2. Condemn not the tears that form and fall from your eyes, because they're proof that you feel.

However, Phainon only ever looked, truly looked and assessed the ‘soul’ of the matter through you.

The intricacies of human emotions are fascinating, every blend, mix and dilemma is a field of study. Not that Phainon is ever above them, in fact, thoughts about these layers in betwixt which emotions reside often pass through his head.

The Hero has always been a little more focused on the feelings of those surrounding him instead of himself, a portion of his attention is always naturally spent on catching the cues of the person next to him, in this way.

Joy may entice tears as well, an overload of the reward system. After all, rain can emerge on even a bright, sunny day.

Tears were connected to a lot of these things, he discovered.

When morose clouds gather, or bubble with unpleasant bolts of frustration, the skies break in tears. Sometimes, howls of agony accompany the torrents. Other times, their fall is eerily silent.

Not that these are entirely new discoveries for the Deliverer. But in touch with your presence, everything in this world might as well be new breakthroughs.

Breakthroughs beget celebration, but these realizations in particular make his heart flutter in pain.

So please, allow him to kiss your tears in coronation. Do not push his hands away from cradling them, unwilling to let them be wasted away by melting into the earth.

If you must cry, let it be from happiness and pleasure. Or better yet, permit him to carve that path himself.

3. And every crease, curve and dip upon your skin tells him a different story.

Regardless of how many times his eyes have traced them and his hands have chased their footprints, he cannot get enough.

He's observed the brush strokes of past pains upon your skin, has run his fingers along the way they sit upon that canvas. Would you tell him the tales behind what caused them, if he asked?

You must forgive him, forgive his curiosity and ever increasing greed. What were the Titans thinking of when they moulded you to life? The way his hands find such an easy purchase on your waist, your fingers fitting so well between the gaps of his, or how the image that flickers by his mind whenever you accept his embrace — like two pieces of a puzzle designed specifically to complement one another.

A regret interrupts his train of thought, the regret of not being there for you, the regret that his entrance in your life had been a little too late for his liking.

If he had been a part of your childhood, would he have the knowledge to bridge these present hollows? Or is Fate’s design so meticulous that he must simmer in these regrets as a small compensation of having gotten to know you at all?

He supposes that being jealous of a lost time wouldn't really aid him, not that he can stop himself from feeling it at command.

What he can do is reassure you, whenever his inspection becomes a bit too thorough for comfort and douse every inch of your skin in his reverence — you would not mind, would you?

“One, two, three…” your voice dances in the wind, brushing past his ear and teasing a shiver out of him.

“I think I'm jealous of the wind.” he at last confesses, breaking the illusion. You don't open your eyes to look at him, but the anticipation of when they’ll fall upon him parches his mouth.

He grips your hand a little more firmly, twirling you in the rhythm you commanded of him. A gust of zephyr prances past, ruffling your hair and feeling your skin with a flighty hand, for a moment.

Phainon cannot find it in himself to blink out of his stupor, the sounds of your steps upon the ground seemingly a muffled melody.

You hum, he would've begged you to continue that tune had it not been for what he started. He realizes that that is your nudge for him to elaborate.

“The wind gets to touch you so intimately,” his left arm wraps around your back, slyly sliding down to haul you up at last. “— So brazenly, whenever it wants. It feels as though it can reach parts of you I’ll never be able to.”

“The wind can only caress, not hold.” you speak, thumbing at the pout on his lips.

His other hand joins to hold you more comfortably, his chest presses against yours.

Close, but not close enough.

Never enough.

His frown deepens, that petty jealousy bleeds into his eyes even more, as if to say, but it's unfair that the wind gets to caress you!

For a moment, he simply stares into your eyes, his thoughts convoluting more and more. A not so subtle pull, his gloved fingers dig into the skin of your hips.

“Well, there's not much consolation I can offer you about this. Unless you plan to wrestle the winds somehow?” you pinch his cheek, your laugh is short and sweet. He feels an urge to capture it in a glass bottle and keep it tucked away from the world.

“But without the winds, you’ll feel too hot and disturbed. I won't be able to stand your discomfort.” he concedes, pushing his thoughts far away with great strength for now.

You appear a smidgen taken aback at this comment and he cannot guess why, much too captivated by the way your breaths intertwine in the proximity.

Even at this short a distance, where even the winds may not sneak past and only you two remain — there's an ache in his chest, in the very construct of his soul.

It makes his breaths stutter in his chest, a choke forming in his throat and lingering there until you’ve soothed it away. That threatens to render him immobile, followed by a flood of desperation. Desperation that has his grip digging into your skin, grounding him from the torrents of this pain.

He does not wish to be whisked away, from you, that is. Strange as it may be, he chases relief in the very thing causing him agony.

Thus Phainon has appraised — the Hero’s hamartia and the panacea to this unending ache, immeasurable is its value.

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