”

“You make me feel human again.”

The words are barely a whisper, but they stop your breath.

“What?”

His free hand comes up to cup your face, still gloved, still maintaining that habitual barrier even now. But his touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache.

“You make me feel human,” he repeats. “Not lucky. Not cursed. Not blessed by the goddess Gaiathra or whatever lie I’m supposed to believe about why I survived when everyone else died. Just… a person. Someone who’s allowed to want things. To be tired. To be afraid.”

His thumb brushes away your tears.

“You look at me like I matter. Not my luck, not my connections, not what I can provide. Me. You get angry when I take stupid risks. You notice when I don’t sleep. You call me on my bullshit when I’m being insufferable.”

A shaky exhale. “You’re the only person in the universe who sees Kakavasha underneath Aventurine. And you don’t look away.”

Your breath catches. He’s never—he’s never said his name out loud to you before. Not once in all the months you’ve been together.

“And you think,” he continues, voice rough with emotion, “that you’re not special enough? That you’re ordinary? You’re the most extraordinary thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re the only good bet I’ve made in years. In forever. And you know this. You know.”

“Aventurine—”

“So when you pulled away,” he says quietly, “I didn’t think you were jealous. I thought you were smart. I thought you finally saw what everyone else who’s ever mattered to me saw—that I’m not worth the risk. That my luck runs out eventually, and you’d rather leave before you’re collateral damage.”

The self-loathing in his voice cuts like a blade.

“I’ve never thought that,” you whisper. “Not once.”

“Then what?” His hand is still shaking against your face. “What made you pull away?”

You close your eyes, ashamed. “I saw you laughing with someone at that IPC gala last week. They were beautiful and confident and they were looking at you like… like they wanted you. And you were smiling at them—that real smile, not the fake one—and I just…”

“Got jealous,” he finishes.

“Yes.” The admission feels pathetic. “And instead of talking to you about it, I convinced myself it was proof. That you’d eventually want someone better. So I started pulling back because I thought—I thought if I left first, it would hurt less.”

The silence stretches.

Then Aventurine starts laughing.

It’s not a kind sound. It’s sharp and incredulous and slightly unhinged.

“You were jealous,” he says, like he can’t quite believe it. “You pulled away for two weeks, put me through hell, made me think I was losing you—because you were jealous?”

You nod miserably.

“Of someone at a gala.”

“Yes.”

“Someone whose name I don’t even remember.”

You look up at that.

He’s still laughing, but there are tears on his face now. “You think I want anyone else? You think there’s anyone in this entire universe I’d choose over you?”

“You could—”

“No.” The word is firm, final. “No, I couldn’t. Do you know why?”

You shake your head.

“Because everyone else wants Aventurine. The lucky gambler. The IPC’s darling. The man who cheats death for fun.” His voice drops. “You’re the only person who’s ever wanted Kakavasha. The only one who’s ever looked at the broken parts and stayed anyway.”

He pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours.

“I’m all in,” he whispers. “Every chip. Every card. Everything I have. I don’t hedge my bets when it comes to you. I can’t.”

“Even though I’m a mess?” Your voice is small. “Even though I get jealous and insecure and—”

“Even though,” he confirms. “Especially though. Because you’re real with me. You don’t pretend. You don’t perform. You just… are. And that’s the most valuable thing I’ve ever been given.”

Fresh tears spill down your cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I pulled away. I didn’t know—I didn’t realize it would hurt you that badly.”

“I’m good at hiding it.” A bitter smile. “Had a lot of practice.”

“You shouldn’t have to hide. Not with me.”

“Neither should you.” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “So here’s the new rule: no more pulling away. If you’re jealous, you tell me. If you’re insecure, you tell me. If you’re convinced I’m going to leave you for someone else—you tell me, so I can remind you that there is no one else. There’s only you.”

“And if you’re afraid I’m leaving?” you ask quietly.

His jaw tightens. “Then I tell you. Instead of spiraling and self-destructing and saying cruel things I don’t mean.”

“You weren’t that cruel—”

“I mentioned a stranger to make you jealous.” He grimaces. “That was cruel. And stupid. And I’m sorry.”

“Was there actually a stranger?”

“No.” He says it firmly, no hesitation. “I was in a hotel room playing a game like a pathetic idiot, waiting for you to call. There’s never been anyone else. Not since you. And before that…nobody I had actual feelings for.”

The relief that floods through you is dizzying.

“And for the record,” he adds, softer now, “that smile you saw at the gala? That was business. Networking. Performance. You want to know when I smile for real?”

“When?”

“When you’re half-asleep in the morning and you curl into me like I’m the safest place in the world. When you laugh at something genuinely funny instead of politely amusing. When you look at me like you’re doing right now. Like I matter more than any gamble ever could.”

He brushes his thumb across your cheek. “That’s when I smile for real. Because of you. Only you.”

“Kakavasha,” you whisper.

He goes completely still. “What?”

“You said it earlier. Your name.” You look up at him, taking in the vulnerability written across his face. “Kakavasha. Is it okay if I call you that? Sometimes?”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. Just stares at you with those stunning eyes, expression caught between fear and desperate hope.

“You… want to?”

“Of course I do.” You cup his face with both hands. “It’s your name. The real one. The one that belongs to you, not to the role you play.”

“It’s the name of a dead boy,” he says quietly. “The name of someone who couldn’t save anyone. Who watched his entire world burn.”

“It’s the name of a survivor,” you correct gently. “Someone strong enough to keep going when everything was taken from him. Someone who built a new life from nothing. Someone I love.”

His breath catches. “You’ve never said that before.”

“What?”

“That you love me.” His voice is barely audible. “You’ve never said it out loud.”

You realize with a start that he’s right. You’ve thought it a thousand times, felt it with every fiber of your being, but the actual words—

“I love you,” you say, clear and certain. “Aventurine. Kakavasha. Every version of you. I love you so much it scares me sometimes. That’s why I was so afraid of losing you.”

Something in his expression breaks. He pulls you against him—hard, desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His face buries in your shoulder, and you feel the way his breath shudders against your neck.

“Say it again,” he whispers. “Please.”

“I love you.”

His arms tighten.

“I love you, Kakavasha.”

A sound escapes him. Half-laugh, half-sob. “You’re going to ruin me with that.”

“Good.” You thread your fingers through his hair, holding him close. “About time I got some leverage.”

That earns a real laugh, shaky but genuine. When he pulls back, his eyes are red-rimmed but clearer than they’ve been in weeks.

“I love you too,” he says. “In case that wasn’t obvious from my complete emotional breakdown just now.”

You smile. “It was a very eloquent breakdown.”

“Thank you, I’ve been practicing my dramatic confessions.” The humor is tentative, testing—checking if things can be okay between you again.

You lean into it. “Well, it worked. I’m thoroughly convinced and emotionally devastated.”

“My specialty.” He cups your face again, and this time when he looks at you, it’s with that expression. The one you glimpsed at the gala, the one you thought you were imagining. Pure, undisguised affection.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly. “Haven’t been able to in two weeks and I’m starting to forget what it feels like.”

Instead of answering, you close the distance yourself.

The kiss is gentle at first. Tentative, like you’re both afraid of pushing too hard, too fast. But then his hand slides to the back of your neck, and yours fist in his shirt, and it deepens into something more urgent. An apology. A promise. A declaration.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

“I missed you,” you whisper against his lips.

“I missed you too.” He rests his forehead against yours. “So much. Please don’t do that again.”

“I won’t. I promise.” You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “But you have to promise something too.”

“Anything.”

“If I’m being an idiot—if I’m pulling away or spiraling or convinced you’re going to leave—you call me on it. Immediately. Don’t let me disappear on you.”

“Deal.” His thumb traces your cheekbone. “And if I’m being self-destructive or pushing you away or trying to make you leave before you can abandon me—”

“I’ll tie you to a chair and make you talk to me.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Kinky.”

“Aventurine.”

“Sorry. Processing trauma through inappropriate humor.” But he’s smiling now—small, but real. “I’ll try to be better about it. The communication thing. It’s… not my strong suit.”

“Mine either, apparently.” You grimace. “I really did handle this badly.”

“We both did.” He laces his fingers with yours. “But we’re fixing it. That’s what matters.”

For a moment, you just stand there, breathing together, slowly relaxing into each other’s space again.

“Can we go to bed?” you ask quietly. “I haven’t slept well in two weeks.”

“Neither have I.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Come on.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand the entire way to the bedroom. Like he’s afraid that if he releases you, you’ll disappear again.

You change in comfortable silence—the kind that feels warm instead of oppressive—and when you finally slide under the covers, he immediately pulls you close. His arms wrap around you from behind, holding you against his chest, face buried in your hair.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

“More than okay.” You thread your fingers through his. “I missed this.”

“Me too.” A pause. “You know I meant it, right? About being all in. This isn’t… I’m not just going through the motions or waiting for something better. You’re it for me.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re it for me too.”

“Even though I’m a mess?”

“Even though you’re a mess.” You squeeze his hand. “We can be disasters together.”

He huffs a quiet laugh against your neck. “Sounds romantic when you put it that way.”

“I’m very romantic. It’s one of my best qualities.”

“It’s one of many.” His voice is getting softer, drowsy. “You’re warm. And you make this apartment feel like a home instead of just a place I sleep. And you put up with my bullshit. And you’re funny, and kind, and you actually listen when I talk—”

“Aventurine,” you interrupt gently. “Sleep.”

“Mm. Right. Sleeping.” But he doesn’t stop talking. “Just so you know, though. The jealousy thing? Kind of flattering. In a dysfunctional way.”

“Oh my god.”

“You care enough to be jealous. That’s… nice. Not the pulling away part. But knowing you care? That you’re invested enough to worry?” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I’ll take it.”

“Next time I’ll just tell you instead of spiraling.”

“Please do. Saves us both the emotional devastation.” Another kiss, this one to the back of your neck. “But also… if you ever do get jealous? Just tell me. I’ll spend the rest of the day proving you have nothing to worry about.”

“How would you do that?”

“Extensively.” His voice drops, takes on that teasing edge that makes your pulse quicken. “Thoroughly. Until you’re absolutely certain you’re the only person I want.”

Heat floods through you. “Aventurine—”

“Too tired right now though. Rain check.” He yawns. “But I’m adding it to the list of things we’re doing tomorrow.”

“There’s a list?”

“Oh, there’s definitely a list. It includes: sleeping in, making you breakfast, probably more apologizing because I’m still processing the fact that I hurt you, and then—if you’re amenable—reminding you exactly how much I love you until you’re too exhausted to doubt it. Both with words and touch.”

You turn in his arms so you can see his face. In the dim light from the window, he looks younger. Softer. The mask completely gone.

“I do love you,” you say seriously. “I’m sorry I made you doubt that.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I noticed.” He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “I’m not good at this. The vulnerability thing. Asking for what I need. But I’m going to try. For you.”

“For us,” you correct.

“For us,” he agrees.

You lean in, kissing him slowly. When you pull back, his eyes are already drifting closed.

“Stay,” he mumbles. “Please stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promise.

He’s asleep within minutes, still holding you like you’re something precious. Like letting go isn’t an option.

You stay awake a little longer, listening to his breathing even out, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back.

This isn’t fixed. Not completely. You’ll both have moments—days when the jealousy creeps back, days when his abandonment issues flare, days when you have to actively choose each other instead of running.

But you will choose each other. Again and again.

Because he’s all in.

And so are you.

The next morning, you wake to sunlight streaming through the window and the smell of coffee.

For a moment, you’re disoriented. Aventurine doesn’t cook—doesn’t usually even make coffee in the morning, preferring to grab something on his way to work. But when you pad into the kitchen, there he is: leaning against the counter in sleep pants and nothing else, two mugs already prepared.

He looks up when you enter, and his expression softens. “Morning.”

“Morning.” You accept the coffee he offers, taking a grateful sip. “You made breakfast?”

“I made coffee. There’s a difference.” He gestures to the counter where an assortment of pastries sits in a fancy box. “I may have ordered these at 6 AM from that shop you like. The one that’s unnecessarily far away and costs too much.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” He sets his mug down, reaching for you instead. When you step into his space, his arms loop around your waist. “Besides, I’m making good on my promise. Taking care of you today.”

You rest your head against his chest. “You don’t have work?”

“Called in. Told them I had important personal matters to attend to.”

“Aventurine, you can’t just—”

“I can, and I did.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “You’re more important than the IPC. They’ll survive without me for one day.”

The casual way he says it—like it’s obvious, like there’s no other choice—makes your chest ache in the best way.

“What do you want to do today?” you ask.

“Honestly? Nothing. Everything. Whatever you want.” He pulls back just enough to see your face. “I’m not letting you out of my sight for at least twenty-four hours. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m a gambler with abandonment issues. Close enough.”

You can’t help but laugh, and the sound makes him smile. That real one, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“There it is,” he says softly.

“What?”

“That laugh. The real one.” He traces your cheek with his thumb. “I missed it.”

For a while, you just stand there in the kitchen, holding each other, drinking coffee and eating overpriced pastries. It’s peaceful. Normal. The kind of morning you didn’t realize you’d been missing.

“Can I ask you something?” you say eventually.

“Anything.”

“Yesterday, when you said everyone you’ve loved has died…” You choose your words carefully. “Do you really think that loving you is dangerous? That I’m at risk just by being with you?”

His expression shutters slightly. “It’s not a rational thought. I know that. But knowing something isn’t rational doesn’t make it less terrifying.”

“What can I do? To help with that fear?”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Honestly? Just… keep existing. Keep being here. Every day you wake up next to me and you’re okay—that helps. It’s evidence against the belief, even if my brain doesn’t want to accept it.”

“So I should keep surviving out of spite?”

“Basically.” A wry smile. “Welcome to dating someone with trauma. It’s very romantic.”

“I don’t need romance. I just need you.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Vulnerability, affection, disbelief that you can say things like that so easily.

“You’re going to kill me with that,” he murmurs. “The sincerity. I’m not built for it.”

“Better start renovating then.” You kiss him softly. “Because I’m not planning to stop.”

The day unfolds in lazy increments.

You move to the couch, putting on a movie neither of you really watches. Aventurine keeps touching you—small, constant contact like he’s confirming you’re real. Fingers playing with your hair. Hand resting on your knee. Arm around your shoulders pulling you close.

“Am I being too clingy?” he asks at one point.

“No.” You lace your fingers with his. “I like it. I missed being close to you.”

“Good. Because I’m not stopping anytime soon.”

Around midday, you end up talking—really talking, the way you should have weeks ago. About the jealousy, about his fears, about the ways you both self-sabotage when you’re scared.

“I do it too,” he admits. “The jealousy thing. When you talk to other people, when you smile at someone else—I know it’s irrational, but there’s always this voice saying they could give you something better. Something less complicated.”

“I don’t want less complicated. I want you.”

“Even with all the baggage?”

“The baggage is part of you.” You shift to face him properly. “I’m not interested in some theoretical version of you that doesn’t have trauma. I’m interested in the real you. Messy and complicated and doing his best.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he pulls you into his lap, holding you close, face buried in your neck.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he whispers.

“You didn’t have to do anything. You just had to be you.”

“That’s a terrible reason.”

“It’s the only reason that matters.”

Late afternoon, you’re half-dozing on the couch, comfortable and warm with Aventurine’s fingers tracing absent patterns on your arm.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Mm?”

“Thank you. For staying. For giving me a chance to explain instead of just… leaving.”

You open your eyes, finding him already looking at you.

“I wasn’t going to leave,” you say. “I was scared you wanted me to. But I wasn’t going to be the one to go.”

“Good.” His hand finds yours. “Because I’m terrible at letting go of good things. I’d probably have shown up at your door with increasingly elaborate apologies until you either took me back or got a restraining order.”

“Romantic.”

“I contain multitudes.” He brings your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “But seriously. I know I’m not easy to love. I know I’m going to have bad days, days when I’m convinced you’re leaving, days when I push you away because I’m scared. But I promise I’m going to try. To be better at this. At us.”

“I’m going to have bad days too,” you remind him. “Days when I’m jealous for no reason. Days when I need reassurance. Days when I’m a mess.”

“Then we’ll be messes together.” He pulls you closer. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

He kisses you then. Slow and sweet and full of promise. When he pulls back, his expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it.

“I’m all in,” he says again. “Just so we’re clear. This isn’t a temporary thing for me. You’re not a bet I’m planning to walk away from. You’re the one good thing I’ve managed to keep, and I’m not letting go.”

“Even when I’m being irrational?”

“Especially then.” He grins. “Gives me opportunities to prove how much I love you. I’m very competitive. I’ll win at loving you.”

“That’s not how love works.”

“Watch me.”

You can’t help but laugh, and he captures the sound with another kiss.

The rest of the day passes in comfortable quiet. You order dinner in, eat tangled together on the couch, talk about nothing and everything. And when you finally go to bed, Aventurine pulls you close like he did the night before.

“Thank you,” he whispers into the darkness. “For coming back. For letting me explain.”

“Thank you for not giving up on us.”

His arms tighten around you. “Never. You’re stuck with me now. Sorry.”

“I can live with that.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Because I’m not going anywhere. You’re the best gamble I’ve ever made, and I always see my bets through.”

You fall asleep like that—wrapped in his arms, feeling safe and wanted and chosen.

And in the morning, when you wake to him still holding you close, you know:

This is real. This is worth fighting for.

And you’re both all in. ___ A/N: Thanks for reading. :) I'd love to write more for him (currently working on more works for him, actually). I hope you enjoyed this oneshot. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated.

“Twice is a coincidence.” He murmurs into your hair. His arms tighten their hold around you, one hand fisted in the back of your sleep shirt, and the other roaming down your spine, eventually settling on your hip, right where your hemline is. For a brief moment, his thumb slides against a tiny sliver of exposed skin, ungloved fingers cool against your side. It makes you shiver, and he adjusts his touch quickly to rest atop the fabric instead.

“And thrice is a pattern…” You sigh, tucking your head in his neck. Against your ear, his pulse hums, quickening as you press your cheek against it. “I think this is a pattern, Aventurine.”

“Is it, now?” There’s a pressure against your head, the press of lips ghosting above your crown, and it makes you wonder for a moment if he’s going to kiss you, but his face moves before you can finish forming the thought. “Maybe it’s luck.”

“The same man disturbs my sleep not once, twice, but three times—” Your arms squeeze around his waist in irritation—or some misplaced affection; who could tell, really? “—And I’m supposed to call it luck?”

He huffs out a laugh, breathless and almost fond. “I think it says more that you haven’t turned me away.”

At that, you’re silent.

The first time was chance, really. One shared room in a fully booked hotel, with one king-sized bed. It was an equally absurd and frustrating situation—one straight out of a trashy romance novel—but you made the best of it. You took the left, and he took the right, and you pretended not to notice how he seemed to gravitate towards you, and how in your unconscious state, your body molded to fit into his arms perfectly.

When you woke, with his hands gripping your shirt so tightly you couldn’t pull away if you tried—and you tried—you wanted to break away, but your head was fuzzy and your heart was too weak. He looked peaceful, vulnerable. You’d never seen him with such an expression; all of the slyness and trickery drained away, leaving only the softest parts left over.

You did all you that you could do in that situation: fall back asleep with him holding you, like you were something worth holding onto.

The second time, admittedly, it took next to no amount of pressure for you to fold, and let him into your bed again. Truly, if it was any other coworker—anyone else, anyone you hadn’t known for years, who hadn’t been there to witness your ugliest sides and still called themself a ‘friend’ regardless—you would have closed the door in their face. “Two in the morning,” you had hissed.

But the look in his eye wasn’t cunning, nor was it brimming with a mirth you could never quite place. It was unreadable, vaguely tense, and almost… uncertain. As if even he didn’t know why he ended up at your hotel room door. “Ah, my apologies for waking you. I had hoped you were still up. You can go back to sleep.”

The higher-ups had thought ahead and made sure to book you two rooms this time, so why did you find yourself wishing they didn’t?

You don’t know why you stopped him. You don’t talk about it now, and neither does he, but that night you pulled him into the room regardless; without a word, without any hesitation. And he followed, with a weak attempt at banter that was quickly swallowed down by the time his body met your sheets. There was some distance at first—or an attempt of it, at least—but you woke up the same way.

Tangled together like a pair of lovers—and wasn’t that an amusing thought. Aventurine wasn’t the type for partners, as far as you were aware, he’d never pushed beyond surface level flirting and flattery. It meant nothing; it meant nothing when it was directed at strangers, and it meant nothing directed at you. Even these late-night rendezvous, so to say, were nothing more than transactional. I sleep better when I’m with someone, he’d admitted. And even if you didn’t speak it, you had to say the same.

There was no escalation, no romance. No subtext, no subtleties. Nothing you’d want to acknowledge during your waking hours. It was a convenience; nothing more, and nothing less.

“You think too much.” Aventurine sighs. He pulls you closer, somehow, until your body is flush against him. “Just rest, okay?”

“Okay,” You whisper, too tired and too content to fight it. There’s no point clinging to pretenses now; you can worry about that in the morning.

For now, all you do is let yourself drift off, knowing you won’t be alone when you wake up.

That was all it was supposed to be. A simple task while Aventurine attended yet another high-stakes meeting with the upper echelon of Pier Point's Investment Syndicate. You weren't even supposed to be seen. But then someone said something—something about him, and you’d snapped.

Now, standing in the middle of the opulent hallway, with a grown executive shaking and stammering apologies while practically in tears, you barely noticed the sound of footsteps until it was too late.

“Now that’s not something you see every day.”

Your stomach dropped.

You turned, eyes wide, face going redder by the second.

Aventurine stood there in the doorway, hat tilted, a familiar smirk tugging at his lips, but his eyes were wide with unfiltered curiosity. Maybe even... awe?

“Sunshine,” he drawled, slowly stepping closer, glancing past you toward the blubbering executive. “I leave for fifteen minutes, and you turn the place into a courtroom drama. Should I be flattered or terrified?”

“I—uh—it’s not what it looked like—” You began stumbling over your words, shoulders practically shrinking.

But Aventurine wasn’t laughing. Not yet.

Instead, he circled around you slowly, like a lion eyeing something far more interesting than prey.

“You glared at him, and I swear I saw his soul leave his body,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. “You didn’t even raise your voice. Just stared him down like he owed you seven lifetimes.”

You winced. “He said you were nothing but a fraud in a pretty suit.”

A pause.

Aventurine blinked, then let out a low whistle. “So that’s what did it. You were defending me, darling?”

Your head dipped, face now fully hidden in your palms. “I-I didn’t mean to go that far...”

“Oh no, no, no,” he said, gliding in to gently pull your hands away from your face. “Don’t start blushing now—I live for your blushes, but this?” He chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “This is brand-new. You, threatening a full-grown man into submission without lifting a finger? It’s... frankly, exhilarating.”

Your eyes widened. “You’re not mad?”

Aventurine leaned in, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “I’m a little scared, sweetheart. But gods above, do I love it.”

You choked on your own breath, burying your face in his chest out of sheer embarrassment.

He laughed then, arms wrapping around you with ease, that usual cocky warmth bleeding into something softer, more grounded. “For the record, you had him on the verge of tears before I even walked in. I’ve made CEOs cry with five-year economic forecasts, and I’ve never gotten that reaction.”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you mumbled against his shirt.

“You didn’t scare me, love,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You scared him. I’ve seen men pull guns on me without batting an eye. But you? You give him one look and he aged ten years.”

He pulled back enough to meet your eyes again, his grin a little gentler now.

“I always thought I had you all figured out, [Name]. Shy, soft, sweet... and completely at my mercy.”

You puffed your cheeks at him, and he snorted.

“But I was wrong. There’s a whole other side of you. One that could probably have me begging for mercy if I stepped too far.”

You looked away, embarrassed again. “I don’t like people insulting the ones I love.”

Aventurine went quiet for a beat.

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “Then I’m the luckiest man alive.”

You blinked at him.

He leaned in, so close his lips barely brushed yours. “Because I get to say I’m loved by you. Every part of you—shy and scary.”

You laughed nervously, trying to pull away, but he caught your chin with two fingers, his expression unusually earnest.

“Don’t hide that side from me. Ever,” he whispered. “You think you shocked me? Maybe. But you also reminded me I’m not the only one playing a game of masks.”

“And if you ever feel like snapping someone into pieces again,” he added with a sly smile, “just let me know in advance. I’ll bring popcorn.”

You groaned and shoved his chest lightly, earning a rich laugh.

He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“I adore you, sunshine. Every fiery, terrifying inch.”

Later that night, Aventurine was overheard warning a junior executive in the elevator:

“If you ever so much as look at [Name] the wrong way, just know this—I won’t have to lift a finger. My darling will eviscerate you with a smile. And between us?” He grinned as the elevator doors slid shut. “I can’t say I blame them.”

Anaxa was mid-lecture, chalk in hand, his gaze blazing with impassioned fervor when the projector behind him blinked. Then fizzled. Then exploded into a cascade of confetti and colored smoke.

A banner unfurled from the ceiling:

“IT’S PARTY TIME, ANAXA!”

The class gasped. Someone started clapping. Others laughed. The Demised Scholar stood frozen, his black-gloved hand twitching like a man about to collapse—or combust.

“…Prof A?” one student dared to say.

A muscle in Anaxa’ jaw spasmed.

“Who,” he hissed, “dared call me that in this sacred space of higher thought?”

Then he saw you.

You, leaning against the archway with a cake balanced in your arms and a balloon crown on your head. The look on your face was pure chaos.

“Happy Anti-Birthday, Anaxa!”

A vein in his temple pulsed visibly.

“You switched my purified Titan serum with syrup last week. You reprogrammed my drones to play serenades. And now—this?”

“I call it... experimental joy infusion,” you said with a wink.

He was furious. He was flustered. He was fighting a smirk.

“I ought to dissect you for science.”

“You say that every time,” you said sweetly, slipping a party hat over his left horn ridge.

And when you stole his cherished Droma plushie and dangled it over his chemical vat two weeks later, he chased you around his lab in his half-buttoned coat, furious and laughing all at once.

“Give back Kokopo III or I swear by the Eight-Pointed Flame—!”

“You love me too much to incinerate me,” you teased.

“You’re overestimating how replaceable you are.”

But you weren’t. And he knew it.

You were the chaos he never prepared for. The variable that made life incandescent.

Until the prank you pulled... that he didn’t see coming.

A forged letter, disguised in his own script. Sent to you.

“Follow the coordinates. Discover the forbidden vault I’ve hidden. Bring no one.”

But he never wrote it.

By the time he tracked the forged signature, you were already gone—swallowed by the Black Tide while searching for a vault that never existed.

A prank. A joke. A surprise.

That became your undoing.

He tore his lab apart looking for traces of you. Shattered beakers. Burned old journals. Screamed until his voice was raw.

They found him later, clutching the Droma plushie, collapsed beside his soul-seeing mirror.

Staring at visions that wouldn’t bring you back.

“Why didn’t I see it?” he whispered.

The lectures are quiet now.

The students say Anaxa doesn’t prank-proof his tools anymore.

Some even say, on quiet days, a balloon tied to the Droma plushie floats just behind him.

He never acknowledges it.

But he never cuts the string.

“You… you drew what on my face?” Phainon asked, dabbing at his cheek with a cloth.

“It’s a smiley sun! And hearts!” you chirped, proud.

He blinked, still groggy. “While I was sleeping. With permanent ink.”

“Oh please, Deliverer. Heroes should smile more.”

He tried to look stern. Failed. And laughed, that warm, earth-shaking sound that could turn a battlefield gentle.

Another time, you swapped out his greatsword before a public sparring demo.

What he pulled from his back was... a loaf of bread carved like a sword.

It crumbled on contact.

“I—” Phainon started, face unreadable. The crowd burst into uproarious laughter.

You waved from the audience.

“Strike me down, O Breadslayer!”

He nearly doubled over with mirth. “One day, you’ll test me too far,” he warned, “and I’ll tickle you into the next sunrise.”

But the next prank wasn’t one he could laugh off.

You “ignored” him for a full day, pretending not to see or hear him. He tried playing along. Then grew worried.

At dusk, you whispered, “Gotcha,” and hugged him from behind.

“You’d miss me too much if I vanished, huh?”

“…Yes,” he admitted, quietly. “Don’t ever vanish, alright?”

And so it broke him when you did.

A trick gone too far. You stole a signal flare, meant to be used in emergencies, and launched it near the Wastes—just to see if he’d come running in panic.

He did. But he was too late.

The Black Tide had already surged.

Your laughter never came.

Only silence.

Only shadows.

They found your commlink crushed in the mud, your name blurred in static.

And Phainon—sun-eyed, ever-resilient—fell to his knees in the mire.

You’d joked of vanishing. You’d never meant to.

Now he stands at the Black Tide’s edge, blade drawn, staring into the nothing. His voice barely a whisper.

“You promised... not to disappear.”

They say his Coreflame burns dimmer now.

But on quiet nights, some Legion scouts say they hear laughter echoing faintly beside him.

He doesn’t smile.

But sometimes...

He whispers:

“Alright. You got me good.”

You followed him like a loyal dog. Out of Aedes Elysiae, through countless city-states, journeyed with him past thick mangroves and gazed out at the vast sealine of Amphoreus together, your relationship budding into something irreplaceable, something worth being retold in myths.

Lovers so inseparable that it seems divinely ordained, lovers who were created with the other in mind, lovers who would kill for each other.

When did it go from killing for each other, to killing each other? 

The memories are fuzzy around the edges, but you had watched him descend into madness for too long, going after each coreflame and keeping them all in his own body like he was an indestructible vessel. You had watched him turn against your fellow Chrysos Heirs, slain them all like it was the ‘right path to take’, the only method of Deliverance.

You watched him take that title and run rampant, patience beginning to fray as he… turned into someone you didn’t recognise.

You knew you had to do something about it, you couldn’t keep yourself willing in his hands any longer. An anger that felt primordial, like it has been growing steadily within you for millenniums, finally erupting to drive you to do something about it.

The prophecies sing you to be the bearer of a coreflame, so you will heed the call, and stand opposing your lover. 

“This might be the hardest challenge I’ve had to face,” his words are carried to you by the wind, gentle in tone but so mellow and melancholic.

You turn to face your lover, determination burning in your soul. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“And I’ve been searching for you,” Khaslana mimics, eyes swirling with emotions you can’t read, eyebrows downturned– he looks so small, he doesn’t even have his weapon drawn, unlike you. “Y/n, please, don’t do this.”

“I know I’m no match for you, but I couldn’t stand watching you spiral any longer,” tears prick the edges of your eyes as the image of the man you love blurs. “This journey, the outcome of Deliverance you so obsessively chase, it’s not right, you’re destroying yourself.”

“I’m doing what needs to be done.”

“And what needs to be done now is to kill me, right? Tear the coreflame out of my chest? To bring the end of the Flamechase Journey… alone?”

He flinches, each word piercing through his chest deeper than the previous. Still, his will is unwavering when he answers. “Yes.”

“Why?” Your voice cracks. “Why shoulder this by yourself? Why bear the weight of a hundred million coreflames by yourself when we want to help? Why do you insist on such a cruel ending for yourself?”

Khaslana doesn’t answer, only stare at your face like it’s the last time he will see it, as if he’s etching it into memory, every line, every dimple, every imperfection, everything. 

“Because the destination is too perilous,” he mutters. “Because this is the only way to stop Era Nova, and I refuse to let any of you burn with me.” 

“Is this what you think ‘mercy’ is, Lord Khaslana?”

He nods. “It is the closest semblance of mercy I can offer.”

“Fine.” You raise your sword, steel pointed against him. “Show me this ‘mercy’ then.”

Dawnmaker materialises into his hand, and it drags on the floor behind him as he slowly steps toward you. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”

“I know.” 

It’s you who lunges first, swinging first as his larger blade clashes against yours. You can’t take him head-on, the weight of his weapon could shatter yours easily, so you have to weave around him, light on your toes like a dancer. 

You deflect more than you parry, and he stays on the defensive, watching each move keenly, refusing to hurt you. 

You don’t even realise you’re crying, the adrenaline stubbornly keeping you on your feet as you fight the love of your life. All of those sparring sessions to help each other train, to hone each other’s skills, who would have known that it would lead to this? Why is it him that has to be the one to kill you? 

Swordsmanship was a skill you honed to fight against the black tide, to stop those you love from meeting their end from those corrupt, vile creatures, so why is it being used now like this? Why is it Phainon that your blade seeks to kill? 

Why is his blade– the same one that slaughtered Mydeimos, Castorice, and Hyacinthia, the one to pierce through your stomach? 

You gasp when the pain shoots through your body, eyes widening as you feel the sharp ache. Blood rises like bile, and you cough it out, golden ichor dripping from your lips. 

When the cold steel retracts from your body, the piercing pain immobilizes you, causing you to heave as blood pools onto the tiles beneath you. It’s hard to stay upright, your strength slipping away from you as your chipped sword clangs onto stone. 

Then, your knees give out and you all but collapse.

Faintly, you hear the sound of his weapon being discarded, then he materialises beneath you to catch you before the cold, unforgiving ground can, his arms cradling you to his chest. 

He’s sobbing. Neither of you thought he could cry, yet the tears now pour out of him in endless streams, scalding droplets landing on your face while your blood soaks through his clothes, pooling around the two of you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your skin, searching for your hand that’s already growing cold and gripping it so tightly like he’s trying to anchor the last semblances of life in your body from fading. “I’m sorry, my love, I’m sorry, forgive me, please.” 

You don’t have the strength to say anything, or even move your hand to reassure him, and it kills him because all he wants is to hear your voice one last time. 

He presses a long kiss to your temple, murmuring something that you can’t hear as your vision begins to vignette, your breathing growing more laboured as your consciousness begins to slip away.

“You’re supposed to be here with me,” he whispers. “It’s not supposed to end like this.” 

There’s a warm hand on your face, prompting you to look up at him. You try your best to smile but he only cries harder. 

“I love you. I love you so much, Y/n, I’ll be with you in the next cycle, I won’t let us end like this again, please, wait for me.” 

Despite your silence, you hope he understands that you’ll wait. You will be by his side, you will make the journey from humble Aedes Elysiae to breathtaking Okhema in every cycle, no matter what, without hesitation, without regret. 

As your last proclamation of love, the coreflame he was searching for manifests in it’s purest form, floating before the two of you, ready for him to take. His heart cracks at the sight and shatters in a million pieces when your eyes droop close, the fight finally ending.

Creatures nearby could hear the man wail loudly for hours after.

© EARTHTOOZ 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

Tbh it's almost the same as LaD concept, you can custom made your mc, dress your mc and take picture with Phainon in various poses. The different is you can run around freely in the open world with him or not— that's up to you. Now, why wouldn't you bring Phainon along with you? What is he there for? Decoration? You can explore the Amphoreus world in different perspective, more detail perspective. The building that you can't enter in hsr? You can enter it but whatever you saw in there better stay there. Phainon had to drag you out before you cause more peace disturbance and get in trouble.

Not to mention, you can jump now. Don't try to jump off the building. You don't want to give Phainon a heart attack now, would you? Game or not, you can respawn or not, just don't do it. Ignore the intrusive thought. He's begging you.

You can toggle with the pov perspective too! You want to feel more immerse in it? Use the first person pov! You want to see the world in more wider perspective? Just use the third person pov! Use the first person pov more often, Phainon may kabedon you when there's no one around.

You can fight too! But you gotta bring Phainon with you or else the game won't let you. That man forbid you from fighting by yourself.

Don't forget to build him. Yes, you gotta grind for his relic all over again. Additionally you need to build your mc as well. Then you just log in the next day and find Phainon hitting big damage. When you check the build, your Phainon is almost perfectly build. You just startle like two days ago? Let's just assume that the game copied your phainon's build in hsr since the two game is connected.

Did I say the two game is connected? Yes. If you used the same account to play the otome game, when you log into your hsr game, there will be some easter egg where he mention you from the otome game after you finished the whole Amphoreus quest. Phainon mention of your very recent activity from your interaction in the otome game almost everytime when you play around in his voice line or just talking with him in the over world.

When you log in into the otome game, Phainon will sometimes slip something like "You're not getting bore of me, are you?" or "You haven't been using me for a while now. Why is that?". You never suspect a thing because you thought the otome game keep track of your characters usage in hsr. You're not wrong, he did keep track of your interaction with other character.

Gacha system? Yes, they have it there too. Is it really hoyo without their gacha system?

You can gacha the lightcone —brace yourself for the fluff and angst those lightcone brought along— that come with their own specific outfit. Cough cough Flame Reaver's outfit. Phainon may or may not be jealous if you prefer his alter ego more though. But most of the time, I'm sure he don't mind.

Sending message to you. Yes. You bet he will. Phainon cannot send message directly to you in hsr but in otome game his own dedicated otome game. He can freely do that. So don't be surprise if you get a notification from the otome game, a message from Phainon begging asking you to take a stroll with him.

Tbh it's almost the same as LaD concept, you can custom made your mc, dress your mc and take picture with Phainon in various poses. The different is you can run around freely in the open world with him or not— that's up to you. Now, why wouldn't you bring Phainon along with you? What is he there for? Decoration? You can explore the Amphoreus world in different perspective, more detail perspective. The building that you can't enter in hsr? You can enter it but whatever you saw in there better stay there. Phainon had to drag you out before you cause more peace disturbance and get in trouble.

Not to mention, you can jump now. Don't try to jump off the building. You don't want to give Phainon a heart attack now, would you? Game or not, you can respawn or not, just don't do it. Ignore the intrusive thought. He's begging you.

You can toggle with the pov perspective too! You want to feel more immerse in it? Use the first person pov! You want to see the world in more wider perspective? Just use the third person pov! Use the first person pov more often, Phainon may kabedon you when there's no one around.

You can fight too! But you gotta bring Phainon with you or else the game won't let you. That man forbid you from fighting by yourself.

Don't forget to build him. Yes, you gotta grind for his relic all over again. Additionally you need to build your mc as well. Then you just log in the next day and find Phainon hitting big damage. When you check the build, your Phainon is almost perfectly build. You just startle like two days ago? Let's just assume that the game copied your phainon's build in hsr since the two game is connected.

Did I say the two game is connected? Yes. If you used the same account to play the otome game, when you log into your hsr game, there will be some easter egg where he mention you from the otome game after you finished the whole Amphoreus quest. Phainon mention of your very recent activity from your interaction in the otome game almost everytime when you play around in his voice line or just talking with him in the over world.

When you log in into the otome game, Phainon will sometimes slip something like "You're not getting bore of me, are you?" or "You haven't been using me for a while now. Why is that?". You never suspect a thing because you thought the otome game keep track of your characters usage in hsr. You're not wrong, he did keep track of your interaction with other character.

Gacha system? Yes, they have it there too. Is it really hoyo without their gacha system?

You can gacha the lightcone —brace yourself for the fluff and angst those lightcone brought along— that come with their own specific outfit. Cough cough Flame Reaver's outfit. Phainon may or may not be jealous if you prefer his alter ego more though. But most of the time, I'm sure he don't mind.

Sending message to you. Yes. You bet he will. Phainon cannot send message directly to you in hsr but in otome game his own dedicated otome game. He can freely do that. So don't be surprise if you get a notification from the otome game, a message from Phainon begging asking you to take a stroll with him.