snoopdawg

You’re more of a sunflower who basks in his sunlight and greedily soaks up all his affection. You’d hate to be the moon, for this meant you’d only rise when Phainon is gone – you prefer staying right by his side, a sidekick he can always count on. 

A sidekick wearing your heart on your sleeves, shy but never quite ashamed of the sincere feelings you’ve held for him growing up. A flower bud that slowly unfurls into a full bloom.

As your mother would lovingly refer to you both, you are: “Two birds of a feather!” 

Your childhood memories of Aedes Elysiae, blurry some of them may be, are bathed in everlasting gold. While Phainon dragged you off to go play heroes or look through Cyrene’s cards together, you remember dropping pollen of your romantic affection, scattered across planes of time like trails of breadcrumbs left for him to decipher. 

While the sun dipped into the horizon, you inched closer to him day by day, the fluttering in your heart evolves into a palpitation you can never stop, and small gifts handcrafted to show your admiration all gently whispered to him to ‘please, take the hint’. But reminiscent of an immovable stone, Phainon remained blissfully oblivious to the signs.

Cyrene certainly got them; her narrowing eyes and poorly hidden giggles as she sent you and Phainon away were enough of a testament. “I’m not feeling well today, you two can go on without me!”

You’d linger at the edge of her front yard, unsure how to proceed with her help. At Phainon’s call however, you move to follow him – “okay, phai!” – trying to contain the dandelion seeds dancing around in your stomach when he leads you by the arm, not letting go despite arriving at your destination. You didn’t want to let go either, even with the sweat building up in your palm. 

High school sprouts in your backyard as a tall and looming beanstalk that would force you both to grow up even more. 

Phainon’s high-pitched voice starts cracking like eggshells, making way for a deeper tone yet still carrying that warm lilt he always had. You grow taller, still incomparable to Phainon’s own growth spurt, but a good few inches nonetheless. Your sense of style reshapes itself, old interests thrown out for newer ones, and the patch of land where you’d all play heroes together becomes forgotten, the trampled blades of grass outgrowing their original length. 

You start favouring the comforts of your room over the blazing heat of the sun, beginning to find sweat as something you can’t stand and only coming out when Phainon pleads with you to do so. 

He shines brighter in High School – his presence a beaming beacon of light as he walks through the hallways and enters classrooms. Being the sunflower that you are, you faithfully stayed by his side. Fawning crowds come and go, you don’t. 

Your infatuation is exposed to those who aren’t Cyrene; childish people who never grew past the mental age of twelve tried to pick on you for always ‘Sticking to phainon like some damn leech! Don’t have any other personality traits or something?’ – the teasing didn’t last after Phainon punched one of them square in the face. His heroic act only dug your cove of feelings a little bit deeper. 

He’s your best friend and first love, a pillar of comfort you grew up with – you can’t imagine your life without Phainon. You pick up more hobbies, he joins more clubs he never expected he would, and you share your new life experiences with each other during lunch. Sometimes separated, but never for too long. 

Several months flicker by, and during one of your high school Valentine’s, you received gifts from men who aren’t just Phainon. 

Despite his locker overflowing with pink, glittery love notes and heart-shaped chocolates handmade out of sincerity, his gaze was pinned to the white envelope and bouquet of flowers you carried - neither of them is from him. His own gift is already hanging off your backpack, the cute sunflower keychain that it is. 

“From a friend?” He asks, finally closing his locker before he risks more glitter explosions on the ground.

“I doubt it,” He’s the only friend you have in this school, embarrassing it is to admit. Cyrene studies elsewhere. “But they’re cute.”

You see his tongue in cheek, and you dare let a seed of hope plant in the root of your heart. Is he… jealous? That makes you giddy. Tentatively, you ask, “You think so too, right, Phainon?”

He grimaces, glancing one last time at the items in your embrace before smiling, “Yeah, they are. Anyway, done with your locker? Let me carry your bag now.”

You nursed that seed of hope from then forth, slowly but steadily hoping more and more for the plausibility that he returns your feelings. It wouldn’t be too far off, surely – even if you’re not meant for each other in the end, you still want to try with him. You water that seed by dropping more subtle hints to Phainon, and you fertilize it by observing your best friend like an animal in a zoo, analyzing his minuscule actions and trying to correlate them to the mannerisms of ‘a guy with a secret crush on his best friend’.

To be young is to be naive. 

You didn’t need much. A simple ‘you should go for it! I’ve been rooting for you two since we were all children!’ from Cyrene carved out your decision to confess to Phainon near the end of high school. 

In the end, ripped straight from the dramas you watched out of curiosity, you confess to Phainon at the height of spring after getting your high school diplomas; the scent of flowers in full bloom makes you sick with nostalgia and nerves simultaneously. Your family is off conversing with his parents, while you dragged him to a secluded spot in the school. 

“Uhm… I’ve liked you for a long time now, Phainon. I’m not expecting you to return my feelings but…” You leave it open-ended, too afraid to settle your confession definitively. You love him, actually - but love is a strong word that some don’t like to acknowledge. For his sake, you won’t either. 

A warm, gentle spring can never stay for too long. In the same breath, you, too, are forced to abandon the sunlight you’ve known for several years at the sound of his discordant chuckle – the awkward smile etched on his face as his eyes could only look down at you in what you assume to be pity. You avert your gaze from his blue eyes, opting to stare into his birthmark instead. 

“Hey, of course I like you too - you’re my best friend! But we can always stay as friends, (Y/N). You’re dear to me, you know  – maybe not… like that, I just don’t want things to change between us.”

You experience the first and biggest heartbreak of your life just hours after graduating from High School. Your best friend Phainon does not reciprocate your feelings and instead wishes for your relationship to stay the same, locked into the tight box of ‘close friends’ he never plans on breaking. The seed-turned-plant of hope in your heart withers down to a sad, pathetic, dried-out flora. 

That’s okay. You’ll be attending the same college as him, located far, far away – even if it’s not, you have to be okay. 

After a few tense seconds of utter silence, you smile – the most carefree smile you can muster in that moment before enthusiastically nodding at him, “I get it! Don’t worry, Phainon. I totally get it. Uh, hey, I think Cyrene’s calling me. I have to take this phone call for a bit, okay? Let’s meet again later!” 

You bury that confession six feet under in your backyard, covered and only seen by inches of soil as you maintain your close friendship with Phainon. Best friends, close friends, friends - you are not to cross these labels unless you want to lose your close companion. 

The months of free time leading up to college are nothing unusual, you spend it as you would in the past: Phainon picking you up on the front porch to spend the entire day together. It’s either his or your room where you’ll pour sweating buckets over study materials and banter over multiplayer games on his console.

Your heart still beats like drums just being in his vicinity alone, and it took you days of preparation to act like you’re unbothered when he invites you to his room – the walls and shelves containing time capsules from years before. Pressed white daisies you gifted him on his 10th birthday peeks out as his bookmark, and your kindergarten doodle of him as the sun proudly hangs above his bed, displayed as if it’s an artifact from the Belobog museum. 

The most heartwrenching item is the printed photo sitting on his desk: it’s little him kissing little you’s frosting-smudged cheek at your 10th birthday party. The shock on your face is captured and frozen in time, a memory you both laugh about every month or so. 10th birthday… It’s the same age you realized you see him as more than a friend. 

Seeing it for the umpteenth time never fails to steal the air from you; the ache never gets easier. You wish you could truly put these romantic feelings to rest in a coffin and seal it shut with a lid, never to be opened again. 

“Phainon, next time… let’s spend the day in my room.”

Seeing bits and pieces of you scattered around his room hurts more than him verbally rejecting you. 

He grins, all teeth and gums, “Sure!”

Even branches grow into a tree of their own, just as a fledgling must leave its nest. 

Spring came and went, high school a chapter closed, and you’re now faced with attending school – college, you remind yourself  – an ocean away from the familiar warmth of Aedes Elysiae. The wheat fields that were once taller than you, and Phainon’s house right next door, are all left behind momentarily. You can’t pocket your hometown to bring with you in Penacony, but at least you still have Phainon. 

“Everything all settled?” He gently lets go of your dorm’s wooden table, finally in its correct position, “This layout is fine, right?”

“It is,” You hand him a towel, itching to help with wiping off his sweat, “Thanks, Phainon. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to, anything for you.” Anything for his dear best friend. He bumps your side before sitting down on the living room couch. You wanted him to stick around for a while longer, but he’s already out your door the moment he hears knocking – (‘Oh, your roommate is here! I need to go now, remember to call me if you need help, okay?’ he pats your shoulder on the way out). 

The patch of skin he briefly touched is still tingling when you see someone walk into the living room, luggage trailing right behind. A tall man with shoulder-length gray hair and kind yellow eyes bows at you in greeting. He’s wearing a white cardigan with a blue sweater layered on top, the color alone reminds you of your best friend despite the difference in shades.

“Hello, pardon my sudden entrance.”

“...Hi.” You don’t know how to talk to people beyond Phainon and Cyrene - standing around here is making you shy. “Uhm, my name is (Y/N)... And you are…?”

“I am Sunday,” His hand extends for a handshake, and you hesitantly follow suit. “It’s nice to meet you. I sincerely hope we get along.”

You nod, staring back into pools of liquid gold while shaking his hand,  “...Yeah, let’s. And please don’t mind the succulents on the windowsill.”

II. A close-knit friendship withers in winter, in its place is a new one.

Much to your relief, your late-night fears of college drifting you and Phainon apart never come to fruition. It has the opposite effect, to your surprise. While not overdramatically countries away, Phainon’s dorm room is located a floor above - a notable difference from when he lived right next door to you. The added distance often has him visiting your dorm room unprompted (you kindly gave him a spare key in case of emergencies) and easily greeting a confused Sunday who just finished his classes for the day.

“Call me your third roommate – don’t worry, I help around!” He’d joke. Using your headband to push his hair back, wearing a baggy tee and gray sweatpants, he makes himself at home. Sometimes doing his own homework or brings his gaming laptop along. 

After the initial surprise, Sunday doesn’t mind his company – you certainly don’t. 

Phainon waits for you outside your room to walk you to your class. He makes sure you sit next to him in the classes you share. He insists you join the same org as him, and predictably, you do. 

You thought you buried your less-than-platonic feelings in your backyard; you truly did. But Phainon has your heart racing in excitement, rekindling the dying plant of hope. You still like him – truthfully, you never stopped liking him. But he’s closer to you now, a feat you previously thought to be impossible. The distance of just one floor away makes the heart grow fonder. Dare you say, clingy? 

But he still remains your best friend. A clingy, touchy one – but your best friend. 

Sunday discusses the topic on a slow, school-less night. You’re in the living room finishing up the last plates needed to be washed when he suddenly chimes in, tone so sure of his words, “Ah yes, I remember now. Please tell your boyfriend to stop entering our dorm past 11 PM. The faculty recently deployed a curfew; it’s best we follow it.”

The ceramic plate in your grasp almost crashes headfirst to the floor. Out of embarrassment, you refuse to turn around and face your roommate. Boyfriend. Boyfriend – only one person is a repeat visitor in your dorm room, and he’s nowhere near being your boyfriend.

Meekly, you set the plate down and correct him, “I’ll inform him, but… Phainon isn’t my boyfriend.”

The silence that wafts through is more humiliation added onto your person. What is Sunday’s facial expression right now? Shocked? Ashamed? 

He answers it for you: “I see… This is quite mortifying, my sincere apologies.” 

But he continues, “You’re both seen together, and he visits you so often, not to mention the look you give him, I got the idea that…– I’ll be sure to be more observant in the future. Again, my apologies.”

You’re wiping the table clean when you reply, still angling your face away from his eyes, “It’s cool, don’t worry! No harm done! He and I are best friends, yes… the bestest of friends!”

You feel him raise a brow at that, “I don’t mean to pry, however…”

Cyrene always chided you for being a pushover to those around you. In this instance, you hear her disapproving frown when you fold like a wet blanket, “Whatever it is you’re thinking –! I-it’s probably right.”

Wilted sunflower that you are, you mournfully face him with your eyes cast to the floor. 

“Ah. You like him?”

You slowly nod, a small part relieved that you now have someone other than Cyrene and Phainon to confide in. “Don’t tell him, please…”

“I won’t.”

His bird-patterned socks enter at the edge of your vision. You slowly look up. Sunday is smiling at you, although a bit tense. 

“Perhaps it’s a bit presumptuous of me considering we’ve only known each other for months, but… They say I’m a good listener. If you don’t mind, could you tell me more?”

Sunday is a Borage you unknowingly planted, only just now peaking when you need him most. Sitting side by side on your dorm’s small couch, you gain an outsider’s perspective on your years-long pining toward your best friend. He hears of your rejection and your still-persisting feelings. In the end, the advice he offered to you is:

“He may not be stringing you along, but you still foster optimism in your heart. So long as you have it, you will never move forward past him. If you ask me… confess your love a second time; see if his opinion has changed.”

You gulp, “And if it doesn’t?”

He smiles, gentle as clouds, “Broaden your horizons permanently. Distance yourself if you must; your friendship will pick up once you settle your feelings.”

Winter break is soon; you’ll need to go back to Aedes Elysiae in a few months’ time. However…

“If it’s not too much. A-and I understand if you don’t want to! But, could I ask you to…”

Sunday’s words continuously ring in your mind, repeating circles of “confess your feelings” and “move on,” bouncing off of one another. Coincidentally, Sunday is out for the afternoon when Phainon barges in a week later. Something about groupmates and ‘I wish you were in my group’ going one ear and out the other as you nod at him in autopilot. 

He picks up on your unusual behavior not even ten minutes in: brows raised to the sky and eerily getting close and personal with you, surveying your face like it’d shed off all the information he wanted. He retracts a few seconds later, less joking when he inquires, “Something on your mind? Missing Aedes Elysiae?”

Hanging out in your small room like this, laptop opened to play some pirated action movie, and his class notes scattered around your bedsheets like autumn leaves… 

You shake your head, feeling the moment to follow Sunday’s advice is now. This is the perfect timing – no one else around to see your heartbroken face for a second time, and no Cyrene to find out you’re still hung up on him. 

“Phainon, I…”

He shuffles closer to hear you better – traitorously, your heart clenches in affection. 

“Yeah?”

You take a deep breath, screwing your eyes shut, “I think I still like you.”

You downplay your feelings for the sake of self-preservation.

His breath hitches, “Ah, that’s–”

“I’m sorry.” You apologize, remorseful at how uncomfortable he must be right now, “I really tried, but…” A deep breath, “I’ll move on from you soon, I promise.”

“Oh,” He pauses, staring anywhere but you, “Uhm… sure… I’m glad to have you, you know?”

You nod, too fragile to face him. 

“...You’re my first and dearest friend. I truly, really liked you, Phainon.” You love him so, so much.

“You’re dear to me too, (Y/N). Forever and now.”

You’ve heard of an overseas concept where a person in an unrequited love begins to sprout flowers from within. You feel like that’s happening to you right now with how unbearable heartbreak is – yellow carnations form from your bleeding heart, wormwood seizes your lungs in a tight embrace, and pink roses mix with your innards. You’d cough out the feeling if you could; empty your stomach from all the flowers and be done with it.  

Predictably, he’s quiet for the rest of the movie – immediately coming up with an excuse to leave your dorm room once the end credits begin rolling in. You break down into tears the moment the lock clicks in place. You cry for hours, long enough for Sunday to come knocking on your door, just knowing you managed to do it when he readily offers you one of his giantmoa pudding tarts. 

Eyes puffy and snot stubbornly running down your nose, you take a bite and thank him through a mouthful of pastry. It’d taste better if you weren’t so heartbroken. He gently rubs your shoulder in comfort. 

“It’ll be alright.”

He’s right– But Phainon has always been by your side, rain or shine. The following months of his absence from your life will be akin to traversing a dark forest with no light source.

But there’s light at the end of the tunnel; a rainbow at the end of the storm. When Sunday bans you from helping with chores that night, you know your heart will heal in time.

“Thanks a lot… sunny.” 

He sighs in mock exasperation, “I see you’ve picked up on that nickname too.”

The sun: Hey

The sun: I came by to pick you up, but for some reason, your roommate’s lying?? He said you’re not going back to aedes elsysiae this winter break??? And even denied me entry??? 

The sun: crazy right

The sun: I’m right outside waiting for you rn

The sun: do you need help packing up? :) 

You: No

You: He’s telling the truth.

You: I won’t be visiting for now. Maybe next semester break?

The sun: what

You haven’t read his one-word reply when your phone screen transitions to his contact photo with the text ‘The sun is calling…’ displayed below. You sigh, reluctantly sliding to accept.

Even with speakers turned off, you hear him without pressing your phone against your ear: “What do you mean? Did something happen? Don’t tell me you and Auntie got into a fight…! Don’t worry! I’ll act as the middleman like usu-”

“Uhm, Phainon.” You cut him off. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s nothing like that, please don’t worry.”

He makes a sound of confusion, painfully close to a whimper, “So then… why aren’t you visiting our hometown with me?”

‘Because you’ll be there’. “I’m busy with some personal matters here, don’t worry about me. Say hi to Snowy for me, okay?”

“No, I’m absolutely worrying about you – why not? We can visit them next week instead if you’re busy! Why… why miss out on the entire winter break? Won’t you be lonely here?”

“No need, really! Enjoy aedes elysiae for me. And I won’t be lonely… so stop worrying so much, you softie. I have sunny with me.”

“Sunny…? Your… roommate? Sunday? He’s staying here for winter break, too?” He sounds choked up from disbelief; you’d laugh if you weren’t battling against your resurfacing feelings from talking to him on the phone. “Sunday?”

“Yes, he’ll take care of me. I swear!”

“...”

“...Phainon? Hello?” Did the call end already? You glance at your screen, frowning in confusion when you see that the call is still ongoing. Is he lagging on his end? But he’s outside of your dorm. 

“If you need anything,” He suddenly speaks up, “Anything – call me, please. If your roommate makes you sad or uncomfortable, tell me right away, okay? I’ll call you again the moment I’m back in aedes elysiae. Stay safe, I love you.”

You flinch at his admission, knowing he didn’t mean it like that. “I know… safe travels, Phainon.”

“Phai.”

“Huh?”

“Call me Phai. Isn’t that what you used to call me when we were kids? Why’d you stop? Let’s bring it back.” 

You lie on your bed, pondering. Why did you stop? Perhaps since it was a nickname from childhood, you let go of it and hoped Phainon would see you more than just… his friend since diapers. It didn’t work, clearly. So you don’t mind calling him that shortened version of his name again. 

“Okay… Safe travels, Phai.”

Despite your emboldened decision to ask Sunday to stay with you for winter break, you are still, at your core, a floundering, unsociable person. You have your moments of being bold and talkative, but it’s covered by leaves of quietude and slight stutters. Socializing is not your strong suit. You’re not at the stage of being totally buddy-buddy with your roommate, but you’re slowly getting there. 

You’re glad you met Sunday. Had it not been for him, you’d still be stuck hopelessly waiting for a day that’ll never come: a phantom of the past who’s deathly afraid of the future. 

In the span of your one-month winter break, you get to know him better. Your roommate, who’s a good listener is also an older brother to an idol trainee, has a trio of friends who roomed together a floor below, likes sweet treats, and ran away from his adoptive home after graduating high school.

Your profound respect for him only continued to grow, stalking across your shared living space like vines. While Phainon’s frequent messages, consisting of photos of Snowy and with your family, make your heart twinge in longing, you start ignoring them for the sake of progress. He’ll understand why a year from now, and you’ll both laugh about it like the pair of best friends that you are. 

It’s not college that severs you and Phainon – it’s you yourself, but cutting off a branch from your tree does not mean it’s not allowed to grow a new one elsewhere. 

III. Regret burgeons when everything is said and done.

Phainon: I feel like you’ve been ignoring me lately

Phainon: did i upset you?

Phainon: :( 

The Gen Ed courses you took unfortunately landed you in some shared classes with Phainon, the ‘sunny’ side is that they’re coincidentally shared with Sunday and his friends too. While anxious to meet them, he thoroughly reassured you that they’re nice people.

“Just a bit… loud sometimes, I hope you don’t mind.”

You don’t – anything to physically get away from Phainon. The one-month winter break may have taught you to rely on him less, but seeing his face again might cause you to fold like paper. You see his unanswered texts when you close your eyes, and you hear his voice right before falling asleep. You miss him, but you know what must be done. When he visited you on the day he left Amphoreus, you and Sunday worked together to pretend that no one was home when he came knocking. 

He stayed for hours before going up to his own floor. 

Sunday sits on your left, and Stelle (A kind woman who is equal parts loud and quiet) on the other. Your new acquaintances, Dan Heng and March, are a row ahead. 

“I’m telling you, (Y/N)! His nickname really is cold dragon young!” March cackles in glee, making sure to point at Dan Heng in case you mistake him for someone else.

He sighs, pushing down her finger, “That was years ago, ignore her.”

Stelle chimes in, lazily putting her arm around your shoulder and whispering, “Because he had a gachalife phase.”

Cold dragon young hisses at her to shut up, only to serve as fuel for their cackling. Entertained, you let out a few quiet chuckles at their display. You can never be happy for too long – the classroom door soon creaks open, familiar tufts of white hair peeking in not a moment later. The realization that it’s undoubtedly Phainon has you clammoring in your seat, sitting rigidly in attention. 

Sunday gently rubs your back, eases you back to your current circle,  “Sorry…!”

“It’s okay,” Sunday whispers back, sharing a glance with you. 

“Ah, (Y/N)! There you are! …And everyone too, hello!” Phainon greets from up front, hastily picking up his pace to approach your group. Facing you, he wastes no time firing question after question, “Where were you yesterday? I waited around and tried the key you gave me, but it never worked. Did your phone break? I couldn’t contact you at all, I was so worried!”

You smile at him, “Phai, it’s nice to see you again. Sorry, we replaced our door lock with a new key for uhm… security reasons, I’ll try to get you a copy sometime. And no… my phone isn’t broken, I was just busy, that’s all!”

He audibly sighs in relief, “...Really? That’s good, I’m glad – I missed you a lot, you know?” Adjusting his bag strap, he nods to the unoccupied seats in the first row, “Come on, let’s sit.”

Stelle speaks for you, “Oh, she’s sitting with us.”

“Hm? Right! Thank you for taking care of my best friend, but we’ll get going now–”

“No, I mean she’ll be sitting with us for this class.” 

Phainon cocks his head, “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

You meekly affirm, “I’m… sitting with them. Uh, they’re really nice people, Sunny introduced me to them!”

“Huh?” He looks like a lost puppy on the verge of being abandoned, “...But our seats?”

“I’ll try to sit with you next class!”

You never do: you sit next to Sunday in every single one of them and ignored the bewildered look on his face each time. 

He beelines for you after dismissal, blue eyes so eager and pleading when he asks you,  “Let’s get dinner together – my treat? It feels like I haven’t seen you in centuries.”

Only for you to scratch the back of your neck while shyly glancing at Sunday, “Uhm… we already made plans after school. Sorry, Phai.”

“Oh.” He steps back, letting you and Sunday pass by him to exit the room. His blue eyes follow you until they can no longer. He’s left with himself when he mutters a bitter:

“I get it.”

“Let me carry that for–Ah, Sunday…?”

He’s a second too late, but Phainon stubbornly clings to your bag’s front pocket, the very bag that the other man is already carrying. You’re still in the bathroom when the professor dismisses the class.  Wanting to do his usual duties, Phainon intended to carry your bag, but… someone already beat him to it. He smiles at him, polite, “Thank you friend, but this is my thing, if you’d kindly–”

Sunday’s lips curve into what seems to be a subtle mocking smile. He adjusts the bag closer to him before replying in a composed manner, “How chivalrous of you, Mister Phainon. However, it’s not needed. See? I can carry it for her.”

Phainon sees it as clear as day. 

Childishly, Phainon thinks he can carry it better than he can. It’s what he always did for you since he still had some front teeth missing from his smile; it’s his duty, not your roommate’s. 

He reluctantly lets go when you come up to thank Sunday, blatantly ignoring him just a few feet away. He enthusiastically greets you, but he still exists as an imaginary concept in your eyes. What’s going on? He ponders, watching you chat the world away with Sunday. What happened before that winter break that caused you to grow so tremendously close to that guy? 

You said you’d give him a new copy of your dorm room, but you’re ignoring his texts, his existence, and now – letting someone else do his usual tasks. Seriously, what gives?

Sunday’s like a parasite attached to your hip, it unnerves and angers him. 

Are you… trying to replace him? His heart threatens to drop just thinking about it. 

You are.

You really are trying to replace him. 

Sunday sits next to you, Sunday lives with you, Sunday eats with you, Sunday talks with you, Sunday texts with you, Sunday laughs with you – Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Every time Phainon is graced with your presence, it’s quick to sour from your notable companion by your side. Your new circle of friends too, Phainon sees it clear as day: you don’t want to be around them all the time, but you’re peer pressured into doing so. If Phainon was by your side… he would never let that happen to you. He’d punch them into blindness should they dare to make you inconvenienced. 

Two birds of a feather – that’s what your mother called him and you; A pair of friends so close you might as well be surgically joined together in the middle. When Seven-year-old Phainon first reached his hand out to you, his brain made the unconscious decision then: you’d be the sole irrevocable part of his life. Flowers bloom and wilt; they experience a death of their own, but under Phainon’s sunlight, he promised that he’d never let a sunflower like you be anything less than thriving.

He leads and you follow, only so he’d be the one to be hurt when braving the unknown. Scraped knees and bruised patches of skin are nothing because you’re not hurt. He shines so you can comfortably hide under the shade – you’re not one for people, he’s fine with the way you are. He adjusts around your existence, a mold of comfort that perfectly fits none but you. He’s your fighter and protector; sword and shield. 

Skipping rocks on a nearby lake, teasing Cyrene together, learning from her cards, and discovering a poor abandoned puppy who’d eventually be named ‘Snowy’ are all flashing strings of gold in his memories. Moments carefully planted in his own backyard and given regular maintenance lest he start neglecting them. 

He loves you, of course he does. There is nothing purer in this world than his love for you; a flower specially nursed and plucked with the greatest care, a beauty unparalleled for it’s fertilized from the attention you give him. 

His room is centered around you; every item given is meticulously stored and given a special place. The polaroids, your kindergarten doodles, the yellow crayon you gave him, your pressed flowers – he still has it, even brought it along to his dorm room, where he’s embraced by your presence every night before sleep. 

He loves you, he knows this well in his heart. But Phainon is simply not worthy of you. His love for you is pure, but he, as a person, is not. A Sun can also be damaging to a sunflower – he is the filth to your pure, the actual darkness to light. 

Is it because he refused your confession?

He preserves you because no one in this world deserves you, but must you go ahead and leave him for dead after finding a different sun to seek sunlight from? Sunday… What does he have that Phainon does not? Is he the better him? Does he treat you kinder than he does? 

Sunday is far from holy. If anything, he’s the snake trying to lure you to ruin. You don’t know any better, hence why Phainon is around to protect you. 

This is the biggest hurdle you’ve ever faced together, and with his heart being torn to pieces by your own gardening tools, he’ll make it right. He always goes. He’ll make it right, he’ll get you back, and you two can go back to the way you were before – just more. Friends, best friends, lovers, and everything in between, he’ll really give it all to you. 

Sunday… he’s poisoned your mind and rotted your pure soul. 

IV. Desperation is a seed planted long, long ago – still, spring has come.

“Thank you for sticking around me, Phai.”

He’s in the middle of starting a pathetic fire using twigs and stone when you blurt out cryptic words beside him. He hums, continuing his work, “What do you mean?”

“Can’t I just say thank you!?” You fluster, quickly standing up and pacing around the edge of the forest you’ve both designated as your ‘camping spot’. “Mama said it’s nice to thank people! So, uhm- Thank you for being my friend, please never stop being my best friend!”

“‘Course I won’t!” Phainon toothily grins, fluffy white hair gaining a slight bounce from his motions, “Actually, I’ll never abandon you. Ever!”

You perk up like a sunflower dancing in the wind, “Really!?”

The fire finally sparks to life, small and flickering, but there. At the same time, he gazes deep into your eyes, only knowing nothing else but sincerity at such an age, “Yeah! I swear!”

A yelp, “Swearing is bad!”

Phainon’s eyes blearily blink open. His dorm room ceiling greets him first thing in the morning.

Phainon stalks and waits like a deep-rooted willow tree. He strikes you when he knows you’re alone. It all falls into place: Sunday’s trainee sister is dropping by a different part of the city over the weekend; logic dictates that he won’t be coming back to his dorm room until then. Your close proximity to Sunday will momentarily halt, and Phainon is free to slither in.

He’s waiting right outside your dorm room when you come walking down the long hallway, body language all languid, even resting against the paint-chipped-off stone pillar while scrolling through his social media feed,

You’d spot him a mile away, and seeing him without Sunday by your side makes you hesitate all the more. Your stupid heart starts speeding up. 

“I just want to talk,” He calls out, pocketing his phone to spread his arms wide open for a hug, “I miss you, is that too much to ask?”

You slowly approach him, “...No, I missed you too.”

You miss him. You miss him. You miss him. You’ve been holding your sunflower keychain as your nightly comfort or else you’d end up calling his number at 2AM. 

Phainon smiles, “Really?”

“Yes… I just got… busy, that’s all.”

He smiles wider, blue eyes turning into blue crescent moons, “Really?”

“...Yes.” His hand gently pries the keys out of your hand; you let him.

You hear Sunday screaming on your shoulder, telling you that your blase facade is quickly falling apart at the seams. Unaffected, unmoved – you’re nothing of the sort right now. You’re a sunflower who’s been starved of sunlight for too long. 

With a click, he opens the door for you and softly murmurs, “You’ve been hurting me a lot, (Y/N). You know that, right? But I understand, it’s not your fault.”

You step inside, letting him lock the door behind you, “Not… my fault?”

He shakes his head, hands firmly grasping your shoulders to sit you down on the small couch, “No, it’s mine.”

Immediately you protest, “That’s not true. We just drifted apart–”

Once more, he shakes his head before dropping to his knees before you. The sudden action makes you flinch, growing more uncertain when he holds your hand in his. Phainon’s eyes remind you of butterfly peas from up this close. 

He’s quiet when he speaks, a deep rasp overtaking his voice, “...You don’t understand: I miss you.”

You understand what he means. Parting from Phainon is disorienting. Sunday and his friends may have managed to fill the gaping hole in your heart, but it’s incomparable to Phainon’s presence. 

Are you a bad person for not finding satisfaction in your new friends? Are you sick in the end to still crave Phainon after being rejected two times? Is this what you get for sticking by his side for so long?

It probably is. 

He continues speaking, “I’m sorry for pushing you away; that was never my intention. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re dear to me – you truly are. I never wanted to pursue a relationship with you because, I– I’m too lowly for you. I would only taint you.”

You run your fingers through his hair, reminiscing on all the nights you spent crying over him – it still bleeds like fresh wounds, “That’s ridiculous, Phainon. I’m not some holy figure to taint. I was just a girl in love with her best friend.”

“I know, but you… you don’t understand. You’re everything to me.”

“You’re everything to me, too, that’s why I loved you.” You still do.

“I think of you first thing in the morning. I brush my hair wondering how I’ll spend the day with you, I eat breakfast, thinking what yours was at that moment, I kept the homework you threw out. I always hate it when I talk to people who aren’t you. I still have the twigs you gave me during our 6th-grade camping trip. The reason the pressed flowers you were planning on giving out during high school graduation went missing is that I stole them – I didn’t want anyone else owning a piece of you. I make sure you’re always too shy to stand up for yourself, so I can save you. I… I hate Sunday for getting into your head – it should only be me. I should be the one you hate and love. I – you’re everything to me.”

His grip tightens, blunt fingernails leaving indents on your own fingers, “I’m sorry, please take me back. I’m unworthy, but I don’t want you to be happy with anyone else. I started cutting myself when you refused to go back to Aedes Elysiae with me – I don’t want to live in a world where I’m not by your side. Please. I’ll kill myself if you leave me. I really will.”

You swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth.

If Phainon is the sun that will incinerate you and your sunflower petals for getting too close, the question it poses is: Do you let it consume you whole? To forgive and forget, starting a new chapter anew in the process?

kill yourself or let (y/n) have friends and move on from you

So it really is the gavel to your death sentence when Semiu informs you that there’s been a change of plans in the schedule. You are to run support for Team Eager for a job outside Canvas Town. 

Great.

“I can’t be transferred?” To literally any other job or team goes unsaid, though it is loudly pronounced in the begging edge your voice takes.

Semiu stares at you, unamused over the rim of her glasses. A raised brow and unshakeable shoulders lay in opposition. Her magazine rests between the two of you on her desk, half buried under the documents she means to push your way. 

“Not happening, we’re spread thin as it is.” 

You resist the urge to whine. You’re an adult. You can do this. Just as you begin to mentally hype yourself up, Semiu picks up the brief mission statement again. A pensive knowing hum slips past her lips. 

“You might have to get used to Team Eager,” she drums her fingers slightly. “Until we can pick up a few more supporters.”

Your heart sinks, sending a lightning bolt of misery to crack apart your already flimsy resolve. Oh, come on. 

“Semiu,” you give her your best kicked puppy face. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do,” her lips quirk slightly. She glances behind you, but you pay it little mind as you consider begging Corvus himself to let you stay as a floater supporter running primarily for Team Child. Ah, but what would you even say to defend your plea? 

You don’t like Tamsy? Why? Because he has a weird vibe but has never actually done anything to make you think so. You can already picture Corvus’ disbelieving look, and scrap the idea entirely. Whatever. You are committed to the cleaners and their mission, even if you’re stuck too close to Tamsy for a bit. It can’t be forever. 

“There you are,” a new voice startles you out of your thoughts. You grimace, the ever present balmy edge of Tamsy’s words doing nothing to soothe you. Instead, it makes your skin prick up.

Fixing your expression to something a little more neutral, you glance over your shoulder to look at him. You hadn’t even heard him come in. 

“Ready to head off?” he continues with that same airy voice that belies a subtle expectancy for you to hurry up and agree. 

His gas mask hangs loosely around his neck, the tip of his distaff just barely visible where he keeps it hidden inside his sleeves. Golden eyes stare you down. 

You swallow, aiming for relaxed and not at all irritated and unsettled as you smile. “Sure am, are the others ready?”

“Mhm,” Tamsy hums an agreement. You say your somewhat begrudging goodbyes to Semiu and trail after him and out to the car.

It’s quiet, save for the tapping of your shared footsteps on the tiles of HQ and then the soft crunch on sandy gravel. 

Tamsy steps in front of you once the car comes into sight, Delmon already at the wheel. Internally wincing at the rough drive to come, you watch as Tamsy opens the back door for you. He gestures calmly, a silent ‘get in.’ 

It’s kind, a little out of his way, but despite how uneasy the man makes you, he acts more or less like a gentleman. And not in the somewhat chauvinistic way that Enjin can be prone to. 

Tamsy clears his throat slightly. Your ears heat as you realize you’ve been standing and staring in silence. “Thanks,” you mumble hastily, climbing into the car and settling onto the worn leather seats. 

You’re pretty sure Tamsy laughs at you, but the door shuts behind you quick enough to make you think you imagined it. His phantom chuckle curls its way into your chest that makes you dizzy in a bad way. 

Tamsy slides into the passenger seat next to Delmon. A moment later, the idling engine roars to life and Team Eager is off. 

It’s not supposed to be a hard job, a simple and easy clear out as a pre-emptive preventative measure and to put the townspeople at ease. So, Semiu had only sent you, Delmon, and Tamsy. 

In other words, there are no other people to distract yourself with, forced to be cognizant of Tamsy even in the short drive out. And cognizant you are made to be.

“—do you?” Tamsy’s voice floats back to you.

“What?” you ask intelligently. His eyes meet yours in the rearview mirror, mildly amused at your inattention. 

“I said,” he smiles slightly, “do you have a favorite flower? Delmon wants to know.”

“Oh,” you pause, wracking your brain. “Not really, I don’t think I could name more than three.” Flowers are hard to come by here, you’ve never actually put that much thought into it. 

Tamsy hums at that, finally looking away and back at Delmon. “See, what did I say?” 

Those casual words make your cheeks heat slightly. How long were they talking? They were talking about you in front of you? What the hell. 

More importantly, Tamsy was discussing you…? The embarrassment is quickly repackaged as unease. Worse still that you weren’t paying attention at all.   

Delmon shakes his head, pushing past Tamsy’s apparent belief that you wouldn’t have a favorite flower with conviction. “Come to my garden some time, we’ll go through them.”

“It is rather beautiful," Tamsy agrees. It’s all the encouragement Delmon needs to launch into another gardening related spiel that never fails to make your head spin. 

You resist the urge to sigh. Delmon means well, and you know how much the garden means to him. You sink back into the seat, letting his words pour in one ear and out the other. The car continues to rattle onwards to your destination. 

The walls of Canvas Town come into view just when you’re starting to wonder how poor of an idea it would be to open the door and hop out. There are no trash beasts in sight, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t lurking around here somewhere. 

“They are supposed to be a little further out,” Tamsy says, looking out the window. You can see how his gaze roves over the mountains of trash, searching for any signs of movement. You do the same.

As far as you can see are just mountains of trash, bits of rusted metal sticking out at odd angles, everything covered in a layer of grime that makes you rather thankful for the mask you have to wear outside of the cities. 

Of course, the sheer amount of junk irritates you as well. How could it not? The sphere drops everything they don’t feel like using seemingly on a whim so it rains down and pollutes the ground even further. There is talk that soon enough the whole ground may become inhabitable.

Your thoughts are startled out by Delmon’s shout. In the distance, emerging from one of the mountains of trash, or maybe it is one of the mountains itself, a trash beast is getting to its legs. A cascade of garbage slides off its back as it straightens out.

“There!” his voice raises far higher than it needs to, but it is not unexpected. Tamsy evidently shares your sentiment, pressing a tired hand to his brow.

“Do lower your voice,” he says. “We can see them quite fine.” For once, you might genuinely agree with him. 

As if on cue, three other piles nearby begin to shift too. Wasn’t this supposed to be a small and easy job…

Delmon parks the car. Vaguely, you hope that it doesn’t get crushed in the ensuing fight. It doesn’t happen frequently, but it does happen. 

Tamsy is out of the car before either of you. You fumble with your seatbelt and, ensuring your mask is firmly in place, your feet hit the sandy plains that currently shake from the force of the trash beasts slamming their feet—what’s close enough to their feet anyway—into the ground. 

The impact recoils up into your chest, a harsh pounding that jolts through you. Tamsy stands a little in front of you, covering Delmon. 

You ready yourself too. You don’t think you’ll have much to do, but preparedness is always a far better option in places like this. 

Tamsy glances at you for a moment, long and assessing. Your skin crawls. Before you can react properly, his attention has already left you. 

His jinki slips from his sleeve, a faint glow beginning to wrap around it. “Tokushin,” Tamsy’s voice rings out, calm and unwavering like he already knows how long this fight will take and what he plans to do after it. 

Fuck this guy for real.

His distaff elongates, fingers curled around the thing as he watches the trash beasts from under his lashes. The base of it clinks against the ground, an almost musical chord played over top of the cacophony of whatever allows the trash beasts to make the sort of noises they do. 

It’s a striking visual, making you pause every time at his effortless and steady demeanor even in the face of danger. He would almost be pretty if it wasn’t for the way the contrast makes your skin crawl.

You aren’t afforded much more time to ponder Tamsy, the trash beasts getting themselves together and lunging in a concentrated effort. Distantly, you wonder if they can communicate amongst themselves. 

With that riveting thought, you’re thrown into the fray. You stay away from Delmon and Tamsy and let them take the brunt of it, but you pull your own weight. It leaves you breathless by the end. The sound of metal ripping buzzes around your ears, gaze unwittingly trailing back to Tamsy as he has one of the beasts pulled apart with his threads. 

It’s a little eerie. The beast shrieks higher over the others, the blue yarn that functions more as rope aiding the creaking sound of fortified trash splitting at the seams. Tamsy watches impassively, leaning slightly on his distaff. He almost looks bored. 

It reminds you of a scene from a book you once read, something that had been picked up once the sphere had tossed it down. It was hardly damaged, just water stains and a few easily taped rips on a handful of pages. 

The point being a description of an execution. Rope tied to each limb of the victim, the other end attached to horses. Quartering, you think is the term. That is what you see in front of you, a loud screech of metal as one of the beast's limbs finally rip away. It makes your stomach turn a bit, worse still how Tamsy watches from under his lashes. 

It is only a trash beast, you exterminate them as your job, but the whole thing is on the edge of terrible. The noise, Tamsy’s casual indifference, all of it. Every part of him makes you feel dizzy. You look away from the scene, choosing to scour the horizon instead and watch for possible movement. 

There is nothing, of course. The last of the trash beasts giving Canvas Town trouble are behind you. You fix your gaze at the sky, the blue running with the white streaks of the clouds. You are acutely aware of your back being turned to Tamsy, but the alternative is facing him, and you don't want to do that either.

“Ah, and that should be the last of them,” Tamsy’s voice rings out across the sudden silence, composed in ways that make your head spin. Only then do you turn around, sparing the briefest of glances towards the mangled hunks of metal laying around you before you scan for Delmon. 

You spot him to your left, disentangling himself from a piece of rubber scrap. He makes his way over, watering can in hand. You wave slightly, observing the remaining wreckage that lays scattered in the sand. Metal sticks up at odd ends, sharp and jagged and rust eaten. The idea of physically touching it makes you recoil a bit, thinking of the inevitable trip to Eishia to get cuts looked at and cleaned up. 

Not for the first time, you are glad the cleaners you are sent with have a degree of competency that means you are not frequently injured. Even if that includes Tamsy and his terrible casual self confidence. The sound of shrieking metal tearing down the center orients itself back in your consciousness. 

Delmon is in front of you suddenly, clapping you on the shoulder hard enough to make you stumble, congratulating you for a job well done. You smile despite the ache pulsing under your skin, patting the back of his hand with the same enthusiasm.  

“Yes, you too,” you nod along. “You make it look so easy.” 

Delmon laughs, shaking you a bit with the force of it. You will yourself not to wince. Only then does he mercifully release you, setting his sights on Tamsy to repeat the process. His jinki is shrunk down now, hidden somewhere in his sleeve–does he have a pocket for it? How does it never slip out–his gaze meets yours just as Delmon’s hand comes down on his shoulder in the same congratulatory enthusiasm that you had soldiered through. 

Golden eyes stare for a very long moment, picking you apart like a bug pinned to the wall. Your breath catches in your throat. It’s an almost inexplicable reaction. Tamsy has never done anything to you. He is nothing but cordial to you. That does not stop the way your heart stutters and fear flashes through you, tingling down your spine. 

He always looks at you like that. You aren’t sure if he looks at other people like that, but he certainly looks at you like that. As if he is picking you apart and hasn’t decided what to do with the pieces; put them back together, or discard them on the ground? It is an almost nauseating feeling. 

What can you say about it, anyway? The way you look at me, people, makes me sick with nerves? I think you’re annoying and I hate you for no real reason at all? Right. If you didn’t know better, you might say Tamsy smiles slightly beneath his gas mask before his attention goes to the man still forcing him to sway in time with his voice. 

You nudge a metal shell with the toe of your boot. It glints in the sun. You catch the tail end of Delmon saying, yelling really, that he is going to start the car. He leaves you and Tamsy alone just long enough for Tamsy to turn to you. 

“I have the distinct impression you do not like me,” Tamsy comments, startling you out of your staring. His voice is muffled slightly through his mask. “Have I done something to upset you?” 

You flinch a little. What are you supposed to say to that? Yes? His existence upsets you?

“No,” tumbles from your lips a little too fast. You grimace. “No, it’s not that.” Which sounds worse, actually. Tamsy tilts his head slightly, waiting for you to go on. You don’t have anything to say that would neatly dig you out of this hole, so you glance to the side and pray the trashbeast Tamsy had vivisected miraculously comes back to life and ends this conversation.

As it turns out, that has not happened and probably will not happen. He’s still watching you. You can feel his gaze, somehow heavy and distant at once. Taking the downbeat to shake yourself internally, you force a smile. 

“That came out wrong, you haven’t upset me or anything and it’s not that I don’t like you,” you wave your hand slightly, “I do, you’re very reliable.” 

He is, and that might be the worst part of all. You don’t have any good reason not to like him. 

“Are you afraid of me?” he asks next. He looks almost surprised by the very notion of it. As if his expression while slowly tearing the trash beast apart isn’t seared behind your eyes, not counting every other subtle thing he does that makes you hyper aware of your own body and rapid heart. 

“No,” you shake your head in denial again. This time, he seems to believe you even less. Tamsy regards you quietly before he glances in the direction of the car. Your shoulders slump with an exhale in relief. 

“Mhm,” Tamsy hums after a moment, and you know with devastating clarity that he does not believe you in the slightest. Not even an ounce of suspended disbelief. However, he mercifully lets it drop, though you can’t help but wonder where he’s storing the information. “Well, let us not make Delmon wait.” 

He tilts his head towards the idling car, the fly-aways of his hair bouncing slightly with the movement, a gesture for you to go first. Not for the first time, you don’t want your back to him. 

You nod with a smile. Hopefully it isn’t as tight as it feels. “Right, of course.” 

The short walk over is silent, sand shifting underfoot the only sound to cover the way your heart beats. Tamsy steps in front of you as you reach for the door handle, your irritation flashing before you register that he’s opened the door for you. 

He stares at you again before he makes an over exaggerated motion, waving with his hand for you to get in the car. “After you,” he says, his voice just as light as always. Your chest squeezes. You can’t prove it, but you know he’s mocking you and your fear. You can see the barest shift of his expression around the edges of his mask. 

He’s smiling. 

You swallow. At least you know he’s being intentional now. 

“Thanks,” you mumble and climb up into the seats, the interior warm from resting in the sun while the trash beasts were dealt with. Tamsy hums and hops in next to you, claiming the window seat. The door shuts with a thud. 

You glance at Tamsy out of the corner of your eye as you click your seat belt in place. He’s too close to you, coat creeping across the empty seat between you. Tamsy isn’t looking at you, his gaze is slanted out the window as he reaches behind his head to unclip his mask, as if you were something to mess with in the moment but no longer have any merit. 

No, that’s not true. Tamsy is always like this, laid-back and quiet and in his own bubble. It feels different now, somehow, but you can’t put a name to it. Maybe that’s for the best. That might make you spiral more. Besides, you need to stay alert until you’re back at HQ. 

Still, you look at him a bit longer as you unhook your own mask. The silver ball under his lip catches the sunlight, pale lashes almost glowing as the light filters through the window. Streaks of sun spill across your lap. 

The car lurches slightly as Delmon presses the gas, prompting you back. You turn your head to look out the opposite window, watching the unmoving horizon. You’re hyperaware of Tamsy next to you, but you refuse to look over again and risk meeting his eye. You have had enough of that for today, your stomach still doing flips.

You aren’t sure what to do with the fact Tamsy knows and he knows you know he knows. So, you do the next best thing you can think of. You put it in a little box in your head and hit it with a hammer. Tamsy is awful, surely his earlier mocking of you was done in jest, right? Right. 

Some nights it’s quiet. He drapes over your bed and stares. He doesn’t think too much. He watches as you shift and occasionally hum, stuck in some fantastical dream that doesn’t involve him. Other nights he twirls a small blade within his fingers, and then he thinks. 

He’s not usually so hesitant with frivolities. It’s a quick in and out of the blade pressed right into the sweet spot. Silent, barely any discomfort, kind of romantic if you think about it. The idea of your white sheets slowly dampening to a deep red as you gasp in pain. 

You would reach out to him instinctively, and wondrously his name would be your dying words. 

See? 

Romantic. 

Not many people think that way, though. And well… it’s hard to just stab a Cleaner and get away with it. 

Also there’s another problem he can’t quite manage. 

He likes you. Not in the way he likes the others—and that’s not much. He can stomach Delmon for perhaps an hour (and maybe two in a good day) but that soon comes to a close when the man starts hollering in Tamsy’s already ringing ears. He thinks he’ll go deaf within the next two years. 

But you’re more pleasant to stick around. It’s possibly because you don’t talk too much. Maybe you’re shy, maybe you just have nothing to say, but he appreciates it. Tamsy has sidled up next to you many times, purposefully shattering your very apparent boundaries to drape over you like a woolen scarf. 

You never raise your discomfort with him. 

Now he behaves like a weighted blanket. He finds comfort in your presence. Very few times (and admittedly, it’s embarrassing) has he fallen asleep on your shoulder. It’s usually in the quiet of your room after you’d begun to invite him inside to continue a quiet conversation. 

So, all that lost time of him being asleep on your bed this evening is made up by him just… staring. It’s fun. It’s better than staring at the ceiling. 

You shift to face the wall. 

It’s harder now, because your shirt has ridden halfway up your back, and he gets a sickening taste of your spine. He once suggested piercings to which you hesitantly turned down. Ouch. 

But your skin framed by silver would look beautiful in the dark. He can imagine it. He could hold you down, pull your tongue and slit a hole through it with a needle. You would cry and it would hurt, but it would be worth it. 

He’d like to feel it on him, too. 

Tamsy reaches over and presses a single pad of his finger to the middle of your spine. You don’t stir. 

This happens. He touches, you don’t react. Same old, same old. He breathes down your neck and you don’t stir. It’s strange. He finds he’d wake up the minute he heard his door creak. 

You hum and sigh. 

Your skin is soft. Mostly unmarred, too. You’ve got a scar that runs along your back from who knows what. Probably an accident when you were younger. He risked once pressing his tongue to the corner of where it begins. One day he’ll slide his tongue along it, maybe when you’re awake, maybe when you allow it. 

Maybe you’ll let him slice new scars across your body. And lick your wounds.

You’re nice enough. You rarely reject things, even if you’re not interested. When you were a new recruit and Enjin tried veering his head too close you only smiled awkwardly until he eventually got the hint. No “I’m not interested” or even a half-baked “I’m seeing someone” to get him to go away. 

Tamsy tried once. You were clearly on your way to meet someone for a date so you’d dressed up. Not dramatically. Just a bit more colour, and nicer shoes. He said you looked nice, like a gift. As strange as it was given you were on your way to meet someone for dinner, you’d hesitantly leaned forward and kissed his cheek. 

Tamsy did two things after that occurrence. First he’d sauntered back to his room and stared at his reflection blankly for an hour with a dried gloss stain on his face. He elected not to wash his face after a headache-inducing debate. Then, he’d followed you, and the person you were seeing mysteriously never responded to your attempts to reach out after that. 

He can tell something is wrong.

It’s sudden, actually, the way the air shifts, like it flexes and bends at random intervals. Tamsy stands quickly and backs away. He’s practised this before: how to leave without a trace. He grabs the blade tight and steps through the door, purposefully leaving it ajar. 

He doesn’t exactly move though. He stands outside and waits. 

He hears you stir until you sit up. The bed creaks. You switch your lamp on. Like always, you stumble to the bathroom. It’s muffled through the door. You’re quick as you try not to lose the drowsiness. 

The problem is when you exit the bathroom you don’t immediately go back to bed as you normally do. 

He stands there completely befuddled as he listens through your door. You move around. It sounds like you’re pacing. The lamp remains on. He hears your feet shuffle over the tiles. This isn’t your usual routine.

Tamsy’s eyes dart around the door. 

He expects you to close it. 

Maybe you don’t notice it. 

Maybe he should run and hold it closed with string. You’ll probably just think it’s jammed. You’ll eventually give up too. 

Instead, he plays his cards. He’s bored. He’s still awake. He loves to bother you. He peers cautiously through the gap in the door. 

Thankfully, you’re facing away. You’re fiddling with something on the nightstand. It looks like a tube of lip balm that you continuously open and close. Free of blood stains, free of scratches and bites and drool that he leaves. Maybe you had a nightmare. Poor thing. 

He grins. 

And then, he pushes the door open. It’s slow. It creaks. 

You look up in alarm, suddenly wide awake. The knife slips up his sleeve. It points inwards towards his wrist. 

“You’re still awake,” he comments idly, like he hadn’t realised. Like he hasn’t been standing next to you for an hour now twirling your hair around his finger. 

You huff, “you scared me.” 

“Sorry.” He’s not. 

You adjust your position on your bed, trying to console your racing heart. 

He knocks quietly on the side. “Your door was open. I saw the light was on.” He looks sheepish, almost nervous. You think he feels bad for intruding. He doesn’t. 

“Yeah…” You’re still recovering. “I think I had a weird dream.” 

Tamsy hums. 

“Like…” You glance up at him from the floor. “Someone was watching me.” 

“Sounds awful.” He leans against your doorframe. He looks exhausted, but it’s strange, like he hasn’t slept a wink. It must be early in the morning. You don’t know the time. It’s still dark out. 

You swallow nervously. “You couldn’t sleep either?” 

Right. He needs some sort of explanation. “I was going to get cake.” Then, he brandishes the small knife from his sleeve and holds it out. 

“You… just walking around with that?” 

He hums, amused. “I keep it in my room.” He tilts his head. “You don’t keep cutlery in yours?” 

You shrug. “Not really.” You watch the knife closely. “What’s the occasion?” 

Tamsy raises an eyebrow. 

“The cake.” You sniff once. “Felt like it?” 

He shakes his head easily. “Birthday.” 

You sit up. “Birthday?” 

He nods. 

“Whose?” 

“Mine.” 

“Yours?” 

“Yes.”

“Really?” Your eyebrows furrow together. 

Tamsy nods again. 

“Oh…” You clear your throat. “Happy… birthday.” You glance quickly to the left. “I don’t have anything.” 

He grins. “I didn’t expect you to.” 

Your brows furrow. “But that sucks. Not getting gifts.” 

“Don’t need them,” he reassures. He’ll throw out anything you give him anyway. “Would you like some?” 

“Hm?” 

“Cake.” 

“Oh…” 

Sometimes he’s thankful his strings do more than just tie things together. In the other room, the ropes have wrapped deftly beneath a box he bought the other day for the occasion. Just in case you wanted to share. 

And eat off the same fork. 

Yuck. He pulls his head out of the doorway, both to visibly gag and to retrieve the box that slowly pulls down the hallway. 

“It’s chocolate,” he says. 

You croak sleepily. You pull your legs up on the bed. That’s a good sign. That means you’re comfortable. Even when he’s holding the knife right out in front of you. Your eyes flit to it every now and again; he’s disappointed. He wants you completely relaxed. 

For now, you look docile. That’s good enough. 

Tamsy doesn’t grant you the opportunity to respond. Instead, he lets himself in slowly and kicks your door shut behind him. His hair looks yellow in the golden light of your lamp. It’s a nice antique. The shade is made of a red glass and the stem is golden. It bathes the room in orange and pink. 

You look warm. 

He sits down next to you on your bed. 

And then he pulls a fork from his sleeve. 

You snort. “Do you have a spoon as well?” 

“No.” He sounds dejected. “I also don’t have any plates. Those didn’t fit under my sleeves.” 

“You tried?” you ask.

“Of course.” He opens the box carefully. It’s a simple white cardboard with a plastic top to showcase the display. It’s nothing fancy; it’s a mud cake of sorts with slices of strawberries and cream frosting around the edges. He takes the knife—that unbeknownst to you was grazing over spine only moments ago—and slices through a decent portion of chocolate. He pulls it slightly away from the cake.

You expect him to give you a piece. 

You don’t expect him to swipe a corner from the slice and hold it up to you. 

You stare at it for a moment. Tamsy only stares at you. He blinks like a frog, expectant, patient, passive. 

“Shouldn’t you have the first bite of your own cake?” you ask cautiously. Still, you slowly lean forward. 

So, he spins the fork and pops the cake in his mouth. His eyes crinkle as he grins. You purse your lips together before you take the fork from him and slice off another portion. 

You hold it up to him. You’re also embarrassingly giggling like an idiot. He thinks it’s pathetic, but his smile says differently. It doesn’t help as time progresses and he keeps accepting every bite he inches closer and closer. It’s a test, he tells himself, of your boundaries. How close can he get before you start cowering? 

It seems he’s underestimated you. 

Not only is he now practically straddling your lap, but every so often he giggles. Like a girl. It’s humiliating. It’s corny. It sucks. It’s genuinely revolting. This is like  textbook romance. This is the stuff teenage girls read in their off time and kick their feet. 

He’s kicking his feet. 

Not only that but after two bites you left the room and returned with a bottle of champagne. He hates the stuff; it burns his tongue and it tastes like shit. But, he drinks from the rim because your lips have touched it. And he gets buzzed. And so do you. 

“You need to have more,” you insist lazily. Half the cake has vanished. “‘Cause it’s your birthday.” 

Tamsy hums stupidly, “I feel sick.” 

“Same.” You end up laughing. “Are you staying?” 

He turns his head to look at you. He stares blankly, maybe comprehending what you’re saying. His brain sloshes for words. His nose is buried in your blankets. 

“I think you should,” you try lightly. “I’m a bit tipsy.”

“Me too.” He’s dizzy. There’s faded black spots swimming in his vision. 

Your nose presses to the side of his face. “‘T’s okay.” You kiss the fat of his cheek lightly. “Thanks for coming.” 

He’s too drunk to even acknowledge anything. “Mhm.” 

“Happy birthday,” you slur to him. 

He’s almost asleep. Maybe he feels safe around you. Maybe he’s faking it so he can pull the knife out of the chocolate and ram it through your sternum. Maybe he can grab your heart while it’s still beating. 

That sounds lovely. 

For now, he sleeps soundly as he usually does. He thinks he sleeps better in your arms. You don't; mostly because you have a mouthful of his hair in the morning to deal with. Still, you suppose the warmth is nice.