SUKI

Do not tell her that you need help picking out an elective. Not long after, you will be sitting on her bedroom floor with Phainon and Mydeimos who knows where, granting the two of you the privacy needed for her to dim the lights, burn incense, and spread an array of cards in front of you. Then you will pull the Weaver, funny enough, the card of Temperance and the first one she’s ever read for you. But this time, Cyrene will warn you that you lack introspection before begging you to enroll in Professor Anaxagoras’ philosophy course because it’s just thinking.

You listen and, eventually, you will do exactly that. You will do it so often even if you don’t understand, and you will continue even when you do. It will only get worse, too, after you realize that his eyes are all you can imagine when you think of the sea. So when you make your third mistake in expressing your interest in her childhood friend of all people, your fourth will shortly follow with the word yes once questioned if you need advice. And you will find yourself alone with her wishing you weren’t as you take the plunge and trust her again.

“Why are we doing this here?” you groan, dragging your hands down your face with the intention to rip it off and exchange your identity for another if that means you will not compete for the affection of the campus golden boy.

Though that prospect only lasts a moment. You could have fallen for anyone yet it feels strange to envision another in his place—dismayed may be a better way to describe the unexpected reaction, actually. Regardless, the longer you stare at the ceiling, the more you’re reminded that Phainon may return any minute now; therefore, your best course of action would be to leave to keep your dignity.

Reading your mind, Cyrene answers, “he won’t be back until later,” and spares you a glance over her shoulder whereupon she discovers you lying atop her bed. “You weren’t paying attention, were you?” she huffs, knocking the back of a dry-erase marker against the whiteboard she was scribbling on.

This isn’t the only time you’ve witnessed something similar. Sometime last year, you participated in monthly meetings with her and Castorice after the latter expressed her interest in Cifera. So, you’re not surprised, except you assumed any discussion of your predicament would occur later this week or the next instead of a quint after you told her your secret. But with the semester over, you suppose that all her reminders were no longer needed and would be wiped clean from the whiteboard anyway—why wait?

Squinting, you can still make out the shape of some of the words and hope the freshly written tidbits under the heading ‘Operation: Confess to Phainon’ will be easier to remove.

And to ensure he really is preoccupied, you double-check the group chat Cyrene and Phainon recently created. Over the past few months, you’ve become closer with their band of friends. It's been a pleasant distraction that you struggle not to indulge in, and that itself is strange since you’re usually better at keeping focus. Today is no different—the messages almost seem endless, but your self-proclaimed matchmaker instructed you to stay quiet for now.

✧ The Cool Club + Phainon

Mydei: Has anyone heard from Cyrene? I need her help later Phainon: I haven't since she left this morning Phainon: But I can help, Mydei! Just say the word :) Mydei: No. Castorice: How mean, Mydei. ૮(◞ ‸ ◟ )ა Castorice: Phainon is very helpful today. Castorice: We added an accidental kiss to my story! (˶>⩊<˶) Phainon: Yeah! See? :D You can trust me, Mydei. Hyacine: Is it possible for us to pitch in? Hyacine: Just while you wait~ Mydei: Okay, thank you Phainon: Now you want help???

Tossing your phone to the side, you roll onto your stomach and grab a plush toy resembling a raccoon—Cyrene’s favourite—to prop your head upon. “All you’re doing is listing out facts I already know and it’s making it worse.” It’s somehow making you like him more by reviewing every single one.

“Wait.” Cyrene faces you, now, hands falling to her hips in scrutiny to ask, “you know this already?” to which you respond with a pitiful sound. “The sport he volunteers to teach and the name of his childhood dog?” You confirm with the same noise, now muffled when you press your face into soft fabric while she continues. “What part of his body is he proud of?”

“Cyrene!” you cry. Of all the questions she may ask, it had to be of that nature.

“Wrong!” she chirps with a bright smile, only to tap the length of the marker against her palm in a persistent rhythm. “Any guesses?”

“I don’t know…” Your words trail off, avoiding her stare. Really, there’s so many aspects of Phainon to name: how soft his hair looks, how steady his hand feels in yours, and how his eyes are so revealing.

Recalling her reaction to you, it could be his smile. There’s the polite one he shares with everyone—something that often decorates his face to wordlessly share pleasantries or convey an invitation to converse. Other times he’s shy, and it grows slowly before disappearing like the low tide; or, in the opposite, it accompanies his laughter, bright and unrestrained.

But Cyrene returns to the white board, leaving you to ruminate as she writes out the answer. “His arms!”

“Oh,” you vocalize, unsure of how else to respond. It would make sense. The weather has warmed considerably, and his sweaters and hoodies were replaced with various t-shirts he fills out considerably well. And when you walk side-by-side, you’ve noted how his muscles press against your arm once you loop yours through his.

“You visualized it, didn’t you?” Cyrene snickers, and her expression matches the roguery you find in her voice. You answer by chucking the raccoon plush at her, and she catches it when she asks, “okay, what about Kevin and Flame Reaver? Do you know who they are?”

Evidently, she’s trying to throw you off, expecting you to think of people. “His chickens,” you say with an air of indifference as you prove to her that you know him as well as you like to believe, growing as absurdly competitive as the chimeras you take care of.

“He told you about that?” Cyrene seems delighted despite the slight shock in her question. “I thought he would be embarrassed since it sounds like he had a phase…”

“I asked for pictures and his parents sent some over,” you inform her.

Then, she hums, drawing out the sound and reminding you of the conversation's purpose and the intention behind her every word. “You know his parents already, huh?” The interjection is not one of inquisition but a dangerous, dawning awareness.

“No.” You sit up. “No,” you repeat, pointing a finger as if that would stop the grin from blooming across her face. “No,” you say it again when her eyes crinkle. “Phainon asked his parents so they sent the photos to him, and he sent them to me.”

“But he must have mentioned you,” she croons, and you’re sure her thoughts are drifting towards daydreams. “Which indicates they know you exist, and that also means you've indirectly met his parents—they would like you, you know?” Cyrene tuts up her chin, sure of her logic.

Within yours, you’re sure this is fact. “You're delusional.”

“I'm right,” she says as her eyes flicker to yours before fishing out her phone.

“Have you considered that he would ask for pictures without saying why?” you propose. “They're his chickens so he might want to check up on them. You know Phainon—a worrywart.”

“I know Phainon, you are correct.” Despite her reply, she does not look at you, quickly typing something to someone. “And he asked because you wanted to see them.” With every pause, she becomes more impatient, nails clicking against the back of her phone until she receives a reply.

“Cyrene,” you call, but she merely hums after a moment so you ask, “what are you doing?”

“Nothing.” The answer is too quick, now, to be anything but troubling.

You stand up, the bed sinking under your feet while you try to appear imposing to your coy friend. “Cyrene…” Her name leaves your mouth in a drawl, matching your threatening farce.

“Oh, they do know you! How lovely!” Completely captivated by you, her laughter rings out at your reaction. “Why are you whining? Really? Throwing yourself facedown on my bed too?” The mattress dips further as she kneels down and places her hands on your sides, rolling you over like a seal that requires assistance to do so. “I framed it as if I was curious because you're my friend.” Revealing the screen to you, she instructs, “look.”

But once you do, there’s a chime and Cyrene instinctively taps the notification, returning to the group chat to see a series of messages.

✧ The Cool Club + Phainon

Cifera: so Cifera: did he ever find our little starfish? Phainon: starfish? Cifera: what? forget about ur darling pupil already? Phainon: no, but I wasn’t aware you called them that Phainon: and how did you know I was looking for them? Cifera: princess let me know when i picked her up for our date Cifera: ended up running into them at the mall with cy. said they weren't staying long New message Phainon: thanks! I just got back so I’ll see if Cy's home and ask

“He’s where.”

With terribly convenient timing, the door outside Cyrene’s room shuts and it’s promptly succeeded by a call of her name. You and Cyrene instantly shoot up, shoulders tense as though you’ve been caught before it even occurs. And although the two of you are usually coordinated, that isn’t the case when it’s crucial you are.

Tangled in the duvet, your foot catches and you tumble over the side of her bed, only able to brace yourself at the last second and prevent yourself from kissing the carpet. But this, however, causes you to collide with Cyrene, who trips and barely manages to steady herself on the edge of her desk. The impact rattles the objects on the disorganized surface—a book falls off the stack; a cup tips over, spilling pens that roll away towards the floor; and her desk lamp topples but, thankfully, does not break.

“Cyrene?” Phainon’s voice is muffled but his steps grow in volume as he rushes over. “What was that?” He enters seconds after you pull yourself upright and erase the words ‘Phainon likes it when you laugh.’ Glancing at the mess, he asks, “is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you answer with Cyrene, and look at each other in a manner that indicates you’re hiding something from him.

Phainon’s brows furrow as you lean into Cyrene, attempting to hide your expression. “It sounded like someone fell,” he says, evidently disbelieving of the reassurance and noticeably suspicious of you. He takes a step forward before bending at the waist, plucking a few pens off the ground alongside the book, granting him an appropriate angle to truly look at you.

It’s difficult to be dishonest.

“I tripped while getting out of the bed,” you explain and notice his expression tighten from the admission.

Placing everything back on the desk, Phainon stands before you and examines you from head to toe with a worry so close to your own when he burnt his arm on the Day of Devotion. Phainon seems to reach out but hesitates, so you take his hand and squeeze it, giving him the courage to inquire further. “Does anything hurt?”

You shake your head just as Cyrene clears her throat. Turning to her, you’re about to apologize for making her a third-wheel to this conversation—overlooking how the sentiment flusters you—but discover that she was capable of erasing no more than the most incriminating evidence in the short timeframe granted.

Phainon cocks his head as he points at what survived. “His arms?” Your eyes meet because that’s the polite thing to do when someone is speaking, but considering the circumstances, you look away without thinking, and this makes him nosier, batting his lashes to get what he wants. “Whose arms?”

Cyrene tilts her head like Phainon, but she purposely knocks her temple against yours in a gentle thump. “Khaslana,” she answers.

It’s such a terrible one but it’s enough to distract him. “Isn’t he dead?” Phainon reminds her. The story has moved far from that character’s focus, Castorice putting all her efforts into the primary love interest.

“We were imagining what it would be like if the protagonist was with him instead of Neikos,” you lie, guilt swimming deep in your gut. It worsens when you observe the look on his face—honestly, guilt is an understatement since Phainon seems to be innocent in his curiosity whilst you speak to him frequently in regards to changing Castorice’s mind, still saddened by Khaslana’s fate.

“Exactly!” Cyrene agrees but motions to you to stop the topic from fizzling out. “They thought his arms were sexy—like really sexy—but one thing led to another and what do you know! We made a list of what we like about him.” If you didn’t have to keep up appearances, your stare would have been so pointed that she would be able to feel it from another room. She nods at you with a smile you do your best to match when her explanation turns absolutely awful. “They were really getting into it and was embarrassed if you saw, but you get it, right, Phainon? It’s like when we were younger and you—”

Phainon laughs; or, tries to fake one to cut her off, but then he focuses on you. “That’s not embarrassing,” he says, “it’s cute.”

“Oh,” you vocalize. “Okay,” you say, struggling to put together a sentence and feign normalcy with how overwhelming today has been. From acknowledging your feelings to seeing the source of them whilst planning the best way to confess, it would be nice to be granted a short reprieve.

So, Phainon releases the knot in your chest using a laugh that’s genuine in comparison to one earlier, brighter than any sunlight. “I mean it,” he insists, “it’s cute.”

Cyrene hums, and the sound starts low before rising softly as if she has some understanding you’re unaware of, but you’re too distracted to register the glee in her melody. “I’m going to call Mydei and see what he needs.” She quickly leaves but not before saying, “don’t have too much fun without me!”

Once she’s gone, there’s a strange sort of silence between the two of you, worsened by the sense of being watched in Cyrene’s room when it feels improper to be here without her, no matter how casual she was about it. Phainon looks okay, at least, perhaps even contemplative while he stares at the whiteboard.

Picking up the marker, he writes ‘Khaslana’s fashion sense’ and doodles an arm flexing beside the words that are really about him.

You snort. “Is it because you like the colour yellow?”

“I like a lot of colours,” Phainon reminds you with a smile that never seems to leave his lips. It widens once he fixates on the next subject of his artistic endeavours, and you watch the tip of his marker glide over the surface to create what you suspect is you. “But I like yellow a little more than usual lately.”

Finding another on Cyrene’s desk, you begin drawing Phainon beside your likeness and try not to stare too much when the corners of his mouth rise even higher. “I noticed,” you say, replacing what’s in your hand with a blue dry-erase marker to colour his eyes—it’s the finishing touch. And after a beat, you say, “what did you want to ask me? It sounded serious.”

The text hasn’t left your mind since first reading it in Cyrene’s car. The gravity in it, especially, feels like a mist you can't escape from, lingering for far too long through various distractions; it would be better to just ask outright and lift it from your worries.

“It’s nothing. It can wait.” Phainon chuckles as the sentence ends, a persistent habit of his that is, perhaps, more frequent than the way he twirls writing instruments around his thumb. And you observe both in this moment until he’s distracted by something.

“Are you sure?” you ask, forcing him to focus on you with the concern that it’ll be dropped in its entirety. If it’s so serious, you only wish for him to share it with you when he’s ready, but you have an unusual hunch that there’s something different about this. “Cyrene is busy right now so we have some privacy.”

“It’s not a good time or place.” Phainon returns the marker to where it belongs to free his hand. Then, he holds up his pinky and says, “I promise I’ll tell you another day.” Hooking yours around his, you agree, and once you let go, he continues speaking. “Do you want to stay for dinner? I’ll cook whatever you like.”

Deciding it’s best to hold back, you nod and follow him out of the room, letting him prattle on about the ingredients he has and what he thinks he can make. It’s easier for him to talk endlessly about it, attentive to your tastes and going as far as offering to go on a grocery run if there’s anything you’re craving. You agree—he’s the happiest like this so it’s all you can do.

Cyrene doesn’t join, either, her grin indicating her intention before you leave, yet the entire way there, it only seems normal. It’s normal to loop your arms together. It’s normal for the quiet moments to feel comfortable against bursts of conversation. Everything about the rhythm you find with him is normal and ordinary and somewhat customary for the two of you.

You don’t want to lose it.

Still, something must change when your affections only seem to grow. But you lock that—and whatever it is he needs to tell you—away, and cast it off to deal with on another day.

♡ Cupid

Cyrene: Any status update? Cyrene: A cute little birdy told me that he spent a while getting ready today~ Cyrene: When asked, he told her that he has something important planned… Cyrene: She flew away to give him privacy, but oh! the horror! she’s practically fishing with the need to know how it went </3 You: lol the birdy is fishing, huh? You: does the birdy’s name start with c and end with e Cyrene: I live to entertain ♪ Cyrene: But the birdy’s name starts with ‘Phainon hasn’t stopped humming since he got home, but if I say something, he might get suspicious’ Cyrene: And ends with ‘so I have to be strategic and ask you’ You: long name You: are you sure the birdy isn’t hoping to hear some juicy details? Cyrene: So you’re telling me there are juicy details to be shared? ♪ You: I wish :’) It wasn’t planned You: Cas was surprised when he showed up too. Gave her cookies for the short notice You: We went to the beach Cyrene: I didn’t see him pack all the essentials Cyrene: Only a lunchbox You: Yeah :’) You: Apparently I seem homesick? So he wanted to hunt for sea glass Cyrene: Not seashells? Cyrene: He wasn’t the only one who noticed, just so you know You: I collected sea glass when I was younger so he thought it would make me feel better Cyrene: That's sweet Cyrene: Did it work? You: Yeah, it did Cyrene: Do you want to get lunch tomorrow? Cyrene: I miss you. you’ve been working so much You: I miss you too You: but you won’t like my answer ueueue Cyrene: What if I visit? I haven’t seen Cyrup in forever too Cyrene: I’ll keep you busy during your breaks~ maybe talk about the little get together I’m planning? You: I’ll make sure your favourite is ready before you get here <3 Cyrene: My! Phainon may have to fight me for you ♪ Cyrene: I’ll stay all day~ promise I won’t be late! mwah <3

𖤓 Phai

Phainon: a little birdy told me you’re bringing Phagousa’s Laughter to the party :O Phainon: is it a special recipe from Jericha? You: lol you and cyrene Phainon: Was she talking about me? You: Nothing bad. She was wondering what we did at the beach You: And it’s a family recipe Phainon: is it a secret recipe… You: Maybe… Phainon: what if I join you when you pick up ingredients? :) You: no, i know what game you’re playing! you’ll figure it out!! You: be a good boy and wait Phainon is typing… You: if you can do that, i’ll bring you to the best wet market in the area You: it’s not in marmoreal market but the outskirts of the city Phainon: deal :D how can I refuse an expert? Phainon: I was also wondering if we’re going to do the full ritual Phainon: and do you remember what happened last year when we went to the city wide festival You: lol cas was so bad at pretending to laugh when she was blowing on it You: i can’t believe we all ended up laughing for real Phainon: except Cifera laughed so hard she spilled hers on me :(( You: wow. you don’t even remember i helped you clean up? You: bet you forgot the joke i told you to make you feel better too Phainon: Of course I remember Phainon: …everything except the joke, I’m sorry. You: prepare yourself Phainon: preparing myself You: You can tuna guitar but you can’t tuna fish, unless you play bass! You: Phainon? Phainon: sorry, I was laughing You: i can’t tell if you’re lying to me or not Phainon: I’m not Phainon: but I was thinking about how much changed in a year You: Yeah, I can’t imagine not talking to you everyday like this You: It’s weird we only spoke when our friends hung out Phainon: better now than never You: I guess you’re right You: Wanna see how I displayed the sea glass we collected? Phainon: okay, but I have to go to bed soon You sent one image. Phainon: oh Phainon: is that the ribbon from the gift I gave you on the Day of Devotion? You: It is. Pretty, right? You: During the day, the light makes it reflect the colours You: Anyways, it’s late. Sleep well, Phai Phainon: I'm glad you kept the ribbon Phainon: and it's beautiful Phainon: sweet dreams

✧ The Cool Club + Phainon

You: i know this is late notice, but the cozy chimera is selling a limited time lemonade if anyone wants to drop by You: the promotion ends in two weeks, specifically on the last day of the Month of Cultivation :O Hyacine: That sounds refreshing! Hyacine: I’ll see you tomorrow~ Mydei: I’ll join you Phainon: Honeycake addict here is acting like he wasn’t going to be there in the morning anyway Mydei: I can eat more Honeycakes than you the same way I can bench press more than you can Phainon: Oh? Telling lies, are we? Phainon: Shall we bet on both? Mydei: You'll eat your words tomorrow. Castorice: That was a funny joke, Mydei! (˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) Castorice: I'll accompany you three. Will you be coming, Cifera? Cifera: pass Cifera: tried it yesterday Cyrene: I see~ Cyrene: So you tried it… You: …yesterday? You: Is there anything else you tried? Cifera: u mean succeeded Cifera: is there anything else i succeeded in doing Hyacine: …what did you do? You: Master Cat-Thief is missing You: Right before her physical too Cifera: she doesn’t like the gardener You: She needs her booster shot!!! Cifera: y can't u do it? Cifera: she won't make a fuss if it's u You: I can't You: You know I'm not allowed to do that yet ueueue Mydei: Cifera, return the chimera.  Mydei: What if she gets sick? Cifera: she cries when i try to Cifera: u try saying no to fig stew Mydei is typing… Hyacine: Is there no other Gardener to administer it? Hyacine: So long as it’s not the one on duty right now… Mydei is typing… You: That might work :O But she’s getting it regardless You: and when did cifera learn to speak chimera??? Mydei is typing… Cifera: yeah that's what i thought mydei. u can’t Mydei left the group chat. Cyrene added Mydei to the group chat. Cifera: u don't know the half of what i can do Phainon: anything but say no to master cat thief apparently Cifera: do u wanna talk about that time u Phainon: that time I what? Phainon: you didn’t finish your sentence? Cifera: Does that make you nervous? Phainon is typing…. You: It's okay, Cifera. I'll let them know and see if we can go with Hyacine's suggestion You: Next time, just tell me instead of kidnapping them :’) Cifera: technically she followed me home acting like a lost puppy Cifera: kinda like baby blues over here whenever he sees u Castorice: How adorable! I agree.  Castorice: ◉‿◉ Phainon is typing… You: oh she does that a lot You: and what Cyrene: Can Cyrup conveniently follow me home too~? Cyrene: and what x2 Mydei: Nikador help me Mydei: I'm not doing this for a second year in a row after Cas and Cifera Phainon: CIFERAHHH Cifera: LOL Cifera: that’s all u came up with? Phainon is typing… Mydei left the group chat. Hyacine: Oh dear

𖤓 Phai

Phainon: Did you try the charcuterie board yet? :) Phainon: I baked all the bread and crackers! :)) Phainon: But I’m really excited for the Phagousa’s Laughter you made!! :D You: Did you take your turn to stir it? Don’t forget! You: And I tried it, don’t worry. If I’m left alone with it for too long, everything you baked will disappear You: and why are you texting me? i’m sitting across from you??

Glancing from the screen, you sink deeper into the beanbag chair to catch Phainon’s gaze already on you. From here, you can’t hear the snicker that leaves his mouth and, even worse, you can’t see his smile when he hides behind his hand. He’s sitting on one side of the couch with Mydeimos and Cifera filling up the seats and arguing about the board game Castorice just won—you and Phainon lost a handful of rounds ago, entertaining yourselves with each other.

A quint or so has passed since Cyrene’s party started, but you arrived early to help decorate, whereas even longer before that, you were cooking a pot of stew to bring to the potluck. Last year, you accompanied them in Okhema’s streets, partaking in some of the revelry of Phagousa’s Month of Carnival, but it’s nicer this way—intimate, in particular. And who better than you to make Phagousa’s Laughter if you won’t publicly join the ritual surrounding the dish this year? It’ll be the main event, but you’re always more excited for whatever Phainon puts together.

And although you want to return to your texts with him, Phainon gets up and makes his way over to you. He just stands there, looking down at you with a thoughtful expression that is enough to coax you into rising, yet when you move, he holds up a hand to stop you. Then, he turns his palm over, open and inviting. Confused, you take it but he brushes you off, so you mimic him, and he places his atop of yours for leverage in lowering himself beside you. An unintelligible sound flows from your mouth before breaking out into laughter.

“What are you doing?” Your voice lifts as Phainon joins you with his own giggles, doing his best not to slip off the side of the beanbag chair. “There’s no way we’ll fit!” Because you’re right, the aforementioned does happen, so you have to wind your arm around his middle to pull him back to you.

“We will,” Phainon declares, leaning into your side to force you to do as he likes. “Scoot—you just have to trust me.”

Seeing as he's a terrible influence on your common-sense, you listen. The cushion crinkles as you wrestle with gravity, trying not to take up all the space by sliding back into the centre from your combined weight. His hip knocks into yours and you ignore how distinct his cologne is when there’s hardly any distance separating you. He steadies you in the midst of this goofy kerfuffle but you only let the length of his thigh squish against yours for a moment before tugging one of his legs over your lap. You've had enough of how difficult it is to get cozy that you’re willing to settle for a messy tangle of limbs.

When you peek at Phainon, his grin is brighter than the Sun. It’s also so warm to be this close to him. Every time you are, the heat of him seems to radiate, and in the hotter months you can picture how uncomfortable it may feel. Still, all you can think of is how pleasant this is right now. Phainon likely feels the same—or so you hope to believe—as he hasn’t moved an inch from the strange position you’ve contorted yourselves into. He’s remarkably quiet, too, after his laughter died away, and the room even more so but you’d rather not come to terms with the attention that’s likely on the two of you.

Apparently cheeky, Phainon chooses to answer your text aloud. “It feels scandalous this way,” he says, and has the gall to continue beaming at you through Cifera’s laughter.

“Should we leave you two be?” she suggests with a snicker. “Are we interrupting?” Her voice is coquettish, suggesting something you refuse to consider with Phainon cuddling you. 

But before you can form a proper reply to admonish her, he speaks instead.

“Now you are!” he says, the words lilting with glee and absent of any inconvenience. He’s practically confirming Cifera’s romantic implication, yet you know he’s just playing along. It’s easier on your heart not to think otherwise. “And don’t mind us, I would say we’re quite comfortable like this, aren’t we?”

When he directs his focus to you, you swallow down the feelings that were beginning to boil and hum in agreement. “We were texting about something silly; it’s nothing important.”

“Alright, if you say so…” Cifera trails off, offering you a searching look that tells you she won’t easily forget this. And, throwing one leg over the other, she leans over and slaps her hand over a deck of cards. “Who’s ready to lose next?”

The answer is simple: no one.

Castorice thought it funny to start with Spoons, and you’re certain Cifera only agreed to play the reflex and chance-based game to witness her girlfriend’s delight. Between Phainon and Mydeimos, it turns into a mess, so vigilant of each other that Cifera is consistently able to snatch a utensil out from under them. Hyacine wins through pure luck and so do you in the second round that Mydeimos proposes Crazy Eights with rule variations to make it more difficult. Cyrene seems to love this with how viciously she plays, forcing your friends to draw more cards and reversing the ranks at her convenience. But because Cifera isn’t able to win, she suggests Poker, and it’s here you’re surprised by how easy it is for not only her to lie but Phainon too.

With how well he knows everyone, he’s familiar with all your little tells—the subtle reactions when you have a good or bad hand, when you’re bluffing, and what to say to provoke you to help him find out. He’s good at it, too, despite most of you playing casually with some needing to be taught. And his body language seems to change with each round, adjusting in response to each of your own. Cifera enjoys this the most; a real thrill in competition even as she comes out on top.

Sometime between the last quints of the Action Hour into the Parting, the games end and the lot of you partake in the typical revelry—indulging in the spread across the tables and chatting the time away. Eventually, you’re all full of food and thoroughly satisfied that lounging around is all half of you are capable of. Mydeimos, as common as it is for him, already seems to want to doze off, blinking slowly before following in bursts to stay awake, sleepy like a giant cat. You notice Castorice is no different, fused to Cifera’s arm as she quietly giggles and hums in response to each conversation.

The extroverts of the group, however, seem to be a never-ending pit of excitement.

With your permission, Phainon has taken it upon himself to squeeze into your—his, really—beanbag again. Truly, you imagine yourself incapable of refusing him as you use his shoulder as a headrest despite subjecting yourself to his cheerful voice. To most, Phainon’s volume would be enough to keep them alert, but you grew up in a neighbourhood not far from the sea, listening to crashing waves during stormier seasons and the blaring horns of passing ships in the busier ones to fall asleep. As long as that port was always moving and always hectic, it would mean another day closer before he would come home. Inevitably, Phainon’s happiness is incredibly relieving to someone like you.

So much so that you're completely absent-minded until you notice that the conversation has shifted towards Castorice's original story, specifically your opinion of a certain character.

“They really like Khaslana’s arms,” Castorice says with an innocent giggle. She's sitting up now, hands folded in her lap, of which Cifera is tapping her fingers against.

“There isn't even any art; princess just wrote about them.” Cifera snorts. “You drooling over them or something?” she asks, looking in your direction.

“That’s what Cyrene said,” Phainon answers for you, unaware of you slowly coming to awareness. His fingers are drawing dizzying shapes upon your bicep—one of the causes of your drowsiness when that same arm circles around you.

Castorice begins prattling on about Neikos, hoping to make her main love interest more appealing and thereby turning everyone’s—excluding you and Cyrene—attention to her. At first, Cyrene appears thoughtful as she stares at you, and you furrow your brow with a silent what? Then, she attempts to stifle a small giggle that inspires a bright grin. The sight of it has your stomach churning with turbid thoughts over what's in her own head.

“What do you think of Mydei’s?” she interrupts, voice cutting through the conversation. Glancing briefly at said man, her intention is clear despite his confusion. For him, she clarifies, “his arms.”

At the same time, you and Phainon say, “what.” Even more, your shoulders knock together as you both shoot upright, swaying in the beanbag with the sudden movement and having to hold onto each other.

Briefly, you're dumbfounded, but you've always been good at remaining neutral in any situation so you do it with a smile. Though it may seem that way to anyone but Cyrene who is very familiar with your polite but menacing smiles when she gives you a little nudge towards what she presumes will help you.

Cyrene blinks, a perfect vision of blameless innocence. “He has them out and everything.”

“It’s warm today.” Mydeimos’ rationale is sound; the weather is perfect for today’s festivities as if Phagousa bribed Aquila with the honey brew they relentlessly covet.

“It’s spring,” Phainon points out.

“Still warm,” Mydeimos insists.

Anyone experienced in your group would be aware of how an interaction like this would make waves, revealing the competitiveness behind the pair. Admittedly, the water feels murkier tonight. Phainon’s tone is pointed and his shoulders are tense in spite of Mydeimos’ benign words. And although subtle, Phainon’s fingers are tapping against the side of his knee in a small, restless rhythm that you are the sole witness to.

Still, Hyacine is the first to temper what she assumes to be customary. “I think you look nice, Mydei! You work really hard on building your muscles,” she starts to say. “Phainon too—you’re so strict with your regime!”

“Thank you,” they say in perfect sync.

Yet, Phainon continues to spare you glances from the side of his eye. If he’s trying to be subtle, he’s failing tremendously. Making a decision, you slide your hand down your thigh only to squeeze your knee in a relaxed impression. Within this close proximity, you’re able to extend your fingers, grazing the edges of his to pacify his fidgeting. I see you is what you want to convey. What’s wrong? is what you wordlessly ask.

All that leaves is an indistinct question: “are you pouting?” His lips jut out and seem to wobble, while his head tilts with complete displeasure cascading down his face—an expression that is entirely endearing. “You are,” you confirm with a short laugh. “You’re pouting over this.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Phainon says. He doesn’t let go, regardless, playing with your fingers before releasing them. It may appear as a consequence to his faux tantrum but you know better.

Whatever this is about is bothering him, so you search for him again, pulling his hand into your lap and tracing the lines. Cyrene taught you what they meant some time ago, but all these intricate characteristics are difficult to remember, telling a different story for each stroke. Drawing from the depths of your memories, you’re sure that the one that sweeps over the cushion beneath his thumb is the one of life; the one down the middle is fate; and from the edge towards his forefinger is the heart line.

If you were to press your palm flat against his, at this moment, would it calm him? The way he had done for you when you first felt the complete surface of his when you were snowed in together, incidentally teaching you about the calluses on the base of his forefinger as opposed to the minutiae touches that meant nothing. And if you were to intertwine your fingers with his, just as he had when he explained Badhwar to you, would it link you to him?

This is all so silly—you should just tell him.

“You're making the same face as when you lost to me the other day,” you point out.

“Look.” Mydeimos sighs—his countenance informs you that this is more trouble than it's worth, aware that this goes beyond their healthy rivalry. “I work on my chest more than my arms; just have Phainon flex and you'll see what I mean.”

This immediately directs all attention towards him, and Phainon blinks unexpectedly, his mouth opening with an inability to decide whether to go along with it or not. So you squeeze his hand once and let go, focusing on his eyes rather than the twitch in his shoulder that indicates his desire to reach for you again.

“You’re not going to do it? Maybe it’ll motivate Castorice to revise Khaslana’s parts,” she suggests, glancing at your roommate who giggles at her words.

“If you like, I can see if it’s possible to add another romance scene or two,” Castorice offers, but it’s not enough to convince him.

Phainon curls inwards, surprisingly awkward from everyone's scrutiny and the discussion of his physical prowess when he is normally—and rightfully—proud and remarkably excited to speak on fitness. This experience is a tad amusing to bear witness to; for what you’ve heard about him and seen yourself, his enthusiasm is a principal part of his character. It’s also distinctly different from the shy quality he adapts with you regarding banter carrying flirtatious undertones. He struggles, in particular, to receive your attention—based on previous experiences, he normally seems to revel in it, outwardly pursuing it, too.

“It’s okay,” you say, primarily directed towards him and not the room. The topic originated from the lie told to preserve your affections until you were ready, thus, it is only right that you are the one to mollify the position he’s placed in. “I know Mydeimos is right.”

He straightens. “You do?” Mydeimos says slowly, not expecting your de-escalation when this is not the first time Phainon has been shy aside from your combined fussiness over Khaslana’s doom—Mydeimos enjoys it as much as Castorice does. For that reason, this is all cordial and distinctly unlike anything that would go too far.

Yet, you suspect it may have, somehow.

Slowly, you throw your arm around Phainon’s shoulder, paying close to any display of reluctance before pulling him to your side, trailing your hand down to his bicep. “Yeah, Phainon doesn’t have to show off. We all know how dedicated he is, but even if he slacked off, he would still look handsome.” Your eyes flicker from the middle of the room—not quite paying mind to the reaction of others—and back to the man in your hold. Then, knowing Castorice won’t mind, you say, “Khaslana may be really cool, but I like Phainon more.” And because he merely stares, a small chuckle escapes you. “What?”

“My!” Hyacine interrupts with a clap of her hands, momentarily catching you off guard. She’s facing you, but not quite looking at you—her expression is strange to say the least. You turn to Phainon and his head snaps to you with a questioning hum that is, again, interrupted by Hyacine. “It’s getting late and Mydei looks like he’s about to conk out!”

“Did you really just say conk out?” Cifera interjects, overtaking the beginnings of Mydeimos’ reply.

But Hyacine merely stands, grabbing Mydeimos’ arm and lifting it as if he’s a ragdoll who will partake in her schemes. He refuses to budge.

“Wait, I’ll—” He tries again, but Cyrene chimes in.

“Castorice and Cifera will be leaving soon anyway—you can go ahead and shoo, Mydei.” Swinging her legs, she lifts off the armchair to clear the coffee table.

You shift forward, falling to your knees to draw closer to the wood and help Cyrene, but you only manage to stack one plate before Phainon nudges you to the side. Your bottom bumps into the cushion of the beanbag chair, Phainon having tugged it forward to have you land in the middle, but you hold strong.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says with a hand brushing against yours. Then, he exhales slowly, at a loss of what to do with you and your stubborn resolve to help with something as simple as this.

“Oh, should we—” you start, looking towards Castorice while you stand with Phainon who passes the tableware to Cyrene. When she notices, she smiles and waves you off. “Are you going to stay with Cifera?” you ask next, leaning down to grab one end of a loose throw blanket and join it with the side clutched in Phainon’s hands, neatly folding it together.

“Sorry, starfish,” Cifera says, emanating not an ounce of remorse. “We haven’t hung out since—err… The fourth.” She nods to Castorice, and the former’s small tilt of the head is shortly followed by a bob. “Yeah, the fourth,” Cifera confirms.

“I’ll walk you home,” Phainon offers, setting the bundle of fabric atop the pile in Mydeimos’ arms.

Exchanging a small good night with your blonde friend, you watch him retreat to another part of their apartment to put everything away and, as Hyacine remarked, go to bed. Returning to your conversation with Phainon, you protest, “but Cyrene is still cleaning… I’ll help and walk home after. You should go to bed too, Phainon—I can manage.”

Preoccupied with you, Phainon calls out, “Hyacine,” and veers his head slightly to the side, a short-lived intent to look over his shoulder but refusing to focus on anyone else. “May I ask for your help if that’s alright with you?”

Peeking over him, you catch Hyacine and Cyrene as they freeze amidst whispers over the sink, still filled with dirty dishes. And, noticing you, Hyacine apologizes. “I’m sorry, what was that? Cyrene and I were—um, cleaning.”

“Thank you!” Hearing exactly what he wants, Phainon beams, taking your hand and guiding you towards the door. “You can leave half of it and head home. I’ll take care of it when I’m back.” Then, he drops to the ground when you replace your slippers with shoes; you startle with the abruptness of it, and grab Phainon’s shoulder to stabilize yourself as his hand finds the back of your knee. Choosing to continue speaking to her, he asks, “is Cyrene going to give you a ride?”

Phainon’s fingers make slow work of your shoelaces, elegant fingers crossing one string over the other and pulling firmly with a is it too tight? He checks more than once with small, muted murmurs in his downward focus on tending to you. It almost makes your heart skip, but when he moves to your other foot, you have the urge to place your hand atop his head.

His hair is moonlight spun into fluffy strands—even in low tide, you’re willing to sink into him, and in its highest, you think yourself eager through your doubts. You also think Phainon may let you; maybe he would express a content sound, purring the same way Vigethos does when you pet him, or maybe he would seek more from you, as greedy as you feel.

You don’t remember what Hyacine answered, but with everyone still here, you know she’ll be alright—Mydeimos would lose sleep to see her home; Cyrene would drive for as long as needed; and even if Cifera and Castorice prefer to be preoccupied with each other for the rest of the night, they would do anything to make sure she’s safe. The same can be said for you, so you suppose that’s why Phainon is remarkably determined in this.

“Ready to go?” Phainon opens the door, tossing his keys before catching them in his hand.

Shaking your head, you step outside and say, “show off,” just to hear him laugh.

The path taken is a familiar one, brightened with streetlamps that cut through the shine of Oronyx’s twin moons. As it’s the Curtain-Fall Hour’s last quint on a night belonging to Phagousa, the lonely stretch of sidewalk is greeted by more than just you and Phainon, either those making a similar trek home or wandering from one place to another to continue their celebrations. It’s more lively than your usual solitary ventures after you escort Phainon home.

It’s a bit strange to be on the receiving end.

Phainon’s exuberance remains, energized with the lingering contentment from the quints spent with your friends. Your arms are linked with his, but you jostle with the bounce in his step. If you were to hold hands, you’re certain he would swing them between you, a caricature of children who know nothing of the uncertain woes of adulthood, engrossed in fantasies of larger lives against the world they discover within each other. And, presuming that you’re sweethearts in this delusion, you can imagine Phainon intertwining your fingers together, fitting between each crevice in a hold you hope is as secure as he comes to you as.

The straightforwardness in this is currently found within his pointless ramblings. Phainon speaks of various topics concerning plans for the break, movies, books, and random anecdotes about you and your friends. He continues conversations that needed to be postponed without the next episode or chapter, and you remember it all. Then, when he continues by talking about you, he shows you that he does the same.

Phainon remembers to ask if Vigethos and Chocolate Pudding still slip away from their responsibilities to take a dip in Marmoreal Palace, having told him some time ago of their absence in their weekly check-up. He remembers when you mentioned, through text, a new restaurant you tried with Castorice, Cifera, and Cyrene, urging you to tell him about the dishes you enjoyed so he can attempt to recreate them. And, most of all, he remembers your plans to visit your family for most of the Creation Season, hoping to spend as much time as he can with you before your return home to Jericha prior to the start of junior year.

Stopping at a crosswalk, Phainon takes two steps backwards, tugging you away from the edge of the street when he asks, “are you working next Saturday?”

There’s another annual celebration that day, but not one of Amphoreus-wide rest. Despite being part of Phagousa’s various revelries, the Festival of Flowers caters to any person, young and old, through various activities instead of the intoxicating pleasures of honey brews and banquets.

It’s said that Phagousa, produced from Georios’ breath in the Era Luminosa, was deserted by their progenitor and forbidden to walk the earth, endlessly soaking the land, instead, from their station between heaven and earth until Talaton’s intervention. Eventually, a cavity was hollowed to become a brewing pool known as the ocean, of which its waters would evaporate under the heat of Kephale’s Sun. The droplets would then wander into Aquilla’s sky before being cast out in anger to nourish the flora housed by Georios, the blossoming offspring of Cerces.

And on the Festival of Flowers, this union of earth, sky, ocean, and life is honoured.

But it is not an event your friends participate in as a group—shortly after becoming a couple, Castorice and Cifera joined, alone—so you labour. Jericha has no such celebrations beyond today’s through Phagousa’s Laughter as the Month of Joy is a time in which the fishermen’s bounty flourishes; only Okhema is home to the seasonal Month of Carnival. So, you have no attachments or incentives aside from more Balance Coins though holiday pay.

“I was planning to,” you answer. The festival isn’t one you go to by yourself, and you aren’t one for socializing with strangers; if you are free, it is preferable to spend it with the others.

“Do you…” Phainon’s voice fades away, unclear of how to broach the subject, and you watch him raise his arm—the other slacking in its link with yours—to rub the skin on his nape. Sheepish is how the others would define him; cute is how you see him. It may seem rude for that thought to float through your head, but Phainon’s smile is undeterred. “Would it be alright if you took a day off?”

Understanding the careful avoidance of his true intention, you reply, “do you want to go to the festival together?” When the pedestrian light turns green, you guide him forward. “Should I ask everyone to see who’s available?”

Once you reach the other side of the road, a passerby travels past; Phainon’s hand quietly moves to your waist, gently tugging you closer. “Yes, I want to go with you,” he answers, and glances over his shoulder, slightly short of breath—he must be nervous with all the drunkards out this late. “But, so long as you’re comfortable, I would prefer it if it were just the two of us.”

“Are you sure? Wouldn’t it be more fun if we all went together?” you suggest. “Minus Cifera and Castorice since—you know.”

“I know but Cyrene is volunteering for face painting, Mydei is working, and Hyacine is assisting with the first aid stations.” Phainon’s arm returns to its place, looped with yours when he says, “only you and I are free.”

“Technically, I have work,” you remind him, stopping at the entrance to your apartment complex only to watch Phainon continue through the doors. “The chimeras are always so busy on holidays too, and there’s no way the Cozy Chimera won’t be full of customers.” Following him, you head for the stairway and lead him upwards. “But…” You playfully draw out the word. “If you really want to go, I’ll take a day off—just for you.”

Turning around, you expect to be met with Phainon’s laughter and a grin, yet you only find a wide, pleading gaze. The desperation begets a faint sheen to his eyes, glassy and torrential waves of blue that search for the answers within yours.

“Please,” he says, voice tight with a rarely lowered timbre. When he clears his throat, it returns to normal. “I really want to go with you.”

“Then I’ll go with you.” Taking his wrist, you pull Phainon up a step to walk beside you, and the conversation subsequently falls away.

Although beautiful, it’s just a festival like all the others. You don’t dance—what if someone were to watch? You do not enjoy one drink after another, drowning in honey brew when the hangover would interfere with your ability to do what you need to do, wasting an entire day. And you do not sing—what if you were to make a mistake? So, even if the Festival of Flowers does not host the typical intoxications, you never found purpose in attending most celebrations until you came to Okhema.

It only matters if they’re with you. And, to Phainon, it appears that it’s important that you’re by his side.

In your own dreams, you wish for the same. It would be preferable if Phainon is still your friend when you graduate from Okhema University. It would be nice if he visited you while you began your future placement in chimera clinics while pursuing your doctorate. You want to give him a bouquet after he accepts his diploma, a gift in exchange for hearing him cheer with that boisterous voice during your own turn to walk the stage. You should be there when he needs you—this year, the next, and all the ones after—even if he never harbours the same affection for you. If possible, you never want to lose any of them.

So, with your back to him, you hesitate to unlock the door. Then, exhaling slowly, you face him with a smile. “I’ll see you on Saturday?”

“You will.” Phainon grins widely, yet his expression is softened by the dim light of the hallway. “I’ll wait for you at the entrance.”

“I won’t be late,” you say, and head inside when he wishes you good night. He does not leave until the door falls shut.

It’s unfortunate, then, as you realize what slipped your mind.

But it only takes you a few minutes to decide. You rapidly pull off your shoes, do your best not to trip as you change into slippers, and rush to your room, dropping your bag next to the door. Unlatching the window, you’re careful not to tip over the glass jar, and let the edge of your desk dig into your stomach as you lean over to see him in the parking lot.

This is foolish—the Thief-Star is high in the sky, nearly finished its journey towards the Entry Hour. You’ll get in trouble, but Castorice may find it funny that you act so out of character when he’s around. Honestly, you think it laughable too, so you cup your hands around your mouth and shout his name.

Phainon’s shoulders jump; you’re certain he wasn’t expecting your voice. Regardless, he turns, squinting to where he finds your window lit up against all the other darkened rectangles.

Equally as foolish as you, he yells back, “did you forget something?” The sound resonates, a lure for anyone to scold either you, him, or both; at least he runs fast.

“No!” you answer, and can’t stop yourself from smiling. “I forgot to tell you: get home safe!” At that, you hear his laughter, the sound dampened as it floats up to you. Once he’s done, he raises his phone as an indication for you to open your own.

𖤓 Phai

Phainon: in the event that you and Castorice are kicked out, I’m sure nothing bad will happen if we sneak you into our apartment You: i think cifera will snatch cas up Phainon: guess you’ll be stuck with me Phainon: …and Cyrene and Mydei You’re typing… You: But mostly you, right? Phainon is typing…

And the indication disappears and reappears, over and over. Looking up from the screen, Phainon is staring at your window again, towards you. When nothing happens, you cant your head. He shakes his in response, returns to his phone—you continue to watch him through a soft chime—and then he waves before leaving down the path. You already miss him.

𖤓 Phai

Phainon: yes, I’ll make sure to stay with you

✎ Cifera’s Adventures w/ AO3 Fanatics

Cifera: cy did u hear cas and starfish got a noise complaint the night of ur party Cifera: and by cas and starfish i mean starfish Cifera: cause cas was with me Castorice: Please remind us who our chimera caretaker was with, Cifera. ◉‿◉ Cifera: down bad baby blues Cyrene: Phainon did take awhile to return, and he was quite giddy when he did… Cyrene: I wonder what they were up to~ Cifera: L M A O Castorice: Phainon wouldn’t move that fast! He fits into a specific archetype!! Castorice: Please refer to the group chat name. ૮(˶╥︿╥)ა You: of course this conversation happens AFTER my break You: when i'm too busy to reply ueueue Cyrene: The one you shared with him~? Cyrene: This morning, I saw him making lunch for two ♪ Castorice: Tell Phainon we say hello. (´ｖ｀) Cifera: tell him to behave cause princess likes ur neighbourhood Cifera: maybe take him on a walk to get it out of his system Cifera: his pining for you u if u didn’t know what that meant You: please don’t make that joke around him, i think he might actually woof to be funny Castorice: He does like making you laugh… You: NOT YOU TOO You: CYRENE ALSO SAID THAT Cyrene: AND YOU DIDN’T BELIEVE ME Cyrene: I agree with Cifera! ask him out on a date <3 You: It’s not a date but… You: Phainon and I are going to the Festival of Flowers together Three people are typing… Cifera: NOT A DATE U SAY Castorice: It can be a date without anyone saying it’s a date! (>/////<) Castorice: There are nuances to this… Cyrene: Call me right now!! Cyrene: Wait, no. you’re closing and he’s going to walk you home, isn’t that right~ Cyrene: Let me know if you need help, okay? You: Please help. I don’t know what I’m doing ueueue You: Can we meet up? Cyrene: I’ll call you later and we can figure it out! Cyrene: Your personal cupid is at your service! mwah <3 Cifera: booooo cas and i are working all week Cifera: gl tho, yeah? don't sweat it. there's no way it'll go sideways Castorice: Whenever I’m home, I can assist you in any way you need! Castorice: Don’t be afraid to ask. (´ｖ｀)

♡ Cupid

Cyrene: How are you feeling? are you ready? Cyrene: Which outfit did you go with and did you decide on your confession? You: no hello? good morning? Cyrene: Hello and good morning! Cyrene: It’s such a beautiful day that I can practically smell the love in the air~ You: lol good morning cy <3 You: I feel better than I thought I would, and I went with the outfit with the yellow top. As for the confession… You: Planning it out exactly doesn’t feel genuine and if I get nervous and mess up, I’ll lose confidence You: I’ll still use some of what I ran by you, but I want to honestly confess how I feel when he’s right in front of me Cyrene: Phainon is so lucky you like him~ Cyrene: And it will go well, trust me! just have fun and let it happen when you think it’s right You: How can I tell? Cyrene: You’ll know. I promise

From here, you can already see Phainon’s white tuft of hair—his height peeking over the towering sea of people.

The crowds are larger today, filled with children running amok, couples holding hands, and groups of friends dressed in splashes of colour. The scent of flowers also permeates the air, wafting from the petals littering stone paths alongside planters and baskets replaced with fresh blooms. Okhema is always magnificent, but during its festivities, the liveliness forces you to stop and take it all in. However, the anemones clutched in your hand are what catches Phainon’s eye after he spots your approach.

“Good morning!” Phainon greets you. “You’re right on time, just like you said.” His gaze flickers from your face again. “Already buying flowers?” You shake your head, and that receives his rapt attention, speaking again. “Oh? Did someone give them to you?”

The tightness in his tone has you answering immediately. “No, there was a lady handing them out to anyone who wanted one.” Offering it to him, you say, “I wanted to give it to you—Cyrene told me you like flowers.” That fact was part of her little lesson about him.

Phainon chuckles, and it must be directed to himself as you’re sure there isn’t anything amusing about what you’ve said. Fortunately, any uncertainty disappears as he coyly says, “did she, now?”

“I would have figured it out on my own!” you declare through a desire for him to sense your interest beyond Cyrene’s involvement. “How could a former farmer not like flowers?” you justify your own apparent ignorance, and try not to flinch when you feel his skin brush against yours as you pass the stem, more conscious of every touch.

“You’re right.” He twirls it between his fingers.

Your head tilts, staring at the small tote bag hanging off his shoulder. “Is that why you have so many?” There are tulips in various colours sticking out from the top. You repeat his earlier question: “did someone give them to you?”

“That’s—” Phainon can't seem to find the words, unsure of how to explain what you believe is a simple yes or no. He glances at something behind your head, trying to be subtle, but his timidity isn’t lost on you. “A few strangers approached me asking if I was free today, and despite my insistence that I wasn’t, they told me to take them before running off.”

Again, you repeat after him, "a few?" Leaning closer, his hand finds his nape while you say, “I should have arrived earlier—”

Phainon’s aborted breath cuts you off, and in the confusion that washes over your face, he grins, sharp and delighted. “Are you jealous?”

“Yes.” The bitterness from the feeling engulfs you, preventing you from considering the origins of his satisfaction. “I am. I wanted to be the first to give you flowers.”

And rather than fluster, the grin softens. “Don’t worry. I intend to give them to Cyrene and Hyacine if we run into them, and bring back the third for Mydei.” Then, he fusses with his bag, pulling out something small that fits within his palm.

When he holds out his fist, you position your hand beneath it to allow him to drop a light figurine into your palm. It’s a wooden chimera, rounded with stubby legs, so reminiscent of an illustration from a children’s book, and almost as colourful as one. It’s Vigethos, you realize, with a circle of painted flowers on his head and another in the centre of his white ruff.

“They make figurines of Vigethos?” Holding it up, you examine it all around. The edges are sanded down despite the tell-tale signs of being hand-carved.

“I’m not sure.” He taps Vigethos’ wooden horn. “I made it.” Your head snaps up with the information, and your face likely expresses the amazement you feel as he laughs. “It was a hobby of mine when I was younger—I’ve always been good with my hands.” And aware of how you may react, he proves this to you by finding the strap of your bag, slipping it onto his own shoulder before looping his free arm with yours to prevent your opposition.

And, together, you step through the archway woven with flora to enjoy the Festival of Flowers.

Newly erected stalls decorate the streets, a garden of activities, vendors, and food. With how early it is, you and Phainon resolve to visit them one by one, walking down the aisles and dodging other visitors as the area grows even busier than before. Sometimes, Phainon is approached by a man or a woman offering small bouquets you are certain have romantic implications. He refuses each time, vaguely motioning to you with soft apologies—whatever that means, you are afraid to consider it too earnestly; surely your jealousy was not that grave.

When you’re half-way through, you listen to Phainon chat with various chefs and vendors about the food they’re cooking, munching on various savory and sweet treats to fill your stomach, lucky enough to receive little deals with Phainon’s passionate questions. Then, following the path of painted faces, you find Cyrene to offer her something to fill her stomach amidst her hard work. Here, she takes a break, but refuses to join, while Hyacine provides the same answer with a similar excuse of being too busy. Seeing your disappointment, Phainon guides you towards an opulent sign overlooking a long line.

Fall in Love with Phagousa’s Sacred Philter!

It doesn’t take long to reach the front. Phainon promises you it’ll uplift your spirits, so you share a tall cup of swirling rose and lavender coloured liquid with a sprinkle of glitter you’re wary of drinking. But Phainon has no fear, so he takes a sip with a grin, tells you it’s good, and proceeds to chuckle when your face scrunches at the shockingly tart flavour that mellows out into something sweet. He’s right, it does make you feel better, and you keep it that way by avoiding any thought of Phainon enjoying it with someone that isn’t you.

Sometime around sunset, a creature nudges against your calf.

Phainon laughs, leaning down to catch an enthusiastic chimera that runs circles around the two of you, and once he straightens with his success, you’re faced with Cyrup in his arms. “It looks like she’s in charge of dragging a wagon around today,” he observes, petting her head. 

She awoos in response, a happy trill that reminds you so much of Cyrene.

In honour of Phagousa, the chimera’s laurel wreath is replaced by one of ivy and grapevine interwoven with small wildflowers. The miniature wagon she’s drawing carries the same in various colours to be passed around and, recognizing you, it’s evident she was wondering why your head was absent of one.

Reaching over, your fingers brush Phainon’s as you mimic his gentle affection upon her, and he withdraws at the small touch. Cooing, you ask Cyrup, “did you come to give us flower crowns?”

Again, she awoos, nudging her face into your palm. And when you sneak a quick peek at Phainon, your eyes meet instantly.

Clearing his throat, he says, “can you understand her like Cifera?”

Truthfully, you can't unless they're simple sentences or responses like yes, no, and short remarks of whether or not something hurts, is disliked, or uncomfortable. By this, you only have a grasp of understanding if your actions during medical exams are consensual and can be appropriately continued. As you're always accompanied by a licensed Gardener, they can translate the rest while you've also grown accustomed to general chimera body language.

“Only the basics and some of what I need for check-ups,” you answer, continuing to rub Cyrup's cheek as she nuzzles your hand. “But our curriculum has advanced chimera language courses in the upcoming semesters now that everyone is specializing in what they're interested in.”

Phainon hums, the sound blending with Cyrup's purring as he joins you in showering her with attention again. “You always planned to focus on chimera health, right?”

“That's my dream.” Watching him scratch her belly, you chuckle softly and steady the laurel atop her head when she goes boneless in his arms. “I was permitted to assist in the medical exams as a pseudo-internship since I have experience from when I was younger—my little brother would bring home chimeras or baby seals with small injuries.”

His hand stills. “Was it scary the first time he did?” Phainon asks, and returns to scratching Cyrup’s belly after she grumbles in protest.

You shake your head. “My mom helped, and after that, I started following our local Gardener around. Nothing better to do when I was waiting all the time.”

Phainon pokes your nose at that, compelling you to look at him instead of Cyrup. Once you do, he smoothes the scrunch in your brow—the touch simple and easy. “Is your mother a Gardener?”

“No,” you say, “she isn't, but she knows how to do anything. And if she doesn't, she can figure it out.” Releasing a soft huff, you remember. “We needed to be resourceful with the way I grew up.” You shrug, casual, now. “Especially when my brother was born and he always got up to trouble.”

“How is Aratus doing anyway?” Phainon asks, gently fiddling with Cyrup's paws.

“Writing poems and stories,” you answer, although Phainon already knows of your brother's hobbies and the words he can never stop recording. “He mentioned making a few new friends in school too.”

“Sounds like he would get along with Castorice,” Phainon notes.

The prospect is something you’ve thought about before. You hadn’t expected your friends here to become such a significant part of your life, and you sometimes discover yourself wondering what it would be like to introduce them all to your family. And, if you save enough, you hope you can help fund Aratus’ education when he's older so he doesn't have to worry about a scholarship like you, and maybe he'll come to Okhema and meet Castorice too.

“Yeah, he would be so excited to meet someone from Aidonia,” you say, and allow the conversation to subside as the two of you stare at Cyrup. “She's practically asleep, Phainon.” Catching his hand, you try to stop his doting affection—similar to Cyrene, Cyrup falls asleep easily but is difficult to wake up.

“Chimeras are too adorable for me not to spoil them.” But despite the admission, he gently nudges her cheek to rouse her and says, “don't you have flower crowns to give us, Cyrup?”

She tries to howl in confirmation, yet the sound is more slurred than anything, breaking off into a yawn. Allowing this to be her unapproved break, you and Phainon focus on the contents of the mini-wagon.

“What I should pick…” Phainon wonders, his free hand finding his nape and rubbing the skin there.

“Blue would look nice on you,” you answer instinctively.

“Really?” You nod so he asks, “what are you going with?”

Again, your reply is quick. “I like the one with yellow wildflowers.”

With both your choice and his decided, Phainon bends at the waist but your hand falls to his bicep, halting him in his movements.

“It's okay,” you start, and let go, forgetting the shape of his muscle in your hand. “I'll do it for you—you're still holding Cyrup.”

Before his mouth opens in the beginnings of a reply, you instantly drop to your knees and sort through the various flower crowns. You pluck one with deep blue wildflowers and another in pale yellow from the pile before looking up at Phainon to show him the options you went with.

“The one to your left is nicer,” Phainon recommends. “The shape is pretty and it's the colour of wheat.”

Reaching for it, you hold up a crown of golden wildflowers. “This one?” you confirm. The edges of each petal are pointed in comparison to the rounded ones of the crown you've chosen for Phainon, but they're brighter too, just like him. “Actually, I think this might suit you more than me.”

“No,” Phainon disagrees as he stoops to your level. Then, he gently sets Cyrup down and only retreats once she's steady on her feet, freeing his hands to take the crown from you. “See? It fits perfectly, too,” he says, placing it on your head and adjusting it until he's satisfied.

The attentiveness in the gesture is so unravelling that you believe yourself capable of jumping into deep waters, not bothering to look when the feeling surges towards the forefront of your mind. This must be what Cyrene meant—though the apprehension remains—where you're overwhelmed with the need for him to know.

Unfortunately, there's a tiny sneeze.

Cyrup’s nose wiggles as she blinks, and you may even describe her as sheepish—as much as a chimera can be, anyway. She was quiet the entire time, watching you and Phainon interact with a curious admiration originally disguised as lethargy from Phainon’s soothing affections.

He chuckles. “Cyrup agrees.”

And she does with a small howl only to place her paw upon your hand, patting you three times before turning her head to Phainon.

“Lean your head down, please?” You don't want to see him watching you as you do this. “That’s good,” you say after he listens. For a second, you observe the blue flower crown; each blossom has five petals, rounded and cute, with a yellow centre adorned with five anthers—cushioned by a star. You swallow the lump in your throat and tell him, “you look nice.”

“Just nice?” Phainon repeats after you, as troublesome as ever and never missing a beat.

The smile fixed on his face draws a sharp line, but his features are ultimately softened by the light catching on his lashes with each glance towards the stone path or the merry-making surrounding you, indecisive in his intent. Out here, in this agora, there is nothing that impedes nor covers the Sun, only your shadow upon him with your undivided focus.

All you can do is give voice to truth. “You're beautiful.” 

But Phainon blinks with your quiet acceptance—he’s right, he’s not just nice—and is unreadable regardless of you granting his desire. To your surprise, he does not flush nor clamour, and neither is there a gasp or any laughter, merely something fragile. It makes you feel tender-hearted, yet he nods, thanks you indiscriminately, and stands with an offered hand to detach himself from the moment.

Taking it, you do the same while he asks, “where did Cyrup go?” Somehow, she escaped with the wagon, slipping away to return to her duties or grant you privacy, neither of you know.

“Looks like she was busy,” you propose. And, remaining polite in conduct, you feign eye contact by staring up at the flora circling his head. “We should get going too.”

So, after taking a quick photograph together, you do.

As the quints pass, the streetlamps begin to glow, but they're not as pretty as the string lights bridging one stall to another, reminding you of Jericha’s bioluminescent summers—a radiant array illuminating the dark blues of the sea, and now, the sky.

The activities and games are perhaps more enjoyable, too, because of it. And perhaps that is why Phainon drags you back to those you’ve already played, or maybe he just wanted to beat you at whack-a-mole this time. He loses again. Alternatively, Phainon challenges you against the strength tester, swinging the mallet in a wide arc that nearly rings the bell. Before you can make your attempt, however, you allow a child to try, and when the puck reaches the pinnacle, it chimes, loud and clear so you usher Phainon to Skee-Ball instead, hoping to chase away his pout. This he wins, and you take turns doing so back and forth across the stands until you reach the last—a ring toss in which every one of your successes is accompanied by his little cheers.

Phainon and you reap your rewards in more flowers and various treats and trinkets that fill any leftover space from your earlier browsing. There are small plush toys in the form of an otter for you and a sword for Phainon, enamel pins for all your friends, a new journal for Aratus, and other miscellaneous items that you would normally be reluctant to purchase.

Of these, Phainon is currently looping the string of chimera charm through the divot in your phone. It’s a close imitation of Vigethos—similar sized horns rather than asymmetrical, a complete grey body lacking any cream-coloured fur, and signature blue eyes. When he hands your phone back to you, you remind yourself to ask your mother to help you repaint it. On Phainon’s, the chimera is also as close as it can be to Chocolate Pudding, and with how rare it is for the little creature to follow Phainon around, it’s no surprise he wants to keep the one in their image. He must see Vigethos enough as it is.

If not for the festive lights winding the colonnades, the area within the stoa would be completely darkened, dashes of colour creeping between each gap of shadow. It’s quieter here, in comparison to the trance that has overtaken the crowds, dancing hand in hand amongst bards and buskers. The music crests and quiets, a wave of sound the city revels in, but you and Phainon only sit and watch at the edges.

Through nearly three Periods, the conversation was endless until now, encroaching on a fourth as you lean forward to cast your gaze upwards. Although the Thief Star’s trajectory changes each night, you kept a promise to always search for it. Phainon mimics you, too, with a small but content huff before he fixes your flower crown.

“It was lopsided,” he explains, taking way too long to balance something that hasn't fallen off your head for more than five quints now.

“Did you fix it?” you ask anyway. When he nods, you reach for his own. “It’s lopsided,” you repeat.

Again, Phainon releases a hushed breath, but leans down, which almost causes it to slide off entirely. On impulse, one of your hands finds his cheek while the other tries to steady the crown. Then, he lifts his head, leaning into your palm and baring his face to you once again. His eyes are closed—he must be content. Had that been you in the winter? Half-asleep and determined to study just a bit longer and elongate the memory with him, yet your surrender is why you can detail his hands.

Pressed to his cheek, can he feel the tip of the crater carved out of the cushion of your thumb? A careless handling of fishing line and hooks as foolish as your first attempts to soothe Chocolate Pudding before they were named. And when Phainon finds your wrist in your attempt to end the contact, he keeps you stationary by curling his fingers around the joint. If he were to rub his fingers along the skin there, he would discover four sunken reliefs, the size of the chimera’s claws.

The next smile he offers you is bewitching, accompanied by an airy laugh with a gaze shaded by Oronyx’s night, irises lost to a stormy blue coruscated by momentary flickers of light, floating over from the celebrations. The affection in his countenance is heavy although it is not crushing; you are extraordinarily free, and the feeling, you realize, is immeasurable when you think of where this may lead. And when the edges of your mouth rise, slowly like a flood that gently reaches its zenith, Phainon follows you. He always does.

It makes you wonder why you were so afraid in the first place.

But when you drop your hand to compose yourself and interrupt the serene moment, you simultaneously say each other’s name.

“You go first,” he offers, yet it's as if he's lost all confidence.

It reminds you of before. “This is about what you texted me more than a month ago, isn't it?”

Phainon pauses, realizing how easy it is for you to understand him. “It is,” he confirms. “You could tell?”

“You look so nervous and that’s all I could think of.” Admittedly, you're also selfish—you want him to focus on you and not what he will say next regardless of any desire to help him through his worries. “Mine is a bit long so it's better for you to start.”

With that, he straightens almost imperceptibly. “Okay, so don't freak out.”

“Maybe I should just because you said that,” you jest.

“Please don't.” He meets you with a pout—you've succeeded in providing him some relief. “I don't want anything to be strange between us,” he admits.

Your stomach drops. Does he know? You weren’t exactly subtle about it whereas you're also aware that he consistently rejections the odd confession without any consideration. There was a day you asked him about it—before you became one of those admirers—and he explained that he had no grounds to accept as he didn't know them. And if he didn't, then that also meant that any affection was for a person they didn't recognize—the only ‘Phainon’ they knew was an idol or a myth.

Cyrene didn't tell you about this part: how the world falls apart when it doesn't work out.

Still, you maintain a gentle smile. “Why would it be weird?”

“I have to explain.” Then, he laughs, particularly awkward at the irrationality in what’s to come. “You remember Auntie Aglaea, right?”

You nod. “We met briefly on Cyrene's birthday and that fashion show the cosmetology program hosted.” But he's also spoken of her extensively, mirroring the anecdotes both Cifera and, especially, Cyrene have told. 

“That's even better!” He takes your hands in his, initially excited before his cheeks stain pink. He lowers them so he can look at you properly, going rigid as if he has to be on his best behaviour and as polite as can be. “I have a favour related to her.”

“Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”

“It won't be that bad!” Phainon pipes up, grip tightening. “You're the only one I'm close to that Auntie Aglaea doesn't know well or who I treat like family.”

You're right—there is something terrible about this—so you simply say, “Phainon,” in a tight voice.

The explanation tumbles out anyway. “She's hosting a soiree; it’s not public like a gala, but she invites her close friends, acquaintances, and colleagues—you get it.” He can’t meet your eyes.

“I get it, but Phainon, do not tell me…” There would be an absolutely horrible amount of important people, of which you would need to impress. You’re not ready; you don’t believe any amount of preparation would make it so.

“Would you be willing to attend Aglaea’s soiree?” Your mouth opens to speak but Phainon quickly continues, shoulders drawn together to brace himself as the words escape. “Specifically with me as your boyfriend?”

You snatch your hands away. “What kind of favour is this?” His touch no longer soothes you—a torrid hold that could do nothing but worsen the reality that viciously devours your delusions.

“Please.” Phainon offers you a pitiful look with even more pathetic eyes. “Auntie Aglaea loves playing matchmaker and it doesn't help that a few guests are either our age or have children who are.” With a firmer hold, he finds you again, not enough to hurt but it feels all too warm. He’s afraid you’ll reject him completely. “Please spare me this one year,” he pleads.

“Phainon, I—” You can’t form a proper thought, and even if you could, nothing would come out right when pretending is too heavy to comprehend. “I don’t know…”

Despite hearing that, he looks so hopeful. Why do you still want to help him?

“The food is really good!” Phainon says, trying to convince you through fancy dishes and treats.

“I do like food…” you reply, disregarding the slight disappointment that it wouldn’t be his cooking, no matter the extravagance.

“You’ll have an excuse to dress up and we could do something fun like coordinate outfits!”

“Then you won't show up in something unflattering.”

“I'm not that bad at fashion,” he mutters.

“You do dress cute.” It slips out before you can stop it, whereas Phainon’s grip finally seems to loosen so you hastily add, “but you also make questionable choices sometimes.”

“See?” Phainon says, convinced he’s persuading you. “We work really well together!”

Because you agree, you still have doubts. There are so many logistics to cover; stories you have to stitch together so tightly that they're believable when you bring them to life. But when does playing pretend turn into method acting? Or is that inconsequential when you want it to be real? Maybe that makes it easier in the end.

You take a long inhale and release it with a sigh. “It just seems like something is bound to go wrong.”

“It's just one night and we can say we separated amicably or that it didn’t work out.” He’s certain this will work, and by the sound of it, he’s thought it all through. “So we can remain friends afterwards.”

“Since when do you lie?” you mutter, and ignore how it catches him off guard. 

His mouth is slightly agape, opening and closing to put together a proper response. And, avoiding your question entirely, he discloses, “I’ve done this for a few years now—entertaining people under the guise of pleasantries—she doesn't push, but it feels strange when there’s an intention behind every interaction with my ‘date,’ even when there’s an event going on around us.” Phainon swallows, aware of the concern flowing from your face. “I would tell her but, like today, there’s still…” His face scrunches into a troubled expression.

“People who flirt with you?” You finish for him to which he nods.

“Or those awkward instances when someone hopes you’ll be interested in their son or daughter,” Phainon adds. “I want to support Auntie Aglaea and enjoy myself without feeling pressured.” For someone like Phainon, it must be difficult for his amiable personality to be confused with attraction, afraid of someone reacting negatively or expressing any unkindness in exchange for his own discomfort.

“Alright,” you say, refusing to look at how wide his smile is that his dimple shines through. “Just for one night.”

“I promise I'll be a good ‘boyfriend’ to you,” Phainon declares—you're certain he will—and squeezes your hand one last time before letting go. “Thank you for helping me.” Now that it’s settled, he places all his attention on you. “So what did you want to say?”

How foolish. The time and place for it is gone now, and it will likely stay that way for a while. So, you tell him, “it’s nothing.” 

“But you said it would be long,” Phainon pressed, regardless of his usual politeness. His head tilts, eyes darting as he examines you, attempting to discern the motive for your reconsideration.

It'll be like always, then, doing what you hate.

“The Garden of Life is having an open house and I wanted to ask you if you’d like to volunteer with me since it’s something you already do—well, for sports instead of chimeras, but I know Vigethos was made in your image and he’s important to you…” Your rambling eventually dwindles out, completing a little white-lie.

The open house is a real event held every year for charitable purposes, raising awareness of how important chimeras are for her Holy City while inspiring dreams to become a Gardener. It’s scheduled to take place in the Month of Everyday, a week before your leave for Jericha, so you always intended to ask Phainon and the others to either participate or visit if they’d like. And this was meant to be done with Hyacine as Krenabis assists her at the clinic, but you’re sure she won’t object to you asking Phainon first.

“Why wouldn’t I agree?” he wonders.

“You’re always so busy,” you counter. “I wasn’t sure if you would be able to.”

“I’ll make time,” he says. “It’s the least I could do.”

Preferably, it would be better if he wanted to go because of you and not to make up for this ‘favour,’ but for all you know, he would have said yes at the prospect of doing something nice for Okhema. You’ve had enough of your daydreams for tonight.

“Thank you” is what you express, and it’s all that you can. “It’s getting late, do you want to head back?”

Phainon agrees. He stands first, stretching to his full height as he overtakes your view, a silhouette back-lit by tonight’s revelry, of which blocks their happiness from you. You think he smiles too, when he offers you a hand, as it’s practically a permanent feature on his face. If you refused his charade, would that have changed? It doesn’t matter, you suppose, as your persuasion is in vain and Phainon walks you home—this was always your responsibility to him, not the other way around.

And it only leads to a conversation you hoped would be of different circumstances.

As you leave through the archways of the festival, you reject stalks of free flowers when your bag is already so heavy and any more would crush the rest. He tells you the soiree is at the end of the month—you have exactly fourteen days. When you cut through a darkened alleyway, Phainon holds your hand tight, keeping you close to his side with no fear in his heart, too busy planning another gathering of games and movies that you always share together, alone. Then, he chooses to discuss contingencies and rules and falsehoods and when can you spare time to figure it out?

You answer. All you do is answer and you never ask beyond that. You tell him good night and thank him for today, and how wonderful it had been. At the door, you don’t hesitate. You say get home safe because that’s what you always do, and leave everything behind you.

But when you call for Castorice, you find no answer except for a text on your phone that she will be with Cifera tonight. So you also make your way to your room—you take longer to peel off your shoes; you stumble while putting on your slippers since you’ve been on your feet all day; you drag yourself towards your desk, setting your bag on the floor next to it; and you stare at your windowsill whilst removing any trace of the Festival of Flowers.

Then, pretending everything is okay, you tear the flower crown apart, petal by petal.

♡ Cupid

Cyrene: So… Cyrene: I assume it went well~ You: The opposite, actually You: He asked ME Cyrene: I’m sorry but I’m failing to see the issue Cyrene: Don’t tell me Mydei is rubbing off on you and you wanted to one up him by asking first You: It’s not real You: He needs a date to Aglaea’s soiree Cyrene: What happened to all those ideas you shared with me? and everything you kept a secret because, and I quote, “only he should hear it” Cyrene: Tell him you want to go with him as your boyfriend! You: HE IS Cyrene is typing… Cyrene: Wait Cyrene: Do NOT tell me You: YES. Cyrene: NO. Cyrene: Why did you accept? why would you do this to yourself You: I couldn’t say no to him You: How could I if he needs me? Cyrene: You can always try again when the time is right Cyrene: But I’m worried Cyrene: Wouldn’t something like this hurt? You: I don’t know You: But he would never hurt me Cyrene: I hope you know what you’re doing Cyrene: Cifera never attends, but I'm going to be there Cyrene: I’m always going to be here if you need me, okay? no matter what You: I know. Thank you, Cyrene <3 You: And what’s the worst that can happen?

Tomorrow is Thursday and instead of spending your free time resting before a long day of chimera physicals, you’re at Phainon’s apartment. And you specifically say Phainon’s because Cyrene and Mydeimos aren’t here for once while the weight of being alone with him again is exceptionally heavy on your heart. Nevertheless, you’re so taken by him that the other two may practically be non-existent at the moment as Phainon has distracted himself—and you—with romance.

From movies to k-dramas, then books, manga, and fanfiction, the two of you have spent the past few quints prattling on and on about what you like, dislike, and swoon over. It’s only when you return to a fake dating trope that he recalls why you’re here in the first place.

"We should figure out our story before the party," Phainon says. "How we started dating, what we like about each other, and any rules we should have for the night."

All this planning and set-up is an integral part of the typical motions characters go through for their fake relationships. A lot of it is the same old same old that is adjusted for each couple, and the classic sequence for these stories has one or both wanting for more after all this is over. However, because you already did much longer before, you tell yourself this will be a sufficient diving board towards it; an excuse, perhaps, to lessen the prospect in his request as equal to solidified disinterest.

"Is this the reason you’re so into romance lately?” you ask, the words leaving your mouth with a fluidity that beguiles even you into believing your indifference to it. If you weren’t, it would be easy to crack open and tell him. “So we can prepare for our act?” you continue.

“I've always been interested…” Then, he averts his eyes and says, “it's only proper. You're doing this as a favour for me and I don't want to make you uncomfortable.”

You nod; even with something like this, you and Phainon are on the same page. It's comforting to know that, which makes you certain of how it should go. There's no other way.

Taking a deep breath, you admit, “I confessed to you.” 

Phainon blinks. “Not the other way around?” His voice lifts at the end of the question, indicating an amused interest.

You shake your head. “No, you're too…” Careful. You're unsure if he would take the risk unless he had an inkling of mutual feelings; afraid of pushing too far. Sometimes, he does surprise you but he has never shown you that he would do otherwise, so you cast your gaze over him and choose to change the subject. “I realized I was interested in you, courted you with—”

“Wait,” Phainon interrupts and follows it with a small apology. He even leans closer on the couch, drawn in by your proposal but insistent on knowing. “Why did you confess first?”

It makes you tense up. “Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not. I was merely curious…” Phainon trails off, tapping his fingers on the pillow he pulls into his lap. His eyes flit between it and you as he works up the courage to return to your previous words. “And you courted me?” he repeats after you, opening the conversation back up.

It's formal, you know, but that's how you would do it. Earlier, Phainon referred to this preparation as proper; to you, this is proper too. So, you reaffirm, “yes, I courted you. And I don't think you would do it because I would beat you to it.”

It should be enough to distract him.

He takes the bait. “Why not?” he questions, but it's evidently more of a retort, as if your idea of him is so incongruent with what's real that he's disbelieving. “I can be romantic.”

“It's not whether or not you’re romantic, it's that you would...wait.”

He hums, a long sound that rumbles through his chest. “And you wouldn't?” Phainon asks next, growing more comfortable as he anchors his elbow upon the backrest to prop his cheek against his hand. The attention is fairly disconcerting.

Still, you hold strong. “No, I would court you.”

His eyes turn into slight crescents, alight with interest. “With…” He trails off, urging you on again.

“With flowers and baked treats or making sure you get home safe,” you say—the answer comes easily when you’ve determined this long ago. 

“You already walk me home,” Phainon simply notes, face set in an impartiality that hints at his doubts in reading into it.

“Then it's more believable,” you retort, and grab a throw pillow to gently whack him with for no other motive than to dislodge his train of thought. He allows you to do it.

“Also, I thought baking was my thing?”

It’s maddening when he’s like this—so difficult to avoid. This moment isn’t right to be truthful yet you say, “it is, but that's why I would do it—because it's important to you. I know you like flowers, you walk Castorice home, and you feed everyone. I would do it because I should show you the same care.”

“You don't have to do those things.” Phainon huffs, not irritated but as if what you’ve said is entertaining. “I want to be a good boyfriend to you so I would be the one to do it. You don't have to concern yourself with that.”

He’s taken your words so seriously that your heart aches. Phainon wouldn’t want you to lift a finger to be a good boyfriend to you—specifically to you is what your mind absurdly focuses on. Had you confessed, it would not be strange to have an almost identical conversation to this one, familiarizing yourselves with how to look out for, satisfy, and love the other.

You clarify, “are you saying that, because you're my partner, you want to take care of me?”

“Exactly!” At that, Phainon unravels into something elated, reminding you of a dog Cifera alluded to him being akin to.

Maybe a samoyed would be perfect? The coat colour would be similar with a constant smile and a matching attitude—friendly; energetic and notably playful; social with a desire to be with the people they love, and slightly protective for that reason; a need for sufficient stimulation or a need to be useful; and, at times, stubborn.

“That means I should take care of you too, right?” you remark, and watch him realize what you’ve just done. “Because Aglaea would never believe a relationship where love isn't showing care,” you add, ensuring he cannot dismiss you.

But, surprisingly, he only cocks his head, contemplative as he finishes with a little nod. “Okay.”

“That's it?” you question. Whenever such a thing occurs between Phainon and Mydeimos, Phainon only becomes more resolute and increasingly vivacious as if a challenge has been set.

“I can't argue against it if you flipped it on me.” He chuckles but it tapers off into his previous introspection. "What did you say when you confessed to me?" The timbre he takes is a quiet one, voice lowered despite there being no one here but the two of you.

"I told you I liked you.”

"Is that all?"

The slight repetition almost makes you laugh, but to you, this is all very simple. So, you say, "does it have to be anything more?”

“I didn't intend for it to come across negatively.” His head lowers with a small shake, bangs swaying as he directs his attention towards the pillow he’s still holding. “I only wanted to know how you would do it,” he admits.

It’s enough to garner an answer from you. "And..." You hesitate regardless. "And I asked if you liked me too."

"What did I say?" he probs as his hand reaches for yours. Your fingertips touch first, flinching briefly when you were busy waiting for the moment he would show you his face again. He doesn’t, so this is enough.

Sliding your fingers against his, you feel the curve of a joint and, then, fit into the divots between his. "You told me you felt the same," you mumble, watching him untangle from your hold to fiddle with your hands.

"Did I?" His provocation is a reticent one, almost cheeky—maybe, in your imagination, he wants more.

“Don't mess with me.” You huff like he had but, rather than being primarily amused, you are ostensibly miffed. Threatening him, you pinch his thumb between yours and your forefinger. “I'll eat all the chocolate in your pantry.”

He pinches yours back, smiling quietly. “You wouldn't—your stomach would hurt like when you challenged me to eat the most chimera cookies.” Phainon’s eyes find you despite his lowered head, a certainty in how to reel you in before you make things difficult for yourself.

The tip of his bangs must touch his eyelashes in this position. You want to brush them away.

With a grin, you let the desire sink by challenging him. “Do you want to bet on it?

But he straightens to say, “I think I told you that it was impossible not to like you.”

“What happened to the bet?” you ask, doing your best to remain impassive.

You don’t understand him, whereas failing to incite the coyness within him makes his declaration affect you differently. It would be far more simple to let this stay within the confines of the little ‘act,’ but the longer you plan, the less it feels like fabrication. Every smile he offers you is the softer one, too, and it gentles with each new addition, especially with his.

Phainon shakes his head. “I'm not taking you up on that bet—a good boyfriend wouldn't let you suffer like that.”

It's difficult not to ask. “Why is it impossible not to like me? That seems like an exaggeration. There's a lot to like about someone.” You swallow something down—your throat feels tight, and your chest even more so. “It's not believable.”

The one facet of love you undeniably know is that it changes. People change according to what happens to them. They change when others love them and also when they don’t. There must be ways you behave that irk even Cyree, Castorice, Cifera, and your family. You’re convinced that love is a feeling and also an action—the choice made to persist—but to say that it’s ‘impossible’ not to feel that way for someone is equally as impractical.

And when you mean love, it is in the most general sense as you, yourself, don’t think you’ve reached a point where you’re able to say you love Phainon, merely like. There are still many sides of him you don’t know, and even more that you regularly try to understand. If it were possible, you hope to continue discovering them with him, and that he would do the same for you, disregarding your romantic folly for him. Would all your affection for him remain, you wonder, if he showed you some new part of himself or turned into someone you don’t recognize?

“I think it is,” Phainon answers. “Do you remember what Badhwar said about love for person A being different for person B?”

You do. You do because you held onto every word from that day, and from then, you wanted to know as much as you could about him if that meant being able to hear his voice and have him speak to you, endlessly, about any topic he likes. So long as you have more time together, it doesn’t matter.

“She said that love is unique to and between each person,” you reiterate, and grow uncertain shortly after with the recollection. “Except for when person C is biologically the same as person B and would also make the same choices.”

Phainon confirms your memory correct and then says, “we spoke of Nietzsche's eternal recurrence, too, do you remember that?” You nod, so he continues, diverting the topic towards something similar. “If we were stuck in a loop, it would be like fate, wouldn't it?”

Following up with your own question, you hesitate to propose, “what if this is our first time?”

Concepts like fate and free will are horrifying, really. Believing everything will work out simply because it will, or making the wrong choice and concluding that it is meant to be are both absurd to you. Janus may know all paths, Oronyx may extrapolate all they like and grant Holy Maidens dreams, and Mnestia and Nikador may send prophecies, but if there is something you must do, you will do it. If there is something you want, you will work towards it.

Phainon had told you, once before, that there are so many different viewpoints within determinism. The simplest—of which you would trust if forced to pick—is one that is straightforwardly referred to as ‘casual.’ One decision or event made prior leads to the next, whereby past and present determine the future and the outcome of your environment and the people you may directly or indirectly impact. Phainon said this sequence was antecedent in nature, which only led your line of thinking towards behaviour, stimulus, and everything you know about animals and conditioning. 

So, in love, you don’t want for fate. If you were at the mercy of a loop as Phainon imagines, then you hope there is nothing of the sort. You will strive to remember. From one eternal recurrence to another, you will pull that memory of him and your feelings from the depths of your recollections, and you will find and meet him again. You will become familiar with him, as you did in this life, and you will wait and see if that affection returns. Even if he is different, it will ultimately be intentional. Although, you suppose, that returns to Badhwar and the possibility of love being replaceable—if Phainon is still ‘Phainon’ in an alternate world with a different life.

With his hand raised to your forehead, directly within your line of sight, you startle slightly from his gentle touch.

He smoothes the furrow in your brow. “Then…” he starts to answer once your focus returns to him. “It's because I chose you.”

“I thought love was a feeling beyond action,” you remind him of the objective of his and Castorice’s debate topic. You don’t want to linger on your thoughts concerning the matter—refuse to when this conversation is rushing towards something dangerous, a current you won’t be able to fight against.

But Phainon doesn’t know, and so, he says, “it is, but the person I'm looking at is you.” He doesn’t elaborate any further, assured that nothing has escaped you.

It hasn’t, and for that reason, you cannot maintain his gaze. “It sounds like you're the one who confessed,” you suggest with a taut laugh, “do you want to change it?”

“No, I don't,” Phainon declares, conclusive and eliminating any prospect of something different. He wants this to be how it goes. “Your version feels right.”

“Yours is more romantic,” you swiftly say, “like you said: you can be romantic.”

“Does that matter if yours feels real?” Phainon cants his head with a peculiar air to him—he’s observing you. That’s the only logical explanation for these purportedly still behaviours he demonstrates; waiting for your reaction in body language and spoken words, even how you say it and especially if you opt not to say anything at all.

It doesn’t mean anything, you remind yourself. He conducts himself in a similar fashion with everyone else—you’ve seen it, time and time again. It’s ridiculous to assume without any basis to prove it, and you understand that misunderstanding a charade as potentially disastrous as this will only hurt you someday. In wanting to convince him to feel the same, you’ve already decided to take this slowly, so that is what you will do.

Thus, you settle with "okay” and clear your throat after the word comes out wrong. “Rules?” Your thoughts feel so muddled, too, that you have to clarify. “I don’t want there to be any mention of Aratus or pretending our families—or mine, at least, since Miss Aglaea speaks to yours—think we’re perfect for each other. If anyone wonders what my family thinks of you, just say we’re waiting before I introduce you to them.” And when you look at Phainon, he nods; you’ve never seen him so serious. “What rules do you want to make?”

“No kissing,” Phainon says without delay, “not on the lips, forehead, or cheek—let's keep any affection the same as always. We don't have to kiss to prove anything.” The insistence in it is so strong that your genuine curiosity must show on your face as he elaborates. “I'm not comfortable doing it outside of a real relationship.”

Of all romantic measures, kissing is something you wouldn’t be able to manage either. The simple thought of one already makes your skin feel warm, heat creeping up your neck and settling on your cheeks with your head equally dizzy.

“I agree, don’t worry.” Then, pulling yourself together, you add, “if we’re asked about something we didn’t prepare for, let's make it similar to what we've been through as friends to minimize the chance of our stories not matching.” He hums in agreement so you allow it to settle before abruptly piping up with a pointed finger. “And you have to tell me if anything is too much or uncomfortable too.”

In a show of exaggeration, he rolls his eyes, gently pushing your hand away, yet intertwines your fingers together, again, during the descent. “Likewise,” he says before turning brazen, leaning closer with an impish attitude. “In fact, I think that’s something you should remember.”

“No,” you argue, squeezing his hand tight to physically express your defiance. “You hide more often than I do,” you insist, but it fails to persuade him to take it back, so you let it be while the room falls into silence. It forces you to face what has bothered you since he first asked you to play this part. “...Why me?”

“What do you mean? Why not you?” Phainon asks with a wry puff of air that you interpret as finding the question funny. “Cyrene and I are practically siblings, I could never do something like this with Hyacine, and I doubt Mydei would be willing to put up with a charade like this.”

“So you didn’t have any other choice, huh?” The tone you take is so mordant that it may as well betray you.

Yet, there’s no hesitation in his voice; he doesn’t pause nor does his voice waver. “You were my first choice. It took me so long to ask you—I thought about the ways I would bring it up, how I would say it, and the reasons why.” He steadies your hands only to repeat, “but you were always my first choice.”

This can’t go any further; you are sure to say something outside of formalities you wish to take when it comes to him. 

“I guess that’s it?” You pull away completely with the conclusive remark, of which Phainon nods again before you realize you’ve forgotten something crucial. “What are we telling everyone?” Castorice is going to be immeasurably concerned, while Cifera is sure to be affected by the former’s reaction aside from her inevitable doting of you being concealed by mischief.

You don’t know how to face that kind of pity.

“We don’t have to say anything. It’ll only be one night,” Phainon decides. “It can be a story for another time.”

“Alright,” you say, and find that it's become remarkably awkward with the ocean between you two. You were the one to end the physical contact, but it feels very final, now, with the prospective touchiness transforming into something with significantly more intent.

Phainon seemingly feels the same, tapping that rhythm he always plays when he fidgets. “Okay,” he says, struggling to respond with anything else until he glances at the clock. “Cyrene and Mydei should be home soon, do you want to help me with dinner again?”

Old habits are always a painless solution, even for him.

“I promise I won’t burn the roux this time,” you jest, letting yourself revel in the sound of his tiny laugh.

Phainon raises his pinky. You hook yours around his.

𖤓 Phai

Phainon: opinions on my little oyster Phainon: like the saying: “the world is your oyster” You: are you saying i’m your world Phainon: hypothetically Phainon: I think it’s important that romance doesn’t take up our entire lives Phainon: but to be cheesy and romantic, yes, you are my world You: aka your oyster. You: let me set the stage, okay? Phainon: should I get some lights and curtains ready Phainon: or a fish tank You: you’re gonna have to find a big one You: anyways, miss aglaea is asking about our matching outfits because, you know, she’s a fashion designer and everything Phainon: of course, how could I forget? You: you say, “my little oyster and i picked these out together.” You: i respond, “i couldn’t trust my angelfish to do it alone!” You: and she has no doubts that we’re madly in love. the end. Phainon: wow Phainon: not in love but MADLY in love? You: only someone madly in love would call their partner an oyster Phainon: context matters ૮(˶╥︿╥)ა Phainon: oysters are easy to hold and I like hugging you Phainon: so when I hold you, I'm holding the world in my arms ueueue You: using cas’ emotes and saying ueueue... You: acting cute won’t work on me!! Phainon is typing… Phainon: you try! You: what about something simple? You: maybe I’ll call you sunshine Phainon: we could match again Phainon: Cifera already calls you starfish so what about starlight? Phainon: If you’re comfortable with that. You: that’s fine :O You: do you like it? Phainon: I do Phainon: do you like it? You: Yeah, it’s cute :) But I think yours fits you especially You: You’re always smiling so it’s nice to be around you… But even when it’s all too much, all you have to do is go outside and take in a bit of sun and it feels like it’ll be okay You: To me, you’re like sunlight  [Message read.] You: Phainon? You: lol did you fall asleep? sweet dreams, phai New messages Phainon: Good morning! I did, I’m sorry. Phainon: today’s one of your days off, right? hopefully you sleep in until noon Phainon: you look really tired lately… if you need anything, please tell me Phainon: I’m rambling, sorry haha. Phainon: but that’s sweet of you, thank you. I’ll do my best to live up to something like that You: You're being silly. There's nothing more you have to do Phainon: and why are you awake? You: Okhema usually receives shipments today so I’m heading to the wet market You: If you’re free, I have a promise I have to keep Phainon: I’ll pick you up You: It might be easier if I send you the address and meet you there You: We have to walk past your place to get there anyway Phainon: no, I’ll come get you. rest for a little longer while I get ready Phainon: I won’t keep you waiting

Phainon is wearing his glasses today.

Oftentimes, he uses contacts, easy to wear when he exercises—which is every morning—so it's rare to see him this way instead. When he was tutoring you, there were days where Phainon would arrive in mismatched colours, disheveled hair, and the rounded square frames perched low on his nose, too tired from his own schedule to maintain appearances. Back then, it was fun to see a different side of someone always so put together. Now, with him leaning against your shoulder, you find him so endearing that you have to restrain yourself from sneaking glances.

The movie chosen for tonight is a quiet one, a pleasant way to end his visit when you spent most of the Action Hour's quints playing games, and the Parting, conversing until this movie. The story is slower than most yet it doesn't necessarily build into a dramatic climax or ending. Really, it's quite austere, and it's because of it that your eyes drift towards him; however, this is not from boredom.

The music swells. The credits roll. And reminded of the other day, you ask, “did you like it?” You catch him wiping tears, his glasses propped atop his head.

Pulling them back down, he chuckles, resigning himself to your observation. “I did,” he says, “we picked this at random but it's similar to the conversation we had.”

You make a joke. “It's providence then—fate.” Reaching over, you gently straighten the frame, pushing it up the bridge of his nose. “How many layers do you think this is?”

How many lives have you lived with each other?

Phainon shifts on the couch to face you properly, and he folds his legs under him as he answers, “I was cuddling you during the movie, so that's one.” He lets you come closer. “You touched me when you fixed my glasses, so that’s two.” Phainon picks a piece of lint off your shoulder. “That's three… Have you kept track of every other time we’ve touched?”

He's grinning despite the question. The topic of reincarnation, the relationships you have with others, and ‘providence’ must interest him. It's so close to the branch of determinism that you're glad to have watched this movie together, if only to see him like this. The story proposes—through a borrowed word whose full understanding cannot be translated into standard Amphorean without elaboration—that even a momentary brush between strangers is an indication of being significant to someone in your past life, but it doesn’t mean that you’re bound together.

Is it fate to meet again, even indirectly?

“No,” you answer, “I haven’t counted. I think there's too many to count.” Poking his knee, you hear Phainon snort. “That’s four now.”

The couch dips as Phainon adjusts himself using the backrest as leverage, but his arm doesn't leave. His hand follows the fabric path, across until it lies next to where your bicep presses against the cushion—barely an inch separates you. It feels much larger.

Then, he says, “it reminded me of what we had to do.” Because the recognition makes your heart ache, Phainon must feel the same; only him and Cyrene understand this part of you.

“Did you leave anyone behind other than your parents?”

“Aedes Elysiae is a small farming village so we all felt like a big family. When Cyrene and I went to high school, it was at a nearby town, but I don’t have anyone waiting for me there, either.” Phainon's fingers tap against his thigh in a neatly paced rhythm. “You said you never fell in love, but was that because you left Jericha before you could?”

“It wasn't something I thought about,” you admit. The tone you take is a melancholic thing—your life is always defined by meetings, partings, and reunions. And although the movie had a romantic undertone, spanning years you haven't experienced yet, both you and Phainon evolved the same way without it.

He already knows the reason.

“Why do you think they call it fate?” you ask. “If it's destined, how can things change between each life?”

“Determinism also involves quantum mechanics,” he explains. “And there's a theory that we’re influenced by our immediate environment, so every different choice is made, but separately in other lives or worlds.” Phainon brings a hand in front of you, facing the ceiling, and when your palms press, he rests his other hand atop the back of yours. “Like the movie, they pile on top of each other in layers, and if you connect it to Nietzsche's eternal recurrence, then we don't remember because of these differences, but it does mean that we're meant to meet, no matter how miniscule the interaction.”

Your hands separate. “Professor Anaxagoras must like this topic—fate, free will, and what ifs.”

He huffs, amused, but pivots to something that interests him especially. “I know he complains about the shorthand, but you call Mydei by his full name too.” Phainon tilts his head. “Why?”

You shrug, casual with your admission. “It's… special. What did the guy in the movie say? That she was someone who leaves, and he liked her because of who she is, so he has to accept that too, even if the person he remembers isn’t in front of him anymore.” He nods to confirm your memory, so you continue. “Some people’s names are rooted in their culture, but they’re always related to who we are and what it means to someone else by hearing or saying it. When I think of the name ‘Anaxagoras,’ I think of our professor, plus, it’s kinda funny he isn't as strict with me because of it. When I hear ‘Mydeimos,’ I think of our Mydei…but I’m also not that close to Mydeimos—and Hyacine—yet to call them something different.”

It would be nice to get to know them more; you want to be closer to everyone. You wish that you were.

“So out of the group, it was just the three of us left, huh?” He hums, thoughtful. “...you call me Phai sometimes.” Then, he quickly says, “you also say Cy and Cas.”

“Becuase that's special too.” You hold up a finger with each explanation, counting them off. “My Cy is different from the Cyrene you grew up with, and you wouldn’t fully understand what Cas is like as a roommate even if I told you. The way I use those nicknames will always be different from you.”

“What about me?”

“You're the person who spent so much time tutoring someone you barely knew in exchange for coffee and tea.” Grinning, you watch Phainon’s countenance match yours just at the sight of you.

“And the person you're living out a romcom plotline with,” he jokes, and then seriously asks, “do you think we're ready?”

The apprehension in his voice somewhat concerns you. When you established your fictitious love story some nights ago, the two of you decided to make it closer to life. How you first met is exactly the same: meeting at Cyrene’s birthday party last year. How you got closer, too, is based on the numerous moments spent together studying. And your first date was when he took you to the beach to search for sea glass in the Month of Cultivation—something real.

But, through this, each idea was effortless, and perhaps he thinks it’s too straightforward that the deception will be as easily unravelled. In your opinion, the rest is not as important as how you wanted to confess since that would be the beginning of the freshly sprouted, falsified romance. That moment is the only one of divergence; otherwise, it’s not that different from reality.

When it’s genuine, love is simple and you find the strength to make choices even in the stormiest seasons of your life: you always save the best of everything for Aratus; your mother and father give up everything for the two of you; and you sit on Jericha’s beach, waving goodbye to sailing ships.

No matter your complaints about getting in trouble, you keep up with Cifera’s mischief so she always has you to fall back on. Sometimes, she does things that don’t make sense at the moment, but she’s always thinking about the rest of you. Because you’ve always loved stories, you memorize each piece of worldbuilding of Castorice’s, studying it as seriously as chimera biology to see her smile, infectious and radiant as she chases her dreams. You never let Cyrene feel unwanted or excluded; she’s the first person you involve with most activities and conversations, especially when you’re lonely. You know she’s afraid of being alone, too.

And when it comes to Phainon, it’s every little thing you do together, and every single conversation you’ve strived to retain since falling head first into this sea of feelings before you even realized they were there. If he ever leaves, you need to remember.

“What about lockscreens?” you ask. “Pictures are sentimental, and matching lockscreens are something couples usually do.”

“Oh,” Phainon vocalizes. “That would be sweet.”

He leans towards the coffee table to grab his phone but you already have yours out, searching for the idea that immediately came to mind.

Showing him, you say, “something like this?” and see his eyes flit over the screen, scanning everything. There’s not much to look at when the focus is on the models’ faces; he’s staring for far too long. Your mutter, “don’t like it? Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head and repeating, “no, it's cute.” 

Since you’re in agreement, you get up to prepare.

✿ CASket of the Second Male Lead

You: can i please borrow any old lipstick you don’t use? Castorice: (づ •. •)? Castorice: Try the dark purple pouch in the bathroom sink cabinet. Castorice: What do you need old lipstick for? You: umm an experiment You: thank you, cas!! Castorice: I’m glad to help! (´ｖ｀)

When you find it exactly where Castorice said it would be, you return and pull out a vibrant carmine colour with a twinkle in your eye. Motioning for him to sit forward, he listens, and you knock his knees apart to stand between them. Phainon’s head drops with the action and you mutter a quick question of is everything okay? to which he responds with a small confirmation as he looks back up to you.

“May I just—” Your hand hovers under his chin, intention clear. Once Phainon wordlessly agrees with a nod, your thumb presses into the skin of his cheek while the rest of your fingers settle on the opposite side.

Although Phainon is so lean, his skin is a soft cushion, the plumpness of it sinking around your fingertips. Unable to help yourself, you squeeze softly until his lips pucker, fooling around as a splatter of pink surfaces under your hold—you tell yourself that it's the lingering effects of his earlier tears—whereby he makes no indication that he dislikes the contact. Phainon can only hum in this position, weakening into a sound closer to a purr as he surrenders himself to you and closes his eyes.

“Hold still,” you instruct him, and do the same as his hands find their place above your hips. 

Uncapping the lipstick with your mouth, you tilt his head to the side and slowly draw a curved line over his cheek. Phainon is patient with you the entire time, without so much as a twitch in fear of disturbing you. And his breaths come out soft where, if not for his steady touch, anyone would suspect him capable of dozing off like this.

Once you’re finished, you plop down on the couch next to him; you don’t wait for him to open his eyes. You’re afraid of what you may find in them, and worse, of how you may react.

“Here,” you say, watching Phainon blink to awareness as he focuses on you. “Press your cheek to mine so we make a heart, but don’t move after. I’ll pull away to make sure it looks the way it’s supposed to, okay?” Carefully, you pull him closer by the shoulder, giving him ample time to stop you or change his mind.

He doesn’t.

Phainon’s hand snakes around your waist after pulling off his glasses, afraid of them hurting you when your temples touch. “Okay.” He nods, listless and submerged in your every word and action.

Following your guidance, Phainon leans closer to do as you’ve said. His cheek is warm against your own, and you chuckle softly when they press to imprint the other half of the heart, doing your best to smoosh together for a proper transfer. Phainon’s own laughter bubbles up and you have to reprimand him softly by squeezing his shoulder with how much it causes him to shake.

Once you assume enough time has passed, you gently peel your cheek from his, careful not to smudge the lipstick as a heart forms with your faces still slightly squished at the edges, side by side. Then, you position the camera to your liking, smiling wide when Phainon’s grin is already ready and plastered on his face. Taking a few for good measure, you pull apart after a few moments to review the photographs.

Within them, Phainon isn’t staring straight at the camera but towards where your reflection had been. It would be better to retake them, but before you can say anything, the phone is snatched from you. You jolt—the action is so impolite, nothing like Phainon and resembling a child who cannot share or is afraid of something being taken from him.

“These are fine,” he says, fingers flicking through each one. The next lands on a photograph you took together at the Festival of Flowers; Phainon stays on it for a quick beat before moving in the opposite direction, inspecting each image again.

“Are you sure?” you ask, taking your phone back when he hands it to you. He watches over your shoulder as you select the photographs, only to conspicuously avert his eyes when you open your messaging app, avoiding the sight of any conversation that does not involve him.

Phainon’s phone dings; he opens it without a second to waste. “Positive,” he remarks, already changing his lockscreen. 

“Let me wipe it off,” you say when he cannot tear his attention away from the image.

There is nothing special about it that denotes this kind of observance, but considering how you feel about him, your attachment to it is clear—to you, his does not make sense. He responds with a mutter of wait, shifting in his seat and obstructing your view of him.

Your hand finds his shoulder, grip tightening as you urge him to face you again. “Phainon, there’s still lipstick on your face.” It’s only when you shake him a little that he makes a sound to indicate he hears you.

This time, he listens, letting the screen dim as he leaves his phone beside him. But when you reach for him, his own hand darts forward, smearing the carmine curve in a messy streak. “Forget about yours?” His voice lifts, the question ending with an aborted chuckle. When you roll your eyes, he croons, “you should pay mind to yourself before taking care of me.”

“You’re so annoying,” you complain, failing to appear irritated when your smile is so fond.

Then, he takes pause, eyes darting from one part of your face to another while his mouth opens slightly—is he offended? The prospect is enough to convince you to take it back, but, all of a sudden, his eyes narrow. “You seem to enjoy it, hm?” Phainon rhetorically suggests, far too pleased in his ability to taunt you.

Making a decision, you dive for Phainon’s sides. Back when Phainon used to sit in your lectures, you dozed off for a moment before being awoken with Professor Anaxagoras’ excited meanders about dromas. His voice was so loud that you caught Phainon’s attention by poking his side, but your friend flinched with a sharp yelp that silenced the room. You’re certain then, that this will work, so you wiggle your fingers—never straying from his sides, remaining no higher than his ribs and no lower than his hips—and hear Phainon’s voice swell, breaking into a deluge of giggles and shrieks.

The punishment only lasts for a minute or so, not wanting to terrorize him for too long. And when you cast your eyes over him, your heart sinks in panic. Phainon is panting, trying to catch his breath with cheeks stained a faint pink, the colour softening the edges of the lipstick still smeared on his face, but his smile is so disarming. His eyes are squeezed shut, too, and they continue to be barred from you when he throws his forearm over his face, revealing only his lips. If you were to see his eyes, it would be impossible for you to bear it. And although his mouth is the only feature you can see, it’s all you need to point you towards his glee—throat bobbing after swallowing a stuttered breath that dissolves into another grin.

Once he’s calm, Phainon reveals his complete countenance to you. His eyes are somewhat hazy—a mist that covers a sea of blue, of which you would have no qualms in getting lost in. When he murmurs your name, his voice is faintly raspy.

There’s a knot in your chest.

“Phainon,” you mumble, yet your words die out when his fingers find your hand, lingering before trying to snake into your palm to release the clench of your first; you hadn’t realized how nervous you’ve become. “I should tell you—”

The slam of a door cuts you off, and both you and Phainon yelp while it’s promptly followed by a loud call. You look in the direction of the sound, but once you return to Phainon, his expression is scrunched up, distinctly disappointed.

“Hello, starfish!” Cifera announces. “Cas and I are back early so you wouldn’t be too lonely!” And it only takes a second for them to round the corner of the entryway and spot you straddling Phainon on the couch.

“Oh!” Castorice releases a delighted gasp. “You’re still here Phainon?” But you know from the glint in her eyes that she's particularly happy about his position under you rather than his presence here entirely.

Pulling yourself away from him, you ignore how his fingers seem to graze over your wrists, following the path to your palms and then along the length of your fingers, hesitating to let go. “We were busy,” you justify, wincing immediately with the implication. And when you peek at Phainon, he shares your bashfulness in such a way that causes his already present flush to deepen into a ruddy complexion.

“Really?” Castorice asks, heading over to the kitchen to set down various treats she's brought home. Her movements are graceful, lacking an explicit excitement that you are certain is stirring within her—a matter of pretense. “Quite an adorable way to be ‘busy.’”

Cifera plops down onto the arm of the sofa only to nudge Phainon with a grin. “This late? Alone?”

“It's only the fifth quint of the Parting Hour, Cifera!” you hiss, leaning over Phainon to get closer to her. He startles so you apologize under your breath. Her grin turns wicked, but before she can say anything else, you argue, “I'm not the one stealing Cas all the way into the early quints of the Entry!”

You're aware that holds no significance right now—Cifera brought Castorice back home from work—but it's still something they do, which means she is, with all the affection you have for her, a hypocrite. She hums a low, suspicious sound, glancing at Castorice for a moment, conversing in a manner only understandable between the two of them.

Oh no.

“Would you like him to?” Castorice says and you hear Phainon sputter before she continues. “There would be no reason for me to worry since you'd be with Phainon.”

You groan—of course she would be like this. So, you whine her name next, trying to sullenly flop onto the cushion of the backrest like a fish, but when you drop your head forward in a pout, your forehead bumps into Phainon's shoulder. You make the mistake of remaining there. His hand brushes against your cheek, urging you to lift your head, and once you do, his face softens.

“Did that hurt?” he asks, thumb brushing against the point of contact. Only, he turns guileless with a certitude of what is between you. “That was another layer, you know.” He doesn’t sound playful; resigned, at most, of something you cannot discern.

“Layer?” Cifera interrupts, and silently seeks out Castorice who only shrugs. “What does that mean?”

Cifera's is unmistakably attentive, observing how Phainon checks your forehead over something as simple as an insignificant collision. Then, she releases a little huff of acknowledgement, choosing not to tease you for this. If you were to linger longer on the reason why, you are sure to have another sleepless night.

But when Phainon glances at you, he meets your eyes with coquettish intent. You grin at the sight of him—you adore him like this—and, together, in perfect coordination, the two of you answer.

“It's a secret!”

✿ CASper the Friendly Ghost

Castorice: Despite everything, I am sorry for interrupting you and Phainon. (@_@;) Castorice: I will make sure Cifera keeps quiet until you are ready. You: just throw me into the ocean You: let me sink to the bottom Castorice: I’m fairly certain Phainon would follow you there. You: this is crazy Castorice: Isn’t he crazy about you?  [Message read.]

𖤓 Phai

Phainon: Hey! :) Phainon: Do you want to get breakfast with Mydei, Hyacine, and I tomorrow? You: Yes, please!! <3 Phainon is typing… You: No Cyrene? ;—; Phainon: she's working late tonight so I want to let her sleep in Phainon: Mydei and I will bring her back something Phainon: but we’ll pick you up and drop you off at work after :D You: lol why am i so excited You: i’m gonna head to bed early Phainon: oh? Phainon: is that all I need to do to get you to fix your sleep schedule? Phainon: invite you out early in the morning? You: excuse you :O i would wake up early to see the ships roll in even when i couldn’t sleep from excitement!! You: how could you forget ueueue Phainon: no, I remember Phainon: I would never forget

♧ Fishing and Farming

You: How are we going to coordinate? You: Should I bring my clothes to your place?? Cyrene: Half of Phainon’s wardrobe is gym and casual wear Cyrene: We’ll bring anything salvageable to you~ You: Are you sure? You: I don’t want to be any trouble… Phainon: don’t worry about that Phainon: I’m asking you for this favour already so take it easy, okay? You: Okay You: Thank you, Phainon Phainon: <3

They arrive sometime past the third quint of the Lucid Hour. Cyrene, your resident cosmetology student, is unfortunately stressed over this entire ordeal and how you've decided to share Phainon's intention to coordinate at the last minute. Initially, you were certain you could handle it together, but your confidence waned with every suggestion that he, mind you, didn't always own.

If Miss Aglaea found out, she might become a professor just to force him into a fashion fundamentals course.

At least Castorice and especially Cifera may think it funny. You did too until you realized he was serious. The first idea was a yellow suit, so you clarified if he actually meant to say beige or perhaps slacks in the same colour—easy mistake: yellow and beige. Then he sent you an image of a lemon-yellow two-piece where, if accepted, you may as well pair up with a midnight blue outfit and explain yourselves as crayon colours.

His solution? Break up the monochromatic ensemble with purple. Now, they theoretically do look good together—Castorice explained the point of complementary colours during one your first craft nights with her—but Phainon insisted on both being equally vibrant through bright yellow slacks and an intense purple suit jacket. The combination is cute when he's studying with you, wearing his favourite neon hoodie with dromas patterned sweatpants, but you have to be a good partner to Phainon so you won't let him stick out like a sore thumb.

Your solution? Beg Cyrene for help when it was impossible for you to resist his puppy dog eyes during his impromptu video call at the mall. From her stories, Cyrene was always the one to wrangle a younger Phainon around Aedes Elysiae; only she would be able to assist you in this. Even more, he likely wasn’t aware of what he was doing until your distress gradually became more apparent, the increase of your stress levels accompanying the descent of his lips.

And that expression is the one you wear together after Cyrene finishes scolding Phainon after another terrible combination while you register her words.

“We won’t be arriving together?” you ask, shoulders drooping as you follow her path from one side of your room to another. Your voice is as pathetic as Phainon appears; you squeeze his hand and he smiles while you huff a tiny laugh.

Cyrene watches with a contemplative hum. You brace yourself for a quip but she only informs you of her plans. “I want to network and it won’t be difficult if I'm there as everyone comes in. Auntie Aglaea knows Phainon is bringing his…partner.” She offers you a meaningful look before continuing. “So she won't mind if you arrive later—the soiree runs for a few hours anyway.”

With that, you alternatively ask, “what about on the way back?” The possibility of being alone with Phainon after pretending to be in a relationship is terrifying. How do you even begin to act normal when you want the lie to be real? It's already a struggle to act unaffected by him that years of pretending you're stronger than you are is nothing in comparison to this.

“Hey?” Cyrene calls your name, peering at you with a blouse clutched in her hands. Her features indicate she is at ease, but she’s crinkling the fabric. “Did you hear what I said?”

You shake your head and smile with a prompt apology. “I'm sorry, Cy. I was thinking about work.”

“Right…” Her voice trails off and you hope Phainon doesn’t notice too. You smile wider. “Well,” Cyrene starts, shaking off her worry. “I will be staying until the end to catch anyone I miss or if I think there's a good opportunity.”

Since you've known her, Cyrene has always worked hard despite how she carries herself. You've seen her cry over lost chances only to smile as if she succeeded, getting up again and again to march towards something else on the horizon. Her conviction that it'll always work out is so inspiring, while you, on the contrary, feel as if you're running out of time. And because you admire this side of her, you know what she needs. So, you get up and ease her hold on the poor blouse.

“You'll find it, and everyone will be clamouring for a chance to be styled by you,” you assure her as Phainon makes a few comments of similar confidence.

During this short conversation, he's floated around the room just as Cyrene had, putting together his own ideas to match the ones either you or Cyrene make, yet he never touches your wardrobe that he almost seems averse to it. Phainon simply offers compliments and gives his opinion, of which is notably positive whenever it comes to you, always agreeing in a manner that has you wondering if he likes everything you wear so long as you're the model. But perhaps that's something your heart supplies you with as he does hold other opinions too.

Currently, Phainon is staring at the yellow blouse you wore to the Festival of Flowers—you tried to revisit his prior suggestion by creating another ensemble.

“No,” Cyrene says before a word leaves his open mouth. “Absolutely not, and Auntie Aglaea looked like she was about to skin you alive when she saw what you wore with your treasured yellow dress shirt—I’m sure she’ll have flashbacks even if we style you correctly.” Just to prove her point, she exhales, long and slow in a dramatic sigh.

You snort; so Miss Aglaea has witnessed it before. Although Phainon is pouting again, it's more likely that he's fishing for attention as he's already leaning into your palm before it meets the top of his head in a comforting touch.

He's quiet until your hand retracts. “What if you pick your favourite colour?” he asks you.

Cyrene shifts from one foot to the other, hip canting to adopt a stern posture. She reminds him: “isn't it yellow?” Then, she points a clothes hanger at him and says, “you won't fool me!” though the words are lighthearted—after years of silly escapades, she must enjoy unravelling his schemes.

However, Phainon doesn’t know your favourite colour. You don't believe you've openly discussed it, either, with anyone but Castorice. So, you answer the question Cyrene expressed as rhetoric. “It’s blue,” you say.

“Oh.” Cyrene blinks, her lips drawing a pretty line. She's visibly perplexed. “You've worn yellow a lot lately,” she points out.

Shrugging, you glance at Phainon who hastily averts his eyes—it hasn't happened once since you voiced the truth. What a pity. You explain, “I like yellow a bit more recently, that's all.”

At that, his shoulders freeze, pulling tight as he finally looks at you.

“You’re not sick of it despite living by the sea?” Cyrene asks, rifling through the duffel bag filled with Phainon's clothes while tilting her head from one side to another as she makes a list. “The sea is blue, the sky is blue, some of the buildings in Jericha have blue roofs…”

“It’s nice because it’s constant,” you answer. “It doesn’t change. The sky is always there and so is the sea, and I'll always love Jericha, so I'll always love the colour blue.” It's the clearest justification you can possibly assert, even as you focus on folding up discarded clothing to make room for more of Phainon’s wardrobe, trying not to mistake his for yours by taking care in appropriately separating everything.

Cyrene hums with your explanation, and returns to the messy pile to put together another outfit. You would help, but she waves you off, nodding towards Phainon who hasn't said a word since his suggestion. When your brows furrow, you intend to ask if something happened, but her face scrunches as she fails to stop her mouth from curling into a grin.

You roll your eyes, so she wordlessly declares, he blushed. Jutting out your lip, you slowly mouth your response: he didn't look in our direction. She adds, he did when you looked away, and pretends to gag. She also catches the pillow you toss at her face; one day you'll get her.

Leaving her to her expertise, you find him staring at the small jar of sea glass perched on your windowsill, situated beside the wooden carving of Vigethos.

Its neck is decorated with the light blue ribbon from Phainon’s gift to you on the Day of Devotion, and he takes it into his fingers, rubbing the fabric with his thumb. It’s pretty, but not incredibly interesting aside from your affection for the memory. When Phainon took you to the beach, you insisted on only taking those in white, gray, or blue—especially blue. They reminded you of the sea and your childhood, wherein you gravitated towards soft, almost translucent, icy blues. Life has such strange coincidences.

His hand curls around the body, palm pressed flat against the surface. The way he observes it is so tender, and it looks as if he’s about to pick it up but you interrupt.

“Phainon?”

He startles only to play it off with a stiff cough, immediately letting go as if caught doing something he shouldn't. “Yes? What is it?”

“Does that sound good to you?” you ask, but Phainon seems to hesitate, requiring further elaboration. “To wear blue?” When you reach his side, you take the little display in your own hand, aligning your palm and fingers over the residual heat.

“No objections here,” he says, yet his stare remains on the jar within your hold.

Lifting the lid, you direct the open mouth towards him. “Take one,” you murmur. “You gave them all to me.” There’s a hesitation in his eyes that notifies you of his incoming abnegation—his expression is drowned in want. “How will you remember?”

“I’ve been doing it all this time,” Phainon tells you.

Setting the lid on the desk, you reach inside and grab the one sitting at the top of the pile; an unremarkable shape in a dark, murky blue. Holding it up to the window, you show Phainon how it catches the light, turning resplendent as the edges dissolve into lighter shades—shallow water that drains into a bottomless expanse.

“You really don’t want it?” you ask again lest he changes his mind and chooses to be forthright in his desires.

“No,” he says, “the trip to the beach was for you, so you should keep it…” Phainon’s sentence trails off, but before you can question if he truly means that, Cyrene ushers you over.

She positions you and Phainon side by side, standing in front of your bed and hiding the results of her efforts. “So!” She clasps her hands together in a sharp sound. “I've put together something I know both of you will absolutely love!” Cyrene's so excited that her voice raises an octave, almost melting into a charming squeal. But, turning serious, she instructs you, “close your eyes.”

Obeying, you do, and hear a rustle of fabric as Phainon’s voice fills the air.

“Shouldn't you leave the room too?” he wonders.

“I will, but I need to say something.” For a moment, it goes quiet—you almost want to take a peek.

“Telling secrets without me?” Phainon asks next, curiosity dripping from his tone.

“Yes!” Cyrene confirms, and there’s shuffling as she wrestles him out the door. “Now shoo!”

Once it shuts, you open your eyes. “So… What's the secret?”

“Do you remember when I had a little party after my major held a faux runway show?” she reminds you, but forgetting is practically impossible. All throughout last year, Cyrene worked so hard to secure a chance to help style the models and succeeded.

You point towards the cork board on the wall, its surface decorated with various pictures including those from that night, and retort, “is that a question you should be asking me?”

“You're right, silly me.” Cyrene giggles, taking your hands in hers and intertwining your fingers. “Well, a little birdy told me—”

“This again?” You laugh with her, yet you fail to yank your hands away—when did she get so strong?—and fall quiet at her grin.

“A little birdy told me that you looked stunning that night so,” she drags out the word, suggestion clear. “I think you should wear it again for the soiree!”

Rolling your eyes, you sidestep her to see that she's picked out a similar outfit to the one from a year ago. You only wore it once—specially bought it to celebrate her, actually—as you often find yourself in clothes fitting your needs when it comes to wrangling and taking care of chimeras rather than more lavish parties. And it was also a surprise. You spent hours upon hours seeking something that would complement you but mimic her chicness—a physical representation of your support of her as you know how much Cyrene enjoys dressing up and wanted to make her happy.

“I also think it's perfect for you,” she adds, squeezing your shoulder as she peers at your face, trying to discern your stance on it. “Auntie Aglaea is important to me and Phainon—I've longed to introduce you to her. You chose this yourself.” She turns soft, just like Phainon does, and declares, “I want you to be yourself when you meet her.”

Picking it up, you mutter, “even if I'm pretending to be someone I'm not?”

Cyrene blinks, evidently taken aback. You try to smile again but she hugs you. “If you don’t want to do it, you shouldn't.” When she pulls away, she forces you to face her properly, not allowing you to look anywhere else. “Phainon would understand, and your feelings… They’re precious, I know. Don’t force yourself if it's painful for you.”

The first night after the Festival of Flowers was a sleepless one. Telling him you couldn’t do it did cross your mind, keeping you up as you repeated his request until the Sun rose. Phainon would have no remorse if you were to go back on your word the day of, while you know it to be best to say such a thing as soon as possible, but the irrational part of you justified it as a way to just see. See if you really are compatible and whether or not it would have worked out; or, even, as a way to prove to Phainon that you are someone he can consider as a romantic partner.

So, you assure Cyrene. “I’m okay. Thank you for worrying about me.” And she lets you wind your arms around her, pulling her to you and squishing your bodies together in the hopes of conveying the truth in your declaration. “I’m nervous about the soiree itself and less about pretending to date him—well, lying to Miss Aglaea too.”

The instance that leaves your mouth, Cyrene snorts. “Oh.” Her voice is alluring with the interjection, something devious with no opportunity for your curiosity to win against your suspicion. It would be best not to know. “Auntie is going to absolutely love a story like this; don’t you worry one bit!” Then, she leaves without your response and, through the door, you hear a muffled what are you doing followed by I wanted to give you two privacy.

With that, all you can do is change.

By the time the door opens again, both you and Phainon struggle to look at each other. He’s dressed in a silm, navy vest to pair with slacks in the same colour, while his dress shirt is a few shades lighter—a slate, almost glacial, blue. With no suit jacket, it’s easier to see the length of his shoulders, the curve of his arms, and the slight cinch of his waist. But aside from your blatant observation of him, his outfit is the opposite of yours, with you in primarily light blues accented by darker ones. It must be a lovely contrast; almost similar but not quite.

“Phainon will look way more dashing once I have the fabrics pressed!” Cyrene is fussing over the fitting of the garments, flitting back and forth between you as you awkwardly stand in front of each other. She’s smoothing out the wrinkles of yours as she croons, completely casual despite her impish expression, “but you think Phainon is always handsome, don’t you?”

Your hitched breath is a shared one, and his cheeks begin to flush, crawling down his neck. You mumble, to which Cyrene laughs, the sound ringing out like a joyous bell.

“What?” Phainon asks, head tilting as he stuffs a hand into his pocket, the other finding his nape.

“Cyrene is right,” you say as she leaves to go fiddle with something—maybe there’s a purpose other than helping you, you aren’t sure. You can’t stop yourself, anyway. “You look very handsome.”

It causes a small laugh to bubble up, and he follows you to your desk while you pretend to clean up. “And you look nice,” Phainon proudly asserts, assisting you in distracting yourself from your embarrassment.

“Just nice?” you repeat as a small jest. He never forgets.

And because he doesn’t, his next laugh is more breathless, a thin expellant of air that ends with a grin. “Sorry,” he says, and deliberately finds your hand in a terse touch, pretending to reach for the same piece of clothing when another lays in a messy lump in front of him. “I was lying—you’re beautiful. I know I already saw you in this at Cyrene’s party a year ago, but I thought you were beautiful back then too.”

“Oh.” It leaves your mouth quietly, caught between the knowledge of how he sees you against the honesty in an admission that is useless for the purpose of your attire.

For once, being genuine is something you dislike. You don't know how you're supposed to wear an outfit he feels so strongly about whilst also pretending he’s yours. Even further, to be capable of that compliment, does this mean that he likes the way you look? Phainon is objectively attractive so it’s natural on his part, and you have received an odd piece of praise here and there, but you can't avoid overthinking this. He wasn’t as familiar with you back then, too, so does that also mean you're his type?

It’s too much. Still, you hide the thought within the depths of your memories, saving it for when you're alone and can sufficiently think about it endlessly.

So, nothing more is said. Phainon and you merely return to folding whatever is no longer needed as you listen to the soft rustle of fabric and the clink of whatever Cyrene is doing on the other side of your room. It’s frivolous, but you end up with a little system of folding, stacking, and passing each other the clothes you respectively own. And once you finish what remains, you find Phainon already done and staring at the jar resting on your windowsill again.

The odd expression on his face releases only when you call his name, reaching for the glass.

When you lift the lid once more, he shows you his palm, open and enticing, and you place the sea glass in the centre. His fingers close around it with a small huff—he knows you want him to have it. You’re sure he wants it too. Thank you is what his eyes seem to say, pocketing it as Cyrene calls the two of you over for accessories next.

You don’t tell Phainon, but you were saving it for him.

𖤓 Sunshine

Phainon sent one image. Phainon: before you say anything, the dirt is from my village and was cleansed Phainon: it felt right to place the sea glass with it You: It looks beautiful, Phai. I’m glad you displayed it You: And isn’t that an Icatus tradition? I thought Aedes Elysiae followed Oronyx :O Phainon: we do, but the ritual is for harvests so I thought it wouldn’t hurt to participate Phainon: you’re meant to use fresh soil each year, but I keep it as a reminder of home now You: I should give you a ribbon so our jars can match Phainon: I would like that, thank you Phainon: out of curiosity… why don’t you like seashells? Phainon: they’re both pretty, but sea glass is harder to find You: The animals died or had to abandon the seashells You: They make me sad Phainon: well, we can’t have that Phainon: before you leave, we should go look for more sea glass You: No, I don’t want your jar to fill up You: I’m going to bring you some from Jericha Phainon is typing… Phainon: that makes me want to give you a gift from Aedes Elysiae You: I want to try your dad’s specially made grilled fish You: The family recipe :O Phainon: you're crazy haha. how am I supposed to bring that back? Phainon: I’ll cook it for you before Cyrene and I go home, but I’ll give you a proper gift when we get back. deal? You: Deal :D

Phainon picks you up in his old car.

It’s nothing fancy but it’s carried him through his last year of high school until now after he worked so much to afford it in the first place. There are little things about it that remind you of him, too—the paint colour, the interior, and the ornament hanging from the rear view mirror. You would ask if the decoration was replaced since he first bought it—something that survived the changes from his life out by the countryside to here, in the city—but you’re too busy humming along to Robin’s new single, accompanying Phainon’s own singing.

The soiree started two quints ago but, just as Cyrene explained, it was fine to arrive later. And Phainon must have realized how nervous you are as that would be the only explanation for his tardiness upon picking you up. You were mostly ready around the tail end of the Action Hour, actually, pacing back and forth within your bedroom so as to not worry Castorice, whilst busying yourself by reviewing the plans set forth and every story you must know by heart. In the midst of your growing panic, Phainon chose to video call you with the desire to converse as he completed his own preparations.

Now, for as long as you’ve known him, he has always been early. Phainon is the sort of person who believes being on time is equal to being late unless there is some important matter that pushes him to arrive exactly at what is agreed upon. But he’s also attended these events for Miss Aglaea since he was seventeen; the first time being his inaugural visit to Okhema before deciding he would attend university here. Year after year, how different can soirees be? Thus, there is justification for his leisure aside from you. He is not treating you special—not at all.

Though it doesn’t matter anymore because he ultimately pulls in, silences the music, and turns off the ignition.

Phainon reaches over, slow as his head tilts to meet your downward gaze. When his hand finds yours, he squeezes; you release a fist. “You look as if you’re about to faint,” he remarks, slightly teasing but wholly concerned. “If you want to back out or go home at any point, even right now, tell me and we'll leave.”

The sentiment is comforting, however you're not one to quit an endeavor that's right in front of you. You yourself are aware of how adept you are at persevering through anything, except when faced with his astuteness. So, you take a peek from under your lashes to warble out, “promise?”

He has the decency not to laugh, although you can see the miniscule shake in his shoulders. You must resemble an image Phainon is so endeared to that he uses it to sulk over text—a baby seal with soggy eyes looking up at the camera. Yet there is only fondness when he agrees, “I promise,” and raises his hand.

Your pinky hooks around his and, with the action, a small laugh bubbles up, releasing the coil in your chest. It continues to unravel when Phainon intertwines your fingers in a momentary touch. “I'm ready if you are,” you say, not feeling ready at all.

“Wait here,” Phainon instructs with a goofy grin, and proceeds to get out of the car alone. Rushing to your door, he makes a show of opening it with an elaborate bow and an offered hand. “Am I doing well?”

“Asking ruined it.” You snort, encouraging the faux pout growing on his face. It disappears when you take his hand again where, upon standing, he moves to position yours within the crook of his elbow.

It's not right.

It's too methodical and nothing like Phainon and you, linked together as usual. Every step feels clumsy, a strange tempo you can't seem to match, but Phainon merely directs you with ease. He continues to talk about nonsense that means everything because it's coming from him—a historical fact about the area, the food they'll serve, and if you want to bet on whether or not he can figure out the ingredients. Then, it focuses on identifying those likely to be invasive of your ‘relationship,’ a reiteration of how important your comfort is to him, and that he's happy you're with him.

That's enough, you suppose.

From its external appearance, it was evident that the venue would be a magnificent one. The building is one that prevailed through a myriad of Calendar Years, repurposed for banquets, parties, and the like. The reliefs within the stone portico Phainon leads you through are quite ornate with engravings reflecting the Era it was erected in, one you regrettably cannot recall. Prior to arriving, you completed some research, finding it popular for weddings in particular due to its high ceilings and adjoining balconies overlooking a well-maintained garden. The charm in it is what you remember most.

Cyrene’s anecdotes about Miss Aglaea did always point towards a more romantic nature, while Cifera assumes her own interest in impressive nick-knacks is a result of her guardian's love of anything beautiful. Back in Jericha, you also came across her in magazines but paid no mind until you caught wind of rumours at the harbour. Despite being close to gossip, it was never unflattering nor defamatory.

The vendors would primarily discuss her kindness that arrived in the form of clothing in exchange for properly handling the fabrics she coveted. If not that, then she would occasionally make donations for all the hard work throughout the harbour. You're certain that you would be able to find an old garment with her brand stitched along the tag. Although, after handing it down, Aratus may own it now.

Regardless, she must be a kind woman to take in Cifera when she was young, only to look out for Cyrene and Phainon the same.

“I was wondering when you would make your appearance.” Her voice is silk upon your ears, smooth and rich, and undeniably spirited through the gracefulness you discover in her. “I was afraid Phainon would keep you from me, and here I was, stealing glances waiting for your arrival.”

Dressed in a gown effortlessly draped over her shoulders, Miss Aglaea is a portrait best described as the pinnacle of elegance. The light catches her form akin to that of divinity, with eyes so piercing they seem to bore right through you—intimidating is what your mind supplies you with. Perhaps that is why the sentences she strings together are undercut by playfulness.

Phainon immediately hugs her, too, casually tight and surely warm. She holds him a short moment but you believe that she may have wanted for longer. Miss Aglaea is not as terrifying as you expected.

When they pull away, he says, “well, my partner is so breathtaking that I need more time to prepare myself to proudly stand by their side.”

My partner. Tonight, you are his and he is yours. And the referral of who you must be strikes you, a savage wave that would have caused you to capsize at its first mention; however, the part you play overcomes you.

Thanking her after she conveys a similar compliment, you share a polite greeting. “It’s nice to see you again, Miss Aglaea.” Should you offer a handshake? Bow? Genuflect? Your hand twitches at your side, a half-raise with your indecisiveness; she chuckles at the sight. Your stomach drops.

But she reaches for you with a steady hold, one hand pressed over the back of yours and the other under your palm. When she says your name, there is only fondness behind it. “The pleasure is mine. We didn’t speak enough during Cyrene’s celebration. Imagine my surprise when Phainon shared that his significant other turned out to be one of her best friends." Miss Aglaea’s touch is slightly distracting; you can feel a small callus on the tips of her fingers. It reminds you of him. “Do tell me if Phainon ever upsets you—I will correct him.”

At that, you can’t help but bark out a laugh. Too loud, you realize last-minute, and clear your throat quietly; you hope the widened grin on her face is not jeer. “Phainon is…” You look at him for a moment and receive a smile that encourages you to continue your rectification. “He’s very sweet to me. He supports me in everything and takes care of me when I struggle, and I promise I do the same.” You can feel your heart beating against your ribcage, the words easily leaving your mouth to defend him despite your awareness of her attempts to ease the tension you cannot hide. With her relevance in Phainon’s life, it’s essential that she approves of you.

Miss Aglaea hums, her grip tightening for a moment before releasing you entirely. “And chivalrous, yes?” She arches a brow with the question, looking towards him with a readiness for reprimand if your answer is anything but.

“Yes,” you swiftly agree, “Phainon always opens doors for me and—”

Again, she laughs, cutting you off and hiding her smile behind her hand. “My apologies. I was only teasing you.” As you visibly deflate, she offers a reassuring touch upon your sagging shoulders.

Phainon’s fingers intertwine with yours as he cocks his head towards you. “Auntie wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I wasn’t.”

“Does Phainon not tease you?” she asks, and the answer must be obvious on your face as you fluster, unable to meet her stare; he does. It satisfies her—a gleam in her eyes you would interpret as a trick of the light if she wasn’t Cifera’s guardian. Then, she speaks to Phainon before he can retort, “I know how you are,” and lets her expression gentle into something closer to a parent speaking to her child. “This relationship must be quite serious.”

Your breath catches, so you feign bashfulness to hide your guilt.

“We’re still figuring it out,” Phainon simply explains. “They’re the first person I’ve ever dated so I want to do my best and treat them well.”

“What?” you squawk, failing to maintain any decorum regardless of the timid smile he offers you in response.

When you previously discussed love with him, it did not go beyond being in love. Subjects such as embarrassing stories, old crushes, and dating weren’t touched. In your case, you liked a peer or a neighbour on occasion, but had more pressing matters to attend to. You always did. Phainon, on the other hand, is someone you’ve always believed to feel deeply for others whereby you assumed that everything he told you didn’t indicate not having any experience at all—just that he never felt such an intense affection.

Miss Aglaea is equally puzzled by your ignorance, her eyes flitting between the two of you. “Did you not speak on past experience?” Already knowing how he will reply, she sighs. “Please take care of him. There’s only so much advice I may share.”

“Oh,” you say, slightly dense. “Phainon is also my first boyfriend.” The words grow quieter as you complete the declaration, squeezing your partner’s hand in yours to avoid acknowledging his attention. By this, you mean: you didn’t share your own inexperience either.

At that, she drawls, “is that so?” and dissolves into something more devious, a mix of Cifera and Cyrene.

But before Miss Aglaea can say more, a woman approaches. She’s fitted in an ensemble Cyrene would deem as arrogantly lavish. And although you are not one to judge so quickly, both Phainon and Miss Aglaea turn rigid with recognition.

“New blood?” she says, directing the question towards Miss Aglaea, “I was under the impression you had no intention to take on other ordinary models.”

Ignoring how ostentatiously this woman carries herself, Miss Aglaea extends you a curt introduction. “This is Caenis. She is the editor-in-chief for BASTION Magazine and enjoys posturing annoyance to scare off those with wonderful aspirations and dreams.” And when she refers to you, her timbre returns to before, doting and kind upon uttering your name. “This is Phainon’s significant other,” she says, ensuring you remain in control of any personal information shared.

You're thankful for it. Caenis’ amusement feels more like ridicule whereas Miss Aglaea’s biting words do not deter her. Of all things, Caenis appears smug at the description, believing that she's filtering out novices who would be a waste of time rather than leverage their potential. A coarse woman, indeed. One that observes you, from head to toe, with a scrutiny you always try to avoid.

It’s a relief, then, that Phainon informed you of Caenis and how to handle her prior to the soiree.

She lingers on your intertwined hands and remarks, “I’m surprised. I took Phainon as someone particularly… touchy?” He tries to interject but she raises an open palm to mimic a hand puppet that closes its mouth. “Pardon me!” Caenis cackles, bitter and high. “I meant to say ‘affectionate.’ Otherwise, I paint Phainon as someone who has no consideration for appropriate occasions, and that would look terrible for Aglaea.”

“It must be nice,” you swiftly remark, “to know how to speak so well.” When she tries to interrupt, you imitate how she silenced Phainon while you free your other hand from his hold to wind around his waist, pulling him to your side to be ‘touchy’ before continuing. “It must be scary to be in a high position where condescending comments reflect badly on the publication you’re in charge of.” Shrugging, you lean your head on Phainon’s shoulder, pressing your temple against it to feel his attempts to suppress his giggles. “But what do I know? I only study chimeras.”

Miss Aglaea does not seem to fare any better as she struggles to feign indifference while ushering Caenis away in fear of any escalation. When their backs turn, she looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes only to remark, “let me know if there is anything I can provide, and I hope you enjoy yourselves tonight.”

With Miss Aglaea busy, Phainon pulls you towards the buffet area to fill your plates, attracted to the smell and surrounding merry-making. It’s nice to see him so happy to stuff his face. 

Not long ago, you spent a full day telling stories from your childhood with him, Cyrene, and Mydeimos lying in a pile on their apartment floor. Mydeimos was discreet about his own, which was understandable with how distant you two were and still are, so Phainon redirected it towards himself. It was standard and cute, until Cyrene interrupted with mention of his large appetite, nudging the story towards adorable. He would run around with pudgy cheeks, splitting snacks with everyone in his path, and perhaps sharing happiness is why he pursued culinary studies. Even now, he wants to know everything you enjoy so that he can put his own twist on it.

It's possible you’d like almost anything if Phainon was involved, and many seem to share the sentiment, slipping into his vicinity to partake in a short conversation. Some are older and choose to engage in small talk: if university is kind to you both, whether he’ll disclose any newly created recipes, and who are you? Those similar in age speak much more casually—a break from the formalities of the event yet also end in questions of your significance to Phainon. Children, too, gravitate towards him, and with them, his answer remains the same. I’m their significant other. I’m their partner. I’m their boyfriend.

It’s frightening, what each admission does to you, somehow more staggering than when he had referred to you as his.

And despite Phainon’s capability to read you, he fails this time. He doesn’t recognize how you sink into his side, unable to pull away and feeling far more heated than usual when he reciprocates every touch. He doesn’t grasp that every time his interest in you heightens after being granted privacy, you cannot prevent yourself from fixating on his mouth when he begins to speak endlessly about benign topics in aimless conversations he’ll continue on a day where he’s no longer yours. And he doesn’t notice how well you succeed at pretending everything is okay.

Currently, he’s staring at the centre of the banquet hall where a sea of couples dance in gentle ripples. The band plays a song so hypnotizing that it may as well be an intoxicating dream experienced through a sip of Phagousa's sacred philter. This is reflected in each nameless face, incredibly peaceful while they sway and turn; some rest their heads against their partner’s temples, shoulders, or the top of a head. It must be nice.

“Would you like to dance?” Phainon's voice is so soft you nearly miss it, but there aren’t many people around.

After three quints, you and Phainon retreated to the raised gallery overlooking the middle of the room to view the entirety of the party at once. You were slightly exhausted and significantly more overwhelmed, so Phainon kept his promise—although leaving was just withdrawing into a quieter area. You don’t think you're ready to go home yet.

Still, the feeling doesn’t completely subside.

What if you make a mistake or step on his toes? And, worse, dirty the clean surface of his dress shoes? Cyrene went through the efforts to ensure your attire was perfect for tonight, and it would be so easy to ruin it. The idea of tripping or stumbling is equally as mortifying when a wide fraction of guests also know Phainon. Some may be watching the dancing alike the both of you, too. Your face crunches up.

Seeing it, Phainon laughs. “Nevermind, but if you do...ignore everyone else.” His elbow gently nudges yours where they’re folded atop the railing of the balustrade. “Just have fun and slow dance with me.”

It would be so easy to take his hand and accept. Everything with him is. It was easy to accept his help throughout the past year, and a will like yours wasn't impervious to his vortex, rapidly pulling you in. You let it grow bigger and bigger and bigger, and enjoyed it all the while. Whereas he accepted you through each facet of yourself he's come to know. Every side. Any angle. None of it mattered so long as it was you. You want to dance with him.

But you’re always interrupted.

“There you two are!” Cyrene practically floats over, throwing her arms around the both of you and squeezing into the middle. “Look who I ran into,” she croons, giddy over her discovery.

You don't remember it well. You made a promise to yourself that you would, but you really did want to dance with him. Cyrene introduces you to their old friends, who of which they made when they first arrived in Okhema during one of Miss Aglaea’s social events. They're kind. How could they not be? Cyrene and Phainon would refuse to form relationships with anyone who wasn't.

The newly reunited group speaks about university here and a hobby there, flowing through topics one after the other in a stream so rapid you cannot keep up. Phainon also begins fidgeting, which doesn't help. His arms are crossed, tapping his fingers in that terrible rhythm of threes that ends with a worried glance in your direction. You’re always beaming.

And while you do, you debate if his practiced ability to play his distracting song translates into his dancing skill. He would be remorseful if he were to step on your toes, and exceptionally so if he were to dirty your shoes. But you wouldn't mind because it would be like a mark in the sand—a memory of tonight that you wouldn't wash away. If he were to trip or stumble, you would catch him, completely endeared. And if anyone were to watch, it wouldn’t be terrifying because Phainon is with you.

You want to tell him.

And maybe it shows on your face because Phainon reaches for you as their old friends make some remark about stepping away, without you. “Wait—”

“It's okay.” You grin, nice and wide. “Go have fun.”

Like he said: he usually isn’t able to. You remind yourself that you're not a typical ‘date’ for tonight but, even then, he doesn’t have to stay by your side in its entirety. Nor should he worry about you or wonder if you'll be alright without him. You will be. You know how to be fine if he leaves. Phainon should be happy. It’s why you like him so much, after all, so you don't stop smiling when he repeatedly peeks over his shoulder to check up on you as he walks away, as if there will be an instance in which your countenance will change. There won't be. This is exactly what you're here for.

So it is also no surprise that it doesn’t take more than half a quint for Miss Aglaea to descend upon you.

“How are you faring?” Miss Aglaea wonders as she swishes a glass of champagne between her fingers. It coruscates with the movement, bubbles rising and popping in golden liquid you considered partaking in to ease the pressure but decided against. “You didn’t join them?”

You shake your head, resting your forearms over the railing, instead, to wring your hands over the hall below, the dance completely out of reach. “I needed to step away for longer and didn’t want to intrude.” Concerning how many want for his attention with you capable of granting him that freedom, it would be better to withdraw. The Parting Hour is almost up, too, and the sociable atmosphere will not dwindle anytime soon.

“If I may ask… has your time here been pleasant?” She must see where your concentration has taken you; Phainon is holding hands with Cyrene and their friends, forming a circle amidst the now upbeat tune. They draw inwards, folding like a bud before stepping back into a bigger shape—blooming beautifully. Miss Aglaea is also glowing by the sight.

Turning to her, you reply, “it has,” and make a small remark, “my family may follow Phagousa, but I unfortunately don’t have as much energy as them. I don’t know how you’re able to spend hours celebrating without getting exhausted.”

“And why do you think I’ve decided to keep you company?” She huffs softly, tickled by what you believe to be true. “Bearing witness to everyone’s happiness is just as lovely as participating.”

“Is that why you always paired him up with a date?” The words are more matter-of-fact than anything, absent of any unkindness and dripping with unmistakable curiosity.

“You’re fairly straightforward, hm? I was slightly shocked by your interaction with Caenis too.” When your lips part, the edges of hers curl upwards. “Don’t apologize, now, I found it funny,” she clarifies only to subsequently award you with a proper answer. “As for playing the role of a matchmaker, you could say the reason is similar—he seemed lonely moving to Okhema.”

“Phainon did?” It’s almost unbelievable with how he carries himself.

She hums. “I was hoping, even if it was not love he found, that someone would eventually alleviate whatever he’s carrying.” Miss Aglaea takes a small sip; you wonder if she is wetting her throat or using it to dawdle, deciding how much and what she wants to share with you. “There are countless people you will meet throughout your life; those who come and go—and maybe they’ll return—but how they shape you will be different each time.” Her voice weakens, seeking reassurance you don’t have the right to give. “...Can you blame me for trying?”

“No,” you say even as your stomach drops, a heavy stone that disturbs muddy waters. “I can’t.”

“And it seems he didn’t need me at all.”

She’s wrong. From the anecdotes he tells to the timbre he takes when recounting them to you, you know she is wrong. The intention within the statement and her gaze upon you tells you that she believes you to be the solution, but Phainon is surrounded by so many who care for him profoundly. Prior to your increased involvement within his life, you already knew how often others were touched by him and there is no doubt a fraction—if not all—would reciprocate. Evidently, this was never voiced between them, but you are positive that Phainon not only needs but loves her.

“No,” you repeat, resolute this time. “I think he would disagree with you.”

“Is that so?” Miss Aglaea appears to entirely loosen, shoulders slacking with a relaxed smile and even softer eyes. “I’m delighted to hear that,” she says, before exhaling in something similar to a sigh, long and relieving to allow for happier things. “But enough boring life lessons from me. Cyrene and Cifera speak of you often, and now Phainon does too; I fear I’m missing out by listening to stories rather than your own voice.”

So, you fulfill that desire. Whatever Miss Aglaea wants to know, you tell her as long as it’s within the boundaries of your comfort. You elaborate on the stories she already knows and about more than just Phainon, extending into your family and friends. She enjoys, especially, when you focus on those that involve Cifera, an unspoken glee that always cascades over her features by mention of her charge’s name, of which flourishes further when you recount Cifera’s familiar little habits against situations she’s ignorant to.

You also get to know Miss Aglaea, too. Her family was a lover of various arts, and encouraged each member to pursue what they liked. She always loved to dance—it’s why parties such as this have time carved out for the activity—but she loves making clothing more. It started small with tiny jackets for teddy bears that shifted into mending articles needed by anyone so long as she could practice. Back then, she believed her dreams of building her own brand seemed impossible but, now, despite Goldweaver’s success, she hasn’t forgotten why she loved garment making in the first place. To see others happy within them and outgrow them are all that she asks.

Because of this, Cifera’s attachment to old clothing from her adolescence is clear: they remind her of Miss Aglaea finding her and giving her a home. And, soon, the two of them visited the countryside and met Phainon, Cyrene, and the family created by the connection surrounding that little village. Miss Aglaea also seems to be delighted to recite these moments, giving you a piece of your friends from the perspective of someone who was not that much older than you are now. It’s a pity, then, that you’re so captivated by her words that you almost want to beg her to stay when she’s summoned by a colleague.

At least, Phainon is still somewhere in that crowd. But with how distinct his and Cyrene’s hair is, you suppose it’s not that difficult to find them. They both look happy, resolved to prattling on and on about something you likely won’t ask about to maintain their privacy since you’re already satisfied by their smiles. Although not many minutes pass before Phainon cranes his head upwards, lured by your stare—has he been checking up on you all this time?

You watch as he exchanges a few words with everyone before pulling out his phone, waving it in view, and glides his fingers across the screen. Yours chimes.

𖤓 Sunshine

Phainon: I saw Auntie with you so I do hope you’re alright Phainon: I’m sorry I was dragged off :( You: Don’t worry! You: I had a lot of fun talking with her :O Phainon: Did everything go well? You: Yep! Our cover remains intact, sunshine! You: You can count on me Phainon: Didn’t doubt you for a moment :D Phainon: meet me at the balcony on the left? You: bet I can get there faster than you You: on your mark, get set, go! Phainon: that’s not fair! Phainon: you’re already on the upper floor >:( You: sounds like something a sore loser would say :P You: hurry, what kind of boyfriend keeps their oyster waiting </3 Phainon: I’m coming, starlight <3

With your face directed towards the skyveil, you’re connecting the stars of Aquila when Phainon sneaks up behind you. He does so wordlessly and you aren’t able to identify him by his steps, either, but when he taps your shoulder, you know it to be him. When you jolt, he spares you a modest apology, accompanying it with a hand dragging down your spine before pulling away.

Eventually, he starts naming them, one by one, but you also know this too. You stay quiet, anyway, since you’ve only shared the Thief-Star’s significance to you; he likely thought you were ignorant to the patterns the stars make—why would a chimera caretaker look upwards rather than down towards Georios’ creatures?

He traces the small shape of Corvus, leaning over the railing of the balcony as if reaching farther would ensure your understanding, and follows it to Aquila. Then, he shows you how similar their constellation is to Mnestia, not far from it and at a slightly different rotation with a matching pointed arc; your eyes are already on the extra star—the tip of Aquila’s eyelash—before he reaches it, so you listen to his little idea of arranging cupcakes to form each cluster.

And by the time he’s reached the Serpent-Bearer, you don’t have a single clue of how much time has passed, but the music within the banquet hall has grown louder. It’s a bit faster, too, wistful and urging for guests to partake in cheery dancing or more frivolous conversation that may be pleasantries for them but deceit for you. Had you permitted yourself even a second to peek back into the room, you would be aware of how the first of these is not true.

Phainon clears his throat.

“May I have this dance?” He offers his hand with the question; the action absent of any flourish and no coyness to his voice. Phainon is perfectly casual—his arms remain folded on the top of the balustrade, his right over the left, allowing for that hand to extend itself to you. “There’s no one here… Just me and you.”

Facing him, now, you release a small puff of air in disbelief only to give in and meet his touch. “Just you and me,” you echo, head tipping as you follow Phainon when he straightens to his full height.

“Do you know how to dance?” he asks, and you let a chuckle escape when he gasps, accidentally stepping on the tip of your shoe after he orients himself properly in front of you. “Auntie taught Cyrene and I.”

You arch a brow to say, “really?” and let your eyes flit to the ground, informing him of the source of your doubt. He’s already starting to jut out a lip, so you answer with your fingers grazing over his arm, palm pressed against his bicep. “When I was little, my father would dance with me; and when Aratus was a toddler, I would do the same to make him laugh.” He acknowledges it with a hum, distracted by your intertwined fingers, raised to shoulder level; so, you continue. “Do you want to lead, or should I?”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” you say, breath faltering with such a brief word when Phainon traces your side to splay his other hand across the middle of your back. “I guess it doesn’t.”

It starts clumsy with you and Phainon especially uncoordinated. Sometimes his hand signals for you to step forward, drawing you near while, others, you tug him closer to match your step. Although Miss Aglaea taught him, he needs more practice, that much is evident. Each movement is slightly stiff, as if he's reciting in his head what he should do with occasional glances to verify the position of his feet.

“Phainon,” you call, watching how the light graces the planes of his face when it filters through the entrance of the balcony. “Look at me.” He does. “You're supposed to look at me,” you repeat.

Something shifts with your instruction. His movements are more fluid, but perhaps that's because you've begun to act sillier. You're holding each other's hands now, pulling and pushing and laughing about nonsense that will be impossible to remember. And when he suddenly pulls you close, your head tips back with an abrupt guffaw you can't be bothered to contain.

Then, he extends his arms outwards, to turn you until your back presses against his front in an embrace, letting you catch a whiff of leather that is difficult to pinpoint when you can feel his breath against your ear. Fortunately, it doesn’t last long when Phainon decides to spin you out until your only connection is within your hands. It's not enough.

So, when you return to him, you urge him to stay, raising your linked hands to twirl him in place. Leaning down to avoid bumping into your hands, Phainon does as you wish, and he doesn’t stop. He sways with you as you like, but once you drag him forward, chest pressing against his, his breath leaves him in a startled, aborted gasp. And when you try to dip him, your soles slip on the floor with Phainon barely managing to catch himself by grabbing the railing. Alas, he lacks a proper hold that he's forced to brace a hand backwards while you follow his descent.

You're straddling a leg, your own arm extended forward to prevent yourself from completely collapsing upon him. Still, you’ve done this before—catching chimeras at the last second after years of narrowly snatching Aratus before he hurts himself—so your other hand instinctively finds the back of his head. However, Phainon managed to land on his bottom rather than sprawling out completely so there is no worry over a potential accident. Focusing on every point of contact, you can feel his own hand between your shoulder blades, no doubt ensuring that if anything were to happen, you would land on him and he would break your fall.

Once you both realize you're fine, you dissolve into laughter, muffling yours into his shoulder with his in your hair. Each breath is warm, but you can smell his cologne. It's different. More mature, if you were to describe it. And it’s not that he isn't—Phainon is dependable—but it's mature in the same way you wear business attire and pretend you have your life together. It's muskier, heavy with a distinctly spiced note—rich leather and smoked wood. In Phainon's old car, you couldn't smell it. It was just him; tart citrus, fresh laundry, softened tea, and sunlight. When Phainon presses his cheek to the top of your head, you inhale sharply.

You don't like it.

Pulling away, the laughter dies out and, again, she finds you quickly.

“We were interrupted earlier but you were no longer where I left you,” Miss Aglaea croons, watching you and Phainon stand and dust off your attire with a weighted look. “It’s a good thing I can recognize Phainon’s laughter anywhere.”

“Ah,” you vocalize with a sheepish smile. “I was thinking of heading home now.” You’re certain Phainon is surprised by the admission, so you hope her focus remains on you as you step forward to take her hands within yours in apology. “I have an early shift tomorrow and it’s already the Curtain-Fall Hour’s third quint.” It’s not a lie; you don’t want to lie to her beyond what you’ve already done.

Aglaea blinks softly. “I see,” she remarks, and when she glances at Phainon, you make sure to fidget. Meeting your eyes again, she agrees, “the Thief-Star will complete its journey soon—you should hurry on home before the Entry Hour arrives. We should avoid any mishaps from you being too worn-out come morning, shouldn’t we?”

“We should.”

Phainon hugs her, and with the balcony separated from the soiree, Aglaea is able to hold him for longer. “Thank you for inviting us,” Phainon says before adding an affectionate quip. ”I’m sorry we have to leave but the chimeras love them—Vigethos may cause a bigger ruckus than a dromas throwing a tantrum!”

At that, she smiles beneath a hand and admits, “there is no thanks when I wanted to see you both,” before embracing you for a short, warm moment. “With that said, we’ll also be seeing more of each other—I’ll be tenuring at your university for the foreseeable future so leave at your discretion.”

Phainon stills, surely grasping that this situation will become far more difficult to manage, so you jump in immediately to prevent his behaviour from arousing any suspicion.

“Really?” Your voice raises at the ends of the word, a blend of cold shock and excitement staining your tone. Truthfully, it’s a good thing—Cyrene will be especially happy about this. “Do you know what courses you’ll be teaching?”

“For now, history and design fundamentals.”

“That’s wonderful,” Phainon says after he recovers.

“It is. I know Cyrene helped you put together that outfit, so perhaps I can teach you between all your cooking and your debate club with—well, you know.” When you appear confused by her avoidance, she clarifies distastefully through the wry smile she exhibits. “That scholar Phainon loves to invite for coffee so frequently.”

“...How was I supposed to know you weren’t on good terms?”

Before he can begin brooding, you wrap your hands around his arm, pulling him closer in a side hug as he continues to sulk about his failed (surprise) attempt to have those important to him meet in the hopes of getting along. And Miss Algaea proceeds to explain how she tried to be cordial for Phainon’s sake upon arriving, but it melted into a disastrous exchange of thinly-veiled hostility, years of tension sunken beneath any attempt of civility. Put that way, the reality of the situation is troubling, but she recounts it with a wicked satisfaction that, if you didn’t know any better, you would believe it to be provocative banter.

Phainon privately makes the aforementioned comment when you’re back in his car so any subsequent ideas are his fault, not yours. Instead, you suggest that Castorice would love to write a story with such a premise, but Phainon explains that she and Cyrene loosely have. Because of it, the car ride to your apartment is filled with pointless babbling when you should really be discussing how the ‘dating’ situation will be handled moving forward. It was a success; there is no other way to describe it. Whoever approached Phainon tonight did not show one ounce of skepticism in your significance to him and the stories told, unwavering belief poisoned by the affection you shared so honestly.

And when Miss Aglaea sought you out, she wordlessly expressed the same sentiment Cyrene had after you first shared your feelings weeks ago—Phainon is happier. The responsibility of it is almost crushing or, perhaps, it would be better to say you're submerged in frigid waters, trapped under ice and forced to deal with what you knowingly walked into. You can’t disappoint them; you can't hurt him. It's fine. This is normal—it's not the first time and it will not be the last, and you've lived years with the worry of failure that it wouldn’t be so terrifying had the ordeal not verified to you that, with time, you could love him.

You hesitate at the door.

“It's late,” you say, slowly searching for your keys with your back towards him.

“It is.”

“Do you want to sleep over?” The question is perfectly enunciated with no change in your register and only a short pause before it’s said. “It’s not safe to drive so late at night.”

There’s a small shuffle followed by a hushed okay as Phainon steps closer, his shadow swallowing yours on the surface of the door when the top of his head likely blocks out the dim light of the hallway. You can feel his breath on your nape as Phainon suggests, “I don't think she would mind but… shouldn't we let Castorice know?” 

“She's not home.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You turn the key; Phainon follows you inside. He steadies you as you slip off your shoes, and you offer the same stability when it’s his turn. You also mix up your slippers with the pair Phainon likes to borrow, distracted by his fingers hooking into the knot of his tie, loosening it as he begins unbuttoning the vest whose texture you’re now intimate with. The thought of continuing from earlier is difficult to bear—would he have allowed you to help him get comfortable?

When you move to the kitchen, he heads for the bathroom, and once he returns in the middle of you holding two boxes, he’s replaced his contacts with his glasses. Phainon points to one to make the decision for you, and then opens the cupboard to pass you both your mug and the one he usually uses—it’s strangely ordinary but you don’t dislike it. Whenever he visits, he finds his natural space within your kitchen; bumping against your hip as you cook for your friends, arguing with Mydeimos over pastries, or listening to Castorice speak about her writing over the same tea you’re making now.

Determined, you stare straight at the kettle, yet fail to prevent yourself from sneaking a brief peek at what he’s doing, unfastening the cuffs of his dress shirt and the first few buttons of his collar. The skin of his neck doesn’t matter when it won’t smell like him anyway. And he’s silent while watching you pour warm tea into the ceramic, the attention causing your mind to empty, filled only with how relaxed he carries himself with his hip pressed against the counter. But when he takes the mug from your hands, your fingers brush, warmer than its surface, and you have to avert your eyes from the bob of his throat as he swallows.

You rush to the living room—he acts as if he belongs here, with you.

The absurdity in asking him strikes you, too, when there was no sense for it. It’s not winter. You aren’t snowed in and the roads of Okhema are certainly clear. There is, however, reduced visibility at night regardless of Oronyx’s twin moons and his car’s headlights, but even that is a weak justification. It doesn’t matter, anyway, since you’ve already said it, yet why had he accepted your request so readily?

If you think about it for too long, you’ll feel dizzy with the hope that he feels the same. So, you set the mug down on the coffee table, collapse to the carpet, and slouch over the seat of the sofa.

Looking down at you, Phainon chuckles. “Why are you always on the floor?”

“I like it,” you argue, choosing not to acknowledge how petulant you’re acting, as if you’re not allowed to do it and have to prove yourself when you’ve spent the past three Periods doing just that. “Let me have this.”

He already knows this habit of yours—pressing your cheek into any surface you’ve chosen to slouch over. It’s one of the only ways you’ve allowed yourself to be anything but appropriate: wanting for something, stressed over a problem, or desiring a short reprieve when you never permit yourself one.

He joins you, discarding his glasses and setting them beside your mugs so he can flatten the side of his own face against the cushion. “This feels like when I was younger,” he says, letting you whack him softly with a throw pillow before urging him to lift his head. Listening, he says, “I’d look for the patches of wheat that grew all packed together. It was a good hiding spot.”

Then, he lowers into the soft fabric you've gifted him when you reply, “and a good pillow?”

“If you don’t mind being surprised by the occasional field mouse or getting pricked by spikelets,” he jests. Then, his arm contorts into an awkward angle, scrambling and patting around until his fingers catch on fabric.

Assisting him in drawing the blanket across the two of you, you scoot closer so more of it covers him. “Field mice are cute.”

“You think almost every animal is cute,” he retorts, his voice a low murmur. There must be something on his mind as his eyes dance across your face, unable to focus on one spot, but before you can ask, he does instead. “Did you have fun tonight?”

The question is trivial. You attended for a reason unrelated to ‘fun.’ Still, you admit, “I did,” because it’s honest.

He swallows, suppressing a yawn—it’s way past his bedtime. “I'm really sorry I left you alone.”

“You looked really happy, and I had fun speaking to Miss Aglaea.” And, reminded of her, you whisper a secret you can’t share with anyone else but him. “I'm a little scared about Miss Aglaea.”

“Would you like to break up?” Phainon proposes, eyes half-lidded as he searches for your hand under the blanket. “We can do exactly as we planned—it didn’t work out and we thought we were better as friends.”

You hum in disagreement, words failing when Phainon’s yawn influences your own. The two of you would need to find another excuse to explain the separation and, after tonight, you are sure that any mention of a break up would be more unbelievable than revealing his scheme.

“We’ll be in classes while she’s teaching so she’ll be too busy,” you point out, resting your palm between the two of you as Phainon fails to find you. “And I want to take more shifts at the Cozy Chimera to practice speaking to them.”

Phainon’s touch is warm when his hand overlaps yours, palm pressed over your knuckles. You can feel it—the calluses on his hands, yet the skin isn’t dry. In preparation for tonight, you’re certain he took care in every inch of his appearance; and when you recall how you’ve changed with your feeling for him, you had done the same every day just in case he would look at you differently, even for the briefest of moments. He also pays close attention in shifting his hand after you initially meet, a miniscule bend at the wrist noticeable to no one except for you. It allows his fingers, long and elegant, to arrange themselves between yours. At another point of time, this would all be so idiotic, but you think of those romance stories Castorice, Cyrene, and Phainon love and believe your hands fit together like puzzle pieces, snapping together as if Kephale designed him to complement you perfectly.

“Sleep in tonight,” Phainon says, the words tumbling out slowly with too many pauses in-between, “I’ll drive you to work tomorrow so don’t worry about anything.” He hides his eyes from you, so it makes you braver.

“Not even pretending to be in love?”

His grip tightens, fingers curling until you can feel the tips under your palm. “Whatever happens…” he whispers but his voice is slurred, taking on a quality you refuse to consider further. It’s too tender, as if you’re lying in someplace that is inconsequential to the feeling of sunlight grazing over every surface. If you were still in Jericha, you can imagine Phainon wrapping himself around you, breath fanning over your cheek with everything warm—so warn because it’s him and every touch from him is heat that will never leave you even as the ships do. And despite how deeply your heart aches, sore and impossibly fragile, he makes an oath you can only wish for. “...I'll be with you,” Phainon promises, lured away by the temptation of sleep and, possibly—foolishly so—your voice.

So, you say, “okay” in the faintest acknowledgement you can manage, the lone word breaking in syllable when your chest is so tight that it barely escapes you. Then, you say his name, watching his eyelids twitch as if he can still hear you; you say it again just because you can. You’re unaware of what time it is, too—if the Entry Hour is even here. But if you don’t look, then you don’t know.

He’s still yours.

One. Two. Three. You count Phainon's eyelashes. He twitches in his sleep, countenance scrunching up, so, to soothe him, you give voice to his name. It works; thus, you resume, again and again and again, eventually lost in every serene feature. The supplication comes easy; you’re already on your knees—may there never be a moment where you miss him for long. Yet, Phainon is right here, in front of you, with his hand over yours, but the hold is too loose. When he was still conscious, it was firm and steady, so you'll mimic it, now, turning your wrist even when you're certain it'll be sore tomorrow morning. Your palms press and, despite your lack of faith, you hope each groove aligns.

Whatever you dream of no longer matters; tonight, you fall asleep with Mnestia's prayer on your tongue and his name engraved over your heart, half-hidden and half-revealed.

Soooo… to start off my big long speech… *clinks my fancy wine glass that’s filled with a mysterious substance* (It’s eggnog)

When I first started this blog, it was off a whim. I wanted to do something, something that involved putting my work out there, as I was just starting out. I wanted to mean something. In any sort of way, I wanted to leave a sort of mark. Not just any mark, though, no. I wanted to add a bit of joy, a spark of life that comes from creativity, and adding words and love into the space we occupy on this floating rock in space.

I wanted to write because it made me happy, and I wanted there to be a possibility of someone who was who got joy from reading to maybe stumble upon it, and get joy from me. Get joy from something I was able to provide for them.

I was also incredibly lonely. I had no friends, I had nothing, pretty much. I didn’t talk much. I was reclusive. I was okay, but I was empty. I didn’t have a purpose. And while I wasn’t expecting much, nothing at all really, I was overjoyed at the prospect that maybe just one person would stumble upon something I wrote and for a moment of their day, maybe they got peace from it.

Maybe they felt a little less lonely. I would have been at peace with just knowing the possibility of it was out there. And then… it did. And I got more than I bargained for, even, I got a friend. My first friend.

From there, everything… clicked. Slowly, but ever so surely, things were falling into place. I was gaining something that had not even crossed my mind. A family.

So, my silly dream born from a whim became friends, connections, and family, it became life-altering. It had ups, it had downs, it had in-betweens. It was beautiful and messy and happy and sad and fucked up and so wonderfully… human?

Yeah, this is online, this is a silly mootsgiving idea I thought up three hours ago because I wanted people to know I love them.

But to someone who had nothing, this is everything. You are everything.

Even if we’ve only talked one time, you have a special place in my heart. The character growth has been… one hell of a ride. I’ve gone through many eras, and made new friends in each and every one of them. So, with the end of the year closing soon, I suppose in a way this is not just a silly mootsgiving.

My bigger end goal, really, was to make sure as we get to the end of this ear, you know how genuinely important this whole year has been to me. How important you have been. I got an anon ask,

What does it feel like to be wanted?

It was beautiful poetry. I replied, said I wouldn’t know what it feels like to be wanted. But really? I think maybe I do. I think it feels like having enough people that you love to organize and invite everyone to a huge event online, to write out this heartfelt paragraph and trust that at least one person will care enough to read it.

My beginning goal has changed so much, and not at all. My biggest purpose in life has been, and I think will always be, to add something into this world.

Creativity, joy, happiness, compassion, I want to ensure that no matter what, as long as you know me, you know you have one person on this earth who loves and cares about you with as much feeling that can physically be felt by one person without exploding into a bunch of tiny little runar pieces.

But moreso, I think maybe my goal has changed from wanting to put stories out there, to putting myself out there. I don’t want to write stories that are just fiction, just crafted ideas meshed together to create a blob of fiction.

I want to write pieces of myself into everything, which i think might genuinely be impossible to not do. I want my heart to pour out of my fingers into the things i type out for you, and i want to not only feel things, but to maybe make you feel something too. Something warm and fuzzy, something good, as good as you deserve.

Aaaaannnd…. to end this….

I love you guys, thanks for being here <3

@marauding-almond @percyweasleyapologist @yesiamprocrastinating @dieatthealtar-deactivated @caramel-covered-apples @thatoneslytherinnerd @thatoneslytherinnerd2

@hedgehog-troops@circe-butbetter @stars-on-my-bedroom-ceiling @l1ve-l4ugh-lov3craft @aidens-ocean-galaxy@rainystarsx@liggy-not-potter @goformoony@i-still-got-love-for-you @definitionoffuckup@mairon-goth-minion

@weewooooweew @residentdisaster @matty-os-blog @starkissed-mars @printershorts @the1970sdeadgaywizard-regulus @lesbian-disaster-tm @star-dust-shark @enbysiriusblack @sadnappo @kawaiibarty @hershey-not-the-chocolate-maybe

@jamespotterbbg @scrumblewonk @seekmemystar @rins-batcave @utterqueerdisasterthesimp @gasolinehornet @asters-tempo @here-am-i-sitting-in-a-tin-can @permetutotheworld @theprongspotter @sotiredimbored @yourlocalbadgerscales @raeprise @burgundykicks @whydousernamesevenexist @jaydove-writes @the-stars-drowning @inara-tries-to-survive @saturnsconstellation @royallygray