summary you will not let lyney get to you. unfortunately, lyney already got to you the moment you met eyes. after all, what is a magician if not an expert in stealing hearts?
or, local sumeru architect goes to fontaine looking for inspiration and comes out of it with three rainbow roses and a crushing magician.
warnings 13+, gn!reader, follows the fontaine archon quest, so there are major spoilers throughout the entire fic! MURDER (lyney trial spoilers) + feminine french pet names ough + bff!Aether loml + sweet talker lyney + KISS SCENE (suggestive)
notes 8K words. thank u to my french bff art @aanobrain who said lyney is a magician he would say mon lapin 🤧❤️ + other various french pet names. thank u to ellie hyomagiri & earthtooz too for hyping this up, my supporters…
“500,000!?”
Sumeru streets are always bustling with its people—from children skipping around the neighborhood to frantic scholars who zip back and forth before returning to their homes when the moon is high. However, the sun is beating down on everyone right now: street vendors are making a profit, dogs are barking as they play fetch with laughing children, and you stand across the blond traveler and his floating companion.
You wince at the volume of Paimon’s shrill voice, inciting bypassers to send miffed glances your way. Embarrassed, you cover the side of your face with a hand, whispering, “Is—is that not enough? I can—”
“No, no, it’s not that!” Paimon’s arms flail around, eyes blown comically wide. “It’s just, you know, more than what we earn from our daily commissions combined!”
“Oh, I see.” you nod, relieved. “Well, I can lower—”
“No, no, no, no,” Paimon interjects hurriedly, and even the traveler shakes his head. “Pleasure to do business with you! Paimon and Aether, at your service!”
“Really?” you can’t believe your luck—the traveler himself agreed to escort you to Fontaine! Or does it count if Paimon agrees on his behalf? “That's a relief. Even Katheryne of the guild had a strange expression when I posted my commission.”
“It’s probably because of the amount of zeroes you might’ve accidentally put,” Paimon murmurs.
Aether tugs on her foot as if warning her. “We'll be leaving soon. Are you prepared?”
“Oh, yes. My stuff’s over there by the bench, you see?”
Aether and Paimon’s faces simultaneously fall. “All of that?” Paimon starts counting it, gaping when she has four little fingers held up.
They sure complain a lot. “You can still back out.”
Aether takes a deep breath, making his way over to your luggage. When he brushes past, you hear him chanting 500,000; 500,000; 500,000 under his breath. He wordlessly carries all of them, his chest puffed and expression grave.
“They’re heavier than I thought,” Aether wheezes out as Paimon flits worriedly around him. “How long are you going to be staying in Fontaine?”
“Oh, just a day or two, maybe,” you say, taking pity and taking one bag from him. “Most of what’s inside are art supplies.”
“Ah,” Aether says.
“500,000,” Paimon reminds him.
“We’re close,” Paimon says, flying back to where you and Aether are still walking behind, him heaving and you offering water now and then. “I saw a huge ravine-looking view! It was like a city on a waterfall!”
“R-Really?” Aether puffs out a breath, sweat rolling off his temple.
You tried prying some of your bags away from him when it seemed like there were monsters up ahead, but he refused instead to fight them with one hand on his sword. He still won. You guessed that he was trying to make traveling easier for you, yet all you felt was immense worry.
“Are you feeling okay, Y/N?” Paimon asks, floating beside you. “You look unwell.” You should ask your companion that, instead.
“I’m a bit nervous. After all, it’s my first time traveling outside of Sumeru.” You smile, patting her head. She doesn’t seem to mind, beaming back. “But I need to get out of my comfort zone to be better, right?”
“That's right! Paimon has a feeling you’ll enjoy Fontaine!” You and Paimon glance at Aether when he heaves a heavy breath, yet he only waves the pair of you off with his free hand. “Before you know it, you’ll be itching to travel again once you’re back in Sumeru.”
“I'm only there for work. I just need to learn a lot, and then I'll enjoy it.”
“Still a student through and through, huh…”
“I can see it,” Aether chimes in, looking all too relieved to rest his arm finally. “I can see Fontaine up ahead.”
You feel the cool breeze brush against your face, a refreshing change from the past hours you and the other two have been trudging through the desert. You could strip off layers and dive if you could. You can make out the harbor even miles away, pouring water out like an endless waterfall stretching for miles.
Arriving in Fontaine is introducing yourself to the rustle of layered skirts, the water-kissed smell, and citizens left and right babbling about tragic endings and thrilling climaxes.
Aether sets your bags on the floor with a heavy exhale. Paimon feeds him with another jug of water.
“I guess we’re here now.” You pull out a heavy pouch you’ve been keeping in one of the bags Aether had been holding over his shoulder. Paimon takes it with greedy, greedy hands. “Thank you for keeping me safe and carrying my luggage, Traveler— are you even listening to me?”
“There’s a girl over there,” Aether says, now staring ahead.
You and Paimon turn to look; sure enough, someone is standing by the edge, looking forlornly over the water. Half of her foot is off the platform, making Paimon fidget.
She gasps. “She isn’t going to jump into the water, is she? Maybe we should go check on her…”
Halfway through Paimon’s sentence, you gathered the courage to speak to the girl with the cat ears.
“Hey, miss.” Her ear twitches. “Is something the matter?”
She turns, looking faintly surprised. If you weren’t so close to her, you wouldn’t have been able to tell there was a change in her expression. “I'm fine. thank you.”
“Oh.” Now things are a little awkward. “Is there something in the water you’re looking at? You might slip if you keep tipping forward.”
She peers below, unworried—silent.
“As long as you’re okay, I guess,” you sigh, awkwardly hovering above her shoulder when realizing it might come off strange if you touch her. “I’ll leave you be.”
Her lips twitch, something close to a smile. You don’t stick long enough to admire it, heading back to Aether and Paimon and shrugging at their inquisitive looks. “She says she’s fine.”
“I think it’s time for me to separate,” you say. “I want to take all of it in as much as possible. Paimon has my payment. Thank you both so much for keeping me safe.” Mostly Aether, though. But Paimon was there, emotionally.
“It’s no problem,” Aether says, his smile warmer than when you first met him. “Stay safe out there. You can look for us if you need anything else.”
“I don’t always pay 500,000 for each of my commissions.”
Paimon wilts. Aether flushes, stammering, “Not what I meant.” You laugh heartily as they wave when you walk off to the aquabus, hopefully, prepared for what Fontaine will give you.
Your sketchbook is a page away from completion when you hear about a magic show at the Opera House. Not that it was hard to miss—everyone and their grandmothers were prattling about nothing else but the entire day.
Fontaine is known for its love for dramatics, but the twins they keep mentioning must be a one-of-a-kind spectacle to have half their region’s population speak about them so reverently.
After wandering for hours, taking in the endless sights of fresh water streaming and grand castle-like modern buildings, you find yourself in the Fountain of Lucine. You’ve heard of Fontaine being somewhat titled the ‘City of Love,’ but seeing couples surrounding each nook and cranny of the tourist spots was still astonishing.
(You console yourself by thinking that there’s something romantic in sketching frantically while the rest of the crowd are sucking faces.)
To your luck, you spot three familiar heads in the fountain plaza.
Aether senses you before you can even say anything, glancing to the side and smiling when you wave at him.
Paimon flutters excitedly. “Y/N! We didn’t think we’d see you again this early. You look like you’re glowing.”
“Was it that obvious?” you laugh sheepishly. “Fontaine is beautiful; I couldn’t even stick too long in one place before I see something else that catches my attention.” You look to the girl you met earlier, who nods politely. “Hello. Are you three acquainted now?”
“Mhm!” Paimon says, hands on her hips. “This is Lynette! She’s inviting us to the show they’re holding here!” She gasps, “Speaking of—”
“Ah,” Lynette says quietly, “I couldn’t get an extra ticket. I’m sorry.”
Lynette is the magician you keep hearing about? With her seemingly reserved personality, you wouldn’t have guessed it. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Paimon,” Aether speaks up. “They gave you your ticket, right? Why don’t you just float next to me or sit on my lap?”
Paimon’s eyes sparkle. “Great idea! That way, I can give my seat to Y/N, right?”
“You guys…” Your chest feels warm as Aether hands you one of the two tickets in his hand. “You really didn’t have to.” Is this what 500,00 gets you? The loyal companionship of Aether and Paimon?
“It’s a good idea,” Lynette says. “My brother wouldn’t want you to miss the show. He’d be devastated.”
“If you insist, then I suppose I can’t refuse.” Aether and Paimon do a cute little cheer. “But I need to return to the hotel; I can’t be watching a magic show carrying all these.” Surely Aether can understand.
Later, with your hands finally empty and charcoal-free, you rush back to the Opera Epiclese, the person standing guard kind enough to open the doors despite being a minute late.
“Welcome, one and all, to the Opera Epiclese!” The audience roars with cheers as the spotlight illuminates a figure on the center of the stage. You hurry to your seats, brushing past Aether and Paimon. “I am the star of today’s show, Lyney.”
Lyney bows, then stands upright with a Cheshire cat grin.
The thunder of the crowd’s applause is deafening. If you weren’t able to see it, you’d think that you hadn’t been clapping at all—senses numbed and your fixed stare all on the boy on the stage.
Your eyes catch on the small braid on the side of his head before the gleam of his eyes hypnotizes you.
He’s handsome, you think dizzily at the back of your head.
“Don’t blink,” he says, his voice lower as if meant to be a whisper, “or else you might miss it.”
The show proceeds. A dove soars away from inside as he flips his hat; you flush at hearing the soft laughter that slips from him after. The cards that materialize out of nowhere descend to the floor. His fingers shuffle the cards while talking to keep the audience satiated; they fly off his hands, yet he doesn’t lose focus, stretching them mid-air with a sleight of hand. They fall apart and come together neatly and precisely.
His stage presence is demanding. It would be as if Lady Furina herself would accuse you of committing a crime if you were to look away for even a second.
Then, when he scans the crowd, busy twirling his cards in his fingers, his gaze catches your awed ones.
Something in the air shifts. Or maybe it’s that it slows.
A card slips from his grasp. A mistake. He blinks and breaks eye contact, laughing heartily to play it off. But you don’t believe it—not when you swore your limbs locked in place as well when lilac drilled into your soul.
You breathe, hands bracing against your chest. What was that?
You would’ve played it off as something you imagined if not for Lyney continuing to glance at you occasionally. His slip-up had been forgotten, as though it was all part of the show.
(Is it also part of the show when it seems he’s unable to tear his eyes off of you?)
Of course, the twins prove their worth. They showed you exactly why the people of Fontaine adore watching them through theatrical magic, cards in their sleeves, and defying logic.
You’ve shuffled to the edge of your seat as Lynette disperses into bubbles and comes back alive. You’ve held your breath as Lyney emerges from the box across he was in a moment earlier.
You’ve also been witness to the murder of Cowell.
CRASH.
The shatter of glass resounded along with the horrified gasps of the audience. Sickeningly enough, you could almost hear the crack of bones if you hadn’t been crying out in alarm. Yet, as they gape and shriek over the sight of a limp arm popping out, you find your gaze tracing back to Lyney, who stands motionless in front of the box.
When Lady Furina points fingers and has everyone siding against him, the guards escort the audience from the Opera House. All evidence presented left Lyney in a spotlight unlike his performance: with a disgusted and unamused crowd. Even you have to agree that it isn’t looking well for his case at all.
Yet all you can think of as you leave the room is that Lyney looked as terrified as everyone else was—much too raw of an expression for someone to accuse him of anything at all. He looked young and scared.
(His hands were shaking.)
The rest of your Fontaine trip is admittedly duller when you’re a little more familiar with its city and don’t have a yapping little fairy and a capable Traveler by your side. It’s hard not to hear chatter about the events that went down: Lyney’s trial, Aether volunteering to be his lawyer, and the truth behind the real murderer.
It solved a case beyond the murder of Cowell. Fontaine sure has its mysteries, and the crowd sure loves them as they would a magic show.
You keep your hands busy. Last night, you found yourself thinking back to the magic show, to deft fingers weaving through cards, to violet eyes that kept on flickering to you. By the time you snap back to reality, you’ve subconsciously drawn shapes and lines that suspiciously look like the magician himself: the curve of a smile, piercing eyes, and you entranced by it all.
Flustered, you crumple his face staring back at you out of sight. Yet you can’t bring yourself to throw it away.
You shove the last bit of garlic baguette in your mouth to furiously bat these unwanted thoughts away.
“Isn’t that Y/N?” Paimon’s voice is unmistakable, a short distance off.
You jump out of your skin, spinning to see Aether and Paimon waving and walking over to you. You thought they'd already left Fontaine after that; you wouldn’t blame them if they did.
“Y/N! We haven’t seen you since the Opera House performance,” Paimon exclaims, twirling around your head like a thrilled fly circling a trash can.
You hold onto her back, hoping she’ll stop making you dizzy. “We were escorted out before I could say goodbye. I couldn’t watch the court trial but heard it all turned out fine.”
“That’s right!” Paimon nods proudly. “Paimon helped a ton during it; you should’ve seen it! What have you been doing?”
“I found a fellow architect while visiting the cafe nearby, and we chatted for hours,” you say, remembering that your voice is hoarse for that reason. You also don’t tell them you couldn’t get a certain magician off your mind. “I learned a lot. I don’t regret coming here one bit.”
Paimon says something else that you’re sure you’ve nodded absentmindedly at while your gaze wanders over to the two familiar people a few feet behind, watching you three with cat-like eyes—and it’s not just because of Lynette’s unique features.
“Those are the magicians, right?” you gesture behind Paimon and Aether as if you haven’t already familiarized yourself with their faces.
Paimon nods. “Uh-huh. You should introduce yourself! They look like they want to talk.”
Something about that feels foreboding. “Um, no, it’s fine. I don’t want to be rude and interrupt your conversation.”
“No,” Aether says firmly. He seldom speaks; you might as well play along if he says so. “Besides, Paimon is right. Lyney wants to talk to you, you know?”
“Oh, yeah! He kept mentioning seeing someone sitting beside us! And it couldn’t have been Neuvillette because he said it was an unfamiliar beauty that bewitched this weak magician’s heart.” Paimon nods, even recalling how he’s enunciated each syllable theatrically.
“I’m sorry?” you blurt. “Lyney recognizes me? What did I do?”
“Paimon thinks it’s because Lyney is curious about who Lynette met! He was like that with us, too.” Paimon changes her pitch to match Lyney’s. “Are these your friends, Lynette?”
Aether’s eyes feel like they know something you don’t. “It won’t hurt to strike up a conversation with Lyney. He’s been shaken up since the trial.”
There’s something unspoken hidden in his words. “What does that mean?”
Paimon doesn’t wait for an answer, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you to where the twins are waiting. Aether chuckles as he jogs behind.
“Paimon, Aether,” Lyney says, almost sly, “You haven’t introduced us to your friend here.”
“Paimon can do it!” She floats on top of your head and does a bit of jazz hands. “This is Y/N, the one who commissioned us to escort them from Sumeru up to Fontaine.”
“Generously,” Aether adds.
It’s a little embarrassing to have the legendary Traveler and Paimon introduce little old you to a famous magician such as himself, but his grin is still excited.
“From Sumeru?” Lyney repeats, smiling wider when you nod—as if that crumb of attention is enough for him. “I see.”
He performs a bow around the same height as where your hands rest; he takes one, kisses the back of your palm, and smiles against your skin. “I’m Lyney, and she is my sister, Lynette.”
“It’s nice to see you again.” You smile at Lynette, who nods in return. Lyney straightens to look at his sister.
“We met when the Traveler and Paimon just arrived at the harbor,” Lynette sighs even without looking at her brother.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say, meeting Lyney’s eyes. The spot where he kissed is still warm—tingling. “Your show was incredible, despite what happened. I’m glad that the truth revealed itself.”
“Thank you.” Lyney’s gaze sharpens. “I saw you at the performance, yes. I was worried for a second you might steal the show if you were to come up on stage.”
You blink. “Are you saying—”
Lyney grins, “I apologize that the night had to end that way; it must’ve been horrifying. Say, what if I give you a little show right now to make it up to you?” Did he make it up to each one of his audience, too?
This is not a man acting “shaken up,” as Aether put it.
“You really don’t have to.” You glance at Aether and Paimon, silently asking for help; however, they’re too far gone, urging you to say yes with gestures and encouraging nods.
Lyney tilts his head, demanding your attention on him once more.
You sigh. “I would love to see it if you don’t mind.”
“Of course!” Lyney looks like he’s the sun bursting personified. “It would be a pleasure, ma chérie. Not to worry, it’s nothing life-threatening. I just need you to focus on me.”
Not that it’s hard. The others have become a dull buzz in your mind as Lyney holds your gaze. “Okay.”
Lyney smiles, much softer, satisfied. “Good. Now,” he tips his hat, “recently, I’ve received a little lesson from someone about the language of flowers. Are you familiar with them?”
“Not in Fontaine, no,” you mumble, watching his hands closely. You were expecting a rabbit to hop out of that hat any second now.
“Shame. But I suppose I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun.” Lyney snaps his finger, then deposits his hand inside his hat. “Hmm… Oh? Something’s not quite right. Would you mind looking into this hat for me to see if the flower is here?”
You hesitate. The hat is so close to him.
Swallowing, you nod, leaning in to inspect his hat at a careful pace. All you can sense is the faint scent of heat Lyney is emanating, the breath you two share, and the pounding of your chest. You swear you could also hear his, matching yours.
“The hat’s empty.”
Lyney smiles wider. “Yes, perhaps because you already have it.”
You jump back in surprise, your hands patting your body to see where he could have snuck the flower in. With your frantic movement, the flower falls off from what seems to have come from your head—Lyney catches it.
His mouth carves into a smirk, leaning to invade your personal space, his free hand coming up to tuck hair behind your ear. “Careful.”
Your face is burning. Plucking the flower out, the delicate and tender pink sears into your palm. “What does this flower mean?”
“What does it, I wonder?” Lyney whispers thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ll have to tell me once you find out.”
And when he inclines backward, it feels like you can breathe again. Time flows normally, and the people passing by seem much louder than before—as though you’ve surfaced from underwater.
Lyney clears his throat. “Shame I haven’t prepared myself a grand show for you, but I suppose that would call for another time, wouldn’t it?”
Lynette is looking at Lyney as if he is stupidly amusing.
“Thank you,” you say, burning, burning. “For the show, I mean.”
“That was a little weird,” Paimon whispers to Aether, but she is terrible with keeping volume and has everyone turning to her with varying expressions. “P-Paimon means that was good! Wow, Lyney! Isn’t that a different flower you gave us? That’s the flower Charlotte was talking about, right?”
“Rainbow rose?” Aether supplies.
“Yes! It means—”
“Ahem.” Lyney is quick to interrupt. “Lynette and I must take our leave now, if you don’t mind. It was fun catching up with you two.” You have to hold your ground and not look away when he hones in on your figure. “And it’s a pleasure meeting you. Don’t be a stranger. Look for me if you want more.”
His smile is a little devilish, you now realize.
“Bye,” Lynette says blankly, following after her brother, who seemed to be hurrying to exit.
His ears were red.
“You’re still staring.”
“I am not,” you rebuke hotly, flailing to cover Aether’s mouth with your hands. Yet all it does is bring your attention back to where Paimon and Aether are staring—the rainbow rose on your person.
Paimon and Aether yelp when you drag them away despite Lyney having already left the scene.
“Hey—! Don’t just go dragging Paimon around like a balloon like that! Did Lyney get to your head that much?”
“He did not.”
Paimon tilts her head, frowning. You shy away from her worried gaze, glaring at the flower instead. You still don’t know how Lyney managed to get it there; you hold it to your chest, where your heart is racing miles per minute because of his stupidly smug smile.
“What does this flower mean, Paimon?”
Paimon seems elated to be of help. “Easy! Charlotte told us that Rainbow Roses mean ‘passion’ and most notably ‘romantic encounters’!”
“Passion,” you curse. The rose seems as if it is staring back innocently, unknowing of the turmoil you’re going through because of it. “Romantic encounters.’ ugh.”
You can still remember how Lyney’s eyes twinkled as you felt his breath against your face.
“Ooh, he thinks he can trick me. He thinks he can affect me just because it pleases him to do so. I’ll show him. I’ll show him! I am not a blushing maiden!”
“You’re already very affected by this,” Paimon says, yet it’s lost by your newfound determination. Two can play at this game.
You’ve definitely been staying in Fontaine longer than what you told Aether and Paimon, but you can’t leave yet. Not when you found yourself walking to a flower shop to purchase a vase, fiercely digging through soil, turning gentle when your fingers reach for the Rainbow Rose. Not when you see it in the corner of your eyes as you try to sleep, and you find yourself daydreaming about a charming violet-eyed virtuoso.
It’s for research, you excused lamely at the hotelkeeper who didn’t ask why you’re extending your stay. In truth, not that you’d tell anyone. It was because you were hoping for another grand show from him. A farewell show for you—closure.
If you were to travel back home and get too drunk to think straight, Kaveh would learn about your crisis (romantic awakening?) and laugh at your face.
In hopes of looking for your Fontaine architect friend, you spot Lyney instead, on the side of the street surrounded by cheering kids. They clap and jump, and Lyney laughs. “One more, one more!”
“Again?” Lyney does an exaggerated sigh. “I’m starting to run out of cards in my sleeves. I’ve guessed my entire deck from your hands by this point!”
“But, Mr. Magician,” one of them whines, pouting up at him and blinking, “we want to see more! We want to know how you do it!”
“Alright, how about this, hm?” And then Lyney peers right at you. Ironically, you’re the one startled when you’ve been watching that entire spiel, and he hasn’t acknowledged your presence beforehand. “Y/N, would you mind giving these children a little show with me?” He gestures for you to come closer.
“What show?” you ask suspiciously, taking slow steps in case he pulls out another flower out of nowhere.
“You don’t have to worry,” Lyney laughs. “Will you be my assistant for this show? You are very familiar with this trick.”
“Please, we want to see!”
You falter at the little kids’ excited grins, especially when paired with Lyney’s pout and round eyes. “Okay, tell me what to do.”
His eyes do the little gleam again. “Stand in front of me, mon lapin.”
Your heart is skipping beat after beat, making itself known as you shuffle until Lyney is directly behind you.
“Relax, chérie, you just need to stand still.” It’s a little hard to relax when you feel his breath against the back of your neck, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting that, so you keep your chin high and relax your shoulders. “Good.”
He begins to speak louder to his awaiting audience. “I know it’s hard to keep your eyes off this beauty before me, but watch the hat for a surprise, alright?”
He flips it for his little audience, one hand resting on your waist and the other extended to hold his top hat. The proximity is almost suffocating. You watch with bated breath, and they complain about it being empty.
“Oh, is it?” Lyney hums, twirling the hat until it’s flipped upside down, presented right before you. “Perhaps I need my assistant’s help.” You snap out of your daze when you realize he’s talking to you. “Y/N, do me a favor and show them the flower inside.”
You reach inside the hat and, much to your surprise, feel a stem. You pull it out; the Rainbow Rose stares back at you, almost mocking you, saying he did pull out a flower out of nowhere. It's this trick again.
The kids gasp in awe and confusion—it’s all the same for Lyney, who snaps his fingers and creates magic like he was made to. Like magic was for him to summon with his hands.
“What? It was empty!”
“Where did that come from? I was watching Mister Magician’s hands the whole time!”
“Are you a magician, too?”
“No,” you say lamely, holding the rose, feeling Lyney still patiently standing behind you. Heat crawls up your neck. “No, I’m not. It’s all Lyney.”
“It’s all me,” Lyney echoes in amusement. “You’re quite magical yourself.” Finally, he spares you, pulling away to stand beside your figure. He doesn’t take the rose back—maybe even give it to one of the children. He knows exactly what he’s doing. “That’s enough for today. The sun is setting, and your parents might get worried.”
They pout and slump their shoulders, but Lyney has this older brother's sternness to him that has the children scurrying back home anyway.
You then realize having to stand in front of Lyney was unnecessary.
The flower is warm. Lyney’s eyes slip to yours.
“I didn’t even have to stand in front of you like that,” you complain, heart inclined to race off your body.
“Yes, but I feared that I would slip up again if I were to catch a glimpse of your face,” Lyney admits smoothly. His lips curl into a smirk when you stare wordlessly. “What? Don’t believe me? I had to improvise when I saw you watching from afar.”
“A great magician such as yourself? Making a mistake? I doubt it.”
“You already have such high expectations placed on me, chérie,” Lyney says, his smile easy, but his ears are a little red, poking out from his hair. “That’s no good. With no audience, I’m just plain ‘Lyney’ to you.”
“No trickery? No cards up your sleeves?” you play along.
Lyney doesn’t miss a beat. “No, though I do have a few more roses begging to be held by your hands.”
“They can keep begging.” Lyney grins wider when you glance down at his hands. “Do you give them off to everyone you meet?”
“Who do you take me for?” Lyney isn’t offended; he laughs, delighted. He is preening under the sunset—or maybe it’s your attention. “Of course not. At least, not like this.”
You stare, unimpressed. “Sure.”
“So cold, chérie,” Lyney sighs, plucking the stem from your fingers to slot it behind your ear. It seems he likes doing that. “Here I am, trying to get you to warm up to me, and you treat me like this.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll be going back home soon anyway.”
Lyney’s expression shifts into something more unrecognizable, his eyes dipping down to somewhere below your nose. “Oh. Avoiding attachment?”
You nod.
He grins, and he’s still so close. He knows how to entrance his audience, pulling you in until you forget to resist. Always watch the hands; yet Lyney could be digging a dagger to your side at this moment, and you wouldn’t even notice.
“I’m flattered you even want to avoid me because you know you’d get attached,” he purrs, tilting his head. Is Lyney just big on personal space?
“Don’t assume,” you retort. “I know how guys like you think. Even a magician as great as yourself can’t trick someone who’s already seen through it.”
“It would be easier if it were just a trick, wouldn’t it?” Lyney sighs, much to your confusion. “I take it that someone has told you what this flower means?”
You’ve nearly forgotten all about it. “Yes.” You find yourself unable to look directly into his eyes. “I know.”
But even with that, you can still feel his heavy gaze, pinning you down and threatening the strength of your knees. You suppose it comes with being a performer—watching his audience carefully, pinpointing each micro expression to say the right words.
“There doesn’t have to be any attachments.”
“What are you trying to say right now?”
Lyney’s reaches for your hip, sharing your gaze like he doesn’t know how to do anything else. “That you enamor me. That I am holding back from wanting you. I know you feel the same—you can never hide anything from a magician. But if you’re concerned,” he mumbles, “then this doesn’t have to mean anything. You may call it infatuation.”
You want to laugh. Or maybe you want to cry. Most of all, you want to nod helplessly, wrap your arms around his neck, and give in. It’s hard not to when he looks at you like that. “You want me that bad?”
“I almost want to disagree.”
“Almost?” Lyney gets closer, and you stop him with a palm on his chest. “We’re outside.”
Lyney grins. “Have you forgotten what Fontaine is also known for? No one would bat an eye. Love is in the air, and all that.”
“Absolutely not.”
“So still you’re letting me?”
You laugh this time. Letting him, as if you aren’t the one itching to pull him close and find out what he’s like behind the curtains. “Are you asking me as plain old ‘Lyney?’”
Lyney brightens, clearly pleased there wasn’t a ‘no’. “Yes.”
“No tricks?”
“No tricks. No strings.”
You let him lead you away into some dark alleyway. He kisses you like he was longing to do so all his life. You have only met him that fateful day, not even a week ago. But you claw at him like you get it—like he’s ruined you for anyone else the moment you shared gazes in the Opera House.
Romantic encounters, you quietly recall as Lyney swipes a thumb over your aching bottom lip.
You don’t see Lyney the day after that. And for some reason, it makes the itch worse. (Perhaps it’s because you’ve gotten a taste and can’t get enough.)
It’s mostly your fault, the sudden disappearance—you’ve cooped yourself up in the hotel room, buried your face in pillows, and screamed. You berate yourself for giving in, but another part of you—one that’s louder than any other thought in your head—wants to do it again. Wants to hold his handsome face in your hands and have him kiss you breathless. That was nothing like you had ever felt before.
You groan. It’s another new day. You might as well make some progress with your portfolio.
There’s a Café you’ve been visiting more often than not. Ordering a drink and spending a good chunk of your day sketching the view. Instead, you find yourself staring at Aether, Paimon, and Lynette seated at one of the tables.
Lynette’s eyes flick up to yours as she sips tea. She murmurs something to the other two, and you watch with amusement as Aether and Paimon’s heads snap to face you.
You let your gaze wander, eventually landing on Lyney, who is reciting his order with his charming-act-on smile, who is present because of course he is. You want to turn and run away, but that’d be letting Lyney win, and you’re nothing if not stubborn and prideful.
“Y/N!” Paimon greets once you’re within earshot, kicking her feet happily. “Good morning! What are you doing here?”
“Breakfast,” you reply, waving at them. Aether pulls a chair from the other table and gestures for you to sit. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Nope!” Paimon swipes a fork from the table and digs in on the Ile Flottante, leaving nothing for Aether. “Lynette and Lyney told us about another show they’re holding to make up for the previous one.”
“Mouth full,” Aether reminds her, a little too late as the Ile Flottante spews from her mouth.
“Really now? Maybe I can pay properly for a ticket this time,” you laugh, nodding at Lynette. She smiles faintly, hiding it behind the rim of her cup. Lynette sure is the polar opposite of her twin brother.
A shadow looms from behind, the silhouette of a figure with an unmistakable top hat. You tilt your chin and see Lyney peering down at you with a sweet smile. You will yourself to keep your gaze focused on his eyes only and nowhere else below the nose.
Speak of the devil…
“Sweetheart,” Lyney says instead of exchanging pleasantries like a normal person.
“Lyney,” you reply in kind. Then you look away upon realizing that Aether, Paimon, and Lynette had been silently watching the exchange with muted, stunned expressions.
Lyney, holding a tray of drinks and food in both hands, scoots the chair next to yours with his ankle. “I wasn’t informed that Y/N would be joining us,” he says, setting the drinks and plates down like a waiter with a flourish. “You can drink mine. Let me order another.”
You hold onto his wrist as he makes his way back. He turns to you, surprised. “Let me at least pay for my own breakfast.”
Lyney grins, delicately withdrawing from your grip. He places a loud kiss on your hand. “Don’t worry about it.” And then leaves, because he can’t take no for an answer.
“Is it just me,” Paimon starts as you resign yourself to finishing Lyney’s drink (It’s your favorite, the one you always order), “or is Lyney acting weird around Y/N?”
Aether laughs. “There's definitely something going on. Don’t end up staying too long in Fontaine, now. What was it you told us? ‘A day or two’.”
You huff, your face turning unbearably warm. “Shut up, you two. I am here to do research, not to find a summer fling.” You’ve already failed, but they don’t need to know about that.
If you were to touch your lips with your fingers, you’d think of no one else but Lyney’s hands on your hips and his mouth swallowing your words.
Lynette clears her throat, a quiet but noticeable thing. “Don’t be fooled by my brother, Y/N.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m still keeping my safe distance.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not what I mean. Don’t be fooled by my brother.” She stares at you from the rim of her cup—something about that has you listening obediently. “No matter what he tells you, he always cares too much. No matter what you may think, he always gets hurt first.”
“That’s not…” You can’t imagine that. From the start, it’s always felt like he was the one who could do what he wanted.
No tricks.
Lynette is his twin, after all. She knows him best.
No strings.
Defeated, you sip on the straw with the same fervor of an aggravated hilichurl, and that’s the end of that.
Conversations during breakfast are much lighter when Lyney returns with a full meal as his treat. Celebration, he says. Celebration for what? Who knows? Lyney winked, but his glance directed to you said enough.
“You say that you don’t want to get attached, but you’re awfully close to the Traveler, of all people,” Lyney says offhandedly once the others have left for their own matters.
You lean against your seat, grinning. “Are you jealous?”
He doesn’t say anything, instead upturning his nose as if scrambling to regain control. You laugh, oddly endeared. Lyney turns his head away, trying to hide the smile that curls his lips upon hearing it.
“Hey,” Lyney says seriously, reaching for your hand. “Where have you been yesterday?”
“Why? Missed me?”
And because he’s Lyney, he takes his time kissing each of your knuckles. It’s more intimate than the whole ‘no strings’ arrangement you agreed on, but you suppose Lyney thinks that any physical attention is free reign. “What would you do if I said yes?”
“You’ll be fine,” you say slyly. “You’ll have to get used to it if you want to risk your heart just to get laid.”
He rolls his eyes, tugging you closer. “I’m not risking anything to get laid. Do you think so lowly of yourself, chérie?”
“Isn’t this all there is to it? Physical attraction,” you ask, genuinely confused.
Lyney blinks. “Of course, but—” His eyes flicker down, and his words trail off.
When you speak, you feel your breath bounce back from his skin—a testament to your proximity. “Lyney,” you whisper. For what? Urging him to continue? Urging him to close this distance? You’re not sure, either.
You have so much to ask. What do you mean? Why can’t you finish your sentence? Why don’t you just kiss me already? But it’s hard to speak; Lyney’s name is all you can think of.
You whisper his name again. His grip on your hands tightens and loosens, a frustrated frown creeping up his brows.
Your hand shoots out to reach for the back of his head and give in. He flinches for a second before relaxing completely.
His lips almost taste sweeter than his words. Almost as sweet as how he finds purchase on your waist and holds your chin during every kiss.
You pull away to breathe, missing how he leans closer to chase after you and pouting when he can’t. “Yeah. That—That didn’t have to mean anything. I just wanted to know what it felt like again.”
“Yeah.” Lyney licks his lips, his gaze unable to tear away from where yours are swollen. “Yeah, I know. You taste like my drink.”
Really, no one’s surprised you gravitate towards each other again, feeling like you’re soaring and melting into a puddle at the same time. Lyney doesn’t touch you where you both know would cross the line, but he grips near possessively to what he can, as if breathing you in and worshipping your skin.
You know after this, he’d go back on stage, fooling his audience with what’s invisible to the average eye, as if this never happened. You know this because this is your deal: satiate the feverish attraction you have with each other and leave once you’re satisfied. (But you also know that you’ll be thinking of his touch and his lips while you stare at the vase beside your bed.)
Lyney is a magician, first and foremost.
He hooks you in, and keeps all your attention to himself like he’d die without it. Then he disappears with a snap of a finger. He’s finished his trick, leaving you befuddled in your seat with more questions than answers.
As you drift off to sleep, all you can think of is that there are two roses now.
“Brother.”
Lyney looks up from where he’d been entertaining Rosseland, seeing Lynette with a stern face. “What? What happened?”
Her tail flicks. “You said you weren’t going to get attached.”
Lyney exhales softly, his eyes slipping shut. “I’m not.”
Lynette finds herself smiling softly. “I may just be your assistant, but you can’t lie to your own twin.”
He buries his face in his hands. With his sight gone, images of your face while whispering his name flash in his mind. His eyes fly open, mortified, his whole face red. “I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t think it’d be deeper than that.”
He was the magician in this, but it felt as if you were the one who tricked him instead.
It’s been two weeks since you first arrived in Fontaine. By this point, you’ve grown more familiar with its views than your own city. Having Aether, Paimon, Lynette, and even Freminet around doesn't make it any easier for you to feel at home.
And then there’s the Lyney Situation. You meet up most nights, more than that when he’s free from shows. He keeps seeking you out, and you keep letting him in. There was one night where Lyney spent the night instead of heading straight to the door—and those nights turned into two, then three, and then he finds any excuse to keep doing it.
It’s not like you could stop. He told you look for me if you want more, and you always want more, because how could you not? Lyney treats you like he’s never had to take care of anything more precious but still manages to render you breathless like you’ve never experienced thrill the way he gives it to you before.
But you still have to go back home. And Lyney still has his own life, has his secrets. He feels untouchable even when your arms are wrapped around his neck.
No strings attached can still work for summer flings, doesn’t it? And what are summer flings, if not just that?
Lyney hovers above with his hands caging your face. He’s grinning so wide—and you’ve seen all kinds of smiles on him with your time spent together, but it was never this genuine.
“You’re bad for me.” He says it like a confession, a prayer.
You raise an eyebrow. “What did I do to you?”
His hand trails down until he’s rubbing shapes on your hips. “Make me feel like I’m myself whenever I’m with you.”
At your silence, Lyney clears his throat. “But it’s not like that, don’t worry. I just mean—”
And how does that even make sense? He pours his heart, then later reveals it’s nothing but a decoy to keep this facade realistic.
“Oh,” you say.
That was the final act you’d been waiting for. The final trick—the farewell show.
And so you pack your bags—shoved your sketchbook back inside, face forward, and promise not to look back. Leaving Sumeru hasn’t even been this hard.
Aether and Paimon shouldn’t be surprised if they find you missing; they’d been the first to know that your stay in Fontaine isn’t meant to last forever. And you’ve warned Lyney about this. Avoiding attachments? It felt more like running away from your problem.
Lyney is a busy man on his own; you’re nothing but some architect from a different region who happened to get caught up with him at the right time.
You sigh and call for the aquabus.
A hand clasps around your wrist, pulling you to collide against a familiar chest. Lyney’s eyes are wide, almost insane. Sweat clings to his forehead, and his breath comes in frantic pants.
“W-What—”
Lyney’s eyes search your face. Or maybe it’s him trying to convince himself that you’re right there, in front of him. “You didn’t even tell me.”
“I—I’m sorry—”
“Were you just going to leave like that? Don’t you think I at least deserve a farewell?”
“Lyney, I’m sorry. I know, that was stupid.” You haven’t seen him with an expression like this before—so raw and broken, begging to be glued together with your hands. “I didn’t want to formally say goodbye because I knew I'd want to stay.”
“That’s stupid,” he repeats in agreement.
You breathe shakily, eyes scanning the stunned crowd. What’s The Great Magician Lyney doing here? Holding some stranger in his arms? That must be what they’re thinking.
“How did you even know I was leaving?”
Lyney’s eyes cut down to his hand, gripping a crushed rose. “I was paying a visit to an empty room.” Embarrassed, he tries to toss it away, but you take it before he can.
You wordlessly place it in its home: the spot behind your ears. You don’t tell him that the two other roses he gave you serve as bookmarks in the sketchbook you’ve used all up in Fontaine. Where you’ve drawn his face more often than not.
Lyney groans in frustration, his hands curling around your waist. “Is staying so bad?”
“It’s not like I’m leaving forever.”
And then you notice Lyney’s hands. They’re shaking uncontrollably, not unlike how it did during that incident—and with it came the frantic exhales, as if natural human breathing alone is already hard enough for him.
“Oh, Lyney,” you say softly. You drop your bags and embrace him fully.
He doesn’t hesitate in pulling you closer, burying his face on your neck. “Don’t—don’t,” he gasps, “don’t just try to leave like that.”
It’s hard seeing Lyney like this. He’s usually so composed and easy-going. He gulps in a deep breath, and his voice cracks as he calls for you. This must be something out of his control—something deeper than the back of his stage.
“Y/N,” he whispers.
“Lyney,” you call back as gently.
He swallows your surprised noise with his mouth, moving against you like you’re his last meal on Teyvat. He’s still shaking, but it has subsided the longer you stay pressed against each other. You’re not sure if it’s his Pyro vision or if it’s your skin burning at the thought of Lyney’s skin against yours. It’s searing.
This is different from the last kisses you shared.
Passion, you think dizzily, breathless from his hunger. This is passion.
“What was that for?” you ask, embarrassingly winded.
Lyney brushes his thumb over your bottom lip. He looks sad. As though he only comes alive when you’re with him. “A kiss to make up for your absence in the following weeks.”
“I can always come back,” you say. “No, I will come back. I promise. I just need to get home for a bit.”
“Okay.” Lyney nods, exhaling heavily. “Yeah. I know, I understand. Once you come back, come straight to me, alright?”
“Of course.” You lean in to kiss his cheek. You’ve never done it before because it always came off too intimate. And judging by the blush that explodes on his face, he thinks the same.
It all doesn’t matter. The line has been crossed days ago; you’ve just been turning away from seeing it.
He kisses you again. Then again. “Have a safe trip,” he says in between kisses. “I almost wish you commissioned me to escort you, regardless of the price.”
“What, you want 500,00?” The aquabus has arrived; Lyney grips you a little tighter, childishly willing himself not to see it.
“500,000 kisses, and more.” Lyney rests his forehead against yours, his captivating eyes keeping you still, the way it always does. “But you can give me that when you come back.”
( Before they were taken away from the stage for an investigation, Lynette comes up to her brother and asks, “What happened back there, Lyney? I thought you were about to twist your own fingers.”
He is unsure how to tell his sister that he saw your awed expression and nearly lost his wits.
“It was nothing,” Lyney admits, his face growing hot at recalling his slip-up.
It wasn’t out of embarrassment, no—not when the memory of your wide-eyed beaming expression and how his mind blanked along with the skip of his heart plagued his mind.
“It was nothing,” he repeats numbly. It’s not. It was the start of something. )
a/n ok just a quick rant this fic BROKE ME. it was like every other day i hated then loved writing this fic. im not used to writing fics this long so pacing is not my forte </3 but i just feel proud of myself for finishing this so HOPE U LIKED IT. if ure still reading until here ily ❤️
more a/n two lyney fics and two kissing scenes. i can’t even lie to myself. everyone can tell.
more more a/n it was halfway through writing this fic that i rewatched the magic show and only noticed lyneys hands were shaking and i GOT SO SAD OMF 😭😭😭😭
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summary you will not let lyney get to you. unfortunately, lyney already got to you the moment you met eyes. after all, what is a magician if not an expert in stealing hearts?
or, local sumeru architect goes to fontaine looking for inspiration and comes out of it with three rainbow roses and a crushing magician.
warnings 13+, gn!reader, follows the fontaine archon quest, so there are major spoilers throughout the entire fic! MURDER (lyney trial spoilers) + feminine french pet names ough + bff!Aether loml + sweet talker lyney + KISS SCENE (suggestive)
notes 8K words. thank u to my french bff art @aanobrain who said lyney is a magician he would say mon lapin 🤧❤️ + other various french pet names. thank u to ellie hyomagiri & earthtooz too for hyping this up, my supporters…
“500,000!?”
Sumeru streets are always bustling with its people—from children skipping around the neighborhood to frantic scholars who zip back and forth before returning to their homes when the moon is high. However, the sun is beating down on everyone right now: street vendors are making a profit, dogs are barking as they play fetch with laughing children, and you stand across the blond traveler and his floating companion.
You wince at the volume of Paimon’s shrill voice, inciting bypassers to send miffed glances your way. Embarrassed, you cover the side of your face with a hand, whispering, “Is—is that not enough? I can—”
“No, no, it’s not that!” Paimon’s arms flail around, eyes blown comically wide. “It’s just, you know, more than what we earn from our daily commissions combined!”
“Oh, I see.” you nod, relieved. “Well, I can lower—”
“No, no, no, no,” Paimon interjects hurriedly, and even the traveler shakes his head. “Pleasure to do business with you! Paimon and Aether, at your service!”
“Really?” you can’t believe your luck—the traveler himself agreed to escort you to Fontaine! Or does it count if Paimon agrees on his behalf? “That's a relief. Even Katheryne of the guild had a strange expression when I posted my commission.”
“It’s probably because of the amount of zeroes you might’ve accidentally put,” Paimon murmurs.
Aether tugs on her foot as if warning her. “We'll be leaving soon. Are you prepared?”
“Oh, yes. My stuff’s over there by the bench, you see?”
Aether and Paimon’s faces simultaneously fall. “All of that?” Paimon starts counting it, gaping when she has four little fingers held up.
They sure complain a lot. “You can still back out.”
Aether takes a deep breath, making his way over to your luggage. When he brushes past, you hear him chanting 500,000; 500,000; 500,000 under his breath. He wordlessly carries all of them, his chest puffed and expression grave.
“They’re heavier than I thought,” Aether wheezes out as Paimon flits worriedly around him. “How long are you going to be staying in Fontaine?”
“Oh, just a day or two, maybe,” you say, taking pity and taking one bag from him. “Most of what’s inside are art supplies.”
“Ah,” Aether says.
“500,000,” Paimon reminds him.
“We’re close,” Paimon says, flying back to where you and Aether are still walking behind, him heaving and you offering water now and then. “I saw a huge ravine-looking view! It was like a city on a waterfall!”
“R-Really?” Aether puffs out a breath, sweat rolling off his temple.
You tried prying some of your bags away from him when it seemed like there were monsters up ahead, but he refused instead to fight them with one hand on his sword. He still won. You guessed that he was trying to make traveling easier for you, yet all you felt was immense worry.
“Are you feeling okay, Y/N?” Paimon asks, floating beside you. “You look unwell.” You should ask your companion that, instead.
“I’m a bit nervous. After all, it’s my first time traveling outside of Sumeru.” You smile, patting her head. She doesn’t seem to mind, beaming back. “But I need to get out of my comfort zone to be better, right?”
“That's right! Paimon has a feeling you’ll enjoy Fontaine!” You and Paimon glance at Aether when he heaves a heavy breath, yet he only waves the pair of you off with his free hand. “Before you know it, you’ll be itching to travel again once you’re back in Sumeru.”
“I'm only there for work. I just need to learn a lot, and then I'll enjoy it.”
“Still a student through and through, huh…”
“I can see it,” Aether chimes in, looking all too relieved to rest his arm finally. “I can see Fontaine up ahead.”
You feel the cool breeze brush against your face, a refreshing change from the past hours you and the other two have been trudging through the desert. You could strip off layers and dive if you could. You can make out the harbor even miles away, pouring water out like an endless waterfall stretching for miles.
Arriving in Fontaine is introducing yourself to the rustle of layered skirts, the water-kissed smell, and citizens left and right babbling about tragic endings and thrilling climaxes.
Aether sets your bags on the floor with a heavy exhale. Paimon feeds him with another jug of water.
“I guess we’re here now.” You pull out a heavy pouch you’ve been keeping in one of the bags Aether had been holding over his shoulder. Paimon takes it with greedy, greedy hands. “Thank you for keeping me safe and carrying my luggage, Traveler— are you even listening to me?”
“There’s a girl over there,” Aether says, now staring ahead.
You and Paimon turn to look; sure enough, someone is standing by the edge, looking forlornly over the water. Half of her foot is off the platform, making Paimon fidget.
She gasps. “She isn’t going to jump into the water, is she? Maybe we should go check on her…”
Halfway through Paimon’s sentence, you gathered the courage to speak to the girl with the cat ears.
“Hey, miss.” Her ear twitches. “Is something the matter?”
She turns, looking faintly surprised. If you weren’t so close to her, you wouldn’t have been able to tell there was a change in her expression. “I'm fine. thank you.”
“Oh.” Now things are a little awkward. “Is there something in the water you’re looking at? You might slip if you keep tipping forward.”
She peers below, unworried—silent.
“As long as you’re okay, I guess,” you sigh, awkwardly hovering above her shoulder when realizing it might come off strange if you touch her. “I’ll leave you be.”
Her lips twitch, something close to a smile. You don’t stick long enough to admire it, heading back to Aether and Paimon and shrugging at their inquisitive looks. “She says she’s fine.”
“I think it’s time for me to separate,” you say. “I want to take all of it in as much as possible. Paimon has my payment. Thank you both so much for keeping me safe.” Mostly Aether, though. But Paimon was there, emotionally.
“It’s no problem,” Aether says, his smile warmer than when you first met him. “Stay safe out there. You can look for us if you need anything else.”
“I don’t always pay 500,000 for each of my commissions.”
Paimon wilts. Aether flushes, stammering, “Not what I meant.” You laugh heartily as they wave when you walk off to the aquabus, hopefully, prepared for what Fontaine will give you.
Your sketchbook is a page away from completion when you hear about a magic show at the Opera House. Not that it was hard to miss—everyone and their grandmothers were prattling about nothing else but the entire day.
Fontaine is known for its love for dramatics, but the twins they keep mentioning must be a one-of-a-kind spectacle to have half their region’s population speak about them so reverently.
After wandering for hours, taking in the endless sights of fresh water streaming and grand castle-like modern buildings, you find yourself in the Fountain of Lucine. You’ve heard of Fontaine being somewhat titled the ‘City of Love,’ but seeing couples surrounding each nook and cranny of the tourist spots was still astonishing.
(You console yourself by thinking that there’s something romantic in sketching frantically while the rest of the crowd are sucking faces.)
To your luck, you spot three familiar heads in the fountain plaza.
Aether senses you before you can even say anything, glancing to the side and smiling when you wave at him.
Paimon flutters excitedly. “Y/N! We didn’t think we’d see you again this early. You look like you’re glowing.”
“Was it that obvious?” you laugh sheepishly. “Fontaine is beautiful; I couldn’t even stick too long in one place before I see something else that catches my attention.” You look to the girl you met earlier, who nods politely. “Hello. Are you three acquainted now?”
“Mhm!” Paimon says, hands on her hips. “This is Lynette! She’s inviting us to the show they’re holding here!” She gasps, “Speaking of—”
“Ah,” Lynette says quietly, “I couldn’t get an extra ticket. I’m sorry.”
Lynette is the magician you keep hearing about? With her seemingly reserved personality, you wouldn’t have guessed it. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Paimon,” Aether speaks up. “They gave you your ticket, right? Why don’t you just float next to me or sit on my lap?”
Paimon’s eyes sparkle. “Great idea! That way, I can give my seat to Y/N, right?”
“You guys…” Your chest feels warm as Aether hands you one of the two tickets in his hand. “You really didn’t have to.” Is this what 500,00 gets you? The loyal companionship of Aether and Paimon?
“It’s a good idea,” Lynette says. “My brother wouldn’t want you to miss the show. He’d be devastated.”
“If you insist, then I suppose I can’t refuse.” Aether and Paimon do a cute little cheer. “But I need to return to the hotel; I can’t be watching a magic show carrying all these.” Surely Aether can understand.
Later, with your hands finally empty and charcoal-free, you rush back to the Opera Epiclese, the person standing guard kind enough to open the doors despite being a minute late.
“Welcome, one and all, to the Opera Epiclese!” The audience roars with cheers as the spotlight illuminates a figure on the center of the stage. You hurry to your seats, brushing past Aether and Paimon. “I am the star of today’s show, Lyney.”
Lyney bows, then stands upright with a Cheshire cat grin.
The thunder of the crowd’s applause is deafening. If you weren’t able to see it, you’d think that you hadn’t been clapping at all—senses numbed and your fixed stare all on the boy on the stage.
Your eyes catch on the small braid on the side of his head before the gleam of his eyes hypnotizes you.
He’s handsome, you think dizzily at the back of your head.
“Don’t blink,” he says, his voice lower as if meant to be a whisper, “or else you might miss it.”
The show proceeds. A dove soars away from inside as he flips his hat; you flush at hearing the soft laughter that slips from him after. The cards that materialize out of nowhere descend to the floor. His fingers shuffle the cards while talking to keep the audience satiated; they fly off his hands, yet he doesn’t lose focus, stretching them mid-air with a sleight of hand. They fall apart and come together neatly and precisely.
His stage presence is demanding. It would be as if Lady Furina herself would accuse you of committing a crime if you were to look away for even a second.
Then, when he scans the crowd, busy twirling his cards in his fingers, his gaze catches your awed ones.
Something in the air shifts. Or maybe it’s that it slows.
A card slips from his grasp. A mistake. He blinks and breaks eye contact, laughing heartily to play it off. But you don’t believe it—not when you swore your limbs locked in place as well when lilac drilled into your soul.
You breathe, hands bracing against your chest. What was that?
You would’ve played it off as something you imagined if not for Lyney continuing to glance at you occasionally. His slip-up had been forgotten, as though it was all part of the show.
(Is it also part of the show when it seems he’s unable to tear his eyes off of you?)
Of course, the twins prove their worth. They showed you exactly why the people of Fontaine adore watching them through theatrical magic, cards in their sleeves, and defying logic.
You’ve shuffled to the edge of your seat as Lynette disperses into bubbles and comes back alive. You’ve held your breath as Lyney emerges from the box across he was in a moment earlier.
You’ve also been witness to the murder of Cowell.
CRASH.
The shatter of glass resounded along with the horrified gasps of the audience. Sickeningly enough, you could almost hear the crack of bones if you hadn’t been crying out in alarm. Yet, as they gape and shriek over the sight of a limp arm popping out, you find your gaze tracing back to Lyney, who stands motionless in front of the box.
When Lady Furina points fingers and has everyone siding against him, the guards escort the audience from the Opera House. All evidence presented left Lyney in a spotlight unlike his performance: with a disgusted and unamused crowd. Even you have to agree that it isn’t looking well for his case at all.
Yet all you can think of as you leave the room is that Lyney looked as terrified as everyone else was—much too raw of an expression for someone to accuse him of anything at all. He looked young and scared.
(His hands were shaking.)
The rest of your Fontaine trip is admittedly duller when you’re a little more familiar with its city and don’t have a yapping little fairy and a capable Traveler by your side. It’s hard not to hear chatter about the events that went down: Lyney’s trial, Aether volunteering to be his lawyer, and the truth behind the real murderer.
It solved a case beyond the murder of Cowell. Fontaine sure has its mysteries, and the crowd sure loves them as they would a magic show.
You keep your hands busy. Last night, you found yourself thinking back to the magic show, to deft fingers weaving through cards, to violet eyes that kept on flickering to you. By the time you snap back to reality, you’ve subconsciously drawn shapes and lines that suspiciously look like the magician himself: the curve of a smile, piercing eyes, and you entranced by it all.
Flustered, you crumple his face staring back at you out of sight. Yet you can’t bring yourself to throw it away.
You shove the last bit of garlic baguette in your mouth to furiously bat these unwanted thoughts away.
“Isn’t that Y/N?” Paimon’s voice is unmistakable, a short distance off.
You jump out of your skin, spinning to see Aether and Paimon waving and walking over to you. You thought they'd already left Fontaine after that; you wouldn’t blame them if they did.
“Y/N! We haven’t seen you since the Opera House performance,” Paimon exclaims, twirling around your head like a thrilled fly circling a trash can.
You hold onto her back, hoping she’ll stop making you dizzy. “We were escorted out before I could say goodbye. I couldn’t watch the court trial but heard it all turned out fine.”
“That’s right!” Paimon nods proudly. “Paimon helped a ton during it; you should’ve seen it! What have you been doing?”
“I found a fellow architect while visiting the cafe nearby, and we chatted for hours,” you say, remembering that your voice is hoarse for that reason. You also don’t tell them you couldn’t get a certain magician off your mind. “I learned a lot. I don’t regret coming here one bit.”
Paimon says something else that you’re sure you’ve nodded absentmindedly at while your gaze wanders over to the two familiar people a few feet behind, watching you three with cat-like eyes—and it’s not just because of Lynette’s unique features.
“Those are the magicians, right?” you gesture behind Paimon and Aether as if you haven’t already familiarized yourself with their faces.
Paimon nods. “Uh-huh. You should introduce yourself! They look like they want to talk.”
Something about that feels foreboding. “Um, no, it’s fine. I don’t want to be rude and interrupt your conversation.”
“No,” Aether says firmly. He seldom speaks; you might as well play along if he says so. “Besides, Paimon is right. Lyney wants to talk to you, you know?”
“Oh, yeah! He kept mentioning seeing someone sitting beside us! And it couldn’t have been Neuvillette because he said it was an unfamiliar beauty that bewitched this weak magician’s heart.” Paimon nods, even recalling how he’s enunciated each syllable theatrically.
“I’m sorry?” you blurt. “Lyney recognizes me? What did I do?”
“Paimon thinks it’s because Lyney is curious about who Lynette met! He was like that with us, too.” Paimon changes her pitch to match Lyney’s. “Are these your friends, Lynette?”
Aether’s eyes feel like they know something you don’t. “It won’t hurt to strike up a conversation with Lyney. He’s been shaken up since the trial.”
There’s something unspoken hidden in his words. “What does that mean?”
Paimon doesn’t wait for an answer, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you to where the twins are waiting. Aether chuckles as he jogs behind.
“Paimon, Aether,” Lyney says, almost sly, “You haven’t introduced us to your friend here.”
“Paimon can do it!” She floats on top of your head and does a bit of jazz hands. “This is Y/N, the one who commissioned us to escort them from Sumeru up to Fontaine.”
“Generously,” Aether adds.
It’s a little embarrassing to have the legendary Traveler and Paimon introduce little old you to a famous magician such as himself, but his grin is still excited.
“From Sumeru?” Lyney repeats, smiling wider when you nod—as if that crumb of attention is enough for him. “I see.”
He performs a bow around the same height as where your hands rest; he takes one, kisses the back of your palm, and smiles against your skin. “I’m Lyney, and she is my sister, Lynette.”
“It’s nice to see you again.” You smile at Lynette, who nods in return. Lyney straightens to look at his sister.
“We met when the Traveler and Paimon just arrived at the harbor,” Lynette sighs even without looking at her brother.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say, meeting Lyney’s eyes. The spot where he kissed is still warm—tingling. “Your show was incredible, despite what happened. I’m glad that the truth revealed itself.”
“Thank you.” Lyney’s gaze sharpens. “I saw you at the performance, yes. I was worried for a second you might steal the show if you were to come up on stage.”
You blink. “Are you saying—”
Lyney grins, “I apologize that the night had to end that way; it must’ve been horrifying. Say, what if I give you a little show right now to make it up to you?” Did he make it up to each one of his audience, too?
This is not a man acting “shaken up,” as Aether put it.
“You really don’t have to.” You glance at Aether and Paimon, silently asking for help; however, they’re too far gone, urging you to say yes with gestures and encouraging nods.
Lyney tilts his head, demanding your attention on him once more.
You sigh. “I would love to see it if you don’t mind.”
“Of course!” Lyney looks like he’s the sun bursting personified. “It would be a pleasure, ma chérie. Not to worry, it’s nothing life-threatening. I just need you to focus on me.”
Not that it’s hard. The others have become a dull buzz in your mind as Lyney holds your gaze. “Okay.”
Lyney smiles, much softer, satisfied. “Good. Now,” he tips his hat, “recently, I’ve received a little lesson from someone about the language of flowers. Are you familiar with them?”
“Not in Fontaine, no,” you mumble, watching his hands closely. You were expecting a rabbit to hop out of that hat any second now.
“Shame. But I suppose I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun.” Lyney snaps his finger, then deposits his hand inside his hat. “Hmm… Oh? Something’s not quite right. Would you mind looking into this hat for me to see if the flower is here?”
You hesitate. The hat is so close to him.
Swallowing, you nod, leaning in to inspect his hat at a careful pace. All you can sense is the faint scent of heat Lyney is emanating, the breath you two share, and the pounding of your chest. You swear you could also hear his, matching yours.
“The hat’s empty.”
Lyney smiles wider. “Yes, perhaps because you already have it.”
You jump back in surprise, your hands patting your body to see where he could have snuck the flower in. With your frantic movement, the flower falls off from what seems to have come from your head—Lyney catches it.
His mouth carves into a smirk, leaning to invade your personal space, his free hand coming up to tuck hair behind your ear. “Careful.”
Your face is burning. Plucking the flower out, the delicate and tender pink sears into your palm. “What does this flower mean?”
“What does it, I wonder?” Lyney whispers thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ll have to tell me once you find out.”
And when he inclines backward, it feels like you can breathe again. Time flows normally, and the people passing by seem much louder than before—as though you’ve surfaced from underwater.
Lyney clears his throat. “Shame I haven’t prepared myself a grand show for you, but I suppose that would call for another time, wouldn’t it?”
Lynette is looking at Lyney as if he is stupidly amusing.
“Thank you,” you say, burning, burning. “For the show, I mean.”
“That was a little weird,” Paimon whispers to Aether, but she is terrible with keeping volume and has everyone turning to her with varying expressions. “P-Paimon means that was good! Wow, Lyney! Isn’t that a different flower you gave us? That’s the flower Charlotte was talking about, right?”
“Rainbow rose?” Aether supplies.
“Yes! It means—”
“Ahem.” Lyney is quick to interrupt. “Lynette and I must take our leave now, if you don’t mind. It was fun catching up with you two.” You have to hold your ground and not look away when he hones in on your figure. “And it’s a pleasure meeting you. Don’t be a stranger. Look for me if you want more.”
His smile is a little devilish, you now realize.
“Bye,” Lynette says blankly, following after her brother, who seemed to be hurrying to exit.
His ears were red.
“You’re still staring.”
“I am not,” you rebuke hotly, flailing to cover Aether’s mouth with your hands. Yet all it does is bring your attention back to where Paimon and Aether are staring—the rainbow rose on your person.
Paimon and Aether yelp when you drag them away despite Lyney having already left the scene.
“Hey—! Don’t just go dragging Paimon around like a balloon like that! Did Lyney get to your head that much?”
“He did not.”
Paimon tilts her head, frowning. You shy away from her worried gaze, glaring at the flower instead. You still don’t know how Lyney managed to get it there; you hold it to your chest, where your heart is racing miles per minute because of his stupidly smug smile.
“What does this flower mean, Paimon?”
Paimon seems elated to be of help. “Easy! Charlotte told us that Rainbow Roses mean ‘passion’ and most notably ‘romantic encounters’!”
“Passion,” you curse. The rose seems as if it is staring back innocently, unknowing of the turmoil you’re going through because of it. “Romantic encounters.’ ugh.”
You can still remember how Lyney’s eyes twinkled as you felt his breath against your face.
“Ooh, he thinks he can trick me. He thinks he can affect me just because it pleases him to do so. I’ll show him. I’ll show him! I am not a blushing maiden!”
“You’re already very affected by this,” Paimon says, yet it’s lost by your newfound determination. Two can play at this game.
You’ve definitely been staying in Fontaine longer than what you told Aether and Paimon, but you can’t leave yet. Not when you found yourself walking to a flower shop to purchase a vase, fiercely digging through soil, turning gentle when your fingers reach for the Rainbow Rose. Not when you see it in the corner of your eyes as you try to sleep, and you find yourself daydreaming about a charming violet-eyed virtuoso.
It’s for research, you excused lamely at the hotelkeeper who didn’t ask why you’re extending your stay. In truth, not that you’d tell anyone. It was because you were hoping for another grand show from him. A farewell show for you—closure.
If you were to travel back home and get too drunk to think straight, Kaveh would learn about your crisis (romantic awakening?) and laugh at your face.
In hopes of looking for your Fontaine architect friend, you spot Lyney instead, on the side of the street surrounded by cheering kids. They clap and jump, and Lyney laughs. “One more, one more!”
“Again?” Lyney does an exaggerated sigh. “I’m starting to run out of cards in my sleeves. I’ve guessed my entire deck from your hands by this point!”
“But, Mr. Magician,” one of them whines, pouting up at him and blinking, “we want to see more! We want to know how you do it!”
“Alright, how about this, hm?” And then Lyney peers right at you. Ironically, you’re the one startled when you’ve been watching that entire spiel, and he hasn’t acknowledged your presence beforehand. “Y/N, would you mind giving these children a little show with me?” He gestures for you to come closer.
“What show?” you ask suspiciously, taking slow steps in case he pulls out another flower out of nowhere.
“You don’t have to worry,” Lyney laughs. “Will you be my assistant for this show? You are very familiar with this trick.”
“Please, we want to see!”
You falter at the little kids’ excited grins, especially when paired with Lyney’s pout and round eyes. “Okay, tell me what to do.”
His eyes do the little gleam again. “Stand in front of me, mon lapin.”
Your heart is skipping beat after beat, making itself known as you shuffle until Lyney is directly behind you.
“Relax, chérie, you just need to stand still.” It’s a little hard to relax when you feel his breath against the back of your neck, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting that, so you keep your chin high and relax your shoulders. “Good.”
He begins to speak louder to his awaiting audience. “I know it’s hard to keep your eyes off this beauty before me, but watch the hat for a surprise, alright?”
He flips it for his little audience, one hand resting on your waist and the other extended to hold his top hat. The proximity is almost suffocating. You watch with bated breath, and they complain about it being empty.
“Oh, is it?” Lyney hums, twirling the hat until it’s flipped upside down, presented right before you. “Perhaps I need my assistant’s help.” You snap out of your daze when you realize he’s talking to you. “Y/N, do me a favor and show them the flower inside.”
You reach inside the hat and, much to your surprise, feel a stem. You pull it out; the Rainbow Rose stares back at you, almost mocking you, saying he did pull out a flower out of nowhere. It's this trick again.
The kids gasp in awe and confusion—it’s all the same for Lyney, who snaps his fingers and creates magic like he was made to. Like magic was for him to summon with his hands.
“What? It was empty!”
“Where did that come from? I was watching Mister Magician’s hands the whole time!”
“Are you a magician, too?”
“No,” you say lamely, holding the rose, feeling Lyney still patiently standing behind you. Heat crawls up your neck. “No, I’m not. It’s all Lyney.”
“It’s all me,” Lyney echoes in amusement. “You’re quite magical yourself.” Finally, he spares you, pulling away to stand beside your figure. He doesn’t take the rose back—maybe even give it to one of the children. He knows exactly what he’s doing. “That’s enough for today. The sun is setting, and your parents might get worried.”
They pout and slump their shoulders, but Lyney has this older brother's sternness to him that has the children scurrying back home anyway.
You then realize having to stand in front of Lyney was unnecessary.
The flower is warm. Lyney’s eyes slip to yours.
“I didn’t even have to stand in front of you like that,” you complain, heart inclined to race off your body.
“Yes, but I feared that I would slip up again if I were to catch a glimpse of your face,” Lyney admits smoothly. His lips curl into a smirk when you stare wordlessly. “What? Don’t believe me? I had to improvise when I saw you watching from afar.”
“A great magician such as yourself? Making a mistake? I doubt it.”
“You already have such high expectations placed on me, chérie,” Lyney says, his smile easy, but his ears are a little red, poking out from his hair. “That’s no good. With no audience, I’m just plain ‘Lyney’ to you.”
“No trickery? No cards up your sleeves?” you play along.
Lyney doesn’t miss a beat. “No, though I do have a few more roses begging to be held by your hands.”
“They can keep begging.” Lyney grins wider when you glance down at his hands. “Do you give them off to everyone you meet?”
“Who do you take me for?” Lyney isn’t offended; he laughs, delighted. He is preening under the sunset—or maybe it’s your attention. “Of course not. At least, not like this.”
You stare, unimpressed. “Sure.”
“So cold, chérie,” Lyney sighs, plucking the stem from your fingers to slot it behind your ear. It seems he likes doing that. “Here I am, trying to get you to warm up to me, and you treat me like this.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll be going back home soon anyway.”
Lyney’s expression shifts into something more unrecognizable, his eyes dipping down to somewhere below your nose. “Oh. Avoiding attachment?”
You nod.
He grins, and he’s still so close. He knows how to entrance his audience, pulling you in until you forget to resist. Always watch the hands; yet Lyney could be digging a dagger to your side at this moment, and you wouldn’t even notice.
“I’m flattered you even want to avoid me because you know you’d get attached,” he purrs, tilting his head. Is Lyney just big on personal space?
“Don’t assume,” you retort. “I know how guys like you think. Even a magician as great as yourself can’t trick someone who’s already seen through it.”
“It would be easier if it were just a trick, wouldn’t it?” Lyney sighs, much to your confusion. “I take it that someone has told you what this flower means?”
You’ve nearly forgotten all about it. “Yes.” You find yourself unable to look directly into his eyes. “I know.”
But even with that, you can still feel his heavy gaze, pinning you down and threatening the strength of your knees. You suppose it comes with being a performer—watching his audience carefully, pinpointing each micro expression to say the right words.
“There doesn’t have to be any attachments.”
“What are you trying to say right now?”
Lyney’s reaches for your hip, sharing your gaze like he doesn’t know how to do anything else. “That you enamor me. That I am holding back from wanting you. I know you feel the same—you can never hide anything from a magician. But if you’re concerned,” he mumbles, “then this doesn’t have to mean anything. You may call it infatuation.”
You want to laugh. Or maybe you want to cry. Most of all, you want to nod helplessly, wrap your arms around his neck, and give in. It’s hard not to when he looks at you like that. “You want me that bad?”
“I almost want to disagree.”
“Almost?” Lyney gets closer, and you stop him with a palm on his chest. “We’re outside.”
Lyney grins. “Have you forgotten what Fontaine is also known for? No one would bat an eye. Love is in the air, and all that.”
“Absolutely not.”
“So still you’re letting me?”
You laugh this time. Letting him, as if you aren’t the one itching to pull him close and find out what he’s like behind the curtains. “Are you asking me as plain old ‘Lyney?’”
Lyney brightens, clearly pleased there wasn’t a ‘no’. “Yes.”
“No tricks?”
“No tricks. No strings.”
You let him lead you away into some dark alleyway. He kisses you like he was longing to do so all his life. You have only met him that fateful day, not even a week ago. But you claw at him like you get it—like he’s ruined you for anyone else the moment you shared gazes in the Opera House.
Romantic encounters, you quietly recall as Lyney swipes a thumb over your aching bottom lip.
You don’t see Lyney the day after that. And for some reason, it makes the itch worse. (Perhaps it’s because you’ve gotten a taste and can’t get enough.)
It’s mostly your fault, the sudden disappearance—you’ve cooped yourself up in the hotel room, buried your face in pillows, and screamed. You berate yourself for giving in, but another part of you—one that’s louder than any other thought in your head—wants to do it again. Wants to hold his handsome face in your hands and have him kiss you breathless. That was nothing like you had ever felt before.
You groan. It’s another new day. You might as well make some progress with your portfolio.
There’s a Café you’ve been visiting more often than not. Ordering a drink and spending a good chunk of your day sketching the view. Instead, you find yourself staring at Aether, Paimon, and Lynette seated at one of the tables.
Lynette’s eyes flick up to yours as she sips tea. She murmurs something to the other two, and you watch with amusement as Aether and Paimon’s heads snap to face you.
You let your gaze wander, eventually landing on Lyney, who is reciting his order with his charming-act-on smile, who is present because of course he is. You want to turn and run away, but that’d be letting Lyney win, and you’re nothing if not stubborn and prideful.
“Y/N!” Paimon greets once you’re within earshot, kicking her feet happily. “Good morning! What are you doing here?”
“Breakfast,” you reply, waving at them. Aether pulls a chair from the other table and gestures for you to sit. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Nope!” Paimon swipes a fork from the table and digs in on the Ile Flottante, leaving nothing for Aether. “Lynette and Lyney told us about another show they’re holding to make up for the previous one.”
“Mouth full,” Aether reminds her, a little too late as the Ile Flottante spews from her mouth.
“Really now? Maybe I can pay properly for a ticket this time,” you laugh, nodding at Lynette. She smiles faintly, hiding it behind the rim of her cup. Lynette sure is the polar opposite of her twin brother.
A shadow looms from behind, the silhouette of a figure with an unmistakable top hat. You tilt your chin and see Lyney peering down at you with a sweet smile. You will yourself to keep your gaze focused on his eyes only and nowhere else below the nose.
Speak of the devil…
“Sweetheart,” Lyney says instead of exchanging pleasantries like a normal person.
“Lyney,” you reply in kind. Then you look away upon realizing that Aether, Paimon, and Lynette had been silently watching the exchange with muted, stunned expressions.
Lyney, holding a tray of drinks and food in both hands, scoots the chair next to yours with his ankle. “I wasn’t informed that Y/N would be joining us,” he says, setting the drinks and plates down like a waiter with a flourish. “You can drink mine. Let me order another.”
You hold onto his wrist as he makes his way back. He turns to you, surprised. “Let me at least pay for my own breakfast.”
Lyney grins, delicately withdrawing from your grip. He places a loud kiss on your hand. “Don’t worry about it.” And then leaves, because he can’t take no for an answer.
“Is it just me,” Paimon starts as you resign yourself to finishing Lyney’s drink (It’s your favorite, the one you always order), “or is Lyney acting weird around Y/N?”
Aether laughs. “There's definitely something going on. Don’t end up staying too long in Fontaine, now. What was it you told us? ‘A day or two’.”
You huff, your face turning unbearably warm. “Shut up, you two. I am here to do research, not to find a summer fling.” You’ve already failed, but they don’t need to know about that.
If you were to touch your lips with your fingers, you’d think of no one else but Lyney’s hands on your hips and his mouth swallowing your words.
Lynette clears her throat, a quiet but noticeable thing. “Don’t be fooled by my brother, Y/N.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m still keeping my safe distance.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not what I mean. Don’t be fooled by my brother.” She stares at you from the rim of her cup—something about that has you listening obediently. “No matter what he tells you, he always cares too much. No matter what you may think, he always gets hurt first.”
“That’s not…” You can’t imagine that. From the start, it’s always felt like he was the one who could do what he wanted.
No tricks.
Lynette is his twin, after all. She knows him best.
No strings.
Defeated, you sip on the straw with the same fervor of an aggravated hilichurl, and that’s the end of that.
Conversations during breakfast are much lighter when Lyney returns with a full meal as his treat. Celebration, he says. Celebration for what? Who knows? Lyney winked, but his glance directed to you said enough.
“You say that you don’t want to get attached, but you’re awfully close to the Traveler, of all people,” Lyney says offhandedly once the others have left for their own matters.
You lean against your seat, grinning. “Are you jealous?”
He doesn’t say anything, instead upturning his nose as if scrambling to regain control. You laugh, oddly endeared. Lyney turns his head away, trying to hide the smile that curls his lips upon hearing it.
“Hey,” Lyney says seriously, reaching for your hand. “Where have you been yesterday?”
“Why? Missed me?”
And because he’s Lyney, he takes his time kissing each of your knuckles. It’s more intimate than the whole ‘no strings’ arrangement you agreed on, but you suppose Lyney thinks that any physical attention is free reign. “What would you do if I said yes?”
“You’ll be fine,” you say slyly. “You’ll have to get used to it if you want to risk your heart just to get laid.”
He rolls his eyes, tugging you closer. “I’m not risking anything to get laid. Do you think so lowly of yourself, chérie?”
“Isn’t this all there is to it? Physical attraction,” you ask, genuinely confused.
Lyney blinks. “Of course, but—” His eyes flicker down, and his words trail off.
When you speak, you feel your breath bounce back from his skin—a testament to your proximity. “Lyney,” you whisper. For what? Urging him to continue? Urging him to close this distance? You’re not sure, either.
You have so much to ask. What do you mean? Why can’t you finish your sentence? Why don’t you just kiss me already? But it’s hard to speak; Lyney’s name is all you can think of.
You whisper his name again. His grip on your hands tightens and loosens, a frustrated frown creeping up his brows.
Your hand shoots out to reach for the back of his head and give in. He flinches for a second before relaxing completely.
His lips almost taste sweeter than his words. Almost as sweet as how he finds purchase on your waist and holds your chin during every kiss.
You pull away to breathe, missing how he leans closer to chase after you and pouting when he can’t. “Yeah. That—That didn’t have to mean anything. I just wanted to know what it felt like again.”
“Yeah.” Lyney licks his lips, his gaze unable to tear away from where yours are swollen. “Yeah, I know. You taste like my drink.”
Really, no one’s surprised you gravitate towards each other again, feeling like you’re soaring and melting into a puddle at the same time. Lyney doesn’t touch you where you both know would cross the line, but he grips near possessively to what he can, as if breathing you in and worshipping your skin.
You know after this, he’d go back on stage, fooling his audience with what’s invisible to the average eye, as if this never happened. You know this because this is your deal: satiate the feverish attraction you have with each other and leave once you’re satisfied. (But you also know that you’ll be thinking of his touch and his lips while you stare at the vase beside your bed.)
Lyney is a magician, first and foremost.
He hooks you in, and keeps all your attention to himself like he’d die without it. Then he disappears with a snap of a finger. He’s finished his trick, leaving you befuddled in your seat with more questions than answers.
As you drift off to sleep, all you can think of is that there are two roses now.
“Brother.”
Lyney looks up from where he’d been entertaining Rosseland, seeing Lynette with a stern face. “What? What happened?”
Her tail flicks. “You said you weren’t going to get attached.”
Lyney exhales softly, his eyes slipping shut. “I’m not.”
Lynette finds herself smiling softly. “I may just be your assistant, but you can’t lie to your own twin.”
He buries his face in his hands. With his sight gone, images of your face while whispering his name flash in his mind. His eyes fly open, mortified, his whole face red. “I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t think it’d be deeper than that.”
He was the magician in this, but it felt as if you were the one who tricked him instead.
It’s been two weeks since you first arrived in Fontaine. By this point, you’ve grown more familiar with its views than your own city. Having Aether, Paimon, Lynette, and even Freminet around doesn't make it any easier for you to feel at home.
And then there’s the Lyney Situation. You meet up most nights, more than that when he’s free from shows. He keeps seeking you out, and you keep letting him in. There was one night where Lyney spent the night instead of heading straight to the door—and those nights turned into two, then three, and then he finds any excuse to keep doing it.
It’s not like you could stop. He told you look for me if you want more, and you always want more, because how could you not? Lyney treats you like he’s never had to take care of anything more precious but still manages to render you breathless like you’ve never experienced thrill the way he gives it to you before.
But you still have to go back home. And Lyney still has his own life, has his secrets. He feels untouchable even when your arms are wrapped around his neck.
No strings attached can still work for summer flings, doesn’t it? And what are summer flings, if not just that?
Lyney hovers above with his hands caging your face. He’s grinning so wide—and you’ve seen all kinds of smiles on him with your time spent together, but it was never this genuine.
“You’re bad for me.” He says it like a confession, a prayer.
You raise an eyebrow. “What did I do to you?”
His hand trails down until he’s rubbing shapes on your hips. “Make me feel like I’m myself whenever I’m with you.”
At your silence, Lyney clears his throat. “But it’s not like that, don’t worry. I just mean—”
And how does that even make sense? He pours his heart, then later reveals it’s nothing but a decoy to keep this facade realistic.
“Oh,” you say.
That was the final act you’d been waiting for. The final trick—the farewell show.
And so you pack your bags—shoved your sketchbook back inside, face forward, and promise not to look back. Leaving Sumeru hasn’t even been this hard.
Aether and Paimon shouldn’t be surprised if they find you missing; they’d been the first to know that your stay in Fontaine isn’t meant to last forever. And you’ve warned Lyney about this. Avoiding attachments? It felt more like running away from your problem.
Lyney is a busy man on his own; you’re nothing but some architect from a different region who happened to get caught up with him at the right time.
You sigh and call for the aquabus.
A hand clasps around your wrist, pulling you to collide against a familiar chest. Lyney’s eyes are wide, almost insane. Sweat clings to his forehead, and his breath comes in frantic pants.
“W-What—”
Lyney’s eyes search your face. Or maybe it’s him trying to convince himself that you’re right there, in front of him. “You didn’t even tell me.”
“I—I’m sorry—”
“Were you just going to leave like that? Don’t you think I at least deserve a farewell?”
“Lyney, I’m sorry. I know, that was stupid.” You haven’t seen him with an expression like this before—so raw and broken, begging to be glued together with your hands. “I didn’t want to formally say goodbye because I knew I'd want to stay.”
“That’s stupid,” he repeats in agreement.
You breathe shakily, eyes scanning the stunned crowd. What’s The Great Magician Lyney doing here? Holding some stranger in his arms? That must be what they’re thinking.
“How did you even know I was leaving?”
Lyney’s eyes cut down to his hand, gripping a crushed rose. “I was paying a visit to an empty room.” Embarrassed, he tries to toss it away, but you take it before he can.
You wordlessly place it in its home: the spot behind your ears. You don’t tell him that the two other roses he gave you serve as bookmarks in the sketchbook you’ve used all up in Fontaine. Where you’ve drawn his face more often than not.
Lyney groans in frustration, his hands curling around your waist. “Is staying so bad?”
“It’s not like I’m leaving forever.”
And then you notice Lyney’s hands. They’re shaking uncontrollably, not unlike how it did during that incident—and with it came the frantic exhales, as if natural human breathing alone is already hard enough for him.
“Oh, Lyney,” you say softly. You drop your bags and embrace him fully.
He doesn’t hesitate in pulling you closer, burying his face on your neck. “Don’t—don’t,” he gasps, “don’t just try to leave like that.”
It’s hard seeing Lyney like this. He’s usually so composed and easy-going. He gulps in a deep breath, and his voice cracks as he calls for you. This must be something out of his control—something deeper than the back of his stage.
“Y/N,” he whispers.
“Lyney,” you call back as gently.
He swallows your surprised noise with his mouth, moving against you like you’re his last meal on Teyvat. He’s still shaking, but it has subsided the longer you stay pressed against each other. You’re not sure if it’s his Pyro vision or if it’s your skin burning at the thought of Lyney’s skin against yours. It’s searing.
This is different from the last kisses you shared.
Passion, you think dizzily, breathless from his hunger. This is passion.
“What was that for?” you ask, embarrassingly winded.
Lyney brushes his thumb over your bottom lip. He looks sad. As though he only comes alive when you’re with him. “A kiss to make up for your absence in the following weeks.”
“I can always come back,” you say. “No, I will come back. I promise. I just need to get home for a bit.”
“Okay.” Lyney nods, exhaling heavily. “Yeah. I know, I understand. Once you come back, come straight to me, alright?”
“Of course.” You lean in to kiss his cheek. You’ve never done it before because it always came off too intimate. And judging by the blush that explodes on his face, he thinks the same.
It all doesn’t matter. The line has been crossed days ago; you’ve just been turning away from seeing it.
He kisses you again. Then again. “Have a safe trip,” he says in between kisses. “I almost wish you commissioned me to escort you, regardless of the price.”
“What, you want 500,00?” The aquabus has arrived; Lyney grips you a little tighter, childishly willing himself not to see it.
“500,000 kisses, and more.” Lyney rests his forehead against yours, his captivating eyes keeping you still, the way it always does. “But you can give me that when you come back.”
( Before they were taken away from the stage for an investigation, Lynette comes up to her brother and asks, “What happened back there, Lyney? I thought you were about to twist your own fingers.”
He is unsure how to tell his sister that he saw your awed expression and nearly lost his wits.
“It was nothing,” Lyney admits, his face growing hot at recalling his slip-up.
It wasn’t out of embarrassment, no—not when the memory of your wide-eyed beaming expression and how his mind blanked along with the skip of his heart plagued his mind.
“It was nothing,” he repeats numbly. It’s not. It was the start of something. )
a/n ok just a quick rant this fic BROKE ME. it was like every other day i hated then loved writing this fic. im not used to writing fics this long so pacing is not my forte </3 but i just feel proud of myself for finishing this so HOPE U LIKED IT. if ure still reading until here ily ❤️
more a/n two lyney fics and two kissing scenes. i can’t even lie to myself. everyone can tell.
more more a/n it was halfway through writing this fic that i rewatched the magic show and only noticed lyneys hands were shaking and i GOT SO SAD OMF 😭😭😭😭
Aventurine doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.
(Or: You are the only person in the universe who understands Aventurine in his mother tongue. He often regrets teaching it to you.)
5k words. gender neutral reader, established relationship, angst, non-graphic sex (reader bottoms, anatomy neutral), themes of cultural loss, references to slavery, aventurine’s canonically implied desire to die. MDNI.
Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.
Deception does not come easily to him in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak—and too kind. The universe was a different place in the days when his life was coloured by the warble of Avgin dialect. It felt simpler, partly because he was a child and partly because Sigonia was yet untouched by outsiders. There were no corporations, no casinos, no commodity codes. His entire world was sand, desert, mother, sister, father (or more often—ghost), goddess, tent, wagon, luck, sin, rain, blessing, Avgin.
Katican.
Aventurine is sure that he knew more than just those words. He was fluent as a child. He had conversations with his sister that were complex enough to make his heart hurt, though perhaps his heart was just constantly aching anyway. But the rest of his early words escapes him. He could maybe dredge them up if he thinks long enough, but he also isn't sure if his tongue and lips could form the shape of them anymore. Sometimes he still counts in Avgin, memorises phone numbers in it, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually strung together a full sentence in the language.
When Aventurine was first stolen into slavery (a word that he had not known as a child, and still doesn't know in Avgin), he wasn’t given a Synesthesia Beacon. He had to rely on his ears and his wits, deciphering the harsh edges of the Katican dialect and then the strange garble of Interastral Standard Language. By the time he had a Beacon installed, it was already translating all speech into Standard—his dominant language.
Sometimes he feels a little aggrieved by it, but at least it wasn't Katican. He'd have blown out his brains if it were.
But it is easy to console himself: Avgin is not a useful language anyway. Dead languages have no value, and the Avgin dialect was killed along with its people. You can’t perform commerce in a dead language, can't negotiate contracts, can't enter a gambling den and use your silver tongue to rob people blind. You can't use a dead language to fell governments and extract resources; you can't use a dead language to bring an entire planet to its knees. You can’t use a dead language to gamble your life; you can't use it to save yourself from the gallows.
You cannot deceive people in a language that is defined by sand, sister, goddess, ghost.
Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin. His command of it is too weak, and there is no one left to which he can lie, anyway.
When you ask Aventurine to teach you his first language, he gives you an amused look.
“Why Avgin?” he asks. “No one speaks it anymore. I can teach you Common Sigonian if you’d like. Or we could learn Xianzhounese together. Maybe Intellitron code? I know a little.”
“You speak Avgin,” you argue.
“Not often,” he says. “And badly when I do.”
“But it's still your language. And I want to understand you.”
Aventurine has to stop himself from laughing. Understand him? He hates being understood. When people understand him, it makes him predictable. And unlikeable. Hardly a position from which he can manipulate people in.
You understand him well enough to know that.
“You'll have to give me a better reason than that,” he says neatly. “Make it worth my while. Reward me.”
You look at him as you ponder, your eyes lingering on his. Perhaps trying to read him, though he prefers to think you're just enjoying the sight of them.
“I’ll teach you my language as well?”
“You mean—you'll reward my hard labour with more work?” he says, lighthearted.
You frown at him despite the joke. “You don't want to understand me better than what a Synesthesia Beacon would allow?” He blinks, pausing. “It’ll be convenient too. We can talk shit about other people in public and no one will understand us.”
Aventurine considers you. He doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.
He also likes the idea of talking shit in public.
“I'm listening,” he says, voice lilting. You lean in, smiling. Sweet. It makes his heart feel something he isn't used to. Something addictive. Something disgusting. He scrambles to cover it with one of the usual tools: humour or distraction or maybe just plain old lying—his most reliable weapon.
“I'll throw in a kiss?” you try.
He hums. “Just one?”
“One per day.”
“Three.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“Well, I am a businessman.”
You snort, but he knows you're endeared. You have very noticeable tells when you’re flustered.
“Okay,” you say. “Three kisses on days you teach me.”
“Deal.”
Aventurine remembers more Avgin than he thought he would.
It comes to him slowly, painstakingly. You aren't interested in structured lessons, and he wouldn't be able to provide them anyway. He has a nonexistent grasp of grammar aside from this sounds right and that sounds strange, and Avgin dialect is both so niche and so dead that no textbooks are available. The scholars have abandoned the language as much as the politicians abandoned its people. Aventurine only has you, his fragmented memory, and whatever questions come to mind as you live out your days with him.
Mostly, you ask him about basic vocabulary. Sometimes you ask him to repeat sentences from your conversations in Avgin, like he’s some kind of multilingual parrot. Each prompt forces him to wade through the fog in his mind, the one that’s been shrouding his childhood memories until now. He's startled at how naturally the old words roll off his tongue: One, two, three, four. Good morning. Good evening. Good night. Sweet dreams. Five, six, seven, eight. You're lying to me. Why do you always lie to me? I don't know what you're talking about. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Welcome home. Have you eaten? Have some bread. I made you stew. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. That was dangerous. I thought you wouldn't make it back to me. Sometimes I think you want to die. One hundred, one thousand, one million, one billion. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
When you say, How do I ask you to let me hold you, he answers easily. He'd heard the words so often as a child: Let me hold you, Kakavasha. Let Mama hold you. His mouth forms the sounds without conscious thought.
He regrets it almost immediately.
When Aventurine hears it from you—stilted, halting, but no less gentle—he stops breathing. Let me hold you. You say it all the time in Standard, but it feels different in Avgin. More painful. A strange sense of panic closes in on him when he's wrapped up in you, thinking in Avgin, thinking sand, sister, goddess, ghost. He holds you tightly, like the rags cut from his father’s shirt, or his mother’s locket won back from the shell-slashers, or a bag of poker chips beneath a card table, clutched within his trembling grip.
“Aventurine, is something wrong?” you ask in Avgin, and he replies in Standard with his usual smile.
“Hm? No. What could be wrong if I have you here?”
Lying is one of his greatest tools. Sex is another one. So he says, “I think I'd like my reward now,” and he runs his lips along your jaw, your pulse, the spot over your heart (there's a word for that in Avgin but not Standard, he tells you), until you're laughing. I thought you wanted three kisses, you tease, and he replies, Who said I wanted to kiss you on the mouth?
But he coaxes open your thighs, and once he's inside you, he collects his payment properly. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and you swallow his lies whole.
There are some things that Aventurine doesn't teach you. Mostly, they’re things that he can’t teach you.
There are countless gaps in his Avgin. His speech is painfully childish—probably more childish than it was when he actually stopped speaking it. He doesn't know how to swear (something that disappoints you) and he doesn't know how to flirt (something that devastates you). He doesn’t know any words that would be useful for work either: commercialization, governance, stakes, winnings, profit. When you ask him what his job title is in Avgin (“Was senior management even a thing in Avgin society?”), he laughs and gives you the word for gambler.
Then there are the words that he remembers—has remembered his whole life—but never says. Not to you, and not to himself. He doesn't teach you any prayers. He doesn't teach you any blessings. He doesn't teach you about Mama Fenge, or the Kakava Festival, or how the rain fell when he was born. When you ask him, What holidays did you celebrate when you were little? he shrugs and says, We didn't have any. Sigonia’s too bleak to do any partying.
Then you ask him one day, while your bodies are spent in the afterglow of sex, sticky with sweat and sweetness, how to say I love you. And he goes quiet.
Love is a cheap word in Interastral Standard. In the language of globalisation and trade, love has been commercialised, commodified, capitalised for power. You say it to him in many contexts: I love this, I love that, I love you. He hardly ever reacts, and he's never said it back. It would feel unnecessary and also cruel if he did: Aventurine has only ever said the words himself as either a joke or a manipulation.
But love feels different in Avgin than in Interastral Standard, doesn't sound like a thing that can be traded or bought. Kakavasha only ever said the word love to his mother, to his sister, to his father's grave. Love in his mother tongue feels priceless.
When Aventurine thinks about you saying it—I love you, Kakavasha, in clumsy, earnest Avgin—something so painful swells in his throat that he can hardly breathe.
“There is no word for love in my language,” he tells you.
You blink. “Okay, then what's an idiom for it?”
“There is none. There’s no word or phrase expressing love.”
You raise a brow. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Is it?” He smiles. “There’s no Avgin in the known universe who cares about love. Only scheming, thieving, and treachery—and you can't do those things when love is involved.”
You look at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” You're practically squirming in your discomfort. “I don't know why you think I'd believe such a racist stereotype.”
“It’s not a stereotype,” he says. “I'm not talking about the Avgin culture. I'm talking about myself.”
After all, he is the only Avgin left.
It is an unfair thing to say. A cruel thing to say. After all the laughing and kissing and crying and fucking, after all the tender eyes and gentle words from you—it is probably the worst pain imaginable: I don't give a shit about you. He waits for you to cry.
But you only stare at him calmly, studying him. You brush the hair out of his eyes, seeing them clearly.
“If you lie to me all the time,” you say in Avgin, “eventually I'll stop believing anything you say.”
Aventurine is speechless. His heart does that addictive, disgusting thing again. He thinks about leaving, but then you say, Let me hold you, and he can't do anything other than obey.
Avgin dialect was once included in the Synesthesia Beacon list of functions. The Intelligentsia Guild added it before the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event, when the IPC was trying to get a political foothold on Sigonia via the Avgin people. The language was alive then, with enough value to be included into the Synesthesia LLM by the linguists.
But since the Extinction Event—since Kakavasha ran away from home—the Synesthesia data on Avgin has been stagnant, a fossil. Aventurine knows because he's subscribed to software updates for certain languages (Avgin Sigonian, Common Sigonian, Interastral Standard, and now your mother tongue). He gets pinged every time there's a new addition for slang, for neologisms—but there hasn't been a ping for the Avgin dialect since he had the Beacon installed. The live translation function hasn't even been available since the previous Amber Era. When he checks its page on his Synesthesia app, it's very clear why—
SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT
SPEAKERS: 0
STATUS: Extinct
END OF SERVICE: 2156 AE
The complete death of the language has led to an irritating dilemma for you and Aventurine. You keep running into words that he doesn't know—this time not because of his childlike speech, but because they never existed in his language to begin with. Ocean, tropical, rainforest. Starskiff, accelerator, space fleet. Stock market, shortselling, mutual funds. Black hole, event horizon, spaghettification. All things that never came up for Kakavasha, but now come up for Aventurine, and the language has not evolved to include it.
He always wants to switch to Standard to discuss these things, but you're insistent on speaking in Avgin as much as possible. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't mind humouring you—partly because he likes to indulge you, and partly because he’s grown used to hearing the honeyed timbre of Avgin dialect in your household. The place would feel strange without it.
So you start filling the gaps with other languages, filtering them through the lyricism of Avgin. Loanwords, he thinks they’re called. You take ocean, tropical, rainforest from Amazian; starskiff, accelerator, space fleet from Xianzhounese; stock market, shortselling, mutual funds from Interastral Standard. For the astrophysics terms, you try directly translating them—with limited success.
“Can't I literally just say ‘black hole’?” you ask in Avgin, and he nearly spits out his coffee.
“Please don't. That's a dirty word.” He can't bring himself to say what it means, but from the way you’re laughing, you can clearly guess.
“I thought you said you didn't know how to swear.”
“You've just reminded me how.”
“You're welcome.” You look on the verge of cackling. Aventurine finishes his coffee and wonders when you're going to surprise him with your newfound vulgarity.
“Let's just do the space terms based on Standard,” he says. Begs.
“No, that's so boring.”
“Then let's do your language.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Give him a blank look.
“You don't know how to say those words in your mother tongue either, do you,” he intuits.
“Well, ‘spaghettification’ doesn't really come up in everyday conversation, does it?”
“Then maybe we don't need it.” He smiles, senses an opportunity. Smells blood. “How about ‘love’? I'd much rather know how you say that. I bet it sounds beautiful.”
You give him a long look. Your eyes are vulnerable when you share it: Love. I love you. He’s fascinated by the sound of it. Your voice is never that fragile when you say it in Standard. It's never so earnest. He repeats it, staring at you, and your gaze falls to the ground. His mouth curls.
“I like it,” he says. “Let's use that. It'll sound nice in Avgin.”
You try to recover. “Sure. That works. But back to ‘black hole’—”
And the two of you continue like that for days, weeks, months. It feels like a complete bastardization of his mother tongue on some days, in some conversations. Almost unrecognisable. But it doesn't feel bad. It’s all he has, it's all you have, and when he walks into your home, he starts speaking it without thinking: your bastard, patchwork language. The Avgin dialect that exists only in your house. A tongue that can only be understood by a liar.
And then, one lazy Sunday morning, he gets a familiar ping. He expects it to be Interastral Standard, as usual. The language balloons with each planet that the IPC colonises.
But instead, he opens his screen and freezes.
SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT
SPEAKERS: 2
STATUS: Endangered.
SERVICE RESUMED: 2157 AE
NEW UPDATES: 103 loanwords and 5 neologisms added.
He can't stop looking at the status. Endangered. Endangered, which means dying, but alive. The Avgin dialect is alive again. The Intelligentsia Guild determined it, so it must be true. But Aventurine can't agree: there are no Avgin speakers in the known universe other than the two of you, and what you speak isn't real Avgin. The Avgin spoken by his mother and father and sister is dead; the Avgin spoken by Kakavasha is dead. The festivals are gone; the deserts have been terraformed. There are no wagons; there are no dances; there are no prayers. There are no blessings, and he has no home—
As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.
His throat locks up.
“Aventurine?” you ask. Your voice is drowsy, but concerned. “Is something wrong?”
He looks at you from his phone, a polished smile on his face.
“No.” His syllables are plain and efficient in the noise of Interastral Standard: “Just looking at details for a new assignment. It’ll be a long one.”
“Oh.” You frown. “Will you be away from home for a long time, then?”
He stops himself from swallowing. “Yes, I'll be away from the house. For several months, probably.”
“Okay.” Your voice is small. “Take care of yourself, okay? I'll miss you.”
Each word you speak resonates with heartbreak. It always does in these conversations, even in Standard—but the sorrow is amplified in Avgin. His mother tongue has an inherently sad quality to it, he's noticed. His people have lost so much over their history—their language is one of loss. It's his language of loss. Kakavasha did all his grieving in Avgin; Aventurine has never felt sorrow in Standard. When the language died, so did Kakavasha—and all his regrets with it.
“You'll come home to me, right?” you ask. It's a beautiful sentence in Avgin. A heartrending one. He feels something that he hasn't known since he was a child.
It's a feeling he has to kill.
“Yes,” he says in Standard. “Of course I'll come back.”
This is not the first time that Aventurine has been mistaken for dead, but this is the longest time.
The latest world to join the IPC network was a tough acquisition. It had been ruled by a despot who wreaked havoc on both the people and the planet, and who was too stupid and reckless to resolve conflicts with his trade partners. He probably would have blown up the whole star system had he been left to his own devices. Aventurine had no qualms about bringing him to ruin, nor did he have qualms about nearly dying in the process.
If things had gone his way, he'd either be dead or missing. This would have been the perfect opportunity to do the latter, actually—to be freed from the IPC. Free to drift alone, speaking with strangers in strange, unfamiliar tongues. No connection to his past, to the cruel history of his luck, to his commodity code. No tether to his inherently unjust destiny. But instead he's back in your house, pockets heavy with his borrowed wealth, speaking to you in his bastardised, childish Avgin. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
Your Avgin is—shockingly fluent. He doesn't know how. He can't think about it right now. All he can process is the wounded animal noise of your speech as you yell at him, as you cry. Like an injured songbird, or a weeping child. Why did you leave, why did you lie, why do you always lie to me, why don't you give a shit about me, you spit. Why do you want to die, why do you want to die, why do you want to die, you keep saying. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost, he keeps hearing. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost. Don't leave me, big sister. People will die. Why do you have to go?
“I’m sorry,” he tries again, this time in your language. “I'm so sorry. Come here. Let me hold you.”
You collapse into your mother tongue. Aventurine is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that he doesn't need to hear the language of his grief—horrified that he needs to hear yours. He's never heard you cry like this. He's never heard you break like this. These must have been the words you used when the soldiers found you hiding in your closet, when they dragged you out of your home. You were just a child.
Aventurine doesn't know the words you are using—you've never taught them—but he still understands them.
You're very malleable when you’re sad; even more so when you're hysterical. Aventurine understands this about you, and he understands how to calm you—this time in your native tongue—and he understands how to kiss you. He understands that you need to feel close to him. He understands that there are ways to accomplish this other than sex. A normal person would talk it out, have an honest conversation, come to a mutual understanding, and maybe even stop trying to kill himself. They wouldn't fuck you into the mattress while your face is still wet with tears.
But Aventurine is not a normal person. He doesn't know how to have an honest conversation, and he doesn't want to be understood. Lying is his greatest weapon, and sex is a close second. So he kisses you until you’re too breathless to cry, fucks you until you can't think, and makes you come so hard that you’re in too much bliss to grieve. And maybe it's horrible of him, but he enjoys it. He enjoys the way your body takes him in so easily, the way your nails dig into his back, the way you tighten around him when you climax, so wet and needy for him. The way you beg for him in your language for liars as he spends himself inside you: I love you, Aventurine, I love you, I love you, I love you—
Only because it feels good. This is all only because he enjoys fucking you. This is all only because you enjoy fucking him. This is all it'll ever be, and it'll be this way until he gets to meet his end.
(Some months ago, Aventurine started dreaming in Avgin.
It surprised him when he first noticed it. The last time he remembers having a dream in his native tongue, he was twelve years old and still in chains. And even then, it had become a sporadic, strange thing. Awful to wake up from. One minute he was with his mother and sister on a cool, rainy day, speaking fluently in Avgin as he laughed and played—and the next minute, he was being shaken awake in his cage, hearing the cruel lash of Katican.
But ever since he's started speaking Avgin with you, he's been dreaming in it. Vividly. Sometimes he's a child in these dreams, and sometimes he's grown. He's always back in the Sigonian desert, among the tents and the campfires and his family wagons. His mother and sister are alive. Sometimes his father is too. The skies roar with thunder and the stellar winds are always harsh, but they always keep him cocooned up in their arms. He's always warm.
Sometimes Aventurine dreams of nicer days. Clear skies, warm sun, cool breeze—all blessings from the Mother Goddess. On these days, he tends to be an adult, and you tend to be there with him. Your Avgin is fluent but strange, filled with funny loanwords and peculiar slang. His father likes the neologisms and starts using them—but only in wrong ways. His sister finds it embarrassing and keeps apologising to you.
His mother loves you. She loves you so much it hurts. This is how I know you're blessed, Kakavasha, she says, glowing. You’re so lucky to have found such a kind person.
Kakavasha knows this. He knows he's lucky, and in his dreams, that isn't a bad thing. In his dreams, his luck means that his home is not violently excised from his heart: his father never dies; his mother never dies; his sister never dies. The tents are not burned; the wagons are not destroyed. He is never forced to forget his people's dishes, their songs, their language, their joy. And in his dreams, his luck means that he meets you anyway, without all the loss and the chains and the lying.
In his dreams, he is able to bring you to the desert. He is able to teach you the Avgin he spoke as a child, to cook all the meals his mother used to make, to share with you their coffee and their tea. He teaches you prayers. He teaches you blessings. He tells you about Mama Fenge, about how the rain fell when he was born. He takes you to the Kakava Festival, shows you how to dance, sings to you all the Avgin songs until you're singing back. He presses his palm to yours in prayer; he kisses you in devotion, not avoidance.
Sometimes the two of you still fight, the same fights that you have in real life, but he handles them with honesty. He listens to you. He apologises to you. He tells you that he’ll change, and he means it—because this world is a kind one, and he has no need to be so cruel to you.
In this kind world, when you lay in bed with his arms tight around you, you smile at him and say, I love you, Kakavasha. You say it in Avgin—real Avgin, not the dialect born from genocide and deceit—and when he responds, there's not even a little bit of insincerity in his voice. Because Kakavasha never became Aventurine in these dreams, so he has no Interastral Standard in which he can lie to you, no silver tongue with which he can manipulate you, no commodity code that inspires his fear of being controlled by you. Kakavasha only knows Avgin, and he only has his sand, his family, his goddess, his home.
And he has you. Finally, he has you.
He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and then he tells you the truth.)
.
.
.
Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.
You noticed this very early on: whenever he lies to you, he always switches to Interastral Standard. Probably he wouldn't be able to do it in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak, and the words he knows are all too kind. He speaks with the innocence of a child, and children cannot deceive people in the way that adults can. Children cannot perform commerce or negotiate contracts. They cannot use a silver tongue to rob people blind. They cannot save themselves from the gallows.
So Aventurine’s Avgin is defenceless. Vulnerable. So vulnerable it hurts. You are not so vulnerable in your first language because your captors spoke it on occasion, and you learned to lie in it to gain their pity. You told Aventurine that knowing it would help him understand you, but this was a deception. Aventurine’s mother tongue was a language of trust, but yours is a dialect of abuse.
The Avgin language died before Aventurine could be gutted by it; this is why it disarms him so completely. This is why he’s so indulgent and so warm when you use it with him, why he yields to all your requests. Not requests for money or gifts—you’re certain those are meaningless to him—but for affection. Let me hold you. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. He can never say no.
This is also why he loves hearing you speak his mother tongue, you think—it makes him feel at home, it makes him feel safe. Maybe it even makes him feel loved. He never seems so at peace speaking any other language, so you try to use Avgin as much as possible. You like seeing him happy. You like it even if it means you need to teach him your own native language in exchange, even when it means you need to hear him say all the things your captors used to say. You don't mind it if it's him. You never mind the harm he inflicts on you, especially not when it brings you closer to him.
It is convenient that he cannot lie in Avgin. You only wanted to learn it in the first place because he talks in his sleep—mostly in Standard, but sometimes in his native tongue. And now that you know he cannot lie in Avgin, you also know he's always being honest in his dreams. Honest when he throws his arms around you in his sleep. Honest when he grabs you so tightly that you bruise. Honest when he buries his face into your neck and whispers prayers into your skin.
Most of the words he says are common ones, the earliest vocabulary that he taught you. But there are some things he's withheld from you—and to learn those things, you had to track down linguists from the Intelligentsia Guild, bribe them with your dirty money, have them give you all their deprecated, extinct data. It felt two-faced, and it was violating, but it was the only way. You already know that Aventurine would rather die than translate his feelings for you, would never want this part of himself understood.
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summary: non mc fem! reader x sylus | when you wake up in the n109 zone after experiencing an accident in the real world it becomes a strange place of safety for you despite being one of the most dangerous places in the game. everytime you try to recall your reality though, flunctuations occur that start to erode you of your sense of self and mc and sylus's relationship begins to crumble at the seams.
genre/word count: self aware love interest x isekai! angst | 10.1k
warnings: mentions of an accident, blood, and death
a/n: yooo this one is lowkey a bit darker than the others in the system fracture series so i hope you are ready!
taglist: @beyondmyexistence @mia-menaceinaction
the last thing you remembered clearly was losing a round. your phone glowed against the darkened backseat, illuminating your hands in pale light while the game's soundtrack hummed softly through one earbud. outside the car window, snow blurred the city lights into white.
your mother was saying something from the front seat. your father laughed. you were only half listening, too focused on the battle unfolding on your screen.
"don't be shy about using me" you smiled faintly at the line.
then—a horn. too close. your father swore. the world lurched violently sideways. metal screamed. glass exploded. your phone flew from your hands. for one impossible second, everything hung suspended in silence.
then pain crashed into you all at once. your shoulder slammed against the door. something warm ran down your forehead. the seatbelt dug into your ribs hard enough to steal your breath. somewhere nearby, your mother was calling your name, but the sound came warped, and distant.
the cracked phone screen flickered upside down on the floor of the car. the game music still played. then darkness swallowed everything whole. when consciousness returned, the first thing you noticed was cold.
your body hit concrete hard enough to jolt a cry from your throat. you curled instinctively, palms scraping rough ground. pain flared through your side. wetness soaked your sleeve - blood.
you blinked hard, trying to focus. dark walls towered around you, lined with rusted pipes and flickering neon signage. somewhere overhead, machinery groaned like a living thing. red warning lights pulsed slowly.
your breathing stopped. no, no—you knew this place. not personally. but you knew it. the n109 zone. the realization struck like another collision. your stomach twisted violently.
"that's not possible," you whispered.
your own voice sounded wrong. too echoey. like it wasn't fully there. a sharp ringing filled your ears. fragments flashed behind your eyes. a silver-haired man pinning someone against a wall. crimson energy wrapping around linked hands. not your memories. the game's.
your vision blurred, "what the hell…"
the streetlights flickered. for a split second, the wall beside you distorted into static. then alarms erupted overhead. a mechanical voice crackled through hidden speakers.
UNAUTHORIZED MOVEMENT DETECTED
your blood ran cold. the game. you knew this section. security patrol routes. motion-triggered scans. you moved before fully thinking. your body stumbled forward through an alleyway as another siren blared behind you. red scanner beams swept across the wall just as you ducked beneath exposed piping, your pulse pounding violently in your throat.
how did you know where to go? your legs burned as you limped through twisting hallways, clutching your side. somewhere nearby, heavy machinery activated with a metallic groan.
another scan. you turned sharply into a narrow maintenance corridor seconds before automated turrets descended from the ceiling behind you.
gunfire exploded. concrete shattered near your feet. you gasped and ran harder. the route unfolded inside your head in fragmented flashes. left turn. drop beneath the broken gate. avoid camera rotation timing.
the longer you ran, the stranger your body felt. like your movements lagged half a second behind reality. the fluorescent lights above flickered violently as you passed beneath them. one burst completely. then another.
static crackled in the air around you. you nearly slipped turning another corner—and froze. two figures stood at the end of the hallway. luke stared at you openly. kieran looked genuinely speechless. for a long moment, nobody moved.
then luke finally spoke, "how the hell did you get down here?"
you stepped backward instinctively. pain shot through your side.
kieran's eyes narrowed immediately, concern flashing across his face, "you're bleeding."
only then did you realize how much. blood soaked through your sleeve and dripped steadily onto the concrete below.
luke exchanged a glance with kieran. something shifted in their expressions. not less suspicious. more confused. because civilians weren't supposed to make it this far - especially not injured ones.
"you triggered half the sector alarms," luke said slowly.
kieran folded his arms, "and somehow avoided every camera on the way here."
your mouth opened uselessly, "i—i don't know—"
the overhead lights flickered again. this time all at once. the twins looked upward sharply. then back at you. you suddenly felt very, very afraid. because their expressions weren't just wary anymore. they looked disturbed and yet at the same time impressed.
your knees nearly gave out. before you could stop yourself, darkness rushed up and swallowed you whole.
when sylus entered the infirmary hours later, the room was silent except for the low hum of machinery. luke leaned against the far wall. kieran stood beside a corrupted monitor display frozen in static. neither looked particularly relaxed.
"she's awake?" sylus asked.
"earlier," luke answered. "but she passed out again."
sylus' gaze shifted toward the bed.
you looked pale beneath the dim lighting, bandages wrapped around your arm and side. dried blood stained the edges of your sleeve. human. at least visually.
but the moment he stepped into the room, something felt wrong. like reality itself hesitated around you.
his eyes narrowed slightly, "what did the scans show?"
kieran let out a humorless laugh, "that's the problem."
he tapped the monitor beside him. the screen distorted instantly. static swallowed the display. then rebooted - again.
"no readable resonance pattern," kieran said quietly. "no identification data either."
luke crossed his arms, "the cameras glitched every time they caught her face."
sylus said nothing. his gaze remained fixed on your sleeping form. even unconscious, the air around you felt unstable - unreadable. as if something had forced itself into existence where it did not belong.
then very softly, sylus asked, "what are you?"
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
you woke to pressure around your wrists. your eyes snapped open. for one disorienting second, panic swallowed everything. unknown ceiling. dim lights. sharp smell of antiseptic.
then memory slammed back into place all at once. the crash. the zone. the alarms. luke and kieran—you jerked upright violently. wait a minute how did you know their names?
something invisible tightened instantly around your arms and chest, forcing you back against the mattress. you gasped. crimson energy flickered faintly in the darkness.
your breath hitched, "no—"
a familiar voice cut through the panic, "stop moving."
sylus sat beside the bed, one leg crossed over the other like this was an ordinary conversation instead of a nightmare. his expression remained unreadable beneath the low lighting, though his ruby eyes tracked every movement sharply.
the invisible restraint tightened the second you struggled again. fear surged through you immediately. this was real - he was real. and somehow that was worse than waking up here at all.
"you're panicking," he observed calmly.
"you're restraining me!"
"you attempted to run while half conscious earlier."
"because i don't know where i am!"
a slight tilt of his head, "you do know."
your stomach dropped. the room fell silent. sylus watched you carefully, like he was waiting for something specific in your reaction.
"you recognized the security routes," he continued. "avoided active surveillance. knew which streets would trigger automated defense systems."
you didn't know how to answer. because he was right. and you still didn't understand how. fragments kept surfacing in your head like corrupted files. gameplay. cutscenes. dialogue. not memories.
sylus leaned back slightly, gaze never leaving yours.
"i reviewed every available camera feed," he said. "most corrupted the moment you appeared on screen."
his voice lowered, "and the footage that remained makes even less sense."
the restraints loosened slightly. not trust. a warning.
"what are you?" he asked quietly.
the question terrified you more than if he'd shouted. because he sounded genuinely uncertain.
you swallowed hard, "i don't know...a person"
a half truth. you still felt human although not completely.
your head throbbed painfully. you squeezed your eyes shut for a second, trying to force your thoughts into place. car. snow. your family. the game— burst's of white fuzz hit sharply behind your eyes.
you flinched. sylus noticed immediately.
"what happened before you arrived here?"
"i…" your voice faltered, "i was in a car."
the memory already felt like it was slipping from your grasp.
"i think there was an accident."
think? why could you barely remember it now? you pressed a hand against your forehead.
"there was glass breaking and then…" your breathing quickened.
"then i woke up here."
sylus studied you in silence. you could feel him analyzing every word. every hesitation.
"your records don't exist," he said finally. "no identification. no registry. no readable evol pattern."
you looked up slowly, "i know."
that seemed to catch his attention. the room dimmed briefly. the lights flickered overhead. both of you noticed. a slow tension settled into the silence. then—a knock sounded at the door.
sylus' expression changed instantly. subtle. controlled. but different. the restraints around you disappeared completely.
"stay quiet," he said.
before you could respond, he stood and crossed toward the door. it opened only partially. from your angle on the bed, you could only see a sliver of light and shadow.
dark hunter uniform. long hair. mc. your pulse spiked immediately.
"you're avoiding my calls now?" she asked lightly.
sylus leaned casually against the doorway. "i've been occupied.”
her eyes narrowed slightly. "with the metaflux anomaly?"
your throat tightened. silence stretched for half a second too long. then sylus answered smoothly, "no useful leads yet."
a lie. direct. effortless. you couldn't explain why that unsettled you so badly.
mc sighed softly, "the readings are getting worse near this sector."
her gaze shifted slightly. toward the room behind him. toward you.
even through the narrow opening, you felt pinned in place. instinct screamed at you not to move.
"i'll be investigating nearby until the issue is resolved," she continued. "thought maybe we could meet later. dinner? drinks?"
for the first time, sylus hesitated - only briefly. but she noticed. you could tell she noticed.
then she stepped closer and kissed his cheek gently. the gesture felt painfully intimate in a way you hadn't prepared for. these were real people. real relationships. real consequences.
mc pulled back slowly but her eyes lingered on the bedroom door left slightly ajar.
the silence sharpened. you stopped breathing entirely.
then, finally, she smiled faintly, "don't work too hard."
sylus gave a lazy hum in response.
the moment her footsteps faded down the corridor, the atmosphere in the room changed completely. heavy. dangerous. sylus closed the door softly. then turned toward you.
and for the first time since waking up, you realized something deeply unsettling. he had lied to her without hesitation. for you.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
you expected sylus to throw you out. or kill you. or hand you over to the hunters the moment mc disappeared down the corridor.
instead, the next morning, he simply looked up from the reports spread across the dining table and said, "you can stay here temporarily."
your eyes went wide. luke nearly choked on his drink.
kieran stared openly, "you're serious?"
sylus didn't even glance at him, "she can't survive outside the base in her condition."
that shut the room quiet. sylus finally lifted his eyes toward you.
"you will remain inside the house unless i say otherwise."
the words sounded less like an offer and more like a contract. still, relief hit you so hard because despite everything terrifying about this place—outside was worse.
you nodded quickly, "okay...thank you"
sylus studied you another moment before returning to his paperwork as though the matter had already been settled.
luke looked between the two of you incredulously, "that's it?"
"that's it," sylus answered.
kieran muttered something under his breath about losing his mind.
you sat there silently, hands curled tightly around a mug of tea luke had shoved toward you earlier, trying not to think about how bizarre your life had become. three days ago, you'd been sitting in the backseat of your parents' car. now you were hiding in the n109 zone under the protection of fictional criminals. your head hurt just trying to process it.
adjusting to life inside the base felt strangely domestic. which was perhaps the most unsettling part. you expected danger constantly. interrogations. threats. weapons pointed at your head.
instead, luke complained loudly whenever you touched his snacks, kieran criticized the way you held a knife while helping prepare dinner, and mephisto followed you around the house with unnerving mechanical curiosity.
the crow had taken interest in you almost immediately. at first, you found him terrifying. one glowing red eye tracking your every movement from high shelves and doorframes. but after waking one night from another fractured nightmare only to find mephisto silently perched outside your room like some bizarre guard dog, your fear slowly faded into reluctant affection.
"you're creepy," you whispered to him trying to catch your breath
mephisto clicked softly.
"but kind of cute."
the mechanical crow puffed his wings proudly. a quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it. the lights overhead flickered once. you froze. the laughter died instantly. across the room, mephisto tilted his head sharply. right - that still happened.
you lowered your gaze. sometimes you forgot. not fully forgot. but enough to pretend for a few moments that you were normal. that this was normal. then reality reminded you otherwise.
sylus remained difficult to understand. some days you barely saw him at all. you would hear distant footsteps late at night or catch glimpses of him passing through hallways while speaking into comms, expression sharp and unreadable.
other times, he sat beside you in complete silence while changing the bandages around your injuries. the first time he cleaned the wound near your ribs, you flinched instinctively when his fingers brushed your skin.
sylus noticed immediately, "you're still afraid of me."
you stared down at your lap, "shouldn't i be?"
a faint hum escaped him. not disagreement. not confirmation either.
his touch remained precise as he secured fresh bandages around your side.
"you're adapting quickly," he said after a moment.
you almost laughed at that. as if adaptation was a choice. as if your entire existence hadn't shattered apart overnight. but the words stuck in your throat because somehow he wasn't wrong. the terror wasn't constant anymore. you still woke up disoriented sometimes, heart pounding as reality settled painfully back into place. but slowly, impossibly, the base began feeling familiar. safe, even. which should have horrified you more than it did.
one evening, you found sylus alone in the lounge with a glass of wine resting loosely in one hand while old jazz music played softly through hidden speakers. crimson city lights spilled through the tall windows behind him. for a moment, the sight felt painfully familiar. like stepping into a scene you had watched dozens of times before. your chest tightened strangely.
sylus glanced toward you without surprise, "can't sleep?"
you hesitated before sitting across from him.
"something like that."
a second glass floated across the table toward you through the pull of his evol.
you stared at it, "am i allowed to drink mysterious wine offered by dangerous men?"
one corner of his mouth lifted slightly, "you've survived this long."
the answer startled a laugh out of you. the lights flickered briefly overhead. silence followed instantly. your smile faded.
sylus watched the ceiling lights for a second before his gaze shifted back toward you.
"you destabilize the surrounding magnetic field when emotionally overstimulated."
you grimaced, "that sounds bad."
"well i am sure my electricity bill is going to go up" he joked
you wanted to laugh but bit your tongue as you didn't want to cause any more problems so you just muttered out a "sorry."
"you're apologizing for existing again."
the quiet statement caught you off guard. sylus leaned back against the couch, glass turning slowly in his hand.
"you're not doing it intentionally."
you looked down at the untouched wine, "i still don't understand what i am."
neither did he. you could feel it in every unanswered glance. every test result he never explained fully. but instead of pressing the issue, sylus changed the subject unexpectedly.
"you knew this place before arriving here."
your pulse skipped. not accusation. observation.
you swallowed carefully, "sort of."
"explain."
your fingers tightened around the glass. fragments of truth felt dangerous. but lying to him felt impossible now.
"it was…" you searched for words that didn't sound insane. "a video game where i come from."
you forced yourself to continue.
"i knew about the n109 zone. about luke and kieran. about you."
the room remained unnervingly still. you expected disbelief. mockery.
instead, sylus simply asked, "what else?"
and somehow that terrified you more. so you told him. not everything. just pieces. the kind of details impossible for strangers to know. the music he prefers, how he collects vintage records, his interest in mythology.
each confirmation sharpened the silence between you. because every time you spoke, recognition shimmered in his eyes.
"you're telling the truth," he muttered eventually.
"i know how crazy it sounds."
"i've heard worse" he slyly said
then asked quietly, "what about yourself?"
your thoughts snagged painfully.
"myself?"
"your life before this."
the moment you tried to grasp the memory fully, agony exploded behind your eyes. you gasped sharply, dropping the wine glass before it shattered against the floor. white noise screamed through the room. the lights burst violently overhead. pain tore through your skull hard enough to blur your vision. car headlights. blood. your mother screaming— you doubled over with a strangled cry. then suddenly sylus’ hand caught your wrist firmly.
"enough."
the pressure in your head stopped instantly. not gone but quieter. your breathing shook violently. the room slowly stabilized around you. broken glass glittered across the floor beneath flickering light. you realized dimly that mephisto had flown from the room entirely.
sylus remained crouched beside you, expression sharper than you'd ever seen it.
"you trigger severe fluctuations whenever you attempt to recall your previous existence," he said quietly.
you pressed trembling fingers against your forehead.
"i—i can't remember properly—"
"then stop trying." he said quietly
frustration twisted painfully in your chest.
"but what if i forget everything?" the words came out smaller than intended. more afraid.
sylus was silent for a long moment. then, unexpectedly, his hand loosened around your wrist.
"it's okay, i won't let that happen" he said.
the softness in his voice startled you more than any threat could have.
-⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
the headaches started getting worse after that night. at first, you tried pretending they weren't happening. It was easier. easier than acknowledging the growing list of things wrong with you.
your body temperature dropped unpredictably enough that luke once touched your arm and immediately recoiled.
"jesus—are you freezing?"
"i'm fine." you shuddered
"you are literally concerningly corpse-like right now."
kieran looked up from the kitchen counter, "that's not reassuring luke"
you forced a weak smile, wrapping your fingers tighter around the mug in your hands even though the heat barely registered anymore. it wasn’t constant. like your existence couldn't decide whether to stay stable. you started losing time in strange ways. small things first. forgetting whether you'd already eaten. losing track of conversations halfway through. walking into rooms and not remembering why.
then came the sharp ringing in your ears that appeared without warning, swallowing sound whole for several terrifying seconds at a time. once, while speaking to luke, his voice abruptly cut out mid-sentence. his mouth kept moving. but all you heard was distorted static screaming through your skull. you nearly collapsed.
after that, sylus stopped letting you wander the base alone for long periods. he didn't openly forbid it; he simply started appearing nearby more often. watching. monitoring. like he expected you to disappear if left unattended.
meanwhile, the metaflux readings across the zone continued rising. and every trail led back to someone who technically didn't exist. mc stared at the corrupted monitor in disbelief again. the same result. an unidentified resonance disturbance appearing briefly across multiple sectors before vanishing entirely from system records. every attempt to isolate the source resulted in data corruption.
her jaw tightened, "run the sequence again." frustration evident in her tone
the analyst beside her hesitated, "we already did."
the screens flickered. lines of corrupted code flooded the display before stabilizing into fragmented maps of the n109 zone. red markers pulsed across the district like infected veins. the highest concentration centered around one location. the base. mc stared silently at the readings. a cold feeling settled heavily in her chest because she already knew what the analysts were about to say.
"this level of fluctuation…" one murmured uneasily. "it resembles a living resonance source."
another shook their head immediately. "no, a human signature would still produce identifiable data."
"but something is there." the researchers insisted
mc's eyes remained fixed on the screen. yes. something or someone was there - and sylus knew.
"you're working too hard again."
mc looked up from the tablet in her hands as sylus entered the lounge.
the low lighting softened the sharpness of his features, though exhaustion lingered beneath his expression. normally, the sight would have comforted her. tonight, it only deepened the distance growing quietly between them.
"you've been avoiding me," she said.
sylus titled his head, "have i?"
"you canceled dinner twice."
"you survived kitten."
"that's not the point." she exasperated
a faint smile touched his mouth. deflection. again.
"you're hiding something." there it was.
sylus sat beside her calmly. "everyone hides something."
"not from me."
the words landed heavier than intended. silence stretched briefly between them. mc hated this feeling. the uncertainty. sylus had always been difficult to read, but not like this. not distant. not cautious. and definitely not dishonest.
the metaflux fluctuations had grown increasingly unstable over the last week. every investigation route circled back toward this sector. toward him. toward this house.
"the resonance spikes are strongest here," she said carefully. "my team tracked at least six major disturbances directly to this building."
sylus didn't react. too controlled. which itself was suspicious.
"i told you already," he said smoothly. "protocore testing."
mc stared at him.
"you expect me to believe unauthorized protocore experiments are causing system-wide corruption severe enough to erase encoded data?"
"you asked for an explanation."
"and you gave me a bad lie!"
the room fell quiet. outside the tall windows, neon lights bled red across the city skyline. sylus remained infuriatingly composed. which hurt more than anger would have.
mc looked away first, "you've never lied to me this much before."
something flickered briefly across his expression. gone almost instantly. but she saw it. good — let him feel guilty. because she was beginning to feel not just suspicious, but hurt.
a quiet buzz interrupted the silence. both of them looked upward instinctively. the lights overhead flickered once. then again. mc went still. very slowly, her gaze shifted toward the hallway deeper inside the house. toward the closed rooms beyond. the fluctuation had been close.
sylus noticed immediately.
"power instability," he said casually.
"right."
she didn't believe him. not remotely. and for the first time in a very long time, mc realized something deeply unsettling. she no longer knew which side sylus stood on.
you hadn't meant to listen. but voices carried too easily through the hallway when the house fell quiet. you sat frozen on the floor beside your bed, hands pressed tightly over your mouth as echoes of conversation drifted through the partially open doorway.
you've never lied to me this much before.
guilt twisted sharply in your stomach. this was your fault. every bit of it. you heard footsteps moving closer down the hallway. your pulse spiked violently. for one horrible second, you thought mc was coming toward your room.
instead, the footsteps stopped outside. you stopped breathing.
then sylus' voice came calmly through the door.
"she's becoming more suspicious. you have to be more careful."
your chest tightened, "i know."
although you weren't sure how. you were actively tearing apart two people’s relationship simply by existing here. the realization sat heavy in your lungs. outside your room, footsteps retreated slowly. a door opened then closed. you stayed motionless on the floor long after the conversation ended.
then softly, almost without realizing it, you whispered, "i'm sorry."
the lights above your head flickered weakly in response.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
by the fourth week, the house no longer felt like a prison.
luke blasting music too loudly while doing household chores. kieran nagging you while still quietly making sure you ate enough. mephisto appearing at random intervals like a mechanical omen.
and sylus—had started staying. not constantly but enough that you noticed. longer dinners. late-night conversations stretching past midnight. training sessions in empty lower sectors where he taught you how to hold a weapon properly because, according to him, "watching you fight is physically painful."
you were terrible at it. the first time he placed a gun in your hands, the weight alone startled you.
"you're tense," sylus observed from behind you.
"well, yeah. it’s a gun."
you shot him a glare over your shoulder. his mouth twitched faintly. the warmth of him standing close behind you made your pulse strangely uneven. one hand adjusted your grip while the other steadied your arm.
"again," he murmured.
the shot hit nowhere near the target.
sylus sighed quietly, "tragic."
"oh my god." you huffed in frustation
"you'd survive approximately three minutes outside this house alone."
"gee thanks for the encouragement."
despite yourself, you laughed. the lights above the shooting range flickered sharply. both of you froze automatically now whenever that happened.
a few days later, sylus appeared outside your room holding your coat.
"we're leaving."
you blinked in confusion, "leaving?"
"you need fresh air."
"that sounds suspiciously considerate." you said as he helps you put one of your arms through the fabric
"i'm capable of basic decency occasionally."
you rolled your eyes, "debatable."
that earned an actual laugh from him. small and brief but genuine. and somehow that sound startled you more than his threats ever had. because of how it made warmth bubble up in your chest.
the city outside felt overwhelming after so long indoors. it pulsed with neon light and distant machinery, alive in the unsettling way only the zone could be. rainwater reflected colors across the streets while crowds moved beneath towering holographic advertisements.
you stayed close beside sylus instinctively. not because he asked. because despite everything— you trusted him now. the realization hit quietly and all at once.
sylus noticed your staring, "what?"
"nothing."
"you're thinking is distracting."
you didn't respond, your attention drifted upward toward the skyline. you wondered suddenly how many times mc had stood in these same streets. how many moments existed here beyond what players ever saw.
sylus led you through several lower sectors before stopping outside a heavily reinforced building lined with old security tech.
"a friend of yours?" you asked nervousness settling into your body.
"colleague."
"can they be trusted?"
"debatable" he said, mimicking what you said earlier
the corner of your mouth lifted slightly. sylus glanced toward you briefly. then his expression shifted - concern quickly making its way onto his face.
"you're pale."
you looked away immediately, "i'm okay."
a lie. the symptoms hadn't stopped. if anything, they were worsening. earlier that morning, you'd forgotten your own birthday for nearly ten full minutes before the memory returned suddenly hard enough to make you dizzy. when you looked in the mirror, your reflection lagged half a second behind your movements. and sometimes you woke up unable to feel your heartbeat at all.
and increasingly, you felt tired. in an existential sense. like your body was struggling to maintain shape. sylus had noticed. of course he had. which was why he brought you here. not out of curiosity anymore but of something stronger. something he didnt feel often — fear.
the colleague's conclusions were somehow worse than uncertainty.
"there's no stable resonance structure," the older man said grimly while distorted scans rotated across the monitor. "her body signature behaves more like environmental contamination than biological existence."
you sat rigidly in the chair. trying to force your brain to understand but having no luck.
sylus' expression darkened, "meaning?"
"meaning she shouldn't be alive."
the man adjusted the display again. every image of your scans warped around the edges like corrupted data.
"she appears physically present, but her cells aren't centered correctly. they are fluctuating between states."
your stomach twisted, "can it be fixed?"
the man hesitated too long, "i don't know."
sylus went very still beside you. that frightened you more than the answer itself. because for the first time since meeting him— he looked helpless.
the drive home was quiet. rain tapped softly against the windows while your heartbeat pulsed. you rested your forehead against the cool glass, exhaustion weighing heavily through your body.
sylus drove one-handed beside you, unusually silent. eventually, he spoke.
"if you return there…to your reality"
you turned slightly. his eyes remained fixed on the road ahead.
"what happens to this version of you?"
the question settled heavily into the car. not what happens to you but this version. like he already understood there might be multiple states of your existence now.
you swallowed carefully, "i don't know."
your voice came out quieter than intended.
"maybe i wake up."
"maybe?" he asked
"my body might still be alive." you stared down at your hands. "i think."
the words felt unreal. sylus' grip tightened slightly against the steering wheel.
"and if you do wake up?"
you looked toward him slowly. rainlight softened the sharp angles of his face. for once, he sounded genuinely uncertain and afraid.
"i don't know that either," you admitted softly.
silence followed. then, very quietly, "would you want to go back?"
you should have answered immediately. of course you should have. your family was there. your real life. your real world.
so why did the answer suddenly feel complicated? the hesitation alone seemed to say enough. because sylus looked away sharply afterward like he regretted asking.
you started thinking about what you would be leaving behind. if you had anything left at all. your chest tightened painfully, "sylus—"
a violent impact cut you off. the car screeched hard enough to throw you forward against the seatbelt. your pulse exploded.
a wanderer stood in the middle of the road. huge. distorted. its body twisted unnaturally beneath flickering streetlights.
sylus reacted instantly, one hand already glowing scarlet—but the wanderer wasn't looking at him. it stared directly through the windshield. at you. and then it recoiled. a horrible sound tore from its throat. the creature backed away violently like it had seen something deeply wrong.
your stomach dropped, "what…"
then another figure stepped into the road behind it. mc. rain soaked through her uniform as she froze beneath the headlights.
your blood ran cold instantly. for one endless moment, nobody moved. her eyes locked onto the car first. then sylus. then—you.
the faint interior light illuminated your face just enough. recognition flashed across hers immediately. shock following close behind.
the wanderer let out another distorted cry before bolting into the darkness. running from you. mc barely noticed. because she was still staring through the windshield. at the impossible person sitting in sylus' passenger seat. and suddenly a feeling of dread filled the air. everything was about to fall apart.
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by the time sylus stepped out of the car, she was already gone—vanishing into the rain-soaked streets of n109 zone with the kind of precision only a hunter with a lead could manage.
he didn't need to track her. he already knew where she was going.
the house felt different when you got back. like something had shifted out of alignment the moment mc saw you.
luke was the first to meet you at the entrance.
"well," he said slowly, taking in your expression. "that looks like a disaster waiting to happen."
kieran appeared right behind him, "you're back in one piece that's all that matters."
you tried to speak but nothing came out properly. your throat felt tight and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
luke's expression softened slightly at that. "hey easy. you're safe."
safe. the word almost made you laugh. because somewhere outside, mc was still here. and sylus— sylus had looked at her like she was a threat. not you. not the anomaly. her.
luke guided you inside carefully while kieran scanned the perimeter feeds with growing unease.
"she's heading this way," he muttered. "fast."
sylus met mc in the garage. her expression was sharp enough to cut through him without effort.
"you hid her!"
sylus remained calm, "lower your weapon."
"don't tell me what to do."
then she stepped closer, "i saw her."
that changed nothing in his expression.
"you lied to me," she said quietly.
sylus exhaled slowly, "i didn't want unnecessary escalation."
"you've been lying this entire time!" she shouted anger continuing to rise
silence stretched between them. the hum of the building systems felt louder than it should have.
mc's grip tightened.
"the metaflux spikes, the corrupted readings—they all point here." her voice sharpened. "to her."
sylus didn't answer. that was proof enough.
her expression tightened with something between anger and disbelief.
"why are you protecting her?"
the question landed heavier than the rain outside. sylus finally looked directly at her.
"because she isn't what you think she is."
"that's not an answer."
"it's the only one that matters."
mc's eyes hardened, "she's a destabilizing entity. a metaflux anomaly strong enough to corrupt entire sectors. people will die if she stays."
she hesitated slightly, "she needs to be removed."
something in sylus' expression went still. cold. final.
"no." the word was quiet. absolute.
mc stared at him like she hadn't heard correctly.
"excuse me?"
"i said no."
the air between became almost unbreathable with tension.
mc's voice dropped, "you're choosing her over reality stability?"
he swallowed thickly, "i'm choosing understanding over execution."
"that's not your call to make."
sylus stepped forward slightly. and for the first time, mc looked scared.
"if you attempt to take her," he said evenly, "you will not leave this building."
mc's breath caught, "you're serious?"
"yes."
for a long moment, neither of them moved. then mc let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
"who even are you anymore?"
the question wasn't rhetorical anymore. it was personal. sylus didn't answer. instead, he turned away. a dismissal. a refusal to continue the conversation.
mc stood there for another second, rainwater dripping from her fingers onto the floor before she finally lowered her weapon. not because she agreed. because she understood something had changed. and fighting him now would solve nothing.
her eyes hardened one last time, "this isn't over." then she left.
inside the house, the moment she crossed the threshold of departure, something shifted violently. anxiety swirling in the air around you. you felt it before your mind could register it. a pressure in your chest. a ringing in your skull. the lights above you flickered once—then again
luke's voice sounded far away, "woah she's spiking again—"
kieran snapped something back, but it didn’t register. all of it was slipping. not just the room. you.
you stumbled slightly.
luke caught your arm, "hey—hey, sit down."
but your entire being was already breaking at the edges — emotionally. like something inside you was being forced open.
remnants of emotions surfaced without warning. not visually this time but feelings.
the sensation of watching sylus on screen for the first time. the strange attachment you couldn't explain even then. the comfort in his voice during scenes you’d replayed too many times.
and now—standing in front of you. real. unpredictable. different. your breath shook.
"no…" you whispered.
sylus had returned quietly. he stood in the doorway now, watching you carefully. for a moment he looked like he wanted to come closer. to shield you from the surge you were experiencing but he stood his ground.
your hands clutched at your chest desperately as the feelings intensified.
"i don't understand," you said, voice breaking. "i knew you. i thought i knew you."
luke and kieran went still behind you. unsure what you were talking about.
you looked up at sylus.
"i've watched you," you said shakily. "i've heard everything you've ever said. i know what you were supposed to sound like. what you were supposed to do and how this is supposed to go."
your voice cracked harder, "but you're not him."
that struck him. you saw it in the smallest shift of his gaze.
"you're real," you continued, barely able to breathe now.
"and it's wrong because i remember you like a story, but you feel like a person and i don't know how to hold both at the same time."
the lights flickered violently overhead. the chandelier shaking erratically.
kieran stepped towards you slightly, "this is getting unstable—"
luke pulled him back, "don't interrupt."
sylus still hadn't spoken. not yet. he was letting you choose what to do with whatever was breaking open inside you.
your voice dropped to something quieter.
"i don't know what i'm supposed to do with that."
your hands clenched against your sleeves.
"i don't understand why it feels like this," you said suddenly.
your voice cracked on the last word. you forced yourself to look at him — at sylus.
" i think…" your voice softened, barely audible now. "i think i care about you in a way i wasn't supposed to."
your fingers pressed against your chest like it hurt to say it out loud.
"i don't know when it started. or how, it just—did."
you paused, wanting to disappear within the shell of yourself but you couldn't stop the words from being pulled out of you.
"and i don't think i can stop it."
the room and yourself destabilized harder. your body pulsing rapidly like you could collapse at any moment.
your eyes blurred, "i don't know if that makes sense here," you said. "but it's the truth."
heavy, uninterrupted silence followed. sylus didn't respond. not at all. and that uncertainty, that lack of rejection or acceptance, was what made your chest ache the most. because for the first time since arriving here…you weren't sure if he was going to let you fall.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
the house didn't feel the same after your confession — or more like emotional outburst.
nothing had changed on the surface. luke still argued with kieran over cheating when they played that space combat game. mephisto still circled the upper walkways like he owned the place. the base still hummed with quiet, controlled life.
but something underneath it had shifted. like the structure of the place was still intact, but the meaning inside it had been rearranged.
sylus didn't look at you the same way anymore. as if every interaction now had weight it didn't before. as if acknowledging you fully might tip something already unstable.
he stayed away more often. kept himself just out of your reach. and that distance hurt more than outright rejection would have. because it left room for thought. for hope. and that was dangerous here. especially for you.
you found yourself on the balcony late that night. the desolate city stretched endlessly beneath you—the sirens, and lighting breaking through the dark like veins of a dying system pretending to be alive.
the air was cold as goosebumps made their way onto your skin. but you didn't care because at least you felt it. you didn't move, your hands rested lightly on the railing, fingers curled around metal that felt more real than your own body sometimes did.
behind you, the door slid open quietly. you didn't turn. you already knew. sylus stepped out slowly. he didn't approach immediately. just stood near the doorway, like he was measuring the distance between you and him.
"you shouldn't be out here alone," he said.
your laugh was quiet, "took you long enough to say something."
silence. then he walked forward. not all the way to you. the city wind shifted between you both.
"i've been avoiding you," he said finally.
it wasn't an apology. it was an acknowledgment.
you nodded slightly, "yeah."
you expected him to stop there. but that was the thing about sylus he always suprised you.
"i needed time to understand what's happening."
your grip tightened slightly on the railing, "did you sort it out?"
"…not completely."
you turned your head slightly toward him. his expression was unreadable at first. but there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. something caught between restraint and recognition.
"you know about mc and my...relationship with her," he said quietly.
you nodded again, "i know."
"she isn't just someone from my past."
your chest tightened slightly at that phrasing. this was the part where he was supposed to tell you how much he loves her, and you don't belong with him here.
he exhaled slowly, "she is the reason i still exist the way i do."
"i've died before," he continued. "more than once. the cycle always resets through her."
his gaze shifted slightly toward the city below.
"every life. every version. it always returns to her."
then quieter, "she is the anchor the system uses to keep me bound to continuity."
you already knew all of this. but hearing it from him, not as lore. not as game knowledge but as something he had lived— made it feel heavier.
"and me?" you asked softly.
the question came out before you could stop it. sylus didn't answer immediately. that in itself was its own answer.
then, finally, "you are not part of the cycle."
you looked away as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. he has seen you at your weakest but right now you couldn't bear for him to look at you with pity.
he continued, slower now, "you shouldn't be able to exist here the way you do...but you do."
the wind shifted again, almost as if the universe was trying to physically pull you together in this moment.
"you destabilize the order of things," he said. "not intentionally but constantly."
you swallowed, "i know." you wanted to apologize again but you stopped yourself.
then sylus stepped closer. this time, he closed the distance fully. close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the cold air.
"i don't understand what you are yet," he admitted.
then quieter, he placed a hand on the small of your back.
"but i know you're not meaningless."
your fingers loosened slightly on the railing. a shiver running down your spine despite the warm feeling of his fingers.
"and mc?" you asked softly.
his gaze flickered. instantly. it wasn't avoidance. just a reaction.
"she is still the anchor," he said.
then, more carefully like he was worried these words would hurt you, "she always has been."
your chest constricted.
"but i also—" he stopped.
that hesitation was new for him. you forced yourself to look at him next to you. his eyes glistening in the lights of the night. sylus' expression was controlled again but not fully.
"i also cannot ignore that you exist here," he said finally.
a careful line. balanced. not a confession yet not a rejection. something in between that clearly cost him more than either option would have.
you let out a quiet breath you didn't know you had been holding.
"that sounds like 'not now' " you said softly.
his silence confirmed it. then he nodded once.
"yes."
then, quieter, "not now."
the words should have hurt more than they did. instead, they just settled. honest in a way nothing else had been.
sylus looked at you for a long moment. for once it didn't feel like he was scanning or analyzing you. just looking. seeing you.
"you make it harder," he said finally.
"how so?" you asked, your brow furrowing.
he didn't answer immediately. he placed his hands gently on your shoulders, turning you to face him.
then said, "to remain in control."
that was the closest he came to admitting anything. your breath slowed without permission.
his hand lifted slightly towards your face—then paused. like even that small movement required negotiation with himself.
your voice came out quieter than you intended, "sylus…"
he looked at you fully now. and for a moment, everything else stopped feeling relevant. not the system. not mc. not even the instability you felt in your core. just the distance between what should happen and what wanted to.
his hand finally brushed lightly against your wrist. that small contact made your pulse race.
neither of you moved for a second. just eyes flickering between eyes and lips. then sylus leaned in—slowly. like he was giving reality every chance to intervene. you didn't move away, but you didn't close the distance either. and that was the problem. because neither did he.
a breath apart. not a kiss. almost. then—sylus pulled back first. not sharply but decisively, like something inside him had reasserted control at the last possible second.
he looked away briefly, his face twisting into a slight wince. then he stepped back.
"i shouldn't have done that," he said quietly.
you didn't respond because you didn't know which part he meant. the almost-kiss. or the honesty.
he turned toward the door, no longer looking at you
"i'll figure this out," he said.
then, softer, "just...not here."
and he left you on the balcony. the door closed gently behind him. no conclusion, just suspension. and for the first time—that felt worse than an ending.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
the house was too quiet. not the normal kind of quiet. this was empty in a way that felt intentional. you noticed it the moment you stepped into the hallway. no footsteps. no distant voices. not even mephisto was around. and that made you nervous, because he always had his eye on you.
"sylus?" you called softly.
there was no answer. you frowned, taking a cautious step forward. your instincts—whatever part of you belonged to this place screamed that something was wrong.
then you saw them — luke first. collapsed near the junction of the corridor, half turned as if he had tried to get up and failed mid-motion. kieran not far from him. both unconscious. not injured, not bleeding. just…down.
your pulse spiked instantly, "no—hey—" you rushed forward, dropping beside luke.
"luke?"
his breathing was steady but unresponsive. your hands trembled as you reached for kieran. same as his twin. no external wounds. just silence where there should have been movement.
"what happened…" you whispered, tears springing in your eyes.
a faint static crackled in the air. the lights overhead flickered once then stabilized. but it was too late because you felt it before you saw her. a presence behind you. you turned slowly and mc stood at the far end of the hallway.
her expression wasn't sharp this time. it was tired. but a faint hint of determination was still present on her face.
"you should step away from them," she said quietly.
your throat tightened, anger forcing its way through, "what did you do to them?"
"i didn't hurt them...i care about them too you know."
then, colder, "they just won't interfere."
your breath hitched. she took a step forward. the hallway lights flickered in response. it was reactive this time. but not to you — to her.
"i didn't want this," she said. her voice wavered slightly now. but her grip on her weapon didn’t.
"i really didn't." she said sounding like she was trying to convince herself.
you took a step backward instinctively, "then why are you here?"
her eyes hardened immediately, "because you shouldn't exist."
the words hit like an impact. the air in the corridor shifted. you felt it in your skin first. then your bones. then your thoughts. your vision blurred at the edges. the walls around you stuttered like frames skipping in a corrupted file. mc noticed immediately. panic beginning to flush across her face.
"stop resisting. you're destabilizing the entire reality"
"i'm not doing anything," you gasped.
but your body disagreed. pain shot through your skull. the familiar scream returned—louder this time. memories weren't memories anymore. they were pressure, forcing themselves through you. the hallway bent sideways. lights shattered overhead in cascading bursts.
luke and kieran's bodies flickered in and out of clarity like faulty renderings. mc took another step forward, then stopped. something in her expression broke slightly. because she saw it now. she was experiencing the instability with you.
"you're killing the zone," she whispered.
"i don't— i don't know how to stop it," you choked out.
mc’s hand trembled slightly. just once. the barrel of the gun shaking slightly in her grasp.
"you don't get it," she said, voice tightening. "i have to stop you."
behind her anger, something else flickered. not just duty. she was afraid. not so much of you. but of failing.
"i have to protect people."
then quieter, "i have to protect him."
your chest tensed painfully at that. sylus. of course. this all lead back to him.
the air cracked violently. a section of the ceiling above you collapsed for half a second before reforming incorrectly. reality couldn't decide what shape it should be in anymore.
you stumbled back. the wall behind you flickered between metal and a void of darkness.
"i don't want to hurt anyone," you whispered. your body slouching over in distress.
mc's grip tightened on her weapon, "i know."
that answer confused you more than anything else. because she meant it.
then her voice broke slightly, "but you still will."
then before you could register her movements— a gunshot.
the sound was sharp enough to erase everything else. your body jerked violently. pain bloomed instantly across your chest — hot and immediate. you looked down in slow disbelief as blood stained your hands.
mc's expression shattered for half a second. she was used to killing wanderers but never a human life. she didn't feel triumph or even relief. it was something worse. regret.
"i'm sorry," she said.
but her voice was barely audible over the ringing in your ears. the hallway dissolved around you. lights fractured into nothing. the base, the walls, luke, kieran—everything started to fall apart.
and then nothing but a cold, sterile feeling. there was a distant beeping. a rhythmic sound that didn't belong to this place.
you were paralyzed. you couldn't breathe properly. your body felt impossibly heavy. you forced your eyes open. white ceiling, soft light blinded you. there were machines and tubes. this was the real world. your world. your real body.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
your fingers twitched weakly against sheets. a monitor beside you pulsed steadily. you were alive in a clinical sense. but mentally and emotionally you were not here. not fully.
your chest rose unevenly beneath the weight of wires and pain medication. every breath felt delayed, like your body had to remember how to do the motion.
"she's awake." a nurse rushed to your bedside, relief flooding her face as she leaned over you carefully.
"oh my god, sweetheart, can you hear me?"
you tried to answer but nothing came out. your throat burned.
the nurse pressed a gentle hand near your shoulder. "don't force yourself. you were in a very serious accident."
your pulse monitor spiked sharply. the nurse called for someone outside the room, but her voice already sounded strangely far away. like there was distance growing between you and everything around you.
you blinked slowly toward the ceiling again. the room felt wrong. like reality itself had paused around your bed and still hadn't decided whether you belonged here anymore. for a single suspended moment, everything held still, like reality itself had misfired and wasn't sure how to correct it.
then you heard them. muffled voices outside your room.
"poor thing."
a second voice answered quietly, "the rest of the family died on impact."
your heart stopped. not metaphorically. the monitor beside you shrieked sharply as your pulse dropped erratically.
"she's the only survivor."
no, that wasn't—
"if she fully wakes up, she'll have no one."
the room tilted sideways. you tried to breathe but couldn't.
the nurse rushed back toward you immediately. "hey—hey, stay with me—"
stay with me. the phrase hit something deep inside you.
not the nurse's voice — his. your vision blurred instantly. and suddenly you heard sylus. faint. distant. like someone speaking through thin walls.
"stay with me."
the monitor crackled with static. the lights overhead flickered in a way you were all too familiar with.
the nurse froze, "what the—"
but you barely heard her because the pull had already started. a tearing sensation somewhere behind your ribs, as if half your existence was being dragged in opposite directions.
hospital sheets beneath your fingertips. sylus' arms around you. cold fluorescent light. scarlet evol glow. both realities collided painfully in your skull. your eyes widened as the ceiling above your bed glitched just for a second—white hospital panels warping into the dark metallic framework of the onychinus base before snapping violently back into place.
your monitor flatlined briefly and reality lurched. for one impossible instant, you existed in both places simultaneously.
you could still feel blood soaking through sylus' hands. still hear his voice shaking near your ear.
"don't drift."
and then you understood. he hadn't just been talking to you. he had grounded you.
when sylus held you after the gunshot, when he begged you to stay, something in your fading consciousness was listening to him. part of you never fully came back. which meant part of you was still there — still attached to him.
your breathing grew more frantic. not because you were dying. because your existence no longer knew which world it belonged to.
then another realization hit harder than the first. there was nothing holding you here anymore. no family waiting outside your room. only empty sympathy from strangers whispering through half-open doors.
meanwhile somewhere else—sylus was still calling you back.
not because he understood what he was doing. but because he refused to let you disappear. and your body arched sharply against the bed as reality finally gave up trying to separate the two worlds cleanly.
the last thing you heard before everything collapsed again was his voice—closer now. desperate.
"come back to me."
and your consciousness obeyed.
behind him—mc stood frozen.
"sylus move," she said sharply, voice cracking under rain and disbelief.
he didn't. not because he chose you over her but because he was too late to choose anything cleanly. his attention snapped to her instantly.
"don't," he warned.
mc's breath shook, "i had to stop it," she said, voice breaking now. "she's destabilizing everything you know she is—"
"i know what she is significantly better than you do" sylus cut in.
and that alone made mc falter. because he had never spoken to her like that before.
your body in his arms trembled weakly. not fully conscious. not fully gone. still there—but slipping. you were frightened. you wanted to stay right here with him. even if you knew you shouldn't.
"i'm…" you whispered faintly. "sylus…"
the metaflux field reacted to the emotional divergence—sylus on one side, mc on the other, and you caught between both forces like an unresolved equation.
she stepped forward again, "you have to let me remove her," she said.
her voice wasn't confident anymore. it was desperate. like she was trying to justify something her body already knew was wrong.
sylus finally turned his head slightly. and the moment he saw her—something inside him snapped into instinct.
"no", he said. absolute refusal.
but mc had already moved. a fraction too fast. a decision made before she fully processed it. she fired. not at him, not deliberately. but at the anomaly — at you.
sylus reacted instantly. but not as a man, as a response system. his evol surged outward in a protective reflex—energy exploding into the corridor, bending space itself to intercept the trajectory.
"don't—" he started.
but it was already happening. the bullet hit the makeship force field, and the field shifted it.
mc froze because she saw it happen. saw the correction. saw the bullet floating in her direction.
her eyes widened, "sylus?"
his expression changed a fraction too late.
"stop—" he snapped.
but it wasn't aimed at her anymore. it was aimed at reality. at his own power. but it was too late. the bullet passed through.
mc staggered immediately. and the weapon slipped from her hand.
silence dropped instantly into the corridor. sylus moved faster than thought. he caught her before she fully collapsed.
"no—" his voice broke instantly.
her hands grabbed weakly at his collar. still trying to anchor herself to him. even now.
"i didn't..." she whispered. "i didn't mean—"
"i know," he said immediately. not wanting her to waste any more precious breath trying to explain.
his hands were already stained. a mix of your blood and her own. and something in their reality failed to stabilize properly. because mc wasn't just a person in this moment. she was the continuity point. the reason he existed across lifetimes. sylus realized it mid-collapse. it was too late to correct anything. her breathing slowed yet her eyes stayed on him. not angry. not blaming. just reaching for a memory she couldn’t quite touch anymore.
"sylus…" she whispered.
he tightened his grip immediately, "i'm here," he said.
but it didn't fix anything. her hand slipped slightly from his shirt, falling to the floor. then stopped moving. and sylus froze. he felt it not as grief first. just— finality. because for the first time across every life he had ever lived with her she was gone in a way that did not reset. no fate continuing elsewhere.
his arms tightened slightly around her. not holding on, not letting go. his touch suspended between meanings that no longer existed.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
behind him—a weak sound. your voice.
"…sylus…"
it didn't cut through immediately. not because he didn't hear it. but because everything in him was still suspended in the moment before.
then he turned, slowly like if he moved too fast, whatever was left of reality might shatter further.
you were still there. slumped against the wall. barely alive. breathing unevenly, hands shaking as if your body was still catching up to what your mind had survived. not erased. not part of the collapse. just here. you had stopped bleeding now but your wound was still there. a painful reminder of the tragedy that unfolded.
sylus lowered mc gently to the floor. he placed a soft kiss on her pale forehead as he closed her eyes. he stayed there for a second longer than necessary, then stood.
he crossed the distance in silence. each step heavier than the last. when he reached you, he didn't hesitate. he crouched down and pulled you into his arms. not like before. not protective. this was different. this was what remained when everything else had already been taken from him.
his grip tightened slightly and you let out a shaky breath against him.
"i'm here," he said.
and it didn't sound like reassurance anymore. it sounded like the only thing left that was still true.
your fingers weakly gripped his shoulders
"i saw her fall", you whispered.
his hand shifted slightly at your back, as he stuttered, "i know."
he wished he could back in time. not only to save mc. but to protect you from the trauma of witnessing her death. if he had been at the base, he could have protected you both. he might have been able to stop this.
"i think she—"
you stopped. because there were no words for what you had seen. sylus lowered his head slightly. for a moment, his voice was almost quiet enough to disappear.
"i didn't want it to happen like that."
then softer, "i was trying to stop you from being taken."
he exhaled once, slowly, "and i lost her instead."
that was the closest he came to breaking. something in his hold on you shifted, like he had finally realized that now there was only you. the variable that was never supposed to be.
the realization settled between you both. severe consequence. he had lost her. not just this version. not just this life. but the mechanism that ever allowed her to come back at all.
sylus tightened his hold on you, not because you were fragile — but because you were here. and for the first time, that alone mattered more than fate ever had.
"you're still here," he said quietly.
trying to remind himself that he could have you.
you nodded weakly against him, "i'm still here."
and in a world where one constant had just ended forever. that was all he had left to hold onto.
ꨄ︎ summary: You always assumed you were just the supportive Beta third wheel to Mei and Valko's inevitable Alpha power-couple romance. Turns out, you were wrong.
ꨄ︎ a/n: guys… i've fallen for the valko propaganda 😭 anyway, please note that his characterization in this fic is purely based on the 3 minute trailer that we got 🥹 also non mc x mc because wth, she's hot and the new fit is 🔥
ꨄ︎ lads masterlist ꨄ︎ AO3
Being a Beta definitely had its perks.
You didn't have to deal with heats, ruts, or the overwhelming biological urges that governed the lives of Alphas and Omegas. The only downside was that you were practically scent-blind to pheromones, which meant you had to rely strictly on visual cues to realize that your two best friends were hopelessly, undeniably in love with each other.
Yes, that was the only explanation that made sense.
You were currently sprawled on a plush, impossibly expensive velvet sofa in the middle of Valko’s penthouse.
As the sole heir to Eoncore Tech, Valko’s college living situation was less "dorm room" and more "billionaire's high-rise playground," complete with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city and experimental tech prototypes scattered across every surface.
"Okay, but listen, if we overclock the core processors on the new VR rig…whoa!"
Valko, who had been pacing excitedly while rambling about the latest tech he was working on, suddenly tripped over a tangled mess of fiber-optic cables. His arms flailed wildly, his glasses flying off his face as he plummeted toward the glass coffee table.
Before you could even flinch, Mei was there.
The female Alpha moved with terrifying speed, catching Valko by the back of his designer hoodie then hauling his tall, broad frame upright with one hand like he was a stray kitten.
"Careful, idiot," Mei grumbled. She didn't let go of his hoodie right away, eyes locking onto his flushed face.
"Ah... right. Thanks, Mei," Valko chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked like a massive, clumsy golden retriever who had just bumped into a glass door. He beamed at her, and the raw, unspoken Alpha energy between them felt so thick and intimate that you felt guilty just for watching.
You sighed fondly, picking up your textbook.
It was beautiful, really.
Two incredibly powerful Alphas, one a grounded, protective force of nature, and the other a brilliant, obscenely wealthy, loveable dork. They were a perfect match. You were just lucky they let their token Beta friend hang out in their penthouse to use the ultra-fast Wi-Fi.
Mei finally let go of Valko and walked over to you. She silently placed a plate of perfectly sliced fruit on the table in front of you, a soft, almost imperceptible gentleness softening her features when she looked your way.
"Thanks, Mei," you smiled.
Valko immediately scrambled over, nearly tripping again, to drop a brand-new, unreleased Eoncore smart tablet into your lap.
"I had the engineering team install that specific reading app you like! The screen adjusts to your retinas so you don't get headaches while studying!"
"Valko, this is worth more than my car," you said, staring at the sleek device.
"It's just a prototype! Consider it... beta testing," he said, winking proudly at his own pun.
You looked between the two of them. They had flanked you again, standing on either side of the sofa, looking down at you with undivided attention. Even without being able to smell their pheromones, the territorial, possessive aura in the room was suffocating.
They were practically vibrating.
They must be getting ready to court each other, you thought. They’re so tense. I’m totally ruining the mood.
You closed your textbook and carefully placed the ridiculously expensive tablet on the table.
"You know what, guys? I think I'm gonna head out. I have a lot of reading to do, and I really want to give you two the apartment to yourselves tonight."
Both Alphas froze.
Valko blinked, his brain clearly struggling to process the statement.
"Give us the apartment?" Mei repeated, eyebrows furrowed. "Why?"
"Well, you know," you gestured between them with an encouraging smile. "You two have been circling each other for months. The whole ‘Alpha power couple’ thing is great, and I fully support it, but you don't have to keep pretending to hang out with me just to spend time together. You should just establish your pack already!"
Silence fell over the penthouse.
Both Alphas stared at you then, they slowly turned to stare at each other.
"You think..." Valko started, his voice dropping slightly "You think Mei and I want to mate... with each other?"
"Well, yeah! You're always paying for our dinners, and Mei is always physically guarding us in public. You're constantly scenting the furniture around, which I can't smell, by the way, but I'm not blind. I know how Alpha courtships work!"
"We're scenting you," Mei stated bluntly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We scent everything you touch so no other Alphas come near you. I'm guarding you. Valko is buying things for you."
You paused, your brain short-circuiting.
"Me? But… but I'm a Beta."
"Yeah, a Beta that we are entirely obsessed with," Valko blurted out, his cheeks burning. He practically threw himself onto the sofa next to you, looking like a panicked billionaire puppy. "We don't want to mate with each other! I mean, Mei is great, but she terrifies me! We want you. We've thought of you as our mate since sophomore year!"
Your mouth fell open.
"Wait. Both of you? But..."
"Did you really think," Mei said softly, sitting on your other side and boxing you in perfectly between their warm, solid frames, "that the heir to Eoncore Tech and I spend every single day following you around just to get to each other?"
"I thought I was the supportive third wheel!" you defended, your face flushing hot.
"You're the entire vehicle," Valko groaned, dramatically resting his forehead on your shoulder. "Please tell me you don't actually want to leave. Because if you do, I'm going to have to panic-buy the building you live in just so I have an excuse to be your landlord, and the paperwork is a nightmare."
Mei reached out, gently but firmly taking your hand, her thumb brushing over your knuckles.
"Stay," she murmured, a quiet, possessive plea in her tone. "Study here with your pack."
ꨄ︎ a/n: i also don't remember if i ever wrote a purely fluff fic for other lis...
ꨄ︎ taglist: @seraphineash, @loreleis-world, @tinuvieloflemuria, @thehyperfixationgirly (if i missed someone who requested to be perma-tagged, please lmk and i'm sorry 😭)
likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! hope you guys enjoyed reading!
synopsis: phainon has been crushing on you for as long as he could remember. Yet every confession he painstankingly prepared himself for never made it past his lips. After countless failed attempts, it seems he requires the help of cupid..or in this case, his professors?
contains: 4.2k wc, modern au, female reader, phainon fumbling to the point where its lowk embarrassing for bro.., pathetic phainon, nerdnon? (he wears glasses here bcs why not), aglanaxa if you squint, characters might be OOC.
notes: guess who lost 5050 hard pity for phainon's eidolons hahhahahhaa...e6 phainon pls come home early im broke </3
i present this as my humble offering..🙏
pls ignore any spelling or grammatical errors..i'll correct them soon enough but it's like 5 in the morning and i can't sleep so i decided to finalise this from my wips and post it..
Phainon remembers the first time he met you.
How could he not?
It was back when Professor Anaxagoras's (Or Anaxa, as Phainon like to call him) had just ended, and Phainon—who had somehow found himself dozing off midway through—was being lightly reprimanded after everyone else had already left.
Not that he minded.
Anaxa only ever did it because he cared—well, in his own way, sharp eyed enough to notice Phainon's habit of pushing himself too far, and stubborn enough to refuse to let the boy go unchecked.
So he walked out of the lecture hall still half-laughing, half-listening, trading easy jokes over his shoulder as he spoke with the professor.
And then he bumped into someone.
No—he walked straight into them.
The next moment, gravity won.
Phainon barely had time to register the collision before he felt himself falling backwards, and he reached out, just to accidentally pull the other person down with him in a messy tangle of surprise and momentum.
It was only after a short while did he process what he just did.
"Shit. I'm so sorry!"
He pushed himself up immediately, voice sharp with panic as his glasses slipped off his face in the movement. He fumbled for them blindly, too panicked to process things properly, his heart already racing with second hand embarrassment.
Internally, he was already calculating every possible way he had just ruined someone's day.
He knew his own strength. All those gym sessions with Mydei weren't just for show—he could almost lift twice his weight without thinking about it.
Which only made it worse.
What if he'd hurt you when he pulled you down?
What if his grip was too hard?
"I—are you okay? I didn't— I wasn't looking where I was going, I'm really sorry—"
"It's ok, really." Your voice cut through the waves of panic in his mind, holding out his glasses to him.
When he finally looked up, reaching out to take them, his breath hitched the moment your eyes met.
Oh.
After that one awkward encounter—though it had been far more awkward for him than it ever was for you—Phainon found himself seeking you out more times than he ever cared to admit.
At first, it was easy enough to justify.
The two of you shared lectures under both Prof. Anaxa and Professor Aglaea, so crossing paths was hardly unusual.
You just seem to be in his vision half the time.
Sometimes you'd end up walking the same corridor after class. Other times you'd find yourselves sitting next to each other in lectures, exchanging quiet comments about assignments or complaining about whatever impossible workload the professor had assigned that week.
Those small conversations gradually stretched into longer ones.
A brief greeting became walking together after lectures. Studying in the library became sharing lunch whenever your schedules happened to align.
Before either of you really noticed, spending time together had become effortless.
With Phainon's easygoing nature and your quiet patience, friendship settled naturally between the two of you, as though it had always been there.
But Phainon wished it didn't stop at just friendship.
He wasn't entirely sure when it had happened. Maybe it was the way you had laugh without holding back whenever he said something particularly stupid. Maybe it was the way you'd always listen so earnestly wheneever someone spoke, giving them your full attention and advice when necessary.
Or maybe it was simply because you were you.
In his eyes, you shone far too brightly to ever be ordinary to him.
Your smile lingered in his thoughts long after you were gone. The sound of your laughter had an annoying tendency to replay itself in his head during times he was supposed to be paying attention. Sometimes he'd catch himself looking for you before he even realise what he was doing.
Somewhere deep inside, in a place he refused to acknowledge even to himself, he wishes that warmth you show to others would one day belong to him alone.
It was selfish.
He knew that.
Yet he couldn't help longing for it—for the chance to be caught in it entirely, to sink beneath it without struggle and never resurface. And even then, if asked, he would have said it wasn't enough.
Eventually, after weeks of talking himself into it (and yapping Mydei's and Cyrene's ear off), he decided he was finally going to confess.
His first confession attempt failed terribly.
He had spent nearly an hour standing in front of the mirror in his room the night before, repeating the same confession until the words rolled naturally off his tongue.
By the time he finally crawled into bed, he'd convinced himself there was no possible way things could go wrong.
The next afternoon, after Professos Aglaea had dismissed the class, he spotted you leaving the lecture alone.
His heart immediately started pounding.
This was it.
He hurried after you, weaving through the crowd until you glanced over your shoulder at the sound of your name.
"Oh, Phainon!"
You smiled.
It was a simple smile—one he'd seen dozens of times before.
Yet somehow, the moment it was directed at him, every carefully rehearsed sentence vanished from his mind.
His mouth opened.
"..Uh...."
Come on.
Say it.
"I.."
Nothing.
His brain, so dependable in every other situation, chose that exact moment to abandon him.
"..Do you understand today's lecture?" he blurted.
The words left his mouth before he could stop them and immediately, he wanted to disappear, hoping the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
You blinked in mild surprise before giving a thoughtgul hum. "I guess? Did you?"
Relief arrived in the form of conversation, and he grabbed onto it for dear life.
"Yep!" he laughed a little too loudly, cringing at himself on the inside as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Hard not to focus when Professor Aglaea has this look that makes you really pay attention.."
You laughed, the corners of your eyes crinkling ever so slightly.
He laughed too, matching your pace as the two of you continued walking down the corridor as though nothing unusual had occured.
Inside, however, he was silently mourning the death of what had been, in his opinion, the perfect confession.
If only you knew.
His second plan never even reached the starting line.
Undettered by the first failure, Phainon adjusted his plans slightly, spending the entire weekened dragging Mydei from one shop to another under the painfully unconvincing excuse that he was 'helping him buy something'.
In reality, he'd been searching for a gift—something small enough not to overwhelm you, yet meaningful nough to accompany the words he'd been trying to say.
Unfortunately, fate seemed to have an exceptional sense of humour.
The very moment he found himself standing in front of a display of adorable chimera keychains, carefully deciding which one you might like most, a familiar voice called out behind him.
"Oh? I didn't know you two liked these kinds of things."
He froze.
Turning around, he found you standing beside Ciphera, who was already grinning far too knowingly for his liking.
Panic seized him at once. Not that you would judge him—of course you wouldn't. But the thought flashed through his mind anyway, and before he could stop himself, he was already scrambling for an excuse.
"Uh! It's for Mydei!" Phainon blurted out before his brain could catch up, immediately pointing at the unfortunate man standing beside him. "Yeah. Mydei likes these things. Notme."
The accusation came so suddenly that Mydei whipped his head around to stare at him, sending him a glare that said 'I'll deal with you later'. Then, as if deciding it wasn't worth the hassle, he simply looked back at you and Cipher with the same calm expression as always.
"What?" He replied plainly. "They're cute."
He reached toward the display and picked up one of the keychains.
"I like Fig Stew."
"They are!" You brightened, stepping closer, eyes wandering over the rows of tiny chimera keychains before picking up one yourself.
A small smile spread across your face as you held it between your fingers. "I like Beagle Coconut..but Fig Stew would probably be second on my list."
"I like Beagle Coconut too!"
The words escaped before Phainon even realise he'd spoken.
You look at him, tilting your head slightly.
"I thought..you didn't like these?"
His smile stiffened.
"..Hahahah..did I?" he laughed weakly, rubbing the back of his neck as his mind desperately searched for something—anything—that could save him.
"I meant.." he nodded once.
"I like them."
Another nod.
"..A lot."
"Oh—"
Before the awkward silence could stretch any further, Cipher clapped her hands together, cutting cleanly through the moment.
"Anyway!" she chirped, already looping an arm through yours. "Our movie's starting soon [Name]! Pink girl and Princess Homebody are waiting. Come on—time is precious!"
"Wait—"
Phainon reached out instinctively, but the word came far too late.
You barely had enough time to place back the chimera keychain before you were already being pulled towards the exit, only managing a small wave over your shoulder before disappearing through the shop doors.
And just like that, you were gone.
The shop suddenly felt much quieter than it had a moment ago.
Beside him, Mydei let out a slow sigh before glancing sideways at his best friend.
"You're unbelievable, HKS."
Phainon buried his face in one hand.
"I know."
He really, really did.
Unfortunately, his third attempt wasn't any better than the first two.
By then, he'd stopped trying to come up with the perfect confession.
Every carefully rehearsed speech had somehow fallen apart the moment he stood in front of you, so perhaps he had been overthinking it all along.
Maybe, this time, he just needed to say what was on his mind and let the words come naturally.
When he caught you alone after class one afternoon, he took a quiet breath before calling your name.
You turned toward him almost immediately, offeringhim the same familiar smile that, despite everything, still managed to make his heart skip a beat.
"What's up, Phainon?"
"I..I've been thinking about you..." he began, rubbing the back of his neck as he searched for the right words.
His courage faltered immediately when he realised what he just said.
"Oh uhm—not in a weird way," he added far too quickly.
The instant the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back.
Why would he say that?
Now it definitely sounded weird.
You blinked, your head tilting slightly in confusion as you continued waiting for him to explain himself.
"Well..not weird, just.." Phainon let out an awkward laugh, desperately trying to recover, but ever sentence that came to mind somehow sounded worse than the last.
His thoughts tangled together until he couldn't even remember how he'd originally planned to confess.
He sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat.
"..It's not important, actually."
Another forced laugh escaped him as he took a small step back, avoiding your gaze.
"Forget I said anything..bye [Name].." he mumbled, before turning and leaving immediately, leaving you there as you watched him, thoroughly confused by whatever that conversation had just been.
Phainon, meanwhile, spent the rest of the day mentally replaying every second of it, somehow finding new ways to cringe at himself with each pass.
By the time evening came around, he had already convinced himself that it was, without question, the worst confession attempt in the history of confessions.
And yet, despite every failed attempt, every missed opportunity, and every spectacularly embarrassing conversation, he never once gave up.
"Does he have any clue how ridiculous he looks?"
Aglaea paused halfway through typing on her laptop, fingers hovering above the keyboard as she glanced up at the sudden comment. Following Anaxa's gaze toward the office window, she looked down into the courtyard below.
Phainon was, by every conceivable definition, failing to be subtle.
He walked beside you for all of three seconds before falling half a step behind. Then, apparently deciding that was too far, he hurried to catch up again, only to realise he was now walking a little too close.
A moment later he awkwardly adjusted his pace once more, caught in an endless cycle of trying—and failing—to figure out what a normal distance between two people was supposed to be.
Furthermore, everytime you spoke, his head would turn towards you almost instantly.
And when you smiled, so did he.
If he had a tail, it would have been wagging.
"..About as much as you're aware how ridiculous that blanket of yours looks." Aglaea replied flatly before returning to her laptop.
"How dare you. This is a limited edition Dromas blanket. Only 50 were ever made." Anaxa glared as he smoothed a hand over the blanket draped proudly across his shoulders, its repeating droma faces smiling with almost unsettling enthusiasm. "Do you have any idea how difficult it was to secure 3 of them?"
Aglaea paused.
"Three." She repeated.
"One for the office, one for home, and one for my car," Anaxa replied, as though this was a given. "Preparedness is not a crime."
"If you say so."
Anaxa paid her no mind, his attention already drifting back towards the window
"...He's going to ruin it," Anaxa muttered.
Aglaea looked up from her work again, following his gaze.
"Ruin what?"
"That." He gestured vaguely toward the pair of you. "Whatever... that is."
She leaned back in her chair, watching the two of you for another moment. Phainon was saying something with far too much enthusiasm, while you listened with an amused smile that, somehow, only seemed to make him more nervous.
"...He's been like this for weeks, no?"
"No, he’s been at it for way longer," Anaxa corrected.
Another silence settled between them.
Outside, you had just laughed at something Phainon had said—something he very clearly hadn't intended to be funny. They watched as he visibly short-circuited, blinking once before hurriedly laughing along with you, nodding far more times than any normal conversation required.
Aglaea pinched the bridge of her nose.
"This boy…"
"Argh..." Anaxagoras groaned dramatically, throwing both hands into the air before turning away from the window altogether. "I can't bear to watch this anymore."
Aglaea raised an eyebrow.
"I say..." He pointed decisively toward her. "We put our differences aside and help them."
"And why," she asked evenly, "would I do that?"
"Oh, don't act all indifferent now, woman." He folded his arms with a huff. "I've seen you watching them too. You're just as invested in this as I am."
"..."
Aglaea remained silent.
Her eyes drifted back toward the window, watching both you and Phainon for a while longer before she let out a quiet sigh.
"...I suppose," she admitted at last, closing her laptop with a soft click, "we should."
A smug grin immediately spread across Anaxa's face, as though her agreement had confirmed a victory in some unspoken contest between them.
"I knew you'd come around."
"[Name], may I have a moment?"
You paused just as you were about to leave the classroom, turning back to find Professor Aglaea standing by her desk. She offered you a small, polite smile, waiting until the last few students had filtered out before gesturing for you to come over.
You nodded, walking over to her desk.
"Is everything alright, Professor?"
Aglaea folded her hands neatly in front of her.
"I've been looking over your recent assessment reports." She paused briefly, choosing her words with her usual precision. "Your mathematics grades have... declined this term."
You let out a quiet sigh, your shoulders slumping ever so slightly.
"...Yeah." You nodded sheepishly. "I guess it's gotten a little harder lately."
"The course becomes considerably more demanding after the midterm."
"It really does..." you muttered.
A faint smile touched Aglaea's lips before she reached for a single sheet of paper resting on her desk.
"Your mathematics professor intended to speak with you herself," she explained as she held the paper out. "Unfortunately, something came up, so she asked me to pass this along instead."
You accepted it, glancing down in curiosity.
"She has arranged for a tutor to help you until the end of the semester."
Your eyes drifted toward the name written neatly across the top.
"...Phainon?"
Aglaea gave a small nod.
"I believe the two of you already know each other."
Relief washed over you almost immediately.
"Oh!" A smile spread across your face before you could stop it. "Yeah, I do."
That was...honestly reassuring.
You'd be worried you'd end up paired with a complete stranger, someone you'd have to awkwardly stumble through equations in front of while making a fool of yourself.
At least with Phainon...
Well.
He was Phainon.
Embarrassing yourself somehow didn't seem quite as embarrassing anymore.
"I'm sure he'll explain everything clearly," Aglaea said, noticing the visible change in your expression. "He's one of the strongest students in the math department."
You nodded, carefully folding the paper before slipping it into your bag.
"Thank you, Professor."
"I'll let him know to expect you."
As you left the classroom, Aglaea watched the door close behind you before allowing herself the faintest smile.
One problem solved.
Now she just prayed that Anaxa will do his part well for Phainon.
By the time the agreed day arrived, Phainon had already been sitting in the academy library for nearly twenty minutes.
Not because you were late.
Simply because he'd been early.
His notebook lay open in front of him, pages filled with neatly written equations, diagrams and little notes he'd put together the night before.
Looking back on it now, he had probably overprepared.
He'd rewritten half the chapter in a way he thought might be easier to understand, worked through every example question twice just in case you happened to ask about one of them, and even bookmarked a few extra reference books from the shelves nearby.
The familiar sound of footsteps approaching pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up instinctively, only to see you weaving through the bookshelves before spotting him almost immediately.
"There you are." You smiled, making your way over. "Sorry if I kept you waiting."
"You didn't," he replied a little too quickly, shaking his head. "I only got here a few minutes ago."
It wasn't entirely true.
But it wasn't entirely a lie either.
You slid into the chair across from him, setting your bag down with a quiet sigh before pulling out your math book.
"I'm honestly glad the professor picked you," you admitted with a small laugh. "I was worried I'd end up with someone I didn't know."
Phainon blinked.
“Oh?"
"Yeah." You nodded, absentmindedly flipping through the pages until you reached the chapter that had been giving you trouble. "It's less embarrassing asking stupid questions when it's someone you're already friends with."
Friends.
That stung a little, but Phainon still gave you a smile, "Well... ask as many as you want."
"I might regret hearing you say that."
"I probably will too."
The two of you laughed, and just like that, the awkwardness he'd spent the entire morning preparing for quietly melted away.
"So..." he began, glancing over the page before looking back at you. "Which part has been giving you trouble?"
You frowned thoughtfully.
"...Honestly?"
"Mhm?"
"...All of it."
He blinked.
"...That's fair."
"I understand the examples while the professor is explaining them, but when I get home and try the questions myself..." You sighed dramatically, letting your forehead fall onto the open book with a soft thud. "...It's like everything I learned just disappears."
Phainon let out a quiet laugh, more fond than amused.
"I'll do my best for you then."
"...Huh."
Anaxa folded his arms as he peered through the glass window from above, looking down at the library floor below. His gaze lingered on the table near the back, where the two of you sat surrounded by open books and scattered sheets of paper.
"It's seems your plan is working well."
Aglaea stood beside him, her expression unchanged as she observed the same scene. From this angle, Phainon was clearly focused—explaining something steadily, pencil moving across the page as you leaned in slightly, listening with far less frustration than before.
"If you give him something else to focus on," she said after a moment, "he stops getting in his own way."
A brief pause.
"Better than whatever plan you had in mind.”
“I say my plan would have been great too.” Anaxa clicked his tongue. "I'll have you know my plan involves careful structuring of the environment and emotional timing."
“Your plan was too much.”
“We should still try it just to see.”
“Please don’t ruin what I created.”
“Ahh… I’m a little nervous for this exam,” you mumbled, lingering outside the lecture hall with your notes clutched a little too tightly in your hands.
Phainon stood beside you, glancing over at your expression before letting out a small, reassuring smile.
“You’ll be fine, [Name].” He placed a hand on your shoulder, “just keep calm. Watch out for careless mistakes—that’s usually what gets people.”
“Ugh… if I fail, I’ll have to attend extra classes…” you sighed, one hand moving to adjust your bag as your eyes flicked back down to your notes. Your lips moved quietly as you reviewed formulas under your breath, like you were trying to cram the entire subject into the last few minutes.
“You studied a lot,” Phainon said with a soft laugh. “I’m sure you’ll pass, maybe even higher! Like an A?”
“Please,” you muttered, still half-focused on your notes. “If I somehow get an A, I’ll treat you to something.”
That made him pause.
Just for a second.
“Yeah?”
His smile faltered for the briefest moment before returning far too brightly.
“It’s a date then.”
He said it so casually it barely registered as anything unusual, already guiding you forward a step as the crowd around the lecture hall began to shift. You, however, were still too busy murmuring formulas under your breath to catch it properly.
Phainon cleared his throat, forcing his expression back into something normal.
“Good luck, [Name]. I know you’ll do well.”
You nodded absentmindedly, still reviewing your notes as you disappeared into the flow of students heading inside.
Only once you were out of sight did Phainon finally exhale.
“…Please do well,” he muttered under his breath, staring at the closed lecture hall doors for a moment longer than necessary before turning away.
“Phainon! Phainon!”
Your voice carried across the courtyard before he even had the chance to properly turn around. He barely registered what was happening before you were suddenly right in front of him, colliding into him with enough force to make him take a quick step back.
His arms came up instinctively in surprise, then hovered awkwardly for a second before settling carefully at your sides to steady both of you. The sudden closeness made his face warm almost immediately.
“Woa—[Name]…?” Phainon let out a breathless laugh, trying to process the sudden impact while making sure you didn’t lose your balance.
“I got an A!” you said brightly, still pressed close to him.
That alone was enough to shift his entire expression. The surprise faded almost instantly, replaced by something warm and relieved as he relaxed into the moment.
“Oh!” he grinned, genuine pride slipping into his voice. “See? I knew you could do it!”
“It’s all thanks to you,” you replied, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, still smiling. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Phainon paused at that, like the words had to settle properly before he could respond. Once it settled however, he was quick to ask.
“Then..! Can we go on our date?”
You blinked, the excitement stuttering for a moment.
“…Huh?”
The confidence he’d just gathered slipped immediately. His hands moved up to adjust his glasses, his gaze shifting away as if the ground had suddenly become very interesting.
“I-I mean… not a date,” he added quickly, letting out an awkward laugh that didn’t quite hide his embarrassment. “You said you’d treat me to something, so… yeah. Just that. Not a date.”
There was a brief silence between you, the kind that made him very aware of everything he had just said.
Then your voice softened.
“It can be if you want.”
Phainon froze.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything at all, like he was making sure he hadn’t misunderstood you. Slowly, he lifted his head again, his expression full of hope that just couldn’t be contained.
“…Really?”
You nodded, a small smile returning.
“Mhm.”
“Well then..”
His voice trailed off.
Words had failed him too many times already. Every confession had tangled itself into something else before it could ever reach you.
So instead, he simply held out his hand, his smile impossibly bright.
you think the man you are meant to marry is a brute with no care for you or your kind. yet when the vows are signed and the crown rests upon your brow, you discover there is more to the king than meets the eye—and far more he has so carefully chosen to keep from you.
☆ pairing: phainon x fem!reader
☆ tags: romance, angst, smut (fingering, unprotected sex, virginity loss), slow burn, bridgerton!au, arranged marriage!au, older brother!mydei, historical inaccuracies, mentions of death & illness, nightmares, period-typical misogyny, discussions of pregnancy, etc. divider by @/thecutestgrotto.
☆ word count: 21.5k
☆ a/n: this fic is, first and foremost, a love letter and gift to my best friend, @jeonwiixard. happy birthday, jazz! i love you to the moon and back ♡ this fic is inspired by and based off of queen charlotte: a bridgerton story. thank you to @chokifandom for beta reading, and thank you for reading!
THE DAY BEFORE YOUR WEDDING, your brother held you tight to his chest, and whispered apology after apology. You do not want this, sister, I know, I know you do not want this, but father did not leave me with a choice. It was a betrothal made when you were born, and if our estate is to survive the locust plague, we need their help, sister. Please, forgive me.
Perhaps, if you weren’t in such a foul mood, you might have forgiven your older brother, Mydeimos, the Earl of Kremnos. Earlier that morning, however, your maid had fetched you the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s society papers, and seeing how unfavourably she had written about you and your impending wedding, you were not so inclined.
You let him hold you, and patted his hair as you would your favourite mare, and said, “It’s quite all right, brother. After all, not everyone is blessed with the good fortune of marrying a prince.”
He looked stricken. “But you do not love him. You do not even know him.”
“I suppose such is my fate. Do fetch the carriage, will you? It is a long ride to London, and it would suit us all to be there before sundown.”
Poor Mydeimos could do nothing else but oblige, though he did so reluctantly and made his displeasure known to all. He snapped at the footman and the driver, curtly told your maid—poor Erinyes, you would miss her so!—that the ruby necklace she had picked out for you was too gaudy and she ought to replace it with the diamonds instead, and ordered the cook to make your favourite dish for breakfast, though you did not think you could stomach even a morsel of it. You appreciated his efforts, however, and tried, at least, to feign taking a bite so that he would not feel guilty.
In the carriage, where you sat still as a statue, you unfolded Lady Whistledown’s papers once more. It read thus:
Dearest Gentle Reader,
Though this news has been nothing more than a rumour for the better part of a month, it has now been officially announced that the King’s wedding has been arranged.
The lucky young lady in question, however, remains something of a curiosity to this author—being neither a reigning beauty of the marriage mart nor a frequent fixture of our glittering assemblies. Indeed, one might wonder whether His Highness has chosen discretion over delight, or whether this match is yet another reminder that crowns, much like fortunes, are so often secured by strategy rather than sentiment.
Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations. The King has long been known for his reserve, his temper, and his marked disinterest in the softer pursuits of courtship. If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so under circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances.
Still, this author cannot help but observe that unions forged under necessity have a habit of producing the most interesting consequences. Whether this marriage shall prove a triumph or a tragedy remains to be seen—but rest assured, gentle reader, I shall be watching.
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown.
“Impetuous woman,” you said, tossing the pamphlet aside. “What does she know about me?”
“She is not entirely wrong, is she?” Mydeimos, who sat opposite you, said. “You did not want this marriage, and it is my fate to deliver you to it.”
This time, you truly did feel a pang of sympathy for your older brother. “You did say this was a match made the day I was born, Mydeimos. What could you have done to stop it?”
“Annulled the agreement,” he said. “Father and mother are no more, so how would they know?”
“Perhaps,” you said patiently, “but that betrothal is not the only reason, is it not? I know how our funds have been dwindling, brother. Our crops are failing, and you need the money in order to help our farmers and tenants.”
Mydeimos shifted awkwardly in his seat. He looked anywhere in the carriage but directly at you: his gaze darted from the window to the spot above your head, and back down to his boots. He’d worn his finest clothes—as had you, of course; it would not do to meet the King in anything less—but he looked smaller than you’d ever seen him.
“Yes,” he said finally. “It is for the money.”
“Then it is settled. I am quite fond of our estate and its tenants. Its upkeep shall keep me very happy.”
“I will do my best to ensure it,” Mydeimos said. “You will have to know a few things about the castle and the King—they sent me a whole book full of customs and information you ought to know as the next in line to be the Queen. Would you like to read it now?”
“Perhaps later,” you said, though in truth you did not want to read it at all. In fact, you found yourself wanting to grab the book from Mydeimos’ hands and throw it out of the carriage. Instead, you settled for imagining the pages being set on fire.
He nodded and reached over to pat your hand where it rested on the seat. “Try to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
You sighed and closed your eyes.
The palace was grand—grander than anything you’d ever laid eyes upon before, and much bigger than your manor back in Kremnos.
The footman opened the carriage door, and the evening air rushed in, cool and sharp, carrying with it the scent of roses from the palace gardens. You took Mydeimos’ offered hand and stepped down onto the cobblestones, your skirts rustling as you steadied yourself. The palace loomed before you, its white stone façade gilded by the light of the sun, making its windows gleam.
“What do you think?” Mydeimos murmured beside you.
You said nothing. Your gaze swept across the grounds—the manicured hedges, the marble fountains. Cold beauty, you thought. Beauty without warmth.
A line of servants stood waiting, their livery immaculate and their faces blank. At the head of this assembly stood a woman, tall and severe, with silver hair swept back from a face that might have been handsome if it were not quite so forbidding.
“My lady,” she said. “I am Lady Caenis, the palace stewardess. His Highness sends his regrets that he cannot greet you personally, but urgent matters of state require his attention.”
Of course. You forced your expression into one of gracious understanding, though privately you thought it rather convenient that the King could not spare even an hour to meet his bride-to-be. What urgent matters, you wondered, could possibly be more pressing than this?
“How very conscientious of His Highness,” you said. “I should hate to distract him from his duties.”
“Indeed. Come, your rooms have been prepared. Lord Mydeimos, arrangements have been made for your accommodation in the east wing. You will, of course, be free to visit your sister as propriety allows.”
The implied restriction was not lost on you; it meant, you suspected, that your time with Mydeimos would be carefully monitored and limited. The thought of losing even his company made something uncomfortably sad twist in your chest.
You walked through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced royals, their painted eyes seeming to follow your progress. Chandeliers dripped with crystals overhead, and your footsteps echoed on marble floors so highly polished, you could see your reflection in them.
“These will be your apartments,” Lady Caenis said at last, pushing open a set of doors carved with intricate patterns of roses and thorns. “The Dowager Princess’ chambers. They have been empty for some time, so we have had them thoroughly aired and refreshed for your arrival.”
The rooms were vast: a receiving parlour that opened into a bedroom, which in turn led to a dressing room and private bathing chamber. The walls were papered in silk the colour of early morning skies, and the furniture was lined with brocade. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, as though trying to warm a space far too large for such modest flames. French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked gardens so extensive you could not see where they ended.
“Your maid will arrive shortly,” Lady Caenis continued. “She comes with excellent references, and has served in the palace for many years. I trust you will find her more than adequate.”
“I had rather hoped my own maid might attend me,” you said. “Erinyes has been with my family since I was a child.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Queen’s household staff are all palace employees—it is tradition, you understand. Your brother’s attendants will, naturally, remain with him during his stay.”
“I understand,” you said, though you understood very well that you were being given no choice in the matter.
“The wedding is tomorrow at noon in the palace chapel,” the stewardess said. “You will have time this evening to review the ceremony with the archbishop, and there will be a private dinner tonight where you and His Highness will dine together. It is… expected that you use this time to become acquainted.”
How romantic, you thought.
“What time is dinner?” you asked.
“Eight o’clock. Someone will come to escort you.” Lady Caenis moved towards the door, then paused. “A word of advice, my lady. His Highness is not what you might expect. He is… complicated. I would suggest keeping an open mind.”
Before you could ask what she meant by that, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her. You walked to the balcony and stepped out into the cool air. The gardens spread below you in geometric circles, hedges trimmed to sharp angles, flower beds arranged in unnatural patterns.
“Well,” you said aloud, “here we are.”
The gardens remained silent. Even the birds seemed to have deserted this place.
You turned back to the room and discovered that your trunks had already been brought up and placed in the dressing room. At least you would have your own clothes, even if everything else was being stripped away. Small mercies. You were examining the wardrobe—mahogany, you thought, and probably worth more than your family’s entire stable—when there came a soft knock at the door.
“Enter,” you called, expecting Lady Caenis again, or perhaps the maid you were to be saddled with.
Instead, Mydeimos slipped inside, looking furtive and uncomfortably in a way that reminded you of when you were children and he was sneaking sweets from the kitchen.
“I only have a moment,” he said quickly. “Lady Caenis made it quite clear that I’m not to disturb you while you’re settling in, but I had to—I needed to see that you were all right.”
You felt a rush of affection for your brother, this man who had always tried so hard to protect you even when circumstances made it impossible. “I am perfectly fine, Mydeimos. The rooms are lovely. Cold, but lovely.”
“Cold?”
“In spirit, I mean. They’re physically quite warm.” You gestured vaguely at the fire. “It’s all very grand and very proper and very… not home.”
Mydeimos crossed the room to take your hands in his. His fingers were warm, familiar, the same fingers which had cleaned your knees of mud when you slipped and fell in the gardens as a child, the same ones which had held you at night when you could not sleep in the weeks after your parents passed.
“I am so sorry, sister,” he said. “If there were any other way—”
“We’ve had this conversation before already,” you said gently. “There is no other way, and we both know it. I shall simply have to make the best of things. After all, how bad can it be? I shall be a queen, and I shall have all the gowns and jewels and power a woman could want.”
“But will you be happy?”
Would you be happy? You didn’t know. You couldn’t imagine it, but perhaps that was simply because you hadn’t tried hard enough. Perhaps happiness was something that could be learned, like French or needlework or the proper way to address a duke.
“I shall endeavour to be content,” you answered at last. “That will have to suffice.”
Mydeimos looked as though he wanted to argue, but another knock at the door forestalled him. This time, it was a young woman in a maid’s uniform.
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I am Arielle, your new maid,” she said, curtseying. “Lady Caenis sent me to help you dress for dinner.”
“It’s only—” you glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece—“four o’clock. Dinner isn’t until eight.”
“Yes, my lady, but there’s your hair to be done, and we’ll need to select the proper gown, and you’ll want to be bathed first, I imagine, after such a long journey. Best to start early and not be rushed.”
You supposed she had a point, though the idea of spending four hours preparing for a single meal seemed excessive even by your standards.
“I should go,” Mydeimos said, squeezing your hands before releasing them. “But I’ll see you tomorrow before the wedding. I promise.”
A flutter of panic caused you to ask, “Will you not be joining us for dinner?”
Mydeimos looked pained, his eyes darting away from you. “It would—it is not appropriate, my lady.”
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and watched him leave.
Arielle was already bustling about the room, laying out several different options for evening gowns. “Now then, my lady, what do you think? The green silk might be nice—it brings out your eyes—but the ivory satin is more traditional for a first formal dinner with His Highness. Then again, there’s the rose-coloured taffeta, which is very fashionable just now…”
You let her chatter wash over you as you walked to the window again. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. By this time the next day, you would be married. You would be a queen. You would belong to this place, this palace, and to a man you had never met.
Lady Whistledown’s words came back to you: If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so in circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances. Well, you thought, at least your expectations were appropriately low. That was something, was it not? Better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than to hope for romance and be bitterly disappointed.
“The ivory satin, I think,” you said, turning back to Arielle. “Traditional suits me just fine.”
If the maid thought there was anything odd about your tone, she didn’t show it. She simply smiled and began preparing your bath, humming a cheerful tune that did little to ease your mood.
You caught your reflection in the mirror—a young woman in a travelling dress, her hair slightly dishevelled from the journey. Tomorrow, that woman would put on a wedding gown and walk down an aisle and promise herself to a stranger. Tonight, she would sit across from that stranger at dinner and make polite conversation about… what? The weather? The state of the kingdom? How to divvy up your conjugal duties?
The thought made you want to laugh, but you suspected that if you started, you might not be able to stop, and that would never do. After all, you had very little choice in the matter.
“I am afraid the prince will not be joining you for dinner, my lady. He is… indisposed.”
“What?” you said, and indeed, when you looked around, the long table laden with the finest foods and the most delicious sweets was set for only one. “Is—can my brother join me, at least?”
“I am afraid that is inappropriate, my lady,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “You may enjoy your dinner in peace.”
“He is my brother,” you hissed. “After tomorrow, I may never see him again.”
“Lord Mydeimos will attend the wedding tomorrow, and you will have ample opportunity to say your farewells then. For tonight, His Highness felt it best that you have time to… acclimate to your new surroundings.”
“How thoughtful,” you said, and this time you made no effort to disguise the bitterness in your voice. “His Highness is proving to be remarkably considerate—first too preoccupied with matters of state to greet me, and now too indisposed to dine with me. One might almost think he wishes to avoid me entirely.”
“My lady—”
“Tell me, Lady Caenis,” you interrupted, “is the King always this… elusive? Or is it only his future bride he finds so distasteful that he cannot bear to spend even one evening in her company?”
The stewardess drew herself up, and for a moment you thought she might reprimand you for your impertinence. Instead, however, she sighed and something in her severe features softened just slightly.
“His Highness has his reasons for everything he does, my lady. I cannot speak to them, nor would it be appropriate for me to do so. But I will say this: he is not a cruel man, merely a… cautious one. Give him time.”
“How much time, precisely?” you said. “We are to be married in less than a day.”
Lady Caenis said nothing to that. What could she say? You were right, and you both knew it.
“Very well,” you said at last, turning away from her to face the absurdly long dining table with its single place setting at the head. It looked ridiculous: one plate, one glass, one set of silverware in all that vast, empty space. “I shall dine alone, then. As it appears I shall be doing many things alone from now on.”
“My lady—”
“That will be all, Lady Caenis. Thank you.”
You heard her hesitate behind you, the rustle of her skirts as she prepared to leave, but then, surprisingly, she spoke once more. “For what it is worth, my lady, I am sorry. This is not… this is not how I would have wished your arrival to be.”
You did not turn around. You could not bear to see whatever expression might be on her face; sympathy would be unbearable, and pity even worse.
“Yes,” you said quietly. “Well. Perhaps you might convey my gratitude to His Highness for his… hospitality.”
The door closed softly behind her, and you were alone.
You stood there for a long moment, staring at that single place setting, and the elaborate dishes that had been prepared for a meal that was meant to be shared: roasted pheasant, by the looks of it, and some sort of fish in a cream sauce, and vegetables arranged in artful little pyramids. Desserts gleamed on a separate side table—tarts and cakes and what looked like a towering confection of spun sugar. All of it was wasted on a woman like you, who found she had no appetite whatsoever.
You walked to the table slowly, your ivory satin gown whispering against the floor. Arielle had done an excellent job with your hair, pinning it up in an elaborate style that had taken the better part of an hour and left your scalp aching. Your jewellery—the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon—caught the candlelight and threw it back in cold, brilliant sparks. You looked every inch a princess, though you had never felt less like one.
Sitting down in the chair that had been pulled out for you, you stared at the feast spread before you. A servant appeared from somewhere—you had not even noticed him standing in the shadows—and began to serve you, spooning portions onto your plate.
“That’s enough,” you said when your plate was only half full. “Thank you.”
The servant bowed and retreated back into the shadows. You picked up your fork, examined a piece of pheasant, and set the fork back down again.
This was absurd! This whole farce was absurd. You had travelled for hours to get here, and had spent four hours being primped and perfected for a dinner with a man who could not even be bothered to attend. You had dressed in your finest gown, and allowed Arielle to arrange your hair until it was perfectly elegant, and had put on jewellery worth more than most people saw in a lifetime—and for what? To sit alone in a cavernous dining room and pick at food you did not want?
Lady Whistledown had been right, you thought bitterly. Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations indeed.
You forced yourself to eat a few bites—the pheasant really was excellent—and pushed your plate away. The servant materialised again, asking in hushed tones if you would care for dessert.
“No, thank you,” you said. “I find I’m quite finished.”
“Perhaps some wine, my lady? Or tea?”
“That will be all, thank you. I would like to retreat to my chambers now.”
If Lady Caenis found out that you had run away on the morn of your wedding day, you feared her wrath would scare you more than living as an old, unmarried spinster in some far-off county where the King could never find you. How could he? He had not deigned to see your face the evening before, as it was, so you were certain he would not be able to recognise you regardless.
Either way, you consoled yourself, the odds of the King himself finding you attempting to climb over the trellis on the garden wall was a chance that was nigh impossible.
The morning air was cool against your flushed cheeks as you struggled with the branches, your wedding gown—an elaborate confection of white silk and lace that had taken Arielle and two other maids nearly an hour to get you into—catching on every available branch and rose thorn. The skirts were impossibly voluminous, designed to make you look like some sort of ethereal being floating down the aisle, but they were decidedly impractical for climbing.
“Blast,” you muttered as another section of lace tore free with an audible rip. The gardeners would have a fit when they discovered what you’d done to their roses.
Arielle had arrived promptly at six. The next three hours had felt like a blur: the bath, the hair, the undergarments, the stockings, the gown itself with its thousand tiny buttons, and the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon.
Through it all, one singular thought had circled your mind: I cannot do this. I cannot do this. I cannot do this.
So when Arielle had stepped out to fetch your bouquet, you had made your decision. You had gathered up your ridiculous skirts, slipped out onto the balcony, and made your way down to the gardens. The chapel was on the other side of the palace—you could hear the distant sounds of guests arriving, carriages rattling over cobblestones, voices calling to one another. You had perhaps an hour before the ceremony was to begin.
“I wouldn’t recommend that particular route of escape, if I were you.”
You froze. The voice had come from below. You looked down and felt your stomach drop.
A man stood at the base of the trellis, arms crossed over his chest, looking up at you with an expression of blatant, unabashed curiosity. He was tall—as tall as Mydeimos, perhaps—and broad-shouldered beneath grand attire: an intricately embroidered coat, over a white shirt and dress shoes. His hair was light, ruffled gently by the breeze, and even from this distance you could see his eyes were pale, an unusual colour, like ice or the winter sky.
He was also, you noted with some irritation, devastatingly handsome. He had sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a mouth that was currently curved into a smile that suggested he found your predicament highly entertaining.
“Who are you?” you demanded, clinging to the trellis with increasingly aching fingers. “And what business is it of yours which route I take?”
“The trellis,” he said conversationally, “is nearly fifty years old. The wood is rotten in several places. You’re likely to fall and break your neck, and that would be terribly inconvenient for everyone involved.”
“I’ll take my chances,” you said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Breaking your neck on your wedding day seems rather dramatic, don’t you think? Even for a runaway bride.”
You stared down at him. “How did you know—”
“The dress is something of a giveaway,” he said, gesturing at the acres of white silk and lace. “Also, I am fairly certain I was meant to be marrying someone this morning, and given that she’s currently attempting to climb over the garden wall…”
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.
“You’re the King,” you stated.
He executed a small bow. “Guilty. And you must be the sister of the Earl of Kremnos. My bride-to-be. Or perhaps my bride-who-was, depending on whether that trellis holds.”
This could not be happening.
“Well,” you said, because there truly seemed to be nothing else to say, “I suppose you’ve caught me, then. Congratulations, Your Highness. You can go inform Lady Caenis that the bride is making a run for it. I’m sure she’ll have some very stern words for me before she locks me in my chambers until the ceremony.”
“I could do that,” the King agreed. He moved closer to the trellis, one hand reaching up to grip the wood—testing it, you realised, checking its stability. “Or I could help you down from there before you fall and further ruin what appears to be a very expensive dress.”
“…Help me?”
“Unless you’d prefer to hang there until the ceremony begins. Though I should warn you, the chapel bells will ring in approximately forty-five minutes, and I imagine Lady Caenis will come looking for you well before then.”
He was right, of course. And the trellis was creaking more ominously by the second, and your arms were beginning to ache from holding your weight, and your fingers were getting scraped by the rough wood and thorns.
“Why would you help me?” you asked suspiciously. “I’m trying to escape from marrying you. Shouldn’t you be trying to stop me?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I’m curious to see how far you’ll get.”
Before you could respond to that utterly baffling statement, he had begun to climb. The trellis groaned in protest—it had barely been holding your weight, and now it had to support his as well—but somehow it held. Within moments, he had reached your position.
Up close, he was even more striking than you had thought from below. His silver-white hair fell across his forehead in a way that seemed almost careless. His eyes, the colour of ice over deep water, studied you with an intensity that made you want to look away.
But you didn’t. You held his gaze and tried not to think about how improper this was, the two of you clinging to a trellis together on the morning of your wedding, close enough that you could smell him.
“Now then,” he asked, quieter now. “Where exactly were you planning to go, dressed like that?”
“Away,” you said. “Anywhere. Somewhere you couldn’t find me.”
“Ah. And you thought climbing over the garden wall was the best route?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Most people who attempt to flee an arranged marriage at least have the good sense to change out of their wedding attire first.”
“I did not have the time,” you said. “Arielle only left for five minutes, and I had to seize the opportunity.”
“Arielle is your maid?” he asked.
“Yes. The poor thing is probably having hysterics right about now, wondering where I’ve gone.”
The King—your husband-to-be, though you could hardly believe it—tilted his head slightly. “You know,” he said, “when Lady Caenis told me you had arrived yesterday, I thought about coming to greet you. I got as far as the corridor outside your chambers.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“I stood there for ten minutes, trying to decide what to say. How to explain…” He trailed off, looking away for the first time since he’d climbed up to meet you. “It does not matter. I didn’t come in. I left. And then at dinner, I… I know how it sounds, but you must believe me. I was truly indisposed. I know what you must think of me.”
“Why?” you asked. “Am I truly so horrific to look at?”
His eyes snapped back to yours. “On the contrary. We should get down from here before this entire structure collapses and we both end up in the rose bushes.”
Having said this, the King began to climb down, and you followed, more carefully now, acutely aware of how close he was, how his body moved gracefully despite the precarious footing. When you reached the bottom, he held out a hand to help you down the last few feet. Your feet touched the grass, and you stood in the garden, cheeks aflame, your ridiculous wedding gown covered in dirt and torn lace and your hair coming loose from its pins.
“So,” the King said, “what will it be, my lady? Will you run, or will you stay?”
“You will not force me?” you asked.
“I may be a king, my lady, but I am no brute,” he said. “If you do not wish to marry me, we shall cancel the wedding immediately.”
“Tell me something,” you said. “And I want the truth.”
“All right.”
“Do you want this marriage?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t. I do not want to bind myself to someone who will likely grow to hate me, and perform a ceremony in front of hundreds of people and pretend that this is anything other than a political arrangement.”
The chapel bells began to ring—not the full peal that would announce the start of the ceremony, but the warning bells that meant it would begin in thirty minutes.
“If I stay,” you heard yourself say, “and walk down that aisle and marry you—what happens then? What kind of marriage will this be?”
The King was quiet for a moment, considering. “I cannot promise you love, or even affection. I have a temper, and I’m not always kind, and there are things about me that will likely make you regret this decision. But I can promise to treat you with respect, and to speak with you as an equal. I can promise to give you as much freedom as I can within the constraints of this life.”
“Tell me your name, Your Highness,” you said. “I should like to know this, at least, before we are to be wed.”
“Phainon,” he said, a little half-smile gracing his lips. “My name is Phainon.”
“Phainon,” you repeated, testing the way it rolled off your tongue. It was a strange name, foreign-sounding, but you liked it. In turn, you gave him your own name, which Phainon said once, and then once more, his smile widening. The bells rang again. Twenty-five minutes.
“I need to know,” Phainon said quietly. “Are you going to run?”
“No,” you said. “I’m not going to run.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” Phainon said.
“Do not, yet,” you said wryly. “I’ve a temper too, you know. And a sharp tongue. And I don’t take well to being ordered about.”
“I would expect nothing less from a woman who tried to escape her own wedding by climbing over a garden wall,” Phainon said. “Come. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He led you back through the gardens, not towards the main entrance where servants and guests might see you, but along a hidden path that wound between the hedges. You followed, your torn wedding gown trailing behind you. Upon reaching the servants’ entrance, Phainon led you through the corridors—until you ran into Lady Caenis.
She took one look at you both, at your torn dress and loosened hair, Phainon’s garden-stained shirt and your joined hands, and went pale.
“Your Highness,” she said faintly. “My lady. What—how did you—”
“My bride went for a walk in the garden,” Phainon said. “She needed some air before the ceremony. Nerves, you understand. I happened upon her and offered to escort her back.”
“Of… of course, Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said. “My lady, shall we get you back to your chambers? I shall send for Arielle to make some… repairs to your gown.”
“Yes, I suppose that would be wise,” you said, before turning to Phainon. “I shall see you at the altar, Your Highness?”
“You shall,” he said, smiling once more. “Don’t be late, my lady. I should hate to have to come looking for you again.”
You let Lady Caenis lead you away, back to your chambers. As Arielle exclaimed over the state of your dress and began the work of making you presentable again, you found yourself thinking about Phainon.
You had come to this palace expecting a monster. A cold, cruel prince who would treat you as some rare trinket or jewel. Instead, you had found… what? Not love, certainly. Not even affection. But perhaps something that could become those things, given time and patience.
“My lady,” said Arielle. “You’re smiling! I’ve never seen you smile like that, in all the hours I’ve spent with you.”
“Am I?” you said, touching your lips and finding Arielle was right. “How strange. I hadn’t realised.”
When the ceremony was finished and Phainon’s lips had touched yours and you had bid farewell to your brother, Phainon took your hand in his. You refused to cry in front of Mydeimos, though your chest ached when he turned his back on you and loped back to his carriage.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
“A surprise?” you said, and found you were smiling so wide your cheeks pained. “How nice!”
Perhaps it was relief that the ceremony was over, that you had survived the endless procession down the aisle, your hand tucked into the crook of Mydeimos’ arm, and persisted through the archbishop’s droning voice and the vows that had felt both impossibly heavy and strangely weightless on your tongue. Perhaps it was simply that you were trying very hard to be optimistic of this new life.
Whatever the reason, you found yourself genuinely pleased by the prospect of a surprise. How thoughtful of him, you thought. How kind, to think of giving you something on this day that had already been so overwhelming.
“Where are we going?” you asked as Phainon guided you down a corridor you had not explored. The palace was a maze, with identical marble floors and soaring ceilings that made you feel very small.
“You’ll see,” he said.
You walked in silence for several minutes, your wedding gown rustling with each step. Arielle had worked miracles with the torn lace and garden stains, but you could still see the evidence of your attempted escape if you looked closely enough—a small rip near the hem, a faint smudge of dirt on the silk. You found yourself oddly fond of these imperfections. They were proof that something real and true had happened this morning, something that belonged to you and Phainon alone.
Finally, he stopped before a pair of ornate doors, larger than the others you had passed, carved with intricate patterns of flowers and vines that seemed to twist and grow across the dark wood. Two footmen stood at attention on either side, and they bowed deeply as you and Phainon approached.
“Open them,” Phainon said.
The doors swung open to reveal a long gallery, flooded with light from tall windows that ran the length of one wall. The other wall was lined with more portraits—queens, you realised, generations of them staring down at you, their faces serious and severe. At the far end of the gallery, another set of doors stood open, revealing a glimpse of rooms beyond.
Phainon led you forward, and you found yourself looking around in wonder. The gallery was beautiful in a way that felt less cold than the rest of the palace. There were fresh flowers in vases in side tables, and the furniture looked comfortable rather than merely decorative.
“These,” Phainon said, gesturing at the doors at the far end, “are your apartments. The Queen’s apartments. We renovated them after my mother passed—they had been closed up for years, and I thought… I thought you might appreciate them far more than I would.”
You looked up at him in surprise. “You renovated them? For me?”
“The work was completed last month,” he said. “I wanted you to have something that was yours, and yours alone.”
Your chest felt tight with emotion. He had thought of you, had planned for your comfort, even while he was avoiding meeting you. It was such a contradiction: the man who couldn’t face you, and yet had taken the time to ensure you would have a home waiting.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
He inclined his head, acknowledging your thanks, but his expression remained difficult to read. “Would you like to see them?”
“Of course.”
He led you through the gallery and into the apartments beyond. The rooms were magnificent. The receiving parlour was decorated in shades of cream and gold, with furniture that looked both elegant and comfortable. Beyond it, you could see a bedroom with a massive four-poster bed draped in silk, and what looked like a dressing room and private study. French doors opened onto a balcony which opened out to the garden.
“There’s a music room as well,” Phainon said, pointing to another door, “and a small library. I wasn’t certain what your interests were, but I thought—well, I thought it best to provide options.”
You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. This was to be your home. “It’s beautiful,” you said, and meant it. “Truly, Phainon, this is… thank you.”
He smiled, then, small and tentative, but genuine. “I’m glad you like it. I worried you might find it too formal, or not to your taste, but Lady Caenis assured me—”
“It’s perfect,” you interrupted. “Truly.”
You thought, then, that perhaps this marriage might not be so terrible after all. Perhaps you could be happy here, in these beautiful rooms with this man who had tried so hard to make you comfortable.
“There’s something else I need to show you,” he said. “Come with me.”
You followed him back through the gallery, back into the corridor, and then down a different path entirely. This part of the palace was quieter and less ornate. The portraits here were of kings rather than queens, and they looked even more severe than their female counterparts—men with hard eyes and harder mouths, who looked like they had never smiled in their lives.
Phainon stopped before another set of doors. These were not as grand as the ones that led to your apartments, but they were still impressive: dark wood carved with geometric patterns, simple but elegant.
“These are my apartments,” Phainon said. “The King’s apartments.”
“Oh,” you said, uncertain why he was showing you this. “They’re very nice.”
He didn’t open the doors. Instead, he turned to face you, and you saw that his expression had changed entirely. The man who had climbed the trellis this morning, who had smiled at you and held your hand—that man was gone. In his place stood the King you had heard about in rumours and whispers. Cold, remote, untouchable.
“There is something I must tell you,” he said. “Something I should have told you this morning, but I… I lacked the courage.”
“…What is it?”
“We will not be sharing apartments,” he said flatly. “You will live in the Queen’s chambers. I will live in the King’s chambers. We will maintain separate households, separate lives. You will have your duties—public appearances, charitable work, whatever other obligations come with being Queen. I will have mine. We will see each other when necessary for official functions, and of course for the production of an heir, but otherwise… Otherwise we will live separately.”
You stared at him, certain you must have misheard. “Separately?”
“Yes.”
“But we just married,” you said, and your voice sounded strange in your own ears, high and thin and confused. “We just made vows. We just—this morning, you said you would treat me with respect, that we would have honesty between us, that—”
“And I will,” Phainon interrupted. “I am treating you with respect by being honest with you now. This is how it must be. This is how it will be.”
“But why?” you said. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to be married to me, why go through with the ceremony at all? Why renovate my apartments and give me a library and a music room and make everything beautiful if you were just going to—to exile me on one side of the palace while you hide away on the other?”
“Because this is what is best,” he said. “For both of us.”
“Best? Best for whom, exactly? Because it certainly doesn’t feel the best to me. I left my home, my brother, everything I’ve ever known! I tried to run this morning, and you found me, and you gave me a choice, and I chose to stay. I chose you! And now you’re telling me that was a mistake?”
“I’m not saying it was a mistake—”
“Then what are you saying?” Your voice was rising now, but you did not care if servants heard, if the entire palace heard. “Explain it to me, Phainon. Make me understand why you would show me kindness this morning only to take it away now.”
He turned away from you, his shoulders tense. “I am the King,” he said, flatly. “And as your King, this is what I order. We will live separately. That is final.”
“You’re hiding behind your crown,” you said, sharp as glass and twice as cutting. “You are using your authority as King because you do not want to give me a real answer. What are you so afraid of?”
“I am not afraid!” he snapped, before taking in a breath shudderingly, and continuing, eyes downcast, “I am not afraid. This is the kindest thing I can do for you. You will have your freedom, your independence. You will be Queen in name and power, but you won’t have to—you won’t be burdened with—you will have a good life here. I will make certain of it. You will want for nothing. You will have everything a queen could desire.”
“Except a husband,” you said.
“I—”
“I see. You’ve made your position clear, Your Majesty. As my King, you have ordered that we live separately, and as your subject, I must obey. Isn’t that right?”
“Don’t,” Phainon said. “Don’t do this. Don’t twist this into—”
“Very well, Your Majesty.” You drew yourself up, straightened your shoulders, and looked at your husband—your King—with all the dignity you could muster. “I shall retire to my apartments. I assume you’ll send word when you require my presence for official functions?”
“Please—”
“That will be all, yes, Your Highness? Unless there is something else you need to inform me of? Any other surprises you’ve been saving for our wedding day?”
Phainon looked stricken, his face pale, but he shook his head.
“Then I bid you good night, Your Majesty,” you said, dipping your head in a bow before turning and walking away. Your wedding gown trailed behind you, and you held your head high even though your vision was blurring with tears you refused to shed.
You found your way back to your apartments and closed the doors behind you. Only then did you let yourself lean against the carved wood, only then did you let the tears fall.
You had been so foolish.
This morning, on that trellis, you had thought you understood Phainon. You had thought he was like you—trapped, frightened, trying to be brave. You had thought perhaps you could be allies, and could face this marriage together and make something bearable out of a situation neither of you wanted.
How foolish you’d been!
He didn’t want an ally or a partner. He wanted… what? A queen who stayed in her own apartments and didn’t ask questions? A wife who existed only when he needed her for public appearances or the production of an heir?
You slid down to the floor, wounded and terribly lonely, and cried for your brother, who you had left behind, and your home, which you would never see again.
Thus did your honeymoon pass, in isolation and brittle solitude, and how desperately did you yearn for companionship for the duration of it! Arielle was chatty and talkative, but your positions could not allow for the kind of casual, mundane conversations that were allowed between friends. Lady Caenis, perhaps having taken pity on you, sent word for a lady she trusted, a friend’s daughter of the same age as you, and invited her to the Queen’s chambers for tea one evening.
Lady Castorice was slight but sturdy, her long, pale hair twisted into an elaborate braid and her hands folded neatly over the folds of her lavender gown.
“May I speak freely?” you asked immediately, upon settling down on the chaise in your parlour.
Lady Castorice blinked, surprised by the question. She glanced at Arielle, who was fussing with the tea service on a nearby table, then back at you. “Your Majesty,” she said, “I am not certain what you mean.”
“I mean,” you said, “may I speak to you as one person to another, rather than as Queen to subject? May we have an actual conversation, rather than a formal, stilted exchange where you tell me the weather is lovely and I agree?”
To your great relief, Castorice smiled, warm and genuine.
“I think I should like that very much, Your Majesty,” she said.
You gave her name. “Please, when we’re alone like this, call me as such. I’ve been called Your Majesty or some other variation of it nearly seven hundred times in the past week, and if I hear it seven hundred and one times, I fear I might do something very undignified.”
Lady Castorice’s smile widened. “Then you must call me Castorice. Or Cas, if you prefer—my nephews all call me Cas, and I’ve rather gotten used to it.”
“It’s a beautiful name,” you said. “Where does it come from?”
“My mother’s family,” Castorice said as Arielle brought over the tea service and began pouring. “They’re from the northern provinces, near the border. The names there are all rather old-fashioned. My nephews got lucky—they’re called Marcus and Julius, which are perfectly normal. I got stuck with Castorice.”
“I think it suits you,” you said warmly.
Arielle finished serving the tea and withdrew to the corner of the room, giving you and Castorice the illusion of privacy even though you both knew she was there, listening, as was her duty. But it was something, at least. Better than sitting alone in your beautiful apartments with no company but your own increasingly bitter thoughts.
“Lady Caenis told me you’ve been rather lonely since the wedding,” Castorice said.
“The truth is I’ve been going slowly mad with nothing to do but wander around these apartments and stare at the walls,” you said. “I tried reading, but I can’t seem to concentrate. I tried the pianoforte in the music room, but I’m dreadfully out of practice and it just made me feel worse. Mostly I’ve just been…” Crying? Raging? Wondering if I made the worst mistake of my life?
“Adjusting?” Castorice supplied gently.
“Something like that.”
Castorice set down her teacup. “May I speak freely as well?”
“Please do.”
“The palace is full of gossip,” Castorice said bluntly. “Everyone is talking about the new Queen who arrived a day before her wedding, and who has not been seen in public since. They’re saying the King has sent you away, that he’s displeased with you.”
You felt your cheeks flush with anger and humiliation. “Of course they are. What else would they say?”
“I’m telling you this not to upset you,” Castorice said quickly, “but because I thought you ought to know what’s being said. I want you to know that I do not believe a word of it.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I’ve known His Majesty since we were children—my family has always been close to the royal family, and I spent a great deal of time at the palace when we were young. I know that whatever is happening between you and the King, it is not because he’s displeased with you.”
“How can you possibly know that?” you asked. You hated how desperate you sounded, how much you wanted her to be right.
Castorice leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I saw him the day after your wedding. I was visiting Lady Caenis—she’s a sort of aunt to me, though not by blood—and he came to speak with her about some household matter. I have never seen Phainon look like that.”
“Did he say anything?” you asked. “About me?”
“Not to me. But I heard him speaking to Lady Caenis as I was leaving. He asked her to make certain you were comfortable, that you had everything you needed. He asked if you were eating properly, if you seemed unwell. When Lady Caenis told him you’d been crying… He looked as though she had struck him.”
You didn’t know what to do with all this information. It didn’t change anything—Phainon had still banished you to separate apartments, broken the promise he made on the trellis, and chosen to hide rather than face whatever it was he was so afraid of. This did, however, serve as proof that he was not entirely indifferent, that your pain had affected him.
Though perhaps that made it worse. If he cared, if your tears troubled him, why would he do this to you in the first place?
“I don’t understand him,” you said quietly. “One moment he’s kind, the next he’s cruel. One moment he’s giving me a choice, the next he’s ordering me to live separately as though I’m—as though I’m some sort of inconvenience to be managed.”
“Men are often cruel when they’re frightened,” Castorice said. “Especially men with power.”
“What could he possibly be frightened of?” you said. “He is the King. He has everything.”
Castorice took a sip of her tea, her expression thoughtful. “I do not know, but I do know that Phainon is… complicated. He always has been, even as a child. He feels things very deeply, but he’s learned to hide it so well that most people think he’s cold and unfeeling.”
“You speak as though you know him well.”
“I did, once,” she said. “We were playmates as children. He, myself, and a few other children of the noble families. We used to run wild through the palace gardens, getting into all sorts of mischief.”
“What changed?”
“His mother died when he was ten. The Queen. She was… she was wonderful, kind and warm and everything a mother should be. When she died, it was as though something in Phainon died with her. He withdrew into himself, and stopped playing with us or smiling so freely. His father—the old King—tried to reach him, but Phainon wouldn’t let anyone close. He built walls around himself, and over the years, those walls just got higher and higher.”
You understood this. You had built quite a few walls yourself after your parents died.
“How did the Queen die?” you asked.
“Fever,” Castorice said. “It swept through the palace one winter. Many people died—servants, courtiers. The Queen was tending to the sick, as was her custom. She never cared much for her own safety when people needed help. She fell ill herself, and within three days, she was gone.”
“That is terrible,” you said.
“It was. The King—the old King, I mean—was never the same either. He loved her desperately, you see. After she died, he threw himself into his work, into ruling, and Phainon…” Castorice shook her head. “Phainon was left to grieve alone.”
“I wish…” you said, “I wish to understand why he’s doing this. I want him to talk to me like he did that morning, honestly and without hiding behind his crown. I want—I want to not feel so terribly alone.”
“You are not alone,” Lady Castorice said firmly. “I shall come visit you every day if you like. We can take tea together, or walk in the gardens, or simply sit and talk about nothing in particular. And if you need someone to rage at about your impossible husband, well, I’m an excellent listener.”
You smiled. “Thank you. Truly, Castorice, I… thank you.”
“What are friends for?”
You spent the next hour talking, the way you used to with Mydeimos when you were younger. Castorice told you about her family, her two little nephews who rode horses and fenced, her mother who was constantly trying to marry her off to unsuitable men. You told her about Kremnos, about your estate and the tenants you had grown up knowing, about Erinyes and how much you missed her.
“You could send for her, you know,” Castorice said when you mentioned your former maid. “As Queen, you have the authority to hire whomever you wish for your household staff. If you want Erinyes here, simply send word to your brother. I’m certain he would release her from service.”
“Truly? I thought—Lady Caenis said tradition required all Queen’s staff to be palace employees.”
“Lady Caenis is very attached to tradition,” she said diplomatically, “but tradition is not the law.”
“Tell me something,” you said, pouring yourself more tea. “Do you know why Phainon—why the King—never married before now? He must be, what, five and twenty? Six and twenty? That’s quite late for a royal marriage.”
Castorice’s expression became guarded. “He is seven and twenty. As for why he waited… there are rumours, of course.”
“What sort of rumours?” you asked.
“Nothing substantiated. Just whispers, speculation. Some say he refused every match his father proposed because he was too particular, and—and there are those who say he’s been unwell, that he apparently has episodes where he’s not quite himself. That’s why he is so reclusive, why he avoids social occasions when he can. The old King tried to keep it quiet, but servants talk, and rumours spread.”
Dearest Gentle Reader,
It is a jarring turn of affairs that has made the ton increasingly worried about why, exactly, the King chose to marry a woman who was never seen in public again after the day of their wedding.
Three weeks have now passed since the ceremony, and yet Her Majesty remains conspicuously absent from all public functions. The King attended the opening of Parliament alone, dined with foreign ambassadors alone, and even presided over the annual charity ball—traditionally the Queen’s purview—alone, looking as forbidding and unapproachable as ever.
Some say the King and Queen maintain separate households entirely. Others whisper something more troubling: that the marriage has not been consummated at all. The succession, after all, depends upon an heir. And an heir requires a certain degree of proximity between husband and wife, the last this author checked. One can only hope His Majesty comes to his senses before his queen decides that the crown is not worth the loneliness and abandonment it brings.
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown.
You threw the pamphlet down on the dining table, a disgusted sneer twisting your lips. “Is this truly what they write about me? They think I have been abandoned?”
True as it may be, you certainly did not want for the entirety of British genteel society—or, indeed, the whole of England—to think that their King and Queen were stuck in a loveless farce of a marriage. It was despicably dishonourable and jilting.
Lady Caenis stepped forward. “Your Highness, there may be a rather… simple solution to this.”
“And what is it, Lady Caenis?”
“Seduce the King,” the old lady said simply.
You stared at her, certain you had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”
“Seduce the King,” Lady Caenis repeated. “Get yourself into his bed. Make him consummate the marriage. Give him an heir, or at least make it clear to the palace staff that you’re attempting to do so. The whispers will stop once people believe the marriage is… functioning as it should.”
You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment and indignation. “Lady Caenis, I—that is—you cannot possibly be suggesting—”
“I am suggesting exactly what you think I’m suggesting, Your Majesty,” she said. “You are a married woman now. You have duties, and chief among them is the production of an heir. The King may have decided to live separately from you, but that does not exempt either of you from the fundamental requirements of your positions.”
“He doesn’t want me,” you said. “He made that abundantly clear when he exiled me to these apartments.”
“Want and need are different things,” Lady Caenis said pragmatically. “The King may not want a wife in the traditional sense, but he needs an heir. You need to secure your position. The solution is obvious.”
You stood up from the table, too agitated to sit still. “You are talking about it as though it’s—as though it’s some sort of transaction. As though I must simply march into his chambers and—and—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, so flustered were you by the entire conversation.
“That is precisely what it is, Your Majesty. A transaction. This is not a love match. We all know that. But it is a royal marriage, and royal marriages have certain… requirements. You must get the King into bed, and you must do so in a way that ensures he returns regularly enough to get you with child.”
“I don’t know how to—” You stopped, mortified. “I’ve no idea how to seduce anyone.”
“It is not so complicated as you might think, Your Majesty,” the stewardess said. “Men, even kings, are relatively simple creatures when it comes to certain matters.”
“I will not debase myself by—by throwing myself at a man who does not want me. I have some dignity left, Lady Caenis, even if Phainon seems determined to strip me of everything else.”
“Dignity,” said Lady Caenis, “will not give you an heir, nor will it stop the whispers. And it certainly will not keep you warm at night when you’re still alone in these apartments five years from now, with no children, no purpose, and a husband who has grown so accustomed to your absence that he forgets you exist entirely.”
You stared at the old woman, seeing the hard truth in her eyes. She was right, and you knew it, even if you hated admitting it. “You speak very plainly, Lady Caenis,” you said.
“Someone needs to. Everyone else will dance around the issue with pretty words and false sympathy, but that will not help you. You need practical advice, and I’m giving it to you.” She moved to pour herself a cup of tea from the service on the sideboard. “The King is a man like any other. He has physical needs, even if he pretends otherwise. Your job is to remind him of those needs and present yourself as the solution.”
“And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?” you asked. “I don’t—I’ve never—”
“You’re a virgin, yes, and I suppose you do not know the… logistics behind this whole debacle,” Lady Caenis said, taking a sip of her tea. “That is fine. Many men prefer that in a wife, though the King likely doesn’t care one way or another. What matters is that you learn to use what you have.”
“Use what I have?”
“Your body, Your Majesty. Your youth, your beauty—yes, you are beautiful, don’t look so surprised—and the simple fact that you are his wife and therefore the only woman he can bed without causing a scandal. Men are not complicated in this regard. They respond to proximity, to a woman who makes it clear she is available and willing.”
You felt as if you were dreaming. This could not be real. You could not be standing in your breakfast room receiving instruction on how to seduce your own husband from a woman old enough to be your grandmother.
“I do not even know where his chambers are,” you said weakly. “Not exactly, I mean. I know they’re in the west wing, but—”
“Second floor, end of the corridor, doors with the royal crest carved into them. You cannot miss it,” Lady Caenis explained. “You shall need to go at night, obviously. After the servants have finished their evening duties but before he retires. Around ten o’clock would be appropriate.”
“And I’m just supposed to… knock on his door? Walk into his bedroom?”
“You’re his wife. You don’t need an invitation.”
“Of course.”
“One more thing,” she said. “When you do get him into bed—and you will, if you’re persistent—don’t expect tenderness. Don’t expect romance or sweet words or any of the things girls dream about. Expect it to be quick, possibly awkward, and almost certainly uncomfortable the first time. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you do it, and that you do it often enough to conceive.”
After Lady Caenis left, you sank back into your chair and stared at the discarded copy of Lady Whistledown’s paper. The words seemed to mock you: The marriage has not been consummated at all. Was that what everyone thought? That you were so undesirable, so inadequate, that your own husband wouldn’t even bed you?
Lady Caenis was right, as much as you hated to admit it. You needed to do something. You needed to take action, seize some control over this situation that had spiralled so completely out of your hands.
You stood up and walked to the mirror that hung above the sideboard, and looked at yourself, trying to see what Phainon might see. Your face was pallid from too much time indoors, and there were shadows under your eyes from too many sleepless nights. But you were young, and Lady Caenis had said you were beautiful, and surely that counted for something.
Your wedding gown had been beautiful too, before you’d torn it climbing that trellis. Perhaps you needed something else beautiful. Something that would make Phainon look at you and remember that you were his wife, that he had chosen you.
“Arielle!” you called, and your maid appeared almost instantly.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“I need you to find me something to wear,” you said. “Something suitable for visiting the King in his private chambers in the evening.”
Arielle’s eyes widened. “Of course, Your Majesty. I have just the thing—a nightgown that came with your trousseau, made of white silk, very fine, with lace at the bodice.”
“Perfect,” you said.
Phainon did not look at all surprised to see you.
This was, perhaps, the most disconcerting thing about the entire situation. You had spent the better part of three hours preparing yourself: bathing in water scented with rose oil, letting Arielle brush your hair until it shone, slipping into the white silk nightgown that left very little to the imagination and wrapping yourself in a dressing gown for the walk through the corridors. You had rehearsed what you might say, how you might explain your presence at his door at half past ten in the evening.
You had not, however, prepared yourself for the way he simply stepped aside and gestured for you to enter, as though he had been expecting you all along.
“Come in,” he said, his voice quiet.
You stepped past him into his chambers, acutely aware of how thin the silk of your nightgown was, how the dressing gown did very little to preserve your modesty. The King’s apartments were darker than yours, decorated in deep blues and greys rather than the lighter colours Lady Caenis had chosen for you. A fire burned in the hearth; there was a desk covered in papers, a sitting area with two chairs, and beyond that, through an open doorway, you could see his bedroom.
Your stomach twisted with nerves.
Phainon closed the door behind you. When you turned to face him, you say that he was dressed for bed himself—dark trousers and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His hair was slightly disheveled, as though he had been running his hands through it agitatedly.
“Lady Caenis sent you here, I presume,” Phainon said, moving past you toward the sideboard where a decanter of amber liquid was placed.
You blinked. “How did you—”
“I met with Lady Caenis this afternoon.” He poured himself a drink and held up the decanter in silent question. You shook your head. “She also informed me that she had advised you to take… direct action regarding our current predicament.”
Heat flooded your face. “She told you that?”
“Not in so many words. But Lady Caenis has been managing the palace household for thirty years. She’s remarkably skilled at communicating without being explicit.”
“So you knew I was coming,” you stated, unsure whether to be mortified or angry. “You knew what I—what I intended—”
“To seduce me?” Phainon said. “Yes, it seemed the logical next step, given Lady Caenis’ particular brand of pragmatism.”
“And you’re just… what? Amused by this?” you said. The anger was winning now, hot in your chest. “You think it’s funny that I’ve been humiliated enough by these three weeks of separation that I’m reduced to—to throwing myself at you in the middle of the night?”
“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” he said. “I think it’s proof that I’ve handled this entire situation abominably, and that you’re paying the price for my cowardice. But I let you in because when Lady Caenis told me you might come here tonight, I—I couldn’t stay away.”
Your heart was hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. You took a step forward, then another, until you were close enough to reach out and touch him.
“Do you want me?” you asked, the words coming out braver than you felt. “Not because we need an heir, or because Lady Caenis says we should. Do you want me? As a man wants a woman?”
Phainon inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut. “My God. You must think I am a fool, for I’ve wanted you every single day since the wedding, and it’s been torture staying away.”
Something loosened in your chest. You reached up and let the dressing gown slip from your shoulders. It pooled at your feet in a whisper of silk, leaving you in only the thin white nightgown that Arielle had picked specifically because it left very little to the imagination. Phainon’s eyes darkened, tracking the movement of the fabric as it fell, and you saw his hands fist at his sides.
“Then stop talking,” you said, “and show me.”
Phainon closed the distance between you and captured your mouth with his, nothing like the chaste, brief brush of lips at your wedding ceremony. His hands came up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss, and you gasped against his mouth. You found yourself pressing closer, your hands sliding from his face to his shoulders to his chest.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he said, pulling back, but even as he spoke, his lips were brushing against your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you shiver. “You should go back to your chambers. This is—we shouldn’t—”
“Stop talking,” you said again, and pulled him down for another kiss.
His hands moved from your hair to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the evidence of his desire pressing against your hip through the thin fabric of your nightgown. The sensation made heat pool in your belly, made you arch into him with a small sound. He broke the kiss to look at you, searching your face, and whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him, because he bent and lifted you into his arms.
You gasped, your arms coming up to loop around his neck. “What are you—”
“Bed,” he said simply, and carried you through the doorway into his bedroom.
The room was lit only by the fire from the main chamber, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow. He laid you on the bed; the sheets were cool against your heated skin. You looked up at him as he stood beside the bed, and thought he might change his mind and send you away after all.
Instead, he shrugged out his shirt, his hands moving to the buttons. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, a scattering of scars across his chest and abdomen that spoke of a life that had not been entirely sheltered or safe. He was beautiful in a way that made you want to reach out and trace every line, every scar, every plane of muscle with your fingers.
He caught you staring and paused, one eyebrow raised. “Second thoughts?”
“No,” you said. “Merely… admiring the view.”
That earned you a surprised laugh, genuine and warm. He finished removing his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then moved to the bed, bracing one knee on the mattress.
“May I?” he asked, his hands hovering near the straps of your nightgown.
“Yes,” you breathed.
Slowly, he began to slide the silk down your shoulders, down your arms, exposing you inch by inch to his gaze. His fingers were warm against your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and you shivered despite the fire burning in the hearth. When the nightgown finally pooled around your waist, you fought the urge to cover yourself, instead forcing yourself to lie still and let him look at you, even though your cheeks were burning with embarrassment and something warmer.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. His hand came up to trace the curve of your collarbone with just his fingertips, feather-light. “You’re so beautiful.”
His hand continued its exploration, sliding down to cup your breast, and you arched into his touch with a gasp. His thumb brushed across your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure straight through you, making you squirm beneath him.
“Sensitive,” he observed, satisfied. He leaned down, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and you gasped, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair.
Phainon took his time, alternating between gentle kisses and firmer pressure, using his tongue and teeth in ways that made you writhe beneath him. When he moved to give your other breast the same attention, you were already trembling, already desperate for something you couldn’t quite name.
“Phainon,” you gasped, tugging at his hair. “Please—”
“Please what?” he asked against your skin; you could feel him smiling.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, frustrated and aroused in equal measure. “Just—more. I need more.”
“Patience,” he said, but his hands were already moving lower, sliding the nightgown down past your hips, past your thighs, until you could kick it off entirely. You were bare beneath him, completely exposed, and you felt suddenly vulnerable. He leaned down to kiss you again, his tongue sliding against yours, and his hand was sliding between your thighs.
His fingers moved slowly, parting you gently and finding places that made you gasp and arch and whisper his name. He watched your face as he touched you, as though cataloguing every response, every reaction, learning what made you sigh and what made you moan.
“You’re so warm,” he said, his voice rough. “So soft. Tell me if this is all right.”
“It’s—” You broke off with a gasp as his finger found a particular spot, circling it with maddening gentleness. “Yes. Yes, that’s—don’t stop.”
Phainon didn’t. He continued his ministrations, gradually increasing the pressure, the speed, until you were writhing beneath him, your hips moving in rhythm with his hand. He slid one finger inside you, and the feeling was so overwhelming you cried out, your back arching off the bed.
“Easy,” he soothed, holding still. “Just breathe, my love. Does it hurt?”
“No,” you managed. “It’s just—it’s a lot.”
“I know.” He began to move his finger slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the intrusion. “Tell me if it becomes too much.”
It wasn’t too much. If anything, it wasn’t enough. You could feel something building inside you, something that made you restless and desperate and utterly focused on the sensation of his hand between your thighs.
He added a second finger, and you gasped at the stretch, at the fullness. It was almost uncomfortable, but he curled his fingers just so and found a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
“There,” you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Right there, please—”
He obliged, stroking that spot while his thumb circled the sensitive bundle of nerves above. The dual sensations were overwhelming, maddening, and you could feel yourself climbing towards something, some precipice you’d never reached before.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice low and approving. “Let go for me. I want to see you come apart.”
You did. The tension that had been building suddenly snapped; pleasure crashed over you in waves that made you cry out his name, your body clenching around his fingers as you shook and trembled beneath him.
When you finally came back to yourself, trembling and gasping, you found him watching you with wonder.
“That was—” You stopped, unable to find words for what you’d just experienced.
“Beautiful,” he finished for you. “You’re beautiful like this.”
He withdrew his hand slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But Phainon stood, removing the rest of his clothing, and your attention was immediately captured by the sight of him fully naked.
He was magnificent, all lean muscle and smooth skin, and—
Your eyes widened at the sight of his arousal, hard and flushed.
“Will it—” You stopped, embarrassed. “Will it fit?”
That surprised another laugh out of him, though this one was strained. “Yes. Though it might be uncomfortable at first. But I’ll go slowly, I promise.”
He returned to the bed, settling between your thighs, before kissing you again, long and deep, and you felt him position himself at your entrance.
“May I?” he asked again.
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
The pressure was immediate. You moaned, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He was big—bigger than his fingers had been—and the stretch burned in a way that bordered on painful.
“Breathe,” he murmured, holding perfectly still. “Just breathe.”
You did, forcing yourself to relax, to let your body adjust to him. Gradually, the burning sensation eased, replaced by a fullness that felt strange but not unpleasant.
“Move,” you said, and he pushed forward another inch.
You could feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, could feel every ridge and vein as he slowly, carefully worked his way inside you. It seemed to take forever, this gradual joining, and by the time he was fully seated inside you, you were both breathing hard.
“God,” Phainon gasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “You feel—you’re so tight. So perfect.”
“You can move,” you said, experimentally rolling your hips.
The movement made you both gasp—him with pleasure, you with surprise at the feeling it created.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes. Please, Phainon. Move.”
He did, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. You gasped, your legs coming up to wrap around his hips, and the new angle let him slide even deeper. He set a careful rhythm, slow and steady, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But the pain had faded now, replaced by pleasure that built with each stroke, each slide of his body against yours.
“Faster,” you breathed, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please—”
He obliged, increasing his pace, and you met him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to meet his. The pleasure built and built, spiralling higher with each movement. Phainon’s breathing was ragged now, your name falling from his lips. You could feel him beginning to lose control, his thrusts becoming less controlled, more desperate.
“I can’t—” he gasped. “I’m going to—”
“Yes,” you urged, feeling your own climax approaching, that same tension building in your core. “Yes, Phainon, please—”
He thrust deep one final time, and you felt him pulse inside you as he found his release, his whole body going rigid above you. It pushed you over the edge as well, and you cried out, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through you for the second time that night.
Finally, Phainon shifted, pulling out of you carefully. You winced at the soreness, the unfamiliar ache between your thighs. He noticed immediately.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
“No,” you said. “It’s just—tender. Is that normal?”
“For your first time, yes.” He rolled to lie beside you, immediately reaching for you and pulling you against his chest. “It will be better next time. Less uncomfortable.”
“Next time?”
“If you want there to be a next time,” he amended quickly. “I’m not—I won’t force—”
“I want there to be a next time,” you said, pressing your face against his shoulders. “Many next times, preferably.”
You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, and you thought that if this was what marriage could be, then perhaps you could be very happy here after all.
“You asked me to bed her—I have! You asked me to provide her a companion—I asked Lady Castorice to provide her with companionship! Lady Caenis, I truly do not understand what more you want from me!”
“Her cycle is still regular, Phainon,” you heard the old lady snap. The door to the main dining hall was ajar, and though you could not see the two figures quarrelling inside, you could certainly hear them, loud and clear. “How often have you been bedding her? Once, twice? The Crown needs an heir!”
You stood frozen in the corridor, your hand raised to push open the door, your heart pounding. You had been on your way to meet Phainon for luncheon—he had started inviting you to dine with him occasionally over the past two weeks, stiff and formal affairs where you made polite conversation and tried not to think about the three times he had summoned you to his chambers in the dark of the night with a brief message: The King requests your presence.
Three times you had gone to him, had let him undress you and bed you. He was always careful not to hurt you, always made certain you found some measure of pleasure in the act, but there was something perfunctory about it now. You had told yourself you were imagining it; you convinced yourself that perhaps this was simply how married couples conducted themselves, that the desperate passion of that first night had been an aberration rather than a rule.
“Once or twice a week is not sufficient,” Lady Caenis was saying. “You need to be visiting her chambers every night, or better yet, move her into yours properly. The longer this takes, the more people will talk, and the more they talk, the more they’ll question—”
“I am doing the best I can,” Phainon interrupted. “I have given her what she wanted. I have dined with her, spoken with her, and fulfilled my marital obligations. What more can I possibly—”
“You can give her a child! That is your duty as King, Phainon. Your only duty that truly matters. Everything else—the dinners, the companionship, the occasional night in her bed—all of it is meaningless if you cannot produce an heir.”
“I am trying—”
“Not hard enough, clearly. Her courses came again this morning. Arielle informed me.”
“…I see,” Phainon said.
“Do you understand what will happen if you do not get her with child soon?” the stewardess challenged. “The whispers have already started again. People are saying the marriage is cursed, that you’re incapable, that she’s barren. And if those whispers continue, if months pass with no announcement of an heir—”
“I understand the political ramifications, Lady Caenis.”
“Then act like it! Stop treating this like some burden you can attend to whenever it’s convenient. She is your wife, Phainon. Your queen. And she deserves better than to be summoned to your chambers twice a week like some—some courtesan you’re obligated to pay.”
You felt numb. Was that what you were to him? Was that how he saw those nights in his bed—as transactions, obligations, duties to be performed and then forgotten?
“You don’t understand,” Phainon said quietly. “You do not know what you’re asking of me.”
“I’m asking you to do what every king before you has done: to lie with your wife often enough to get her with child.”
“You want me to go to her every night, to pretend that I’m—that we’re—” He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. “You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not.”
“I want you to do your duty,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “Whatever pretty illusions you need to accomplish that, I don’t care. But she needs to conceive, Phainon. Soon.”
You couldn’t stand hearing them discuss you as though you were some broodmare whose only value lay in your ability to produce offspring. You couldn’t bear to hear Phainon talk about bedding you as though it were a chore, an obligation, something he had to force himself to do.
You did the foolish thing and knocked on the door.
“Enter,” Phainon called out.
You pushed the door open and bent in a curtsey. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. Forgive me for being late—I was admiring some portraits in the gallery and lost track of time.”
Phainon’s face shifted through several expressions in quick succession: surprise, concern, before settling into the carefully neutral mask he wore so well. Lady Caenis, standing near the window with her hands folded before her, looked at you sharply, as though trying to determine whether you had overheard anything.
“Oh,” said Phainon, and his voice was gentler than usual, almost tentative. “You’re not late at all. I was just—Lady Caenis and I were discussing palace business. Nothing of consequence.” He gestured to the table, where luncheon had been laid out. “Please, sit. You must be hungry.”
You moved to your usual chair, acutely aware of both of them watching you. Your hands were trembling slightly, so you folded them in your lap where they couldn’t be seen. You felt exposed, as though the conversation you had overheard had stripped away some protective layer you hadn’t known you possessed.
Lady Caenis curtseyed briefly. “I shall leave you to your meal, Your Majesties.”
Phainon took his seat across from you. A servant appeared to pour wine and serve the first course—some sort of soup with herbs floating on the surface—and then retreated to the shadows.
“The portraits in the gallery,” Phainon said, picking up his spoon but not eating. “Which ones were you looking at?”
“The queens,” you said. “There are so many of them. All those women who came before me, who sat in my chambers and wore my crown and—” You stopped yourself before you could say and warmed the King’s bedchambers when duty demanded it.
“They are an impressive lineage. My mother used to tell me stories about some of them when I was a child. Queen Hecuba, who ruled as regent for ten years when my great-great-grandfather was too ill to govern. Queen Hippolyte, who established the first hospitals in the city. They were all remarkable women. As are you.”
The compliment landed wrong, felt hollow somehow, though you couldn’t tell if that was because of what you had overheard or because of something in his tone. You picked up your own spoon and forced yourself to ladle the soup.
“You’re too kind, Your Highness,” you murmured.
“Phainon,” he corrected. “When we’re alone, I wish you would call me Phainon. We are husband and wife, after all.”
You said nothing, only nodded and took another spoonful of soup.
Phainon watched you for a moment longer, then seemed to come to some decision. He set down his spoon and leaned forward slightly. “I wanted to ask—how are you finding palace life? I know it’s been an adjustment, being separated from your home and your brother. If there is anything you need, anything at all that would make you more comfortable—”
“I’m quite comfortable, thank you,” you said automatically.
“Are you truly?” Phainon’s pale blue eyes searched your face. “Because you seem… unhappy. And I thought perhaps—I thought perhaps we might spend more time together. Not just these formal luncheons, but—I don’t know. Perhaps you might show me the gardens you’ve been exploring? Or we could ride together? I understand you’re an excellent horsewoman.”
You stared at him, trying to reconcile this version of Phainon—earnest, almost nervous—with the man you had heard in this very room just minutes ago, talking about bedding you as though it were an unpleasant chore.
You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not. Was this the lie, then? This sudden interest in spending time with you, in making you happy? Was this another obligation he was fulfilling because Lady Caenis had told him to try harder?
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” you said carefully, “but I wouldn’t want to take you away from your duties. I know how busy you are.”
“My duties can wait,” the King said. “I—I know I haven’t been the husband you deserve. I want to do better. I want to try to make this marriage into something more than just… than just what it’s been.”
“Alright, Your Highness,” you said quietly, because who were you to disobey the King? “I would like to walk in the gardens with you very much.”
“That is the Ophrys apifera,” Phainon said, trudging along the gravel path with your hand tucked neatly into the crook of his arm, “more commonly known as the bee orchid. It is interesting to look at, is it not?”
You followed the direction of his gaze, to where a cluster of pale blossoms bowed beneath the late-afternoon sun. They were delicate things, ivory petals blushed faintly pink, their centres dark and velvety, uncannily like the bodies of bees poised mid-hover. Pretty, in an odd way. You hummed, noncommittal, and allowed him to guide you a few steps further along the gardens, where the hedges were clipped so neatly they might have been carved from stone. The afternoon sun filtered through the arches overhead, dappling his sleeve, your skirts, the path beneath your feet.
“They deceive pollinators,” he continued, undeterred by your lukewarm response. “The flower mimics the appearance and scent of a female bee. The males are drawn to it, believing it something it is not.”
“That seems rather cruel.”
“I imagine nature does not particularly care.”
“I didn’t know you took an interest in botany,” you said.
“I pride myself on my agricultural knowledge,” Phainon said, with a twitch to his mouth that suggested he was attempting modesty. “If I can make the lives of our farmers, who toil endlessly, easier, then that is a job well done, don’t you think?”
You considered him sidelong as you walked, the way the sun caught in his hair and turned it almost pale gold, the faint crease between his brows that never quite smoothed out, even when he smiled. He did not look like a man who spent much time thinking about crops and irrigation and soil health, and yet perhaps that was precisely why he did. A king’s mind, you were learning, rarely stayed where appearances suggested it ought to.
“I suppose it is, though I imagine they might appreciate lower taxes just as much as improved yields. What flower is that?” you asked, pointing to a cluster of blue flowers.
“Delphinium,” Phainon answered. “They’re rather poisonous, actually.”
Slowing your steps, you peered more closely at the tall blue spires edging the path. Up close, the flowers were impossibly intricate, each petal folded and layered, their colour deepening towards the centre like ink dropped into water. It seemed absurd that something so ornamental, so clearly cultivated to please the eye, could harbour harm.
“They don’t look like it,” you said.
“No,” he agreed. “They were brought here from the western valleys. The soil there is thin and rocky. Farmers cultivate them mostly for trade now—there’s a demand for the extract among apothecaries.”
“What happens if someone touches them?”
“Oh, that’s quite harmless. It’s ingestion that causes trouble. Numbness at first. Then confusion. In sufficient quantities… Well, the gardeners are well-trained.”
“I should hope so,” you said. “I’d hate to think the palace lost staff simply because someone fancied a taste of blue flowers.”
He laughed at that, bright and startled. “You’re not wrong. Lady Caenis would have my head if I let something so avoidable occur.”
The mention of her name made you wonder, not for the first time, how much of this walk—this easy conversation, these small smiles—had been orchestrated at her insistence. Would he still be here, at your side, pointing out flowers and indulging your questions if she had not decided it was necessary?
It did not matter. Enjoyment, even borrowed, was enjoyment nevertheless.
“Those are foxgloves,” Phainon said, following your gaze before you could ask. “Digitalis. Another poisonous one, I’m afraid.”
“Is everything here trying to kill us?” you asked, only half joking.
Phainon then pointed out chamomile—“good for calming the stomach,” he said, “and the nerves, if one is inclined to believe the old wives’ tales”—and rosemary hedges planted near the edges of the beds, meant to deter insects while scenting the air.
“It thrives in poor soil,” he explained. “Farmers plant it near their fields when the land has been overworked. It stabilises the ground and gives it time to recover.”
“Lady Caenis told me that Lady Whistledown has written about us again,” you said one night, curled up in Phainon’s arms, spent and deliciously exhausted. “It appears the general public is awaiting the news of an heir.”
“You know I don’t care about what others say,” Phainon said, running a hand up the curve of your spine. His lips were near your neck, and you could feel his mouth move against your skin as he spoke. “I am their King and you are their Queen; questioning either of us seems extremely redundant.”
“They say our palace walls are too high,” you mumbled, turning around in his arms to face him.
Though you were not certain what your feelings for Phainon truly were, you knew this: you were friends, or at least, so you thought. Walks in the gardens had become commonplace now, as had sharing his bedchambers and eating dinner together. So rarely did you have time to do anything else, apart from your official duties and spending time with your husband, that seeing Lady Castorice now had become a rare occurrence.
The bedchamber was lit only by the glow of a single lamp left burning on the side table. It painted Phainon’s bare shoulders in gold and shadow, traced the line of his collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. The sheets were in disarray around you, twisted and rumpled evidence of what the two of you had been doing only moments ago.
“Too high,” he echoed softly, amusement threading his voice. “Is that meant to be criticism?”
“I wouldn’t know,” you said. “Lady Whistledown does enjoy her metaphors.”
Phainon huffed a quiet laugh. “She should be grateful for the walls. They keep us safe.”
“They keep everyone out,” you countered. “No one ever sees us.”
“They see us often enough.”
“Only at court,” you said, shifting slightly, fitting yourself closer to him without much thought. “She says it makes us inaccessible.”
“And does that trouble you?” he asked.
You felt him inhale, the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Your fingers curled lightly into the sheet near his shoulder. “I don’t know. I think I mind being talked about more than I mind being unseen.”
He hummed softly. “People will always talk. If not about our absence, then about our presence. If not about walls, then about heirs.”
“Yes. That.” You sighed. “Lady Whistledown seems convinced the whole country is holding its breath.”
“Let them suffocate.”
“That’s not very kingly of you,” you said, though you laughed despite yourself. You studied his face, the way his expression softened when he wasn’t being observed. Whatever this was between you—friendship, affection—felt nice.
“They’ll start inventing reasons,” you said quietly. “They already have. First it was the wedding being too rushed; then it was our separate schedules. Now it’s the walls.”
Phainon’s hand slid from your back to your hip, thumb pressing just slightly into the flesh. “Then perhaps we should give them fewer reasons.”
You lifted yourself a fraction, propping yourself up on one elbow so you could see him properly. “You’re suggesting…?”
“A ball.”
“A ball,” you said.
“Yes.” His other hand came up to your side.
You searched his face for irony and found none. “You realise that will only invite more scrutiny.”
“I realise it will redirect it,” he said. “They’ll talk about gowns and music and who danced with whom instead of royal babies.”
“And you think that’s preferable?”
“I think,” Phainon said, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before meeting your gaze again, “that it would be good for them to see us together properly.”
“Together how?”
“Dancing. Laughing. Being… married, and happy.”
You swallowed. “You don’t dance.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I can learn.”
“For the sake of the country?”
“For the sake of my wife,” he said.
You shifted without thinking, knee sliding between his thighs. His breath hitched in response; his grip on you tightened just enough that you felt it everywhere.
“You’re very convincing when you want to be,” you mumbled.
“I haven’t even begun to convince you,” he replied, before leaning in, lips brushing your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. When you tilted your head to meet him, he kissed you properly, slow and unspooling. His mouth was warm, coaxing.
“We could host it within the month,” he whispered, pulling back just slightly. “Before the court grows restless.”
Your hands slid up his arms, fingers tracing muscle and scar alike. “And what would Lady Caenis say?”
“She would say it’s overdue,” he said, grinning, “and insist on seating charts and guest lists.”
“And on making sure I smile often enough.”
“She’ll insist on that regardless.”
You laughed softly. “Then why does this feel like your idea?”
He paused, and for a moment you thought he might deflect, turn it into another dry remark about duty or politics. Instead, his hand slid up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Is it so much of a crime for a husband to want to see his wife happy? You are happy, are you not? With me?”
“The happiest,” you promised, and found it to be true.
You were happy. You were not certain what it was, this strange, golden thing that blossomed like a bud in full bloom whenever you were near Phainon. The other day, in the gardens, he’d pointed out a bed of merry sunflowers to you; they exhibited heliotropism, he’d explained, in the sense that they turned their heads to wherever the sunlight was the brightest. Perhaps that was how you were with Phainon—he was the sunlight, and you were the sunflower, basking in his warmth and glow.
He answered by kissing you again, deeper this time, mouth parting over yours, tongue tracing the seam of your lips before you even realised you were opening for him. His hand slid between you, and you gasped softly into his mouth, fingers clutching at his shoulder. He broke the kiss only to murmur your name, before trailing kisses along your jaw, down your throat.
“We should plan it—the ball,” you breathed, even as your body betrayed you, arching into his touch.
“We will,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
“And the music?”
“We’ll have the orchestra.”
“The guest list?”
“I’ll let Lady Caenis handle that.”
“You’re very brave to entrust such a task to her,” you said.
Phainon’s mouth curved into a smile against your collarbone. “I have excellent motivation.”
You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to bring his face back to yours. “And what would Lady Whistledown say if she could see us now?”
His eyes darkened. “She’d run out of ink.”
The thought made you laugh again, the sound dissolving into a soft gasp as his fingers slid into your warm heat once more, drawing you closer and winding you tighter. You pressed your lips to his once more, silencing whatever he might have said next.
Your courses came as per usual, and you sighed and told Arielle glumly to fetch you another washing-cloth. Lady Caenis would not be pleased, and neither would Phainon—though you knew his affection for you was not because of your ability to bear him an heir—but the day of the ball was tomorrow, so you were determined to remain in good spirits.
Arielle’s face was sympathetic as she handed you the linen. “Shall I inform the stewardess, Your Majesty?”
“No,” you said quickly, then reconsidered. “Actually, yes. Better she hears it from you than discovers it herself somehow. She always seems to know anyway.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Arielle curtseyed and slipped away, leaving you to sink back against the pillows of your bed—yours and Phainon’s bed, you reminded yourself, though in this moment it felt cavernous and empty.
It had been three months of sharing his chambers, falling asleep in his arms and waking to his kisses, learning the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his skin against yours. Three months of trying, hoping, waiting for some sign that all of this intimacy and tentative affection would result in the heir everyone so desperately wanted.
You pressed a hand to your flat stomach, willing yourself not to feel like a failure. It was early yet, you told yourself. These things took time. Your own mother had not conceived Mydeimos until two years into her marriage.
You were still dwelling on it an hour later when there came a sharp knock at the door, and Lady Caenis swept in. Her face was set in lines of severe disapproval, her hands clasped tightly before her.
“Your Majesty,” she said. The two words felt like a reprimand all on its own.
“Lady Caenis.” You straightened, trying to arrange yourself into something resembling regal composure despite the cramping in your abdomen. “I assume Arielle has informed you.”
“She has,” the stewardess confirmed. “This makes three months, Your Majesty. Three months with no result.”
“I’m aware of how long it’s been,” you said.
“It appears you and His Majesty have been rather… distracted. With garden walks and private dinners and this ball you’ve convinced him to host.”
“The ball was his idea,” you protested.
“Was it?” Lady Caenis raised a silver eyebrow. “Or was it another way to avoid the real issue at hand? To distract the court—and yourselves—from the fact that you have yet to conceive?”
“We are trying, Lady Caenis. Every night, we—” You stopped, your cheeks flushing hot. “It is not as though we’re not… fulfilling our obligations.”
“Is that what you think this is about, Your Majesty?”
“Is that not what you told Phainon three months ago? That his only duty that truly matters is getting me with child?”
Lady Caenis went very still. “You heard that conversation.”
“I did,” you said.
“I see.” She was quiet for a moment. “Then you should also have heard me tell His Majesty that you deserved better than to be treated as an obligation. You deserve a husband who wanted you, not one who was merely going through the motions.”
“He does want me,” you said. “We’re happy. We—”
“Truly?” Lady Caenis challenged. “Or are you simply playing at happiness while avoiding the reality of your situation?”
“What situation?” Your hands fisted in the sheets. “That I haven’t conceived yet? That’s hardly unusual, Lady Caenis. My own mother took two years—”
“Your mother,” she interrupted, “was not Queen. Your mother did not have an entire kingdom watching her, waiting for her to fail. Your mother did not have a husband who—” She stopped abruptly, as though catching herself before saying something she shouldn’t.
“Who what?” you demanded. “Say it, Lady Caenis. Don’t stop now.”
The stewardess shook her head. “It is not my place to discuss His Majesty’s… concerns with you. However, if you and His Majesty continue to avoid discussing those reasons, to hide behind balls and garden walks and pretending everything is fine when it is not—”
“We’re not pretending! We’re trying to be happy. Is that so wrong? Why can’t you just let us have this?”
“Because happiness built on avoidance is not happiness at all, Your Majesty. It is merely another form of hiding, and sooner or later, what you’re hiding from will catch up with you.”
Lady Caenis left then, her skirts swishing against the floor, and you were alone again with your disarrayed thoughts and the growing fear that perhaps she was right.
Phainon returned to the chambers later that afternoon, his face drawn and tired. He had been in meetings all day—something about shipments and trade agreements—and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.
“Hello,” he said, and moved to kiss you, but you turned your head so his lips caught your cheek instead of your mouth. He pulled back, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you said. “How were your meetings?”
“Tedious.” He studied your face, those pale blue eyes searching. “Has something happened? You seem…”
“My courses came,” you said. “This morning. Arielle informed Lady Caenis, and Lady Caenis came to… express her disappointment.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Does it matter? She said what everyone is thinking—that three months is too long; that we’re distracted; that we’re avoiding the real issue.”
“The real issue,” Phainon repeated.
“The heir, Phainon. The one thing all of this is supposed to be about.” You gestured between you, at the bed, at the chambers you shared. “Isn’t that what you said to her? That you were just going through the motions?”
“No, I—”
“No, I want to know,” you said. “Is that what this is? All of it—the garden walks, the dinners, the ball tomorrow—is it all just… just performance? Another way to fulfill your obligations while making it look like we’re actually happy?”
Phainon’s expression shuttered, closing off in that way you had come to recognise and dread.
“How am I supposed to know anything about you?” you pressed on. “You won’t talk to me about anything that actually matters. You won’t tell me what Lady Caenis means when she says you have reasons. You won’t—”
“What did she tell you?”
“Nothing! That’s the problem! Everyone seems to know something I don’t. Everyone has some secret they’re all keeping from me, and I’m supposed to—to what? Smile and pretend everything is fine? Keep trying to get pregnant without knowing why it’s not happened?”
“It has been three months. That’s nothing. These things take time—”
“Then why did Lady Caenis make it sound like there’s more to it than that?” you challenged. “Why did she talk about your concerns, your reasons, about—”
“She had no right to say anything to you,” Phainon said, and now he was angry too, you could see it in the set of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. “This is precisely why I didn’t want her interfering. She can’t help herself, always pushing, always—”
“Always telling the truth? God forbid someone actually be honest with me about what is happening in my own marriage.”
“I have been honest with you,” Phainon snapped. “I’ve tried—”
“You’ve tried to make me happy,” you retorted. “That’s not the same thing as being honest. That is simply another form of managing me, of deciding what I can and cannot handle.”
“Becuase you can’t handle it!” The words exploded out of him, and you could see he immediately regretted it. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, say it,” you said. “Say what you really think. That I’m too fragile, too weak, too—”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“What is it I can’t handle?”
Phainon stared at you, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I think that this conversation has gotten out of hand. We’re both upset. Perhaps we should—”
“Add it to the list of things we don’t talk about?” You shook your head. “I cannot keep doing this, Phainon.”
“What do you want from me?” he asked; there was genuine confusion in his voice, as though he truly didn’t understand. “I’ve given you everything I can. I’ve moved you into my chambers, I’ve spent every night with you, I’ve tried to make you happy. What more—”
“I want you to trust me! I want you to stop protecting me from things and just—just let me in! Is that so hard?”
“I cannot,” he said quietly.
“When can you tell me?” you said. “When will you be ready? When I’m pregnant? When we have an heir? When you’ve decided I’ve proven myself worthy of the truth?”
“It’s not about worthiness—I’m doing the best I can,” Phainon said. “I swear to you, I’m trying—”
“Well, maybe your best isn’t good enough!”
Phainon flinched as though you had struck him. The colour drained from his face; he simply stood there, staring at you, his lips pressed together. Without a word, he turned and walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” you called after him, panic suddenly replacing anger.
“I don’t know,” he said without turning around. “Somewhere you don’t have to look at me and be reminded of how inadequate I am.”
“Phainon—”
But he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that somehow felt worse than if he had slammed it. The evidence of your shared life now seemed to mock you—his papers on the desk, your book on the nightstand, the tangled sheets that still smelled like both of you.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to be happy.
How could you have said that he wasn’t trying hard enough? How could you have looked at him—at the man who had tried so hard to overcome his own fears and walls—and told him his efforts were worthless?
The door opened again. Wildly, you thought Phainon had come back, but it was only Arielle, her face concerned.
“Your Majesty, I heard—that is—” She stopped. “Shall I fetch you some tea?”
“Where did he go?” you asked.
“His Majesty? I saw him hurrying towards the west wing. The old King’s study, I think.”
The west wing. As far from these chambers—from you—as he could get while still remaining in the palace.
“Leave me, please, Arielle. I wish to be alone,” you said.
On the eve of the ball, everything was gorgeous.
You danced with Phainon, and he held your hand throughout, and you tried not to pretend there was a large lump in your throat every time you looked at him.
It was a success. Everyone had seen you and Phainon together, smiling and dancing and playing the part of the happy royal couple. Lady Whistledown would write something glowing, no doubt, about how in love you appeared, how well-matched, how perfect, and it was all a lie.
No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t all a lie. The affection between you was real. The friendship was real. The nights you had spent in each other’s arms, learning each other’s bodies and rhythms and habits—those were real.
Thus, faced with nothing but your own thoughts and misery for company—for Phainon had retreated to his study the minute the ball ended—you realised you loved him.
You loved him. You loved his careful intelligence, the way he could recite facts about flowers and farming with equal enthusiasm. You loved the rare, genuine smiles he gave you when he thought no one else was watching. You loved the way he held you after making love, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, his breathing slowing to match yours.
You rolled over, pressing your face into his pillow, breathing in the faint scent of him that still lingered there, and finally, finally fell into an uneasy sleep.
“What has Lady Whistledown written about me today?” you said, once Lady Castorice had settled into the chair across from yours. Arielle hovered nearby, ready to pour tea at your beckoning, but otherwise, you and Castorice had the relative safety and privacy of your private drawing room.
Castorice pulled out the latest paper from her reticule, unfolding it with a slight smile. “Shall I read it to you, or would you prefer to suffer through it yourself?”
“Read it,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I’m not sure I can bear to look at it directly.”
Castorice cleared her throat and began:
Dearest Gentle Reader,
This author is delighted to report that the ball hosted by Their Majesties last evening was an undisputed success. The King and Queen appeared in perfect harmony, dancing with grace and evident affection for one another. Her Majesty’s gown was a beauty of sapphire and lace, and His Majesty’s attentiveness to his wife was noted by all in attendance. Whatever concerns this author may have previously expressed about the state of the royal marriage appear to have been unfounded.
The King and Queen are, clearly, quite content in each other’s company, and the evening’s festivities have done much to silence the more skeptical voices at court.
You listened, feeling oddly deflated. “That’s… actually rather nice.”
Castorice set the paper down on the table between you, her expression thoughtful. “How have you been sleeping?”
“I—what?”
“Sleeping. You look tired.” Castorice studied your face with concern. “Are you unwell?”
“No, I’m just—” You stopped, considering. “Actually, I’ve been sleeping terribly. Last night especially. The bed felt too large without—” You caught yourself, felt your cheeks warm. “Without Phainon there.”
“Ah. Yes, I heard from the footman that he spent the night in the west wing.” Castorice poured tea for both of you. “That must have been difficult.”
“It was necessary,” you said, perhaps too defensively. “We both needed space after—after everything.”
“Of course,” your friend said, handing you a teacup. “Though I imagine His Majesty didn’t sleep well either. He rarely does, from what I understand.”
You looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing specific. Just—palace gossip, you know how it is. The servants talk. I’ve heard that His Majesty is often awake at odd hours. Walking the corridors, working in his study. That sort of thing.”
“He works too much,” you said. “I’ve told him he needs to rest more, but he doesn’t listen.”
“Mm. Though I wonder if it’s truly work that keeps him awake,” Castorice said. “My own nephew has nightmares sometimes; he wakes the whole house with his shouting. My uncle wanted to send him to a specialist, but Marcus refused, because he said it would make him look weak.”
“…Nightmares?”
“Oh, it’s nothing serious. Just bad dreams from childhood that he never quite grew out of. But it does affect his sleep terribly.” She paused, then added, “I imagine anyone who’s experienced terrible things at a young age might struggle with similar issues. The mind has difficulty letting go of such things.”
You thought about Phainon, about his mother’s death when he was ten, about all those nights you had slept peacefully in his arms while he—
Had he been awake? Fighting off nightmares? Trying not to disturb you?
“Are you all right?” Castorice asked.
“Yes, I—” You shook your head. “Sorry, I was simply thinking about something.”
“About His Majesty?”
“About everything,” you said. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“I think… I think Phainon is hiding something from me.”
“What do you think he’s hiding?”
“I don’t know exactly,” you said, frustratedly setting your teacup down. “Something about why he’s so afraid of getting close to people. Why he wanted separate chambers at first. Why he—why he sometimes looks at me like he’s waiting for me to disappear.”
“Grief does strange things to people,” Castorice said quietly. “Especially when it’s complicated by guilt. When someone blames themselves for something that wasn’t their fault, it can shape how they see the world, and how they see themselves.”
“His mother,” you said, and suddenly the answer seemed so simple to you, so obvious.
“Among other things,” Castorice said, “but that’s not really my story to tell. If you want to know what His Majesty carries with him, you’ll have to ask him directly. Or simply be patient enough that he tells you himself.”
You nodded slowly, understanding what Castorice wasn’t quite saying. Phainon had nightmares. Phainon blamed himself for his mother’s death, even though it wasn’t his fault. Phainon was afraid of losing people he cared about. Castorice was telling you this without actually telling you, because she knew Phainon wouldn’t want you to know; because she was your friend, but she was also loyal to him, and she was trying to help you both without betraying either of you.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
“Any time,” Castorice said, smiling. “Though next time, perhaps we could talk about something more cheerful? Like the fashion at the ball, or the truly scandalous amount of champagne Lord Ashford consumed?”
“He was rather drunk, wasn’t he?”
“Absolutely sotted. I’m amazed he made it home without falling into a fountain.”
“I’m still rather surprised by Lady Whistledown’s paper this time,” you said. “Last time she wrote about us, she was speculating about whether the marriage had been consummated at all.”
Castorice’s expression turned odd. “When was that?”
“Weeks ago. Around the time Lady Caenis was pressuring Phainon to—” You stopped, frowning. “Why?”
“Lady Whistledown,” she said carefully, “has never written anything about whether your marriage has been consummated. Or about heirs, for that matter. She’s mentioned the palace walls, and your reclusiveness, and the general state of the marriage, but she’s never been so vulgar as to speculate about… intimate affairs.”
You stared at her. “That’s not—I read it myself. She wrote about how the succession depends on an heir, and how an heir requires proximity between husband and wife, and—”
“I’ve read every single edition of Lady Whistledown’s papers since your wedding. I promise you, she’s never written anything like that.”
“But I saw it,” you insisted. “It was in the paper. It said—
“Who gave you the paper?” Castorice asked quietly.
“Arielle. She always brings me Lady Whistledown’s papers when they’re published.” You felt something cold settle in your stomach. “Are you saying—you think someone fabricated it?”
Though Castorice did not say anything further, you knew what she was thinking. Someone wanted you to believe Lady Whistledown was writing about heirs and succession, someone who had a vested interest in making you feel pressured about conceiving.
Lady Caenis.
You had to tell Phainon.
You had to tell Phainon. The thought consumed you for the rest of your afternoon, through Castorice’s departure and the hours that followed. You paced your drawing room, trying to organise your thoughts, trying to decide exactly how to approach this.
Lady Caenis had fabricated a Lady Whistledown paper; had manipulated you into feeling humiliated and pressured; had orchestrated that entire conversation for you to overhear. However, you needed proof. You couldn’t simply accuse the palace stewardess of such deceit based on suspicion alone.
You rang for Arielle, and she appeared immediately. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Do you remember the Lady Whistledown paper you brought me several weeks ago? The one about—the one about heirs and succession?”
Arielle’s brow furrowed. “Your Majesty, I’m not certain I recall—”
“It was the week before I had luncheon with His Majesty. The day you brought it to me at breakfast, and I was reading it with Lady Caenis before I left.”
“Oh! Yes, I remember that morning, Your Majesty. Lady Caenis had asked me to deliver it to you specifically. She said it was important you read it before the next week.”
“And where did you get the paper from?”
“Lady Caenis gave it to me directly, Your Majesty. She said it had just been published.”
“I see. Thank you, Arielle,” you said. “One more thing: do we keep copies of old newspapers anywhere? An archive of some sort?”
“The library maintains a collection of all published papers, Your Majesty,” she replied, “including Lady Whistledown’s publications. Would you like me to fetch something for you?”
“Yes,” you said. “I’d like to see the Lady Whistledown paper from that same day.”
Arielle curtseyed and withdrew. You continued pacing, your mind racing. If you were right, and Lady Caenis had indeed fabricated that paper, then the library’s copy would be different from what you read—it would serve as ample proof.
Arielle returned twenty minutes later with a paper in hand. “From the date you specified, Your Majesty.”
You took, unfolding it, your eyes scanning the text. The article was about the palace walls, about your reclusiveness, about speculation on the state of your marriage. There was nothing about heirs or succession or conjugal proximity. The paper Arielle had brought you from the library was completely different from the one you had read that morning weeks ago.
Lady Caenis had fabricated an entire false newspaper to manipulate you.
“Arielle,” you said. “Please send word to His Majesty. Tell him I need to speak with him urgently, and ask him to have Lady Caenis present as well.”
“Your Majesty—”
“Now, please.”
Arielle’s eyes widened, but she hurried away.
“Arielle said it was urgent,” Phainon said, his head tilted in that manner he had when he was confused. You had asked him and Lady Caenis to meet you in the formal receiving room rather than your private chambers. “What’s happened? Are you unwell?”
“I’m perfectly well,” you said. “Thank you for coming, Lady Caenis.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” she said. “How may I be of service?”
You held up the paper in your hand. “I’ve been reviewing some of Lady Whistledown’s publications. The one from several months ago, specifically; the day I—forgive my crude manner of speaking—but the day I first spent the night in His Majesty’s chambers.”
Phainon’s brow furrowed. “What about it?”
“It was a week before I overheard your conversation with Lady Caenis before luncheon, about how I needed to conceive and how you were only bedding me out of obligation.”
Phainon’s face went pale. “I—”
“I’m not finished,” you said. “The morning of the day we shared a bed, Arielle brought me a Lady Whistledown paper. One that discussed, in rather explicit terms, the question of whether our marriage had been consummated, whether we were capable of producing an heir. It was humiliating to read, and it made me feel—it made me feel like a failure.”
“I don’t understand,” Phainon said. “What does this have to do with—”
“Lady Whistledown never wrote that article,” you said, holding up the paper. “This is the real edition from that date. It mentions nothing about heirs or conjugal matters. The article I read that morning was fabricated.”
Phainon turned slowly to look at Lady Caenis. “What is she talking about?”
“Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said, “I’m certain there’s been some misunderstanding—”
“There’s no misunderstanding! Arielle confirmed that you gave her the paper directly that morning, and that you specifically asked her to deliver it to me the week before the luncheon, where—coincidentally—I overheard you discussing my failure to conceive with His Majesty.”
“Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said, patiently. “You were under a great deal of stress at that time. It’s possible you misremembered what you read—”
“I didn’t misremember.” You walked to the desk and laid out the paper. “Here. Read it yourself. Tell me where it mentions heirs or succession or any of the things I supposedly read. You fabricated a paper. You wanted me to feel pressured about conceiving. You orchestrated everything, all to manipulate me into seducing my husband!”
“That’s a very serious accusation, Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said.
“It’s also true, isn’t it?”
Phainon was staring at Lady Caenis with an expression you’d never seen before—something between shock and betrayal and cold, terrible anger. “Did you do this?” he asked.
Lady Caenis was silent for a long moment. “Yes.”
“You fabricated a newspaper,” Phainon repeated. “You manipulated my wife—”
“I did what was necessary,” Lady Caenis interrupted. “Your Majesty, you were avoiding your obligations. The Queen needed to conceive, and you were treating the marriage like—like one of your botanical studies. Something to be examined from a distance rather than actually engaging with.”
“That was not your decision to make,” the King said.
“Someone had to make it! You were content to keep Her Majesty in separate chambers, to visit her once or twice a week. The kingdom needs an heir, Your Majesty, and if you were not going to take that seriously, then yes, I took steps to ensure—”
“You lied to her,” Phainon said. “You manufactured evidence to make her feel humiliated and inadequate. You manipulated her into believing the entire kingdom was judging her for something that wasn’t even true.”
“I gave her motivation,” Lady Caenis said. “And it worked, did it not? You moved her into your chambers. You started spending every night with her.”
You felt sick, for she wasn’t entirely wrong—her manipulation had worked. You had gone to Phainon’s chambers that night. You had seduced him. You had pushed for more intimacy, more closeness, and yes, things had gotten better between you.
“Get out,” Phainon said.
Lady Caenis blinked. “Your Majesty—”
“Get out,” he repeated, louder now. “You are dismissed from this conversation. In fact, you’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”
“You can’t be serious—”
“I am perfectly serious, I assure you.” Phainon’s voice was cold. “You have served this family for decades, Lady Caenis, and I am grateful for that service. But what you did—manipulating my wife, fabricating evidence, orchestrating situations for your own ends—that is unforgivable. You are dismissed.”
Lady Caenis’ face had gone white. “Your Majesty, please. I was only trying to help. The succession—”
“The succession is not your concern. You’ll have until the end of the week to organise your affairs and find alternative accommodations. Your pension will be provided and I shall ensure you have adequate references for future employment. But you will not remain in this palace.”
“Phainon—Your Majesty, please reconsider. I’ve dedicated my life to this family—”
“And I appreciate that dedication, but it does not excuse what you did.” Phainon moved to stand beside you, and you felt his hand settle at the small of your back. “You violated my wife’s trust and manipulated her for your own ends, regardless of how noble you believed those ends to be. That is not acceptable.”
“I was only trying to protect the Crown,” Lady Caenis tried again, looking between the two of you beseechingly.
“I know,” said Phainon, “but the Crown does not need protection from my wife.”
Lady Caenis clasped her hands tightly before her. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Your Majesty.” She nodded to each of you in turn. “I hope you’ll understand, someday, that I did what I thought was right.”
She left, the door closing quietly behind her, leaving you alone with Phainon. You stared at the closed door. Lady Caenis, the woman who had run the palace household for decades and seemed like an immovable fixture of your life here, was gone.
“Are you all right?” Phainon asked finally.
“I don’t know,” you said. “Should I feel guilty? She was only trying to help, in her own twisted way.”
He looked away, seeming terribly tired, and sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know, either.”
Queen Audata was truly a magnificent figure in paint, and, not for the first time, you wondered what she was like as a person.
You had come to the portrait gallery late at night, unable to sleep. The conversation with Lady Caenis had left you feeling unsettled, restless. Phainon had returned to his study after she left, claiming he had work to finish, and you had spent the evening alone in your chambers; so, you had risen from the empty bed and wandered the corridors until you found yourself here, standing before Queen Audata’s portrait.
She had kind eyes. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite the formal nature of the painting, and the crown and the elaborate gown and the regal bearing, there was warmth in her painted eyes. She looked like someone who had laughed often, who had loved freely. You wondered if Phainon remembered that, or if his memories of her were coloured only by grief and guilt.
“She would have liked you.”
You turned to find Phainon standing in the doorway of the gallery, still in his daytime clothes, his hair disheveled. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders tense.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I couldn’t sleep, and I…”
“You’re not intruding.” He moved into the gallery, coming to stand beside you. “I couldn’t sleep either.”
You looked at him more closely. “Bad dreams?”
He went very still. “What makes you say that?”
“Just a guess,” you said. “I’ve heard that people who experience terrible situations young often struggle with nightmares. The mind, apparently, has difficulty letting go of such things.”
“Who told you?”
“No one told me anything directly,” you said truthfully, “but I’m not blind, Phainon. I’ve noticed you’re often awake at odd hours, and that you sometimes look exhausted even after a full night in bed. I’ve noticed that there are moments where you seem… elsewhere.”
He moved away from you, then, his arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“I know.”
“It makes me look weak.”
“I don’t believe it does, truly,” you said. “Phainon, you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to tell me, but I want you to know—whatever keeps you awake at night, I’m here.”
“You can’t promise me that,” he said roughly. “People leave. People die.”
“People get sick, and their mothers nurse them, and sometimes those mothers catch the illness too,” you said quietly. “And sometimes cruel men blame children for things that aren’t their fault.”
Phainon turned to stare at you, his face silver in the moonlight. “How did you—”
“I told you. I pay attention. And I understand why you wanted separate chambers at first.”
“I dream about it,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out. “About my mother dying, and my father telling me it was my fault. Sometimes I’m ten years old again, burning with fever, calling for her. Other times I’m watching her get sick, and I can’t—I can’t make her stay away from me, and then I wake up, and for a moment, I’m convinced I’m still that ten-year-old boy who killed his mother.”
“You didn’t kill her,” you said firmly. “How long have you been having difficulty sleeping?”
“Since she died. Seventeen years.”
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding the bed? Since the fight? Not because you wanted space, but because you didn’t want to see me?”
He nodded, unable to meet your eyes. “I’ve gotten good at waking myself up quietly, but I cannot always manage it. I thought—if you saw me like that, if you knew—”
“I’d realise I made a mistake in staying?”
“Yes.”
You closed the distance between you and took his hands in yours. They were cold, trembling. “Do you love me?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. “What?”
“Do you love me?” you repeated, looking up at him. “It’s a simple question, Phainon. Yes or no.”
He stared at you, and you thought he might deflect, might hide behind walls again. But he didn’t.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I love you. From the—from the moment I saw you on that trellis, covered in garden dirt, looking at me like I was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. I loved you then, and I’ve loved you every day since.
“I love you when you’re walking beside me in the gardens, asking questions about flowers you don’t actually care about just because you know it makes me happy to talk about them. I love you when you’re asleep, when you make that little sound right before you wake up, when you reach for me without opening your eyes. I love—I love you so much it feels like I cannot breathe sometimes, if you are not near.”
You kissed him, then, pressing your mouth to his with an urgency that bordered on desperation. You wanted him to consume you, to make you his wholly and completely, for just as he was yours, so too were you his, and how nice this life would be! How nice, to stay in the comfort provided by darkness and the stars, and hide from the heavens forever.
Synopsis: When danger finds you in the abandoned streets of Okhema, Mydei’s fury is as swift as it is devastating. But once the fight is over, the battle shifts inward—between his fear of losing you, his desperate need to protect you, and the possessive truth he can no longer hold back.
A/N: Mydei gets pretty territorial here. Very much raw and protective, but that’s the side of him I wanted to explore. The second half was meant to be a simple kiss scene… but Mydei had other plans. It’s that mix of primal intensity and grounding devotion that makes him who he is. And since the words “simple kiss scene” don’t exist in the Kremnoan language, Mydei is in leather pants here. You can thank me later. Enjoy! :)
Word count: 4432
Warnings: Angst. Canon-typical violence. Intensity. Mydei’s possessiveness/territorial streak. Heated makeout. Mydei confessing in about 50 different ways (in true Mydei style).
____
You shouldn’t have come this far alone. The thought crosses your mind just as the first Titankin emerges from the rubble of what was once a merchant’s stall. Then another. Then three more, their corrupted forms moving with predatory intent through the narrow alley where you’re trapped.
When young Eryon went missing during the patrol right before Curtain-Fall Hour, the guards hesitated. Too dangerous, they said. Wait for backup, they insisted. But you saw the fear in his mentor’s eyes, heard the desperation in her voice when she begged someone—anyone—to help find her student before the night brought worse things than Titankin.
The guards followed protocol. You followed instinct.
Now, pressed against cold stone with nowhere to run, you’re beginning to understand why the evacuation orders for this area had been so absolute. You found Eryon huddled behind a collapsed wall—terror-stricken, but alive. Getting him to safety was the easy part. You pointed him toward the nearby checkpoint, watched him vanish into the shadows clutching your whispered directions in trembling hands.
The Titankin appeared moments later, as if Eryon’s departure was a signal. Now you face them alone, exactly as you feared you might. They emerge from the shadows like nightmares given form—corrupted flesh and twisted metal moving with predatory intent. One, then two, then five of them, their grotesque shapes filling the narrow space between collapsed buildings. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The alley that seemed like salvation when you found Eryon now feels like a trap.
The lead Titankin snarls, raising a weapon. You fumble for the blade at your side, knowing even as you draw it that you're hopelessly outmatched. Five against one. The math is simple, brutal, final.
The enemy lunges. It never reaches you.
A flash of gold sears across your vision as Mydei slams into the alley like a storm made flesh.
Mydei appears between you and the threat like he's materialized from shadow itself, and there's no weapon in his hands. There doesn't need to be.
His hand catches the corrupted weapon mid-swing, fingers locking around it with such force that the twisted metal screams before it snaps in half. The Titankin snarls, but it’s cut short when Mydei’s fist connects with its chest. You hear a loud shatter.
Mydei should stop there. He doesn’t. His markings blaze, alive with furious light, and he drives his fists down again and again until there’s nothing left to strike.
The red markings across his arms pulse with each heartbeat, each pattern seeming to writhe and burn brighter as his fury builds. This isn’t the methodical efficiency you’ve seen before. This personal. This is what happens when someone threatens what belongs to him.
When another Titankin gets too close to where you’re pressed against the wall, something in Mydei’s expression shifts beyond fury into something primal and territorial. The sound that emerges from his throat isn’t quite human. A growl that seems to resonate in your bones. He doesn’t just kill that one. He obliterates it, reducing it to chunks of corrupted flesh with his hands while his eyes burn like molten gold.
Raw power radiates from him in waves you can almost see, distorting the air like heat shimmer. The remaining Titankin hesitate, some primal instinct recognizing a predator far more dangerous than themselves. Mydei moves through them like a force of nature given human form—hand shooting out to crush enemies, fists caving in armor, spines snapping with casual twists of his wrists.
“Mydei!” Your voice breaks on his name.
That pulls him back, barely. His head jerks toward you, golden eyes molten with something that isn’t just battle-rage. It’s fear.
Another Titankin lunges for your flank. Mydei moves before you can react, hand snapping out to seize its throat. He lifts it clean off the ground, the corrupted thing kicking and flailing in his grip. The growl that rumbles from his chest is low, primal, almost inhuman. When he tears its head from its shoulders, the sound it makes is wet and final.
The fight has lasted seconds. The silence after feels endless.
Mydei stands amid the carnage, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. But his hands are shaking, fists clenched so tight you wonder if he even feels the ichor dripping from his knuckles. His golden eyes scan the surrounding area once, twice, cataloging every shadow and possible hiding place before landing on you—and what you see there makes your stomach twist.
It isn’t triumph. It isn’t even anger.
It’s terror, raw and unguarded, barely leashed beneath his usual composure.
Mydei crosses to you in three strides, his hand rising, but then hesitating, as if afraid of his own strength. The markings on his arms are still pulsing, slower now but deeper, like a heartbeat made visible. His gauntlets are still stained, and when he reaches toward your face, there’s something predatory in the careful way he moves. Like he’s afraid his own strength might hurt you if he’s not infinitely gentle. When he lowers his hand again, a wave of pain surges through you.
“You could’ve died.” His voice is rough, fraying at the edges. “If I’d been seconds later—” He cuts himself off, jaw locking, as though the words themselves are too dangerous to finish.
“I’m—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, sharper than he means to, golden eyes blazing. “Don’t move away from me again. Ever.”
There’s no room for argument. Not when you can feel the way his whole body hums with the force of holding back something that wants to tear the world apart.
“Are you hurt?” The question emerges through gritted teeth, each word precise because losing control of his speech might mean losing control of everything else.
When you shake your head, relief and residual rage war across his features in a way that makes your breath catch. This is Mydei stripped of all pretense. Not the controlled warrior, but something raw and possessive and utterly, devastatingly focused on you. And terrified. So terrified his hands are shaking.
“Do you have any idea—” His voice cracks, and he has to start again. “Do you understand what I found when I got here? What I thought I was going to find?”
Finally, with deliberate care, he pulls off his gauntlets, the armored pieces falling away with soft clinks. Each piece strikes the ground like a vow, like he’s shedding every barrier between his hands and you. Armor he never lowers for anyone else, dropped without hesitation now.
When his bare palms cup your face, the skin-to-skin contact is electric, intimate in a way that makes everything around you fade into background noise.
“What were you thinking?” The words tear out of him, raw and unsteady. “A missing pupil doesn’t justify you coming here alone. The guards had protocols—”
“The guards were too slow,” you cut him off, finding your voice despite the tremor in it. “Eryon was out here, frightened and alone, and they wanted to wait for backup while he—”
“While he what? Dies?” His voice cracks entirely. “And what if you’d died instead? What if I’d arrived to find both of you torn apart by those things?”
The bluntness of it hits like a physical blow. You can see it in his eyes now. The images his mind conjured when he first arrived, the scenarios he’d prepared himself for. Finding pieces of you scattered among the rubble. Finding nothing at all.
“I was five minutes behind you,” he continues, and there’s something hollow in his voice now. “Five minutes. If those guards hadn’t told me where you’d gone, if I’d had to search…” His hands clench and unclench at his sides. “I might have been too late.”
“But you weren’t—”
“But I could have been.” The words explode out of him with renewed fury. “I could have arrived to find you dead, and it would have been because you decided one life was worth risking the thing that matters most to me.”
His hand finds the back of your neck, fingers spanning the delicate bones there with careful pressure, but you can feel the tremor in his touch. It’s not just possessive. It’s desperate. Like he’s checking to make sure you’re still real, still whole, still breathing.
“Do you understand what that would have done to me?” His voice drops to something barely above a whisper, but the intensity hasn’t lessened. “Finding your body in this alley? Knowing I failed to protect the one thing that matters most?”
“Mydei—”
“I can’t—” He stops, jaw working soundlessly for a moment. “I can’t protect you if you’re not where I can reach you.” It sounds like a confession torn out of him.
His thumb traces along your jaw with a gentleness so at odds with the violence you just witnessed that your breath catches.
The admission hangs between you. This is Mydei stripped of his usual stoicism, showing you the fear that lives beneath all that controlled strength. The knowledge that for all his skill, all his power, he can’t be everywhere at once. Can’t shield you from every threat if you insist on walking into danger.
You whisper his name, but he only shakes his head, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch. When he looks at you again, his expression has softened slightly—the wild terror banking into something more controlled, though no less intense.
His thumb brushes along the edge of your hairline, and you realize he’s taking inventory. Checking for injuries, for signs of shock, for anything that might indicate you’re not as unharmed as you claim. The touch is gentle but thorough, clinical in its precision.
“Your breathing,” he says after a moment. “It’s too fast.”
He’s right. Your heart is still racing from the encounter, adrenaline making your hands shake and your breath come in quick, shallow pants. Without warning, the reality of what just happened hits you all at once. How close you came to dying, how easily they could have torn you apart if Mydei hadn’t arrived when he did.
“Hmph.” His voice is softer now, that commanding edge replaced by something that sounds like tenderness. “Look at me.”
You do, meeting those familiar golden eyes that seem to see straight through you. There’s still anger there, but it’s banked now, controlled. What dominates his expression instead is something fierce and protective and utterly unwavering.
“Breathe,” Mydei instructs, his hand still cupping the back of your neck. “Slowly. Match my rhythm.”
He demonstrates, drawing air in deep and measured, and you find yourself unconsciously mimicking the pattern. His presence is solid, grounding—an anchor point in a world that suddenly feels too sharp and too bright.
“That’s it.” The approval in his voice makes warmth spread through your chest. “Keep going.”
Minutes pass in relative silence, broken only by the sound of your gradually steadying breathing. Mydei doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just keeps that steady contact that reminds you he’s there, that he’s real, that you’re safe.
When your heart rate finally returns to something approaching normal, he speaks again.
“Better?”
You nod, suddenly aware of how close he is, how the heat of his palm against your neck seems to be radiating through your entire body.
“Good.” But Mydei doesn’t pull away. If anything, his grip seems to tighten slightly, like he’s reluctant to break the contact now that it’s been established. “You’re safe now.”
The words carry weight beyond their simple meaning. It’s not just a statement of current fact, but a promise. A vow that as long as he draws breath, as long as he can fight, nothing will harm you on his watch.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re apologizing for. For wandering off alone, for making him worry, for the fear you saw flash across his features when he thought he might be too late.
“Don’t apologize.” His thumb traces along your pulse point, and you wonder if he can feel how your heart skips at the contact. His voice turns rough again, like gravel. “Just… don’t do it again. I can’t—” He stops, swallows hard. “I can’t survive losing you.”
The admission is rawer than anything you’ve heard from him before. Not just “I can’t lose you”, but “I can’t survive it.” Like your death wouldn’t just break his heart, but destroy him entirely. That he couldn’t stand living his immortality without you in it.
“When I saw this place was empty, when I realized you’d gone into the corrupted zone…” His forehead drops to rest against yours again, and you can feel the tremor running through his entire body. “For a moment, I thought I was too late. I thought I’d lost the only thing that makes any of this worth fighting for.”
“You won’t,” you promise, covering his hand with yours where it rests against your neck. “I’ll be more careful.”
He studies your face for a long moment, those golden eyes searching for something—sincerity, perhaps, or reassurance that you understand the weight of what you’re promising.
“See that you are,” he says finally, but there’s less steel in it now. “I’ve lost enough people I care about.”
The past tense hangs heavy between you, a reminder of the grief he carries, the scars both visible and hidden that mark him as someone who’s learned the hard way that the people who matter can be taken away in an instant.
His hand finally falls away from your neck, and you immediately miss the warmth, the grounding weight of his touch. But he doesn’t step back entirely. Instead, he positions himself slightly in front of you, eyes scanning the area one more time for threats.
“We’re leaving,” he announces, voice back to its usual authoritative tone. “Now. And you stay close to me until we’re back within the city gates.”
It’s not a request, and you don’t treat it like one. When he starts walking, you fall into step beside him, close enough that your shoulder occasionally brushes his arm. Each point of contact feels like reassurance. Proof that you’re both here, both alive, both safe.
As you emerge back into the populated areas of Okhema, Mydei’s posture doesn’t relax. If anything, he seems more alert, his eyes cataloging every face, every shadow, every potential threat.
“Mydei,” you say softly as you walk. “Thank you.”
He glances down at you, expression unreadable. “For what?”
“For coming after me. For…” You gesture vaguely at the alley behind you, at the carnage he left there, at the way he’d materialized exactly when you needed him most. “For everything.”
Something in his expression softens, just slightly. “You don’t need to thank me for protecting what’s mine.”
The casual possessiveness in the statement would bother other people. Not you, though. Instead, it sends a warm thrill through your chest, a reminder that to this man—this warrior who trusts so few and lets even fewer people close—you matter. You’re worth protecting, worth fighting for, worth the controlled fury you saw him unleash on anything that dared threaten you.
“Is that what I am?” you ask, only half-teasing. “Yours?”
He stops walking abruptly, turning to face you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
“Yes,” Mydei says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You are.”
And when he kisses you there in the middle of Okhema’s street, it’s not gentle. It’s claiming. His mouth crashes against yours with the same devastating intensity he brought to the fight, all barely leashed power and desperate need. The taste of violence still clings to him, metallic and dark, but underneath it is something purely him—heat and possession and the promise of protection written in the fierce press of his lips.
His bare hand tangles in your hair, not quite rough but utterly controlling, angling your head exactly where he wants it. The other traces along your jaw with precision, callused fingertips tracing the shape of you. The kiss deepens, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s marking territory, claiming what’s his with a thoroughness that leaves no room for doubt.
When you gasp against his mouth, the sound he makes in response—low and possessive and guttural—sends liquid heat racing through your veins. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough to quiet the storm raging in his chest, the desperate need to confirm you’re alive, you’re his, you’re safe.
His hands slide to your waist with sudden urgency, and then you’re moving. He backs you toward the nearest alcove between buildings, away from the curious stares of passersby, his mouth never leaving yours. When your back hits the stone wall, he follows immediately, pressing you against it with his full body weight. The coolness of the stone is nothing compared to the furnace heat of him against your front.
There’s something wild in his eyes now, something barely contained. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, tangling in your hair with just enough force to tilt your head back and expose your throat to his mouth. He kisses you like he’s starving, like he’s trying to devour you whole and keep you safe inside him where nothing can ever threaten you again.
“Mine,” he growls against your neck, the word rough and possessive. His teeth scrape along your pulse point, and when you gasp his name, he captures the sound with his mouth, swallowing it like it’s something precious.
His hands find the hem of your shirt, fingers urgent and desperate with need. There’s the soft sound of fabric tearing as his grip tightens, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. All his focus is on mapping every inch of skin he can reach, confirming with his hands what his eyes couldn’t believe—that you’re whole, unharmed, alive.
“I thought I lost you,” he mutters against your collarbone, voice cracking. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing along your ribs as if checking for breaks, for wounds, for any sign that those creatures touched you. “Thought I was too late.”
You try to speak, to reassure him, but he silences you with another kiss. Deeper, more desperate. His tongue sweeps into your mouth with possessive intent while his hands continue their frantic exploration. When he pulls back to breathe, his forehead rests heavily against yours, golden eyes wild and unfocused.
“Need to feel you,” he breathes, and there’s something almost broken in his voice. “Need to know you’re real.”
His hands slide down to grip your thighs, lifting you against the wall in one fluid motion. One arm braces you securely while the other traces along your newly exposed skin with hungry reverence. The wall supports your weight, but it’s his strength that holds you, positions you exactly where he needs you to be.
“Closer,” he breathes against your throat, adjusting his grip to press you higher against the stone. The friction of his bare forearm against your skin makes you shiver, and you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, drawing him impossibly nearer. You can feel the evidence of his desire, hard and insistent against you, and the knowledge that you’ve affected him this completely sends heat pooling low in your belly.
Your hands begin their own exploration, mapping the familiar territory of his shoulders, his chest, anywhere you can reach. Mydei watches you with a mix of want and adoration, golden eyes heavy as you touch him.
When your lips touch his collarbone, pressing soft kisses along the line of muscle and bone, he presses his face into the curve of your shoulder with a sound that’s half groan, half prayer.
Mydei grips you tighter, as if he’s trying to steady both you and himself. When your mouth finds his neck, the soft pull of your lips draws a low, unguarded sound from him—a moan that spills warm against your throat.
“Claiming me as well?” Mydei’s voice carries a hint of his usual smirk, but it’s strained with desire. He pulls back to look at you once more, taking in your disheveled appearance, your flushed cheeks, the way your torn clothing barely clings to your frame.
Your hands roam across the breadth of his chest, but then he catches one, guiding it lower with his own. His other hand is firm on your waist, keeping you pressed against him. His breath is hot against your ear when he growls, “They say even this body has only one fatal weakness.” His grip tightens, his golden eyes burning into yours. “But they’re wrong.”
He presses your palm flat against the rapid thrum of his heart.
“My greatest weakness isn’t on my body. It’s right here. It’s you.”
His voice breaks on the last word, half-growl, half-confession, and then his mouth is on yours again, desperate and claiming. His lips move away from your mouth again, savoring every spot on your body they can reach.
“How warm you are,” Mydei murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with wonder and need. “So alive.” He plants kisses on your bare stomach. “So beautiful.”
His teeth graze your shoulder, followed immediately by the soothing press of his lips. Each touch sends sparks racing through your nervous system, making it harder to focus on anything but the overwhelming sensation of him—his heat, his strength, his desperate devotion.
Mydei’s hands find the fastenings of your pants with practiced efficiency, pushing the fabric aside so he can touch the bare skin of your legs. His grip is firm, possessive, as he adjusts his hold to support you better.
But even this isn’t enough. The confined space, the awkward angle—his frustrated growl tells you he needs more access, more contact, more of everything. In one smooth motion, he lifts you away from the wall, carrying you the few steps to where a patch of soft grass grows in the shadowed alcove. He lowers you down with careful control, following you down until he’s braced above you, golden eyes drinking in the sight of you spread beneath him.
“Someone could see,” you whisper, suddenly aware of your exposed position.
His response is immediate and fierce. “Let them see,” Mydei growls, his mouth already descending to claim your throat again. “Let them see that you belong to me. Only me.”
With the limitations of the wall removed, his touches become bolder, more thorough. He settles his weight against you. Not crushing, but solid and inescapable, a living reminder of his strength and protection. You can feel every line of his body, every tense muscle, the way he trembles with the effort of restraining himself.
But now, with space to move freely, that restraint begins to crack. His hands roam with newfound urgency, caressing all spots he couldn’t reach before. When his mouth trails down your throat, he doesn’t stop at your collarbone—he continues lower, teeth grazing along your shoulder, your chest, your stomach, marking a path that speaks of possession and desperate need.
His breathing grows ragged against your skin, each exhale hot and unsteady. The careful control he’d maintained against the wall dissolves into something rawer, more primal. His grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into flesh as he positions you exactly where he needs you. There’s nothing gentle about the way he claims this space, this moment. It’s all consuming heat and barely leashed power.
“You have no idea,” he breathes against your skin, voice thick with something between desperation and worship, “what seeing you in danger does to me.” His hands slide along your sides, touch becoming more insistent, more demanding. “What knowing I could have lost you—”
His mouth finds yours again, the kiss deeper and more consuming than before. There’s hunger in it now, the kind that comes from staring death in the face and finding life on the other side. When he pulls back, his golden eyes are wild, sun-shaped pupils blown wide with emotion and need.
You can feel the tremor in his muscles, the way his whole body vibrates with barely leashed energy. His mouth finds your throat again, trailing hot kisses down to your shoulder where he bites. Harder this time, enough that you gasp his name. The sound seems to ground him slightly, reminding him of where he is.
“Mine,” he says again, but the word comes out rougher now, more broken than possessive. His hands slide up to frame your face, and you can see the exact moment when the wild desperation begins to shift into something deeper. “My responsibility. My treasure. My—”
The words seem to catch in his throat as the adrenaline slowly begins to fade, replaced by something deeper, more vulnerable. His grip softens, becomes reverent rather than desperate.
“You need to understand,” Mydei mutters, voice rough with barely leashed emotion, “what it does to me, knowing I could have lost you.”
His forehead rests against yours again, but this time there’s less wild desperation and more profound relief. His hands still shake slightly as they trace your face, your neck, your shoulders—but now it’s with awe rather than panic.
“The thought of never touching you again,” he continues, voice cracking slightly. “Never seeing you smile, never hearing you laugh, never talking to you, never having you look at me like I’m worth something more than—”
You silence him with a softer kiss this time, one hand sliding up to tangle in his hair. The sound he makes is broken, grateful.
When you part, his eyes have cleared somewhat, the wild edge replaced by something deeper and more lasting. His thumb traces your lower lip, like he can’t quite believe you’re here, you’re his, you’re alive.
Gently, he helps you sit up, gathering you into his arms so your head rests against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat. Still fast, still unsteady, but gradually slowing as he holds you close.
“Mine,” Mydei repeats one final time, but now the word carries less desperation and more certainty. Not just possession, but devotion. Protection. Love so fierce it borders on worship.
When he kisses you again, it’s with the tender gratitude of someone who came too close to losing everything that matters. His mouth moves against yours, claiming and protecting and cherishing all at once.
By the time you finally part, your breaths have steadied, and his golden eyes burn with a satisfaction that makes your heart skip. He tilts your chin with careful fingers, pressing one more lingering kiss to your lips. And when Mydei smiles against your mouth, you sip the whispered “mine” like a raindrop in the desert from his lips.
——
A/N: Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Likes, reblogs, and comments mean a lot and help fuel my writing. This is part of a little two-piece exploration on possessiveness. Mydei’s side is raw and protective, but if you’d like to see a different take—Phainon’s mix of desperation and longing—you can find it here.
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Synopsis: You give your favorite rockstar Mydei a granola bar at 6 AM. He remembers. You show up in the front row of his concert. He notices. You end up backstage. Things escalate.
A/N: Hi. :) Here comes Day 11 of my December event! This one was supposed to be short. I wanted to post the backstage part as a teaser, but then I remembered how much I love concerts, music, and unhinged tension, and suddenly this became a full rockstar AU oneshot. Oops. :D Enjoy. :)
Tags: Modern AU. Rockstar AU. Lead Singer Mydei. First Meeting. Airport Encounter. Concert. Sexual Tension. Banter. Flirting. Teasing. Mutual Pining. Heated Kisses. Making Out. Strangers to Something More.
Word count: 5197
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Airports always smell like recycled air, burnt coffee, and too many people rushing toward things they don’t actually want.
You’re just tired. The 6 AM flight seemed like a good idea when you booked it—cheap, efficient—but now you’re hovering at the gate an hour early because the thought of moving through crowds any slower than necessary makes your skin itch.
You settle into a corner seat, earbuds in, phone showing your boarding pass and underneath it the ticket you’ve been staring at for weeks: Ironbound. December Holiday Show.
The playlist shuffles. His voice fills your ears. Gravelly, raw, the kind of voice that sounds like it’s been through something and came out sharper for it.
You close your eyes, letting the music settle your nerves.
That’s when someone drops into the seat three spaces away.
The energy shifts immediately. Sharp. Controlled. The kind of presence that makes you aware of it even with your eyes closed.
You glance over.
Hood up. Black scarf pulled high enough to hide most of his face. Guitar case leaning against his leg like an extension of himself. Blonde hair with red tips falling messy over his forehead. Posture relaxed, but the tension in his shoulders says otherwise.
He looks familiar.
But your brain doesn’t connect it immediately. Maybe because you’re not expecting him here. Maybe because the man in your earbuds doesn’t feel like someone who’d be sitting three seats away in an airport terminal at 6 AM.
He drags one hand through his hair—rough, impatient—and catches you watching.
His eyes narrow. “…What?”
His voice.
Your breath catches.
That voice. Low, rough, unmistakable even with one word.
Oh.
Oh no.
You yank your earbuds out before you can think better of it. His voice is still playing faintly from them. His own song, filtering into the space between you.
He hears it.
His eyes flick to your earbuds. Then back to your face.
A beat of silence.
“Nothing,” you manage, too late.
He studies you. Most people would’ve squealed. Most people would’ve apologized, or giggled, or stared openly while pretending not to.
You just sit there, frozen, trying not to hyperventilate.
Mydei wasn’t expecting that.
And he finds it refreshing.
He leans back slightly, arms crossing. “You’re not going to ask for a photo?”
You swallow. “Should I?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. “No. Definitely not.”
Silence returns. Charged this time.
You fumble with your phone, pausing the music. Your hands are shaking slightly and you hate that he probably notices.
“You heading to the show tonight?” he asks, voice still rough but less guarded.
You blink. “How did you—”
He nods at your hands. The ticket is still visible.
“Oh.” Your cheeks warm. “Yeah. I am.”
“Flew in just for it?”
“Maybe.”
His eyebrow raises. “Maybe?”
“Definitely,” you admit. “But I’m trying not to sound obsessed.”
“Too late.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself. It’s short, surprised, genuine.
His expression shifts. Something almost curious. “You always this quiet?” he asks.
“Are you always this grumpy?”
His mouth twitches again. Almost a smile. “Depends on the day.”
“Bad day?”
“Long day.” He glances at his guitar case. “Band took the tour bus. I had… other commitments. So here I am. Six AM flight. No coffee that actually works.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“It is.”
You hesitate, then pull out a granola bar from your bag. Offer it without a word.
He stares at it.
“I’m not going to poison you,” you say dryly.
“I wasn’t worried about poison.” But he takes it anyway. Unwraps it slowly. “…Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Another beat of silence. He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully.
“Do you always bring snacks for strangers?” he asks.
“Only the grumpy ones.”
That almost-smile again. Closer this time.
You take a breath. Then, before you can stop yourself: “I might be a little obsessed, actually.”
He goes still. That caught his attention.
You rush to clarify. “Not like—I mean—” You stop. Start again. “It’s just that your music means a lot to me. River’s End especially. And Fire & Ash.”
Something shifts in his expression. Those songs are personal. He wrote them both. About things he doesn’t talk about.
He doesn’t ask how you know that. Doesn’t ask what they mean to you.
Instead, he deflects. “You sure it’s not just my raw presence you like?”
You blink. Then grin. “Oh, I prefer your drummer, actually.”
He stares at you.
Completely stunned.
You shrug, still grinning. “But your voice is nice to listen to. And you know how to capture an audience.”
He huffs a surprised laugh. “You prefer Phil?”
“He’s very talented.”
“He’s a smartass.”
“Takes one to know one.”
His mouth twitches again. Closer to a real smile now.
“…Is this your first show?” he asks, trying to sound casual.
“My 30th, actually.”
He blinks. “Thirty?”
“Give or take.”
His eyebrow raises. “Hmph. Almost like you planned running into me.”
You don’t miss a beat. “Oh, I absolutely did. Last night, right before driving to the airport at this ungodly hour, I sat at my shrine and prayed to my life-size Mydei figurine for guidance.”
He stares at you.
Completely still.
Processing.
Then he laughs. Actually laughs. Not a scoff or a huff, but a real, startled laugh that catches him off guard.
“You’re weird,” he mutters, but there’s warmth in it now.
“Thanks.”
He shakes his head, still grinning slightly. A beat passes. Then his expression shifts—something almost serious.
“We’re playing River’s End tonight.” His eyes meet yours. Almost a challenge. “Try to stay steady.”
Your breath catches. That’s one of the songs you mentioned.
“I’ll try,” you manage.
“Good.”
The boarding announcement chimes.
He stands, adjusting the strap of his guitar case. Pauses.
“You should board soon,” Mydei says, nodding toward the gate. “Zone 2 fills fast.”
You raise a brow. “And you care because…?”
He hesitates. He looks like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it. “Just board early,” he mutters, turning away like he regrets the whole conversation.
But as he walks toward the gate, he glances back.
Once.
Then again, slower.
And for a moment, you could swear there’s something in his eyes.
Not recognition of who you are.
Just that you’re someone he’s going to think about later.
Your heart hasn’t stopped racing by the time you board.
You arrive at the venue embarrassingly early. Not on purpose.
Okay, maybe partly on purpose.
But mostly because you didn’t know what else to do with yourself in a city that isn’t yours, carrying too much anticipation and too little sleep.
The sun hasn’t set yet, but the winter air bites cold. String lights are already glowing along the venue entrance. Red and gold, festive and warm against the gray December sky. A banner reads: IRONBOUND — HOLIDAY SHOW.
There’s already a line forming. Fans bundled in coats, chatting, vibrating with pre-show energy.
You pick a spot near the front and settle in, pulling your coat tighter.
Time passes. Crowds swell. The air fills with excited chatter and the smell of street food from a nearby vendor.
Then a side door clicks open.
You glance over.
Three figures step out. Guitar cases. Road-worn jackets. The easy, loose energy of people who’ve spent too much time together.
The band.
You recognize them immediately from photos. The bassist. Tall, easygoing smile. The drummer. Compact, sharp grin, already mid-sentence.
And Mydei.
Hood up. Scarf pulled high. Guitar case slung over his shoulder.
He looks different with them. Looser. The tension from the airport softened by familiarity.
The bassist says something. Mydei responds with what looks like an insult. The drummer laughs, shoving his shoulder.
It’s surprisingly normal. Almost sweet.
Then Mydei’s gaze sweeps the line.
And stops.
On you.
His steps falter. Just barely. But you see it.
The bassist notices. Follows his gaze. Raises an eyebrow.
“Someone you know?” the bassist asks, loud enough you almost hear it.
Mydei doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring.
Your breath catches.
The drummer grins, clearly delighted. Says something you can’t hear. Mydei’s jaw tightens.
He shifts his guitar case higher and starts moving again.
But not before his gaze flicks back to you.
Once.
Twice.
The third time, his expression is unreadable.
The bassist elbows him. Mydei shoves him back, muttering something sharp.
They disappear inside, but you catch the drummer’s laugh echoing even through the closed door.
Your pulse takes a very long time to calm down.
The venue is packed, bodies pressed close, air thick with anticipation and the smell of beer and winter coats. The stage is lit in deep reds and golds. Christmas lights strung across the back, but nothing soft about them. They pulse with the same vibrant energy as the crowd.
When the lights drop, the roar is deafening.
Then a single spotlight cuts through the dark.
Mydei steps into it.
The crowd erupts.
He’s different here. A live wire dressed in black and red, the guitar slung across his body like a weapon he knows how to wield too well. His blonde hair with those red tips catches the stage lights, and for a second he just stands there, letting the noise wash over him.
Then he grins.
Not the almost-smile from the airport. A real one.
“Evening,” he says into the mic, voice gravelly and rough. “Thanks for freezing your asses off to be here.”
The crowd screams louder.
The bassist steps up beside him, grinning. “He’s in a good mood tonight. Miracle.”
Mydei shoves him without looking. “Shut up.”
The drummer laughs from behind the kit. “He met someone at the airport this morning. Been weird ever since.”
Your heart stops.
Mydei’s jaw tightens, but there’s something almost playful in the way he flips off the drummer without turning around.
The crowd eats it up.
“Anyway,” Mydei continues, adjusting his guitar strap, “I did meet someone this morning. At six AM. In an airport. They gave me a granola bar.”
Laughter ripples through the venue.
“Why is that funny?” he asks, deadpan.
“Because you look like you’d bite someone’s hand off at six AM,” the bassist supplies helpfully.
“Fair.” Mydei nods. “But they weren’t scared. Just… handed it over. No photo request. No ‘oh my god you’re Mydei.’ Just…‘you look grumpy, here’s food.’”
The crowd laughs again, warmer this time.
You’re frozen in the front row, face burning.
“Anyway,” Mydei says, and his eyes sweep the crowd. Land on you. Hold. “If you’re out there… thanks for the snack.”
His mouth curves. That smirk again.
Then he counts off.
“One, two, three—”
The band slams into the opening riff.
It’s aggressive. Raw. The kind of rock that hits you in the chest and makes your bones vibrate. Mydei’s guitar screams through the venue, each note sharp and controlled and absolutely blistering.
But when he starts singing, it’s not the crowd he’s looking at.
His eyes cut straight to the front row.
Straight to you.
You didn’t imagine it.
His gaze locks on yours, and something in his expression shifts. Recognition. Satisfaction.
The kind of look that should come with a warning label.
As the song builds, he moves across the stage, fingers flying across strings like he’s coaxing fire from metal. The lights flare red and gold, pulsing with the beat. The crowd is screaming, but it all feels distant.
Because he keeps coming back to you.
Every chorus. Every bridge. Every guitar solo.
Each time he looks, it’s a little bolder. A little longer.
Your stomach flips.
At one point he steps to the very edge of the stage—directly above where you’re standing—and drops into a guitar run so clean and sharp it sends the entire front row into hysterics.
But his eyes?
Locked on you.
Not even pretending otherwise.
The corner of his mouth lifts. A challenge. A question.
Still not scared?
You hold his gaze.
Don’t look away.
Don’t flinch.
His smirk deepens.
There you are. Knew I’d see you again.
Then he turns away abruptly, ripping into the next verse with a force that feels almost like he’s grounding himself.
It doesn’t help.
Not him.
Not you.
The mood shifts then.
The lights drop completely.
The crowd roars.
When the spotlight cuts back on, Mydei is alone at center stage. Guitar in hand. No band behind him yet.
Just him.
The venue goes quiet. Anticipatory.
“This next one,” he says into the mic, voice low and rough, “is for anyone who’s ever felt like they were drowning.”
He doesn’t look at the crowd yet. Just adjusts his guitar, fingers finding the strings.
“It’s called River’s End.”
Your heart stops.
He looks up. Eyes sweeping the front row.
Landing on you.
Holding.
“For anyone who’s been completely lost,” he continues, voice quieter now, “and clawed their way back.”
Then he starts playing.
The opening notes are haunting. Minor key, slow build, each note deliberate and aching. His voice comes in low, almost a whisper at first, then building with the guitar.
The lyrics are raw. About sinking into an abyss. About water closing over your head. About the choice to sink or fight. About surfacing gasping and changed and still here. About survival against all odds.
You can’t breathe.
Because he’s still looking at you.
Not constantly. Not obviously. But every chorus, every bridge, his eyes find yours.
Like he’s singing it to you specifically.
Like he remembered you mentioned this song at 6 AM in an airport and decided to make it yours.
When the final note rings out, the venue is silent for three full seconds.
Then it erupts.
But Mydei doesn’t acknowledge the applause. He just nods once and steps back as the rest of the band joins him for the next song.
You’re shaking.
And you swear you see him smirk before the lights shift and the energy kicks back into high gear.
The rest of the set is a blur of heat and sound and the electric awareness of being watched by someone who shouldn’t matter but does.
When the final note rings out and the lights drop, your heart is still pounding somewhere in your throat.
You don’t leave after the show.
The adrenaline hasn’t faded. Your ears are ringing. Your heart is still somewhere on that stage, tangled in guitar chords and the way Mydei kept looking at you like he was memorizing your reactions.
So you wander.
Outside, around the back of the venue, near a side alley where people don’t usually linger. The winter air is sharp and biting, but it feels good against your flushed skin. You lean against the brick wall, replaying everything in your head.
The door beside you slams open.
You jump.
Heavy footsteps. The scent of sweat and metal and something grounding.
Mydei steps out, exhaling hard, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off the leftover static of performing.
His hair is damp, sticking slightly to his forehead. His shirt clings in ways that should be illegal. His hands—guitar calluses still red from playing—flex and release like he can’t quite come down yet.
He doesn’t see you at first.
He just shuts the door behind him, leans back against the brick wall, and lets out a slow, tired breath. Eyes closed. Guard down.
Then his eyes open.
Land on you.
He freezes.
A micro-expression, but unmistakable. Surprise first. Then something lower, darker. Almost relieved.
“…You’re here.” His voice is even rougher than on stage. Realer. Raw in a way that makes your chest tighten.
“Yeah.” You swallow. “Didn’t want to head back yet.”
He studies you for a second too long. “You were in the front row.”
You blink. “…You noticed?”
A humorless huff escapes him. “Hard not to.”
He pushes away from the wall, standing fully now. Taller than he looked on stage. Broader. The heat still rolling off him from performing.
“I saw you this morning,” he adds. “Airport. We talked.”
Your heart skips. “Yeah. I remember.”
“Good.” His jaw flexes.
Your breath catches.
He takes a step closer.
The alley suddenly feels smaller.
“So.” Mydei crosses his arms. “How did you like the show?”
You try for casual. “Your magnetic aura was very compelling.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. Almost. “The show. Specifically, River’s End.”
Your teasing facade cracks. You blush, getting more serious. “I loved it.”
His expression shifts. Something satisfied. “Hmph. You’re really something.”
“What do you mean?”
“One second you talk like you want to take me on—” He stops himself. Jaw tightens. “—the next you’re… like this.”
You don’t comment. Just wonder if that’s bad.
He seems to catch your uncertainty. He continues, voice rougher. “It’s been a long year. 87 shows. Back-to-back cities. This is the last one before break.”
He stops himself. Like he said more than he meant to.
“So you’re tired,” you say quietly.
His eyes narrow. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Silence. Then he huffs. “You’re observant.”
“So are you.”
A gust of wind cuts through the alley. You shiver involuntarily.
His eyes snap back to you immediately.
“You’re cold,” Mydei says abruptly. Flat tone, but the concern unmistakable.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I...”
He steps closer.
One step.
Two.
Close enough now that the residual heat from performing radiates off him in waves. Close enough you can see the way his chest still rises and falls slightly uneven. Close enough to count the calluses on his fingers.
“You don’t have a jacket,” he mutters, almost annoyed.
“I wasn’t planning to stay out long.”
“Then don’t.” His voice drops. “Come inside.”
You stare at him. “…You want me to go inside?”
His eyes flick up sharply. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Silence.
He’s close enough now you can feel the warmth of his breath.
“Because it’s warmer,” he says finally. “And because I’m not done talking to you.”
Your pulse spikes. “That’s it?”
His gaze drops to your mouth. Just for a second. But you see it.
“Maybe,” he admits, voice rough. “Maybe not.”
Your throat is too tight to speak.
He turns, pushes the backstage door open with one hand, then pauses. Waiting.
“Come on,” he says, softer now. “Before someone finds me and I have to pretend I want to talk to them instead of you.”
You laugh. You really can’t help it.
He looks at you with something like stunned amusement. Like he didn’t expect your laughter to affect him.
But it did.
You see it in the way his expression softens just slightly. In the way his hand tightens on the door.
“Inside,” he repeats. “Now.”
You step forward.
He doesn’t move.
For one charged second, you’re close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to see the way his pupils dilate slightly.
Then he steps aside.
Lets you pass.
His hand brushes your lower back as you move through the doorway.
The door closes behind you both.
And suddenly the cold doesn’t matter anymore.
It’s dim. Quiet. Far from the noise of the main halls.
Equipment cases stacked in corners. The soft hum of distant generators. A couch that looks like it has seen too many musicians collapse onto it. String lights wrapped around a support beam give off a warm, amber glow. The only nod to the holiday show that just ended.
Mydei drops his guitar case onto a table with a dull thud.
But his eyes are on you. Always back to you.
You suddenly become very aware of the fact that you’re alone with a man whose stage presence could level a city block and whose real presence, here in the quiet, is somehow even more overwhelming.
He moves to a small table in the corner. Opens a mini fridge.
“You want something to drink?” His voice is still rough from singing.
“Sure.”
He pulls out two bottles. Holds one up. “Water?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He tosses it to you. You catch it.
He watches you twist the cap open. Takes a long drink from his own bottle. Something dark red in a glass container.
You blink. “Is that wine?”
He pauses mid-drink. Lowers the bottle. Looks at you like you just said something deeply offensive.
“…No.”
“It looks like wine.”
“It’s pomegranate juice.”
A beat of silence.
You press your lips together, trying not to smile.
“Don’t,” he warns.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“Thinking what?”
“That it’s funny. That I’m a rockstar drinking juice like a...” He stops himself, jaw tightening.
You can’t help it. You laugh.
His eyes narrow. “You’re laughing.”
“I’m not.” You are. You’re definitely laughing.
He stares at you for a long moment. Then, despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I don’t drink alcohol on tour,” he mutters, sitting down on the couch. “Messes with my voice. Makes me sluggish. Not worth it.”
“That’s actually really disciplined.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
“As a pomegranate juice enthusiast?”
His glare is withering. “As someone who doesn’t sound like shit on stage.”
You sit down. Not next to him. Across from him.
Mydei scoffs under his breath. “You don’t have to stay that far.”
Your pulse jumps. “Where do you want me to sit?”
He gestures beside him with two fingers. Minimal. Precise.
You stand. Move.
His eyes follow every step.
When you sit next to him, the cushion dips. His thigh presses against yours. Warm. Solid. The contact carries an entire charge behind it.
For a few seconds neither of you speaks.
You can feel the heat radiating off him. Smell the faint scent of sweat and leather and something clean underneath. Hear the slight unevenness in his breathing.
He takes another drink. You watch his throat work as he swallows.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking at you.
“You stared at me the entire show.”
Now he looks at you. “I wasn’t staring.”
You raise a brow.
He clicks his tongue, annoyed that you saw through him. “I was checking the crowd.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And,” he adds, voice lowering, “you kept looking back.”
Your breath catches. “Yeah. I did.”
He goes completely still.
“It’s… nice,” he says gruffly, “when people actually love the music. Not just the performance.”
You tilt your head. “Don’t all fans?”
“In a way.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Some just want a good story to tell their friends. Some crave the vibes, the energy. Which is fine,” he adds quickly. “But…”
He stops himself. This is vulnerable territory. He doesn’t do this.
You wait.
He exhales. “Those things...the stories, the real shit...that’s what I think about when I’m writing.”
Your chest tightens. That’s more than you expected.
You take a chance. “When did you start? Writing, I mean. I read somewhere you were a teenager?”
His eyes flick to yours. Surprised you know that. Surprised you care.
“Twelve, I think.” He leans back slightly. “Music was important before that too, but… that’s when I started writing my own stuff.”
“Why then?”
His jaw works. “Family tragedy. Wouldn’t want to bore you with it.”
He smirks, but there’s something in his eyes. Something that wasn’t there a second ago.
“Try me,” you say gently.
Mydei studies you. Like he’s deciding whether to trust you with this.
Then, reluctantly, he says, “Mom died. Suddenly. Just… gone one day.” His voice flattens. “My father wanted to get rid of me after that. Found me inconvenient.”
Your chest aches.
“So I found an old record,” Mydei continues, not meeting your eyes now. “Stairway to Heaven. Played it on repeat until I could play it myself. Taught myself guitar because I had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go.”
He stops. Realizes he’s said too much.
“That song you mentioned earlier—River’s End—” His voice is rough now. “That one’s about that. About being thrown away and deciding to survive anyway.”
Silence.
You don’t fill it with platitudes. Just let it sit.
Finally, you say, “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
He shrugs, defensive. “It made me this.” Gestures vaguely at himself. “So. Could be worse.”
“Still doesn’t make it okay.”
He looks at you then. Really looks. Like he’s seeing something unexpected.
“No,” he admits quietly. “It doesn’t.”
Then he shifts. Leans back. The vulnerability shuttering slightly.
“Anyway.” His mouth quirks. “Enough about my tragic backstory. What about you?”
You blink. “What about me?”
“Why 30 shows? What do you do when you’re not stalking musicians at airports?”
You laugh. “I don’t stalk. I strategically encounter.”
“Sure.” But he’s almost smiling. “Come on. Tell me something real.”
So you do. Not everything. But enough.
About your life. People. What drives you. What exhausts you. The things you love and the things you’re still figuring out.
He listens. Actually listens. Asks questions. Real ones.
And somewhere in that exchange, the air between you shifts from charged to something else.
You’re both leaning in without realizing it. Close enough that your knees almost touch. Close enough to feel the space between you humming with possibility.
That’s when his expression changes. When he tilts his head slightly and asks, voice low: “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you keep looking at me?”
You swallow. “Because I couldn’t help it.”
Something shifts in his expression. Darkens. Softens. Both at once.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Because…” He trails off. Sets his bottle down on the side table with a soft clink. Turns to face you fully. “Because it makes me want things I shouldn’t.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. “Like what?”
His gaze drops to your mouth. Stays there. “Like this,” he says roughly.
He doesn’t move yet. Just watches you. Jaw tight. Hands flexing once like he’s holding himself back.
“Tell me to stop,” Mydei says quietly.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
His breath leaves him in a rush.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Something inside him snaps.
His hand comes up, fingers wrapping around the back of your neck—firm, warm, careful but claiming—and he pulls you in.
The moment before you kiss is molten.
The air tightens. Your face is inches from his. Breath mingling. Heat rolling off him in waves.
Mydei’s gaze drops to your lips one more time.
Then he closes the distance.
The kiss is hungry. Deep. Certain.
Like it was supposed to happen hours ago. Maybe from the moment you handed him that granola bar in the airport.
Your hand fists in the front of his shirt. He makes a low, guttural sound and pulls you closer, one hand sliding to your waist, fingertips pressing into your skin through the fabric.
You make a small noise when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.
He swallows it with another rough sound that shoots straight through you.
When he finally breaks away, it’s only barely. Only because breathing becomes necessary.
His lips brush yours with every word.
“You taste like pomegranate,” you whisper, breathless.
Mydei huffs a surprised laugh against your mouth. “Told you it was juice.”
“I believe you now.”
“Good.” He kisses you again. “Because I’m not done.”
Your breath stutters. “Mydei—”
“You looked at me,” he says slowly. “In the airport. In the crowd. Back here. Every time… it did something to me.”
Your heart slams in your chest.
“What did it do?”
His thumb drags along your jaw.
“Made me think about this.” Another kiss. Deeper this time. “About you.” Another. “About what it would feel like if you kept looking at me like that when there was no one else around.”
You can’t breathe. Can’t think.
His hand slides from your waist to your lower back. Pulls you closer until there’s no space left between you.
You make a small sound. He swallows it.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper. Hungrier.
His hand wanders from your waist to your hip.
You shift closer without thinking. He makes a rough sound in his throat.
“Come here,” Mydei mutters against your mouth.
Before you can ask what he means, his hands are on your hips, and he’s pulling you over.
You end up straddling his lap. Hands on his shoulders for balance. Close enough to feel every breath.
His eyes are dark. Pupils blown. Chest rising and falling faster now.
“Better,” he says roughly. His hands settle on your waist. Possessive. Grounding.
You can feel the heat of him through your clothes. The barely-restrained tension in his body. The way his fingers flex like he’s holding himself back.
“Mydei…”
He kisses you before you can finish. Tilts his head, deepens it, one hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
You make a small sound. His other hand tightens on your waist.
Eventually, he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. His pupils are blown wide. His breathing unsteady.
“Tell me you felt it too,” he murmurs. Voice rough. Raw. “Tell me I’m not insane.”
“You’re not insane.” Your voice is barely a whisper. “I felt it. From the airport.”
He closes his eyes briefly. Exhales like you just gave him something he needed.
When he opens them again, there’s something vulnerable there. Something real.
His thumb traces your jaw.
“I don’t do this,” he says quietly. “Bring people backstage. Let them in. I don’t…” He stops. Starts again. “You’re different.”
“Different how?”
“You didn’t want anything from me.” His hand is still on your waist. Warm. Grounding. “You just… saw me. And that’s...” He breaks off, jaw working.
“That’s what?” you prompt gently.
“Confusing,” he admits. “And exactly what I needed.”
Your chest tightens.
You lift your hand. Cup his face. His eyes flutter closed for just a second at the touch.
“I see you,” you whisper. “I saw you in the airport. I saw you on stage. I see you now.”
When he opens his eyes, they’re darker. Hungrier.
“Then keep looking,” he says roughly.
And he kisses you again.
This time it’s different. Still hungry, but softer. Lingering. The kind of kiss that says I’ve thought about this even when I tried not to.
When he finally, finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. Both of you breathing hard.
“You shouldn’t stay out there alone,” he murmurs, voice low and protective. “Come with me. Properly this time. Away from the noise.”
Your throat goes dry. “And if I say yes?”
That earns you a look. Not a smirk. Something darker. Deeper.
“I’ll take care of you,” he says simply. “Nothing else. Unless you want more.”
He pauses.
“And you can keep looking at me like that,” he adds quietly. “As long as you want.”
You smile. Small. Breathless. A little wrecked.
“Okay.”
Mydei nods once. Then he stands and offers you his hand.
When you take it, he squeezes your fingers like he’d been waiting for the contact.
Like he’s not letting go.
And as he leads you deeper into the dim halls, still humming with the last traces of the concert, you feel it:
That spark.
The undeniable, electric beginning of something neither of you will be able to walk away from.
⋆✧✦✧⋆
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. :)
Many folks unfamiliar with Asian mythologies have expressed confusion regarding the addition of another LI. Truth be told, the existence of 6 LIs was part of the narrative’s design from the very beginning. This is because the story’s foundational lore is deeply rooted in Vedic and Buddhist traditions. And numerous elements of it’s worldbuilding, symbolisms, and structure draw inspiration from these scriptural and philosophical sources.
“Love And Deepspace” is a story about the perpetual cycle of संसार (Saṃsāra). As the MC, we are trapped within the cycle of never-ending suffering across countless lifetimes and timelines. Our journey is to break free from this eternal cycle, and transcend the suffering that binds us to it. The LIs are not merely romantic interests, but essential companions in that pursuit.
Each of them carries a unique connection to the MC across time, and each plays a vital role in guiding her towards the resolution of this long-standing Kārmic entanglement. It is precisely for this reason that all of them exist within the current timeline simultaneously. Their presence is neither arbitrary, nor accidental. It is a fundamental part of the narrative’s deeper mythological and philosophical framework.
To understand the purpose of the LIs, one must first understand the cycle of Saṃsāra: भवचक्र (Bhāvāchākrā). This cycle of existence which encompasses birth, suffering, death, and rebirth is divided into 6 Realms where sentient beings reside in. Each of these Realms is intrinsically linked to one of the LIs featured in the game —
🔥 Rafayel: देवलोक (Devālokā)
God Realm of pleasure and pride
🏹 Zayne: असुरलोक (Asurālokā)
Demi-God Realm of jealousy and strife
🗡️ Xavier: मनुष्यलोक (Mānuṣhyalokā)
Human Realm of opportunity and enlightenment
🌕 Valko: पशुलोक (Pāśhulokā)
Animal Realm of instinct, fear, and servitude
🩸 Sylus: निर्ऋतिलोक (Nirṛtilokā)
Underworld Realm of chaos and decay
🪷 Caleb: प्रेतलोक (Pretālokā)
Hungry-Ghost Realm of endless insatiable hunger
As we know, each LI possesses unique abilities and latent potential beyond their Evols, granting them the power to create, shape, preserve, or dismantle whatever they deem necessary. The intricate Strings of Fate connecting the LIs to MC was deliberately woven by CosmicMC Herself.
It’s purpose was to ensure that Her vessel on Earth could draw upon Her true power through all 6 Realms, with the aid of every LI. Only by uniting these connections can She access the fullness of Her divine potential, and ultimately shatter the endless cycle of anguish that has bound Her across countless lifetimes.
Needless to say, it is unlikely that any additional LIs will be introduced to the game. With Valko’s arrival, the narrative now possesses all the pieces it was designed to have from the very beginning, allowing the story to finally move forward.
[⚠️ Please note: There are numerous realms of the Underworld described throughout Vedic scriptures. I chose to highlight the one that appears most relevant to Sylus’s storyline. Pretāloka is another such realm, and it has connections to Caleb’s narrative. If anyone is interested in Vedic mythology and would like to learn more about these realms beyond the context of the game, please feel free to ask. I would be delighted to share and discuss them further. 🤍]
🔖 I would also like to add that primordial cosmic entities, such as Gods, are not beings who concern themselves with the opinions or expectations of mortals. In that regard, CosmicMC is no different. Much of what has transpired throughout the narrative can be viewed as the manifestation of Her own will, unfolding according to a design far beyond mortal comprehension, much like the whims of Deities within the real world. To truly appreciate the lore presented in this game, one must approach it through a non-Abrahamic lens. And remain receptive towards Vedic and Pagan beliefs, philosophies, and cultural traditions.
Hi Lilyyyy, I asked that before but can I request Sugar Daddy Mydei x College student Reader where he treat her too much to get her for himself?
Unhurried (Mydei x Reader)
Synopsis: You notice Mydei in a coffee shop before he ever speaks to you. He notices everything. What starts as quiet persistence becomes something harder to ignore…and even harder to walk away from.
A/N: Hi again anon! :) This idea goes back to January when we talked about it through asks. I wasn’t entirely sure about the trope at first, but I wanted to try writing it in a way that still feels true to Mydei’s personality. Enjoy!💙
Tags: Modern AU. Fluff. College Student Reader. Developing Relationship. Persistent Mydei. Light Sugar Daddy Elements. Acts of Service. Gifts. Coffee Shop Encounters. First Kiss.
Word count: 2101
⋆ ✦ ⋆
You notice him before he ever speaks to you. He’s consistent. Same time, same table near the window. Black coffee, no sugar, always left untouched for a while before he actually drinks it. Like he ordered it out of habit and forgot it was there.
He doesn’t look around the way most people do. Doesn’t have his phone out. Just sits with the particular stillness of someone entirely comfortable taking up space.
He’s also, you notice, very clearly not a student.
The suit is understated but expensive in the way that requires knowing what to look for. Clean lines, fabric that moves differently, no logo announcing itself. The watch on his wrist is the same: nothing flashy, nothing that needs to prove anything.
He looks like someone who belongs in a boardroom or a private dining room, not a campus coffee shop with mismatched chairs and a specials board written in student handwriting.
You’ve clocked him enough times to recognize the pattern.
He’s clocked you too. You know that without asking.
It happens on a day when your notes are a disaster and your patience is thinner. You’re packing up too fast, papers sliding, your pen rolling off the edge of the table.
He picks it up before it hits the floor.
“Careful.”
You look up. Properly, for the first time.
He’s closer than you expected, and he’s looking at you with that same quality he has when he’s just sitting. Unhurried, direct, like he has all the time in the world and has decided to spend some of it on you specifically.
Up close, the watch catches the light. You notice, and then notice yourself noticing, and look back at his face instead.
He doesn’t hand the pen back immediately. He just holds it, waiting until he has your full attention.
“You’re here a lot,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow. “So are you.”
Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile. More like acknowledgment. The look of someone who expected deflection and got something worth considering instead.
“Fair,” he says and hands you the pen.
He doesn’t leave immediately. Which is unusual. Most people, having completed the transaction, would go.
“Studying?” he asks, nodding at the scattered papers.
“Trying to.” You start organizing them with more dignity than you feel. “Midterms.”
“What subject?”
You tell him.
He listens with the focus he seems to bring to everything, and then says something that is actually relevant.
“You know it?” you ask, slightly suspicious.
“Enough.” He picks up his coffee cup, finally, and drinks. “You’re on campus?”
“Why?”
He meets your gaze. “Because you’ve been here for four hours and you look like you haven’t eaten since this morning. There’s a place nearby that’s decent.”
You study him for a moment. Expensive suit. Direct eyes. The particular confidence of someone who doesn’t feel the need to explain himself.
“I don’t know you,” you say.
“Not yet,” he agrees.
It should be presumptuous. Somehow it isn’t quite.
You go, mostly because you’re hungry and he doesn’t seem to be performing anything.
Mydei pays without discussion, eats without making a production of the food, and asks questions like he’s actually interested in the answers. When you mention your building on campus in passing, he notes it the way he notes everything.
You don’t think anything of it at the time.
One week later, you hear a knock on your door. It’s a delivery.
The arrangement is large enough to turn heads in the hallway. Flowers, the kind that aren’t trying too hard, wrapped simply.
Beside them in the courier’s hands, a small box of pralines from somewhere that doesn’t have a chain location, and a flat jewellery box that makes your stomach do something complicated before you’ve even opened it.
Inside: a bracelet. Simple. Elegant. The kind of thing chosen by someone who paid attention.
There’s no note explaining it. Just his name.
You stand in your doorway holding the weight of someone’s attention and feel, distinctly, that you are going to have things to say about this.
The next day, you go to the coffee shop again. Mydei’s at his usual table when you arrive. Of course he is.
You sit down across from him without being invited, which he accepts without comment, and put the jewellery box on the table between you.
“This is too much,” you say.
He looks at it, then at you. “Is it.”
“The flowers were already too much. The pralines were too much. This is—” You push the box slightly toward him. “I don’t know what you think this is, but I’m not—”
“I know what you’re not,” he says, calmly. He doesn’t touch the box. “That’s not what it was.”
You look at him.
“Money is only excessive,” Mydei continues, unhurried, “when it’s spent to impress. That’s not why I spent it.” He pauses and picks up his coffee. “I thought you’d like them. That’s all it was.”
The simplicity of it stops you.
“You thought I’d like them,” you repeat.
“The flowers. You had a dried one tucked in the back of your notebook. Three weeks ago. I noticed.”
He sets the cup down. “The pralines…you mentioned the brand once. In passing. The bracelet—” He glances at it briefly. “You looked at one like it in a window when we walked past. For about four seconds. Then you kept walking.”
You stare at him.
“That’s unsettling,” you say, after a moment.
“Probably.” He seems unbothered. “Keep it or don’t. It wasn’t a transaction.”
You look at the box, then at him.
You don’t push it back again. But you don’t pick it up either. Not yet.
He doesn’t send anything after that.
Not because you told him not to. You didn’t, exactly. But Mydei’s observant in that particular way, and he seems to have noticed that the grand gestures, however genuinely meant, put distance between you rather than closing it. They made the gap in your circumstances too visible. Too much to weigh up.
So he stops.
And starts doing something else instead.
The coffee appears beside you without announcement. Then food. Not restaurant deliveries, not anything that requires a reservation, just a container left on the table one afternoon with the matter-of-fact quality of someone who cooked because it needed doing and made enough for two.
It’s good. Better than good. You eat the whole thing before you think to question it.
“You cooked this,” you say, when he sits down.
“Yes.”
“You cook.”
He looks at you with mild patience. “You sound surprised.”
“You don’t look like someone who cooks.”
“What does that mean.”
You gesture vaguely at him. The suit, the watch, the general quality of someone who could have anything prepared for them.
Something like amusement crosses his face. “I’ve been cooking since I was old enough to be useful,” he says. “It has nothing to do with what I can afford.” He nods at the empty container. “You finished it.”
“…It was good.”
“I know,” Mydei says, and opens his book.
You test him, periodically.
Because the situation is strange and he is strange in it: a man who is clearly comfortable with money in the way that people are when they’ve had it long enough to stop thinking about it, who spends it on you with the same matter-of-fact quality he brings to everything, and who has never once made you feel like it means you owe him something.
You’re used to things costing something. Attention especially.
His doesn’t seem to. Which makes you suspicious, and then curious, and then something else.
So one afternoon you’re deliberately difficult about it.
You push the coffee back across the table without touching it. Tell him you don’t need it. Wait to see what he does. Whether he pushes back, whether something shifts in his expression, whether the patience reveals itself as strategy.
Mydei looks at the cup. Then at you.
“Alright,” he says.
And he takes it back.
Nothing else. He just picks up his book and reads, and twenty minutes later when you’re clearly flagging he sets a glass of water beside you instead, without comment, like he simply noticed and acted on it and the rest isn’t worth discussing.
You stare at the glass for a moment.
It’s the most annoying thing he’s ever done. (And the most reassuring.)
And yet, you smile to yourself.
The flowers arrive on a Thursday, which is your worst day of the week and he somehow knows that.
Something small and unpretentious left on the table beside your coffee. The kind of thing you might have picked out yourself if you ever bought yourself flowers, which you don’t, because there’s always something more practical to spend money on.
You look at them for a long moment.
“You’re doing it again,” you say when he sits down.
“Mm.”
“The thing where you pay attention to things I didn’t tell you.”
“You mentioned Thursdays once.” He opens his book. “In passing.”
You look at the flowers again, then at him, settled comfortably across from you, reading, completely unbothered by your scrutiny.
“This is a lot of effort,” you say, “for someone who hasn’t asked me for anything.”
He glances up at that and holds your gaze for a moment.
“I’m not in a hurry,” Mydei says simply and goes back to reading.
You don’t know what to do with that. So you do nothing, for now. But you take the flowers home, and you put them in a glass on your desk, and you don’t examine too closely why.
The moment it changes isn’t dramatic.
You’re tired. Genuinely, visibly tired, the kind where you stop performing fine because you don’t have the energy.
You sit down across from him with your coffee and your terrible notes and say nothing.
Mydei looks at you for a moment.
“Sit properly.”
You frown. “I am sitting.”
“You’re hunched like you’re bracing for something.” His hand presses briefly to your shoulder. “Properly.”
You exhale.
And you do it.
And for the first time, you don’t argue about it.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you tell him one evening, quieter than you intended.
“I know.”
“Then why do you?”
He’s quiet for a moment like he’s deciding how much of the honest answer to give you.
“Because you have too much to carry,” he says finally. “And some of it doesn’t have to be yours.”
You look at him.
“It’s not about showing off,” he continues. “Or keeping track. I just want you to have less to worry about.” He pauses. “That’s all it is.”
It shouldn’t be enough of an answer.
Somehow it is.
You don’t soften all at once. That’s not how you work, and Mydei seems to understand that. He has never pushed for more than you were giving, never made the patience feel like a strategy.
But you find yourself noticing things. The way he remembers details without making a performance of it. The way his presence has started to feel less like something to be suspicious of and more like something you’d notice the absence of.
You don’t examine that too closely. Not yet.
It’s a quiet evening when it finally shifts. You’re walking back from the café, later than usual, the city settling into that particular after-dark calm. He’s beside you, not filling the silence with anything.
You stop walking.
Mydei stops a half-step after, turning to look at you.
“You’ve been patient,” you say. “For a long time.”
“Yes.”
“Most people wouldn’t be.”
“I’m not most people.” He says it without arrogance. Just fact.
You look at him, really look, the way you’ve been careful not to for a while now. The steadiness of him. The way he’s watching you with that direct, unhurried attention that has never once asked you to be anything other than exactly what you are.
“I know,” you say quietly.
You close the distance yourself.
The kiss is brief at first, tentative in a way that surprises you, given how certain he is about everything else. But his hand comes up to your jaw, careful and deliberate, and he kisses you back like he means it. Like he’s been thinking about it and is in no particular rush now that it’s happening.
When you pull back, he’s watching you with something warm and unguarded in his expression.
“Took you a while,” Mydei says.
You laugh despite yourself. “Don’t push it.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
He takes your hand, and you walk the rest of the way in silence.
⋆ ✦ ⋆
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)
Synopsis: After your boyfriend cheats on you, you make a bet to turn your former friend, the shy, unpopular Dan Heng, into your high school’s next prom king.
HSR Masterlist
Pairing: Dan Heng x F!Reader
Word Count: 13.6k
Content Warnings: i promise i have fics with good characterization + writing and cohesive plotting but this is not one, modern/high school au, based on the movie “she’s all that”, ngl reader does dan heng dirty a lot but it’s okay (we do not deserve this man though ong), i couldn’t think of an hsr character to cheat on reader so oliver aiku from bllk gets a feature, this fic is legitimately brainrot, the chrysos heirs (specifically castorice, hyacine, mydei, anaxa, and phainon) show up as side characters, if this is the first time you’re reading one of my fics i’m sorry
A/N: this is such a dumb premise that i was originally only going to devote like . 3k words maximum to it but alas . here we are T_T dan heng was my original fav in hsr so i can’t believe this is his first feature ?? LMFAOO AND IT’S SO SILLY TOO PLS guys i’m serious this is nothing like my other hsr fics i’m so sorry in advance to anyone who reads through it i just needed something dumb to have fun with and you all are the victims of that
It was the second day of April, the dreary kind of day that always cropped up at the cusp of spring, when winter still clung desperately to the clouds and frost still smothered the few flowers struggling valiantly to bloom. Yet despite the bite of the wind and the faulty heating system, inside the brick building of your school you felt warmer and warmer with every passing moment, a burning mortification creeping up from the base of your neck, spreading over your throat and across your cheeks.
“I can’t believe it,” Castorice said, her voice coming out as a soft, low murmur, her hand finding your own and squeezing tightly.
“I can,” Cipher said with a snort, toying with the silver ring on her index finger. “Didn’t Phainon and Mydei tell you that you probably shouldn’t date him?”
“No, they didn’t,” Castorice said. “I remember when she mentioned it in front of them. They just kind of looked at each other and asked if they were thinking of the right person.”
“Right, and that’s basically the same thing as them going ‘holy shit, there’s no way you’re dating him’ for guys like that,” Cipher said. “I mean, obviously they couldn’t just say as much, that’s some kind of violation of team code or whatever, but I’m pretty sure they were thinking it.”
“Let’s not talk about this right now,” Castorice said after a moment, likely because she couldn’t come up with anything to refute Cipher’s explanation, which unfortunately did make sense. “We literally just caught her boyfriend cheating on her. Who cares what Phainon and Mydei thought when they got together? It doesn’t change anything.”
“You’re right,” Cipher said, her brow furrowing as she reached out to pat you on the shoulder. “You okay?”
You swallowed, trying to comprehend what had just happened. One moment, you were walking into school after spring break, a cup of coffee in your hands as Castorice regaled you with stories of her trip to the coast, and the next you were rounding the corner to none other than your boyfriend Oliver Aiku — well, former boyfriend Oliver Aiku — loudly boasting to his friends that he had, on his trip to the very same coast that Castorice had been at, managed to score a night with a foreign swimsuit model whose name was filled with r’s that he delightedly rolled his tongue over.
“You’re not going to stay with him, right?” Castorice fretted. “I know he didn’t see us, but there’s no way you’re thinking of staying with him after that and pretending like it didn’t happen. No way! He has nothing going for him at all!”
“Well, he is the captain of the soccer team,” Cipher said, the words long, drawn out and pondering. “I guess he’s pretty popular too, somehow.”
“Whose side are you on, anyways?” Castorice said, causing Cipher to raise her hands in the air under the guise of innocence.
“I’m just saying,” she said. “You know, in the interest of an objective evaluation and all.”
“Of course I’m breaking up with him,” you said, a deep-rooted and instinctive pride flaring up in you. “You’re right, Castorice, he has nothing special about him. Any guy could be as popular as him; he just got lucky, that’s all. So what if he cheated on me? He’s replaceable, anyways.”
“Any guy?” Cipher said, the excited lilt of it meaning you had piqued her interest. “Are you willing to bet on it?”
“Cipher, seriously!” Castorice said, though the rebuke lost most of its weight given that she refused to sharpen her tone any.
“Yes,” you said, your response as reflexive as flinching. “Any guy in this school.”
“Alright, you got it,” Cipher said, taking your free hand and wrenching you away from the ever-sensible Castorice. “There’s six weeks until prom, right? Let’s find you a new candidate for prom king and see just how confident you are.”
“You want me to turn a random guy into the prom king?” you said. Cipher beamed at you.
“You’re the one who said Aiku’s replaceable, and right now, he’s a shoe-in for prom king. Popular, funny, captain of the soccer team…I bet everyone’s going to vote for him. Well, that’s unless you’re right, of course! Hm, but who should we pick?” she said.
“This is a stupid idea,” Castorice said from behind the two of you.
“What about Anaxa?” you suggested.
“You’re going along with this?” Castorice said, a bit more unsurely now. “I don’t think this is really a smart coping mechanism, you know.”
“Anaxa’s way too easy,” Cipher said, shaking her head. “I mean, so many people are into his whole blunt-but-kind-at-heart deal — or maybe it’s that he gets something of a halo effect from being friends with Phainon and Mydei, I’m not really sure…anyways! You wouldn’t even have to try with him.”
“I guess that’s true,” you said. Phainon and Mydei were on the soccer team with Aiku, and everybody knew at least one of the two, if for no other reason than because Phainon was something of a social butterfly and Mydei was too nice to tell his friend to stop dragging him places that neither of them had any business ending up at. Anaxa was their more mysterious third, occasionally featuring in Phainon’s social media posts with a scowl on his face and his arms folded over his chest, but Cipher was right — there really was something a little charming about it. “Maybe Gepard?”
Cipher gave you an incredulous look. “Just because he plays ice hockey instead of soccer doesn’t mean he’s entirely irrelevant.”
“Then I’m out of ideas,” you said, because you typically did not interact with the male half of the student body, finding little interest in them when you had, up until this point, been decidedly taken.
“Not to worry,” Cipher said. “I think I have the perfect candidate.”
She raised her finger and pointed at a boy slouched over in the corner, an exasperated look on his face as his friend failed in his attempts to juggle a carton of milk, an apple, and a remedial math textbook. His hair was unruly and his clothes were nondescript; in his arms was a binder, and based on how his backpack drooped, he was carrying several more of the like, heavy and thick with printouts and notesheets.
“No way,” you said. “Not him.”
“Scared?” she said. “I thought you said it could be anyone, though?”
“I did, but come on. Dan Heng? Can’t we pick someone else?” you pleaded.
It wasn’t just that Dan Heng was notoriously one of the lamest, most friendless people in the entire school, the kind who never spoke but, when he finally did, you really wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t just that he was utterly plain and boring when compared with half of the student population. It was that you couldn’t stomach the thought of having to talk to him again, especially not under such a pretense.
“No, no, that just means you’re giving up!” Cipher said. “Which is fine, mind you. It doesn’t matter to me either way.”
“I think you should just give up,” Castorice said, ever the diplomat. “Like I said earlier, this is a bad idea, and you don’t need to involve Dan Heng in it. It’ll turn out badly.”
“What’s all this about Dan Heng?” a bright, cheery voice interrupted. You turned to see Hyacine, the fourth of your friends, approaching you with a wave. “He’s my lab partner this semester. Is he bothering you guys or something? That’s a shame, I thought he was pretty nice. At least he does his work, which is more than I can say about some people.”
“He’s not bothering us,” you said.
“In fact, we’re probably the ones bothering him,” Castorice muttered under her breath.
“What was that?” Hyacine said. Castorice waved her off dismissively.
“Aiku cheated on Miss Future Prom Queen over here,” Cipher said, jerking a thumb in your direction, prompting you to roll your eyes at the moniker. “But not to worry, she thinks he’s totally, one-hundred-percent replaceable!”
“Er, what does that mean?” Hyacine said.
“They’ve made some stupid bet where she has to get Dan Heng to be the prom king over Aiku,” Castorice said, cutting off Cipher before she could continue with the grandiose explanation, causing her to pout. “It’s stupid, right, Hyacine?”
“Dan Heng as prom king?” Hyacine said, and for the briefest, faintest moment, surprise flickered across her expression. But then, if Castorice was a diplomat, Hyacine had a verifiable public relations expert taking up a full-time residence in her mind, so she quickly schooled her delicate features into a polite mask. “That’s really a thought.”
“If anyone can do it, it’s her,” Cipher said, elbowing you. “And hey, it’ll be a good distraction, right? Who has time to mope over an ugly boy cheating on them when they have a new ugly boy to fixate on?”
“And again, I don’t think this is a smart coping mechanism. Back me up, Hyacine!” Castorice said, clasping her hands together, though her begging fell on deaf ears as Hyacine hummed.
“That’s a fair point. Besides, it’ll be nice, right? The two of you were friends when we were in elementary school, so you can always think of it as a reconnection,” she said.
“Ooh la la,” Cipher said. “A past flame rekindled! So romantic.”
“How did you remember that?” you said, more flustered by Hyacine’s level assessment than Cipher’s teasing, given the latter was dealt out with such frequency that anyone who spent any modicum of time with her became all but immune to the effect.
“It just came to mind,” she said, tapping her chin. “Come on, you and I have English Literature soon. We’ll be late if we don’t head out now.”
“You’re right!” you said. “One week of break and I’ve already forgotten what it felt like to go to class.”
“I get it,” she said. “See you at lunch, Castorice, Cipher!”
With that, you left the two of them behind, Castorice mumbling to herself about how all three of you ‘needed a serious intervention’ and how she was going to ‘ditch you to be full-time friends with Aglaea and Hysilens exclusively’ while Cipher snickered and told her she’d never do such a thing when she loved you all so much.
“Are you okay?” Hyacine said when you rounded the corner and found yourselves alone. “I know you really liked Aiku. It can’t have been easy to find out that he had cheated on you.”
It was a little easier to be honest when it was just Hyacine, so you shrugged halfheartedly, not even trying to disguise how your face crumpled a bit at the memory of him explaining just how beautiful she had been, that girl from the beach whose name he’d hold close to his heart and mouth forever.
“I don’t know,” you said. “I really did think it was going well, even if no one else thought it was. Even if I guess he didn’t think it was.”
Hyacine sighed. “Sometimes we just see things how we want to see them, not how they really are.”
“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, sometimes we do.”
“This whole bet thing, it’s really ridiculous, just so you know,” she said. “I’m with Castorice there, it’s just that I also think that, in a way, maybe it’ll be good for you as well. Not like whatever Cipher was going on about, obviously, but…you and Dan Heng used to be really close, right?”
“Stop bringing that up,” you muttered. “We haven’t spoken since we were, like, seven or something. I hardly even remember it.”
“I don’t mean that you have to be best friends or anything,” she said. “Just that hanging out with someone like that might help you take your mind off of things.”
“And, in this hanging out process, am I supposed to mention that it’s a bet before we go get coffee and donuts, or after?” you said, the sardonicism earning you a wince from her.
“Maybe not at all?” she suggested.
“Right,” you said, and then it was your turn to sigh. “I’m going to do it, don’t worry. I don’t want anyone thinking I care about what happened. Even if it’s Dan Heng…even if it’s him, I’ll show everyone I found someone better than Aiku. He’s the one who made a mistake, and if getting Dan Heng to win prom king is what it takes to prove it, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
According to Hyacine, Dan Heng worked at the cafe near your school after classes, and while it was probably a little unfair of you to approach him at his place of work, you couldn’t think of anywhere else you might talk to him. You didn’t have any classes together, and he was like a ghost between periods, more reclusive than even Anaxa, who at least was consistently easy to track down, if one had the mind to listen for Aglaea’s sputtered cursing drifting through the air. On the other hand, Dan Heng was such an enigma that if it weren’t for Hyacine coincidentally being his lab partner, you might’ve lost the bet before it had even begun, simply because you would have had no idea how to make that first, critical contact.
The cafe was small and warm and empty, flowers blooming on the tables and along the windowsill, a glass case of pastries set up on the counter, and, to your surprise, a white cat curled up on one of the cushioned seats. You raised your eyebrows at her, but she only blinked at you, her warm gold eyes so entirely appealing that you could only smile and pet her on the head when you passed.
Just as Hyacine had promised, the only person behind the counter was Dan Heng, still in that same dark sweatshirt from earlier, but now with an apron tied around his waist, his expression as drowsy as the cat’s, though without any of the sweetness she had afforded you with her rumbling purr. Although the chime of a bell had announced your arrival, he still hadn’t looked over at you, and suddenly you were entirely too shy to greet him, even though you had no reason to be.
What had you been thinking, taking up Cipher on her bet? It was impossible — hopeless, even, if you were being fully honest with yourself. How were you going to get him to even be a contender for prom king, let alone win the vote against someone like Aiku? In the back of your mind, a voice which must’ve been your conscience but just sounded suspiciously like Castorice nagged at you: just go home and watch a drama and cry and move on like any normal person would.
“Um, hi,” you said instead of listening to the probably sound advice. “I’d like to order a drink, if that’s alright?”
For the briefest of moments, you could’ve sworn he froze, his stare so intent upon you that it was just shy of outright gawking. But then, like you had imagined it all, he nodded at you politely, his disinterested gaze sliding from your face to the wall at your back. The dismissal left you a little flustered, because you had never been rejected so outright before, and you had to take a deep breath, reminding yourself that it wasn’t personal, that there wasn’t any reason for it to be.
Dan Heng doesn’t know Aiku cheated on you. Dan Heng doesn’t even care.
“Can you just make me your favorite?” you said with a winning smile. “I’ve never been here before.”
“Sure,” he said. You had been half-expecting him to sound all squeaky and high-pitched, the way he had when he had been involuntarily chosen to give a speech at your middle school graduation, but you were surprised to find he spoke with a pleasant, level cadence, low and melodic and gentle. “Will that be all?”
“I guess so, yeah,” you said, although internally you were scrambling, trying to figure out what you were even supposed to say next. “How have you been?”
He paused in the middle of processing the transaction. “Pardon?”
“You know,” you said. “What’s going on with you lately?”
He glanced at the door and then back at you, scanning your figure before finally frowning, though it seemed to be more out of confusion than anything.
“I’ve been alright,” he said. “What about you?”
“I’ve had better days,” you admitted.
“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
You were rescued by a soft meow, the little white cat rubbing her face against your leg. Momentarily forgetting Dan Heng, you crouched so you could scratch behind her ears, chuckling when she pawed at you insistently whenever you tried stopping.
“You’re so friendly,” you said.
“That’s Mimi,” Dan Heng said over his shoulder from where he had started making your drink for you. “She’s the owner’s cat. I think legally she’s not supposed to be in here, but somehow, she always vanishes whenever the inspector comes, so we’ve never gotten in trouble for it.”
“Mimi,” you said. “What a smart kitty you are!”
“She’s my most helpful coworker,” he agreed. “Here, it’s ready now if you want to try.”
You stood and accepted the mug from him, making sure to brush your fingers against his when you did. His face remained impassive, like you were a mere subject of passing curiosity and nothing more, which, coming from him, burned as much if not more than Aiku’s infidelity. Who was he to think of you as inconsequential? Who was he to care about you so little, as if you were nothing and no one to him? You snatched the drink and downed half of it in one gulp, glaring at him all the while.
This did prompt a reaction out of him, but instead of admiration or awe, it was faint — yet sickeningly genuine — concern. It took you a moment to realize that this was probably because your eyes were watering and your tongue was burning, but before you could start shrieking or something, he was already producing an ice cube from beneath the counter, offering it to you to suck on. You took it into your mouth and began to cry, which wasn’t exactly the impression you had been hoping to make, but you couldn’t help yourself.
So there you were, an ice cube melting over your burnt tastebuds, Mimi purring against your ankles, Dan Heng shifting from foot to foot behind the counter, holding your forgotten drink as you bawled, probably wishing he had chosen a job as a grocery store cashier or something similarly uneventful, where his former friends wouldn’t show up and start sobbing while he was on the clock.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I didn’t realize I was that bad at making coffee. Most people leave me a pretty nice tip…”
You wiped at your face with your sleeves, doing your best to compose yourself, wishing you could run away and beg Castorice to pick you up and take you for ice cream or something. All you were doing was making a bigger idiot of yourself, and even though it wasn’t like Dan Heng could exactly tell anyone and have any hopes of being believed, you still hated the humiliation of the moment.
“No,” you said. “The coffee was good, I just — I just recently had tongue surgery, and I didn’t realize I’m not fully recovered yet.”
“Tongue surgery?” he said. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“You’re looking at a survivor,” you said, hoping you were convincing enough that you didn’t need to explain yourself further. And maybe you were and maybe you weren’t, but either way Dan Heng allowed it, giving you back your drink when you promised you would be fine now that it had cooled, watching you as you slunk over to the booth where you had set your bags down, Mimi trotting along behind you.
She was fair company, the cat, sitting in the chair across from you and staring at you as you pulled out an essay to work on in the hopes it would help you gather your thoughts or, at the very least, distract you from your miserable earlier showing. Whatever place you had been at with Dan Heng before, you were several spots behind it now, and given the tight timeline of the bet, you had as good as lost at this point. You could imagine Cipher’s expression at your concession, but you thought it might be a little relieving just to tell her and get it over with, so midway through your essay, you gave into the itch of your fingers and pulled out your phone.
“Hey,” Dan Heng interrupted before you could even unlock it. “Sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you, but here. On the house.”
Your phone slipped from your hands into your lap, and you looked up at him in shock as he set a plate of cookies onto the table next to your laptop. His ears were the faintest bit pink at the tips, and he responded to your unspoken bemusement with a frown, like he was answering your questions before you could even ask them.
“What?” you said anyways, already picking up one of the cookies and biting into it before he could rescind the offer.
“A ‘get-well-soon’ gift,” he said. “For the tongue surgery.”
The cookie took on the peculiar and distinct flavor of glue. You swallowed as rapidly as you could, beaming at him, trying to think of a way to spin this in your favor. He had to like you, or at least pity you, to be giving you free cookies, even if they were just as consolation for your nonexistent tongue surgery. This meant things were perhaps not as dire as you had thought, and that meant maybe you didn’t need to text Cipher just yet.
“Thanks, Dan Heng,” you said.
“How’d you know — oh, the name tag,” he said, cutting himself off with what might’ve been a smooth recovery, if you didn’t remember the secret his little sister had whispered to you, one summer night when the three of you had been sitting together on their porch swing: when Dan Heng’s nervous, he taps his feet. Mama calls him her little drummer, but you wouldn’t know, because he’s never nervous around you.
“It wasn’t the name tag,” you said, the rhythm of his shoe-sole against the hardwood like a metronome, beating in time with your heart. “Why wouldn’t I know? We’re friends, aren’t we?”
You knew why he was nervous around you, so you propped your chin in your hands, batting your eyelashes at him as he mulled over the development, his foot still tapping. Offering him a cookie, you watched as he chewed on it, his cheeks rounding as his jaw furiously worked.
“Are you free this Friday?” you continued. “A few of my friends and I are going to see a movie, and I have an extra ticket. You’re welcome to come.”
“A movie?” he said, taking a step back. “I mean, I’d like to come, but don’t you have a boyfriend? Aiku? Wouldn’t he, you know, mind?”
“Ex-boyfriend,” you corrected smoothly, without wavering for an instant. “I let him go on to pursue greater things, like foreign swimsuit models with too many r’s in their names.”
“Oh,” Dan Heng said. “Ouch.”
“Hardly,” you said. “Anyways, so there’s not an issue. Does that mean you’ll come, then?”
“I don’t really know why you’re inviting me,” he said. You gave him your saddest look, and he sighed. “Alright.”
“Alright!” you said, and even Mimi meowed, though you were pretty sure she was just hungry. “Do you still remember the way to my house? You can pick me up and drive me to the theater, it’s the one by the mall.”
It was the first time either of you had outright acknowledged your past friendship to the other, and you almost wanted to take it back, but then he did a peculiar thing: he smiled at you, sweet and warm, and to see him smile was so rare you were left momentarily breathless, because in just that instant if never again, he was beautiful. He was very, very beautiful.
“I would never forget,” he said. “Not in a million years.”
“Right,” you said, ducking your head and handing him your empty cup to take back to the kitchen with him. “See you on Friday, then.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”
You half-expected him to forget entirely, but lo and behold, when Friday rolled around and the sun began to set, there was a car parked in your driveway and Dan Heng was at your front door, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatshirt, his left foot tapping away as he waited for you to come outside with him.
“Thanks for getting me,” you said, raising your eyebrows a bit when he opened the passenger door for you. You half-wondered where he had learnt something like that, but then you figured one of his friends must’ve mentioned it to him. The entire thing reeked of Sunday Oak’s meddling, and while they weren’t close, exactly, the last you had heard, they got along well enough, and who else would’ve instructed Dan Heng in the ways of opening doors for girls and other such assorted chivalries? Because there was no way he had learnt on his own.
“You didn’t really give me much of a choice,” he said. It took you a second to realize he was joking, and then you snickered, reaching over to pat him on the shoulder in appreciation.
“You learn quick,” you said. “That’s exactly right. What kind of guy doesn’t pick his date up?”
“Date?” he said. “Is this a date?”
“Do you want it to be?” you said, and the curiosity was genuine, not feigned, albeit not because you really cared whether he liked you or not. It would just be easier if he did, easier to convince the student body that he should be prom king right alongside you if it seemed like you were affectionate. It amounted to less effort on your part, and when you were already fighting such odds in your quest for success, that was nothing less than a blessing.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You don’t have to answer,” you said, not wanting to scare him off. “It’s the two of us going to see a movie with a few of my other friends. There’s no need to think about it as anything but.”
“Who else will be there?” he said, all but pouncing on the metaphorical olive branch you had offered.
“Just Hyacine and Phainon!” you said. “Castorice and Cipher don’t like this genre, and Mydei is out of town for the weekend, so they were the only ones I could get to go with me.”
The fourth person was supposed to be Aiku, who was the only reason any of you were even going in the first place, since this was the sequel to his favorite movie of all time. You had bought the tickets and convinced Phainon and Hyacine to come as a surprise, but then the two of you had broken up and you were left with a spare ticket to exacerbate your sour mood. In that sense, Dan Heng was actually doing you a favor, as if he hadn’t come, you’d probably have skipped the movie and wasted your money for nothing.
Phainon and Hyacine were both the type to be chronically early, so even though you and Dan Heng had left at a perfectly reasonable time, they were both already there, lounging in the lobby like they had been waiting for some time, an empty bucket of popcorn in between them. Neither of them looked up when you approached, but you knew they had noticed you because Phainon’s mouth curved into a smile and Hyacine shifted in her seat.
“The movie doesn’t start for another ten minutes,” you said.
“Nice of you to finally show up, then,” Phainon said.
“Did you guys seriously already eat an entire thing of popcorn? You’re going to get stomachaches,” you said, ignoring the jab.
“We thought we were supposed to see the show before this one,” Hyacine said, hanging her head. “So we got here really, really early, and bought popcorn and everything.”
“Better early than late,” Dan Heng said hesitantly, glancing at you immediately afterwards like he had done something wrong. Phainon brightened at this, however, beaming at Dan Heng with a self-satisfied nod.
“That’s what I always say! You’re Dan Heng, right?” he said.
“Yes, that’s correct,” Dan Heng said, shaking his hand. “Hello, Phainon. And hello to you as well, Hyacine.”
“Hi!” Hyacine said. “Don’t worry, I submitted our lab report before coming.”
“I believe you,” he said. “I wasn’t worried at all.”
“Say, Dan Heng, how about we get popcorn for all of us and let them go save our seats?” Phainon said, in that way of his that sounded like a polite request but was, in essence, a thinly veiled command. Dan Heng shrugged, clearly finding no reason to argue the point, and then the two of them disappeared to get in the snack line, leaving you and Hyacine alone to show your tickets to the worker.
“So,” she said as the usher nodded at you to go inside. “You invited Dan Heng, huh?”
“Who else would I have asked?” you said.
“Anaxa likes this series,” she said, which was news to you, and also more than a little confusing, because how did Anaxa and Aiku end up with the same favorite film franchise? “And Castorice would’ve come if you told her why you were asking.”
“I guess so,” you said, nudging her shoulder with yours. “But this is good for the bet, right? If he becomes friends with Phainon, it’s just that much easier for me to get him to be popular enough to win prom king over Aiku.”
“That’s true,” she said, albeit far less enthused than she had been earlier. You gave her an odd look but didn’t question it, figuring that whatever the answer for the sudden downturn in her mood might’ve been, you were better off not knowing.
Phainon and Dan Heng joined you a few minutes later, Phainon on Hyacine’s other side — he was the kind to never shut up while watching movies, and you were hardly patient enough to listen to his whispered comments — and Dan Heng next to you, as was to be expected.
“I got this for you,” he said when he sat, pressing a colorful packet of candy in your open palm. Your eyes widened when you read the bubbly lettering emblazoned on the front, and as the trailers began to play, you tore into it eagerly.
“No way! This is my—”
“—your favorite,” he completed. “I know. I was hoping you still liked it.”
“You remembered that?” you said. He didn’t respond, only jerking his chin towards the screen, where the movie was starting, though even his shaggy hair and the dim lighting couldn’t hide the pleased look on his face when you popped another piece of candy in your mouth and moved your hand so your pinkies were touching over the armrest.
It was so easy to make him happy. You had thought it might be more difficult, that he might be more reluctant, but he was simple and kind, so delighted just because he had chosen the right flavor of candy for you. You couldn’t remember what it had been like when you had first started dating Aiku, that was how long it had been, but you didn’t think he had ever been so laidback, so shy. This was something unique to Dan Heng, and as it made your life far easier, you found yourself grateful to him — and grateful to Cipher, too, because surely this would’ve been ten times more difficult if you really had gone with Anaxa as you had initially suggested.
“That was amazing!” Phainon said when the movie ended and the four of you were walking out to your cars. “The plot twist at the end totally blew my mind.”
“I didn’t expect it at all,” you agreed. “Thanks for coming and watching, by the way.”
“Sure, it was a great time!” Hyacine said, as cheerful as ever. “It was nice to see you, too, Dan Heng.”
“Right!” Phainon said as you reached his car. “You’re a cool guy, Dan Heng, I really can’t believe we haven’t spoken much before.”
“I suppose our paths just never crossed,” Dan Heng, which was a polite way of saying you’re one of the most popular guys in school and I’m Dan Heng.
“Say, Mydei’s birthday is coming up, and he’s having a party at his house. You should come,” Phainon said. You weren’t sure which deity had sent him to you in your time of need, but you really were convinced just then that he was some kind of gift from the heavens.
“Can you really invite me to someone else’s birthday party?” Dan Heng said.
“Mydei won’t care,” Phainon said.
“It’s true,” Hyacine said when it was clear Dan Heng wasn’t convinced. “He’ll probably just be glad she’s there with someone other than Aiku. Besides, his house is huge, so the parties are pretty much always open-invitation. If you know it’s happening, you’re welcome.”
“And now you know!” Phainon said. “So you’re welcome.”
“I’d like it if you came,” you added. “Though of course you don’t have to.”
“I’ll come,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “You guys are convincing.”
“Us, or just her?” Phainon said. Dan Heng blinked, but before he could sputter anything out, Phainon laughed. “See you around, both of you. Come on, Hyacine, unless you were planning on getting Castorice to pick you up?”
“No, no, you’re not getting out of driving me that easily,” she said. “Bye, you two!”
“I had fun tonight,” Dan Heng said, opening the door to his car for you again, waiting until you were inside to shut it and start the car from the driver’s seat. “Thanks for inviting me. I thought it might be awkward, since we haven’t spoken for so long and I don’t really know Phainon or Hyacine that well, but it was really nice.”
“I’m glad,” you said. “I had fun, too. I didn’t realize just how long it’s been until I saw you again at the cafe on Monday, but it really has been a while, huh?”
You waited for him to take the bait, and true to form, he sank into his chair a bit, the red of the stoplight blooming over his face like a blush, his gaze trained steadily on the road ahead. How endearing it was, and for the first time something like guilt flickered in your stomach. What had Castorice said? This is a bad idea. What if she was right? What if this was a bad idea?
Then your phone buzzed with a message from Cipher — heard you got him to go to the movies with you all. Nice. Any guilt you might’ve felt faded as you liked her message and put your phone away, leaning your head against the window and staring at the scenery until he pulled into your driveway and walked you to your front door.
In the days leading up to Mydei’s birthday party, you did your best to hang out with Dan Heng at school whenever you could see him. You were aided in this task by, surprisingly, Phainon, who had made it his own personal mission to befriend Dan Heng, and thus dragged him over to eat lunch with you whenever possible. He evaded you both less and less as time went by, allowing you to sit next to him and lean your head on his shoulder if you wanted, even hugging you in public once, although it had been quick and hurried, like he was worried about who might see.
And people did see. You weren’t an idiot, nor were you oblivious, you knew what everyone was whispering about — how has Dan Heng managed to replace Aiku so quickly? Who even is he?
It was exactly what you wanted. People had to think about him, to wonder about him, to know about him, if he had any hopes of being nominated as prom king, let alone actually winning the title. Now, thanks to the combined efforts of you and Phainon — though Phainon didn’t really know he was assisting in this, exactly — you had managed that first step, the initial knowing.
The next part was going to be markedly more difficult. Aiku’s popularity wasn’t entirely unfounded, after all; his charming personality and talent at soccer were only complements to his handsome face, which on its own would be enough to win nearly any girl over. Dan Heng didn’t have any particular charm, nor was he on any sports teams, and his face, although beautiful at certain angles, wasn’t really the sort to excite anyone.
You had to somehow make everyone else see what you saw sometimes, when he would snicker at one of Anaxa’s dry jokes or offer to carry your things to your next class for you. He could be good-looking in those moments, few and far between though they might have been, which meant he had a latent potential, and it was simply up to you to unlock it. But how would you go about doing that? You had tried fishing for ideas with Mydei, who was one of those guys that tended to look stunning all of the time, without even trying, but the conversation had gone something like this:
“Hey, Mydei, what’s your skincare routine?”
“Don’t have one.”
“What about haircare?”
“Sometimes I brush it.”
“Your clothes?”
“Whatever my mom buys.”
And that was that. Unfortunately, it really was effortless for him, which left you out of luck or ideas when it came to Dan Heng, who couldn’t exactly follow that methodology. So you were stumped by the issue, right up until the moment you were knocking on his front door, having gotten ready early for the express purpose of wanting to help him pick his outfit before you left for Mydei’s house.
His little sister Bailu answered, and she greeted you with a squeal and a hug, her arms wrapping tight around your shoulders and nearly bowling you over with the sudden force. You stumbled back but managed to catch her, holding her just as tightly and smiling despite yourself.
“I can’t believe you’re really here!” she said.
“Hi, Bailu,” you said. “You’ve grown so tall.”
“Come inside, come inside!” she said, yanking you in before you could point out that she had been the one in your way, the door slamming shut behind you as you entered the familiar living room, which was still decorated the exact way you remembered, navy couches arranged before the TV, a low glass coffee table in front of the one where you and Dan Heng used to sit and watch cartoons together. “Of course I’ve grown taller, it’s been years since I saw you. Where have you been?”
“I’ve not been anywhere,” you said. “It’s just that I made different friends, and I suppose I didn’t have much time to hang out with your brother anymore.”
That was really all it was. There was no one great fight or tragedy; he made his friends and you made yours, and then your paths were set on that pattern of divergence, sealing your separation for good. It was just how life happened sometimes.
“So what made you want to hang out with him again recently?” she said, as guileless and innocent as could be expected of any girl her age. And obviously you couldn’t tell her about the bet, but for some reason, lying to her felt worse than lying to anyone else ever might, so you looked away.
“He just came up in conversation, and I realized it had been a long time, so…what was the harm?” you said. “Maybe I wanted to see him a bit more than I thought.”
“He wanted to see you a lot,” she said. “At least I think so. I dunno! He’d probably kill me if he knew I was telling you all of this, so please don’t mention it in front of him.”
“It’ll be our secret,” you said, holding your index finger to your lips to hide how she had jarred you with that throwaway statement. He wanted to see you a lot. What reason would he have to do that? You didn’t think he cared any more than you did. The two of you had spent the last few years as all but strangers, and of course he was shy now, because you were a pretty girl paying attention to him and he didn’t know how to handle that, but it didn’t mean anything more. None of this had ever meant anything more.
“I made sure he dressed nice, don’t worry,” she told you, thankfully filling the silence before it could get awkward. “He has to impress you and all of your fancy high school friends, right?”
You weren’t sure what kind of fashion sense a middle schooler could be relied upon to have, but it was probably better than nothing, so you thanked her and told her you knew the way to his room, so she could go back to her algebra homework if she’d like.
Dan Heng’s door was just up the stairs and around the corner, and when you found it unlocked, you opened it without thinking, figuring he was tying his shoes or something and hadn’t heard Bailu’s exuberant greetings — which was a little hard to believe, given how loud she had been, but Dan Heng was fond of listening to music loud enough to drown out the world, so it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility.
“Sorry I’m early, so don’t feel like you have to — Dan Heng?”
Your jaw dropped, and you coughed as you tried to gather yourself. He whipped around, his shirt still bunched around his neck, his arms half-through the sleeves, his eyes wide as the both of you stood frozen, caught in the headlights of each other’s stares.
“Uh,” he said. “I guess I forgot to lock the door.”
“Do — do you work out or something?” you said before shaking your head, covering your face with your hands. “Please pretend like I didn’t say that.”
“Of course I do,” he said, disregarding the second half of what you had said. “I’m the one who makes Caelus and Sunday go, too. I’m good now, you can open your eyes.”
“Sunday works out?” you said, peeking through your fingers to make sure he was really telling the truth before allowing your hands to drop back to your sides, though you still refused to look at him, finding it all to be entirely too awkward.
You had never seen him outside of those oversized sweaters he preferred, and certainly never shirtless, so could you be blamed for not knowing that he had the most perfect torso you had ever seen? And that was setting aside the issue of his arms, which were the kind of flawless you had previously believed could only be found in airbrushed magazine covers. Just the memory was enough to make you feel all warm and fluttery, and you coughed again, clearing your throat and crossing your arms, trying to forget this new knowledge, setting it out of your mind entirely.
“He’s more into cardio and Pilates, I think his sister gave him a few routines that he likes to follow,” Dan Heng said.
“What about you?” you said, finding the image of the prim and stiff Sunday Oak doing a Pilates routine to be an amusing distraction from earlier.
“I usually lift,” he said, fixing his shirt so it lay flat and then running his fingers through his hair. “I got into it because Bailu started getting too big for me to carry around, and I didn’t like that. It’s been pretty effective; I can still pick her up without too much trouble when she’s being annoying."
You were no longer distracted.
“Okay! Well, Mydei’s house is kind of far, and the party is going to start soon, so are you ready?” you said, clapping your hands together, hoping the finality of it would help you move on, though you couldn’t stop yourself from peering at where his collarbones were just slightly visible, your mouth drying when you remembered what they led to.
“Right, and we have to drop Bailu off at her friend’s house before we go,” he said. “Sorry, I must’ve forgotten to mention it to you. My parents are away, and I was supposed to babysit her this weekend, but since we don’t know how late we’ll be back, she’s having a sleepover. I promised I’d drop her off in apology.”
“Don’t worry,” you said. “It’s not a big deal if we’re a bit late to Mydei’s. Believe me, no matter how long it takes us, someone else will be later.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Bailu! Come on, let’s go!”
“Yay!” Bailu said, appearing out of thin air, a duffel bag slung over her shoulders and a grin on her face. “I’m so glad you both are talking again. I missed you so much.”
“I missed you, too,” you said, patting her on the head as you got in the car. “And Dan Heng.”
He snorted. “You flatter me.”
“I mean it!” you said, and you were surprised to find you really did. “I like being with you. I know it was a coincidence that we met that day, but I’m really glad either way.”
“Me, too,” he said after a second. “Yeah. Me, too.”
Bailu’s friend’s house wasn’t far, and when he came back to the car after dropping her things off in their living room, he didn’t start it immediately. He just sat there, and the time until the beginning of the party was steadily growing shorter and shorter, but you did not point that out. You knew this about him, too, that he wouldn’t speak until he was ready to say what he wanted to say, so you waited, in the meantime observing his features with the eyes of a stranger instead of someone who had known him their whole life.
A pale forehead cut through with dark eyebrows like quillstrokes and soft hair like an inkstain. Gleaming eyes like the sea at storm, always roiling with some turmoil or another, never settled, never calm. A sharp nose and jaw; a sharper smile, when he afforded the expression a proper moment to form. Lips pink from chapstick, mint flavored if you had to guess — he bought everything mint flavored when he was younger, you didn’t know when you had noticed but it seemed like one of those things you had just always been aware of…
“You said you like being with me,” he said.
“Yes,” you said, a little breathless even though nothing had happened. “I like it a lot.”
“More than — no, never mind,” he said, starting the car and putting Mydei’s address into the GPS, drivin off like he hadn’t said anything at all.
There was no reason for you to be disappointed, but you found you were. He hadn’t done anything wrong, so you didn’t know what caused the sensation, but that was how it was, like you had very nearly gotten something you had wanted for a long time and then, at the very last moment, let it slip from your grasp.
There were already dozens of cars parked in front of Mydei’s house when you got there, but he lived in what amounted to a castle, so you doubted the party would even feel that cramped. Still, you could tell Dan Heng was nervous, pressing a little closer to you, and even though there was no one to see you do it, you took his hand, interlacing your fingers with his and squeezing.
“It’ll be fun,” you said. “You know at least three people there, right? Me, Phainon, and Hyacine. That’s enough.”
“I just didn’t even realize that this many people went to our school,” he said.
“Oh, a lot of them don’t,” you said. “At least half are Mydei’s friends from before he moved. I don’t know many of them that well, but if they’re friends with him, they can’t be that bad. I’m sure you’ll meet others you enjoy speaking with.”
“Sure,” he muttered under his breath, though unlike what the sarcasm suggested, he did not make a run for it when you pulled the great oak door open and nudged him inside, which you took as a victory.
“Mydei!” you said when you finally spotted the host, making a beeline for where he, Castorice, and Phainon were standing, arguing over what appeared to be a bowl of punch. “Happy birthday!”
“Huh — oh, hey, thanks,” he said before turning back to Phainon. “Are you stupid? Obviously the strawberry punch should be placed on the table with the pretzels, it’s best to pair sweet drinks with salty foods. And the lemonade should be on the table with the desserts, as the tang will enhance the flavor of the pastries!”
“But the tablecloth on the dessert table is pink!” Phainon shot back. “Why wouldn’t the strawberry punch be on the pink table?”
“They’ve been talking about this for the past ten minutes,” Castorice said. “I don’t get why it matters, but they seem to think it’s of the utmost importance.”
“If I may?” Dan Heng said, cutting through the debate effortlessly. “Why don’t you just switch the tablecloths?”
Phainon and Mydei gawked at him as if he were the second coming of Einstein, or at least of Anaxa, who probably would’ve made a similar suggestion if he were anywhere to be found — albeit with far less courtesy than Dan Heng, who was still new enough to their ways to maintain etiquette.
“That’s brilliant,” Phainon said.
“I can’t believe we didn’t think of that,” Mydei said. “You’re Dan Heng, right? Her new boyfriend?”
“Well—”
“Talk about an improvement,” Mydei said, cutting Dan Heng off before he could deny it, rolling his eyes as he gathered the snacks in one hand and flipped Phainon off with the other, which in whatever language they spoke meant ‘switch the tablecloths please’, at least from what you had discerned in your years of knowing them.
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Phainon said as he unfolded the pink tablecloth and spread it on the table where the ‘dessert’ sign was hanging. “Look, man, you didn’t hear this from us, but let’s just say it was rough back when she was with Aiku.”
“We had to pretend to like him even more than we usually do,” Mydei agreed. “Bad times.”
Castorice gave you a pointed look, pulling you a few steps away while Phainon and Mydei continued to explain to Dan Heng exactly how horrible they found Aiku. You knew what she was going to say before she said it, and you winced pre-emptively, though that did nothing to soften the blow.
“Does he know?” she said.
“No,” you said.
“You can’t keep doing this to him,” she said. “Hanging out with him, going to the movies, introducing him to all of your friends…he’s going to get the wrong idea, and it’s going to hurt so much more when he finds out.”
“What if it’s not the wrong idea?” you said. “Castorice, what if I do like him?”
“Do you?” she said.
“I’m not sure,” you said. “I think I like hanging out with him, and I finally realized that he is, well, attractive, but…I don’t know! I don’t want him to hate me, though, and if I tell him, he definitely will.”
“You still have to tell him. It’s not fair if you don’t,” she said.
“What if I never do? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” you said.
“Do you really think he won’t eventually find out somehow? Won’t it be better if you tell him yourself instead of letting him hear from someone else?” she said.
“Can we talk about this later?” you said. “It’s not a big deal right now.”
“Just be careful, that’s all. I don’t want to see you upset again so soon after everything with Aiku,” she said.
“Thank you,” you said. “I really appreciate it, and I know you’re right, I just…I can’t think about this at the moment. I don’t want to ruin Mydei’s party.”
“That’s fair,” she said. “Let’s go rescue your bet from those two before they talk his ear off.”
“...and then he said he was going to put a collar on him!” Phainon said, clearly still distressed by the retelling despite how long ago this particular story had occurred.
“Are you serious?” Dan Heng said.
“He really did say that,” Mydei affirmed. “We were all a little taken aback, but when someone plays as well as Aiku does, you learn to ignore it.”
“One time, I passed the ball to him, and he called me a good boy for it,” Phainon said. “I’d have been more upset if I didn’t like—”
“Thanks, Phainon,” you interrupted before he could continue with the train of thought. “Great story. One for the ages.”
“You guys are back! We were wondering where you ran off to,” Phainon said, somehow entirely unperturbed. “Oh! Mydei, I think Anaxa just got here!”
“Really?” Castorice said. “I didn’t think he was coming.”
“He’ll be here for fifteen minutes maximum, and if we don’t catch him in that time period, then we’re out of luck,” Phainon said. “That’s why we have to go. Nice talking to you all, though!”
“Enjoy the party,” Mydei said. “I’ll try to catch up with you all later if I can, but when Anaxa shows up…”
“No worries,” you said. “Tell him I said hi.”
“Me, too,” Castorice said.
“What’s the deal with Anaxa?” Dan Heng said. “Everyone talks about him like he’s some kind of legend.”
“We’ve been asking ourselves that for a very long time,” you said. “No one quite knows. He’s frighteningly normal when you actually talk to him, the issue is just—”
“—getting to talk to him,” Castorice completed. “He’s always busy with something. I think he was planning on being the youngest Nobel Peace Prize winner in the world, but he aged out of that distinction last year, so he’s been a little cold recently.”
“As one does,” Dan Heng said, at a loss for words. You took his hand back in your own, ignoring the subtle downturn of Castorice’s mouth, and leaned against him, finding immense delight in how he didn’t even flinch at the weight.
“Do you want to get something to eat?” you said. “This is just the snack table, but usually there’s proper food in the dining room.”
“Sure, that sounds good,” he said. “Will you come, Castorice?”
“I’m okay for now,” she said. “I’ll go find Hyacine, but I’ll try and join the two of you later.”
“I feel like she doesn’t like me,” Dan Heng said as you both made your way towards the dining room, which, given the size of Mydei’s house, was more of a hike than anything. You hummed absentmindedly, too distracted by the paintings of Mydei’s family line hanging on the walls to really comprehend what he was talking about. “Castorice, I mean.”
“Castorice?” you said, his words clicking into place. “You think she doesn’t like you?”
“She’s always looking at you strangely when we’re together,” he said. “Does she wish you were still with Aiku or something?”
“Believe me, that’s the last thing she wants,” you said with a bitter chuckle at the mention of your ex-boyfriend, who was almost certainly somewhere nearby. Even if Mydei didn’t particularly like him, Aiku was the captain of the soccer team; there was no way he couldn’t invite him. “She doesn’t dislike you, I promise. She just wants me to be careful.”
“Careful?” he said. “Am I someone you need to be…careful around?”
You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “You might be.”
“What does that mean?” he said.
“Doesn’t matter,” you said. “Come on, I’m hungry.”
He didn’t question you, which was one of his more agreeable habits, that he was willing to just go along with whatever you said so readily. Taking two plates, one for you and one for himself, he began to fill them with whatever foods you spent a little too long looking at, promising he’d eat whatever you didn’t like so nothing was wasted.
“What a surprise, seeing you here!”
You cringed, because of course he was in the dining room at this exact moment. It was just your luck, wasn’t it? Dan Heng gave you a bewildered look when you stepped a bit closer to him, wishing that he might be the braver between you both again, the way he had been when you were younger, helping you climb trees, holding your hand and pulling you up from bough to bough.
“Why is it a surprise?” Dan Heng said. “She’s friends with Mydei, so of course she’s here.”
“Who are you?” Aiku said.
“This is Dan Heng,” you said. “My boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” he said. “That was a quick turnaround.”
“Didn’t you cheat on her?” Dan Heng said. “Hyacine mentioned it. I feel like you’re the last person that should be talking about moving on quickly, considering you didn’t even wait to break up with her before you found someone new.”
“Do you seriously think this guy is an upgrade?” Aiku said, ignoring Dan Heng entirely. “I’m a little insulted.”
“Leave him alone,” you said, and oddly enough, the anger wasn’t performative in the slightest. You didn’t care what Aiku said about you, but you realized — you realized you did care what he said about Dan Heng. You cared very much, and not just because of your bet with Cipher. “He’s better than you in so many ways, it’s laughable.”
“Hey, hey, I’m not looking for trouble,” he said. “I’m glad you’re happy, really. I just never thought I’d see the day you’d be the type to do charity work. Is this some kind of outreach program or something? Well, you’ve always been generous, I did admire it in you, so it makes sense—”
“We’re leaving,” you said, firmly and decisively, not even letting Dan Heng say anything. “I can’t stand to listen to another minute of your grating voice.”
“Later,” Aiku said, waving lazily, readily. “I’ll be here when the novelty wears off and you want me back.”
“You’ll be waiting for a long time,” you snapped. “Try forever.”
“Don’t let him get to you,” Dan Heng said as you left Mydei’s house, the cool air of the night hitting your faces but doing nothing to soothe your temper. “He’s just messing with you because he knows it’ll make you upset.”
“Well, he’s right!” you said. “It does make me upset!”
He placed a hand on your shoulder. “I know, but that’s what he wants, so you should try not to give it to him.”
“Who is he to say all of that about you?” you fumed.
“What? Are you upset on my behalf? Please don’t be. There’s very few people whose opinions I care about, and I promise Aiku isn’t one of them,” he said. Despite the reassurances, he didn’t try to make you go back inside the way Aiku himself might’ve, back when you were still with him. Instead, he unlocked his car, reading your mind before you could even tell him that you wanted to go home, promising he’d drive fast so you could get back quickly.
You couldn’t tell Dan Heng the real reason why Aiku’s words stung so much — because they weren’t that far off from the truth. You had only even approached him at first with ulterior motives. Otherwise, the two of you might never have spoken again, but it was like you had told Castorice: you didn’t want to think of it like that anymore. Maybe the bet was what had started it all, but now you were coming to believe it was more than that. It had been more than that for a while, or maybe it had always been more than that, or something else. You didn’t know, you didn’t know anything, but what you were sure of was that you finally had Dan Heng again, and this time, you wouldn’t let your paths diverge. This time, you would follow him for as long as he would have you.
Instead of leaving immediately as you probably should’ve, you followed Dan Heng into his house, the two of you ending up on that couch you used to sit on when you were little, though this time, there were no cartoons playing in the background, no Bailu stomping around or parents watching carefully. It was just you and him, and you weren’t sure what the point was, but there the two of you sat, shoulder to shoulder, more than a little stiff, a blanket tossed around your hips.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Anything,” you said.
“You called me your boyfriend earlier,” he said. “Were you just saying that, or did you really mean it?”
“Oh,” you said. “I don’t know. I guess you’ve never asked me, so…”
“Do you want me to be your boyfriend?” he said, shifting to face you, his right hand going to your face unsurely, hovering just before your cheek like he was waiting for permission. You tilted your head so he was holding your face, closing your eyes and staying there for a moment.
“Do you want to be?” you said.
He answered by kissing you, a little clumsy, a little eager, gentle and persistent, nudging you onto your back so you were flat against the couch and he was above you, pressing his lips to your mouth, to your forehead, to your cheeks, even along your throat. You clung to his neck, willing him to not stop, to keep going forever and ever.
“Yes,” he murmured against your skin. “I want to. I’ve wanted to for so long, I was just scared, but if I had known — I would’ve said something, I would’ve—”
“What?” you said, sitting up so quickly that your forehead banged against his, drawing a yelp from him. “What do you mean, for so long? How long?”
“Um, can we act like I didn’t say that?” he said. You gave him a look, and he pouted. “I guess middle school or so. You were the first girl I ever liked, but then you started dating Aiku, and I knew I’d never have a chance with someone like you. I mean, who doesn’t like you? I’m not special. Maybe we were friends when we were little, but it’s not like we talked after elementary school, so I didn’t — I didn’t think it meant anything, but — hey, is everything okay?”
With every successive word, your stomach dropped further and further into an abyss of despair. Castorice was right. You never should’ve done this. You never should’ve taken Cipher up on the bet, you never should’ve listened to Hyacine and gone to the cafe, and you never, ever should’ve spoken to Dan Heng again.
He had liked you all of this time. His shyness at first wasn’t because just any girl was talking to him, it was because it was you specifically. Because he had liked you even then. It was okay when you thought both of you had developed feelings at the same time, but this — but this — you were a horrible person. You had, whether inadvertently or not, used him and his feelings for that bet, that stupid, stupid bet, and now what? Now you liked him, too, but if you spent even one more second in his presence knowing that it was just so you could win against Cipher, you would surely die of guilt.
“I have to go home,” you said. “I just remembered I have laundry to do.”
“Oh,” he said. “Right. Laundry.”
“Thanks for the ride to the party,” you said. “I had fun. Even if Aiku interrupted it halfway through.”
“Anytime,” he said. “I’ll see you on Monday?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, Monday is good. See you, Dan Heng.”
“See you,” he said halfheartedly. “Drive safe. Let me know when you’re home.”
“I will,” you said; then you all but ran to your car, leaving him in the doorway to watch your receding form, waving forlornly until you rounded the corner and left him behind.
That Monday, you got to school earlier than you usually did, and you immediately made a beeline for Cipher’s locker, where she and Castorice liked to hang out before classes started. True to form, there they were, Cipher playing with her favorite keychain and Castorice rifling through her backpack, ostensibly for some homework that Cipher had asked to copy.
“Good morning!” Cipher said when she noticed you. “How’s Miss Future Prom Queen doing? How’s the bet going along? I noticed you brought him to Mydei’s party and yelled at Aiku. I’d be surprised if he didn’t get nominated at this point.”
“I want to call it off,” you said.
“Why? But you’ve been working so hard! You even hang out with him outside of school, that has to literally be like torture for you” she said.
“Guys, maybe you should talk about this later,” Castorice said nervously, her eyes as large as saucers, though you both ignored her.
“Even I think you could get him to be prom king at this rate, and I literally bet against it!” Cipher continued. “What changed? Don’t tell me you’re just chickening out because seeing Aiku again made you miss him or something.”
“I don’t miss Aiku!” you said. “It’s just that Dan Heng—”
“Guys—” Castorice tried again, but she was cut off by a soft, trembling voice.
“A bet?”
It was like you had been plunged into a bucket of water, the words like ice cubes trailing down your back. Cipher’s face transformed into a mask of horror, and you gasped as you spun around, only to be met with Dan Heng, his brows knitted together and his lips pressed into a tight line.
“Was I just a bet?” he said, and his tone was the first clue you had that he wasn’t angry, he was something else, something worse, something that cut at your heart with the precision and edge of a scalpel. “Was that all it was?”
“Dan Heng, I can explain,” you tried.
“But you can’t say no, can you?” he said. “You let me think you liked me, that you were happier with me than you had been with Aiku, but — but it was all just because of a bet.”
“Dan Heng!” you said when he turned swiftly, marching away to where Sunday Oak was waiting with a disapproving frown on his pointed face. You moved to chase after him, but Castorice placed her hand on your shoulder and shook her head.
“Leave it. I think you’re the last person he wants to talk to right now,” she said.
“I’m so sorry,” Cipher said. “I didn’t realize he was there, or I wouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s not your fault,” you said. After all, she had never done anything but try and cheer you up in her own backwards way, so how could you blame her? No, the fault lay squarely at a single person’s feet. You were the one who had accepted the bet. You were the one who had used Dan Heng like that.
The fault was yours and yours alone.
Prom came sooner than you expected, and you were left without a date, unlike everyone else you knew. Castorice and Cipher were going together, and Hyacine had convinced Mydei to match with her as friends — you were pretty sure he just wanted an excuse to wear pink, which he proudly declared to be his favorite color; either that or his mom had told him he wasn’t allowed to reject her, which in all honesty was just as likely. On the other hand, Phainon’s neighbor went to an all-girls’ school, which meant she wouldn’t have a proper prom, so he had offered to let her come to yours as his guest, which left you entirely out of luck, up until you received a strange message from an even stranger sender:
Anaxagoras: Phainon told me if I don’t have a date to prom he’ll punch me.
Anaxagoras: Mydei said I should ask Aglaea but why I would do that, I have no idea.
Anaxagoras: Anyways, you’re tolerable and also not going with anyone, so how about it?
me: yeah sure that’s fine. i’ll send pics of my dress so you can match your suit to it
Anaxagoras: Sounds like a plan.
me: thanks anaxa
Anaxagoras: Anaxagoras.
So you were going with Anaxa, which all things considered was more of an achievement than going with Dan Heng ever would’ve been, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when you heard from Hyacine that Dan Heng wouldn’t be attending at all. He had never planned on it, according to her, but he had considered it for a bit. For you. He would’ve gone if you had asked, and when she had told you that, her face brimming with sympathy, you had swallowed hard, taking several deep breaths to compose yourself before smiling and telling her it was a shame, then, that it had all worked out like this.
Prom itself was nothing special. The music was fine and the food was fine and you got fine pictures with Anaxa at Mydei’s house — pictures which Phainon immediately sent to himself as proof Anaxa had showed up or something — but there was nothing special about it. Everything that the movies and the tv shows and the books had built it up to be was missing, and for some reason, you were very sure this was because Dan Heng was missing. It should’ve been him you were posing with in front of Gorgo’s rosebushes, his arm around your waist, casual instead of awkward like Anaxa’s had been, his tie you fixed as his family wiped away their tears and told you they never thought they’d see the day.
“Hope not,” he said, and that was pretty much how all of you — even Phainon’s neighbor, who had no idea why you didn’t like Aiku — felt. None of you wanted to see him win, and from her seat at Castorice’s side, Cipher shot you a guilty look. You waved it aside, not wanting her to spend her night sulking, too, but she pursed her lips, clearly still apologetic.
“I think we all know who’s winning prom queen though,” Castorice said.
“Not like there’s many options,” Anaxa said, picking at a piece of chicken with barely concealed disgust on his face. “It’s her or Aglaea, and I think you all know who I voted for.”
“Aglaea?” Phainon said.
“Obviously not!” Anaxa snapped.
“Whoever wins, I’m just really grateful to all of you for accepting me,” Phainon’s neighbor, Cyrene, said. “I know you don’t know me that well, but I feel like you all are my friends, too, just from how much Phainon talks about you.”
“Sure!” Castorice said. “You know, you can just hang out with us. Phainon doesn’t have to be there.”
“In fact, it’s preferable if he isn’t,” Cipher added. “I was going to suggest we get mani-pedis together, but I do not want to see his feet.”
“I take good care of my feet!” Phainon protested. “I have the nicest feet on the soccer team.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Doesn’t mean I want to see them.”
“Hello, everyone,” Sunday Oak said before Phainon could retort, tapping the mic to quiet the room. “I’m here to announce your prom king and queen!”
“They have Sunday announcing it?” you whispered to Anaxa, who shrugged.
“Who else? He’s the president of the student council,” he said. “It makes sense. I guess it’ll be a little awkward if he wins, though…”
No one was surprised when your name was called, the entire room clapping when you stood and smiled weakly, scanning the tables arranged neatly around the dance floor until you saw where Aiku was sitting with the rest of the soccer team, reclined back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin. It was exactly how he must’ve wanted it, after all, you as prom queen and him as prom king, reunited once more in the perfect opportunity for him to charm you as he always did.
“And our prom king is…” Sunday trailed off, unfolding the slip of paper before furrowing his brow in confusion, holding it up to the light and squinting. “...Phainon?”
“Huh?” Cipher said.
“No way,” Mydei said.
“This is unbelievable,” Cyrene said.
“Me?” Phainon said, pointing at himself.
“Don’t be obtuse,” Anaxa said. “How many Phainons do you think go here? Trust me, it’s definitely you. Congratulations.”
“Woah,” Phainon said as the two of you walked up towards the stage where Sunday was waiting. “I did not see this coming.”
“I’m not surprised, actually,” you said, and when you passed Aiku, you stuck your tongue out at him for good measure. “A lot of people really like you.”
“I guess so!” he said, bending down so Sunday could put the golden crown on him. “And it seems they like you as well.”
“That was a given,” you said as you started the mandatory dance, which wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been — Phainon was a pretty horrible dancer, but he was so exuberant that it made up for it, and at least he didn’t step on your toes. That was more than could be said about most boys his age.
“You seem a little sad, though,” he said. “Is it Dan Heng?”
“How’d you know?” you said.
“It’s a little obvious. I’ve never seen you happier than when you were with him, and now that he’s gone, you’re not happy anymore,” he said. “What even happened? One minute, you were leaving Mydei’s party together, and the next, you were totally ghosting one another.”
“He found out that I only started talking to him because of a bet,” you said miserably.
“A bet?” Phainon said, and the total lack of judgement in his wide blue eyes made you feel worse than if he had called you an idiot to your face.
“Yes,” you said. “After I found out Aiku was cheating on me, I told Cipher that anyone could be as popular as him, so we made a bet that I could make whichever guy she chose into prom king.”
“She chose Dan Heng,” Phainon guessed. You nodded. “And you ended up liking him more than you thought you would.”
“Pretty much,” you said. “But apparently he’s liked me for a long time, and now he thinks I was only even with him because of a bet, so he hates me, and rightfully so. I don’t deserve him.”
“Have you told him the entire truth yet?” Phainon said.
“What?” you said.
“What you just told me, about actually liking him and all. Does he know that?” he said.
“No, I haven’t talked to him since he found out, and he’s ignored all of my texts, so I stopped sending them,” you said. “I assumed he would want space.”
“If I were him, I’d want to know everything,” he said thoughtfully. “Don’t you know where he lives? Just make him hear you out, and then you can accept his answer, but it’s not fair of you to let him go on thinking that you never cared about him at all.”
“That’s true,” you said as the song ended and you were allowed to return to your seats, your classmates applauding once more. “But when should I do it?”
“Why not now?” Phainon said.
“I can’t,” you said. “Anaxa drove me, and somehow, I don’t think he’d be willing to drop me off to confess to Dan Heng.”
“You’re right,” Phainon said, digging around in his suit pocket and depositing a set of keys in your hand. “I don’t want to see a single scratch on her when I pick her up tomorrow.”
“You’re letting me borrow your car?” you said.
“What else are friends for? Plus, I’ve had enough of this depressing vibe going around lately,” he said. “Anaxa owes me, so he can take Cyrene and I back later — actually, maybe not Cyrene, I think she’s decided she likes hanging out with Castorice and Cipher way more than she ever liked hanging out with me…”
You both looked over at where Cyrene was leaning against Castorice as Cipher giggled and poured sparkling apple cider down her throat, and then you exchanged looks, unanimously deciding it would be better not to get involved in whatever was going on over there, no matter how many pleading glances Castorice shot your way.
“Thank you,” you said. “I’ll be the most responsible driver you’ve ever seen.”
“Eh,” he said. “Dan Heng sleeps early. You can speed a bit to catch him if you need to.”
“Alright,” you said. “Thank you again.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Good luck, Miss Prom Queen.”
Phainon’s car was a lot nicer than Anaxa’s, and Dan Heng lived a lot closer to the venue than Mydei did, so you were there with such speed that you hardly had any time to gather your thoughts. Parking the car in front of their lawn, you swore when you saw that all of the lights were off; then, gathering your skirt in one hand, taking off your heels and holding them in the other, you ran towards their backyard until you were under Dan Heng’s window, replacing your fistful of fabric with one of stones.
Tossing pebbles at the glass panes, you waited until the lamp flicked on and the curtains were drawn back, revealing Dan Heng in his pajamas, rubbing his sleepy eyes as he looked around.
When he finally noticed you standing and shivering in the grass, he tensed, and then he drew the curtains shut. You waited, but he didn’t open them again, and you were just about to throw another stone when his porch door opened and he came shuffling out, his feet shoved into a pair of slippers, a blanket folded in his arms.
“What are you doing here?” he said warily, stopping right in front of you, close enough to touch but far enough that you’d have to try if you wanted to, which you sensed he wouldn’t appreciate in the slightest.
“Dan Heng,” you said. “Oh, Dan Heng, just — just this one time, please listen to me. You never have to again, but just this once — it was a bet, I admit it. When I found out Aiku was cheating on me, I told Cipher he was replaceable, that anyone could be just as popular as him — could win prom king, just like him. She took me up on the bet, told me she’d pick someone and I’d have to do just that, and of course she picked you.”
He was silent, and unbidden, tears began to roll down your cheeks, tears you didn’t bother with wiping away. You didn’t deserve to cry, not in front of him, not when he was the one you had hurt, but when you had ever been able to stop yourself from weeping, anyways?
“I didn’t realize how much I missed you until then, but I missed you so much. No one else has ever cared about me as much as you do, and Dan Heng, you’re so wonderful, you’re smart and kind and beautiful, you’re the most beautiful person in the world, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before — it’s my fault, I was horrible to you, and you’re allowed to hate me forever, but I just want you to know that that part wasn’t fake, I really liked you too—”
“Who won?” he cut you off, and then he was wrapping the blanket around your shoulders. “Prom king, I mean, since clearly you were the queen. Was it Aiku?”
“Phainon,” you sniffed. “He’s the one who told me I should come here and tell you everything, too.”
“Yeah,” he said, and then he was hugging you, his embrace ten times warmer than any blanket ever could be. “He told me you were coming and made me promise to listen to you.”
“I’m sorry,” you said.
“I know,” he said.
“You should tell me to leave now,” you said.
“Do you want to leave?” he said.
“No,” you said.
“Then don’t leave,” he said. “Come inside. You can stay for a bit. My parents took Bailu to an overnight gymnastics meet, so it’s just us.”
“Dan Heng,” you said. “Don’t you hate me? I took advantage of your feelings for a bet.”
“A bet you already lost,” he said. “But you’re still here.”
“Yes,” you said.
“And you like me,” he said.
“Yes,” you said.
“More than Aiku?” he said.
“Way, way more than Aiku,” you affirmed.
“Alright,” he said. Then he took your tiara off, the one that marked you as prom queen, and set it on his own head. “We can talk about it later, but for now, here you go. You can send a picture to Cipher and tell her you won.”
“You’re right,” you said, though you didn’t take any pictures — you simply leaned in to kiss him, without any fervor, just fondness, fondness and belonging and more than a little bit of relief. “Yes, I think I did win after all.”
⸺ ⟢ synopsis. a run in at the training grounds with the knight commander leaves you feeling something you can’t quite explain, but it seems you’ve still got opportunity to figure that out when he visits you in your chambers later that night.
knight commander! jing yuan x princess! fem reader | wc. 6k words. | genres. smut. royal au. minors do not interact. | warnings. age gap. fem oral receiving. reader wears a dress / corset. i have not written jing yuan in close to a year so please forgive my characterisation. | return to masterlist.
⸺ ⟢ notes. this was supposed to be a warm up for a longer fic / series idea i have for knight! jing yuan, but alas 6k later as i proofread nearing midnight it is finally here lolol! tysm to mykai for the dividers ⚡️
Your breathing is short and laboured as you stand infront of the floor length mirror in your chambers.
Had you not been stubborn enough to send your maids away following a particularly bad run in with an... acquaintance in the courtyard, then you'd probably have saved yourself as much effort as you're expending right now. But because that was simply not the case, you're stuck here instead— blindly reaching for the tightly wrung ribbons of your corset while you try to undress yourself.
Even the reality of it all makes you mad, as if it isn’t your own doing.
But you’re sweating hard as you contort yourself to loosen out another part of the binding, and with the next popped bone of your dress allowing your lungs to expand just that bit wider with your next breath, you feel your body ease.
It does nothing for your still simmering temper, but wonders for your ribs atleast.
"That Jing Yuan, who does he think he is anyway?” You murmur to yourself as you wrestle your fingers beneath the ribbons and pull once more. "How dare he put me in such a ridiculous position, l am a princess."
And a ridiculous position it had been indeed.
But it didn’t help that the commander of your father's army, Jing Yuan, was a particularly frustrating fool of a knight. He was a terrible knight actually. A bad knight. Not in the way that you would expect; he was exceptional in battle and strategy when it came to commanding the ranks, you would even consider that to be exactly where his calling and talents lie.
But outwith the battlefield, when it is just him and.... you. You find the way that he teases you to be so unbecoming of a man of his reputation.
Your day had begun regular enough, you'd finished with your dinner early and found yourself eager to take a walk around the courtyard as you often times do. On your travels, and in the market for a little entertainment, you'd opted to pass by the training grounds— knowing that your father's army were most likely carrying out their daily drills.
You're not naive, you're simply a woman. And as much as some people would probably believe a princess to not be easily swayed by the sight of a bunch of sweaty knight's training hard, they'd be sorely mistaken. Actually, you couldn't have imagined a better way to pass the time than to simply admire the free entertainment given to you within the palace grounds.
Even a princess has her own needs and fantasies after all, and it's not like you're doing anything forbidden. You're simply…. admiring the view.
But what you had not bargained for, was for Jing Yuan of all people to be running the drills today.
He often left the training of the rookie knight's to his military officers; Gepard and Mydei, who were well respected amongst the ranks themselves and took great care when it came to nurturing the upcoming brothers of your father's army. But it seemed today had been a particularly special session, undertaken by the knight commander himself.
The path you had taken had led you to the yard— the dirt arena situated in the heart of three outbuildings. On the yard’s left stood the armory, and on its right, the stables. They sat nestled beneath the shadow of the castle, the sun not yet ready to set.
You'd come to squat in your usual spot, a small little opening hidden behind one of the larger oak tree's just north of the third outbuilding, only to be caught off guard when you'd first caught a glimpse of golden hair tied back expertly with his signature red ribbon.
You'd recognised him almost immediately, adorned in his usual golden crested armour, a steel lion embellished on his right shoulder— an exceptional show of the welders mastery of metals. It was beautiful in comparison to the standard steel edition that most knights wore, fitting for the commander— but more so for Jing Yuan himself.
Much to the delight of many, he was without his helmet today too which allowed the knight's forces to admire him in his entirety.
You’re sure some may believe Jing Yuan had been carved by Gods and Lords alike, only seeming to have grown more impressive with every passing year he’s served as Commander. He was only a few years younger than your father after all, his age showing in the way his muscles had grown softer and less defined now but no smaller in size, accompanied by a few lines in his face that only seemed to make him all the more handsome.
It suited him— in all of his might and glory. But it seemed you weren't the only one caught off guard by his presence either, most of the lesser knight's in their amateur lines had been wearing matching expressions of awe and respect since you had arrived, some even looking close to fearful as they admired the man standing infront of them.
Because as painful as it was for you to actually admit, Jing Yuan was a remarkable man. Even from your hidden position, that much was obvious. Every graceful movement of his body seemed to exude raw power, even if he was just marching himself infront of the raw lines of soldiers, his shoulders pulled back and upright while the muscles in his broad back flexed and moved with every command he called out over the lesser ranks.
But as much as Jing Yuan exuded discipline, you were one of the only people who know that wasn't all he truly was.
You'd often catch him slacking off and napping in the armoury between drills, or snagging a few treats from the maids in the kitchen after offering them a few words that were no doubt just as sweet, wearing that upturned smile of his that always had them swooning about him for days afterwards. It was stomach-churning to watch, to see a notoriously known man of his reputation to also have a side that was quite honestly… unknightly.
And you were not free from those same smiles yourself. Unfortunately, there had always been something strange between you and Jing Yuan. Like something being nurtured but unsaid, an affection, perhaps? Or maybe something more sacred. Though at the same time, if the opportunity ever arose for him to tease or pick on you in his own unique way, he'd gladly take that by the reigns too.
Which made you feel… something. Something you would rather not unpack because you know it would be ridiculous. He was much older than you to begin with, and you would feel truly silly were you to mistake the dotings of your much respected senior for the true affection of someone interested in courting you.
After all, you're sure there's a long list of maidens waiting for Commander Jing Yuan to finally retire and whisk them away into a cottage of their own some day.
Not that it's any of your concern, not at all. But even as you’d found yourself still admiring the slow movement of his muscles as he walked the recruits through their drills— even if only in glimpses beneath the joints in his armour— you couldn’t stop thinking about it. He made every shift of weight look so effortless, such an ease to the strength he exuded even when the usual weight of iron in his hands had been replaced by that of a wooden training sword.
It had made you almost not only restless but reckless, readjusting yourself in your position even if it risked being seen just so you could’ve taken a closer look.
He just made it seem so much more deadly than you would’ve thought. But it was only when Jing Yuan had taken a particularly brutal swing, that you swear you had felt a glimmer of his gaze capture a hold of yours from behind your shrubbery.
It had been fleeting, and gone so quickly that it made you question whether it even happened at all. But you had felt it, something shifting in the depths of your gut and that alone was enough to spook you back to your feet— scurrying towards any sort of shelter in the hopes of severing the idea of the Commander having noticed you gawking at him.
It was only when you had stumble through the back of the closest outbuilding that you realised you had come into the armoury.
Swords, knives, quivers and arrows littered the walls, the shelves equipped with every tool and weapon a man-at-arms might wield. It was all unfamiliar to you, a princess, standing there in your silken corset and your delicate lace. Yet you found it utterly fascinating.
There were jerkins, armour, and chain-mail lying in crates along the floor, and in the centre of the room stood a long oak slab held up by two barrels. You surveyed the room a second time before you had approached it, and only when you had ran your hand across the carvings in the wood did you hear the door you just came through suddenly fasten again behind you.
It almost made you jump.
"Your Highness." Jing Yuan's voice had said first. "To what do we owe the honour of your presence on the grounds today I wonder?”
But that had startled you, making you clasp your hand over your chest at the sudden intrusion before you hurried to turn towards him, frowning in an attempt to play it off. Though the smile Jing Yuan was wearing appeared to let you know he had saw right through you anyway.
"I am the princess, surely I should be able to stop by to check on the army whenever I so please."
To that, the commander smiled. "Of that you may."
"Is that why you came to find me? To question what I'm doing around here?"
Your voice had came out much harsher than you expected it to, but Jing Yuan didn’t seem phased by it at all. Instead he had taken a step closer, willing you to take a step back when he came to stand beneath the torches and hearth— the only source of light in the armoury as they cast shadows over the width of his huge body, reflecting off the gold of his chest plate and gauntlets.
His head tilted, offering you a lazy expression. "Now that I think about it, it would seem that way, wouldn't it?"
"That is not an answer, commander Jing Yuan."
"Mmm, is it not?"
"Must you always speak in such riddles, or do you do it deliberately to tease me?" You hadn’t known where to look when he crossed the room in a few big steps, and any distance you had been hoping to put between you both again had been interrupted when you felt the oak slab press against the backs of your thighs.
Jing Yuan's eyes jumped up and down your body. "Is that what you think of my intentions?" He asked, though there was still a hint of that ever lingering amusement in his tone. "It would be quite unwise of me to tease a princess, especially when she has done us the honour of stopping by of her own accord."
"Good." You had taken a step forward then, trying to keep your head high but your hands were knotting in your skirt. "Keep it that way then. So then… how are they coming along?"
Jing Yuan had raised a brow at you, as if surprised by your sudden interest in the training of your father's army and if you were to be honest, you were surprised by the question out of your own mouth aswell. But considering how close the commander's huge body had been to yours in that moment, it had been the only coherent thing you could think to say.
"There are still preparations to be made for this round of recruits." Jing Yuan explained, "But I believe they will make fine warriors come their graduation, the front lines will be lucky to have them."
You had surveyed him, nodding as if you understood. "That seems to be the case I’m sure, but they are under your watchful eye, commander Jing Yuan. I expect no less."
"Was that a compliment, your Highness?" Jing Yuan asked, with something in his voice that made you perk up.
"Don't let it get to your head."
"Of that I cannot promise." He smiled at you. In that incredibly handsome, but worn way that he usually would and you hadn’t known whether it was the heat of the moment or the doings of your own mind that had made the commander suddenly seem much… closer than he was before.
That was when it had all really went downhill. Perhaps it had been that little, fleeting moment of banter that had ruined it all. You had leaned back against the heavy oak slab in the middle of the floor again and laid your palms flat behind you, giving the older knight a look.
Jing Yuan had looked down at you aswell, his gaze lingering on your mouth before climbing to your eyes and you had been suddenly thankful for the cover of the darkly shadowed armoury. Had it been broad daylight, the intense heat in your cheeks and the flustered expression on your face would have been unmistakable.
But you had suddenly felt tethered— wrapped in an invisible string that tied you to the Knight Commander of your father's army. And then you were painfully aware of how closely you stood— the warmth of his broad body, even smothered beneath his armour— the curve of your breasts above your neckline as you took quick, unsteady breaths— the sound of his calloused hand suddenly having placed itself down on the table next to yours.
“It's a pity I cannot escort you back to your chambers myself.” Jing Yuan said. His lips curled into the ghost of a smile. “But there is still work for me here.”
You had kept still, waiting for something you didn’t have the courage to name. You didn't have to. With his free hand, Jing Yuan had cupped the side of your face, his thumb lingering perilously close to your mouth. Your breathing hitched in your lungs and as if by instinct alone, your lips parted, anticipation melding with a lightness you could not understand.
Jing Yuan let out an abrupt exhale— his thumb brushed across the flesh of your bottom lip, snagging it. Then he leaned closer, you closed your eyes when his mouth was only a whisper from your own.
Your voice caught at the edges. “You are a busy man, Commander.”
"Yes. It can be most unfortunate at times." His breath stirred your eyelashes, the tip of his nose grazing yours.
"You’re good at what you do." You'd said, another compliment. As easy as breathing with the steel of his chest plate pressed against you. "I'm sure everyone is dying to have your undivided attention."
"Really now? Could the same be said about you then, your Highness?" Jing Yuan's words had moved something in you. The same calling that you'd felt before—the same ache.
You wanted him to run his hand over your mouth again— to feel the texture of his rough, hardened skin from all of those years of battle. Your body was screaming, a mindless, impatient call for touch. His unknightly, dishonourable touch.
“It does not matter what I want, Commander Jing Yuan.” Your own throat hitched, eyelids lowering for a fraction of a second until you felt that Jing Yuan's hand had brushed yours. When you looked up, he was watching you, his eyes softer than before.
“I can assure you, it is all that matters.” He said, his mouth close now, so close his lips tugged at yours. It felt... raw. Honest. It felt more than just an oath of loyalty sworn to your father, for a fraction— it felt like he saw you. Something you were deeply unfamiliar with.
It had taken Jing Yuan, Commander of your father's army, and a knight supposedly bound by an oath of loyalty to the crown, to make me you realize what you truly, deeply wanted.
And you were terribly afraid of that.
Which is why, it only took a fraction of a second for you to push Jing Yuan off of you and make your way past him just as quickly. He had let you, and you had known it because you had also known that a man of his stature and position would not easily have been moved by a princess— but you could not have helped the mess that had become of your mind in those fleeting moments alone with him, and he seemed he picked up on that aswell.
It was the very reason you tried to avoid being alone with the older knight to begin with, because you could not allow yourself to feel everything that he made you crave. You were a princess, with a duty and standards and he was a knight— bound by oath and honour. So you had left Jing Yuan there, beneath the torchlight in the armoury, knowing he would not follow you because it was not his duty.
That was when everything had begun to surface;
The regret, the fear, the hope. The child's idea that perhaps you would be able to take hold of your desire was a petulant dream, so by the time you'd pushed your way back up the dirt path and ordered everyone to leave your chambers when they'd tried to help you out of your garments. The only way you could think to manifest your disappointment was to allow it to be felt as something else.
Resentment.
You're pulled from your own hazy memories of the hours prior and sweating hard in the middle of your chambers again when you hear a quick wrap of knuckles on your door.
And immediately— a knot in your stomach forms at the possibility of just who it might be. It's not often you're bothered by many people at these hours, and with the frosty send off you'd given your maids earlier you're confident they won't be coming back for the rest of the night.
That really leaves only one person. And he very rarely visits this side of the wing. Not without summons or purpose that is.
You allow your arm to snake around the bustier of your dress, holding the corset in place as to make sure your breasts don't spill out completely. But you're far too frazzled right now to even take that into consideration when you answer the call.
"Who…. who is it?"
The few seconds of silence following your question feel like lead in your stomach.
"Knight Commander Jing Yuan, your Highness." He calls through the door. "I hope my unofficial visit will not cause you any trouble, but I feel there is something we must discuss."
There's a stammer in your heart at the answer, but you right yourself with a deep inhale and remember your place. You’re a princess— pull yourself together.
"You may enter, Commander."
And that Jing Yuan does.
But immediately, the way he looks at you is simply detestable. It strikes a fire in you that feels like it has never been tended, wild and unfettered as you fidget with the remaining hooks of your bustier. He takes up so much space you feel like your inhale breathes him in, he's shed off his steel armour now, leaving him in only his padded, textile armour that was often worn beneath.
Unfairly, the fitted fabric only appears to accentuate Jing Yuan’s muscles and size even more— but this time he is cast in the warmth of your chambers.
It makes him appear much softer in comparison.
His eyes flicker down towards the pour of your breasts, the fabric only held in place by your arm and then its back to you. He appears to pause at the sight of you, though it's barely noticeable before it's replaced by that same natural smoothness that Jing Yuan always honed.
You never quite know what he’s thinking. But the heat in his gaze gives you some idea as you turn your own away from him, and you hear the door close softly behind him as he steps entirely into your chambers.
Your voice almost catches as a flicker of memory from hours ago flashes through your mind. "I hope you've come to apologise."
"Apologise, hm?" Jing Yuan hums, that same lazy drawl taking hold of his tone and you hear the fabric of his clothes shift, like he's crossing his arms over his chest. "Is that what you expect from me?"
"If that is not the reason for your visit then why else would you stop by?"
Perhaps it's your own shame that's making you act out like this. Your arm squeezes a little tighter around the bones of your dress, and you assume that's the reason it feels so hard to breathe when you hear Jing Yuan take his first, heavy step closer.
In little time he's standing opposite you, confirmed by another shift sounding through the otherwise quiet space surrounding you both. And then his calloused, rough touch brushes against your cheek with contrasted softness. It takes every part of you to not lean into it, feeling your eyes flutter closed when it rests beneath your jaw.
Jing Yuan tilts your chin and turns you back to face him. When you open your eyes this time, his gaze pours into yours.
"You misunderstand. To apologise would suggest that I regret the advances that I have taken, and I am a man who does not make a move without endless preparations and efforts." Jing Yuan says, with such unwavering certainty. "But I am also patient, dishonourable? Perhaps. But do I regret it?" His lips curl into the ghost of a smile. "Well that is another question. If anything, it's a pity official matters have prevented me from doing this for so long."
You keep still, letting the silence fall over you both as Jing Yuan's eyes appear to examine the features of your face. It's only when they fall on your lips do you remember to exhale, and when you make to turn your head away this time, his hand falls back down by his side.
Your face burns hot.
"Well, what are you staring at… help me out of this ridiculously difficult thing." You say with a huff, fidgeting with the bustier of your dress as if it emphasis your current predicament.
Jing Yuan’s voice is slow, idle. "I am not sure that's wise." His words earn him a glare.
"Would you rather I kicked you out then?"
"Were I forced to take my leave, it would make things much easier for me."
His words almost burn you. Forcing you into another beat of silence, and you're surprised it is not filled by the beating of your own heart. Your head whips back around to face him, and only then do you find that Jing Yuan remains where he once was.
You meet his gaze. Examine the certainty that swells in the amber. "But you will not.” You say. Suddenly knowing.
"Alas, I will not." His voice bares the depths of dark water, smooth, unwavering. It makes your lashes flutter as you cast him a look.
He's all but standing over you, his body so much larger in comparison— his years of service evident in every muscle. The golden tresses of his hair frame his handsome face beautifully, and from this angle— you can't help but feel the sudden craving to run your hands through it and pull.
"Then what will you do, Commander Jing Yuan?" You ask through your next exhale.
"Whatever you ask of me." He responds in confidence. As expected of an older knight of his reputation. It hitches your breath.
"And if I asked you to kiss me then?"
Jing Yuan's hand rises again, sliding over your jaw to the nape of your neck, his fingers twisting in your hair, his mouth opening to yours.
"There could be nothing more honourable."
Your lips collide there, and you appear to press your entire self into him, wanting— needing— to feel him against your body as Jing Yuan all but wraps you up in his huge arms. You let go of your corset in favour of latching your arms around his broad shoulders instead, pulling closer as your breasts push up against his chest.
And Jing Yuan gives himself to you just as eagerly, as dishonourable as it was. For a knight of his stature— the commander of your father's army to have the princess wrapped up in him like this. It would be treason, worthy of a lifetime locked away in an iron cell in the basement of this very castle. But he kisses you like that's little a price to pay should it mean he gets to have this now.
You feel his hands cradle you, squishing at the bones of the corset still loosely holding your waist and as your mouth continues to move in delicate, intoxicating circles with his— you press your tongue between them. It's incredibly hot and bewitching, the way Jing Yuan's hands twist into your dress, puckering the fabric as he pulls it up over your knees.
"Please, allow me to have this one thing." You beg between gasps, pressing your mouth against Jing Yuan's as his solid frame keeps you upright. Your hands grab at the hard, worn fabric of his clothes and with little to no effort— he keeps you upright.
His voice smears against your lips. "Oh, I assure you. I will take great delight in this."
It was difficult, removing Jing Yuan's clothes with only one hand. Though you're thankful you're not being made to peel back the steel plates of his armour right now, you can't help but wonder how that would feel too. To feel the steel beneath your touch, and to feel his body curl beneath it.
After a few moments of fumbling with the intricate detailing of the textile defensive jacket, he helps you, bowing over you with his mouth still on yours. After his jacket comes off, his shirt is next— ripped over his head and tossed atop the growing pile of discarded clothes in the darkened corner of your chambers.
But you take a moment to admire him first. You run your hands over the huge muscles of his chest— his stomach, admiring the old battle scars that adorn his physique, his body softening with age but no doubt the strongest he's ever been. It renders you speechless, short on breath, and when your touch stops just below his navel, Jing Yuan shivers and pulls back.
"May I, your Highness?" He asks, sliding his hands up your legs and pushing your dress up until it sits in the crease of your thighs.
You give him a blown out, lidded look. "Aren't we past using titles now?"
"Oh? I thought for certain you liked when I called you that."
Jing Yuan’s fingers catch on your undergarments and with a surprisingly gentle touch he eases them down from your waist, so slow it makes you want to scream, his mouth a pace behind until you're forced to brace against the closest piece of furniture you can reach.
You catch your lower lip between your teeth and throw your head back, "You're insufferable, Commander."
Jing Yuan's cheek rubs against your inner thigh, your knee, your calf. When he slips your underwear off and flings them into the pile of clothes in the corner of the room, his hands return to your thighs and he looks up at you.
"And what of my title then, hm? Just Jing Yuan is fine, it seems you have earned much more than that by now."
"I could think of a few more things to call you should you keep teasing me."
Your breaths come rapidly, far too shallow for you to be making empty threats. But still, Jing Yuan bites with a playful, lazy tilt of his head.
"Is that so? Do share them with me then. We have time after all, I am in little rush."
You suddenly feel even more confined by your dress, despite it being barely laced at the back— the bodice is too constricting, pinning you in all the wrong ways. But this time, you tear the lacings open— your fingers clumsy and wild as the long silken cord releases you. The dress finally falls open, and you're able to take a filling breath, one that's full of him as his hands move to your hips.
Jing Yuan eyes take in the swell of your now free breasts, his gaze travelling all over your body as he drinks up the newly revealed skin. He pushes himself back up to look you in the eyes, that same faint— teasing glow staring back before he kisses you hard, and then he yanks you up by your thighs.
His strength sends you back, sprawling you out on the dresser you had been braced against as Jing Yuan lowers himself to his knees.
It's a sight to behold. To see a knight of his title, take to his knees between the very princess he’d sworn to protect’s thighs— you’re sure it bares some similarities to when he had first sworn that oath, but also many differences considering he is now in the middle of your quarters. He kisses the inside of your leg, the tips of his teeth edging over your skin and then his eyes find yours again.
"Allow me to do this for you." Jing Yuan asks, voice heavy with promise. But still he grins. "To miss out on such an opportunity would be a great loss after all."
"You think I would deny you?"
There's a hint of amusement in his features, he lifts one broad shoulder in a half shrug. "Well, I am an old man, being bound by my oath for years— I consider myself to be a rather boring person."
"You say that like you're ready to retire."
"Far from it, your Highness. I still have many years left in me." With a sharp breath, Jing Yuan pushes your thighs open, wide enough to accommodate his broad shoulders. "You will soon see why."
You put a hand over your mouth and fall back against the smooth oak dresser as the knight between your thighs buries himself beneath the hiked up skirt of your dress. The breath soars out of you, caught between a sigh and a curse, and the ache in your stomach moves lower— amber burning as hot as the gaze that admires from you his place.
You laugh, shutting your eyes and dropping your fingers into his hair. "Perhaps… I do like when you call me that."
"Oh? How interesting." Jing Yuan deliberately sighs his words into you, his huge hands on your hips tightening and holding you beneath him as he closes the only space keeping him from you.
The next kiss he presses below your skirt makes you ache in response, tendrils of heat knotting themselves over and over deep within you as he continues to place more delicate kisses against the folds of your already soaked pussy. He eats you out like you would expect him too, it's slow and lazy— but practiced and thorough, Jing Yuan lets his tongue graze and roll its way through your cunt like he's got all the time in the world.
It feels surreal almost, to think of your current state— pinned to a dresser in the corner of your chambers by your knight, his touch searing your skin, making you feel alive, free. You can feel him in your stomach, the palms of your hands, the soles of your feet.
Jing Yuan presses another long, drawn out kiss against the entrance of your cunt this time and it makes your toes curl in sheer delight. You throw your head back and pull at the blonde of his roots, yanking him closer with every flick of his tongue as he exhales another chuckle across the heightened nerves between your thighs.
It wasn't something that you wished to admit, but he was good at this, dangerously so. With every long swipe of Jing Yuan's tongue you can feel yourself being pushed closer towards an inevitable, ruinous fall. But he wasn't willing to let you fall just yet, with his sighs and the muffled, content growls that he was burying between your folds.
He was taking his time with you. Laying waste to you as your lips part to moan and you squeeze your eyes shut, your hands curling in his hair.
"Have you always been so g-good at this?"
"My, it has been quite some time. I was afraid I would be out of practice."
"Quite the opposite it seems—"
You feel Jing Yuan hum against you at the praise, as if he's pleased by it, driven even. And then suddenly— he's spreading your folds apart with a particularly long roll of his tongue, bringing it up to trace your clit in slow circles and then all of a sudden your whole body is tensing up up.
You cry out, pulling his hair, legs flexing and toes curling. While Jing Yuan only applies more of his weight down on top of you, smiling as he lets his hands slip up your stomach to take hold of one of your breasts and he squeezes. It's all so much at once, the weight of your orgasm— the warmth of his body blanketing yours as he bathes you in soft licks of his tongue, flicking your clit with his mouth until you're trembling and it takes every part of you to finally push him away with shaky hands.
But then you're pulling him back, wrapping him up in your legs and arms and when Jing Yuan's huge body bends over yours and presses you into the dresser— his lips brush yours.
"That was hardly fair."
"You're mistaken." He chuckles, kissing you once more— and if the dresser beneath you weren't the finest of wood you think it would be enough to press you through it. "A knight always fights fair, I have my honour to protect."
The mention of his honour is enough to make you giggle, especially considering the great weight of something heavier that you can feel pressing between your thighs. Jing Yuan seems aware of it too, because when he pulls away to look at you this time, he appears far more repressed than just moments before.
He looks from the glistening folds of your pussy beneath him to your eyes again, and then he hums. Quite pleased, but not yet satisfied.
"With that in mind." He starts again, his gaze honed on you as he strokes at your hips. "Perhaps I'll be fortunate enough to see it through once more. I can keep going to my hearts content."
Your legs are unsteady and trembling, but somehow you're able to push yourself up and end up on the floor with Jing Yuan beneath you. You're both heaped among your discarded belongings, tangled up with one another. And after he helps you discard the remaining fabric of your dress, you feel free enough to really take your own time with him.
You splay both palms flat against the huge muscles in his chest and look down at him, his abundance of restraint seemingly unable to hold back for much longer considering the way you can feel his heavy, thick cock straining between your legs.
"And might I ask what would really make a knight like you’s heart content?"
You tease Jing Yuan, fluttering your lashes and accompanying the question with an intoxicating swirl of your hips. He lets you, though it's not for long— because eventually, and with ease, Jing Yuan flips you onto your back with one fluid motion and never breaks your touch.
His lips find your neck, and when he presses into you, deeper than before. You let out an abrupt breath.
His eyes narrow on you, and his smile takes its usual place once more as he takes in the features of your face. As if memorising them.
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You promised me your forever, and forever I shall be with you. Through every tribulation, even if the sun were to engulf me within its flames, I will persevere and return to you. For you are my everything, and I am eternally yours. Aka ; your (cute) crown prince takes his childhood promises very seriously.
feat. crown prince!mydeimos & f!reader
content : fluff, minor angst but w a happy ending (mydei can't catch a break), minor character death, descriptions of injuries + blood, unfair punishment to children, historically inaccurate royalty au, historical in the sense of manhwas lol, noncanon castrum kremnos, childhood fiancés to friends to lovers, royal politics and lore that i made up, yearnful mydeimos, ooc mydeimos bc he has a proper support system (you).
w.c. : 12.6k
note : originally, this was supposed to be just pure fluff. but i had too many brainworms wiggling around and i had to act on them... which means more plot than intended rip. that doesn't mean it's a serious fic tho, just saying! i'm so nervous posting this bc i've never written for mydei before AND i'm still not used to writing so much orz however, i did have fun brainstorming the outline and jotting down ideas before they could slip away from me. thank you so much for malorant for listening to me yap your ear away and developing my plot while u just wanted to kiss zuko and leon LOL love u pookie muah.anyways, please enjoy my silly mydei fic and let me know what you think !!
DAWN.
All you've known is solitude.
The fate of a noblewoman is to live under the shadow of your husband; whatever you do affects his honor, positive or negative. If you perform poorly in front of other nobles, you're disgracing your husband's name and become a shame, a significant stain, to his family honor. And yet, every good that you achieve falls under your husband's name and gives him grace and recognition regardless of if he had any part in what you did.
The same cannot be said for you, for every positive thing your husband does remains in his name and every shameful thing he will do is blamed on his wife. A noblewoman's duty is to serve her husband and maintain the family honor, both in her name and her husband's; this has been taught to you from the moment you were old enough for lessons on proper etiquette.
You would've been alone in this world, fighting to survive this wretched life you were forced to live simply because you were born a girl of noble blood.
But, in a world where your every movement is monitored and every act is criticized beyond compare, your heart finds comfort and freedom in the strangest things, like the golden ichor of the sun that finds its home in your fiancé's eyes.
Your only ally.
The ceremony hall is filled with hushed whispers and quiet chatter as your small legs walk down the aisle. Your shoes pad softly against the pristine, white rug that runs through the center and leads you to the altar where the priest and your future fiancé await you. The room and people within are so huge compared to your little body; the large space sends a wave of unease down your body and yet you trudge on until you're face to face with the boy you're to be engaged to.
Mydeimos is not much older than you: he's around your height, prepubescent with the baby fat still clinging to his round cheeks, strawberry blond hair pulled back into a ponytail with a plait into the side of his head, and a clean, white suit adorning his little body. With the way he's dressed so proper, you're shocked that his eyes, molten gold as if the sun had given up its light to his irises, pierce through you in a stare that seems too mature, too weathered, from an 11 year old boy.
Intimidation seeps into your bones, sending a wave of cold dread through every nerve in your body as reality hits you—you are a stranger in territory that is foreign to you. There is no family for you to run back to, no familiar aides or maids to find comfort in. No friendly smiles or voices calling for you, beckoning you back to safety.
You are alone in the kingdom of Castrum Kremnos.
The advisors of your home have warned you about this before; that this engagement is necessary for the kingdom and it is your civil duty as the daughter of one of the most prestigious families to continue the royal bloodline and familial relations between your family and the royal family of Castrum Kremnos. You don't have to get along with your fiancé, you just have to tolerate him for the rest of your life and hope that he is indifferent to you at worst.
You know that this union between you and the young boy with unmoving eyes is strictly for business, that you two are supposed to start off as strangers and end your lives as acquaintances if all things go accordingly.
And yet, anxiety solidifies your blood into lead as you stare into the stoic face of your soon-to-be fiancé.
"I promise to remain by your side until the day that we wed and forevermore," Mydeimos says, his voice curt and stoic, reciting the promises that were tradition for engagements in the kingdom of Castrum Kremnos. His eyes never leave yours—you don't know if it's a good or bad thing.
"I also promise to be by your side, to always take your side no matter the consequences or conditions, as your lawful fiancée," You recite yours after his.
And with rehearsed movements, you slip on the golden bands over each other's ring fingers.
"Until death do us part," the both of you iterate as the ceremony comes to a close and the priest before you signals the end of your vows. The voices and chatter begin to pick up in volume now as hushed voices grow louder and the praises for the future of Castrum Kremnos echo through the giant ceremony hall and successfully deafen the impending cynical whispers that have already begun to swirl around you.
The remainder of your engagement banquet is a blur that you don't remember. There were too many faces to greet and too many voices that rung in your ears that slowly they all merged into each other. You didn't bother to differentiate them at one point of the night as you quickly realized they all said the same thing: wishful thoughts for the longevity of Castrum Kremnos and nothing but the best for you and your fiancé.
Thankfully, your speaking was to a minimum as Mydeimos thanked everyone with that terse tone of his before guiding the both of you away from others.
The maid attending you slips off your engagement gown with ease; the white silks are quickly gathered up as a soft nightgown is fitted over your small frame before you dismiss her for the night. As she bows and takes her exit, you can hear the heavy door of your chamber close with a quiet thud.
And you find yourself alone again.
Your bedroom is large, much too big for a small child like you to have to yourself. And yet, even with the expensive furniture and decorations that settle in the room to welcome you in for the first night, the reality of finally being alone in a foreign city settles heavily on your tiny, young shoulders.
Your feet pad softly against the tiled floor and you peer out the large curtained window; the beautiful scenery of the castle gardens greets you. Lush shrubbery line the outskirts of the garden with flowers blooming at every inch. Their petals are colorful and bright against the various shades of green foliage, bringing a splash of life to the quiet gardens. There's a trail leading within the gardens that leads to a marbled gazebo hidden between the bushes yet sits clearly in view from your window.
It's beautiful, you cannot deny that.
But this is a place you do not know and that terrifies you. Something sharp strikes through your chest as your eyes begin to burn with tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. The voices of your advisors echo in your mind reminding you of the duty to your people and that this decision was for the greater good.
You don't know how much time had passed until you feel a hand on your shoulder. The sudden touch shocks you with such an intensity that a shrill yelp leaves your lips and you jump a near meter high; your heart races rapidly against your chest as you turn to look at the culprit.
Those piercing golden eyes peer back at you, wide with just as much surprise from your sudden reaction. Mydeimos is dressed down from the prior event, his nightshirt a tad bit too big for his young frame and makes him look smaller than before. His blond hair has been undone now, falling over his shoulders in a sea of messy gold save for the plait that falls at the side of his head. It's neat, much neater than the rest of his appearance.
"Um…" He begins. There's something different in the way that he's speaking to you now; his tone is much quieter, much softer as if anything terse would scare you away. It could be because you're both alone in this large space together, or because of the state he had found you in. Either way, the change is something that comforts you.
"You didn't hear me the first time I check in on you," Mydeimos speaks, his eyes glancing down for a briefly before meeting your gaze again. "Mama always had the maids make pomegranate juice when I was sad."
It's only then do you notice he's holding something in his hands: a small cup filled most of the way with a milky, maroon hue. He places it on the table beside you before reaching up to wipe away your tears with the sleeve of his big shirt—his movements are uncoordinated and a bit awkward, fitting for a boy his age.
"I apologize if I made you cry. Mama said I'm not the best when it comes to other people," Mydeimos confesses, pulling his hand away from your face. "She says I'm too 'rough around the edges', though I'm not quite sure what that means."
"…No it's okay. I appreciate the effort." Your own voice is quiet, a little hoarse from crying mere moments before, but audible enough for your fiancé to hear. "Thank you."
He doesn't leave your side, rather chooses to silently sit with you while you drink the cup filled with pomegranate juice. The tartness of the fresh pomegranate juice leaves a sour taste in your mouth but the addition of milk lessens the bite with a creamier texture, and you find your heart slowly being mended by the bizarre mixture of flavors.
"Milk?" You ask, setting the porcelain cup gently down on the table. "I've never had juice with milk before."
"It tastes good together," Mydeimos responds almost immediately. There's a small twinkle in his eyes, perhaps illuminated from the small lamp lit in your bedchambers or because of the excitement of sharing something special with you. "It's my favorite drink; Mama used to always make it for me until she…"
Your fiancé trails off for a brief moment and you catch in real time the twinkle in his eye fading as he casts his gaze elsewhere. In the dimly lit room, Mydeimos looks way smaller than he did in the hall earlier that evening. His larger nightshirt drapes over his small frame and emphasizes just how tiny he is. Underneath the gentle glow of the moon, his young features are highlighted: big, eyes that shine golden in the light, chubby cheeks that seem to get rounder when he angles his face downward, and thin, lanky limbs that seem uncoordinated with the rest of his body. There's a splash of faint blue dyed on his skin, but the large sleeves of his nightshirt cover it when he shifts.
Mydeimos, no matter how intimidating he may seem to you, is just a small child. Just like you. You wonder why fate has been so cruel to make the both of you pawns to the elders in this way.
Your finger twitches, an innate urge to ask the young boy what was wrong begins to bubble in your chest. But what do you know; you're a stranger that was barely welcomed into this new country. Why would he share private matters with you on your first night in his palace?
"Mama said that you would be lonely here," Mydeimos begins again, breaking the heavy silence and changing the topic with a few simple words. His little fingers twiddle in his lap and his eyes remain cast downward. Hesitation eats away at his posture, that you can tell clear as day, but when his golden eyes lock eyes with yours, his gaze never wavers.
Sincerity in the form of aureate pools.
"I meant what I said in the ceremony earlier. I'll take your side, always." The strawberry blond boy raises his hand up, sticking his small pinky up; an oath. "So, don't cry. You won't be alone here, I promise."
You link your pinky with his—his skin is rougher and more calloused than a young boy his age should ever have—but his words, his vow dedicated to you, plants the seed of hope in your small chest.
—
It doesn't take long for the norms of Castrum Kremnos to be ingrained in your head. The customs here are much different than your own; for one, society here focuses more on skills related to combat regardless of if it's fighting experience or a strategist. There wasn't a week that went by where you didn't hear whispers of some underground ring where citizens, nobles and commoners alike, would test their limits with on another with only one victor who won nothing but some gold coins and honor for the week.
Even the young aren't exempt from this, you know this well enough by now. Not because you became subject to the societal norms of a foreign land, but because your fiancé is the face of the nation.
The moon has long risen high above the sky, surrounded by the stars that gleam and glimmer around it. The empty heavens above are filled with the light shared between the cosmos, illuminating the earth underneath in its silvery, cool light. The evening breeze is brisk and bites against your cheek as you stand in the windowsill of your bedchambers.
Alone.
Your fiancé would have arrived long before the sun had completely set; every evening since you got here was spent with him because he promised that you wouldn't be alone so long as you stayed in Castrum Kremnos. And, now knowing him better than you had before, you realize that Mydeimos is a man—boy—of his word.
The gentle chirp of crickets in the gardens below and the occasional 'hoot' of an owl nearby are the only things you hear aside from the quiet clicks of the ornate clock on the wall of your chamber. One chirp, two… Where could Mydeimos could have gone?
Quietly, your small feet pad gently against the tiled floor of your bedchambers until you're met with the large, gilded door leading to the grand hallway outside. It would be quicker to call for a maid to check on your missing fiancé, but there's always a chance that they wouldn't even listen to you; they could easily lie to you and say Mydeimos was simply asleep in his room and usher you back to your bedroom.
You had to see for your own eyes.
With a quick tug of the large door, you're out and into the empty hallway before you know it. It doesn't take long to find Mydeimos' door. Despite the daunting size of the large halls, you find his door with ease; his chambers are not far from yours and, with the lack of any aids roaming the halls, you're able to slip easily into your fiancé's bedroom without so much as a creak from the door.
And you're met with the sight of something so heart wrenching for a young child to ever witness.
Drips of blood taint the tiled floors of Mydeimos' bedchambers, leaving a trail of ruby droplets from the door to the bedside. There, laying haphazardly on the bed with barely enough of his small body on the mattress, lay your fiancé with scratches and scrapes littering his poor body from what you can see. His blond hair is a mess over his head; the tousled strands cover his face and are matted in some places from dirt and sweat. He's breathing heavily with his eyes closed, as if it were hard to get any sort of breath into his small frame.
One step.
Two.
Your body moves on its own before you could will it, the only thought in your mind being to get to his side.
"Crown Prince." Your voice is barely a whisper, fear bubbling at the edge of your throat as if anything louder would break your fiancé into a million pieces. "What happened to you?"
He doesn't respond.
Your hand, small and unblemished, gently brush aside his hair from his face. Dirt and blood cake his skin and the source of the blood on the floor comes from his nose. With caution, you slowly turn Mydeimos to the side as to prevent the blood from going back up.
Your small heart hammers against your chest as you frantically glance around the room for anything to help the small boy curled up at the side of his bed. In the state of your panic, your legs lead you to the washroom where you grab a spare towel stored in the cupboard and quickly dampen it before returning.
With the limited supplies that you had, you manage to clean up the wounds that litter Mydeimos' skin. Luckily, no wound was deep enough to cause any worry and were majority scrapes, minus the nosebleed that scared you half to death. As your eyes scan over your fiancé's small frame, you prepare to leave his side for a brief moment; though you trust your judgement for his wounds, there's no harm in a second opinion from someone who knows the human body better than you do.
However, as your body begins to slip off the side of the large mattress, a hand clings to the end of your nightgown.
"Don't leave me," Mydeimos whispers out quietly. "Please."
And so you do, remaining by his side while his hand gently grasps the edge of your nightgown. It's quiet; not a word or sound is heard from either body in the room.
"Could I ask what happened?" You break the silence, turning to look over at the boy who lay beside you. When he doesn't respond, you continue to speak. "If you want to tell me, that is. I will not pressure you."
Mydeimos averts his gaze from yours; this is the first time since you've come here that he has willingly shied away from your eyes. There's a hint of pink that threatens to burn at the tip of his ears and a gloss that shines over his golden eyes. "My father said there's no such thing as empathy in the ancient Kremnoan language. I'm a failure to him for fearing death, and I will gain nothing by having kindness in my heart.
"I'm not fit to be Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos."
His words shatter your own heart, not because they hurt you but because who could say that to anyone, let alone your own son. You can hear the tears fall from his face before you could see them; the break in his small voice was enough to tell you everything.
"…There might not be any words in ancient Kremnoan to describe empathy," You begin. Your hand slowly reaches over to hold onto Mydeimos' in an attempt to comfort whatever you could. A wave of relief washes over you when he takes it into his own—the rough callouses on his palm tell a story you could never imagine living through. "But there are in mine.
"We're fiancés, aren't we? What's mine is yours, and if the Kremnoan language cannot offer you the comfort you seek, then please find it in mine. We made a promise to be by each other's side, did we not?"
Aureate seas finally meet your gaze and for the first time you're really hit with the reality that Mydeimos is only a few years older than you. He is a child grieving that he will never live up to his father's expectations no matter how hard he tries and a child forced to endure severe punishment for simply living.
You made a promise to yourself that night as Mydeimos cried holding your hand in the large expanse of his mattress—to return the oath he made to you until the day the two of you willingly part ways. He will not suffer alone so long as you remain by his side.
NOONTIDE.
The flowers have bloomed, opening up their beautiful and bright petals and stretch towards the sun to let its golden rays warm up their stems and bring them life. The birds have woken from their slumber by now and sing merry songs that fill the brisk morning air as if they, too, were celebrating this day.
Spring welcomes the birth of Mydeimos with flora and fauna alike.
To honor his 18th birthday as the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, King Eurypon has thrown a coming-of-age ceremony. In the name of the royal family, King Eurypon had ordered it to be the grandest of this century for the Sun had blessed the day Mydeimos was born. Thus, the palace has been in a state of hectic panic; maids bustle back and forth as they clean and polish every nook and cranny while butlers and aids double check the inventory for decorations and place them where they deemed fit.
You barely have time to even see your fiancé in passing; whatever little time you had already with him has dwindled down to quick greetings in the halls before Mydeimos is called elsewhere for lessons on etiquette or meetings about the kingdom's politics or perhaps another training session for the young prince.
Luckily, your evening meetings in each other's bedchambers remain untouched. No matter how high the moon hung in the sky, as soon as Mydeimos finishes his laboring schedule, he would always find his way to your chambers with two glasses of milky pomegranate juice to share as the two of you wind down for the evening, divulging in one another of the day's drama or news.
The night of Mydeimos' birthday banquet is barely beginning and yet the palace has never been in such a frenzied state; every body residing in the main palace scurries to get all the finer details set in place while the ones in your annex rush to get every clothing and accessory pinned to your body before it is too late for the guests expecting you.
Eleni, one of your handmaidens, cinches the the back of your dress, pulling the ribbons that cross your lower back taut to accentuate your waist. Her hands, worn with use despite her young age, are deft and skillful as they dance across the silks that drape over your body.
"My apologies, My Lady," she says in a soft voice when she tightens part of the dress a little too tight.
Angeliki, another of your handmaidens, brushes soft creams against your skin to accentuate the beautiful features already gracing your face and to ensure that you will be the most beautiful flower blooming beside your fiancé tonight. Her own weathered hands treat you with such tenderness, as if you would wilt if she pressed the bristles of the brush too hard into your skin.
"You'll look most precious tonight, My Lady," Angeliki coos as she coats your lips in a beautiful hue of pink. "The Crown Prince will awe at your radiance tonight."
"Do you think?" you ask curiously, peering down towards the shiny silks being tended to by Eleni. "I think I'll be quite plain next to my prince. Nothing catches his gaze besides a sharp sword to play with during training."
"Nonsense, my lady!" Eleni pipes in, standing up almost immediately. Her emerald eyes gleam with determination and you're taken aback by the fire blazing in her soul. "Have you not seen the way the Crown Prince gazes at you?"
"Like I'm a nuisance?" You jest, but that only fires Eleni up even more.
"Don't say that, My Lady! I see the way the Crown Prince looks at you; it's nothing but-"
"Eleni," Angeliki interjects sternly. She shoots the younger handmaiden a sharp look , a warning, and Eleni closes her mouth.
"My apologies for yelling, My Lady. But I will stand by what I said. You're most magnificent tonight."
When you finally look in the mirror, you can hardly recognize yourself. Staring back at you is a completely different woman. Your hair is tucked neatly into a loose bun with strands cascading down the side of your face to frame it delicately. A branch of golden laurel sits behind your head, emerging from your bun like a ray of golden sun peaking through the horizon.
Red silks drape over your body in an elegant dress; the sleeves begin off of your shoulders and cascade down your elbow in a beautiful sea of crimson satin and the skirt falls from you waist like a deep ruby waterfall. There are gold accents lining the edges of the refined fabric as if painted with the brush of a skilled calligrapher.
In short, you look fitting to be Mydeimos' betrothed, the fiancée of the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos. For tonight, at least.
As Eleni and Angeliki finish the final touches on your outfit for the evening, there's a firm knock at your door and a voice that you're way too familiar with announces his arrival. With hurried steps, Angeliki rushes to open the door, and you're met with your fiancé face to face.
He's much taller than he was when he was a child; his height now towers over you and his body has grown much broader as he continues to hone his skills as a Kremnoan warrior. His usual messy blond hair is tied back neatly, the hair that usually frames his face is plaited back and pinned by a golden laurel that resembles your own and leaves his handsome features open for everyone to see.
Crimson fabric adorns his body, matching your shade in every which way; it wouldn't be hard to connect two and two together when you walk in with clothes that complement one another. Despite the grace of the exquisite cloth over his skin, it serves as a nice contrast to the defined muscles, pure proof of his discipline as the Kremnoan prince, hidden underneath.
And eyes of amber that you could recognize anywhere in a sea of unfamiliar faces settle on you and only you.
"Excuse my intrusion, My Betrothed," Mydeimos speaks, the timbre of his voice already brings you comfort to the nerves beginning to spike as the birthday banquet grows nearer. "But it's time for us to part."
He holds out his hand for you to take it.
And you do.
As Mydeimos guides you through your annex and into the main palace, your hand clings gently to his strong arm as your heels clack against the cobblestone beneath your feet. His bicep is firm underneath your grip, and your mind wanders elsewhere; how did he get so big before your own eyes? He couldn't have grown in his sleep had he?
A hand, large and rough from years of swordsmanship and combat training, settles over your forearm, grabbing your attention.
"What's on your mind?" Mydeimos asks, his voice carrying the soft tone that's always present when speaking to you.
"Nothing much," you muse with a soft smile. "It's just hard to believe you're already coming of age, Your Highness."
"How so?" You don't have to look, but you know his gaze is on you. You can feel the tender smile that gradually grows on his lips, only widening when hesitance dances on your tongue.
"It seems like yesterday you were the size of a measly shrimp. Tell me, how'd you get so big?" You gently squeeze his arm to emphasize your point. "Though, in my eyes you're still that scrawny little boy who comes into my room with new scrapes for me to tend to."
Mydeimos chuckles softly beside you, bumping into you in response to your teasing words. "Funny. I don't recall you ever changing. You still look at me as if you're about to cry like when we were younger."
You roll your eyes with a scoff. "Please. At least I'm pretty now, aren't I?" You bat your eyelashes at the end of your sentence to emphasize your statement. His expression doesn't move, and instead you're met with the soft exhale of his breath and a hand that gently fixes the stray hair that flies from your head.
"You always have been."
Expecting him to continue your lighthearted banter, his quick and earnest reply shocks you. Yet, all you see is the gentle, sincere sea of gold peering back as if urging you to wade deeper into them. Heat rises to your face but before you could say anything in return, the doors leading into the banquet hall open and you're thrust into the clamor of the party.
It doesn't take long for you to be separated from Mydeimos the moment you stepped into the banquet hall. With many nobles desperate to get a good word in from your fiancé, they clamber over him and when push comes to shove you're pulled away from your one anchor of safety.
The hall is beautiful and pristine; the maids and butlers did a wonderful job ensuring that its beauty truly shone through. The grand chandelier hangs gracefully above the center of the hall with its crystal like charms stretching across the ceiling like the web of a spider. The thousands, if not millions, of candles cast a warm, sparkling light below where other nobles chatted among themselves or dance in the arms of another.
As butlers and maids scamper quietly here and there to refill any snacks or drinks where the refreshments were, a small chamber orchestra made of primarily strings fill the hall with their sonorous harmonies. There's chatter among the guests; most are lighthearted and others drunk off of their minds, laughing boisterously at the unfunny jokes the older nobles tell.
And there are some that whisper behind your back. As expected of someone of your current standing, your position is only temporary and not quite protected by law. Fueled by spite and jealousy of being betrothed to the one and only Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, of course poisonous words would drift through the crowd and into your line of hearing.
"How did she remain as the Crown Prince's betrothed?"
"Isn't she the daughter of an unnamed noble family? How embarrassing."
"I would do better as the Crown Princess, wouldn't you think?"
"What a hideous Princess we have."
Princess. The name settles into your skin like toxins flowing into your body, making you shudder. It's all bark and no bite; at the end of the day you remain the fiancée of Mydeimos and they are not. But their words hurt no less.
Your palms begin to clam up from the unwanted attention and you squeeze your fingers on the skirt of your dress in hopes of appearing calm and poised. You will not stoop to their level, not yet.
The melody sung by the violins begins to soar, reaching the highest crescendo as it signifies the climax of this waltz and the curious eyes belonging to a stranger that happen to catch yours from across the hall. There's a glimmer in his gaze that unnerves you; a chill shoots down your body and the hair at the back of your neck prickles almost immediately. You quickly avert your attention away from the unfamiliar man in hopes of losing his interest.
Yet, fate laughs hysterically in your face as he strides over with confidence overflowing in every step and your heart drops.
"My Lady," he greets you, bowing with a gloved hand on his chest. As he lifts his head, there's mischief dancing in his eyes. It does nothing to stop the pit from growing in your stomach. He tells you his name, but behind the string orchestra and your nerves frayed beyond compare, it flies over your head. "It's a pleasure meeting you." He reeks of alcohol.
"As is mine," you reply tersely. Apprehension seeps through your bones as the unfamiliar man offers his hand to you. Not causing a scene is your biggest priority here, but to have your first dance with a man that isn't your betrothed and to ignore every fiber of your body yelling at you to get away from him was another story.
But before he could even muster his dreadful question, a hand you're way too familiar with wraps around your own. He tugs you behind him and all you can see now is the broad expanse of your fiancé's back as he stands between you and the stranger from before.
And you find yourself relieved.
At the sight of your betrothed, the strange man steps back, stammering a half-hearted apology before scampering away to the other side of the hall where he would be farthest away from the two of you. When the coast was clear, you could see Mydei's posture relax for only a mere moment before he turns back around.
The first thing you see are his golden eyes sweeping over your body as if surveying for anything the unknown man could have inflicted on you in his absence. When he finds you unscathed, he finally meets your gaze again. Contrition swims in the endless seas of gold and sends a wave of warmth cascading over your skin. To know that he cares this much is a surprising feeling.
But it isn't unwelcome.
"Forgive me, My Betrothed," Mydeimos begins, stretching out his hand to you in a pose you're all too familiar with. "Can I redeem myself for being late with a dance?"
Your fiancé leads you through the exuberant, upbeat tempo of the polka played by the string orchestra. His hand is bare against your own and every callous is felt underneath your skin. It's rough, evidence of every single weapon he has learned under the direction of his father, but they are nothing but gentle and careful when pressed against your palm.
Both of your feet move quickly to the cut time of the music; left foot forward, then right follows, stepping back with your left, and then repeat.
"Shouldn't you focus more on your dance partner?" Mydeimos murmurs in front of you as the polka comes to its final cadence, and it was only then do you realize that your eyes were locked on your feet rather than the man dancing with you.
"Oh, I apologize. I was so focused on not making a fool of myself that I may have neglected you," You say quickly, bowing your head. Your betrothed hums in response, taking your hand in his when the chamber orchestra begins their next song; a slower waltz.
As your fiancé guides you through the andante of the next dance, your eyes meet his and it's hard to ignore the glimmer in his own. Was it from the lustrous chandelier twinkling above you or from something you don't want to recognize, you don't know and you don't plan to.
"Are you alright?" Mydeimos inquires, his gaze never leaving yours as the two of you sway gently to the soft lilts of the waltz. The music swells up and Mydeimos swings you away from him, only to pull you back when the strings settle back at the downbeat. There's a gentle squeeze to your palm and your heart lurches at the feeling.
"Nothing, just," You take a breath before responding, "Just a bit overwhelmed."
Your fiancé doesn't say anything, only opting to watch over you as if reading through the thoughts in your mind. A couple beats of rests, and like an anacrusis pivoting into the final phrase, he asks you one simple question.
"Why don't we leave after this dance?"
—
The night air is cool and it nips at your skin as you rush down the winding halls of the main palace. It's a bit dark, only a few candles here and there illuminate the never ending halls with barely enough light to see where your feet are stepping. The ethereal glow of the moon shines through the sheer curtained windows of the halls as if guiding you to your destination.
There's nothing but the quiet steps of your feet against the rug lining down the hall; the chatter of the party a mere memory now with the distance created. And yet, even as the chill of the night brushes against your cheeks, you're nothing but warm from both the exhilaration of escaping the stuffy banquet hall and from the hand holding yours through it all.
Your uneven breaths seem to catch the Crown Prince's attention, only then does he begin to slow down for your sake. Your fiancé's pace matches yours with ease and as you loosen your grip from his hand, the fear of being left behind in the dust now dissipating, his grip doesn't.
And it never does until he finally leads you to a small room on the higher levels of the main palace. It's especially quiet now with only your breaths filling the emptiness of the hall. The door is a bit older than the rest of the main palace, perhaps a forgotten storage space because of how isolated it was from the main bustle of the building. The wood has seen better days and it creaks to life once your fiancé opens it with ease.
Mydeimos helps you into the room, warning you of the step to get in. The room is dark and a bit cramped; piles of old books clutter the floors of the old room alongside two aged, leather chairs in the middle beside a low coffee table. There's a laced doily decorating the table and a vase with a small bouquet of white flowers resting within. Despite the timeworn appearance of the finer details, the room seems well taken care of.
Approaching the white blooms, your fingers gently graze the petals that fade to a soft pink hue.
"Cretan tulips," Mydeimos breaks the silence as he steps beside you. "My mother's birthday gift for me."
"How is she faring?" You inquire, pulling your fingers away. "Last I heard, she was bedridden and couldn't make it to your banquet."
There's hesitance in your betrothed's movements. He doesn't say anything at first, lips parting as his eyes glance downward deep in thought. His eyes trail to one of the aged chairs in the room; the leather is worn with use, but even you could tell the memories it holds in every crease.
"She's not well, truthfully," Mydeimos begins. His voice is small, an unfamiliar timbre. "I worry she won't make it to the next spring."
The news is heavy as it settles over your shoulders. Your hand reaches over to hold Mydeimos' once more; you squeeze his gently in comfort. There's something somber swimming in his eyes, one that you know you will never be able to chase away no matter how much you try.
Alone and scared, like he was all those years ago trembling in his room.
"I still mean what I said when we were younger," you tell him in the quiet of the night. Your voice, small yet deafening at the same time. "I'll be by your side until forever. Your worries will be mine to share as to alleviate the weight on your shoulders."
Mydeimos doesn't say anything and instead offers you a smile; it's not one that reaches his eyes, but it's enough to show the sincere gratitude for your comfort.
"Forgive me, I did not bring you here to sully the mood," Mydeimos tells you. With a gentle tug of your hand, your fiancé pulls you through the homey clutter of the room and to the window built into the stone walls.
As your eyes gaze out into the horizon, you're met with the most significant view. Outside lay the entire city of Castrum Kremnos; the city sprawls across the horizon where life bustled beyond what they eye could see. The lights of city life twinkle vibrantly, rivaling the endless sea of stars that dance above you.
"It's beautiful," your words are a mere whisper as you stare in awe at the exuberant city life below you.
"Isn't it?"
Turning from the window, you're met with seas of gold peering back at you, unmoving yet shining with something you can't quite put your finger on. His gaze flits around you, dancing on every inch of your face as if unsure of where or what to look at. Whatever he was trying to convey makes your heart flutter and you're the first to break away from his stare.
"That reminds me," you begin as the warmth floods your chest and face, "I got you something for today." Your fingers pull out a small, velvet box and hold it out for your prince. He takes it in his own hands and, with gentle fingers, he opens it.
Inside lay a pair of earrings; gold shaped in the form of a diamond encasing a deep, azure sapphire and golden streams dropping below the blue gem. It's beautiful and shines brilliantly even with just the soft light of the moon glowing through the window.
"Happy birthday, Mydeimos."
With delicate movements, your betrothed lifts up one of the sapphire earrings. "May I?" Confusion eats away at your expression, but you give a slight nod and Mydeimos is moving with slow, calculated movements. His fingers brush against the skin of your jaw as he quickly fastens the earring to your right ear. When he's finished, his fingers trail down the drop of the earring until it slips from his fingertip.
"So that I will be reminded of who has my other half… Thank you, I will cherish this birthday forever, Princess."
Princess. The word echoes in the chamber of your mind and does little to settle the accelerando of your heartbeat or to the heat that threatens to reach every inch of your body.
You don't mind the way it sounds coming from him.
—
The day Mydeimos' mother passed was a depressing day. It seemed like even nature itself was mourning the life of Gorgo, the late Queen of Castrum Kremnos, for the sun did not shine for a whole week and rained through most of it as if shedding tears over her passing. The kingdom was oddly quiet; the bustling city life now dwindled down to nothing but quiet streets and hushed chatter winding through twisting roads.
The entirety of Castrum Kremnos was grieving, and yet your fiancé did not receive that luxury.
You witness this in real time; the way King Eurypon glares at his son with unabashed hatred. His regiment becomes more difficult and physically taxing with the excuse of 'political tension' and 'coming of age.' Mydeimos rarely has time to visit you at nightfall due to his unbearable schedule and on the few chances that he did come to visit you, the once vibrant seas of gold that twinkled in delight at your mere presence have dulled significantly.
His punishments have also grown in intensity; meals have been cut for any minuscule mistake whether it be not addressing another noble correctly or missing an opening during combat training. When the servants pity the poor prince, word would reach the King and they were swiftly dealt with; you don't remember the last time you saw Angeliki.
It happens early into the evening in the midst of your evening routine. The sun is barely setting over the horizon and casts your room in its warm, golden hue. It's rather peaceful as the day, for you at least, ended on a good note. With a book Mydeimos had recommended for you at the table by your window and your nightgown draped loosely over your body, the evening was sure to end with no conflicts and, hopefully, a late night visit from your fiancé.
Until the door of your bedchambers slams open and the young Eleni runs in, frantic and unkempt. Her eyes are wide open and strands of her curly hair stick out of her bun in every which way. If it were any normal circumstance, you would poke some fun at her for her disheveled appearance. But the worried expression on her face holds you back.
"Forgive me, My Lady," Eleni begins, her voice breathy, "but this is dire!"
"What has gotten you in such a panic?" You ask her, approaching the young handmaiden as she catches her breath. It takes her a few gulps of air but she eventually stands straight once more and meets your gaze almost immediately.
"My Lady, The King is planning to throw the Crown Prince into the forests," Eleni announces in all seriousness. "Tonight! With no weapons to bear as punishment for something asinine."
The news makes your heart drop to your stomach. Your eyes glance away for a second towards the sun rapidly sinking below the horizon outside your window; it will be dark tonight with the moon barely beginning to wax. Being out there would be a death sentence regardless of whether or not he is armed.
"Please, you have to stop him, My Lady! The Crown Prince will not survive if he goes; the forests at the outskirts of the kingdom are treacherous at night. Who knows what will be out there to get him," Eleni pleads with you, her voice growing more exasperated as seconds pass by.
"Help me get dressed, Eleni. Quickly."
The wind rushes past your ears as your feet pad rapidly against the cobbled floor leading into the main entrance of the main palace. As the heavy, ornate doors swing open, you're greeted with the knights restraining your fiancé by the arms. He looks worn, most likely from a training session that went beyond his limits along with further punishment from his father. His strawberry blond hair is a mess as it dangles messily in front of his face.
And yet you can see the gleam of his gold eyes behind the bloodied, matted tresses, warning you to leave him be.
As if.
"Your Majesty," Your voice shakes in fear, but it is unwavering for your devotion to your fiancé, "if I may, isn't this punishment too much?"
King Eurypon towers over you, glaring down with unfamiliar dark eyes. Despite the chill that runs through your spine, you lift your chin higher. No fear, you have to show no fear. With a deep breath, you continue.
"This is your son you are punishing, your own flesh and blood. Do you not worry that he will die out there? He is unarmed and night will fall."
The King looks at you as if you were a mere bug in his way; his glare is unmoving and his frown only deepens at your words. You hate how small you feel. "Are you aware of who you are speaking to?"
There's some rustling coming from where your fiancé was restrained. You could hear your name being said, but you did not falter in your conversation with The King.
"Yes, Your Majesty the King," You continue, "which is why it's pertinent. Is the Crown Prince not your sole heir to the throne? It would be futile if you punished him with a near death sentence."
"You would know best to not speak to me that way," King Eurypon's voice is low, a deep and powerful timbre that could swallow you whole if you made one wrong move. "A woman has no place in having authority over me. Send her back to her chambers, this conversation was useless."
"Your Majesty-!"
Your words are cut short as the guards pull you back and the last thing that you see before those doors were slammed shut in your face were tumultuous golden skies that only looked at you.
Even as minutes turn to hours and hours to days, nothing could soothe your nerves as thought after thought races through your mind of what could happen to Mydeimos out there in those forests. And when it came back to the scene with King Eurypon, you could feel the anger in your chest rising. The heat sears through your body, blinding your thoughts as King Eurypon's words echo in your mind.
'A woman has no place in having authority over me.'
Pitiful, that's what you are, and there was nothing you could do to make up for it. For The King was right, no woman would ever have the authority especially over him and your chest burns knowing this society could never let you have the freedom and power you so craved. Your eyes sting, and for the first time in a long while, you let your sobs rack through your body in frustration and anger for how useless you were in protecting the one person you promised to stay beside.
It couldn't have been more than a couple days when there was a loud noise outside of your bedchambers. The moon has long risen above the sky, barely turning into half of the crescent it was when Mydeimos was sent to his demise.
With quick steps, you make towards the entrance of your chambers. Opening the large, gilded door of your bedchambers, there's a body slumped on the floor. Blood soaks his clothes and there are undoubtedly wounds hidden underneath; how deep and severe they were was the true question. He's breathing haggardly, barely even conscious, and yet he musters the strength to glance up at the opened door.
You would have screamed if it weren't for the familiarity of gold peering into your own.
"Mydeimos!" You exclaim, kneeling down to his height. Your shaking hands push back the hair covering his face; it's sweaty and caked with liquid iron but at this point you truly do not care. Grabbing a hold of his face, you're careful in your inspection of your fiancé. He is careworn, exhaustion set deep in his gaze. And yet, when his eyes match your flitting eyes, his hardened stare seems to easily melt away and you're met face to face with the man who stood beside you from the first day you met him. "Oh Aeons above, you're alive…. What are you doing here of all places?! Did the infirmary reject you?"
Mydeimos parts his lips, chapped and dry from the forests, and his voice responds in a coarse whisper. "Forgive me. You were the first place I thought to go to."
"Are you mad?" You want to shake the life out of him for making an idiotic choice, but sincerity is laced in his words and you find you don't have the heart to, even when frustration eats away at every single nerve in your body. Despite the dire state that he's in, there's no fear evident on his face. Rather, he looks relieved to see you. "You definitely are, what am I saying."
"If it's madness to visit you first, then, please, call me insane."
You sigh, lifting your fiancé's arm around your shoulder in hopes of moving your wounded Crown Prince into the safety of your room. He's heavy, that you will not deny, but luckily Mydeimos retained a bit of strength to help alleviate his dead weight from your shoulders.
"Don't joke around with me right now," You hiss next to his ear. "Not in this state."
He collapses into one of the loveseats near the center of your room. In the brighter light, you're able to fully examine him now. There are multitude of wounds littering his body; most of them seem to be scrapes save for a larger laceration hidden underneath his shirt. You pray to Nikador that nothing was severely infected. If anything, the biggest concern was his hunger and dehydration.
"And if I'm not joking?" Mydeimos asks as pools of golden ichor trail after your body when you leave his side. You quickly return to him with a cup and jug of water. He eyes it, but doesn't move a muscle when you lift the fragile porcelain to his lips.
"Then I will plea insanity for your sake," You respond. Your fingers tilt the cup in a deliberate motion, careful not to overwhelm your fiancé with the fresh water. Seeing Mydeimos' throat bob as the water enters his system does wonders to alleviate your nerves and as he finishes you move to pour him some more.
"You haven't been sleeping," Mydeimos comments as you lift the cup once more. This time, his hand, large yet gentle, pushes your arm down and his gaze pierces through you. "Why is that?"
Setting the cup down, your fingers reach up and press gently into the puffiness of the eye bags that hang. Granted, his visit was a surprise to you so it wasn't like you had the time in the world to pretty yourself before seeing him. But you're sure you look a mess currently with the anxieties plaguing your thoughts and the tears of frustration that did not cease night after night.
"Care to take a guess?" You scoff lightly, not to be rude but to state the obvious.
Mydeimos does not answer immediately. Instead his hand encases your own and he tilts his head towards you. Truthfully, you do not want to meet his gaze. Despite his sincerity, you know deep down that because of your weakness to stand up against his father, he was in this position. But there's a squeeze of your hand, a whisper of your name.
And the walls that you've tried to hold together so desperately in front of him crumble down.
"You were gone for nearly a week, you know," You begin slowly, squeezing the hand encasing yours. He pulls you closer to him and you're now standing in the gap between his legs. His thumb rubs gentle circles across your hand and, as comforting as it is, it only tears your walls down even further. "And every passing day I wondered what I could've done to help you.
"I regret not being there, not being strong enough to fight against your father. Would you have not dealt with this if I had done anything else?" You take a shaking breath before you continue. There's the familiar stinging in your eyes, but you will yourself to not let them fall. Not yet.
"I failed you, My Prince," Your voice falters. "I couldn't do anything to help you and I feel so ashamed. And here I am, complaining about my measly feelings when you've come back from a near death experience as if I have any room to whine right now?"
His hand reaches up to your jaw; you don't move even as your betrothed wipes away the tears that have now shed without your knowledge. "You're hurt because of me, and I am so sorry. Please don't forgive me."
The tears sting the corner of your eyes and your hands meekly come up to wipe them away. But the Crown Prince is quicker than you are. Both of his hands delicately cup your face and his fingers brush away the crystalline tears that seem to never end. Your fingers wrap around his wrist as a feeble attempt to push him away; he doesn't move.
"My Princess," Mydeimos begins, his voice matching the tenderness of his gaze, "you have never hurt me. I cannot forgive you for a crime you did not commit."
A sob wracks through your body and something flashes across his expression, as if your cries alone were hurting him more than the wounds on his body ever could.
"Do not cry, I am alive, am I not? I promised to never leave your side." His voice is soothing, washing away your worries slowly with one word at a time. Maybe it's the way he speaks to you with a tone so soft and gentle, filled with nothing but his sincerity to comfort you. Or perhaps it's the way he's holding you like you're fragile, like you're cherished and adored. "As long as you're alive, then so will I. Do not shed tears for something as trivial as this punishment."
"Nothing is trivial when it comes to you, Mydeimos. Please never say that."
As your weeps echo in around your chamber, your fiancé remains by your side, even as the moon bids her farewell and the dawn greets you for another day. Every tear is swiftly wiped away and every apology is greeted with silent comfort. And yet, even as the grief strikes through your core, the worries that have plagued you before seem to dissipate with Mydeimos' mere presence by your side.
—
Your peace does not last long. Shortly after Mydeimos' return from the forests, the political tensions between Castrum Kremnos and the neighboring city of Okhema have grown. It does not take long before the pressure rises enough for war to be declared, courtesy of King Eurypon.
And with the cost of war comes with the price of men drafted to fight for the name of The King. Even your fiancé is not safe, especially as the Crown Prince.
The declaration of war unsettles the kingdom of Castrum Kremnos deeply; there are frantic whispers as people sit in their disbelief while others calmly accept their fate. A Kremnoan is not one to back from a fight, even if it is one they are not prepared for. The citizens are restless in their anxieties, and the castle is no less.
Due to the war preparations, Mydeimos' training has increased tenfold. Alongside his fellow knights and warriors, the Crown Prince has trained night and day to the point where you never did see him anymore. The glimpses you would catch would be during his sparring sessions if you so happened to walk past the training grounds within the palace.
And the one time you did catch him, exhaustion is etched in every crevice of his face. For a poor boy who had barely come of age, the pressures of his father and this oncoming conflict seemed to have aged him even more; it shows in the darkness of his eyes and unmoving frown carved into his skin.
But hope blooms in your chest when your gazes meet and the all familiar gold returns to his eyes as if it had never left. A beautiful, crystalline geode hidden within a rugged exterior; your childhood friend and ally underneath the mask of the Crown Prince.
On the night before the expedition, Mydeimos arrives outside your bedchambers at the usual time you used to meet. You're surprised to see him, honestly; with the send off being so close, you did not expect to see your fiancé so soon—if at all. Luckily, he's not dressed for training and has cleaned up before visiting you; his white nightshirt now fitting for his body and flowing loosely over his torso.
His hair is undone; the usual braid that drops at the side of his face is loose and his strawberry blond hair frames his face beautifully. His sapphire earring, the one that matches yours, dangles by his ear. It's radiant, luminous as it reflects the candlelit room like the eternal embers of the hearth of life. There's still a hint of fatigue sewn into his expression, like a permanent scar on his otherwise perfect tanned skin, but it immediately melts away upon seeing you at the other side of the door. Like the warmth of spring melting away the frigid winter snow, you've brought life to him with just your presence alone.
For a second, you get a glimpse of the bright eyed small boy he used to be and a sharp pang strikes through your heart.
"Is it too late to come and see you?" he asks you, his voice much deeper than the last time you remember it. His timbre rumbles low, almost the purr of a big cat.
"You don't have to ask, Your Highness." And, like clockwork, he walks in.
There's a comfortable silence between the both of you as you sit at the table near the window. Usually, there would be a glass of milky pomegranate juice for you to share, but tonight is different. Even the world itself knows this with the usual chirps of the crickets outside now a hushed melody and the moon hangs low in the sky with her light barely radiant as if she was too heartbroken for the next dawn.
"Do you really have to go?" You break the silence with a question, voice a mere whisper in the quiet of night. Your eyes remain locked to your lap where your fingers twist and fumble with one another.
And your heart sinks, heavy with reality, when he speaks again.
"Of course I do," Mydeimos replies, his voice alone is enough to calm you but the context of the conversation stirs the emotions in your heart. "Both as my duty as my father's son and as my pride as a Kremnoan."
There are a million thoughts that run through your mind; what if this worthless pride of his gets him killed or what if there's the chance he won't come home at all? What if the Okhemans take his life during their victory? And how much trouble would you be in if you knocked him out and ran away with him, far past the outskirts of this kingdom and away from this?
The Crown Prince exhales softly, a quiet laugh and your mind snaps back to this moment.
"Your worries are written all over your face, Princess," he speaks. You can hear the warmth dripping from his tone; there's a smile so evident in his voice and you feel your face flush from embarrassment. With that same timbre, he speaks your name as if he has known it for lifetimes. "Look at me, won't you?"
And you do.
All you can see are those endless pools of golden ichor peering back at you, molten aureate seas of candor and sincerity beckoning you to melt into them; to do nothing but have faith that you wouldn't drown in them.
"Do you remember what we vowed to each other?" he asks, gaze unwavering as he leans in closer to you.
"To always be by each other's side until the day we wed," you recite to him.
"And forevermore," Mydeimos finishes for you. "I intend to keep the promise. I'll come back victorious and meet you once again."
You bite your bottom lip as unease eats away at your nerves. Of course, your heart yearns to trust his words for he has done everything in his power to take your side in the years you've shared with him. But there will always be unprecedented circumstances that could always happen, experiences where it will lie out of both of your hands.
The thought of losing him forever terrifies you to your core.
But his eyes are unmoving and perhaps that is enough to let you fully trust him. It grounds you, reminds you of how much your fiancé has changed from the frail, thin boy who now towers over you with shoulders broader than your own. Even the loose nightshirt could not hide the expanse of muscles evident underneath and how they flex with every movement he makes.
Without a word you quickly rise from your seat, maneuvering around your chambers until you get to your nightstand. The wooden drawer slides open with ease and your fingers wrap around the white cloth inside. When you return to your betrothed's side, you realize his gaze has never left your body.
"I was hoping I wouldn't have to give this to you," you begin with bated breath. Your fingers gently play with the soft cotton of the cloth before handing it out for Mydeimos to take. "It's a little rough, but an embroidered handkerchief is considered good luck for warriors, isn't it?"
There's an accelerando in your heartbeat as a large hand gingerly picks up the unstained cloth. He unfolds it, letting the handkerchief spread open. In the corner were three embroidered elements; one golden sun and two maroon pomegranates basking underneath it.
"Of course, you don't have to keep it if it's not your cup of tea," you ramble on as your heart leaps to your throat at his silence. "I just wanted you to feel safe even when you're out-"
A whisper of your name, quiet enough to blend into the comfortable silence of the room but deafening to your ears. Your gaze snaps up to meet his and you're met with a sunset that showers you in its warmth, a heat so calming and serene that all of your worries seem to dissipate.
Gold melting into halcyon days.
"Thank you. I'll cherish it on the battlefield."
There's a moment of reprieve, a second of tranquility. And it does little to calm your now racing heart over a feeling that is far from anxiety.
DUSK.
My Princess,
How have you been doing? Has my father treated you the same? Poorly? Let me know so I can return immediately. I hope that your days have not been as busy as mine. I apologize for breaking our oath to stay beside each other, but I promise you that I will return after this war and go straight to you.
My journey has not been long, but I miss you already. The nights do not feel the same without you by my side and I always wonder what you're doing while I'm on the front lines. The only thing that brings me comfort is the handkerchief you embroidered for me, and the fact that we remain under the same sky every day.
I'll see you soon. Wait for me.
Mydeimos.
—
My Princess,
This war has been…rough for me. I promise that I will fight until my very last breath. Not because I am the son of King Eurypon and Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, but because I am your betrothed and we have made an oath together.
I wish to see you again, you are my only hope in this wretched war. Like the sun's rays, you will guide me back home… back to your side.
I will not fall in this war, I promise I will return to you. So do not shed any tears for me. I hate seeing you cry, and I hate it even more knowing that I am the reason.
Wait for me, I promise I will see you soon.
Mydeimos.
—
My sole Princess,
We have finally breached enemy lines and I guarantee that by the time you've received this letter we will come out victorious. I can finally put an end to this useless war and save the lives of more innocent men forced to fight for the name of their king. I've seen many disturbing sights while on this treacherous journey, and I wish you to never see them.
It will not be long before I return to you, my Princess. How has life in the palace been? It has been years since we last seen each other, will you remember how I look like? Have you changed?
Please wait for me, you will be the first person I greet when I return.
Mydeimos.
—
Four years have passed since your fiancé was sent off to war and declared victory of the war between Castrum Kremnos and Okhema. When the victory was announced, there was a moment of silence before the entire kingdom bursts in cheers loud enough that you were sure Nikador could even hear of the celebrations. But most importantly, the relief was tangible.
No more innocent lives thrown away due to a selfish and ignorant king.
News of the Crown Prince being the one to end the final battle spread like wildfire among the citizens and whispers of praise echo through the winding streets of the main city. Mydeimos is a hero in the eyes of Castrum Kremnos, and he will return with nothing but endless celebrations to commemorate the honor of victory.
The main palace is bustling with life once more as Mydeimos' celebratory banquet thrives with excited chatter and boisterous laughter. It's a happy event, much more pleasant than the previous event held in the grand banquet hall. The chandelier above remains an endless web of crystallized light and the servants are busy winding in and out of the crowd of guests eager to finally catch a glimpse of the returned hero.
"My Lady, what an honor to see you!"
"Aren't you proud of your fiancé? His honor as a Kremnoan will bring pride to us all."
"Will the wedding be held soon after this?"
"Marvelous party, My Lady. Give thanks to The King for hosting such an event."
An event you planned, but you let the empty pleasantries slide. Your hands are full entertaining guests and greeting other nobles as they crowd you with vacuous comments and hollow small talk.
Lost in the cacophonous and draining chatter of nobles you don't seem to care for, your attention is away from the announcement of a name you're all too familiar with and it isn't until the crowd surrounding you explodes in cheers that you realize who has entered the hall.
Mydeimos is much broader than the last time you saw him; though you didn't think that could be possible. He's adorned in white cloth draped over his body held in place with belts and buckles made of pure gold; a crimson cape drapes over one of his shoulders like blood smeared across a canvas. They're loose on his body, yet do nothing to hide what lay underneath. A wreath of aureate leaves sits on top of his head; a physical reminder of his status in the room and his future role as King. The blue sapphire you gifted him drops down from his left ear, sparkling as if announcing who he belonged to.
Tendrils of red ink decorate his tan skin. They're the mark of heroes, a badge of honor that only few in Castrum Kremnos get to have. Deep crimson ink make trails leading up his arms, over his chest, and dip underneath the fabric of his clothes—wherever they lead to on his body piques your curiosity. They're ethereal on him, a wonderful contrast against his otherwise perfect skin.
And your heart lurches at his eyes that are locked only on you.
The clamor of the banquet grows distant as soon as you step out into the connecting balcony and shut the large, paned door behind you. With the endless night sky above you as your only company, you finally have your moment of reprieve away from the perpetual mindless chatter of nobles and other guests. You walk towards the railing of the balcony and look over the palace gardens; paved cobblestone winding between green bushes blooming with white blossoms and a fountain built right in the center of it all.
It's beautiful, simple and peaceful with only the muffled celebrations from the banquet inside as your white noise.
"I thought I'd find you here." A familiar voice calls out to you and you turn away from the gardens to meet his gaze.
The blazing sun.
And you're burning underneath his rays.
"To think I spent all these years in war, and I didn't get a single greeting?" He's much less intimidating up close compared to the banquet hall with thousands of eyes on him. However, it could be because he's alone here with you. There's a twinkle in his eye and a small smile curls at the corner of his lips. Handsome and boyish. "Did you forget me already?"
"How could I ever?" You respond back with a smile of your own. Heavy footsteps walk towards you and you find Mydeimos leaned against the railing beside you. He's close enough where you can catch a whiff of his scent—clean, floral with hints of musk and bergamot— and feel his elbow bumping into yours. He's warm; you are too, but you're beginning to doubt if it's because you're naturally warm.
Or because he's here.
"I'm glad to see you again," you tell him as you cast your gaze back up into the night sky. The evening breeze brushes past the two of you, cool and brisk, and Mydeimos takes this moment to remove the scarlet cape and drape it over your own shoulders. His scent engulfs you; his warmth a residue of his own body over yours.
Your heart thrums against your eardrums.
"I thought about you everyday, you know," Mydeimos confesses beside you and your breath hitches.
"How so?" You stammer out, words nearly toppling over one another. "Like how I used to cry over silly things?"
"In a way," Mydeimos agrees and you frown at his response. "But more so because I missed you, and I hate seeing you cry especially if I know it's because of me."
Normally, his honesty would barely phase you, but something in the way that he speaks to you sets a storm of butterflies free in your stomach. perhaps it's from the buzz of the banquet or because you've finally reunited with him after all these years waiting for his return.
Or maybe it's because he's so close to you. When had he leaned down to hear you better and when was his face so close to yours?
"Would you hate me if I asked for a kiss to celebrate?" he asks, voice low and quiet but never has he been so clear.
Your heart beats wildly against your chest, an accelerando that has gone way too fast way too quick and you cannot stop your eyes from staring at his lips only mere inches away. You nod.
His lips find yours with ease and all of the feelings you've built up from the moment you first met seems to bloom, melting into the kiss. He feels so comforting, everything feels so perfect and so right when it comes to him. He feels like your home, your only place to be free. And you don't ever want to leave.
When he pulls away, there are no words spoken. The only sound filling the silence are your quiet breaths intermingling with one another. Molten gold peer down at you, half lidded and taking in your every movement. There's residue of your lip stain on his lips and your fingers reach up to wipe it off.
A large hand encases your wrist, holding it in place while Mydeimos turns his head and presses another kiss to the palm of your hand. Heat blooms in your chest; your heart is soaring across the heavens above and you're worried it'll never come down if he continues this.
"Mydeimos… My Prince, I think I have fallen for you." Your voice is breathy and light, almost in disbelief at the words you've just spoken.
At first, Mydeimos doesn't say anything. Instead, his brows furrow as confusion etches itself across his face. "We've been engaged for over a decade and will wed soon."
Your face flushes at his words. "I-I know! It's just… I never realized what I was feeling towards you until now."
Your prince laughs softly, a chuckle that is carried off into the wind like a melody only you are meant to hear. He releases your wrist, only to reach up and brush away a strand of hair that has gone astray. He's warm, and basking in his unyielding attention makes you warmer.
"Then the feelings are returned. For you've ruined me, I cannot go a day without thinking of you. And now that we're together again, I never wish to be apart again, my wife."
His words echo in the chambers of your mind as he leans down once more to kiss you again underneath the light of the moon. And you're reminded again and again of the love you hold for him as well as the affections harbored for you through the lifetime that you've known one another. His hand cups your jaw, holding you as if you were his last drop of moonlight in the depths of an eternal night.
For you are his eternity, his solace, and he is yours.
