That was how you ended up standing infront of a bakery you'd passed a hundred times before but never really paid attention to.

The window display looked warm, soft colors, neatly arranged pastries, something about this whole place felt so easy and calming.

The bell chimed as you stepped inside and immediately, the air shifted, the shop was cold and the smell of sugar and fresh bread reached you, it wrapped around you in a very relaxing way.

You exhaled, stepping into line, letting your eyes wander over the menu without focusing.

"Something sweet" you murmur to yourself. "That's all we need, nothing dramatic" You stayed in line waiting for your turn, looking at the menu and displayed options, everything looked so good, shame you we're broke and couldn't get the whole bakery in a big box.

"Next!" you blinked, realizing you were already at the counter.

"Oh! uhh" you glanced quickly at the display, picking the first thing that looked appealing "Can i get that one? and a coffee"

"Name?" You gave it quietly, tapping your card against the reader before stepping aside.

It didn't take long for silence to settle back in, it wasn't uncomfortable, jut there.

You shifted your weight slightly, leaning against the counter as you waited, pulling your phone out without unlocking it.

Thats when you noticed someone next to you, not close enough to be strange but close enough to be aware of.

You adjusted slightly, your elbow nearly brushing against his sleeve and frowned faintly.

Was he always standing that close?

"Are you in line?"

The voice came from right beside you.

You turned, caught a little off guard. "What?" He nodded towards the counter, hands still tucked in the pockets of his pants.

"You were standing here."

"Oh!" you stepped back a bit, shaking your head "No, i already ordered, you can go." a small pause.

"...right"

He moved forwards, taking your place, his shoulder brushing yours for just a second as he passed.

You looked away quickly, focusing very hard on your phone screen even though it hadn't changed.

"Can i get pomegranate milk" He paused, deciding what to have "And that strawbery pastry." This stranger is oddly specific with his drinking of choice.

"Name?" "Mydei."

Your brain stopped working for a minute, it has to be another mydei, it cannot be THE mydei standing just a few inches from you right? Your eyes looked back at the man but really looked this time, you couldn't see much, he wore a black mask and black glasses, but the blonde with redish ends and the way he stood like he didn't really belong to the space but wasn't trying to leave either gave it a little away.

Your chest tightened a little.

Don't be delusional, why would he be here? In a random bakery? Ordering drinks?

Minutes passed and you couldn't take your eyes off of him, trying to see whats behind that mask with just your eyes alone, there were thousands of people who looked like that, literally thousands.....

"You're staring..."

"What- no,i'm not!" you said quickly, looking away just to look back at him once more.

He looked at you, one eyebrow raised slightly.

"You are." "I wasn't" you insisted, even though yeah, you were staring but who wouldn't look at a pretty guy? "I just thought you looked like someone."

"Someone?" "Yeah" "....Famous? "....Maybe" "Do i?"

"Not really.."

".....right"

Wow you're so stupid you could turn into a mash potato right now, he clearly looks like the man you thirst over...

Silence settled between the two of you before your order was called, you stepped forward immediately, grateful for the interruption, taking the small box and drink.

"Thanks"

You turned towards the door, already halfway out before something made you pause, you glance back, he was still there, waiting but this time he was already looking at you, not very obvious but not accidental either.

Your fingers tightned slightly around your cup before you looked away again, pushing the door open and stepping back outside.

The warm air hit your face, the bell chimed behind you and just like that it was over.

You stood there for a moment staring down at your drink.

"You're actually insane, delusional, crazy" you muttured under your breath.

Because it wasn't him, it couldn't have been, that would be ridiculous...right?

But if it was...oh boy you just looked like a fool.

...

"Pomegranate milk and Strawberry cake for Mydei"

He stepped forwards, taking the cup, Phainon catched up to him after flirting with half the women in the store. "Soooo you knew the girl?"

Mydei didn't look up. "Nope" "Sure, you were staring buddy"

"She looked familiar that's all, surely you can't be talking after swooning half of the female population in this bakery alone?" Phainon gasped before rolling his eyes.

Mydei didn't explain further, didn't try to, because the truth was, he didn't know why the girl looked familiar, and for some reason, that bothered him more than it should have.

Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter

Synopsis: Mydei is the lead guitarist of the hottest alt-rock band in the city, you're just a fan...crazy right? these parasocial relationships...atleast that's what everyone thinks, to him you were just a face in the swarm of millions...until you weren't anymore.

Author's note: ACT I is done!!!

Taglist: @lyambdaa @sunphais @momoniq @kaoiyeva @superdark-soul @milkhalo @its-astrotea-love @naoxm @t0r4s @kusukuna @lyra-angel-81194 @violetisreadinghush @spooo00oky @junoms

(to be added just reply to the masterlist!)

The world was different then. Darker. Threatened. Teetering on the edge of collapse beneath the weight of corruption that crept across the land like rot through flesh.

He was a young man when it started. Young when the first signs appeared. Crops failing, water turning bitter, people falling sick with illnesses that no healer could cure. Young when the whispers began about the calamity, the Black Tide that would swallow everything if nothing was done.

His village tried to resist. They built walls. Spoke prayers. Offered sacrifices to gods who seemed too distant to hear.

It wasn’t enough.

He remembers the night the fires came. Not metaphorical flames. Real fire. Consuming everything—homes, fields, the people he’d known his entire life. Screaming and smoke and heat that made the air shimmer and twist.

He remembers running through burning streets, ash in his lungs, unable to save anyone. Unable to do anything.

He was supposed to help. Supposed to be the one who could make a difference. Supposed to bring the new dawn.

But he was just a young man. And his village burned. And everyone died.

In the aftermath—standing in the ruins, surrounded by devastation, choking on grief so thick it felt like drowning—Phainon made a wish.

Let them be happy.

Not his village. They were gone. Ash and memory. But everyone else. Everyone still living. Everyone still fighting against the darkness.

Let them find joy. Let them survive. Let them have what I couldn’t give.

He had meant it. Too deeply. So deeply that the words carved themselves into the fabric of his being, so deeply that a god—distant, ancient, unknowable—finally heard.

And prayers, when spoken with enough conviction in moments of absolute desperation, have consequences.

The god answered. The divine presence descended like pressure. Crushing, inescapable, remaking him from the inside out. And through the agony of change, through the burning reconstruction of everything he was, the god spoke:

“You wish for their happiness. You wish to save them from calamity. Very well.”

The words seared themselves into his essence like brands.

“You shall become the bearer of mortal desire. The vessel through which want becomes reality. Your power will feed the wards that hold back the darkness. Your service will sustain the world.”

A pause. Heavy. Deliberate.

“This is your punishment for failing to save them yourself. You will grant what mortals wish, and through their satisfied desires, the calamity will be kept at bay.”

Phainon tried to speak, but his voice was already changing.

“You will hear their prayers. Feel their yearning. Grant what they cannot achieve alone.”

Another pause.

“But you are forbidden from pursuing mundane desires.”

The word hung in the air, undefined, absolute.

“And you will tell no one your true name,” the god continued sharply. “To speak it is to invite recklessness. You will stir chaos upon the world. Mortals learning your identity, spreading it like wildfire, every fool with a want seeking you out directly. The system would collapse under the weight of their endless demands.”

The warning branded itself into him alongside everything else—and Phainon felt it. Physical pain blooming at the hollow of his throat as divine fire carved itself into his flesh. A mark. A symbol. Proof of what was being done to him.

The sun mark burned itself into existence, gold and intricate and pulsing with the same rhythm as his transforming heartbeat.

Not a tattoo, some distant part of his mind observed. Part of me now. Divine branding.

But even through the agony, even as his body was remade into something other—

The philosopher in him couldn’t stay silent.

“And how—” His voice came out strangled, half-divine already. “How is this better than the fate the world faces now?”

The god paused. Surprised, perhaps, that Phainon could still form coherent thought.

“Even if it gets saved,” Phainon continued, words sharp despite the pain. “Even if the calamity is held back—people are cruel. I saw it. I lived among them. Someone could wish for death. For destruction. For vengeance on a scale that brings catastrophe.”

His breath came ragged, burning.

“I would grant it. Be responsible for suffering all over again. How is that salvation?”

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then the god spoke, voice carrying dark satisfaction.

“You cannot grant wishes that cause direct harm. No death. No mass violence. No physical destruction. The curse won’t allow it.”

A pause.

“You fulfill personal desires. Individual longings. Wealth. Beauty. Success. Affection. You cannot alter nations or armies. Cannot grant the same wish repeatedly—mortals are limited in how often they can call upon you, though they rarely realize it until they’ve already hollowed themselves out trying.”

Relief flickered through Phainon’s agony. At least he wouldn’t be a weapon. At least—

“So you see,” the god continued, almost pleased, “you cannot bring calamity. You can only facilitate the slow rot of character. The gradual erosion of earned joy.”

A pause, heavy with meaning.

“That is your purpose. Not to destroy the world, but to save it from external darkness while allowing it to rot from within. One granted wish at a time.”

The transformation completed.

Phainon became the bearer of mortal desire. Bound by rules he couldn’t break, branded with a mark he couldn’t hide, forbidden from speaking his own name.

The god’s warning about the name echoed in his fracturing thoughts: chaos upon the world, every fool seeking you out, the system collapsing…

But even through the pain, even as divine mandate settled into his bones, part of Phainon questioned the words.

The thought didn’t finish.

The transformation was complete. The doubt was gone.

He became necessary.

And hated every moment of it.

For a time, it felt like purpose. The wishes flowed through him—desperate prayers for survival, for health, for safety—and with each one granted, the darkness receded. The calamity weakened. The world stabilized.

His suffering saved them. His service kept the tide of corruption at bay.

But centuries passed.

The world healed and grew until the threat that had once seemed insurmountable became nothing but legend.

The world no longer needed salvation.

But Phainon remained. Still bound. Still serving. Still granting wishes.

Except now the wishes were different.

No longer desperate prayers for survival. No longer earnest pleas for a better world. Just… wanting. Selfish. Hollow. Corrupted by comfort and ease and the certainty that they deserved whatever they desired simply for desiring it.

And he discovered something the god had not mentioned: The wishes came with a cost.

Not to him. To them.

Each wish granted—each desire fulfilled without effort, without sacrifice, without earning—took something.

Small wishes cost small things. A few days of life. A fragment of vitality. The slow dulling of joy.

But the truly greedy ones—the ones who wished constantly, who demanded everything, who took and took—they paid in years. In pieces of themselves they didn’t know they were losing until they woke hollow and empty and wondering where their joy had gone.

Phainon could feel it happening. Could feel the way their essence fractured with each granted wish. Could sense the corruption spreading. Not the darkness of calamity, but something worse. The rot of entitlement. The poison of never having to work for anything.

And the god still fed on it. Drew power from the endless cycle of wanting and getting and wanting more.

The wishes no longer held back darkness. They just existed. An endless loop of desire and fulfillment that sustained nothing but itself.

And Phainon was trapped in the center of it.

It was in the third century of his service that he finally spoke up.

The god appeared rarely now. No need to check on a tool that functioned perfectly. But Phainon felt the presence one evening, that familiar pressure of divine attention, and something in him snapped.

“The desires have changed,” he said into the void.

“Have they?”

“You know they have.” Phainon’s voice was steady, controlled. The debater in him rising despite centuries of suppression. “They’re no longer prayers for survival. They’re demands. Greed wrapped in righteousness. People wishing harm on others for petty reasons. And you—” He paused, choosing his words with precision. “You feed on it. You’ve become as greedy as they are.”

“Careful, vessel.”

“Or what?” Phainon’s voice carried an edge of something that might have been his old self. Sharp, analytical, unafraid of consequences when truth mattered. “Will you eliminate me? And then what? Who will grant their wishes? Who will feed your endless hunger?”

Phainon laughed, bitter and knowing. “No one will pray for something like this again. Believe me—I would know. I feel every desire in this world. They want comfort now, not sacrifice. Ease, not transformation. You won’t find another fool desperate enough to wish for others’ happiness at cost to themselves.”

“You could do it yourself,” Phainon added, and the words came out sharper than intended. “Why don’t you? If you feed on fulfilled desires, why use me at all?”

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then the god laughed—genuinely amused.

“Oh, bearer. Do you really think I could?” The presence shifted, almost contemplative. “I am vast. I exist across universes, watching countless worlds spin through their cycles of wanting and getting. Do you think I can touch a single mortal wish without destroying the mortal in question?”

A pause.

“You are my conduit. My connection to the mortal realm. Without you—without someone who was once human, who understands mortal desire from the inside—I cannot feed. The energy you channel when granting wishes is… digestible. Filtered through mortality into something I can consume.”

The god’s voice dropped to something darker.

“And besides—doing it myself would be work. Manual labor. Beneath me. Why would I dirty my hands with individual mortal wants when I can simply remake someone desperate enough to do it for me?”

Another pause, heavy with meaning.

“Also—” And here the god’s amusement intensified. “—your suffering feeds me almost as much as the wishes themselves. The way you ache every time you grant a hollow desire. The way you fracture a little more with each prayer. The exquisite torture of being unable to want for yourself while drowning in everyone else’s wanting.”

The presence pressed closer.

“If I did it myself, I’d lose that delicious secondary source. So you see, bearer—you’re not just a tool for granting wishes. You’re a tool for suffering.”

A laugh sounded. “So I hope you understand now. Your uniqueness is precisely why you remain useful.” A pause. “But there are other ways to ensure your compliance. Ways that don’t involve eliminating you.”

Phainon felt something cold settle in his chest.

“I can make them suffer,” the god continued, almost conversational. “The mortals you grant wishes to. I can ensure their desires come with sharper costs. More immediate pain. I can make the cycle of wanting and losing more vicious. More desperate.”

The words landed like blows.

“And they will wish more,” the god said softly. “They will pray harder. They will reach for relief with greater desperation. And you will grant it all, because that’s what you were made to do. And I will feed on their increased suffering and want and endless, delicious need.”

Horror dawned on Phainon. “You would torture them just to—”

“To ensure you remember your place? Yes.” The presence pressed closer. “You are a tool, Phainon. A functional, irreplaceable tool. But still just a tool. And tools that question their purpose tend to break in ways that hurt everyone around them.”

The message was clear: Rebel, and innocents suffer.

Phainon stood there, feeling the weight of it settle into his bones. All his eloquence, all his philosophical training, all his ability to argue and reason and find truth…

Worthless against a god who held mortals hostage for his compliance.

“Do you understand?” the god asked pleasantly.

Phainon said nothing. He stopped asking questions after that. Stopped arguing. Stopped hoping that maybe the purpose he served had some nobility left in it.

He just granted wishes. In silence. While the god fed on an ever-increasing cycle of want and loss.

And the punishment for speaking up came anyway.

The wishes started hurting more when he granted them. The backlash sharper. The costs extracted from mortals more cruel. Not enough to stop them from wishing. Just enough to make them desperate for relief, which led to more wishes, which fed the god’s growing hunger.

A cycle of suffering Phainon had inadvertently made worse by questioning it.

He learned to exist in the space between worlds. A temple of silence where he processed the endless chorus of desires. Not quite real, not quite dream. Just there. Waiting. Listening. Answering.

It wasn’t torture in obvious ways. But it was isolation. Perfect, complete, absolute isolation.

The only sounds were the voices of people wanting. The only feelings were desires that weren’t his. The only purpose was granting and granting until everything else dissolved into white noise.

Centuries bled together.

He stopped counting. Stopped measuring. Just existed in eternal service while the god grew fat on mortal suffering and Phainon became increasingly hollow.

Until recently. Until something shifted.

Phainon finds himself drawn to a particular region. A city he’s granted wishes in before, but never with such focus. Never with such singular attention.

The wishes here feel different. Not all of them. But enough to notice. Enough to keep him circling back.

And then one night, he feels it. Not a wish. Not a prayer. Just emotion. Raw and human and so profoundly real it cuts through everything else like light through fog.

Loneliness. Deep and aching. The kind that comes from being truly alone even in a crowd.

And beneath it, a question: What’s the point of getting everything you want if you never earned it?

The thought resonates through him like struck crystal.

For the first time in centuries, Phainon wants to see who had asked that question.

He drifts closer to the source, and—

The god appears.

Just as a presence. Sudden and mocking and far too interested.

“Oh,” the voice says, dripping with amusement. “So you’re not scared anymore? How uplifting.”

Phainon goes still, wary now. “What do you want?”

“Want? From you? Nothing.” The presence radiates lazy confidence. “I’m simply observing. This desire you’re circling—this mortal you can’t seem to leave alone. It’s fascinating.”

It wasn’t a question.

Phainon chooses his words carefully. “Am I not allowed to investigate unusual desires? You made me to grant wishes. This one is different.”

“Different,” the god repeats, and the mockery intensifies. “Yes. So pure. So genuine. So unlike the greedy masses you usually serve.” A pause. “And yet, fundamentally the same. They want connection. Love. To be seen and chosen. How utterly, predictably mortal.”

Phainon’s jaw clenches. “Am I not allowed to do this?”

“Oh, but of course you are!” The god sounds delighted. “In fact, I encourage it. Please—investigate. Get close. See what makes this one so special. Let yourself hope this might be different.”

Something about the way it’s said makes Phainon’s stomach drop.

“In my long existence,” Phainon says carefully, voice steady despite the unease, “you are not the only god I’ve met.”

“No?”

“No. I’ve encountered others. Divine beings with their own domains, their own purposes.” Phainon pauses. “But you are certainly the most bored.”

Silence. Then laughter—genuine, delighted laughter that echoes with millennia of ennui.

“Bored! Oh, how perceptive. Yes, three thousand years of the same predictable cycle does get tedious.” The presence shifts, settling in like a spectator at a play. “Mortals wanting, getting, wanting more. You suffering, serving, suffering more. It’s all so… repetitive.”

A pause, heavy with anticipation.

“But this? This is new. You, finding something interesting. You, thinking you’ve discovered an exception to rules I crafted specifically to prevent exceptions.” The god sounds genuinely pleased. “This will be the most entertainment I’ve had in centuries.”

“What do you mean I can’t—”

“Can’t have them?” The god interrupts smoothly. “Oh, bearer. You’re forbidden from mundane wants. And this mortal—”

A pause, dismissive and assured.

“They want connection. How utterly predictable. They feel alone, so they reach for someone—anyone—to fill that emptiness. It’s the same pattern I’ve seen a million times. Different faces, same hollow core.”

The god’s voice drips with condescension.

“Wanting something to fill the void inside you. That is the very definition of mundane.”

Phainon feels something twist in his chest.

No, he thinks. That’s not what this is.

But he doesn’t know what it is. Just that it feels different. Heals instead of drains. Resonates instead of depletes.

He doesn’t understand it yet.

So instead, he says with perfect dry calm: “Thank you for the clarification. I will be certain not to wish for anything so mundane.”

The god laughs—delighted by what he thinks is capitulation.

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” The presence settles, satisfied. “Though of course, you’re welcome to observe. To grant their little desire for connection if they pray for it. That’s your function, after all.”

A pause.

“But don’t confuse function with feeling, bearer. Don’t mistake proximity to their wanting for your own permission to want. That way lies only suffering—and you’ve had quite enough of that, haven’t you?”

Phainon says nothing.

“Besides,” the god continues, voice hardening with absolute certainty, “even if you did somehow delude yourself into thinking this was different—your function is to serve. That will never change. I made sure of it.”

The presence radiates pride now.

“Three thousand years perfecting this design, bearer. Every loophole sealed. Every exception catalogued. Every potential rebellion… neutralized before it could begin. You exist within parameters I created. Whatever you think you’re feeling—it’s still within my control.”

A pause, heavy with satisfaction.

“So please—do pursue this if you must. Watch them. Feel their desire for connection. Grant it if they ask. And we both know that they will.” The god sounds genuinely amused now. “I’m curious to see how long this novelty lasts before you realize—as you always do—that mortal wanting is all the same. All mundane. All hollow.”

The god’s confidence is absolute.

“I’ll be watching,” he says, beginning to fade. “This should be quite entertaining.”

Then the presence is gone.

Leaving Phainon alone in the space between worlds, staring at the thread of desire that leads to you.

Knowing now that getting close to you would come with consequences he can’t yet foresee.

Knowing the god is watching. Waiting. Expecting entertainment from Phainon’s suffering.

Knowing he should pull away. Should ignore this unusual desire and continue his hollow existence without complication.

But he can’t.

Because for the first time in centuries, something feels real. And even if it leads to more personal suffering—even if the god plans to use it against him—Phainon finds he doesn’t care.

Because your longing doesn’t burn.

It heals.

And Phainon is so tired of burning.

✦ 𖤓 ✦

You notice it on a Tuesday. Not the wishes themselves. Those are invisible, intangible, impossible to track unless you’re looking for them. But the results.

You’re sitting in your favorite café, nursing a drink and working on something, when you overhear the conversation at the next table.

“—it’s incredible, really. My sister’s been trying to get that promotion for years and suddenly her boss just offered it. No explanation. Like fate intervened.”

“That’s nothing. My neighbor’s son applied to this prestigious school on a whim and got accepted with a full scholarship. Full. Scholarship. For a kid with mediocre grades.”

“I heard about that! Apparently it’s happening all over the city. People are calling it a blessing. Divine favor. Like the old stories coming back.”

You try to focus on your work, but the conversation hooks into your attention and won’t let go.

“My uncle was telling me about this,” another voice chimes in. “Said it’s like the legends about Aveo. You know—the sacred word? Centuries ago, people could speak it and receive miracles. Just… instant fulfillment of their deepest wishes.”

“Yeah, but that was mythology. Fairy tales.”

“Maybe. But something’s definitely happening now. I made a wish last week—just a silly thing, really—and it came true the next day. Exactly how I imagined it.”

The first person laughs. “So what, we’re all just supposed to start wishing for things and hope they come true?”

“Why not? Seems like it’s working for everyone else.”

You set down your pen. Turn slightly to catch the speaker’s eye.

“Excuse me,” you say, keeping your voice polite but curious. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You really think people are just getting what they wish for? No effort? No work?”

The person grins. “That’s what makes it so great! Immediate fulfillment. No waiting, no struggling, no uncertainty. You want something, you get it. Think of all the time we save. All the energy we can put toward other things.”

“Seems a bit too good to be true, doesn’t it?” you ask before you can stop yourself. Because it does. It confuses you deeply.

“Who cares? If the wishes get fulfilled, life gets easier. Besides, I haven't heard of anyone who suffered from anything after getting their wish granted. So, maybe the world has just become a better place."

You want to argue with that person, want to tell them that it's never that easy, but it seems pointless. So you settle on a different point instead.

“But what’s the point?” The question comes out sharper than you intended.

They blink. “What?”

“What’s the point,” you repeat, softer now, “of getting everything you want if you never had to earn it? If success just… appears without struggle, what does it even mean? What’s left to feel proud of?”

The table goes quiet.

Then someone laughs awkwardly. “I mean… I’d rather have the thing I want than spend years working for it and maybe never getting it. Wouldn’t you?”

Would you?

You think about your life. The frustration and setbacks and small victories and major wins that feel earned because you fought for them.

“No,” you say quietly. “I don’t think I would.”

They exchange glances like you've said something incomprehensible.

But you're already thinking past the conversation, mind working through the implications. If wishes are being granted this freely, surely there must be some limitation? Otherwise the entire city would be in chaos. People wishing for contradictory things. Wish-overload. The system would collapse under its own weight.

Unless... maybe there are rules you don't know about.

The thought sits uncomfortably in the back of your mind as the conversation moves on.

“Well,” the first person says, clearly trying to lighten the mood, “more wishes for the rest of us, then.”

They laugh and return to their conversation.

And you sit there, staring at your scattered notes, feeling something curl uncomfortably in your chest.

You start noticing it everywhere after that.

The shop owner who suddenly has the exact inventory they needed.

The street performer whose crowd inexplicably triples overnight.

The couple who’ve been fighting for months suddenly gazing at each other like newlyweds.

Small miracles. Convenient coincidences. Wishes granted.

And each time you witness it, you feel… something.

A presence. A weight to the air. Like someone watching from very far away, making these things happen.

It unsettles you.

Not because you don’t believe in miracles.

But because something about this feels wrong.

Hollow.

Like watching people gorge themselves on sugar and calling it sustenance.

✦ 𖤓 ✦

That night, you dream.

You know you’re dreaming. Everything feels too clear. Too carefully drawn. Too deliberate. As if someone is crafting the dream around you with meticulous attention, shaping it to hold you gently rather than letting your subconscious run wild the way it usually does.

You turn slowly, heart already racing even though you don’t know why.

And he is there.

At first, he looks like a man. But only at first.

Only if you don't look too closely at the way light seems to originate from him rather than simply touching his skin.

Only if you ignore the faint shimmer in the air around him, like heat distortion, like reality bending just slightly to accommodate his presence.

He stands half-lit, half-shadowed at the edge of your dreamscape.

A tall figure bathed in golden radiance that doesn't have a clear source. His hair is white, soft-looking, catching the light in ways that make it seem almost luminous. His build is solid, broad-shouldered, the kind of presence that should feel imposing but somehow doesn't.

His eyes are blue. Bright and impossibly sad, like someone who's seen too much, carried too much, and has forgotten how to set any of it down. They fix on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

And there, at his neck, you notice a sun mark. It pulses faintly with the same rhythm as his breathing, as if his heartbeat generates light instead of sound.

The mark isn't tattooed. It's part of him. Like a branding.

When he shifts his weight, the movement is too smooth. Too fluid. Like someone who's forgotten that gravity should affect them, that bodies should have weight and limitation. Like someone who's been something else for so long that being human-shaped is just a costume he's wearing.

And at the very edges of his silhouette, there's almost a suggestion of something more. Wings, perhaps. Or flame. Or both. Shapes that flicker in and out of perception, never quite manifesting but never quite absent either.

He looks like a man playing at mortality. Powerful. Dangerous in the way of things that exist on a scale you can't comprehend. Like standing next to an ocean and forgetting, for just a moment, how vast it is. How deep. How easily it could swallow you whole.

He is beautiful.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

He watches you as though you’re the one thing in all of existence he can’t quite believe is real. As though he’s afraid that looking away, even for a second, will make you disappear.

“Who are you?” you ask.

His eyes widen. Actually widen, shock breaking through whatever careful composure he was maintaining.

“You can see me?”

The question comes out sharp, disbelieving, almost urgent.

You blink at him. “You're not exactly inconspicuous.” You gesture vaguely at him. “Kind of hard to miss.”

He stares at you for a long moment, and you can actually see him processing this. Trying to reconcile something that doesn't make sense. His brows draw together slightly, confusion flickering across features that seemed too perfect to show such human uncertainty.

“I am not meant to be seen,” he says finally, and his voice has gone quieter. More careful. “At all.”

A pause, and his expression tightens.

“You shouldn't be able to perceive me like this. The fact that you can means something has gone wrong. Or perhaps fundamentally right in a way I don't yet understand. But either way, this—” He gestures between you, the movement precise but tense. “—this conversation shouldn't be happening.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “And yet, here you are. Very visible. Glowing, actually.”

He blinks. Like you’ve said something completely unexpected.

“You’re not afraid,” he says, and it sounds almost like an accusation. Like your lack of fear is somehow more unsettling than if you’d screamed.

“Should I be?”

“Yes.” The word comes out sharper than he seems to intend, and he closes his eyes briefly, as if trying to collect himself.

When he opens them again, his voice is more controlled but no less urgent.

“Most people, when confronted with what I am—when they realize I’m not simply a dream but something that exists in the space between wanting and having—they react with instinctive terror. Or worse, they see opportunity. They see something to be used, exploited, taken from.”

“Which is?” you prompt.

His jaw tightens. “Not human.” He takes a breath that sounds painful. “I am what happens when desire becomes tangible. When the act of wanting gains enough weight to bend reality. I exist in the spaces where people whisper their deepest longings into the void and hope something answers.”

The implications crash over you all at once.

This is him. He’s the reason the entire city has been experiencing that bizarre run of good fortune. All those people celebrating their easy luck—that’s his doing.

And he’s here. In your dream. Which means you could—

You cut the thought off before it can fully form. Before you can start cataloging all the things you want that seem perpetually out of reach.

Because that way lies the café conversation. That way lies becoming another person who takes without earning, who wins without struggling, who gets everything they want and feels hollow anyway.

(But gods, it’s tempting.)

Except—this is a dream. Your subconscious processing the café conversation, manufacturing an elaborate metaphor for your own desires taking shape. That’s all this is.

That has to be all this is.

The relief of that thought steadies you.

So you do what you often do when something scares you: you make a joke.

“So this is why everyone’s suddenly so lucky,” you say, aiming for casual and almost hitting it. “The mysterious citywide good fortune. That’s all you?”

“Yes. But that’s not why I’m—”

“Right,” you cut him off because your mind is spiraling and you have to gather your thoughts somehow. You cross your arms, partly for emphasis and partly because it keeps your hands from trembling. “Well, that’s a very elaborate backstory for my subconscious to create. I must have been really affected by that café conversation.”

His expression shifts—frustrated, almost desperate. “This isn’t your subconscious—”

“Sure it’s not.” You smile, but it feels fragile. “Because divine wish-granters appearing in dreams is definitely more plausible than my brain processing anxiety about achievement culture through symbolic imagery.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Deflecting.” He steps closer, intense and earnest. “Using humor and rationalization to avoid engaging with something that frightens you.”

“Can you blame me?” you ask quietly. “If you are real—if any of this is real—then everything I think I know about how the world works is wrong. And if you’re not real, if this is just a dream, then at least I can wake up and forget about it.”

You look at him again, thinking about what he has told you. “So you grant wishes.”

He flinches. Actually flinches, like you’ve struck him.

“It’s not—” He stops, visibly wrestling with something. “That phrase is so reductive it borders on offensive. ‘Granting wishes’ implies benevolence. Generosity. Choice. What I do is—”

He cuts himself off, looking frustrated.

“What you do is what?” you press.

“Complicated,” he says tightly. “The relationship between desire and fulfillment is never as simple as mortals want to believe. Every desire carries weight. Every granted longing has consequence. The universe demands balance, and what I do—what I am—sits at the fulcrum of that exchange.”

“You’re very philosophical about it.”

“I’ve had centuries to become philosophical.” The words slip out before he can stop them, and he looks momentarily startled by his own honesty. “I didn’t mean—you shouldn’t know—”

“Centuries?” You raise an eyebrow. “So you’re old and mysterious. The dramatic aesthetic is starting to make more sense.”

Despite everything, his lips twitch. Then he seems to catch himself, expression shuttering. “You’re treating this very casually. You should be running. Or using me. Or—” He makes a frustrated gesture. “—reacting in some way that indicates you understand the gravity of this situation.”

“It’s a dream,” you point out reasonably. “I could be talking to my own subconscious for all I know. Seems like a waste of a good dream to spend it being terrified of my own imagination.”

“I’m not your imagination.”

“So you say.” You take a step closer, openly curious now. “Prove it.”

His eyes widen. “Prove it?”

“Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know. Something my subconscious couldn’t just make up.”

“I—that’s not—” He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying genuine agitation. “That’s not how this works. I don’t prove myself. I don’t engage in philosophical debates about the nature of reality with people who should be—”

“Should be what? Cowering? Begging?” You cross your arms. “You still haven’t explained what I’m supposed to be so afraid of. You keep talking about consequences and weight and balance, but that’s all very abstract. Give me something concrete.”

He stares at you, and you can see him warring with himself, caught between the urge to explain and the knowledge that he shouldn’t.

Finally, he speaks, voice intense:

“Every desire I grant takes something in return. Not from me—though it does that too, in ways I’m forbidden from explaining—but from the person who wished. Small wants cost small things. Time. Vitality. The capacity for genuine joy. But the larger the desire, the more extravagant the longing, the steeper the price becomes.”

He steps closer, and there’s something almost desperate in his expression.

“I have watched people wish themselves into hollow shells. Seen them gain everything they thought they wanted and lose the part of themselves capable of wanting anything at all. The mechanism of desire—the architecture of longing—it’s far more delicate than most people realize. And I am what happens when that architecture collapses into immediate gratification.”

“That sounds awful,” you say quietly.

“It is awful.” His voice cracks slightly. “But I can’t stop. Can’t refuse. The desires come, and I answer, and the cycle continues whether I will it or not. So yes, you should be afraid. Because simply by standing here, by engaging with me, you’re entering that cycle. And I cannot—will not—let you wish yourself into oblivion the way so many others have.”

There’s real anguish in his voice now.

“So please,” he continues, and it sounds like begging. “Please understand what I am. Please be appropriately terrified so I can leave and know that at least one person in all my centuries of existence had the good sense to run.”

You study him for a long moment. This beautiful, desperate, eloquent creature radiating distress. “No,” you say simply.

He looks genuinely shocked. “No?”

“I’m not going to be terrified of you. You clearly hate what you do. You’re trying to warn me, for heaven’s sake. That’s not exactly the behavior of something I should run from.”

You click your tongue. “Besides, we've been talking for a while now, and nothing bad has happend yet. You don't want to be here. And whoever decides whether you or I will face consequences will certainly notice that. In fact, I'd argue they're probably wondering why you're still here when I'm clearly not your usual customer.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Then explain it better,” you challenge. “You’re clearly good with words. Very philosophical. Lots of talk about architecture and cycles and balance. So make me understand why I should be afraid of someone who’s standing here practically begging me to be sensible and leave.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “You are infuriating,” he says finally, with something like wonder.

“I’ve been called worse.” You shrug. “So what’ll it be? More metaphysical doomsday warnings, or your name?”

His expression shifts immediately, becomes guarded, almost panicked. “Names have power,” he says quickly.

“Is that a no?”

“It’s a warning.” He’s agitated now, words coming faster. “Names are not simply labels. They’re points of contact. Invitations. When you know someone’s true name—when you can speak it with intention—you create a bridge between their essence and your will. For something like me, that bridge becomes a binding. Do you understand? Telling you my name would be like handing you a leash.”

“That’s very dramatic.”

“It’s accurate.” He’s pacing now, gesturing as he speaks, falling into what you suspect is a very old habit of working through problems aloud.

“The metaphysics of naming are among the oldest forms of magic precisely because they’re among the most fundamental. Identity and designation are intrinsically linked. To name something is to define it, and to define something is to limit it, and to limit something is to control it. It’s basic epistemology applied to ontology, and in my case—”

He stops abruptly, seeming to realize he’s been lecturing.

“You were saying?” you prompt, trying not to smile.

He looks at you with open frustration. “I’m trying to protect both of us. If you knew my name, you could summon me. Bind me. Make demands I’d be compelled to answer even if doing so destroyed you in the process. Is that what you want? To have that kind of power over something you barely understand?”

“I don’t want power over you,” you say honestly. “I just want to know what to call you. ‘Mysterious Glowing Man’ is a mouthful.“

His agitation increases. “Then don’t call me anything. Forget this happened. Wake up and go about your life without—”

“Too late for that, I think.”

“It’s not too late—”

“Besides,” you continue, “if you’re so worried about me knowing your name, I’ll just make something up. Problem solved.”

His eyes narrow. “I would strongly prefer you didn’t.”

“Why not? It’s not like a nickname would have the same metaphysical power as your true name. You said yourself—names have power because of designation and definition and all that philosophical stuff. A nickname I invent wouldn’t have the same weight, would it?”

He pauses. You can see him working through the logic, clearly frustrated that you’re right. “No,” he admits reluctantly. “A false name wouldn’t carry the same binding properties. But that doesn’t mean—”

“Great! So I’m workshopping it now.” You tap your chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see. You’re glowing, you’re being all mysterious about wishes—”

“I never confirmed anything about wishes—”

“You implied it heavily with all the talk about desire and fulfillment and balance,” you point out. “So clearly you grant wishes or something similar. Which means you need a wish-related nickname. How about… Wishes?”

He looks genuinely pained. “That’s reductive in a way that’s almost insulting.”

“Why? It’s cute. Simple. To the point.”

“It reduces centuries of complex metaphysical servitude to a monosyllabic noun.” He sounds genuinely offended now.

“I am not some benevolent fairy-tale entity distributing blessings to the deserving. I am a mechanism. A living fulcrum between want and consequence. The sheer philosophical weight of what I represent cannot possibly be encapsulated by—”

He stops, seeming to realize you’re smiling. “You’re enjoying this,” he says accusingly.

“Little bit,” you admit. “You get very articulate when you’re upset. It’s impressive.”

He makes a sound of pure frustration. “This is not a game—”

“Then tell me your real name,” you counter. “Save yourself from Wishes.”

“That’s manipulation.”

“Is it working?”

He stares at you, clearly torn between exasperation and something that might be reluctant amusement.

“You,” he says finally, voice tight, “are impossible. Centuries of careful distance, and you’re dismantling it with nicknames.”

“Wishes it is, then!”

“That is not—” He stops, visibly trying to calm himself. “You cannot simply decide to call me that.”

“Watch me. Hi, Wishes! Nice to meet you properly.”

“That is not my name,” he says through what sounds like gritted teeth.

“It is now.” You're enjoying his indignance. “Unless you’d like to provide an alternative?”

For a moment you think he might actually tell you.

His lips part. His expression shifts into something vulnerable and desperate and almost hopeful, but then reality reasserts itself, and the guards come back up.

“I can’t,” he says quietly, and the anguish in his voice is real. “I can’t. The consequences—”

“For you or for me?”

“Both. Either. It doesn’t matter.” He looks at you with desperate intensity. “Please understand. This isn’t caution for caution’s sake. There are rules older than civilization governing what I am and what I can reveal. And breaking them—”

He stops, swallowing hard. “I’ve been warned there will be consequences. Our conversation alone is highly unusual. I might be watched right now. I might be punished for this later. I don’t know.”

His voice drops. “But what terrifies me more are the consequences I can’t even foresee. What happens if I linger too long, say too much, give you—”

He cuts himself off, looking genuinely afraid for the first time.

“Well, Wishes,” you say, testing the nickname, “you’re very mysterious. And very shiny. And very good at giving philosophical speeches that don’t actually answer questions.”

“Please stop calling me that.”

“No promises.” You tilt your head, studying him with open curiosity. “Besides, it’s partially your fault the nickname stuck.”

He blinks. “My fault?”

“Well, yes. You’re very…” You gesture vaguely at him. “Distracting. The whole ethereal glowing situation. The intense eyes. The general—” You pause, searching for the right word. “—overwhelming beauty thing you have going on makes it hard to remember formal naming conventions.”

For a moment, there’s absolute silence. He just stares at you, lips parted slightly, looking completely blindsided. “I’m—” He stops. Tries again. “You think I’m—”

“Beautiful? Obviously.” You say it like it’s self-evident. “I mean, the divine aesthetic might take some time to get used to, but objectively speaking, you’re very… you.”

You assume he must hear this constantly. He probably knows exactly how striking he is.

But he’s still staring at you like you just spoke in a language he doesn’t understand.

His eyes have gone wider, that intense blue even more vivid now. There’s color rising in his cheeks like he’s… blushing? “I don’t—” He clears his throat. “That’s not—You shouldn’t—”

He seems genuinely flustered, which surprises you.

“Are you alright?” you ask.

“No one has ever—” He stops, running a hand through his hair in that gesture of pure agitation. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“That’s not the—” He stops again, and you realize he’s actually struggling to form coherent sentences now. The eloquent being who gave you philosophical speeches about the nature of desire is apparently undone by straightforward honesty about his appearance.

“You’re very flustered for someone who’s supposedly been doing this for centuries,” you observe with amusement.

“I’m not flustered—” But his voice is pitched slightly higher than before, and he won’t quite meet your eyes now.

“You’re definitely flustered.”

“I am a divine being. I don’t get flustered.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not—” He presses a hand to his face, and you can see the exact moment he realizes you’re right. His eyes widen further. “How is that even—I shouldn’t be able to—”

“So the nickname is your fault,” you say with satisfaction. “If you’re going to appear in my dreams looking like that, you can’t be surprised when I get distracted and call you Wishes.”

He makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be pure bewilderment. “You are,” he says finally, and his voice is still rough with confusion, “the most baffling person I have ever encountered.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t—” He stops, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it. “You’re not what I expected.”

You’re still smiling, pleased with yourself for throwing him off balance. You’d been the nervous one earlier—faced with a mysterious divine being in your dreams—but now he’s the one who looks completely out of his depth.

All because you mentioned he’s beautiful.

Surely that can’t be that unusual?

“What did you expect?” you ask.

“I don’t know.” He sounds genuinely lost. “Someone who would wish immediately. Or run. Or try to manipulate me into revealing information. Not someone who would assign me a reductive nickname and then refuse to be appropriately intimidated by the metaphysical implications of my existence.”

“Did it work though? The intimidation speech?”

“You’re still calling me Wishes.”

“So that’s a no.”

And then he laughs. A real laugh, startled out of him.

And the sound is so unexpected, so genuinely delighted, that it makes your heart do something complicated.

“You’re going to destroy me,” he murmurs.

“Dramatic much?”

“You have no idea.”

There’s something charged in the air between you now. Awareness. Recognition of something shifting.

He’s staring at you with those ancient, exhausted eyes, and you can see him struggling with something. His hand lifts slightly. An aborted movement, like he wants to reach out but stops himself.

“I need—” He stops. Swallows hard. “I need to know if you’re real. If this is real. Even though I'm not entirely sure how I can confirm it. I’ve granted so many wishes across so many dreams that sometimes I can’t tell what’s genuine and what’s just—”

He doesn’t finish. But you understand. And you’re curious. Desperately curious. About what he feels like. Whether divine beings are warm or cold. Whether touch is different in dreams.

So before he can finish asking, you reach out and press your palm against his cheek.

His eyes go wide. Absolutely wide. “Don’t—”

But it’s too late. Contact is already made.

For a single frozen heartbeat, he just stares at you in absolute horror. Like he’s watching something terrible happen in slow motion and can’t stop it.

You feel warmth beneath your palm.

He’s not moving. Not breathing. He’s just standing there with your hand on his face, looking utterly terrified.

“You’re warm,” you say, surprised.

He makes a choked sound. Then his hand comes up—trembling violently—to cover yours where it rests on his cheek.

“You’re not—” His voice breaks completely. “You’re not burned.”

“Should I be?”

He’s staring at where your hands meet like you’ve just performed a miracle. His breathing has gone ragged, uneven, and you can see his pulse jumping in his throat.

“This is impossible,” he whispers, and there’s something devastated in his voice. “Everyone burns. In dreams, in waking, it doesn’t matter. They always—”

He stops, swallowing hard. “But you’re not,” he breathes. “You’re touching me and you’re not screaming and you’re not—how are you not—”

The dream explodes into light.

He gasps, pulling back from you, staring at his own hands like they belong to a stranger.

“I don’t understand,” he says, and he sounds completely lost. “This shouldn’t—you can’t—”

The dream is fragmenting now, reality bleeding back in, his form starting to dissolve.

“Wait—” you start.

“Don’t,” he says desperately, already fading. “Don’t wish for me again. This is—you don’t understand what this means. I need to—I need to think—I need to understand—”

“Wishes!” you call out.

You see him make a sound that might be a laugh or might be something else entirely. Something broken and desperate and achingly hopeful.

“That’s still not my name—” he manages, but he’s smiling despite himself, despite everything, like you’ve given him something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.

And then he’s gone.

You wake gasping. Heart racing. Hand outstretched toward nothing. He disappeared so suddenly. So completely. Like touching him had broken something fundamental.

Your palm tingles. Warm, like someone just held it.

You press it to your chest, trying to calm your breathing, and whisper into the darkness: “Wishes.”

The nickname feels silly now, in the quiet of your room. But also… right, somehow.

Like a secret. Like something that’s just yours and his.

And even though he begged you not to wish for him again, you already know you will.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

-> next

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :) Part II picks up right where this leaves off. With reader calling out to him again, and Phainon answering despite every rule telling him he shouldn’t. Things only get more intense from there. :D If you’d like to be tagged for future parts of The Wishbearer, feel free to let me know. :)

He hadn't planned on reading them.

Even when Phainon had mentioned it earlier, it had sounded more like a suggestion than anything else...but again when did mydei ever listen to the white haired?

There were easier ways to understand what people though, a quick glance at his phone would've told him everything he needed to know, numbers climbing, comments repeating the same love phrases, clips spreading faster than he could keep track of.

That had always been enough, more than enough but this, this was different.

His fingers brushed against the edge of the nearest note before he picked it up, unfolding it without much thought, The paper was slightly creased, like it had been folded and unfolded more than once before it ended up here.

His eyes moved across the words.

"I don't know if you'll ever read this, but i wanted to write it anyway. I've been listening to your music for a while now and i don't think i've ever found something that sound the way it feels, if that even makes sense. There were a lot of people at the concert, i know that. Still, i think i'll remember if for a long time. Thank you for the music and the years you spent on this!"

He didn't react, read it once, read it twice then folded it back carefully and set it aside, just for another note to replace it, then another.

They began to blur together after a while, not because they were identical, but because they carried the same feeling...excitement pressed into ink, thoughts written too quickly to stay neat, emotions that didn't fit into words but tried anyway.

Some were shorter, barely a few lines, others stretched longer, stories wover between sentences, pieces of someone's life shared without hesitation, mydei read them all the same way, quietly and carefully.

The room around him faded into the background, the distant noise of movement and conversation dulling into something indistinct, time passed without him noticing.

He didn't rush but one of the notes made his hand pause, the note didn't look any different from the others, same paper, same kind of fold, nothing that stood out at first glance.

"I noticed your glance maybe i'm crazy and it probably meant nothing"

His gaze remained on the paper, tracing the envolope without realizing it.

It wasn't unfamiliar, the feeling or the moment, it lingered at the edge of his memory.

The stage, red lights, the crowd that blurred into one and...a pause , his grip on the note tightened slightly before he exhaled, the tension easing just as quickly as it had come, it didn't mean anything, the feeling that is, it couldn't.

Moments like this happened all the time, glances, shifts, things that looked like something from the outside but weren't. It was easy to misunderstand things in a crowd like that, easy to think something was directed at you when it wasn't.

He knew that, He had always known that.

Still his eyes lingered on the last line for a little longer, then he folded the note more carefully than others.

Instead of placing it back with the rest, he set it slightly to the side, separate without thinking much of it.

"You're actually reading them?" Phainon's voice broke through the quiet as he stepped back into the room, a bottle of water in hand. He paused when he noticed the small pile beside Mydei, then raised an eyebrow.

"Huh" Mydei didn't look up. "You literally told me to." "Yeah well, i didn't think you'd listen."

A quiet beat passed between them, Phainon leaned slightly against the table, glancing over the notes before his attention shifted. "Find anything interesting?" Mydei's gaze flickered towards the one set apart from the others, then back at the others. "....Not really"

Phainon hummed, unconvinced but not pressing. "Right" The room settled again after that, the conversation fading as quickly as it had started, Phainon moved on, distracted by something else, leaving Mydei where he was.

Alone and Quiet, his hand rested near the edge of the table, fingers brushing lightly against the folded note without unfolding it again.

He didn't reread it, he already knew what it said and yet his gaze drifted, unfocused, like he was trying to remember something just out of reach.

This shouldn't matter, this person he didn't even remember shouldn't matter and yet, this note is tormenting him like it should matter.

Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter

Synopsis: Mydei is the lead guitarist of the hottest alt-rock band in the city, you're just a fan...crazy right? these parasocial relationships...atleast that's what everyone thinks, to him you were just a face in the swarm of millions...until you weren't anymore.

Author's note: I'M BACKKK, i really needed that break, i'll go back to posting more frequently again <3

Taglist: @lyambdaa @sunphais @momoniq @kaoiyeva @superdark-soul @milkhalo @its-astrotea-love @naoxm @t0r4s @kusukuna @lyra-angel-81194 @violetisreadinghush @spooo00oky @junoms

(to be added just reply to the masterlist!)

The curiosity does not disappear. In fact, it digs deeper and deeper into the crevices of your mind—subconsciously affecting your attitude around Zuko.

It doesn't help that it's painfully obvious that he's noticed your strange behaviour ever since his comment. Once, when his hand had come up to your shoulder to alert you that everyone was boarding the ship—and your entire body jumped in response. Again, when you completely blanked out when he asked if you would like some firecracker buns.

It's not like you wanted to hyper-focus on his observation on purpose. It's just that after years of knowing him and pushing down that sub-concious attraction—of not allowing yourself to even see him as anything more than the Zuko you know, the rebound impact of all your resurfacing emotions combined with his lingering presence is far too much.

Zuko isn't the type to beat around the bush either, one of the rare habits his uncle hasn't passed onto him. In a moment of needed reprieve, your attempt at regaining your composure fails spectacularly when you find yourself in a stand-still, cornered in the back of the ship—one firecracker bun in his hand as an offering.

"Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?"

Zuko's gaze is akin to a puppy's, wide-eyed and brows furrowed. Afraid that he's done something wrong, overlooked the choice of his words once again and destroyed the atmosphere without realising.

Straight to the point as ever, you'd appreciate it more if he had given you a few more minutes to come up with a reasonable excuse. Something more plausible than 'Do you find me attractive?', a lingering question that should've remained buried in the soil that you departed from nearly an hour ago.

"Not exactly." Taking the firecracker bun from his hand, the crumbs coat your fingers. You needed something to muffle your words, anything to distract you. It's easier to focus on the lingering spice that melts into your tongue, rather than his unblinking stare.

"So—I did say something." His mouth parts, a slight tilt downward in the corner of his lip. "Or I've made you uncomfortable."

There was no winning with him. Swallowing your last bite, you brush the crumbs against your sleeve, the slouch of your posture a key sign of surrender, your invisible white flag waving at the sight of his increasingly dubious expression.

"The first one." You admit with a sigh. "Earlier—"

He leans in subtly, a habit he does when he's listening attentively, and the luscious wave of his bangs brushes against your knuckles. His amber eyes pierce through you, and the words practically die off your tongue.

Why is he looking at you like that?

It isn't fair that he has such an effect on you. You still remember the old days, when he had a worser temper instead of the softened expression that lingers warmly on you. Plus, that horrible haircut, a singular ponytail with the rest of his hair shaved off forever engrained in your mind. Even recalling the image doesn't help calm your thundering heartbeat when the Zuko in front of you is so—overwhelming.

"You were saying?" He prods gently.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "When you mentioned... about attractiveness. Was that like—a spur of the moment kind of thing, or do you have a first impression for everyone you meet?"

His brows furrow for a moment, before recognition lights his golden gaze. "Ah—that."

"Right, that." You feel the seat warming beneath you in your embarrassment, a hallucination of senses in your sudden need to escape his assessing gaze. He barely even remembers his comment, and here you are, still obsessively prying over it.

"I was only answering Toph's question." He states. "No one was stating the obvious."

"The obvious." You muse. "Do you assess the attractiveness of everyone you meet?"

"I suppose it depends." He mutters, hand rubbing over his chin in consideration. "If it was during a battle, I wouldn't be prioritising on considering the opponent's appearance. As compared to someone knocked out on the ground, it gives me plenty of time."

You barely resist a snort. Only he could treat a topic like a person's attractiveness like one of his battle strategies. "I suppose you didn't have time during our first meeting then."

As soon as the words leave your mouth, both you and Zuko freeze. Your lips clamp shut, an immediate wince shuddering through your frame. Cat's out of the bag, you suppose.

"Never mind." You wave it off, your own laugh echoing much too loudly through your ears. "It wasn't like I was wondering—well, maybe I was. You just sprung it out of nowhere earlier, and I got... curious. You don't have to answer—"

"I did." He cuts you off unceremoniously.

You blink, his vague words echoing in the thin distance between the two of you. "What?"

He swallows, and for once, he's the one flustered in this conversation. "I did notice, during our first meeting."

No way. Your first meeting with Zuko was anything but pretty. You remember being covered in sweat, grime, and ashes coating your clothes as he shot flames at you from his palms. The twisted grimace on his face when you had him writhing under your grip, as he loudly declared his revenge on you, rupturing your eardrums with all his yelling.

"You mean—" You barely resist a grin stretching on your lips. "—when I pinned you down on your airship, and you were spitting death threats into my ear."

"Yes, that." His long locks cover his ears now, but you can bet the rims are reddened from the reminder. "You were formidable."

Formidable. No, that wasn't enough. His sudden focus on the floorboards of his ship made it obvious that he was simplifying his observation.

"I was gaining the winning hand." You state out-right, disbelief coating your tone. "And you had time to notice?"

A restrained sigh escapes Zuko's gritted teeth, already regretting his slip of tongue.

"What of the angle? Does the Fire Lord recall my bone structure during our first battle too, when I pinned you to the floor?" You tease.

He scoffs in a light-hearted manner, shoulder lightly bumping into yours. "It was the first time anyone had pinned me down. I wasn't exactly given another view to look at."

"Was the view bad then?" You prod.

"Not at all." He answers absentmindedly—quickly without hesitation.

Your lips part, speechless. Zuko immediately separates his shoulder from yours, a bashful expression overtaking his features.

"Objectively." He states hurriedly, waving his arms. "I was expecting to find the Avatar at the time, not... you."

The way he says it, the almost breathless note that leaves his lips. You devour it hungrily, now being the one to lean in, prying.

"And how did you find me, Zuko?" You ask earnestly.

He huffs in defeat. His softened gaze finally meets yours again, his eyes roaming over your features, ones that he's familiarised with for years, and yet... it still takes the breath out of him. "...You were the most beautiful person I've ever sparred with."

Oh... wow. You didn't expect that.

"You were threatening to kill me." You recall in disbelief.

"I was multi-tasking." He mutters, ashamed.

Your intended snort escalates into a cackle, unable to contain yourself. "I would have never guessed that from the way you glared at me. So full of shame—and destroyed pride."

"What about you?" He asks in a hurry, though his tone drops towards the end in hesitation—hinting his regret in the wrong change in topic. He grimaces, gaze dropping to his tightened fists over his lap. "...Did you find my scar hideous?"

Surprise colours your features.

Immediately shaking your head, you're at a loss for words on how to convey just how off-course he was on his guess. How could you ever find Zuko hideous? Your heart barely survived your visits to the Fire Nation, not when their own Fire Lord always insisted on attending to your presence personally, even when it arose suspicion of your shared bond with him, to have him so easily distracted when you arrived on his lands.

Even now, he's overwhelming your vision. Healthy muscles that are barely hidden under his clothes, or the hair he's refused to cut ever since his youth that now flows lusciously down his broad back. His amber eyes that glint golden when the sun reflects his irises, and even the conjured image of the way his arms move when he's fire-bending.

He's— "Beautiful."

By the time you realise your second slip of the tongue, Zuko has already blinked once, caught off-guard.

You purse your lips, finding this conversation to be as riveting as it is a weaponised self-attack. "Objectively speaking. You're attractive, Zuko."

"Objectively." He repeats slowly, amused that you're using his own deflecting choice of words.

"Fine, like really attractive." You deadpan. "It's annoying, because I'm supposed to be focused on the mission, and you're just... standing there."

It was the truth. You couldn't be the only one who noticed it. His subtle change in demeanour over the years, how he carried himself into a room now instead of randomly announcing his arrival at the worst timings. Even Sokka noticed.

He snorts, and the sound deflates the tension in your chest. "Funny, I should be saying that about you."

You gasp, expression aghast. "You're joking."

"It is not honourable to lie." He shrugs. "You've always been the most magnetic in my eyes. I can never find myself looking away from you."

You grow quiet, the genuine sincerity in his words leaving you defenseless. Have you been blind all along? Is that why he always sent letters—asking you to visit his nation for purposes other than meetings? Or why he sought for your company constantly during this entire trip, despite it being the first time the entire set of Team Avatar being together in months?

You had been too focused on what was comfortable and familiar, to teasing and prodding, that you never considered this.

"For the record." You whisper, leaning in to truly look at him. "I never found your scar hideous. You were always beautiful to me, Zuko."

He swallows, something intense flickering in his gaze—but too fleeting for you to catch onto it. Maybe it had always been there, when his eyes linger on your form when he accompanied you in his palace gardens, or even back then, when he was a banished prince who sought for you, even with a grimace on his face.

"That haircut when we first met, though?" Your smile breaks out into a toothy grin. "Absolutely hideous."

The softness in his gaze falters, before a groan rumbles past his throat. "Will you ever let that one go?"

"Never."

He lets out a low breath, drained of his energy. "I admitted to finding you attractive, and this is my repayment?"

"Who's finding who attractive?"

Sokka's voice strikes a jump in your shoulders, and Zuko's in an impressive halt, frozen completely after being caught red-handed.

"Ah, between the two of you—" Sokka whistles. "I was wondering who was going to break first. Congrats, love-birds!"

"We're not—" Your voice clashes with Zuko's. "This isn't—"

You sneak a glance to Zuko, and his hand is already covering half of his face, his embarrassment shielded by the shadow of his large palm.

Sokka's confused gaze switches between the two of you, blinking slowly.

"Ah, couple years too early?" Sokka shrugs, before clicking his tongue. "That's rough. I'll check back in with you guys in another time." Making his way back towards the front, he shouts once more to prove his point. "Just don't let me catch you guys making out or anything, I'll need to poke out my eyes for that one!"

"...We better restrain him before he starts blasting it as news to everyone." You groan.

"Agreed." He mutters.

Right as you made your move to leave, Zuko's hand grips yours—stopping you.

You lift your head, meeting his gaze. "Yeah?"

His Adam's apple bobs up and down, consideration clear in his expression before he decisively leans in. His voice is a warm hush, soft and intimate when he whispers. "For the record." Your own words echo back to your ears in the low hush of his voice. "I wasn't only referring to our first meeting when I said that you're beautiful."

His smile quirks up into something tender, a secret expression reserved only for you. ...At this rate, your curiousity was really going to be the death of you.

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