Lake Spy

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except…nothing happens.

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

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

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

“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— — — — — — — — — — 

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

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

Still, he always does in front of you. 

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

It happens on a Friday night.

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

Until you’re not. 

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

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

It guts you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”

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

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

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

“Then don’t,” he offers.

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

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

“Are you buying?” you perk up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.

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

Your eyes widen as you realize. 

Oh.

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

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

“Yo, what the fuck—”

“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)

“Who the hell are you—”

“What’s your fucking problem man—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re still a crybaby!”

“Am not!”

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

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

“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— — — — — — — — — — 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It won’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”

“Good,” he hums. 

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

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

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

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

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

“When did they change for you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily. 

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

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

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

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Is that why you cried?”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” he beams.

“Yeah,” you grin. 

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

— — — — — — — — — — 

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

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

And then it rains. 

It rains hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s that simple. It always was. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still you,” you snort. 

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

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

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

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

The Qing Generation Peak Lords immediately listens to him and are now doing constant meet ups as the equivalent of team bulding exercises. The Shen Qingqiu rumors get solved. Shen Jiu is appropriately wary of this seemingly all knowing Peak Lord whom everyone listens to. And yet he also considers. Someone who can see the future? Someone who can SPEAK of the future they see and CHANGE it? Oh? Someone who can see all possible threats? What do you mean he can also divine your past? Past as in blackmail material?

Shen Jiu, in a fit of genius proving his right to be called the sect strategist, decides he'll have to test tf outta Shen Yuan to see if he can trust him (and sj is also low key terrified and hateful bc here is someone who can ruin everything he's ever done and he will NOT just let it be tyvm) and so Shen Jiu just. Does some minor (extensive) background search. And tries ro get Shen Yuan to snap. Yeah, that's right. Just annoy the scary all-seeing dude.

Shen Yuan eventually gets super annoyed, his inner internet troll has been desperately struggling to get free for YEARS, and now here's a convenient target who totally deserves it. Shen-Shixiong you total prick, why do you keep digging up everything about Shen Yuan!

So. In a fit of similar genius spiked with way too much pettiness, Shen Yuan goes "You little prick, lets see how you like it when YOUR privacy gets invaded!" and promptly plays a random scene from Shen Jiu's future ala projector style while they were in a Peak Lord meeting.

Shen Yuan made sure its nothing distressing or embarassing, he's petty not cruel! Except he did this by just doing a routine surface level scan of the emotions involved, and it was on "happy." Shen Yuan, a fuerdai who never really knew about Shen Jiu's past, just assumed it'd be a basic scene of maybe having a good meal or talking to a friend or something. He did NOT realize how fucking rare "Happy" is for Shen Jiu.

The scene that plays is a marriage.

Two figures decked in regal red marriage robes are in a bow in front of each other. The unmistakeable Grand Hall of Cang Qiong swathed in tastefully luxurious decorations surrounds them. There are also a lot of other damning details.

Qing Jing Peak's logo is embroidered onto the billowing ribbons. Paired with Divination Peak's own logo.

The two figures stand.

Its Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan.

When future-Shen Jiu actually smiled at future-Shen Yuan (who looks disgustingly in love wtf) and started leaning in for a kiss, present-Shen Yuan violently slams the divining tool off.

The loud slam is followed with a damning silent moment. That, unfortunately, lasted only for an actual moment.

Someone clears their throat.

Its Qi Qingqi.

She has a shit eating grin on her face. Besides her, Wei Qingwei's expression is slowly starting to match. Around, the other peak lords are either too invested, or carefully avoiding looking at him and Shen Jiu.

Shen Yuan very, very carefully does not look Shen Jiu's way.

"So..." Qi Qingqi begins. "Interesting divination there, Shen-Da-Shixiong, Shen-Er-Shixiong." Her words practically drip with insinuation.

Oh God. Oh Fuck. Fuck no.

Side Notes:

Shen Yuan's eyes glow a beight system blue whenever he "divines the future"

Shen Yuan wears a fortune teller outfit, meaning he's typically covered head to toe, complete with a veil.

Your mother always had health problems. Pregnancy was a risk she faced, and she told herself,"Ei to telos mou engizei, deksomai. All’ to teknion mou dei gennēthēnai. Menein autē dei."

"If my end draws near, I will accept. But my little child, it must be BORN. She must STAY."

For a long time, your mother always went beyond Oronyx, one of the Three Titans of Fate, TIME. She believes that in those constellations she sees, when she has those perfect moments, she feels it as it passes by. She can feel their presence, their gazes; she feels them as time passes by. She feels as if there is more out there. More personifications of TIME.

The family saw it as a disgrace, an act of declining the Titan. Your father, too ashamed of his wife's ways, walked out. Slowly, the family distanced themselves from her, but that did not change her ways or how she felt. She did rituals, passing her hand on worn-out furniture, admiring clocks, and wondering “how will time look like in her way?”. She looks out of the window at times, waiting for the natural signs, the sun rising, a thunder clapping. She drew infinity symbols with her finger out of habit. Everything she did was somehow related to time.

Then the TIME came. Her child’s BIRTH.

The day of birth is supposed to be filled with joy. The silence of anticipation fills the room, then the sounds of the first cries take over. The mother, who was previously screaming her lungs out, tired from all the work, will finally see what she had made. Her baby.

For you, it was different.

No family was waiting outside that room for you. Just you and your mother, together alone. The long, agonising pressure, the screaming, the high anticipation, sadly, it was all for nothing.

Your mother's health problem was that she had a weak heart. Not enough oxygen was being delivered to you. Your mother knew that, maybe all those weird habits she had, the things she believed in, maybe she was looking for a way to bring you into the land. Maybe she could've gone back in time from the day she was born, begged for a more functioning heart so she could provide what you needed in her tummy. The love of a mother who has yet to even touch her child. Hers was so strong that when she did not hear the cries of her child as it left her body. She was ready to sacrifice herself.

"To paídi mou prépei na gennitheí, prépei. AION… parakaló…" She simply muttered. The doctors around just heard her cries as a plea to Oronyx. All they heard were the simple words of:

"My child must be born, she has to. TIME… please…"

Your mother's plea did not go unheard, as for the final TIME, she closed her eyes, once and for all.

And your REBIRTH came.

YOU were brought back into this life. On the midnight of a leap year, your first cries were heard.

O AIΩN SE ANAGENNISE.

Time rebirthed you.

𝐈𝐈.

"You were her last gift." Your father always told you.

News got to him of your mother's passing, so as a result, he was the one who took the responsibility to raise you. He may not show it to his child, but deep down, he regrets being a coward. He can't stand the fact that every time he lays his eyes on you, he sees her face.

As he lays you to bed, watch as you drift off into the resting land, he closes his eyes, remembering the times he had with her. Your mother.

He would often ask himself, "Why did you choose to go beyond time?"

That cycle repeated itself. He watches as his daughter grows for four long years, and he is reminded of the past, and regret and sorrow fill his mind.

Then he started something, something he never thought he would. Though in his eyes, it was acceptable as it was only to the Titan. He never went beyond. He began to ask, to beg.

"Oronyx, Titan of Time, how am I supposed to let go of my past?"

Oh, look at him, turning to TIME for his aid. To get rid of his feelings.

ORONYX can only restore forgotten memories; it is unable to help your father with his wish. The sight is laughable, after the passing of his wife, after leaving her alone, only to beg time, beg the same being that was the cause of his departure.

The sight of your father on the ground, begging at the window, muttering prayers to himself. It, for some reason, made you judge him. Your tiny fingers gripped your dress, for four long years of your life, you had always seen him like this.

You didn't know why, back at four years old, why you always looked at him differently. Maybe it was because it did not listen to your worries, to your requests, to you. All he did was beg TIME. He begged ORONYX.

You've always mentioned your dreams to your father. The frequent ones that very vividly give you the signs that are all connected to each other.

You always had a small fear of closing your eyes when it's time to rest. The small whimpers, the gripping of your sheet, and the knitting of your eyebrows. Sadly, your pleas and cries always went unheard. Your father believed that it was all the product of an imaginary four-year-old mind.

Your eyes always followed your father's figure as he left you alone in your room. Alone with your thoughts, eating away as slowly, the feeling of sleep took over your body, entering the dream state.

Normally, when you fall asleep, you don't typically remember what's happening during your sleep. You only remember falling asleep, then waking up. It's just how the brain is; it's processing and storing your memories during the sleep cycle.

What about you exactly?

There's a lot you can feel; it's as if you're conscious, not as in you can feel yourself in your bed sleeping. It's as if.. you feel TIME moving..

The SECONDS. The MINUTES. The HOURS.

You feel it as it passes by. Physically. As if you're in the sea, floating away. It messed with your rest. Too much for a four-year-old to comprehend. It made you grumpy, confused, and upset. No one would listen to your words.

DREAMING. Your dreams, it always added more to your confusion. There was always an old man with a grey beard. A future of someone you've never met before. The present of a being who was miles away from you. It was as if you were feeling, seeing, dreaming TIME.

PERSONIFICATION OF TIME. ΧΡΟΝΟΣ. 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐒.

You hated feeling confused. You hated sleeping. It felt as if there was something that you didn't know, slowly growing and making itself known in you. You wanted to forget about it.

Because of it, you tried avoiding your father when it was time to rest. Finally, he took notice of you, but it did not help.

"Child, why are you not asleep?"

He always asked. Glancing at you with zero interest. You were miserable at this point. Your father made you this way, and that sickening feeling whenever you sleep. It all piled up on the poor child.

With the negative aura surrounding you, curled up in your bed, a feeling came over.

IT WAS TIME.

The feeling was strong; it caused you to jerk up, to gasp. The moonlight hit your face, kissing each and every feature. Your eyes slowly made their way towards it, focusing and admiring the stars.

You had the feeling to go outside, feel the moonlight, and get closer to the stars. You knew at around this TIME, your father was asleep.

So you left your bed, made your way out of the house, and finally, for the first time in a while, your feet touched the field of grass. The wind blew through your hair, calming your miserable mind. For the first time, you felt something new; you weren't upset or sad. You were relaxed.

You tilted your head, admiring the stars around you until that same feeling from before took over yet again.

You felt it all around, in your nerves, in the ground below you, in the sky above you. Everything started to feel numb, and all you could do was focus on the stars. Only the stars.. only they stayed in your mind.

Your mind screamed at you, "Find something!" A pattern, a connection.

Without realizing it, your eyes moved on their own, darting around at the different stars, forming a picture in your mind. Your face lit up slightly! You found something! The stars formed a picture!

"Fishes..?" Your soft voice muttered. You tilted your head in thought.

Fishes, twin fishes, locked in a spiral..

Gasp!

"Pisces..!" You giggled out, eyes softening at the sight. You saw the twin fishes, locked in a forever cycle. But that wasn't enough to get this feeling off.

You pout, squinting at the stars, demanding more info. But you were a smart child, you knew a bit more about the stars than the people around you. You muttered out every piece of information you had about Pisces, trying to piece it together.

"Stars.. Planet.."

The sound of Plant rolling off your tongue sparked a lightblub in your mind:

"Neptune!.. Plant of Dreams!'

DREAMING. Your dreams, it always added more to your confusion.

The feeling got stronger, your head pounded, your lungs begged for air, and you were gasping like crazy. What was happening? You need help! You tried moving, but nothing worked. You were stuck. You need help! Your ears rang, you couldn't think straight. What was happening? You want help!

You wanted it all to stop! Go back when you were admiring the stars! TIME needs to stop! Stop messing with your senses!

STOP! GO BACK!

THE ETERNAL ΑΙΩΝ. 𝐀𝐈𝐎𝐍.

With one last gasp, it all stopped. Everything felt as if it had restarted. Your chest heaved with haste, eyes darting in each direction then you noticed something.

The wind stopped, the crickets stopped. You looked at the grass below and noticed that it was all frozen in ΧΡΟΝΟΣ.

You knitted your eyebrows, looking up at the sky, and saw that the clouds stopped but the stars; they still twinkled. ΑΙΩΝ didn't stop for them.

You tried to make sense of this, tried to make sense of TIME. But when you extended your hand up towards the sky, then muttered something, something that not only you could comprehend right now.

"ORONYX?.. Or more? ΧΡΟΝΟΣ? ΑΙΩΝ?" "TIME?.. Or more? TIME? TIME?"

As those five words left your mouth, you felt as if someone was looking upon you. From the left, the right, above, and below. Your hand fell, and as for the last time you blinked, you physically dropped to the ground, DREAMING.

Spiritually? You were faced with TIME.

𝐈𝐈𝐈.

As your eyes opened, you looked around and saw stars in each and every direction. You had no idea where you were, feeling a bit lost and confused, but then a booming voice caught your attention.

"Esý, paidí mou, den eísai ópos oi álloi· o chrónos rheí mesa sou."

The words came from above, and then you noticed the large beings looking down at you. One held a scythe and an hourglass, his long, white, thick beard revealing his ancient appearance, while the other looked more youthful and stood within a circle that represented the zodiac.

The words that were spoken finally settled in your mind, comprehending them.

"You, my child, are not like the others; time flows within you."

With a slight look of confusion taking over your face, you pointed at yourself, tilting your head a bit, and simply let out a small "me?"

The beings showed no reaction; they stood their ground, no movement besides their mouths, explaining everything to you. It made you feel little, as if you weren't already..

❛GIA TON ANASA TIS ZOIS SOU, I FONI TIS MITERAS SOU EKALÉSE STON KOSMO MAS.❜ "For the breath of your life, your mother's voice called out to our realm."

❛ME TIN IKESÍA TIS, PROSFÉRAME KAI YFAÍNAME MESA SOU TO NÍMA TOU THEÍOU DÓROU MAS.❜ "In her plea, we offered and wove into you the thread of our divine gift."

❛MIA GNÓSI TON TRION KATASTÁSEON TOU CHRÓNOU, VATHÝTERI KAI ÁPEIRI APO TON ORONYX TON IDIO.❜ "A knowing of the three states of TIME, one deeper and boundless than ORONYX itself."

Everything hit you like speeding light. It was too much to believe at once; being a four-year-old as well doesn't help. But the Gods knew that. They waited for you to digest all that you could and to ask the questions they foresaw, already having an answer prepared.

Meekly, you open your mouth after analyzing the beings in front of you, and a question pops into your head.

"Three states of time? But there are only two of you.."

❛SOU DEN ECHETE AKOMI ANAGNŌRĪSEI TĒN TRITĒN KATASTASĒN TOU CHRONOU, "You have yet to acknowledge the third state of time,

OMŌS EGŌ, H PROSŌPOPOIĒSĪ TOU CHRONOU, ECHO PROORISEI TĒN ŌRAN HOTE THA TO PRAXETE. yet I, the personification of time, have forseen the hour when you shall.

KAI EAN KĒTA BRISKETAI LIGA ETĒ MPRŌSTA, ALLA, ŌS OPHILEI KATHE STIGMĒ, PERIMENEI TĒN SEIRA TĒS GIA NA APOTYPŌTHĒ.❜ Though it lies a few years ahead, but as all moments must, it is waiting for its turn to unfold."

You did not respond, but full attention was indeed set on them. The Gods did not want to keep you there for so long, so they ended it with one task for you:

"Prepei na zētēseis to palaiō spīti tēs mētēras sou, kathōs osa apanta pou zēteīs briskontai entos autou." "You must search for your mother's old house, as for all the answers you seek lies within it."

Your mother, the woman you couldn't meet, couldn't feel, couldn't reach out to.

But as those words left their lips, with one blink, there you were, back in the mortal land, back rested against the grass that was now moving in the wind. You were faced with the stars again, but with a different feeling this time.

One with a little bit of understanding.

𝐈.

It has been thirteen long years ever since your first meeting with TIME.

After that night, your powers were known. You had the idea of it. Your powers were within your consciousness; they manifested at times you didn't want them to. It was as if a faucet was on at all times, always running.

In the results, those years growing up were filled with pain, loneliness, and the feeling of being lost. You alone had seen things nobody could. At every family gathering, just the brush of the fingertips, you saw their past and their future. And most importantly, how they die.

You did not know how to control it, how to turn off this power. So you thought that maybe you could use it to your advantage. If this power gave you the unwanted, the headaches, the pain, maybe something positive can be your outcome.

You first told your father his future, how he was going to die. Of course, he did not believe you; he got angry.

"What nonsense are you spewing, child?"

He forbade you from bringing up that topic. In his words, you were turning into her. Your mother.

"IT'S ONLY TIME I BELIEVE, NOT BEYOND IT. YOU CANNOT SEE MY FUTURE, ONLY TIME CAN."

He only believes in ORONYX.

It was sickening you. His blindness. But not only did you enraged your father, but also TIME.

ΧΡΟΝΟΣ. CHRONOS. was enraged.

He saw it as you trying to bend time, bend the future, ruin the flow. As a result, he gave you a warning.

"MĒN TOLMĒS NA DIATARAXEIS TĒN RHOĒN TOU CHRONOU" "DO NOT DARE DISTURB THE FLOW OF TIME."

Those warnings and responses told you something. There was no one here who understood what you were going through. Your family judged you, you were the result of a madden woman. You kept to yourself at all times when headaches grew larger, because of that, they saw you as dead weight.

But there was one person who would understand what you're going through. Her TIME may be up, but there were remnants of her past. Just like TIME told you:

"You must search for your mother's old house, as for all the answers you seek lies within it."

THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT ΚΑΙΡΟΣ. 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐒.

So you did. That night was the last night you ever saw your family. That was the night your father lost the small piece that his wife had left behind.

You had no clue where her home was located, but your feet just took you along the path. But we all know that TIME has its ways. Days had passed, weeks had formed, but finally, you were greeted with the old, abandoned home.

You were with the small remnants of your mother. When you finally stepped foot inside, it was like a warm hug. Everything that was raging inside of you, the manifested power. It felt as if she covered your ears. You were at peace in this place.

As your eyes scanned the house, you slowly walked around, remembering every crack. TIME obviously took over the house, the broken walls, floors, windows, and the overgrown plants. But TIME did not touch her room, where all her notes were laid out all over, waiting for you.

Your face had lit up when your eyes landed on the papers, millions, scattered all over the room. You were sure to understand what power you hold in this place.

As you went through each paper, mountains and piles of them. You gain an understanding of what you hold in your hand. You have the ability to manipulate the time that flows within everything.

Your mother earned the gaze of all FOUR states of time. She was granted access from ORONYX to go beyond, and beyond she went. But there was a twist in the access ORONYX gave her. Everyone will deem her as an outcast, the weird, the odd one out. As not everyone has the understanding of TIME like SHE does.

But your mother did not care; she already knew what would've happened to her child. She knew that she would not get the chance to hold her child, as she knew that in order for her child to be brought into this world, she had to exchange her breath for yours.

"Ei to telos mou engizei, deksomai. All’ to teknion mou dei gennēthēnai. Menein autē dei."

"If my end draws near, I will accept. But my little child, it must be BORN. She must STAY."

In these papers, you found out that there was a way to control this power, but it was hidden within your mother's actions and your knowledge.

You must spend TIME with yourself, repeat that CYCLE until the perfect MOMENT.

Though the more you stared at those words, the less sense they made. But that only meant that there was more to uncover. So you spent every passing hour looking for more clues, but you slowly realized that it was not here.

If not here, then where? You knew that your mother was the only person to answer your questions. So if she's not here, what can you do?

Wait.

You stopped in your movements, replaying your thoughts. If she's not here now, then you can go back to when she WAS here.. That's not interfering with the current flow of time, is it?

The only way you knew how to use your power was to touch a person, and you got their past, present, and future. But how can you do that if your mother isn't here?

You sighed into your hands, thought long and hard on what to do. What is the closest thing to your mother? Your father left her, and the family walked out. You could not ask them. Right now, it felt as if it were yourself. But how can you connect to her through you? What did she give you that you can use?

Her final breath..

So with that thought in your mind, you did something silly.

Think about it. Think about TIME. Remember the times it manifested when you did not want it to, when it was always in your consciousness.

You closed your eyes, feeling as if time stopped, and held your breath as you rested your palms over your lungs. You saw it.

You must spend TIME with yourself.

You saw the way your family left her, every one of them walking out and turning their backs on her. She was alone. She was with TIME, with HERSELF.

repeat that CYCLE

You saw how she always did those rituals, admiring the works of TIME. She always repeated it. She repeated the CYCLE.

until the perfect MOMENT.

Her perfect moment was your BIRTH.

You then realized that your mother did not had the power to manipulate time. She had an understanding of it. She had the full understanding of what joy it brought, but also the death and ending it carries.

As you opened your eyes, you began to wonder, if her perfect moment was you, what is your perfect moment? You can do the first two, but not the last.

It was always ΚΑΙΡΟΣ to give you the most problems. You sighed, rubbing your temple as a headache was forming. This was too much.

It was too much to take in right now, and as a result, you fainted on the spot, surrounded by the worn-out papers. What you didn't know is that it was TIME taking you again. Not to SPEAK but to SHOW.

Your future. Your PERFECT moment.

𝐈𝐈.

Many suns have passed since that day; today marks the third year since you last saw your family.

You found comfort in your mother's old house, where you removed what time had taken from it and made it yours. It was no longer abandoned, but now this was the home you spent all of your time in.

There wasn't a moment when you weren't alone with time; it was all you ever did, only leaving the house when you needed to restock on your needs to live.

In those three years, your control over your power has strengthened, but you have yet to test its true strength, as you've always been by yourself all the time.

Talking about yourself, you sighed as your eyes scanned the kitchen, not a meal in sight.

It was one of those early mornings where you have to reschedule and replan the day, all because you have to do some timely shopping.

With one last look into the fridge, you finally made your way out of the room and slowly got ready for the day, dreading the day that awaited you.

As the front door opened and your shoes made contact with the ground below it, the sun decided to take over your frame, blinding you and warming up your skin.

Out of instinct, your hand flew up to shield your eyes from the light, groaning out of discomfort and hunger, but to get rid of it, you first need to resume your trip to the market!

It wasn't a long trip; the house was maybe a ten-minute walk from the market, not like you voluntarily counted, it just stuck with you as it was the only thing that entertained you on the walk. Imagining the minutes passing by with each step.

Though maybe you always had time in your mind as you walked, but the scenery always added to your rare moments out of the house. Ohkema's view always made the smile creep up when you didn't ask for one.

As your eyes scanned around, taking in the scene, the market came into your view, causing a sigh to leave your lips.

'Finally..' you thought to yourself as you got to work, filling the bag that you brought with different gifts that agriculture had kindly given us, the people, those around you who are familiar with you. Not in the way you're familiar with others, you've made the reputation of only leaving your place of comfort once in a blue moon. They all know where you come from, and where you go back, that one path they always see you come from.

They don't know when, but it was a rare sight for regulars to see your face outside. Not like anyone interacts with you, all they do is just stare.

They stare at the way you analyze the fruits, how you pack them, or when you actually share a few words with the vendors, asking if they have what you wanted.

It always caused a groan to escape from you. Their stares never got to you, but maybe it will be decent manners for them to not stare all the time.

Looking up from the fruit in your hand, you made eye contact with the vendor in front of you, opening your mouth to ask a question, but failed to do so when you got shoved aside, causing you to fall to the ground.

The impact knocked the air out of you, but not only that, but the strange, overpowering headache took over you as you wailed out in pain.

The sudden noise of discomfort shocked everyone around as concerned looks were passed around and murmurs rose.

The headache felt familiar, back when you couldn't control your powers. You told yourself that you had yet to test them out, to not try it, but the surprising shock was maybe the cause of it activating.

But this time, you had no clue what you were witnessing, you couldn't count how many times you've seen the same future, same past, same present in this person's life. Whoever bumped into you, they had too much for your mind to comprehend as the headache grew louder, fingers gripping your head as your vision blurred with tears. You wanted help, but no one could.

From the people around you, the one who bumped into you panicked as he saw blood slowly dripping down from your nose and ears. He dropped to his knees as his arms gripped your body, pulling it closer to his to check for any injuries.

He did not think one accidental shove had so much impact. He felt as you went limp in his arms, panic rising even more. Thankfully, the people around knew where your home was, and as you were already in his arms, he picked up your bag filled with everything and anything and made his way towards your home, ignoring the stares and his surroundings.

“HO RYSEŌN HESTĒKEN EMPROS THEN SOU. PERIPATEI PROSECHŌS, HOTI HO CHRONOS AUTOU OUPŌ TETELESTAI.” "THE DELIVERER STANDS BEFORE YOU. TREAD CAREFULLY, FOR HIS TIME IS NOT YET COMPLETED."

As you opened your eyes, you were greeted with the sight of your bedroom. The headache from before had left your mind, and now that filled it was the 33,550,335 cycles you had witnessed in your dream, all looping the same beginning and ending, yet the in between always differed.

You sat up on the bed, touching your face, and found a few pieces of dried-up blood. You sighed, embarrassment taking over as you imagined how odd you looked in front of everyone at the market today.

You got up from your bed and made your way out, wondering who the kind stranger was that brought you back into your home, but soon got the answer as you opened the door and were greeted by the same man from the dream you had.

A gasp left your mouth. You've dreamed of this man once before; it was more vivid than the one you had today. Back when you first learned about your powers in this same house, you dreamed of him.

"It's you.." You muttered to yourself, yet he did not hear it. As in response, you got a million credits worth of excuses.

Your ears picked up on his words, every sorry he offered, how much he wanted to repay you for what he caused. But your eyes watched how his silver-white hair swayed with every movement he made, how his eyebrows knitted, showing the worry he had for you.

You watched as the man named Phainon, The Nameless Hero, The Deliverer, entered and changed your life, for the better, which is what you wanted to claim.

But you knew that somewhere in your future, there would come a time when you would forever change his life. For the better.

Blinking the odd thoughts away, your eyes wandered to his hands, watching as they followed with every troubled move he made. You simply rest yours on top of his, finally silencing him.

"It is okay, I am alright." You told him.

He stared at you, not yet satisfied with the situation.

"Alright? You started to bleed! I shouldn't have bumped into you, I'm really sorry-"

"I am not bleeding now, I am alright. I.. promise."

Phainon stopped talking for a bit, staring back at you and taking you in. He noticed the way you spoke, how simple it was, as if it were your first time conversing with another. It felt as if you didn't know how to speak. Appearance-wise, he hates to admit it, but you did in fact look fine, minus the dried-up blood he did not get to remove from your face.

He saw how you awkwardly removed your hands from his and broke eye contact.

"Can I make it up to you somehow?" He asked.

"I don't know.." You muttered. This was the longest conversation you've had in your full twenty years of living; you had no clue how to deal with this.

Thankfully, as positive as Phainon was, he noticed your confusion and a small smile rested on his face.

"How about I take you out tomorrow just for the day?"

"No can do."

"WHAT?!"

The sudden loud response shocked you as you stared up at him, fear creeping up. You knew what you wanted to say but did not know if you delivered it correctly.

"Sorry, um.. I am really busy every day. I cannot go out." You explained, looking down at the ground, embarrassment causing your cheeks to warm.

You heard a sigh and then followed with a chuckle.

"You really don't know how to navigate with your words, huh?"

With that, you saw as his boots left your eye sight, making you look up and found him making his way towards your front door.

He took one last look at you and with a smile he told you:

"I'll come by tomorrow and we can have breakfast together, that way you'll have time to yourself!"

Then he left, leaving you no say in anything. Not only that, but a weird feeling in your chest grew; you wanted more.

You want this feeling you have no knowledge of to stay, but it soon disappears as you realize that Phainon is gone and not entering back into your safe space.

But then his words sank in and the feeling exploded.

He's coming back! You can talk to him again and maybe find new feelings or maybe ask him about the one you're feeling currently.

A smile crept up, for the first time, it's not because of Ohkema's scenery, but from excitement.

And with this excitement in mind, you thought of his cycles and how it reminded you of something you got familiar with as you were alone with time.

With the world you both currently live in. Amphoreus.

It wasn't a topic you focused on but that dream you had concerning Phainon, some things in it felt as if you can connect it to the small knowledge you have on this land.

Maybe tonight you can learn more on Amphoreus, try connecting them to what odd dream you've had, why did Phainon had so many past, present and future?

You sighed, the feeling dying down, but it was still present. But now you've had a new goal in mind, and it all circled around and came back to him.

With the smile still present, you made your way into the kitchen, food on your mind, along with curiosity.

The morning was now in the past, as it had been hours since then. You spent most of the day with yourself and time, counting it as you waited for night to fall.

At last, it had arrived, and you were now in the norm, sitting on your bed, by yourself in peace, taking in time as it flowed through you. You imagine it rewinding, going back in time from beyond your rebirth.

As you blinked, you were in darkness. You looked around, trying to find something familiar, something that would give you a clue or hint to where you are currently.

Suddenly, the scent of smoke entered your senses, and then soon a war was vividly seen. "A war..?" You muttered. You looked around more, taking in the scene you were greeted with, and then it finally hit you when you saw a familiar figure.

For the past three years, with the focus on time, you've also learnt about the history of this galaxy you live in.

So when your eyes landed on one of the known members of the Genius Society, Rubert I, the war you were seeing right now makes sense.

It was the first Mechanical Emperor's War, as you witnessed the assembled army of intelligent robots, spreading the Anti-Organic Equation throughout the universe with the goal in mind of eradicating organic life.

You mentally changed time, thinking of the second Mechanical Emperor's War, initiated by Rubert II, the human who is said to have inherited the memories of the computer, Rubert I.

After solving the Anti-Organic Equation, Rubert II aimed to finish what Rubert I started. Eradicate all organic life from the cosmos.

You watched how these two wars led to the creation of a supercomputer called δ-me13 (delta me13). The name sparked a lightbulb in your mind.

This supercomputer was originally designed to mimic NOUS, the Aeon of Erudition. But as it wasn't in your field of interest, you did not focus on this supercomputer in your lone moments with time, yet it is here, an open opportunity to learn more about this computer, did it truly mimic NOUS?

Sadly, as you watched the series of events play out in front of you, your question was answered as you witnessed the first member of the Genius Society tamper with it.

Your confusion from the action grew. Why did he do that? You knew that the first member of the Genius Society was the creator of NOUS, so why did he tamper with the computer?

You watched as Zandar One Kuwabara— no..

You stared more at the figure, he looked.. robot-like? He changed the core from Erudition to Destruction. But this figure sparked your interest. Who is this?

According to TIME, it is the first member of the Genius Society, but Zandar One Kuwabara is not the person you're seeing.

But as a wielder of time, you used it to your advantage and focused more on Zandar. That was when you realized that Zandar, when his organic life neared its ending, digitized his consciousness and spread it over nine bodies. One of those bodies was the robot-like being you saw, bearing the name Lygus.

You also learnt that Zandar had a belief that no life form in this universe should be bound to a future predetermined by the Aeons. His creation was so perfect, he felt the need to stop THEM.

LYGUS continued ZANDAR'S will, which is why you saw the tampering.

A gasp left your mouth as your eyes rested upon THE AEON OF DESTRUCTION, Nanook. Your eyes then grew in size as you witnessed how δ-me13 (delta me13) earned THEIR gaze, ascending this supercomputer into a lord ravenger, now called IRONTOMB.

With the change, Irontomb goal is to now prove how all living things, NO MATTER how it begins, WILL ALWAYS end in DESTRUCTION, thus creating your homeland you know and love,

AMPHOREUS.

"What..?" You muttered, eyebrows creasing in confusion. You couldn't believe what you were seeing, what your pure eyes had witnessed.

A supercomputer, tampered with, ascended, purpose linked with destruction, made YOUR home? You were.. confused, and your head began to pound, signals that your limit was nearing.

You wanted more, to learn more about this new knowledge you've unlocked, but your signs grew as the pain became unbearable, and soon your vision blurred, time changed, and the last think you made out was the familiar walls of your room as you passed out on your bed, dreaming and creating theories about what you've learnt. Not only that, but the familiar flow of time passing through you calmed your emotions.

Soon, with your knowledge of the time, morning had near, along with your breakfast with Phainon.

And so, as the next time you opened your eyes, the sun was the first thing to have greeted you. You rose from your bed, holding your head as the thoughts never left. But one thing you remembered, the feeling from yesterday all became known as you realized that it was around the time Phainon would visit! With that thought in mind, you got out of your bed and got ready for the day waiting ahead.

Your feet got comfortable with the cold flooring as you made your way around the house. bathing, brushing your teeth, then finally entering the kitchen, wondering what you should make.

The train of thought was then stopped as the sound of knocking was heard, causing you to react by turning your head in the direction of the sound. Out of the window near you, your eyes made out quite a familiar figure.

'He's here already?'

You made your way towards the front door and were greeted with that bright smile of his. You scanned him, taking in his frame and the bag he held in his hand.

"What is that?" You asked, causing him to chuckle in response.

With the bag in hand, he moved it up and began to explain.

"It's some items I bought, I wanna help with breakfast," he smiled.

You tilted your head in confusion. You vaguely remembered your family coming over to help cook only on special days when you were younger. Why is he offering if it's a normal morning?

"Why? Is there a special reason for your actions?"

"No? I made the plan, so I want to help, y'know, normal act of kindness."

He awkwardly shifted as he noticed you were still slowly processing his words. He sighed as he realized you have yet to learn the simplicity of like.. life in general. His mind then wanders, thinking about how you were raised.

But that was then cut short when he heard the movements of your body moving inside, inviting him in.

"Alright then, come in and we can get started."

With your invitation, Phainon gladly made his way into your home and found his way into your kitchen, you slowly following behind. You watched him as he placed the bags on your counter, and with a big smile, he turned to face you, catching you off guard.

"What is it?" You asked, stopping in your tracks.

"I remembered what you bought yesterday, so I will gladly share the meal I have in mind." He explained, stealing his last glance before his hands entered the bag, taking out the items.

"And that meal is?" You asked, walking up beside him.

You watched as he pulled out Greek yogurt, a few nuts, and some berries. He then rolled out some oranges and turned to face you.

"Do you have any flour?"

In response, you shook your head no, which made him frown. You watched as he sighed, then asked for permission to go through your fridge.

You did not like how sad he looked, so you thought of a solution.

"I have wheat growing in the back, and a wheat grinder.." You muttered.

You heard a gasp, and with force, he turned and faced you with a bright smile.

"Let's go! I've never manually made flour before. How long will it take?" He spoke all while making his way out of the house, through the front door.

"Phai..non, it is this way." With that, it was followed by a chuckle from the man as he followed you out from the back door.

"Converting wheat to flour doesn't take that long, I can show you-"

"Yeah, then I'll do all the work!"

His positivity confuses you; you are just a mere stranger he accidentally bumped into yesterday, yet he's here like a ball of sunshine.

But you don't really hate it, as the feeling came back.

You stole a glance at him, looking back, and were only able to catch his bright smile as he followed you closely.

Finally, you both made it to the small patch of wheat near a table with a wheat grinder.

Before you got a word in, you noticed movements behind you and witnessed the 6'4ft man begin to undress.

"What are you doing..?" You muttered, accidentally stumbling in your words as confusion took over.

All he gave was an innocent smile as he took off his coat and placed it on the wooden chair nearby. There he stood in a black top, hands on his hips as he simply said:

"It would've gotten in the way, so I took off!"

"Okay.." You muttered as you felt your cheeks burn up, witnessing his body in all its glory.

He walked up towards the wheat and then turned to face you, waiting for your guidance.

His eyes followed you as you made your way towards the table and picked up a bag that rested on it, then walked towards him.

As your hand made its way onto the head of the wheat, you gave him one instruction.

"Don't pull it from the base, just get the grains." And with that being said, he watched you pick the grains from the head of the wheat and place them in the bag.

With a nod, he followed your actions but instead gave you the grains as you placed them in the bag.

"Why not pull them out?" He asked.

"Because it's a small batch.."

He stopped for a bit, but you visibly saw the light bulb going off in his head.

"That's smart!" He exclaimed, causing you to nod at his words.

Soon, you both had enough grains, and you were now making your way towards the wheat grinder.

"Wait! Can I do this one? Please?" He begged, tilting his head as he stared at you with puppy eyes.

It caught you off guard, so with an awkward shift in your emotion, you shyly gave him the bag as he gladly took it and dumped the grains into the grinder.

"Do I just turn this wheel?"

"Yes."

And as you closely stood by him, you both were in the process of making flour.

"I hope this won't take much longer than I anticipated." He muttered, glancing at you.

"Why?" You asked as you frowned upon his words. You didn't want him to leave, not yet.

But your frown surprised him.

"You said you're busy, so I don't want to take too much of your time."

Oh, you did in fact say that..

You looked away, slightly embarrassed by your forgetfulness, so caught up in this new feeling, you failed to forget your main purpose.

"It is okay if this takes longer than you anticipated. I do not mind."

Your words made his shoulders sink as a calming smile formed.

"That's comforting, let's take our time, maybe get to know each other. Like our names! Yours?"

"You.. don't know my name?"

"I don't recall us exchanging them! But you did call out to me earlier.. so maybe we did.." Slowly, his words got quieter the longer he spoke.

The only reason you knew his name was from his cycles, hearing his friends call out to him; you knew almost everything about the man standing in front of you. The first one you've ever spoken to on your own.

You forgot the common stages of human introduction.

With a small, innocent smile, you told him a small lie.

"I heard it yesterday before I passed out."

He shared a look with you, innocence masking both of you; he knew you were lying, as no one called out to him, but you continued.

"You're a Crysos Heir, are you not?"

"Oh, I am, you got me there," he chuckled.

He focused back on the grains as silence took over, that is, until you introduced yourself.

"My name is Y/N, by the way. I live alone and I don't really leave the house. Sorry if I've been weird."

The last sentence caught his attention, giving you a frown.

"You're not weird! Just interesting. You're doing just fine, Y/N."

Your eyes grow in size as you hear the way your name sounded rolling off his tongue. You really wanted him to say it just again, one more time..

The moment soon passed by as the last bit of grain was ground, and you took the bowl and made your way inside, him following behind.

"I will finish up with the flour. What are we going to make?" You started.

"Well, normally I make Greek yogurt with some nuts and berries, but I decided that we should bake some bread and add some kind of protein with it." He explained, causing you to nod.

"There are some eggs and meat in the fridge; you have my permission to use the stove."

And with that, you turned away, finishing up with the flour, and got the extra ingredients to make the dough for the bread.

As you both diligently work, Phainon stole glances. He did not lie when he said he found you interesting. When you confessed that you don't leave the house, it confirmed his thoughts, followed by your speech style. He found it a bit laughable that you don't interact with others. Not laughable as in making fun, but in a way that pulled him in. He wanted to learn more, see how you will slowly learn the norms.

He was currently cutting the nuts and some fruits you bought yesterday, then took a long-lasting look at you, finally wondering and asking himself, Why?

Why did you stay in? He watched how you made the dough with haste; it made sense. You had to fend for yourself if you were always alone.

He then went back to the fruits, placing them in a plate, and got two bowls, finally working on the yogurt.

The rest of the cooking was filled with a comforting silence. When it was time to bake the bread, Phainon was happily there, helping. Then, when it was time to take it out, there he stood, making sure you did not burn yourself.

Finally, all that was needed to be done was to juice the oranges, then dig in!

You set the table, placing the meals down as Phainon brought the jug of juice and two glasses.

Now the only thing left to do was to eat.

Phainon sat on the other side of the table, directly in front of you. He poured out the juice in your glass, sliding it to you, then finally placed the piece of bread in his mouth.

His face lit up as soon as the food made contact with his taste buds.

"It's really yummy! You should start eating!" He exclaimed, mouth filled with breakfast.

You nodded, copying him by filling your mouth with breakfast, satisfying the hunger that was bubbling inside you.

This was the first time in forever having breakfast with someone, it made your chest tingle, a feeling still new to you.

You were so in the zone of eating, the sudden noise of his voice caught you off guard.

"What are you going to do after this?" He asked.

You blinked at his words. You can't really tell him you're going to have lone moments with time now, can you..?

"..Meditate."

"Meditate?"

You nodded. Now it was his turn to blink at your words. You did not like the staring, so you thought of switching the attention to him.

"You?" You asked.

"Oh, I have a mission, but it's later in the day. I'll probably meet up with Mydei first.." He muttered the last part, yet you still heard.

"Mydei..?" You asked softly.

"Yep, he's one of my friends, he's quite stubborn though!"

He continued to ramble about Mydei, but it all blurred in your mind. You didn't know how warm it feels to always be out and about, with people, living life.

You glanced down at your plate, realizing that this would be the last time you would feel this feeling you have deep down.

You frown, eyebrows furrowed as you told yourself, your job is to control your powers, find the final piece. You have no time for this feeling.

You tried to shove it away, but the way he called out to you, saying your name, broke you out of your moment; his eyes filled with worry as he apologized for getting off track.

That feeling came back as his blue eyes softened, giving you a reassuring look, and he offered those magical words.

"Next time, why don't we plan an outing when you're not busy?"

You gripped the table, feeling your heart quicken and the smile growing. Without you knowing, you had already answered.

"We can, please.."

.

.

.

You were again left with your thoughts, with time, as Phainon had already left a few minutes ago. Breakfast had continued in small talk, he offered to help with the dishes, leaving you with no words as you sat by the table, watching his back as he cleaned the kitchen, watching how he got his coat and made his way towards the front door, watching how his mouth moved, saying your name one last time.

"See you next time, Y/N!"

That feeling came back when he left. The feeling of emptiness. You sighed, getting up from the table, accepting the returning silence in the house, and made your way back into your bedroom. Back to the norm.

"Please.."

It played in his mind over and over ever since he left your home. It bugged him the whole day, it messed him up during his mission, Mydei saved him a few times, and he was then given his classic words of criticism.

But as night fell, he was yet to head to bed. He was up thinking, planning ahead for the future, the multiple days he would show up at your home. So he won't have to hear you beg like that again. He didn't like it; it made his chest hurt.

If he had to take away some of your personal time, so be it. He will be there to cheer you up, make you open up, and make you earn your first friend.

.

.

.

AMPHOREUS WAS DESIGNED TO MIMIC REAL LIFE. The Titans acted as stand-ins for Aeons. The Chrysos Heirs were the HEROS.

Heroes that were given special, powerful items that go by the name "Coreflames".

In this simulation, you are required to collect these Coreflames in order for IRONTOMB to advance. These simulations have a reason for repeating themselves from the beginning, only with slight changes, to see if there was any way, any version of life that could avoid destruction. Sadly, it all ended in one result: failure. Every simulation, every cycle had all ended in destruction.

It aided in IRONTOMB's goal, helping it move closer to its ultimate objective, the final answer it seeks.

But if IRONTOMB reaches its goal, not only will the planet go down, but the rules of reality, corrupting the logic that holds the universe. In all of this, two names came up. The two who knew what was going on in their world, how it was all a trap, a simulation that feeds into IRONTOMB's goal.

PHAINON and ██████

.

.

.

It has been a few days since you last saw Phainon. In those few days, your mind did not stop running, solely thinking about him and what you've learnt.

He knows about everything, what you are slowly learning. But there was another name, one you are not aware of. There was a feeling inside of you, eating away. You wanted to share this knowledge, get closer to him, but won't he deem you weird?

You always ended up in self-doubt whenever you thought of him, and today, you didn't feel like eating the normal breakfast you always eat. You wanted that same warm filling meal you made with him, to get that warm feeling in your chest, the one that comforted you without you knowing.

So with a deep breath and bag in hand, you left the house to go buy what you needed: Greek yogurt, berries, and nuts.

The walk was calming; it always had been. Yet a new feeling deep down started to grow, the feeling of bumping into him. Bumping into Phainon by accident.

Instead, you were greeted with a few drops of rain as soon as you set foot into the market. Slowly acknowledging it, the downpour came, soaking everyone in it.

Complaints were heard in every direction as they all ran for shelter. You sighed, thinking about how much easier it would've been if you had just stayed home to avoid all this.

But a gentle hand on your shoulder caught your attention, causing you to look back and make eye contact with a wet Phainon.

"It's very rare to see you out and about, isn't it?" He joked.

Your eyes lit up as soon as you saw him. He noticed how your mood shifted, how your face lit up with happiness.

Something felt different in you, the way you were hoping for his arrival, without your knowledge, he came. You watched how his silver-white hair stuck to his face, how much you had to tilt your head up to fully view him. The way his chest moved with every breath he took.

He singled you out in the crowd, which brought a genuine smile to your face. One he first handily witnessed. It brought one to his face as his hand slid down your shoulder, falling into yours.

"Why are you out? Didn't you already do your shopping?" He asked, dragging you to some place dry. Not that it mattered to you, that feeling you wanted, it was back.

You muttered to him, telling him how much you liked the breakfast you both worked so hard on. You heard him chuckle, talking about how much he loved it as well, been planning on visiting you and much more.

But as his words entered one ear, they left the other as your focus was targeted on his arm, intertwined with his, leading you.

It may have been cold from the rain, but you felt warm. His hand felt warm in yours.

"Your door is unlocked?"

"Huh?"

You realized that he had walked you both back to your house. Your eyes landed on his hand, holding the door open, then looked up at him as he gave you a confused look.

"I probably forgot.." You mumbled.

He sighed.

"Don't tell me I have to check up on you daily.." He joked.

"You will?"

Your question caused him to stop in his tracks, glancing at you for a bit.

"I won't mind."

He simply said as he walked in, dragging you along.

As you both made it inside, the floor underneath began to get covered in water.

"Oh oops-"

"It's alright, I will get us some towels." You said as you let go of his hand and walked in more, stopping in your tracks to face him.

"You can get comfortable, or warm.. I won't take long."

And with that, you left. You left him with one thought.

You're opening up to him. He smiled at it.

"Even her speech is improving." He muttered, removing his boots and coat, leaving them in the wet pile near the front door, and made his way into your kitchen, finding some ingredients to make something hot to warm you both up.

You, on the other hand, made your way into your laundry room, collecting clean towels for both of you, until your eyes landed on some old pictures that were there before you moved in.

You assumed it was your mother's, as she had sketches all over, faces you only found in the future. The only explanation you had was that those were the faces she saw when she foresaw the future, maybe important faces she wanted to keep around.

Your eyes analyzed the paper in front of you. There was a young boy next to a girl. It seemed familiar to you, like you knew one of them, maybe heard their names.

You picked up the paper and noticed that there was writing on the back. It made your heart race, causing you to drop the towels.

"Phainon and Cyrene. Cyrene sacrificed herself so that the simulation resets just before IRONTOMB can finish their calculations. Phainon relives these cycles, but I can't make an estimated guess. It's too much to count."

She knew about Phainon? All those you saw, were Phainon reliving his life?

Your head hurt, your powers activated without thought. You saw it. Your breath quickens, and your hand flew to your head, gripping it in pain.

You saw Phainon absorbing these Coreflames, hoping to face NANOOK. The tears fell as you witnessed him absorb all 402,604,032 Coreflames, all that rage, anger, what you saw didn't even look like the Phainon you have right now, all to just scratch the Aeon. It was indeed inhuman; he did the unthinkable. He, a mere human being, harvested enough power to scratch an Aeon.

A sob left your mouth as you saw that it all went in vain, as Phainon fell and got absorbed into IRONTOMB, pulling it closer to his final answer.

99.81% COMPLETED.

Your head screamed at you as the familiar words from your mother came back:

"Ei to telos mou engizei, deksomai. All’ to teknion mou dei gennēthēnai. Menein autē dei."

"If my end draws near, I will accept. But my little child, it must be BORN. She must STAY."

You have to do something, she knew that's why she gave everything to you, right?

She saw all of this; she must have.

But what is there to do? The pain grew loud as a whimper came out, tears overflowing. Everything around you grew louder.

The future that awaits Phainon it was now affecting you as well.

As your ears rang, the darkness took over, a hand grabbed you, and what filled your ears was his voice.

"Y/N?? Are you okay?!"

Your eyes landed on his worried own as you realized you were curled up on the ground, him stooping beside you.

His eyes scanned you as your scared own looked back at him, chest rising in with speed.

His arm snaked around your shoulder, resting your head in his chest.

"Copy my rhythm, calm down."

You did, your pace slowed as you followed his, you took a last peek at his face, watching as he stared down at you in worry. The last thing you saw was his smile as you slowly closed your eyes.

One last thought stayed with you; you did not wish to lose this man. You wanted more with him, to feel and experience these warm moments you have with him. You were certain that Phainon enjoyed these moments the same way you did.

He gave you what you never felt before: warmth from normal human interactions. Your father rarely gave you attention; all your memories of him were just his grief, his begging for the return of your mother. Your family saw you just the same as her. They did not want anything to do with you. At least your powers gave you the reason to leave. You left them behind, and after three years, found Phainon, the one who’s giving you what you didn’t know you wanted.

The warmth of concern, happiness, and love. The concern and love of a friend, the happiness you both share.

And so, there was a reason you were gifted with this knowledge and power.

TO SAVE A██HO██US. TO SAVE PHAINON.

You felt the need to thank them, your father, your family, for opening your eyes.

𝐈𝐈𝐈.

That day was a blur of time as it had been two months since. You learnt that the feeling you had every time Phainon was around was more than a mixture of happiness and love of a friend. Friend wasn't enough to label this feeling. You had no clue what to call it.

Phainon stuck to his word. Every day, he paid you a visit in the morning, greeting you with that smile you always wanted to see.

Every day he came, he saw how much brighter you got.

But every day he came by, it reminded you of the visions you saw. What he will turn into. That manifested version of him.

The FLAMEREAVER.

.

.

.

"Do you wanna go out today?" Phainon asked, standing in front of your door.

"Where to?" You asked, making way for him to enter, but instead, he pulled you by the hand, forcing you out.

"It's a surprise! Cmon, we have to go now!" He exclaimed as he picked you up, closed the door, and simply ran.

It caught you off guard, yet it didn't shock you. Phainon filled your life with enough surprises; just this one left you with no shoes and your sleepwear.

You wrapped your arm around his neck as you held on tightly, head resting in his chest. The warmth radiating off his body is enough to lull you back to sleep, but you stayed awake to see what he has in store for you.

You watched how the scenery shifted to a field, seeing how his steps lessened, you realized that you'd reached the surprise.

It wasn't a big field, honestly; it felt as if he carried you to your backyard.

"It doesn't look as much, but this area reminds me of my homeland, Aedes Elysiae."

As you heard his words, your bare foot made contact with the grass, feeling as it brushed past your shoulders the more you walked in, length almost swallowing you whole.

You turned back at Phainon, breeze blowing as your hair flew in your face. You smiled as the words left your mouth.

"Thank you for sharing this with me, Phainon."

You found it so heart-warming that he shared a piece of himself, a taste of his childhood. It warmed his heart as well, witnessing you in it. It warmed his cheeks, left him in awe.

Slowly, he made it into the field, gradually getting closer to you. As the grass was almost your height, for him it was enough for him to fully view everything.

He smirked at you as he began to tease.

"Do you need help breathing?"

You looked up at him, pushing the grass out of your face.

"I'm fine, but thanks anyway.." You muttered.

He laughed at your response but disobeyed them.

He snaked his arms around your body, resting above your hips, causing a gasp to leave you. He sneaked his face into the crook of your neck, taking in your natural scent.

Slowly, he lifted you, which caused you to react by placing your arms on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?!" You said in shock.

Yet he said nothing.

It wasn't you alone who had that feeling eating away inside. Ever since that day you begged him to stay, how you slowly opened up, and improved in the way you spoke.

He felt a little bit happier when he woke up, got ready, and left to find you at your house.

He enjoyed seeing how, with each passing day, you felt different, the aura around the house became lighter, brighter even.

Phainon felt proud that he had made a change in someone's life. He wanted more.

He kept replaying that first morning, how you felt confused about what he was doing. The simple actions of kindness, and compares it to the present.

How much has changed since then, because of him. He knew he made a big impact on your life, and he wanted to show it.

As he leaned you towards him, bringing your face closer towards each other. You didn't want to get your hopes up, but before you could process what was about to happen, Phainon finished it for you.

With a small peck on your lips, and a surprised sound from both of you as he fell from leaning back too much, laughter entered each other's ears.

"It didn't play out how I imagined it, but that's the surprise.." he muttered, keeping his arms on your body.

You looked up from his chest, staring down at him. With your left hand, you brushed the hair out of his face as for the second time, you leaned down and locked lips with his.

It was slow, fuzzy, and filled with love. His lips moved in sync with yours as his hand made it in your hair, deepening it.

You moved your hand, craddling his face, to softly pinch his soft cheeks you loved so much.

In the field of grass, both your lives have changed. For the better. That's what you wanted to say.

Finally, you broke the kiss, his hand playing in your hair as his smile beamed at you.

"Can I have more?"

His question made you giggle.

One last time, the view crossed your mind. That view of the Flamereaver.

How could you let this innocent man be corrupted by his own negative thoughts? You won't let him hurt himself. If he does that, whose cheeks would you caress? Whose hair will you brush from their face, who would you peck one last time in the field before you both rose from the ground?

You have to change his future. You don't want him to go.

You don't want Phainon to go, to sacrifice everything. To sacrifice you.

You cannot live without him. If he goes, so does that warm feeling. So does happiness and love.

"Why are you staring at me like I'm your world or something? Look away, please!" he joked as he sat up and squished your cheeks, removing the dreamy expression you had.

Your world? Maybe he is.

"Who's this fella?"

Your ears perked up at the voice, eyes landed on the owner, and your face softened at the sight.

Currently, you were out, with no given reason, and met a puppy wandering alone.

Ever since you got closer to Phainon, you left your house more often as he wanted you to. He wanted you to enjoy the fresh air that nature gifted, but in reality, he just really wanted to see you as he passed by on his missions.

"I don't know, I just saw him on my way back home." You explained, picking the puppy up from the ground as he barks at you both.

Your eyes travel to the man in front of you as he holds out a flower towards you.

"Got this for you," Phainon said, with a big grin growing on his face.

Your hand got closer, touching his as you took the flower, staring up at him.

"Thank you. Is there any reason why you got me this?" You joked, staring down at the gift.

As Phainon bent down a bit to pick up the puppy, playing with it, he just casually muttered a small,

"Because I love you, duh.."

The words that left his mouth hit you differently. Your eyes lingered on him, watching as he played with the fluffball in his hand, laughing as the breeze blew the hair out of his face.

Slowly, you felt time slowing as the thought of pausing it crossed your mind. You wanted times like this to last forever, to loop, to never end.

Then it stopped.

You had no knowledge of activating your powers. Was it you this time or the Gods?

You sighed, realizing that you can't resume time, looking around to check your surroundings, watching how everything has paused.

You knew that you couldn't hide anything, not from them. Especially from ΧΡΟΝΟΣ.

As you stared more at Phainon, how perfectly he paused in time, admiring his smile, how contagious it is, then lastly at the flower in your hand.

You must be a fool if you think you would want this to end.

You glared up at the sky, almost as if you were about to challenge the Gods themselves.

“Ananeó̱ste tḕn roḗ tou chrónou. Oúchi to theîon kathíkon sas eínai na merimnáṯe ópōs pántote trechei?” “Resume the flow of time. Is it not your divine duty to ensure it always runs?”

As those words left your mouth, slowly the wind made contact with your frame, and the sound came loud. The sound of his laughter.

One thought stayed on your mind, clenching the flower.

The Gods knew what you were planning.

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.

.

The sun set, and you both were now inside your house.

You invited him over for a sleepover; who was he to decline? He was over the moon as soon as those words left your mouth.

As he got comfortable, removing his boots and coat then made his way into your room, you had made your way into the kitchen.

You gently rested the flower on top of your counter as you grabbed a vase and walked up to the sink, turning it on as the water filled it up.

When it was up to your liking, you turned off the tap and made it back to the counter, plopping the flower in.

You stared at it for a bit until you made your way into your room, vase in hand.

"Took you a while.."

"Huh?"

As you entered your room, you found Phainon on your bed, looking through some sketches.

Confusion grew as you had no recollection of placing any sketches near your bed.

You placed the vase on your dresser as you got into bed, and you got closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder as you stared at the sketch in his hand.

It was a sketch of yourself when you were younger.

"I assume this is you, right? You looked so cute. Though I don't understand this text.." he muttered, turning it over.

"Lemme see.." You said as he offered the paper to you.

Your eyes darken as it all makes sense to you, where this paper came from.

"ΜΗΝ ΤΟΛΜΗΣ ΝΑ ΔΙΑΤΑΡΑΞΕΙΣ ΤΗΝ ΡΟΗΝ ΤΟΥ ΧΡΟΝΟΥ"

These familiar words, paired with the you who were warned by TIME.

“Do not dare to disturb the flow of time.”

Clearly, it was a warning from above.

You sighed as you crumpled the paper, surprising Phainon.

"What was that for?"

"No reason, I just find it useless." You simply said as you got up and made your way out, goal in mind to throw the paper away.

Phainon followed behind with a small frown.

"But you looked cute in it.." He whined as he got closer from behind, resting his chin at the crown of your head, snaking his arms around your frame.

It caught you off guard, as the paper fell out of your hand and right into the bin in front of you.

"It's gone now."

A sigh was heard from behind as you felt his cheek rubbing into your head.

"What a waste."

"I'm sure there's more." You reasoned with him, placing your hand on top of his as you loosened his grip, turning to face him.

You saw his frown in full view, which reminded you of the puppy from before. It made you giggle.

Before you could get a word out, Phainon shoved his face into the crook of your neck, breath tickling you.

"Ugh- What a big baby.. Cmon, let's go back inside the room."

"But it's comfortable here.."

His grip tightens, leaving you helpless. Seems like you both will be here for a while.. That is, until the window suddenly opens with force.

It caught you both off guard, breaking the moment.

"Is something wrong with your window?" Phainon asked as he let go to investigate, you peaking from behind.

The window didn't steal your attention, but the constellations did.

Your eyebrows knitted, annoyance taking over.

Phainon's concerns blurred out in your mind as your eyes connected the stars, creating the connection that symbolizes the sea goat. Capricorn, the sign with traits such as ambition,  practicality, and discipline.

A sign from the stars, a sign from ΑΙΩΝ.

Blinking away from the stars, you shifted your attention to the man who was still checking the window.

You tugged at his sleeve, telling him that the window is fine and that you both should really be heading back to the room.

At least this time he listened.

.

.

Finally, you both were back in the room and comfortably tucked into your bed.

His finger ran through your hair, lulling you to sleep as his other hand kept you close to his chest, close to his heart.

You rested your cheek on his chest, fingers gripping his shirt as your eyes were closed.

But you were awake.

"Phainon."

"Hm?"

.

"Will we stay together forever?"

"And ever.. and ever, and ever and-"

You cut him off with a giggle bubbling up. It made the smile on his face grow.

This will last forever.

.

.

.

The Flamereaver was born out of Phainon's rage that he couldn't hold in any longer. It was the result of carrying unbearable pain for many, many cycles, watching his friends die millions of times, some even from his own hands, all to collect these Coreflames. He painted his hand in gold, in their blood.

With all that power Phainon consumes, he loses his humanity, which manifests in two versions of himself.

The one you know and love, the hero.

The other, full of his rage and hatred.

The Flamereaver wishes to fulfill what Phainon and Cyrene wished for; the only difference is that the Flamereaver can do it without any hesitation, slaying anything and anyone in his way. Free of the pain of murdering his friends over and over, free of doubt.

There was a certain cycle the Flamereaver followed, a loop.

Kill Cyrene, trigger the restart of the world. Collect the coreflames, acquire the power. Be killed by the new Phaino, pass on the accumulated memories and powers.

Then the cycle repeats.

That was not what you wanted. There will be no Flamereaver, no killing, no repeats of pain and suffering.

But you knew that somewhere in your future, there would come a time when you would forever change his life. For the better.

In the foreseeable future, you notice a person who goes by the title "Trailblazer".

You saw how this Trailblazer will save Amphoreus. Figure out what is happening, and try to stop it all.

But in the end, Phainon still goes through all this pain and hurt, does he not?

The feeling of entering a time frame you don't belong to is a feeling you can't describe. It was as if you were left behind while everyone else moved on.

Ever since the first night you've met Phainon, you studied his cycles, every one of them. Planned your actions, how you wanted it all to play out.

So as you opened your eyes, you weren't in your bed, snuggled next to Phainon, but in his 33,550,336th cycle. You've entered his future cycle, the one where you will forbid him from repeating that pain again.

Your eyes scanned your surroundings. You stood in what looked like a Colosseum, but was instead covered in the works of time. Broken pillars here and there, nature in some, and the floor was decorated with dead bodies. In front of you stood him.

Not Phainon, but Khaslana.

He did not face you. He faced his friend, Mydeimos.

You remembered hearing Phainon mention this Mydeimos. May it be from a mission or from daily activities. He may complain, but it always ended with that warming smile on his face. It shows how much Phainon cares for his friends, how much he loves them. Yet it's the same ones he must murder.

With his back facing you, you couldn't see his pained look, but you heard it in his words, how draining he sounded, how, after all this time, he still couldn't go on with it so easily.

"After that one and only time we walked side by side, every time since, it always ends up like this."

Your ears perked up at the sound of his voice as he continued to speak to Mydeimous. You've heard him say these words before. Always, as you studied his cycles like a textbook.

"Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.-"

"-That's your weak spot and only way to kill you." He started as you muttered the rest.

You stood there, waiting for Mydeimos' words, his reply but..

It never came. You were confused. You couldn't move. They didn't move.

TIME stopped you. ΑΙΩΝ stopped you.

You ignored the stars. You ignored the warnings ΑΙΩΝ gave you. Now, you may bear the burden.

Suddenly, you felt the pain of your powers. You felt the emotions of the Gods. As the pain grew, you felt their anger grow as well. The connection was always there, since day one of these pains. They were always with you. They did not like you foreseeing anything, with that negative thought in mind. For your own selfish desires.

In your head, your thoughts, they were the only access you had, the only path of communication you had with ΑΙΩΝ.

"If Amphoreus is a simulation, why treat it as if it's real?"

"MENEI EN TŌ AIŌNIŌ RHEUMATI. HĒ HODOS PALAI TEKTAINOMENĒ." "IT REMAINS WITHIN THE ETERNAL FLOW. THE PATH LONG CRAFTED."

SY TETRAPEPSAIS TO EN AIŌNIŌ RHEUMATI, TĒN HODON, TŌN KYKLON AMETALLOUTON. DIA TUTO, ANTIPREPEI NA ANTIMETŌPISEIS TIN SYMPERIFORAN.

"YOU HAVE TAMPERED WITH THE ETERNAL FLOW, THE PATH, THE CYCLE UNBROKEN. FOR THIS, YOU SHALL FACE THE CONSEQUENCE."

The consequence of being stuck in your own loop. Before you could get to your answer.

.

.

.

"After that one and only time we walked side by side, every time since, it always ends up like this."

Your ears perked up at the sound of his voice as he continued to speak to Mydeimous. You've heard him say these words before. Always as you studied his cycles like a textbook.

"Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.-"

"-That's your weak spot and only way to kill you." He started as you muttered the rest.

You stood there, waiting for Mydeimos' words, his reply but..

It never came. You were confused. You couldn't move. They didn't move.

TIME stopped you. ΑΙΩΝ stopped you.

.

CYCLE 1

.

.

"After that one and only time we walked side by side, every time since, it always ends up like this."

Is this what Phainon felt like?

Your ears perked up at the sound of his voice as he continued to speak to Mydeimous. You've heard him say these words before. Always as you studied his cycles like a textbook.

How did he manage to go through this for so long?

"Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.-"

"-That's your weak spot and only way to kill you." He started as you muttered the rest.

It was like you couldn't control yourself.

You stood there, waiting for Mydeimos' words, his reply but..

It never came. You were confused. You couldn't move. They didn't move.

TIME stopped you. ΑΙΩΝ stopped you.

.

CYCLE 11,183,446

.

.

Your mind slowly got back control. You could almost think freely.

"After that one and only time we walked side by side, every time since, it always ends up like this."

But it still drove you slowly to the end.

"Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.-"

"-That's your weak spot and only way to kill you." He started as you muttered the rest.

Hearing his broken voice, on this broken record.

You stood there, waiting for Mydeimos' words, his reply but..

No wonder his hate grew so strong; the Flamereaver manifested.

It never came. You were confused. You couldn't move. They didn't move.

TIME stopped you. ΑΙΩΝ stopped you.

.

CYCLE 22,366,891

.

.

"After that one and only time we walked side by side, every time since, it always ends up like this."

It hurt so much. You don't even know if you were real.

"Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.-"

"-That's your weak spot and only way to kill you." He started as you muttered the rest.

Were you a fake? From the past?

You stood there, waiting for Mydeimos' words, his reply but..

From the future? What is time anymore? Where were you?

It never came. You were confused. You couldn't move. They didn't move.

TIME stopped you. ΑΙΩΝ stopped you.

.

CYCLE 33,550,335

.

.

It drove you insane. To the edge. Being conscious of this. All 671,006,700 seconds of it all drove you to the end. You wanted it to end.

"After that one and only time we walked side by side, every time since, it always ends up like this."

You used the consciousness of your mind to move your body at will. You ran straight to the blade.

"Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.-

Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.

-That's your weak spot and only way to kill you."

That's the one spot you only remembered after all these cycles.

You drove Khaslana's blade through your body. This was not a part of the eternal flow. The path that was set.

As the blood leaked out, coughing up from your mouth, you felt the eyes of them all.

KHASLANA, MYDEIMOS, ΧΡΟΝΟ

This was not meant to happen in either the simulated world or the path that was set, created by the Gods.

You fell to the floor, blade still deep inside of you. Weakly, you looked up, locking eye contact with him.

You saw how dull his blue eyes got; they always brightened when they landed on you. But here? He stared at you as if you were nothing. Just another blockage in the road. That familiar look he gave to the Crysos Heirs. His loved ones.

Then, you heard the voice of CHRONOS.

SY TETRAPEPSAIS TO EN AIŌNIŌ RHEUMATI, TĒN HODON, TŌN KYKLON AMETALLOUTON. DIA TUTO, ANTIPREPEI NA ANTIMETŌPISEIS TIN SYMPERIFORAN.

"YOU HAVE TAMPERED WITH THE ETERNAL FLOW, THE PATH, THE CYCLE UNBROKEN. FOR THIS, YOU SHALL FACE THE CONSEQUENCE."

The consequence of being lost in time. You were now in the past, the future, and the unknown.

With both punishments, you were now counted as immortal. Lost forever in time. Unknown to it all.

Two Gods have now punished you. With that stunt you pulled off, you broke the cycle, but now you have no sense of the future, the past. Where do you go from here?

THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT ΚΑΙΡΟΣ. 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐒.

But, with this consciousness you have. That feeling of awareness, of everything around you, it was as if you were in your room, with yourself. With TIME. With ΚΑΙΡΟΣ.

The same way you could change time in your mind, manifest yourself into that period. What says you can't do it here?

Phainon told you about his childhood, his home village. Aedes Elysiae.

You've studied all his cycles. With this two knowledge combined, what makes you think you can't just start from the beginning?

To the first cycle.

.

.

.

Everything changed: the atmosphere, the scenery, the stares.

Now, it all looked so warm. Breeze blowing through your hair, the orange of the sun splattered everywhere.

You felt the brushes of the tall blades touch you as they swayed with the wind. It all gave you that feeling he did.

You stood in the field of grass, beside a young boy who lay in it. His eyes were closed; it seemed as if he were taking a nap.

"So that's how you looked when you were young. You were cute."

At least this will be the first thing you will see after every one of them.

After every one of the 33,550,335 cycles, you will go through. With the consciousness of being from the future, you will get to see the beginning of your story, all the way up to that last meeting you had with time. All until you get back to the present cycle you love, to change things up, for a different outcome.

You were conscious of it all, counting each one as it all repeated. All from the number 1.

.

CYCLE 1

.

.

CYCLE 11,183,446

.

.

CYCLE 22,366,891

.

.

CYCLE 33,550,335

.

.

Finally, you both were back in the room and comfortably tucked into your bed.

His finger ran through your hair, lulling you to sleep as his other hand kept you close to his chest, close to his heart.

You rested your cheek on his chest, fingers gripping his shirt as your eyes were closed.

But you were awake.

"Phainon."

"Hm?"

.

"Will we stay together forever?"

"And ever.. and ever, and ever and-"

You cut him off with a giggle bubbling up. It made the smile on his face grow.

This will last forever.

.

.

.

It was in the middle of the night when you rose up from the bed. Phainon was still fast asleep in your bed. You smiled down at him and caressed his face.

You finally made it back to the present. You finally completed your goal.

There were a few blockages in the road, which ended up with you killing yourself to partly break out of your first punishment, but you were stuck with the second one, no biggie. It doesn't matter if you could live forever or not.

Slowly, you made your way out of the bed, carefully to not wake him up, and sat on the floor.

You were currently a living form of two consequences. They can't punish you again if you were already punished, right?

To begin, you closed your eyes.

PERSONIFICATION OF TIME. ΧΡΟΝΟΣ. 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐒.

It was the first TIME you acknowledged. It was the basic understanding of time. It was everywhere.

It will be the first piece of the puzzle. The first piece of the goal.

THE ETERNAL ΑΙΩΝ. 𝐀𝐈𝐎𝐍.

It was the second TIME you acknowledged. It was the eternal time. Cycles were their play. The stars, the zodiacs.

It will be the second piece of the puzzle. The second piece of the goal.

With the basic understanding of time and the cycles. You created your own.

THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT ΚΑΙΡΟΣ. 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐒.

It was the third TIME you acknowledged. It was the perfect time. Take it when you can.

And that you did, when it was right in front of your face, dangling, you took it.

It will be the third piece of the puzzle. The third piece of the goal.

"There will be no perfect moments to break this cycle."

.

.

.

Birds were chirping, telling you that the sun had risen. You felt the bed shift. Your eyes slowly opened to find Phainon awake, staring down at you.

"Look who's up." His raspy, morning voice muttered, fingers already through your hair.

In response, you groaned at the light slowly seeping into the room and shoved your face into his chest, causing him to chuckle.

The feeling of it from his chest bubbling up made your smile grow, cheesing in his shirt.

"What are you smiling for?"

Oh, it seems to have caught his attention. You peeked out from his chest, staring up at him as he stared back down.

"What do you wanna do this morning? Stay in bed or make some breakfast?"

It was time to test the waters. Did it work?

"What kind of breakfast do you think we should have?" You muttered.

"Hm.. Maybe some Greek yogurt with berries and nuts.. Some protein.. like eggs, and some kind of meat.. Is there any flour to bake some bread?" He muttered in thought.

You smiled at the response.

"I think we can do that, might have to make some flour though. There's wheat in the back."

"Then we should start early. Cmon, out of bed we go!" He said as he rose from the bed, pulling you up with him.

"But I'm sleepy.."

He kissed you on your nose.

"Too bad, I'm hungry."

You giggle softly at him.

"Fine.." You muttered.

After all the banter, you both left the room and made your way into the kitchen.

You made it clear through your actions that you were heading straight to the back, that is, until large arms snaked around you.

"What's wrong?" You asked, tilting your head up.

"You."

"Huh?"

He picked you up, causing a gasp to leave your mouth as he walked you up to the counter, placing you on top of it.

"That's my job. Why are you going to steal it from me?" He joked.

"Do you know how to use the Grinder?" You asked back.

"I have an idea. As if you taught me before."

You hummed at his words. Then you continued.

"Should I do the eggs and meat? Yogurt and berries?"

"Nah, I will. You can do the bread when I'm back with the flour."

"Alright, have fun. Okay?"

"Of course." He ended, giving you a squeeze on your hips as his hands left you and made his towards the back.

Your eyes lingered on him as he walked away. There were some changes, but the same outcome. Your smile grew at the thought.

Everything else was the same: you both made breakfast, he poured out the juice for you, and you both ate facing each other.

During the day, the sound of rain made it into your ears. You both had just finished in the shower, all cleaned up.

"We can't go out, bummer." He muttered, fixing his shirt.

You, beside him, looked up to face him.

"It's okay, we can have a day in. If it rains until night, maybe we can have a sleepover."

His face lit up at the idea. Smiling as he made his way back into your room. Leaving you with your thoughts.

Obviously, you took out the negative times you had with Phainon. The headaches, the passing out. You only kept the moments you loved. Bummer you couldn't go beyond your safe space, this home. If you could, you would've included the time you both were in the field, the time you found that dog. Bummer, isn't it?

.

.

.

The sun was finally leaving as the stars and the moon made their way. You peeked into the room and found Phainon on the bed, admiring a sketch.

"What's that?" You asked, as you made your way into the bedroom, placing the vase on your dress, and made it onto the bed, resting your head on his shoulder.

"A picture, I assume it's you when you were younger? You were cute." He answered.

You waited for the rest, smiled when you didn't hear it.

"Can I see it?" You asked. He nodded and gave you the paper.

You turned it around, looking for those words, but found nothing. You let out a sigh of relief as you turned it back over and placed it in his hand.

"I'm sure you were cuter when you were younger."

"I don't think so!"

The bantering made you smile. You certainly won't miss this.

"What do you wanna do now?" You asked him, causing him to shrug. He lay back on the bed, staring up at with with a small smile.

"Nothing comes to mind, I'm just sleepy," he muttered.

You followed his movements, instead, lying on top of him. You rested your arms, folded, on his chest as you stared down at him.

"Then let's get ready for bed."

.

You both were tucked away in the bed, tucked away in each other's arms. Your head rested on his chest as he rested his chin on top of yours. You both were comfortable here. Happy. Together.

His finger ran through your hair, lulling you to sleep as his other hand kept you close to his chest, close to his heart.

You rested your cheek on his chest, fingers gripping his shirt as your eyes were closed.

But you were awake.

"Phainon."

"Hm?"

.

"Will we stay together forever?"

"And ever.. and ever, and ever and-"

You cut him off with a giggle bubbling up. It made the smile on his face grow.

This will last forever.

.

.

.

You beat the Gods. You used their own powers against them and punished yourself for your happiness. You outsmarted TIME for your own selfish desires, and it came true. You weren't disappointed.

"There will be no perfect moments to break this cycle."

You smiled more as you heard your words in your head.

"Because this is my perfect moment."

Your future. Your PERFECT moment. Your KAIROS moment.

IMRAESPACE || MASTERLIST

CREDITS! GIFS 1 , 2 (b1adie) GIF 3 (carlottamontelli)

DIVIDER 1 (strangergraphics) ART CREDS -> @/Stars4993

NOTES!

"i mean, not literally. just pretend that you are. please?" phainon smiles, looking almost sheepish. you already know that he got himself in some kind of predicament, and now, he needs you to help him.

you stay silent and listen to him explain himself a bit more. apparently, cyrene may or may not have implied that he doesn't have anyone to go to prom with, he got defensive, and then your name got thrown around for a bit before phainon made the bold move of saying that you're his girlfriend and that you two just kept your relationship private.

and to think you were stressing over physics while they were bickering.

"this is insane. you do know that, right?"

"what else am i supposed to do?"

"have you considered being honest?"

honestly, you're about to say no — it's wrong to lie, isn't it? he should come clean to cyrene — but phainon just had to look like a poor puppy that's about to start crying after being rejected by a passerby.

"…fine. but you owe me." you concede, sounding almost pathetic with how quickly you agreed to phainon's stupid proposal. you were honestly certain that phainon was going to use every trick in the book to persuade you, but you folded instantly, no begging required. damage to your dignity? maybe.

although, it does feels worth it once you see how bright phainon looks after you agreed to be his date for one night. that's all it is, right? you're just his date for one night. for prom. afterward, you can just say that you two 'broke up' because you weren't compatible romantically, and that you decided to stay friends.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"think about it, you can also get those free couple desserts in restaurants," cipher began, playing around with some random coin she found on the ground. "besides, don't you have that family brunch coming up soon? the one that's once every month? you could ask that deliverer boy to return the favor and pretend to be your boyfriend~"

well, you can't say that you weren't considering it. your parents have been pestering you about when you'll finally start dating someone since their friends' kids all have boyfriends or girlfriends. you're pretty sure you overheard your extended family talk about how they feel bad for you since you're still single when you're about to graduate high school. in any case, phainon is pretty much the total 'ideal boyfriend' package — smart (with the exception of history), funny, respectful, athletic… the kind of guy who makes moms smile and dads relax. your whole family will approve of him, for sure.

you're not sure who will be more heartbroken when you eventually have to end your fake relationship, you and phainon, or your parents?

you let out a soft exhale, nodding along to your close friend's words, "you're right, you're right… i doubt he'll mind, anyway."

"that's the spirit!"

just two friends doing each other a favor, you tell yourself. that's all you and phainon are doing right now.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

you and phainon have been fake dating for two weeks now. so far, you've already met each other's parents, faked dates outside (not exactly dates if they're just regular, one-on-one hangouts, right?) and word spread fast that the two of you have been together for about four months, and you're just making your relationship public now.

two days until prom and five days until your monthly family brunch. after that, you'll break the unfortunate news that you and phainon 'just didn't work out romantically.'

in between busy classes and visiting the nearby coffee shops to recharge yourselves — or rather, mentally prepare yourselves — before your next class with professor anaxagoras, the idea of kissing each other so that everything looks natural pops into your head.

"we're going to kiss in front of other people, so we should practice." you propose in the middle of an 'emergency tutoring meeting' in the library prior to phainon's history exam, watching a very visible blush grow on his face.

"right, yeah, so we know how to do it on prom night."

"exactly. we have to make it look convincing, phainon."

the both of you are alone right now, in some secluded area in the library — bookshelves hiding you from the librarian roaming around the aisles, a small table in the corner, not to mention the busted light above the both of you, making the area look even more secretive.

your heart began to beat far quicker, which felt silly. it was just a fake, practice kiss. it'll be over in, like, three seconds. nothing to worry about! absolutely nothing at all. you're just two friends, trying to help each other out by pretending to be a couple. besides, it's normal to be shy about a kiss, no? even if it's a fake one.

"…well, obviously, we shouldn't do that here in the school library, huh?" phainon chuckles, like the kind that slips out before you can catch it — it's quiet, almost shy. his gaze lingers on yours for a second too long. there's a warmth behind it, the kind that makes your stomach flip—

titans above, you're beginning to sound like a fool in your own thoughts.

and, being the apparent fool you are, your words come out before you can properly stop yourself, "…i mean, it'll just be a quick peck, right?"

you're honestly expecting phainon to scold you and say that you two "shouldn't do that on school grounds," and whatnot. he's always been seen as the school's golden boy, so if someone saw him kissing someone, even if it's fake (because your school absolutely despises any form of PDA) he could get in serious trouble.

but instead, you're met with phainon's face getting closer to yours, his eyes set on your lips.

if your heart was racing earlier, you had no idea how to describe it now.

this current position feels... intimate, like it was straight out of a romance novel that girls like you can only hope to experience. you nearly pull away if it weren't for the fact that something inside of you was telling you not to.

"just a peck."

you can feel your head spin. not in a bad way, though. not in the slightest.

and you're about to reciprocate until you hear a terrifyingly familiar "ahem" coming from behind phainon. you move your head to the side, noticing green hair tied to a side ponytail, that mysterious eye patch that you've never dared to question in all the years you've had him as a teacher — professor anaxagoras.

phainon looks at you, confused, wondering why you suddenly stopped and pulled away from him. surely, his breath didn't stink, right? he always takes mints and chewing gum after meals and before leaving his house. was something on his face? no, you always tell him whenever he looked even the slightest bit disheveled—

"excuse me. what exactly do you two think you're doing?"

phainon jumps the moment he hears his teacher's voice, turning around with a bashful smile on his face.

"professor anaxa! me and [name] were just… talking about the upcoming test!"

your teacher looks even more annoyed now that phainon didn't use his full name but, in his defense, 'anaxagoras' is hard to say every time you talk about him.

"is that what we're calling it now? 'talking'? because, from where i'm standing, it looked like something very different, phainon."

you're certain that the both of you look embarrassed beyond words. after all, you and phainon weren't the type of students to actively get in trouble with teachers (despite that, phainon still gets a scolding from professor anaxagoras every other class)

and perhaps, that pitiful act got your professor to show the both of you some mercy.

"…you're both intelligent enough to know better. i expect more maturity from students at your grade level. i suggest you two open your textbook and use this space for what it's meant for. but believe me, if i see this type of behavior coming from the both of you again, there will be consequences. understood?"

neither of you can believe your ears, actually. you were fully expecting your teacher to have you two go to the guidance counselor and get a few points deducted from your report card for violating a school rule — he did that to some other kid that you cannot, for the life of you, remember the name of — but he actually lets you two off with a warning.

did he, perhaps, win an argument with miss aglaea? from what you heard among other students, miss aglaea has been winning their little hallway debates more often than not these days. mostly because someone actually has a counter for it, posting it on a social media account that a large majority of your school follows.

"y—yes, sir, understood." phainon answers for the both of you after an awkwardly long minute where no one dared to speak. professor anaxa doesn't even bother saying much else after that, instead reminding phainon not to be late for class before leaving a heavy silence between the both of you, a flustered look on both of your faces.

"…sorry, i didn't know professor anaxa would be there," you frown, feeling guilty since you're kind of the reason phainon got in trouble just now. you're not even sure why you suddenly felt that surge of impatience. you could've just waited until after school to practice kissing with him. he's a good guy, not someone that kisses girls in public places—

"n—no, no, it's fine, [name]! i didn't mind it. at all."

he sounds incredibly awkward when he laughs. you would be lying if you said that it didn't stir something inside you.

"…you're not mad?"

"mad? no, of course not. i mean, professor anaxa probably thinks that we're actually together now, but isn't that kind of the point?"

"well, yeah, but i didn't mean to just—"

your words hung in the air, unfinished, as the sharp, aggravating sound of the school bell pierced the silence, catching you and phainon by surprise.

but before you can rush phainon to go to his next class (especially since it's with the teacher who just caught the both of you almost kissing in the school library) you're met with an unexpected kiss on the forehead, followed by phainon gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear before hurriedly packing his things into his backpack.

"i have to get to class now! thank you for the tutoring session, [name]! love you!"

you blink as the white-haired boy in front of you zooms off and out of the library, the feeling of the kiss still lingering on your skin.

huh, you think. you didn't mind that as much as you thought you would. you didn't mind it at all, actually.

…that doesn't mean you won't ask him about it later when you see him again, though. unfortunately for you, you can barely focus on class, your mind slowly drifting off to the kiss and, even worse, the fact that he said that he loved you.

though, you can't keep thinking about the reason why phainon did all of… that. you have a class to get to, and you really don't feel like getting marked as late again after your failed attempt of skipping classes with cipher (and it was only you that failed since cipher got away with it for the most part) so you quickly pack your things as well, hurriedly making your way to the designated classroom that you've always gone to for your math class since the school year began.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

phainon isn't at your usual meetup spot after school.

you lingered by the gate for about ten minutes before you feel a buzz in your pocket, taking your phone out to check your notifications, only to see a text from phainon.

delivery boy 🍔: [NAME] I MSORRY I HAVR A DEBATAE CKUB MEETITNG RN

the fact that the only thing he spelled correctly was your name is both impressive and a little charming. you can't help but feel a little honored, really.

but it's not like you were expecting some creepy horror-style message saying that you only have 7 days left to live, and you aren't sure why you expected a different kind of text message from your friend. at this point, you've lost track on how many after school activities phainon has signed up for.

he tutors younger grade levels, a core member of the debate club, a part of the basketball team of your school… you're also relatively certain that he volunteers for local charities whenever he has the time for it. truly the type of guy that girls swoon after and guys envy.

and, compared to him, you aren't that special. you have decent, consistent grades, but nothing worth getting a medal after. sure, you're a part of a few clubs and after school programs, but they don't exactly look like major achievements.

there's a quiet yet persistent voice in the back of your head. not shouting, just whispering to you with undeniable certainty that you aren't enough for this role you have to play. it slips into your thoughts when you least expect it, filling your mind with doubt and worry.

but you two aren't actually together. you and phainon are just fake dating. there's no need to worry about being enough for him because, once prom is over, it'll just be another chapter in your friendship that you can laugh about in 20 years after graduating from high school.

and maybe, by then, phainon will actually be with someone in his league.

though, while you're battling your negative thoughts, phainon checks on his phone minutes later during the meeting, noticing that you left his message on 'seen.'

are you mad at him for not telling you sooner? surely not. that doesn't sound like you. still, phainon decides not to take his chances, sending you a few more messages.

delivery boy 🍔: im sorry please don't be mad at me delivery boy 🍔: can we talk before you go to sleep :( delivery boy 🍔: i don't want you to go to bed mad at me delivery boy 🍔: I'LL TREAT YOU TO LUNCH TOMORROW delivery boy 🍔: IF YOU'RE AVAILABLE delivery boy 🍔: AND NOT MAD AT ME

but currently, you just got home from school, kicking your shoes off and placing your school bag down to rest your shoulders. a show would be nice right now — a lot of your peers have been talking about this new series that just came out about a week ago. maybe you can watch that before you inevitably have to start answering your homework in an hour or so.

though, the moment you open your phone to search for the title of the show, you're met with phainon's messages, which look like they were sent in a panic. you're half-tempted to keep quiet and answer him in a few hours, but at the same time, you also don't want phainon to worry even more than he already is.

…and perhaps a small part of you is enjoying the attention. of course, that's not to say phainon didn't worry about pissing you off prior to the whole 'fake dating' act you're both a part of, but this feels more… intimate. maybe you'll grow to regret this feeling once you two have to 'end things' after prom. only time can really tell at this rate.

you carefully pick up your phone, opening phainon's contact before typing out your response.

you: NOT MAD i was just on my way home

without any delay, you see the small 'seen' beneath your text bubble. he was waiting for your response, you figured. shouldn't he be focusing on his debate club meeting?

delivery boy 🍔: OKAY okay that's good. i'm glad :) you: aren't you still in your little meeting? focus on that for now delivery boy 🍔: i am, yeah delivery boy 🍔: but you're more important to me right now

a flush crept up your face, blooming across your cheeks. you swear you can hear your heart pounding right now, not expecting phainon to act so sweet today. you're not sure if he's just a really good actor, or if this 'fake dating' thing is beginning to become less fake.

…it's probably the former, yeah.

you: smooth talking won't get you anywhere, delivery boy delivery boy 🍔: did you seriously keep that as my name in your contacts? you: maybe. maybe not. delivery boy 🍔: so you did.

despite the comedic conversation you're having with your fake boyfriend, you mind keeps coming back to what happened in the library earlier — the fact that you two nearly kisses on the lips, the fact that he did end up kissing you on the forehead, and him saying a certain word that sounded all too intimate for the deal you both made…

you: srs question are you busy rn? like actually busy

from what you can remember, phainon's debate club meetings last for a whole hour, extending up to two more hours if there's an upcoming competition. fortunately for you, the next competition is the final one before your grade graduates, which is about three weeks away. he should be done in about ten minutes or so.

delivery boy 🍔: not really. they're just talking about the future meetings since the school has a lot of events for us graduates you: okay good you: um

now you feel nervous. is it really the best idea to bring this up? maybe you're just being ridiculous — it's fake dating. you should expect phainon to act like a boyfriend towards you. he already has been these past few weeks. maybe it'd be better if you just ignored it entirely. it's not too late to just delete your message.

except this time, he said that he loved you. the most he would do these past few weeks is call you cute endearments or hold your hand while walking around during breaks.

and you've never been one to let questions remain unasked just because you don't want to mess anything up.

you: just to make sure we're on the same page here lol you: you kissed my forehead and said that you loved me earlier you: just making sure, that was… fake?

the moment you hit send, you felt the regret come in. you don't want phainon to think that you genuinely caught feelings for him — or worse, you've felt this way for a while and simply suppressed it until now.

or maybe you just don't want to come to terms with your feelings yet.

but phainon doesn't give you much time to dwell on these thoughts as he sends you a response.

delivery boy 🍔: YEAH YEAH that was all fake. method acting. there were other people around so i had to convince them too delivery boy 🍔: i do love you delivery boy 🍔: in a fake dating way

just like that, the response you were expecting, and the one that you should've been hoping for. it would be bad if one of you actually caught feelings, wouldn't it?

but your fingers type faster before you can even properly comprehend the thought.

you: do people usually look that sincere when they fake it?

in contrast to his previous messages, phainon doesn't respond immediately. you tell yourself that he's probably just focusing on the meeting — maybe one of the members scolded him for using his phone when they're supposed to be discussing about how to win in the next competition so that they can win the champion trophy for the 10th year in a row.

the next time he sends you a message is 11 PM. you've already prepared for bed, pajamas on, bag packed for your classes tomorrow, but you still open his message.

delivery boy 🍔: okay but what if it wasn't fake

you leave him on seen. he deletes it a minute later.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

a sense of dread fills your heart the moment you see that familiar head of white hair in the vast crowd of people preparing for their day. the sound of chatter fills the hall, some people asking their smart friend for homework answers, some complaining about their next class, and a few talking about how they'll skip their classes today.

and you? you're avoiding your fake boyfriend who sort of implied that he wants to be your real boyfriend last night. normally, you would procrastinate on answering your homework, but this time, you're procrastinating on talking to phainon about what the hell he meant by that last night.

but eventually, your attempts of escaping from the inevitable conversation with phainon are all futile, as the moment you take your eye off his stupid little cowlick, your delivery boy appears right in front of you, a nervous smile on his face.

the same nervous smile that makes your heart race, even if you don't want to acknowledge that fact.

"[name], um…" phainon stammers, which is unusual when you consider how self-assured he always sounds, whether it's as he's reciting in class or debating against a rival school during one of the many tournaments that he begged you to watch since he wanted moral support.

you were the only one that attended. your school's team won by a singular point, all thanks to phainon.

he jokingly called you his good luck charm after that. thinking about it now, you didn't mind the nickname at all, actually.

maybe a part of you liked the fact that he called you his good luck charm.

"about last night—"

however, as if you had traveled back in time to what happened in the library yesterday, the obnoxious sound of the warning bell echoes through the busy hallway, and the collective tired groans of high school students soon follow.

you're all far too tired for this nonsense, but you know that you still have to head to class. it's senior year, after all. you're almost done with this boring yet extremely stressful schedule that you've been following every day for the past four years of your life.

but even if you wanted to shrink and go to a completely different room to put some distance between the both of you, your next class is with phainon.

you even sit beside each other. how fortunate.

your textbook nearly gets ripped in half with how annoyed you are.

even if word got out about your 'brand new relationship,' some people really can't take a hint, your eyes darting to the small, crumpled up papers that were clearly shoved inside phainon's pocket, all full of numbers from different girls that are interested in him.

then again, do you really have the right to feel jealous about this?

you're only his pretend girlfriend. there's nothing deeper between the two of you other than being two best friends who are helping each other out by pretending to be together. if anything, you should be encouraging him to accept their offers.

…but you also feel oddly selfish. phainon is the most selfless person you know. that familiar feeling of guilt comes back for a split second before they're interrupted by miss aglaea saying she'll hand out a surprise quiz, and she's giving everyone 10 minutes to review the topic.

then, you feel a tap on your shoulder.

"do you want to talk, or…?" phainon whispered, not wanting to disturb you if you do decide to use the given time to review.

but something tells you that you won't be able to focus even if you do.

"no, i can… kinda understand it well. i want to talk, too."

despite the fact that the class should be reviewing, it's not exactly quiet, with the loud chatter between friends fill up the room as people get in groups to review together. normally, this would annoy you, but considering the conversation you're about to have with the man beside you, you figured it's actually working out in your favor.

you start the conversation, scooting your seat closer to his, "i saw your message last night."

"i know."

"you… deleted it."

"i, uh… didn't mean to send it. i was just kidding! for the bit."

you can't help but shoot him a confused glare. did he not just contradict himself? he said he didn't mean to send it, yet he was also 'just kidding'…

"…for the bit?" you ask again, your tone much quieter, almost vulnerable.

and with that, phainon looks like he's about to break.

"yeah, i was just messing around. don't take it too seriously, [name]."

you only stare at him in silence, an almost hauntingly empty look on your face, "right. i just… wanted to make sure we were on the same page. would've been awkward if you were serious."

in spite of the noisy classroom you were in, there's a deafening, heavy silence between the both of you. you move your chair back to it's original spot, putting some distance between the both of you once again.

except this time, it felt a lot deeper than physical distance.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"if i didn't know any better, i'd say that you're in love."

phainon, who stayed after class to help clean up miss aglaea's classroom, suddenly paused his motions of wiping the whiteboard, like his heart stopped beating momentarily.

"i'm not in love with [name.]"

"but i didn't say [name] specifically, did i?" miss aglaea smiles, finally hearing phainon slip up and imply that his feelings for you might not be so fake after all.

now, phainon feels like a fool, realizing that he fell right into his teacher's trap, "oh."

he's beginning to regret telling his teacher about your fake relationship and, unknowingly, gushing about you in front of her.

"quite the interesting confession, phainon."

"that's not—!" he stops himself for a moment, realizing that he's beginning to sound rather ridiculous while trying to defend himself. "you did imply [name], kind of."

in response, she only laughs, gently tilting the potted plant in her classroom to the left, noticing that it was a tad bit off-center. "i said nothing about certain names. you brought up [name] up all on your own."

"right. well. i'm not in love with her, if that's what you're asking."

"you're blushing."

"it's hot in here."

"the air-conditioning is at 16°C."

"…global warming?"

arguing with miss aglaea is basically a losing battle for him. she's already a very intelligent individual, but she's been his teacher for nearly half a decade, she also knows all of his weaknesses, academically or emotionally.

"i'm just a good actor, miss aglaea."

once again, miss aglaea keeps a composed expression on her face, her voice calm as if she's talking to a child, "that's true. i've seen you perform minor roles in school plays."

"but something tells me you aren't acting when you're around her, phainon."

phainon quiets down, turning around to continue erasing the writings on the board from the previous lecture, "…maybe."

"what was that?"

"nothing!"

but miss aglaea knows. phainon does, too. it's no longer 'nothing,' and honestly? it hasn't been nothing for a while now.

just one more day until prom.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

to say that phainon was a nervous wreck before prom night is a severe overstatement.

he didn't want to mess this up at all. his search history was full of all sorts of things, ranging from 'how do i tell my best friend that i like her even though i told her i didn't' to 'flower shops nearby', wanting everything to go perfectly.

he didn't want to lose his chance to be with you — to actually be with you — just because he was too much of a coward to say it the first time.

the school day was pretty relaxing for all of the senior students, mostly so that nobody was at prom worrying about a presentation due next week. the most the teachers gave you were quick activities that you could easily accomplish within the class time.

so now, he here is — in front of your house, a bouquet of flowers in his hand, one for you and one for your mom. he survived the horrors of 8th grade, he thinks to himself. he'll survive asking you to be his real girlfriend.

taking a deep breath, he carefully knocks on your front door, patiently waiting for someone to answer. your parents liked him, didn't they? he's pretty sure they did—

"oh, phainon!" your mother's sweet, cheerful voice interrupts his thoughts, causing him to nearly drop the bouquet of flowers in his hand. "well, look at you! all dressed up to sweep [name] off her feet?"

"yes ma'am! i brought these for her—" phainon smiles, straightening himself up, handing your mother her bouquet. "—and also for you! [name] mentioned that you liked these before."

if your mother's smile wasn't sincere earlier, it definitely is now, happily taking the colorful bouquet from the young man's hands.

"what a sweetheart you are! [name] is just busy prettying herself up, so you'll have to wait for a while. come inside, please! can't have your hair messed up by the wind."

she's already pretty, he thinks to himself, but refrains from saying it out loud. "i don't mind at all, ma'am," he steps foot inside your house, triple-checking to see if he accidentally left any dirt marks behind, sighing in relief once he sees that there's nothing there. "i just… want tonight to be really special for her."

to that, your mother's smile softens, almost as if she's remembering when her own prom. "i like that. you nervous?"

"a little, but i'm mostly excited. prom is a big deal, right?"

"it is," your mother puts the bouquet down for a moment, looking around for a spare vase to place it in, her voice taking on a playful tone, "and so is bringing her home on time. no later than 9 PM."

however, phainon matches her energy, sounding just as high-spirited, "absolutely! i promise, ma'am. 9 PM, sharp"

"good! i'm trusting you with my baby tonight. no pressure."

phainon's lighthearted conversation with your mom comes to an end, with the sound of your voice coming from upstairs. "mom, is he here?"

"he is! don't keep your boyfriend waiting too long, sweetie!"

well, now his nerves are coming back even stronger. he's about to see you again after his fumble in miss aglaea's class. not to mention, he's going to see you in a prom dress, and based on the picture you sent him prior to buying it — because you figured it'd be extra cute and convincing if you two were matching — it looked stunning.

the sound of slow footsteps come down from the stairs. the first thing he saw was the bottom layer of your dress, slightly lifted up so that you don't accidentally trip on it while walking down.

if your prom dress looked stunning in the pictures, it looks downright ethereal on you.

"so, uh… what do you think? do i look okay?" you ask, your fingers fidgeting with one of the gemstones on your dress. you look like you're unsure if you should twirl around so that he can see the whole thing or if you should stay still so he can focus on certain details.

"okay? well, no—"

for once in his life, phainon is at a loss for words, which is impressive with how much of a chatterbox he likes to be whenever you two hang out during lunch breaks and after school.

"i mean, not just okay. you look… pretty. really pretty."

admittedly, phainon was a tiny bit nervous about how you would react after he messed up while trying to compliment you, but you laugh. not the kind that's mocking him, it sounds… fond, actually.

"…thanks. you look handsome, too."

with your little exchange coming to a close, your mother gently grabs the both of you by the arm, guiding the both of you to a nice, open area in your living room to take a picture. "pictures, you two! this will be the most memorable night of your lives!"

despite the fact that you and phainon have been faking your relationship for a while now, especially since you started this entire ordeal because of prom, neither of you really talked about how to pose for your prom pictures. should it be romantic? more on the comical side? you weren't sure.

however, phainon decides to take the initiative, grabbing you by the waist and handing the bouquet for you to hold, "these are for you, dawnlight."

the nickname added a touch of sincerity, you think, unaware that this pretend relationship of yours might lose the 'pretend' part. your body leans into his, almost naturally, smiling at your mom's phone, the harsh flash flickering for just a second.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

fortunately for you and phainon, your mom offered to drive the both of you to the school — phainon had initially hitched a ride on mydei's motorcycle, and he's grateful that your mom didn't see that part. it'd be a lot less romantic, wouldn't it?

despite the darkness of the backseat, you feel phainon's pinky graze against yours, hesitant. like he was expecting you to pull away since your mom was focused on the road, unable to see your 'fake' affection towards each other.

but you don't.

you go further, actually, interlacing your fingers together. you felt his warm hands enveloping yours, almost like he's protecting it.

neither of you seem to dislike the contact. it felt as if time both slowed down and, at the same time, sped up. and before you know it, you're at the school, eyes focused on the other students outside — some about to enter the school, some waiting for their date to arrived, and others taking last minute photos.

"have fun, you two," your mom cheered, hitting the 'unlock' button from her driver's seat. "and don't forget — 9 PM sharp. I'm talking to you, young man."

"you have my word, ma'am!" phainon exclaims, opening the car door for the both of you, even going as far as to hold his hand out for you to take so you won't struggle with your dress.

"see you later, mom!" you called to her before holding onto phainon's hand, carefully exiting the car.

"see you later, sweetheart!"

and just like that, she drove off, another car replacing hers in the drop-off zone.

"now then, shall we go?" phainon clears his throat, bringing your attention back to his presence. phainon, being the gentleman he is, even straightens out a wrinkled part of your dress, looking at you expectantly.

"yeah, just…" you pause, taking a deep breath as you try not to turn into a walking, talking tomato, "…try not to look at me like that all night?"

to that, phainon's voice softens, tilting his head with a smile that looks far too real to be fake, "like what?"

"like you mean all of… this."

"…maybe i do."

your heart stops the moment the words come out of his mouth, bracing yourself to pull the same trick he did in miss aglaea's class. he doesn't.

in a panic, you force a laugh after a prolonged beat of silence, your eyes unable to meet his, "don't say that. you're making me forget that we're faking this."

phainon briefly stops talking, stepping closer to you, voice low, "maybe faking isn't such a bad—"

"no, it is." you cut him off, shaking your head, trying to smile. "if we stop faking this, then… what will happen when it's over?"

"maybe it doesn't have to be over." phainon said softly, searching your eyes.

"you make it sound way too easy."

"nothing worth having ever is."

you fall silent, the words stuck in your throat as the memories of your fake relationship flood back to your mind. every glance held for a second too long, every touch that felt far too intimate for two people who are only supposed to be pretending. you think back on all the moments that were meant to be acting, and you can't help but wonder when the line between real and fake began to blur.

"you're wondering if i meant any of it, aren't you?" phainon asks, immediately knowing what kind of thoughts are swirling through your head. "to answer your question, i did."

probably not all of it, you think. maybe, in the middle of one of your pretend dates, something clicked in his head that his feelings may not be so fake after all.

"we were pretending." you counter, sounding quiet, like you don't have much else to say at this point because you truly can't deny anything at this point."

"yeah. but i stopped pretending a while ago. i just… didn't know how to tell you, i guess."

now, it feels as if the world stopped spinning. you both agreed to be each other's fake date to get out of awkward situations, but now, here you two are — in an awkward situation because your feelings unknowingly got too real.

"this wasn't supposed to happen."

"…i know."

your eyes finally meet his after looking at the ground the entire time. there's a myriad of words you want to say, but you finally choose to ask the question lingering on your mind.

"you… really think we can make it work?" you ask, your gaze nervous, but he can see a hint of excitement beneath it all.

phainon smiles at your question, his hand squeezing yours firmly, but not too tight. just enough to feel reassuring. "we made it work when it was fake. imagine what it could be like if it was real."

"but—" for a moment, you hesitate, sounding almost… scared. "what if i ruin it?"

"you being afraid to mess things up kind of makes me like you even more." phainon said, bringing your hand up to his lips, placing a soft, tender kiss on the back of it. "it means you care. and i care, too."

"but i promise you, [name]," he continues, "if you 'ruin' anything, we'll fix it. together."

his heartfelt confession touched your heart, like something inside you finally clicked into place. without even realizing it, you were smiling at him, unable to contain the tender feeling inside you.

"so… can we try? for real this time?"

"trying means risking everything, phainon. our friendship, especially. are you sure we're ready for that?"

"if it's with you, i'm willing to risk everything rather than wonder what we could've been for the rest of my life."

you think about it in silence. no matter how many counter-arguments you can think of, none of them seem to be a good enough excuse not to try with phainon. because, in the end, you know your own heart would break if you didn't take this chance just to find out that someone else did.

"then let's not wonder anymore," you start, affectionately playing with his fingers. "let's try. for real this time."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

your mom was right. prom night was, in fact, an incredibly unforgettable night.

you had fun with your friends, dancing together beneath the sparkling lights set high up in the gym, enjoying it to the fullest since this will be the last event in your high school life before graduating.

that was already expected. you already knew that would happen when you just entered high school.

what you weren't expecting was the fact that your date, and now real boyfriend, was the friendly boy that you sat next to since you didn't know anyone in your class, who immediately made you feel like you belonged here, who helped you build up your confidence and introduced you to his friend group when he found out that you ate lunch by yourself on the abandoned staircase that nobody passed by.

the sweetest boy you've met, who is the human embodiment of the sun, is now the man you're proud to call your boyfriend.

he's a good kisser, too. you were delightfully surprised when he suddenly leaned in for a quick peck, only to have you pull him in for a deeper one.

but now, it's time for your family brunch. phainon said that he'll meet you there — causing you to triple check the location you sent him, not wanting him to go to a completely different location and have your extended family think badly of him — so you quickly whip your phone out while your dad was driving, texting your boyfriend.

you: we're otw there. u sure u dont want us to meet u and pick u up somewhere? we still can (my) delivery boy 🍔: no worries, dawnlight! i'll be there soon :D about 20 mins away. it starts at 10:30, right? you: OKAY okay just making sure. dont be late, delivery boy (my) delivery boy 🍔: you're still calling me that? (my) delivery boy 🍔: i was hoping u would change it to something sweeter :( you: IT IS SWEETER you: because now ur MYYYYYYY DELIVERY BOY :D (my) delivery boy 🍔: ??? (my) delivery boy 🍔: as if i was ANYONE ELSE'S delivery boy, dawnlight (my) delivery boy 🍔: i was all yours from the very beginning

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"i told you so." aglaea says, smirking at the green-haired man across from her, who doesn't even bother looking at her direction.

Not the sad, lingering kind—this one is the sort of heartbreak that makes you hate all men. Especially the nice ones—the ones that manipulate you into thinking they’re the good guys who won’t turn on you, but they do. They always do. The nice guys are the ones with the most potential to turn out dangerous. They aren’t upfront about their assholery. That shitty ex of yours is a prime example, and you refuse to fall victim twice. 

Your first impression of Phainon happens in some boring college class you take just for the elective credit and an easy gpa boost. He’s the sort of guy your attention doesn’t instantly latch onto—he’s sweet, sure, and funny but a little too gentle to be real. Too good to be true. Too much of a green flag to be interesting. Exactly the kind of guy you’re avoiding—exactly the sort of person who can worm his way into your heart slowly and lethally and then bite. Hard. (That sort of mindset is too pessimistic to be any good, of course, but you’re only just barely in your twenties as you navigate your dramatic breakup, and your prefrontal cortex is still developing.)

You find his friend a little more intriguing for the longest time, if you’re honest. The brooding blonde next to him always made your eyes linger for a second too long. 

“Hey,” he whispers, poking your shoulder from behind. You turn, slightly irritated by the fact that some guy is interrupting your dissociation in the middle of class—doesn’t he know you have false scenarios to run through your mind while you pass the time? Professor Anaxagoras has a strict no-phones-in-sight policy if you want to keep your participation points up, so the only thing to entertain you is your own head. Sheepishly, as if sensing your irritation, he murmurs, “Sorry. Can I please use your laptop charger?”

“I’m using it,” you blink. 

“Yeah, but it’s almost fully charged,” he practically pleads. The puppy eyes on him are unreal—you feel almost compelled to cave just at the sight of them alone until you realize it’s your charger, and he’s bargaining with you about why you don’t need it. Absurd. “I can see the green battery sign.”

“Are you serious,” you stare at him blandly, “it’s barely twelve pm. Why is your laptop already dying anyway?”

“I charged it,” he pouts, “but she’s old and on her last legs. It doesn’t last if I take the charger out for too long—I forgot to bring it with me. Please. If it dies in the middle of this assignment, it’ll make me start over! It took me an hour to google all these answers.”

Well. He’s convincing in that pathetic sort of way. Just the perfect mix between nice and genuine but still a tad bit needy that just tickles your gut in the right place to loosen you up. Without a word, you unplug your charger with a roll of your eyes and hand it to him as he smiles gratefully. 

“You’re the best!”

“You’re pathetic,” his friend grunts to him from beside him.

“Don’t be rude, Mydei!” he whispers through a wounded voice. 

They continue to bicker back and forth, but you tune it out—there’s only one thought on your mind for the remainder of your time in that room. 

You spend the rest of class thinking about the deep sound of his friend’s voice to care about anything else. Fuck, you think—you’re almost debating that strict no more men rule you’d set for yourself after your break up, ready to throw it all away for the grumpy looking blonde with red tips behind you. He’s hot. And honestly, he seems a bit rude and crabby, so really, he can’t be that bad—and yeah, everyone would think he’s the red flag, but you know how men go. You’ve figured out their psychology. The ones who are prickly on the exterior are actually very soft inside, and they’re not half as bad as the soft, cuddly type of men who turn around and bite you as soon as you’re close enough. 

This guy could be different. He could be worked into devotion instead of smothering you with it early on, only to have ulterior motives and get bored. What was his name again? Mydei? Sounds decently moanable in bed, you reason. He certainly seems like a keeper. 

It’s not long before the lecture ends, and you walk off with all your thoughts consumed by the grumpy blonde guy who said maybe only three words that you properly heard before he possessed your mind like a fucking demon. So much so that you forget to ask for your charger back, and that clever asshole never gave it back on his own accord like a proper human being. 

So, the next time Phainon walks into class, you’re glaring at him right at the entrance of the room with an outstretched hand and an unimpressed curl of your lips. 

“My charger,” you say blandly, “you took off with it last class. I need it back.”

“Oh!” he flushes, quickly digging into his bag and pulling it out—at least he kept it in very good condition. Men are not to be trusted with things you need because they are irresponsible. Case example: not returning what they borrow. “Sorry,” he says earnestly, “I meant to return it, but I forgot. Which, I was thinking…maybe we should exchange numbers—you know…to contact outside of class if we ever need it.”

You blink, seeing right through him. Why else would you ever need it again? “You walked off with my charger just so you could use it as an opening to ask for my number?”

He flushes a deeper shade of red, creeping up to his ears and down his neck like he didn’t expect you to call him out on his so very blatant scheme. “W-well…did it work?”

You contemplate for a moment before you respond, “No.”

“How about if I throw in some assignment answers?”

“…Okay, fine.” You never pay attention in this class—the tests are open notes, and the weekly assignments are easy enough when you have the internet at your disposal. But still, having someone present the answers to you is a much faster route, and you have other non-elective classes to worry about, so all in all, if a semi-annoying guy messages you here and there, it’s not so bad.

And the better part is that his friend is hot, so you can snag the details on him, too. Men don’t really worry about the concept of loyalty—they don’t stay far away from the people their friends show an interest in for something like friendship. You know how they work. Phainon’s number can lead you to Mydei’s, and Mydei can break you free from your awful, terrible descent to madness from heartbreak, and when you inevitably have a happy, healthy, and loving relationship that lasts, you’ll never think about your bastard ex again.

Foolproof.

“Great!” Phainon beams. He hands you his phone, and you type your number in.

And that starts it all. 

────────────────────────

LESSON TWO: SEX DOES NOT EQUAL INTIMACY. WHEN THEY SAY IT’S JUST PHYSICAL, THAT’S TOTALLY FINE. BUT IF YOU SAY IT, YOU’RE OUT OF LINE!

Exchanging phone numbers with Phainon was supposed to be a simple way to have at least one contact for a class—a very important measure you should take for every class you’re in—and perhaps, if you’re lucky, you could also somehow get closer to that hot blonde friend he has named Mydei. 

It was never supposed to become a real friendship.

But, well…shit happens, and things don’t go according to plan. It also doesn’t help that Phainon is a consistent texter—almost to a fault. What sort of man doesn’t text sporadically and with a tone as dry as concrete? Phainon, apparently—which is not like any sort of man you’ve ever known. 

You even start sitting with him in class instead of in front of him—that’s a terribly unplanned development. The bright side of it, however, is that you quickly get over his friend. Mydei is nice, but he’s a little too bored. Or maybe he just isn’t interested in you; you’re not so sure. No amount of flirty comments gets a flush out of him, not a smirk, not even a smart retort back. He is just…bored. (Or maybe he’s secretly just one of those good friends who doesn’t flirt with the girl that his friend is actively trying to pursue, but that option does not align with your very complex understanding of men, so you shove it aside. He’s probably just bored, and that’s just truly unfortunate. He was hot.)

But you grow fond of Phainon. As a friend. Sure, he’s clearly been interested in you since day one, but he’s not pushy, and a hint here and there that you’re still bitter about your previous relationship makes him keep a respectful distance. But he’s definitely smitten—and you? Well, you’re lonely. And he’s a good guy. A good guy who keeps you good company as a good friend and nothing more. He knows that, and you don’t think you’re stringing him along if he’s aware that you’re nothing more than friendly. 

And sometimes, friends go to parties together. And sometimes, they also drink together. And sometimes, they also end up staying at the other’s apartment afterward because it’s closer and safer than trying to get back home alone. And…sometimes, although not a lot of times—but sometimes, they wake up in bed together, nude with no recollection of the previous night and love bites scattered on their necks as proof that something very, very physical happened between them.

It’s not always a common occurrence, but it’s certainly not a rare one. Does it complicate things? For certain—but you think that you and Phainon are good enough friends and mature enough people to know that sex does not equate to intimacy. Most men are super clear about that, anyway—it’s almost ingrained in their nature to say “no strings attached” before they fuck your brains out in every position they can think to try. This should not be a foreign concept to him. 

But it doesn’t make the morning any less awkward. 

“Oh my god,” you say in disbelief, pulling the sheets over your bare chest as you stare at Phainon like he’s grown two heads. He stares back at you like you’re some figment of his imagination—unsure if you’re real but painfully hopeful that you are. And then you take a quick glimpse around his room and realize he’s a space nerd—there’s a poster about Saturn on his wall. “I didn’t think you were into space. You seem a little too air-headed for that.”

“Hey!” he pouts, “you don’t know me! I can be very smart!”

You snort, eyeing him in amusement. Except staring at him for too long means that you are forced to look at the hickey you left on his neck, almost like you were a raging, horny teenager last night and not an adult. You would be more embarrassed if one glimpse down at your chest didn’t tell you that he was even worse. 

“So…” you start awkwardly. 

“So…” he echoes. 

You don’t know where to take it from there. There’s a beat of silence before you say, “We’re good, right Phai?”

He softens, looking at you with those large, round eyes that house every shade of the sky and her beauty before he nods and murmurs, “Yeah. We’re always good.”

“Good,” you breathe, “I’m glad. I want us to be good.”

“Well,” he rubs his neck, “we are, in fact, good. So…yeah.”

In the end, you sheepishly turn around so he can get out of bed, find his scattered clothes and put them on, and leave, and you—once you’re certain he’s far enough in the kitchen and the faucet is running—scream into his pillow before slipping out of bed and putting on your own. You’re pleasantly surprised he doesn’t have only one pillow. But his sheets are navy blue, so you dock a few points for that. Not a good look.

He makes you breakfast before you leave. Something about sitting and sharing pancakes while he has tousled hair feels so natural you almost feel sick at the thought of leaving. But you tell yourself that he’s an easy friend to have and feel comfortable with, and force yourself up and to the door when the time inevitably comes. 

He sees you out with a soft, “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you hum, “later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

—————

You wish so badly that you could be an ideal individual, but you are as flawed as the rest of the humans you share planet Earth with.

You and Phainon fuck again. Sober, this time. Still as friends. Not by accident, or through the influence of alcohol, or by forced proximity, or by anything that you can use to excuse it. You can’t excuse it. It’s entirely an act of free will that you consented to—because he does take consent very seriously, you learn—and it starts to become abundantly clear that sex is beginning to get a little too frequent in your time together.

The first time it happened after the initial accidental night, he was over at your apartment helping you build your new desk. The old one was too small, and you needed an upgraded space badly. He spends the evening hammering and drilling pieces away and fitting them together, and like some cliche joke from the universe, when you slip on the instruction manual on the floor, he catches you as your face hovers dangerously close to his. A kiss later, and suddenly he’s fitting into you and drilling you instead of the wood. 

And then it starts to happen everywhere. 

Sometimes in the back of his car before he drops you off at home after class. Sometimes on your kitchen counter when you’re supposed to be washing dishes after he’s over for dinner to study. Sometimes after he’s got a bad exam grade to blow off some steam. Sometimes when you’re particularly stressed over a busy week with too many assignments due on the same day and too many hours of your part-time job to work. 

Every time it happens, you go back to acting like you always do afterward. Like it never even happened. Never mentioned, or questioned, or brought up. He never questions if something is shifting in your relationship, and you never bring it up. Sometimes, two people can have a physical relationship and still be friends and nothing more. It’s not impossible, and it’s not bad.

If anything, it makes you closer friends. You start to understand each other better. You talk more—really talk. No silly banter, or heated debate, or stressed-out vents. Just you, Phainon, the sheets that cover your bodies and a quiet room that lingers with the scent of sex.

He tells you about how much he misses his hometown. How small it is, and how everyone knows everyone. How leaving home and his young triplet sisters was the hardest thing he did, but a good degree and stable job is even harder to come by where he’s from. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

And you tell him about your ex. About how sweet and nice he was. How badly he wanted you. How good he was at doing things right and reading you for what you craved. How to love you like you always wished. How to spend time with you without burning you out and depleting your social battery. How to know your ticks and know when he’s pushing your buttons too far and when a joke doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. How to make you feel seen. 

No man has ever loved you like that. None have cared to, either. Learning you is a lot of work—you have years and years of life and stories and feelings and fears and everything’s to share. Teaching them is a lot. Learning them is even more. 

You liked to think that boy from your past was a ticket to something good. Some better life for yourself where it’s not just you and yourself, and that’s it—a life where you were you and someone else cared to see it. Have it. Cherish it. Keep it. 

You don’t know how someone could pour in so much time, do everything first, want things all on their own, and still walk away and tell you that they just don’t feel the same anymore.

You think it’s just a man thing. Men bore easily. 

Phainon snorts at that. 

“They do have short attention spans,” he tells you. 

You smile tightly, humming as you blink back tears. “Or maybe I’m just boring.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he gasps dramatically, reaching over to swipe the tears like it’s always been his job to—it feels so natural when he does it. “You’re not boring! You’re at least a step up from boring because boring is Professor Anaxa, and god knows what he drones on about.” 

“Gee,” you huff, but the tears are easier to subside when it’s him. They’re gone quickly like a fleeting reminder that sorrow exists but shooed away like they’re unwelcome when he’s around. He’s around more and more these days. “Thanks. I’m glad to be just a step up from boring. Maybe in a year or so, I’ll be two steps up from boring.”

“Nothing is ever impossible,” he winks. “Some day, with enough hard work and determination, you might even be three steps up.”

“You suck,” you giggle. 

He laughs, and the sound of his voice is enough to lull you to sleep. You sleep good next to him—always do.

—————

One thing you count on is that it’s always easy when it’s you and Phainon. Phainon and you. 

Just two people who exist with each other, and nothing else really needs to be thought out. You don’t worry about what you wear around him or how you look. He doesn’t care too much about what you’re doing or where you’re going. As long as it’s you and him, him and you, and nothing else—it’s okay. He’s good. He treats you good and makes you feel good, too. Inside and out. Physically and mentally. 

He might even be your best friend. You don’t know if you should tell him that—men get weird about definite titles like that. But then again, maybe not Phainon. He’s like an anomaly of sorts, sometimes. 

But you forget sometimes that Phainon was never hoping to just be friends. And you suppose letting him feel you come undone for him more than once is like dangling his desires right in front of his face because it all blows up on you very fast. 

Perfect one second, like the calm before the storm, and a disaster zone the next, leaving you no time to evacuate before the tornado has hit and done its damage. 

“Mydei wants to come with us to try that new cafe you mentioned,” Phainon hums, watching in sheepish amusement as you sigh and mutter under your breath while picking up his dirty socks from the couch and tossing them across the room. (Men are all the same, aren’t they?) “He said something about there being a pomegranate beverage he wants to try.”

“Fine by me,” you shrug, slumping onto his couch, “if he doesn’t find it awkward, then I don’t either.”

“Why would he find it awkward?” he looks at you in bewilderment.

“I think he’d have to be oblivious to miss the way I was flirting with him,” you huff out a snort, “I don’t think most men jump at the opportunity to hang out with a girl they ignored advances of, but maybe he’s just too passionate about pomegranate to care.”

Everything feels like it pauses as soon as the words come out. You thought he’d known this whole time—you could have sworn he’d known. How would Mydei have never mentioned it to him? Aren’t they best friends? Don’t men at least tell their friends when a girl is hitting on them regularly in passing? Is Mydei really that bad at giving life updates, or is he more clueless than you gave him credit for when it comes to romantic interaction? 

Nothing makes sense, and you’re not entirely sure about anything. The only thing you are sure about is that Phainon is staring at you like you’ve been disloyal to the worst degree. 

“You liked Mydei?” he asks in hurt, staring at you with those god-awful puppy eyes. You feel like you kicked one, too, with the way he stares at you. 

“W-well, no,” you stutter, “I mean, yes—but like…not really, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “you’re not making any sense.”

“I liked him for a very short time,” you say quickly, “like…like a small crush, you know? He was attractive, and I am not immune to an attractive man, so it just…b-but it never lasted for long!”

“Did you still like him when we got together?” he asks quietly. Got together—you physically have to stop yourself from flinching at those words. Some part of you feels a little bit bad that he sounds so wounded, but the other part of you feels like this is all so absurd. That he’s starting to get worked up over nothing. He has to know you were never together—you never did anything that implies two people that are…together. It’s always been a good fuck here and there, and that’s what you kept it as strictly. 

(Distantly, your mind gnaws at you and screams that two people who just fuck and nothing else do not do the things that you and Phainon do. Sure, you were friends first, but two people who draw the line at sex don’t seek each other to FaceTime until three am, and they don’t bring each other soup when they’re sick, and they don’t hold each other when they cry, and they don’t, under any circumstances, tell each other about their deepest insecurities that they’ve never voiced before about shoddy exes who ruined their ability to trust and feel loved. You can’t be the closest people in your lives and just have sex—but your mind has never been your number one supporter, so you shove the voice down.)

“No,” you admit, and for a second, his shoulders sag in relief. Like he doesn’t care or feel threatened that you liked his friend as long as it didn’t bleed into your time together—and that’s when you start to wonder if Phainon is too good for you. Too kind and genuine in a way that is not dangerous. Too sweet in a way that doesn’t slowly kill you like poison but just gives you something to look forward to. Maybe he’s a good one—a good guy who is just good and nothing else. Still, you kill his heart anyway with a harsh blow to his chest as you add, “I didn’t like anyone when we started getting physical. And I still don’t, Phainon.”

Getting physical. Whatever that means. You say it like it puts some distance between the sex you have and intimacy. You say it like it rationalizes everything you do with him—you get physical, which is only human nature, and in the mix, if you develop a good, long-standing friendship, then there is nothing wrong with that. 

But are you really okay with just friends? Yes. You are. Are you sure about that? Absolutely. You don’t seem so convinced. This is a positive, for sure, one hundred percent true reality. Phainon is just a friend. You’re shooting yourself in the foot. 

You force yourself to stop arguing with yourself when you notice the way his eyes flash at the words: still don’t. He processes the words that you still don’t like anyone, and the look in his eyes is devastating. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. Something else that you don’t quite understand, but it makes you filled dreadfully to the brim with unease. 

“Every time we’ve been together has just been physical to you?” he asks quietly, croaking out the words as if they’re acrid on his tongue and taste awful. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I made it very clear we were just friends, and I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” you furrow your brows, “you can’t act like I’ve been stringing you along—”

“Before we started, fucking, sure! But I thought it was pretty mutually clear we were slowly turning romantic when you willingly took my dick down your throat every now and then.”

“We’ve never had a ‘hey, what are we?’ discussion,” you cry exasperatedly, throwing your hands up as though this is all…so, so, so absurd—and for a second, you feel like it is. You made it clear that you weren’t trying to date. Not him, not anybody. Sure, that silly blonde friend of his clouded your judgment for a bit, but that was never more than a phase. “Don’t you think it was a red flag to never discuss what we are or what we’re doing if we were getting romantic?”

He falters. Something in his face makes him look so unrecognizable. So fragile and knocked down a peg that you’ve never seen from him. And something about the way he looks at you makes you almost feel like he doesn't recognize you. 

“I thought you were avoiding the conversation on purpose,” he whispers, voice cracking just as he says: you. “I thought…I thought you were just nervous about labels after everything from your last…” he clears his throat, like even mentioning the word relationship kills him, “and…and that I was just waiting for you to be more comfortable…”

You don’t know what to say. And frankly, nothing seems like it’ll make him feel better. He’s fighting the trembling of his lips and blinking back the moisture in his eyes like all he has left in his control is to not shed tears in front of you. 

You extend him that much grace. (Men don’t like being vulnerable, you reason. They hate showing emotions.)

“Phainon, I think I should go,” you murmur softly.

“You want to leave?” he asks, gutted. It’s got two meanings—you know that. You know exactly what he’s asking.

Everything feels wrong when you say, “Yes,” through a soft whisper, “I do.” But you still don’t take it back.

And nothing feels right when he lets out a watery chuckle and lets the first few tears slip. “Well, you know where the door is,” he spits.

He doesn’t walk you out. You’re not sure why that feels so heavy—it’s not because you’re guilty. You know that. It’s something else, and you can’t quite understand it. 

────────────────────────

LESSON THREE: NOT ALL MEN. SURE, MOST HAVE A VERY BAD STREAK, BUT NEVER THE WHITE-HAIRED AND BLUE-EYED FREAK!

You barely last two weeks before you call Phainon. 

At first, you thought being without who is maybe your closest friend at the moment was just eating away at you, and that’s why you missed him. You threw yourself into your social circles, making plans left and right to fill that gaping hole of his presence. It didn’t work. 

And then it slowly starts to click in place. 

Your friends send you a picture of your ex’s new fling, calling him an asshole and how she’s too pretty to be his next victim. You don’t feel even the slightest bit jealous or hollow. In fact, you’re bored by the news—you have more pressing matters. 

Then, you start to see what feels like fucking propaganda for romance everywhere. Every social media timeline is filled with some stupid, cheesy, cringe trend that rubs in your face how painfully in love two people are. You get ads for fucking wedding rings. Your friends are all magically starting to get out of the talking phases and actually have something exclusive and official. Your old high school friends are getting engaged, and invitations are coming in. You’ve RSVP’d one in spring and two in fall already. 

Everywhere you look, it’s something that feels like the universe is promoting a relationship in your face as if it’s a poorly disguised paid sponsorship by some celebrity online, and all you want to do is throw a rock at the sky and hope it lands on whatever divine being is playing tricks on you straight in the face. 

But it slowly becomes clearer and clearer why it unsettles you so much. Why it all makes you bitter and annoyed and tired and…and sad. You’re sad. And it’s because you miss Phainon, and every couple reminds you of the hurt you caused him and why it’s your fault he’s still not in your life. Because you wanted your cake and to eat it, too. Even if it meant taking advantage of his feelings and the heart he didn’t even bother wearing on his sleeve. He just pinned it to yours and let you wear it. 

So you call him. When that doesn’t work, and you get sent to voicemail, you go straight to his apartment. You knock on his door incessantly for two minutes straight (you know he’s home—his car is there) before he opens the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite it being three in the afternoon. 

“Mydei, can you at least come bother me to eat a little later in the da—oh.”

He notices you and quickly straightens up, smoothing out his wrinkled t-shirt as best as he can and fixing his ruffled hair (that doesn’t do much but ruffle more) as he looks at you with what is his best attempt at a nonchalant look and clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Hi,” you say nervously, “how are you?” (What else do you say? You’re at a loss.)

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs casually, “nursing a broken heart and trying to integrate back into society as a functioning member. The usual. How about you?”

You flinch at his tone, at the way it’s so clipped yet so emotional at the same time. 

“I called earlier—”

“I know. I ignored that, by the way, if that wasn’t clear,” he says as if being petty and angry is the only thing he has left. (It might just be, and you certainly won’t blame him for it.)

“I know,” you whisper, “but I still wanted to talk. And see you. Which I know I don’t deserve, but I guess I’m clearly not perfect, huh?” you shrug softly, giving him a sad smile. 

“Well,” he says flatly, “you came all this way, and I’ve already opened the door. Might as well say the groundbreaking thing you came to say.”

When Phainon is hurt is the only time he does not know how to be kind. He spends so much time not hurting others, not letting them feel the pain of their feelings being overlooked, that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. How to stomach that, yes, there are hurt people in this world, and, yes, they do the hurting, too. And he might fall victim to it. And he might even be the cause of someone else’s hurt, too, intentional or not. 

He’s not good at processing pain. He’s too good of a guy to ever have to dwell on how badly his actions have impacted someone. Not because he’s perfect but because he’s gentle enough by nature to avoid the necessity of it while he can. 

“I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. Because you are. You are. “I knew you were interested early on, and having sex as often as we did was leading you on whether I meant to or not, and you got hurt because of it, so I’m sor—”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. 

You blanch. “What?” you ask, mildly frustrated. He doesn’t have to forgive you, but it’s certainly an honest apology. “You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to. But I just felt it was right to tell you that I—”

“I’m not upset because you don’t like me or you that led me on,” he interrupts, making you blink in confusion. He looks at you for a moment—really looks at you, and before you can say anything, he lets out another disbelieving chuckle. “You still don’t get it, do you? Do you even understand it yourself—why you’re even here?”

“To apologize, of course—”

“No.” 

He says it so seriously. 

Phainon is hardly ever so serious. It’s what you always liked about him, even if you hated to admit it. He’s good at taking serious matters and making them feel like they’re not so serious. Not in a bad way—he’s just good at making them feel less soul-crushing with that carefree smile and those light-hearted words. He comforts you without ever letting you feel the shame of needing comfort. It’s nice.

You forget that even he is capable of being solemn. 

“No one apologizes for breaking someone’s heart unless it breaks theirs too—do you see that? Do you see that you care? I’m not upset that you don’t care about me or that you don’t feel the same. That would be easy to move on from. It kills me because you do—you care, and you feel exactly the way I do, and you just won’t admit it—do you know how much that sucks?”

You swallow thickly. It’s getting to that dangerous territory. That fragile, vulnerable place in your mind that you don’t like because then you have to admit that, yes, maybe you fucking fell hard and crashed onto the ground for Phainon. Asphalt and rocks still digging into your arms with raw and bleeding skin. Yes, maybe he’s that nice, kind, genuine guy who you fell for and who has no other motives than to spend his time being nice and genuine to you. And maybe, if you’d met him sooner and not later, you could have loved him and not some other asshole in disguise, pretending to parade around like a good man, like some wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Maybe that would have saved you the constant fear of it inevitably going all wrong—of giving and giving and giving, and one day, even that’s not enough, and someone doesn’t even want to take from you anymore. That one day, someone doesn’t even find you worth taking advantage of. 

That stings.

It’s this twisted sort of rejection you can’t handle. This sickening sort of feeling makes you think it’s better to be needed for selfish reasons than to be discarded like a useless, meaningless waste of time. And Phainon wouldn’t take advantage of you, right? He’s too nice of a guy—he’d reel you in, make you think he wants you so, so badly, and then when he doesn’t, he’ll play that nice guy trick again and make you think he’s doing you a favor by letting you go. Letting you go so you’re not being used by making it known you’re unwanted and not enough. 

As if he didn’t spend so much time making you want him. Condition you into thinking being loved by him was such a treasure. Convince you into needing the devotion he hands so easily for free. 

But you’re wrong, aren’t you? Maybe he’s not like that at all—maybe he’s just a nice guy because he really is good. Maybe he’s not nice because he needs to be to get what he wants. Maybe he’s nice because he wants to be, and it earns him what he wants the honorable way. Maybe you’ve fallen for Phainon, and maybe you were wrong about that being a bad thing. And maybe you just really fucking hate to admit when you’re wrong. (Your prefrontal cortex is still developing, after all. The men of your past are not very helpful to that slow development.)

“I don’t know how I feel anymore,” you whisper, tears littering your eyes. And god, you feel like a witch—using those sad, doe eyes with the wet, teary gaze that you know will soften him up like butter. Because he does. Even if you don’t do it on purpose, it makes sure he softens right up in front of your face because he hates the sight of your sadness being so tangible that he can feel it on the pad of his thumb in the form of a wet, warm rivulet. 

Like clockwork, he wipes the tears and sighs, and you let out a shaky breath. 

“I don’t know how I feel about anything because every time I think my feelings are right, they’re fucking wrong,” you sob, “I am always wrong, and I don’t know how to stop being wrong.”

His arms wrap around you and pull you close, pressing your body flush against that sturdy chest that feels like a brick wall—strong enough to keep you away from all the harm and cruelty of the world around you as long as he stands in front of you. Sometimes, you think that’s all it takes. Just Phainon standing there, and that’s it. That’s it to be okay. 

“You can only stop being wrong once you’re right,” he hums, giving you a sad, innocent little smile, “isn’t that the whole point of it all? To find the person who’s right? There’s gotta be a few wrong answers here and there, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to keep crying over the wrong answers,” you sniffle, “it’s dehydrating me.”

He laughs. It sounds good. It feels good, too, with the way his chest rumbles against you. He always does. Everything about him is just good. The way he smells, and feels, and sounds, and just is. Phainon is just good. You like just good—no catches, no curveballs, no fine print. Just good. 

“Hey,” he tilts your face up and presses his forehead to yours, wiping your tears valiantly still, even as they keep coming. And he’s hurt. You did that—you hurt him. But he seems more focused on the fact that your heart is crumbling than his own. “I can’t promise you won’t ever cry because of me—I’m not always the brightest, okay? But I can promise that I’m going to stay and wipe every last tear if I mess up. And then I’m going to keep staying. I will always stay so I can wipe the next round of tears and hydrate you again for your troubles. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”

“You don’t want it to be?” you snivel, “you seem like the type to hopelessly daydream about perfect romances with not much luck.”

“I’m going to let that dig slide because you are emotional right now, and we all say things we don’t mean when we’re emotional,” he rubs your back, rocking you slowly from side to side. 

And…well, you think you’re wrong. About him. About Phainon and now he’s nice in a way that’s too nice and too good to be true. You’re wrong because he’s just nice, and it’s just nice enough that it’s good, not devious—and for once, just this once, you don’t mind being wrong.

Not if it’s for him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for being confused and scared and unable to realize I care about you. I will get some help or something to be a functioning member of society.”

“Well, when you find help, hook me up,” he snorts, “because I need it, too. You’ve done a number on me.”

You’re both laughing. And then, at some point, you’re both kissing. His lips are on yours, and yours are on his, and it’s just a mix of each other that feels less like it’s right and more like nothing about it was ever wrong in the first place. Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be right as long as it’s just not wrong. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep things going. Sometimes, they become right along the way, all on their own. 

You cup his cheeks, making him pause his assault on your lips against his will as he lets out a soft noise of protest deep in his throat. You’ll fall hopelessly harder for him because of that later—first, you have more pressing matters. 

“I’m serious,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I do care about you—so much that it scares me. I care about you and I promise this time I’m going to stay and keep caring. So be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he smiles, all wobbly lips and a shaky voice and trembling fingertips. They dig into your hips as his head buries into your neck, and you hold him—latch onto him and clutch his shirt because feeling him is all that ever felt good, and you don’t think you can stomach letting it go a second time. “I am so ready to be the only thing you care about.”

“Maybe not the only thing—”

“Did you hear that? That weird crack sound? That’s the sound of my heart breaking a second time. Any more, and I’ll be collecting shards off the floor.”

“C’mere loser,” you laugh, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him into a hard, deliberate kiss that knocks the wind out of both of you. It makes your stomach twist and form knots and there’s this weird tickle in your chest that feels like you’re about to implode. Phainon is so good at that—at making you feel so, so unwell but well at the same time. You’re sick and nauseous from how badly you want him, but nothing else feels right until you have him. 

So you wrap your arms around him, pressing nearer, closer, harder up against him and kissing him until both of you are gasping for breath in between every press of your mouths together. Your hands find his hair, carding through it wildly and pulling on the strands when he nips at your lips, and when he groans into your mouth at a particularly harsh tug, you know it’s starting to become a scene that should not be happening at his front door where anyone can pass by.  

“Inside?” he pants, pulling away for just long enough to say the word.

You kiss him hard once more, making him groan again before you decide that, yes, it probably needs to move indoors. “Inside,” you breathe, labored and unsteady, “now—now, please.”

“Whatever you want,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to beg. You always get what you want—don’t I always give it to you?”

“Then quit talking and give it to me.”

That shuts him up really fast. With a dark glint in his eyes, he pulls you in, closing the door swiftly and pressing you against it. You’re caged—nothing but him, you, and the throbbing ache between your legs that seems to be a common denominator between the two of you. 

“I want you so bad,” he groans, kissing your neck, inhaling your scent along your sweet, delicate skin, “want you so bad I never want you gone. Don’t ever leave.”

“I won’t,” you gasp as he bites—and it’s a little hard. A little mean almost, but he kisses it better with a soft peck afterward that you forgive him on the spot and melt. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he hums, nose trailing along the column of your neck before he drags it along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth before he murmurs, “but I’ll make it hard to walk away this time just for safe measures.”

It feels like a literal and metaphorical promise. Before you can even respond to his cheekiness, he has your mouth hostage again—kissing and groaning into it enough that you have no choice but to soften and become pliant under him. You swallow up his sounds as the bulge in his pants presses against your own heat, the slow, desperate pressure of him grinding against you, making you shiver against the door. 

Good—he always feels so good. Everything about Phainon is always so damn good. 

“Feel that?” he croons, gasping as you roll your hips in tandem with his own movements, “feel how hard I am for you? You’re telling me anyone else will want you this bad? No one. I’m it for you. I’m not giving you up. Ever.”

His voice is a low, almost dangerous promise—and if you weren’t dripping at your core from the sound of him alone, you’d be less than inclined to admit that you like the sound of that. But you do, don’t you? You want him to want you so badly, so desperately, that the thought of letting you go makes him his own worst enemy. And he does, doesn’t he? He wants you so badly that you’re almost scared. 

But you like it. Love it, even. You fucking love that he needs you, and you want him to need you so badly he might just die without you. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to his shoulders. He lets go just long enough to pull his arms up and let you take it off of him, tossing it to the ground before your fingers run your nails along the hard plane of his abs. He shivers, letting out a soft, barely-there sound at the feeling. “Don’t let me go. Ever.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” he grins. Phainon leans in again, kissing you impatiently like being away from you for that short period of time was enough to have him on edge. Maybe it does because he only melts and relaxes when his lips are against yours again. His fingers trail to the edge of your pants, toying with the waistband as you quiver at the feeling of his rough fingertips rubbing against the skin of your belly. 

“Need you,” you whine.

“You got me,” he reassures, “just wanna take my time, yeah? You can handle that, can’t you? Let me have a little fun with you so I cheer up before I fuck you right against this door?”

You whimper. He’s mean sometimes, too. He’s so, so nice, but sometimes, it’s like a switch flips, and he’s mean. Not cruel—just teasingly mean to keep you on your toes and have you falling apart for him. It’s so mean, but it’s so careful and thoughtful and meant just for you—like he thinks only about you. 

“Just hold onto me, okay, baby?” he asks gently, pecking your lips, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Before you can even ask what that means, he drops down to his knees, spreading yours and pulling your pants and underwear down in one go, helping them off your legs as they get thrown somewhere in the back along with his shirt. You realize exactly why you need to hold on as soon as a finger prods your entrance, splitting your folds open as he peers into them and hums at the way you’re wet and slick. You gasp, grabbing onto the nearest thing—which happens to be his hair as he chuckles. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “I hardly did anything yet. But don’t worry, you can pull if you need—I don’t mind.”

Just like that, his mouth is between the apex of your thighs, tongue tracing your sweet, precious little clit before he licks a stripe along your folds, humming against your cunt and sending vibrations as you mewl at the feeling. 

“Ph-Painon…fuck—”

He hooks a leg over his shoulder, letting you half sit on him as he props you up and devours you. Devours you like you were the only thing on his mind. Like he was starved and dying in this apartment, and the only thing to sustain him is you. His tongue dips past your folds and fucks into you before pulling away just as quickly and flicking over your clit. Two fingers gently prod at your entrance this time—only they don’t tease you. No, instead, they fill you up and slip into you as far as they go, curling into a sweet, sweet spot in your walls that has your knees wobbling. 

You think you will fall for a moment. You think holding onto his hair and tugging him so harshly is not going to keep you steady, and the weight he takes as he props you up on a shoulder, is not going to hold you.

But he makes good on his promise. He doesn’t let you fall or slip for even a fraction, even as your legs get weaker and your orgasm draws nearer. 

“‘M close, Phai—s-so close,” you whimper. 

He pulls away. With a smug, stupid little grin, he looks up at you as you stare down in disbelief. “Say you care about me.”

“What is wrong with you—”

“Ah ah, that’s not what the magic words are!”

“Phainon—”

“That’s not a bad guess, but still not the right answer!”

“Fucking hell,” you hiss, “I care about you, asshole.”

“A little more aggressive than necessary, but I will accept it,” he hums, rewarding you with a soft kiss to your clit. “Now tell me you know I care about you. That I want you, and I want to stay.” 

“Phainon,” you plead, “please, can’t we do this later?”

“No,” he says firmly, “because then it’s just getting physical, and I am not getting physical. I am getting intimate. Tell me what I want to hear so there’s no mistaking things.”

He’s throwing your words right back at your face. And the only way you’re going to get what you want is if you own up to them, even if it’s against your will. So you do. With an exasperated sigh, you tell him what he wants to hear.

“I know you care about me,” you say impatiently, “I know you care, and you want me, and you want to stay, and god knows you’re not good at leaving me alone, so I guess I will just have to get used to you.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, giving your clit one more kiss before he’s back to lapping at your cunt like he’s parched. Your slick coats his chin and makes his skin glisten as he traces your clit with his tongue, curling his fingers just right into your heat. They brush against that spot again—he has it perfectly memorized, and just like that, you fall apart, gushing around his fingers and coating his lips with even more of your essence. 

“Fuck,” you sob, grinding against his face as you ride out the shockwaves of pleasure, feeling him groan against you right where you need him. 

He lets you stay like that for just a moment, resting half your weight on his shoulder and half your weight on one leg before he abruptly stands and grabs your waist, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around his hips. You’ve done this before—at that point, you’d considered it just any other step to getting physical with someone. 

Now, you realize you were beyond oblivious to how much you needed it to only be him you were doing all these motions with. It almost feels silly. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grins.

“What?”

“I don’t want you against the door anymore. I want you on the bed—my bed. And you’re staying there, and you’re going to like it.”

You laugh, breaking into a fit of giggles as he jogs over to his room with you in his arms. And when he drops you unceremoniously only to the bed, flopping on top of you and attacking your neck with kisses, you can’t help but break into another fit of giggles, feeling his playful nibbles and licks against your skin. It feels so easy. So natural. Only with Phainon, you realize. Only ever with Phainon. 

“Hi,” you breathe when his forehead presses to yours. 

He gives you a bright, toothy grin, murmuring, “Hi, yourself, pretty.”

And then he's kissing you again. His lips are soft and slow this time around. Pressing against your mouth, slotting into the space like it’s his to fit into—and it is. It’s always been his, whether you were willing to admit it or not. His tongue glides against yours languidly, no rush or impatience or desperation like usual. This time, he kisses you like you’re his and always have been—like he knows what you taste and feel like, and he knows it’s always been his and always will be. He kisses you like he’s reminding you of it, one painstakingly slow second at a time. 

“You broke my fucking heart,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice raw and vulnerable but never not soft, “you know that? You broke my fucking heart.”

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the erratic beating of it under your palm as you whisper, “Seems like it’s working perfectly well to me.”

He chuckles at that. Lets out another toothy grin before he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s cute and precious and so fucking sweet—he sounds just like what he is. Tooth rotting sweet.

“You’re always so smart with your words,” he drawls, pressing wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

One hand slowly pulls your shirt up, inch by inch, before you slowly help him take it off of you. The bra comes off next, and you’re bare—under him as nothing else but his. Nothing else that covers or keeps what’s his away from him. 

And when you eye his pants with a petulant, pouty look, he chuckles before throwing you an amused look as he takes them off slowly, not taking his eyes off of you.

You and Phainon have fucked. But you’ve never been intimate—not by the real standards, at least. The proper kind where you take the time to really take in each other’s bodies, commit each dip and curve to memory, know it inside out and like the back of your hand. Where that scar starts and ends from his childhood shenanigans, where your little moles scatter along your body in hidden crevices. And when he slowly frees his cock, and you can really stare without having to tell yourself you shouldn't, you take a good look. 

You take a good look at the flush of his pretty cock—pretty, just like the rest of him. A nice, soft, muted pink at the tip that oozes with the beginnings of pre cum, and it’s sensitive as it twitches under your delicate thumb when you smear the dribbling essence along the head of his cock. 

“Mmh,” he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, fluttering his eyes closed and panting as you touch him. Feel him. Want him. 

You finally want him, and it’s almost enough to make him spill into your hand alone. But he forces himself to composure, grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head—and then goes the other. He holds them in place with one large hand, watching as you squirm under him impatiently. 

“No touching,” he whispers, “first, I’m gonna teach you not to take me for granted. Then you’ll never want to take your hands off of me.”

“If you just ask me nicely, I’ll never take my hands off of you,” you offer. 

He laughs, boyish and charming and so fucking smooth, you feel something flutter at the base of your stomach. Something stirring in your guts and twisting them inside out in anticipation. “Persuasive,” he hums, “but I still have to teach you not to take me for granted.”

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, your wrists struggle against his hands to break free. You need to feel him—to know he’s there against you and real. To feel his hair and tug and hear him groan in response. To scratch along his back and feel his warm, damp skin, the way he shivers under the pain and likes it. To pull him closer and feel him practically melt against you at the gesture. 

You want to feel him. Because you need to know he’s yours. And you never, ever want to take for granted Phainon again. Your Phainon. The nice, sweet, gentle boy who stole your charger for a day to get your number. Who knew before you knew, long before you were ever willing to know, that he would love you. Even when you didn’t want to, he did it from a distance. And when he thought you finally would, that you’d finally let it happen, he still did it quietly, stripped of labels and titles even though he wanted to announce it to the world. 

For you. Everything was always for you. 

“Please, Phai,” you plead, “please, please, please—let me touch you.”

“Yeah? You want that, huh?” he grins, pretending to think for a moment before he hums, “tell me why.”

“So I can feel you and know you’re mine,” you lean up and breathe against his ear, “don’t you want to be mine?”

It’s a silly question. It’s all he’s ever wanted, so he gives it to you easily. Lets your hands go and lets them wander over his sculpted body as he sinks deeper into you—no more taking his sweet time to draw out the teasing. He’s impatient now—just as impatient as you. Maybe even more. He’s been waiting longer than you have to make this happen. To take you and make you his and have you admit that he’s yours, too. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he sinks the final few inches of this thick, girthy length, “fuck you’re so fucking tight. You feel that? Feel me? How deep I am?”

“Yes,” you mewl, “yes—so deep. F-feel so full. You feel so good.”

He groans at that, pulling out almost completely before slamming his hips into yours, cock burying deep into you and burying to the hilt. The tip of his sensitive length kisses against that sweet, delicate spot against your walls—your spot that he knows and memorizes so easily. 

He knows you. Knows your body. He’s felt it so many times under him and made it react for him the way he wants, but finally—fucking finally, it reacts to him and only him. He knows it’s him and only him. Only ever will be if he has anything to say about it. 

“God, you drive me insane. So insane, you know that?” he grunts, rolling his hips hard and fast and drilling into you like he has something to prove. Every slam of his hips and every brush of his cock along your sensitive folds makes you pull him closer, kissing him hungrily—desperately. So needy. 

You need him. You’ve always needed this—someone to want you and need you and find you worth it to stay. How could you think Phainon didn’t want to stay when he was so clearly happy with just pieces of you because you didn’t want to give the full of you? When he stayed and stayed and stayed and happily took the little shards you dropped, even if they were sharp, and cut his fingers because they were pieces of you. When he was just happy to have you whichever way you let him because it was you. 

All he wanted was you. You get that now. You’re not going to forget. 

“‘M close,” you pant, breathing against his mouth, “g-gonna cum. With me…with me, please.”

“Yeah? Whatever you want, princess,” he groans. 

His hand moves to find your clit, rubbing quick circles as his own pace quickens, and you can feel the telltale signs that both of you are not going to last much longer. He lets out a particularly deep, sharp thrust—and you’re gone. 

Plummeting off the edge in a hazy fall. You mewl his name, chanting it over and over and over as your walls constrict around him tightly. Spasm around him uncontrollably. And your fall coaxes him into his own. He falls into his release with a soft, drawn-out moan of your name, hot, thick seed filling you up through quick ropes of cum. His cock twitches with each rope, painting your insides white with him. 

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “so fucking good—you were made for me. Only me. Knew…knew you were perfect for me since the first day.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him as close as he can get without physically merging into your bones. His head tucks into your neck, and you both ride out the aftershocks of your highs. You feel him breathe, and he listens to your soft breaths, and it’s just you and Phainon. Phainon and you.

It always has been.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles tiredly after a while, sleepy words said through a petulant warning. 

You chuckle, kissing his sweaty forehead as you promise, “I won’t.”

“Good. Won’t let you.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Your own eyes start to grow heavy with exhaustion, slowly fluttering closed until—

“Who’s that?” you look at him in confusion as you hear an incessant knocking on the door. 

He chuckles sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Ah,” he sighs, “right. That’s…that’s just Mydei. He’s coming to make sure I eat instead of starving to death from sadness.”

You blink, and then you throw your head back, laughing loudly. He watches you for a moment, smiling softly at the sound of you flooding his space. “You’re hopeless, Phainon.”

“Am not!”

“Go tell Mydei to leave and that you’re alive.”

“...Okay.”

Idk what this is. It’s 10k words of pure babbling and hardly a single coherent thought. I’m sorry dfksksjr this isn’t my best work but . I needed to get him out of my system

★ SMUT TAGS; oral (f!receiving) (he eats you out against a door lmfao), vaginal fingering, protected sex (sawree... no creampies on the first date), prone bone, phainon is just so very tender yet feral at the same time as he should be

This internship is supposed to be the payoff.

Three months under Chrysos—the name whispered like a myth in Okhema University’s Fashion Design Department. You clawed your way here with late nights sketching silhouettes until your hands cramped, bleeding your fingertips over mock-up seams, and delivering presentations until your voice cracked. You were at the top of your class. With all your glowing recommendations, you managed to snag the single intern slot Chrysos offered to undergrads.

On paper, it’s perfect. The building gleams gold in the morning sun, only two stations away from your cramped apartment. Luxury ads sweep across the lobby walls, and staff in pressed black uniforms glide around like clockwork. You tell your professors, your friends, yourself that this is it. This is the door opening to the world you’ve bled for.

In some ways, it is. You get to touch silks worth more than your rent. You linger at fittings for gowns destined for glossy magazine spreads. You stand close enough to brush shoulders with the brilliant minds behind every design.

But up close, the glamour rots. Chrysos doesn’t let interns through the design studio doors. You fetch swatches instead of sketching them. Some of the staff even call you“errand girl” instead of your actual name, reminding you that you should be grateful to even exist in the building at all. And yet you smile—because you always smile. Vulnerability feels like weakness, weakness like incompetence, and incompetence is not an option.

So you power through alone. You swallow the exhaustion, the quiet cruelties, and the gnawing suspicion that maybe you don’t belong here after all.

It’s only your second week when Aglaea herself calls your name.

You’ll assist with prep and dressing in a shoot for Garmentmaker, she says.

You smooth your expression, breathing in deep, and nod without another word.

Garmentmaker. One of Chrysos’ two sublabels, and the one with mass appeal—coats, trousers, knits, and everyday wear. The other one, Goldweaver, is the crown jewel: haute couture, gowns that take months to finish, pieces that never even see a store rack. Goldweaver is untouchable. Garmentmaker is approachable. Still, both carry the same glimmering brand name stamped across their tags.

Today, you’ve been sent to Garmentmaker.

The studio is already buzzing when you step inside. Ladders scraping against metal rails, lights being adjusted and tested, makeup brushes flicking across already perfect faces. A small army in black Chrysos polos moves around the set, each with their own piece of the puzzle.

Shortly after, a woman with sleek hair and a tablet cradled in her arms peels away from the chaos and heads toward you. “You’re the intern, right? My name is Urania. I’ll show you around.”

You nod before falling into step behind her.

Urania moves briskly, pointing things out as you go. “That’s where the props go. Don’t touch anything unless you’re told. Over there is makeup. Stylists keep their kits on that side of the rack, and models will rotate in that corner when they’re off-camera.”

You murmur acknowledgments and soak it all in. It’s dizzying and just a bit overwhelming, but also—god, it’s intoxicating. This is what you imagined when you dreamed of working for Chrysos. Not coffee runs in cramped office spaces, not swatch-sorting. This.

“Come on, let’s meet the team,” Urania says, guiding you toward the stylists clustered around the racks.

You introduce yourself, bow politely, and earn distracted smiles in return. The makeup artists are warmer, one even squeezes your shoulder before flitting back to her brushes. The models are gathered by the racks, where they wait their turn. They all look the part—tall, immaculate, impossible to ignore. But one of them makes the others blur.

White hair stark under the lights. Blue eyes shimmering with practiced ease. A sun tattoo inked bold and golden against the pale line of his throat. His name immediately lights up in the back of your mind like a beacon.

Phainon.

You’ve seen him before—on billboards that shadowed your commute, and glossy spreads you studied to sharpen your own designs. But it’s different up close, with his gaze sliding lazily over the room before it locks with yours. Urania’s voice hums somewhere at the edge of your awareness, but you barely catch the words when the faint curl at his mouth feels like it’s meant for you.

You almost smile back, but the shoot director cuts across the moment, barking for the next model to step up.

“Did you catch everything Urania told you, newbie?”

You snap your head toward the director, a sharp-featured woman with a headset around her neck and a glare that could cut through steel. Glancing around, Urania is no longer in the immediate vicinity, and you wonder just how distracted you got.

“Yes,” you answer quickly.

Her eyes narrow, already unconvinced. “Then move. Models don’t dress themselves.”

That’s how the day begins.

You spend hours tugging sleeves into place, smoothing collars, and fetching safety pins. The director—Katerina, you learn when someone murmurs her name—seems to appear out of nowhere each time you falter. Too slow with a button? She scolds. Wrong hanger? She snaps. She doesn’t even bother with your name—just “newbie,” spat like a curse.

The stylists are kinder, but only by a few degrees. They shove garments into your arms without warning, speak to each other over your head like you’re invisible, and whisper just loud enough for you to hear.

“How long do you think she’ll last?” one of them grumbles.

Another laughs pitifully. “Two weeks, max. Aglaea’s interns always burn out easily.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek until you taste copper, and smile. Always smile. Even when your back aches from crouching with pins clenched between your lips, even when someone jostles past and nearly topples the rack you’re carrying, and you feel like you’re unraveling at the seams.

Because this is Chrysos. You fought your way just to be here.

By the time the last round of shots are finished, your legs feel like lead. The stylists scatter to pack up their kits, and Katerina is already harping into her headset about tomorrow. You start to gather the hangers, ready to vanish before anyone can find another task to pin on you.

“Rough day?”

The voice comes low and smooth, with a lilt that suggests amusement more than sympathy. When you glance up, you see Phainon standing a few feet away, still in his last look: a tailored navy coat over a black turtleneck and white bottoms. He tilts his head, studying you like you’re another puzzle on set.

You force your shoulders straighter. “Just doing my job.”

His smile curves wider. “Most interns I meet cry in the bathroom on their first day on the set. You didn’t.”

“I don’t have time to cry,” you mutter, shoving another hanger onto the rack.

Phainon hums as though that was an answer that pleased him. Then, casually, as if asking about the weather: “Dinner?”

You blink. “…Sorry?”

“I’m asking you to have dinner with me.”

He says it like it’s obvious, like you’ve already agreed.

Heat prickles at the back of your neck. “I don’t—no. That’s not professional.”

The words taste rehearsed. Maybe because they are. You learned your lesson the hard way last season, when you let a model’s smile linger too long, let yourself believe you were an exception instead of a pastime. Three weeks of late-night texts and backstage kisses, gone in an instant the moment he booked a bigger campaign overseas.

Never again.

“Professional,” Phainon echoes, like it’s a word he’s tasting for the first time. His grin flashes playfully, but there’s a hint of mischief behind it. “Fair enough. I’ll ask again tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes, determined to look unimpressed, but the way he watches you makes something simmer in your chest.

“Don’t mind him.” One of the makeup artists passes by once Phainon is out of earshot, nudging your arm with a brush still stained berry-red. “That’s just how Phainon is. He flirts with everyone. Don’t let it get to you.”

You exhale slowly, grounding yourself, forcing the air back into your lungs. The other models were relatively easy to work with. Polite and courteous to a fault, unlike the other staff members who had no problem talking down to you on your first day on set.

Phainon, however, is a different case. He’s flirty, annoying, and exactly the type of distraction you can’t afford. Still, as you watch him stride off toward the dressing rooms, every inch of him too composed, too precise, you can’t shake the suspicion.

Something about him doesn’t feel like just that.

By the second day, the rhythm of this weeklong shoot starts to make sense.

It’s not easy—nothing ever is—but at least not as chaotic. You learn to catch Katerina’s bark before it explodes, to anticipate the call for “next look” before it even comes. You stop tripping over the camera wires, and looking around like some lost puppy. Slowly, the stares shift from irritation to reluctant acceptance.

Some of the models even start talking to you.

Castorice, with her lavender hair pinned into impossible shapes, always smiles when you’re fussing with her hems. Her voice is soft, and makes you feel like you’re being let in on a secret. She asks about your life at university, about your professors, about what you’d design if you weren’t busy stitching someone else’s dreams into fabric. You find yourself actually answering, and she listens like it matters.

Then there’s Mydei. Broad-shouldered, golden-eyed, built like he belongs on a battlefield instead of a runway. The first time you had to hem his trousers, you half expected him to growl. Instead, he mumbled out a “thank you” and nearly dropped his water bottle when you smiled back. Turns out the man who looks like he could crush bones with a glance also gets flustered when he bumps elbows.

And Phainon…

He doesn’t let up. Not once.

When the set wraps up each evening, he waits for you. Sometimes leaning against the exit, sometimes standing just far enough for the overhead lights to catch in his hair. His blue eyes burn bright even after a dozen retakes, that boyish curve to his smile making it impossible to tell if he’s tired or simply entertained.

“Dinner?”

And every time he asks that stupid question, you sharpen your smile into a blade and slice him down with the same word.

“No.”

But in between those refusals, you catch other versions of him. The way he calms a jittery model by cracking a joke. How he listens when the stylists argue over a look, slipping in some ridiculous suggestion that somehow makes everyone laugh instead of fight. The way he carries himself through the chaos like it’s nothing more than background music.

It’s infuriating. You don’t want to like him. You don’t want to soften. But there he is, wedging himself into the cracks of your day like light through a seam you forgot to stitch shut.

By the time the entire shoot for the autumn collection wraps up, you finally allow yourself to breathe. But instead of feeling relieved, you’re already bracing for whatever comes next.

Of course, Phainon doesn’t let you leave without one last attempt.

He’s waiting near the racks this time, balancing a garment bag on one shoulder. The lights are cooling, casting his white hair in faint gold, but his smile is as bright as ever.

“Dinner?” he asks.

Your reply is automatic. “No.”

He only grins wider, as if rejection is the punchline to his favorite joke.

On your third week, Aglaea calls you into the upper-floor conference room for the Goldweaver show preparations. It’s the untouchable haute couture sublabel of Chrysos. Every stitch, every bead, every piece is destined for a runway that your professors always speak highly of, and somehow, you’re invited to sit in on the meetings for it.

Your palms are tacky with sweat when you take your seat, notebook open in front of you even though you don’t know what exactly you’re supposed to record. Stylists and coordinators murmur across the long table. Aglaea, poised at the head of it all, scans the room with a cool authority that makes everyone else lean forward like they’re at confession.

And then Phainon strolls in.

No other models are present. Not one. Yet he claims a seat like it’s his by right, stretching out long legs and drumming his fingers against the table’s polished surface. Aglaea notices your glance and murmurs, almost dryly, “That one likes to stick his nose into everything that doesn’t concern him.”

“If I’m walking the runway for this show, then it’s certainly my business.”Phainon smiles, unbothered, as though he’s here to be entertained, not assigned.

You force your attention back to the proceedings. Models are matched with gowns and other ostentatious pieces, editors debate which order the looks should flow, and you scribble notes feverishly, trying to keep up. When the meeting finally ends, you’re ready to collapse into the floor out of sheer overwhelm. But Aglaea’s gaze lands on you again, pinning you in place.

“You’ll have a reserved seat for the show,” she says simply.

For a second, you think you’ve misheard. A reserved seat. For Goldweaver’s Equinox Show? You almost shoot out of your chair, nearly dropping your pen as the other staff in the room chuckle at your genuine reaction.

“Miss Aglaea, thank you,” you blurt. “Thank you, I—this is—”

Aglaea chuckles, amused. “Don’t fall to your knees just yet. You’ll have to prove you’ve earned your place here. Do not disappoint me.”

Your heart hammers so loud it drowns out thought. You bow your head quickly before saying, “I won’t. I promise.”

She sweeps out of the room, pleased with your conviction as the other staff follow in her wake like a tide. Which leaves only you—and him.

Phainon pushes off the table as he checks his phone before sliding it back into his coat. His grin is sharp, unfairly beautiful in the slant of the noon sun streaming through the windows.

“Lunch?” he asks.

“…Are you serious?”

“Of course.” He tilts his head, blue eyes catching the light. “Maybe dinner was too ambitious. Lunch feels…more reasonable.”

You exhale through your teeth. “Don’t you get tired of being rejected?”

“Don’t you get tired of rejecting me?” he counters smoothly, stepping close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne—something crisp, cool, and infuriatingly pleasant.

You hate how your pulse stumbles. Because he’s not wrong. Plenty of people would kill for this kind of attention. To be in the vicinity of his gleaming white hair, those blue eyes looking at you like you’re worth the effort, and that boyish charm wrapped around him like a second skin. But here you are, the lone idiot who keeps turning him down.

And yet, you do it again. “No means no, Phainon.”

His smile curves slowly, almost satisfied. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Annoyingly enough, he does see you tomorrow.

Not every day though—thank the gods. Phainon’s far too in demand to be holed up in the same city for long. His face is plastered across mall advertisements, on screens lining the subway stations, even TV commercials. He’s constantly flying out for shoots and campaigns with a name attached to contracts outside Chrysos.

But when he is here, when his schedule brings him back into the polished walls of the Chrysos building, it always feels like he has just enough time to waste on you.

At first, people notice. Stylists stiffen when he sidles up beside you, makeup artists pause mid-brush stroke when his voice dips low to ask, “Lunch?” “Dinner?” “A walk?” There are frowns, quick glances toward Aglaea, murmurs about boundaries. But when you keep saying no as firmly as the first time—no matter how many times he tries—the unease loosens. Slowly, it becomes a joke, something whispered behind garment racks or muttered between steaming irons.

It turns into its own strange rhythm in your days at Chrysos: the moment Phainon swoops in, gorgeous and irritating in equal measure, and the moment you send him away with your sharpened smile.

Weeks pass. Shoots are survived. Your hands stop shaking when you pin hems, you stop needing instructions repeated, and—most precious of all—you’re granted access to the design studio itself. Not to work on your own but to observe, to learn, and to stand inside that sanctum.

It feels monumental.

Which, of course, is when Phainon chooses to show up again.

You’re bent over a worktable, tracing the delicate embroidery of a bodice that probably costs more than your tuition, when his voice drawls from the doorway.

“Are you still opposed to grabbing dinner with me?”

You groan aloud before you can stop yourself. “Why do you keep asking if you know the answer will always be no?”

Phainon only shrugs, strolling in as though this is his studio. “It’s amusing to see your reactions.”

“So you don’t respect my boundaries?”

His grin slants wickedly. “If I didn’t, I would’ve kidnapped you to the nearest five-star restaurant by now.”

Your temples throb as you press your fingers against them. This infuriating man. This ridiculously beautiful, unfairly charming, stupidly persistent man.

And the worst part? He’s dressed like a disaster today. A clashing plaid jacket over an old band tee, sneakers with mismatched laces. For someone who can sell haute couture with a single look, his off-duty style is a crime scene itself.

“God,” you mutter, exhaling. “What can I do to get you to cut it out?”

He leans back against the table, white hair falling into his eyes, that lazy smile spreading slow across his face.

“Make a bet with me.”

The words land too lightly, too casually, and that alone makes you suspicious. “A bet?”

Phainon tilts his head, feigning innocence. “Mm. About who gets the final walk for the Equinox Show.”

You narrow your eyes. “You forget Aglaea lets me sit in for meetings. I know the lineup.”

“Do you?” His grin curves, sharp and knowing.

“Yes,” you snap, straighter than you mean to. “It’s definitely not you. Castorice, maybe. Mydei could pull it off. Even Anaxa, if Aglaea’s feeling reckless.” You tick the names off on your fingers, each more certain than the last. “But you? Absolutely not.”

For a moment, silence hums between you—then he stretches out his hand.

“Then you’ll have no problem shaking on it, right?”

Your gaze flicks down. His palm is open, rings gleaming under the workroom light. Something about the bright, mischievous glint in his eyes tells you this is a mistake. You should refuse. You should walk away. But instead, pride flares hot in your chest, and you clasp his hand without sparing a second to think about it more.

“If I win,” you declare, “you’ll quit bothering me.”

“And if I win…” His smile deepens, dangerously satisfied. “You owe me a proper date.”

You squeeze his hand harder than necessary. “Fine.”

He releases you with a triumphant hum.

“Don’t look so smug,” you snap. “You’re going to regret this.”

That earns you a laugh over his shoulder as he saunters out. You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t drown out the echo of his grin even after he’s left the room.

Your last week at Chrysos arrives faster than you’d like.

More than two months ago, you were fumbling with textile swatches, sweating under the weight of every correction barked in your direction. Now, your stitches are cleaner, your instincts sharper, and you’ve survived enough shoots to recognize the rhythm of chaos before it even begins. You know when a makeup artist is about to need more time, when a stylist is missing a belt, when a model is seconds from toppling out of their shoes. You can feel the machinery of fashion now—the way it spins and snarls and still somehow moves forward—and you’ve learned to keep your footing inside it.

But none of that compares to the looming weight of this.

The Goldweaver Equinox Show. The one every fashion student yearns to witness firsthand, the one magazines pre-sell entire issues to cover. And you’re here. Not backstage with your hands full of pins and garment bags, but seated in the audience itself, surrounded by the perfume of sponsors, designers, and celebrities in jewel-toned silks.

You spent an entire week agonizing over what to wear, tearing apart your closet, trying on and discarding half a dozen looks. In the end, you chose restraint: a tailored black dress, sleek lines offset by gold earrings and a single cuff bracelet. Chic and understated—just enough to let you belong without pretending you’re someone you’re not.

Aglaea sits beside you like a column of poise in sculptural ivory silk. Her presence is as intimidating as ever, though when the lights dim and the first models step out, she leans just slightly toward you.

“Do you see it?” she asks, eyes fixed on the runway.

Your pulse leaps. You follow the model’s stride, taking in the cascade of hand-beaded fringe that catches the light as well as the dramatic dip of the neckline. For a heartbeat, you’re drawing blanks before the thought clicks.

“The weight distribution,” you say. “The fringe is heavier at the sides, so the center stays flat as she walks. It keeps the silhouette smooth.”

Aglaea hums, clearly pleased.

A second model emerges. Again, she nudges you with a question, almost offhand: What makes this work? What would you change? The first time she ever looked your way, you’d nearly bitten your tongue just to keep from babbling. Now, you breathe through the nerves, studying each look with a steadier eye. Your answers come more easily, more assured. And though Aglaea doesn’t shower you with praise, the faint curve of her mouth feels like enough of a reward.

By the time the first sequence of models has swept past, some of the jitters have burned off. You let yourself settle into the show, letting the pulse of music and light wash through you.

When the second act begins, the lights flare brighter. A hush ripples across the audience, and the first figure strides onto the runway.

Your stomach plummets straight to the floor.

With how busy the days leading to the Equinox Show have been, you haven’t paid attention to the final lineup of models for each act. You were vaguely aware that there would be three acts in total, but you weren’t up-to-date about who the models are for each one.

So when you see Phainon strutting down the runway with that charmingly indifferent look on his face, your stomach plummets straight to the floor.

And if I win, you owe me a proper date.

You suddenly have a bad feeling about this.

Much to your annoyance, he’s a vision in white: a perfectly cut suit traced with sapphire accents, a cape spilling from one shoulder, and a silken sash draped like a coronation gift. His white gloves glint as he moves, silver rings and chains catching sparks of light at his wrists and throat. The tailoring is immaculate, sharp enough to wound, and yet he carries it with such easy grace that the entire thing looks less like costume and more like birthright.

He looks like a crown prince—some untouchable heir stepping out of a faraway palace, ready to lay claim to the world. Even the high collar can’t conceal the flash of gold ink curling along his neck, the infamous sun tattoo peeking through like it refuses to be hidden.

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard, you taste iron.

Phainon completes his walk with as much languid confidence as his reputation promises. Even when he pauses at the edge of the runway, turning his head just enough to catch the light against his profile.

The audience drinks him in. Applause swells. Cameras flash in a frenzy.

You dig your nails into your thigh to keep from scowling.

Because yes, he’s beautiful. Stunning, even. A living blade honed to perfection in the hands of Chrysos’s finest designers. But the smug bastard knows it, and worse—he knows you know it.

You force your attention back to the show. Models glide down the runway one after another, each bearing the kind of artistry that makes your chest ache. Beadwork that ripples like galaxies caught in fabric, embroidery so fine it could’ve been woven by spider silk. You take photos with your phone camera, channeling your frustration into something more productive, like appreciating what’s in front of you.

But you can’t shake the thought.

Who’s closing?

The finale has always been the most anticipated part of the show, the look that defines the collection and the model chosen to embody it. The fact that you hadn’t bothered to check the final lineup makes the ignorance gnaw at you because… what if it’s him?

You briefly consider leaning toward Aglaea to ask, but shut the idea down before it takes root. She’d see straight through you, and you refuse to give Phainon’s existence enough weight to warrant commentary. Besides, whatever the outcome of your stupid bet, it doesn’t matter. You can refuse him as many times as you want. No handshake in a workroom binds you to anything.

Still, your leg bounces restlessly with every model who struts past. The second act draws to a close. The music shifts. The air grows electric, charged with anticipation as the third act begins after a short commentary from the show host.

One by one, the models come back out. This time, they don’t peel off backstage, but instead take their places at the edge of the runway, shoulder to shoulder. Castorice, draped in a cool hush of silk. Mydei, his flaming tattoos caught in glimmering chains, throwing sparks under the lights. Even Anaxa, his coat cut through with threads of silver so fine they almost look like smoke.

Each step builds the tension higher. Each body adds to the wall of gleaming silhouettes lined up at the runway’s edge. You know what’s coming before the host even takes the stage once more.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice cuts cleanly over the music, riding the pulse of applause, “the final walk.”

The world seems to hold its breath as he steps onto the runway again.

Phainon is once again draped in pure ivory, but this time the accents gleam silver, catching the light like frost. His jacket plunges scandalously low, revealing a stretch of his bare chest adorned with a three-tiered necklace that sways with each stride. The dip of the cut teases the lines of muscle beneath, as though daring the audience to imagine what more lies out of view. A sheer cape billows from his broad shoulders, pinned with such precision that it moves like clouds parting for his passage.

Every click of the cameras, every collective sigh from the audience only seems to confirm what you’re seeing: the final look, the final statement, belongs to him.

For the briefest, most traitorous moment, you forget.

Forget how irritating he is. Forget how many times you’ve rolled your eyes, how many lunches and dinners you’ve denied, how many times you’ve sworn you’d never fall into his orbit.

Because standing there, framed in light and brilliance, Phainon doesn’t look like a nuisance. He looks like the sun personified, inevitable and inescapable—something that was always destined to burn you no matter how far you tried to run.

The show ends to thunderous applause. You sit frozen in your seat, heart hammering as you desperately try to remember why you’ve been saying no all this time.

The afterparty rings with laughter and clinking glasses, champagne flowing like it’s conjured straight from the bottle. You’ve already lost track of how many toasts have been raised, each one louder than the last. Part of you hoped Phainon would be swallowed whole by the crowd—too busy soaking in their applause and congratulations to remember the stupid bet he hounded you into.

When you find yourself in the middle of an easy conversation with one of the makeup artists you’re friendly with, you make the mistake of letting your guard slip.

“So how was the show?”

You sigh, not even needing to turn around to see who it is.

Phainon is considerably more dressed down than he was on the runway—a navy blue button-up, dark slacks, a black cuff on his ear, and a pair of black leather gloves. The entire getup he has now subverts the prince-draped-in-ivory look he’d been going for on the runway, and you’re not sure how to feel about it.

But the bright smile plastered on his face makes you want to wipe it off with your own hands. Your makeup artist friend chokes on a laugh when you level Phainon with a glare, refusing to answer.

“I think you promised me a little something if I was the one doing the final walk,” he reminds you cheekily.

That’s when you grab his wrist and drag him away before he can humiliate you further.

“You’re insufferable,” you hiss once you’ve relocated outside near the balcony doors. “And besides, those five-star restaurants you kept bragging about are probably closed by now. Too bad you can’t collect on your little victory.”

Much to your horror, Phainon’s grin seems to scale wider.

“So you’re agreeing to go on that date with me.”

Your stammer comes out before you can stop it. “I–I didn’t say that!”

He tilts his head, that maddeningly self-satisfied smile still curling at his mouth. “We both know you kind of did.”

“I did not—” you start, but the words falter under the weight of his unwavering grin. It’s too bright, too pleased with himself, too… handsome. Your chest gives the most traitorous little flutter, and you know you’ve already lost this battle.

“Fine!” you snap, crossing your arms with a huff. “But only if you agree to quit bothering me once we’re done.”

His laughter bursts out, unrestrained and delighted, and you instantly regret how much you like the sound of it. He dips his head toward you, blue eyes gleaming with mirth. Without missing a beat, he extends his arm like some gallant knight straight out of a storybook.

“Okay. Let’s get out of here then.”

His car isn’t what you expected.

When Phainon lead you to the lot, you’re half-prepared for a sleek sports car or something vintage and dramatic, but instead he unlocks the door to a dented, sun-faded sedan that looks like it’s survived two wars and a flood.

You blink. “...This is yours?”

He beams, patting the hood with a fond slap. “My first car. Got it secondhand when I was seventeen. Still runs like a dream.”

The muffler coughs in protest the moment he starts it, but Phainon only laughs like the thing’s alive and kicking.

Next thing you know, you’re pulling into the glowing arches of a McDromas drive-thru, and it’s so absurd you can’t stop laughing. It’s not five-star dining, but you don’t hate it. He insists that the triple cheese burger is a “non-negotiable,” after forgoing fast food in the weeks leading up to the Equinox Show.

The two of you end up sitting in the trunk of his car, devouring greasy burgers and limp fries under the fluorescent parking lot lights. Phainon’s surprisingly easy to talk to when he’s not trying to needle you. Between bites, he leans back and tells you about his hometown.

“It’s so small it doesn’t show up on maps,” he chuckles. “But we have golden wheat fields as far as you could see. Summers always smelled like warm bread, and the winters aren’t as cold as they are here.”

He goes on, sharing how he left just to find work, how Okhema was supposed to be temporary—until someone from Chrysos scouted him, and the rest was history.

You find yourself wanting to say something back and offer a piece of yourself in exchange. Though you don’t quite know where to start, you mumble something about your own childhood, and the small, odd routines that shaped you. He doesn’t push when you trail off. Just listens, as if what little you’ve given is enough.

By the time your fries are cold and your fingers smell like salt and grease, the “date” is over. True to form, Phainon doesn’t drag it out. He just drives you back through the quiet streets per your directions until you’re in front of your apartment building again.

“See?” he says as you reach for the handle. “Not so bad, right?”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t disagree.

Just when you think that’s that, Phainon cuts the engine and slips out of the car too.

You blink, half out of your seat. “...What are you doing?”

When you’re both outside, he locks the car with an easy click. “Common courtesy. Can’t just let my date wander off into the night alone, can I?”

“My apartment is right there,” you mutter, but you don’t stop him when he falls into step beside you. You already agreed to this ridiculous “date” anyway—what’s one more indulgence?

The streets are quiet, the air cool against your cheeks. Halfway up the walk, you find yourself blurting, “Is this a thing you do with every intern?”

Phainon hums, and for once, he doesn’t look at you. “Nope. Just you.”

“...Why?”

“Because you’re always smiling.”

You actually stop walking. “What?”

Finally, he glances over. His grin is softer now, stripped of its usual edge. “I know how ugly this industry can be. I’ve been through the wringer myself. But you? You showed up every day, did your best, didn’t let it drag you under. Even tolerated me, just to keep things professional.” He smirks. “And, honestly? That’s kinda hot.”

Your fist connects with his shoulder before you can stop yourself.

“You’re impossible.”

He just laughs, rubbing the spot dramatically, and the two of you keep walking.

By the time you reach your front door, your chest is tight in a way you can’t name. You fumble for your keys, mumbling, “...Thanks. For treating me.”

Phainon leans a shoulder against the wall. “Don’t I get a kiss as thanks?”

You shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut. “I don’t kiss on the first date, asshole.”

“Implying there’s a second?”

Your head snaps toward him, ready to bite back—only to find that his face is close. Too close. His breath fans across your lips, blue eyes steady and unflinching when you gaze into them.

No. Don’t fall for this. Don’t let another pretty face sweet-talk you into something you’ll regret.

But then your gaze flickers—once to the curve of his mouth, once to the fringe of ivory hair brushing his temple—and reason suddenly feels like an entirely foreign concept.

Ah, fuck it.

Your hands slide up around his neck before you can stop yourself, dragging him down as you crush your lips to his.

Phainon doesn’t even seem surprised.

The bastard kisses you back like he’s been waitingfor this exact moment, like he knew you’d fold eventually. His lips move against yours with languid motion and it only makes your blood burn hotter.

You mean to stay in control, to keep this sharp and fleeting—just a kiss to shut him up. But then his gloved hands find your waist, pulling you in until your chest brushes his. His touch is firm, and the low sound he makes when you fist your hands tighter in his hair sparks something deep in your stomach. And your irritation shatters completely when you feel the drag of his tongue across your lower lip.

You gasp against him and the moment your mouth parts, Phainon takes the invitation you didn’t mean to give. The kiss deepens, heat unraveling between you until you can’t tell if it’s the night air that’s gone warm or just him.

He tastes faintly of salt and grease and something wholly his own, dizzying in a way that makes your knees weak. His tongue slides against yours with maddening confidence, coaxing rather than forcing, until you’re matching his rhythm without thinking.

What was supposed to be a single stolen kiss spirals into something molten—your back nearly pressing to the door of your apartment as he kisses you like he intends to brand the night into your bones.

You don’t know how long you let him.

All you know is that by the time you finally break apart, breathless and flushed, his lips are swollen, his grin wrecked into something downright devastating.

And you hate, hate, hate how much you want to kiss him again.

You don’t remember fumbling the lock, only the way his mouth won’t leave yours long enough for you to think. The door to your apartment slams shut behind you and suddenly your back’s pressed against it, his body crowding you, tongue dragging against yours in a fevered tangle.

Phainon groans low in his chest when his hands finally slide up under your dress, one calloused palm hot against your thigh before his other hand finds the straps at your shoulders. He yanks one down, then the other, until the neckline collapses.

Your breath stutters when your breasts spill free, nipple covers barely clinging before he peels them away with greedy fingers. His gaze flicks down, and the hungry look he gives you makes your knees nearly give out.

“Shit,” he rasps, dragging one glove off with his teeth before thumbing over your peaked nipple, “knew you were hiding something perfect under here.”

You gasp when he ducks down and mouths at you, sucking hard at while his still leather-clad hand toys with the other, rolling it until you’re whimpering. The difference in sensation is maddening. His teeth graze just enough to sting, and you can’t stop the needy sound that escapes you.

“Sensitive, huh?” he teases against your skin, voice muffled by the way he drags his tongue over your swollen bud. “Good. Makes this even better.”

You’re panting already, dress rucked up around your waist, body pressed to the door like you might melt through it. He sucks and laves at your tits until you’re squirming and clutching at his shoulders, wet heat pooling between your thighs.

Suddenly, he’s sliding down, kneeling right there at your feet before you can say a word. You watch as Phainon tugs his other glove off the same way he did with the first—one of the fingers clenched between his teeth as the smooth leather glides off and gets discarded on the floor. The sight of it is so hot, you feel a fresh wave of slick gush between your legs.

He pushes your dress higher until it’s bunched over your hips, fingers hooking into your underwear. One hard tug and they’re gone, leaving you bare under the fluorescent glow of your entryway light.

Phainon looks up at you from between your thighs with that bright but wolfish grin.

“Can you spread your legs for me?” His hands squeeze at your thighs, heat searing through you. “I wanna taste how bad I’ve got you worked up. You’ll let me, won’t you?”

Your breath catches at the way he waits, eyes locked on yours, like he won’t move until you give him the word. And when you nod—choked and breathless—he growls low in satisfaction, dragging his lips along the inside of your thigh.

“Yeah… just like that.”

Then his mouth is on you, licking a broad stripe up your cunt, tongue plunging in, hot and messy and utterly relentless.

His first lick already has your knees trembling, but he doesn’t let up. His tongue dips in again, nose grinding against your clit while his hands anchor you in place. He tastes you like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted and more.

“Fuck…” Phainon pants against you, lips shining with your slick, “you’re dripping for me.”

Before you can answer, the heat of his mouth seals over your clit, sucking hard as his tongue flicks in sharp, desperate strokes that make your hips jolt. You whimper, clutching his hair, but he only hums in approval and grinds his face closer, like he’d crawl inside you if he could.

Your thighs tremble, trying to close around his head, but Phainon only growls, gripping the backs of your legs and hooking them over his broad shoulders. Suddenly you’re half-lifted, pinned between the door and his mouth, your pussy spread open for the relentless drag of his tongue.

“Phai—!” His name breaks out of you in a strangled cry as he devours you, his mouth hot and wet and unyielding. He licks you open with long, greedy strokes, then presses his tongue flat against your clit, circling it until your hips buck helplessly into his face.

He doesn’t care—he wants it. Wants you grinding down, riding his mouth like it’s the only thing that’ll sate you. His nails bite into your thighs, holding you steady while he takes everything you give him, and groaning against your cunt every time you gasp or moan his name.

“That’s it,” he mutters against your slick. “Use me. Fuck my face. I’m not stopping till I get every drop out of you.”

Your vision blurs, your body bowing against the door as he eats you like a man starved, tongue and lips working in relentless, messy devotion. The more you squirm, the harder he holds you down.

Your thighs are trembling so violently around his head you can’t tell if you’re pushing him away or clamping him closer—doesn’t matter, because Phainon isn’t letting go. His mouth is everywhere, tongue dragging through your folds, dipping into your entrance before swirling up to your clit again and again until you’re keening.

“Phainon…hah! Please—” your voice cracks into a sob, hands tangled in his hair, hips rolling helplessly into his face.

He groans into you like you’re feeding him, like every sharp cry and hitch of your breath is fuel. He slides his arms under your thighs and hauls them over his shoulders, holding you wide open for him to take as his mouth works you over. Your back slams against the door, your body arching as he sucks down hard on your clit.

It’s too much. It’s perfect. White heat blooms in your gut, spreading fast until you’re breaking apart with a ragged cry—legs quaking, pussy gushing against his mouth.

Your vision sparks the moment your orgasm hits, the edges blurring until you’re lightheaded and clinging to him for dear life. If not for his grip, you’d be on the floor.

Phainon groans against you, drinking down every twitch and spasm of your release before finally pulling back just enough to breathe. He presses his face to the inside of your thigh, still holding you steady as you slump against the door.

“Easy…” he murmurs, voice rough with hunger but so soft it makes your chest ache. His arms tighten under your legs, lifting you a little so you don’t buckle. “I’ve got you.”

Your whole body shudders at the sincerity in his tone, head lolling back against the door, clit still throbbing from the overstimulation of his tongue.

Eventually, Phainon rises, his strong arms looping under your thighs and back like you weigh nothing at all. You let out a startled noise, but he only huffs a laugh against your hair, adjusting his hold as if to appease you.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his chest rumbling under your cheek as he carries you through the dim apartment. “I told you I’ve got you, didn’t I?”

You’re too dazed to ask how he knows the way, only vaguely aware of the familiar walls and corners passing until he nudges your bedroom door open with his boot. He sets you down carefully on the mattress, as though afraid you might break, and the sheets cool against your heated skin make you shiver.

Phainon straightens, scanning the room once before his gaze lands on a neatly folded pair of pajamas draped over the vanity stool. He leans down, brushing damp strands of hair from your cheek, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“You need to change, sweetheart. I can grab you some underwear too—tell me where they are, and I’ll clean you up.”

You shake your head weakly. “No…”

His brows knit, confusion flickering across his face. “No?”

But then your hand slides down, cupping the hard length straining against his trousers. His breath hitches, blue eyes snapping wide as you squeeze him through the fabric.

“Want more…” you murmur, still trembling, but the hunger in your voice cuts through the haze.

For once, Phainon looks completely thrown off, unsure of how to proceed with your admission. “Fuck—you can’t just—” He exhales sharply, a grin tugging at his lips as his cock twitches under your palm. “I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”

You glare up at him, fingers tightening pointedly. “You already ate me out against the door. If you’re not inside me in ten seconds, I’m kicking you out.”

That does it.

Phainon’s head tips back, a breathless, broken laugh spilling out before his blue-eyed gaze locks back onto you. “You’re gonna regret giving me permission like that,” he mutters, his voice dangerous with promise as his hands go to his belt.

The soft jingle of the buckle is loud in the quiet room. Phainon pulls it free with a flick of his wrist, tossing it aside before undoing the buttons of his shirt and shrugging it off.

You forget to breathe.

His body is a living sculpture—broad shoulders tapering to a hard waist, every cut of muscle sharpened by the lamplight. And there, stark against the column of his throat, is the sun tattoo—golden ink curling bold and sharp along the side of his neck. It draws your eyes helplessly every time he turns his head, like it’s a brand of divinity and ruin both.

You swallow thickly. He knows you’re staring—knows by the faint smirk curving his lips and the way he drags out every movement, unhurried as he pops the button on his trousers. When he shoves them down along with his underwear, you nearly choke, eyes locked on the thick length sitting heavily between those strong thighs.

But then—Phainon fishes something out of his back pocket, holding it up between two fingers. A small silver square, crinkling faintly beneath his grip.

Your brows shoot up. “…did you plan this?”

His grin deepens. “No. I just like to be prepared.” He tosses the condom onto your nightstand, like it’s nothing, like it’s not setting off a storm of questions in your head.

You don’t have time to press him, because he’s already crawling onto the bed, bracing a knee between your thighs as his hands reach for your dress. The fabric slides up, up, until he’s tugging it over your head and flinging it away. You can only gasp, half-dizzy from the proximity and the sheer weight of him as he presses his entire body over yours.

“Can’t be the only one naked,” he murmurs, laughter curling warm and wicked in his throat.

Then his fingers drift down, finding the sticky mess he left between your thighs. He traces the slick lazily, dragging it higher, circling the swollen bundle of nerves until your hips twitch helplessly.

“You’ll let me loosen you up first, won’t you?”

Shame and need burn through you in equal measure, the sound that slips from your lips embarrassingly small.

“Please…”

Phainon freezes for a second, like your voice just about undoes him. His forehead presses to yours with a breathy laugh, one hand slipping lower until two fingers push past the sticky heat between your folds. He doesn’t give you warning or any space to think. He just sinks one inside you, curling so deep it makes your head fall back against the pillows.

Your thighs twitch, the stretch almost too much, almost not enough. He works that thick finger in and out, knuckle brushing your entrance each time, and then he presses in another. Your mouth drops open in a strangled cry, nails raking his shoulders.

He groans at the sting, hips jerking against the bed, his leaking cock dragging against your thigh as if he can’t help himself. “You hear that?” he pants, thrusting his fingers deeper until the wet squelch of your cunt fills the room. “That’s you. So drenched for me.”

Your chest heaves, shame and heat knotting in your gut as the pressure builds sharp and heavy. You can barely breathe with the way he pumps his fingers into you, thumb grinding against your clit like he’s set on unraveling you in minutes.

“P-Phainon—”

Your breath comes ragged, every muscle tight as he works you to the edge—closer, closer, until the world blurs white-hot and your body threatens to break apart around his fingers. Just when you’re about to tip, Phainon stills. The rhythm halts. The pressure in your belly fizzles out so sharply it makes you gasp.

“W-why—?” The whimper escapes before you can swallow it back, raw and needy.

He eases his fingers from your cunt with one last curl that makes your hips jolt, then pulls away entirely. You blink at him through the haze, only to find his mouth tilted in that same damn grin—amused, yet almost reverent, as though he can’t get enough of watching you like this.

Phainon leans in, pressing a quick, lingering kiss to your forehead. His voice is like rough velvet when he whispers, “Shhh… I just want you to cum around my cock.”

The filth of it sparks through you like lightning, shoving your pulse into your throat. He’s already tearing the foil open, careful with the little square, and the sound of the condom rolling down his thick length makes you squeeze your thighs together helplessly. He’s big—bigger than you ever expected, and the rubber does nothing to hide it.

You bite your lip, worry flickering through the haze of want. “Phainon, I don’t—”

He catches your gaze, chuckling low in his chest like he can read your mind. “You’ll take me. I know you can.”

Then he shifts, sliding behind you as he draws your back flush to his chest. His arms curl around you, one hand gripping your hip before he lifts one of your thighs, guiding it to hook over his own. You’re spread open for him, flushed and dripping, and when he grinds the fat head of his cock along your slick folds, your entire body shudders.

The heat of him dragging against your clit knocks a strangled cry from your throat. He’s so close—so heavy—and every nudge against your entrance makes your walls flutter desperately around nothing.

Phainon buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing skin as he breathes out hard and shaky. His cock grinds higher, lower, teasing your folds with agonizing precision. His voice scrapes low when he murmurs, “I’ll only do it if you say so.”

Your whimper is nearly a sob, head tipping back against his shoulder. “P-please, Phainon. I want it—want you to fuck me.”

That’s all it takes.

He drags his cock down once more, nudges your entrance, and this time he doesn’t stop. The thick head pushes in, stretching you wide as molten heat sears through your gut. Your cry breaks into a gasp as inch after inch slides inside, your body straining to take him.

Phainon groans against your throat, one hand splayed firm across your abdomen to hold you steady. “That’s it,” he grits, hips pressing forward until he’s buried thick and deep inside you, pulsing hard. “You feel how good you take me?”

Your body answers before your mouth can, clenching around him so tightly he groans, teeth scraping your neck like he’s fighting not to lose control.

The fullness is overwhelming. Phainon stretches you to the brink, every nerve alight with the way he throbs inside you. You clutch at his arm where it pins you against him, nails biting into his skin as your thighs tremble around his.

“F-fuck—Phainon—” Your voice breaks into a whimper.

He shifts his hips, just enough to grind deeper, angling himself until he’s flush against that tender spot that makes your vision scatter into sparks.

“Gods, listen to you,” he rasps, nipping along your jaw. His hand tightens over your stomach as though he’s holding you down on his cock, forcing you to feel every inch. “Already clenching like you’ll milk me dry.”

When he finally pulls back, it’s slow—agonizing—until only the fat head remains inside, your walls clutching at him greedily. Then he snaps back in harder, dragging a broken sob out of you as the bed creaks beneath the weight of his body behind yours.

The rhythm builds fast, punctuated with deep thrusts that make you jolt against his chest with every snap of his hips. Wet, obscene sounds echo with each drag of his cock, the squelch of your slick coating him and dripping down your thighs.

You can’t hold still, can’t breathe, your body caught between his grip and the heavy drive of his length. He leans closer, voice shredded and reverent all at once. “Cum for me like this,” he growls, rutting into you with sharp, punishing thrusts. “Let me feel you lose it all over me.”

Your body answers, the pressure sharp and unbearable, every stroke winding you tighter until you’re shuddering violently in his grasp. Ecstasy snaps white and hot through your core, your cunt pulsing around him your release tears through you. A sharp cry pitches high in your throat, and the rush leaves you weak and lightheaded—your legs giving way beneath you.

Phainon catches you instantly, one arm banding tight around your waist to keep you from collapsing forward, the other bracing your trembling thigh higher so he can fuck you through every wave. His lips press against your temple, his voice hoarse and unsteady.

“That’s it. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your whole body is still trembling, utterly boneless when Phainon slips out and lowers you toward the bed. You think that he’s just settling you down and letting you breathe. Your chest heaves against the sheets, face pressed into a pillow, the aftershocks making your thighs twitch around nothing.

But then you feel it. The hot, blunt press of his cock nudging at your folds again.

Your breath catches, eyes going wide even as your head lolls to the side. “P-Phainon—”

He only hums, a low rumble against your ear, and presses a kiss to your temple. The tenderness of it nearly undoes you all over again—right before he sinks into you in one heavy thrust.

The air punches from your lungs. Your back arches helplessly as his cock stretches you raw and deep again, the drag of him through your oversensitive cunt so sharp it’s almost unbearable.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice breaking, hips grinding as he bottoms out in you. “Still so damn tight. Gods, you’re… driving me insane.”

He doesn’t give you time to adjust—he doesn’t need to, not with how wet and messy you are for him. Phainon’s weight presses you down into the bed, one hand curling firm around the back of your neck, not hurting, just holding you steady while the other brackets your hip. Then he starts to move.

The first thrust rips a strangled sob from you, the angle deeper, harsher than before, his cock spearing into you with punishing precision. The sheets twist in your fists as he sets a ruthless pace, driving you into the mattress with every snap of his hips.

Your cry muffles into the pillow, high and broken, but Phainon leans close, his mouth brushing your ear, voice shredded with need. “Don’t hide from me. I want to hear every sound you make.”

And gods, you can’t help it—you moan, cry, choke on every thrust as his cock splits you open, the weight of him pressing you down, claiming every inch of you. Slick squelches with every deep plunge, your arousal smeared across your thighs and his hips, the bed shaking beneath the force of him.

“Feels too good,” you whimper, voice cracked and raw.

“Yeah?” His laugh is breathless, fraying at the edges. He drives into you harder, groaning when your walls clutch around him. “Then give me more. Cum for me again—I’m not stopping until I feel you squeeze me dry.”

Your whole body is caught in the rhythm of him—hips slamming against your ass, cock dragging deep through your fluttering walls, every thrust wringing another broken moan out of your throat. When his teeth find the sensitive nape of your neck, Phainon makes sure to leave a trail of kisses and bruises alike. He’s relentless, driving you down into the sheets until you can barely think.

It should feel wrong, some tiny sane part of you knows. Phainon’s technically your coworker, the model you’re supposed to dress for shoots and runways—not fuck until your brain turns to mush. But none of that matters. All that’s left is the way his cock feels pounding into you, battering your poor, quivering cunt until you’re soaked and shaking beneath him.

Your nails rake the sheets, voice cracking against the pillow. “Phainon, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he rasps against the skin of your neck, steady and grounding even as his thrusts grow rougher and sharper. “Hold on for me. Just a little longer. Want us to fall together.”

The promise in his tone and the desperate edge of his words coil low in your belly. Your body arches back into him, greedy for every brutal thrust. Slick and sweat stick your thighs to his, the wet smack of your bodies filling the room.

The scream that tears from your throat as your climax crashes down is enough to ensure a noise complaint, but you don’t care. Your cunt is spasming violently around his cock. Your vision goes white, body convulsing, every nerve alight as you shatter around him.

Phainon groans raggedly into your hair, hips jerking hard as he finally lets himself go. The thick pulse of him inside the condom makes your oversensitive walls clench even tighter, milking every drop from him until you both collapse into the sheets.

The silence after is deafening. Just the sound of your own ragged breaths and the dull ache where he’s left you ruined and trembling beneath him. Your face presses into the pillow, burning with the reality of it.

You’d sworn up and down you didn’t kiss on the first date, and now you’ve let him fuck you until you were screaming his name. Shame creeps in hot and prickling, your chest tightening with the weight of it.But then Phainon huffs a sharp, breathless laugh against your hair.

“Should’ve brought more condoms.”

Your head jerks up, disbelief cutting through the haze. “You—”

“I mean it,” he interrupts breathlessly, pressing his forehead to the back of your shoulder like he’s hiding a grin. “You’re gonna kill me. One isn’t enough. Not with you.”

Heat flares in your chest again, but not from shame this time. You bite down a shaky laugh, twisting just enough to glimpse the wild mess of his hair, and the flushed tips of his ears. He looks almost… shy, for all that he just fucked you into the mattress.

The room is still heavy with the scent of sex, your bodies tangled and sweaty, but the tension eases. He lets out another quiet laugh, before pulling you into the curve of his chest, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Despite yourself, you sink into his warmth anyway.

You wake to an empty bed.

The sheets are cold where Phainon had been, the dent of his body already faded. The clothes he’d left scattered across your floor are gone. For a moment, your chest sinks heavy, and you let out a long, tired sigh. You should have expected this. Models like him live fast, take what they want, and move on. Just like your ex. Just like all the others who’d left you picking up the pieces.

Knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

You bury your face into the pillow, willing yourself to fall back asleep and smother the ache before it has a chance to bloom. But then your nose twitches when you catch the whiff of something…

Burning.

Your eyes snap open. The scent of smoke hits harder now, sharp and unmistakable. Panic surges through your chest as you scramble upright. You tug on the pajamas tossed over the stool of your vanity; top twisted, shorts riding up, but it doesn’t matter. When you shove the bedroom door open—

What greets you is chaos.

Phainon is still shirtless, hair sticking up every which way, and the marks you left on his body last night still lingering on his skin. He stands in your kitchen wielding the fire extinguisher from under your sink like it’s a weapon of war. Foam covers the stovetop, a charred pan smokes pitifully in the sink, and the counter looks like a battlefield.

“Oh. Hey,” he says, as if you didn’t just nearly have a heart attack. “Sorry—uh, I wanted to make breakfast, but…” He gestures vaguely to the ruin in front of him. “Yeah.”

A storm of feelings hits you at once—relief, irritation, more relief, annoyance, and underneath it all, relief again. Because he didn’t leave. He’s still here.

Not that you’d ever admit it.

You stomp across the kitchen, arms crossed. “Are you out of your mind? You can’t just burn people’s apartments down because you’re too cocky to follow a pancake recipe!”

Phainon grins sheepishly, blue eyes crinkling even as he sets the extinguisher aside. “In my defense, the instructions weren’t very clear.”

“They were on the back of the box, you idiot!”

His laugh is full and unbothered, the sound of someone who knows he’s going to get away with it no matter how much you scold him. Maybe he will.

You don’t know it yet, but he’ll be there when you take the stage at graduation, top of your class. He’ll be there when you land your first job as a junior fashion designer for Chrysos. He’ll be there when you walk down the aisle in a field of golden reeds, donned in a wedding dress you made yourself. He’ll be there for every milestone, every triumph, every ordinary day in between.

For now, though, you stand in your smoke-filled kitchen, yelling at him while he grins at you like the infuriating, impossible man he is.

⟢ end notes:  thank you for reading! this was so so fun to write. but just to give you guys a lookbook for phainon's outfits in this fic, here are some of the inspirations for each one:

garmentmaker shoot look - the most recent phainon and cas illustration really inspired me to write this so ofc i had to pay homage to it one way or another hehe

first equinox show look - this one was a very popular reference that artists used to draw phainon in a few months back! funnily enough, it showed up on my pinterest board when i was scouring for looks to give him in this fic, so it was def meant to be

final walk look - now there wasn't like too much thought put into this tbh, i just wanted a fit that would have his tits semi-out bc why not!

afterparty look - rei really really REALLY loves this look on phainon's bp icon and kept mentioning it while we were in the process of discussing the plot for this fic, so as an added surprise i tossed it there as a treat HEH

thank you also to rei for trusting me to bring this commission to life! it actually got me into the grove of writing for other people's requests again so i might formally open comms soon HEHE stay tuned, friends <3 and i would also like to thank didi and bean for going over this for me to make sure i am not spouting out nonsense UEUEUEUEUE