#howwwww

He lays each and every achievement at your feet, for though they might be in service of Amphoreus, they will always be dedicated to you. He tells you stories of adventure, brightly recounting his heroic triumphs and cascading epics—never failing to end the tale by embracing you, pressing a tender kiss to your head, and tell you that no matter what, his greatest triumph of all will always be you.

He has given you his life, he once confessed. When there was nothing in the world but you, him, and scattered sheets, he turned to you and said, if nothing else, to save Amphoreus was to save you---"A home," he softly whispered, face buried in your chest. You can say you're certain that it was no lie, too. Rather than mania, Phainon’s eyes shone with the striking clarity of a clear blue sky.

You quivered and cried afterwards afterwards, but it wasn’t the first nor last time you would.

Since the day you were born, you’ve been inadequate. Worthless, yet so heavy a burden you dragged others down. Sure, you have now been able to keep one job working at a little shop, but that was just about it. And even then, you were always messing something up big or small. You were pretty sure that you kept your job not because you had the strength to pull your own weight, but the pity of the owner, the father of your one single friend. You surmise that they just don’t want to see you end up on the streets (and given Okhema’s already restrictive policies on taking in refugees, you can only imagine the city’s intolerance for those crawling in the gutter). You're grateful that they care enough to do so, but it doesn't quell the deep shame that you churn like second nature. Most of your breaks were spent fretting and crying over every little thing you got wrong. You had few proficiencies in this life, and chief of them was embarrassing yourself. Your life didn’t have much going for it, and even though you were given enough (not ‘made enough’—remember that) to have a bit of spare coin to buy small frivolities, you couldn’t bring yourself to. You don’t deserve it, but even if you did get them you’d mess it up somehow, and you’d spend at least a good week sulking and shutting down over it. You wonder what your friend even sees in you, but you've long since concluded he must've just taken pity on you.

But then…Phainon came into your life. Bright and warm, just like the sun. You met him while you were sweeping out in front of the shop during your daily shift. Even now, your meeting still feels so vivid.

“Mr. Georgiou, I’ve finished sweeping all the leaves out,” you meekly called.

He grunts as he goes to peek out the window and survey your work. He sighs, his body decompressing with it. You’re attuned enough to tell it covered up a disappointed, tired groan; and you immediately tense.

“Sure, you got the leaves out, but when I asked you to sweep the leaves out, I didn't mean just the leaves. Please get all of the dirt, too. Come inside when you're finished; I could use some help stocking the shelves.”

Shame burns your cheeks; it was obvious in hindsight, but to think that you were so stupid…! He's probably internally groaning right now, and regretting his decision to hire such an idiot; he might just hire someone else in secret and fire you at the very last minute. Oh Titans, what'll you do, what'll you do?! “Y-yes! I’m so sorry, I’ll do it right away!” You stammer, work mode just barely shuttering out desperate begging to let you keep this job. And you’ve already messed up so much, even just today, and by this point you’re probably getting on his last nerves—

He grunts and leaves, but not without sparing you a pitying glance you were well familiar with by now. Once again, you felt like crying, which only fuels your shame more. On top of being incompetent, you also just had to be a crybaby to really sweeten the deal, didn’t you? Somehow, you hyper fixated on the leaves and missed the obvious and—oh Titans, you can start to feel your eyes heat up---what's with you and crying over such stupid reasons---!

But, just as you were stressing out about your imminent tears without anywhere to hide,

“Hello there,” a bright voice softly says, “I’m sorry to intrude, but are you alright…?”

You freeze, and stare at the stranger with muted shock. You feel like a shadow looms in your mind, draping its heavy weight over you, and you gulp down a growing lump.

“N-no, sir,” you reflexively stammer, “I’m not crying at all.”

The stranger frowns, blue eyes shimmering with concern, “Are you sure you’re fine?” He asks, his delicate white hair swaying as he lowers himself to around your height, “I’m sorry, I know we aren’t acquainted, so you’ll have to forgive me for my concern. But I can’t turn a blind eye to someone in distress. Are you really sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

You’re about to hurriedly deny everything without so much as a thought—at this point, it may very well just be a reflex—but then you realize something. A man. Blue eyes. White hair. Kindness. You look down. A sheathed sword, firmly attached to a belt.

The Deliverer. Phainon. Okhema’s hero. The Chrysos Heir without flaw.

He's right in front of you. Scruntizing you.

And you know what that means.

Your life’s OVER. It wasn’t just some kindhearted stranger who took notice of you—no, it was the city’s hero, THE Phainon! And he saw that you were about to cry and—oh gods, you’re really so pathetic, that you’re crying when heroes like him bear so many burdens and you’re definitely going to cry in front of him and it’s going to be a spit in the face of all his struggles and—oh you think you’re actually crying now and you want to curl up in a ball and stop thinking—

“Mx? Do y—oh…Hey,” he stammers briefly, before composing himself again, “Let’s get you somewhere to rest, alright?” he smiles, and quickly you feel his hand gently place itself on your shoulder. You freeze. You wonder if you’re imagining the familiarity with which he handles you. “It’s alright to cry, healthy, even. Let it all out.”

"I, I," you sniff, "I promise I'm fine, and I need to," you sniff again, but the snot doesn't cease its travels, leaving you in a constant battle to keep it at bay, and that's ALSO going to make it so obvious you're going to cry, but you don't want him to see you cry, but you're at work and your boss is only so patient with you and if he saw you trying to run away from Phainon he might actually fire you on the spot and you're probably going to cry because of that so then both your boss and Phainon are going to see you cry, and you're probably going to crumple into a ball too, and then people will hear you and see Phainon and coming flocking to you like a pack of vultures and everyone will know you're crying and everyone will see Phainon there and everyone will hate you for wasting his time and will probably try and get you kicked out of Okhema and you're just going to die right outside the walls alone and---

"Uwah..." you sob, chest heaving. Tears have been running down your cheeks in a river. "No...no...!" Your voice cracks, and you cling to your broom desperately. "I'm so...! It’s all over..." you gasp, making a slightly choked sound as your chest contracts more and more. But then you remember the other person in the room. Er. Porch. Storefront? Front of building? Street...? Room? R-reality? ??? Where are you again exactly?

Your chest quakes, erupting devastated cries.

"Hey," you hear him softly say, "L—ah?!"

You're life is ruined no matter what you do, so you might as well do it on your own terms---in a desperate bid for survival, you make a mad dash past the hero, using your boon companion, the broom, to hit and stun him so that he won't be able to stop you---you think he stumbles a bit, and you definitely hear the disconcerted yelp that follows you. Between running and crying, your lungs burn, but the shame heating on your cheeks burns even hotter. What to do with your ruined, tattered life? Well, you'll first hunker down in your home, and stay right there until you're evicted. From there on, you'll probably just lay on the streets. The Lady Goldweaver's efforts have made crime nigh on impossible in the city, but who's to say it's been completely eradicated? You're not sure if you can get the job done yourself, but if you have something to pass the days with, that'll make your inevitable end so peaceful, won't it? Hah, ahaha...you feel yourself laugh, delirium sneaking its way past to join your sorrow and your impending doom.

…Well, you never claimed your first meeting with the man was a pleasant or good one. Or normal. Or done in any manner which could be a sane one. You anticipated days full of rue and woe, and if he were to not forget you, then retribution. You did hit him with your broom.

Yet, that is also another reason you cannot be anything but grateful toward him. Even when you opened the door and proceeded to slam it in his face with fear (though, it didn't stop him, because the amount of force you used was enough that the hinges did squeal, and when you collapsed against the door in relief, it, it fell and uh, you were face first on the ground right in front of the Deliverer's feet and maybe you should stop thinking about that because you might cry a bit if you do), he didn’t once extract retribution. Sure, you’re pretty sure he was frustrated with you a few times—who wouldn’t be, around you—but still. He didn’t take anything from you. He…he gave, as ludicrous as the mere thought is, nearly as ludicrous as the things that have happened between you two.

Sure, maybe you were a bit distressed, at first. It felt wrong and weird to have someone, especially of his caliber, being hellbent on making you feel better. But you could chalk that up to a hero such as he wanting to right his wrongs. Not that he committed a wrong, since what happened was really all because of you no matter what he tries to tell you—but after calming down a bit, you could say that it did feel kind of good when someone didn’t scorn you in some way for all the ways you messed up. So even if you did feel guilty for wasting the Heir’s time, even if you did end up crying out of sheer disbelief and rushing inadequacy in your bed late at night, you were so grateful that he still thought you were worth his time.

This pattern of emotion would continue, as slowly but surely, Phainon crept into your life. At first, only in the area you frequented, where he would come by for this and that. You’d catch a glimpse of him on the street, and every time without fail, he’d wave at you. You berated yourself a lot for failing to wave back at him a few times, both out of sheer disbelief and embarrassment.

Then, he’d start to call out your name with a wave and approach you. And because you’re you, you’d spend those conversations tense and unsure—his pursuit of you didn’t make sense, and all of the attention started to gnaw at you. But no matter how you tried, you couldn’t get out of a conversation with him once he started. Sure, you could’ve run, but even with your easily frayed nerves, you know better than to try that again. Because Phainon was just probably making sure you didn’t feel bad, or that you felt like he hated you—so even if you still didn’t necessarily like it, even as you wriggled in discomfort at times, you were still so, so grateful that he spent his time on you.

Over time, he wouldn’t just keep you locked in conversation after catching you on the street or visiting your workplace. He’d start to take your hand and bring you around the area, and then into the rest of Okhema. Soon enough, much of your free time would be characterized by the man sweeping you off your feet to take you along for his day. He told you that though he would prefer to just spend his time with you, he was still a busy, busy man—so to maximize your time together, you might as well tag along with him as much as you can. And you don’t necessarily like being out in public so much, you don’t really like being robbed of your personal time to spend curled up and throwing pity parties—but you don’t say that, because Phainon is a hero and can’t be wrong, especially over you, and he's only trying to cheer you up---and you are still so, so grateful to him. And this wave of emotion continues when you finally ask,

“Lord Phainon?” You ask, looking down at your lap uneasily.

“Phainon,” He turns his attention from his sword to you, setting aside an oiled rag.

You flinch. He has repeatedly told you to just address him by name, and though you oblige, there are times you slip up. You think you can see the slightest hint of a frown whenever you do, and you always feel yourself burn in shame. But you know if you start apologizing again, he’ll stay by your side unwavering, insisting no wrong was committed, wasting even more of the time he seems so bent on spending on you, and—

He tilts his head to the side, saying your name in a question. You jolt from your thoughts, and clear your throat.

“Just…why do you spend so much time with me, L…Phainon? I’m not…” you bite your lip to stop; he never likes it when you put yourself down like that, “Isn’t it exhausting taking me along with you everywhere?”

He smiles, “Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind cutting the travel time from here to your home,” he hums in a teasing tone, like he's just indulged in an inside joke between you two, “You do really like making me work at this.”

“Oh! Oh no, I—!”

“Relax, relax,” he assures, “If it’s you, a bit of travel is a small price. If anything, it’s nice, light exercise. I think it’s been benefiting your health a lot, right? Doesn't it feel nice to spend some time outside? Exercising?” He chuckles, giving you a grin, “Well, I am a warrior, so I might be a little bit biased…what do you think?”

Even with the small things like these, he proves himself almost inhumanly considerate…it makes you a bit apprehensive about bringing up the fact he didn’t really answer your…question…

Due to your reclusive lifestyle, you barely stepped foot out of the house, let even alone your room at times. So when Phainon first brought you to tag alone with him, you very much believed that you’d be dead by the end of it. For despite your surprising strength at times, you had done absolutely nothing to improve your meager stamina. Now though, the heavy panting and slight ache in your legs after ascending so many stairs is godlike in comparison. “Well, I guess? I-I have noticed that I get tired less quickly?” You turn to look at him, but immediately go back. Sometimes, he’s so bright it almost hurts to look at him.

“Yes; that's wondeful!” he hums in approval, "Say, then, how about we go on a hike sometime? I know some routes in the city that you can manage. I'm thinking of this one tucked away area, where we'll be able to see nearly the whole of Okhema from. It'll be a breathtaking sight. Think that all sounds nice?”

It kind of sounds boring (seeing all of Okhema? Its just the city you live in, which just looks like a sea of...white), and it does mean more time with Phainon…and no, you don’t hate him, you can’t really deny that spending time with him is draining, but you can’t say that because he’s just…he’s certainly thinking about what's good for you, suggesting exercise that’s in line with everything you’ve already done. You feel your heart ache in the usual, familiar cycle of emotion again. “Um, yes. That sounds nice…we just need water and stuff…?”

“Mhm, it’s important to stay hydrated. Outside of some extreme survival situations, you never want to skimp out on it. In fact...I'll bring some extra waterskins along; we shall not take our chances!” He triumphantly pumps his fist into the air, grinning ear to ear. "Thanatos just wishes he could take us for such paltry reasons." He perks up, eyes going big and round, mouth in the smallest little 'o' as he gasps, "Oh! And of course, I'll have to bring plenty of snacks! We'll make it a picnic, and not just one to scoff at, either."

“O-oh, you don’t…” you instinctively try. "Um, I...it's, fine...?"

“Yes?” He gives you a smile so sweet that you swallow your bitter words. From experience, Phainon is stubborn when it comes to going the extra mile for you; to where he doesn’t tolerate you even trying to push back a little. You softly shake your head, say it's nothing, and he hums, returning to his sword as he starts talking about this and that—but you’re tuning him out, because for as much as you really don’t want to be a bother, the question has been pulsating in your throat for a while.

“Phainon?” You ask again, swallowing hard. He pauses, humming at you to continue. “I…I think what I really wanna ask is, um, not the, the travel stuff b-but,” you feel yourself shaking, but take in a deep breath—just like how Phainon taught you early on, when your initial instinct was to quiver nervously whenever you were around him. Phainon sits up a bit straighter, made alert at your nervousness, but in his infinite consideration doesn’t interrupt you. With the kindness you’re so grateful for, he patiently waits as you calm yourself. You take the time to still your chest and gather your scattered thoughts. When you’re ready, you continue, “I guess I just want to know why you spend so much time with me? L-like, just that---the time, and stuff.” Immediate panic ends up swelling in you, even with the calmness you mustered, “N-not that I’m ungrateful! Or that I hate you or, or—I don’t mean anything bad by it, but I just…well, yeah. I’m just confused, I, I guess. Um, I hope that was all understandable?”

He blinks at you, almost looking confused. Before you can start panicking about the potential wrong you might've said, Phainon inches closer to you. You gasp, unsure of how to take the lessened gap between you two.

“Sorry, I was just a little surprised,” he admits, giving you an unreadable smile, “I just thought it was obvious that I was,” and you think you see him bite his lip, “courting you.”

…you watch as his expression doesn’t flicker with even an ounce of change.

“H-huh?!” You squeak, “C-courting ME?! Of, of all the people…I, I don’t get it? Um, I don’t…ah! Wait no, I, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you, it’s just, uh—”

“Easy now, easyyy,” Phainon assures, placing his hands on your shoulders, just like the first time you met. Because of the care you can tell he puts into the touch, you are grateful, so you never tell him that you would rather burn your unworthy skin off than be touched with such kind consideration. “Give me deep breaths,” he instructs, “In…and out…In…then out…right until we’re feeling better.”

You heed his instructions, but to your dismay, it does nothing to calm your rapidly beating heart. Still, you don’t exactly want to cry in front of Phainon, who’s apparently been courting you this whole time, and he’s been doing it for Titan’s knows how long, and you didn’t notice but now that you think about it it really does make so much sense, and oh gods is he going to be angry at you for being so oblivious—

“I’m not going to be angry at you at all,” you feel something soft dabbed underneath your eyes, “But…” a sigh, almost forlorn and distant, “Well, it’s fine. As I’ll always say, cry as much as you need. There’s nothing for me to scorn or hate you for. …You know that, right?”

You sob, feeling your very mind spiral into a new excavation, “I, I’m sorry I keep…! You’re really nice and I just—just—hic—! You do so much but my stupid head just wants to, it thinks stupid things! I’m so…” your voice warbles even more, “I’m so sorrrrry…!”

The hands on your shoulders snake past and land on your back. You freeze. Even your chest complies. You want to jump from the strange warmth on your back. You want to run and curl into your bed. But, when those hands start to push, your mind goes blank. You swear you’ve been kissed by the sun, when a hand cups the back of your head. You think you're on the sun, when your chin hooks over Phainon’s shoulder. You think you're being burned alive, when an arm fastens around your waist.

“You always were shy,” he mumbles. His voice sounds strangely distant. “It took a while before you’d even come along places…with…with me. Where’d you first tag along with me? The wheat…the roads?” You feel the strange heat of his hand rubbing circles into your back. He sighs, sounding like something between resignation and content. “…I should be apologizing. I should’ve been clear about that right from the start. People who love each other are supposed to be honest with one another. I'm sorry I wasn't clear enough. I imagine it's caused you lots of undue stress.” You feel his neck contract; his Adam's apple bob.

"I..." you try, "I'm always worried about...so...you, you don't have anything to---"

"No." He stops you. Firm, but kind. His grip on you tightens, but not painfully. "Please, you shouldn't keep treating yourself like that. ...You don't need to put that much responsibility on your shoulders, and you shouldn't immediately assume others to have less responsibility than you. Whether you think you'd feel this way either way is not the issue. On my part, I should've done something---and I didn't. I have a duty to rectify that, so I will."

Your head is pulled back to look into his eyes, clearer than the skies, brighter than the future.

“I love you. Dearly, without fail. So I wanted to court you---"

(Again, there's that strange look; strange, strange familiarity you don't know you've reached)

"---I understand you and I have not known each other for very long, so I wanted to get used to each other's company. Be sure of each other. And this time has been reaffirming my heart, as I grow more sure of what I feel for you,” he grips you a bit tightly, sending the slightest phantom of pain where he touches you. But you do not say anything, lost in his words as you are. "It’s my sincere wish that I can move forward with you by my side…there are so few things a warrior can have. And among what little I can have, your heart is chief of what I would call my own.”

You find yourself without words, without a heartbeat to speak of at all (you can't even think of the word 'cheesy'). You feel it resume with another dab to your cheek, and then your nose. But when your gaze refocuses back on his, it returns to nothingness. If before, you couldn’t understand his fondness for you, now, you don’t even know if your senses are capable of grasping it. In that moment, you feel small and helpless. You almost want to believe it’s a lie, what he’s just said. You want to think that this is finally him reaching the punchline of the joke; the joke that you could ever be worth someone else’s time outside of pity or scorn. But you can’t. There’s nothing impure to speak of when you’re staring right at the dawn. He’s telling you the truth. He loves you. Phainon loves you. This man loves you with all his being. If there were not a you to tell that to, he would gladly rip out his tongue and say there was no use for it.

For the first time, you believe that there's a person who wouldn't leave you behind. And your heart flips and cycles sickeningly.

So, you do not say you don’t love him back. You don't say you feel scared and overwhelmed, and you don’t say that you don’t know if you’re worthy at all, because there’s no way you could match the intensity on display right now. You don’t say that you’re afraid that if you did love him, the intensity of it all would kill you. You don’t say you’re afraid that you might cry for the rest of your days if you love a hero. Instead, you need to show you’re grateful for what he’s given you.

“Phainon I…thank you,” you sniff, wiping of me the rest of your face, “I’m…” you smile, and it’s both something sad and so, so grateful, “I’m so happy…before I thought…no one…no one’s ever been so kind to me…” you take in a shuddering breath, and in hopes that it will stifle the tears that want to come, you take a bold, almost thoughtless action. You fall forward, and push yourself closer into his embrace, “I...I really don't deserve...this...deserve you,” you cling tightly to his clothes so that maybe, you can suppress your guilty and infinitely grateful expression. But tears fall anyway. "You've done a ton even when you didn't really know me..." His hand twitches.

"But you do. You truly, truly do." Phainon states. "Please," he says your name, "let me have the great honor of calling you my lover.”

And you give it, because what greater way to show your gratitude than to tie your life to his? If you're to have value, let it be in the anchor the Deliverer sees you to be. No matter how little you still understand it.

But, Phainon didn't really answer your question, did he?

Often, you still find yourself wondering why he took pity on you. Why he went beyond his heroic duties for you—why did he go from a hero, concerned with one of the many citizens he was to protect, to a lover? Why go on a romantic traipse with you of all people, horrid, irredeemable mess you are? And once, when you still are not sure of it all, you do ask, you even beg, because there can’t possibly be any reason to stay with you.

Not one left to black waters by a village, sole life given by Lady Luck. Take all of worth, turn back on frivolity. Sole life in dawn, illuminated is its frivolity.

He says he does not pity you. He says he does not seek anything but you. He says he loves you. And he must be telling you the truth, because he, the great hero, surely wouldn’t lie to you. Even if he wasn’t, you would still believe him, because he’s the only one who’s never ever lied to you. He couldn’t ever lie to you. Never ever ever ever.

And there must be a reason he’s never ever told you why. So you do still keep wondering, but you’ll never ask. Even if a part of you churns and writhes with curiosity, even if it at times tries to burst through your veins and skin, you do not ask. Your gratitude would not let you, and you’ve already been given so much from him—you can’t just ask for even more, like you’re an ungrateful wrench with an insatiable greed.

So you merely wonder, and wonder and wonder, yet deep down, there’s another part of you that says you don’t want to know—a nagging part of you that says that he does not stay by your side for you. Whatever he stays for you will never know, but it’s not for you. Never for you. But even that whisper is too much for your self-deprecating mind, so you swallow it, even when you swear that sometimes, when he looks at you, there’s a stranger staring back at you in the reflection of his eyes. Eyes, engraved with a mark resembling Kephale’s—and that is when you know for certain, to never ask and question, and never take more than you are given. Because you are never going to be ungrateful, and willing ignorance is a small price to pay for all you are delivered.

So you let yourself forget. Forget that you had lied, about loving him at all, at first. You let yourself forget how little choice you were allowed in each moment. A seized wrist, a warm smile in front of a vendor, a confidant stride through the crowd off the heels of a campaign heeded toward you. How little you wanted this at all, you forget. For the light you are basked in now, you don't know if you'll ever find again; and for that, as with so many other things, you are grateful, and repaying what you owe. You are filled with such intensity that it wretches tears from your eyes, but that is a small, insignificant matter.

There was a chance for you to remember, maybe.

Your friend. Unsurprisingly, you've forgotten his name, but at times, some of his words will echo back into your ears. You feel the phantom of his hands, gently pulling you aside into a small, private room, worry written all over his face. He tells you that he's been concerned, that he's been seeing you less and less, and when you do show your face, the Deliverer is never too far from your side. He bites her lips, as if he still cannot figure out the right way to say the next words, and tells you he might be...too involved. When your lips stammer, and move by themselves to push for what he really wants to say, he admits that he thinks the hero controlling.

You ran away from him that day, and anytime you saw him, you meld into the crowds and flee. And eventually, just as you thought, you don't see him at all.

Phainon shines brighter than the sun. He's warm and dispels all the darkness in your life. Everything that was wrong before has become right, and the scorn you could see etched in the faces of everyone you've met has now become a long-forgotten memory. Your life's mended in a sense, and for someone as unworthy and inadequate as yourself, you're so, so grateful. It matters not that this bright light casts shadows so black they are voracious, gaping maws.

Because if nothing else, the light has blinded you to everything else. And for that, gratitude shall eternally fall from your lips.

---

Phainon is many things, and oblivious is not one of them.

He sees your hesitation, even now. Behind your every action, there is a careful deliberation. You're in a constant debate of if you should accept what he gives you, or if you should run away back to your comfortable existence. When you're so used to misery, it's hard to go back to anything else.

But you don't deserve that life, all alone like that.

He came into your life without hesitation. He already shoulders the burden of Amphoreus, so why should he be unable to shoulder you and your woes? You deserve that. Someone who would adore you. Someone who would make sure you were comfortable with them. Someone who would protect you. Who wouldn't let you die right in front of their eyes.

So. He didn't mind having to start all over again. Not at all. Not for you. Not for the you who doesn't have to drown in black waters.

He's been so selfless. So kind. Even after losing everything. He has every right to not be the man he is, but he is that man.

But don’t men like him deserve the right to be a little selfish, even for just one little thing?

You're a simple person, truly. Kindness is enough to tide you, gratitude the anchor plunged deep into the sea floor.

Your frame clings to him, even when spent of tears and will. He recognizes your fear, how it wafts its scent toward you in perpetuity. Bitterness lays acrid on your tongue, forever swallowed and never hurled. When you touch, you do so with a deep seated desperation, that maybe, just maybe this wouldn’t leave you. And in your sight, he sees what he thought he could only see using a mirror.

Fire and destruction. Black waters threatening to blanket. Never to be discarded, hanging shadow.

You should, though. How much of your life has been limited by…yourself? How much of your life could’ve been spent in trust, in merriment with companions? If only you didn’t keep that in your gaze…how brightly would you shine? Would it be enough to blind the dawn itself?

…But does he want to? Can he even get you to move past what he cannot?

Your chest pushes into him with shaky, needy breathes. Snot still dribbles from your nose to soak into an already sodden spot on his shirt, which does nothing to dry the trails on your cheeks. Your nails form crescents in his chest. Your throat must be raw.

Your voice, trembling. His mind wanders. His hands cup your cheeks and tilt your head to face him. Exhaustion weighs your features, miserable and stressed. The shared specter contorts your expression with its strings.

This is the same face you wore back then, he thinks, the very last he saw before dark waters.

Well, until he saw that face by chance, one sunny day. Broom in hand, and a perfectly shaky, shy frame.

And his mind wanders.

He leans in. You gasp. Hesitation; gratitude. Crescents wax around his neck and wane into his back. Bitterness entangles. Flame shocks the spine, tingling electric. Bliss of the present, no thought of future. Hesitation blown in wind. To take away, a right mind would. Unconsciousness takes hold.

If it means you kiss and embrace him back, whispering your gratitude all the while, then Phainon can live with your misery. He can thrive, knowing he’s not the only one weighed by the past.

Scattered threads, fraying to void. Tapestry formed, size of a breath.