#speckled writes

As per his white hair, predominantly white apparel, and pale skin---

"No," he shakes his head, "But it's a bit..."

"What? Flippant?" Demeaning?

He raises his brow, "No; general. Can't 'white boy' be said for a lot of people?"

You frown; this wasn't what you were expecting when you dropped that moniker. “So ‘white boy’ is what’s confused you and not my deep philosockfickal—philsoch—philosophical question?”

"Confusion is generous," he laughs, "Just...surprised." His smile is warm and bright like always, but you make out a tightness at the corner of his lips, and a thought suddenly occurs to you,

"Are you disappointed it wasn't the usual...Pumpkin?"

Pumpkin. Innocent, silly, something grandmothers say and smile while doting on their young and rowdy grandchildren. It came initially from your first meeting, a harrowing incident involving soup from a vendor more skilled at hawking than cooking and a bump and towels and water that only made the orange pulp spread out even more through out the Goldweaver's craft---to now something of a haunt, something of a reminder from whispers that escape a soldier of past days spent as farm boy.

Those whispers have made the pet name solidify on your tongue. You wonder if he'll ever know why you stuck to it so much, but if his disposition now is anything to go by, he's grown as attached to it as you have.

Relief is the only thing you can see on his face, "So I haven't lost the moniker?"

A soldier, and as the Deliverer no less, it is more than a little surprising to see how much he's wrapped himself around your finger like this. Butterflies tingle in your stomach and your heart beats a giddy tune.

You laugh, "A slight shake up every once in awhile isn't so bad; but if it makes you feel that bad, I guess it'll be Pumpkin forever~"

He lights up brighter than the sun. It’s the opposite from moonlight, which sunlight doesn't follow so much as cling to it.

...Not that that musing has much place in Okhema, its dawn eternal and hogging all the reverence and hope of the denizens. What darkness is there for the sun to face itself? The moon is little more than a ball, sadly sinking into the sea far from the shore, a toy kicked far and away with the dying throes of a child's amusement. There has never been time for it in the Holy City, numerous denizens dying of age without even glimpsing twilight. You think about your own home in contrast, where generations passed without the dawn for more than a fleeting moment; where water ran still and nothing as wonderful as a wheat field or a single pumpkin could flower. You're scared that if his hand covers your wrist that it will clasp on skin withered to bone.

So you snake your hand to his palm. Your fingers slither up, feeling calluses and corns of his palm and fingers. And because he looks at you like you can will the sun, like you are the world and everything he lives for, he says nothing when you dig your fingers into the appendage, snaring it like a desperately placed bear trap.

...You blink, and only then realize how dry your eyes felt. Glancing at Phainon, you don't see a speck of judgment. For what it's worth, he never says a thing about the storms that take your mind at times. You used to humor the idea that he perhaps didn't see them, but that would be wishful thinking at best. Phainon did not graduate a heretic's most exceptional study imperceptive and naive.

Your smile grows. "You're so pretty," the words stumble clumsy, your tongue nearly as loose as a drunk's, "Do you know that?"

"Charmed" manifests in a puffed chest, a calloused thumb pressing and rubbing your skin with gentle ardor, "I only ever need to be beautiful to you," he murmurs. If you two were sitting, you're sure he'd lower himself and press his cheek against your knee. You make a mental note to get some seating soon.

"Phainon," he perks. You sigh, "Phainon." All else struggles to be as lovely as his name.

"Yes?" He asks, eagerly. Wonderfully. Lovably. You cup that sound in your hands and swallow it and it rests warm in your belly like honeybrew. If only that was enough to keep a barrier of flesh betwixt skin and bone.

"Oh, nothing," you twirl---the taken Phainon along with you---with the lilt of your voice, finishing with a flourish at the last syllable, "I just wanted to say it," you hum, airy and breathy like the warmth in your belly. You feel like your feet wander clouds, floating like a feather. Gently gently, like a feather's sway back and forth to the ground, you slide onto the cushioned kline. Phainon remains standing for a moment, looking at you like a puppy does its master (you resist the urge to squeal and immediately smother him in your embrace---that can come later).

"A pretty name for a pretty man," you continue to mumble, all too happy to do so, so happy to have a hero of dawn willing putty in your hands.

"Yours," he kneels, pressing a kiss to your clothed knee. It twitches. You imagine him brushing your robe aside and worshiping the skin bare. "Only yours." His hand in yours feels so warm.

You swallow, the phil-o-soph-ical question from earlier all but forgotten in your mind, and if it wasn't, at least rendered void for a moment because surely, even if over half of them were barely worth considering, they should be let to live if only so it means the one in front of you can exist in flesh.

You blurt, “Eternally?” Like the city, like the rays of sun that hit it. The kind of world where you hold a hero’s chin and just dare him to defy you.

“If Thanatos didn’t permit it, I’d battle them to be able to spend death by your side, too.” The warmth of his breath is felt through your robe. Your spine tingles at the sensation, like how stalks of wheat sway in the breeze.

"You mean it," you say; not ask. Your hand cups his chin. He leans into the touch, gaze reverent. If you looked up and behind him, you'd see a sword, a rag slung over its cross-guard. From its cross-guard to the fuller of the blade is the emblem of the Holy City, the dawn slightly protruding from the blade. You always wondered if it served any actual function, or if it was some Elder's idea along the lines of "ensuring Okhema's dawn pierces even its enemies." The air smells like oil.

Warmth sprouts from Phainon's hand. It gets under your nails. He gives a reassuring squeeze, slightly straining the skin you've taken your claim to. If you asked him to let you rip apart the skin now, rubbing against you with callouses worn in from years wielding a blade, would he do so in a heartbeat or in a blink?

You add, "In a heartbeat." You lean to touch your forehead to his, uncaring of the strain the awkward position puts on your lower back. "Phainon," you sigh, savoring the strands of his hair that brush against your face. You brush away the cloth covering your knee. "You've been so good." Your lips touch his temple, "I think you deserve a treat."

You linger for a few seconds, before getting the courage to pull away. In such close proximity to it, you've always feared you might blink and suddenly be back to its opposite and have to squeeze yourself out of a gutter.

His eyes have pulled back into pools of ardor, lips full and expression melted into thorough bliss. It's the brightest thing you've ever seen.

"Please," he begs. His chin glides from your knee to thigh. His hand feels impossibly hotter. How are you not blind? How have you not burned? You're glad his gulp overshadows your own. He stares intently at what he's been promised; what you've revealed by pulling back the curtain. A chill rakes your bare thighs.

"Well?" There's nothing stopping him from getting up and leaving you behind---

He lunges, and light engulfs your vision.

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.

set before you is the finest fair ashveil can afford; mister n's buttery voice is much more flavorful than the hockey puck of churned milk you were given for your stale bread rolls (bought on post-clearance, right as they were going to dump the bakery fare that didn't sell even on clearance!).

"the detective's gaze pierces through the night, full of intent...he has been engaged in a long dance with the fair one sitting across. both alike charmed by the other, with word and touch, as sophisticated as steps against the ballroom floor. the music, as night slips to the dark midnight, coils and rises to a sure crescendo---the detective takes hold of the fair one's hand, twirling them with the violin's climb; and with word aplomb, fueled by the burning intent within his gaze, dips his partner, and confesses the passion that had been churning within for so long---a box in his pocket, the detective's mouth parts, and so too, his heart,"

ashveil takes out a small, velvet box. your heart skips. your body trembles with anticipation; nervousness fraying your nerves, yes...but so to, a great excitement. maybe a part of you is a little uncertain, but...ashveil is a good man, and you have gone through life for long on your own. you like him, and he's made it no secret he likes you.

"so, [name]. ive been thinking this awhile. maybe you have too. that is to say..."

the box opens.

"will you...let me track you?"

mister n is perhaps more shocked than even you; saying nothing even as you struggle, screams gagged, ashveil easily wrestling you to the ground to implant the tracker into you.

predictably, when you try to leave, saying you'll contact the police, mister n has this to say---though, "hope" is the better word for it:

"the detective pursues his lips. he understands what any normal person would think; but he is not a normal man. once more, his lips part, expounding only the finest of reason, of logic, that shall wash away all doubt and wrong, leaving behind a joyous couple."

your hands fumble at the door, tears blurring your vision; it's locked, it's locked, oh my god it's been locked since the start---

"im in a testy line of work; it's safer if i know where you are at any given moment," ashveil explains, "you don't seem to fully understand; so how about we let you stay here for a bit and adjust?"

it's easy enough to get you tied up and gagged; not with intricate ropes, but warm winter clothes. your whimpers are shut away with the closing of the refrigerator. mister n doesn't suppose ashveil would be able to fall asleep with the noise, but given what's happened today, mister n has to expect the opposite of romantic.

You packed your first bag in town, bundled your first map, and took your first step outside of the borders. Close to your heart, you carry your first dream; to see the world, and understand its weave. See for yourself the stories foreigners spin, so much more alluring against the backdrop of monotonous familiarity.

You build your first fire, pitch your first tent, and sleep your first night.

You wake to your first piercing, pinning your thigh. Your throat rips with your first scream, bleeding and rough. Poor, innocent you is far too overwhelmed with all these firsts, and the Wild Hunt sees no issue in taking its advantage. You claw at the ground, but rooted by your flesh as you are, you do little but flounder.

Maybe it's the suddenness of it all, or maybe your cognition just follows the blood puddling around you, but there's a spark of hope in your heart that someone might come and save you. A prince on a white horse, a fae kissing you awake like it was all a dream; storybook dreams of fancy like that. Or maybe the monsters attacking you would find in themselves some humanity, and then they would stop. They would kneel, apologize, and offer you recompense for your undue suffering...

There's a numbing feeling all around, along with something like a snap. A twig, crunching into itself. You recall a story from one older lady, bound to a chair from an adventurer's mishap. She was a new face when you were younger. An old face by the time you left, thought not of choice---she warned so many of your children to not be reckless, lest your legs become little more than gradually shriveled flesh. Well, she can't be mad at you if she finds out. Your legs are just chopped off, if you had to guess. You think you hear the sound of something soft tearing apart; a sound, like pleasure and cheer follows.

And you meet your first death, devoured into rotten mist.

You walk. Walk, walk, and walk. It’s a miracle—a miracle, miracle, miracle. You’ve been given a second life. Though…different.

The world is shrouded in purple-red smog of the Wild Hunt, so thick you can barely see your hand in front of you. The “brothers and sisters” who killed you have left you behind to pursue their Hunt. Your stomach convulses in agony, begging for a scrap. Warm, rushing, tender…

But before you can lunge at a deer: an arm. Bandaged, armored, broken.

You gnash your teeth, but your struggle is futile. The deer scampers away. Your howl cuts through the night, mournful in agony. Your chin is seized by two armored fingers. You try and shake it off, but the twin spikes of iron do not move, and you only feel the toe curling sensation of something sliding in and out of your cheek. Rooted as you are, you feel your thigh tingle. You make a sound closer to a human, and cry—

You are slapped for it, with enough force that your head twists to look behind. There’s a tsk, and you face forward again. There is a long tunnel through your cheeks, since the fingers still didn’t move; some of the flesh from it sits in your mouth.

A pair of eyes pushes into you. “Tholindis,” It says, “Tholindis,” And it hurries, repeats itself with tormented yearning. “Tholindis. Tholindis,” the grip is harsher, “You, here, here—” something surrounds your neck, and suddenly your vision pulls forward. You don’t feel your legs, but you hear a meaty thud.

“[Name],” you try and say; everything is so foggy—Wild Hunt, dreams, Nasha Town—a collage of words and pictures that at once make sense and are nonsense. But you’re pretty sure that this is your name, and “Tholindis” isn’t anywhere to be found in the mess of your mind.

The man growls, “An ugly name.” The hands carrying your head tighten, “Do the gods mock me? Here…so, so, so close…”

And he roars, throwing you to the ground. “It’s not right! It’s the shape of the eyes—the wrong color, the hair the right texture—the wrong color—”

The heel of his boot presses your decapitated head into the frozen soil. Your soft flesh does little to resist the way it falls apart, rather than burst from the pressure. You whimper, like the dying, dreamless animal you’ve been turned into.

“IT’S ALL WRONG!” He shrieks—and his boot touches ground. Your head surrounds it, like the rim of a crater. You lick your lips—ah, you were lucky that your mouth has kept, though your eyes seem to have been crushed.

“Me,” comes your voice, warbled and unrecognizable, like a tiny blade is lodged in your throat, “I’m. Me. I can’t be—” as you struggle to speak, despair clings onto your footsteps. Will he even understand what you’re trying to say.

He scoffs, “Yes—wrong. So you’re stupid too, unlike her.”

“No—kill, again, pweash,” you plead. “Don’t wanna.”

He hums noncommittally. You hear something sharp move, like a spear—and it jumpstarts your panic.

“Pweash—please. I’ll be good, won’t be bad,” you promise, “Going to be the most not-wrong I can—promise, promise, please.”

A pause reigns in the air. Unable to perceive all but sound, the silence weighs on you heavy. After a small eternity, he speaks, mulling a few words.

“You’ll always be wrong. Ugly. But…” you think he leans in, because you feel oily, dirty hair graze your lips. “You’d be mine. Are mine. Wouldn’t be able to be taken away.”

You aren’t sure of what any of that means, but it sounds like he won’t kill you.

“You’ll be good for me,” he says, and stands. “But not like this.”

Something like clarity returns to your mind. You feel your thigh, fuzzy and numb, and your fingers twitch at the dirt that has collected under your nails. All put back together. The world isn’t covered by smog, though purple-red still fuzzes at the edge of your vision.

“The Wild Hunt is but an extension of me—I can mold it well enough to not completely overwrite the personhood of the weaklings who fell to my fragments. You can think on your own.” The man—the Wild Hunt?—explains.

He looks at you expectantly. You blink—oh, wait, you realize in a few seconds, and go to speak, “Thank y—”

You are slapped. This time, your flesh isn’t soft. Your neck cracks from the speed it turned, and it feels as though your cheek is on fire. Tears collect in your eyes.

“Too slow,” his words are cold. Maniac. “Breaking your promise already…?”

You flinch, “Wait, no, I was ju—”

“Are you a filthy little liar?!” He howls.

There is no air. Your throat squeezes in on itself impossibly, and the armor of his gloves cut into your skin.

“A liar, a filthy little rat,” you cannot scream when his thumb pierces through your neck, “But you’re mine. If you can’t keep a promise, you’ll learn to be good for me one way or the other.”

Your instinct is to beg, but you can’t open your mouth. But something slithers across your face, like a ribbon—and you make a pathetic little noise, when it pries apart your mouth with a cracking sound. The man groans, and leans in. You try to shut your eyes, but more of those appendages wrestle themselves under your eyelids. More come to wrap all around your body, till you can barely breathe without them cutting into you. The bandages on his face fall, revealing a wide, wolfish mouth—there are no lips, and the edges remind you of rusty metal. A row of sharp teeth greet you, yellowed and inhuman. They part to speak, and a long, thick tongue slithers out and you cant scream—

“But I know one thing you can be good for, without my help.” His tongue slides into your mouth, filling it up with a single motion, and an appendage slips into your pants.

The human heart is a jagged thing, rough and sharp in some places, smooth and sanded in others. As the human heart is a person's ultimate essence, where unfiltered thought and crafted personas come to head, imperfections are inevitable. The purest of hearts---those brave, valiant, and kind, are still marred with struggle, doubt, and the barest of slips. These hearts are well-cut and have a shine like no other, but if one doesn't tread carefully, they would find themselves cut by the stray sharp edge, or be startled by a sudden patch of roughness.

Most hearts land halfway between those points. And then there are those other hearts which are greedy and cruel and cut even in rest, and poison those who touch them.

But with a good pair of gloves, he may admire without worry of cuts and poison. And should a heart try and be any more than just sharpened and poisoned...well, he is not a Lightkeeper without reason.

So, over these many years, he has admired and respected many hearts, come to appreciate even more, and pity the unfortunate, cruel hearts, for all the suffering it brings. But Flins can never quite bring himself to wholly let ire possess him in the face of wanton cruelty, for the cruel heart is always born from something unhappy.

Of course, cruel hearts have always been set to enact their desire on the world, so with the kindest of hands, Flins easily excavates the cruel heart with little struggle. No matter their uniqueness or beauty, no heart is worth the bleeding of others.

Flins met you on a stormy day, where you sobbed and shivered. Magenta had crept into your parted flesh, shifting your blood into something closer to ichor. You were too far gone to thank him, and only after days of bed rest could you manage a single coherent sentence. You apologized, gave your graces, and swore to pay him back for saving your life from the Wild Hunt.

Even now, he can't help but be bemused at how mortals feel the need to apologize needlessly over being a burden, of having to be saved at all. Most mortals don't exactly desire to be rendered immobile and be unable to think, nor is it often their fault---so why lay at his feet apologies for what cannot be controlled?

Fortunate, that he is who he is. Others would most certainly seize their names and thanks for the worst.

"I truly can't thank you enough, Sir Flins," you say, "Had you not shown up..." you shudder, "Death might've been the most generous end. I've heard all sorts of stories about..."

"As I have said before, there is no need for thanks," Flins repeats, "Nor is there need to ruminate more upon mere possibility. Your fate has seen it fit to lead you here to my humble abode, where you need not worry of any threats, and may stay as long as you need to recover."

You look down at your hands, seeming uncertain and sheepish. "But my fate was a breath away from leading me to my grave."

"And yet, it did not."

"..."

"There is no burden whatsoever in saving a life. And even so, any supposed burden you propose pales in comparison to the lustor and shine of a life."

It's true.

You don't seem to share the sentiment, balling the sheets in your grip. Your jaw clenches, ever so slightly, but you do not admit any of that. Instead, you look into his eyes and promise,

"Still. Let me pay you back, however I can. It's the least I can do; and no, something as simple as my recovery will not suffice."

And so you do, regaining your strength bit by bit. Weak as you'd been rendered, the process of healing was less than pleasant. Even when you were able to sit up, feed yourself, and speak, the act of standing up would often leave you trembling. The Abyss, for all its unpredictability, could always be counted on when it came to thorough devastation. He's glad you were saved by him and not any other Ratniki, as many would lack the ability to have treated your wounds. Your condition being what it was, bringing you to Nasha Town would've posed too much risk. As such, here you were, with Flins on this gloomy little isle.

But you rose to the occasion, pushing through the pain, making it so your body could do the movements it should. With his help and supervision, of course---there was no point if you'd end up injuring yourself. You struggled and cried, and your face would run red with shame at being witness in that state, but Flins could never muster anything less than praise.

"How deeply commendable, your strength. My heart is moved by the beauty of your resolve."

It's true.

You whimper, sweat coating your face in a dewy sheen. You gasp and pant, body racked over with pain.

"It---" an inhale, as sharp as the pain that jolts through you, "I've gotta, if I want to get away."

Eventually, you are able to walk with no issue. Then, you can climb the ladders, and run for a mite. Your injuries become something of a ghost. Not shackling your every move, but draping you in a heavy cloak. Alas, you are unable to recover to the point of maintaining a sprint.

"Sir Flins, I promise you I'll do all I can to move away. I can't allow myself to be kept in your care; you have so many more to help."

To that, Flins does not mind; one ought to take their time. Perhaps it's a byproduct of immortality, but he finds no shame in letting his mind run adrift to process with the sands of time. Perhaps if more mortals thought this way, cruel hearts might be fewer. Yet, he feels endeared to the mortal's struggle against time all the same.

And, as embarrassing as it is to admit, his enjoyment of your company has gone from simple to great. At times, when wandering the dark wilds when nothing stirs, he would think he'd be poorly, should you leave.

But that is silly; he lives well, and it is the old man and the Young Master's job to needlessly worry over his solitary life. That he would be poorly is but a fanciful thought, a fleeting fantasy imagined for a Kyryll just a little bit different from the current Kyryll fate has seen to make him be.

You are pressed against the wall, firm. Your body shakes, and your chest expands with exhaustion. No matter your efforts, you are still unable to manage a sprint. But beautiful you, in your strength, pull through with foolhardy determination and announce your return to Nasha Town. To this, Flins puts down his glass of wine, and kindly offers his service. You accept.

"There is but one thing I would like for payment," Flins says, standing in the doorway, "Whatever brought you to Paha Isle? In this day and age, I see little reason for the average person to venture here."

Clouds thicker than wool draw over the moon. It cannot see the creatures below, of prey burrowing into dark crevices, dreaming baleful wishes to see another day and not end up like those brothers and sisters dangled from a hunter's fanged jaw.

"I just wanted to see the Fatui base up close for myself," you reply. You shift your backpack, discomforted by its bulging edges. Your legs twitch, high strung with anticipation of your long delayed trip.

He says your name. And your heart peels apart for him to see, and grasp what lie within. You stand still, none the wiser,

"It is not true." says the Lantern Fae.

He is a blue flame, like those will o' wisps of legend. He takes pride in guiding the lost, the destination bound wanderer. Against the frozen dark, the weary traveler follows like a moth to flame.

For his care and time, you were thankful, and Flins is inclined to agree.

Favored you flutters your battered wings, guided by the whisper of your name to the soft ground. Blue flame ensures your arms do not tremble in their labor, unearthing treasure. True to the owed favor he took, you now stand above an open pore. But the debt of your thanks is yet to be paid.

You fall besides the remains of the little girl, her dog, and her little wooden doll carved by her father and painted by her mother, excavated of your heart, and Flins deems your debt paid well and full.

Someone knocks at his door. He plasters on a facsimile of sleep, and greets you. It is stormy, magenta cleaves your body, and you are on the precipice of collapse. As you are carried, you give him your thanks. You move along with rickety motion, as if your bones are too old to hold up your muscle. He asks you your name, and it appears in his hands with little resistance.

You tremble, sweat, until you can stand, walk, and climb. But despite all your struggle, you still can't sprint. You announce your leave to Nasha Town. Your tendons tear when following flame, and unearthing treasure.

A knock comes to his door. Magenta cleaves your body, and a storm rages behind you. You move along his home like an abandoned mannequin. He asks for your name, and you give it to him with the most heartfelt of thanks.

"A new find?" Asks the Young Master, gesturing to his lamp, "It must be remarkable, if it's able to be kept in that kind of place."

"Indeed," Flins hums, "I'd grown to be most endeared by it. You can only imagine my joy as I found that it could withstand flame."

The Young Master laughs fondly, "For all your hobbies, I don't think I've seen you get so attached."

He chuckles, "Perhaps. I think I am more confounded than endeared, though."

"It's rarer still to see you puzzled."

"I solve many puzzles," Flins counters, "But when I am finished with them, I allow myself to admire the fruits of my intellectual labors. Then, I simply find them a home on a shelf, dust them, and let them become an object of fleeting fascination every so often."

"A puzzle?" He leans in, squinting, "I didn't realize. I thought it was just a remarkable gem."

"Remarkable, yes. But a puzzle?" He allows himself a smile, "I feel that might undersell it."

"Ever the one for cryptic sentiment," the Young Master says dryly after waiting for a moment of elaboration.

"If only so I don't spoil the mystery."

The Young Master goes to sip at his tea, but his lips meet nothing but air.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to miss that. The finer details of things eludes me, sometimes."

You chuckle sheepishly, and politely fill his cup with warm tea. Clay smears to cover magenta, stormy waters have been patted dry, and names and thanks have long been engraved.

Flins sees the Young Master off, who leaves him with a smile.

"It's wonderful to see you've found yourself good company. The lighthouse is all the more alive for it."

"I am flattered," Flins says, "though I struggle to see how alive a graveyard can be."

The Young Master's distant wave fades away from the blue light of his lantern.

Your body is collapsed to the floor, twisted into forms suitable for a toy doll. Flins opens the door, and places down his lantern. In its light, your form rises, and your eyes lose their glaze.

"Oh! Kyryll," you warmly greet, "Sorry, I guess I dozed off for a bit? Here, let me clean up the table."

"Of course," he leans down, kissing your hand, "though, I am more than happy to assist. Then we might see to other affairs," he offers, looking up into your eyes with a promise.

Your blush comes across your face like dusted powder, sealed beneath a layer of lacquer. It is as rosy as he likes, just as are the dimples that accompany your shy smile.

Phainon gasps, a touch dramatic, and quickly defends the two matching outfits in his hands: a bright, almost sickly yellow shirt, and bold purple pants. A little sun is etched proudly on the shirt, and the pant legs are patterned with dromas faces. He balances two hats on his head, boldly declaring “Honeycakes!” and “Pumpkin!” respectively. Two shoe boxes sit next to him, and would’ve been normal brown leather boots if not for the amateur stitching of smiley faces and suns on them. It looks like a toddler drew all over them in cheap crayon. The whole ensemble positively looks to have emerged from a trash heap.

“But…” Phainon looks almost helpless in the face of your blatant rejection, “We’ll match!”

“I can deal with that,” you hiss, “But Phainon, and I swear on Kephale’s soul, I am not wearing that.”

“But, but,” he blinks rapidly, unable to understand your distaste, “It’s got a lot of character and boldness. Clothes that are just one color as kind of plain, you know? The sun perfectly matches the yellow, and aren’t all of the little dromas faces just adorable?” He puts it up, pointing at each little face, “How can you say no to these faces?” He asks, giving you…giving you those damned puppy eyes—

No. You cannot fall here. Phainon may be able to take you with his charms in the moment, but you will not fall prey to them. To wear this outfit would be akin to suicide.

Your steel your heart. “Prof Nax might approve of that, but not me. It’s just so…tacky.”

“Tacky?” He struggles, like you and he are speaking in completely different languages. “But…I, I thought you’d find it cute. You tend to the dromas so much that I thought…” His face falls, “What about the hats? You can’t say no to the hats at least—and you can’t refuse those boots!”

You fluster, “We’re not wearing our pet names out in public!”

“But, honeycakes—”

“No!” Even as you think your heart dies a little, “It’s just—it’s just really embarrassing. So. No, I’m not wearing the hats.”

“Embarrassing? But we call each other like this out in public all the time…” Phainon tilts his head, like a confused puppy—befitting your affectionate moniker of him.

You’re certain that if you touched your face, you’d be met with lava, “That doesn’t mean it’s good fashion wear.” You clear your throat, steeling your expression, “Phainon, let me make this final: I. Am. Not. Wearing. Any. Of. This.”

He whimpers like a kicked puppy. “But the shoes—”

“Good quality,” you admit. Even for someone with as little fashion sense as himself, Phainon has trekked enough to know his way around good, lasting footwear. “But it’s the stitching. I have no clue how you found a seamstress this incompetent, but if we wore these we’d get no shortage of people asking us if the baby got their hands on our boots. And we don’t have a child, Phainon.”

Devastation and dejection wreck his expression. He crumples to the ground, and the embers of a destroyed home flicker in his eyes. “…I stitched those…”

“Oh. Oh.” You nod, pleased with the explanation, “Oooh.” Your face cracks. “Oh. Oh no, Phainon, I’m—!”

He shuts his eyes, shooting a hand up, “No, don’t. I…I should’ve known better. Aglaea has always told me I’m not allowed to pick my own clothes for a reason. But I just got really excited, so I couldn’t help myself,” he hangs his head solemnly, ensuring every bit of this apology to be heartfelt, “But I should’ve known better. I don’t really get what’s so bad about it, but that just means I end up neglecting what everyone else thinks,” he sighs, looking up at you with genuine sorrow and regret, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to force this. I’ll pack this all away.”

Phainon begins to gather the clothing. He limps about like a kicked puppy, and clasps each and every article as if damning himself. A heavy cloud follows him, obstructing the sunlight you’ve grown to adore and fawn over.

You can’t do this anymore.

“Phainon,” you swallow, “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so…harsh,” you feel a little guilty now. Phainon was so enthusiastic when he showed you, and you, in a kneejerk reaction, set out to destroy any notion of you ever wearing that outfit. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, really, and stifling his passion like that was likely very demoralizing. All in all, maybe you were a bit of a jerk to him. You might’ve gone a bit too far with that comment on the shoes. “You were clearly very excited, and I uh…I didn’t return that.”

It’s almost jarring how Phainon practically leaps toward you. Just like a puppy.

“So…I went too far with the shoe comment,” you admit, “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t think about how much time and effort you must’ve put into all of this. You shouldn’t be apologizing to me over something where you only had the intention of making me happy.”

Phainon pursues his lips, “But…” he looks disheartenedly at the outfit in his hands, “Maybe it wasn’t so unreasonable. This outfit was the reason Aglaea said I wasn’t allowed to pick out my own clothes.”

“I’m not saying I like the clothes. I don’t,” you reply truthfully, “But…I think I did go a bit too far. I don’t like seeing you all glum like this—and it’s not over anything that major. You do a lot, Phainon, and I really should have thought about all you put into this. Even if our…tastes differ, that doesn’t mean you didn’t put a lot of thought and care into this. The stitching too! You’re already so busy, so the fact that you did it all yourself is really sweet.”

Phainon hums. The cloud following him lightens, “You really think so?” He leans in, eyes wide and innocent.

“I do.” You grin, “I’m so lucky that I get to be with such a sweet, thoughtful man.”

You can practically see his tail wagging. There’s no trace of his previous dejection to be seen. He grins widely, leaning further toward you with a giggle. Red softly dusts his cheek. Fire ravages your cheeks. “And I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he confesses, warm breath lightly fanning your cheek, “since I get to be with someone so benevolent,” he looks up at you through his lashes. His smile widens.

From anyone else, you might either sneer or retort with your own show of playful dramatism. But Phainon is special. Hearing that from him breathes renewed vigor in your chest. Your heart threatens to soar. It takes everything in you to not take his cheeks into your hands and squish them together.

“You charmer,” you mutter, putting no weight behind it. Your hand goes to his hair, playing with the soft locks between your fingers.

Phainon hums, grinning playfully. He tilts his head, looking up at you from where he rests his head on your chest. His arms wrap around your waist. His legs follow, folding below him to kneel on the stone floor.

“Charmer?” He chuckles, taking in a deep breath, “That implies I’m just throwing words around with a mere goal.” He sighs. His eyes retreat, as his face nuzzles into your chest. His hair brushes against you, and you dare say it is softer than even the most well groomed of furs. “I just tell you the truth as I see it.” He inhales deeply, then sighs blissfully, “And my truth posits that you are the most lovely being of all the lands.”

“…!” You stammer. “…I thought I was s-supposed to be the, the one who embarrassed you…?”

Phainon giggles mischievously, playfully wiggling his eyebrows when he returns his gaze to you. “This puppy’s got bark.”

You wheeze. “How do you say that with a straight face?”

“Well, when I’m with you, I can do anything,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And as it is most of the time, you can tell he’s being completely sincere.

…This man really will be the end of you. How did you two manage to go from arguing about horrendous fashion to this? If Mnestia were still around, they’d surely give you a standing ovation.

You sigh, leaning down to wrap yourself around him. “You don’t have the throw away the outfits.”

He perks, yanking his head away to meet your gaze. “Are you saying you’ll wear it?” His tone lilts on disbelief, but hopeful.

A crooked smile crosses your face, bashful, “Yes! I’ll wear it. BUT. Only when it’s in private with the two of us! An—woooooahhh?!”

Your feet no longer touch the ground, and the world becomes one big blur. Then you’re vaulted above, then caught by two arms. A wet, messy kiss is pressed to your cheek, “Thank you! I knew you’d agree!” He presses his forehead to yours, “Do you think you’ll start to see fashion my way when you wear it? I’d still love to match outfits with you out in public~”

You scoff, but out no hostility behind it, “No,” you say, but this whole series of events has made it so your chest only produces giggles. “We can wear them as much as you want; but just let me pick the public facing clothes, okay?”

Phainon hums, rocking your body back and forth, “Sure, I agree to your terms,” he kisses you again, this time to your nose, “How about we change now?”

You laugh, “Alright, alright. I assume you want pictures, too?”