“It was only ever yours to break anyway.”

Not the sad, lingering kind—this one is the sort of heartbreak that makes you hate all men. Especially the nice ones—the ones that manipulate you into thinking they’re the good guys who won’t turn on you, but they do. They always do. The nice guys are the ones with the most potential to turn out dangerous. They aren’t upfront about their assholery. That shitty ex of yours is a prime example, and you refuse to fall victim twice. 

Your first impression of Phainon happens in some boring college class you take just for the elective credit and an easy gpa boost. He’s the sort of guy your attention doesn’t instantly latch onto—he’s sweet, sure, and funny but a little too gentle to be real. Too good to be true. Too much of a green flag to be interesting. Exactly the kind of guy you’re avoiding—exactly the sort of person who can worm his way into your heart slowly and lethally and then bite. Hard. (That sort of mindset is too pessimistic to be any good, of course, but you’re only just barely in your twenties as you navigate your dramatic breakup, and your prefrontal cortex is still developing.)

You find his friend a little more intriguing for the longest time, if you’re honest. The brooding blonde next to him always made your eyes linger for a second too long. 

“Hey,” he whispers, poking your shoulder from behind. You turn, slightly irritated by the fact that some guy is interrupting your dissociation in the middle of class—doesn’t he know you have false scenarios to run through your mind while you pass the time? Professor Anaxagoras has a strict no-phones-in-sight policy if you want to keep your participation points up, so the only thing to entertain you is your own head. Sheepishly, as if sensing your irritation, he murmurs, “Sorry. Can I please use your laptop charger?”

“I’m using it,” you blink. 

“Yeah, but it’s almost fully charged,” he practically pleads. The puppy eyes on him are unreal—you feel almost compelled to cave just at the sight of them alone until you realize it’s your charger, and he’s bargaining with you about why you don’t need it. Absurd. “I can see the green battery sign.”

“Are you serious,” you stare at him blandly, “it’s barely twelve pm. Why is your laptop already dying anyway?”

“I charged it,” he pouts, “but she’s old and on her last legs. It doesn’t last if I take the charger out for too long—I forgot to bring it with me. Please. If it dies in the middle of this assignment, it’ll make me start over! It took me an hour to google all these answers.”

Well. He’s convincing in that pathetic sort of way. Just the perfect mix between nice and genuine but still a tad bit needy that just tickles your gut in the right place to loosen you up. Without a word, you unplug your charger with a roll of your eyes and hand it to him as he smiles gratefully. 

“You’re the best!”

“You’re pathetic,” his friend grunts to him from beside him.

“Don’t be rude, Mydei!” he whispers through a wounded voice. 

They continue to bicker back and forth, but you tune it out—there’s only one thought on your mind for the remainder of your time in that room. 

You spend the rest of class thinking about the deep sound of his friend’s voice to care about anything else. Fuck, you think—you’re almost debating that strict no more men rule you’d set for yourself after your break up, ready to throw it all away for the grumpy looking blonde with red tips behind you. He’s hot. And honestly, he seems a bit rude and crabby, so really, he can’t be that bad—and yeah, everyone would think he’s the red flag, but you know how men go. You’ve figured out their psychology. The ones who are prickly on the exterior are actually very soft inside, and they’re not half as bad as the soft, cuddly type of men who turn around and bite you as soon as you’re close enough. 

This guy could be different. He could be worked into devotion instead of smothering you with it early on, only to have ulterior motives and get bored. What was his name again? Mydei? Sounds decently moanable in bed, you reason. He certainly seems like a keeper. 

It’s not long before the lecture ends, and you walk off with all your thoughts consumed by the grumpy blonde guy who said maybe only three words that you properly heard before he possessed your mind like a fucking demon. So much so that you forget to ask for your charger back, and that clever asshole never gave it back on his own accord like a proper human being. 

So, the next time Phainon walks into class, you’re glaring at him right at the entrance of the room with an outstretched hand and an unimpressed curl of your lips. 

“My charger,” you say blandly, “you took off with it last class. I need it back.”

“Oh!” he flushes, quickly digging into his bag and pulling it out—at least he kept it in very good condition. Men are not to be trusted with things you need because they are irresponsible. Case example: not returning what they borrow. “Sorry,” he says earnestly, “I meant to return it, but I forgot. Which, I was thinking…maybe we should exchange numbers—you know…to contact outside of class if we ever need it.”

You blink, seeing right through him. Why else would you ever need it again? “You walked off with my charger just so you could use it as an opening to ask for my number?”

He flushes a deeper shade of red, creeping up to his ears and down his neck like he didn’t expect you to call him out on his so very blatant scheme. “W-well…did it work?”

You contemplate for a moment before you respond, “No.”

“How about if I throw in some assignment answers?”

“…Okay, fine.” You never pay attention in this class—the tests are open notes, and the weekly assignments are easy enough when you have the internet at your disposal. But still, having someone present the answers to you is a much faster route, and you have other non-elective classes to worry about, so all in all, if a semi-annoying guy messages you here and there, it’s not so bad.

And the better part is that his friend is hot, so you can snag the details on him, too. Men don’t really worry about the concept of loyalty—they don’t stay far away from the people their friends show an interest in for something like friendship. You know how they work. Phainon’s number can lead you to Mydei’s, and Mydei can break you free from your awful, terrible descent to madness from heartbreak, and when you inevitably have a happy, healthy, and loving relationship that lasts, you’ll never think about your bastard ex again.

Foolproof.

“Great!” Phainon beams. He hands you his phone, and you type your number in.

And that starts it all. 

────────────────────────

LESSON TWO: SEX DOES NOT EQUAL INTIMACY. WHEN THEY SAY IT’S JUST PHYSICAL, THAT’S TOTALLY FINE. BUT IF YOU SAY IT, YOU’RE OUT OF LINE!

Exchanging phone numbers with Phainon was supposed to be a simple way to have at least one contact for a class—a very important measure you should take for every class you’re in—and perhaps, if you’re lucky, you could also somehow get closer to that hot blonde friend he has named Mydei. 

It was never supposed to become a real friendship.

But, well…shit happens, and things don’t go according to plan. It also doesn’t help that Phainon is a consistent texter—almost to a fault. What sort of man doesn’t text sporadically and with a tone as dry as concrete? Phainon, apparently—which is not like any sort of man you’ve ever known. 

You even start sitting with him in class instead of in front of him—that’s a terribly unplanned development. The bright side of it, however, is that you quickly get over his friend. Mydei is nice, but he’s a little too bored. Or maybe he just isn’t interested in you; you’re not so sure. No amount of flirty comments gets a flush out of him, not a smirk, not even a smart retort back. He is just…bored. (Or maybe he’s secretly just one of those good friends who doesn’t flirt with the girl that his friend is actively trying to pursue, but that option does not align with your very complex understanding of men, so you shove it aside. He’s probably just bored, and that’s just truly unfortunate. He was hot.)

But you grow fond of Phainon. As a friend. Sure, he’s clearly been interested in you since day one, but he’s not pushy, and a hint here and there that you’re still bitter about your previous relationship makes him keep a respectful distance. But he’s definitely smitten—and you? Well, you’re lonely. And he’s a good guy. A good guy who keeps you good company as a good friend and nothing more. He knows that, and you don’t think you’re stringing him along if he’s aware that you’re nothing more than friendly. 

And sometimes, friends go to parties together. And sometimes, they also drink together. And sometimes, they also end up staying at the other’s apartment afterward because it’s closer and safer than trying to get back home alone. And…sometimes, although not a lot of times—but sometimes, they wake up in bed together, nude with no recollection of the previous night and love bites scattered on their necks as proof that something very, very physical happened between them.

It’s not always a common occurrence, but it’s certainly not a rare one. Does it complicate things? For certain—but you think that you and Phainon are good enough friends and mature enough people to know that sex does not equate to intimacy. Most men are super clear about that, anyway—it’s almost ingrained in their nature to say “no strings attached” before they fuck your brains out in every position they can think to try. This should not be a foreign concept to him. 

But it doesn’t make the morning any less awkward. 

“Oh my god,” you say in disbelief, pulling the sheets over your bare chest as you stare at Phainon like he’s grown two heads. He stares back at you like you’re some figment of his imagination—unsure if you’re real but painfully hopeful that you are. And then you take a quick glimpse around his room and realize he’s a space nerd—there’s a poster about Saturn on his wall. “I didn’t think you were into space. You seem a little too air-headed for that.”

“Hey!” he pouts, “you don’t know me! I can be very smart!”

You snort, eyeing him in amusement. Except staring at him for too long means that you are forced to look at the hickey you left on his neck, almost like you were a raging, horny teenager last night and not an adult. You would be more embarrassed if one glimpse down at your chest didn’t tell you that he was even worse. 

“So…” you start awkwardly. 

“So…” he echoes. 

You don’t know where to take it from there. There’s a beat of silence before you say, “We’re good, right Phai?”

He softens, looking at you with those large, round eyes that house every shade of the sky and her beauty before he nods and murmurs, “Yeah. We’re always good.”

“Good,” you breathe, “I’m glad. I want us to be good.”

“Well,” he rubs his neck, “we are, in fact, good. So…yeah.”

In the end, you sheepishly turn around so he can get out of bed, find his scattered clothes and put them on, and leave, and you—once you’re certain he’s far enough in the kitchen and the faucet is running—scream into his pillow before slipping out of bed and putting on your own. You’re pleasantly surprised he doesn’t have only one pillow. But his sheets are navy blue, so you dock a few points for that. Not a good look.

He makes you breakfast before you leave. Something about sitting and sharing pancakes while he has tousled hair feels so natural you almost feel sick at the thought of leaving. But you tell yourself that he’s an easy friend to have and feel comfortable with, and force yourself up and to the door when the time inevitably comes. 

He sees you out with a soft, “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you hum, “later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

—————

You wish so badly that you could be an ideal individual, but you are as flawed as the rest of the humans you share planet Earth with.

You and Phainon fuck again. Sober, this time. Still as friends. Not by accident, or through the influence of alcohol, or by forced proximity, or by anything that you can use to excuse it. You can’t excuse it. It’s entirely an act of free will that you consented to—because he does take consent very seriously, you learn—and it starts to become abundantly clear that sex is beginning to get a little too frequent in your time together.

The first time it happened after the initial accidental night, he was over at your apartment helping you build your new desk. The old one was too small, and you needed an upgraded space badly. He spends the evening hammering and drilling pieces away and fitting them together, and like some cliche joke from the universe, when you slip on the instruction manual on the floor, he catches you as your face hovers dangerously close to his. A kiss later, and suddenly he’s fitting into you and drilling you instead of the wood. 

And then it starts to happen everywhere. 

Sometimes in the back of his car before he drops you off at home after class. Sometimes on your kitchen counter when you’re supposed to be washing dishes after he’s over for dinner to study. Sometimes after he’s got a bad exam grade to blow off some steam. Sometimes when you’re particularly stressed over a busy week with too many assignments due on the same day and too many hours of your part-time job to work. 

Every time it happens, you go back to acting like you always do afterward. Like it never even happened. Never mentioned, or questioned, or brought up. He never questions if something is shifting in your relationship, and you never bring it up. Sometimes, two people can have a physical relationship and still be friends and nothing more. It’s not impossible, and it’s not bad.

If anything, it makes you closer friends. You start to understand each other better. You talk more—really talk. No silly banter, or heated debate, or stressed-out vents. Just you, Phainon, the sheets that cover your bodies and a quiet room that lingers with the scent of sex.

He tells you about how much he misses his hometown. How small it is, and how everyone knows everyone. How leaving home and his young triplet sisters was the hardest thing he did, but a good degree and stable job is even harder to come by where he’s from. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

And you tell him about your ex. About how sweet and nice he was. How badly he wanted you. How good he was at doing things right and reading you for what you craved. How to love you like you always wished. How to spend time with you without burning you out and depleting your social battery. How to know your ticks and know when he’s pushing your buttons too far and when a joke doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. How to make you feel seen. 

No man has ever loved you like that. None have cared to, either. Learning you is a lot of work—you have years and years of life and stories and feelings and fears and everything’s to share. Teaching them is a lot. Learning them is even more. 

You liked to think that boy from your past was a ticket to something good. Some better life for yourself where it’s not just you and yourself, and that’s it—a life where you were you and someone else cared to see it. Have it. Cherish it. Keep it. 

You don’t know how someone could pour in so much time, do everything first, want things all on their own, and still walk away and tell you that they just don’t feel the same anymore.

You think it’s just a man thing. Men bore easily. 

Phainon snorts at that. 

“They do have short attention spans,” he tells you. 

You smile tightly, humming as you blink back tears. “Or maybe I’m just boring.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he gasps dramatically, reaching over to swipe the tears like it’s always been his job to—it feels so natural when he does it. “You’re not boring! You’re at least a step up from boring because boring is Professor Anaxa, and god knows what he drones on about.” 

“Gee,” you huff, but the tears are easier to subside when it’s him. They’re gone quickly like a fleeting reminder that sorrow exists but shooed away like they’re unwelcome when he’s around. He’s around more and more these days. “Thanks. I’m glad to be just a step up from boring. Maybe in a year or so, I’ll be two steps up from boring.”

“Nothing is ever impossible,” he winks. “Some day, with enough hard work and determination, you might even be three steps up.”

“You suck,” you giggle. 

He laughs, and the sound of his voice is enough to lull you to sleep. You sleep good next to him—always do.

—————

One thing you count on is that it’s always easy when it’s you and Phainon. Phainon and you. 

Just two people who exist with each other, and nothing else really needs to be thought out. You don’t worry about what you wear around him or how you look. He doesn’t care too much about what you’re doing or where you’re going. As long as it’s you and him, him and you, and nothing else—it’s okay. He’s good. He treats you good and makes you feel good, too. Inside and out. Physically and mentally. 

He might even be your best friend. You don’t know if you should tell him that—men get weird about definite titles like that. But then again, maybe not Phainon. He’s like an anomaly of sorts, sometimes. 

But you forget sometimes that Phainon was never hoping to just be friends. And you suppose letting him feel you come undone for him more than once is like dangling his desires right in front of his face because it all blows up on you very fast. 

Perfect one second, like the calm before the storm, and a disaster zone the next, leaving you no time to evacuate before the tornado has hit and done its damage. 

“Mydei wants to come with us to try that new cafe you mentioned,” Phainon hums, watching in sheepish amusement as you sigh and mutter under your breath while picking up his dirty socks from the couch and tossing them across the room. (Men are all the same, aren’t they?) “He said something about there being a pomegranate beverage he wants to try.”

“Fine by me,” you shrug, slumping onto his couch, “if he doesn’t find it awkward, then I don’t either.”

“Why would he find it awkward?” he looks at you in bewilderment.

“I think he’d have to be oblivious to miss the way I was flirting with him,” you huff out a snort, “I don’t think most men jump at the opportunity to hang out with a girl they ignored advances of, but maybe he’s just too passionate about pomegranate to care.”

Everything feels like it pauses as soon as the words come out. You thought he’d known this whole time—you could have sworn he’d known. How would Mydei have never mentioned it to him? Aren’t they best friends? Don’t men at least tell their friends when a girl is hitting on them regularly in passing? Is Mydei really that bad at giving life updates, or is he more clueless than you gave him credit for when it comes to romantic interaction? 

Nothing makes sense, and you’re not entirely sure about anything. The only thing you are sure about is that Phainon is staring at you like you’ve been disloyal to the worst degree. 

“You liked Mydei?” he asks in hurt, staring at you with those god-awful puppy eyes. You feel like you kicked one, too, with the way he stares at you. 

“W-well, no,” you stutter, “I mean, yes—but like…not really, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “you’re not making any sense.”

“I liked him for a very short time,” you say quickly, “like…like a small crush, you know? He was attractive, and I am not immune to an attractive man, so it just…b-but it never lasted for long!”

“Did you still like him when we got together?” he asks quietly. Got together—you physically have to stop yourself from flinching at those words. Some part of you feels a little bit bad that he sounds so wounded, but the other part of you feels like this is all so absurd. That he’s starting to get worked up over nothing. He has to know you were never together—you never did anything that implies two people that are…together. It’s always been a good fuck here and there, and that’s what you kept it as strictly. 

(Distantly, your mind gnaws at you and screams that two people who just fuck and nothing else do not do the things that you and Phainon do. Sure, you were friends first, but two people who draw the line at sex don’t seek each other to FaceTime until three am, and they don’t bring each other soup when they’re sick, and they don’t hold each other when they cry, and they don’t, under any circumstances, tell each other about their deepest insecurities that they’ve never voiced before about shoddy exes who ruined their ability to trust and feel loved. You can’t be the closest people in your lives and just have sex—but your mind has never been your number one supporter, so you shove the voice down.)

“No,” you admit, and for a second, his shoulders sag in relief. Like he doesn’t care or feel threatened that you liked his friend as long as it didn’t bleed into your time together—and that’s when you start to wonder if Phainon is too good for you. Too kind and genuine in a way that is not dangerous. Too sweet in a way that doesn’t slowly kill you like poison but just gives you something to look forward to. Maybe he’s a good one—a good guy who is just good and nothing else. Still, you kill his heart anyway with a harsh blow to his chest as you add, “I didn’t like anyone when we started getting physical. And I still don’t, Phainon.”

Getting physical. Whatever that means. You say it like it puts some distance between the sex you have and intimacy. You say it like it rationalizes everything you do with him—you get physical, which is only human nature, and in the mix, if you develop a good, long-standing friendship, then there is nothing wrong with that. 

But are you really okay with just friends? Yes. You are. Are you sure about that? Absolutely. You don’t seem so convinced. This is a positive, for sure, one hundred percent true reality. Phainon is just a friend. You’re shooting yourself in the foot. 

You force yourself to stop arguing with yourself when you notice the way his eyes flash at the words: still don’t. He processes the words that you still don’t like anyone, and the look in his eyes is devastating. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. Something else that you don’t quite understand, but it makes you filled dreadfully to the brim with unease. 

“Every time we’ve been together has just been physical to you?” he asks quietly, croaking out the words as if they’re acrid on his tongue and taste awful. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I made it very clear we were just friends, and I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” you furrow your brows, “you can’t act like I’ve been stringing you along—”

“Before we started, fucking, sure! But I thought it was pretty mutually clear we were slowly turning romantic when you willingly took my dick down your throat every now and then.”

“We’ve never had a ‘hey, what are we?’ discussion,” you cry exasperatedly, throwing your hands up as though this is all…so, so, so absurd—and for a second, you feel like it is. You made it clear that you weren’t trying to date. Not him, not anybody. Sure, that silly blonde friend of his clouded your judgment for a bit, but that was never more than a phase. “Don’t you think it was a red flag to never discuss what we are or what we’re doing if we were getting romantic?”

He falters. Something in his face makes him look so unrecognizable. So fragile and knocked down a peg that you’ve never seen from him. And something about the way he looks at you makes you almost feel like he doesn't recognize you. 

“I thought you were avoiding the conversation on purpose,” he whispers, voice cracking just as he says: you. “I thought…I thought you were just nervous about labels after everything from your last…” he clears his throat, like even mentioning the word relationship kills him, “and…and that I was just waiting for you to be more comfortable…”

You don’t know what to say. And frankly, nothing seems like it’ll make him feel better. He’s fighting the trembling of his lips and blinking back the moisture in his eyes like all he has left in his control is to not shed tears in front of you. 

You extend him that much grace. (Men don’t like being vulnerable, you reason. They hate showing emotions.)

“Phainon, I think I should go,” you murmur softly.

“You want to leave?” he asks, gutted. It’s got two meanings—you know that. You know exactly what he’s asking.

Everything feels wrong when you say, “Yes,” through a soft whisper, “I do.” But you still don’t take it back.

And nothing feels right when he lets out a watery chuckle and lets the first few tears slip. “Well, you know where the door is,” he spits.

He doesn’t walk you out. You’re not sure why that feels so heavy—it’s not because you’re guilty. You know that. It’s something else, and you can’t quite understand it. 

────────────────────────

LESSON THREE: NOT ALL MEN. SURE, MOST HAVE A VERY BAD STREAK, BUT NEVER THE WHITE-HAIRED AND BLUE-EYED FREAK!

You barely last two weeks before you call Phainon. 

At first, you thought being without who is maybe your closest friend at the moment was just eating away at you, and that’s why you missed him. You threw yourself into your social circles, making plans left and right to fill that gaping hole of his presence. It didn’t work. 

And then it slowly starts to click in place. 

Your friends send you a picture of your ex’s new fling, calling him an asshole and how she’s too pretty to be his next victim. You don’t feel even the slightest bit jealous or hollow. In fact, you’re bored by the news—you have more pressing matters. 

Then, you start to see what feels like fucking propaganda for romance everywhere. Every social media timeline is filled with some stupid, cheesy, cringe trend that rubs in your face how painfully in love two people are. You get ads for fucking wedding rings. Your friends are all magically starting to get out of the talking phases and actually have something exclusive and official. Your old high school friends are getting engaged, and invitations are coming in. You’ve RSVP’d one in spring and two in fall already. 

Everywhere you look, it’s something that feels like the universe is promoting a relationship in your face as if it’s a poorly disguised paid sponsorship by some celebrity online, and all you want to do is throw a rock at the sky and hope it lands on whatever divine being is playing tricks on you straight in the face. 

But it slowly becomes clearer and clearer why it unsettles you so much. Why it all makes you bitter and annoyed and tired and…and sad. You’re sad. And it’s because you miss Phainon, and every couple reminds you of the hurt you caused him and why it’s your fault he’s still not in your life. Because you wanted your cake and to eat it, too. Even if it meant taking advantage of his feelings and the heart he didn’t even bother wearing on his sleeve. He just pinned it to yours and let you wear it. 

So you call him. When that doesn’t work, and you get sent to voicemail, you go straight to his apartment. You knock on his door incessantly for two minutes straight (you know he’s home—his car is there) before he opens the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite it being three in the afternoon. 

“Mydei, can you at least come bother me to eat a little later in the da—oh.”

He notices you and quickly straightens up, smoothing out his wrinkled t-shirt as best as he can and fixing his ruffled hair (that doesn’t do much but ruffle more) as he looks at you with what is his best attempt at a nonchalant look and clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Hi,” you say nervously, “how are you?” (What else do you say? You’re at a loss.)

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs casually, “nursing a broken heart and trying to integrate back into society as a functioning member. The usual. How about you?”

You flinch at his tone, at the way it’s so clipped yet so emotional at the same time. 

“I called earlier—”

“I know. I ignored that, by the way, if that wasn’t clear,” he says as if being petty and angry is the only thing he has left. (It might just be, and you certainly won’t blame him for it.)

“I know,” you whisper, “but I still wanted to talk. And see you. Which I know I don’t deserve, but I guess I’m clearly not perfect, huh?” you shrug softly, giving him a sad smile. 

“Well,” he says flatly, “you came all this way, and I’ve already opened the door. Might as well say the groundbreaking thing you came to say.”

When Phainon is hurt is the only time he does not know how to be kind. He spends so much time not hurting others, not letting them feel the pain of their feelings being overlooked, that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. How to stomach that, yes, there are hurt people in this world, and, yes, they do the hurting, too. And he might fall victim to it. And he might even be the cause of someone else’s hurt, too, intentional or not. 

He’s not good at processing pain. He’s too good of a guy to ever have to dwell on how badly his actions have impacted someone. Not because he’s perfect but because he’s gentle enough by nature to avoid the necessity of it while he can. 

“I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. Because you are. You are. “I knew you were interested early on, and having sex as often as we did was leading you on whether I meant to or not, and you got hurt because of it, so I’m sor—”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. 

You blanch. “What?” you ask, mildly frustrated. He doesn’t have to forgive you, but it’s certainly an honest apology. “You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to. But I just felt it was right to tell you that I—”

“I’m not upset because you don’t like me or you that led me on,” he interrupts, making you blink in confusion. He looks at you for a moment—really looks at you, and before you can say anything, he lets out another disbelieving chuckle. “You still don’t get it, do you? Do you even understand it yourself—why you’re even here?”

“To apologize, of course—”

“No.” 

He says it so seriously. 

Phainon is hardly ever so serious. It’s what you always liked about him, even if you hated to admit it. He’s good at taking serious matters and making them feel like they’re not so serious. Not in a bad way—he’s just good at making them feel less soul-crushing with that carefree smile and those light-hearted words. He comforts you without ever letting you feel the shame of needing comfort. It’s nice.

You forget that even he is capable of being solemn. 

“No one apologizes for breaking someone’s heart unless it breaks theirs too—do you see that? Do you see that you care? I’m not upset that you don’t care about me or that you don’t feel the same. That would be easy to move on from. It kills me because you do—you care, and you feel exactly the way I do, and you just won’t admit it—do you know how much that sucks?”

You swallow thickly. It’s getting to that dangerous territory. That fragile, vulnerable place in your mind that you don’t like because then you have to admit that, yes, maybe you fucking fell hard and crashed onto the ground for Phainon. Asphalt and rocks still digging into your arms with raw and bleeding skin. Yes, maybe he’s that nice, kind, genuine guy who you fell for and who has no other motives than to spend his time being nice and genuine to you. And maybe, if you’d met him sooner and not later, you could have loved him and not some other asshole in disguise, pretending to parade around like a good man, like some wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Maybe that would have saved you the constant fear of it inevitably going all wrong—of giving and giving and giving, and one day, even that’s not enough, and someone doesn’t even want to take from you anymore. That one day, someone doesn’t even find you worth taking advantage of. 

That stings.

It’s this twisted sort of rejection you can’t handle. This sickening sort of feeling makes you think it’s better to be needed for selfish reasons than to be discarded like a useless, meaningless waste of time. And Phainon wouldn’t take advantage of you, right? He’s too nice of a guy—he’d reel you in, make you think he wants you so, so badly, and then when he doesn’t, he’ll play that nice guy trick again and make you think he’s doing you a favor by letting you go. Letting you go so you’re not being used by making it known you’re unwanted and not enough. 

As if he didn’t spend so much time making you want him. Condition you into thinking being loved by him was such a treasure. Convince you into needing the devotion he hands so easily for free. 

But you’re wrong, aren’t you? Maybe he’s not like that at all—maybe he’s just a nice guy because he really is good. Maybe he’s not nice because he needs to be to get what he wants. Maybe he’s nice because he wants to be, and it earns him what he wants the honorable way. Maybe you’ve fallen for Phainon, and maybe you were wrong about that being a bad thing. And maybe you just really fucking hate to admit when you’re wrong. (Your prefrontal cortex is still developing, after all. The men of your past are not very helpful to that slow development.)

“I don’t know how I feel anymore,” you whisper, tears littering your eyes. And god, you feel like a witch—using those sad, doe eyes with the wet, teary gaze that you know will soften him up like butter. Because he does. Even if you don’t do it on purpose, it makes sure he softens right up in front of your face because he hates the sight of your sadness being so tangible that he can feel it on the pad of his thumb in the form of a wet, warm rivulet. 

Like clockwork, he wipes the tears and sighs, and you let out a shaky breath. 

“I don’t know how I feel about anything because every time I think my feelings are right, they’re fucking wrong,” you sob, “I am always wrong, and I don’t know how to stop being wrong.”

His arms wrap around you and pull you close, pressing your body flush against that sturdy chest that feels like a brick wall—strong enough to keep you away from all the harm and cruelty of the world around you as long as he stands in front of you. Sometimes, you think that’s all it takes. Just Phainon standing there, and that’s it. That’s it to be okay. 

“You can only stop being wrong once you’re right,” he hums, giving you a sad, innocent little smile, “isn’t that the whole point of it all? To find the person who’s right? There’s gotta be a few wrong answers here and there, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to keep crying over the wrong answers,” you sniffle, “it’s dehydrating me.”

He laughs. It sounds good. It feels good, too, with the way his chest rumbles against you. He always does. Everything about him is just good. The way he smells, and feels, and sounds, and just is. Phainon is just good. You like just good—no catches, no curveballs, no fine print. Just good. 

“Hey,” he tilts your face up and presses his forehead to yours, wiping your tears valiantly still, even as they keep coming. And he’s hurt. You did that—you hurt him. But he seems more focused on the fact that your heart is crumbling than his own. “I can’t promise you won’t ever cry because of me—I’m not always the brightest, okay? But I can promise that I’m going to stay and wipe every last tear if I mess up. And then I’m going to keep staying. I will always stay so I can wipe the next round of tears and hydrate you again for your troubles. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”

“You don’t want it to be?” you snivel, “you seem like the type to hopelessly daydream about perfect romances with not much luck.”

“I’m going to let that dig slide because you are emotional right now, and we all say things we don’t mean when we’re emotional,” he rubs your back, rocking you slowly from side to side. 

And…well, you think you’re wrong. About him. About Phainon and now he’s nice in a way that’s too nice and too good to be true. You’re wrong because he’s just nice, and it’s just nice enough that it’s good, not devious—and for once, just this once, you don’t mind being wrong.

Not if it’s for him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for being confused and scared and unable to realize I care about you. I will get some help or something to be a functioning member of society.”

“Well, when you find help, hook me up,” he snorts, “because I need it, too. You’ve done a number on me.”

You’re both laughing. And then, at some point, you’re both kissing. His lips are on yours, and yours are on his, and it’s just a mix of each other that feels less like it’s right and more like nothing about it was ever wrong in the first place. Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be right as long as it’s just not wrong. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep things going. Sometimes, they become right along the way, all on their own. 

You cup his cheeks, making him pause his assault on your lips against his will as he lets out a soft noise of protest deep in his throat. You’ll fall hopelessly harder for him because of that later—first, you have more pressing matters. 

“I’m serious,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I do care about you—so much that it scares me. I care about you and I promise this time I’m going to stay and keep caring. So be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he smiles, all wobbly lips and a shaky voice and trembling fingertips. They dig into your hips as his head buries into your neck, and you hold him—latch onto him and clutch his shirt because feeling him is all that ever felt good, and you don’t think you can stomach letting it go a second time. “I am so ready to be the only thing you care about.”

“Maybe not the only thing—”

“Did you hear that? That weird crack sound? That’s the sound of my heart breaking a second time. Any more, and I’ll be collecting shards off the floor.”

“C’mere loser,” you laugh, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him into a hard, deliberate kiss that knocks the wind out of both of you. It makes your stomach twist and form knots and there’s this weird tickle in your chest that feels like you’re about to implode. Phainon is so good at that—at making you feel so, so unwell but well at the same time. You’re sick and nauseous from how badly you want him, but nothing else feels right until you have him. 

So you wrap your arms around him, pressing nearer, closer, harder up against him and kissing him until both of you are gasping for breath in between every press of your mouths together. Your hands find his hair, carding through it wildly and pulling on the strands when he nips at your lips, and when he groans into your mouth at a particularly harsh tug, you know it’s starting to become a scene that should not be happening at his front door where anyone can pass by.  

“Inside?” he pants, pulling away for just long enough to say the word.

You kiss him hard once more, making him groan again before you decide that, yes, it probably needs to move indoors. “Inside,” you breathe, labored and unsteady, “now—now, please.”

“Whatever you want,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to beg. You always get what you want—don’t I always give it to you?”

“Then quit talking and give it to me.”

That shuts him up really fast. With a dark glint in his eyes, he pulls you in, closing the door swiftly and pressing you against it. You’re caged—nothing but him, you, and the throbbing ache between your legs that seems to be a common denominator between the two of you. 

“I want you so bad,” he groans, kissing your neck, inhaling your scent along your sweet, delicate skin, “want you so bad I never want you gone. Don’t ever leave.”

“I won’t,” you gasp as he bites—and it’s a little hard. A little mean almost, but he kisses it better with a soft peck afterward that you forgive him on the spot and melt. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he hums, nose trailing along the column of your neck before he drags it along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth before he murmurs, “but I’ll make it hard to walk away this time just for safe measures.”

It feels like a literal and metaphorical promise. Before you can even respond to his cheekiness, he has your mouth hostage again—kissing and groaning into it enough that you have no choice but to soften and become pliant under him. You swallow up his sounds as the bulge in his pants presses against your own heat, the slow, desperate pressure of him grinding against you, making you shiver against the door. 

Good—he always feels so good. Everything about Phainon is always so damn good. 

“Feel that?” he croons, gasping as you roll your hips in tandem with his own movements, “feel how hard I am for you? You’re telling me anyone else will want you this bad? No one. I’m it for you. I’m not giving you up. Ever.”

His voice is a low, almost dangerous promise—and if you weren’t dripping at your core from the sound of him alone, you’d be less than inclined to admit that you like the sound of that. But you do, don’t you? You want him to want you so badly, so desperately, that the thought of letting you go makes him his own worst enemy. And he does, doesn’t he? He wants you so badly that you’re almost scared. 

But you like it. Love it, even. You fucking love that he needs you, and you want him to need you so badly he might just die without you. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to his shoulders. He lets go just long enough to pull his arms up and let you take it off of him, tossing it to the ground before your fingers run your nails along the hard plane of his abs. He shivers, letting out a soft, barely-there sound at the feeling. “Don’t let me go. Ever.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” he grins. Phainon leans in again, kissing you impatiently like being away from you for that short period of time was enough to have him on edge. Maybe it does because he only melts and relaxes when his lips are against yours again. His fingers trail to the edge of your pants, toying with the waistband as you quiver at the feeling of his rough fingertips rubbing against the skin of your belly. 

“Need you,” you whine.

“You got me,” he reassures, “just wanna take my time, yeah? You can handle that, can’t you? Let me have a little fun with you so I cheer up before I fuck you right against this door?”

You whimper. He’s mean sometimes, too. He’s so, so nice, but sometimes, it’s like a switch flips, and he’s mean. Not cruel—just teasingly mean to keep you on your toes and have you falling apart for him. It’s so mean, but it’s so careful and thoughtful and meant just for you—like he thinks only about you. 

“Just hold onto me, okay, baby?” he asks gently, pecking your lips, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Before you can even ask what that means, he drops down to his knees, spreading yours and pulling your pants and underwear down in one go, helping them off your legs as they get thrown somewhere in the back along with his shirt. You realize exactly why you need to hold on as soon as a finger prods your entrance, splitting your folds open as he peers into them and hums at the way you’re wet and slick. You gasp, grabbing onto the nearest thing—which happens to be his hair as he chuckles. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “I hardly did anything yet. But don’t worry, you can pull if you need—I don’t mind.”

Just like that, his mouth is between the apex of your thighs, tongue tracing your sweet, precious little clit before he licks a stripe along your folds, humming against your cunt and sending vibrations as you mewl at the feeling. 

“Ph-Painon…fuck—”

He hooks a leg over his shoulder, letting you half sit on him as he props you up and devours you. Devours you like you were the only thing on his mind. Like he was starved and dying in this apartment, and the only thing to sustain him is you. His tongue dips past your folds and fucks into you before pulling away just as quickly and flicking over your clit. Two fingers gently prod at your entrance this time—only they don’t tease you. No, instead, they fill you up and slip into you as far as they go, curling into a sweet, sweet spot in your walls that has your knees wobbling. 

You think you will fall for a moment. You think holding onto his hair and tugging him so harshly is not going to keep you steady, and the weight he takes as he props you up on a shoulder, is not going to hold you.

But he makes good on his promise. He doesn’t let you fall or slip for even a fraction, even as your legs get weaker and your orgasm draws nearer. 

“‘M close, Phai—s-so close,” you whimper. 

He pulls away. With a smug, stupid little grin, he looks up at you as you stare down in disbelief. “Say you care about me.”

“What is wrong with you—”

“Ah ah, that’s not what the magic words are!”

“Phainon—”

“That’s not a bad guess, but still not the right answer!”

“Fucking hell,” you hiss, “I care about you, asshole.”

“A little more aggressive than necessary, but I will accept it,” he hums, rewarding you with a soft kiss to your clit. “Now tell me you know I care about you. That I want you, and I want to stay.” 

“Phainon,” you plead, “please, can’t we do this later?”

“No,” he says firmly, “because then it’s just getting physical, and I am not getting physical. I am getting intimate. Tell me what I want to hear so there’s no mistaking things.”

He’s throwing your words right back at your face. And the only way you’re going to get what you want is if you own up to them, even if it’s against your will. So you do. With an exasperated sigh, you tell him what he wants to hear.

“I know you care about me,” you say impatiently, “I know you care, and you want me, and you want to stay, and god knows you’re not good at leaving me alone, so I guess I will just have to get used to you.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, giving your clit one more kiss before he’s back to lapping at your cunt like he’s parched. Your slick coats his chin and makes his skin glisten as he traces your clit with his tongue, curling his fingers just right into your heat. They brush against that spot again—he has it perfectly memorized, and just like that, you fall apart, gushing around his fingers and coating his lips with even more of your essence. 

“Fuck,” you sob, grinding against his face as you ride out the shockwaves of pleasure, feeling him groan against you right where you need him. 

He lets you stay like that for just a moment, resting half your weight on his shoulder and half your weight on one leg before he abruptly stands and grabs your waist, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around his hips. You’ve done this before—at that point, you’d considered it just any other step to getting physical with someone. 

Now, you realize you were beyond oblivious to how much you needed it to only be him you were doing all these motions with. It almost feels silly. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grins.

“What?”

“I don’t want you against the door anymore. I want you on the bed—my bed. And you’re staying there, and you’re going to like it.”

You laugh, breaking into a fit of giggles as he jogs over to his room with you in his arms. And when he drops you unceremoniously only to the bed, flopping on top of you and attacking your neck with kisses, you can’t help but break into another fit of giggles, feeling his playful nibbles and licks against your skin. It feels so easy. So natural. Only with Phainon, you realize. Only ever with Phainon. 

“Hi,” you breathe when his forehead presses to yours. 

He gives you a bright, toothy grin, murmuring, “Hi, yourself, pretty.”

And then he's kissing you again. His lips are soft and slow this time around. Pressing against your mouth, slotting into the space like it’s his to fit into—and it is. It’s always been his, whether you were willing to admit it or not. His tongue glides against yours languidly, no rush or impatience or desperation like usual. This time, he kisses you like you’re his and always have been—like he knows what you taste and feel like, and he knows it’s always been his and always will be. He kisses you like he’s reminding you of it, one painstakingly slow second at a time. 

“You broke my fucking heart,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice raw and vulnerable but never not soft, “you know that? You broke my fucking heart.”

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the erratic beating of it under your palm as you whisper, “Seems like it’s working perfectly well to me.”

He chuckles at that. Lets out another toothy grin before he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s cute and precious and so fucking sweet—he sounds just like what he is. Tooth rotting sweet.

“You’re always so smart with your words,” he drawls, pressing wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

One hand slowly pulls your shirt up, inch by inch, before you slowly help him take it off of you. The bra comes off next, and you’re bare—under him as nothing else but his. Nothing else that covers or keeps what’s his away from him. 

And when you eye his pants with a petulant, pouty look, he chuckles before throwing you an amused look as he takes them off slowly, not taking his eyes off of you.

You and Phainon have fucked. But you’ve never been intimate—not by the real standards, at least. The proper kind where you take the time to really take in each other’s bodies, commit each dip and curve to memory, know it inside out and like the back of your hand. Where that scar starts and ends from his childhood shenanigans, where your little moles scatter along your body in hidden crevices. And when he slowly frees his cock, and you can really stare without having to tell yourself you shouldn't, you take a good look. 

You take a good look at the flush of his pretty cock—pretty, just like the rest of him. A nice, soft, muted pink at the tip that oozes with the beginnings of pre cum, and it’s sensitive as it twitches under your delicate thumb when you smear the dribbling essence along the head of his cock. 

“Mmh,” he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, fluttering his eyes closed and panting as you touch him. Feel him. Want him. 

You finally want him, and it’s almost enough to make him spill into your hand alone. But he forces himself to composure, grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head—and then goes the other. He holds them in place with one large hand, watching as you squirm under him impatiently. 

“No touching,” he whispers, “first, I’m gonna teach you not to take me for granted. Then you’ll never want to take your hands off of me.”

“If you just ask me nicely, I’ll never take my hands off of you,” you offer. 

He laughs, boyish and charming and so fucking smooth, you feel something flutter at the base of your stomach. Something stirring in your guts and twisting them inside out in anticipation. “Persuasive,” he hums, “but I still have to teach you not to take me for granted.”

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, your wrists struggle against his hands to break free. You need to feel him—to know he’s there against you and real. To feel his hair and tug and hear him groan in response. To scratch along his back and feel his warm, damp skin, the way he shivers under the pain and likes it. To pull him closer and feel him practically melt against you at the gesture. 

You want to feel him. Because you need to know he’s yours. And you never, ever want to take for granted Phainon again. Your Phainon. The nice, sweet, gentle boy who stole your charger for a day to get your number. Who knew before you knew, long before you were ever willing to know, that he would love you. Even when you didn’t want to, he did it from a distance. And when he thought you finally would, that you’d finally let it happen, he still did it quietly, stripped of labels and titles even though he wanted to announce it to the world. 

For you. Everything was always for you. 

“Please, Phai,” you plead, “please, please, please—let me touch you.”

“Yeah? You want that, huh?” he grins, pretending to think for a moment before he hums, “tell me why.”

“So I can feel you and know you’re mine,” you lean up and breathe against his ear, “don’t you want to be mine?”

It’s a silly question. It’s all he’s ever wanted, so he gives it to you easily. Lets your hands go and lets them wander over his sculpted body as he sinks deeper into you—no more taking his sweet time to draw out the teasing. He’s impatient now—just as impatient as you. Maybe even more. He’s been waiting longer than you have to make this happen. To take you and make you his and have you admit that he’s yours, too. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he sinks the final few inches of this thick, girthy length, “fuck you’re so fucking tight. You feel that? Feel me? How deep I am?”

“Yes,” you mewl, “yes—so deep. F-feel so full. You feel so good.”

He groans at that, pulling out almost completely before slamming his hips into yours, cock burying deep into you and burying to the hilt. The tip of his sensitive length kisses against that sweet, delicate spot against your walls—your spot that he knows and memorizes so easily. 

He knows you. Knows your body. He’s felt it so many times under him and made it react for him the way he wants, but finally—fucking finally, it reacts to him and only him. He knows it’s him and only him. Only ever will be if he has anything to say about it. 

“God, you drive me insane. So insane, you know that?” he grunts, rolling his hips hard and fast and drilling into you like he has something to prove. Every slam of his hips and every brush of his cock along your sensitive folds makes you pull him closer, kissing him hungrily—desperately. So needy. 

You need him. You’ve always needed this—someone to want you and need you and find you worth it to stay. How could you think Phainon didn’t want to stay when he was so clearly happy with just pieces of you because you didn’t want to give the full of you? When he stayed and stayed and stayed and happily took the little shards you dropped, even if they were sharp, and cut his fingers because they were pieces of you. When he was just happy to have you whichever way you let him because it was you. 

All he wanted was you. You get that now. You’re not going to forget. 

“‘M close,” you pant, breathing against his mouth, “g-gonna cum. With me…with me, please.”

“Yeah? Whatever you want, princess,” he groans. 

His hand moves to find your clit, rubbing quick circles as his own pace quickens, and you can feel the telltale signs that both of you are not going to last much longer. He lets out a particularly deep, sharp thrust—and you’re gone. 

Plummeting off the edge in a hazy fall. You mewl his name, chanting it over and over and over as your walls constrict around him tightly. Spasm around him uncontrollably. And your fall coaxes him into his own. He falls into his release with a soft, drawn-out moan of your name, hot, thick seed filling you up through quick ropes of cum. His cock twitches with each rope, painting your insides white with him. 

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “so fucking good—you were made for me. Only me. Knew…knew you were perfect for me since the first day.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him as close as he can get without physically merging into your bones. His head tucks into your neck, and you both ride out the aftershocks of your highs. You feel him breathe, and he listens to your soft breaths, and it’s just you and Phainon. Phainon and you.

It always has been.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles tiredly after a while, sleepy words said through a petulant warning. 

You chuckle, kissing his sweaty forehead as you promise, “I won’t.”

“Good. Won’t let you.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Your own eyes start to grow heavy with exhaustion, slowly fluttering closed until—

“Who’s that?” you look at him in confusion as you hear an incessant knocking on the door. 

He chuckles sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Ah,” he sighs, “right. That’s…that’s just Mydei. He’s coming to make sure I eat instead of starving to death from sadness.”

You blink, and then you throw your head back, laughing loudly. He watches you for a moment, smiling softly at the sound of you flooding his space. “You’re hopeless, Phainon.”

“Am not!”

“Go tell Mydei to leave and that you’re alive.”

“...Okay.”

Idk what this is. It’s 10k words of pure babbling and hardly a single coherent thought. I’m sorry dfksksjr this isn’t my best work but . I needed to get him out of my system

The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older. 

It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”

The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”

Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air. 

You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.

This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself. 

Except…nothing happens.

The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”

And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you. 

And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea. 

“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.

“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe. 

“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”

He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind. 

“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”

“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”

“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust. 

“And I’m going home,” you say flatly. 

You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)

But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”

“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.

“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”

“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”

He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.

(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore. 

(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore. 

Still, he always does in front of you. 

Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)

It happens on a Friday night.

You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited. 

Until you’re not. 

You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do. 

It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there. 

It guts you. 

You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)

In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )

You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon. 

“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”

“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”

He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text. 

But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”

“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”

“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”

“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”

He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that. 

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”

“Then don’t,” he offers.

You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.

“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”

“Are you buying?” you perk up.

He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”

You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.

He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his. 

“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.

“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”

“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.

He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”

“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”

“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”

“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)

“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”

“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”

“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.

You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh. 

Your eyes widen as you realize. 

Oh.

Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over. 

There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.

“Yo, what the fuck—”

“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)

“Who the hell are you—”

“What’s your fucking problem man—”

“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)

Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means. 

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily. 

Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange. 

Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face. 

“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”

“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”

He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”

“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”

“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)

“You’re still a crybaby!”

“Am not!”

“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)

He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”

“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.

“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore. 

But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature. 

But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”

He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”

You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”

(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it. 

You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)

It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon. 

“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)

“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.

“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”

“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”

“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.

“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share. 

He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes. 

Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different. 

“What?” you ask.

Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”

You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.

His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his. 

“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.

You don’t ask what he means. You already know. 

It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now. 

You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him. 

“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”

It won’t.

It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.

“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”

“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.

And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on. 

He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders. 

“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”

“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.

“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly. 

“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”

You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)

“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”

“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease. 

“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”

“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)

“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”

“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”

He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”

“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.

Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever. 

His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him. 

“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”

“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”

“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.

“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”

“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”

He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”

“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”

With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give. 

He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears. 

“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.

He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”

You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”

“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”

You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound. 

It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that. 

Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.

“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.

“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you. 

He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm. 

“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.

“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”

“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”

It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of. 

“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.

“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers. 

He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”

“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you. 

“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”

“Good,” he hums. 

His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.

“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”

“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”

“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”

He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.) 

“When did they change for you?”

“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”

“On your first date that broke your heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swinging things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”

“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin. 

He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.

You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”

His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe. 

“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”

And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it. 

“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”

“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”

He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp. 

He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily. 

“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it. 

He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”

You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady. 

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

“More than okay,” he says, voice strained. 

“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again. 

It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion. 

“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…” 

He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”

“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one. 

(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before. 

Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you. 

The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.) 

It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.

“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this. 

This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him. 

“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”

With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon. 

“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”

Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need. 

“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”

“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls. 

“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.

“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace. 

It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly. 

“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”

“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”

“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit. 

Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.

He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak. 

When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.

“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.

“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”

“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”

You snort. “Is that why you cried?”

He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”

“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.

“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”

“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”

“Yeah?” he beams.

“Yeah,” you grin. 

(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants. 

He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.

And then it rains. 

It rains hard.

You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it. 

You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water. 

He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.

“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”

He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder. 

This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you. 

And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life. 

“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”

“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out. 

“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.

But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.

So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching. 

You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand. 

“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks. 

You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed. 

Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you. 

Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.

It’s that simple. It always was. 

He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”

“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”

He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently. 

“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”

You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you. 

You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three. 

“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”

“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little. 

“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy. 

And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you. 

“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”

You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”

“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”

“Still you,” you snort. 

He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”

“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”

(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)

He looks back to the days when he and Alek were less scarred, literally and metaphorically, by the world that had shaped them. Despite the two men being cousins, many thought them to be brothers, and in some cases, they thought they were twins. Sergi would argue that if they were twins, he would be the more attractive one. Alek just rolled his eyes at the older man’s confidence, but he never argued otherwise.

The boys never blamed anyone for the innocent mistake. For cousins, they looked uncannily similar. Thinking about that just brought Sergi more dread. 

They say blood doesn’t define family, but in the case of the Stolyarchuk boys, it bonded them together. Their very beings were created from the same stardust, tying them together on this plane of existence. Where one goes, the other is close behind, ready to defend each other against every threat they face. From bar fights to asking Minjo out on that first date, Alek was ready to drag his idiot older cousin from trouble and Sergi was ready to fight for his baby cousin.

 That’s what brothers do. 

The night that Alek had become Alpha, the two had gone out to get tattoos commemorating the event. A big night meant a big celebration, and what bigger one was there than a matching tattoo, some booze and ample hope for what the future will bring? After carefully reviewing their options (really it was Alek stopping Sergi from choosing the first tattoo he saw), they decided to get the others' wolf form, starting from the chest and trailing down their arms.

A silent promise was made that night. That Aleksandr would lead his pack into a bright and prosperous future (and make his big brother proud), and that Sergi will always be Alek’s right-hand man no matter what (and to keep his baby brother safe).

Unbeknownst to Alek, Sergi had a special request for his tattoo. If you looked carefully at the fur of the wolf’s neck, you can see little words hidden among the lines. Мој мали брат. My little brother. No matter where Sergi had gone, he would carry his little brother with him. 

(It’s a shame, really, that Chelsea will never get the chance to. He wanted to share every part of him and now part of him was missing.)

He lost that connection when his arm was ripped from his body, when his little brother was ripped from his life. The only physical reminder that he had of Alek was staring right back at him in the mirror.

To call his death an adjustment period would be a disrespect to the impact Alek had on the pack’s lives. It’s been months since the Blackwell attack, and even longer since the crash, yet everyone still looks at Sergi like he’s him. That because they share the same name or look eerily similar, that he has all the right answers. 

He doesn’t. He will never be half the leader Alek was, but that didn’t change how the pack couldn’t separate the two.

It won’t change the fact that Alek’s name will follow his when Marco asks Sergi to join in on pack fun. Before, Sergi would drag Alek to relax with his family. Now there wasn’t a scowling Alpha begrudgingly following him.

It didn’t change the fact that he could see Minjo’s eyes glistening under the light, wiping her own tears before anyone could see them fall. He knew that in her mind’s eye, her husband was playing with their kids, as it should be. 

It didn’t change the fact that JiAn and Nikolas Jr. have called him father. The children’s eyes were blurry and for a blissful moment, they forgot that their father’s funeral was weeks ago. Sergi was more than willing to provide that respite from grief, even if it amplified his own. 

As children, Alek and Sergi were brimmed with pride that they were forever intertwined. As a man, Sergi so desperately wanted to separate from his brother, an action he knew would be impossible. Even his own heart had forgotten where he ended and Alek began. 

Or should he say “had begun,” considering there was no Alek left for his magic to be weaved with? His death had left a void in its wake, an ever-present feeling (or lack thereof) that just felt wrong. It was a void that his wolf, his magic, his very being was so desperate to fill.

There was no more Sergi and Alek. 

Just Sergi.

And that was the loneliest outcome of all. 

He looks back up at the mirror, Alek’s ghost staring right back at him. He deserves it. To be eternally haunted by the brother he could not save. To be constantly reminded of the beloved father, husband and Alpha that he let die. For once in his life, he wishes that he didn’t resemble Alek as much as he did. That he could go back to being Alek’s cousin, not brother. Maybe then it would be easier for him to look at his reflection. 

(It wouldn’t. His own image has forever been tainted by the dead.)

If he focused, really focused, he could still see his right arm attached to his body. He could see the full wolf art of his late brother. And he could still see the little writing within the fur of the neck. Мој мали брат. It's a cruel twist of fate that the immediate moment Alek had died, Sergi’s tattoo to honour his brother was forcibly removed too. Almost like he wasn’t worthy of that joyful memory between the two, tainted like every other memory that he held precious. He’d be inclined to believe that to be the case. 

Sergi wasn’t a man who usually shed tears, but in that bathroom, he clutched his head and as he cracked under the pressure of the weight of Alek’s memory. Was it so much for a man to want his brother back? Please? If there was a God out there, wouldn’t He be kind enough to grant this simple wish? (Sergi knew he should have prayed more when he was younger.)

There was a soft tap against the door and it dragged Sergi out of his pool of misery. (She was making it a habit to save him from drowning.) 

Shit, he thought that Chelsea was already asleep when he got up. Had he woken her up? Ruined her sleep because he couldn’t swallow down his pain as he should?

“Sergi, can I come in? Or are you gonna come out soon?” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft, not the usual Alpha voice she has started to use around the pack. But rather the love-filled tone that was reserved for him and him alone. Forgive him for being a little wolf-like, but knowing that only he was privy to her more carefree yet loving side did wonders for him.

He sighed, washing his face to get rid of his weakness. “Yeah, Cherry Baby, I’m coming out.” He placed his hand and took a deep breath, composing himself before he saw her. He didn’t need to dump more shit on her than she already carries. He opened the door, his dark brown eyes meeting her kind gaze. His wolf howled at the sense of peace she brought him.

safesafesafesafe

Ain’t this a pretty sight? Sergi Stolyarchuk howling because of a person he loves. The things Chelsea did to him were indescribable, not like he’s complaining. 

She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed his collarbone. “Everything all right? You’ve been in there for a while and I heard some sniffling.” Of course, she heard him there. Forgetting the fact that she’s an Alpha, she’s also a wolf with better hearing than most of the damn planet.

He buried his face in her hair, trying to put together an excuse that’ll satisfy Chelsea’s need to take care of everyone (though she argues as Alpha that it’s her duty to), and make sure he wasn’t lying to her. Sergi repeatedly opened and closed his mouth, willing for some words to leave his mouth, knowing every silent moment made her more worried. He started to shake in her arms, trying to hold back the floodgate of emotions to pour out of him.

Before he could say anything, Chelsea rubbed her hands up and down his bare back. She maneuvered herself so that she could hold Sergi’s face in her hands and looked him in the eye. “If you don’t wanna talk now, that’s ok. But I am here for you, always and forever.”

‘Safe. Sergi.’ Her wolf cried out to him. ‘You’re safe with me and you won’t get hurt, not if I have anything to say about it. As your Alpha and as your lover, nothing will bring you pain while you’re in my arms, not for as long as I have a pulse and a heart hellbent on protecting you.’

Oh, the hold this woman has on him. He wouldn’t change it for the world.

He smiled and rested his forehead against hers, the single most devoted gesture that a wolf can do for their mate. (Mate, huh? He never thought he’d be the type to get a mate, but if it’s Chelsea then he’d choose her a hundred times over, in every lifetime.) “Thank you, Chesna. For everything you do for me,” he choked out through his tears.

She used both hands to cup his face, wiping his tears and bringing him closer for a kiss. Kissing Chelsea may be the greatest experience that there was ever to exist. Flying to the moon or winning a championship may produce incomparable euphoria, but there were multiple rings to win or space missions to be had. 

There was only one Chelsea Roberts to kiss. One Chelsea with her cherry lips and her rosy cheeks that flushed when she got embarrassed. One Chelsea and her authoritative smirk that he was madly obsessed with kissing off her face. One Chelsea who looked and held him like he was the most precious and beautiful star in the night sky, despite the scars and bruises that marred his body.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she said as she kissed the scar where his right eye should be. “Your scars are beautiful because it’s proof that you’re alive and here. That you survived through hell and came out with a smile.” She spent the rest of that night kissing and complimenting his body. It’s a night he reminisces about when he’s feeling his lowest.

There was one Chelsea Roberts and Sergi Stolyarchuk had the honour of calling her his. What a lucky bastard.

She pulled away from the forever-too-brief kiss, giggling at his pout when she didn’t lean in for another one. “All right there, loverboy. Let’s head back to bed” – she gently pushed him at his suggestive expression – “and get some sleep. Actual sleep.”

He laughed at her adorable and exasperated expression, letting her drag him back to their bed. His heart felt full knowing that he was able to share himself at his most vulnerable moment and that Chelsea could do the same. For two guarded people, any step taken with trust and love in mind made him giddy. 

The two wolves slid under the covers and faced each other. Chelsea smiled, thumbing the scar over his right eye and looked at him with all the love she could muster. It was a slow process, he is a stubborn bastard, but he was slowly accepting the fact that he was worthy of the look. She made him feel like he was worth a second look of adoration.

It was all too much for him, but the good kind. The kind of ‘too much’ that makes your heart sink because of how full your heart feels.

Choking on his utter love and devotion and admiration he has for her, he managed to tell her, “I love you, Chesna.”

Her eyes widened, and she stopped herself from denying his feelings for her. He hated that. That there was a part of Cherry that would always be shocked to hear that, like she hasn’t heard it before a thousand times. No matter, he’ll always be here to remind her how his magic sang for her.

With shy eyes and a beautiful smile, she repeated back to him, “I love you too.”

Both of their wolves howled in sync, overcome by the connection the two had for each other.

lovelovelovelove

Chelsea guided his head to lay on her chest, playing with his hair and singing a lullaby from when she was young. With every note the woman let out, Sergi fell deeper and deeper into a sleep.

Before he could fully enter the realm of dreams, a final thought crossed his mind like a shooting star.

The night he lost his constant in Alek, he gained another one through Chelsea. And whatever stardust created him, he was certain that she was from that same nebula, and that connection would bind them together for the rest of their time on this plane.

He never thought he could picture a future without his brother. He was certain that whatever dreams he had would revolve around him.

Qifrey understood that feeling all too well. He didn't have a family that he knew of. (They were probably dead.) He couldn't tell anyone where his home was. (Any time he tried to think, all he could think of was that cursed box.) He didn't even know simple questions about himself, like what was his favourite colour? (Blue – at least he thinks it is. But not blue like the ocean; but like the bountiful sky he was barred from seeing.)

(In his darkest moments, where he lies awake at night, he often thinks about how Qifrey was not even his true name. He thanks Beldaruit for gifting him an identity, but there will always be a hole that he won't be able to fill. He has learned over time to make a name for himself – He is Qifrey the Apprentice and no one would be able to take that away from him. Yet the mind, as wondrous as it is, is also the heart's most dangerous ally, for only it can think about the alternate universes where he is not Qifrey but a boy with a family.)

(Please don't take my life again, he begged, but there would be no one who would listen. He would soon learn to make that decision for himself.)

Beldaruit was certainly wise, and with his age comes a certain way to manipulate the truth to fit his narrative. And he wasn't wrong; technically, Qifrey can't be an Unknowing if he doesn't know anything to begin with. The other sages agreed, although Vinanna was always wary of him. He supposed that it couldn't be helped as the 'Wise in Principle'. It was her job to keep all of witchkind in check, and he stood as the biggest threat to their security as of late.

Even after an extermination attempt, if one cockroach survives and is left alone, another infestation is bound to follow.

Perhaps one day, Qifrey would be a grand enough witch so that he may drown out all of the scum that has infected him. Maybe then he will find his eye and all the memories stolen from him.

But for all his effort, he couldn't make these spells work for the life of him. They would technically perform – the fire will burn, and the wind will blow – but it never takes the form he needs it to be. Nor go in the direction he wants for it to go. Even with Beldaruit's gentle encouragement, there always seemed to be something that would go awry.

(He just wanted to create a spell that would keep him dry.)

It seems as though the olden witches were right in their decision to create the pact. If magic were truly for everyone, shouldn't everyone be able to use it intuitively? Instead, he was struggling just as a child would struggle to write. Vinanna was right to be suspicious of him; he truly was an unknowing.

But it wasn't fair – not his stolen memories nor his distaste for water. Qifrey was barely a man, and he was sure that if his mother were around, he would still have been considered her child. Except he would never know what his mother was like, or if he even had one. His entire life was ripped away from him, sitting somewhere next to his missing eye.

Qifrey gripped his hair, ripping it from his skull. His head seared with pain as the ache of his ignorance and the sound of the rushing water around him. It unfortunately didn't help that the entire assembly felt like his little box, except this time, he had plenty of people to share his personal hell.

Did he even need magic? Qifrey thought to himself. Part of him was willing to run away to the outside world, away from the rules and regulations that bound his hands and silenced his tongue. He was quite young, and there were always ways for him to grow – both in stature and in spirit. Perhaps if he focused on his body and not his penmanship, then perhaps he could brute force his way through the Hats.

But if they can use magic without creating a magic seal (if his research is to be trusted), then simple knives wouldn't fare all that much against his most loathed foe. His frustration was even enough to mask the scent of roses that appeared. Weren't they under the ocean? Were flowers that fragrant even survive down here?

"Your lines are sloppy." A curt voice spoke over his shoulder, haughty in tone and confident in nature. Qifrey jumped in his seat, surprised by the uninvited voice. He was often used to people letting him wallow in his misery, so this was a change of pace; he just wasn't sure if it was welcomed or not.

He looked to his side to see a child's face, probably someone around his age, whose eyes were glaring at his magic seal. With a raised eyebrow and a disgusted look, he could only imagine the type of person you were. Haughty and all-knowing, like the other apprentices who shame him for his lack of knowledge. It took a lot of restraint and coaching from his master to not lash out when he was taunted. 

The second thing he noticed about you was the clothing you were wearing. They were simple in colour, the solid white being a standard for most apprentices. Yet yours were adorned in golden and red accents. The crest on your chest was his final clue that you were someone of importance. Whose life would matter if you went missing.

Unlike him, so forgotten by the world that even he is left ignorant of his own existence.

(Qifrey wasn't wrong. It was just a shame that no one could find you in time.)

When he didn't react to your taunt, eyes focused back to his paper and pen, you scoffed. You placed your body between his focused face and the desk he was hunched over. Qifrey – ever the menace but still a gentleman at heart – pushed away from your invading frame, glaring at the intrusion into his personal space.

"What in the devil is your problem?" he sneered, trying to push you out of his way. All of the assembly apprentices were the same; if they weren't fearful of him, then they were trying to pester him to leave. At least he had the conviction to stay and learn; that's more than what he can say about those who had magic handed to them. 

"Your magic isn't stable, which makes the flame weak." You turned away, looking back at the desk. Once you have deemed his seal sufficiently scrutinized, you point at it. "See? The lines are shaky, and the sigils aren't centred. You're never going to get your desired result if you rush like this."

"Aren't the best witches supposed to be able to draw their seals with speed?" Qifrey asked with an annoyed tone. It was one thing to hear Master Beldaruit's gentle criticism, but here you were lambasting his poor attempt at magic.

"Yes, but they also master precision first." You turned back around to look him in his eyes – or eye in his case. You squinted, and he could almost see the slight recognition on your face. "You're the unknowing stray Uncle Beldaruit brought in." Damn it, of course you knew who he was. Now he had to face the same ridicule that he's been receiving from everyone else.

"Quite the harsh way of putting it?" he said with a sardonic smile. Qifrey was finally able to push past you and went to gather his belongings from the little desk. So much for being able to work in peace away from the bustle of the Assembly. He often found himself by the outskirts and near the water barrier in order to find some form of serenity. The occasional droplets that burned his skin made him good at preventing him from letting his guard down. "Now, if you excuse me, I am going to work elsewhere."

Before he could turn away, you managed to surprise him.

"My apologies, I understand how that term can be insulting." You didn't make an excuse, nor did you mince your words to downplay what you have done. Perhaps you had more sense than most of the apprentices that he's had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting. "Unfortunately, there isn't a more… kinder way to explain your kind."

"To your dismay, we are not some otherworldly creature that hides under your bed." Was it truly strange to have people who weren't born into magic enter your world? If knowledge was best shared so that it could be innovated and improve the lives of people, then why were you witches so hellbent on keeping it a secret? He would follow your fallacious rules if only to keep learning about this magic that has ruined his life.

"Well forgive me that I've never had to interact with an unknowing– I suppose human would be a more fitting term." Your insufferable tone returned, long gone any regret from your voice. Qifrey was always confused when the other witches referred to the 'unknowing' as human, as if everyone wasn't made of the same flesh and blood. There was a story in his heart of how the world came from clay, even if he couldn't picture where exactly it came from. 

Yet before he could continue this banter – that Qifrey begrudgingly found some enjoyment in – the Sage of Distrust fell from the sky and landed behind you. Great, not only did he have to deal with you and your insufferable voice, he now had to pretend in front of Vinanna that he was a functional member of magic society. Not that he isn't, but he knows that she is looking for one chance to put him on trial once again and cast him out into this cold and unforgiving world. 

"Dear grandchild?" Her voice was still stern; he wouldn't dare call her soft. But when the great Sage spoke to you, there was an exasperated fondness in her eyes. Like a person who watched their cat knock down another vase. Perhaps you had more of an edge than he gave you credit for.

"Come now, it's almost dinner time, and your parents are worried for you." She turns to Qifrey, and with all warmth drained from her heart, she acknowledges him for the first time during this interaction. "You best return to your master, young one. Beldaruit tends to worry for strays that wander too far from his care."

Qifrey understood quickly where you get your blunt tongue from.

He nodded, bowing slightly with respect. As much as he thought respect should go both ways, he wasn't about to create a scene with you present. He didn't have the chance to make a clean exit when you turned back to call out to him.

"Using fire magic to create a drying spell is needlessly difficult. Try using water magic and use a sigil to repel it away from you." Qifrey internalized the advice, actually finding it quite helpful. Logically, it would make the most sense to try to repel water rather than to loop the fire magic to endlessly keep him dry. But bless your heart, you weren't aware of his aversion to liquid, and he'd rather not practice with something he was petrified about. 

Although maybe it would be best for him to become a master at it. It would be the best way for him to overcome his fear. His poor, unfortunate heart, you gave him much to ponder over this evening. 

Despite the growing distance between the two of you, Qifrey could still hear your grandmother chastising you for speaking to him. Whispered warnings about how you must stay away from that boy and how he might drag you back to that group again. It was the again that caught his attention, wondering what Vinnana could possibly have meant by that. Perhaps the two of you had more in common than he thought, but he shrugged that thought away. There were more important matters at hand, like implementing your advice into his spell.

After he composed his thoughts, he gathered his things and rushed back to the centre of the Assembly, but not before running into another nuisance.

"I see you've met the Great Sage's grandchild!" Olruggio's voice perked up from the side. Qifrey observed him, and with the way he was leaning casually against the wall, it seemed like he watched that entire bastard. What a nosy bastard, and he didn't have the decency to even step in and save him from his humiliation.

"I didn't know the Sage even had a child, let alone a grandchild." He stopped to acknowledge his fellow apprentice, because calling him a friend made his heart creak and his eye ache. 

Olruggio hummed with acknowledgement. "Yes, they don't tend to make an appearance often, letting the more public spectacle fall onto the Sage and their parents. But from what I've heard, they're a prodigy at their craft and every master has been begging them to join their atelier."

Qifrey would hope that you would be half decent at magic. Perhaps that's why you were judging his own seal – probably to see where you would have been had you been born to a regular family. But then how much of your success could be attributed to you as a person rather than the family crest you carried on your chest?

"Besides, they're quite a beauty aren't they? Dare I say they're the prettiest witch in our cohort of apprentices?" Olruggio started to daydream about being your knight in shining armour, and Qifrey could see what he held for you was a childish fantasy at best. He refused to feed into any more delusions that his peer would come up with.

Qifrey does agree, though, that you were quite pretty – pretty annoying that is.

(He dares not think about the way his heart quickened and creaked when you stared at him. Your stare was so heavy that he was tempted to spill all of his secrets at that moment. Whoever you were, you were dangerous to him – your beauty, the most complicated spell and your tongue, the sharpest knife. And he realized all of this before noticing that his left eye started to function less and less as the days went on. The smell of those sweet roses that permeated from your skin was going to haunt him for the rest of forever. Or at least if he was a weaker witch, that was what he thought would happen.)

But it was alright, because he would never have to see you again. The two of you hovered in different social and magical classes. Sure, he was the apprentice of the great Wise in Teachings, and the two of you were apprentices; but that didn't change the fact that you were of noble blood – practically royalty in the eyes of his peers and elders – while he was just some eyeless boy the Sages took pity on.

So when the next day, you plopped down on the bench where he was eating lunch, sitting in the spot where Olruggio usually occupied, he raised his eyebrow with suspicion. You had no food with you, so you weren't looking to sit and have a meal. And if you were, he was sure that any of the other tables would have pushed their own to have you grace them with your presence. He could feel the envy radiating off of the other apprentices – not that he minded all that much. Still, his curiosity was piqued. Why were you here with him and not somewhere else?

"I heard that you have a history with the Brimmed Hats?" From the way you were so sure of yourself, Qifrey didn't know why you even bothered to ask. If he had to suspect, you probably heard from the conversations your grandmother had with your parents. How aggravating that his lack of life was reduced to table-side gossip for you and your family.

He didn't respond to that allegation, just simply nodding to confirm your already confirmed suspicion. You hummed, placing both of your hands onto the table to lean closer and whisper once again into his ear. He tried to keep a straight face, but once again the alluring scent of roses almost lulled him to comfort – a dangerous thing for his poor heart.

"You would be best if you stayed away from those wicked fiends." Your face was solemn, with none of your usual charm– or lack thereof. Qifrey understood why your words held more weight than usual. The talk of the Brimmed Hats was almost forbidden in the assembly, where the adults would rather live in a false reality where everyone followed the pact to the letter of the law. But when it comes to human laws that were treated like natural rules, there will always be those who argue against them. Perhaps it is where their convictions lie, or perhaps they simply wanted to break from the norm.

Yet this agreement not to acknowledge their existence made his investigation harder. No one was willing to speak to him – even after the 'I lost all of my memories' pity card he abused to get what he wanted. But his pain, albeit a little exaggerated for maximum emotional manipulation, wasn't enough to unlock the silence forced upon the people. Even Olruggio would subtly veer his curiosity away towards the more childlike wonder that came with magic.

Except for you. You didn't flinch nor looked away with guilt.

"Who are you to stop me from confronting them?" Qifrey never did like when anyone told him what to do, and he certainly didn't like being condescended to. A quiet anger simmered under his skin, the way a tree would radiate scorching heat when out in the sun for too long.

Your hand goes to the base of your throat like you were going to clear your throat, but there was a slight tension in your neck. It almost looked like you were struggling to breathe. You tried to open your mouth to say something, but all Qifrey heard were choked gasps and a frustrated groan.

"Just… heed my warning," you said after taking a deep breath. You stood up and walked away as if nothing had happened. As if he didn't get a small peek behind your facade, of a young child who was terrified of others making the same mistake as you did. But he wasn't going to listen to you – he couldn't. Not when, for the first time since he begrudgingly called this underwater prison a home, he found a lead for those dreaded Brimmed Hats. 

Qifery apologized to you in his head; he was about to keep you close for the most selfish reasons. It will all be worth it if he can get his eye back. Then, he would be able to properly admire you and all your glory with both of his eyes.

(He didn't need to know that you had your own reasons to keep him close. You weren't naive; the minute you issued your warning, you could see in his eye that he was not going to let this go. That was alright by you, as long as he didn't bring your shared past close to home. You clutch your necklace, praying that the magic seal inscribed upon it will last another day before it needs to be redone.)

When you had started joining the disaster duo on their hijinks and adventures, Olruggio had asked Qifrey why you had started to join them. "It's not that I'm complaining," he said, hands up in surrender. "But isn't it a little odd that the Sage's grandchild has decided to join two nobodies?" 

"You're the prodigy of Godfrey, and I am the apprentice of the Teaching Sage; we're not exactly nobodies," Qifrey clarified. You had brought a certain calm to his reckless plans and Olruggio's constant panic. Whenever either of the young boys veered too far on either end of the emotional scale, you brought them back to centre. It was refreshing having someone be normal – well, as normal as you could be.

The Knights Moralis were tasked to tail you in your everyday life. You weren't even able to walk inside a humble store without having at least two guards standing outside of it. Qifrey found it absurd; yes, you were a child of a Sage, thus were privy to extra protection; however, if the Great Hall was as safe as everyone claimed, then why were you in need of such surveillance? Even if a conflict were to arise, it wasn't like the Great Hall was in a shortage of witches to lend their aid. And even then, he would begrudgingly mention that you were a talented enough witch on your own to handle yourself. 

Qifrey watched as you tried to run away from your guards, your little strides failing to outrun the pace of the Knights. It was almost sad seeing you like this, and in his kindness (really pity), his arm shot out from the alleyway and dragged you to him.

"What are you doing?" you whispered harshly, refraining from yelling so that the Knights don't find you. You didn't resist his hold, following him to wherever you thought he was going. 

Qifrey didn't say a word until the two of you stood in front of his humble abode. Beldaruit had offered a place inside his own home, but Qifrey thought it would be best for him to have some level of independence. 

(The less attached he was, the better it was for his health anyway.)

"You can stay here if you ever need to run away from the Knights," he offered, opening the door to his room. It was less grand than what you were probably used to, but it was his, and he would take pride in it.

You stood there, head turning back to where the Knights were. After taking a moment to ponder – really, it was an obvious decision from the start, you had walked inside his room. Qifrey then walked in himself and closed the door behind him. 

Neither of you had spoken a word, content to sit in the awkward silence. Qifrey had tried to speak up – at least ask how your day had gone, but you had raised your hand to silence him. He huffed, not even knowing why he had offered his room as a sanctuary. Yet it was obvious in the way your shoulders sagged and your breathing deepened that this was the first time in a while that you were able to relax.

(At least, relax as much as the two of you could.)

The first time that this happened, you had let him know that this was never going to happen again. Fine by him, he thought. He couldn't spend another moment with your pompous self. But then the second time, you wandered in because you were in the neighbourhood. The third time, you were breathless and in need of a break from running. By the fourth, Qifrey had stopped believing your excuses.

"You're allowed to admit that you missed me," Qifrey teased, poking your heated cheeks. You didn't confirm his accusation, moving to sit on his bed. But you didn't deny it either.

Qifrey had once thought that this was part of his plan – a ploy to have you lower your guard and give him information on the Brimmed Hats, but he soon got distracted by other conversation topics. Slowly, he realized that he'd learned a lot of things, but none about the Brimmed.

Over these interactions, Qifrey had come to learn more about you beyond the basic information he heard on the street. You specialized in wind magic, creating gusts to help you float or harsh blades in the name of self-defence. That wasn't to discredit the other forms of magic you knew, but it was clear you prefer to wander in and out of the room, like a breeze in the wind or a ghost haunting the living. He had also come to learn that despite your refined upbringing, it often took you half a moment to remember what emotions were. In a room full of laughter, yours would be the last he would hear. Qifrey supposed it was just a quirk of who you were, so drilled with the idea of etiquette, you didn't dare breathe if it wasn't the correct thing to do. 

He'd also come to learn about the things you disliked; the knights were an obvious one, but you also disliked the general crowd and the performed flattery that they provided. The two of you had a shared dislike for the watery walls that surrounded you, and he was surprised to learn that you didn't care for physical touch. It was a shame considering how often he found people granting themselves access to your body.

Qifrey, for what it was worth, had tried to reciprocate the information that you had shared, but the more he tried to think about the little facts about himself, the more rage he felt at what was robbed from him. But still, that didn't stop him from finding peace in these mundane conversations; you were not the Sage's blood, nor was he Beldaruit's stray. Just two children who were able to find friendship with each other.

(Yet after every meeting, his eye would sear with pain, and your heart would be left aching. A phantom pain of what was to come.)

Qifrey had learned through the hard way that the thing you hated the most was when people would spit gossip about you when your back was turned, which unfortunately was quite a common occurrence for you. "I don't understand why people are entitled to information that serves them no purpose," you had once complained to him.

He remembered the one time he had to witness it.

Whispers tend to follow regardless of where you go. It was to be expected given that you are a descendant of a Sage, yet willingly surrounding yourself with those who were below your status. Those rumours didn't bother you all that much, always holding your head above the water. But there was once when someone had asked you about an event a few years ago – a disappearance of sorts. They taunted you, asking how a witch of your calibre could have been taken, even if you were too young to hold a stable pen.

When he saw that person again with a black eye and missing teeth, Qifrey asked you what had happened. He really meant to ask what did you do to that poor child.

"They were prying into business that didn't concern them. I merely gave them a reason to not look any further." Your tone was absolute, and your voice was casual, as if you had done something like this before. In most cases, taking violent action such as this would have landed you on trial with the Knights Moralis, but when your grandmother was the head of it all, it made sense why you hadn't faced any consequences.

Still, he didn't ask you any more questions, lest you decide to take his remaining working eye. 

Despite your refined and sharp edges, Qifrey noticed that it wasn't your natural state of being. You were blunt and enraging at points, but you were never rude on purpose. Whenever he would struggle with a spell, your advice would come in absolutes – do this, and you won't fail. For better or worse, you never hid the knowledge that you knew. It took Qifrey a few months to learn that's how you show your care.

He even saw it in how you interacted with the younger apprentices, taking the time to earnestly answer their questions regardless of how simple they were. You helped them use the right sigils and gave them advice to keep their little hands steady. Qifrey thought about how you would have made a fantastic master and how wonderful your atelier would be. He'd volunteer to be your watchful eye – fiercely protecting your borders from any threats that would dare to lay harm. Somewhere far away in the valleys in the Zozah Peninsula, where you and he can be far away from the stiff air of the Great Hall.

Qifrey hissed in pain, hand clutching his missing eye. You looked over with your eyes furrowed and mouth open to say something. He waved you off, letting you know that it was nothing and for you to attend to your makeshift students. It didn't stop you from keeping your eye on him. 

(He couldn't forget a conversation he heard in passing between two fruit vendors. Of course, they were talking about you because it seemed that the Great Hall didn't have anything else better to talk about. But for once, they weren't criticizing you for some minuscule reason. "It's quite strange to see them like this," one of them spoke in hushed whispers. His eye kept glancing toward the Knight stationed not too far off. "Ever since… their incident, they haven't been the same.")

("Quite a shame too, they were such a bright child. The only ray of light in this underwater city.")

He often wondered what had happened for you to become so jaded. Was it the expectations unfairly placed on your shoulders? The ones you carried with such grace, it was as if you were born with it. Or perhaps it was something darker – something that he knew too well yet couldn't remember.

"Couldn't sleep?" Your voice had broken his concentration, ending another night where all of his thoughts led back to you. You sat beside him on the log – a makeshift seat used to sit around a campfire. Under the light of actual stars, your eyes weren't as dull as usual, and your shoulders weren't as stiff. He liked to see you like this, a glimpse of the child that you kept protected in your heart.

The two of you sat in silence – another thing that he loved about you. Unlike you, many of the other people he's interacted with in the Great Hall would ask him countless questions, from his magic to his past to even about his master. Qifrey didn't have your patience to answer all of them, giving the shortest answers so that he may exit as quickly as possible. Even Olruggio, despite being one of his closest friends, would often fill his silence with his thoughts. He has come to enjoy hearing Olruggio speak, but sometimes, he just wants quiet. Silence that didn't demand to be ended.

You and your darling heart had granted him that peace.

Olruggio snored off to the side, lying on top of a portable sleeping cot that he had brought with him. Qifrey smiled as he watched his friend, both amused and baffled as to how he could fall asleep so quickly. Did he not have dreams that would leave him awake and unsettled? Until the next time he has to fall asleep? He watched his beloved friend as he breathed the air like it wasn't a struggle. Perhaps one day, he too would never feel that rush of panic.

"Do you ever wish you could sleep as peacefully as him?" Qifrey asked, eye turning to look at your face shining in the moonlight. 

You pondered for a moment, letting his question linger in the air. In that quiet moment, Qifrey took his time to observe you. Under the watery prison of the Great Hall, it was clear that you were missing some colour in your face, always tinged a soft blue. But you glowed under the glow of the sun and the light of the moon, colour coming to your face. Utterly ethereal and completely divine, if he had to ascribe a face to the Star who fell for the Silverwood Tree, it would be yours. 

(Wood creaked under his bones and he winced at the pain in his head, begging for his heart to become the seed it was always meant to be.)

As much as he wished to confess to you – despite the odd pain it would bring whenever he thought about it  – he kept his mouth shut. Even on the small chance that you actually felt the same towards him, your status was too much of a difference between you. He would never want to drag you down with him, lest you become subject to even more gossip and vitriol.

A domesticated stray was still a stray at the end of the day.

"I do, though it's quite concerning to see him lose his guard so suddenly." Your criticism was softened by the fondness in your voice. "Doesn't he look like a tired cat who spent the day lazing around?"

"He does," Qifrey chuckled, his own care for Olruggio tainting his voice. He often wished that he could spend forever with the two of you – the most important people in his world. "I do wonder what kind of nightmares a noble child such as yourself would have to suffer. Did your tailor bring you clothing in the wrong shade of red yet still worth more than the gross earnings of the  peninsula?"

You scoffed, opening your mouth to retort to his claim, but nothing came out. Yet again, Qifrey saw the words you desperately wanted to say get stuck in your throat. But this time, you didn't cough like you usually do. Instead, you took a deep breath and continued with a forced deflection. "Do you often have nightmares of what the Brimmed Hats did to you?" 

Qifrey took in a sharp breath. He never spoke about his time with those damned witches, and to your credit, you never asked him about it further after that lunch. Even when Olruggio would become curious as to why Qifrey was so intent on hunting the Brimmed down, you would expertly redirect his attention to something else. You never asked, and he never answered, even if he didn't have anything to go off of.

"It's hard to have nightmares when there isn't anything to remember," he spoke honestly. His hands shook at his vulnerability, and his head seared in pain. After years of repressing his emotions, it somehow felt worse to let it all out.

"I suppose we can count that as a small blessing." You didn't say anything after that, continuing to amuse yourself with the odd sound Olruggio would let out. As much as he wished to agree with you, Qifrey needed answers to everything: his past, his eye and where his future would take him.

A true blessing would be to remove this veil of ignorance. If no one else was going to do it for him, then he would have to do it himself.

After taking his third test, Qifrey had known what his next course of action would be. It was only natural for him to head towards the Tower of Tomes. They say that every single book and writing relating to magic appears in the tower, and surely that would have to include any notes the Brimmed Hats wrote about him. Even a single page would be enough for him to deduce what had happened to him all those years ago.

Qifrey explained the thought process behind his plan with a manic glee, pacing around the room as though he were a mad scientist. "It's a perfect plan!" he exclaimed, ignoring the concerned look his friends were giving each other.

Olruggio, always wanting to be supportive of his friend, was concerned with how obsessive he was becoming. The adventures they were going on, the sneaking out to the outside world and the discoveries they would make were all good fun for him. Yet the minute Qifrey reminded them that his sole focus was on the Brimmed Hats, his mood would sour. Learning about magic to better their skills and help the Unknowing – that had been his reason to become a witch. To see his most dearest perverse such a dream into something that focused on vengeance pained him.

"Promise that once you discover your past in the Tower, you leave it behind to focus on your future," Olruggio pleaded. What was the point of a future if it wasn't one where the three of you were together? To his credit, Qifrey had agreed to his request. He, too, desperately wanted to be free of a burden he was ignorant of.

You, on the other hand, were more hesitant to let him go. Constantly, you would ask if this was truly as he wanted and that perhaps the result of his pursuit of knowledge shouldn't be the answers he desired. That the journey was enough for it all to be worth it, even if he never got the answers he sought. Perhaps even letting the Knights continue their pursuits and putting his need for revenge aside.

"How dare you ask me to leave all of this behind?" he snarled at you when you made your concerns known. You were sitting in your tower, so high that the suffering and plight of those below were unknown. You would only care for the water flooding your people if you were inconvenienced by the smell of their rotting bodies. "The Knights Moralis were never going to grant me the justice that I deserve. Unlike you, I don't have the benefit of being missed." There was enough disdain in his voice to make you step back, but your face didn't lose its composure. 

"Fine, go and discover their secrets. But do not come crying to me when the answer isn't what you wished it to be." With that, you walked away, leaving behind a resolute Qifrey. His heart panged against his better judgment, for he truly wished that you would come with him. For support? For comfort? He wasn't sure – Qifrey just has come to realize that he needs you more than he's comfortable with admitting. With another headache and a heart that was ready to burst, Qifrey walked away to find Olruggio and come up with a plan.

It was a disaster. Despite how many scenarios Qifrey had simulated, there had been no feasible reason for him to expect this. 

A Silverwood Tree. The Brimmed Hats not only took away his eye and past, but they had also violated him so heavily that he cannot have a future. They had decided to rip him into shreds, dig their hands inside of his body for their sick need of knowledge. The Tower of Tomes had plenty of stories on this topic; some myths and legends of people turning into Silverwood Trees and some fact-based research about why this phenomenon occurred. But the information he needed was not there, even after pouring through every page and volume.

There was no cure – his only option was to wait out his days until his skin turned to bark or he died before then.

His head sears with pain. His fingers turned into branches and his hair into leaves. Olruggio's sacrifice spares him a few more years. All in a blur that he would remember for the rest of his waking days. Yet for now, he blocks the memory like a dam in a river, opting to just wait for Olruggio to wake up. There would be time to ruminate and examine his memory, but now he wished that he were back in his room.

He wishes that you were there with him– no, he can't think of you like that. Unless he wished to see Olruggio's pain go to waste.

"Have you come to find your answer, Qifrey?"

Qifrey's head perked up when he heard your voice, whipping his body to see you standing at the edge of the forest. You might have been a figment of his imagination, given that he wished for your presence a few moments before. But as you walked closer, covering Olruggio's unconscious body with your cloak, he came to realize that you were very real.

"Well?" You raised your eyebrow, stopping just short of the edge of the cliff. You didn't sit down next to him as you'd usually do – deciding to loom over him like the ancient statues of bygone witches.

"I didn't learn anything." He couldn't look you in the eyes as he lied. So Qifrey decided to look over the horizon, jealous of the birds flying above with no care in the world. Were they not empathetic to the fact that his entire world had been uprooted for reasons he cannot remember?

"Qifrey, if you are going to lie to me, be a man and do it to my face," you scoffed, kneeling down to meet him at eye level. Your hands gently held his chin, and you moved his face, petrified eyes meeting calm ones. "Are you going to tell me now?"

"There is nothing to tell!" he jerked away from your comforting touch and stood to move away from you. He heaved with rage that he would never be able to bask in your warmth – that someone who wasn't aware of your disdain for the small closets and your love of stars would have that pleasure. He isn't physically able to be the man that you deserve. Even if he was able to shed the title of pitied stray, he couldn't love you in the way that you deserve.

There would be no loving words that would make poets blush. Nor would there be grand romantic gestures with the help of his magic. It pained him to admit it, but he loved and respected you more than to trap you in a stagnant marriage. It would hurt to see you with another man, but perhaps that pain would do him some good.

"How did you even find us here? I thought you didn't want any part of our plan today." Qifrey crossed his arms and stood a few feet away from you. Perhaps if you hated him, it would make this forced separation more bearable.

"I happen to be in the area and saw Olruggio run around in distress," you explained, keeping your voice level despite his indignation. Qifrey often wished that you broke a little more of your shell, to step further away from the dignified noble persona that you were boxed into.

("Quite a shame too, they were such a bright child. The only ray of light in this underwater city.")

"Well as you can see, everything is alright here. You know how Olruggio is, always passing out at the most inopportune times–"

"I'm aware of the parasite that you are afflicted with."

What? Qifrey's mind had gone blank at your statement. What had you meant by that?

Neither of you said anything else, and every time you tried to open your mouth, you stopped before you could let any of the words out. He pleaded with you, begging you to answer the plethora of questions that bombarded his psyche, yet you didn't answer any of them. Qifrey was starting to believe that you couldn't answer any of them.

Instead, your hand slowly went around your neck, fiddling with the necklace you had guarded fiercely. You refused to take it off, despite the amount of teasing the two boys had put you through. Qifrey even once tried to snatch it away from you, before you scratched him with a crazed look in your eyes. It was the most emotion that he'd ever seen on your face. He wished to see more of that side of you.

When your necklace fell from your neck, he would come to realize why you were so protective of it.

From the roots of your hair to its ends, your hair slowly transitioned from what he thought was your natural colour to white with a silver hue. The same as the snow that Olruggio spoke fondly of when he thought of home. The same as the leaves of the Silverwood Trees in the various magical shops.

The same as his own hair, and he had come to realize the reason for his hair. There must have been a magical spell on the necklace – an illusion spell perhaps, that kept your hair a different colour.

You were like him. You were also infected with a Silverwood Tree.

"Why didn't you tell me any of this? Why keep it a secret from me?" he cried, eyes tearing up at the betrayal. You had known what his problem was and perhaps you even knew of a solution, yet you kept your mouth shut. And for what reason? Because the entirety of witch society was so content with turning a blind eye to the suffering of others because it wouldn't fit their narrative? 

What is the reason for compiling all of the knowledge under this starry veil if it is only good for it to be locked up in a tower?

"I thought we were friends– I thought you cared about me!" Anger had become a familiar friend to him, always sitting right under his skin, waiting for a day to be released. You shouldn't have been the recipient of his rage, but you were a representation of everything he had come to hate about the magical world he was forced into. You were privileged enough to be born into a magical family of high status, and you would never understand why there were people who hungered for answers like a starving dog. Not when the whole world was open to you at the tip of your pen. 

You did not take kindly to his accusation, stepping forward into his personal space. "I never kept anything from you! It's not my fault that they–" a violent cough interrupted your speech, leaving you keeling into the ground. You tried to continue to speak to defend yourself and your decision, but you continued to choke and cough, to the point where you spat out blood. It was only when you tried to stop speaking did your pain end.

Qifrey stood above you, concerned and confused. There were points over the years you had known each other where he noticed this odd quirk, but this is the worst he had ever seen it.

You didn't say anything else; your throat was probably still raw from the coughing fit. Kneeling onto the ground, you beckoned Qifrey to come closer, to which he obliged. He knelt in front of you, still keeping his safe distance. You still beckoned him closer, and even with every cell of his body saying otherwise, he still listened to you.

Qifrey sat so close to you that he could see every detail about your face, from the little imperfections in your skin to the ways your eyes had dimmed, despite the sun hanging above you. Olruggio was right, you were absolutely beautiful, and he had been a fool to convince himself otherwise. Now, he would never have the chance to let you know.

"What I am about to show you, you must promise me you won't tell anyone else." Your voice was hoarse, borderline threatening in tone. It wasn't fear that had made him comply, and he didn't want to put a name to that feeling. He nodded, letting you continue.

You tipped your head back and opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out. He thought that this was an odd position, and he was about to stand out of embarrassment, but his eyes noticed a little scar underneath your tongue. Except it wasn't little. There was symmetry and sigils to it. 

It was a magic spell etched into your skin – something that even the freshest of apprentices knew was deeply forbidden. Qifrey stared at it, taking note of the sigils that formed on your skin. He may not know much about forbidden magic, but given his knowledge, he could probably deduce what the purpose of the spell was. It was to keep you silent, and he had an idea about what.

If the Silverwood Tree inside of him was placed inside of him, it was because of the Brimmed Hats… and you had the same parasite, and there was someone who was trying to silence you…

"If you cannot verbally answer my questions, then could you nod an answer?" he asked. An affirmative nod had urged him to continue.

"Was it the Brimmed Hats?" You nodded.

"Did they wipe your memory after?" You shook your head. Why had they spared your memories but taken away his?

"Could you recount your time with them?" You shook your head again. The magic seal on your tongue was put there to keep you quiet, causing you to agonize in pain, and then to talk about your experiences. It was a shame that he wouldn't be able to use your memories.

"Where was the Silverwood Tree implanted in you?" Your hand went over your chest, where your heart was– or supposed to be. Those damned Brimmed Hats took away the heart of the most caring person that he knew. He was going to get his eye and your heart back so that you both could be whole once again.

(Your lack of emotion had started to make sense. How could anyone expect you to emote like a 'normal' person when you didn't have the function to do so. If he cannot see without an eye, it would make sense that you would not be able to feel without a heart.)

Qifrey stood up, eyes cold with rage and focus. He held his hand out for you to hold, pulling you up to your feet.

"Thank you kindly for letting me know of your secret. I promise to hold it dear in my heart, so long as you do the same with me." It warmed his heart knowing that he was the only one who knew you and granted him a sick satisfaction that he would be the only one who did. And he even knew that you would do the same for him.

"Your secret will be safe with me. But we cannot be as close as we once were," you say, an apologetic smile on your lips. He could see the remorse in your eyes and the guilt in your heart. You were right, neither of you could be in the same room together, alone and with no one with a buffer. Lest the tree sprout again, and poor Olruggio would have to lose his memories once again. The permanent ache in his heart left by your absence would at least do well to quell the comfort.

He tried to memorize your face as much as he could, not knowing when the next time he would see it would be. It was awful that he couldn't see you grow into the elegant young adult that you were born and bred to be. Nor would he be able to take you to his dream atelier in the Zozah Peninsula, far away from the nonsense of the Great Hall.

"I understand," he said, nodding solemnly. He walked back to the edge of the cliff and sat back down, waiting for Olruggio to wake up and to pretend that everything was alright. Qifrey hadn't known when you walked back to the Great Hall, just that eventually, when he turned around, there was a sign of you or that you had even come all this way.

Into the wind, he whispers a confession that his heart would never admit. He hoped that the winds would be kind and carry it all the way back to you.

(When you arrived at the edge of the forest, your path had been blocked by tangled vines. You weren't sure where they had come from, but this was no issue for you. You pulled out your little book of premade spells, finishing the seal to summon the wind and slice your way home. It did the trick, and you went on your merry way. But there was a voice in the wind from the boy you had come to care deeply for, despite every reason to not.)