Based Never Ever Land

Thirty minutes pass.

He’s still staring.

The knock on his door makes him jump so hard he nearly drops his phone.

“Phainon?”

Oh no.

You open the door before he can compose himself, and the sight of you—still in that outfit, in person, three-dimensional and real—makes his brain short-circuit completely.

“So,” you say, leaning against the doorframe with a smile that’s going to kill him.

“Thoughts?”

“Wonderful.” The word comes out slightly strangled. Phainon clears his throat. Tries again. “You look wonderful. What’s the occasion?”

“I’m modeling for a friend.”

Phainon’s heart does something complicated. “Modeling.”

“Mhm. Nude modeling, actually.”

The world tilts sideways.

Phainon stares at you, processing this information with all the grace of someone who’s just been hit over the head with it.

“…Nude,” he repeats carefully.

“Yeah. For an art exhibition.” You’re still smiling, completely oblivious to the way his entire nervous system is currently on fire. “He thought I’d fit his theme. Plus I owed him a favor. He’s a smooth talker.”

Something dark and possessive twists in Phainon’s chest. His jaw tightens. “I’m good with my mouth too.”

The words are out before he can stop them.

You blink. “I… know that, Phainon.”

Heat crawls up his neck, flooding his face. Oh God. Oh no. That was out loud. That was—

He can feel you looking at him. Can feel the weight of your gaze and his own mortification pressing down on him like a physical thing.

He looks away, willing the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Preferably before he says anything else catastrophically stupid.

“So,” you continue, apparently merciful enough not to comment on his mortification, “can I go like this?”

Phainon forces himself to look at you again. Mistake. Because now he’s thinking about you taking that outfit off. For someone else. In some studio.

While I'm sitting here like an idiot, yearning.

“Why does an outfit matter,” he says, voice strained, “if you’re going to be—if you won’t be wearing it?”

“Puts me in the right mood.” You smooth your hands down the fabric, and Phainon tracks the movement like his life depends on it. “Can’t feel sexy without something like this pushing me there. Confidence boost.”

I would push you, Phainon thinks wildly. Against a wall. Onto my bed. Anywhere you’d let me.

He’s going to combust. Spontaneously. Right here.

“I have to go,” you say, checking the time.

“Wait—”

He’s up before he realizes he’s moving, crossing the space between you and pulling you into a hug.

Too tight. Too desperate.

His face buries in your neck and he breathes you in, arms locked around you like if he holds on hard enough, you won’t leave. Won’t go pose naked for someone who isn’t him, who doesn’t know how precious you are, who doesn’t—

“Phainon?” Your voice is muffled against his shoulder, confused. “Are you okay?”

No, he thinks. Absolutely not. Not even a little bit.

“Be safe,” he manages.

When you pull back, you’re looking at him strangely. Searching his face for something.

He lets you go before he does something stupid. Like beg you to stay.

You leave.

Phainon sinks back into his chair and puts his head in his hands.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

You’re just going to pose nude for some smooth-talking artist friend while Phainon sits here spiraling about the fact that he’s been in love with you for months and apparently his brain-to-mouth filter has completely abandoned him.

I’m good with my mouth too.

He groans.

His phone buzzes.

You: Are you okay? I didn’t mean to upset you.

He stares at the message. Types. Deletes. Types again.

You never upset me. Just unexpected.

You: You seemed upset, Phainon.

No. Phainon sighs and adds: Maybe a little.

The art session is probably going fine.

Phainon wouldn’t know. He’s been sitting in his room for the past two hours, spiraling.

You’re there right now. Taking off your clothes. For someone else.

The thought makes him want to put his fist through a wall.

He gets up. Paces. Sits back down. Checks his phone.

Nothing.

Of course nothing. You’re busy. Posing. Naked.

He stands abruptly, starts pacing again.

Maybe he should just tell you. When you get back. Be honest. Articulate. He’s good with words. He can do this.

Phainon stops in the middle of his room and takes a breath.

“I need to tell you something,” he says to the empty air, practicing. “I’ve been—for some time now, I’ve found myself—”

He stops. That’s terrible.

Tries again: “The truth is, I care about you. More than—as more than just—”

Worse.

“Look, I know this might be unexpected, but I—” He runs a hand through his hair. “What I’m trying to say is that when you told me about the modeling, I—”

Got wildly jealous and blurted out something about being good with my mouth?

He groans.

“I’m in love with you,” Phainon says to the ceiling. Direct. Simple. “I’ve been in love with you for months and the thought of someone else seeing you like that makes me want to—”

He stops.

Stares at nothing.

Oh.

Oh no.

He sinks back into his chair.

“I’m so gone,” he mutters to the empty room.

Phainon whines and scrubs his hands over his face.

This is fine. He’s fine. He’s absolutely not thinking about what you look like right now. About soft skin and the way you’d look at him if he was the one you were—

No.

Stop.

Phainon forces himself to take a breath.

His phone is in his hand before he realizes it, thumb hovering over your name.

He types: I hope it’s going well.

Deletes it.

Types: Are you okay?

Deletes that too.

Puts the phone down.

Picks it back up.

This is pathetic, he thinks. I'm pathetic.

The art session is a disaster.

Not because of the artist—he’s professional, kind, makes you comfortable.

But your thoughts keep drifting.

To Phainon’s face when you mentioned modeling.

To the way he held you like he was afraid to let go.

To “I’m good with my mouth too.”

“Could you turn slightly to the left?” the artist asks.

You adjust, trying to focus.

Phainon’s hands on your waist. His breath against your neck. The desperation in the way he—

“Perfect. Hold that.”

You hold it.

And think about Phainon holding you.

About what his hands would feel like. What his mouth would feel like. What he’d look like if you walked in wearing nothing but—

“You okay?” The artist’s voice breaks through. “You seem distracted.”

“Sorry,” you manage. “Just… thinking.”

“About someone?” There’s amusement in his tone.

Your face heats. “Maybe.”

“Well, whoever they are, they’re lucky.”

If only they knew, you think.

You’ve been in love with Phainon for so long, had resigned yourself to him never seeing you that way.

He’s never given you any indication he saw you as more than a friend. Brilliant, kind, beautiful Phainon who probably doesn’t even realize what he does to you.

But today felt different.

Today felt like maybe he might feel the same way.

The session ends.

You get dressed.

And make a decision.

By the time evening rolls around, you’ve made a possibly stupid decision.

But you’re doing it anyway.

You show up at Phainon’s door wearing nothing but a coat and determination.

He opens it looking exhausted. Beautiful. Surprised.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” Phainon echoes, confused. “I thought you were—”

You walk in, close the door behind you, cross the space between you in three steps, and kiss him.

For one terrifying heartbeat, he doesn’t move.

Then he makes a broken sound and kisses you back like he’s been dying to, like he’s been holding back for months and finally he doesn’t have to.

His hands come up to frame your face, then slide down to your waist, pulling you closer—

He freezes.

His eyes go wide.

“You’re—” His hands flex on your waist, feeling nothing but skin under the coat. “Oh.”

The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a prayer.

“Did I misinterpret this?” you whisper against his mouth.

“God, no.” His voice breaks. He pulls you back into a kiss, harder this time, desperate. “You have no idea how long I’ve—”

His hands slide under the coat, palms warm against bare skin, and he groans again when he realizes you really aren’t wearing anything underneath.

“Only for you,” you breathe. “From now on.”

His eyes are dark. Burning. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

The smile that breaks across his face is beautiful. “Good,” he murmurs, and his hands grow bolder. More certain. “Because I’m not letting you go now.”

Phainon kisses you again, backing you toward the bed, and somewhere between one breath and the next, the coat hits the floor.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: I swear I don't enjoy making Phainon suffer... But I had too much fun writing him like this, and well, he got his happy ending. :) Thanks for reading. :) I hope you enjoyed it. :)