"I'm punching out," one of your other coworkers walks by, placing their lab report on the table, the papers loosened from the slight impact, "worked my ass off today.." they mutter under their breath, massaging their neck as they walk to their group leaving the lab room.

You hum, reaching out to the report with your other hand.

Subject — Kevin "Khaslana" Khaos,

You place your cup of coffee down, taking care to flip through the scarce papers that seem to be loaded with information. To your side, you hear your colleague click their tongue, and continue to fiddle with their keyboard as if bickering with a program.

'Yet to respond to stimuli', 'far behind other subjects', 'development seems stagnant', 'as if resisting progress'..

"Damn it," you hear your colleague sigh and lean back, "damn thing won't go past 98%."

"Really?" You place down the report, leaning down again to look at the monitor. The progress bar seems to be buffering at 98.99%

"Guess that's my que," they get up, stretching, then continue to gather their things, "you should go home soon, too. It's quite late. You know we don't get paid for overtime," they sling their bag over their shoulder,

You nod, "yeah, I know. Lucky we landed up here, aren't we?" You scoff under your breath, grabbing your cup of coffee again and taking another sip, leaning back on your desk as you face the large tank.

"Tell me about it. Safety regulations are like suggestions here.." they stare at the tank beside you. After a beat of silence, they point to several corners of the tank,

"If you're staying here for longer, though, just keep an eye on these points. Some of the others have reported it to be leaking despite the various repairs."

You nod, "sure, I'll keep an eye."

Both of you bid a polite farewell, and you're left in the quiet of the lab, various clicks and blips of monitors in the background.

Curiosity, or perhaps restlessness to start your work despite the fatigue wearing on your bones, you discard the rest of your coffee.

You sit down in the chair your colleague had just left, a hand on your chin as your other hand moved the cursor around, clicking on various programmes.

"What's up with this freak?" You mutter under your breath, watching the progress bar buffer, then deplete anytime you tried to push it past 98%

Behind you, the man in the tank slowly began to unwind, feathers swirling in the fluid of the medium as he slowly unfurled. The cables had begun to conduct, the blue fluid glowing with more gradual intensity,

"Huh? Why isn't this filled out?"

You squint at an empty space –

Title; yet to be assigned

Ᏽዐ𐌀ረ: 𐌃ቹ𐌔ፕ...ጎ𐌐ዐ..Ꝋጮ𐌁

You stay silent, zoning out as you delve into your thoughts, trying to recall any temporary titles you could possibly assign. You glance over at the file on the desk. You pick it up and flip through the pages, eyes searching for any keywords, before–

"Ah, I can use this.." you place it back down, before hovering your hands over the keyboard,

Title:

D

E

L

I

V

E

R

E

R

.

.

.

...

Processing ..↺

Log #381

Status - 99.0% to completion..

Loading..

Task: Worldbearing

Subject: "Chrysos Heir"

Type: 33,550,336th cyclical model

Title: DELIVERER

Subject name: NeiKos496

...

——

This wasn't your first rodeo.

"Sheesh, [Name], aren't you a lucky charm?"

One of your coworkers whistle, the sound of hurried scribbling on the solid clipboard by your other coworker,

"I should drag you along to the arcade sometime!" The girl giggles, "you managed to wake him up, too!"

"I don't really remember how, though.." you mumbled in deep thought,

"You should think about it another time," they place down their clipboard on a nearby desk, "right now, just relish the moment."

After a beat, like a mechanical calling, they shuffled back into protocol, scattering further into the labroom, leaving you to stare at the subject in the tank. You thumb the rim of the marker in your hands as you contemplate.

SkeMma720 – one of the stagnant subjects that had posed a little more than usual trouble to awaken. Theyre always a little resistant when they do; perhaps something more of an innate, animalistic instinct – protect oneself. Always pushbacks whenever tests were conducted, dull thuds against the shielding glass as they'd demand to be let out (as if they'd be able to walk, anyway), half hearted threats to pull out their own wires and pipes connected in a plethora to their backs.

The marker in your hand grows warm. Your fingers fiddle with it's cap, feeling the ridges, as you look at the subject. The green fluid of his tank illuminates the entire room in a strange, bizarre feeling, as if frankenstein brought into reality. It's corny, and surreal, making you more uncomfortable combined with the intense glare Anaxa had been baring on you.

Unlike the other subjects, however, SkeMma720 seemed calmer. Responded inquisitively to any and all tests. Flicking his wrist away whenever your colleagues bothered him too much. You couldn't witness it yourself unfortunately; the moment you'd step into the room his eyes would glare into you, and he'd stop responding to or engaging with anything until you left.

So was the strangeness of the other subjects.

OreXis945, HubRis504, EpieiKeia216.. whoever they were, they always held some sort of strange indignation towards you.

"His eyes are red?" You comment on the strange color palette they'd chosen to go with – mint green hair and red eyes weren't exactly something you'd expect.

"Y-Yeah, uh.." your other coworker, working at the monitor, sputtered, "we, uh.. y'know, decided to take a page out of Tribios' palette." They answered with a strange straightforwardness.

"Is that so?" You mumbled, almost more to yourself. You could come up with various reasons for their behavior, but to reach an actual conclusion..

Well, it's not your headache. You have more to deal with, especially regarding the subjects themselves.

You had to resort to coworker notes to understand their personalities – quite a shame, too, considering they seemed to form unique traits besides the base models your lab had previously developed. You couldn't even be there to witness the fruits of your accumulated effort; but perhaps you were grateful. This gave you, in turn, more leeway to handle Khaslana.

Right. Khaslana.

You step away, looking down at the marker in your hand, the black ink of it seeping out onto your skin. The sheen illuminated as you moved, the sound of conversations growing dimmer. The hallways narrowed, illuminated by scarce amounts of light – possibly to save power, as you moved further and down the stairs into the more hidden part of the lab.

It had become a routine. More normal to you now that it probably should've been.

You shove the marker into the pocket of your coat, stopping just shy of the heavy door of the room. You could see the blue light leaking from beneath the gap of the door, enhanced by the lack of overhead lights.

Silence had become more of a friend these days rather than an invitation for less-than-savory thoughts. You came to appreciate the lack of coworkers pushing and prodding you around, boring conversations and office-humor. The lack of "that's the nth cup you've had?!" Everytime you made coffee for yourself had practically been a blessing,

Save for the judgemental staring of Khaslana, that is.

Where do you begin?

You breathe in, pushing the door open. There he is – where he always is, suspended in the blue fluid of the tank. You note his wings are completely unfurled this time, and his knees are curled up to his chest.

He must feel comfortable now. He stretches out his wings when he feels safe. You assume he likes the feeling of the fluid gently brushing through his feathers.

You pull a chair from the corner of the room, and seat yourself in front of him once again, the blue light emanating from his tank now practically drowning you in it, regardless of whatever vibrant colors you'd chosen to wear that day.

You note the leftover marker letters on the glass, disintegrating slowly with the flow of the fluid.

You remember what happened yesterday, and you doubt you'd forget it anytime soon – the ultimate sealing of your demise, how could you ever forget?

...

"Can you hear me?" Your finger tapped against the glass, to which his eye only twitched.

"How about this? Blink once for yes, twice for no,"

your hands fumbled around a bit, patted your pockets, feeling for a marker, before pulling one out. You look up expectantly at him, "do you know who you are?"

He stays silent, unmoving. The yellow tips of his hair sway. The only sound in the room is the gentle clicks of distant monitors, and the muffled, ever-flowing sound of the fluid.

He blinks. Once.

"You do?" Your eyes widen a bit. You shake your head, before clearing your throat, "your name is NeiKos496– subject name, that is."

He stays silent, staring wordlessly at you.

"Well, uh– that's just.. a nametag. We call you Khaslana, too,"

You step away, searching your desk for a notebook, clipboard, anything, before hurriedly scribbling down his name in large, bold letters. You walk back over, flipping it to face him, held with one hand as the other points to the start of his name,

"Khas-la-na" you mouth, slowly and carefully, your finger tracing over the syllables with your tone,

"Do you understand?" Arguably – you didn't expect him to, however;

He nods.

...

———

"I mean, to be honest, that was kinda stupid," she giggles, pointing to the leaking, wet marker, "if any of the higher-ups found out, it'd have exploded."

Your other coworker, beside you, perks up with a cool voice, "ink wouldn't have ruined the project as much. The first interaction is the most impactful – thankfully, you seemed to have made a neutral impression on Khaslana."

You nod, sighing, "you're right.."

You remember when someone made a distasteful impression on a subject the last time you were present to watch them awaken – HubRis504 had felt threatened enough to stop responding at all despite gaining consciousness until Cyrene stepped in to calm her down.

But you wouldn't know until a few days later how uniquely your impression would then impact the project.

It was possibly 2 days– 3, if you count the progressive bridge between basic training for the subjects to the more advanced level stimulus. You'd been called into the other lab right as your break ended, before being informed of the great privilege that Khaslana had refused to respond further to any of their attempts.

It was also, to your great dissatisfaction that he seemed to respond only to you. Some of your coworkers poked fun at you; comparing it to imprinting like chicks on a mother duck. Although slightly stumped, progress continued for a few days with your support, until..

"I'm sorry, what?"

"He just won't listen."

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose,

"Listen, we've invested way too much into this project. We've been given direct orders to not pressure the subject at this stage lest he stop responding entirely. That means–"

You cut in, "that means now I have to bear the brunt of this project?"

"unfortunately, yes," they drag a hand over their face, as if the mere concept of it tires them as much as it will you, "There's nothing we can do. For whatever reason; he responds to you and only you. So what you're going to do, is keep making progress, make sure he's following the predicted results, and suck. It. Up."

You breathe out of your nose, fuming at the idea of having this project thrusted onto you.

"they're willing to compensate you. If you have any problems, consult Cyrene."

They walk away, leaving you alone seething in the quiet hallway, leaning beside the wall of the door to the lab. No one else remains except you and– well.. you can't say its a him, can you?

——

"Who's the new face?" The pink-haired girl asks out loud, a smile on her face as she looks at you. The others mumble out a response, plugging and unplugging cables from the girl. Despite the strange disposition, she stays gazing at you as you approach,

"I'm [Name]," you have half a mind to reach out for a handshake, but decide against it, "you.. you're cyrene?"

"Hm? Do I look that naive?" She giggles, as the others finally step away, seemingly putting their troubleshooting on hold. Her hands fall to her lap, "don't let my cute looks deceive you, I'm quite old myself," she winks, a silly smirk on her face.

"..does that mean.. you're.."

"PhiLia093. That's me."

You stay silent, noting the almost runic like wraps of bands on her wrists. Details of her model, previous troubleshooting attempts, and other miscellaneous things that was surely not your headache to deal with. Her skin has lines – vents to open then prod at her inner cables. Her hair is pink; for some reason, it doesn't feel as artificial as it should.

"..about Khaslana.."

She leans back in her chair, her smile only widening,

"He's.. kinda.."

"Stubborn? Hardheaded? An asshole?"

You chuckle awkwardly, "I wasn't going to mention the last part.."

She shakes her head, waving away your words, "I know. I've seen that brute," she puts a finger on her chin, smiling, eyes downcast as she recalls, "If I could, I'd beat some sense into him. As of now, I suggest.."

—

Maybe it was a stupid idea.

But it was an idea nonetheless.

You decided to throw in a few things into Khaslana's tank. Arguably, had your colleagues been around, they'd have dragged you out then have you suspended before you could protest. But thankfully, you were working alone with no one else to witness your stupidity except yourself and your favorite subject.

You proceeded to take Cyrene's advice to heart. With great effort (and the help of a mop), you managed to creak open a small portion of the lid of his tank. Although Khaslana flashed a warning glare at you, you only smiled back in answer. You gathered a few things – coffee beans, waterproof markers, a key chain of a dromas that was strewn across the lab.

Khaslana only stared at you with a deadpan look as the items flowed into the viscous fluid of the tank, not even flinching as the key chain landed on his head. You flashed an awkward, crooked smile. However, Khaslana was still a curious one, and eventually started to interact with the several things you'd thrown in.

First were the coffee beans. You tried to help him understand by pointing at a paper cup, making a drinking motion. He ended up popping the beans into his mouth, making both of you stop dead in your tracks.

Second, he grasped the waterproof markers. You were worried, already imagining the ink swelling and being rendered useless by the thick medium they were submerged in, but surprisingly, they worked. You demonstrated him how to use it by picking up a marker and letting him slowly follow your movements. After a bit of scribbling, he managed to write down a few words of his own.

"You. Stupid."

?

You huff and puff, writing "Khaslana -> idiot", to which he takes it up as competition and further writes "dumb. Idiot. You."

It ends up not being as productive as you wanted, with both of you making faces at each other. At some point, you tried to force him to return them – more out of spite – only to receive almost all of them except one. You think he's keeping one just to taunt you further.

After a while, you both move on to the third – the keychain.

He holds it up, inspecting it with a befuddled look for a minutr, and you swallow down a giggle.

He points to you, then to it.

"Hah. You look more like it than I." You roll your eyes.

——

"Is that so?"

Cyrene speaks, but no one responds. The late hours of the lab are evident particularly by the lack of people, the low, power-saving lights and the scarce sounds.

Her feet are silent on the cold, metallic floor of the lab, devoid of any protection against the harsh surface. Huge cables drag behind her, small blips of light passing through them, symbolising the transfer of information. A few clicks of sounds later, she receives a response.

"They're annoying. I want to get rid of them first."

She laughs, before turning on her heel, and walking back, hands folded behind her back as she playfully kicks her feet,

"Patience is all we need. Who knows? Maybe they'll be the last piece of the puzzle that we need."

Silence. A moment passes, before another rhythmic assortment of beeps resound through her cables,

"I'm strong enough. I don't need time."

She sighs, rolling her eyes, her hands fiddling with the paper bracelets on her wrist, as she stops walking right before her chair.

"Khaslana, one wrong move and we're all going to be shut down," her gaze moves to the sprawled notes on a table, opened on a page with a detailed route of the laboratory. Hers was the lowest, most deep and well-hidden room in the lab. If she wasn't cautious, even the little freedom she had would be brutally taken from her.

"Just a few more weeks; maybe days."

...

"Fine. I'm waiting."

She smiles, hopping back onto her chair,

"Thank you, Khaslana. I promise, it'll be worth it."

Her eyes start to close, gaze across the lab to the empty tank in front of her,

"Time will be worth it."

——

Khaslana dreams for the first time after you.

Its faint; barely an excuse of a visual, really.

The warm orange and yellows stretching vastly across his vision, white pulses that ebb and flow. Against the sterile and cold blue tedium he'd known.

For the longest time, he hadn't dreamed. Not until you.

"Seriously? Uh- okay, you know what? My fault."

You'd scoot your chair closer, hands flailing a bit, making vague gestures and waving around as you tried to explain the concept of a dream to him.

It started out with another cup of coffee.

Another judgemental gaze, but curiosity at the heavy eyeballs tugging at your eyes. You didn't get enough "sleep" that day, as you explain. To him, 'sleep' was just another way to pass time in his mind-numbing repetition of days – a kaleidescope of mundanity is still mundane in the end. He dreamt of nothing; eyes shutting as his brain (or if he even had one,) worked in the background. He knew something was happening – if the monitors in the background with the progress bar inching further was anything to go by. Always just another blink for him.

But a long rambling session from you changed it – even for a bit.

A dream was enough.

He opens his eyes, and the warmth dissipates.

The ever-cold laboratory with your coworkers clocking in for their day shift.

He looks down at his hand, the gold contained under the barrier of his 'skin', despite the cracks exposing it. The pressure of the liquid was enough to not let it flow out (at least; that's what he thinks)

"Me?"

He'd tapped on the glass, index finger tapping vigorously a few more times to emphasise his point, to which you'd laugh,

"Okay, okay, relax," you put a finger on your chin, eyes darting up-left, thinking, "hmm, where do I begin?"

It would be an understatement to say he didn't understand what you said – keywords glossed over in a hurry, but he could faintly piece together the bigger picture. Some of the others had mentioned you'd been working in this lab for a while now – the changes in your appearance became apparent as they recalled clashing memories of it.

A bright-eyed, eager intern. Jumping from one place to another in hopes of learning more. You'd been close to giving up.

Until he awakened.

Perhaps that's one thing you two strangers have in common – you gave each other what was wanted desperately.

He observed; gaze too soft and lingering too long on your face. The way you pursed your lips, chewed on them, the scrunch of your eyebrows everytime he did something that passed your expectations.

There it was; a fond smile on your face, the tilt of your head as your chin rested on the palm of your hand. Gaze pointed down-right.

"I guess.. it's really worth another shot. Maybe all of this is. It makes me want to keep going."

He stays silent, simply observing. His gaze was a little unnerving, especially since he didnt blink. You also chalked it up to the odd shape of his pupils – uncanny valley was a common feeling now.

——

"What? What's going on?"

You squinted your eyes; the laboratory alarms had gone off, sending everyone into a frenzy – papers flew, fingers furiously worked over keyboards and monitors, messy hands at a last ditch attempt trying to pull out the pipes connecting to a subject's tube.

You remember watching it all happen, not being able to do anything. Well, you couldn't, even if you'd wanted to – it seemed as if you'd arrived just as it was nearing its end.

Just as HapLotes405 neared its end.

The red herring had come up before; subtle, but passable. Abnormal fluctuations were common. It was early morning when she started to split apart.

Then came the red fluid.

They burst from the pipes, leaking and seeping into the fluid of her tube as if blooming, heavy mercury.

Tribios as they'd lovingly named her, was dead.

HapLotes405 was a failed experiment. That too – one of many to happen.

How ironic; you remember her vibrant red hair everytime the alarm is sounded – red fills your vision as if a curse, reminding your lab of the first grave loss.

It gets worse with the next subject. And the one after. As if a collective chain reaction over the span of a few weeks.

You found comfort in Khaslana's chemically blue tedium for that exact reason. As if you could breathe only after you stepped into that room, despite his heavy gaze following you.

What originally had your hair standing had now become some sort of security – Khaslana's heavy gaze that followed you through the monotonous motions in the room made you feel safer. As if everything happening outside had little value – only things relating to Khaslana had mattered when you were present there. No leaking pipes. No malfunctions. No miscalculations, blaring alarms.

No red.

——

"Wh- This is.."

Your eyes widen, shock making your train of thoughts start shooting backwards as you tried to think up of a possible explanation. Your fingers frantically flipped through the pages of the book/ manual, dreadful as you read the detailed information about the floor plans and the layout of the laboratory.

"Shouldn't be here, right?"

You jolt, eyes darting to the pink-haired girl who just appeared beside you in a quiet blink,

"Cyrene!"

"Its me!" She winked at you, before pointing to the manual, "you'd think they'd keep something like that away from a subject, right?"

You nod, to which she giggles, amused at your perplexed state,

"I don't have much of a purpose outside the lab. I guess, in a way, you could say I was curated just for stuff like this," she points her thumb over her back towards the various monitors beeping in the background, "besides, these cables aren't to be scoffed at. Its a workout to just walk beyond this room."

Your eyes trail over the long, thick cables connected to her back, sprawled over the floor, trailing all the way back to being coiled at the base of her chair.

"..I see.. so.. they just trust you, huh?"

"Mhm. They don't think its something to be worried about."

She hums, walking back over to her chair, hopping onto it. A small, collar-like device beeps and fits onto her neck. Just as she's closing her eyes,

"You know, there's something else you should be worried about."

You stay silent, watching her smile right as she falls asleep,

"You should keep an eye on your dreams. They say a lot more than you think."

——

"Hey, you know.."

Khaslana perks up, looking at you from his curled up form, chin resting on his knees,

"Theres this.. empty tank in Cyrene's room.."

He shifts in the tank, clearly attentive to your words,

"It just.. creeped me out. The other day, Tribios.." you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose temporarily, looking down at the lab report on your lap, "she.. disintegrated. Died. I guess, her tank must look like that now. Except, unlike Cyrene, she's.. gone."

You don't expect a response – you've learned to use your hearing less when it came to Khaslana; relying more on showing than telling. Perhaps it was some sort of comfort from the recent, unsettling events that had you tossing and turning at night.

Tap tap tap.

You look up, Khaslana pressing his palm flat against the glass. His usual, grumpy expression is replaced by an observant yet unreadable look.

You get up from your seat, hand hesitantly pressing up against the glass aswell,

"I should be comforting you, actually," you chuckle, but there's no humor in it, "I know it won't happen to you, I just.. I guess I like being here. Being around you makes me say things I never thought I'd say out loud."

You smile, before retracting your hand. After a beat, Khaslana hesitantly retracts his, eyes still gazing into yours.

"I think you're progressing really well, Khas. You'll best everyone's expectations soon. Don't worry about anyone underestimating you."

He stays unmoving, unblinking, as if waiting for you to say something else.

Perhaps he'll always stay waiting.

——

Khaslana had dreamed again.

It became a part of his routine that he looked forward to more and more – a rare longing that had started to stir in him.

He dreams had become more vivid than before; he found himself almost longing to experience what he did in that state, as if yearning to feel each dried paintstroke of an expansive painting under his fingers – perhaps desire manifested itself as something softer.

A golden Sun in the distance melting into the horizon, the edge blurred and softened by the expanse of wheat fields. Warm winds carrying the sweet scent of a world that tucked away a lifetime in an unknown corner, as if lazy mumblings of a secret between lovers.

He dreamed of you.

Many times did he awaken to more of your coworkers prodding at him when you'd been away, and many times did he not bother remembering their faces. Only yours had etched itself into the confines of his mind that had once been occupied with other nefarious schemes; perhaps you had changed him in more ways than one. You made him want something else other than freedom.

Made him want to find meaning in you.

Made him dream of a lifetime where he wasn't khaslana. Where he could feel your hands. Where you'd lay him vulnerable and soft under you; fingertips tracing his skin in adoration rather than study. Perhaps he would be easier to love – learning how to make you laugh with gentle words, with a playful flurry of kisses on your face unobstructed by glass, learn how to smile more softly.

He opens his eyes again, and he returns. The blue medium of his tank had become more and more despicable to him with each awakening, reminding him of his painful role in this sadistic orchestra of fate, making him wish more for a dream farthest away from this place.

Where he wasn't just a test subject in a laboratory.

——

It was after you'd reported your advancements on Khaslana – and actually proven them – that you'd gotten access to the other deeper parts of the lab.

The first time you'd met Cyrene – or rather, saw her.

You observed, almost mesmerised, as her pink hair was combed through, another scientist fiddling with the mechanical attachment to her arm.

Cyrene – the predecessor to Khaslana.

She was the culmination of what your lab had been working towards. Intelligent, lucid, capable of inhuman feats.

You watched as they were done, pulling back and lending their support as the pink haired girl got up, the heavy wires connected to her back making it a difficult task for her to even walk,

She was of short stature. You could argue perhaps she was simply another blueprint like HubRis504; a girl called Cerydra who was also just simply shorter than average. But you know it wasn't possible – you'd looked at her notes, glimpsed into what she was supposed to be.

Cyrene had greatly advanced in terms of lucidity and intellect, and resembled closely human traits like empathy. This, however, came at the cost of her freedom.

She was only allowed to roam within the lower sections of the lab. Huge, heavy cables plugged into her back at all times. Without support, she wouldn't walk. And without cables, she wouldn't be awake.

Or alive, even.

You saw the sadness in her eyes, the scarily human regret at her own existence, the burden of being confined and unable for more.

It left you with a sour taste in your mouth.

You remember pondering about it, Khaslana's familiar, heavy gaze on your back as you buried yourself with other paperwork in the room – checking for uselessly mundane things.

"He says he dreams about you."

How could she have known?

You must've idled for too long; a few taps on the glass resound behind you, as he prods for your attention.

You look at him, but don't say anything. You turn, continuing with your work. Your hand moves to the various keys, fingers tapping away.

Flicker.

You stop, startled slightly at the glitch. You shake your head, and continue anyway.

another one. Its accompanied by a strange, buzzing sound.

sigh. This equipment is really worn. If your lab wasn't as sketchy and bothered to keep up to date then—

The lights go out.

You drag your hand over your face. The blue of his tank illuminates the room, the corner of your vision, the alien-like visual of it leaking into every crevice. As if the light was punishing you for not looking at it.

Pushing yourself off the desk, having no other excuse, you sluggishly approach him, watching his unreadable expression.

He watches – always watching. Always seeing. Gold searing into you.

"Do you feel lonely?" Your hand presses against the glass. His eyes stay on your hand for a moment, then flit back to your face. You hold back a chuckle – he really seems to like looking at you.

He slowly brings up his hand, large palm pressing where yours is on the other surface of the glass. Its a little harder for him to estimate where your hand is, the view of it covered up by his much larger one.

"Very." – is what he would say, if he could speak.

––

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Not now."

Tap.. tap..

"I'm busy."

....

Tap tap tap!

You sigh, but your gaze doesn't budge, finishing up a sentence before popping the cap back onto your pen. You push yourself away from the desk, the wheels of your chair rolling, as you get up,

"I told you to stop disturbing me while I worked,"

You stood facing Khaslana, who's hands were resting on the glass of his tank. Oddly enough, you were rarely annoyed despite his constant disturbance – tapping against the glass, messing with the pipes, scratching against the lid of his tank, doing who knows what to himself physiologically to mess with the monitors temporarily (he was either too fast or good at hiding it, you never understood just what he was doing. )

It all boils down to the fact you can't blame him. If it were you in that tank, you wouldn't be half as much patient as him; you were sure of it. Another fact..

Khaslana points to something in the room, and taps against the glass twice – he wants you to explain it to him.

You walked over, searching for what object exactly had gotten his interest. After a few confused glance-backs and repeated "is this it?"s, you managed to haul up a rubicks cube – how he even managed to see it from such a distance, you wouldn't know. You chalk it up to him being.. well, not a human.

You drag your chair from your desk to the face of the tank, sitting down in position as if a routine – it had become one at this point; attributed to his restlessness rather than curiosity. But when you're born not knowing, those traits don't necessarily differentiate.

After a few minutes of explaining, he taps his finger again – once. He wants you to throw it in the tank.

You hesitate for a moment, wondering if it'll even work considering the thick viscosity of the fluid inside. It's not long before your train of thoughts is interrupted by constantly rapping of his finger on the glass, signaling his growing impatience.

Aiming as best as you can, you throw, sighing in relief when it just lands on the edge of the small opening, enough for gravity to tip it over and in. Khaslana swipes it quickly, attention occupied by something else. You watch for a moment, before turning back– time to return to work, when,

Tap tap tap

Your eye twitches, resisting the urge to outwardly groan or drag a hand across your face. You turn your head, looking back lazily, as Khaslana motions for you to come closer.

Lately, he's been a bit of an attention hog.

Again, you refrain from blaming him. Perhaps it's really just a habit formed by you watching over him so closely in his early stages, perhaps the dopamine release when you encourage him along every step, or just parallel play. It wasn't a problem until you decided you could give up the reign to let him progress on his own a little more to focus on the other backdrop of details which was mounting in workload day by day.

"Khas, you can do it," you start gently, a strained smile as you try to stand your ground, "you don't need me to watch over you, right? I know you can."

His response, however, is a deadpan expression with the rubicks cube still held in his hand - not a single column nor row had been moved.

You sigh, giving in – could you ever not? – to him, "greedy brat," you say, without a bite to it, pulling your chair closer, before sitting down with a huff, "you're always waiting for me."

His eyes now stay trained on the cube in his hands, clearly delving into his thoughts as soon as he's assured you're watching and staying close by. At least you could entertain yourself aswell; it was a sort of quench for your curiosity everytime he managed to hit a milestone, regardless of how minor it seemed on the outside.

After a moment, his fingers start moving. A draft from the vents gently sways the page of the report on your desk.

——

You can't believe it.

You don't want to believe it.

Papers fly and rip, painfully cumulative effort of months are shredded by you. Its as if you're possessed – you don't deny it as the thought crossed your mind, you're practically tearing your hair out as you feverishly read the notes in Cyrene's lab. Desks and drawers are pulled open, your eyes squint at every letter under the low light, and Cyrene herself does not make a move to stop you, standing a few ways away, hand on her chair to support herself as she watches.

Your eyes sting, but you harshly rub away the tears, too focused at the acrid and bitter truth that you'd suddenly found. Didn't care for the painful throbbing in your head, nor the blood blooming in your mouth from your teeth gnawing on your lips. Frustration and anger, and the devastation of every single one of those subjects disintegrating flashed at the forefront of your mind, making your fury rush back ten times harder.

It started out with a simple conversation. You found yourself asleep at your desk in Khaslana's lab, way past curfew, and a coffee cup with a small sticky note bidding you goodluck on your project. Perhaps your colleagues had found you in the lab and decided not to interfere with your progress – such was the etiquette between your peers. Perhaps unusual, but this was the norm.

You were missing something, and decided you'd perhaps ask Cyrene a few more questions regarding Khaslana's growth as you retraced your steps deeper into the darker, dimly-lit hallway leading to her labroom. One conversation turned into another as Cyrene recounted her developmental days, the investments, the nights spent with scientists working around the clock to make sure she overcame a learning curve.

"As the first model of many to come, I was equipped with a fail-safe. As is Khaslana," she said, pointing to a few of her older notes that had been stashed away in a narrow cabinet, "maybe it'll help", she said.

Thats how you found out.

They planned to destroy every single one of them.

At least, that must've been the reason. Right?

Cyrene stayed still, even as you fell to your knees, frustration and something else, more intense, bubbled in your chest and burst to the forefront in broken sobs. Something more about dreams and the desperate struggle of a burnt out student that pulled it out of you like a fish's jaw stuck on a hook.

Cyrene had learned more about her humanity through what shouldn't have been. Watching the others peer down at her with a disgusted or a disapproving look was what originally trained her into "humanlike" behavior. Later had she learned to hear further than the technical mumblings inside her own lab – learned to hear from the pipes, learned to see beyond her own eyes.

Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise; her inability to manifest a functional physical form had given her excess time to learn the workings of the laboratory intimately, listening carefully to even the scratching of pencils, watching the intimate placement of a hand against a glass surface yearning for something beyond. It was as if she'd become closer to understanding omnipotence, as if she breathed through the pipes, watched through the vents.

But watching and learning wouldn't have been enough; not when the boundary of ignorance remained even between most. Cyrene learned to sift through the whispers, learn of her true purpose, and eventually of the fates of those who would soon come after her.

Emotions had become stagnant in such a place; apathy, logic, deduction, reason – all of which took presidence over the painful consciousness they'd granted to the subjects. Soon came Khaslana, who'd learned overtime to do the same, and eventually learn just as she did as he "slept". They'd learned perhaps there was no place for a foreign feeling of empathy, fury over injustice.

Not until you.

In that instance, both of them watched. Khaslana and Cyrene had started to grasp of the true depravity that had taken place – through every tear you shed for those whose tanks were left empty from a premature end rather than a "birth".

They learned the magnamity of pain that had suddenly thrusted itself upon your shoulders; the mere concept of creating a consciousness only to make it suffer and then end it.

You had come to understand – the self-disintegrating equation had been integrated into Cyrene, through which they would force her to send out a command and destroy the 'defective' subjects. Tribios' death, along with the others', had been planned by hand-picked scientists, who decided at the cost of their lives that they'd be better off as mere investments into Khaslana instead.

They fed them. To each other.

——

Your absence felt like a branding.

It was one thing occasionally waking up to useless, invasive, bothersome insects that you called "coworkers" while you were away, and another when he learned they were replacing you.

Fury was not enough of a word to describe what he felt.

Purposefully, barely veiled sabotage would take place by his hand. Several times throughout the day would alarms go off, malfunctions would occur with the technology, and the progress bar would drop almost 20% each day, as if an iron fist would push it back. Even Cyrene was rendered to the role of a witness as the lights would flicker each time the upper section of the lab would be thrown into chaos, not even having to use any extra "eyes" or "ears" to hear the scientists scramble and rush, the scuff of their feet in masses enough to echo and trickle down to the quiet of her now-empty labroom with each senior scientist putting all hands on deck.

Khaslana would sear this filthy place with your absence just as they had dared to try and threaten him with yours.

"I guess.. its worth trying" – your words echo in his mind, as if trying to revive your own dreams within his consciousness, like restoring an age-old portrait. The fractured panorama of you repaired by the fill-ins of his melting dreams, gold and so bright he felt fear for the first time – fear of burning himself with how desperately and passionately he burned and ached for you.

"Do you like it?" You flip your notebook, showing Khaslana how you'd style his hair once he was ready to step out.

He doesn't say anything, his finger hesitantly reaching out and pressing against the glass. He didnt seem to be pointing, but rather absentmindedly tracing the curvature of your strokes, as if imprinting.

You giggle. You move, although regrettably interrupting his learning, you position your chair to face your back to him, so he can get a better view of your sketchbook as you rest it on your lap and flip to a new page,

"I'll show you the process, watch closely okay?"

Each day it got worse; as if a biblical punishment had drawn upon them. His tank had then started to strain to contain him – the layers of glass starting to crack, the fluid bubbling more as the temperature in the labroom shot up; forcing the shifting of most, if not all of the equipment that was once in the room due to overheating.

It felt as though it had only bolstered their will, continuing to only leave you with a stone cold silence as you suffered in your own skin.

Nights passed with restless sleep; your sheets had no longer been able to thaw out the numbing cold that had started to chew on the tips of your being – trouble came nightfall with paranoia chipping equally at your mind. Visions flashed in front of you; as if Khaslana had started to haunt you.

Your dreams would flicker behind your eyelids – the fractured panorama of them had begun to mock you for daring to conjure up of something so warm; when there had been no such place for it. Every piece of the empty cracks you'd tried to fill in seemed to infect the age-old painting whole. Every piece where you'd imagined Khaslana as another boy; white-haired, blue-eyed, golden only under a peaceful sun of a faraway, country-side place-- as if paintstrokes had started to bleed, your blissful wishes would be interrupted harshly as Khaslana would grip these wishful visions and tear them apart. A part of you almost believes it to be happening; another part of you wonders if you've truly lost it?

The whole of you hates him.

You toss and turn– ignore the pale of your research papers stewn across your room that glare under the moonlight, imagine your own words mocking you, laughing like howling dogs in the static crackle of the night, as if a hazard sign had grown a mouth simply to grin at your foolishness.

You scratched at every sketch you'd drawn; torn up miscellaneous calculations you forced him to help you with, cursed and stashed away anything that looked remotely gold. Acted as if doing so was akin to pouring lines of salt; but he was no  spirit – it was worse; he was inhuman and physical. Something defined and had make you long aware that could overpower you at any moment. It made you think of those wretched wings that ripped from the skin of his back, entwined with gold and black, spreading like tree branches; the golden cracks along his body that made your eyes hurt if you stared too long; perhaps that was the first sign. He was too dangerous; and by now you were praying. For salvation, protection, and titans forbid that thing manages to leave its confinement.

——

Perhaps to ask for salvation had become a sin.

You breathed in, careful and measured, but your natural instincts threaten to override each second. Logic and rationale struggle to overcome the wavering tide of adrenaline that was practically poisoning you; teetering the edge, not yet boiling over, but clearly overflowing. Your breaths occasionally staggered, but you managed. Your fingers trembled as you stepped into the lab, unlocking each door as you walked further in; the muscles of your legs burning and already trembling as they overcompensated for the threat of them buckling.

The lab was too quiet.

By the end of the week; it was you who felt inhuman. You felt less – like a humiliated animal at the mercy of another; desperate to gnaw off your own self had it meant the guarantee of your survival. Instinct felt more primitive; and fear seeped into your very bones like arsenic. Your paranoia had reached a fever-pitch until you finally decided enough was enough, and by some cursed reason decided to pull the plug yourself.

You don't blame yourself – or perhaps you're too tired to. Your brain had become a mess, and by some ray of clarity had you found enough reasoning to pull yourself together and make sure there would be an end to this.

An end to the Deliverer you had once named.

But it was far from being as heroic as it sounded – if the sharp silence of the lab was anything to go by. It had seemed as if no one had entered nor left; the air was stagnant, and the lack of ventilation had suspended even the dust in its place. You were no hero, and this was no rescue.

The power-saving lights flickered on; making your heart drop to the bottom of your stomach. You stopped moving until your skin itched with how still you'd stood; straining to hear anything– anyone.

After a moment of silence, you continued. You would have thought it to be marching to your demise, the autopilot of your previous years had taken presidence, leading you right down to Cyrene's labroom which you had then determined to be the heart of the lab. Perhaps like you did once, you'll find answers there again.

But what had greeted you was far from expectations. You never assumed you were going to be met with a pretty sight; but the grotesque state the labroom was in had you stumbling away for a moment as you forgot to breathe; the door slamming shut just as you'd opened it an inch.

Inside had laid Cyrene, cables violently ripped and melted. The plastic of her skin (which had begun to add to the uncanny horror of everything), was torn and cracked, chips of her being scattered across the room like glass under your shoes as you approached.

You knew she was far from replying; far from greeting you once more with a warm smile, and mysterious advice. Her blue eyes had returned to the default model color, revealing the tiny printed code on her pupils that only hurt more to see. She returned to another kind of death; the lack of an identity, one that was the wholly hers.

Had you let the exorbitant need to look away overpower, you wouldn't have spotted the flicks of gold that stuck behind her ear.

It had dawned on you long ago; you thought about him and only him - like a reel of ribbon unfurling continually with every step you took from the moment you walked into the lab. Somehow, someway, Khaslana was behind all of this.

But you weren't searching for answers.

——

"Phainon, wake up,"

You nudged him, a devilish grin on your face as he failed to wake up. You leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek – to which he reacted by scratching the fluttering feeling left behind by your lips, accompanied by a small, groggy hum.

"C'mon," your hand pushes against his shoulder, harsher than before, easing into being rougher as the man barely budged an inch, "Phai, you're gonna be so late"

"..in a minute.." he mumbled, turning in his sleep slowly, the huge wall of his back now facing you. You giggled, before throwing yourself at the wide expanse of his back, hands scanning over his body before gripping his shoulders again, and shaking him as much as you could – it wasn't easy considering just how huge he was compared to you. There were times where the bed would croak out a terrible noise and you feared it would buckle any second under Phainon.

You lean closer, aiming now, for his ear. You trace your finger along the curve of its shell, grazing the sensitive skin ever-so-slightly as to watch the slow shiver travel up his spine, cackling to yourself. But it doesn't seem to wake him yet – far from your worries, as you move in to plant your final weapon;

"agh– huh-? Hey-!"

Phainon jolted as you blew air into his ear, hand shooting up to cover it. You giggled again, relishing your victory, but it was a temporary moment before a pair of big, strong arms enveloped you, almost dragging you under into the throes of pillow and your sheets,

"Phai-! Let go!" You said between giggles as Phainon nuzzled you closer,

"Hmph? Trying to bargain now, are we?" He nuzzled his face into the top of your head, your face thrashed into his chest, "too late! This is what you get!"

A few minutes of your collective thrashing later, both of you laid quiet as the morning came to a slow rise.

"You're gonna be late for your stream. Remember what you promised everyone?" Phainon closes his eyes, feeling the thrum and reverb of your voice muffled by his neck. He hums in response, closing his eyes, "I know, I know. Thanks for waking me up on time – must've been a hassle for you."

You squirmed out of his grip, propping yourself up on your elbow as you looked down at him; disheveled, "a huge hassle. You're like a wet bag of rice!"

And your morning continued in several back and forths, before eventually one of you broke the standstill and moved on ahead.

Sizzling erupted, followed by the clinks of matching mugs against the countertops. The Sun had casted ample light into the kitchen, a soft amber glow had started to warm the stagnant air of the morning.

"I think this might've expired.." Phainon squinted, shaking the condiment in his hand, straining to hear with a quirked brow.

"Mm, I'll write it down," you pushed your back off the countertop, placing your mug down, as you moved to reach a cabinet, "do you remember where the marker is? I'm not sure where I left it.."

Just as your hand grasps the handle, Phainon's covers yours, enveloping it in an instant, preventing you from opening it. You turn slightly, meeting his gaze with a questioning of your own,

"I'll get it. Watch over the eggs for me?"

You nod, letting go of the handle. Phainon admits he misses even the minimal loss of contact; but he understands the urgent change of priority.

He watches as you busy yourself with the sizzling of the pan, carefully opening the cabinet, squinting his eyes at the swollen, messy marker.

The one you'd thrown into his tank.

He swipes it, before shuffling around to find for a new one. As you plate the breakfast, he adds another sticky note to the fridge, writing down 'markers' just as the ink starts to taper.

"Oh, guess we're out.." you say between mouthfuls.

Phainon joins you, "we should get glitter pens for our anniversary," it pulls a laugh out of you, reverberated by the ceramic of the cup as you take a sip, "I call dibs on the pink one."

He shoots you an exasperated look, "nuh-uh, I always call dibs on the pink ones,"

You giggle again, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "awh, you always swipe them."

Phainon hums as he chews, swallowing before he responds, "gold suits you," he brings the edge of his cup to his lips, taking a sip as his eyes watch you over the line,

"Just because its glitter doesn't mean its gold! That's just yellow!"

You two continue to go back and forth, finishing up your morning routine together. Phainon takes a moment to relax before setting up his stream – mainly an excuse just to watch you cycle through your own routine as you get ready for work. He says it's hypnotising, and you laugh at the endearing nature of it.

"Here, let me," Phainon shuffles up behind you, hands reaching out tentatively after you struggled with the clasp of your necklace for a few seconds,

"Its okay– I got it.." you chew on your lip, eyes fixed on your dressing table as your fingers fumbled with the clasp,

"Sweetheart," Phainon gently urges,

"No, no, hold on.." he watches through the mirror, gaze fixed on the way you chew your lips. Old habits die hard, don't they?

After another moment of struggling, you sigh, retracting the necklace and placing it onto his extended hand,

He smiles, watching you straighten up, gently pulling the thin chain of it around your neck. The reflection of his face is hidden behind your head, his fingers slow and relishing as they thread the clasp, lingering a little longer on the skin of your nape. You smile at how tender he can be sometimes.

"Done." He stands up, hand on his hip, staring proudly down at you as you turn to flash him a thankful smile,

"I'll be headed out then," you sigh, grabbing a few essentials, before getting up from your seat,

"Want me to drop you off?"

You hum, considering the offer as you shrug on a jacket, "nah, its alright. I feel like walking, today."

"Let me know if you want me to pick you up."

"Sure, but won't you be streaming?"

He shrugs, handing you some of your things as you finish adjusting your jacket, "it'll take 20 minutes max. They can wait."

You chuckle, moving towards the door. You shuffle into your shoes, resting your hand over the handle,

"Okay, then. Bye, Phai, goodluck with work,"

He nods, leaning in to press a kiss against your cheek, "you too, honeycake."

——

Perhaps the necklace was reacting with your skin.

Which was a bit of a shame – because it was an anniversary gift.

Regardless of whether or not gold suited you; you wore it. Phainon; your boyfriend of many years, had an odd fixation with decorating you with gold. Of course, he was never suffocating about it – but it was the little things; despite the many gifts he'd give you catered to a plethora of your tastes, it was practically a custom for him to gift you something gold on every anniversary.

You sighed again, fingers tentatively reaching up behind your neck to gently rub at the prickling itch under the clasp. It was strange, considering you never had any reactions before. You'd have to concern yourself with it another time, choosing to try and distract yourself from the minor inconvenience by zoning out and thinking about anything else.

You turned the corner, eyes landing on every familiar landmark you'd remembered for yourself – the dandelions in that specific crack of the pavement along the way, the street sign, the bakery that opens right after you pass it. You let yourself drift in your own thoughts, only to stop when–

Right. You stop in your tracks at the TVs on display behind the glass, squinting to read the news title as several heads had started to block your view.

..Still missing after 10 years – abandoned laboratory found to house multiple strange..

You felt a strange ringing rise to the forefront of your head, making you squeeze your eyes shut and stagger your breath for a second.

Maybe you should keep going.

You should definitely keep going.

Don't worry about it.

You breathe out, continuing to walk ahead as you slowly pried open your eyes, adjusting to the growing sunlight that reflected off the windows in the distance in stronger magnitude.

——

Phainon stayed silent after you left. The house had become emptier— bigger, voider.

He stayed in place, standing in front of the door as he heard your footsteps grow distant until he could no longer hear them.

He sighed out, scratching the back of his neck as he moved, sluggish, as if reluctant to part from the very moment you'd left.

But it wasn't long before he set into motion. There were two main things he needed to attend to.

First was the obvious – a stream held to celebrate hitting a milestone long overdue.

The second..

Was you.

Or rather, getting rid of your past.

He sucks in as he pulls out the cardboard box, waving in front of his face as it kicked up dust.

Your research papers; if you could even call it those. He sat hunched over, fingers brushed the folded corners.

Various calculations – random in nature, were scattered over the paper. The ones you'd forced him to help you with when he was still in his tank, trying to squeeze out any and all information about his cognitive functions. He smiled to himself, eyes darting to the corner of the page where you'd doodled a silly, mini caricature of him.

He remembers everything. Titans– how could he not?

Let it be a decade, or a few; he'd remember. He may be a fraction of your life even now, but he'd known you since he opened his eyes.

He remembered, when you didn't.

That day, where his life with you had truly began.

——

You gasped, as if trying to grasp the air that was escaping your lungs with every gulp, furiously hyperventilating as you rushed to his side–

"Khaslana!"

The glass of his tank had shattered – a striking blow outlined by the brittle, cracked glass that held on to the edges. The viscous, blue fluid of his tank covered the floor in a thin film, sticky under your shoes as you moved carefully, using the nearby chairs as support,

"Khaslana! Wake up!"

You coughed – more from the thick, cloying chemical smell that was enough to close your throat temporarily, almost making the acid of your stomach lurch; most likely the sublimination of the medium that had started to take place.

You stumbled, pushing further with little regard for balance, ignoring the scattered glass pricking your skin as you fell to your knees in a hurry, reaching out for the collapsed Khaslana who seemed unmoving.

Tentatively, your fingers grazed against the lithe feathers of his wings, trembling still as you called out once more,

"Khaslana? Titans– please," you breathed, a sob strangled in your throat, "please, please..!" The trembling of your hands became more violent, as they traced a path up to his back, reaching for his shoulders, gently pulling him into your lap, turning him over, a hand supporting the back of his head, the other resting on his chest.

It was a strange, cruel battle of thoughts in your head. You hated him– good riddance, you wanted to say. Please, not like this, you sobbed. Perhaps you'd grown too attached.

You repeated his name several times, watching a familiar gold seep from under him and onto your fingers; almost collapsing your hope entirely–

twitch.

You hold your breath, eyes wide, staring down at his face as it twitches.

A few moments pass– agonizingly long. His body jolts, as if fighting off a paralysis.

A heavy hand crashes into the ground as he shoots upright, making your heart jump into your throat.

Its fast– you barely see anything; all you can register is something is moving. Before you know it, you're on your back and Khaslana is on you.

He has your back pressed against the floor, hands holding your arms in a vice-grip, of which you're sure are forming bruises. You look up at him in a sort of horror; the realisation dawning on you that he's much larger than you'd anticipated.

You try to speak, open your mouth and croak out something, but nothing does. His eyes are golden and glare into the confines of your soul; like an arrow shot through the dark, ripping and tearing until it found its way to your very core. The sickening-blue color of the medium had been a mercy, you realise now, eyes straining to even look at him.

He leans in– and you don't stop him. You cant. His lips brush against your jugular with precision (he continues to surprise you regardless, even at such a state). Wet teeth graze your skin, his grip only tightening further on you when you jolt.

"Khas– lana.." you choke out, swallowing thickly, as if moving an inch would mean offering your heart up on a platter.

His eyes glance up at you; familiar, oddly shaped pupils bore into yours,

"Y-Youre alive," you choke out, stating as if it were a casual contradiction, "I thought.."

Your words make him press further- a hot tongue laving at your skin, the unexpected contact making you jerk out of your shocked trance, hands suddenly flailing for purchase,

"Khaslana–! What are you– what happened?!"

He retracts, like a wounded animal, hair swept just enough to hide his eyes as his head lowered.

Everything stayed silent.

Khaslana's hand moved, letting go of your arm, as he spoke,

"Searching.. for you.."

He struggles, breathing staggering – you imagine the transition from liquid to air must've been hideously painful, cringing at even the thought of it. You prop yourself up on an elbow, your other hand gently cupping his face,

"Khaslana?"

"Wanted.. to be.."

His hand – now behind you – grips something.

"Someone else.."

You feel his fingers graze the skin of your nape – goosebumps rising at the contact.

He breathes out, heavy, as if swallowing down a sob,

"███P██ai██"

He looks up at you– meeting your gaze in an instant, golden eyes burning, and you feel your stomach drop, as you feel something sharp punch into your nape,

"Together. █ou█ s"

——

"If you encompass everyone's wishes, you'll be left behind as they approach a new world. Then, who will grant the next wish?"

Cyrene's voice echoed in the pipes, her gaze on the journal in her lap as she scribbled away, kicking her legs,

"Surely, then, your wish should also be considered?" She leans back, placing the pen along the central indent of the book, "I wonder what you want. Rarely do you speak about anything but breaking out."

The other side of the line stays quiet. Khaslana's eyes stare into nothing, zoned out. He remains in a curled form, the feathers of his wings occasionally brushing against him following the flow of the fluid. His chin rests on his knees, eyes flitting up to your makeshift desk in the lab right across him; your belongings sprawled over it, awaiting the next day like its already ordained to happen.

"..I have a wish," the other line responds. Cyrene hums, flipping the pages of her journal, "you do?"

Khaslana closes his eyes, envisioning a golden world, where his arms aren't around himself, but you. He images your head resting on his chest, hearing for yourself the stable, almost mechanical thumping of his heart rather than watching a monitor in the background. A world where he wouldn't have this glass barrier everytime he reached out to touch your face.

Where you could undo him entirely, study him to your heart's content without having to worry about weekly goals or reports. Where you could tease him endlessly about his sensitive ears, or his natural restlessness.

"Hold onto that wish," Cyrene says, closing the thick journal on her lap, before hauling it off, "it'll help you stay focused"

He keeps his eyes closed, and hopes sleep greets him before your colleagues.

——

He stays silent, hunched over the dusty cardboard box, staring down at the thick journal under all your research papers.

Cyrene's journal.

He brought it in the case where if he would need to return to his original goal, he would be able to utilise the information Cyrene had painstainkingly written down in her last moments before everything was thrown into chaos.

Nah. He's lying.

He laughs under his breath, humorless. Truthfully, only one page in that book had remained valuable to him.

He glanced at his phone, noting the time. He'd need to start the stream soon. His fingers haphazardly shuffled everything back in, leaving only her journal outside of the box, as he pushed it back into it's place.

——

You sighed, almost melting in his arms, as Phainon massaged your shoulders.

Having a bath after work was a luxury you rarely gave yourself; and was rarely an activity you two could enjoy together.

You nuzzled your face further into his neck, arms wrapped loosely around it, drawing a hearty chuckle out of him,

"You're getting too comfortable. Don't fall asleep, okay?"

You hummed, barely registering his words,

"So, how'd it go?"

He hums, thinking for a moment,

"Wasn't all that bad. Although, I'm pretty sure at least one thing was radioactive."

"Hm?" You open your eyes, about to question him as he quickly waves away your concern,

"Just kidding. The real hardest part about appraisals are the fact no one wants to believe its a fake."

You smile, closing your eyes,

"I think its just to keep you on stream longer.." you yawn, "I'd love to mess with you to do just that."

Phainon chuckles, "well, I'm right here. If anything," one of his hands comes up to cradle the back of your neck, "Im the one waiting to see you."

"We live together, how much more do you want to look at me?"

"Not just looking. Its different when you're around, y'know? My streams just do better anytime you're watching me behind the scenes."

You hum, placing a languid kiss against his jaw, eyes still closed. You move up slightly, brushing your lips teasingly over his ears, relishing the quick jolt that follows,

His hand moves from the back of your head to your nape, fingers circling the irritated spot, making you hiss,

"Everything okay?" He stops immediately,

"Yeah, just.."

You shuffle a bit, but settle back just as quickly, "that spot's been irritated. Try not to touch it."

"Ah, okay. Mind if I have a look, though?"

You nod, despite how silly that question was.

It was just him; overly-considerate, almost too-sweet. It rushed to you, swelling up in your chest as it returned a lazy smile to your face before you knew it. You pushed your face back into his neck, lips pressed ardently against his damp skin.

"I think it might be a reaction.." Phainon feels a strange tingle as your voice reverberates a bit into him, muffled by the skin,

".. is that so?"

He seems busy scanning it, but you don't mind, moving your face to bury itself completely; the very little light passing through your eyelids now completely obscured.

"I might have a cream for that lying around somewhere," Phainon remarks, fingers gently prodding the space around the burning sensation, "I'll apply it for you later."

"Thanks, Phai," you mumbled, barely bothering to remove your face from him, drawing another chuckle out of him.

...

"Ah, almost forgot.."

You remove your face, moving back enough to be eye-level with him,

"I heard this on the news, I don't know if you have, but.."

Your hands haphazardly traced his back, fingers dipping just below his nape, feeling the ridges of his spine,

"Do you know anything about Khaslana?"

——

"I tell you so often to take it easy.." Phainon mutters, handing you a glass of water,

"I know, I know– god.." you breathe out, strained, your other hand staying pressed on your forehead where the headache just kept on getting stronger.

"It'd be better if you eat it soon and take some rest. I'll make a call and let them know you won't be coming in tomorrow,"

Phainon sits down beside you, carefully. He places his hand on your back, letting the warmth of it melt into you.

"Okay.." you sigh out, forcing yourself to move despite the pain, swallowing the painkiller like a bullet down a thick vein, following it with generous gulps of water.

Phainon takes the glass from you, gently rubbing your shoulder as he gets up to encourage you to lay down – which you eventually do. Not much else you can get up to when you're having a migraine.

You sigh, recalling the events that happened not long ago, as if replaying the memory would be enough of a distraction. Rather, you hoped it would be.

Soon after you mentioned that name, that strange ringing accompanied by the sharp pain came rushing back, almost tenfold, as if a strong punch of wind was knocked out of you. You're grateful in such times Phainon was strong enough to take care of the rest up until now.

You shifted, trying to make yourself comfortable, only to hiss again as another sharp sting hit you – regrettably, you must've rubbed that rash forming behind your neck on the pillow.

You carefully turned to your side, just in time as Phainon came back, pulling up the covers on you, before sitting down on the edge of the bed,

"Its a stronger dose, but takes a while to really kick in. Think you can tolerate it?" His voice is more concerned than taunting or challenging. You feel his hand rub over your ankle soothingly, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric.

"I'm fine.. Just.. maybe I can sleep it off..?" You mumbled, not really paying heed to logic in such a state. God– you just wanted to stop talking hearing, seeing, breathing.. as if mere existence was making the migraine worse.

Beside you; Phainon stayed worried, which almost worsened your state.

You closed your eyes, forcing yourself to relax your eyebrows, letting loose the tension in your jaw. It was a while of staying still that you felt his hand lift, heard Phainon shift quietly, and tip-toe to exit the room.

You relax your eyes, letting them open slowly, staying comfortably half-lidded.

With nothing but time to pass as you wait for the painkiller to set, you thought about the last few years with Phainon. The intertwine of your clothes in his, the meals for two he'd learned to cook, the scent of your mixed scents in the bedsheets – all a cumulative display of your beings woven into each other's over time.

All things have a beginning. Yours with Phainon's wasn't exactly conventional.

You don't remember exactly which week it was – the one during which you finally started taking showers or the one where you started stashing away your old notes.

After days of rationing out ready-to-eat foods, then junk, then finally making something simple with leftover groceries, you eventually had to visit a store to stock up. Although you'd usually get it delivered, the air in your home had grown stagnant and suffocating; and perhaps isolation would literally kill you.

Fear is always what drove you most. You gathered yourself as much as you could; throwing on a hoodie that didn't stink, patting down your pajama pants, smoothening the skin on your face so you didn't look.. well, sunken.

In retrospect, your first encounter with Phainon was embarrassing. "If I could," Phainon stops to chew and swallow, pointing at you across the dinner table, "I'd have that moment folded up in a locket in my breastpocket!" You cringed at his lovey-dovey words, but it was obvious he truly meant it to a degree.

Which was all the more confusing.

"..huh?" You stammered a bit, jolting from your daze,

"Are you okay?"

White-haired, blue-eyed. Tall, fit, and a little imposing if you wanted to be picky. A yellow hoodie and purple pants – god, was he color blind?

It knocked the wind out of you; when you looked to your side, holding a fruit in each hand, only to find a picture-perfect side profile of a man you literally saw in your dreams.

You were naive; hoping perhaps you'd gotten rid of that monstrosity for good, biding your time in hiding, only to see him in the first person who interacted with you after all those months. Knowing had truly become a curse now; regardless of it originally being your drive.

You stared at him, sunken eyes blown-wide open, mouth hung, and you're sure had Phainon been a little less kind, he'd have called the security on you. A little less than that, and animal control would've been called faster.

After a bit of stuttering and awkward throat-clearing, you tip-toed around certain topics.

"So.. who do you work for..?"

Phainon was a streamer; an indie one at the time, a remark he'd accompany with a friendly chuckle, before affirming he's on his way up.

"What do you.. like to do otherwise?"

He reads. Usually adventures, actions, thrillers, but he'll occasionally dabble in fanfiction. He nervously laughs and shrugs you off when you ask which site he reads it on.

"What do you like to eat?"

A lot of human things, to your dismay. Even more disappointing, everything just fit him perfectly.

Pancakes for dinner, perhaps lasagna for lunch, olive juice in the morning if he could help it – he was a mess, but he wasn't..

Well, it doesn't matter. Your lips press into a thin line, as you mumble out an apology for your invasiveness. He politely waves it off, before continuing conversation. The more time you spent in that aisle talking to Phainon, the more you felt a certain weight push off your chest. As if a mountain had dissipated from your shoulders – it wasn't your responsibility anymore, and there was no longer any room for shame. You'd accepted your shortcomings.

Phainon had unintentionally become a miracle to you – he invited you over the next time you two ran into each other at the store, and surprisingly got along well. You'd understood why he garnered so much attention as a streamer; he had natural charisma, he was open, friendly, and patient.

And, well, he was good-looking, despite his odd clothing choices.

Khaslana was, too; although you'd wring yourself dry of every fluid in your body before you admit it. So you naturally chalk it up to the similarities in them that makes you think Phainon is attractive.

Knowing is a curse; at some point it became a problem whenever you looked at Phainon. All you'd see is Khaslana, or rather, the potential he had.

"Oh, I keep buying these antiques, but more than half of them tend to be fakes.." he pouts, a big, red 'DEFEAT' on his side of the split screen– and you wonder; had Khaslana gotten the opportunity, would he have collected things aswell? He never gave that marker back, after all. Something in your heart tightens, but you shrug it off when Phainon asks for a rematch.

"Ah, I haven't finished it yet! Have you?" Phainon's texts come rapid-fire, but you make no effort to keep up, fingers held still over the keyboard, as more messages follow, "don't spoil it for me! I'm still waiting to read it after this stream!"

You wonder if Khaslana would've held so much curiosity – he was restless because of it; which you'd come to understand a little too late under the shower head. You remember when he managed to solve that rubicks cube without any help.

You sigh, getting up to dry your hair as another one of Phainon's texts make your phone vibrate.

But you suppose the distinction is necessary; you can never live in the past, no one is waiting for you there. It's a blessing, more so than you'd like to believe.

So you try – you draw a line between them, mercilessly picking at the very little you'd fondly noted about Khaslana, turning it into something else with more nefarious intentions, elevating Phainon. Extreme, yes. Necessary, even more so.

But the true distinction happens with Phainon acting as the true catalyst — which is ironic. You're noticing most things in your life have happened now with him acting as the same role; unintentionally for the most part.

"Haha, I don't want to rush you," he comments, observing the bedraggled state you were in right as he finished, "I just wanted to let you know. You don't have to give me your answer."

Truthfully, the only reason you looked like that wasn't really the confession.

It was a horribly hot day – you both originally planned to meet at a nearby park to hang out, greatly underestimating the hot weather. Most stores had opened lazily; the workers behind the counters moving in a daze from the heat, mirroring your own condition.

A shitty instance where you accidentally dropped your ice cream, spilled water over yourself (which normally you wouldn't mind in the hot weather, it just didn't help when Phainon insisted on giving you his ridiculously thick hoodie), and eventually hobbling up under a children's slide to take cover from the heat as Phainon continued to chatter about.

Good grief – how is he even alive in this weather? You wonder why he doesn't seem to even sweat, gleefully exclaiming in response that he'd grown up under the sun in wheat fields. It made enough sense to keep you silent and listening to him until he fell silent aswell.

When you looked up at him after his confession – you swear you almost lost it. Fear is what motivates you, after all, and you're sure you felt adrenaline shock the switches in your body despite the heat, almost ready to sprint when you mistook the sun in his eyes for something else.

Something golden.

You couldn't explain this strange sense of insanity to him, and only fell on his kindness to excuse it. Had it been the other way around – you doubt you'd accept it with as much grace.

"Well, I know its been.. not so quite of a great day," Phainon scratches the back of his neck, before leaning down, eyes on your huddled form, "let's go back to my place! I'm dying for a rematch!"

——

You fucking hated Phainon.

If anything, calling it 'Phainon' was a mercy to the vile thing in front of you.

"Hey, come on, don't give me that look," he stays staring at you, arms crossed over the back of the chair, chin resting on them, "I tried to the best of my abilities, you know."

The man– thing in front of you, had 3 identities. All of which had no meaning, because you had to get the fuck out.

Your wrists strain against the rope despite it scratching your skin, leaving it burning from irritation. You breathe out, shoulders slumping as you relax, fatigue starting to catch up.

Perhaps it was the pill he gave you; he did mention it was a strongers dose than usual.

All you did was look up at him in a glare.

He sat backwards on the chair, slouched, thighs straddling the wooden stile of the chair where the seat met the rods.

His eyes were empty – god, how could they have ever been human? It draws in everything that stares back, not even sparing you mercy to remember what they used to look like when he was still just phainon.

His body was still; no useless motion, none without intention. Even the slight tilt of his head as you continued to glare had meaning. His cheek squished against his arm, as he spoke,

"This could've been easier, but I don't blame you.." his eyes trail down your body; you can't tell if its with nefarious intent, but perhaps your body knows better – a slow shudder runs up from the base of your spine, making your eyes lose focus for a moment, "anyone could have made that mistake."

"You're not stupid, Khaslana. We both know that."

He stays silent, pressing his lips together. The corners of his lips slowly quirk up into a barely strained, lazy smile,

"Was it obvious?"

Of-fucking-course. Of course it was obvious– you'd wake up after 3 hours, 5 minutes and 6.5 seconds (he'd remember even the second), you'd walk into the kitchen (still warm with sleep, like he's always seen you), and you'd see it.

Cyrene's journal on the counter.

And of course, the pain behind your neck would worsen; and you'd no longer be able to chalk it up to a rash. But you'd ignore it (you were always stubborn, he liked it), reading the pages like a madman upon an ancient tablet – learning of what truly had happened. You were always driven by curiosity more than fear; and Khaslana knew it would triumph instinct.

Through all those days you believed were buried beneath decades, you weren't the only one observing.

And now, you were being observed.

You, too, had stayed silent, choosing to grit your teeth, feeling another slow shudder crawl up your spine. The thin nightwear you chose to don had done little to protect you from the cold of the night, the moonlight bathing you in a sour reminder that it had only been just the beginning, and it was truly a long way to dawn.

Phainon, Khaslana.. whatever you want to call it, continues its shameless staring. The worst part is possibly the fact of how heavy it feels when his eyes drag across you– you can pinpoint when his eyes start at the tips of your toes to the top of your head, taking in graciously the cling of your attire onto your body in whatever small way it did.

He was so shameless – it was endearing in Phainon, and annoying in Khaslana. And now, all you can do is writhe and shiver under it's will. You dread whatever else is coming next.

"I like you. A lot."

You hold your breath, desperately trying to reign in your fury,

"You ruined me, you know," he says, in a way as if barely holding back a laugh, "I was stained by you from the start. I'm glad I could do it back,"

"Stop talking."

"I can't. Not when it comes to you."

He breathes out, shivering. He ducks his face into his arms for a moment, erratic heartbeat,

"I love it. Every time you drew me off course. Every time you entertained my whims. Every time you stayed late until everyone was gone, and it was just us."

He breathes, faster. Panting, now,

"You've ruined me entirely, you know. I gave up everything I was meant for, for you."

He stays silent for a long time. Youre not sure if he expects a response.

He lifts his head, returning to the previous position it was before – chin resting innocently over his arms.

"You don't want to look at me?"

Theres a certain undercurrent in his voice – complicated and beyond your understanding.

"[Name]."

You can't lift your head.

"Look at me, [Name]."

Why?

A creak, and the screech of wooden legs against the surface,

"You need to look at me."

God– why? Why did you ever sign up for that?

"[Name]!"

Fuck your dreams. Fuck everything you've ever wanted. Perhaps your fear had been your greatest blessing, but you regret your curiosity becoming a grater curse.

Khaslana is on his knees, hands gripping the legs of the chair yours had been tied to, golden eyes glowing in the dark as they peer up at you,

"I did this, for us."

His hands, hot against your skin as they clutch at your knees,

"Why don't you get it? [Name], I protected you!"

His hands drag up your thighs, slightly pushing against the flesh as they arrive to grab at your hips,

"What will it take? Don't you get it?"

You hiss when his fingers curl slightly into the flesh of your hips,

"I did everything because I loved you, and–" he heaves, breathing out hotly against your thighs, his eyes trained on them as you press them together, "and you– you can't even look at me!" His voice cracks on the last few words.

His face drops onto your thighs. You notice immediately the contrast of temperatures – his face is burning against your chilled skin.

Your stomach churns at how his breath borderline burns against you, and drops when you feel the wet muscle of his tongue lave at your skin,

You gasp, jolting forward a bit at the unexpected contact, causing his fingers to dig deeper into your hips. One of his hands drags along the side of your thighs downwards, until it reaches the underside of your knees and hooks under it. He continues to lick the inside of your thighs, peppering it with kisses and bites in between mumbled words,

"I.. I dreamed.." a kiss, starting at the curve of your knee, "for the first time.. I dreamed because of you," another, right above, "I dreamt so much.."

His tongue laves, drawing a daring path upwards, "I dreamt of you," a bite, making you panic and mumble out several failed protests, "I dreamt of seeing you. Touching you," his hand trails from your knee to your ankle, gripping tightly, "savouring you."

Every dream where that god-forsaken glass wall had not been there. Where he could hold you close, dream up of a beating heart he could listen to, imagine the gentle curve of your mouth against his, the moan he'd swallow when his hands worked further.

Every dream that had come true.

"Phai– Khaslana," you breathe out, heart racing, "please. Please stop."

He stops.

Then, his face pushes forward, burying in the junction of your thigh,

"That tank was a fucking nightmare."

"Yes!" You snap, fatigue still clings to your features — probably not been awake long, tiny camisole and panties leaving little to his imagination as he tries not to stare. "Do you know any secrets to warding off evil spirits? Better yet, know any place I'd be able to find an exorcist perhaps?

If you notice the way your roommate is eating up the sight of your bare legs and the shine of your skin, you don't say anything about it. Infact, you seem too caught up on whatever is going on in your head to notice at all given your ridiculous questions. Instead, you just turn on your heels and scurry back to what you were doing, leaving Dan Heng to belatedly follow.

You pat around in a rush for your phone on the couch, throwing the cushions over your shoulder until you find the device and gasp. Your fingers quickly moving to unlock it like you're looking for something in particular.

"Why are you looking to ward off spirits? Should I be concerned?" Dan Heng asks you eventually, his question drawn out and slow, sounding annoyingly unconcerned.

"Not just spirits, evil ones! And it's because the apartment is haunted ofcourse, why else?" You mutter as your fingers type something out on your phone in rushed haste. Eventually shoving your screen into your roommate's hands when it's showing an add for a nearby exorcist in your city.

One that is…. definitely a scam.

Dan Heng glances up at you from his place opposite, his expression as unreadable and calm as it always is. It's annoying how unconcerned over this he seems to be, and he was just walking around outside past midnight too, like he's some unshakable being. How is it fair that even now he looks so… perfect? He's so handsome and attractive, even after spending an incredilous amount of hours studying and not freaking out over the possibility of you both needing to hire the Ghost Busters.

The realisation makes you feel extremely self-conscious of the fact you're almost naked, nipples probably peeking through the thin fabric of your shirt and if you were to turn around your ass is probably out. So you quickly swallow and brush your hands down your tiny pyjamas in a poor attempt at covering yourself up.

"Might I ask how you have come to this conclusion?" His eyes are drawn to the movement of you pulling at your pyjamas and he quickly turns his attention back to your phone, clearing his throat. "Frankly, I have a hard time believing you."

"It was when I went to sleep, I suddenly had this dream… premonition… I don't know! But suddenly I was awake and there was this ghoulish person in the corner of my room. I couldn't get away no matter how hard I tried." You trail off as your arms hug around yourself, as if shuddering.

Your dramatic way of story telling makes Dan Heng huff in amusement, handing you back your phone with a gentle nudge.

"Then might I suggest you stop watching those particular movie showings so late?" Ofcourse, referring to the horror movies you watch before bed. The Evil Dead, The Conjouring, The Ring. Actually Sadako does bare a striking resemblance to your scary visitor. "Not to sound brash but I am sure that doesn't do much to help your… predicament."

"Impossible! I don't think that's the reason, I've been watching those movies for years." Dan Heng tries not to make a face when you shuffle past him and move further into the living room, the very room that is now almost sparkling with the effort you've taken to scrub it down.

"Maybe this apartment complex was built on a graveyard or something. There's no way what I saw was just my brain playing tricks on me." You continue to mutter to your friend over your shoulder, completely lost in your own world. With both your lack of sleep and the nerves that come with being in the presence of your handsome roommate, you appear to miss one of the pillows you'd launched onto the floor earlier until you're stumbling over top of it.

You gasp, tripping forward, almost flying face first onto the carpet of your living room with a heavy thud.

Unfortunately, by the time you've realised you're basically now resting head down ass up in your tiny panties, you can't turn around fast enough. You almost throw yourself to turn over and look at Dan Heng, eyes flitting up to where he stands over top of you, closer now after no doubt reacting to catch you.

But you feel your heart thud in your chest when you realise just how pink his cheeks have flushed, after not only recieving an eyeful of your barely covered ass but also in your rush to turn around to face him, the straps of your camisole have fallen down enough to almost have your breasts fall out of it.

You can't even try to reward yourself with a little decency (or hope that whatever ghost is haunting you gives Dan Heng a sudden bout of amnesia) before your roommate spins on his heel without even looking you in the eye.

"N-no need to explain further, I should go change. But as it may be hosting an exorcism would likely just disturb them.”

You scurry to pull back up your camisole as you watch your roommates retreating figure disappear down the hallway, followed by the flash of a light and the sound of his room door opening and closing before you're left alone with your thoughts once more.

You push yourself up just enough to lean your body against the couch, kicking your feet out against the carpet as you try your best to fight the dwindling remnants of sleep that cling to your being.

"What's worse? Being haunted by a ghost or showing your handsome roommate your whole ass?" You sigh, muttering to yourself. "Both equally bad options."

—

By the time Dan Heng comes out of his room again it's closer to 4am and you're barely hanging in there as you doze in and out of sleep from your place still on the floor. You've even managed to throw a thin sweater over your once revealing pyjamas, leaving you not only more comfortable but more covered.

It wasn't unlike you both to spend nights in each other's company, as roommates and friends often do, though not usually as late as it is now. The awkwardness from before has lessened when you see him this time, so you actually manage to bring yourself to cast him a glance from where your knees are pulled up against your chest. Your chin resting on top as you sit in the dark.

"I wasn't convinced you would still be awake." Dan Heng's voice scratches slightly, as if growing tired and his eyes appear to be a little more lidded now. He squints at you from what little light the open window offers.

You sniff, the fatigue in you coming close to bringing you to tears. "How am I supposed to sleep? What if she comes back? It's so annoying to think about." You hate how pathetic you sound, hunching in on yourself and so, so desperate to just close your eyes and go back to sleep.

"It is certainly irritating." You hear the floorboards creak beneath Dan Heng's steps as he appears to draw closer, you can't look at him in your current state. Even when you feel his presence come to stand above you. "Though might I suggest you atleast try to get some rest.”

"It's impossible, I'm too scared to sleep in my bed." You sniff again, embarrassingly child-like.

"I don't suppose you would consider sleeping in mine then?”

You snap your head to look up at him, catching yourself in a stare off as you open your mouth to respond. No words come out so you're left gaping, until you feel Dan Heng's palm come to rest on top of your head as if by means of encouragement.

"But you… where would you sleep?" You glance him up and down, still in disbelief "I can't let you sleep in my room, no way! What if she gets you too."

"That would be quite the predicament." He thinks on that, as if it's something he's not considered yet. But it's not for as long as you would like before he simply shrugs a shoulder at you. "I assume you won't mind the company then?"

You offer a nervous swallow before you're mentally trailing off. You've slept around Dan Heng before — during late night study sessions and movie nights where you've fallen asleep on his shoulder on the couch. Sure, it was embarrassing when you woke up and all but he's always understanding, so this wasn't entirely unheard of between you both. Platonic cuddling is a thing, people do it all the time. Maybe not with their really good looking roommates who they may have a small crush on but people do it.

Maybe just… best not to overly indulge but simply explore. The situation is desperate and Dan Heng, gracious as he is, is offering you an out. Or at the very least, a second victim to the haunting which means you atleast won't be alone under any circumstances.

You weigh out your options before looking your rommate in the eye from where he stands over you, waiting patiently for your answer. Dan Heng's gaze doesn't give away any other potentials that could happen in his bed.

"I…." You ignore the pinpricks of arousal and nod, pushing yourself to your feet with a deep breath "I think that would be fine."

His expression doesn't change too much with your answer. Maybe it relaxes a bit, the corners of his lips upturning ever so slightly, but that could also be a hallucinatory side effect of running on as little sleep as you are now. Regardless, Dan Heng gestures for you to follow him to his room with a soft Alright then and your feet can't quite move fast enough to keep up.

You're not unfamiliar with his room, considering you live together. You know it's down the hall, last door on the left instead of the right hand side where yours is. His door is usually always closed over but tonight it rests slightly ajar, this is your first time inside of it though. Only ever having gotten a few glances in passing or when you've knocked on it to bother him about something in particular.

But when you step into Dan Heng's room there's a weight that settles on your chest when you take a breath. The air feels much cooler than the rest of the apartment and there's a small desk lamp casting a glow across his space. It feels comfortable, yet unfamiliar when you slink past him and you listen to the soft shutter of the door when he closes it back over.

You hope to distract yourself from thinking about inevitably cuddling up with your roommate by throwing yourself back onto his mattress with a drawn out sound.

The mattress is firmer than you imagined it to be but still comfortable as you nudge yourself into the oversized sheets. Your eyes are already threatening to close in bliss as your legs lay splayed out and nobody would believe given your relaxtion now that you were just about to pull an all-nighter out of fear that your apartment was haunted.

You almost forget it yourself, suddenly unconcerned with whatever entity has chosen to latch onto you now that you're wrapped up in these comfy sheets. For a moment, you even forget this is Dan Heng's bed all together, not to mention the fact you're surrounded by all of his things and scent. Cuddled up in his space.

Until it all hits you at once. The expensive quality of his sheets and the way remnants of his body wash cling to the seams and the soft, almost ambient sounds that he's got playing in the background. Like a running stream of water or maybe a rainy day, made even more comfortable by that duskily lit lamp that you turn your head to cast a glance.

A shadow moves in the corner of your vision and your head snaps to follow it quickly, reminded of the fear that's kept you awake all night but instead met with Dan Heng as he takes his time to approach the bed. He looks especially gentle here, maybe it's the lighting or the ambiance that makes all of this feel much more intimate than it actually is, but he gives you a tender blink.

"You appear much more comfortable." His voice rolls out smooth and comforting, almost amused at how well you've taken to his bed.

"Yeah because your bed is too comfortable, so much more than mine is." You sound meek and sleepy, watching him approach you.

"I can't be certain on that fact just yet." Dan Heng's body falls into the space next to you, soft enough where you barely bounce at the impact but enough to make your body roll closer with the dip of the mattress. He sighs as he gets comfortable, shuffling in the space next you, arm brushing against yours. "Your bed is unfamiliar to me."

You almost curl in against him, like a sudden instinct that takes over when you feel how soft his skin is against yours. But you refrain, coiling your muscles tighter in the hopes of settling the need that nestles inside of you.

You breathe out a sigh for your anxieties, trying to make light of your situation and changing the subject. "I can't believe I got the ghost and the uncomfortable bed." Dan Heng turns his head to you, he exhales a noise that sounds like a laugh.

"Best to keep your voice down unless you want to alert her to the fact you've switched rooms."

"You're right." You gasp, voice a little quieter at the realisation. "I should have brought my phone so we could have that exorcist on speed dial… "I should go get it!" You exclaim but make no effort to move and whether Dan Heng picks up on your feignt or not, he appears to move to stop you anyway.

"No need." He lifts his arm up to wrap it around your shoulders, baring his chest and the side of his body to you before you feel the weight of it settle down around your waist. "I assure you nothing bad will happen while you're in here."

It's reassuring sure, but you can see the movement of Dan Heng's abdomen beneath his shirt and that flusters you more than you'd like to admit. Left almost floundering for an excuse between meek and longing glances. He looks way too hot for you to be normal about it, with his captivating eyes and slightly mused hair. But you're exhausted and he feels warm, so without even meaning to, you find yourself rolling onto your side to face him and he curls his arm around your waist to pull you closer.

"You're so brave." Your voice falls to a whisper as heat begins to crawl it's way up your neck. He's way too close, your brain can't focus on anything except the gentle rise and fall of his chest and you can't think of anything even slightly smooth to say that will eleviate the tension. So you panic.

"I bet if it was both of us we would be able to take her." You cringe immediately, eyes falling shut as you feel yourself shrink even further into the comforter beneath you. You're hoping it will just swallow you so you no longer need to speak, afraid you'll say something else completely un-sexy infront of your roommate.

But Dan Heng's voice is carefully neutral. "Hm, I would frankly prefer sleeping right now."

You try not to let him saying that get to you, he's giving you an out and there's no way you're going to ruin it just because you selfishly want to stay awake and speak to him even more. So with a sigh, you cast him another meek glance and roll your back to face him, feeling his arm fall off of it's place over you in the process. You mourn the loss.

"Right, good idea!" You try not to sound too disappointed but now you're stuck staring at the wall instead of at Dan Heng's features.

The room falls silent after that, even if only for a few moments, but it feels much longer when you're cringing at his dark window and acting like you're afraid to move.

"Here." He unknowingly cuts off your thoughts, "I think you'll find this to be much more comfortable."

Dan Heng doesn't give you the chance to consider what he means before he appears to splay himself out behind you. There's a rustle of the sheets, followed by one of his arms shifting into the space beneath your face and as if asked, you lift your head to rest it against his bicep as he curls his arm around your shoulder. The other takes that same place on your waist and without even thinking about it, you shuffle backwards until your back is almost pressed up with his chest and encouraging him to… to— spoon you?!

"I don't suppose this is better for you?" He asks earnestly. Your lashes flutter with how close he is, his breath fans over your ear. It takes everything in you not to squeak.

"Yeah… I-it is comfortable, you're right." You let your cheek squish against Dan Heng's bicep, pressing your neck into the soft muscle and when you feel the brush of his chest through the back of your shirt, you can't help but wiggle closer. "Thank you, not only for this but for letting me stay the night I mean."

"There's no need to thank me."

You don't say much beyond a comfortable grunt. Instead, you allow yourself to bask in the way Dan Heng's hand slides down from your waist to your hip and you sigh with the comforting sense of relief it brings.

"You probably think i'm being silly, don't you?" You brush your cheek back and forth across his arm with a yawn.

"That is certainly not the case. Acting like this is quite unlike you."

"It was too realistic for it just to be a nightmare, really.” You gulp down the memory of the fear you felt upon waking up to an empty apartment, unable to move, forced to relive the haunting imagery that brought you to where you are now. It takes you a second to realise Dan Heng has gone incredibly still.

"Sorry, I'm talking too much again, arent I."

"I don't mind it." Dan Heng's voice is still carefully neutral, you can hear the forced banality in it. His forearm curls its way around your throat from the front, and your eyes almost flutter in bliss as you're hugged into him. "It might be best if one of us keeps watch after-all."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better." Your roommate's chest somewhat jumps against your back and you assume he must be laughing. His fingers brush against your throat almost too naturally and you're happy not to be facing him in the moment, lest he notices the way it makes you bite on your lower lip.

"Be that as it may, it's best we don't take any chances."

"You're right. You take first watch then." You blow out a slow breath as you feel Dan Heng's fingers continue to stroke across your throat and collarbones, as if absentmindedly — never wandering any lower than the neckline of your sweater.

You really should try to get some sleep now that you're finally here but, you can't deny that the feeling of your roommates hands on you does feel nice. It's hard to ignore it enough to have you drifting off completely, especially when you feel Dan Heng shift from behind you. As if getting more comfortable as his fingers appear to accidentally slink their way up the fabric of your shirt, pressing against the suddenly too warm dip of your waist.

Your whole body shivers and Dan Heng freezes. As if not having realised before he readjusts himself again, but his fingers don't move from your skin.

"Are you cold? You're trembling." His breath rushes down the back of your throat.

"No! not cold." You answer too quickly, another shiver rocking through you as you cringe. You're aware of how unconvincing you sound. "Sorry. I just… remembered the whole haunting thing."

"Remember what I said about relaxing. Here, perhaps this might help." Dan Heng's voice drawls deeper, or maybe it's all in your imagination again. But you definitely feel the way he splays his palm out against your side, pressing against your hip before dragging it along to your stomach and you can't deny how much it soothes you.

It's like he's manipulating your bodies energy, forcing you to relax as you press more of your weight into his grasp and he glides his hand across more of your bare skin until you squirm. You get so lost in the slow, kneading movements that you don't mean to press your ass back against his hips.

"W-wait." Dan Heng cuts you both off, suddenly grabbing at your hip as he jumps back from you an inch or so. It doesn't really do much to keep the hard press of his cock from pressing up against the crease of your ass, your panties and his sweats do nothing to hide it either.

"Sorry, I— I think I got carried away. A bit too comfy maybe." You fumble to apologise, twisting your face into the bicep that still rests around you. "Sorry, I've made things awkward haven't I…" You laugh, humourless and awkward. The tension feels too thick now.

"It's fine, just…" Dan Heng bites off the end of his sentence with a nervous swallow, squeezing tight at your hip as his thumb continues to brush the skin. "There's no need to overthink it."

"Do you want me to leave?" Your voice returns to that meek volume, you're too scared to turn around to ask. Afraid he'll be wearing a disgusted or angry expression. One you're not brave enough to face.

"I think my stance on that is quite obvious..." His voice is lower, breath brushing down the back of your neck. "and I don't suppose you're in any position to sleep in your own room, are you?"

You gulp down the nervousness building in your throat, your body is beginning to feel much warmer with the addition of Dan Heng's skin against yours. Like something has changed. The exhaustion of this whole situation is really beginning to weigh on your body, not only the presence of something supernatural in your room but also… the stress of being so close and wrapped up with your kind, considerate and good-looking roommate.

You know you can't argue with him. It's not like you want to leave either.

"Yeah, you're right. I can't deal with another encounter with a ghost tonight and here is way more comfortable than my room." You giggle, it doesn't come out as amused as you would have liked it to and it seems to only lead to silence.

You stare at the wall in Dan Heng's room for a long pause, your heart still thumping against your ribs in a way that you're convinced he can surely hear and feel with his lingering proximity. You can't help but feel anxious, realising that you have both probably crossed an invisibile line of sorts — acknowledging not only your attraction to each other but also potential sexual chemistry that both of you have seemingly ignored until forced to confront.

Though this is not exactly how you imagine things going. Ever.

"I—"

"You can come closer again, if you want to, I mean." You cut Dan Heng off, as if too afraid of what he might say. Though your interruption is not any better, it's followed by another bout of silence. Your heart continues to race and you're staring at the window now, taking in the still comfortable lighting that glows from the lamp on his desk. It does little for your nerves.

"It would probably be quite…"

"I don't mind. You don't have to be embarrassed about it." Your words come out all at once.

"Very well then."

He shifts after that, the sheets rustling and you're surprised you can hear it with the beating of your heart in your ears, though he doesn't appear to push himself closer like you could expect. Actually, Dan Heng's grip easily drags you across the sheets until your body is pressed against his, the sudden proximity allowing you to feel the full brunt of his erection.

You shiver, sucking in a shaky breath. "Dan Heng." The first evidence of goosebumps flare across your skin.

"If this makes you uncomfortable, I will stop." His breath is on the back of your neck, soft and warm. Your shoulder bumps gently into his chin where it dips close to your throat.

"Please don't." You say, voice different than before. It's whispery this time and you feel Dan Heng's lips ghost along your nape. His hands squeeze hard into your hips when you arch and bump your ass against his erection, with more deliberate purpose this time.

"Do not say things you don't mean." His voice sounds harder, as if checking you're certain, it makes your toes curl.

"I mean it." You sound breathy, jilted, needy. But Dan Heng hears you. You notice it in his movements before he responds, the way he uses his grip to help you instead of push you away and his parted lips brush against your ear as his body slides against yours. You don't wait much longer before twisting to press into his soft breaths, feeling his hands flex when you press back into him more and you hear him groan.

The arm you were using as a pillow comes to squeeze around your tits and it urges you back further, into the hug of his chest and the push of his clothed cock. You're close enough now that he can begin trailing kisses along your skin, starting at your shoulder to your cheeks, and then he curls his arm into you more until you're able to twist further, just enough for the clumsy first meeting of lips.

"Dan Heng." You murmur against his mouth, twisting more of yourself back over his shoulder as you drag your mouth against his soft lips.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No, no…" You gasp, inhale shaking. "I want more."

You hear him hum at that, as if pleased or in agreement, but the pleasurable vibration makes your lips part regardless and Dan Heng uses that opportunity to press his tongue past them. "I'll handle it then." His nose twists into your cheek, your hand reaching back to push your fingers through his hair and he lets you grind your hips back against his cock all you want while he kisses you breathless.

It was intoxicating, every touch, every breath. His fingers glide across your ribs, up between your breasts and to your jawline — holding you in place as he leans more of himself over your shoulder.

Suddenly so greedy for each other as your breaths fall to quick, desperate pants.

The first bump of Dan Heng's thigh against your pussy catches you off guard, though it's only for a second or two before your knee sways open wider and as if immediately, he let's more of his thigh press between your legs. The pressure makes you whine and you don't miss the way the sound makes your roommate's breath catch shakily as he kisses you. The crack in his demeanor makes your lashes flutter enough for you to cast a glance towards him.

This is the first time since this all started that you're able to really see him. He's flushed from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, his dark hair is mused from your fingertips and his lips are shining from your kisses. But he's still so incredibly hot it's unfair, even when just barely illuminated by that same dusky glow from the lamp on his desk.

Dan Heng is absolutely mesmerising.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" Your roommate sighs against your lips, and his question makes you smile before your hips rock back across his thigh, exhaling in reverance.

"Please, touch me." Your words huff across his chin, body curling into his touch when you feel his fingers shake as they skim down the arch of your stomach. It makes your pussy ache as you feel them twitch closer, hot enough to make you throb between your legs. Your voice dripping with want when your lips drawl out his name.

"Are you sure?" He hesitates, it's only for a moment.

"Y-yes. Please, I really need you to touch me." You spread your thighs wider as you respond and Dan Heng seizes the opportunity manfully. His fingers begin to rub circles into your panties and it feels so good it makes your legs twitch from where they rest against his sheets. A new type of heat begins to tickle its way up the base of your spine and you're so embarrassed at how desperate you must sound, yet not enough to make you stop.

Infact, it only makes you want more and his erection pressing hard against you from behind serves as a reminder of what else is on the menu.

Dan Heng offers you another circle of his fingers, baring down more pressure on your clothed pussy before your feet kick out and you begin to push at your panties. Your movements are clumsy, like you can't move fast enough, far too desperate to grasp the opportunity to satsify your yearning and long-standing lust for your roommate, and his hands come to help you fairly quickly when he notices you struggling.

With his help, you're able to yank down the thin fabric of your panties, pushing it down over your ass before his hands are slinking your sweater up near your tits and it makes you gasp at the new found sexual freedom. The cold air fans over your already sticky cunt as Dan Heng moves to push himself up behind you, breathing as heavy as you are.

"This was not exactly what I had in mind when I invited you here." Dan Heng's voice scratches in his throat as he finishes pushing your panties down your legs, twisting your hips in the process

"Should we stop?"

"No." He answers quickly, straightcut. Honest. "That is not what I meant." Then he returns to you, spooning himself against your back again with a smeared kiss across your shoulder. Shifting in his spot behind you as he pushes down his own underwear, your chest feels tight with want and arousal. Pussy pulsing in anticipation.

"Simply put, it would be untrue if I said I hadn't thought about it." You jump when you suddenly feel Dan Heng's cock smack against your ass "You, I mean." His confession, alongside the saccharine drag of his shaft makes you moan when you feel him grind it against the soft skin of your backside.

Your hand reaches back for his hair again and at the same time, he bends his knee between your thighs — urging you to spread your legs wide for him as you feel the weight of his cock smear a wet dribble of precum along your skin.

"Good, because I've definitely thought about you." You respond, whispery in tone and Dan Heng presses a reassuring kiss against your cheek.

“We’re in agreement then.” He reaches down to position his cock between your legs instead of up against your ass and he takes his time to let them tip press it's way through your folds for a thrust. It makes a wet tacky sound, your lips parting to gasp when it nudges up against your clit and you feel your roommate exhale before hugging in closer.

"But for the last time, you're sure about this?" He asks once more, well aware of the circumstances he's lured you into his room with, only to end up fucking you now. There's an edge of desperation to his voice that makes you burn and ache, and you can't get the words out fast enough when your hips are pressing back against his.

"A-absolutely." Your voice breaks, ragged with arousal. Lust. Longing. You've never wanted anyone as much as you do Dan Heng in this moment and he presses another kiss to your cheek before he's wrapping you up in one of his arms. He keeps you pinned close to his chest as his arm comes back to curl around your shoulders again, his cock gliding through your slick folds as you soak his shaft in your arousal and he guides the blunt head back and forth over your clit until you twitch.

"Put it in, please." You arch back into him, voice wound up tight as you feel him exhale against your ear. But he listens, leaning into your body as he tests the give of your pussy and you swear you feel his cock throb when he realises how wet you are. You're soaked, drenched, making it easy for the tip of Dan Heng's cock to slip inside of you with little resistance.

But that's the only part, because as soon as he begins to really sink into you, you appear to squeeze even tighter and your mouth drops open to moan as he pushes in every inch painstakingly slow. Your legs shuffle up with a squeak as he begins to massage at your hips and stomach again, much like he did earlier except so much different now. He’s much thicker than you expected, forcing you open.

He groans against your ear and your free hand curls into the sheets on his bed, face twisting into his bicep as he hugs you into him. He offers you another inch as his teeth grit, jaw clenched tight with how ruthlessly you're hugging around his cock and he noses at your cheek as he sinks up inside of you.

"I suggest you relax or else it will only make this harder for both of us." Dan Heng hisses as he withdraws with a shudder of his own, his fingers dragging down between your thighs before he's rolling his hips forward again and pushing back into your shuddering hole with a deliciously wet sound.

"Sorry." Is all you can muster as you flail for any sort of relief, grabbing at his hair before his fingers come to reward you for your resiliance with a slow swirl drawn into your clit. It makes you shake, and Dan Heng growls against your cheek, petting at you with soft and tenative notions alongside back and forth stutters of his hips.

You're easing up to him slowly, the sting settling into something so good it makes you press more of your hips back into the pleasurable ache. Your thighs are squeezing around his fingers and he hisses with the feelings, making your pussy throb and your breathing skip when he suddenly comes to press his hips right up against the softness of your ass.

The first, real deep kiss of Dan Heng's cock makes you go rigid when you feel it up inside of you, hiccuping as he presses in so snug and tight it makes you melt. He's stroking at your stomach, groaning and kissing at your cheeks to your throat while he gives you a moment to adjust.

It's a peaceful sort of quiet, albiet from your own heavy breaths, you melt into him, basking in his kisses as you feel his fingers swirl down low enough for them to press between your thighs again. The tips curl against your clit and you can't stop the little moan it forces from you, accompanying the way his cock nudges perfectly up against the spot inside of you that makes you feel soft and pliable.

Dan Heng gives you another kiss and you squish your ass back against him with desperate little rolls of your hips, letting him know you're ready.

"Let me know if it becomes too much." His fingers offer you another sticky circle, tracing around your clit as his breath stutters against your cheek and you shake.

"I need you already, p-please. Fuck me."

"I will surely have a hard time not getting carried away." He says plainly. Matter of fact. Like he's done his fair share of holding back already and now it's finally all come to this.

"Then don't hold back at all. Please?" Your plea is tight and needy and it makes Dan Heng groan before he draws his hips back with a slow movement, followed by a jut forward at that same pace. It presses him in deep, immediately igniting a heat inside of you that makes you squeak when he finally finds his pace.

"Oh my g-g—" Your head drops back against his shoulder and he holds you tight against the wet clap of his hips against your ass, his lips pressing close to your ear so you can hear the full unfiltered version of what your body does to him. Your fingers thread weakly through his hair, shuddering with every perfect drag of his cock inside of you and the way his fingers continue to rub circles ainto your clit.

You can't help but sway and bounce against his chest, his bicep hugging around your shoulders to keep you close as he continues his sensual pace.

"How does it feel?" Dan Heng nudges against your cheek, smearing you in another kiss as he continues to grind his hips incredibly deep into you, enough to make you whine and writhe in his hold.

"G-good. So good, you're gonna make me cum… Don't stop! I’m so close.”

"Well, I'll have to work even harder then." He groans, as if his cock isn't already tormenting your fluttering insides in the best way. "Since you are a-already so close I mean.

But Dan Heng does, his fingers squish against your puffy clit and he matches it with the back and forth push and pull of his hips, making your eyes roll back as you hurtle towards your orgasm with every mind-numbing stroke and rub from your roommate behind you. You're left completely at his mercy, so overwhelmed with pleasure it feels like your mind is filled with cotton.

"I'm gonna cum!" Your voice is a dripping whine as you curl your cheek into the bicep beneath you and if he responds to you, you don't hear it, the sound lost to the fluffy wave of pleasure that he fucks into you as you cum around his cock. Dan Heng holds you as you moan and whine, rocking your hips back as he continues to flick softly at your clit, seeing to it that you ride out your blissful state as he moans into your neck. Far too overcome with how tight you've gotten around him to realise how close he is himself.

But it doesn't take him long, your orgasm makes you go lax in his hold, falling limp as he throbs into the still quivering walls of your pussy. You manage to turn when he calls out to you, though weak and clumsy, it's enough for him to reach over and kiss you before he cums with a sweet, soft groan — pressing the sound between your lips as he pushes a load between your walls.

Dan Heng pushes as deep as he will go, riding out his own release with shallow thrusts until he's spent and settling down behind you with soft breaths and slow, messy kisses. The aftermath leaves you both in a heap of tangled limbs and sweaty, gooey skin. But you still feel the same level of comfort as you did a while ago, even now the realisation of what just happened has begun to settle in. His hand rests quite securely on your stomach.

"I hope the ghost didn't hear that." You nudge playfully, curling tighter into yourself when your body is wrecked by a sudden cold shiver.

"I'm no expert but it may even help your situation if she did." Dan Heng's lips curl subtly as he encourages you to cuddle into him, noticing your body language almost immediately.

"How so? Do you think we scared her off?"

"I can't say for certain but.." Your heart flutters in your chest when he comes close to give you another kiss, just short of your lower lashes. "You are always welcome to stay here if that is not the case."

"Really?" You feel Dan Heng's body loosen behind you and it urges you to shift around to face him nervously, for the first time in what feels like ages as you take in his appearance.

"Certainly." He nods, neutral expression, but it's obvious he's sleepy now. His bright eyes seem more hooded than before, blinking at you slowly from beneath messy hair and he's flushed down to his chest. It rises and falls steadily as he catches his breath, but he still manages to hold your gaze. It makes your heart skip a beat.

"Well, I don't really think I'm in the mood to speak to the exorcist tonight and I don't really feel like taking any chances with my own room either so…" You pretend to think of something. The arm that's wrapped around your shoulder curls up to hug you closer "Maybe we should finally sleep?"

Dan Heng's next breath acts like more of a chuckle when he casts the clock on his desk a quick glance. 5:05am. Then his eyes are back on you.

"I think that is in our best interest."

"Without any bad dreams this time though!" You pout and your roommate's knuckles brush across your cheekbone. The touch is so soft it makes your eyes flutter close, resting there.

"That will not be a problem this time around."

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.)