Tonight, the mic hisses with a faint reverb as Mydei croons into it. His golden eyes gleam under flickering reds and purples, the red-dyed tips of his golden hair smoldering like embers. His shirt hangs loose off one shoulder, showing the intricate lines of the tattoos etched across his torso—marks of an incubus, curling like flame and sin over his ribs.

He doesn’t need to put on much of a show. The energy rolls off him naturally, thick and sweet, seeping into the air like wine. The crowd leans in before they realize they’re doing it. More often than not, girls sidle up to him after the set, drunk on something more than liquor.

Mydei picks one, every night he’s performing without fail.

The tattoos flare and flicker when he’s inside them, burning brighter and spreading like they’re sentient—red lines coiling up their thighs, their stomachs, over the swell of their breasts while they moan beneath him. When he’s finished, he would kiss their temples and wipe them clean.

They never remember. They never come back.

However, on this particular evening, he catches wind of someone new from the corner of the stage mid-song—someone who doesn’t quite belong in a dingy, no-name bar like this one.

You're dressed like a goddamn porcelain saint. Puffy sleeves, fitted bodice that hugs too tight over your chest, the neckline stretched and struggling to contain the curve of your tits every time you shift in your seat. Not to mention that velvet ribbon tied sweetly at your throat.

Mydei nearly forgets the next verse.

He watches you through the end of the set, voice curling honey-slow around the lyrics, but his gaze never leaves the girl in the corner. The one with the angel face and the fuck-me body.

He watches your throat work when you swallow. The way your knees press together when someone brushes past your table. How your gaze flicks nervously toward him before it drops just as fast.

Oh. Mydei muses to himself, dragging a tongue over his bottom lip. His tattoos pulse faintly, already awake beneath his skin.

You’ll do just fine.

You’re still sitting at the little corner booth by the time the band’s finished their set. Legs tucked neatly under your dress, hands wrapped around a glass you’ve barely sipped from.

Mydei watches for a beat before heading your way, toweling sweat off the back of his neck as he approaches.

You glance up when his shadow falls over your table.

“Hey there,” he says, low and lazy, voice still hoarse from the mic. “Didn’t expect to see an angel in a place like this.”

“Oh— I, um...” Your hand flutters up to the ribbon at your throat, like you forgot it was there. “I was just… I heard the music from the church dorms and—well, I wasn’t sure what kind of place it was, but it sounded nice, so…”

Church dorms. Mydei’s lip twitches. That explains it.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your night,” you add quickly, flushing as you try to stand. “You probably want to celebrate with your friends, I can—”

He slides into the booth across from you before you can finish. His elbows are propped on the table, chin resting on his hand as he leans in and smiles.

“Don’t go. I’d rather celebrate with you.”

You look flustered—pink in the cheeks, eyes darting anywhere but his chest, which is half-exposed and still glistening faintly with sweat. Your thighs squeeze together under the table.

He notices.

“First time hearing us?” he asks.

You nod. “You’re… really good. Your voice is amazing. I didn’t know local bands could sound like that.”

He hums, pretending modesty, when really, he’s imagining that voice bleating into his ear while he has you bent over in some dark back room. Imagining the way your polite little gasps might break into sobs once his fingers are inside you—once his tattoos start crawling up your thighs and branding your hips.

Would you cry if he made you come too hard?

“I’m Mydei,” he says, offering his hand. “Local singer. Occasional troublemaker.”

You take his hand, and he holds it just a little too long, lets his thumb brush your wrist. He tries not to chuckle when he feels your pulse jump.

Oh, sweetheart. You’re already halfway his.

“And you are?”

“...People call me Dove,” you say shyly.

“That your real name?”

You shake your head. “Just a nickname from the other girls at the church. I… sort of help out with the choir sometimes, and, um… I guess I have a ‘gentle aura,’ or something like that.”

Mydei lets out a low laugh and rubs the back of his neck, golden hair falling into his eyes. It’s almost criminal, how he can act so relaxed while internally picturing you pinned beneath him in that ridiculous little dress—your puffy sleeves pulled down, tits out, mouth trembling as his glowing marks trace along your ribs.

“You look a little flushed, Dove.” He tilts his head. “Is the bar too warm for you?”

You’re beet red now. “I-it’s not that, I just—um—your tattoos, I mean, they’re very… eye-catching.”

They’d look even better on your thighs.

“I can tell you all about them,” Mydei says instead, his tone dropping into something lower. “If you’ve got time.”

“I probably shouldn’t… it’s already late.”

“Late’s when the best stories come out.”

You hesitate.

He leans forward just a little more, and now there’s barely a table between you. His fingers brush yours again. His gaze is golden and molten, thick with something unholy, and your breath hitches like prey about to bolt.

He smiles.

“Tell me, Dove,” Mydei murmurs.

“You ever kissed someone after midnight?”

You taste like powdered sugar.

That’s the first thought that hits him when his tongue slides into your mouth—sweet and shaking, like every part of you is trying so hard to be good even while you’re unknowingly letting a demon shove you up against the railing behind the bar.

Your mouth opens so easily for him. Just like your legs did.

The metal railing bites into your back as he crowds you in, one hand gripping the nape of your neck while the other shoves up your dress without hesitation. The fabric is bunched high over your hips, and he moans into your mouth when his fingers brush the heat between your thighs.

“So fuckin’ wet,” Mydei mutters against your lips, voice low and wrecked. “Didn’t even have to try, huh? You were dripping for me the second I walked off stage.”

You whimper when his fingers slide under your panties, trembling as he finds your slit—hot and soaked. He wastes no time. Not when your thighs are already parting for him, your whole body practically singing for him to fill you.

He sinks two fingers inside you like he owns the right to.

You cry out.

“Fuck,” he hisses, rutting his palm against your clit while his fingers curl deep. “You’re tight... This pussy’s never been touched, has it?”

You shake your head desperately, clutching at his shoulders as your hips rock down onto his hand.

“You’re killing me, Dove,” he growls. “First time and you’re this greedy?”

His tattoos pulse like flame where they’re exposed—glowing faintly down his arms, across his chest—and you don’t even see the way they slither onto your skin. You’re too busy gasping his name, grinding down on his fingers like you’ll die if he stops.

He fucks you open fast, rough, perfect—all wet sounds and breathy moans, your panties shoved aside, your thighs twitching as the first wave of heat coils low in your belly.

“Come on,” he pants, mouthing along your jaw. “Wanna feel you come all over my fingers, pretty girl. Let me see how sweet you get when you fall apart.”

And with his hand pinned between your thighs, his cock straining in his jeans, your slick juices soaking his palm as you come undone—

Mydei knows.

You’re already his.

The metal railing is cold beneath your stomach when he maneuvers you around, but the heat radiating off Mydei’s body makes it irrelevant.

He’s everywhere—crowding your back, mouthing at your neck, one hand yanking the neckline of your dress down so your breasts spill out over the rusted bar. His fingers pinch and paw at them shamelessly, kneading soft flesh like he wants bruises there tomorrow.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls. “Tits out and soaked for me—such a good little Dove.”

You whine when he presses his hips flush to yours. His engorged length slides between your thighs, dragging against your slick folds. He doesn’t slide in just yet, but it’s enough to make you squirm, to make you beg.

His marks crawl further up your body in time with your pulse—wrapping your waist, your hips, the inside of your thighs. They glow red as they curl over your chest like binding spells spun from sin.

“You’re gonna take all of it, aren’t you?” he rasps, hand sliding down your belly, right above where he’s about to push in. “This sweet little cunt was made to be fucked by something unholy.”

And just as he lines himself up—cock heavy and ready, the tip catching on your slick, aching entrance—your hand slips downward in a moment’s worth of clarity.

From the leather sheath hidden in your boot, your fingers curl around the hilt of a dagger. The cold bite of consecrated steel thrums in your grip—hungry for flesh, hungry for him.

You drive it upward in one fluid motion.

It pierces between his ribs with a sickening, fleshy crunch.

Mydei’s entire body seizes.

A strangled breath bursts from him, caught somewhere between a gasp and a growl. He stumbles back a half-step, blood already darkening the edge of your dress where it presses against the wound. The scent of him turns sharp and acrid, as the blade burns through muscle and bone with holy fire.

He stares at you, golden eyes wide and disbelieving. You don’t flinch. You simply grip the blade tighter.

“I should’ve done it sooner,” you whisper. “But I wanted to be sure.”

His mouth opens, blood trickling over his lip. For a moment he looks nothing like the predator who had you bent and dripping seconds ago.

But then he laughs.

“Well, shit,” Mydei rasps, the sound scraping from deep in his chest. “Guess the church choir’s not what it used to be.”

You twist the blade slowly in his ribs, and he groans.

The light from his tattoos flickers before they start to recoil—lines slithering away from your body like spooked serpents, vanishing back beneath his skin. The spell is broken.

But he’s still looking at you.

Still grinning through clenched teeth.

Still hard.

“This isn’t over, Dove,” he murmurs. “You marked me too, you know.”

Then with a hiss of sulfur and smoke, he’s gone—ripped from the night like a page torn from scripture.

You’re left alone with a bloodied blade in hand, your thighs sticky with the remains of everything you swore you wouldn’t let happen.

Despite being such a distinguished event, you’ve historically kept to yourself during it. Friends would invite you, but you’re not particularly enthused, maybe at most traversing through the streets a little to find some food to indulge in. The more vibrant celebrations, however, you’ve kept up a streak of avoiding them throughout the years.

Surprisingly enough, this isn’t even Phainon’s first time asking. This was your third year at the Grove of Epiphany, and for the last few times, you’ve said ‘no’ each time whenever he asked.

“I don’t have plans for it,” you admit. 

“What? You’re in Okhema for once and you don’t attend the Kephale Festival? That’s unheard of.”

“Not everyone is a socialite like you, Deliverer,” Mydei chips and you laugh underneath your breath. Phainon pouts at you, as if pleading for you to come up his defence when you know very well there’s a myriad of smart retorts he could respond with.

“In all fairness, it is a huge yearly celebration, I even think my family has plans of going.” Hyacine intervenes. “Are you maybe too familiar with the festivities?” 

You shrug. “Maybe, but if you’re in Okhema this year, then we should hang out!” 

“That sounds great! Would you like to join us, Phainon?”

“Of course!” He nods enthusiastically, “We should show you around!”

The conversation flows onto something else, which you’re grateful for. Eventually, the group splits when Castorice and Hyacine head to a class together, and Mydei follows, leaving just you and Phainon.

You two move to a different section in the expansive gardens of the Grove, seeking shelter from the bright sun by sitting under a large magnolia tree. The dirt surrounding you is littered with droppings of the white petals, Phainon idly fidgeting with the blooms and grass, even making little knots and threads of them.

Sitting with your knees tucked and a book resting on your legs, you can’t help but get the feeling that the white-haired man wants something from you, his gaze flickering over to you and lingering for a few seconds before he turns his head away.

There’s a question he wants to ask but doesn't know how to approach it, like the words won’t roll off his tongue in the way he wants it. There’s also a furrow in his brows, and you know that determined look all too well. You saw it when he was failing Professor Anaxagoras’ classes during the first half of the semester and worked hard enough that he managed to scrape a distinction from the scholar. Whilst his efforts were fuelled by him desperately wanting to prove himself, you gave him the push to really go for it. 

So, exactly like you did then, you nudge him in the right direction.

“Something on your mind, Phainon?” 

His bright blue eyes widen, flickering back to you as he straightens his spine, clearly being caught off guard by your question. “How’d you know?”

“You’re fidgeting.”

He laughs in that boisterous way of his, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You speak as if you know me like the back of your hand.”

“Well, I wasn’t wrong, was I?” You turn your attention back to the pages. “Fine, don’t tell me if you don’t want to.” 

“No, that’s not it, I do have a favour to ask of you, I’m just afraid it’s a bit embarrassing.” His hand goes to scratch the back of his neck and he refuses to meet your eyes. 

It’s amusing to see Phainon, who’s exuberance is larger than life and unapologetic about it, suddenly become as shy as a small child asking for extra sweets from Okheman vendors. However, for how long you’ve known Phainon, you’ve learnt that whenever he displays this quieter side of his, he’s trying to express a concern that worries him, so you wait patiently for him to answer. 

“You know how I asked if you were going to the Kephale Festival this year?” Asks Phainon. You nod. “Well, I… was hoping to also ask if you could be my date.”

“Date? People need dates for the festival? I thought it was just games and performances and food.”

“It is! However, my mother is invited to lots of galas in celebration, and she always drags me along, somehow landing me a date every time. She has done this since I was fifteen, and honestly, Y/n, I can’t take it anymore,” he grimaces. “I don’t want to have another awkward festival experience, so I was hoping you would be able to accompany me this year?”

It sounds easy enough, maybe a little awkward. What you know of Phainon’s home is that he was adopted by a lady in Okhema who, from the stories he’d tell you, seems like a lovely woman, so you’re not entirely opposed to the idea of attending a gala and potentially meeting her.

Besides, this is Phainon. You may prefer to stay away from galas when you can, but he always has a way of making things fun. Where’s the harm?

“Being your date sounds easy enough. All I have to do is attend, right?”

Phainon laughs awkwardly. “Yes, but that’s not all. My mother believes in chivalry above all else, she will do unspeakable things to me if I’m bringing just a friend. So… we have to pretend that we’re in a relationship.”

“What?” 

Suddenly, he’s on his knees and his hands are pressed together. “Please, Y/n, I’m begging you to help me out here. I’ll treat you to a lifetime of meals, just don’t make me suffer through another festival with someone I hardly know!” 

“I-It’s just a festival…”

“After years of suffering through awkward scenarios with people I hardly know, it feels like torture. I just want to bring someone who i will actually enjoy spending time with.” With the way he was pleading, you don’t think there is much room to intervene. It’s an odd request, you’re not even sure if you wholeheartedly believe his reasoning because of the many flaws in his logic.

Regardless, this issue seems serious to him, and it truly seemed as if he needed the help, and you’re willing to cast aside reason for someone reliable like him. If it were anyone else, you would have rejected, but Phainon? Who has always been there for you? You don’t have the heart to say ‘no’. 

“O-Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Really?” 

“Really.”

Suddenly, he brings you into a hug so tight that it feels like your ribs are being pressed together. He’s basically proclaiming a series of ‘thank you’s right in your ear, leaving you with barely any oxygen or brainpower to wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake, or if this will just be another funny story to share with your friends.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: I’ve arrived at Okhema!

Pie-non: Good to be back

Pie-non: How about you?

Y/n: i’m only heading back this afternoon

Y/n: good to know you made it home safely :)

Pie-non: Hehe 

Pie-non: Safe travels :D

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

“Welcome home.”

Traditionally, it is a phrase meant to be said with warmth, a phrase of love and care that after being away from home so long, you can not help but feel like you’ve finally returned to where you belong, where you’re forever safe from the anguish and hardships of life. It is meant to be a warm greeting, but the words are so icy it creeps up your spine.

In a cruelly familiar way, you feel your muscles tense, concealing a shiver to let it simmer beneath your skin instead, lest you be scolded for improper behaviour.

“I am home,” you say.

“After all those years spent in the Grove of Epiphany, I had assumed you abandoned us.” There is no humour behind your mother’s words, no lightness underneath.

You thought you would have forgotten the cold edge of your mother’s voice. 

You steel yourself. “I have been furthering my studies.”

“At an underwhelming pace, yes, that would be correct. You may go to your room first and put all your belongings away, however, return to the living room within half an hour, your father will have returned by then.”

“Of course.”

“Dismissed.”

Within these walls, everything is constructed perfectly. From the furniture, to where it’s placed, to the floor boards and its distance from the ceiling, everything was made to be precise and perfect, and not an inch out of place. Within these walls, there are clocks everywhere, and they are all set at the exact, same second, ticking at the exact same millisecond so you are reminded to not waste a single tick. Within these walls, goosebumps crawl stubbornly all over your skin, trailing along your forearm, back, and neck, making your hair stand up.

Within these walls, you always feel cold, despite the bright Okhema sunlight that shines through routinely-cleaned window panes.

Within these walls, is your least favourite place in all of Okhema.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: Are you free today?

Pie-non: Let’s hangout :0

Y/n: sure!

Y/n: i have a few errands to run, but i’ll be done before 1pm

Y/n: is that okay?

Y/n: we can get lunch or something together

Pie-non: More than

Pie-non: Do you need an errand buddy? I’m great entertainment :p

Y/n: it’ll be quite boring though

Pie-non: It’s ok, I like spending time with you! 

Y/n: alright

Y/n: meet me at marmoreal markets at 11am

The list of errands to complete your parents left you seemed longer today, and you scrutinise the additions that definitely were not there yesterday– just thinking about retrieving everything is making your head ache. Additionally, given how expansive Okhema is and how there are businesses all over the streets of the city, this errand trip is going to be exhausting. 

You stand up straighter and exhale a deep breath. It’s nothing unmanageable, no need to feel so frustrated over something so minute.

If anything, you feel bad that Phainon has to endure it with you. 

Your father had returned home yesterday exactly the same as you last saw him, perhaps with more wrinkles on his forehead and less hair on his head, but with the same distaste for the world he’s heralded for decades. 

They dropped you a series of tasks to complete, and you immediately resigned to your fate of being an errand runner. 

Couples, friends, and families pass by as you wait for Phainon. The markets are a notoriously busy and overstimulating space, leaving you to continuously glance left and right for any indication of his arrival. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t keep you waiting for long, appearing with two cups of iced drinks in his hands and that usual, easygoing smile of his.

“Hey, Y/n!” He waves at you, his other hand occupied with a carton holding two drinks. “Sorry if you’ve been waiting long, I got us some drinks to keep us cool!” He hands you one of them.

“What’s this?” You ask, eyeing the drink and the way it was presented. There are plenty of famous cafes around the markets that go viral all the time on the web for their cute aesthetics and unique drink combos that oddly mesh very well together. 

“I got you a pomegranate cream latte!” He stabs his straw into his drink, “you do like pomegranate, right?”

Incredible, it’s like Phainon knew you haven’t had your caffeine fix yet. “Yeah, I do. What did you get?” 

“A fig iced tea, want to try some?” He tilts the cup’s straw to your mouth and you hum at the fruity flavour that explodes on your tongue, nodding in approval of his choice, saying something about how you’ll get that next time. 

Then, you take a sip of your drink and hum in approval at his choice again. “This actually tastes pretty good, I would never have tried this if I saw it, thanks a bunch.”

He makes a sound of satisfaction, pleased with your judgment. “I’m glad, otherwise I would have had to drink it for you.”

“No thanks, we don’t need you to be caffeinated today.”

“Aw, why not? I did promise I’d be an exciting errand buddy today.”

“You don’t need caffeine to be exciting, Phainon.”

He laughs, the corners of his eyes creasing. “I’ll take that as a compliment! So, partner, what kind of date do you have planned for us?” 

You roll your eyes. “Unfortunately, this is going to be a date between me and this list of errands to get through, so let’s see how long you last before you regret tagging along.”

It’s like he takes that as a challenge, following along with every task you complete so obediently that you begin feeling bad for putting him through this, even if he’s not complaining or showing any physical weariness. Instead, he’s making small talk with the vendors you visit, asking about business, their days, what they’re selling. They’re far more receptive to him than you, but you’re certain that’s just part of Phainon’s charm and how effortlessly he can draw people in and keep them there.

Eventually, when you’ve finally completed the last task on the list, you and Phainon settle for a restaurant nearby.  

“Thank you for accompanying me today,” you watch as he pours water into both your glasses.

“No problem! It was fun, we talked to so many cool people like that fabrics owner!” Phainon exclaims. “Who knew that deep colour of red could only be achieved with pomegranate wine?”

“Speaking of which, I didn’t realise you knew so much about tailoring and garments and all that, where’d you learn?”

He waves his hand dismissively, “my mother, actually! Of course, I am nowhere as skilled as her, but after watching her weave for so long, I’ve picked up a few things along the way. I could never actually make anything, though, I’d be stuck threading the string through the needle.”

“Wow, so your mother is a seamstress?”

“Yeah! She actually runs a business in it. I really should know more about it, but fashion has never been my strong suit. She’s always picked out my outfits for me and burned the things she didn’t like.” There’s a twinge on embarrassment on Phainon’s features as he recalls the story and you laugh.

“Did she dress you for today?” 

He crosses his arms. “No! I’m not that aesthetically challenged anymore.” 

“I’m kidding,” you take a sip of your water. “Either way, having you around made the day a little more bearable.”

“Just a little?” 

“Just a little.”

“Are you sure it’s not a whooooole lot more than just a little?”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever.” 

He grins. “By the way, lunch is on me. I do owe you a lifetime of meals.”

“What? No, it’s fine,” you insist, “I thought you were just kidding!”

“I wasn’t, you’re my saviour, really.”

“That’s an exaggeration, come on.”

“I’m paying. That’s final.”

Phainon beats you to the register later, successfully covering your portion of the meal before you can do anything about it, smiling smugly at you when he’s successful.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: Do you want to come over to mine?

Pie-non: Mum wants to meet you c:

Y/n: omg actually

Y/n: i’d love to! what day were you thinking?

Pie-non: How about Saturday? I’ll come pick you up. 

It dawns on you in Phainon’s car that you actually have to play the role of a loving partner. You knew what you were getting into, but it only hits now that the act has to come alive as you sit in his passenger seat, a box of fruits from Janusopolis in your lap.

When he pulls up at, what you assume has to be, his house, you have to stop and admire for a bit. It’s really nice, and you wonder how on Amphoreus you didn’t know that Phainon might have come from an affluent background. Maybe because the air of arrogance that rich Okheman kids carried around was not present in him- either way, you suddenly feel a lot more nervous for what his foster carer might be like. 

You have had your fair share of unpleasant run-ins with rich people.

He unlocks the front door and calls out a loud “We’re home!”. His voice booms through the expanse of his home and in response, someone exclaims a ‘welcome home’, the voice hypnotising and mature as the sound of heels ricochet down the walls. 

You had an image of what Phainon’s guardian might have been like, but you definitely were not expecting the face of your parents’ number one business rival to turn and greet you.

It’s like the universe is playing a grand prank because you’re certain half the colour has drained from your face, and you’re utterly speechless as Aglaea, the infamous ‘Goldweaver’, gives Phainon a small hug. You’re sure you look like a fool when she turns to greet you. Intimidatingly beautiful and beautifully intimidating, she is every part as terrifying as you were expecting her to be.

The first thing to note is that she is far more beautiful in person, carrying an air of dignity that will take your breath away. The second thing to note is she has an extremely kind smile, and you’re unable to see the villain that your parents have relentlessly painted her out to be.

They say that eyes are the window to the soul, but it seems that Aglaea has boarded hers shut with wooden planks, because you can not sense what she is thinking at all. She regards you incredibly neutral, like you are just another person in the threads of her life, and in a sense, you are. However, you were expecting more scrutiny, more hostility concealed by over-honeyed words, and a piercing gaze that would scan you up and down, considering Phainon just introduced you as his other half. 

You expect her to be like your mother. Instead, she smiles like she has known you her whole life.

“It seems that my boy has met his match,” she approaches you with a dignified air to her, as if all the dust particles in the atmosphere part with each step she takes, never obstructing her perfect appearance. “Y/n, it is an honour to meet you.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Lady Aglaea.” You tense when you realise you’ve addressed her too properly, feeling a grim jab of embarrassment to your gut. Quickly, you recover. “I brought some gifts for your household to enjoy! These are fruits from Janusopolis.” 

“That is very thoughtful of you, and please, drop the formalities, no need to be so polite.”

You relax your shoulders a little. 

“Phainon has told me some stories about you, you’re from Okhema as well, correct? Will you be here for the Kephale Festival?” 

“Yes, I will be.” 

“Good.” She smiles at you, and the gesture alone feels like a pat on the back, despite the fact that you have done nothing but be present before her. “What is it that you study at the Grove?” 

Some small talk is made, you answer each question she fires your way flawlessly, strategic with the tone and language you choose to respond to her with. 

However, unlike most ‘interrogations’ from recognisable members of society, this one with Aglaea feels less daunting and more like she’s genuinely getting to know you, each question not meant to disarm or test you. Rather, her curiosity stemming from interest and careful consideration of all you say. 

You were not expecting that from the most successful businesswoman in Okhema. Maybe even all of Amphoreus. 

After a few minutes, the conversation flows to a close. “Regrettably, I cannot stay to chat- Phainon, do take good care of Y/n. Y/n, you may tell me if he misbehaves, I’ll spin him back into shape.”

You laugh. “I will. It was lovely meeting you!”

“Make yourself at home, Y/n.”

The door closes behind her with a resounding click, and you feel like a massive weight has been lifted off your shoulders. From all the anecdotes you receive in passing from your parents, Aglaea is hardly as devious as they make her out to be. Frightening? Perhaps, but she is not a spawn of malice and evil. 

Still- a little warning would have been much appreciated.

“Why didn’t you tell me your caretaker was Aglaea?” You ask.

A few days ago, when Phainon said his mother owned a business in garment making and tailoring, you assumed it was on small scale, not an enterprise worthy of toppling over her competitors’. You’re pretty certain she runs a tailoring store for fun, external to the rest of her conglomerate. 

He blinks at you. “Would you have known who she was beforehand?”

“Yes! Your mother is the most successful businesswoman in Okhema, some warning would have been nice!”

“Does it matter? Would that have changed how you perceived her?”

You shut your mouth. 

“To me, she is the woman who I am eternally grateful for, without her, I do not know where I would be. That is the only version of her that matters to me.”

Shame crawls up your spine at the realisation you were accusing Phainon under his own roof.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I got ahead of myself, she seems like an incredible woman.”

“It’s okay,” he nods, an understanding look in his eyes, “would you like any food or water?”

“A glass of water is fine, thank you,” you say quietly and he leads you deeper into the pristine abode of his. You pass by pictures hung up on the wall that you merely glance at, not wanting to pry for too long. Despite how neat Phainon’s house is, it feels lived in. Like a space that is clean, yet welcoming, like the decorations and furniture were chosen for beauty and comfort, not just to show off endless vasts of wealth. 

“You’re fine with pets, right?” Next thing you know, he whistles loudly and you hear several, little claws resounding through the halls, pattering against the marble floor. Eventually, a pack of five or so chimeras round the corner, clearly excited by the call of their owner, who bends down to their height so they can all jump onto his lap. 

They’re all over him, rubbing against him excitedly and jumping around like the exuberant creatures they are. The sight is so cute, it almost makes you coo.

(You are, however, not above sneaking a photo that you will definitely send to Hyacine, Castorice, and Mydei later. The latter is going to laugh his ass off at the sight but you know incredibly well that he would love the pack and let them jump all over him too.)

“Hey guys! I missed you too, yeah, I know, I know, but we have a guest!” Almost as if they can understand him, they immediately stop their assault on Phainon to glance at you instead, five pairs of bright, beady eyes staring right at you. “Everyone, this is Y/n!”

It seems like that opens the floodgates, because they are suddenly jumping all over your legs, hoping to knock you down like they did with Phainon. They howl and whine, quietening down when you scratch their ears, keening at your touch. 

“They really like you!” 

“I think they like everyone.”

“Sure, but they like you the most, look! They’re so happy!” Then, you feel a smooth graze against your ankles, as if something was rubbing against it. When you look down, there’s a blue chimera already gazing up at you with sparkling eyes and it mewls when you make eye contact, tail wagging in excitement. “Especially Bubbles! He’s super fond of you.”

You bend down to pick it up and it sits comfortably in your arms, leaning against your shoulder as you cradle it. “He’s cute.”

“I’m glad you think so!”

“Where did you get all of them?” You ask, staring at the litter that was now playing amongst themselves, tackling, laying down, even stepping on each other. 

“I found them abandoned in a cardboard box in a back alley. I was coming home from school one day when I was 16, then I saw baby Bubbles’ nearby, as if waiting for someone to come by. He led me to the rest of the pack and Aglaea allowed me to keep them, it would be cruel to split them up, they deserve to grow up together.” 

“That’s really kind of you.” You suppose it makes sense for someone like Phainon to be so kindhearted that he couldn’t stand the idea of stranding defenseless animals, especially in a city as bustling and busy as Okhema. They would not have survived long without a home.

Fortunately, neither of you need to think about a scenario where that is reality. 

“Bubbles is a smart cookie,” you murmur and the creature in your arms looks at you as if it knew it was being complimented.

You nuzzle your cheek against Bubbles’ head, and he reciprocates by rubbing his against your chin.

(If you squint, the likeness between Phainon and Bubbles is uncanny, the both of them even wearing the same innocent smile with gentle eyes; ones that make you feel like nothing is wrong with the world.)

When you return home, you call out ‘I’m home!’ and hear nothing but silence in response. Moments later, your mother pops through the hallways and informs you of an email your father has forwarded to you– internal documents that required calculations and he expected them finished within the coming days.

You’re in no position to decline, so you grit your teeth and get to work. 

A few days pass since you last saw Phainon. He’s been texting you consistently about a variety of things, sending photos of his chimeras, the views he sees while on his runs, or other miscellaneous things like the dromas-shaped pancake he got from a food stand.

Meanwhile, you’ve been cooped up in your study, the hours passing by nonstop as you work through the pages of financial information forwarded through. 

Pie-non: What are you up to today?

Y/n: nothing fun

Y/n: just finishing up some reports for my parents

Pie-non: Sounds super gross :(

Y/n: the good news is that i’m almost done and can treat myself soon!!!

Pie-non: Yay!! Pie-non: We should hangout then :0

Y/n: hmm

Y/n: i have the day free on sunday! just need to return by curtain fall for a charity event

Pie-non: Lets meet then! Pie-non: The weather forecast is looking nice, how about a picnic?

Pie-non: We should go near the lake!

Y/n: haha okayy sounds good

Y/n: talk more soon, gotta get back to work. 

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Your legs are shaking, and no matter how hard you try, they won’t stop. 

The discomfort serves as a sufficient distraction to the disappointed look in your parents eyes as they sit across from you, the low lighting from the living room lamp only highlighting the creases in their forehead and the downturn of their eyebrows. They’re berating you. You have to maintain eye contact as they berate you, forced to watch all the changes in their expression as they vocalise just how disappointed you’ve made them.

From a young age, they have drilled this into you; that you need to look your failures in the eye, that you must maintain their gaze as they ‘tell you how to improve’, but it’s never grown easier over the years. 

Everytime it feels like there is a small child inside the cavern of your chest shaking uncontrollably, its legs are curled to its chest, fighting to preserving what little warmth is left. You feel it trying its best, but you’ve learnt and accepted that one’s ‘best’ is sometimes just not enough, and failure is in the form of a pile of papers smacking the coffee table loudly. 

“Not only that, but you have calculated all of the ratios wrong, our team can not start on the reports otherwise for the quarter,” your father repeatedly jabs the file, to a point where you think it might dent from his actions. He spits “such foolish mistakes.” 

Your mother is no help. She never is against your father’s wrath, instead, she strokes the flames. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I have no excuse,” you murmur, “I’ll get it fixed.”

“By 9 am tomorrow. Do not dream of sleeping until it is done. Dismissed,” your father waves you off and that is your chance of escape. 

With insurmountable amount willpower, you stand and try to conceal the wobble in your legs as you trudge out of the living room and up the stairs to your designated office. 

Sitting down in front of your laptop fills you with dread, your vision is persistently blurry as you open all of the files, and doom is a wet droplet that flows down from your eye to your chin. It’s followed by another, and another, until there are puddles on the mahogany desk below you. 

Crying is a burning feeling you have not felt in years, not since you’ve arrived at the Grove of Epiphany, but this is a dance you will never forget the steps to. Too accustomed to the way your retinas burn, how your nose stings, how it hurts even more to push down the evidence and forcefully collect yourself. 

In Kephale’s name, all you want is to be back in your dorm at the Grove. You wonder what Castorice is doing right now. If things were different, you could be spending the holidays together, sharing drinks or snacks together, laughing. You think about what Hyacine is doing with her family, how they should be preparing for their trip to Okhema soon– you should really text her about it soon. Mydei’s probably back in Castrum Kremnos winning every wrestling competition there is, at least, that’s what he said he was doing when you last asked, showing off the many gold medals he’s won since he’s gone home.

You miss your friends. You hope they’re happy and well and not crying quietly by themselves late at night in front of a fluorescent screen, losing against a set of numbers. 

Your phone buzzes.

Pie-non: [ image attached ]

Pie-non: Bubbles misses you!

It’s a photo of the chimera curled up on Phainon’s lap, and it looks like he’s in the middle of watching a series, having a far more comfortable and cozy night than you. Despite the tears in your eyes fogging up your vision, you laugh at the text, typing back a response in between sniffles and small hiccups.

Y/n: aww :( he’s so cute

Y/n: i really miss bubbles, too

Pie-non: You’re welcome to see him anytime

Pie-non: Sticker

Pie-non: [ image attached ]

Warmth blooms in your chest, a stark contrast to the decrepit sense of loneliness that was settling in your chest mere moments ago. 

Wiping your nose with a tissue, you set your phone down, and turn back to the gruesome folder of spreadsheets your parents have ordered you to look through and fully correct before tomorrow.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

The weather is nice today. Okheman summers tend to be incredibly dry and hot, with scorching rays that beat you down and dry out your skin if you stand under it for too long. Here, however, sitting under a tree whose foliage filters out most of the sun, leaving patches of light to decorate the ground and your skin, you think this is the peace summer is meant to bring. Especially whilst by the waterside, where the wind carries its coolness and kisses your face with it.

You’ve missed this part of home, and the natural beauty of the Holy City.

There’s a shriek behind you and you turn around to see where the source of the disruption is, but the sight is more wholesome than you anticipated. A little girl being chased by an older brother, both of them looking no older than seven. There’s dirt on their hands, knees and clothes, and their parents chase after them with noisy concern, pulling out handkerchiefs and water bottles like their lives depend on it.

Eventually, the two children stop and listen to the whims of their parents. The father dabs the streaks off his daughter’s face, saying something you can’t hear before pressing a kiss against her forehead. The mother stops and scolds her son for not drinking enough water on such a hot day, leaving him to go run after his sister again with a ruffle of his hair. Your eyes are glued on the couple, how they look proud and content with their children, the warm day like a blessing. 

(In another life, you’ll receive the love you feel indebted to own, but in this one, you’ll get by chasing the approval of people who may never grant it to you, who may never love you like you deserve.)

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting!” A familiar white-haired companion sits down on the picnic mat beside you, an apologetic smile on his boyish features, paired with a bakery box in his hands. 

“It’s alright, I haven’t been here long,” your gaze lingers curiously on what he’s holding. He opens the lid and inside sits a little, charming cake, seemingly the same size as your hand but with three layers of height. “How cute! What’s the occasion?”

“It wouldn't be right to turn up empty-handed, so I picked this up on my way here! Looks good, right?” 

“How thoughtful of you, very picnic-esque. How should we eat it?”

“I just grabbed two forks and thought we could… just go at it.”

Phainon is kind enough to let you have the first bite, watching you struggle to find the right place to take the first stab with a small smile of amusement on his face. Cakes are delicate and the first ‘slice’ should always be handled with care, you reason, and he just chuckles when you successfully extract a piece.

“Cheers,” your forks tap against each other and watch each other’s expression when the dessert melts in your mouth.

A look of delight flashes in his eyes. “That’s really good!” 

“Delicious,” you reach for another bite. “I don’t remember the last time I had a cake from Okhema. They really bake it differently at the Grove.”

“Must have been your birthday or something, right?”

“I haven’t been back here in years,” you murmur, “and I never really celebrated. I think the first time I got my own cake was when Castorice and Hyacine made one for me.”

You don’t know what compelled you to share that tidbit, or why you had to bring the atmosphere down on such a lovely and warm day, but now you’re stuck pretending like that bittersweet fact doesn’t haunt you as much as it does. 

“If that’s the case, then let’s think of this one like a… welcome home cake,” he says. “It’s good to be back, right?”

“Sure.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent talking and slowly chipping away at the dessert. Summer has a particular ability to make life more magical with sunlight flickering through the dense leaves overhead. The two of you are content with watching the water, gazing out into the distance as you chat about a variety of things, the atmosphere comfortable and friendly like always.

“This time of day is perfect for an afternoon nap,” Phainon muses, “I’m feeling quite drowsy.”

“You can take one if you’d like,” you offer.

“It’s alright,” he laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his head, “I’ll manage, besides, I’m here to spend time with you!”

“You would take naps all the time back at the Grove. I brought a book with me, anyways, I can keep myself entertained.”

He presses his lips together. “A nap does sound really good right now… are you sure it’s fine?”

“Of course.”

After some small adjustments, you find the weight of his head resting on your thighs– something you’ve gotten used to with how fond of afternoon naps he was. He has accompanied you enough that a sacred routine between friends developed; you reading under the waning afternoon sun of the Grove, and him resting with you under the thick shade of the trees that grow there. You have dropped a book on his sleeping face a few too many times, and he has made it even by drooling on your clothes as he rests soundly against you. 

“You were born in Aedes Elysiae, right?” You murmur, watching your fingers that thread through his snow-white hair, one that has gotten long enough for you to curl your fingers around at least three times. “When did you arrive in Okhema?” 

He hums in contemplation, white eyelashes catching the gleam of the sun every time he blinks, fluttering gently. He is resting on his side, giving you a clear view of his side profile.

“I don’t think I was any older than fourteen, nearly fifteen,” he murmurs, “but my hometown was beautiful. The wheat that grew there was so long, I have fond memories of running through it with my friends, and the crops were the best. Something about them was different, fresher, maybe it’s the soil or the way the farmers planted it.”

He continues his spiel excitedly, hands moving animatedly, matching the enthusiasm in his words and tone. 

“That sounds dreamy,” you muse. 

“Right?” Then, there’s a melancholic shift in his futures; a droop of his eyelids, a small downturn of his lips. “I wish there was an Aedes Elysiae to return to, it’s been abandoned since the Black Tide took it all away. My parents, they- they managed to send me to Okhema in the nick of time.”

“Phainon-”

“-it’s okay,” his hands nervously fiddle with the hem of your clothes. “I’m grateful to be where I am now. If it weren’t for a magnificent stroke of luck and Aglaea finding me, I don’t know where I’d be today, she took me under her wing and loved me unconditionally. That’s why I’ll always do what I can to make her happy.” 

Then, he turns his head and cranes his neck to look up at you. 

“If it weren’t for everything that happened, I wouldn’t have gotten to meet you, either.” 

Sincerity shines in his eyes, and your breath gets caught in your throat. Not once in your life have you thought someone would be grateful to have known you.

“Somehow, you still manage to find a way to me, even though I’m the most irrelevant aspect of the story,” you chuckle whilst untangling your fingers from his hair to cradle his face instead, chill palms resting against warm skin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up bitter memories.”

“It’s fine! Really, I’m fine. If anything, I’m happy you asked, I love my hometown and telling others about it, it means a lot that you were curious in the first place. Phew, all that talking’s got me even more tired now, I think I’m gonna take a nap now.”

You nod, reaching for the book you brought in your bag. “Alright, sleep well, Phainon.”

He shifts around a bit afterwards, finding a comfortable position to rest in, but after a few moments, his breathing evens and he falls still save for the rise and fall of his chest. 

Still, you think about the uncharacteristic glumness in his eyes, how it looks like he was on the verge of tears despite the evenness in his voice. There’s a lot behind Phainon’s story that you’ll never know– after all, they say the kindest souls are the ones who have faced the greatest challenges, and you wonder if he’ll tell you about all of them someday.

For now, you play with his hair and read your book, waiting for him to wake up.

Later that night, you’re sat alone, dressed in an outfit picked by your mother that does not match your style, paired with beautiful gems that weigh down your chest and wrists.

There are people mingling away from where you are, and it is a crowd you must return to, but for now, you need a breather and a moment to recollect yourself.

You’ve talked to too many people tonight, smiled for too long that your cheeks ache now, and you’re still nursing the same drink you’ve had since the start of the night. There is no desire to drink it, the champagne merely for decoration so people do not ask you if you would like another and invite you to drink. 

In your hand, your phone shakes with a notification. 

Pie-non: How’s the charity event going?

Pie-non: I hope you’re not having too much fun without me ;0

Y/n: lol it would be so much better if you were here

Y/n: it’s going fine

Y/n: i can’t wait to go home

You open your camera and send him a photo of your barely-touched champagne glass, followed by a silly selfie. You wish he were here with you, the night would be infinitely more bearable.

Pie-non: You look great!!

Pie-non: I’ll be praying that the time goes by faster

Pie-non: Btw Aglaea gave me tickets to a play and suggested we go together

Pie-non: Would you like to go with me? :p 

Y/n: sounds great, i’m keen

Y/n: tell your mother i say thank you!

Y/n: i need to go back now, ttyl

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

“At the charity ball last night, there were a few offers made by sons of reputable businessmen,” your mother mentions over breakfast the following morning, and you halt your chewing, looking up from the news tablet. 

The idea of being negotiated is revolting, you have to force down the food that is in your mouth as you slowly lose your appetite. 

“Don’t you think it is about time you find a partner? Many of your classmates from high school have, your class president was engaed recently.” Your mother continues, not even glancing up from over the rim of her glasses.

Your thoughts drift over to Phainon. He’s… he’s not exactly your committed partner, but you are playing the part of being one to him, and you’re merely doing him a favour because you’re friends.

Why does calling him that feel like you’re choking over your own words? Why is your heart beginning to rebel, when did it have autonomy to do whatever it wants? Why is it doing flips as you think about yesterday, how he laid on your lap, how he gently played with the hems of your clothes as his voice fondly recalled vulnerable moments of his youth?

“No, I- I’m seeing someone!” You blurt without thinking and she finally looks up at you, an eyebrow raised.

“Is that so? And you did not check to see if this… someone is suitable for your father or I’s standard?”

“He is! He comes from a wealthy background and studies veterinary science at the Grove. I… didn’t want to tell you about it yet because I wanted to make sure he is perfect, you’ve always taught me to bide my time.”

“Oh? Fine, but you need to bring him to us soon for our approval. We would hate for you to be with a hopeless suitor who will merely waste your time.”

“Absolutely. Yours and father’s approval are very meaningful to me.” 

She sighs through her nose. “Very well. Don’t let us down.”

“I won’t, mother.”

The rest of breakfast is silent, leaving you room to dwell with your thoughts. 

You don’t actually like Phainon, do you? Maybe the mirage of dating him has gotten to your head, convinced you to see him in a new light- but nothing has changed since you were just friends. He’s always been kind, made you laugh, invited you to events, bought you your favourite drinks, showed you unconditional support, he’s always been all of these things and more, so why does your heart beat erratically now thinking about it? 

You fall back on your bed, the weight of these thoughts making you toss and turn against the comforter. You think about his kind smile and dig your head further into your sheets, you think about his gentle eyes and scream a little. It feels as if you’re living a scene straight from the romcoms you would watch when you were younger. Maybe… you’ve always liked him?

You’re going insane. 

(Since when were you the type of person to overthink about how someone perceived you? You stand hopelessly in front of your wardrobe, scanning through the pieces, the growing pile of clothes you deem unsightly sat atop your comforter. Titans, all of a sudden, nothing looks good or sits right, one outfit was too revealing, another not revealing enough– you’re going to go crazy!)

Later that evening, you meet Phainon outside the theatre. He’s dressed in a button-up with black slacks, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off his forearms (and the veins– stop looking so damn hard!). 

He grins widely when he sees you, pushing off the wall to meet you halfway. 

“Hey! I’m so glad you could make it!”

“I’m glad I could make it too, thanks so much for the invite, I’ve heard good things about the drama we’re watching tonight, all the tickets are sold out though, how did Aglaea manage to snag us some?” 

“Oh, you know,” he waves his hands, “friend of a friend, either way, someone couldn’t make it so these tickets are ours. How was the charity event?”

You hug the spare jacket you brought closer to your chest, murmuring “it was fine, honestly, the most fun part of the night was when you texted me.”

“That boring, hm? Well, at least you’re here with me now!”

“That I am. We should probably go inside now and find our seats.”

“Good idea,” then, he jokingly bows and offers an arm to you, like they do in old movies. You giggle before threading your arm through his. “Shall we?”

“We shall.”

The play was great- magnificent even, enthralling during some scenes and humorous in others, the audience clearly reacted well to it when the actors received an outstanding ovation during the bows, but the greatest comedy was your internal conundrum. 

For it was difficult to focus when all you could think about was how his hand was right next to yours, resting on the armrest of his chair. When he leaned in to say something funny or share commentary, your heart skipped a beat every time you caught his gaze, the stage lights reflecting in his aquamarine eyes. It overwhelmed you with an undeniable urge to break free and destroy all boundaries of friendship, a feeling you had to suppress before you did things ‘fake partners’ would regret. 

When you finally left the theatre, he offered to get dessert together before heading home.

As you walked, you were discussing the play together (or what you could remember). However, you were keenly aware of how your hand kept grazing his, fingertips brushing against each other every so often.

To your surprise, he grabs your hand with his and interlaces your fingers. 

“We are supposed to be dating, right?” Phainon scratches the back of his head sheepishly, “I hope you don’t mind.” 

“No… no it’s fine,” you murmur, shaking your head. 

“Hey, actually, that reminds me; you know how to dance, right? It’s expected of the ball’s attendees.”

You blink at him. A ball that requires its attendees know how to dance? Just how formal is this event? “I know the basics. If anything, I’m more surprised that you know how to dance.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know I am quite excellent, I promise I won’t be stepping on your toes.”

“I was messing with you. With how many years you’ve been attending, I expect you to be the best dance partner I could ask for.”

He turns his face away, hand creeping up to scratch his neck. “Aww, now you’re just making me nervous.”

“I’m looking forward to the gala, it’ll be fun.”

“Me too! It’ll be so much better this year with you coming!” 

“Tell me more about the gala.”

He begins what he’s best at: talking your ear off. While you’ve always loved hearing him tell stories, it’s even better now, listening to his anecdotes as he waves a dripping ice cream cone around, your hand still in his.

On Kephale’s light, this man is not good for your heart at all, matter of fact, he’s merciless without even realising it, but you’re uncertain if this will result in a happy ending. 

When all is said and done and the gala is over, the two of you will return to your normal routine as friends and nothing more. You will continue reading under the shade in the Grove and Phainon will be nearby, either resting, studying, or fiddling with a stray basketball he picked up. You will continue going for snack runs together, picking up the requested items of your friends. You will fall back into normalcy with these feelings devouring your insides, heart forever attuned to a boy out of reach.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: Sooooo Aglaea wants you to come over for lunch one day

Pie-non: Would you be able to?

Y/n: that sounds great, i’d love to

Y/n: when?

Pie-non: How about this Saturday?

Y/n: i’ll mark it down on my calender

Pie-non: Yay!

The second time meeting Aglaea feels less daunting. It’s Phainon who opens the door, grinning widely as he greets you with a hug. There’s specks of flour on his face, along with smears of other ingredients, and only then do you smell the aromatic smell of whatever he is cooking. 

“Come on in! Make yourself at home,” he ushers you in, letting you set your things down before leading you to the dining area. Adjacent to it is an expansive kitchen with windows that welcome in generous amounts of Kephale’s light.

“Y/n, how lovely it is to see you again,” Aglaea’s melodic voice chimes and you stand up straighter, hugging the big bouquet of flowers close to your chest.

“Thank you so much for having me! I’ve been looking forward to today, so I brought some flowers to express my gratitude.”

“That’s very thoughtful, thank you. Just set them down on the kitchen counter.”

You do as your told, eyeing the plates of delicious-looking food. “Would you like my help with anything?”

“If you could set the table, that would be great.”

“Of course!” You take the plates and cutlery that Phainon hands you, setting them in the exact way you’ve been taught growing up, in the order that befit dining. Aglaea sees this and leaves a harmless remark that you’ve been taught well, and you graciously wave off her comment, saying there’s more for you to learn.

Phainon carries all the dishes, setting them down on the table. Then, he turns to you with that same excited smile, beaming.

“I’m so glad you could make it, Y/n!” Radiant. He’s so radiant you think his teeth could work as flashlights in the dark.

Still, your heart skips a beat. “I’m very happy to be here, thank you for inviting me. Also, Phainon, you have something on your face.”

“Oh, where?” He rubs his face but it only worsens it, smearing more flour on his face. 

“It’s fine, I got it.” You grab a napkin from the table and wipe off the excess from his skin, trying your best to be gentle whilst he stands incredibly still, letting you do as you please. “There. All good.”

“Thanks!”

Neither of you are aware of the softness in Aglaea’s expression as she watches. It’s only with a clap of her hands do the two of you break out of the little world you were lost in and you jump away from Phainon like he’s burned you, embarrassed as Aglaea laughs.

“Come on kids, lets sit down now or the food will get cold.”

Lunch goes by easier than expected. You had been prepared for another feast where you would sit with your spine straight and shoulders tensed, echoing rehearsed laughs over dry jokes and unfunny remarks. Instead, your mirage has, once again, been completely disarmed by Aglaea’s questions; she seemed genuinely interested in what you had to say, like your hobbies and passions, or the little anecdotes you’d share when talking about different topics. 

Naturally, she shares stories as well. Phainon asks her if there’s been any interesting business deals, and she responds with a flippant sigh, vaguely detailing a client that’s been driving her up the wall, which both of you have animated reactions to. 

Meanwhile, Phainon keeps coaxing you to try more dishes, especially the ones he made, watching your expression with keen intensity while his mother smiles fondly from across the table, retopping your glass of water whenever it emptied. By the end of lunch, your stomach is full and your heart even more so. 

When Phainon goes to feed the family of chimeras, you’re left alone to talk with Aglaea while washing the dishes. However, the tranquility of the moment is ruined by a buzz of your phone, soured when you realise it’s your father who didn’t even write a message, just sent two files and a link, no doubt thrust upon you to complete. 

“Who is it?” 

You quickly shut off your phone, taming the agitation gnawing at your ribcage. “Excuse me, it was just my father.” 

When Phainon returns to the room, Aglaea suggests something about taking you to the riverside. “You shouldn’t stay cooped up inside on such a lovely day,” she had reasoned and the next thing you know, he’s pulling you out the door like an overexcited chimera, eagerness dripping off him in waves. 

You yell at him to slow down, heart hammering from physical exertion and the feeling of his hand tightly squeezing yours. He apologises with a sheepish smile but does not drop your wrist, guiding you to a carved path covered by thick foliage and the end of it was a clearing that gazed over a vast river. 

It’s beautiful. Fluffy clouds drift by overhead, following the downstream current. Your feet take you along the direction of the current, the rock and sand crunching beneath your footsteps as the waves roll by.

“It’s so peaceful here.”

“I know right?” Phainon rolls his sleeves up and sorts through the pile of rocks underneath your feet, picking up each one and inspecting them carefully, discarding any he deems unsightly. You don’t quite understand what his criteria is, but when he has a handful of sizeable ones, he throws one out.

It skids along once, twice, many more times before finally dropping into the water. 

He looks at you like he’s expecting a congratulations, so you give it to him and he beams. Next thing you know, he’s instructing you on how he did it. 

“You want to angle your body and hit the surface at a lower level, make sure you’re using the flatter side of the rock, then, with a flick of your wrist…” he throws the rock and it skids across the surface level seven- eight- nine times before silently dropping into the water, and you stare blankly at the dissipating ripples.

He made it look so easy.

“Here, try skip a few stones!” 

You try your best to abide to his instructions. Angle the body, get lower with the water level, and flick of the wrist and it… plonks into the water without so much a hop.

“Aw,” you murmur, but instead of berating or ridiculing, Phainon hands you another rock, similar to the one you just threw.

“That’s okay! It’s pretty hard to get on the first try, have another go.” 

Maybe it was the sun, but the stone in your hand felt nicely warm, and you let your gaze linger on him for a moment, waiting for the disappointment to appear in his eyes. Yet, it never comes. All he does is beam at you with a thumbs up for encouragement. 

This time, when you flick your wrist, it skips across the water surface one, two, three, four, five times before halting, and the only evidence that you’ve succeeded are the ripples fading away. The only witness claps, softly cheering.

He’s applauding because you skipped a stone on the surface of a river. 

It’s so silly and simple it makes your heart skip a beat. 

You manage to hit a high score of seven, while Phainon manages to go into the double digits, and you find yourself clapping for him too, occasionally high fiving in celebration.

(This is the sense of belonging you’ve been chasing after your whole life. The love you’ve craved for so long but always thought would be out of reach, yet, these two have somehow proven that caring for someone is not a Herculean task.)

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

If there’s one thing Okhema has taught you, it’s that happiness is fleeting and there will always be those who want to stomp out your light. 

“We didn’t even know you had friends in Okhema. You left all the people you knew behind the second you went to the Grove, disappeared from the face of Amphoreus like some runaway child,” your mother quips, metallic spoon clinking the tea cup she was stirring.

You stiffen. “I thought a change of environment was what I needed.”

She taps the edge of her cup twice, the sound resonating through the room. “If you were more capable, you would have been able to balance both. Unfortunately, not all of us are, you should have been grateful your friends from high school gave you the time of day. They were all such valuable connections to have.” 

You want to defend yourself, tell her about how horrid and small they made you feel, but you suppose she would never understand, not when she treats you the same. Unfortunately, one group is far easier to run away from than the other.

“Do you even have friends at the Grove?” 

“Of course,” you insist, trying to keep your tone levelled. After years of living here, you’ve grown to understand that any display of emotion would be weaponised against you, but it never gets any easier trying to suppress them. Not when the snarky words of your mother are said with the intention of wearing you down.

She raises her teacup to her lips. “Are you sure they even like you?” 

Does she drink poison to stay hydrated? Her toxicity truly knows no bounds. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” 

Your tea finally finishes steeping, and before you can raise it to your lips, your father, who finally decides the conversation is worth entering, chimes up. “I’ve heard some of the people in your grade have started finding success in life, one’s even managed to get a booming startup off the ground.”

“Off the back of his father’s money,” you retaliate. 

“So what? Does that change the fact that he’s operating a successful business and a respectable entrepreneur?”

Rich, you think. Where’s your support, then? They can’t even give you the time of day.

“You finally have a rare break back home, and instead of working, you spend everyday out and about and falling behind. Time is the most valuable resource one can have and you insist on wasting it by going out everyday.”

He smacks his lips together and shakes his head.

“Ridiculous.”

You try to stand up for yourself. “I’m on summer break, I’ve been working hard the last three years to maintain honours with top grades-”

“-We expect you to do better.”

Frustration boils in your chest and clogs up your throat. Defending yourself is never productive in this household, and trying to have the last say only leads to a thundering chest that feels like you’re one breath away from caving in.

As soon as dinner was over and you could leave, you’re out the front door before you can think twice, putting on the most comfortable pair of shoes you can find before darting out. 

You couldn’t stay in that house a minute longer, otherwise your agitation would have boiled over and stained the pristine floors.

The sky overhead bleeds a multitude of warm hues with orange clouds drifting by. The beautiful sight cheers you up minimally, but it’s not effective against the swirling cauldron of emotions sitting in your stomach and the fumes that stick to your throat. You’re so frustrated, you don’t know if you want to scream and kick something or cry.

When will this game end? When will this dance cease? When will this symphony of turmoil finally diminish?

Pleasing them doesn’t change them, rebelling against them just makes things worse, and running away and avoiding them for two years did nothing. 

What did you do to deserve this?

Deep breaths. Inhale… exhale… the breeze of summer infiltrates your senses, and you realise that your feet have taken you to a familiar park. One that, whenever explosive arguments occurred, you would come here to calm your racing mind and turbulent emotions. It has been your routine since young, and after two years of not seeing this natural scape, a bittersweet ache of nostalgia returns. Time may pass but old habits die hard.

“Y/n?” 

You freeze.

Your stinking luck. Why now?

“Phainon!” You choke out, along with an awkward laugh that comes out as a pathetic garble instead. Oh Titans, you’re crying. You didn’t even realise you were crying, the dried-up tear streaks staining your skin an incriminating sign that you immediately hurry to wipe away. 

He can’t see you like this.

Scrambling to stand up, you steady yourself with the trunk of the birch tree you were previously sitting under. You frantically wipe at your cheeks with your shirt, the cotton like steel wool against your skin as you scrub and scrub and scrub, ridding the evidence of your emotional display. 

You can’t even look at him, too ashamed.

There’s a warm pair of hands wrapped around your wrists, and you flinch at his touch, “Y/n… what’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all,” the words are a jumbled mess of syllables that get jammed in your throat as you pull yourself away from him, stumbling backwards. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you are.” 

“I swear I am.”

“You can tell me if something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine!”

“It’s clearly not-”

“-It clearly is.”

“Y/n, it’s pretty obvious something’s wrong.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stop pretending-”

“-Phainon, please.” 

He’s silent for a few beats before conceding pensively. This time, his tone is softer. “Okay, but you know I’d never judge you, right? So if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

Unconcealing your face, you still refuse to meet his eyes, gaze glued to his shirt instead. The first thing you notice is that he’s wearing merchandise with the Grove’s logo printed in the centre, along with the words ‘sport and athletics’ underneath. 

“Thank you.” 

“I’m serious. You don’t have to be alone, you believe me right?”

You’re silent for a few beats. “Yes,” you lie.

“Then say it.”

“I…” your swollen eyes flit up to meet his. There’s a steady intensity in his expression that almost makes you cower, so you glance away and find the trees behind him far more bearable. “I believe you.” 

It’s awkwardly silent for a few beats afterwards, neither of you knowing what to say to lighten the mood, but it was him who was dragged into your unfortunate mess, so you squeak a very meek “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

Phainon blinks. “Why are you apologising? If anything, I should be apologising to you for almost scaring you off.”

“It’s only because you snuck up on me!”

“My bad, my bad,” he scratches the back of his neck.

It falls painfully awkward again, a gust of wind brushing against the back of your legs. You shiver. 

“Are you cold?” 

“No- I’m fine, it was just a chill. What brings you here?”

“I was out on a run, this park is on my normal route.”

“It’s so far from your house!”

He tilts his head, ivory locks swaying with the action. “Is it?”

“Well, I guess this wouldn’t be too hard for you, Mr. Top Athlete.”

“Oh, stop it,” he waves off your compliment. “Would you like to get a bite now that we've bumped into each other? My treat.”

The scalding words of your father echo in your head. “I would but I think my family’s expecting me, I shouldn’t keep them waiting too long, sorry.”

He frowns, dejection glossing over his features. “I understand. When can I see you next?”

“To be honest, my parents were scolding me earlier for going out so much so I might need to stay home for a bit. I’ll text you when I think it’s better.”

“Alright.” 

“Well. Guess I’ll see you later, Phai-”

Without warning, you’re engulfed in a warm embrace, Phainon’s fleece shirt pressed against your chin as you crane your neck to meet his towering height. His arms are wrapped tight around your torso, one wrapped around your shoulder, the other around the back of your lower ribs, pressing you securely against him. His cologne smells like cedarwood and bergamot.

(The setting Okheman sun casts golden rays that illuminate his sky blue eyes gorgeously, but you will never forget the unfamiliarity of how he looked at you, and how even the light did nothing to hide it. He regarded you like something that needed fixing, like you were an antique vase that lay shattered on the floor, like you were his favourite mug, like you were something that took love and intention to create.

Instead of sweeping you aside, he held you close to his chest and cradled you there, determined to piece you back together.

You return his embrace.) 

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

The coming days are mundane. As always, your parents excel at sweeping tension under the rug. Breakfasts are silent, and you’re trying to appease them so you can make it to Phainon’s gala, careful not to stroke their (delicate) tempers. 

You’ve successfully managed to let them know of your plans with Hyacine. Given that she was in Okhema, you didn’t want this chance to slip out of your grasp, so you’re relieved you’ll get to hangout with her for a day or so. 

Other than that, you don’t have much to occupy your time outside of reading, taking occasional walks, and texting your friends, so your mind drifts back to the white-haired man more often than not. 

You’ve been in constant contact, active on both the groupchat with your friends and private chats, but you think back to what he said to you days ago. By the power of unfortunate timing and coincidence, he had caught you at an incredibly sensitive moment– you’re not embarrassed about that anymore, but you can vividly recall the fire in his eyes. How he seemed… angry at your sorrow, like it was unfair that you were feeling upset, like it was his responsibility to fix it. 

‘If you need someone to talk to, I’m here’. 

Would he even want to hear what you have to say? There’s no worth bothering him with problems as mundane as yours… but you can’t say you haven’t been tempted to tell him.

During hours late in the night, when your psyche was tired and rationality worn down after a long day, you were one word away from spilling it all on a late night video call, but the sentence never came out. Instead, they’d crawl right back in your throat and settle uncomfortably in your heart, deciding that someone like him should not need to worry about you. 

What if he is curious, though? He wanted answers, he wanted to console you, wanted you to talk to him, but all you did was jump away when his hands touched yours and refused to speak like some sensitive child.

If you try hard enough, you can feel how hard he squeezed you in that hug, the ghost of his embrace pulling you tight against him. You can remember how he felt in your arms, how the fabric of his shirt felt bunched up in your fists, how grounding it was.

To you, Phainon will always be untouchable, on par with Kephale’s light that beams its warmth on everyone and will always be loved by all. Meanwhile, you’re a puppet tugged along by frayed strings, still trying to discover what it means to be loved and cared for. You are the dust that sits gathered on the windowsill, staring up at the sky outside, yearning for a way out.

Sighing, you savour the sun for a few moments longer. When you cast your gaze downward and see the specks of grey decorating the window frame, you frown, descending to get something to wipe it away with. 

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: The gala is in 13 days from now :0

Pie-non: Aglaea said that she can help you get ready if you’d like!

Y/n: really?? it won’t bother her?

Pie-non: Nope!

Pie-non: Believe or not, she likes this kind of stuff

Y/n: well, if she’s okay with it, then yes please!

Aglaea gently runs her fingers through your undone hair, classical Amphorean music softly humming in the background from an old record player. The open window welcomes in a warm draft, one that hits the bottom of your neck.

You love the outfit she has picked for you. It’s lightweight and hugs your figure at all the right places but isn’t too tight that moving is a struggle. Most importantly, you still feel like yourself and comfortable in your own skin.

She truly is a tailoring expert.

“I take it that you like the clothes I picked for you?” Aglaea asks, and you glance up at the mirror, unaware of how wide you are smiling.

“I love them,” you announce unabashedly, cheeks beginning to hurt. “They’re gorgeous.”

She laughs, the sound gentle and honeyed as she begins brushing through your hair. “So is the wearer.”

Your gaze flickers back to your reflection. “Thank you.”

It’s silent save for accessories jingling as Aglaea decides which ones best suit you, testing a variety of necklaces, bracelets, arm bands, and more hair pieces. The quiet is comfortable, as if you are more than the (fake) partner Phainon has brought home for the holidays, like you are someone worth a reserved seat at her dinner table.

However, when you leave Okhema at the end of summer, you’ll have to shatter your plate and end this make believe. In the midst of all your new-found feelings, when you and Phainon return to the Grove, he will have to find an excuse as to why you may never return to visit her again. You already feel guilty for wasting her time and energy like this, you can’t fathom how disappointed she will be when it’s time to throw it away. 

“Phainon has been looking forward to today for a long time,” she tells you, a warm look in her eyes when your gazes meet. “Before, he’d be grumpy and petulant whenever I had to get him ready, complaining about all the dates I arranged him, but recently he’s been bouncing off the walls with excitement.” 

You giggle. It’s easy to picture a younger Phainon pouting and huffing, sat in the exact chair you’re in now, throwing a tantrum before Aglaea would straighten him into shape, but you can also imagine current-Phainon eagerly counting down the days to an event he used to dread. Maybe you really did him a favour by agreeing to accompany him. After all, going to big galas with a friend was far more enjoyable than going with someone you did not know.

“Of course, he was never ill-mannered to those I chose, he is far too kind for that, but every year I wondered when he’d finally bring someone of his own choosing.”

“Really? But he’s so popular and well-liked.”

“Phainon is very particular about the people he surrounds himself with. When he first told me that he had a date for this year’s Kephale Festival, I was curious who it was that finally caught his eye. Then, I met you and understood why he liked you so much.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Really?”

She nods. “Admittedly, he has told me about you before and shared pictures you took together from the Grove, along with the group of friends you share. So I have heard about you from all the stories he’d share with me.” 

“It’s a really incredible group, we’re all great friends.”

“I’m grateful he has you all.”

Aglaea smiles fondly. “I’m grateful to have him, too.”

A few beats of silence pass. This time, you’re compelled to speak up. You say “my parents are business owners too. They specialise in a similar industry to you.” 

“Yes, I am vaguely familiar with them. To be successful, you have to know your competitors, but I get the sense they’re not very fond of me.”

“They regard everyone who is not in their circle as rivals and therefore, don’t care about maintaining politeness. I apologise if their aloofness has offended you.”

“Nonsense, I am not holding you accountable for the actions of two different people, not when they should be far more mature. It is baffling that the child they have raised has far more decorum than the supposed role models.”

A feeling of satisfaction settles in your stomach when you hear Aglaea’s remarks, and you don’t even want to defend them, giggling behind your hand. “Did you know of my status before you met me?”

“I know everything in Okhema, so naturally, I recognised you the moment Phainon sent me a group photo.”

You glance up at her, her golden eyes focused on your hair. “I assumed you would herald the same distaste for them and by extension me.”

“Darling, there are a few things we should clear up,” she reaches for a bobby pin, body hovering close to your head for a second. “Apathy is a better suited word than distaste. Business has progressed far beyond a game for me, I do what I do to keep my work afloat, not interact in elaborate mind games with my competitors. Has it turned out that way? Perhaps, but unintentionally. I do not harbour ill intention toward people I have never met, not even when I recognised you for the first time.” Finally, she meets your eyes. “All I discerned about you was that you were a treasured companion to Phainon, and for as long as you make him happy, you will always have a place here in my home.”

Kephale’s light cast her in an angelic light, illuminating Aglaea’s silhouette as she pats your shoulder reassuringly. Your stomach churns at her honesty, the adoring way she speaks about Phainon– would your parents speak of you like this? Have they ever regarded you with this much love and light in their eyes?

Gaze flickering away, there is dust gathering on the edges of the windows.

“Besides, when I see you, I see a powerful individual who has yet to step into who you really are, and that is above the fact that you are also the love of Phainon’s life.” 

Her honesty, the kind way she’s smiling at you– you feel horrible for deceiving her. 

“Phainon and I aren’t really together,” you blurt out without thinking, and you’re immediately covering your mouth with your hands, eyes blown wide as you gauge her reaction in the mirror. 

However, she doesn’t seem the least bit surprised. Instead, she laughs, so animatedly that her shoulders shake, her eyes shut as elegant smile lines crease her skin. 

She inhales deeply with a hand on her chest. “As I said earlier, I know everything in Okhema, and I know that you and my boy aren’t actually together.”

“What? Did Phainon tell you?”

“No, but my intuition is imperceptible, darling. Nothing escapes my eyes. While I could tell you two were upholding a fake relationship, I can also tell that you genuinely like him, don’t you?”

“I do,” you admit softly. “I really do.” You declare it louder the second time. “Is it stupid of me to?”

She shakes her head. “While my guess is that he used me as an excuse to ensnare you, I trust that there is a genuine reason behind his actions, but that is a conversation reserved between you and him. It is not my place to comment on it. However, I can offer you this: when the time comes, know that I am in full support of the both of you.”

“Thank you, that- that means a lot.”

“All you do is thank, thank, and thank people when all they do is show you the basic care you deserve,” she says as she clasps a necklace together.

You fall unnaturally still, eyes stinging as tears begin welling up in your eyes. If Aglaea picks up on your change in behaviour, she is kind enough to not comment, instead, she keeps working on your appearance, pinning and brushing and curling.

After a few minutes, she pats your shoulder and tells you she has finished. So you stand and admire the masterpiece she has styled you into, your hair falling down beautifully, accessories clinging together each time you so moved; you feel ethereal.

“He’ll be speechless when he sees you,” Aglaea smiles at you approvingly.

“Thank you,” you whisper. You hope she knows that you’re grateful for more than just the styling. 

“You’re quite welcome, dear. You shouldn’t keep him waiting, Phainon may be patient, but something tells me he’s downstairs, eager to see you.”

True to her prediction, Phainon is already waiting for you by the bottom of the staircase, fixing his traditional Okheman outfit. When he hears the sound of your footsteps, he looks up but his wide smile falters, shrinking into something more shy and bashful. You carefully descend the steps, holding onto the railing with a gentle grip as fabrics sashay and gold bangles sound against each other, indicating your arrival.

Your date is uncharacteristically quiet, eyes wide and unblinking as they follow your every movement, unable to glance away, even when you come to a stop before him. You anxiously wait for a reaction from the usually-expressive man.

“What do you think?”

He snaps out of his reverie. “I– uh, you- you look incredible.” 

“Thank you. It’s all thanks to Aglaea.”

“Not all, I’d argue,” he wipes his hands on his pants before extending one. “Let me help you down.” 

It felt nice to have his warm palm in yours; how he barely put any pressure on your fingers as his gaze was stuck to the stairs, ensuring you wouldn’t misstep. 

When you reach the bottom, you give him a once-over, keeping your admiration lowkey and refraining from ogling at his biceps. “You look good, Phainon.” 

“I’m glad you think so, I have something to prove tonight.”

“What are you proving?”

“That I’m worth standing by your side.”

Your heart, it’s doing that uncomfortable thing again. You have no idea what to say in response as your face heats up uncontrollably, heat creeping up your neck.

Thankfully, Aglaea saves the day, her heels clacking as she descends the stairs. “Let’s head out now, we’re already running a little behind.”

“Yes, Aglaea.”

A small tug on your hand reminds you that Phainon has yet to let go, and he beams with satisfaction when your attention returns to him. Aglaea comes to a stop beside you and you feel heat creep up your neck at the knowing look she gives you. 

“Was he speechless?” She asks.

“He couldn’t speak for a minute,” you shyly confess and Phainon splutters in protest, causing his mother to laugh, an affectionate smile tugging at her lips when she looks at her son.

Her hands reach over to fix a small part of his outfit. “We were simply teasing. Let’s leave now, the car should be waiting outside.”

The ride to the gala is longer than usual due to closed off roads, but sometimes, you could catch a glimpse of people celebrating. Phainon would point out scenes he found funny or entertaining, delighted by all of the stands with dromas merch, vaguely mentioning how ‘Prof Nax would really like them’. He points to the families who have dressed up, circles of people dancing, and the food stands that he’d like to try sometime soon.

Eventually, the detour ends and you arrive at the steps of the gala. After driving in through the gates, you admire the architecture and construction of the venue. It’s exterior and interior were all thoroughly decorated, and someone guides you through the hallways to arrive at the correct room. 

Before Aglaea can be whisked away by a crowd, she mouths ‘go have fun’ to the both of you. 

“You seem excited, Phainon,” you face him.

“It’s cause I get to spend time with you!”

“Why? We spend a lot of time together regardless.”

He tilts his head. “I always enjoy spending time with you, do I need another reason to be excited about it? Do you want to get food first?” 

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“Maybe, so please?” he pleads with his eyes. 

“Fine.” 

You’re glued to Phainon’s side for the rest of the night. Occasionally people come up to talk to him, greeting him with a big hug and asking how life has been. Then, their curious gaze would drift over to you, wondering who the ‘lucky’ date is.

He’d introduce you enthusiastically, telling you names of people you don’t remember as soon as they turn around and leave. 

Uncharacteristically, it seems like Phainon does not have a lot to say for once as you’re the one to do most of the small talk, asking the partygoers about themselves and showing interest in everything they say. He, on the other hand, is practically too eager to see everyone leave before turning to you with a big, innocent smile, his arm tugging you even closer to his side. 

Then, when it’s the two of you again, he’ll talk your ear off once more. 

“Are you enjoying yourself so far?” Phainon asks.

“Of course, this has probably been the most fun I’ve had at an event,” you tell him. “Everyone we’ve met seems pretty nice so far, and the food’s good! Are you having a good time?” 

He nods enthusiastically, taking a big mouthful of a fig cake dessert. You use your napkin to wipe the crumbs away from the corners of his lips. 

“I’m incredibly grateful for you and Aglaea. This is my first Kephale Festival in a while, and it’s been really enjoyable.”

“You don’t know how happy it makes me to hear that, and it makes me infinitely more happy seeing you get along with my mum. You’re my two favourite people, it means a lot to me.” 

When the night is halfway through, there’s a sudden announcement through the loudspeakers, calling for the crowd to prepare the floor for the partner dances. You raise your eyebrow, it really was true, what kind of events still have formal dances these days?

“You weren’t lying,” you murmur to him.

“Can’t say I didn’t try to prepare you.”

“As long as you don’t step on my toes.”

“Oh come on, I’m trustworthy enough, aren’t I? I promised you I wouldn’t.”

You find a space adequate enough, coming to a stop as Phainon grabs your hand, raising it to shoulder level to prepare. Then, the music kicks in, a lively three-four piece being played by the live entertainment. 

Shaking the nervousness out of your system, he sets the rhythm and you easily follow along. Historically, special dances with their own significance were made in Kephale’s honour, and almost every Okheman learns it either in school or by watching people on the street given how important it is to the Holy City. 

It is said that partner dances are important because Kephale is capable of holding the world on his shoulders alone, so one should rejoice in his benevolent sacrifice and celebrate the gift he gave with another. Furthermore, the steps of the dance follow a circle, as if replicating the world on his shoulders and honouring him.

Mentally, you thank Kephale for his sacrifice, because you get to see Phainon’s joyfully handsome expression as you dance around, following each other’s steps perfectly. He even twirls you around while you move, causing you to throw your head back and laugh, the fabrics you wear twisting and dancing with you. 

You want this moment to last forever. You want to engrain the excited thrum of your heart and the bliss that travels through every vein in your body into memory. You want to be in this moment, under the lights of the dance floor, with him, forever.

He looks at you like you’re something marvellous, turquoise eyes never straying from your face, hand holding yours tightly so you don’t hop too far away from him.

Then, the band builds up to a crescendo, and the dance ends with a final pose. Your chests heave and stray strands of hair stick to sweaty skin, but neither you nor Phainon can think about the fatigue in your muscles. 

People scurry off the floor as new couples take their places. So, you curtsy with a dip of your head, and he bows in return.

“I have somewhere to show you.” He whispers. 

“Let’s go.” 

You find yourself in this familiar situation once again: your hand encased by Phainon’s as he leads you along, this contact an unspoken safety net as you walk through hallways, up staircases, until eventually, you reach a door.

The isolation of this area is not lost on you, there is not another soul in the nearby vicinity as all of them should be downstairs, dancing. You can faintly hear the live band from where you stand. “Are we allowed to be here?” 

He shrugs, “we’ll find out if we get caught.”

“Phainon!” 

“I’ve been here every year so far and no one’s caught me. Just trust me, okay? I’ll cover for you if anything bad happens.”

You look into his eyes that swim with sincerity and brace for the dive. “Fine.” 

He pushes open the door and you gasp, hand covering your mouth. This balcony overlooks the horizon of the Holy City, providing a perfect view of all the festivities occurring beneath. The light of carnival games, the illumination of flower garlands, a ferris wheel that sits in the distance, it looks so alive and vibrant; a warm reminder of all the life and happiness and commemorations that occur in Okhema, something you have taken for granted over the years.

You step out first, stopping just before the tall, stone railings and gazing out at every speck of light you can see, as the wind gently weaves through your hair. It’s so pretty, you can’t tear your eyes away. 

A heavy weight drapes on your back and arms wrap around your waist, bringing you into a warm embrace that you recognise to be Phainon’s. You lean back against him, holding his hands with yours as he rests his chin on the juncture of your shoulder.

You pray he can’t feel the way your heart hammers in your chest, so you fake nonchalance as you gaze out at the horizon instead, content to simply stand and admire… until you feel a pair of eyes staring at the side of your face. 

So, you turn to look at him and almost flinch at how your noses brush. He doesn’t move away.

“Hey, you,” you whisper. 

He smiles, the corners of his eyes creasing. “Hi.”

“It’s so… breathtaking,” you look back at the view and ignore the way his grasp tightens around you. “This is a new perspective I’ve never seen of the Kephale Festival.” 

“Then, I’m honoured to be the one to show it to you.”

You feel his chin retract from your shoulder, but his hand then snakes up, obstructing your view of the city as you feel cool fingers on your cheek, gently guiding your face to look at him. “Phainon, what-” 

“-You’re beautiful,” he interrupts, breath fanning against your lips. “I… I don’t think I’ve told you enough.”

“That’s unnecessary.”

“It’s not, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you all damn night” his fingers lightly tremble against your face, but his gaze is resolute and firm, never straying from yours. The intensity alone compels you to maintain it, to see where this moment will lead, and if the buildup of anticipation in your gut is correct. 

His gaze flickers to your lips and your chest crumbles. What you want is so close, literally breathing down your face, yet he is still so unreachable because you ache to close the gap but fear the unknown of the other side. 

“You’re unreal,” he whispers as his face slowly inches towards yours. Your hammering heart impatiently beats against your ribcage, aching to feel the–

Boom!

You jump away from Phainon in surprise, shocked by interruption, only for you to sigh in relief when you realise it was a firework that is now fizzling out. Then, because you can never just set one off, a barrage of them follow, lighting up the night sky with a series of colours and patterns. One explodes in the shape of Kephale bearing the world, another in the shape of a chimera head– and oh, a purple dromas firework!

Throughout the display, your partner is uncharacteristically silent, his commentary minimal as you point out fun ones.

After a few minutes, it was finally over, and silence settles over you like a heavy blanket. You’re still held tightly in Phainon’s arms, but his lacking eagerness does not sit right, a sense of anxiety creeping in as you think of something to snap him out of this displeased gaze.

“Is something wrong, Phainon?” 

He blinks to look back at you, subtle frustration softening into a gentler expression. “Everything’s fine!”

“Really?” 

“Really.”

You scramble through your brain in search of something appropriate to say. What would he even want to hear? 

Kephale, You can’t even think straight, not with the way he’s holding you so… possessively, so close to him that it makes your stomach flip helplessly. This, paired with the gentle way he held your cheek, and the sweet words he said to you- you need ten business days to process it all.

But tonight seems to be the day of badly timed interruptions, because there’s a small ding notification from your phone. Fishing it out, the reminder ‘be home before parents get mad!’ is written very clearly on your screen. 

Sighing, you turn it off.

“Do you have a curfew?” Phainon asks, resting the side of his head against yours.

“It’s not necessarily a curfew. It’s just the latest I can get home without triggering my parents. My dad’s a gentle sleeper so he wakes up at any kind of sound I make, especially on nights where he has work the following day.”

He frowns, then his hands grip you even harder, fingers digging into your flesh. Not enough to make you uncomfortable, but enough to dent your skin. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask, and I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable but… do you… have a good relationship with your parents?” You freeze in his arms, visibly tense. He’s looking at you- no, analysing you for any kind of changes in your expression that will say what words can’t.

But silence is already a powerful answer and suddenly, your vision of the nightline grows blurry, the lights stretching out into indiscernible lines. Your breathing grows more laboured and the pain that’s accumulated from the last few days come crashing down on you. 

The disappointed look in your father’s eyes, the complacency of your mother who really could not care twice about you, the love you’ve been begging for, the acceptance you may never receive- 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry!” He frantically dabs at the tears gathering at the corner of your left eye, trying to catch them with his fingers. Then, he begins fanning your face. “Happy thoughts, happy thoughts! I wouldn’t have asked if I knew it’d make you this upset!”

You erupt into a fit of giggles and he halts, gauging your reaction once again. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes. “I… I think I’m okay to answer your question, as long as you genuinely want to know.”

“Of course, but I’m not forcing an answer out of you.”

You inhale deeply. “My relationship with my parents aren’t the best, it hasn’t been since I was young. They’ve always wanted me to be the best version possible, but it feels as if they don’t… view me as their own child. If anything, our relationship is more transactional; someone they can use to further their position in society,” you tighten your grip on Phainon’s wrist. “If I make any mistakes, they’ll eat my head off because everything that goes wrong is my fault even though they never listen to me. If I don’t fit their own personal image of perfection, then I’m a disappointment and a charity case, they hate that I’m at the Grove, they hate that I haven’t graduated early and started a business, gotten married– they hate that my classmates from high school are… better. They hate raising me without benefits.”

The words are tumbling out freely now and Phainon doesn’t interrupt, giving you the space to be completely honest about these feelings that have been bottled for too long.

“You must wonder why this is my first year returning to Okhema ever since the Grove, right? I don’t want to be here because this city is just a reminder that I will never have a proper home. That I won’t be loved like I am by our friends, or the people I’ve met outside the Holy City. This place brings painful memories of youth, of never being good enough, of keeping my mouth shut and going along with everything my parents wanted because I could handle any challenge as long as it made them happy. I still can- I still just want them to be proud of me.” Your chest shudders with the weight of your confession. “Yes, they’ve given me so many opportunities I am grateful for, and I’m… I wouldn’t be as accomplished as I am without them.” 

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s beautiful, even when your eyesight is all blurry. 

“I want to be loved unconditionally.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, your words marinating as silence settles like the fizzle after a sparkler diminishes, after a fire has crackled its last ember, like the last trails of smoke disappearing from a freshly snuffed candle. 

Unexpectedly, Phainon turns you around in his arms and pulls you into a hug, one strong arm wrapping around your shoulder, the other around your waist.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to, this is enough. You return the hug, wrapping your arms around his waist, finally exhaling all of the frustrations you’ve been holding to yourself for years.

“Thank you for listening,” you huff, taking a step out of his embrace.

His expression is achingly soft. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”

You leave the balcony after a while, deciding it was for the better before security discovered and escorted you out. Going back inside wasn’t appealing enough, so you both take a quick detour to check out one of the markets you passed by on the drive, perhaps get some food after a long night.

Eventually, when the moon is high in the sky and the number of attendees at the festival is finally dwindling, Phainon calls for a driver to send you home together. When you arrive at the gates to your home, he helps you out of the car. 

“Wait–” Phainon looks at you as if he has something to say, but you see in real time the way he shuts down his thoughts and closes his mouth. Instead, he reaches for your hand and holds it gently, like a delicate flower he plucked from a garden bed.

He leans down to press his lips against your knuckles.

“Thank you for accompanying me tonight,” when he looks up at you, there is nothing short of earnest candidness gleaming in his eyes as his thumb rubs the back of your hand. The faint glow from the full moon illuminates his features, makes him look younger despite his already-lively appearance, and you take a good look at the man who has shaken your world. It’s unfair that he is breathtaking in the moonlight, too. 

“Thank you for the night,” you whisper back.

“Sleep well, Y/n.”

“You too, Phainon.”

His hand lingers on yours a little longer before finally dropping it. You wave his car off before retiring for the night, fatigue clinging to your bones like honey, eager to pull you under. 

As you undress and peel back all the accessories on your body, you think about the day, about the tenderness Phainon showed you all night, how his hand felt on the side of your face, how he twirled you around, the conversation you had with Aglaea how she said you were the love of Phainon’s life–

Your hands pause. 

What?

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

The mystique of the night is over as soon as morning arrives, because your parents are already waiting for you. This time, however, the atmosphere feels thick and heavy with tension and you eye them cautiously before sitting down on the couch opposite them, trying to prepare for what they might weaponise against you.

There’s a tablet in your mother’s thin hands and she drops it in front of you as soon as you’re seated.

It’s a photo taken of you and Phainon from last night, dancing, obviously meant to be taken from an angle where neither of you would notice. Both of you look terribly happy, your hands interconnected as he spun you around. Interesting, you don’t remembering seeing anyone  from your parent’s circle of friends last night, but news and gossip travel fast, there is no point wondering who the culprit is. 

“When you said you were attending a gala with someone, did you hide it purposefully from us that it would be with the Goldweaver’s adopted son?” Your mother begins, her sharp eyes boring into you as she spits Aglaea’s business name like it was poison.

You glance up at her, tucking the tablet under your arms, already preempting where this conversation will go. Except, unlike other times, there’s a fiery determination to fight back, to not let their words break and infiltrate your walls and destroy you from the inside out. This time, there’s something to prove, people to defend. 

“No. I didn’t think it was important to mention.”

“Did you know that he was her child?”

“Yes. Not at first, but I learnt over time.”

“And you met her?”

“I’ve ate with her, she has welcomed me at her table, she is the one who dressed me for the gala.” 

Your mum brings a hand over her chest. “No wonder why you looked so horrid.”

You narrow your eyes. “And yet, it received more compliments than any of the pieces you have dressed me in.”

Your father points an accusatory finger in your face. “Watch your tongue.”

“Watch yours.”

“What is wrong with you? That wretched woman is our rival, the one who has sabotaged our business for multiple quarters, have you no shame?”

“Yes, I’m sure she did it purposefully when in actuality, she simply played her cards better.”

There is steam coming out of your father’s ears. “You insolent, ungrateful brat! After everything we have built for you, you whore around behind our backs.”

“Not just with any vermin, but the Goldweaver’s son, have you no shame?” Your mother’s unempathetic voice grows pitchy; her characteristic nonchalant tone displaying a sound of disbelief that you’ve never heard before. 

“His name is Phainon, and you will address him correctly.” 

Your mother’s eyebrows raise slightly whilst your father’s head seems seconds away from popping off his shoulders. “Pardon?”

“He is not a vermin, nor undeserving of your respect, call him by his name.”

He laughs, and it sounds more like a guffaw, or maybe that’s how he laughs because you have never heard it before. It’s foreign, and atrocious, and like nails on chalkboard and you wish for your ears to bleed before you have to listen to it again. 

“The boy has taught you how to talk back to us! You’re losing it! Our child is losing it! After all of these years of raising you, giving you the best opportunities we could, our child is losing it! Dear Kephale, let this be a mere prank!”

You sigh at the tantrum your father is throwing, pushing yourself up to your feet as you begin to walk out of the room. 

The voice of your mother stops you in your tracks. “Y/n, was Phainon the boy you were telling me about? The one you were waiting before your father and I could approve?”

“...Yes,” you lie.

“You had said our approval is important to you, what changed?”

You frown. “I realised I don’t deserve to be chasing your validation for the rest of my life.” 

“If you walk out of that door, say goodbye to us forever, don’t even think about turning around,” your father spits, and you ignore the way your mother slaps his shoulder, as if reprimanding him; a sight you have never witnessed in your life. 

“All the times you didn’t show up, all my achievements that gather dust in a forgotten box below the stairs, I can not lose people who were never there in the first place.”

You leave after that, closing the door to end the only conversation where you had the last word. 

Phone, phone, where’s your phone? Titans- your hands are shaking, they’re shaking so much, calm yourself, breathe, stop the jitters, you can’t find Phainon’s contact like this, this is unbearable, no, please, stop shaking, pull yourself together.

By some miracle your finger presses the ‘call’ button successfully. It only rings two times, but it feels unimaginably long before you hear Phainon’s voice on the other side.

“Hello?”

You exhale a breath of relief. “Phainon, are you free?”

“Of course, are you okay?”

“Please, just meet me at Marmoreal Park.”

“Y/n,” he demands, and you press your phone closer to your ear. “Breathe, you’re safe, okay?”

His voice gently talks you through your panic, six, five, four, three, two, one. Your vision stops creeping in on the edges, you can feel the shake in your hands cease, rationality slowly seeps back in. You just need to get to Marmoreal Park. Phainon’s insistent on staying on the line until you arrive, even if it’s spent in silence as you sit powerless at the back of a taxi, trying to avoid thinking about what just happened like your life depended on it. 

You… you just defied your parents for the first time in your life. Finally severed the reliance you had on appeasing them, all because they slandered Phainon, the friend you’ve relied on like a rock since you arrived at the Grove. The person who always makes you feel wanted in every scenario, who will always save you a seat at every table, who is willing to stay on the line just because you called him in a frenzy, and won’t put it down until he knows you’re safe.

The person you love, and will inevitably lose because he doesn’t feel the same.

Was it worth the hellfire you ignited?

It’s all a mess, your head hurts, and worst of all, you’ve arrived at Marmoreal Park. You pay your driver the fee and leave, nerves running rampant as you hear Phainon’s voice come through your phone. 

He’s here and waiting for you, but you see him and start running without thinking. 

“Phainon!” You yell and he turns around, eyes widening when he sees you but he opens his arms. You barrel straight into them, needing nothing more than to ground yourself against something physical, to feel the presence of another because you think you just lost everything.

“Y/n…” his hand rubs circles on your lower back. “What happened?”

After a deep inhale, you take a step away and glance away to admire the blooms in the park. There were Crape Myrtles all around the perimeter, the tree’s special pink blossoms beautifully decorating the space, even littered all over the grass. 

“I… I had an argument with my parents.”

His gaze darkens, eyebrows furrowing. “What?”

“This might be my last one, though,” you murmur. “I… I think that was the last straw. It’s fine. I’ll survive.”

“What happened?”

“I-It started because of you,” you notice him tense in the corner of your eye. “Someone saw us last night and took a photo for my parents. They didn’t like that I was with you because Aglaea, they despise her, refuse to be associated with her in any way, and that includes having their child be friends with her son.”

“Y/n…”

“They were slandering you, Phai, saying some incredibly disrespectful stuff and I couldn’t stand it.” You sigh. 

“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs, “it’s fine if they hate me, I’m not worth this fight.”

“I would have done the same for any of my friends. Castorice, Mydei, Hyacine, wouldn’t you do the same for me?”

“I would.” There’s no hesitation in his voice. 

Suddenly, you feel a droplet land. Is the weather was against you today as well? Really? When the weather’s been exceptionally clear for the last three weeks? What is this soap-opera level of pathetic fallacy? There’s another drop, and another, until they come bucketing down, beginning to soak through your shirt.

Using a hand to shield your eyes, Phainon grabs your other one and leads you to a nearby gazebo. Thankfully, the park was reasonably vacant for a weekday morning, so you two were the only one taking shelter. Maybe everyone else but you knew about the incoming summer downpour.

It all feels so ironic. A chill passes up your spine as you listen to the percussion of raindrops hitting the brick roof of the pavilion, watch the torrential downpour grow with no end in sight. 

“So… what now?” He asks. “Where do you have to go now?”

You shrug. “I’ll figure that out after this shower passes. Realistically, they can’t be mad at me forever, but now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t say I regret it. It felt good to stand up for myself at least once, and even better to have the last word.” You laugh quietly, shoulders shaking as a decrepit sense of satisfaction creeps up on you. “If anything, I think it’s taught me that I should speak my mind more often.”

“Does that mean you have more left to say?” 

You huff. “Is that a bad thing?” 

“No. Not at all. In fact, I think you should get it all out.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Even if it may be for the worse?”

“The worst’s already happened, what else could go wrong?” 

“Fine.” You turn to face him square-on, steading yourself. “Phainon, of Aedes Elysiae, I like you. There, now I’ve really fucked everything up- mmhg!” 

The words are stolen from your mouth by a pair of lips sealing against yours. Your squeal of surprise is muffled, devoured by him as big hands cradle your cheeks, tangling in the tresses of your hair. 

Warm. So warm, despite how drenched he is, Phainon feels so warm. His hands are warm, his body pressing up against yours is warm, his lips that are moulding with yours are so warm. Adoration spreads in your body, as if he’s injecting it like the oxygen you need to breathe, letting it trickle like warm, sticky honey that will refuse to leave as it coats your bones.

He’s pulling away and taking the warmth with him too soon. You miss it. You miss it more than you thought you could, which is ironic, because Phainon is right in front of you.

“I’ve waited too long to hear you say that,” he whispers, stealing shorter kisses from your lips by squeezing your cheeks together. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive,” kiss, “I’ll be the best boyfriend ever,” kiss, “I am so happy right now, I could take down an army of Titankin.”

“Wait- wait, let’s talk about this!” You intercept his lips before he could get anymore carried away. “You like me?”

“Holy Kephale, I’ve loved you since I first laid my eyes on you, let me have this moment,” he pulls you in again, bending his neck to meet you halfway. This time, you melt into his touch, letting him lead as he moves his lips against yours. 

Faintly, Aglaea’s words ring in your mind: ‘The love of Phainon’s life’... ‘genuine intentions’. You unwillingly smile against his lips, and he takes that as a sign to part but not without a lick against your nose.

“What… what was that?” You stammer. 

“Nose kiss.” 

“That wasn’t a kiss, weirdo,” you wipe the wetness off as he smiles affectionately at you, not at all apologetic or regretful. It makes your heart flip. 

“Your weirdo.”

“It’s too early to pull out that corny line. Plus, we have a lot to talk about: what do you mean you’ve liked me since you first saw me? I… I thought you didn’t like me.”

If it were possible, question marks would have materialised on top of Phainon’s white hair. “I don’t think I could have made it any more obvious. I tried kissing you last night and you thought I didn’t like you?”

“It- it could have been friendly?”

“If you kiss all of your friends then I’m gonna go wrestle Mydei and tear his face off.”

“Phainon!”

“Just kidding!” 

You narrow your eyes at him before sighing, leaning against his shoulder. You stay like this for a while, neither of you speaking as the downpour continues, encasing you in your own little bubble.

“And I thought this trip home would be the same as always, a torturous three months that I’d have to endure by a hanging thread,” you muse, scoffing at the unexpected turn this holiday has taken. “This city is the furthest thing from beautiful, or eternal, or holy, but you have shown me that maybe… there are many things to love about it,” you glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. “Maybe, it was all worth it in the end, the grass is warmer on your side.” 

The weather clears not too long afterwards.

 · · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

“This photo of us is so cute!” Hyacine exclaims, scrolling through her photo album as you and Castorice peer over her shoulder. “I think I want to post this one, thoughts?”

“I like this one a lot, you look so pretty,” Castorice comments. “I’m jealous, I wish I had gone to Okhema as well now, it would have been so incredible exploring the city with you.”

“Hyacine and I had a blast, but at least your sister came to visit, that must have been good,” you try your best to console her. 

Your pink-haired friend pipes up with an idea: “we should definitely plan out a trip sometime soon, that would be so fun!”

They both look to you. “Well, I probably will be going home now more often,” you admit sheepishly, and await their reactions.

Before Phainon, Castorice and Hyacine were the only ones with a general understanding of your home life as you would vaguely talk about it with them during late nights spent in each other’s dorms. They knew surface-level information; that you hated going home because of strict parents, so their shock was reasonable.

“What!” Hyacine’s eyes widen and Castorice’s hand comes to her mouth. 

“You told me you had to be on your best behaviour for a week so your mum could agree to hang out with me, what changed?” 

You barely get a word out before the reason himself comes behind you and unceremoniously drapes himself over your shoulders. The two girls gasp loudly, the second shock of the day arriving in the form of a clingy boyfriend who is loudly proclaiming that he ‘missed youuu’ while wrapping you in a hug so tight, you think he’s squeezing the air out of you.

“I mean, we both had a hunch based on the pictures you’d send in the groupchat, but… Y/n!” Exclaims Hyacine as Phainon presses two very loud and dramatised kisses against your hairline.

“Phai, please,” you feel heat creeping up your neck at his bold displays of affection. While you don’t necessarily hate it and actually quite like his attention, all of your friends were staring, and they didn’t need to watch you receiving it.

He gently tilts your chin so you look up at him, white hair falling down and tickling your forehead. “Hi angel,” he greets like nothing is wrong before rounding the bench to sit down on the opposite side, beside Mydei, who is very unbothered, expression as neutral as ever as he eats a protein bar.

Castorice speaks up. “Y/n, why didn’t you tell us earlier?” 

“There wasn’t a good enough time…” 

“Anytime is a good time!” Hyacine squeals, pigtails bouncing. “You can tell us anything, especially something as important as this!”

“I know, I know, I promise I was going to, but there-” you try to explain before your boyfriend interrupts you.

“-tell you what?” He asks innocently. “What’s up?” 

“That you and Y/n were dating,” the purple-haired explains calmly.

“What!” Phainon’s gasp is probably louder than both Castorice and Hyacine’s combined as a look of pure shock and betrayal sets on his expression, “why didn’t you tell them?”

You wave your hands defensively, trying to fight a losing battle. “I was going to, I swear, but there was just never a good time, and I’m shy and hate talking about myself for too long and-”

“-I’ve told Mydei three times by now!”

The man in question agrees. “He has. In excruciating detail.”

“Guys!” You whine, “I’m sorry!”

“Wait,” Phainon visibly perks up, like a dog who was just thrown his favorite treat. “If you haven’t told them, then can I tell them?” 

“I don’t trust your commentary!” 

“What? My commentary is a flawless retelling, you don’t trust your own boyfriend?”

“Let me tell them first, okay?”

He deflates. “Okay.” 

After a nice lunch with your friends, all of you catching up and chatting about what you did in the holidays, you and Phainon find yourselves alone once again, sat under the shade of a magnolia tree. He is, as always, laying on your lap, trying to find a comfortable spot for his ‘optimal time of the day’ nap, happily wrapping his arms around your legs and manhandling them as he pleases, while you’re subject to his whims.

“Happy?” You ask when he finally finds a favourable position, which happens to be his head on your thighs while his arms are wrapped around your stomach.

With the way he hums, you’re certain he’s quite content. So, you thread your fingers through his hair and begin playing with the strands; a habit you have after he told you that it helped him fall asleep faster.

As he dozes off, you take the time to think about everything that transpired over summer.

As soon as your feelings for each other were confirmed, Phainon practically dragged you home to tell Aglaea, who was certainly delighted with the new status of your relationship. She was hardly surprised, though, giving you an ‘I told you so’ look before welcoming you as a new member of the family. The hug felt so nice and warm, it was your second best memory from that day.

It is still complicated back home. Your mother has grown more amicable with the idea over time, so much so that she has suggested the idea of bringing Phainon over, but your father is stubborn and refusing to relent. He has always been too preoccupied with work for you to care, though. As long as you did what he was told, he never got in your way. 

As a magnolia blossom falls from the tree and lands perfectly in his snow-white hair, you giggle at the placement, threading it to sit behind his ear as he sleeps peacefully. 

You were never loud about it, never noticeable. Perhaps, having dealt with your own tumultuous nature for years—emotions rising, crashing, and receding like currents—you were simply used to it. Accustomed, adjusted, able to hold back the outward signs that you were anything but calm.

You might be good at fooling others, but you weren’t able to fool him. He was well aware of your tendencies, your mannerisms and idiosyncrasies. You’d even laid out the details of your affliction for him, before the two of you had even started dating—just in case, you’d said. He deserved to know, you’d explained hesitantly, in case you ever fell into a panic attack while he was around. You were jittery with your delivery of the warning, but he was perfectly calm; understanding with his words, and reassuring with his assertion that he would be more than accommodating with helping you, however that might be.

The first few times were… difficult, to say the least. Before he had gotten a grasp of the way you ticked, it came as a shock each time, the way you seemed to fall apart out of nowhere. It took him time, but he learnt to pinpoint the telltale signs that your anxiety was spiking—all of which you were trying to mask right now.

“My dearest,” Hugo chuckles, sliding his arm over the backrest of the couch. “Why are you all the way over there? Avoiding me, are we?”

“Hm?” You hum, as if you only half-heard him. That was a sign, a good one at that. At the very least, you weren’t too far-gone to hear him, even if it seems you aren’t paying full attention. It was enough.

He inches closer, letting his arm fall around your shoulders. The movement makes you jolt, abruptly snapping you back into focus. You look back at him with wide eyes, as if you’ve only just realized he was there, instinctually leaning back into his touch. “Sorry… what was that?”

“Tch. Should I be hurt that my beloved isn’t listening to me?” Hugo coos, leaning forward to sloppily kiss your temple. The affection is met with only a slight bit of eye-rolls and muttered protest, but not enough for you to tear yourself away fully.

You scrunch up your face, some of the tension in your shoulders melting away. “I’m not… not listening, I’m just… uh, tired today, I guess.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” He raises an eyebrow, as you carefully avoid his scrutinizing gaze. “What is troubling you, dear?”

“Nothing.” You mutter, almost bitterly. “It’s nothing, really.”

“I’m not sure if I believe that one.”

“I mean it, though.” You bite out. In your lap, your hands clench into fists, eyes squeezing shut. Hugo’s brows furrow. “There’s nothing wrong, nothing has happened, I don’t even know why I’m feeling this way. I.. I just am, and I can’t stop—”

“Hey, hey—” Hugo gently takes your hands, easing them out of the tight fists to intertwine your fingers together. “Enough of that. Just breathe for me, won’t you dear?”

Your mouth snaps shut, but you oblige, drawing in a few breaths through your nose. Hugo watches as your ragged breathing grows steadier, idly rubbing circles into the sides of your thumbs. “There. Just... slow down. Slow down for a minute.”

“I don't know what's wrong with me.” You mumble. He gives your hands a gentle squeeze. “I don't know—Mm!”

Your words are suddenly cut off with a swift peck to your lips, stealing the breath right out of your lungs. Hugo pulls away after a moment, the slightly dazed expression on your face sending a thrill down his spine. He chuckles, his face a perfect picture of faux-innocence. “Don't mind me. You're just too beautiful to resist. Keep talking, I'm listening.”

“I... What are you—” Your sentence is once again interrupted with another kiss, this time pressed to the corner of your mouth. Hugo briefly lets his hold on your hands fall, moving to drape them around your waist instead, hands resting on top of your hips. Despite your half-hearted protests in between kisses, you melt into his hold easily. “H-Hey!”

“Like I said, too beautiful.” He croons. One more kiss, to your cheek. “Such a gem. A treasure. My treasure. Have I told you how much I love you, my dear?”

“Just a bit.” You murmur, laughing lightly as his lips brush the crook of your neck.

“Good. Don't forget it.” One final kiss, this one firm and planted in the centre of your forehead. It says more than he ever could weave into words, because he knows. Hugo knows he can't stop the webs of your mind from tangling, but he can be there.

And as long as he lives, he will always be there.

At this point, the entrance to your small clinic might as well be considered a close friend of Mydei’s thanks to the many times he has paid this place a visit. For as often as his feet have stepped here though, it still gets annoyingly difficult to take even a single step inside when you're looking at him like that.

“This is the third time this week,” you let out a deep sigh. You aren't a fool. Obviously, the smooth cut of his injury and the prior ruckus you heard outside point to one thing: another argument-turned match between him and Phainon over... anything, really.

The disappointment in your voice doesn't bother to conceal itself and its presence alone is enough to cause the mighty warrior to flinch slightly. He doesn't question why the thought of disappointing you stings almost as much as his wounds do.

The pen in your hand has been put down, scribbled footnotes about patients are set aside, and your mind forsakes your papers in favor of addressing the looming presence at your door. Looming in appearance but not so much in attitude with the way he still refuses to look you in the eye.

"...I know,” Mydei grumbles. No resistance and no hostility, only acknowledgement towards this particular lecture of yours that he has heard several times before.

“I might have to start using webs as gauzes in the future,” you shake your head. “You and Phainon are going to be the reason I'll run low on medical supplies one of these days.”

This time, he frowns—a fearsome sight, if it weren't for how familiar you are with it in less than fearsome settings—not at you but at the issue proposed by your statement. Mydei glances around to scan your workspace and although it lasts briefly, his conclusion seems firm as he finally looks you in the eyes.

“...I'll bring it up with Aglaea next time,” he crosses his arms against his chest. Carefully, of course. Even with immortality running through his veins and his gradual numbness to the prickly touch of pain, he still can't risk getting a sharp glare from you for being inconsiderate towards his “bodily misery”.

There are times you think that Mydei can be considerate in his own way, though. Just like right now. “Oh, I jest,” you can't help the way your eyes soften around the edges. “I still have leftover supplies from the last time you did that. I'd rather not trouble her again.”

“Well then,” you quickly usher him to the empty chair near your desk before any sort of protest can escape from his mouth. “Allow me to take a look?”

He clicks his tongue—either at your act of rushing him or refusing his offer or both of them—but doesn't protest. Taking a step forward is already enough to indicate his agreement. One, two, three, four. . . exactly four steps from the doorway to reach the empty chair, a rhythm that Mydei doesn't even realize he's gotten used to.

You don't waste time getting to work as soon as he takes a seat. Following your routine, your eyes meticulously examine the wound on his skin to assess its qualities. The silence doesn't have the opportunity to stretch long as you pipe up with a particularly, frequently asked question.

“So, who won this time?” you hum as your hands deftly grab a few items off your shelf, moving on to cleaning his wound.

“Ha, as if you even need to ask,” Mydei proclaims haughtily. It's never not amusing to witness his inherent boldness resurface... after getting nagged, that is.

“Let me guess. Phainon won?” you deduce, but it's less of a deduction and more of an attempt to get on Mydei's nerves. The offended look he gives you afterwards is the exact reward you wish for.

“Don't try to be funny—” he shoots you a scowl, then hisses when you dab a damp washcloth to the area around his wound.

“Worth a try,” you smile amusedly before offering him a small apology. There is a tinge of guilt in your conscience for not giving him a heads-up about it. Cries of pain are never a melody to a healer's ears, after all. You direct your focus back to cleaning his injury, your movements more gentle: “Thankfully, your wound this time isn't as deep as your usual ones. The bleeding is also lessening faster than normal which I assume to be your ability at work,” you observe out loud.

“...Just say it's a curse,” he sighs. “No need to sugarcoat it, healer.”

“Different interpretations,” you counter.

“Whatever,” he relents, an indifference that is betrayed by his flushing cheeks. Hm, is it the heat? You're very sure all the windows in your clinic are ajar, though.

“Let me take one more look,” you scooch a little closer to inspect his injury again. The sudden shift in proximity effectively throws Mydei's senses into overdrive. He can quite literally smell the fragrance that sticks to your clothes with you this close. It only lasts for a few moments, however, and it's when you pull away that he realizes he's been holding his breath.

“Hey, you look like you're burning up,” you frown as you give him his space back. “A wound accompanied by a fever could indicate—”

“I'm fine,” his response is hastier than he would've preferred. Not enough to preserve the pieces of dignity he feels he has lost just now, but he can pick them up just fine.

“Alright then, would you like a kiss after?”

(Now, he really has to pick those pieces back up with his own bare hands.)

“I— what?”

Mydei looks at you as if you've lost your mind, as if the black tide has materialized out of nowhere to help you accomplish that.

“After I wrap up your wound,” you explain, trying your utmost best not to keel over from laughter right then and there. You know what you're doing. “Children ask me for them all the time. Says it helps with their recovery.”

Mydei can't even choose which aspect of this absolute incredulity he should address first: the logic (or lack thereof) in the sentence itself or the sheer audacity you have to ask him that. Amidst his loss for a response he deems proper, the only thing he can manage to utter is this: “Never suggest something so preposterous ever again.”

You ignore the horror in his voice in favor of fueling the flames a little more. “Not even to Phainon?” you ask, just a tiny bit goading.

“Especially him,” he snarls, “unless you want me to hurl him at death's door myself.”

“Duly noted.”

Ironically, Mydeimos thinks you are going to be the death of him someday. If that's even possible.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ・・・・・・☆・・・・・・・⊰ ⊹ ─

There’s the shifting of feet from somewhere behind. There’s a few of the Troupe singing and laughing, and they dance around a small fire crafted in the centre. They had to watch it carefully less Lario grew frightened, but it seemed the Echo was content for the moment.

There’s brandy and other liquor littering the floor, and the spillages will be a pain to scrub off the decking tomorrow. The Troupe seem to be getting along just fine. Typically, they’re all fighting and arguing, but you suppose they’ve decided to play nice for once.

It also helps that everyone is completely smashed.

You haven’t gotten to that point considering it was making you feel sick, but you most definitely were not thinking straight.

It is Tina’s birthday tonight, after all, and the crew threw together a small surprise party. She’d been upset initially having to be stuck out at sea for her special day, but the crew had made sure to accomodate. Leo and Mosi seem to be arguing over egg and milk pricing.

You know that because you can’t ignore how loud they’re talking.

He whistles along to tune playing in the background while he brandishes a small knife and slowly cuts at the skin of the fruit. He seems distant for a moment, his eyes transfixed on the waves for far to long before he realises his blade is cutting too close to pressing into his palm.

He pulls away from his thoughts with a snicker. “I mean… what kind of sailor gets seasick?”

You pull the towel away from your face and try your best to ignore the churning in your stomach. You hold your breath, though it only provides temporary relief before you instinctively lean over towards the railing again. You breathe through your teeth, sucking in sharp passes of air as you try to steady the pain.

The captain hums worriedly. “It’s not even rocky tonight.” He reaches forward to rest the back of his palm against your forehead. “I’ve told Lario to slow down… We can bank tomorrow morning so you can get some fresh air on solid ground, if you’d like?”

Guilt stirs in your stomachs.

You shake your head. “I can…” You attempt to move away from the railing, and Brant’s hands slide beneath your arms to steady you. “I can do it.”

As soon as you attempt to move, your fingers tense around the bars and you feel saliva filling your mouth. You drop the towel and he catches it before it flies off into the sea. There’s a strike of fear that zips up your spine, and Brant’s hands fly to pull your hair away from your face. He makes sure to brush aside strands that stick to your skin with the cold sweat clinging harshly beneath your clothes.

Lario—poor thing—makes an agitated nose from just ahead. You really don’t want to traumatise the poor creature anymore than you already had. For that, your heart heaves with worry and your eyes fill with tears again.

After a moment of panicked breathing, your stomach settles. Brant presses the cold towel on the nape of your neck. It’s soothing enough for your dizziness, but it does little to quell the nausea in your stomach.

“Uh, no.” He presents you with a thin lemon slice in his palm. “Suck on it.”

You blink at the fruit. Your teeth grit after a moment. The thought of trying to eat anything made you dizzy.

“It’ll help your stomach,” he explains. He then cuts another slice. “Here, I’ll do it, too.” He pops the entire thing, skin and all, into his mouth.

He chews it for a moment and nods. His lips pull to the left as if he’s considering the flavour. “Not bad, actually.”

“Yeah?” you ask weakly.

“Y–” His face scrunches up. He reels back and fans at his lips as if it will solve the problem before he covers his mouth with the back of his palm. His eyes squeeze shut as he struggles for a moment before he draws his hand away and blinks. His mouth opens and he sucks his lips through his teeth.

You sit back away from the railing. “Nice?”

Brant muffles a hiccup and points to the slice he handed to you. “You should try.”

Your stomach turns as you stare down at it. Your bottom lip trembles before you suck in a sharp breath and pop the entire slice into your mouth. You don’t move your tongue for a moment, letting it sit there as it creeps quickly over the tastebuds, and your mouth instantly twists at the sourness that floods your mouth.

Brant laughs when you finally recover and muster the strength to lie back on the deck. Your hands move to clasp over your stomach. He sidles up next to you on his side with his cheek resting on his knuckles.

You’re used to the stars by now. You’ve been out at sea for so long the days blur together in some long winded tale you’ll tell the children when you’re old and senile—if you even make it to that stage.

Captain Brant, however, has consistently kept you awake some nights by knocking at your door incessantly until you begrudgingly join him on the crow’s nest. He’s made it his mission to try and teach you the constellations that recur in a loop, and so far, no luck. You’ve been too tired to bother remembering what he says.

Still, he hasn’t stopped trying.

You’re not sure why.

Nonetheless, if some Tacet Discord doesn't kill you in the next ten years, your lack of sleep will certainly catch up to you.

“So…”

You glance to the side.

“If you’re feeling up to it anytime soon…” he starts smoothly, and his other arm crawls forward to mimic two legs strutting on the wooden flooring. “Would you… want to dance? Maybe?”

“Oh.” There a twinge of a bitter scent on the wind, and your nose twitches. You swallow as best you can. “I don’t, uh…” You glance back up at the night sky. “I don’t dance.”

He sits up. “What?!” The scent is stronger now that he leans over you. He’s practically bouncing up and down with excitement. “Everyone dances!”

“Well, not me,” you try awkwardly.

“Yes, you!”

Oh.

He’s drunk. Bad.

He sways on his feet and giggles as he stares back at the crowd. He pulls himself up onto his knees before his hands clasp yours gently.

And then, he all but tugs you onto your feet. It’s a whip of wind and a curl of your stomach that has you stumbling face first into him. Your nose squashes against his neck and you heave.

Your feet stumble over each other before stamping on his own in an attempt to steady yourself. You make some sort of noise of protest, but it’s quickly covered by your lips snapping shut. Your stomach twists as you straighten up.

“See?”

Your arms grasp shakily at his sleeves and your legs tremble. “I think I’m going to–”

“It’s easy!”

And then he tosses you.

He quite literally twirls you around before launching you towards the circle in the middle. You trample and almost knock the wind out of Rossini who topples over. He giggles stupidly before you’re whisked away quickly by the birthday girl herself.

You let out some embarrassing bleat as she drags your feet.

She’s still beautiful despite the sun being hard on her skin, and the permanent lines around her lips crease as she grins at you. “Havin’ fun?”

“I–” You’re certain your skin must be green. There's a hot flush banking up your neck.

She notices.

“Oh, darling, you don’t look too hot.”

You pull away from her only seconds later. In her drunken stupor, she immediately forgets about you as Leo spins her into the ring with bare feet.

You beeline to the hull where it’s quieter and you can vomit over the edge in peace.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

You are then grabbed by the collar and dragged back. This time, you almost do hurl onto the floor, but you manage to hold back.

It’s Captain Brant. Again.

You are trembling by this point with your fists clutched at your stomach to try and soothe the pain. There are tears prickling your eyelids as you try to fight from his hold.

You skid and trip around his feet for a moment before his grip loosens enough for you to pull away. You frantically shake your head when he tries to pull you back by your shirt.

It’s as if his brain shifts back to normal in that split second, for he lets out a frantic, “oh!” before he escorts you towards the edge of the ship.

“Fuck you,” you slur, leaning over the rail.

Brant doesn’t seem to hear you. His hand pets your hair while the other keeps a firm grip on your shirt less the ship jumps and you flip overboard.

“Sorry, beautiful.”

“Eat shit,” you spit back.

You do forgive him, though.

Your stomach settles after a while. Maybe it's because of the lemon slice.

You think he’s aware of this, because he squishes his cheek next to yours. “How about we take you to bed?”

“But it's Tina’s birthday,” you try.

“I think she’ll understand if you’re not feeling well,” he tells you softly. “C’mon. I’ll carry you.”

“No, thank you.”

Brant has already peeled you away from the edge of the ship and peers left and right to find where the birthday girl is. He ushers you gingerly towards one of the doors leading beneath the hull to the sleeping quarters.

He seems to spot her at some point, for he waves dramatically to catch her attention.

She waves back after spotting him.

He cups his mouth with his hand so she can hear him over the music before he practically yells above the crew.

“I’m taking off!” He holds you tight with one hand to keep you standing while he points at your head. “Gotta get this one to bed.”

She turns with a swish of her skirt and a hand on her hip. Somebody else who picks up on the conversation whistles. “Don’t have too much fun.”

You weakly limp towards the door and do your best to open it. Brant comes from behind to pull it the rest of the way. You mumble your gratitude before slinking through. The hall is tiny; definitely not wide enough for two people to descend the steps together, so Brant keeps a steady hand on your back as you slowly make your way down.

You hold the handrail tight and try to steady your breathing. You stop a few times, both of which you try not to keel over, and Brant keeps a steady hold on your shirt. His other hand moves to your shoulder and instinctively, your fingers search for his.

“Hey, I appreciate it, beautiful,” he whispers close. “But hold onto the rail. I’m still drunk.” You smell the liquor waft behind your ear.

Eventually, you make it down. You make an effort to steer left towards your room, but Brant pulls you right, further away.

You assume he’s taking you to the medical wing to lay down there as it’s typically cooler and has supplies, but you’re guided past the room and towards the Captain’s Quarters.

You make a noise of confusion, as he reaches behind you and opens the door before ushering you inside and shutting it behind him gently.

His quarters are better than the rooms the rest of the crew is provided with, but that’s to be expected. It’s not much bigger in terms of space, but the bed is double the size of yours, and he has a small private bathroom tucked away in the corner.

“I figured it would be easier for you if you had a more accessible toilet,” he murmurs. He’s already leaning over the bed and shucking off his boots. He kicks them into a corner before he sits on the bed and covers his eyes and groans.

You hobble over and sit next to him.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

He hums an acknowledgement before wiping at his face and patting his lap. You offer him a puzzled look before he sighs and sweeps under your ankle and pulls your leg up to rest on his thighs.

Then, sluggishly, he unlaces your boots. You mutter some sort of protest, but it’s garbled and weak. He waves you off before repeating the shaky and slow gesture on your other shoe. You’re too embarrassed to let him slip them off your feet, so you do that yourself. You set them down neatly close to his which are jumbled and upside down.

“I don’t have any clothes that’ll fit you. What a shame! But you’re welcome to sleep naked,” he slurs. There’s a cheeky smile playing at his lips as he stands from the bed. He teeters for a moment as the ship rocks, and your stomach churns.

You lay back on the covers in an attempt to steel your nausea.

Brant drunkenly crawls on top of you and you sigh.

“That wasn’t an invitation,” you tell him while scrubbing at your burning eyes. When he doesn’t answer, you clear your throat. “You… okay?”

“Mhm,” he grins. He’s too busy ogling to elaborate, and his pupils dilate. His head tilts as he teases, “just admiring.”

You blink sluggishly and his grin softens. “You’re drunk.”

“Just a little.”

He leans down and presses his lips to the side of your nose and he lingers there for a moment. Maybe too long, as he feels your face heating up against his, but he’s too wasted to register it. Instead, his mouth drags to your cheekbone, and his top lip brushes against the bottom lid of your eye.

Dizziness surges as he decides sinking his teeth into the side of your neck is the best thing to do. He’s quick to move his head and latch onto your skin with his canines, and you bark out a yelp of his name.

Your neck burns as the blood rushes to your face, and you try your damndest to push him off. His teeth sink, and his lips kiss anywhere they can touch. One, two, three times, four— and it is so quick you are sure if you were standing up you would’ve fallen over on buckled knees.

Do you get it yet?

“Captain,” you warn as he gently unlaces the front of your shirt and inches the cotton down over your left shoulder. You’re not sure if it’s nausea or anxiety that flits in your stomach. Your heart kicks hard against your chest, and he can very well feel it pulsing with his hand beneath your throat.

He hums curiously.

He’s left another mark before his lips wander upwards towards your throat and his tongue presses into your pulse.

Brant leaves a final lingering kiss to your other cheek, and it takes him a long while to finally crawl off you.

There’s a frown on his face despite how pink his skin has tinged. He hunches over for a moment.

You sit up, flustered. Your breathing remains laboured.

“I need to puke,” he buzzes quietly.

“Oh…” Right. You do your best to steady your heart.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked if you need it,” he utters as he stumbles towards the small room. “If you need it…” He lets out a strangled guffaw as he pulls off his top. “We can have a romantic mutual puking session.”

You glance to the left as he bumps into the doorframe. “Gross.”

“You love me,” he reminds before he blows you a kiss and closes the door behind him.

To his credit, you did not hear it lock.

Wriothesley first noticed [Name] in the same way anyone notices a storm on the horizon—gradual, inevitable, and impossible to ignore once she was there.

She was always the first to report to duty in the mornings, moving through the dimly lit halls of the Fortress of Meropide like clockwork. The cafeteria opened at the same time every day, but she was always there just a little earlier, standing at the counter with her arms crossed, waiting for the workers to finish setting up. The moment the coffee urn was ready, she poured herself a mug, took the same seat by the window, and drank in silence.

Then, she would stretch, roll out her shoulders, and push off the table to start her rounds. Efficient. Predictable. Untouched by the sluggish drag of waking up before the rest of the prison.

At first, Wriothesley thought it was a coincidence that he found himself in the cafeteria around the same time, but then he realized he was adjusting his own routine. A few minutes earlier one day. A few steps closer to her table the next. He had no real reason to be there, he had his own office and his own tea, but there was something about her steadiness that made him curious.

And so, he started talking to her.

The first time, it was under the excuse of needing an update on security rotations.

"You’re here early," he said as he took the seat across from her. He expected a startled reaction, maybe even mild irritation. Instead, she barely looked up from her cup.

"So are you," she replied, blowing on her coffee before taking another sip.

Wriothesley leaned back. "I like to check in on the guards. Make sure things are running smoothly."

[Name] finally glanced up at him. "And you decided to check in during my five minutes of peace?"

He grinned. "Thought I'd see how you handle interruptions."

She let out a slow exhale, eyes sharp, but not unkind. "If this is a test, I prefer one with multiple choice."

He chuckled, but didn’t press further.

The next day, he found a different excuse.

"How’s the coffee?"

"Bad," [Name] said simply.

"And yet, you keep drinking it."

"You don’t need good coffee to wake up. Just something hot."

"That a personal philosophy?"

"It’s a necessity when you’re on duty before sunrise."

The following morning, Wriothesley arrived at the cafeteria with a second mug in hand. This one wasn’t from the prison’s supply. He set it on her table without a word and waited as she raised an eyebrow.

"What's this?"

"Better coffee," he said, taking a seat. "Consider it an experiment."

[Name] picked up the mug and inhaled the aroma, a trace of amusement flickering in her expression. "You make this?"

"Do I look like someone who makes his own coffee?"

"No," she admitted.

"Go on. Try it." he insisted.

She took a sip, rolling the taste over her tongue before nodding. "Not bad."

"You almost sound impressed."

"Almost," she said, setting the mug down. "But that depends on whether you made it yourself or had someone else do it."

Wriothesley smirked. "Does it matter?"

"It does if you want me to keep talking to you."

He laughed. "Noted."

And so, it continued. Every morning, Wriothesley found a reason to sit with her. Some days, it was about prison operations. Other days, it was a casual remark about the Fortress’s dreary walls, or a passing comment about how she always cracked her knuckles before taking her first sip of coffee. He tested her patience with easy conversation, and she met him with dry, steady responses that somehow made him want to keep coming back.

One morning, he arrived later than usual, finding her seat empty.

"Looking for someone?" Sigewinne asked, appearing at his side.

"Just checking in," Wriothesley said absently, glancing around.

"You mean you’re looking for [Name]," she said, far too knowingly.

He shot her a look. "I didn’t say that."

"You didn’t have to," she chirped. "She’s on patrol. Should be back soon."

He frowned, not entirely sure why it unsettled him that she wasn’t here. It wasn’t as if she owed him her presence.

But when she returned the next morning, bruised along her knuckles and moving with the stiff caution of someone who had been in a fight, he found himself sitting across from her before he even thought about it.

She raised an eyebrow. "You’re hovering."

"You’re injured."

"It happens."

"Not usually on morning patrol."

[Name] took a slow sip of her coffee, unbothered. "Caught a group trying to start trouble in the lower levels. Nothing I couldn’t handle."

"You handled it so well you needed a medic?"

She shrugged. "Sigewinne fussed. It was easier to let her bandage me up than argue."

Wriothesley studied her for a moment. He’d seen plenty of fighters—guards who saw their job as a test of strength, inmates who wanted to prove themselves, men and women who carried their own ghosts in their fists. But [Name] was different. She didn’t fight for the sake of it. She fought because it was her job, because there was something in her that steadied rather than escalated, a core of discipline and patience that kept her from reckless displays of power.

"Don't look so worried," she said, smirking. "You should see the other guys."

"Maybe I should."

"Then you’d be late for your tea."

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You ever take a day off?"

"You ever stop sticking your nose in my routine?"

"Not if I can help it."

[Name] took another sip, watching him over the rim of her cup. "Then I guess we’re both a little predictable."

"Maybe," Wriothesley admitted. "But I like to think I keep things interesting."

[Name] hummed, a soft, noncommittal sound as she tapped her finger against the side of her mug. “I’ll let you know when that happens.”

Wriothesley grinned. “Looking forward to it.”

Silence stretched between them, but it was comfortable. [Name] went back to her coffee, and Wriothesley let himself linger, watching the slow, methodical way she sipped. The bruises on her knuckles had begun to fade, though he noticed a fresh scrape on the back of her hand, barely concealed by the flex of her fingers. He wasn’t sure why he kept cataloging these little details, but he did.

He didn’t just notice them—he remembered them.

He didn’t do that with most people.

"You know," he mused, tilting his head, "I don't think I've ever seen you take your coffee with anything."

[Name] glanced at him over the rim of her mug, unimpressed. "Because I don’t."

"No sugar? No milk?"

"No need."

He huffed a small laugh. "What a bleak existence."

"It’s efficient." She took another sip, gaze steady. "Why? You gonna start bringing me little sugar cubes to see if I change my mind?"

"I think that might just be a good idea."

"I don’t." She set the cup down, meeting his eyes fully now. "And I don’t see why my coffee preferences are so fascinating to you."

Wriothesley leaned forward, propping an elbow on the table. "I’m just trying to figure you out."

"Why?"

"Because you’re interesting."

[Name] scoffed. "You must not get out much."

"Not lately," Wriothesley admitted. "Prison management keeps me busy."

She smirked. "So this is how the mighty Duke passes the time? Annoying one of his guards before dawn?"

He grinned. "You make it sound like I don’t have other things to do."

"Do you?"

He hesitated a beat too long.

[Name] let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. "You’re not even subtle."

"Don’t need to be," he said easily. "You’d catch me either way."

That earned him a glance—one of those measured, careful looks she always gave when deciding how much of herself to show. He’d seen it before, back when he’d first started sitting across from her, when she was still debating whether or not his presence was worth entertaining.

Lately, she didn’t seem to mind so much.

She sighed and drained the last of her coffee. "I should get to my rounds."

"Already?"

"You trying to keep me here?"

He smiled. "Would it work?"

She set her empty mug down with a quiet clink and looked at him. "No."

Wriothesley watched as she nudged the cup across the table toward him—a small gesture, but one he hadn’t seen before.

He glanced down at it, then back up at her. "You expect me to bus your dishes now?"

"You want to make yourself useful, don’t you?" she said, already turning for the door.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he picked up the cup. "You really do know how to keep things interesting."

[Name] didn’t turn around, but he caught the slight lift of her shoulders—silent laughter, maybe. Amusement.

He let his grin linger as he took both their mugs back to the counter.

Tomorrow, he’d find a new excuse to sit across from her again.

Wriothesley was already at the cafeteria when [Name] arrived.

That was new.

She paused just past the doorway, watching as he stood at the counter, lazily stirring something into two cups. His usual tea and, presumably, her coffee. It wasn’t until he set down the spoon and picked up both mugs that she noticed what was off—hers wasn’t black.

He had added something to it.

She frowned as she approached, watching him settle into their usual table like this was any other morning. “What are you doing?”

He looked up at her, all casual ease, and slid her cup across the table. “Making your coffee.”

[Name] didn’t sit just yet. She eyed the cup, then him. “Are you becoming my personal barista?”

“On occasion perhaps,” Wriothesley said, unbothered. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “I figured you might like a change.”

“I don’t.”

“You haven’t even tried it.”

“I don’t need to.”

He smirked. “What, you got something against a little milk and sugar?”

[Name] sighed, finally dropping into the seat across from him. “I have something against you messing with my routine.”

Wriothesley chuckled. “Consider it an improvement.”

She gave him a flat look but picked up the cup anyway, giving it a cautious sip. The coffee was smoother, less biting than usual. Objectively, it wasn’t bad—but that wasn’t the point.

She set it down with a quiet clink. “I can make my own coffee.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He lifted his own cup to his lips. “Maybe I don’t like drinking alone.”

[Name] narrowed her eyes.

He smiled, like he had expected that answer. “Okay, maybe I wanted to see if I could make you try something different.”

She scoffed. “You trying to change my habits, Duke?”

“I’m just testing the waters,” he said easily. “Seeing how much pushback I get before you start throwing punches.”

[Name] smirked. “Keep this up, and you’ll find out.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Duly noted.”

For a while, they simply drank, the usual quiet settling between them. But something about today felt different. Maybe it was the shift in routine. Maybe it was the way she had caught him waiting before she even got there.

Or maybe it was the question that had been nagging her for days.

She set her mug down, tilting her head slightly. “Are you my supervisor, or something else?”

Wriothesley met her gaze, amused. “Something else?”

She gestured vaguely between them. “You sit here every morning. Talk to me. Mess with my coffee. That’s not standard procedure.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”

“So what is this?” she asked plainly.

Wriothesley studied her, as if debating how much to say. Then, instead of answering directly, he leaned back in his chair, swirling his tea absently. “Do I need a title to talk to you?”

She exhaled through her nose. “It’s about expectations.”

“Yours, or mine?”

She sighed, taking another sip of coffee—just to keep herself from saying something she might regret. “I just don’t like not knowing where I stand.”

“You stand exactly where you always have,” Wriothesley said, watching her. “I’m just choosing to meet you there.”

That answer shouldn’t have been satisfying. It wasn’t really an answer at all. But it also wasn’t a dismissal, and that made all the difference.

[Name] studied him for a long moment, then shook her head. “Fine. But don’t mess with my coffee again.”

“No promises.”

She smirked despite herself. “Figured.”

As she finished her drink and got up to leave, nudging her empty cup toward him, just slightly, before turning for the door.

Wriothesley chuckled to himself, picking it up.

[Name] arrived at the cafeteria expecting to find Wriothesley already at their usual table. Instead, she spotted him standing by the counter, deep in conversation with Sigewinne.

She approached with measured steps, catching the tail end of the head nurse’s sing-song voice.

“—don’t you think it’s a little obvious?”

Wriothesley sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

“I think you’re seeing things and pretending they’re not,” Sigewinne countered, hands on her hips, her expression far too pleased with herself.

[Name] raised a brow as she stepped closer. "Seeing what?”

Wriothesley didn’t startle, but he did turn toward her with practiced ease. “Nothing important.”

Sigewinne, however, gave her a look that made it clear she disagreed. “Just that someone’s been extra eager to get to the cafeteria every morning.”

[Name] glanced at Wriothesley, who merely lifted his tea in an exaggerated show of nonchalance. “You rushing here to get first pick of the bad pastries, Duke?”

He huffed a laugh. “More like trying to avoid Sigewinne’s commentary.”

“Oh, but it’s very insightful,” the nurse chirped, eyes twinkling. “And very accurate.”

Wriothesley shot her a look, but [Name] just rolled her eyes and moved past them, grabbing her usual cup. He fell into step beside her as she made her way toward their table.

“She always this nosy?” [Name] asked as they sat.

“Unfortunately.”

“You say that like she’s wrong.”

Wriothesley exhaled, stirring his tea without a retort.

[Name] hummed, watching him for a moment before taking a sip of coffee. “She’s not wrong, though.”

He glanced at her, one brow lifting. “About?”

“You being eager to get here.”

He tilted his head slightly, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “You keeping track of my habits now?”

“Just an observation.” She tapped her fingers against her cup. “You’re here before me most days now.”

“Maybe I just enjoy good company.”

[Name] didn’t react immediately, simply met his gaze over the rim of her mug, unreadable as ever.

"I suppose that's a valid point." she said, turning her gaze away from the surprised glint that crossed his eyes.

And when they left the cafeteria, walking in step as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Wriothesley felt like that said enough.

A few weeks passed, and Wriothesley found that his mornings no longer felt complete without [Name] sitting across from him.

It wasn’t just habit anymore.

At some point, the easy back-and-forth had settled into something steadier, something that stretched beyond their usual morning coffee. Their conversations became longer, shifting from casual remarks about work to things that had nothing to do with the Fortress at all. He learned she had a habit of sketching in the margins of reports when she was bored, that she hated wasting food but had no patience for meals that were all show and no substance. She had a dry sense of humor, sharper than people expected, but not cruel. She made it a point to remember the small things about the people she worked with—not because she had to, but because that was just who she was.

And despite the Fortress’s brutal efficiency, she had never become hardened by it.

It had been a slow shift, almost imperceptible, but it was there. He started waiting for her at their usual table instead of just happening to be there first. They lingered a little longer some mornings, neither in any real rush to get on with their day. On rare occasions, he’d walk part of her patrol route with her under the excuse of a ‘security check,’ but they both knew it wasn’t necessary.

He just wanted the extra time.

She hadn’t called him on it yet.

But this morning, she did.

“Y’know, Duke, most people don’t see you outside of work hours.” [Name] leaned back in her chair, eyeing him with something between curiosity and mild amusement. “You sure you’re not slacking off?”

Wriothesley smirked, resting his chin on his hand. “Are you accusing me of neglecting my duties?”

“Just wondering how many people you take out for morning coffee.”

He chuckled. “Would it make you feel special if I said you’re the only one?”

[Name] rolled her eyes, but he caught the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. “It’d make you sound suspicious.”

“Suspicious? That’s harsh.”

“No, I just know better than to believe everything you say.”

Wriothesley huffed a laugh, swirling his tea idly. “Alright, fine. You want the truth?”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’d be a nice change.”

“The truth is, I like spending time with you.”

[Name] blinked, as if she hadn’t been expecting him to just say it outright. She didn’t react immediately, just studied him, as if weighing the sincerity in his words.

Wriothesley let her. He didn’t take it back, didn’t follow it up with a joke to ease the weight of it. He just watched her, waiting.

Finally, she exhaled, tapping her fingers against the side of her mug. “You don’t have many friends, do you?”

He grinned. “Is that what we are?”

She didn’t answer immediately, just took another slow sip of her coffee before setting it down. “You tell me.”

He considered her, tilting his head slightly. “If we are, does that mean I get to start calling you ma meilleure amie [my best friend]?”

She scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Wriothesley chuckled. “Had to try.”

[Name] shook her head, but she didn’t seem annoyed. If anything, there was something… lighter in her expression today, like the weight of defining whatever this was between them had been lifted just enough for her to stop questioning it.

And for now, that was enough.

When they left the cafeteria together, their steps fell into sync like always, but this time, [Name] nudged his arm lightly with her elbow.

Wriothesley smiled.

Maybe he didn’t need a definition for whatever this was. Not yet.

You try to ignore the way a shiver runs through you at the sight. “It’s good to see you! Are you looking for a commission to take on, too?” you ask him, pointing toward the commission board that now bears two lonely pieces of paper. “The options aren’t very good.”

“Except for this one!” Ajaw flies between you two, waving the commission you were looking at in front of Kinich’s face. “It’s perfect—days of scaling the sides of mountains, fighting some dangerous creatures, not to mention, I can feel a storm brewing!”

You frown at Ajaw, knowing full well why the dangers of the commission delights him.

Kinich, however, swats the Saurian away with the back of his hand. “Were you planning on taking this?” he asks you.

You nod slowly, but then wave your hands in front of you. “You can take it if you want though! There are two more on the board, I can do those without a problem!” But even the combined pay of those commissions won’t be enough. You wince at the thought.

Kinich catches the expression that flashes across your face. “What is it?”

You hesitate for a moment, but under his steady gaze, give in and confess, “Those commissions don’t offer enough of a reward to cover what I need—even if I take both.”

There is no judgement on his face as he listens, only understanding. He nods when you finish talking, then says Ajaw’s name.

The Saurian darts over, still holding the commission. “You’re gonna pick this one, right? That puny human can’t handle this anyway–“

“Shut up,” Kinich growls, the harshest you’ve heard him in a while. He yanks the paper out of Ajaw’s grasp, then grabs the dragon and chucks him into the sky, where he vanishes with a furious yell.

With Ajaw temporarily gone, Kinich’s face relaxes as he turns his attention back to you. “Here,” he says, handing you the commission. “You had it first, you take it. I know you have the skills to see it through to the end.”

His vote of confidence warms you from within, washing away any sting Ajaw’s words had evoked. “Thank you, Kinich.” You accept the paper from him with a soft smile. “I hope you’ll find something good to take on yourself.”

He nods, strands of hair shifting from the movement. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on your commission.”

“Yes, sir!” you respond with a giggle. “Well then, I need to get ready for the job. When I’m back, we should catch up sometime! It’s been a while since we’ve hung out. I missed it- missed you,” you add on, a bit shy at the admission.

“That would be nice,” Kinich says. By his tone, you can tell he is sincere, so you can’t stop the grin from growing across your face.

“Alright then, I’ll see you around! Bye, Kinich!”

You turn and walk away, leaving the Saurian hunter to peruse the remaining two commissions on the board. Glancing down at the paper in your hand, you read it over once more to take in the details. When you get to the final line, you stop in your tracks.

The smallest string of words say, “Two or more adventurers recommended for this commission.”

Your lips part. What if- There’s no way. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, right?

“Kinich!” You shout his name as loudly as you can, running back toward the commission board. When you’ve almost reached him, you step on the back of your own sandal and trip, a noise of alarm escaping your mouth. Bracing for the impact of the ground, you are instead caught by warm hands and a steady frame.

You blink in surprise at Kinich, who keeps his grip on your upper arm and lower back until you regain your balance—and even then his touch lingers for a moment before he pulls away.

His eyes seem to pierce through you as you look at him and breathlessly ask, “Would, um, would you like to go on this commission with me?”

You hold out the paper, finger trailing along the final sentence.

Kinich huffs out a wry laugh. “Of course Ajaw didn’t mention that detail. Are you sure you want a partner for this? I know you could complete it alone.”

Swallowing, you manage to ask, “And what if I don’t want to do it alone?”

A soft look appears on his face. “Then you have someone willing to do it with you.”

You laugh in delight, and can’t help bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Alright then! I’ll be in good company.”