lynnerra

[lynnerra]

Contemplating a yandere Phainon for my next fic... I just rediscovered one of my favorite vampire fics so 👀

I have been interested in making a long chapter fic recently

[lynnerra]

like gravity.

pairing: phainon x f!reader

word count: 10k

synopsis: pacrim!au. big robot punch big alien monster. khaslana mode phainon. anyway i just wanted to write phainon shouting at me. toots. (i will still eat shaoji if he doesn't come back)

chapters: one | two | three | four | five | six

I. ENTROPY

He finds you in the same jail cell.

An hour and twenty seven minutes. That’s the time that it takes him — from the moment that you’re put behind bars (again) until you hear hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor — to get to this little confinement center at the edge of Marmoreal. Doesn’t pause when he rounds the corner — just moves, long strides eating up the distance between the two of you. He must know this place by heart now.

“They let you in again, huh?” you ask, as he comes to a stop outside your cell. His white hair, muted beneath the shitty lighting of the basement, is slightly damp with sweat, stubborn strands sticking to his temples. Did he run? And, does it matter, even if he did? “Of course,” you tilt your head, propping your chin up on your knee to look at him. “You’re Amphoreus’ darling, after all.”

Twelve drops, fourteen kills. Fourteen kaiju, fourteen cities — it equates to millions of lives saved. He’s the most effective Jaeger pilot on record in history. So it’s no surprise that everyone bends over backwards for him — to them, he’s more than just a man. A symbol, just like the sun tattooed on the side of his neck.

Deliverer, they called him. Still call him now, even though he hasn’t stepped foot inside a Jaeger for three years. Saviour of humanity. Hope of mankind.

The man on the other side of your cell looks nothing like any of those things. Phainon doesn’t speak. Instead he just stares at you through the bars, lips pressed together and arms stiff at the sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His eyes, still too blue even in the murk of the basement, flicker with something that you can’t quite decipher. 

Haven’t bothered to, for quite some years now.

“How long has it been since we last saw each other?” You yawn, slouching against the wall. “Two months?”

Nothing.

“Guess they still haven’t found someone compatible with you, huh? Or you wouldn’t have time to visit a small-time criminal like me.”

Still no response.

“Maybe, next time I’ll ask the guards to bet on—”

Phainon breathes out, and you fall silent. Despite everything that’s happened between the two of you, there’s still a gravity to him. It’s like a law of nature — unlike poles attract, apples fall, and people listen when Phainon speaks. Even you, apparently. 

“How many times are you going to do this?” he says at last. His voice is quiet. Tired.

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “How many times are you going to keep coming back?”

Phainon’s jaw shifts at your words, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He doesn’t answer the question. You don’t think that even he knows the answer, himself.

After a while, he exhales and takes a step back. pulls out the military cap from under his arm, runs a hand through his hair and fits it onto his head in silence. He doesn’t say anything — there’s nothing left to say between the two of you. Phainon has tried, of course, with his whys and hows and pleases. They’ve been exhausted in encounters far earlier than this one. Repeated over and over again.

Nothing ever changes. Your answer, too, has always been the same.

“I don’t need to be saved.”

Phainon turns around. “I’ll speak to Aglaea,” is all he says, before he leaves. You wave to send him off — it’s a long way back, after all — leaning against the bars of your cell as he goes.

“See you around, Phainon,” you call after his fading footsteps, faintly echoing down the corridor.

You hope you don’t.

Pan Pacific Defense Corps: The Pan Pacific Defense Corps (abbreviated PPDC) is an organisation created by the United Nations. The Defense Corps represents an international alliance of twenty one different countries across the rim of the Pacific Ocean and the IPC, bound together by the shared goal of containing, combating and eliminating the kaiju.

You’re usually out within a day or two. Sometimes even hours, if you’re lucky — and that’s without Phainon’s interference, even. He might have his friends in the upper ranks of the military, but you’re not without your own connections down below. Besides, you’re only ever detained under suspicion, never arrested. You like to think that you’re more experienced than to be caught with evidence.

So, you’re understandably startled when the next visitor to your cell eight hours later is not the guard who makes photocopies of your release paperwork, but a tall woman with hair like spun gold and eyes that make you feel like you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun.

She’s dressed in military uniform. The formal kind, not the ugly green fatigues that Phainon sometimes shows up in (as though the kaiju would be fooled by basic military camouflage, but you suppose old habits die hard). Tailored, from the way the dark fabric hugs her figure. With a kind of elegance so potent that it’s straight up domineering.

And there are four gold stars decorating each of her shoulders.

“You’re Aglaea,” you say, before you can stop yourself. She smiles. 

It’s beautiful. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You’ve heard of me.” Neither here nor there, but the statement is laughable in and of itself. Who in Amphoreus hasn’t heard of the General Aglaea? The entirety of the Okhema shatterdome is under her authority, and by extension every jet fighter, soldier and Jaeger in it. Enough military power to destroy a small country, all vested in a single person. And she's standing here in this dingy little jail cell, doing what — looking for you?

“Is there something I can help you with?” you ask, warily as your brain tries to compute a possible reason why a four star PPDC general would be making house calls to a no-name prison and failing miserably. Whatever it is, it most definitely spells trouble for you.

“I just wanted to see the face of the one who’s been causing my Lieutenant so much trouble.” Your eyes narrow. She’s talking about Phainon. “Three times in eight months? And it’s not even Christmas…” She taps a finger against her lips, smiles. “Either you’re not very good at your job… or you’re deliberately seeking his attention?”

You bristle at that. “Not my fault you gave your hound too long of a leash.”

Aglaea only laughs. The sound makes uncertainty crawl around in the pit of your belly. And the unease only grows when she steps across the cell to take a seat on the prison bench opposite you, crossing one leg over the other under her pencil skirt. 

You glance at the cell door and briefly contemplate making a run for it. You’d have felt safer being locked in here with a rabid tiger — at least it wouldn’t toy with its food like this.

“Three counts of identity fraud. Five instances of dealing kaiju biomaterial to criminal and terrorist organisations. Two counts of murder.” Someone’s done her research.

“Suspected murder,” you correct, folding your arms across your chest. It’s not. “What’s the point of this?”

Aglaea tilts her head to the side, golden curls falling across her cheek. “My point is, it would be easy to make you disappear.” A cold weight settles in your chest, like a sinking stone. She says it with the tone of someone stating a matter of fact, not a threat. You can see it in her eyes — she can, and she would. “You’ve been a distraction to Phainon, you know? Not to mention a PR headache to keep under wraps. Humanity’s most admired Ranger, complicity in releasing a criminal from prison?” She tuts lightly. “Not exactly what people want to see from someone they regard as a deliverer.”

There’s a distinct undercurrent of mocking to her words, pointing the finger of blame at you. “I’ve never asked him to do that,” you grit out. Aglaea raises a delicate brow.

“And yet both of us know that he will, anyway. It’s a fatal flaw of his, isn’t it?” Her eyes are piercing as she looks at you. “Being unable to leave people behind.”

You want to retort, but force your mouth to stay shut. Something about the way the General speaks gets under your skin more easily than you’d like, a needle that knows exactly where to poke and prick. You suppose that’s one of the reasons she became General so young.

Aglaea must be able to tell, too, because she smiles and leans against the wall. “Now, I’m sure that you’ve guessed that I am here for a reason. The reason is this: I have an offer to make you.”

An offer. It almost scares you more than the threat. “It’s not much of an offer when you’re practically holding a gun to my head, is it?” you mutter. She just laughs, holds up both hands.

“What gun?” Her voice is infuriatingly breezy. “But if you’d like me to speak in plainer terms, then I shall oblige. I’m recruiting you into the Jaeger program.”

“I didn’t know the PPDC had started branching into illegal activities. A bit ironic for the military, huh?”

“No.” Aglaea looks at you. “I want you to become a ranger.”

You stare at her for a few moments, scrutinising her expression. Nothing about it reveals that this is a joke. And yet you start laughing despite it anyway, like a hyena barking in ridicule. Aglaea does not respond — she merely waits for you to finish, green eyes imperturbable. Your laughter dies in your throat when you realise that she’s serious.

You cough, wipe the tears from the corners of your eyes. “You’re not joking.” You don’t know which scares you more.

“I’m not.”

“You want me,” you jab a finger at your own chest, “to be a Jaeger pilot?” You can barely keep your voice from rising. For all the preparations that the General made — digging up past records, coming all the way here — this is the plan that she had in mind? “You think the world needs someone like me in a Jaeger?”

Aglaea lowers her gaze. And for the first time, you think you see the briefest flicker of something flash in her eyes.

“No,” she replies, blunt. She’s looking straight at you now. “Phainon is the one the world needs. But what he needs, unfortunately, might just be you.”

Okhema Shatterdome: The Okhema Shatterdome is the primary headquarters of the PPDC in Amphoreus. It is under the authority of the Marshal Cerydra, although General Aglaea has been acting in her stead for the past year and a half. It consists of factories for the construction, repair, maintenance and launch of the Jaegers. All operations, Ranger training and experiments regarding the kaiju are carried out within their respective Shatterdome bases. There are currently three combat active Jaegers stationed in Okhema.

The helicopter is loud. Too loud and moves like it’s drunk when the turbulence hits, not loud enough to distract you from the fact that you’re in a glorified, overengineered tin can fighting the laws of physics every second to stay in the air. You guess it’s not that much different from a plane, in theory. But knowing where you’re headed still makes you want to throw yourself out of the nearest window despite the thousand foot freefall into the ground.

Aglaea explains the rest of her ‘offer’ to you while you’re in the air. She wants you to test drift compatibility with Phainon — as though the entirety of the Ranger program has tried and failed for the past three years. And now, she thinks a handful of childhood memories might somehow make you different from them.

But you’re not in a position to complain. Or refuse. Or do anything other than agree, really. You’re extracted from the confinement center with nary a peep from the guard, and the General just… takes you with her, like a parent picking up her child from preschool. No papers signed, not even a single phone call to make. Fucking Pan Pacific Defense Corps. She’s jumping over every legal line drawn in the sand like it’s an Olympic sport.

You find yourself missing your prison cell when the chopper hovers over what you assume is the Shatterdome. It’s enormous, like take up half the skyline kind of enormous, which should be expected considering that the Jaegers stationed inside are basically small skyscrapers that can throw punches. But you don’t realise just how much until you see the people dotting the runway that stretches along the entirety of Okhema’s coastline, the size of ants.

There must be dozens down there, hundreds or even thousands more inside just to keep a base this size running. All that for three Jaegers. Six pilots. No wonder why people idolise Phainon like he was chosen by God himself.

There’s a small welcome committee waiting for you when the chopper lands on the heli-pad. Aglaea disembarks first, tucks a lock of golden hair neatly behind her ear as she steps off with more grace than her heels should allow. You follow suit, faltering momentarily when the frozen sea air whips at your face like a thousand icy knives. It’s cold.

“Lovely weather we’re having today,” Aglaea comments, before turning towards the pair gathered at the edge of the heli-pad. “Why is the apocalypse on our front porch this morning?”

“Just a bad storm passing through, ma’am.” A tall, slender woman steps forward, tablet cradled in the crook of her arm. Her burnished gold hair is swept back into a tidy bun. “But there is a bigger storm brewing on your desk, I’m afraid — Marshal Cerydra has a few things that you need to get back to her, and I quote her words, ASAP.”

Aglaea sighs. “Wonderful. So long as she hasn’t threatened to bayonet the UN secretary again… thank you, GM.”

Sudden movement catches your eye — a flicker of red darting behind the woman. Your brain stutters. A child? Here? Before you can speak, the girl steps into view, small fingers curled into the woman’s uniform skirt. Wide, curious eyes lock onto yours.

“Is this the new recruit, Aggy?” — Aggy? — she asks, tilting her head upwards to look at you. The top of her head doesn’t even come up to your elbow. Red hair, blue eyes… you squint at Aglaea. Half siblings, perhaps? Cousins? The General smiles at her, reaches down to pat her head.

“If all goes well, hopefully.” She straightens up, glances at the gold watch gleaming on her delicate wrist. “Trianne, be a dear and ask Trinnon to prepare some tea in my office, will you? I’d like to show our guest,” you bite back a snort, “a proper welcome.”

The child beams — a stark contrast to this backdrop of war and military machines. “Of course, Aggy!” She runs off in the direction of the Shatterdome, only to suddenly whirl back with a wave that makes her whole arm bounce. “See you around, Miss New Recruit!” You raise a hand weakly in response, and she darts off again between the stone faced soldiers and armoured jeeps.

Aglaea gestures at you with a wave of her hand. “Come, now.”

People stare. You can feel their eyes as you follow her down the tarmac, past the lines of stationed fighters and military people doing… whatever it is that military people do. Part of you knows that it’s nothing out of the ordinary — an unfamiliar face accompanying the General must warrant some measure of curiosity — but you can’t help the feeling that someone might recognise you. You pull your jacket together around you, duck your head and pick up the pace.

She leads you to an elevator, hits a button at the very top labelled BRIDGE — COMMAND CENTER and waves a keycard over the scanner. The doors shut behind the two of you. 

It’s a long way up, but the elevator doesn’t stop even once. General privileges, maybe? It deposits the two of you into a corridor. And just like the runway earlier, there are people everywhere. It’s like there’s a heartbeat pumping through the entire facility, pushing everything inside it along. Everyone here seems to have somewhere to be, something to do, walking fast with papers in hand. You follow Aglaea to a door at the very end of it.

Marshal’s Office — General Aglaea.

She flicks the same card over the reader and it slides open. There’s a china set laid out neatly on the desk in the center of the room, stacks of files and papers pushed precariously to the sides. Little swirls of steam are still escaping the teapot’s spout.

“Trinnon’s a little shy. You might see her around, if you’re lucky.” Aglaea gestures for you to sit and you do, in a leather chair that seems just a little too big for you. She takes a moment to pour out the tea — flowery and subtly fragrant — into two cups and slides one over to you. You stare down at the coppery liquid in the cup, suspicious.

Aglaea only looks amused. “I wouldn’t waste all that time and effort bringing you here if I wanted to kill you. There are easier ways to make that happen,” she says candidly, before taking a sip of the tea herself. “Ah, a perfect brew. Now, as I was saying earlier, there are three things that I want from you.”

Three? Her demands just keep increasing. “You want me to test drift compatibility with Phainon.”

She nods, tapping a nail against the rim of her cup. “That’s one. The second is this: if the two of you are drift compatible, become a ranger.”

There it is again. Become a ranger. She says it like it’s nothing — as though piloting a giant mech to slug it out with an alien monster that could flatten a city in under an hour is the equivalent of taking a car out for a test drive. As though there aren’t actual soldiers who’ve trained their entire lives to get into the Jaeger program and still fall short. Digging for needles in haystacks, is how Drift-Tech had described it.

And to pilot a Jaeger, you need two.

You lean back in the chair, trying to be rational about this. The odds. “Let’s be real here — what are the actual odds that I’m drift compatible with Phainon? After hundreds of failures?”

“Statistically?” Aglaea asks. “Near zero.”

You hadn’t expected her to admit it so candidly. “Then why waste my time? Why waste yours?”

“Because miracles can happen, unlikely as they are,” she counters, and slides a folder across the table. “Succeed, and you walk away with a Ranger’s commission. Full benefits, hazard pay, the works. Some might even say it pays too well.” She mutters that last part under her breath.

You push the folder back. “You mean a front row seat to getting eaten by a kaiju.”

Aglaea doesn’t even blink. “Fail, and you’ll still get a clean record.” You look up at that, mouth suddenly dry. Clean record? “A new identity in any country you’d like. I heard the Xianzhou has some beautiful scenery. Or perhaps Penacony, if you prefer the nightlife.”

It sounds too good to be true. “There’s a caveat to that, I’m guessing.”

“Phainon can’t so much as hear your name again.” Aglaea’s voice turns steely. “I can’t have him distracted chasing ghosts or getting tangled in…” her eyes sweep over you, “unfavourable associations. The program’s reputation is hanging by a thread as it is.”

Unfavourable associations. Right, that’s how she sees you. “You’re going to a lot of lengths for one washed-up Ranger,” you mutter, crossing your arms across your chest. “What’s he to you?”

“Not to me. To the world.” Aglaea taps on her tablet, slides it over to you. You glance at it. It’s a news feed, showing protestors outside a Jaeger research center. They yell, wave signs around furiously. “Two failed drops in Belobog last month. And after Janus and Georios fell…” Her lips press together in a grim line. “Public approval ratings have never been lower. The Wall Initiative gains traction every day we don’t have a win, and that damn concrete won’t save a single city when the next Cat IV comes through the Breach.”

She sounds like she’s sure. Then you remember, before she became General, she had been a pilot too — for Phagousa, if you remember correctly. And her co-pilot… 

“And you think Phainon can?”

“He’s the symbol this program needs. In the people's eyes, he's the only pilot who’s never lost.” Aglaea laces her fingers together. “Get him back in a Jaeger, and people might remember why we built them in the first place.”

You glance down at the folder on the table again. A clean slate. A blank record. No more hiding, no more looking over your shoulder. Wasn’t that what you’d been working towards, this whole time? And yet… “It doesn’t have to be me inside that Jaeger.”

“If I had other options, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Aglaea says, bluntly. “But at the moment, you’re all we’ve got.”

Oh, joy.

“You’ll keep looking?” you press.

Aglaea’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “The second we find someone who doesn’t make the compatibility readers spit error codes, you’re free to go.” She reaches for her intercom. “I’ll have the NeuroSync scheduled for tomorrow. Tribbie will show you to the testing room first thing in the morning.” You exhale, and Aglaea leans forward. “And, while we’re being honest? Don’t even think about trying to escape. It won’t be worth it.”

She doesn’t continue, but the unspoken threat hangs over your neck like a guillotine. I’ll find you, and this time, I won’t be so kind. 

Before you can respond, the door crashes open.

Phainon stands in the doorway, breathing ragged like he’s just sprinted across the entirety of the Shatterdome. The overhead lights catch the blue in his irises — the same eyes that you’ve stared down in every Ranger recruitment poster in Marmoreal. 

Hero. Saviour. Deliverer.

“Aglaea, I heard you—” His voice cuts off abruptly as his gaze lands on you. Every muscle in his body goes rigid, all at once.

You watch as a dozen different emotions flicker across his face — shock, anger, confusion — before his composure slams back into place. It doesn’t look as though Aglaea let him in on her grand plan, which is surprising, considering that he’s the main character in it.

“Ah, Phainon. Perfect timing,” Aglaea says, just a hint too pleasant. She rises, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from her uniform as she does. “I was just telling (Name) here that the Shatterdome is huge, and not to get lost. Would you show her to the guest quarters?” Aglaea slides a keycard over the table. “She’ll need some rest before tomorrow’s NeuroSync.”

Phainon’s jaw works. He glances at you again. “We need to discuss—”

“That can wait till later.” Aglaea’s voice is smooth as silk, but could cut through steel. “Unless you’d like to explain to Hyacine why our only viable candidate passed out from exhaustion before we even begin?”

The two of them lock eyes for a few seconds before Phainon steps aside reluctantly, movements stiff with barely-restrained tension. “No, General.” He holds open the door for you as you gather your things, but his eyes remain on the ground. He doesn’t look at you. 

You make a point to finish all the tea in the cup before you leave. Aglaea only smiles as the door shuts behind you.

“All the best to you, (Name).”

Ranger: Ranger is the rank given to Pan Pacific Defense Corps officers assigned to the Jaegers. They are commonly referred to as Jaeger Pilots. Prior to piloting a Jaeger, all rangers are required to undergo multiple rounds of psychological evaluation and rigorous military training.

The walk to your quarters is silent. Phainon walks ahead of you without looking back. The silhouette of his shoulders are rigid beneath the dark fabric of his uniform, the golden sun at his neck barely peeking out over the folded collar. It’s clear that he isn’t in the mood to talk.

So you do. Let the quiet stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable before you break it.

“So,” you drawl, deliberately quickening your step to keep pace with him. “How’s it possible that the great Deliverer can’t find a single partner? What, does your charm and pretty face not work in the Drift?”

Phainon’s shoulders tense, but he keeps walking. Maybe even speeds up a little.

You press harder, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. “Or is it that no one can stand being in the same head as that hero complex of yours? Must be embarrassing. Aglaea’s scraping the bottom of the barrel so hard that she had to dig me out of a prison cell—”

“That’s enough.” He whirls around so suddenly that you nearly collide face first with his chest. Up close, he’s all sharp angles and controlled anger — eyes almost molten golden under the harsh lights. There’s a hint of a bruise at his jawbone, faint, barely there, but there. 

You don’t remember that from the news reels. What’s he been fighting, the Loch Ness Monster?

“This isn’t some game,” he bites out, voice low enough that the techs passing by glance over, exchange glances and hurry away. “Hundreds and thousands of lives are in danger. People die. Every day we don’t have a Jaeger in the field is another city in Amphoreus on the brink. But no, you wouldn’t—”

“Oh, I understand,” you interrupt, stepping closer. The scent of antiseptic and something faintly metallic — oil? blood? — clings to him. “You need this. The Deliverer title must be getting rusty, huh? That’s why I’m here.”

His breath catches. You see it — the minute fracture in his control, the way his fingers twitch at his side like he’s physically restraining himself. 

“You think I want you here?” His voice is rough, stripped raw. “I didn’t even know Aglaea went to look for you. I didn’t have a—”

“Choice?” You laugh, sharp and hollow and humourless. “You’ve always had a choice, Phainon. You just hate the one that you have left.”

For a heartbeat, you think his composure— that perfect, polished, military composure — might finally snap after all those years. But then his jaw clenches, and he turns on his heel with surgical precision. “Your room,” he mutters, gesturing at a nondescript door like he can’t stand to look at you another second.

The space inside is, at least, a little nicer than what you’d expected. A cot, wide enough for you to stretch out on. Sheets in the same, standard shade of military regulation green. The hint of a lingering sting of disinfectant in the air. Aside from that, the room is bare. Impersonal. Empty.

You sink onto the mattress, springs groaning in protest, and stare at the ceiling. Outside, Phainon’s footsteps fade down the hall.

“Guess I’m stuck here,” you mutter to the blank walls, “because you still can’t stop playing the hero.” As usual, they don’t bother replying.

At least some things never change.

An hour after he leaves, Phainon returns to Aglaea’s office.

She barely glances up from her dossier when he does, takes a sip from the teacup in her hand. “Good afternoon, Phainon,” she says mildly, flipping a page with deliberate calm. Like she’d expected him to show up again. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You brought her here.”

Aglaea doesn’t seem bothered by his accusatory tone. “I did,” she admits easily. “You asked me to get her out of prison, didn’t you?”

Phainon runs a hand through his already dishevelled hair, grimacing in frustration. “You know that this isn’t what I meant. A ranger, Aglaea?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Aglaea finally sets down the dossier in her hands, looks at him — really looks at him. She gestures to the wall of monitors displaying report dashboards — kaiju attack patterns, evolving faster than they can keep up, the steadily dropping public approval ratings ever since three years ago. “The numbers don’t lie, Phainon. The Jaeger program is expensive, and the people are not seeing the payoffs they expect. We’re losing this war on two fronts, now.”

Her tone is grim. Behind the cold eyes, the calm exterior, Phainon can see the worry. Everything she says is true, and Phainon wants — needs — nothing more than to be out there in a Jaeger. And yet…

“She didn’t sign up for this.” He’s not sure what means Aglaea used to persuade you, but Phainon is pretty sure that you’re not here by choice.

“None of us signed up for alien monsters to invade our world, but they did anyway.” Aglaea sighs, her expression softening marginally as she rises from her desk. “There are bigger things at stake here than you, or me, or…” she pauses, choosing her words carefully, “your past acquaintance. The people need a deliverer to put their hopes in, Phainon. They need to believe in something.”

Phainon’s hands clench into white-knuckled fists at his sides. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the sound of the distant thrum of the Shatterdome’s machinery, the muffled buzz of people with things to do to keep the world from falling.

“I know,” he finally mutters. The words taste bitter in his mouth.

Aglaea nods, her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal a hint of sympathy. “Just one NeuroSync test,” she assures him, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll let her go unharmed. You have my word.”

The muscles in Phainon’s jaw work as he struggles with his own reservations. Finally, he snaps to attention and offers a sharp salute. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies for my… insubordination.”

Aglaea gives him a faint smile. “Go get some rest, clear your head,” she orders him as she settles back in her chair. “Big day tomorrow, hm?”

Phainon presses his lips together. “Yes, ma’am.”

As the door slides shut behind him, Aglaea sighs and returns her attention to her reports. The display flickers ominously as another red alert pings in from the coast. Strange readings in the seabed, exotic matter, negative mass-energy density readings, blah blah blah. She glances down at her teapot, finds it empty, and switches over to a coffee pot instead.

Just another day, pushing back the end of the world. Doing what needs to be done.

NeuroSync: Jaegers are controlled by two, or rarely, three pilots stationed inside the Conn-Pod through a system called the Drift. To provide a more comprehensive estimate on drift compatibility, Dr Cyrene developed the Neural Handshake Synchronicity (NeuroSync) Scale with Professor Anaxagoras.

The knock on your door comes just after seven. Or 0700 hours, according to the clock next to your cot. Damn military… You’re already awake — the unfamiliar environment and bed had seen to that. You’d spent the night staring at the ceiling fan whirring overhead, replaying every word Phainon had said yesterday in your head, counting down the minutes until this farce began.

Which is now, apparently. You throw your keycard at the door and pump your fist when it hits the scanner, makes a little beep, light flashing green. “Come in.”

Instead of the stone-faced soldier you’re expecting, the door swings open to reveal… a child. She can’t be more than ten, looks uncannily similar to the other girl you’d seen at the runway yesterday — Trianne, was it? — and her blue eyes wide under the brim of a comically oversized PPDC cap. The sleeves of her miniature jumpsuit are rolled up to the elbows, exposing arms dotted with illegible marker stains. 

She beams at you, and it’s like staring straight on into the sun. “Hey!” She waves at you, still sitting on the edge of your bed. “I’m Tribbie, and I’m here to bring you for your NeuroSync!” She announces this like she’s taking you on a field trip to the amusement park and not what will likely be the most violating experience of your life. “I’ll show you to the K-Science department so you won’t get lost. The Shatterdome is huge!”

You open your mouth to question every workplace safety regulation in existence before clamping it shut. You should know better than to question the military by now. “Let me guess — you’re Trianne’s sister?”

Tribbie smiles, wide. It’s… adorable, really. “Yup! There’s three of us — Trianne, Trinnon, and me!” She holds up three fingers. “But Trinnon’s a little shy, so it’s hard to find her sometimes. She hopes you enjoyed the tea she made yesterday, though!”

You follow her through the maze of interconnecting corridors. Every door looks the same, every hallway it opens too looks like an extension of the one just came from. But Tribbie walks through all of it with the easy confidence of someone who knows that they belong here. The janitors pause in their work to return her waves. A grizzly mechanic slips her what looks like a candy from his pocket.

“You’re popular,” you observe aloud. “Did you grow up here?”

Tribbie just shakes her head. “Only since Mama and Papa died. Aggy took us in after Januspolis fell.” She skips ahead to press her tiny palm against a biometric scanner before you can ask any more. 

The scanner flashes green, and the doors to K-Science slide open. There’s a funky smell in the air — chemicals, formaldehyde, something else. The floor tiles, which look like they were once supposed to be white, are stained a permanent yellow. It’s slightly sticky underfoot. Ew.

The lab itself is an organised chaos. Wall screens flicker with rotating kaiju anatomy models — you recognise a few. Cocolia, the Cat III that had attacked Belobog a few years back. They zoom in on Hoolay’s claws, each one as long as a school bus. It had taken two of the Xianzhou’s Mark-3 Jaegers to finally put that beast down, and even then, it’d taken hours and the city of Yaoqing had taken significant damage. Last you heard, they were still trying to repair the Caelorum Venti Pavilion.

You glance at the sides. Specimen jars line the shelves, murky fluids preserving an uncountable range of tissue samples. And at the center of it all, a pink haired woman in a stained lab coat stands over a dissection table, her goggled face uncomfortably close to the wrinkled grey mass in front of her.

“Dr Hyacine! I’ve brought the test subject!” Tribbie announces.

The scientist — Hyacinthia, it says so on her lab coat — doesn’t look up. “One moment, just… there!” There’s a wet squelch, and she straightens up, holding a glistening strand of tissue from the mess. “Beautiful. Tribbie, would you label this for me? Thermoreceptor nerve cluster, sample K-425.”

As Tribbie scrambles onto a stool to reach the labelling machine, Hyacine finally notices you. She pushes her goggles up, leaving a comical ring of clean skin around her eyes. She’s pretty. And cute. Pretty cute. And that blue stuff doesn’t look like kaiju blue, at least… “Oh, you must be the new candidate that Aglaea was talking about!” She holds out a gloved hand, glances down at the mystery mix of chemicals staining the rubber and retracts it.  “Sorry for the mess. We’re prepping samples for the Penacony lab.”

You glance at the dissection table. “Secondary brain? From how well it’s been preserved, must have been a recent one… Terravox?”

Hyacine blinks from where she’s tossing her gloves into the bin. “You know kaiju biology.” She sounds surprised.

You shrug, suddenly awkward. Your experience with the black market harvesters had taught you to identify the valuable parts quickly. “Just a side interest of mine,” you mutter, glancing at the secondary brain again. You wonder if anyone has tried Drifting with a kaiju brain before. “So, um. How does this NeuroSync thing work?”

“Right!” Hyacine claps her hands together. “Well. The NeuroSync equipment’s set up in the clean room.” She gestures to a sealed chamber at the back of the lab. “We’re just waiting on—”

The doors slide open again with a hiss of compressed air. Phainon is standing there, in the doorway. Speak of the devil.

“Phainon!” Hyacine smiles brightly, and you catch Phainon’s lips twitch upwards — he still smiles??? — in response. “Good morning. Ready for your NeuroSync?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” And you count two seconds before his eyes find yours and he just frowns, like it’s instinctive. You square your shoulders and stare back at him, refusing to look away. He doesn’t say hi. Neither do you.

The silence stretches. Hyacine’s smile falters as she looks between the two of you, before she awkwardly claps her hands together. “Perfect timing! Let’s get the two of you started.”

Hyacinthia: Hyacinthia, or Hyacine for short, is a kaiju biologist who works in the K-Science lab of the Pan Pacific Defense Corps. She is also the head of the Okhema Shatterdome's Psychology Department, holding degrees in both Neurology and Psychology.

The clean room is anything but. While free of kaiju viscera, the space bears the scars of countless experiments — scorch marks on the console, a patched hole in the ceiling. And there’s a persistent smell of burnt wiring… 

Two medical chairs, like the kind that you’d see at the dentist, sit in the center, headpieces a trailing nest of cables. You eye it suspiciously as you take a seat on the one closest to the door. Not that running would do you any good. But still, it’s the damn principle of the thing.

“Don’t worry,” Hyacine says, as she rushes around to set up, fingers fluttering over the settings on the main console. The screen lights up. “This is just a compatibility estimate. Think of it as mental speed dating.” Phainon coughs. “Or… like a high-five instead of a handshake.” At your blank look, she amends. “A lightweight neural connection. No full drift, just enough to measure potential sync levels.”

Tribbie, upon seeing the look on your face, tries to reassure you, bless her heart. “It doesn’t hurt! Or, well, that’s what I heard, at least.”

You close your eyes and wonder if your health insurance covers brain damage from drifting with your childhood friend turned enemy.

Phainon takes his seat with that same calm composure, his jaw set. Says his pleases and thank yous and even smiles as Hyacine carefully fits the neural sensors to his temples. It’s like they’ve got a whole different man in that chair. 

Only when Hyacine goes back to check the readings on the console that you see his fingers twitch on the armrests — the only outward sign of his discomfort. You stifle a snort. Still trying to play the hero.

“Problem, Deliverer?” you ask, sarcastically.

His gaze flickers over to you, but he doesn’t respond. Just fixes his eyes forward again with that stubborn determination of a man who hasn’t given up for the past three years.

Hyacine steps over to you next, her touch surprisingly gentle as she positions the sensors. The electrodes stick uncomfortably to your skin. “This might feel a little strange at first. Like someone’s standing a bit too close in an empty room. Or like someone’s whispering directly into your ear.”

None of those things sound very attractive or comforting to you, but Hyacine is already stepping away, fiddling with the controls. The system initialises, and you start to feel a low hum building in your skull. It spreads outwards like seismic waves, until there's a high-pitched oscillating whine vibrating through your molars. You barely have time to register the discomfort before it—

Pressure.

It shifts, expands. Not against your skin, not against your head, but directly into your mind. Like it’s pressing against the boundaries of your very self. And you feel it there, Phainon’s consciousness on the very edge of that territory, lingering. 

Hesitant.

Before you can figure out why, the drift surges. Like waves beneath your feet, a riptide yanking you out to sea. Your breath catches in your throat. And suddenly, you’re—

— standing in a crowd. Blue and white balloons rain down all around you, in the packed plaza. Cheering so loud, you can’t hear your own thoughts.

A sea of faces in front of you — no, him? — indistinguishable. Phainon grips Cyrene’s hand behind the conference table, feels her pat his sweaty palm reassuringly. His heart is a raging wardrum in his chest—

— You see him, both of them, golden and gleaming in their new Ranger uniforms. The reporter hands him a microphone, you watch his mouth shape words you can’t quite make out. One drop, two kaiju solo, first mission.

His eyes scan the crowd. The reporter asks him a question he doesn’t remember responding to. Surely if you were still alive, then surely, you would—

— The crowd surges, cheering. “Heroes!” You stare up at the stage. Elevated. Unreachable. That hollow feeling in your chest clenching around nothing.

Where are you? Fear wraps itself like a fist around his throat, burns like the sun tattooed into the side of his neck. A reminder. A promise. Please, where are you—

— And then you turn your back on him, on them and—

The memory fractures like glass as you slam your mental defenses shut with enough force to make the neural feedback alarms wail. Your whole body jerks out of the seat as the connection severs with a sound like tearing metal in your head.

Across from you, Phainon gasps, his pupils blown wide. He’d seen it too, that fractured moment of you walking away. But not why. Never why.

Hyacine panics in her mother tongue as three different monitors flatline all at once. “Gods! I said neural high-five, not neural warfare!” Her hands fly over the keys.

Tribbie, wide-eyed and mouth open, points at the main screen where the compatibility readout flickers erratically. You rip your headset off your head, look up to see the results with your heart pounding in your chest.

[NEURAL COMPATIBILITY: 26% — LOW SYNCHRONIZATION]

[SYNC STABILITY: LOW]

You’re panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile, taste copper on your tongue. The afterimage of that press conference, the dirty back alleys that you’d retreated back into, still pulses behind your eyes. The way you’d—

No. That memory stays buried.

Phainon pulls off his own headset, staring at you with something dangerously close to realisation. He doesn’t even look at the screen. “You were there,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His voice is low and certain.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Everyone in Okhema was there, Deliverer.”

His blue eyes burn with an emotion you can’t quite decipher, but he doesn’t press. The not-quite lie hangs between the two of you, thin as the neural gel still dripping from the sensors. He knows. Not the whole truth, not the reasons that still ache like a bruise against your ribs, but too much.

It will always be too much.

You’re really starting to get sick of Aglaea’s office.

It feels like the kind of place where warmth goes to die. And now, you feel like you might just keel over from the trepidation too, as Aglaea studies the results on one of the displays behind her desk, arms crossed over her chest. Her expression is inscrutable — you can’t tell whether she’s surprised, excited, disappointed, anything. She doesn’t even speak. 

You decide to break the silence first. “26% scores in the incompatible range,” you manage to scrape up the courage to say. “I did what you said. Now let me go.”

Hyacine shifts uncomfortably next to you. Her fingers twist in the hem of her stained lab coat. “To be honest?” She gestures at the neural readouts. “No one’s maintained a neural link with Phainon for a minute before…”

“Which further proves we’re incompatible—”

Aglaea finally looks up from the display, raising an eyebrow. “Everyone else barely managed twenty seconds in the Drift with him before the neural feedback knocked them out cold.” What? Fuck. She swipes through a few readings, expands a graph that looks like waves and turns it towards you as if you can make sense of any of it. “These readings don’t indicate incompatibility. In fact, the NeuroSync was gaining until this point,” she taps at a drop in the graph, “which shows an active deliberate rejection.”

The blue light reflects in her eyes as she leans forward. “Tell me — is it the idea of seeing into his mind that scares you? Or are you more afraid of what he might see in yours?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to leave crescent marks when you suddenly feel the phantom warmth of a hand on yours — a memory, perhaps? But not yours.

“I don’t want him in my head,” you repeat through gritted teeth, louder this time. “That should be enough. Don’t I have rights?”

“A civilian would, perhaps,” Aglaea concedes, sitting back in her chair. “But you’re not just any civilian, and this isn’t just a civilian matter.” She steeples her fingers. “We’ll try again in forty-eight hours. In the meantime, I advise you to consider taking a walk around the Shatterdome. Perhaps some of the people who work here will inspire you. Tribbie will show you around tomorrow.” The redhead beams, gives you a thumbs up that feels out of place in this grim atmosphere. “You may return to your quarters for now.”

You stand up stiffly. Not like you have much of a choice, now. 

As the door opens, Aglaea speaks one more time. “Think carefully. The world needs Phainon in a Jaeger. And right now, whether you like it or not, you’re the only key we have to make it happen.”

The door slides shut behind you, sealing Aglaea’s decision in like a stone rolled over a tomb. You stare at it for a few seconds before you exhale sharply, rolling the tension from your shoulders — only to freeze when you see him.

Phainon stands against the wall opposite, arms crossed, blue eyes tracking your every movement. He must have been waiting the entire time. For you?

Everyone else barely managed twenty seconds in the Drift with him before the neural feedback knocked them out cold, Aglaea had said. What exactly had been so bad about it? It can’t be because the two of you are actually drift compatible, can it? Or did you just not hit the threshold needed for all his… hero complex trauma to bash your subconscious to pieces?

Neither of you speaks, for a long moment. The hum of the Shatterdome’s machinery fills the silence between you, a low persistent thrum that vibrates through the building, like the breathing of a giant, concrete beast.

And then—

“Would it really be so terrible?”

His voice is quieter than you expect. Not angry, not demanding. Just… hurt. You stiffen.

“What?”

“Having me in your head.” He pushes off the wall, taking a single step towards you. Too close. “You fought the drift like it was poison. Like I was—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “I just want to know why.”

The question hangs between you, raw and exposed like a live wire. You don’t have an answer.

Or perhaps you have too many. But the words stick in your throat, choking you. Nothing comes out.

You turn away, towards the hallway’s dim lighting. “It doesn’t matter. I’m tired, and I want to sleep.”

Phainon’s hand shoots out, catching your wrist before you can leave. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm — enough to make you stop. His skin is warm against yours. So, so warm. He looks at you, something almost resembling pleading in his eyes.

“It matters to me,” he whispers, his voice low and fierce. 

For a heartbeat, you almost believe that. 

Then reality crashes back. Right. Of course it matters to him. Not because of you— not because of whatever broken history you’ve shared between the two of you, but because he needs a co-pilot. Because not even the great Deliverer can save this world alone.

The realisation hits like ice water being dumped over your head. You wrench your wrist out of his grip, his warmth lingering like a molten brand against your skin. 

“Then you should’ve been more compatible with someone else,” you say flatly.

His expression crumples — just for a second, you see hurt behind those blue eyes — before the mask of a perfect soldier slips back into place.

You don’t wait for a response. You turn on your heel and walk away, shoes echoing in the corridor. The hallway stretches endlessly before you, shadows pooling in the corners like ink.

Behind you, Phainon doesn’t follow.

The Ranger baths are one of the Shatterdome’s few luxuries — a concession for the pilots who regularly climb into giant machines to beat up giant aliens in the name of saving the world. Steam curls in thick tendrils along the vaulted ceilings before being sucked out through the vents, a constant hum. The water, treated with salts and minerals to replicate the composition of EdoStar’s famous hot springs, glow faintly blue under the light.

Some swear that the baths have healing properties, that they can leach even neural fatigue from a pilot’s mind. Phainon isn’t sure he believes that — Professor Anaxa certainly doesn’t — but right now, he’ll take any reprieve he can get.

He sinks deeper into the scalding water, letting the heat work its way into his tight shoulders. But no amount of steam or heat can soften the way your words had cut earlier, like a knife sliding between his ribs.

“I don’t want him in my head!”

The memory of your voice, sharp with revulsion, echoes in his skull like a bad neural feedback loop. He exhales sharply, smacks the water with his fist, watching the ripples distort his reflection on the surface.

The door creaks open without ceremony.

Mydei stands in the entrance, dressed in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, crimson tattoos on full display. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of Phainon.

“You’re here,” he observes, tone flat as if commenting on the weather.

Phainon attempts a smile of acknowledgement, barely gets halfway before he fails and just kind of… grimaces. Mydei’s other eyebrow joins the first. 

“That bad, huh?” He steps across the wet tiles, a smaller towel draped over one shoulder, and sinks into an adjacent bath with a splash that sends water sloshing over the edges.

For a long moment, the only sound is of the distant hum of the filtration system, and the steady drip of condensation from the vents above. Then Phainon’s watch chimes. A message from Hyacine flashes across the display.

[Second round of NeuroSync scheduled two days from now.]

It’s followed by:

[All the best! Don’t let today get you down!]

Phainon throws his head back, feels the migraine building in his skull. No amount of forced tests will change the fundamental truth: you don’t want him in your head. And the thought of having to coerce you into it sits like a stone in his gut.

“Heard they NeuroSynced you today with someone Aglaea scraped off the streets,” Mydei says, leaning back against the stone edge casually and golden eyes watching him very, very carefully. Phainon sighs, sinks a little more into the water.

“I’d forgotten how fast word travels around here.”

“Thousands of people jam packed into a single building…” Mydei shrugs, sending ripples across the water. “Not like there’s much else happening in the Shatterdome.” His eyes flick to Phainon. “Though the General was… vague, about the results.”

A beat. Phainon stares at the ceiling, where the droplets gather and fall in a slow rhythm. Again and again.

“It didn’t go great,” he admits.

Mydei studies him. “You sound… reluctant. That’s odd. I thought you’d be clawing at the chance to get back in a Jaeger.”

He exhales through his nose, watches the steam curl along the water’s surface. “It’s… complicated.” The word feels inadequate, but nothing else quite fits.

Mydei’s expression shifts ever so subtly — a slight narrowing of his eyes, the barest tilt of the head. He’s always been quick to catch on, to understand. Too quick, sometimes. “Ah.” He leans back against the stone edge, arms spread along the rim. “So it’s that person.”

Phainon grimaces. “Too obvious?”

“You’ve only ever called one thing in your life complicated.” Mydei rubs at the stubble along his jaw. “Can’t say I’m surprised Aglaea went digging for her. With your track record, I thought she’d have better luck finding a kaiju that wanted to drift with you.” That familiar smirk returns. “So? How was drifting with the hero of your heart?”

The old nickname lands like a poorly thrown punch. The hero of his heart. Gods, he had used to think that way of you. You were the reason he’d ever joined the Ranger program in the first place, after Aedes Elysiae had fallen and taken everything he’d known and loved with it. And now… now it all just…

“Pretty terrible,” Phainon murmurs, the confession escaping him before he can think of any other way to put it. “She rejected the neural link before we could even establish a proper sync.”

The memory surface, unbidden. The press conference after that first victory in Kephale, the parade through Okhema’s streets. The desperate, foolish hope that had lodged in his chest, like something fragile pushing through concrete: if you were out there, you would see this. They were on every television screen, their faces plastered across every news report in Amphoreus. You would see them. You would come find them, and—

You hadn’t.

Phainon had only found you years later. 

They’d been rumours first. A skilled kaiju parts smuggler working with the Theoros Lygus, who had been one of Aglaea’s biggest headaches — still is, actually. Just another criminal, they’d said at first. Except this one had a wicked expertise in dismantling kaiju. Except this one was sniffing dangerously close to international levels of crime. Except this one…

Had a name he recognised.

He’d gone to see for himself. The prison’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the sound like static in his skull. And then, you.

Alive.

The realisation had hit like a shotgun round to the chest. They’d mourned you. Held a memorial with an empty casket just for the two of them — everyone else who’d known you was long gone. And yet, here you sat, on the cold cement floor, face bruised black and blue and still smiling sharp enough to draw blood.

“Phainon,” you’d said upon seeing him, voice so familiar yet utterly changed. It’d wrapped like a noose around his name. “Fancy meeting you here. Seeing each other like this… fate definitely has some sense of humour, eh?”

He’d gripped the bars until his knuckles turned white, trying to reconcile the ghost from his memories with the reality in front of him. The hero of his heart… Where was the kid who’d patched his scraped knees with chimera bandaids when he’d fallen chasing kites? The one who’d pretended not to be scared of spiders to comfort Cyrene as she cried?

The softness was gone, the spaces left behind filled with something sharp, jagged. Leaving behind someone he could barely recognise. Maybe you did die that day Aedes Elysiae fell. Just… not the way he’d thought.

“Look at you now,” you’d said, gestured at him in mock presentation. “All grown up and shiny and heroic. The great Deliverer, gracing us common criminals with his presence.”

The words had hit him like punches. Your eyes — gods, they were the worst part. Still the same colour, but hardened into something cold and glittering. Unrepentant. Unrecognisable.

The words had tumbled out before he could stop them. I can get you out of here. Come— come with me. We can give you a fresh start.

Please.

You’d looked at him then — really looked at him — with eyes that held none of the warmth he remembered. “I don’t need any saving,” you’d answered. “Especially not from some PPDC poster boy playing hero.”

But now, he knows. You’d been there. The drift — however brief, disjointed, fractured it was — had shown him that much. That fractured moment: you, standing at the crowd’s edge, just… watching. Then, turning away.

Why? Why do this? The question burns hotter than the waters, clinging like the steam to his skin. He doesn’t understand.

Mydei’s voice pulls him back to the present. “That’s normal, isn’t it? Not wanting someone in your head.”

Phainon blinks. He’s gotten lost in his thoughts again. “Eh?”

“Drifting is… intimate.” Mydei’s face contorts at the word like he’s bitten into something sour. “I don’t think anyone wants a stranger poking around in their head. Hell, I barely wanted Cassie in mine, when we first started out. That’s probably not something you’re familiar with, considering that Cyrene knew what you looked like in diapers.” Phainon opens his mouth and Mydei holds up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m aware that this one happens to be your childhood friend too. But I wouldn’t exactly call the two of you friends now.”

He’s right. Phainon stares at his distorted reflection in the water for a few moments, watching the way steam warps his features. “How did it go? For you and Castorice?”

Mydei almost grins at that. “I was your typical hothead ranger recruit. Volunteered for the initial test phases of NeuroSync. Cas was a nerd from the Neuroscience department. She was so soft spoken, I thought she’d crack under the pressure.” His smile turns into a smirk, almost proud. “Turns out she has the stubbornness of a kaiju and the patience of a saint. Don’t think we would have made it work otherwise.”

Phainon’s fingers twitch against the tiles. “Still hit 82% sync, though.” He hasn’t seen a number higher than twenty in months.

You have baggage, Hyacine had told him, during one of his monthly psychology evaluations. Gods, he knows. But everyone has some kind of baggage, some way or another. Phainon just needs to find a way to stuff it away, bury it until he can be useful again. There are people out there who need him.

“Eventually. Took some communication and effort, too.” Mydei’s smirk softens into something more genuine. “Wasn’t about liking each other. Just… understanding.” He taps his temple. “She sees the shit up here and doesn’t flinch. I see hers and don’t judge.”

“Guess Cyrene and I had it on easy mode,” Phainon murmurs. They’d been as tight as siblings long before they’d ever stepped foot into a Conn-Pod.

Gods, he misses her. Her easy humour, the teasing. The way she’d known exactly when to push and when to comfort. Cyrene had always been the smarter, more emotionally aware one of the two of them — she’d have had you both laughing over drinks by now. 

She would have been so happy to see you here, too. But the opportunity has passed, sailed on by on the river of time. And there’s no point in crying over something that has already happened. The only thing he can do is what’s in front of him right now.

The silence stretches, only punctuated by the quiet sound of water rippling. Mydei watches him for a few moments, before he suddenly speaks up.

“Fifty credits says I can outlast you in this bath.”

Phainon blinks, and then huffs a laugh. It’s hardly a subtle attempt to take his mind off things, but… “That’s not a fair bet and you know it. I’ve been stewing here since shift change.”

“What’s the matter, Deliverer?” Mydei’s grin turns sharp. “Scared of a little heat?”

The challenge makes Phainon snort. He rolls his eyes, but settles deeper into the water until it laps at his chin. “You’re on.”

For the first time all day, the weight in his chest feels a little lighter.

[lynnerra]

I love your fics! ✨✨ aaand Phainon🥰

Aww thank you so much 😭😭 this means a lot to me 💖💖 And I love Phainon so much too!! so there will probably be a thousand more fic of him I'm going to write

[lynnerra]

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Strawberry milk and

⋆. 𐙚 ˚vanilla cream pie ⋆˚꩜.ᐟ

There's nothing within the scope of imagination worse than hunger, boredom and Physics class combined. Just when you are on the verge of giving in to the calling of slumber, a cute classmate hands you a treat for your stomach and you leave him with adoration in his heart.

✦ Synopsis: Highschool shenanigans with your friends and perhaps a blooming romance with the your cute classmate.

✧ Featuring: Phainon x Gender-neutral reader along with other background characters!

✦ Word count: 5,1k

✧ Tags: Gender-neutral reader, reader is mentioned to like strawberry milk, reader is somewhat of an academic weapon and hangs out with the Astral Express gang! no use of y/n, fluff, mutual pining, use of Kremnoan profundity, gifts giving as a courting method, features some Asian highschool things, cheating (as in academically)

✦ Note: There are a few details regarding Asian high school (mostly Vietnamese hs but I'm not sure if it's the same in other countries) do check out this extended note if you want to understand all the references in this fic!

Monday-Morning class- 5th period- 10:30 AM: Physics

"The nucleus of an atom contains two different subatomic particles; protons and neutrons…"

Whatever teacher Anaxa says next, you can't be bothered to listen to it as the words keep drifting from one ear out the other, like water in a leaking pipe. Right when he turns to note down something on the black board, you instantaneously take the chance to rest your head on the table, between the makeshift pillow created by your arms.

Class is immensely monotonous without the cheery laughter of Cipher - your absent desk mate. So you have to reluctantly relish in the momentary comfort of the sturdy, wooden desk by tracing the carvings on the table's surface made by your seniors . Sitting up with your elbow on the desk , face leaning into the lukewarm comfort of your palm, you seek out some sort of lullaby from the sounds of chalk hitting the board. (While simultaneously hoping that no chalk would be sent flying down to your face)

This is one of the rare times when your seating plan comes into handy. Sitting behind Mydeimos is definitely a boon to you, his large stature overshadows your silhouette, rendering it nearly impossible for any teacher to catch you dozing off or eating in class. (Except for Miss Aglaea, as if she possesses some sort of witchcraft that allows her to monitor the entire class while writing on the board.) You try closing your eyes and let the sounds of paper turning, pens clicking and Physics ramblings to be ASMR for the day.

But alas, no one can find any relief in slumber when feeling like something is trying to claw its way out of their stomach. You chug down the last bit from your water bottle in hope of ridding your intensifying hunger but it still does nothing to calm your raging appetite. Having miserably failed the attempt to fill that emptiness inside your stomach with water , you decide to go for a nap again.

Just one more period and it's lunch time. You try to convince yourself.

As the drowsiness fills your vision and mind, you gradually loosen your grip and the last bit of sanity drifts away.

You can't help but liken the smell of the breeze outside the window to your half-finished mint ice cream yesterday, your yellow pencil case shape-shifts into a freshly-baked loaf of bread with an aromatic smell of garlic butter and your black calculator just somehow resembles an inviting bar of chocolate.

Eventually, your consciousness fades and you start to wonder how paper would taste like.

Before you can even attempt to smother that thought, you hear something hitting the floor with a small thud, shoving the last bit of sanity back to your mind.

As you pick it up, you come to realize that it's an eraser, shaped like a donut. This must be a cruel judgment from the divine to descend misery upon you.

In all seriousness, it's not yours and it doesn't seem like a belonging of Mydei either, too childish, but you wouldn't rule out the possibility of him having a penchant for such things. However, judging from his nonexistent reaction, it's definitely not his.

The guy next to him- Phainon however, is fumbling around in his seat, dipping his head below the table and chair, rummaging through the desk's compartment frantically in search of something. When his endeavor proves fruitless, he turns to his companion.

"Mydei, did you take my eraser?"

"No."

Despite his curt and steadfast answer, Phainon doesn't seem to buy it. Thus, they break out into a fight of scribbling onto each other's notebooks and a few seconds later, a back-and-forth quarrel while whisper shouting at each other. Everyone within one row is already turning back to either side-eye them or tell them to keep it down.

With a bit of reluctance and a love for pacifism, you choose to return the adorable eraser. You call out to Phainon and hand him the item. He gives you a sheepish smile as he thanks you and then profusely apologizes to Mydei with no effort to conceal his insincerity (He's probably looking for trouble with Mydei due to how boring this Physics class is). The latter mutters some sort of Kremnoan profundity, one that you're not well-versed in, before punching Phainon in his arm.

Their little show manages to keep your mind awake for a few minutes. You prop your chin up on your hands and warn Phainon not to make the same mistake again.

"You're very lucky that Cipher has decided to play truant today, otherwise her tremendous collection of stolen school supplies would have grown in size by now."

"Phew, what a relief …Thank you again."

Just when you think all has been said and done, Phainon turns around, shoves his hand into the compartment attached to the underside of his desk, filled with 10% of books, 90% of random snacks before whipping out a packet of marshmallow cream pie from his mountainous war ration and he's… handing it to you?

"Here I don't have anything to give you so…"

He trails off from his sentence to beam at you. For a split second, you think of declining his offer out of modesty but you are well aware how your stomach would beg to differ with how loud it's roaring. Besides, it's hard to turn him down when he's smiling at you so radiantly, like a happy puppy bringing back a twig to its owner.

Therefore, you accept his gift with no further complaint. The moment he turns to face the board again, you tear open the packaging and wolf down a half of the pie. Sweetness envelops your mouth the moment you sink your teeth down into the this delicacy, its outer layer draped with a thin coating of vanilla and the marshmallow fillings melt the moment it meets your tongue. You close your eyes in satisfaction and lick the vanilla remains from your lips.

37 minutes more before morning class ends, this vanilla cream pie should last you for a while. You silently thank Phainon for his emergency food and try not to read too deep into why Mydei is glancing at you two like that.

Tuesday - Morning class - 7:05 AM- 1st period: History

It's been exactly 5 lessons into the new chapter of the Chrysos War, Miss Tribios would surely surprise the class with a quiz, not about the Chrysos War but about the previous chapter - The start of the Flame-Chase Journey. It's a pattern you've come to notice, she would randomly make the class take a quiz, with no advance warning, about a previous chapter that has been washed off of everyone's mind. It seems spontaneous with no specific planning but you've connected the dots and arrive at a brilliant conclusion.

Which is why you've spent the entire night the day before to review the entire chapter. You're willing to bet your money that the quiz would be about the victory of Seliose against Aquila and even if it's not, you would still ace the test for you have studied everything, even the footnotes weren't spared from your academic pursuit.

When Miss Tribios opens the door and enters with a suspiciously, unconcealed excited smile on her face, you know you've hit jackpot.

"Alright class, time for a surprise quiz!"

You secretly smile to yourself while watching your fellow classmates erupt in confusion and panic, some trying to do some last-minute revision knowing full well of its futility, others seem to have come to terms with their impending fate as they clasp their hands praying to their ancestors.

Cipher belongs to the latter group but you're no heartless monster that would leave your friend stranded in this predicament. With your help and Miss Tribios' lukewarm supervision, you two finish the test quickly, it is just like how you expected. The majority of the questions are about the Victory of Seliose with a few revolving around the Council of Elders and the establishment of "The Cleaners".

As you spin your pen absentmindedly, musing to yourself of what to have for lunch while waiting for the 15-minute timer to go off, something catches your attention.

"Mydei, in which year did Seliose gain victory?"

"I don't know."

He doesn't elaborate but it's clear Mydei is deliberately not helping Phainon, he must be salty about the wrongful accusation yesterday or better yet, he just enjoys seeing Phainon to suffer.

Out of gratitude for Phainon's benevolence the previous day, you decide to extend a helping hand to him (Sorry Mydei, but any more and Phainon's gonna fail History) You try leaning over the table slightly, just enough to get a tad bit closer to him.

"Psst, it's 3870."

He doesn't turn around but you see him scribbling the number down onto the answer sheet.

"Wait partner- Help me out a bit more, which city states-"

" Loukas, Icaria, and Corinth."

He asks you two more questions before finally turning back to give you his most grateful puppy-face ever and a hushed "thank you", Mydei seems a bit irritated but you know he would have helped Phainon too (by helping, it means reading out the answers at the very last minute), if you hadn't intervened first.

"Don't worry alright! If you haven't done well on this test, you can try again another time."

That's what Miss Tribios says every time. At least she is kind enough to let students retake the test if it is below passing grade. But that's none of your problem, you and Cipher celebrate your victory by spending the entire History period goofing around and doodling silly pictures onto each other's note book. The ensuing period of Language rolls by similarly, with the same doodles and school drama until 8:30 - morning break time approaches.

"Hey you haven't had breakfast right? Come, it's on me today." Cipher extends her invitation to you, the corners of her mouth pull into a smug look. It's evident that she herself is proud of her own sudden generosity.

"Oho, is this my payment?" With that you excitedly put the money back into your backpack. "Then I also want that strawberry milk they're selling in the canteen."

"Of course, whatever you wish for, partner." She elongates the last word with a hint of sarcasm and teasing to it before tugging your arm and marches out of the classroom.

"If you want that banana milk, better work your legs before it's sold out!''

You hurry up to match her pace as you two run down the corridors, shoes hitting the vinyl floor with repeated, mixed clumpy sounds as other students try to dodge you.

"Hey, don't you dare jinx it!"

She jinxes it, by the time you two manage to squeeze into the horde of people crowding the canteen like vicious beasts fighting for survival, it has been sold out. With that bitter defeat, you eat your sandwich in gloom and disappointment, but the fact that you don't have to pay for your meal still cheers you up somewhat.

Cipher gets called into Aglaea's office for being absent yesterday while you return to your classroom after break time to get ready for the last three periods of morning. That's when you notice, there's a strange object on your table.

An unmistakable carton draped in pastel pink, featuring silly yet cute illustrations of strawberry. You can still see the glistening beads of condensation on the carton, which means it is still cold despite having been sold out 5 minutes into recess and enduring the scorching heat of the weather for half an hour. Someone must have gone through great lengths to keep it cool.

That's when you pick up the milk carton and find a sticky note behind it, a bit damp due to the wetness but it is still holding up pretty well. It comes to your attention that it's not the regular plain color sticky note but the one with images of cute puppies at the edges, clouds decorating its sides and only a few lines to write on, the impractical yet adorable one used to lure students into making impulsive purchases despite being insanely expensive.

"Thank u 4 helping me earlier!!!"

You cringe internally at the excessive use of exclamation marks and contractions. But seeing the silly doodles of the sun at the bottom of the note admittedly amuses you a bit. You glance at the table before you, Phainon hasn't returned yet. But judging from the conspicuous appearance of the note, the particular way of wording and the legible, pleasant handwriting, you can hazard a guess that it was definitely Phainon who left it.

As you take a sip of the strawberry milk and let out a delighted sigh, you try hard not to think about the adorable, goofy classmate that went through lengths to secure this gift for you. Isn't he also the all time champion of the Debate Club with numerous consecutive wins? So he's cute and smart too. (Maybe not when it comes to History though…)

But don't let it get to your head, it's probably just a gift out of gratitude. Isn't he on the brink of failing History or something?

That's probably all there is to it.

When Cipher returns, she gives you a questioning look as to how you manage to get that. You give her a shrug and say nothing, the truth would have given her a wild idea and you don't like the thought of that.

Wednesday - Afternoon class - 1st period: Biology

As you note down the theory of the Mendelian inheritance from the board, you can't help but feel the burning gaze of your friend, like she is trying to drill it into your head until a hole pierces through you.

"So~ You're not gonna tell me 'bout it?"

You know that she knows, it's not like she would wait an entire day to finally be pestering you about it. She must have already asked Castorice or someone present during the morning break yesterday.

"Thought Castorice told you already Ciphy?"

Even the use of her embarrassing childhood nickname can't keep her mouth shut anymore. "Touché, but how would she know what was written in the note?"

You're not sure if Phainon can hear it or not, but you shush her down nonetheless. "It's just a thank you note, there's nothing more."

Cipher lets out a comedic whistle at your confession, her eyes beam with something mischievous. As your eyes finish one rotation of rolling from one side to the other, Miss Hyacinthia calls your name.

The new teacher, who barely looks older than you, is said to have graduated early due to her excellent academic achievements and this is also her first year of teaching. Which is impressive, since she spots you playing around with Cipher from so far away. Or maybe it was just a pure coincidence.

"Can you read aloud the summary of the Mendelian inheritance for the class?"

You frantically shuffle the pages of your textbook, which have unknowingly been closed by the strong wind from outside the window. You think of grabbing Cipher's textbook instead for quick access, but you silently curse yourself for even assuming that she brings textbooks or any books to school.

"Page 33."

Phainon holds up his textbook to cover his face as he turns around to help you. You spare no second and read out loud whatever is written under the summary section before sitting back down with a sigh of relief.

"Thanks Phainon."

"No problem partner."

You can only let his beaming smile imprint in your mind for a short while before your momentary musing falters as you hear Cipher's annoying chuckle, a cue for your next headache to come. "Ohh, so that's how it is. I see~"

"You see nothing, let me study in peace."

You think she has actually given up on bothering you about it until she slides a piece of paper to your face. It's a small doodle of you and Phainon, only recognizable from the two strands of hair standing up awkwardly at the top of his head like some sort of antennae and you two are… holding hands? At least that's what you can decipher from her clumsy stick man drawing, purposefully done to spite you. Below is a word in full upper case decorated with red hearts. "PARTNER"

"What do you think, partner?"

You muster up a less-than-amused chuckle before gently shoving the piece of paper to her cheek, the wet line art from her expensive fountain pen smears all across her cheek in black ink.

"Ow-ow! okay okay- Alright, I'm sorry!"

Your banter does not go unheard, from the table in front of you, the white-haired boy lets out a fond laugh. It's really small, almost imperceptible to anyone but Mydei. As he glances over Phainon's biology textbook, filled with nothing but silly drawings of milk cartons and a certain someone that just so incidentally shares a few similar appearance traits with the classmate sitting right behind him, he decides to just stay silent and not call Phainon out on it.

HKS.

Thursday - Lunch break - 11:20 AM: Convenience store

Having been bored of the cafeteria's food, you decide to go to the nearby convenience store that has just been opened to check it out a bit. First step into the store, you relish in the fresh, cold air of the AC. The store itself is not large but there's a second floor for customers to cook and eat by themselves.

The cashier greets you with a cordial, diplomatic smile and you return it with a small nod. As you stroll through the shelves, you stop occasionally to pop your head into refrigerated areas storing foods and dairy products to cool off.

The foods are insanely overpriced compared to those at regular supermarkets. However, in account of the cooking area, good ventilation and a newly-built AC, prices can be overlooked for the time being.

You slide the items onto the cashier desk: a cup noodle, a carton of strawberry milk, a bag of honey butter-flavored chips (this is to share with Cipher during class)

The beeping sound of the scanner goes off with each item, you fumble with your jacket's pocket to get the money.

"That will be a total of—"

You don't hear what comes next. A sense of dread and unease fills your stomach as you try digging into your pockets and backpack to look for your wallet. It is nowhere to be found. You clutch the hem of your uniform, silently cursing your horrible luck and sheepishly apologize to the cashier.

"Ah, sorry but can you-"

"Please add these to the order, I'll pay for everything."

A packaged sandwich and a blueberry soda can appear on the checkout counter. You know that familiar voice, its gentle lilt and sing-song cadence are things you can hardly ever mistake. For a brief moment, you freeze in your place, hands still hover by your sides as you try to look for the words to say.

"Phainon? You don't have to-"

"do that."

By the time you gather the courage to finish that sentence, everything has been paid. Perhaps deep down, you didn't want to say that either, it's not like you could withstand 5 afternoon periods with your stomach running on pure determination and hope. So instead, you muster up a small "thank you".

As you two head upstairs, you settle down at a table conveniently located just next to the cooking area. Wordlessly, Phainon unwraps the plastic packaging of your cup noodle and fills it up with boiling water. You're a bit bemused and embarrassed by this. It's not like you would enjoy this kind of excessively attentive treatment from him, would you?

"Phainon, just let me do it-"

"No worries, it's no trouble so just let me do it for you."

When he begins to drain the water, you start to feel just a tad bit unease from all the staring you two are receiving from the other students. Phainon is quite well-known around the school, he is the representative of the debate club and has attended numerous competitions, coupled with his supreme athletic skills which render him at a higher social status within the school's hierarchy, or whatever it is called. You're not exactly a nobody either, but with many other illustrious academic achievers at school, you seem like a speck of sand in the desert.

You only wake up from your nonsensical musings when Phainon places your cup noodle right in front of you, hot steam blowing into your face. "Are you sure you would be full with just this?"

"You literally only have a sandwich for lunch." You can't lie, that sandwich looks delicious, packed with 2 layers of fried egg, lettuce and ham you can definitely get through the day with something like that. But for someone with his build, this would seem like a packet of children's noodles.

"I prepare other snacks to eat throughout the class actually and I also never skip breakfast."

He doesn't say it, not aloud at least, but you are sure that was meant to be targeted towards you (How does he even notice such detail though?) Such is the power of a member from the Debate club, to just verbally attack anyone without the need to use names and playing it off as impersonal.

"Fair enough. Also… Thank you for earlier, I will pay you back, once I find my wallet of course."

"Please no! You don't have to, it's on the house really." He chokes on his own sandwich just to get his point across to you but you genuinely hate being indebted to someone, especially when that someone is beaming at you with the brightness of a thousand suns combined.

"It just doesn't feel right for me to… You know-"

"I insist, just see it as me repaying you." You're slightly taken aback by this, surely he doesn't mean that History quiz? It's not like he got you to do his entire test. As you wait for further elaboration, he pulls out a stack of paper from his backpack, searching through each one with incredible pace before pulling out his own History test.

A conspicuous, vibrant red at the edge of the paper reads "6,75- You've improved Snowy!"

"Really I couldn't have done it without you, I thought I would have failed this quiz for sure!"

It's probably the first time you've seen anyone wagging their imaginary tail so hard with just a 6,75, but then again you can't really apply your academic ideology to other people.

"Wait, what about that banana milk? Wasn't that you also?"

"It was. But that was not me repaying you… I just simply want to give you it, that's all."

Either you are hallucinating or that his voice really gets more timid saying that. Now you can feel the heat crippling up to your face, with a slightly unsteady hand, you pick up the chopsticks and continue eating your noodles. Surely it's just the spice getting to you and nothing more.

To all intents and purposes, you're no idiot who can't see what he's trying to pull, just a bit clueless about this whole situation. You've seen it very often, guys buying your friends milk, drink or all sorts of popular snacks as if they're trying to court them.

Cipher never really shows up to accept those gifts face-to-face, Caelus and Stelle only care about free food, March only ever brags with you about it and Dan Heng, well would probably be the best candidate for you to learn from but you're not in the same class and he's not exactly the type to share this kind of stuff either.

Is there any proper guide on how to address this appropriately, if this is what you think it is?

You try gauging his reaction but every time you lift your gaze upwards by just a bit, you can already see him staring back at you. Like gentle waves crashing onto the sun-drenched shore, like the vast azure sky high above your head or just simply that translucent, dreamy blue soda by his hand. And suddenly, everything is blue, just like his eyes.

You wonder if his heart is beating with the same pace as yours.

"Thank you… I appreciate it a lot."

With that, his eyes lift up like a thousand stars are illuminating them, he's got that endearing, lopsided, goofy smile on his face and right now, you can clearly observe the pinkness dusting his cheeks, stretching to the tips of his ears.

For some reasons, getting that out of your chest makes you feel immensely more relaxed and less tense than you were.

"Yes!- I mean, that's great. Then should we exchange our contact information?"

You type in your number and he does the same too. He set his contact on your phone as "Phainon ☀️" Praise the sun.

That's cute

While you are too busy musing to yourself about your new-found discovery, he takes the time to set a heart next to your contact name on his phone.

Friday - After school - 5:25 PM: Classroom

Rumors sure spread fast, within one night, the whole school has heard about you and Phainon. Aside from the fact that Cipher has a run for her money with her newest amusement, your other friends seem pretty supportive of whatever that is between you and him.

Caelus and Stelle with their dramatic display of crying as if they are sending their kid off for marriage (technically you aren't even dating Phainon, right?) and March reassures you that if he ever wrongs you, she would be sending an arrow straight for his ass (true to her style as a former member of the Archery Club). Dan Heng is the most well-behaved, normal person about this whole ordeal (Which makes you immensely grateful)

Just thinking about Phainon makes you feel giddy. The thought of that strawberry milk, pink like the blush on his cheeks, warm like the smile on his face can almost make you forget that you're on cleaning duty, all alone.

Last period was Arts and Literature by Miss Aglaea so of course Cipher was absent. But because of that, she's forgotten that you two are supposed to be on cleaning duty together, leaving you all alone in this messy classroom. Obviously you can just text her, but there's no guarantee she will read the message.

You will make sure to give her a good beating once Monday comes.

Scrubbing the board on a lovely Friday afternoon has to be the worst thing ever, at least you get to enjoy the silence and tranquility of an afterschool classroom.

Water the plants, done. Take out trash, done. Clean the teacher's table, done. That makes it only two more to go, sweep the floor and wipe the board.

You're a bit lost in thought until you hear Phainon calling out your name.

"Oh? On cleaning duty I see."

His figure leans against the doorframe, backpack hung over one side of his shoulder. It has been over 10 minutes since class was dismissed, why is he still here?

"Phainon? You haven't gone home yet?"

With no further ado, he deposits his backpack on the corner of the class, takes the towel from your hand and starts cleaning the upper part of the board. (He must have seen you struggling for a while)

"I left my notebook here so I have to come back, didn't think I would run into you though. Seems like I gotta lend you a hand now."

You have learned better than trying to dissuade him when he is set on something, so you pick up the broom and sweep the floor instead. With your back turns to face him, you silently smile to yourself.

"Doing voluntary work? You're too kind."

"Well, it's actually not for free."

Led by curiosity, you turn around to face him. And just during that moment, time itself seems to slow down, as if the hands of the clock are frozen in place.

The gentle breeze caresses his cheeks, blowing a few strands of his hair into his face. The ethereal beauty of dusk blesses his skin with a gentle orange hue, warm like the sun, delicate like sunflowers. His eyes glimmer with something you can't quite name, at least not in the moment.

The sunset from outside breaks through the windows in small rays, adorning your hair with its radiance. He is entranced, like the beholder appraising a painting. Your hair just so frames your gentle countenance with a lovely angle, loose strands flowing with the wind.

That moment lasts perhaps no more than a second, but with just a bit more you two may have been lost in each other's eyes. His are like the profound depth of the ocean, where beams of lights pierce through the enigmatic darkness, signifying the beginning of dawn. Yours are like the brilliance of the morning dew, fragile like a watercolor painting, each brushstroke thoughtful and meticulous.

Whatever cringy, stupid pick up line he is about to say next sort of dies in his throat for he only wants to savor this fleeting, heavenly moment. But you feel impelled to break the awkward silence with something, anything before his gaze set your soul alight.

…

"Uh- Do I have to pay you or what?"

Truly, there is no wet blanket like a weird question to tarnish the romance-laced atmosphere. Phainon seems a bit embarrassed, a bit disappointed too maybe.

Was he waiting for something to happen?

"What? No- I mean yes, but not like that! Not with money, I just want you to come along to the debate competition tomorrow. And maybe- uh hang out afterwards?"

He stutters over his words and somehow it is the loveliest thing you've ever seen. With that, your smile somehow comes back in full force, basking in the radiance of the sunset afterglow, you nod.

"Sure, you better make it worth it though."

Phainon turns back to clean the board with a victorious smile blooming on his visage and a thousand strategies to show off his skills to impress you tomorrow. Meanwhile, your nails dig into the broom while you silently anticipate your date tomorrow, a definitely official date.

Once cleaning duty is over, you two walk down the corridor leading to the front gate. The sun is still shedding its last glimmer of the day, the color lingers at your steps as you fill the hall with nothing but the sounds of footsteps, gingerly echoing down the vinyl floor. You look forward to Saturday and so does he.

Hold your horses! Haven't you forgotten something important? What about Phainon's notebook?

Or was there even one at all?

Phainon's phone buzzes, messages from Cipher.

"Had fun doing cleaning duty, Deliverer boy?"

"You two owe me this time!"

[lynnerra]

I know my fav work that I burned my soul to finish would flop but I'm happy I can finally share it after all the efforts I put into

At least me and 21 other people will somehow enjoy it <3

[lynnerra]

Hii~ If you are reading this, I believe you've read through my passionate Asian/Vietnamese! Highschool AU Phainon x reader fic. So firstly, I want to sincerely thank you for making it till the end, you don't know how much this means to me 😭😭

Anyways, regarding the Asian/Vietnamese Highschool references that were used:

1. The timetable: This is based on the educational system in Vietnam. Students study 5 days a week with both morning and afternoon classes. Each has 5 periods, a period lasts 45 minutes and there are two 30-minute breaks at 8:30AM and 2:30PM

2. The grading system: It is on a scale of 10 with 1 being the lowest and 10 being the highest. Weirdly enough the average, acceptable grade is not 5 but 6 in most schools which was why the reader was surprised that Phainon seemed happy with a barely-above-average grade. Also we don't have the plus or minus things as in A+ or A- but we have 6.0 | 6.25 | 6.5 | 6.75 | 7.0 you get the gist!

3. Gift-giving as courtship: Many students would buy their crush/lover their fav drinks/snacks as a way of showing affection (in real life it's often time Milo but I changed it to strawberry milk) and accepting the gift is often seen as agreeing for the other party to continue their courtship!

4. Lunch time: After the morning class students can either go home or stay at school to have lunch (the latter is only viable if you sign up for lunch at school or you buy them yourself) This detail was not really mentioned in the fic but just in case some people are curious as to why Cipher and Mydei (being the reader and Phainon's best friends) are absent during lunch time.

5. Cleaning duty: Some students have to stay back after class to clean the classroom! In reality it doesn't sound as bad as I made it out to be in the fic but oh well, it's for the plot

|-> These things may be quite common in other cultures too and not an exclusive thing in Vietnamese high schools, what I've mentioned above are just things from my observation after years of being a student. Is your culture also like this? Do share some ~

I'm entering the last year of high school so I'm trying to make the best out of my experience. Which means there will be more Highschool AU fics in the future ❤️

[lynnerra]

The current kitchen event of hsr is like a healing journey after that trauma-dumping mentally devastating, life-long scarring tragedy of a quest

Loving every second of it

[lynnerra]

This feels like drinking a refreshing glass of water at night. Simple but sooo good

𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗘𝗫𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦, 𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗬𝗢𝗨 ; (𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗔𝗬)

SYNOPSIS: What awaits you in the Dreamscape is your quiet place of rest: a patisserie dyed moon-blue in the Moment of Midnight. Promised solitude just as illusory as the pastries on display, because you can’t seem to escape a certain fair-faced Halovian.

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

CONTENTS: sunday/reader, f!reader (referred to as young lady, miss— no she/her pronouns used), patisserie au (cousin of café aus), set in canon and fragmented across the timeline (the first four parts take place before 2.7, the fifth and final during it), fluff and banter, soft yan implications if you squint (coughs)(SUNDAY IS JUST WEIRD.), sunday-typical themes of dreams vs reality, reader is overworked and probably nearing a spiral, robin haunts the narrative in form of a keycharm, the yearning is there but buried under the boundaries of reader pov. sunday goes by ”wonweek” (since reader does not realize who he is. lol.) but he’s very much still sunday he’s just being annoying.

A/N: IT’S FINALLY DONE . this is a long overdue comm for my most beloved and cherished sunday fucker ( @stellamancer ) 🙂‍↕️ it was supposed to be 3k but it ran away from me completely … still, i’m satisfied with what it turned into!! i tried my best to do chicken wing boy justice, so i hope any sunday enjoyers who read this are pleased with the end result!! :’3🫶 ALSO big big thank u to my guardian fawn ( @coyotecrumb ) for proofreading and helping me with the editing process … i love u always …… anyway please picture me slamming into sunday at the speed of the astral express because wowww is he stressful to write LMAO. stupid gap moe loser

At the end of the boundary-line between dreams and reality stands a small, quaint patisserie— its doors always unlocked, opening wide when you tug at the handle.

"Welcome back!" sings the interior. "What can I get for you today?"

It rings out from behind the counter when the bell chime fades, when the door behind you closes. The same girl as always, her hands folded neatly on top of the marble; sleeves cuffed up to her elbows, a blue apron tied around her waist and embroidered with what look to be doves, pure white and fluttering across the fabric. She's smiling, like she’s happy to see you. You see it through the dim lighting, the entire lounge painted blue by the moon through the windows.

The air smells sweet. Buttery. Something like burnt caramel and rose jam, threading through the room.

You inhale, then exhale. 

In the glamour of the Dreamscape, people hunger for all sorts of things. Luxury, adventure, shimmering bottles of soulglad— anything that gives the impression of living life to the fullest. The fresh wave of tourists are all off on such ventures, you'd assume. Fine dining, day drinking, sightseeing… gambling, of course. You check most of them into the Reverie yourself, help them with their bags, answer any questions they might have. Most of them are easy. Most of them are in the manual.

Some of them— like, are there any spots we should know about? Any hidden gems?—

Well.

Questions like that, you tend to leave unanswered. 

Because there's only one true hidden gem worth mentioning, tucked away in The Moment of Midnight: where tourists are least likely to linger, where trouble stirs itself to sleep. Only one spot not yet trampled by rowdy dreamers, or sponsored by too-expensive brands. Bérylune, reads the sign, though you won't see it until you've ventured through a narrow alleyway and stopped in front of a bright-blue door, flickering street lamps on either side. There it stands, solitary. Like a secret just for you.

No way are you letting anyone in on it.

"Um, let me think." You shift your weight, absently, reaching up to fiddle with the straps of your handbag. The girl behind the counter hums. 

"Of course! Please, take your time."

Your eyes glide left, to the faint shimmer of the glass display— what you've been dreaming of all evening. What you dream of at the end of every tireless workday. Where you inevitably end up once you've exhausted yourself on your late-night strolls around the Dreamscape, wandering aimlessly, no different from your usual rounds at the hotel. No room ever goes unbooked, so there's no point to sitting down and feigning relaxation.

The least you deserve is to treat yourself. 

(It's not like you hate your job. You'd say you're lucky, all things considered: a hefty paycheck, golden lights wherever your gaze takes you, the superficial glimmer of casinos and streetlights lying at the center of what Penacony is. The extraordinary is routine. That, in itself, has become a kind of comfort. It's better than your old life. Less monotone. The city is always alight, so there's no need for counting stars. 

And there's the Dreamscape, of course. Always close at hand, the hazy bliss in front of you.)

Pastries sparkle from beneath the glass, the sight of them enough to make your mouth water. Soft, pillowy slices of spongecake, slathered in honey, squished between fruit tarts weighty with strawberries. Ruby-red, summer-ripe. Your hungry eyes flit from side to side. The bell chime rings out behind you, but you scarcely hear it over the piano playing from behind the counter, soft compositions from an old-school radio— you don't know who the composer is, but you recognize the song. It never builds up to any crescendo, blissfully empty of weight, of intensity. 

The room has begun to smell more and more like roasted coffee. An espresso machine purring to life. You think of mystery, of something illusionary. When you look down at your hands they're painted moon-blue. 

(For you, this is heaven. The crème de la crème of what the Dreamscape has to offer. Not the Golden Hour, not any casino— but��this. 

And it's all yours.)

"I'll have the macaron set, please."

(… Mostly yours.)

Your gaze drifts to where the Halovian is standing, smoothing a steady hand down the fabric of his suit. His locks are next, rivers of silver running in between his thumb and forefinger, barely-ruffled by the breeze outside.

The lady behind the counter gives him a smile. To the untrained eye it's the same as ever, but you've worked in customer service all your life; you're well aware of what's real and fake, what expression says Please be normal, it's been a long day as it is, or I'm so happy to see you again. Seriously. It gleams brighter, much brighter, than the one she'd graced you with. A bashful flicker that has you wanting to sigh. 

… Not that you blame her. He is handsome.

"Of course, sir. Will that be for here, or to-go?"

"To-go, for tonight. Have you been well?"

"Yes!" She shoots up, in the process of bending down to bring the pastries out from the display. "Ah, um. Yes, I have! And you?"

A quiet hum. He isn't looking at her, you notice. Rather, the golden cuts of his eyes are stuck on the glass, on what's gleaming behind it. Not the macarons he ordered, but a golden pudding tart. "I've been well," he says. "Thank you."

Then he's quiet. His voice is nice to listen to, like a late-night talk show host in the prime of his career, pleasant white noise to tune out the world with. Suited for lullabies and ghost stories. Your eyes follow him, vacantly, the way his fingers tug down his sleeve to check his watch, the brittle flutter of his wings when he exhales, pairs of silky-looking feathers twitching against his neck. One of them is pierced, though you can't see it from this angle. 

This isn't your first encounter with the stranger. He's usually here around the same time you are, when the moon in reality would have showed its pearly-blue teeth; either gazing at the display when you enter, or sitting by a table in the corner with his lips against the rim of a porcelain cup. It's unusual for you to beat him to it; maybe work kept him late? 

… Yeah, probably not. He's too pretty to be anything but a flashy tourist. A secret idol, maybe?

You humour yourself with the thought.

His pupils flicker, suddenly, golden ripples across the surface of his eyes. You're zoned out, watching them, only now noticing that he's angled his face away from the counter— the sharp lines of his jaw pointing in your direction.

When you realize he's catching your stare, his lips have already parted.

"Ah, pardon me," he says, silky-smooth, eyes curling into slits. Smiling cordially. "Were you about to order?" 

Stupidly, you blink at him. After a moment, your gaze snaps back to the sheet of glass in front of you. "No, don't worry," your smile is barely-there, though you make an attempt— you never know who's important when it comes to Penacony. Never know when you might be speaking to an idol on vacation, or a CEO with the influence to get you fired. Best to be on the safe side. "I was still deciding, so…"

He waits for you to finish. When you don't, keen eyes of gold leave your face.

"I see."

Silence settles in the space between you. You don't dare look at him again, busying yourself with your choice of pastry, eyes flitting restlessly between them. Should you go for something syrupy sweet, or minty and refreshing..? He's facing forward, but the weight of his gaze is still searing your skin, the butt of a cigarette against your brittle cheek. 

It's heavy. It leaves an impression. 

(Because you've seen him, yes— but you've never caught his eye. Not for more than a moment, a quick glance or absent nod.

This is the first time you've spoken.)

When his voice calls out again, you've settled on a sizable fruit tart. Speckled with blackberries, the crust a nice golden brown, eyes focused on it when that bedtime story cadence echoes on your left. "I'd like them packaged, if that's alright." He tugs gently at the bottom of his glove, adjusting it with nimble fingers. "They're a gift."

Gift. 

The word makes your mind halt, for a moment. Something in the way he wraps his tongue around it. Soft, albeit briefly.

The poor girl behind the counter must have heard it too. Because she's wilted by the time you've raised your gaze, hanging her head a little lower than before, hiding barely concealed disappointment behind a tight-curved smile. 

"… Of course," she chirps, weakly. "One moment."

She places the macarons inside a small, rectangular box, lining them up one by one inside it; green, pink, ochre, repeated twice, a row of sparkling gemstones, only sliced into halves. Then she's closing it, wrapping her fingers around a silky blue ribbon to thread it around the front and back. 

"Thank you for waiting," she slides it across the counter.

The Halovian hums, accepting it with careful hands. He pays, swiftly, brandishing a black card. Yep, definitely not a working class comrade. His halo gleams in the dim light, thrumming faintly when it catches onto its golden edge. Like church bells tolling on a far-away planet. "Thank you," he says, quietly. "Have a good night."

When he turns to leave, his gaze overlaps with yours. No longer than a second, a glimmer of sun-soaked copper— he reaches for the handle of the door, and the moment turns to vapour. Midnight air courses in as he slips through the gap, chills the base of your ankles, the tips of your fingers. A soft jingle, and he's gone. 

His back disappears into the night, his shadow painted cornflower blue. You see it through the window.

(You wonder where he's going.)

"Excuse me, miss." A stale smile, and a downcast voice. "Would you like to order?"

You snap your head back into place. "Y-yes, please."

The fruit tart tastes as good as you expected it to. You eat it there, at a table in the corner— it's not like you could bring it back to reality, even if you wanted to eat it in the comfort of your quarters— sinking your teeth into the crust, feeling it crumble into pieces around them. The blackberries burst with juice, melting together with the cream, thick notes of vanilla and chestnut. You lick your lips with a happy hum. 

Too good to be true, though you guess that's the point.

When you return to reality, the taste won't linger on your lips. Your body won't feel satiated. You know this, but you still keep coming back— to a badly-placed patisserie, in the least popular Moment of the Dreamscape— gorging on pastries made from dreams and stardust. As if just the illusion is enough to keep you full. As if you could keep going, and going, plucking every star from the illusionary sky. 

It's a foolish thought.

(You suppose that's why you're here, anyway. The reason you can't pull yourself away from the Reverie, or the Dreamscape. In a way, you're perfect for each other.

Glamour, and delicacies, and questionable men.

… Truly, the essence of what Penacony has to offer.)

The next time you step inside, the patisserie is empty. No Halovian gentleman by the counter, nor by the tables, no silky-soft voice threading through the air. 

Again, you beat him to it. 

"Welcome back!" Smiles the clerk, her lips glossy and pink. The shade makes you think of cherry balm. With sluggish steps, you walk up to the counter, expression practically trampled in comparison to hers. You muster a weary upward tilt of your lips, a half-hearted nod— you don't have it in you to do anything more. The guests were just awful, today. Lips drawing into a thin line, flimsy excuse of a smile slipping off them, your gaze glides over to the glass-layered display.

A better you would be in bed by now. Watching a soap opera, waiting for your order of real food to arrive. But you're not better— you're just you— and if you don't get your hands on a treat within the next five minutes you think your brain will just burst. The lady behind the counter is humming to herself, the song unfamiliar. 

"I'd like… a croissant," you order, tentative. "With chocolate filling, please."

She nods. "Any drinks, or will that be all?"

Your lips part, before slowly falling shut again. Something warm doesn't sound so bad right now, actually… "I'll take a cup of hot chocolate, too."

"Great! One second…"

You exhale faintly, blinking twice. Watching with unfocused eyes as she presses the tips of her fingers against the small screen in front of her. Beep. Beep— the noise just barely cutting through your muddled senses, your hazy peripheral. 

"Aaand there you are!" She gestures towards the card reader, lacing her fingers together. "I'll get started on your order— will you be eating here?"

"… No." You shake your head, reaching for your pocket. "I'll take it to-go, plea—"

…

Your fingers spread out. One, after the other, like spindly limbs extending. Searching. 

But no, there's nothing. 

For a moment, all you can do is stand frozen in place. Eyes wide with disbelief— the beginnings of denial. Your fingers, still twitching idly in the pocket of your pants, stop smoothing over old receipts and loose change and lip balm— they turn as still as you. Seconds pass, no more than five, before a heaving sigh breaks past your lips.

Your wallet isn't there. 

Clinging onto what remains of your sanity, your hand slips out your pocket, right into the next. But, again, nothing. You're sure it's not in your purse, because you didn't bring it with you, and you remember holding your wallet no more than half an hour ago— unless you're mistaken? It's no good, your brain is already too subdued for second guessing. When you raise your gaze the clerk is looking at you, blinking like she's confused. The scent of cocoa seeps through the air, her hands busy with the milk pitcher, and for once you wish the service wasn't so fast. 

"… I'm sorry," you say, as clearly as you can manage— which is barely above a whisper, really. Your head hurts. You kind of want to cry. Being the responsible adult you are, you attempt to hold it in. "I… think I dropped my wallet."

"Oh no!" Her lips fall into a frown, but she seems hesitant on what to say next. "I'm sorry to hear that…"

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. You repeat it to yourself. It's just a croissant. Except, of course, it really isn't— it was supposed to be your well-deserved after-work treat, and you needed it today more than ever. The illusionary comfort only the Dreamscape can provide.

"Sorry," you repeat, breath pitifully stuck in the back of your throat. Ready to turn on your heel, and walk back into reality, your nails leaving crescents on your inner palms. It's subconscious— you barely feel the ache. "I'll… come back tomorrow."

"No need."

… A voice, feather-soft, calls out from behind you. 

When you turn your head towards its source, two golden eyes stare back at you. A certain Halovian, parting his lips.

"I'll pay for it. Just add it to my order." He pays no mind to your bewildered expression, speaking candidly. How did you not hear him coming in? "A croissant for me as well, please. Savoury."

The familiar stranger walks up to the counter, not even sparing you a glance. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was referring to another customer with no wallet to their name. You're the only ones here, though. He says something to the clerk, something you don't catch, because you're too busy staring at his face like he just dropped down from the sky— crashed through the roof like a bird with burning feathers. 

(Or an angel, maybe. An angel with just the right amount of wings, and a halo made of thorny gold. An angel with eyes like charred sunflower fields.

… Your mind is left entranced.)

"Oh, um. Alright! Will that be to-go, or…?"

"No, that's alright." He takes out his card. "We're eating here."

Only when it moves towards the card reader, does your brain finally catch up to what your eyes are seeing. Without thinking, you grasp onto his arm.

"W-wait, you don't have to!" Your fingers curl around the linen of his sleeve, the protest stumbling out your lips. Your mind is too jumbled up to realize what you're doing— you can't feel the heat of his skin, or the thumping of his pulse, but his eyes coil into slits where they meet yours. "Seriously, I'd hate to bother—"

"Oh, it's no bother." 

He smiles, suddenly; stale, his earrings swaying when he tilts his head to face you. Hand gentle when it comes to lay over yours. His gloved fingers feel silky against your own, untangling them casually, before he smooths the flat of his palm down the fabric you creased. 

"I'd be happy to," he says. 

"… But,"

Without further pause, he slides his card against the card reader. A decisive beep. Paying for your order, seamlessly, the smile on his lips never slipping off his face; from this narrow distance you think you'd be able to see the weariness in his eyes, but it isn't there. Neatly tucked away, maybe. Or is he just a night owl?

You purse your lips, unsure what else to do. The clinking of plates fills the air.

"… Thank you," you settle on. A quiet breath.

"You're welcome." His reply is instant. "Though I suggest you pay more attention in the future. A lost wallet is no laughing matter."

… He's right, but something about the way he says it doesn't sit right with you. You decide to stay silent, until the plates have been served, until you're seated at a table in the corner right across from him. Two croissants in front of you, yours streaked and stuffed with chocolate, coated in a layer of powdered sugar, like snow on a mountaintop— a halved strawberry sitting neatly on top of it— his filled with lettuce, ham, and thinly sliced cheese. He watches you take a tentative bite, the crumbs sticking to your fingers, before reaching for his knife and fork. 

"The Dreamscape is a safe place, relatively speaking." He continues, taking nimble bites between the words. "But that doesn't mean there are no souls who would take advantage over a young lady's naivety. It doesn't hurt to take precautions."

"… You mean, you think somebody stole it?"

An absent hum. "Not exactly." He's smiling, again, though it's hard to tell when the lights overhead intermingle with the shadows from the window to your right. His face is candle-lit, flickering faintly. "What I mean is— you should keep important things close to your person. For an adult, that's only natural, wouldn't you agree?"

(… He's making fun of you.)

"… It isn't like me," you explain, cringing at how defensive it sounds. As if sulking, you sink your teeth into the sugary croissant. "I'm not that scatterbrained."

The Halovian tilts his head, ever so slightly. 

"… Good," he places his cutlery back on the table. Then: "Here you are."

You watch as he brings your wallet out of his pocket. Sets it down in front of you, the leather smudged with a light layer of dust— though the rubber charm you clipped onto it remains unsoiled, her smile devoid of flecks. 

Baffled, you stare at it.

Then up at him. 

"It was lying just outside," he tells you, voice like a news anchor mentioning the weather. Too casual, you think. He brings a pure white handkerchief to the curve of his lips. "—You have good taste. That collection was my favorite of last spring's."

In the moment, you decidedly ignore his knowledge on idol merchandise. The bewilderment still coursing through your veins takes priority, your voice dumb-struck when you ask— 

"You had it all along?" A mortified pause. "Why didn't you give it to me earlier?"

"All actions should have consequences." He answers, simply. "Even something as idle as embarrassment has a strong effect on the mind… I'm sure you'll be more wary in the future."

You blink. Once, then twice.

The Halovian's expression remains carefully concealed. You see no notes of humour, nor of ill intent. Condescension, maybe, in the smooth line of his lips. The way he's looking at you. It's vague enough that you wouldn't notice if he wasn't saying something so…

… Socially obscene?

"I'm an adult," you finally bite, too exhausted to play at sounding cordial. Your brow twitches, restless with irritation. "… I don't need a stranger to gentle parent me, thank you."

…

Are you being rude? Sure. But you're tired, you've had an awful day, and— frankly, you don't have it in you to entertain whatever mind games he just admitted to using on you, even if he turned out to be the CEO of the Reverie himself. He's weird. Weirdo. Waste of a pretty face. The thoughts enter your mind, but don't turn into words.

… After all, you're still taking bites of the croissant that he bought you. The damage is done. 

(You settle on silent, petty scrutiny— he's for sure the type to put a tracker on his girlfriend's phone. The motel stalker type.)

Finally, he speaks. "Pardon me," he smiles, a narrow line. "It wasn't my intention to offend you."

Through a mouthful of powdered sugar and chocolate, you offer him a dubious look. He seems to notice it. "That was only half the reason," he explains, clicking his pointer finger on the edge of the table. Rhythmic thumps, in tune with the composition playing from the counter. "To be honest, I'm not too fond of sweets. But seeing you enjoy them so openly is… refreshing." A beat. "In a sense."

… Is that supposed to be a compliment?

Moreover— how long has he been watching you? The thought lingers on your mind, for no more than a moment. You let it go when he speaks.

"What I mean is— I've been hoping to converse with you." The tapping stops, abruptly. He goes silent— a look in his eyes like he isn't really there, a faceless stare boring into you. "… This was a golden opportunity."

His voice is all honey and silver, but you aren't sure what to make of it. When his eyes flit away from yours, briefly, his halo remains unmoving. Overseeing. His pupils flickering like a pair of injured sparrows. There's a gap in the way that he's acting, you think.

Everything about the way he carries himself suggests social awareness, so—

… what's with this awkward tension? 

(It's like he's a sheltered princess. Like someone locked him up in a tower, and told him how to speak to others— let him practice in front of mirrors, dance with marionette dolls. That kind of feeling. Like he's looking through you, rather than at you— like his mouth is being guided by a silent, invisible hand, lips tugged apart to make space for their words. But then, who is the dragon? The evil stepmother?

… Maybe he really is an idol. That would be the more grounded option. An out of touch celebrity vacationing on Penacony, unused to the mysteries of social boundaries. It would explain his knowledge in Robin merchandise, at least…)

Your stare must unnerve him. Or maybe he gets tired of waiting for a response. Either way, he lets out something like a chuckle; it shatters your thoughts. "Ah, forgive me… It’s unlike me to speak so brazenly. I've overstepped."

With graceful poise, he digs his fork into the nearly-finished croissant. Lifts the final piece towards his mouth, without so much as angling his jaw down. Silent, measured chewing, the seconds between his words filled with nothing but the white noise of the ticking clock behind him. It sits on the wall, hands counting down until sunrise, though it means nothing in the Moment of Midnight. Still hours away.

Like a snake slithering back into its nest, he stands up as soon as he's swallowed— swiping the tip of his tongue across the seam of his lips. The chair is pushed back into place, before he graces you with another easy-curved smile. 

"Please, don't let me ruin your meal."

"Um— wait." Just as he's about to leave, you stop him. "What's your name?"

When he turns his head, his eyes catch the moon-stream from the window. Gold turns to silver in the white streak of light. The Halovian parts his lips, but no noise makes it past them— he seems to reconsider whatever he was going to say. 

A quiet hum, at the juncture of his throat.

"… Wonweek."

"Ah… thank you, Wonweek." You probably shouldn't be thanking him, but it slips out before you can stop yourself. You're more preoccupied with other thoughts— such as, you don't know any idols with that stage name, so either he's lying or the work-stress is having a positive effect on your imagination— "For the food. And… for picking up my wallet."

He surveys you, for a moment. Doesn't say a word. Pupils coiling into thoughtful slits.

Silver locks sway, when he turns around. 

"It was my pleasure." 

… And then he's leaving. 

(The barely-there afternotes of his cologne linger on the seat across from you, stitched into the polyester: deep, mellow amber.)

This time, Wonweek is already there when you open the door.

With the Charmony Festival just around the corner, it's a miracle you can still move your legs. All day— all week— nothing but guests, checking in from every corner of the galaxy. It's so hectic you've been demoted to carrier, lunging around suitcases twice your size while the senior staff tends to the visitors. There's a numbing ache in your limbs, all the way to the base of your joints. Splintered out across your nerves.

Yet you make your usual rounds. The dried blue tones of the midnight sky sweep across your cheeks, as you rouse the bell chime into life— and he's there.

A brief flicker of gold, and a subtle smile, his eyes catching yours when they glide across the lounge. The air is thick with black tea, steam drifting from the silver-lined rim of his porcelain cup, the pure white speckled with bluebirds. His lashes flutter shut when he takes a sip. As always, the radio plays soft piano.

"Welcome back! What can I get for you, today?"

The lady behind the counter offers you the same smile as ever. She painted her nails, you notice— blue, but a touch lighter than the shade of her apron. Like the evening sky of a particularly hot summer. You wrap your tongue around a quiet hum, eyes moving to the glass display. Squinting at the pastries under it.

… Honestly, you aren't sure.

"Having trouble deciding?" Wonweek chimes in, when you've been standing in place for a moment too long. There's a cordial smile on his lips, a cheery note to his voice; like he's in a good mood. He abandons his spot to come stand beside you.

"… A little," you admit. "I guess I'm not sure what I'm in the mood for?"

A soft, affirming noise. 

"Would you like me to decide for you?" 

When you raise your head, his eyes are gleaming. Shimmering gold, flickering playfully, though his smile is nothing but composed, his gloved hands folded behind his back as he awaits your response. You're silent, for a breath. 

"… Sure," you then exhale, spur of the moment. "Why not?"

That seems to please him. At least, if his satisfied hum is anything to go by. Wonweek faces forward, the bridge of his nose falling into your peripheral.

"Let's see…" A thoughtful pause. "What would you say to a parfait?"

Your eyes follow the trail left by his steady gaze, stopping where it ends: on a tall glass filled with layers of custard and meringue, crushed berries and cookie crumbs, topped with dollops of cream and thick slices of fruit. The sight makes your mouth water. You're sure that he notices. That he can somehow tell. 

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction, you simply reach for your wallet, making sure your voice reaches his ears when you ask: "Do you want anything?"

He blinks. 

"… To pay you back," you explain, glancing at him cautiously. Hoping you'll sound even mildly assertive, through the fog around your after-work brain. "For last time."

"Ah." Another flutter of his lashes. "There's no need."

Your brows furrow in frustration. A moment's pause, until you're trying again, taking out your card while eyeing the display. Surely, there has to be something he'd want…? "It's only fair… I mean, you paid for mine, right?"

"Really, there's no need."

You turn towards him fully, lips catching on a sigh. "I want to."

"You aren't going to." 

…

His smile is close-knit. Eyes curled into threatening crescents.

"You're too kind," he says, voice deceptively cheery. His eyes are sharp when he opens them, daggers gleaming in the dark of night. "But, really, I insist."

Any further protests die out on your tongue.

Wonweek ends up buying a lightly toasted sandwich, to go with his darjeeling tea. You recognize the scent when you've seated yourself across from him, led along by his not-so-subtle social cues, like a puppet on a string. Needless to say, he paid for it himself. You get the feeling he'd have done the same with your parfait, had you given him an opening— if only just to get back at you for suggesting otherwise.

Are all Halovians control freaks, you wonder? Or is it just him?

”Are you enjoying the Dreamscape?” He asks, sinking his teeth into the sourdough. Chew, and swallow. He licks his parting lips. ”Is it to your liking?

You lean back in your seat, mellow warmth seeping through your fingers when they curl around the handle of your cup. Rich espresso, a roasted fragrance. ”I am," you tell him, honestly. "I wasn’t sure about the pastries… but they taste just as good as in reality.”

”Of course.” He smiles, something unusual in his expression. ”They need to.”

…

You watch him silently, through lidded eyes. He's looking down at your plate, making an expression you can't put your finger on— then back up at you, seamlessly, his face falling back into something vaguely insincere. 

Controlled.

"Are you enjoying it?"

(His smile curves up. It makes you think of a plant uprooted, tugged from its tender soil— on the cusp of being ripe enough to pluck.

It makes you think, for whatever reason, that you really shouldn't have asked.)

"I am." He answers, easily. "A dream that never ends… don't you think that's wonderful?"

"I guess so."

"Oh? Do you disagree?"

"Well, I…" You clear your throat. "Honestly, I think it's a little scary, sometimes."

He casts you a questioning look. 

"Like… I want to stay here forever." You stir your spoon in circles, watching the espresso swirl, a night-black vortex. "There are people who start to feel that way." 

"Is that so awful?"

Quiet. Stale, like the wrong edge of a scalpel. 

The silence that settles when his words have left his tongue is strained, a bowl about to break in the heat of a bubbling furnace. In your mind, you play out the noise it'd make— clatter, and crack, shattering on the floor and breaking into porcelain pieces— your lips trying in vain to wrap themselves around an apology.

For what, though? 

(You can tell from his tense brow you've upset him, but how?)

The seconds tick on, with the counting of the clock on the wall, a slow, steady mantra. As if to escape the unsettling atmosphere, you direct your gaze towards the tall glass in front of you. Wonweek chooses that moment to speak. 

"… Reality breaks them." His voice bears more than sterness: it bleeds. Tears the silence into overripe halves. When you bite into your parfait you taste peach, streams of sticky nectar in between your teeth. "If the Dreamscape can offer those lost souls some relief, it can be nothing but a good thing."

Chew, and swallow. He isn't meeting your eyes anymore.

"I… see your point."

Seawaves of blue filter in through the window, dripping down the contours of his face. From his cheeks, to his jaw, the shadow between his nose and lips— the glow of a silverfish's squirming body. It disappears when the moon slips beneath a cluster of clouds, his expression obscured. "I've seen you at the Reverie," Wonweek exhales a breath, his voice strung tight, lips falling into a straight-laced line. It softens when they part, near imperceptible. "… You always look so tired."

He meets your gaze when it snaps up. Captures it, and holds it, his own eyes not once wavering.

(Before anything else— before your mind can catch up to the strangeness of those words— you think to yourself that he looks a little sad.)

"It's only when you're here… that you seem to be content." His fingers curl around the handle of the cup, and bring it to his moving lips, steam clouding his cupid's bow. An earthy scent, something like rain on an autumn morning. Wetting asphalt. ”In that sense, I thought you and I might be similar. Or, rather— I thought you'd sympathize with the Dreamscape as a whole. The respite it brings."

The three-eyed halo crowning him bears down on you, unblinking; his wings swaying in tune with his voice, a booming kind of quiet, like it's urging you to listen. You wish you could, but your mind is too occupied to truly understand what he's getting at. You can only think, blearily, through the white noise of your weary mind—

That you have never seen him before. 

You're sure you haven't, because as strange as he's proved himself to be— he's annoyingly handsome. You'd remember his eyes, if nothing else. The twitches of his lithe fingertips, the subtle sense of self-perceivement in his voice.

(You've never seen Wonweek at the Reverie.)

"… You're struggling, too?" you ask, tentative. Wonweek simply smiles.

"I used to." His voice is non-concealing. "Things are better, now."

He sets the cup down with a quiet clink. You watch him, silently, even as you realize he doesn't plan on elaborating. His smile is familiar. It's like the one you see in mirrors, when you tell yourself the future is larger than this. In mirrors, reflected in marble countertops, on nights that never seem to end. 

"If reality brings you nothing but suffering, then there's no need to open your eyes anymore... I've been wanting to tell you that."

You hear the leaving in his voice before he stands up, palms flat on the table when he rises to his full height. His plate is empty, save for a neatly sorted pile of breadcrumbs— he pushes his chair back and threads through his feathers, an absent sweep of his hand.

”I hope I'm not overstepping.” he adds, carefully. "Please, do take it to heart."

"… Okay."

One last smile, before he walks out the door. As always, you follow— with your eyes, as much as you are able, before the bell chime fades and takes him with it. You're left with a lacking, troubled feeling, but there aren't enough untangled threads in your mind to make space for it. You eat the remainder of your parfait in silence. 

Behind you, faintly, resounds the ticking of a clock. 

The next time you enter the patisserie, Wonweek is nowhere to be seen.

You sit by the window until the sun breaks through the clouds: until it would have, if it wasn't locked behind a never-ending midnight. A sugar-coated orange lining tearing the sky in half. Weeping dawn across its blue cheeks. There is no sight of him, even then— not of silver locks of hair, not of halos or of wings. 

He doesn't come in the day after. Or the day after that. Days bleed into weeks. Strawberry shortcakes, lemon meringue, coffee with too much or too little creamer.

You sit by a table in the corner, and wait for a man that never walks through the door.

(At some point, you stop expecting him to.)

Sunday stops by the window. Inhales a breath.

You're there. As always. 

(What should make him feel relief leaves him with trepidation.)

Silently, he gazes into the interior of the patisserie; the lounge is dim-lit, but he sees you, curled in on yourself by a table in the corner like a baby bird in a too-big nest. He clutches onto the image, for a moment. Considers leaving once or twice. Mr. Yang is waiting— he's on borrowed time, well past owing favours. It would be easier to simply cut this loss.

His steps towards the door are silent. 

The midnight moon gleams just as blue as always, spilling cobalt all over the paved streets, the alleyway that led him here. His own shadow half-transparent. It's more beautiful than he remembers, though perhaps he should attribute that to his own disinterest— The Hour of Midnight never struck him as especially precious. No morning dawn, no golden light, no sound except that of distant partygoers. The glow of the moon seemed somber, if anything. 

(He never quite understood why this was where you'd found your peace.)

For a moment his fingers simply linger by the handle, the chill of the wood dulled by the fabric of his gloves. His hand curls around it with tentative thought. 

When the door slides open, his eyes instinctually close.

Darkness. It lays itself over his vision, a thick blanket wrung around the sockets of his eyes— Sunday waits for the chime of the bell overhead.

It answers, dutifully. The sound of glass clinking against itself, shattering quietly. When he steps inside, soft piano: Satie's Gymnopédie No.1. 

The door falls shut behind him. He spares no glance towards the woman by the counter, much too preoccupied with the pair of eyes across the room. You've raised your gaze, the silver spoon between your fingers shining with the blue from the window behind you. The air smells of fruit, honeyed and ripe. 

Sunday moves.

You're blinking up at him, dumb-struck, when he stops by your table. Watches your lashes flutter, feels his wings twitch with an emotion he doesn't want to name— something that ties a knot inside his abdomen, inside his chest. 

It makes it difficult to speak. 

(He likes that about you, that blissfully empty gaze. Likes the way it conceals nothing.)

Seamlessly, he takes the seat across from you. Doesn't smile, but his voice is light when he says: "Good evening." A quiet inhale. "How have you been?"

Silence lingers in the wake of his words. It does not unnerve him; he is nothing if not patient. Nothing but a content overseer. Content to watch your fingertips twitch, when you let the spoon you're grasping fall onto the plate, a quiet clink of metal on ceramic. It looks as if you've barely grazed the fruit tart.

You look well, he thinks. There are shadows under your eyes, but they're not quite as dark as he remembers them being. Not the absent, worrying smudges he saw in the CCTV— your eyes themselves look somehow clearer.

He wonders what caused it.

(He knows it's not him. Wishes it did not grate at him, in that shameful, ugly corner of his mind, still not cleansed of petulant pettiness—)

When your lips part he follows the drag of your cupid's bow. Your voice an arrow piercing through the air. 

"Hi," you say, uncertainly. "It's… been a while."

"It has."

…

Sunday's eyes do not stray, even when your own begin to waver. "How have you been?" He repeats, after a moment's pause.

"Uh, good. Just fine." You tilt your head, softly. "And you?"

An exhale leaves him, amused. Part of him wishes he could give you an honest answer, but— well, how is he to summarize it? I fell from the sky. I had an epiphany, of sorts— no, that's misleading. I think I died, for a moment. Just enough to gasp for air.

How should he relay it to you?

"… I've been well, all things considered," he feeds you a vague half-truth, a small smile tugging at his bottom lip. "I was hoping I'd see you again." 

That makes you look at him strangely. Your lips twitching open, and then falling shut, enough to have his hands wandering; fingers tugging restlessly at the smooth silk of his glove, the thin material stretching to accommodate his absent graze. Sunday hums, lightly.

"I'm leaving Penacony." He straightens his back, speaking clearly, the words filling his lungs with air that smells of honeydew. Of possibilities. "I’m well-aware it doesn't concern you. We're just strangers, after all… but I wanted to say a proper goodbye."

He's just tying up loose ends. That's all. 

(He doesn't have it in him to hope for anything else.)

"… Why?" Your voice is pure, innocently curious. "If you don't mind me asking…"

"It's a long story. I'm certain I'd bore you."

You hum, tentative— reaching for your spoon. It scoops up sliced kiwi, foamy cream, brings a piece up to your parting lips.

"… Well, the Dreamscape has been crazy lately," you say after swallowing, your tongue dipping out to catch the fruit juice dribbling down your bottom lip. He follows it, absently. "I heard Sunday was exiled from the Oak Family, or something?"

An upward twitch of his lips.

With the heel of his palm, Sunday hurries to obscure it— masks it with an idle cough, though he's certain that it doesn't come off as very convincing. You go silent, like you're confused. The look in your eye is what tips him over.

A melodious chuckle breaks past his lips. Light and clear, a home-bound ocean breeze; when he speaks it's all but muffled, caught between his fingertips.

"You are… so out of the loop."

"… Huh?"

He shakes his head lightly, silver strands swaying, ghosting the skin of his forehead. Extends a hand across the table, his inner palm facing up. "Sunday," he says, eyes gleaming mirthfully. "My name is Sunday."

He can practically see the gears of your mind turn, click sluggishly into place, a series of mismatched blinks. Hopelessly endearing.

"… Not that Sunday, right?"

His smile only curls further. "I wonder."

"Are you? There's no way." You're starting to look panicked, eyes wide with disbelief. It shouldn't make him so amused, the visible embarrassment upon your features, he shouldn't be enjoying it as much as he is. 

(Inwardly, he berates himself. Right now, he really is no better than Wonweek, is he?)

"I hope you can forgive me," he half-croons, dove-like, a weak attempt at stifling the joy in his expression. "I suppose I enjoyed teasing you. I was sure you'd catch on quicker, but I underestimated you."

You look mortified. It's almost, almost enough to pull another chuckle from his breast.

(No better than Wonweek, he repeats, quelling the urge.)

"… Actually," you say, after the silence has properly settled— your expression far less like you want to burrow your head into sand, sweeping a hand across the silence gathering dust between you, "I'm leaving Penacony, too."

That makes him still. "Oh?"

You nod. ”I quit my job this morning," your fingers trace the edge of the ceramic plate. "And without my job, I don't have a place to stay… so I'm going somewhere else. Not sure where, but, you know."

He hums, affirmative.

"I just had to get one last pastry." There's a smile on your face, albeit flimsy; he could probably tug it off with just a swipe of his thumb across the seam of your lips. His fingers twitch with the desire, but he kills it just as quickly. "I haven't been here in a while, actually. Not since the Charmony Festival fiasco… I got really busy, and you weren't here— well, it's not like that was why, you know, but still. I haven’t had one of these in a while.”

The trail of your wandering digits changes course. You break off a piece of the pastry at its center, crumbling dough between your index finger and thumb. A weary sigh escapes your lungs. 

Saddened, he thinks.

"Tarts taste sweeter in reality... I think I forgot."

Sunday watches you in silence.

"… Yes," he exhales, after a moment's pause. "you're probably right."

The composition from the counter changes, Satie's replaced by the tender strokes of a violin, sweet and light, filling the empty space of silence; Ashokan Farewell. His eyelids flutter closed, curtains of half-translucent moonlight drawing shut across his face.

"You know," he hears himself speak, after a moment, "I think I'll follow your example."

When he stands up you follow, impulsively, first with your eyes and then with your body— knees audibly knocking against the leg of your chair when you attempt to rise the first time. He smiles at the gesture, his expression serene. 

The glass display shimmers from afar, beckoning. 

… Ever since he had those pudding tarts, he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it.

Sunday waltzes up to the counter, brandishing a gentle smile. "I'll have one crème brûlée, please." You come to a stand-still beside him. "And one for my companion, as well." 

A tingling heat, where your gaze sears into his neck. He meets it from the corner of his eye, a playful cadence to his voice when he asks, "Unless you're already full? Or, would you like something else?"

A moment passes. 

"… Crème brûlée is fine," you hum.

Sunday exhales. "In that case, we'll—"

"But I'm paying."

You side-step him with grace, tugging your wallet open. When you angle your face to meet his expression, there's something pleased about the way your lips are curved; he thinks of Robin, a gentle cat's grin, the look she'd give him whenever she'd foot the bill in secret. 

It makes him chuckle, despite himself.

"Are you usually this stubborn?" he asks, eyes gleaming gold. 

"Not really," you shrug. "I just don't like owing people favours."

He can sympathize with that. 

Still, he pauses. Restrains the urge to be equally as stubborn; a struggle, it turns out, but he stays his hand. Tries not to listen to the voice in his head, familiar nagging, Don't let anyone do what you could do just as well yourself— a hand on the back of his neck. Even worse, the faded lull of his mother's voice, smaller, whispered. Somehow, it bears more weight.

(Oh my, are those for me? My little angel is such a gentleman.)

He swallows, imperceptively.

"… Are you sure?" he inquires. Your reply is instant.

"Yep."

Deadpan. You're weary of waiting, it seems.

Sunday sighs, his smile indulgent. Head lowered in a show of defeat. "… Alright," he concedes. "In that case, thank you."

”You’re welcome.”

"Next time," he continues, sharply, "will be on me, however." 

The words linger in the air. 

For a moment, he regrets them; almost certain that you've been put off. He's already pushing his luck, he's well aware of that, tongue twitching with a change of topic— willing it to be seamless, but it weighs down on the muscle like lead, iron searing hotly, a path from roof to throat.

You don't say a word. 

Only still, briefly. Stiffen in place. You spare him a glance before your head flips forward, fishing the debit card out of your wallet, that Robin keycharm still dangling from its corner like a wind chime in the breeze. Her smile strikes him as mischievous. 

"Mm," it's a shallow hum, more breath than word. "That's fine, then."

Sunday blinks. Has to swallow the affection crawling up his throat in pollinated flurries, an itch that reaches all the way back to the root of his ribcage. Leaves his feathers to twitch, no more than a wingspan's worth of fluttering, pinpricks of excitement spreading through his spine— an electric sensation he cannot put a finger on. 

All he knows is that it makes his lips bloom. His hand comes up to cover it.

(Yes, that's right, he thinks. In the vast expanse of the cosmos— in some corner of the universe, wherever that may be— your paths will surely cross again. You'll find another patisserie. One with better lighting, where he can look at you properly from across the table: where he will not be able to hide the smile behind his fingers.)

The lady behind the counter looks bashful, watching the two of you in sheepish silence, as if unsure whether it's alright to chime in or not. Sunday should feel apologetic, but he scarcely notices her presence until she clears her throat. 

"… Will that be for here, or to-go?" 

The words break you out of your reverie. You sputter out a confirmation, visibly embarrassed, card nearly slipping through the gaps between your fingers in your rush to slide it against the card reader— and Sunday truly cannot help himself. His smile curls upwards, like a bird taking flight, a sunflower twisting its stalk towards the clear-blue sky. It breaks through the clouds, carelessly.

Outside the window, the crescent moon mirrors his expression. 

[lynnerra]

I've proof-read my fic 3 times yet something still feels amiss... It's a Phainon fic with Highschool AU

I will probably post it around next week once I deem it alright, lowkey worried of posting this cause this is my fav up until now and if it flops imma be a bit sad 💔

[lynnerra]

Had a sugar rush due to how cute this is

“WE NEVER GO OUT OF STYLE !!” : A Study in Love Confessions, Childhood Friendships, and the Emotional Aftermath of Saying Too Much (or Not Enough) ft. PHAINON

PREMISE — For as long as you can remember, it’s always been just the two of you—best friends, partners-in-crime, in your own little world. Oh, and your feelings for him... those inconvenient, stupid, all-consuming feelings you’ve sworn to keep buried forever.  What you don’t know is that he’s been doing the exact opposite — dropping hints, making moves, trying (and failing) to confess before you catch on. So when the annual sports festival rolls around and you've found that you’re both on the same team, the universe finally decides to stir the pot. 

ALTERNATIVELY, put two emotionally constipated idiots in love in the same room and let them fail, flail, pine, and maybe... win.

CONTENT TAGS & WARNINGS — FEATURING: phainon (w/ gn!reader) | highschool!au, written with filipino highschools in mind, childhood friends, popular student!phainon, experimental writing style, formatted like a research paper, use of various tropes, sports festival, astral express as your annoying friend group, fluff, (mutual) pining, slowburn with feelings, phainon the hopeless romantic, banter, a little bit of crack, references to various media content, jealousy, cursing, phainon confesses first, he runs away and you chase him, not proofread | WC: 10.4k (it's worth it i swear)

DIRECTOR NOTES — i dont know what happened but here you go. DISCLAIMBER: The research paper about this fic itself is entirely fictional and is not meant for academic use, however, the references used are based on actual studies and are linked on the references section.

what next? navigation | masterlist

ABSTRACT: This study explores the emotional complexities of confessing romantic feelings within long-term friendships, particularly among childhood friends. Centered around two best friends who have unknowingly spent years concealing their mutual affections, the narrative unfolds during their daily lives following the chaos of a school sports festival—a catalyst that forces them to confront everything left unsaid. While one clings to the belief that speaking their heart will ruin everything, the other has been quietly trying to express the same love in return. This paper examines whether such confessions lead to the deterioration of friendship or its transformation into something deeper. Ultimately, this research asks: what happens when two emotionally constipated teenagers in love are finally pushed into the same room — will everything fall apart, or finally fall into place? keywords: romantic feelings, childhood friends, mutual pining

INTRODUCTION

“Here, I brought you something.”

A cold box of juice lands in your hand, the cover of it spelling a certain brand with your favorite flavor slapped on the paper. You’ve been dreaming of drinking this for hours! There’s a sparkle in your eyes when you glance up to Phainon, holding the item to your chest as if someone else was going to steal it.

“How did you know?”

“You said you forgot your wallet.” Phainon cannot contain the quirk of his lips at the witness of your joy and excitement over a small drink.

“Huh, how does that connect?”

A laugh falls out of his lips and he scratches the back of his neck, looking like a shy puppy in your eyes; “I noticed you always buy that drink during break, but since you left your wallet, you can’t get it…” Flashing an embarrassed grin, he continues. “I figured you’d be craving for it.” and it feels like an arrow is shot straight to your heart. Oh my god, how could someone like him exist???

“But what if I wasn’t?” You jest, raising an eyebrow at him. I mean, you’d still take it and drink it—aside from it being your favorite and it coming from your beloved friend, you can’t exactly say no, especially to him. He just has this face that makes you feel bad if you turn him down (or maybe it’s just you and your stupid crush on him). Cue the boba eyes and sad noises.

“Then I’ll just take it.”

“And give it to someone else?” You clutch your heart, acting hurt, and even add some pizzazz of staggering on your knees. However, Phainon only flicks your forehead, causing you to wince and compose yourself.

“If you’ve got time to joke around, you should head back inside and drink that already before it gets warm.” He flashes you a grin, the one that blinds you more than the sun, sparkles and all.

“Yessir!” Bringing out the soldier within you that you have nurtured after watching all those shows, you straighten your form and salute the man before you. Victory is within your grasp when he laughs and ruffles your hair, all the while ignoring your complaints and swatting of hands.

“See you later.” Is the only thing he says before he’s turning around and leaving, You’ve stayed there on your spot a little longer, the box in your hand that is slowly warming up from the rising heat of your skin.

You’ve known Phainon ever since you learned how to count your numbers in your hand.

For all you’ve known, there has always—and always has been—the two of you in your world. You and Phainon, just that, seemingly etched into the stone of your life and miserably tangled in your thread of fate. There was no moment in your life that you didn’t get to spend with him: you grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, had the same classes, graduated middle school together, and everything that is part of growing up. 

You’re 18 now, and yet, the both of you are still inseparable. He has seen you in misery and in joy—or with a broken bone after falling off a tree trying to save a kitten. Albeit, you have seen him with dirt on his skin as he tries to catch you whenever you trip. 

Admittedly, he has seen every phase of yours: through the awkward ones which heavily revolves around your fucked-up haircut, the embarrassing moments that haunts you and he teases you with, and even the tragic times that you have cried whether about a show that you forced him to watch with you or about someone, or something, who broke your heart. It has always been you and him in this tiny world.

And, too, if there was an award for the bestest bestfriend and childhood friend ever, it will go to Phainon. He knows you better than anyone else, even better than you. But perhaps, not better enough to realize the feelings you hold for him. Sigh, what a joke.

Once you’ve returned to your seat, you are reduced to silence as if you weren’t just laughing so loudly and heartedly earlier with your friends. You quietly sip on the drink, the clean tang of your favorite fruit (or flavor) bursting on your tongue—Phainon had always put into mind the things that you like even if you had never told him—, and somehow, the air between your group dances in the same note you play. Quiet, stringing on something tense, before eventually being broken into a violent melody:

“Are the two of you dating?”

The words nearly made you choke, coughing as you clutch on your chest. Stelle stares at you with an expression that only gleams with joy (perhaps at your misery) while March, made out of sweetness and everything nice, looks at you with worry.

“Are you alright?” The pink-haired girl asks, scrambling to look for her handkerchief but you just wave your hand at her, showing your own soon after. You wipe your lips, hoping that the redness of your cheeks had already faded and returned to its original color.

“So…” Stelle’s voice trailed, elongating on the ‘o’, as if waiting for your answer. Dan Heng, silent as ever, doesn’t seem to say anything to prevent her further prodding as if he, too, were curious about your answer.

Stelle didn’t have to say a name for you to know who she was talking about. Who else would she be even talking about aside from the person who had come by to your classroom despite being in another building just to give you the exact box of juice you were drinking from?

“We’re not.” You answer straight, trying to contain the falter of disappointment in your tone. You’re fine with what you have, in fact, this is better. The certainty of your great friendship with him being maintained and never crumbling down was better than the incredulity of confession and not knowing if he feels the same, which will eventually lead to shit still going south.

“How?” It’s Dan Heng that speaks this time.

“What do you mean how?”

“Why?” Then, March’s turn.

“What are you going to ask next? Who?”

“Where?” And the final hit of it all: Stelle.

You groan, pinching the sides of the poor gray-haired victim beside you who roars in pain and hunches over the desk, glaring at you with the look that asks ‘why me?’. You roll your eyes, sipping the last of the juice in your hand, “Stop that, we’re just friends.”

RESEARCH QUESTIONS:

What are the perceived effects of confessing romantic feelings on an existing friendship between childhood friends?

What emotional or behavioral changes occur in the friendship after one party confesses their feelings?

Does the confession of feelings lead to relationship deterioration or romantic development between close friends?

How do individuals interpret the outcomes of their confession: as a loss, a gain, or a neutral event in the friendship?

The following hypothesis was formulated based on the research questions:

(H₀₁) Confessing romantic feelings does not negatively affect the friendship between childhood friends; rather, it either maintains the current relationship or deepens it.

In contrast, an alternative hypothesis was formulated: (Hₐ₁) Confessing romantic feelings leads to the deterioration of the friendship between childhood friends.

LITERATURE REVIEW

Phainon has watched hundreds of shows—comedy, drama, horror, and most especially, romance.

So of course, this scene of rain-soaked longing feels all too familiar. The moment the clouds darken and the drizzle turns into a downpour, as you and him stand by the sheltered entrance sharing a moment of silence and contemplation on what to do in this situation, his brain immediately queues the mental footage as if an entire movie is playing inside his head where the both of you are the main characters. Two people caught in the rain, huddling under a shared umbrella, shoulders brushing, hearts louder than the thunders above. Perhaps, there is even some mutual laughter as you talk about how your day went and complain about some things here and there.

He has seen this, and has already predicted the outcome. From Korean dramas like Twenty-Five Twenty-One, where the umbrella wasn’t simply just a shelter, to animes that portray the scene of a shared umbrella as the very first inch of closeness, and even in Western media. Film and TV have conditioned people to believe that if you stand close enough under one umbrella, the air between you will spark. It’s simply textbook romantic tension, one that he is very familiar with. A carefully constructed coincidence with just enough heartache to make the payoff worth it.

So Phainon, standing here at the school gates with you beside him, watching the heavy downpour blur the concrete steps — yeah, he knows what this looks like. He had seen this exact scene a thousand times through the screen. And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to lean into it. It wouldn’t hurt to have his own moment. Right?

He gives it a second before he spits the words out.

“Oh, I forgot my umbrella.”

“I don’t have an umbrella.”

(Ya, shibal this life.)

The both of you spoke in unison, albeit saying different words but fall under the same note, nonetheless. Silence wraps around you like the rain wraps the city, constant and suffocating, and he doesn't exactly know what to say nor do aside from laughing a little too nervously. He sees you scratch your cheek with forced awkwardness, but neither of you makes a move. Although his hand twitches close to his bag, where his umbrella is very much present and intact, while yours debate on rummaging through your own to see where actually yours is. Yes, your very umbrellas (plural) that you swore you haven't brought or forgotten are actually hidden inside your respective bags.

And maybe it’s just his mind but did it just rain harder? He swears he hears the faint sound of thunder rumbling too. Well now, you and him were fucked ten times over from the front and back, and the both of you don’t know whether to escape from the fabricated lie or continue on with this situation you got yourself into. It feels like the whispers of his umbrella that is deeply buried alongside the mess of his bag is ringing inside of his ears in a form of mockery.

This was supposed to be the moment, Phainon protests in his mind, imagining himself crouching in the timeout corner and counting the dust. The literature, the drama, the script he had seen play out a million times… and now you and him are the main characters who don't know whether to run, confess, or stand still in the rain and pretend you're dry.

The umbrella trope has long existed in fictional storytelling as a metaphor for emotional intimacy. From classic East Asian dramas to local teleseryes, it has evolved into a symbolic act of offering comfort, protection, or affection. And at this moment—whether you admit it or not—you're both banking on it. You're both playing your roles, silently hoping the other slips, confesses, shares a laugh, or simply shares space under the lie.

The problem is, you both want the same thing. And neither of you has the guts to say it.

“What terrible luck.” He says, shattering the glass of silence.

“Right,” You let the vowel trail, as if finding the way to the words you’re supposed to say. “How could you even forget your umbrella? So unreliable, Class President Phainon.” A click on your tongue and a shake of your head completes your sentence. It’s a feeble attempt to lighten the atmosphere, through the darkness of the skies, the roar of thunder, and the absolute joke of a situation this is. You’ve committed to the bit; you’re deep in this dilemma already. Perhaps it was better to have not said anything at all.

“Why are you blaming me!?”

“Between us, you’re the one who’s supposed to be reliable,” you argue, dramatically pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Your duties include protecting your classmates from bad weather!”

“We’re not even classmates!”

“Right, right, I forgot about that. But still!”

“Oh please,” he snorts, pushing your hand away with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times before. “I’m not your personal weather forecast. Besides, didn’t I send you a message this morning to bring your umbrella because it might rain? So, where is it now?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

“You…!” He wraps his arm around your shoulder, bringing you to him, close to his chest, so he can ruffle your head with so much force that you’re thrashing in his grasp like a fish who accidentally ended up on land.

“I surrender, I surrender!” You flail wildly, laughter spilling out of you in between squawks of protest, and Phainon’s grip loosens just enough for you to escape—though not without your hair looking like it lost a battle with a typhoon.

“Man, didn’t your parents teach you to respect your elders?” You huff, smoothing your hair down with zero success.

“You’re older than me by a month…?”

“A month and 21 days. Get it right, you brat.”

“Okay, granny,” he says, reverting your progress of hair-fixing back to zero when he ruffles it again. You just give up at this point, giving him an exasperated look to which he only replies with a smile before continuing: “Seriously, what kind of person shows up unprepared and then blames me for their terrible planning? A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.”

“Oh, fuck off, I know you read that from a comment section and decided to run with it.”

“So, what if I did?” He raises an eyebrow at you, crossing his arms, standing in this rather sassy pose that has you questioning him: “What the hell?”

“What? It’s Regina George.”

“You’re just George.”

Before Phainon could even clap back to your response, the thunder does him first. And suddenly, you’re brought back to your quandary.

“I don’t think the rain’s going to stop.” He says, gaze to the angry sky.

“I think so too.”

For a moment, there was silence, then suddenly movement from him as he worked on taking his jacket off, revealing his pristine uniform underneath. You’ve asked yourself many times how the uniform looks so good on him, but when you look at others who're wearing the same thing as him, they look so plain and boring. You’ve never found the answer—or perhaps, you already did, you just didn’t want to admit it (you just like him, that’s that).

“What are you doing?”

He tosses you the clothing and you catch it effortlessly, before he answers, “Use that. We’re charging forward in the rain.”

“That’s your plan?! What if you get sick?!”

“Unless, you have anything better, genius.” You don’t, that’s why you fall silent. He takes the jacket from your hand, wrapping it around you, and pulling the head up so it covers your head. “Don’t worry about me, I don’t get sick easily.”

Ah, who cares about the embarrassment of the lie now? You’ve decided on laying out the truth to him instead of settling on this stupid solution. “Wait, actually—” But before you could even finish, he’s already running forward and straight to the rain, using his bag as a shield. THIS IDIOT!!!!

“Let’s go!”

(In the end, neither of you pulled out your umbrellas.)

Resigning to your fate, you sigh and follow after him, his jacket on you, his scent filling your senses as if he was right there instead of steps away from you.

“Wait for me!”

The both of you ran through the rain. Maybe not fast enough to stay dry—hell, you both were drenched within seconds despite the bag he uses to shield himself and his jacket that you use to desperately cover yourself—but fast enough to chase the illusion that this wasn’t about the umbrella at all. It wasn’t about the lie, either. It was about the chance to do something together, however stupid and foolish it may be. And perhaps, have something cinematic, akin to a romantic play, like in those rainy scenes that ends with flushed cheeks and unspoken words.

The sky poured its heart out, and so did your laughter and his. It echoed between buildings, between splashes, between your fingers intertwining for balance and maybe something more. Beyond doubt, you were having fun; the rain drops had washed away your worries, allowing you to have this moment of forgetting everything.

It was a blur of puddle jumps and near slips, but he caught you, holding you steady in his arms, and all of it came to a sudden pause when your eyes met. And just like your traditional films, the world, the rain, and even your soaking socks seem to disappear into a void for a second. Yeah, you know it’s corny, but it’s really what it feels like—there’s even the addition of your heart thumping, and wait, is that background music you hear?

Phainon stared at you like he was finally going to say it. Like he was about to ruin everything you feared and make it better all at once, and maybe, you even braced for it, even though you swear to the AEONS that you are not prepared for this moment at all, and never will be. Is this it?

“I—”

Until a car comes passing by, indifferent to romance and its rhythm, floods the gutter water directly onto the both of you. Your disgruntled wail echo into the already loud air, high-pitched and horrified.

“What the—that’s nasty!” You say, spinning away from his hold, away from the street. 

“I think some got into your mouth.” He spoke between wheezes, wiping water from his own face.

A loud ‘EW!’ and you drag your feet towards the only place where you can seek refuge from the rain—the convenience store, very convenient. Phainon follows behind you, still laughing (as if he wasn’t going to shatter your world the moment before the brutal slap of water came). The automatic door slides open with a gentle ding, but neither of you enters immediately. You’re too busy trying to catch your breath, arms wrapped around yourselves, chests heaving from the run.

Your clothes cling to your skin, your shoes squelch with every step, and your pride has long since dissolved in a puddle back at the curb. But… “Suddenly, I’m craving for some noodles.”

“Me too.” He’s digging through his pockets when he says that, and he gestures for you to sit on the small bench outside, protected by the awning instead of enduring the rigid cold inside, while you wait for him. He returns soon after, balancing two cups of instant noodles like they’re holy grail, steam escaping from the lids, curling up into the air. You’ve noticed that there are also newly-bought towels pressed in between his inner arm and sides.

“For you, Your Majesty.” He says, handing you the right one.

“Thank you, peasant.” You sigh contentedly as the warmth seeps into your hands, your chest, and maybe somewhere deeper you can’t name.

Phainon places down his own cup right beside you as he takes out the towels from its packaging; the crunch of plastic drowns out the sound of pitter-patter of the raindrops and you watch him as you slurp on the noodles. You’re interrupted, however, when he suddenly places the towel on top of your head and begins drying your hair off with a gentle motion.

“I’m eating!”

“Just eat, don’t mind me.”

You grumble under your breath, noodles halfway to your mouth, but you don’t protest further. His hands are warm through the towel, careful and steady. He dries you off like you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever held—tender, rhythmic, as if he's done this before in a dream he doesn’t talk about.

Between bites, you glance at him. He's focused, eyes narrowed, lips pursed in concentration. The wet strands of his hair stick to his forehead, and there's something annoyingly boyish about how serious he looks while patting you dry like a soggy dog.

“Here,” you say suddenly, lifting your cup and nudging the utensil toward him. “Eat.”

He blinks, pausing from his movements. “What? I have my own.” And it’s there, right beside you, but you’re sure it will be cold by the time he’s done taking care of you.

“Just eat it.”

Phainon hesitates for a moment, like sharing food might just be the most intimate thing in the world, more than forehead kisses or pinky promises. Then, wordlessly, he leans forward, slurping the noodles off your utensil. You remained composed despite the way your heart nearly somersaults out of your chest with how close the both of you are.

“Taste good?”

“Mm,” he hums and you give him another bite without thinking and he accepts it again, less hesitant this time. You then continue on slurping your own share, as he finishes drying you, acting like this isn’t a soft scene unfolding beneath the dull glow of a convenience store awning — like this isn’t the kind of memory that’ll replay in your mind for weeks.

“You know,” he says after a while, blowing gently into his cup. “The sports festival…”

“What about it?”

“Our team has a good chance of winning.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”

“I’ve seen our team’s practices, they’re rather strong. Plus, you’re on the committee, so that’s an automatic buff.”

“Oh, so now I’m a buff?”

“Obviously.”

You snort. “You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to swap your event with a three-legged race.”

“Hey, don’t even joke about that."

You finish your noodles, wiping your mouth with your sleeve while he gathers the empty cups. The rain is still coming down, softer now, like it’s listening in.

The both of you don't say anything at this moment, remaining on your seats and watching as the sky's tears dance with the ground. But you feel it again, the silence, the one that feels like it’s waiting for something to happen. And maybe, maybe something almost did—if not for the fear that erodes beneath your skin.

And perhaps, one day, hopefully, you’ll both stop lying.

But not now, not today for it’s warm enough not to matter.

METHODOLOGY RESEARCH DESIGN This study employed a qualitative observational design to explore the emotional and behavioral outcomes of confessing romantic feelings within long-term friendships. Through observed interactions and reflective moments, the study aimed to capture subtle shifts in relational dynamics, including tension, hesitation, and unspoken affection. Emphasis was placed on analyzing pivotal moments that reflect the internal conflict of withholding or revealing romantic affection. PARTICIPANTS The participants in this study were two high school students, both aged 18, who have maintained a close friendship since early childhood. Their relationship is characterized by emotional familiarity, consistent companionship, and shared developmental milestones, making them ideal subjects for examining the complexities of hidden romantic feelings within established bonds. SAMPLING METHOD A purposive sampling method was employed to identify individuals whose relationship history and current behavior aligned with the study’s objectives. To ensure the data collected is meaningful and relevant, purposive sampling focuses on selecting participants who can provide deep, insightful perspectives on the phenomenon being studied, allowing the sample to accurately represent key characteristics of the target population (Palinkas et al., 2015).

INSTRUMENT USED

DAY 1

The day of the Sports Festival rolls around without a hitch.

Colorful banners, loud drums, and cheers blaring your eardrums welcomed the event. You’ve been busier than ever—chasing down players who are slacking off and not going to their respective sports, and even attending to some errands such as bringing water to the participants, and looking out for the injured ones. Why does it feel like you did a lot of things compared to last year even though you had the same role? Is it because you’re a senior now?

By the time afternoon comes, you’re already heaving and holding on to the railings, catching your breath.

“Maybe the additional credit is not worth it after all…” Wheezing, you opt to sit on the stairs, head propped up by your arms that rests on your thighs.

“What’s not worth it?”

Suddenly, your vision is blocked—white hair that gleams under the light, a pair of blue that stares at you intently, and that same grin that has your heart skipping a beat.

“Oh, Phainon.”

He’s dressed in a jersey that has his name and your favorite number on it.

“That’s me.” Phainon sits down beside you, giving you a cold bottle of water in the process. You mutter a ‘thanks’, hurriedly opening the bottle and drinking from it. You feel clarity flooding you, feeling refreshed already, and he waits for you to finish before he starts talking.

“You’re working hard.”

“I have to, or else, we’re going to lose.”

“So competitive.”

“Whatever,” you wipe the water from your lips with your handkerchief. “Don’t you have a game to attend to?”

“I do.”

You blink at him, eyebrows knitting, “What are you doing here then?”

“I don’t know, maybe I saw a certain someone running around and nearly collapsing on the stairs,” he tilts his head like a curious dog, a finger on his chin, “it’s only the first day and yet you’re already tired.”

“I’m not tired.”

“I beg to differ, Your Honor.”

You reach your hands out to pinch his cheeks, stretching them out as you speak. “Go back to your game or I will have you join the three-legged race.” And he attempts to reply, but all you get are indecipherable words which you assume to be him protesting at your threat. You then let go, watching as he pouts and rubs his face in comfort.

“If you promise to watch, then I’ll go.”

“You know, you didn’t have to tell me.” You’ll go anyway even if he doesn’t ask nor beg for you to, even without these stupid feelings you desperately try to hide. Because truthfully, it’s not about the obligation nor a promise. It’s not just about being a responsible senior, or fulfilling your duties, or checking off some list of expectations. It’s about him—Phainon—whose name has found a permanent residence in the corner of your thoughts, quietly taking up space like a tune you can’t stop humming.

You’ll show up for him, not because he asked, but because some irrational part of you wants to witness his moments too—the way he runs, the way his hair messes up from the wind, the way he grins when he scores a point. It’s embarrassing to admit even to yourself, but watching him feels a lot like rooting for something precious. And maybe, just maybe, you want him to know that you’ll always be there. That he doesn’t have to look too far in the crowd to find someone who’s cheering for him—not just as a friend, not just as a classmate, but as someone whose heart has quietly started tying its rhythm to his.

You don’t say any of that, of course. Instead, you look at him with a small smile, one you hope doesn’t give too much away. “Go win something for once, would you?”

He raises an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “I always win.”

“You win arguments, Phainon, not games.”

“We’ll see about that.” And with a playful salute, he rises to his feet. “I’ll see you in the court, sunshine.”

As soon as you enter the gymnasion, loud cheers and screams greet you. It was already the final game so there were a lot more people than usual. Among those is the yell of Phainon’s name coming from various sides of the place, even some of the opposing teams are cheering for him—you forgot, that man is well-known among the students. And you forgot, a lot of them admire him and like him (romantically).

I mean, you get it. You understand them. You understand these people crushing on Phainon and declaring their love for him through a romantic scene on the rooftop (apparently, there’s a rumor going around in school that there’s a higher chance of not being rejected when you confess there), because you also like him. Just omit the confession part because aeons know how much you’d rather jump through a blazing hoop while doused in gasoline than tell him about your feelings. 

He’s goodlooking, smart, kind, athletic, talented, and everything that literally screams the main lead of a novel or webtoon—and you’re just there, perhaps the tragic side character who ends up dying. And that’s the problem! He’s goodlooking, smart, kind, athletic, talented, and everything, that was the damn problem. This loud cheering, shrieks of his name echoing inside the gymnasium, as the devil himself runs through the court and dribbles the ball in his hands, then shoots, flawlessly scoring, you understand it all.

“There’s your boyfriend.” March, beside you, says in a singsong voice as she repeatedly nudges your shoulders playfully. There’s a teasing grin on her face as she looks at you with that sparkle in her eyes. Maybe it was a bad idea to force her to come with you.

“I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.” You refute, squeezing through the cheering students, their voices loud in your ears as you repeatedly utter, ‘excuse me’, until you finally found a spot at the front where you can completely see him.

You see Phainon glancing at the crowd, eyes wandering around as if searching for something or someone. What’s he looking for? You question yourself until you meet his gaze and he grins. Oh, he was looking for you. He waves excitedly and you return it with the same note, though, this garnered the attention of the people around you, and somehow, pride wells up in your chest as you feel their eyes stabbing at the back of your head. Of course, it has to be you and they could never be you.

“Wait, Caelus is playing too?” March snaps you out of your daydream-fueled spiral. 

“What, where?” You pull your eyes away from Phainon and follow her gaze. True enough, Caelus is on the opposing team, having just called out of the bench, tying his shoelaces and sipping water like he’s not about to go head-to-head with the boy who just set the gym on fire.

“That idiot didn’t even tell us!”

You laugh, “He said he didn’t want us cheering for him.”

“Scared that he’ll make a fool out of himself, probably.” March shrugs her shoulders, then braces herself to cheer loudly for your gray-haired best friend despite his constant protests about not liking the attention. “Go, Caelus!” And you copy her, yelling louder, “You can do this, Caelus!”

Neither of you didn’t care if he was an opponent, wearing a shirt that is different in color from the both of you. That was your friend right there on the court who explicitly said he doesn’t want any of the group cheering for him (are you truly friends if you didn’t follow his ‘rules’? After all, he had insisted multiple times that these rules are meant to be broken). However, one person seemed to mind though—Phainon, looking at you. You swear, you could see a physical manifestation of puppy ears on top of his head slowly going down as if he was sulking.

You see him mouth something and you immediately understand what he meant. Eyes on me.

“What’s wrong? What’s gotten you so silent?” It’s March, poking your sides.

You shake your head, “Nothing.”

The match is heated now, even the audience’s cheers are fuelled. Both teams are chasing points one after another until it comes down to a score of 87 - 89 with the opposing leading the score. This was the last set and there is less than a minute left. If your team loses this, the title of Champion for Basketball goes to the other, and as much as one side of you is okay with it, your competitive side is not.

Phainon has the ball, and you can sense how everyone is tense. Even you are holding March’s hands tightly, silently praying in your minds that he’ll carry your team onwards to a bright victory.

There are 10 seconds left.

With the ball in his hands, he runs to his team’s court.

5 seconds.

He’s far away from the basket, but he prepares to shoot anyway.

3 seconds.

The ball is in the air.

1 second.

The buzzer rings just as the ball goes through the hoop.

90 - 89.

The number declares.

There are screams echoing throughout the gymnasium as your team celebrates its win. Everyone is hugging each other, even strangers that you don’t know but are united in the same color embrace one another. And you see it, you see him, breaking away from his members that gathered around him as they lift him up over their head. He’s pushing past the crowd—dodging high fives, brushing off shoulder pats, even shrugging off the arm one of his teammates throws over him. And you see him, running straight to you.

And before you can even register what’s happening, he’s in front of you, breathless and grinning like an idiot. “I told you I’ll win!”

Then his arms are around you—tight and warm and all-consuming—and you feel your feet leave the ground. He spins you in a full circle as if the momentum of his joy can’t be contained in anything less. You let out a squeal, half from surprise and half from the giddy disbelief flooding your system like sugar, like sunshine, like all things that make your heart race.

“Phainon!” You laugh, holding onto his shoulders, basking in the glory together with him. And he repeats after you, going along with your cheerful rhythm of: “We won, we won, we won!”

Good things have a way of feeling even better when shared. This act—known as capitalization (Langston, 1994)—is more than just recounting a happy moment; it often enhances the joy itself. In addition, the emotional boost that comes from sharing isn’t solely due to the positive event, but largely depends on how the other person responds (Gable et al., 2004). Unsurprisingly, these moments are typically shared with someone emotionally significant—like a best friend, a parent, or someone who feels like home.

The moment dies down, and suddenly, you feel embarrassed. Phainon, sensing this and perhaps feeling the same as evidenced on the red of his ears, sets you down. You avert your gaze away from him, somewhat flustered, and your eyes land on Caelus who is waving at you and making faces—puckering his lips in a kissing kind of way, even making hand gestures with his hands, and there was also March beside him, giving you the thumbs up. Those idiots are not helping you at all.

“I see you’re paying attention to someone who is not me. Why is that?” Phainon’s voice drags your attention back to him.Before you can respond, a voice calls out his name sharply—likely a teacher or team captain. He groans under his breath.

“Duty calls.” He offers one last smile, eyes lingering as if he doesn’t want to go. Then with a reluctant step backward, he adds, “Don’t go too far. I’ll find you right after.”

You nod, watching as he jogs off toward his team, who are already lined up. The cheers rise again, but this time, you barely hear them and when you turn around, there is March approaching you with the smuggest look known to mankind.

“Don’t start.” You immediately hush her.

“Oh, I’ve already started.” Laughing, she slings an arm over your shoulder.

With that, the first day comes to an end.

DAY 2

It was your turn to play now.

“I'm going to cheer for you.” Phainon says as you perform stretches. He’s found a great spot for himself by the sides, accompanied by your friends. It seems he has gotten chummy and close with them; you just pray they—specifically the gray-haired twins and March—didn’t say anything to him.

“Me too, me too! Would you feel more motivated if I wear cheerleader clothes?” Caelus teases, striking a pose with a mock move he probably got from watching the cheerdance competition earlier.

You roll your eyes, grinning despite yourself, “What the hell, sure.”

Phainon laughs along but keeps his eyes on you. “You’ve got this,” he says more softly now, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll be watching.”

There’s the sound of the whistle, signalling the start of the game, and cue, The crowd erupts in cheers and claps, the energy immediately shifting. Before you leave, you turn to your personal cheerleading squad and give them a thumbs up with a grin. It earns you a series of whoops and exaggerated gestures, Caelus already pretending to wave pom-poms.

You make your way to the sidelines, where your coach stands with a clipboard in hand. Your teammates fall in line beside you, offering firm pats on the back. You return each one with the same, steadying your nerves as you prepare to play.

The match begins, and almost immediately, you find your rhythm. The opposing team isn’t particularly challenging—some missteps in defense, a few miscommunications, and perhaps hatred for each other as you witness them blame one another—and you capitalize on every single one. Your movements are fluid, instinctive, confident. You spike, you dive, you serve, and everything lands exactly where it’s supposed to.

You hear your name being cheered from the sidelines—loudest among them, of course, is Caelus’ dramatic, theatrical hollering. So much for a guy who doesn’t like attention. March whistles like she’s at a concert, and even Stelle is jumping up and down with little banners she probably made last-minute. But above them all, you hear Phainon’s voice—steadier, but just as enthusiastic. Every time you score, it’s like he forgets how to breathe, mouth falling open before cheering like he just watched a miracle unfold. He’s never seen you like this and it’s doing things to him.

It’s your turn to serve now. You bounce the ball twice, breathe in, then ready your stance, and serve. Your opponents attempt to catch it and bring it back to your court, but fails after your teammates block it. You get high fives from them and a particularly loud yell coming from the opposite bleachers, not coming from your friends.

“LET’S GO, [NAME]!!!!”

Your group turns at once, heads snapping toward the noise.

“Who does he think he is?” March deadpans, blinking in disbelief.

“So loud,” mutters Caelus as if he wasn’t like that too. “Can’t they have some decorum?

“That guy has a crush on [Name].” Dan Heng suddenly says.

“Seriously?” Phainon echoes.

“Yeah, seriously.” Except Dan Heng is actually lying, a rare occurrence that has the two gray-haired and March eyeing him suspiciously. That guy definitely didn’t have a crush on you, but for the sake of the game of feelings, he’s decided to stir the pot. And judging by the way Phainon’s jaw clenches just a little and his cheering volume raises just a notch, it’s working.

His eyes narrow slightly as he stares at the guy across the court who dared yell your name louder than him. He doesn’t know who that is—and frankly, he doesn’t care. What he does care about is the spark of irritation creeping into his chest, igniting something undeniably competitive. A crush? On you?

The thought doesn’t sit right with him. Not when he’s been here—by your side, watching you shine, supporting you, cheering for you with everything he’s got. Not when he knows what your favorite juice is and just how you like your coffee made in the morning (or if you even like coffee at all). Not when he has seen you in everything, have shared laughter together, and not when you have his number printed on your jersey. That unknown guy, completely out of the picture of you and him, has nothing against him.

So, he does what a man should do in this situation, and that is, cheering louder. Cupping his hands around his mouth and throwing his entire weight behind the words, his cheers echoes across the gym, louder than before, louder than anyone else. He’s yelling your name like he's front row at a concert.

Your head turns sharply, eyes wide as they lock with his. You blink once, then twice as if processing what just happened. Then gestured—palm down, brows drawn, pressing a finger to your lips —urging him to please, for the love of all things holy, pipe down. There’s a certain warmth that blossoms in your chest and creeps up to your face.

Mortifyingly, he doesn’t heed to your begs. You didn’t hold hope for your friends around him who appear to be having the time of their lives, and you can only sigh, long and slow, before accepting your fate. There was no stopping a man fuelled with the raging fire of jealousy and competitiveness intertwined into one, and who only wants the best for you (which is him).

You serve again, clean and sharp, and the opposing team fails to return it. The ball hits the floor. Another point.

The match continues and the other team is visibly falling apart—some of them are clearly frustrated, arguing in hushed tones after missed blocks and botched saves. And as your team scores and sets one after another, victory inches closer, and finally it’s in your grasp. Everything ends as quickly as it started, and now, after another win in your hands, you're walking home with Phainon beside you—still buzzing with energy like he didn’t just spend the entire day screaming his lungs out in the gymnasium.

“You did so well today, you were so amazing.” He says, practically beaming as he bounces slightly with each step.

“You’ve said that like ten times already.”

“Well, I mean it ten times,” he nudges your shoulder, looking at you with awe. “Seriously, my best friend is so amazing. The coolest ever.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” You huff, heat rising to your cheeks. Before you can react, he throws his arms around you in a spontaneous hug, pulling you close with zero regard for personal space—or hygiene.

“Don’t hug me, you’re sweaty!” You grumble, pushing at his chest with both hands, but he only relishes in your struggles.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, nuzzling his cheek to your temple. “Now we both smell.”

“That’s disgusting, let go!” You sputter, still trying to peel him off. He finally lets you go after a moment or so, laughter spilling out of him, and flashes you that boyish grin—equal parts mischief and charm, all bright eyes and reckless delight. You smack his arm before you fall back into your earlier rhythm of walking, but you’re ahead of him.

“Let's go to the arcade.” He suggests, chasing after your steps to be beside you.

“Why do you have so much energy? What are you, some kind of dog?”

“Woof.”

“I think you should spend less time with Snowy.”

The sun’s already dipping, the sky streaked in warm hues, but neither of you seem in a hurry to end the day. 

DAY 3

“So full of energy, Phainon.”

You remark, watching as the man ties the ribbon across his forehead, mentally preparing himself for the race that he is participating in. Apparently it’s the one where they have to borrow someone or something among the crowd; seriously, who even put this kind of event?

“This is what, your third game today?”  You stare at him, half in disbelief, half in resignation, eyes raking over his appearance—his hair is only slightly tousled, not a bead of sweat in sight, posture relaxed like he didn’t just hours on the field. He looks fresh. He looks good. Unfairly so. Like every definition of effortless charm wrapped in his entire being. “As expected of the school heartthrob—still looking like you just walked out of a magazine shoot.”

“Cut it out.” Phainon mutters, cheeks tinged pink.

You lean in a little, clasping your hands dramatically near your face. “So handsome, Phainon. Kyaaa, you look so cute even when you’re embarrassed.” Your voice comes out high-pitched, imitating his so-called fangirls and he chokes out a laugh at your poorly-done parody.

“Yeah, don’t fall in love with me now.” He quips, all teasing and smiles.

The speaker blares and calls for the players to come to the starting line for the race. You wave goodbye to your best friend and promise to cheer him on, watching as he jogs backwards with a grin before spinning around and heading off.

“Don’t trip, okay? You’ll scar your handsome face!”

He throws a thumbs-up over his shoulder.

Phainon lines up with the rest of the players at the starting line, bouncing slightly on his feet. The ribbon across his forehead flutters with the wind as he falls into a stance waiting for the blow of the whistle. As soon as he hears it, he surges forward with the others, sprinting across the field toward the singular basket propped on top of a table at the halfway point. His legs move instinctively, hair dancing in the wind, but his thoughts are scattered—half focused on the task, half focused on you.

He was the first one to reach the basket. He grabs one of the folded slips inside, unfolds it, and the words written on it beams at him like a sentence of death.

Seriously, what kind of old geezer even thought of such stupid thing?!

Phainon stares at the paper like it personally offended him. His nose scrunching and his jaw tightening. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters under his breath, fingers crumpling the paper slightly as he glares at it like the words might change if he stared hard enough. Of all the possibilities—hat, shoe, red umbrella, teacher’s slipper, hell, even a stranger with glasses—why this?

The others start reaching the basket, brushing past him as they hurry on. The realization hits—he’s wasting time, and if he keeps standing there like an idiot, he’s going to lose. Panic nudges his chest. He snaps his head around, eyes darting across the crowd—and then they land on you, still unaware of the chaos, laughing with March, your smile bright and carefree.

“Damn it,” he mutters again, dragging a hand down his face. His legs don’t move right away. His heart’s thudding too loudly in his ears. His pride tells him to just grab someone random, laugh it off, save face.

But he doesn’t want anyone else.

So with an exaggerated sigh, like he’s being asked to carry the entire world on his back, he makes his way toward you. His shoulders are tense, brows furrowed, and there’s a distinct redness creeping up his neck and into his cheeks that he’s desperately trying (and failing) to suppress. Frustration is scribbled all over his face, but beneath it, the flustered flush betrays him completely.

“Phainon?”

“Come with me,” he says, tone short and flat.

“...What?” There is confusion etched all across your face, but you accept his offered hand anyway.

“Just—just come with me, okay?” He blurts out, voice caught somewhere between urgency and panic. He starts tugging you toward the field and back to the race, his hand firm but trembling slightly. You don’t resist—you never really could when he gets like this—and you follow without further questions, your brows furrowed in concern.

The dirt crunches under your shoes as you both sprint back toward the course. His grip on your hand never falters, but there’s something odd about the way he won’t look at you. He’s avoiding your eyes, jaw tight, face set in determination—or maybe, embarrassment?

You catch up with the rest of the players, breath hitching as the finish line nears. The supervising teacher is already stepping forward with the finish flag in one hand and a clipboard in the other. She takes the slip of paper from Phainon’s hand, eyes flicking over the words. Her lips curve into a knowing smile, gaze lingering on the two of you just a beat longer than necessary.

“Second place,” the teacher declares.

You double over, catching your breath, and glance at Phainon beside you—flushed, panting lightly, visibly trying to hold himself together.

“What was on your paper?” you ask, squinting up at him.

Phainon doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches out, ruffles your hair roughly, and mutters, “Don’t worry about it.” Then he walks away from you, leaving you confused and curious. He’s only thankful that you don’t notice the redness of his ears.

“So, what was in the paper?”

You don’t stop pestering Phainon about it, even as you walk home side by side like you always do—your steps light, his unusually quiet—while you poke him every few seconds, relentlessly, determined to get the truth out of him before the day truly ends.

“You don’t need to know.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be such an ass.” You frown, “Tell me, tell me, just tell me.” You even begin dancing to Wonder Girls’ hit song as you repeat the same two words.

“You’re going to trip, stop that.” He’s frowning now, but there’s no bite behind it—only a hint of worry and something else stirring underneath.

“I won’t, unless you tell me.” It’s a joke said like a threat, but he stops from his tracks and you do, too. The setting sun casts golden slants of light between you, shadows stretching long down the empty sidewalk. You eye him, tilting your head, waiting, waiting, and waiting until he speaks up in a rather hushed tone as if he was ashamed of the words.

“it was… someone you like.”

You pause then laughter bubbles from your throat, spilling past your lips, “Oh! like a friend. Geez, why be embarrassed about that?” You turn to keep walking, brushing off the tension with ease—until his voice, quiet but certain, stops you once more.

“No, it wasn’t.” There’s a shift of something heavier, steadier, and you feel it. The same weight you felt when he held you under that rain, when the moment between you sparks and stills, when he looked at you with that gentle gaze you could never understand beyond friendship, when his hand lingered after a high-five, when his voice softened just for you. It’s that same unsaid thing thrumming beneath every touch, every glance, every almost. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Huh?” You turn back around and he takes a step forward to you. A deep breathe, an affectionate gaze that is only reserved for you, and:

“I like you.”

The wind blows, curling around you like a slow exhale. The world tilts just a little. The chatter of distant students, rumble of cars, and every noise fades into nothing, the rustling leaves go mute, and even your own breath seems to still. Everything sharpens, then softens—all color draining into something dreamlike. It’s just you and him now. The sidewalk may as well have disappeared and the only ground that exists is the one beneath your feet and his. The sky holds its breath. The ground threatens to drop. Time folds in on itself. And all you can do is stare.

"I don’t think liking you quite covers it—I love you.”

DATA COLLECTION AND ANALYSIS

According to Ackerman et al. (2011), the words “I love you” carry a weight far beyond mere emotion. These three small words have, for centuries, sparked hope, fueled devotion, and led to both sacrifice and heartbreak. Even today, saying “I love you” is not just an expression of feeling—it’s a declaration of intent. It marks a shift, signaling the desire to move from a fleeting connection to a more serious, long-term relationship.

“I know I’m such a loser for saying this just now and even at this moment,” Phainon blurts out, the words stumbling over each other in a panicked stream. “I had a whole plan, okay? There was supposed to be a sunset, and music, and a bouquet of flowers—like a really big one, the kind you see in cheesy dramas, and it’s your favorite flowers too—hell, I even practiced a speech in front of my mirror twice. Twice!” His hands flail a little as he talks, voice growing more frantic with each word, and you’re there, stunned, listening to him ramble on and on, pacing everywhere, left and right, front and back.

“But nooo, the universe had other plans and now I’m here, word-vomiting in the middle of a random sidewalk with zero preparation and—oh my god, this is so embarrassing. And you’re just standing there. Being all cool, calm, and radiant like always. And here I am losing every single brain cell just trying to say three simple words. But wait, I already said it!”

You’re already dizzy just watching and hearing him. His fingers rake through his hair, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “I mean, how am I supposed to say it properly when you smile like that? Or when you laugh so freely and cheer for people like it’s the most natural thing in the world? Or when you completely destroy everyone on the court and make my heart do—whatever the hell it’s doing right now!?”

And he starts walking.

“God, and don’t even get me started on that guy—who even was that guy cheering your name like he owned the rights to it? I was so close to throwing my shoe at him but that would've ruined the whole ‘supportive best friend’ thing I had going on.”

Then jogging.

“And I was trying, okay? I was trying to be subtle, to be normal, but no. It just has to be you, all bright eyes and laughter, and then looking at me like that as if I’m someone worth looking at even though I look terribly ridiculous right now. And suddenly I’m spiraling, spiraling, spiraling.”

Then he runs. Like the confession physically launched him into fight-or-flight state and he chooses the second option.

?

???

?????????

“Where are you going?!” You yell, shocked and confused. You receive no answer and as the distance between you grows bigger as his figure becomes smaller, you run after him, chasing him down the streets. The wind kisses your skin, tugging at your clothes as your shoes slap against the pavement. 

“Phainon, you idiot!” you shout, half-laughing, half-panicking, unsure if you want to catch him just to hit him or hug him. Your heart is a wildfire in your chest, burning with questions, with confusion, with something dangerously close to love. The world blurs around you, but your focus stays locked on his retreating back—flushed ears, messy hair, the boy who just broke your world open and ran.

“Stop running!”

“i dont want to!” He yells back. And as much as you were having fun in this stupid game of chase, you were never going to win against someone who has been a repeat-player and winner of the relay competitions and races.

“I’M GOING TO REJECT YOU IF YOU DON’T STOP RUNNING, I SWEAR TO NANOOK!” you yell with all the breath left in your lungs, and that is what finally does it. Phainon stumbles to a stop, shoulders tense, frozen mid-step like someone hit pause on his panic. You catch up moments later, completely winded, clutching your side as you suck in air like your life depends on it, then without hesitation, you grab his shoulder, spin him around, and glare at him with the force of a thousand burning suns. 

“What was that for?! Why did you run away?!”

“‘Cause I was scared and embarrassed.” He says, like a child that is being scolded.

“Are you stupid?!” You snap at him, voice sharp and breathless, chest still heaving from the run. It was your turn to ramble now. “Seriously, you’ve played through entire horror games without even blinking, like some kind of fearless freak—” you jab a finger at his chest, “—I’ve seen you laugh coming out of haunted houses while everyone else was crying!” 

You take a breath, exasperated. “You climbed a tree once—taller than your house, mind you—just to get a balloon for a kid you didn’t even know!” Your voice rises again, frustrated and incredulous.

“I—”

“I like you too! What’s there to be scared about?”

The words slam into the moment like a sudden lightning, and everything around his word stills as Phainon falls into silence. The man who had cheered for you louder than everyone else, the boy who had barked after you asked him if he was a dog, the one you called embarrassing and annoying more times than you could count—the same boy who once hugged you when you and him were sweaty and didn’t care, who ruffled your hair instead of answering questions, who ran from his own confession like it was chasing him—is now standing in front of you, completely speechless. His eyes shine with disbelief, heart worn so plainly on his sleeve that even the setting sun seems to soften for him.

“Wait, really?” He finally breathes out, voice soft, stunned, utterly floored.

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“You're not lying?”

“I will be if you don’t stop asking.”

And then suddenly, Phainon is pulling you close, hugging you, heartbeats thundering into each other’s chest. He laughs—loud and breathless and disbelieving—as if joy has taken over every nerve in his body, and without thinking, he spins you around like you weigh nothing, the world blurring around you both. He’s beaming, grinning so wide it almost hurts, the kind of smile that makes the stars jealous. 

The sky seems to burst in color, wind sweeping past like applause, and you can feel his happiness radiate like sunlight, warmth infecting you as you grin, gaze on him and only him, laughter tangled together with his. When he finally sets you down, still slightly breathless, he leans in, eyes searching yours, voice soft and awed.

“Can I kiss you?”

“No.”

You should have known Phainon never listens to you.

FINDINGS AND DISCUSSION

Days, weeks, and perhaps months later, after this stupidly abrupt confession that he had never planned, many spontaneous dates, gifts and bouquets that he had promised you, dancing around in each other’s rhythm of affection, shared shirts and items, misunderstandings, your parents teasing the both of you, learning how to hold hands without overthinking it, and exchanging glances that say too much without saying anything at all—one thing has become incredibly, undeniably clear.

The world didn’t end just like you had feared. The friendship didn’t shatter like some fragile thing dropped from a great height. There were awkward moments, yes—nervous laughter, flustered stammering, the occasional “I can’t believe this is real” look tossed between bites of your usual snack spot’s overpriced fries, the whispered confessions when one thinks the other is not listening—but it wasn't a loss. Not even close. If anything, it felt like rediscovery. Like finding something that had always been there, just slightly out of reach, and finally having the courage to reach for it.

To answer the questions: confessing didn’t ruin the friendship. It redefined it. Emotional changes were there, that’s for sure. There was more nervous energy at first, more care in the silences, but over time, those shifted into warmth, trust, and an oddly grounding sense of security. Behavioral changes? Sure—he texted back faster now, you caught him looking at you longer than necessary, and neither of you minded the shift in physical closeness. If anything, it was welcomed.

Did it deteriorate the relationship? No. It bloomed into something new, something romantic—but still rooted in all the years of being childhood friends, still steeped in history, memories, and ridiculous inside jokes that no one else could understand. The confession didn’t take anything away; it just added another layer.

And as for how it was interpreted in hindsight?

Not a loss. Not neutral. But a gain. Absolute gain.

So, with the data now laid bare—smiles exchanged, hands held, memories archived and new ones created—the study concludes:

ALTERNATIVE HYPOTHESIS REJECTED.

THE NULL HYPOTHESIS IS ACCEPTED.

There were no catastrophic shifts, no collapses of trust, no bitter ends. Only laughter, soft beginnings, and the quiet, steady unfolding of love that had been there all along—waiting.

RECOMMENDATIONS 

While the results of this study were favorable, it must be noted—this method is not universally applicable. In simpler terms: just because it worked out here doesn’t mean it won’t end in tears and ghosting for someone else. Proceed with caution (and maybe a backup plan).

REFERENCES

Palinkas, L. A., Horwitz, S. M., Green, C. A., Wisdom, J. P., Duan, N., & Hoagwood, K. (2015). Purposeful Sampling for Qualitative Data Collection and Analysis in Mixed Method Implementation Research. Administration and policy in mental health, 42(5), 533–544. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10488-013-0528-y

Ackerman, J. M., Griskevicius, V., & Li, N. P. (2011). Let's get serious: communicating commitment in romantic relationships. Journal of personality and social psychology, 100(6), 1079–1094. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0022412

Otto, A. K., Laurenceau, J. P., Siegel, S. D., & Belcher, A. J. (2015). Capitalizing on everyday positive events uniquely predicts daily intimacy and well-being in couples coping with breast cancer. Journal of family psychology : JFP : journal of the Division of Family Psychology of the American Psychological Association (Division 43), 29(1), 69–79. https://doi.org/10.1037/fam0000042

Gable, S. L., Reis, H. T., Impett, E. A., & Asher, E. R. (2004). What do you do when things go right? The intrapersonal and interpersonal benefits of sharing positive events. Journal of personality and social psychology, 87(2), 228–245. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.87.2.228

my ass hurts

TAGGING : @felibrary

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[lynnerra]

That feeling when you open the carrd you spend hours on with your phone just to see how chopped it is (i made mine on laptop yall 🥀)

Seriously, I was fighting for my life using that shit just because I see so many people have one😭😭 this is truly peer pressure

[lynnerra]

To feel the heaven beneath

As the darkness of the night starts to loom at the horizon, so does the exhaustion after a long day bleeds into one’s body and soul. The wind shall carry their steps back to their abode and seek warmth in the comfort of love.

☆Synopsis: HSR men relieve their stress with your lap pillow

★Featuring: Aventurine, Sunday

☆Word count: Roughly 1k each

★Tag: Fluff, gen-neu reader, some use of endearment terms, maybe ooc, reader relationship with Aventurine is a bit ambiguous, established relationship with Sunday, slight suggestiveness but it's nothing really.

☆Note:  May make a part 2 with other characters (if I feel like it...)

Writing fanfic instead of studying for IELTS

★ Aventurine

When you heard the clicking sounds from the door, you didn’t have to look to know that Aventurine had finally returned. He dragged his body into the room like it was a sack potato, heavy and burdensome, his movements were shaky and unbalanced. You wasted no time to come and help him in, with his arm slung around your neck, you could smell his cologne and another scent, unmistakably, alcohol. You despised this smell.

“You reek of alcohol, did you drink during the banquet?” He only let out a cheeky smile at your question, falling down with a small thump on the sofa.

“Pencanonian folks surely have a way to pressure their business partners into taking a few sips or two. At least it wasn’t some cheap, flat wine.”

“Look, I even got you some.” He pulled out a bottle of champagne, its label draped in some sort of finery, the translucent, yellow liquid swirling around in the transparent glass with the shaky movements of his hand, glittering like shining jewels under the fluorescent lights.

“How thoughtful of you. But if you truly had my best interests in mind, you would have come back earlier.” With a swift motion, you snatched the bottle away and set it aside on the table. “You seem conscious enough, go and take a bath. You stink, Aventurine.” 

He only let out a hearty laugh at your rebuke. “Later.”

With his eyes shut tightly, he felt the sofa sink down a bit at your weight where you sat just a few centimeters away from his head. With careful movement, you removed his glasses and brushed his blonde strands away from his face. If one overlooked the annoyed expression and the incessant ramblings about how you absolutely deplored alcohol, this could surely be counted as a loving gesture among couples.

Even when you were scrunching your face in displease, Aventurine couldn't help but adore the tenderness in your action and the fact that his position gave him an incredibly astounding view of your body. He smiled in content and said nothing.

It was only when you ceased your action did he start his. You felt his fingers on your forearm, which was resting beside his head, they trailed up your arm in a walking motion as he let out a satisfied hum. You seemed unfazed still, not wanting to give him the satisfaction and only focusing on your television program.

You only let out a momentary shriek when he started to shamelessly rub his entire hand up and down at your inner arm, relishing in your soft and delicate skin. “What do you want?” 

“Just a proposal. How about you let me lay my head on your lap for a while?” 

The sudden request came out of nowhere, so capricious that even you were taken aback. “Okay, what’s this about?” You elongated the first word with a suspicious lilt to it as you gave him a curious look.

“It’s cruel to dangle a golden fruit in front of a man and then deny him of it you know?” With how articulate he was, you were beginning to suspect that this whole drunken state was just a facade. Was he upset that you preferred the television program more than his company or was he genuinely seeking your intimacy?

He was lucky you were in the mood to humor him on his antics. “What do I get out of this then?”

“I already gave you it.”

Before you could even question him, he flicked his gaze towards the wine bottle on the nightstand, it stood firmly in your vision, like the ironic realization that you lost your own game before you even initiated it. 

You didn’t look down at the sofa, but from your peripheral vision, you could see that sly smirk of his creeping onto that pretty face. “Kidding, it’s not that.”

“What do you say about a candlelight dinner? I’ll rent out the whole place too, just for the two of us, in exchange for your forgiveness. Are the stakes good enough for you?”

Asking for forgiveness? That meant he still remembered how you despised the smell of alcohol. It would be pointless to hold a grudge against him when he already offered you an olive branch. So you decided to let things slide this time.

“It’s been a long time..” You let out a thoughtful hum as you mused to yourself.

“That would be nice. Apology accepted.” 

Hearing your agreement, he shifted his position to lay his head on your lap and let out a delighted sigh at the sensation. Your skin felt soft and delicate, emitting a kind of warmth that could ease away the tension unknowingly clutching at his heart, not that he would ever tell you.

He longingly relished in the faint vanilla fragrance of your shower gel, his hand languidly moved up and down your thigh. An action that would usually prompt a suggestive implication, but right now, it was just a chaste, intimate touch.

His ministrations slowed down before coming to a halt right after, only then could you feel his steady breathing drifting into the world of slumber.

You gently thread your fingers through his hair, thumb grazing across his temples before leaning down for a quick kiss on his cheek. From the window, darkness had already shrouded the sky long ago, leaving only the sounds of crickets echoing in this pitch black canvas. 

Aventurine had already gone in for a small nap, you made a mental note to wake him up tomorrow. Seemed like you would have to put up with this irritating alcohol smell for a bit longer. After all, it’s no good to shower so late at night. 

With a final whisper, solemn yet profound like a silent oath, you too closed your eyes.

“Welcome back, Kakavasha.” 

☆ Sunday (Pre Astral Express)

“Sunday, aren’t you going to take a break for lunch? You’ve been working since the break of dawn.” You meticulously lay the cup of coffee at his table, his second one of the day, as per his request. 

The cup made a clinking sound on the wooden surface, breaking Sunday from his trance. “I appreciate your concern, dear. But I still have a hefty stack of documents to go through.” You looked at the stack of documents that had been halved, it still seemed impossible to finish them all within a day, even at his godly working speed and yours combined.

He was always a severe workaholic but this was truly unprecedented. He hadn’t taken a single break ever since he sat down at his seat, not even uttered a single word that wasn’t something like “If the work is a bit too overwhelming, you can take a small break.” or  “Go get some fresh air, I’ll handle the rest.”

But even he couldn't conceal the tiredness looming around the corners of his eyes, weighing down his eyelids. “Come on now, you need a rest. You can't even keep your eyes open properly.” With a swift motion, you shifted the mountainous stack of papers further away from his reach. 

“Are you perhaps hiding something from me? This isn’t like you at all.” 

Despite the harsh wordings, you meant no serious accusations, just genuine concern for his well-being and Sunday seemed to understand this behavior of yours very well, after such a long time together, it was to be expected. So he conceded, he couldn't bear to let you have any kind of unfounded worries nor could he ignore the adorable sulking expression on your face. 

“Nothing can ever escape your discriminating gaze. I apologize, please worry not for I am perfectly fine.”

“It's just that… I’ve already arranged a dinner night for us this weekend. It would be inappropriate of me to let any sudden business interrupt us. So I figure it would be best to minimize the risks by completing everything.”

His candid explanation eased the tension in your shoulders and replace it with a slight heat creeping to your cheeks. Perhaps he felt the same too, for he pretended a cough just to cover the blush blooming on his fair countenance, his wings were even fluttering a bit.

“I didn’t mean to hide it away from you, it was initially meant to be a surprise.” With that softened gaze and gentle voice of his, it was hard not to feel a tinge of guilt in your heart.

“I should be the one apologizing, I meant to harm. I just wanted for you to spill the truth that’s all.” You spun around on your heels and walked to his side, your hand found the delicate wings and began to graze them lightly, that was always your way of expressing your remorse to him and also, his way of spoiling you, he knew you enjoyed feeling those feathers beneath your touch. Maybe that's why the wings oddly spread apart to make your ministrations easier.

“Even so, you still need to take a few minutes off to rest, love. You’ve been working for too long.” With a nudge of your hand, this time he finally stood up. You led him to the sofa and ushered him to sit down, he complied accordingly. But when you started patting the space on your lap.

“I.. I don’t think I understand your request.” He did, he just didn’t want to admit that you were suggesting something that improper, in his office nonetheless.

“Just lie down for a bit. It’s lunch break, no one will come in at this hour.”

He seemed hesitant at first, for a very understandable reason, if anyone caught you two in such an act it would be undoubtedly scandalous for the head of the Oak family. But then again, you were correct, rarely anyone visited his office during break time so you should have a copious amount of time together.

He tried to weigh the pros and cons of accepting your offer but in the end it was just him contemplating whether he was strong enough to break free from this temptation. Maybe he wasn't that strong-willed of a man, at least not when it came to you.

The moment he lay his head onto your lap, he knew he had lost. But victory didn’t seem all that enticing when you were smiling so radiantly at him, your hand tentatively carded through his hair, lingering and adding pressure to his temples occasionally. 

Maybe you were right, he desperately needed a nap, for when he finally got to feel the warmth of your body and the tenderness of your touch, he suddenly wanted to cave in to sleep. “Please, wake me up after 15 minutes.” 

“Of course, just focus on having a good rest.”

With your confirmation, he could finally enjoy a few minutes of sleep. Even in his slumber, his wings came to shield away the blush that was beginning to bloom at his cheeks. He would never tell you how much he longed for this kind of intimacy with you, how he adored the comfort of your laps more than any plush, fancy pillows, how he just couldn't seem get that song you were humming out of his mind, one that was akin to an endearing lullaby, the tantalizing invitation of slumber.

But you would know, always.

[lynnerra]

The flower wreath

Inspired by a love story Khaslana heard from an old man at a village, he decided to gift you a flower wreath to confess his feelings. But it seems like he had made a miscalculation.

✦ Synopsis: Love confession gone wrong

✧ Featuring: Phainon/Khaslana x Reader

✦ Word count: 700

✧Tags: Idiots in love, Childhood best friends, literally just self-indulgent fluff, Gender-neutral reader.

✦ Side Note: This is a bonus to Cyrene's part from this fic and a small continuation of Tribbie's part. However, it can be read separately as well.

🠒 Go to AO3?

Previously: Part 2 -> Part 1

“Such exquisite materials…” As your fingers absentmindedly traces along the curves of the bow, feeling each carvings meticulously created by the craftsman beneath your fingers, you can’t help but slip out a small compliment for this exceptional level of craftsmanship, a force of habit.

“Ehem- I mean, you didn’t have to get me such an expensive gift you know?”

“But I wanted to.” Phainon seems to be delighted at your appreciation for his gift, despite you not outwardly expressing your sentiment. “Besides, it wasn’t even expensive. The materials were from the family of the boy you saved, they wanted to thank you.”

“Hm? How did you even know that?” You raise your brow at him, you made sure not to tell him about that incident as he already has enough on his plate with the recent attack from Nikador, you didn’t want to trouble him with such trivial matters.

“So you admitted that you deliberately did not tell me about it?” Despite the reproachful look in his eyes, you know him well enough to understand that he is just feigning it. Nevertheless, you allow him to pull on your cheek as a way to make it up to him and definitely not because you are too engrossed in appreciating the delicate arts carved into the bow.

“Are these roses and tulips? That reminds me of the flower wreath you gifted me when you were young.”

“What flower wreath?’’

That came out too stiff and quick for his liking. Under the puzzled look you threw at him, Phainon could only abandon his ministrations on your cheeks in favor of pretending to cough so as to hide the embarrassment threatening to creep up on his face.

___________________________________

“What is this?” With a curious look, you took in the gift that was pushed into your face.

“It’s… A flower wreath.” Despite his efforts to make direct eye contact with you, Khaslana still fumbled awkwardly with where his eyes landed. All of the sudden, the wooden flooring seemed so alluring and enticing. As his scrawny figure stood outside your house, arms stuck to the sides of his body tightly, fingers gnawing at the cloth of his clothes, you seemed more unfazed than ever.

“I know that, but for what occasion?”

?

It seemed like he had made a miscalculation. When he decided to go with this idea, he never once thought of the possibility for this question to be asked. He had only envisioned that you would understand his intention with no problem at all. Now, he was stuck in this predicament.

“Uh-it’s…”

He was sure he must have looked like a ripe tomato at that moment. The month of Everday had long passed, yet the intense heat felt as if it had never truly left his body. Is it really the heat of the sun or the way your burning gaze was drilled into his eyes, awaiting an answer that was setting his body on fire?

“Um… It-”

 “It’s for the upcoming weaving festival! Yeah, that’s right. Here in Aedes Elysiae people make a flower wreath to begin celebrating the weaving festival so uh- I figure I should tell you that.”

The moment the words left his mouth, that puzzled curiosity in your eyes immediately evaporated into gratitude.

“I see, this is really kind of you. Thank you Khaslana.” The corners of your lips pulled into a smile, warm and carefree like the summer breeze. Somehow it eased the unknown tension that he was clenching his hands with.

He didn’t get what he initially wanted, but the result was satisfactory nonetheless. That smile on your face made all his hard work worth it.

___________________________________

“The one that signals the start of the weaving festival, have you forgotten already?” Of course he hasn’t, but just the mere mention of that incident embarrasses him to the point he just wants the ground to open up and swallow him. Seems like you don’t know yet.

“The month of weaving is soon approaching, perhaps we should make another one.” You muse to yourself, gazing nostalgically at the intricate carvings of the bow, which resemble roses and tulips. Just like that flower wreath.

“Sure! Let’s hang it right outside your door this time.”

You don’t question why he suddenly shoots up from his seat just to say that because he is already dragging you out to the Marmoreal market to gather the materials. 

With this flower wreath, he doesn’t have to worry about other men trying to court you anymore.

___________________________________

[Flower wreath, aside from being a symbol of victory and honor, is also considered a token of love and courtship in ancient Greece. They are often gifted by lovers to express their affection and sincerity to their significant others.]

[lynnerra]

♫ Masterlist ♪

Honkai Star Rail

✶⋆.˚| Phainon

✦ Through the passage of time [ONESHOT]

Your stories with Khaslana through different seasons (fluff, angst, gen-neu reader)

✦ Secrets I've held in my heart are harder to hide than I thought [COMPLETED 2/2 + BONUS PART]

A snippet of your relationship with Phainon, but through the eyes of other characters. (fluff, gen-neu reader)

✦ Strawberry milk and vanilla cream pie [ONESHOT]

Highschool shenanigans with your friends and perhaps a blooming romance with the your cute classmate.

✮⋆˙|Compilation

✦ To feel the heaven beneath (featuring: Aventurine, Sunday)

HSR men relieve their stress with your lap pillow

Dear passengers, please stay tune for more to come~

Return to [Navigation Centre] ?

© lynnerra | All Rights Reserved. Please do not plagiarize my works, or feed them to AI under any circumstances. Repost and translation of my works on other platforms without my authorization are not permitted.

[lynnerra]

Dear guest, would you like some tea?

[Or should I bring out the menu instead?]

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✦ This blog is entire SFW and I only write x reader trope (oneshot, hc, scenarios,...)

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|-> Recently wrote:

✶ To feel the heaven beneath (Sunday, Aventurine) ✶ Strawberry milk and vanilla cream pie (Phainon Oneshot)

[lynnerra]

-Secrets I’ve held in my heart

are harder to hide than I thought -

(Part 2)

Phainon thinks he is subtle about it, about the way his eyes linger just a bit too long, the way he smiles like you're the dearest person to him, the way his heart thumps dangerously loud in his chest at just the sight of you. He thinks he's slick with it, but his affection for you lays bare in the eyes of his comrades.

✦ Synopsis: A snippet of your relationship with Phainon, but through the eyes of other characters.

✧ Featuring: Phainon x Reader, Mydei, Hyacine & Little Ica, Cipher, Tribbie.

✦ Word count: 2.9k

✧Tags: Idiots in love, Mutual pining (And mutual blindness too I guess), Childhood best friends, C₁₂H₂₂O₁₁ - sucrose- level kind of fluff, Gender-neutral reader because people of all genders love him.

✦ Side Note: I feel like the pacing for this is kind of fast but I tried to make it as short as possible and yes, there's going to be a small bonus part that should come out out soon. (My IELTS exam is fast approaching why am I still writing Phainon fanfic...)

You are here: Part 2 AO3

Last stop ⤏ Part 1 AO3 Next stop ⤏ Bonus part AO3

The sounds of metal clashing reverberate across Okhema training ground as the Deliverer’s great sword meets the golden armour of the Kremnoan Prince with great vigour, sending tremendous vibrations shaking the surface where they are standing. No one knows how long this sparring session has been going on, but one thing which can be sure is that it is not coming to an end any time soon.

The sun hangs high above their heads, its radiance seeps into the glistening beads of sweat running down the warriors’ temples. As their sparring match concludes, no one emerges as the victor, only oaths to defeat the other with another future spar to come.

To relieve themselves of the scorching heat of Okhema, the two warriors decide to meander around the Marmoreal market. As the city’s cool breeze hits Phainon, he lets out a satisfied sigh as he tugs on the collar of his shirt, allowing some air to pass through the multiple layers of clothing and armour on his body and sooth the sweaty, stuffy warmth plaguing his skin. Compared to his companion, Mydei who is dressed less modestly and more boldly, it’s only reasonable that the intense heat of the battle would affect him more.

During their leisure stroll around the market, they make several stops to purchase a few items, ranging from historical artifacts, weapons to local and foreign cuisines alike until a certain fragrance catches the attention of the Deliverer.

“Hm? What’s that smell?” Phainon turns his head around to trace that faint scent of sweet nectar he just caught a whiff of. Perhaps because of the distinct smell of honey, his mind is brought back to the days of his childhood, of his mom’s sweet honey suncake and his first ever pancake, the one that filled his heart with warmth and happiness to its brink with every bite. Not because of its taste, but because of its maker.

“Must be from the Marmoreal diner.” Mydei tilts his head to the side at the diner, hinting at the portions of golden honeycake being served to customers.

“Oh the golden honeycake, the dessert that you advertised for, isn’t it?” That mischievous glint flashes right through Phainon’s eyes, a sign for another upcoming headache of the Prince. Upon this, he only shakes his head and sighs out in frustration. “Don’t even start. If you want to try it, do as you please.”

Within minutes the waiter arrives with their order (Phainon’s order) with two portions of golden honeycakes and one take-out kept in a small box. It isn’t apparent at first until they settle down onto their seats that Mydei takes notice of the extra serving. “Already hoarding one for yourself , Deliverer?” 

“Hmp? It’s for my friend- Figure they would like this.” He doesn’t even bother to completely swallow his food before stuffing in another spoonful, Mydeil swallows the urge to comment on his table manners. 

As the spoon digs into the pancake, honey drips down in beads from the top, coating the berries with a golden translucent shine. The batter was made with ordinary flour, its taste is rather simplistic, but it serves the purpose of bringing out the flavour of other components. The delicate sweetness of honey eases into his mouth, like the happiness of a successful harvest accompanied with the refreshing, slightly sour taste of red berries. Everything feels harmonious and fitting, yet it is still missing something crucial.

“This pancake is rather exceptional. Although it would still be no match for my childhood honey delicacies!” Phainon grinned widely as he started to reminisce about his past. “My mom used to make the best honey suncake ever. Every bite feels like sweet heaven, oddly enough I could never get bored of it. If only you could try it, I’m sure you would love it too.’’

“Oh, and my friend once made me an authentic Janus double-sided pancake. Its taste is definitely unparalleled. They told me that they used a particular honey recipe which is only passed down in the family. Must be why it tastes heavenly.” 

As Phainon rambles on, Mydei listens carefully to each word his friend says. The way he talks about his family and this particular friend with such fervor and passion truly pulls on his heartstring, perhaps he catches a reflection of his own longing for Castrum Kremnos in the lilt of Phainon’s words, the love for his kin, his people. The spark Phainon’s eyes emits a sense of yearning, happiness and warmth like none other, his smile is unswerving and never once falters at the mention of this person’s name. 

Eventually, the post-sparring snacks are set aside in favour of a talk about their hometowns, their traditions, cultures and their beloved friends, some have departed on a long trip to the domain of Thanatos while a few managed to accompany them on their journeys. 

Despite having left the Marmoreal diner, their conversation still carries on. Not even the sounds of chatter or footsteps of passer-by could drown out the solemn tenderness in his voice when talking about Aedes Elysiae, or of his friends who have all left him, except for one. Every mention of their name sounds more gentle than the last, to the point where it would be a misnomer for Mydei to call it simple amity.

“So your friend practices archery? How come you’ve never introduced them to me?” Apparently, this friend also bravely helped Phainon fend off the black tide disaster back at Aedes Elysiae, if so then they must be relatively capable. 

“They’re amazing, they have been practicing archery for as long as I’ve wielded a sword! Of course I will introduce them to you soon, when the time is right I suppose.”

But truth to be told, it is not strength that Mydei wants so see, as one of Phainon’s trusted companions, Mydei just wants to be more involved, supportive in his friend’s… affection. Make sure the Deliverer doesn’t get his heart broken or not courting his love interest properly. But of course, he would rather die than admit this out loud. 

Maybe some sentiments are better left at the depth of one’s soul.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Lord Phainon, please worry not. Your friend’s injury is not severe, as they only suffered a closed fracture of the fibula, it should heal within a few weeks. As for other injuries, they are not major and will probably cause no complications. However, I would advise your friend to refrain from any intensive activities during the time being to ensure no further damage and a speedy recovery.”

As Hyacine gives out her diagnosis to Phainon, he listens and nods intently. If he had possessed half the concentration he does now back then, perhaps he would have no trouble passing his History tests. 

During the mad king Nikador’s sudden attack on Okhema, you attempted to hold back the titan kin for the citizens to evacuate safely. By keeping a fair distance away and aiming your arrows at any looming monsters approaching the people, you successfully bought them enough time to run away unharmed. 

However, during a lapse in judgement, you impetuously abandoned your post and shoved a kid out of the way of a fallen pillar. While the child only sustained a few bruises here and there, he was relatively unharmed. You, on the other hand, got your leg crushed by the pillar and your bow snapped in the process. Even so, you should feel lucky to have escaped the wrath of those creatures with all limbs intact.

Initially, you insisted on just going to the local infirmary but Phainon wanted to make sure that you get your injury checked properly and thoroughly by the best healer he knows. 

So there you are, sitting on the bench with the Healer of Light’s little companion by your side. Although “little” would be an understatement, they look like they accidentally devoured a melon with no possible way of digesting it. At the very least, their fur is soft and smooth to the touch, with a slight scent of a cotton candy sweetness to it.

“I appreciate your help, Hyacine. Truth to be told, I can’t bear to just let them go to Okhema’s infirmary. I mean no disrespect to Okhema's physicians of course, just that your power is so reliable.” 

You scramble from where you are seated to stand up and give her a small bow of gratitude. “Thank you Lady Hyacinthia. If it weren’t for your healing power, I would be in tremendous discomfort by now.” 

Before Hyacine could even utter a word, Phainon is already ushering you to sit back down. “Hey, hey. Take it slow, intensive activities remember?” You gave him a quick glance as you counter back with a hushed voice “In what world is standing up an intensive activity?”

The pink-haired healer before you only let out a good-natured giggle upon seeing Phainon’s excessive consideration. “Well, it seems like I can entrust the responsibility of looking after the patient to you, Phainon. If there’s any flare-up, sudden pain or discomfort, please come to the Twilight Courtyard.”

“Also, you can just call me Hyacine, there’s no need for formalities!”

And so, with a final “Doot-Doot”, you and Phainon are seen off by Hyacine and little Ica. Unknowingly to you both, even from a distance away, Hyacine is still watching the two of you intently with amusement in her eyes.

“The Twilight Courtyard has already healed my leg, you don’t have to do so much Phainon” Despite having turned down his offer to carry you, he still puts a protective arm around your shoulder like he fears you would slip away and fall to the ground if he were careless. “It’s for precautions! Also you haven’t told me how you broke your leg.”

You let out a small huff before swatting his hand away “Only if you quit your dramatic show!” With a joking sneer, you run ahead of him. “Hey! No intensive activities!” Phainon takes off chasing after you, he must be entertaining your antics, otherwise you would be steadily held down at the shoulders before you can even think about slipping away.

“Doot, Doot-Doot?” Little Ica floats up and rubs themselves against Hyacine’s head. In return, she catches them in a tight embrace, feeling the soft, candy-scented fur beneath her fingertips. “It’s good to see Lord Phainon being so carefree when he’s not too burdened with his Flame-Chase duties.” She giggles lightly to herself at their banter from afar.

“Oh little Ica, don’t you think they look so adorable together too?”

“Doot-Doot!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With the blessing of Kephale, Okhema never witnesses a single day in which the darkness looms at the horizon. This, perhaps, would be the bane to most thieves. But as fate has it, the one standing on a secluded corner of Okhema’s red tile roofs is not just any thief, but the Kitty Phantom Thief herself. No hindrance can be too difficult to overcome to Cipher, after all, with enough believers lies become reality.

Today, her target is a beautiful vermillion gemstone, an artifact belonging to the fallen Januspolosis, a new knick-knack to add to her collection of stolen goods like an honorary badge of achievement. 

Oh my, what do we have here?

From afar, she catches a glimpse of a familiar silhouette, tall, white-haired, broad shoulder at Chartonus Smithy. If it isn’t the Deliverer boy! 

As he leaves the place, Cipher immediately takes notice of the new item in his hand. An object with a golden sheen, intricate designs carved into its lower and upper limbs, delicate curves etched into its design. 

A bow. But as far as she knows, he doesn’t use one, so this must be for someone else then?

Oh! Scratch the gemstone, she now has a better target. With a devious glint and a less than lofty-intent in her heart, a quick toss of her coin is enough for the bow to land gracefully in her hands. “Hah, gotcha. Now look at what we have here.”

Each of Cipher’s words is stretched out in sheer content, a sense of a swift victory and complacency fill her deranged laugh. She hums satisfactorily to herself as she runs her fingers along the fine materials of the bow, feeling its ornate hand-carved designs and the high-quality bowstring. “I wonder where that Deliverer boy found such exquisite materials…’’

“And we wonder where you got that bow from.” Cipher shoots up from where she is sitting and abruptly turns around at this unmistakable voice, her hands quickly shove her new found treasure behind her back like a kid caught red handed trying to snack on oatmeal at night. Even so, her facial expression is as brazen as ever.

“Huh-huh Oh! Big sis Tribbie, what are you doing here? Going on a stroll maybe?” 

“Hey! We saw that! You have to return that bow to Snowy. It’s something important to him!” It seems that their childlike cadence does not quite match their reproachful, serious gaze. Perhaps that’s why the thief finds herself still laid-back and nonchalant in the face of such lukewarm tellings-off.

“Oh sister Tribbie, you’re no fun. Also, how is this even important to him? That Deliverer boy doesn’t even use a bow!” Since she has been busted, there’s no need to act for the sake of secrecy, she takes out the bow hidden behind her back and tosses it around in an unapologetic and incorrigible manner.

“Just look at him frantically looking for it! It has to be of great importance to him. Come on, don’t you feel bad for him?” Cipher casts her gaze downwards, taking in the sight of Phainon hopelessly looking around for his newly-crafted bow like a kicked puppy searching for its lost toy. She has to physically restrain herself from letting out a laugh.

“Not even a little bit?” As Tribbie continues to persuade Cipher into “doing the right thing” with those pitiful, irresistibly big dove-like eyes, Cipher's resolve crumbles, but just by a bit. Since she would hate to drag the Seamstress into this trivial-treasure-hunt-gone-wrong, she eventually acquiesces and hands back the golden bow to Tribbie.

“Fine, but if I ever catch him wandering around with such a sparkly, glittery item you won’t be around to help him out again!” As she huffs out her concession speech, she vanishes into thin air, just as quickly as she appears. “Hey! Ciphy wait up!” their voice only echoes in the wind as its recipient has long made her escape. “We just want to give you these candies…”

Despite being a bit disheartened for not being able to present their gifts, Tribbie brushes it off, hoping to catch that Fleet-Footed Traveler next time. With the retrieved item, they fly down to return it to its rightful owner.

“Snowy! Are you looking for this?’’

“Lady Tribbie? Huh- This is the bow I was looking for! Did you get it back from Cipher?” As Tribbie hands Phainon the bow, he inspects it with scrutiny before letting out a sigh of relief to find no traces of damage.

“Hm? Snowy, how did you know it was her?” With a toss of his finger, a golden coin flies in the air before dropping back into his palm, Cipher’s signature is indented on it. “Only someone who inherited the coreflame of Trickery would have been able to swipe from me, don’t you think?”

“Oh, so that’s how!” Upon hearing his explanation, her eyes grow wide in surprise, a sense of childlike excitement and innocence evident on her countenance. After a while of hesitation she decides to bring up the question “Snowy, you don’t use a bow, so… what is this weapon for?”

“Oh this?” As he absent-mindedly traces the curve of the bow, he smiles half in content, half in resignation. “It’s for a friend, their bow was broken when they tried to fend off the titan kin during Nikador’s attack. Apparently, they got theirs crushed while saving a kid.” His voice grows tender for the first half of his sentence. 

“And I didn’t even get to hear this from them! I happened to meet the kid’s family who was looking for them to express their gratitude.” He huffs out in frustration, but Tribbie knows better than to take this as a sign that he’s genuinely upset. 

“Hmm, if they are willing to risk their safety to protect a child they know not of and expect nothing in return, then they seem like a kind person to us!” 

“Indeed Lady Tribbie, they’re a benevolent soul indeed.” With a small sigh and a distant look at the sky, he does not face her. “Even when they may seem aloof or taciturn at times, it can never change the fact that their heart is crafted with kindness.” Is Tribbie imagining it? Or is his voice really getting softer and smaller? 

“After everything, they still choose to love this world once more. I’m truly fortunate that I get to embark on this journey with them by my side.”

Oh… Tribbie is not imagining it! There’s a faint pink dusting his cheeks,  candid affection in his timbre and unconcealed tenderness in his gaze. Even as his voice grows smaller and smaller, the sentiment he imparts can still be felt so strongly, like a luminous spark lifting up the black curtain of the night sky, a drop of water disrupting the silent current of the ocean waves, like a solemn yet profound oath of…

“Snowy… You sound like you love them!” Do their words reach his ears?  Or have they followed the gentle gust of wind to be carried away into a far away land? For he does not respond to their affirmation, just a single smile facing the blazing sun.

[lynnerra]

-Secrets I’ve held in my heart

are harder to hide than I thought -

Phainon thinks he is subtle about it, about the way his eyes linger just a bit too long, the way he smiles like you're the dearest person to him, the way his heart thumps dangerously loud in his chest at just the sight of you. He thinks he's slick with it, but his affection for you lays bare in the eyes of his comrades.

✦ Synopsis: A snippet of your relationship with Phainon, but through the eyes of other characters.

✧ Featuring: Phainon x Reader, Cyrene, Aglaea, Castorice, Anaxa(goras).

✦ Word count: 2.2k

✧Tags: Idiots in love, Mutual pining (And mutual blindness too I guess), Childhood best friends, Sugar-spice-and-everything-nice kind of fluff, Gender-neutral reader because everyone loves him, irrespective of genders

✦ Side Note: No one asks whether the reader is the same person from my previous Phainon fic (Yes, they are.)

You are here: Part 1 AO3

Next stop ⤏ Part 2 ⤏ Bonus part

Aedes Elysiae is a relatively small village so news travels fast, like a drop of pigment on a wet canvas, luminous and quick to spread. For a young girl with more than enough free time on her hand, nothing can relieve boredom like some good old love rumours. That’s how Cyrene finds herself in this predicament. Stuck in a bush with leaves jamming in her face, mud sinking into the soles of her shoes while she tentatively awaits for the scene before her eyes to unfold.

Lately, her friend Khaslana has been acting weird. He ventured into the woods alone to gather flowers, and spent hours trying to make something akin to a flower wreath. His fingers held the delicate myrtle gently, like a sacred artifact, as he meticulously attached it to the wreath. His intense gaze solely laid on his current handiwork, with his fastidious dexterity and unwavering determination after every time the petals or stems broke, he eventually finished his hard-earned craft. 

The final product is rather simple, the base is a grapevine wreath held together by a clumsily-tied green ribbon, adorned with a diverse and vibrant collection of flowers, which are the things that stood out the most to Cyrene. Among them, at least from what she could see from afar, were the vermillion shades of roses coupled with the few dashes of pink from tulips and the fresh, lush hue of green from myrtle leaves. This deliberate choice of flowers cannot be coincidental, she thought to herself. Just a few weeks ago, they had listened to a grandpa in the village tell the story about the love of his life, how he confessed his affection by a flower wreath, albeit it was made of just carnations and gladiolus. 

As of currently, Cyrene observes Khaslana intently as he stands outside the door of your house with an evident redness covering his face. His hands trembled visibly yet he held his proudest handiwork with such vigour and gallantry. It is then that everything was clear, like a beam of lightning shooting straight through her brain, Cyrene can finally comprehend all his recent abnormal actions. Everything falls into the picture perfectly like pieces of a puzzle, his weird lingering gaze, the nervous hand movements hidden behind his back when you come into vision, the deliberate slowness when he helps you pick out the leaves on your hair. 

Then this flower wreath…

As this amusing realization dawns on her, Cyrene can only hold back a mischievous chuckle as a sly smile plastered across her face. Her legs are slowly giving out from where she is hiding, but the suspense was more prominent than the soreness of her calves.

Fufufu… You’ve truly matured. I still remember how you came asking me to help befriend them.

She giggles to herself and wonders,  Hmm.. What a heartwarming love story between these two.

Oh, to be the witness of such beautiful blooming sentiment 𝅘𝅥𝅮

After all, such a romantic story can never fail to capture the interest of a dreamy young lady such as herself and just maybe, she will no longer have to spend her afternoons in idle ennui.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The garments created by the Goldweaver herself can be described with nothing less than exquisite, the smooth texture of fine silk flows like a leaf amidst the summer breeze, gently breaking the silence of the water’s surface like how it stirs the emotions of passer-by. The intricate patterns woven into the fabrics are handpicked with deep contemplation and consideration to not only reflect the aesthetic preference but the inner identity of the wearer as well.

As a dedicated pursuer of perfection, even the slightest misalignment can deem the garment unworthy within Aglaea’s eyes. As these faulty garment articles are discarded, they somehow invariably flow into Okhema’s clothing market and into the auctions of aristocrats. Despite her dislike towards this phenomenon, Okhema citizens are allowed to do as they please so long as they do not cause any trouble.

Before her eyes lies a spectacular sight indeed, the renowned Deliverer of Amphoreus is strolling through the numerous displays of clothing and fabrics at the Marmoral market, with a deep look of scrutiny on his face. Out of all the places of Okhema, Aglaea never thinks she would run into him here during her regular patrols. She considers letting him go on with his personal business until he picks up and examines a selection of purple fabric. That is the necessary cue that she ought to intervene.

“Phainon, what business has brought you to the clothing market of Okhema?” The white-haired hero turned around at the familiar gentle yet authoritative voice. “Lady Aglaea, uh- it is an honour to meet you here.” The surprise on his face is quickly replaced by some sort of relief.

“I’m here to seek out a suitable gift for a good friend of mine.”

As far as her memory goes, there are no upcoming formal ceremonies nor festivals that would involve gift-giving nor is it any important event for any of the Chrysos Heirs. That leaves only one person left.

“By that, I assume you are referring to the friend that has traversed by your side during your journey from Aedes Elysiae to the Holy city?”

“Yes, you are correct Lady Aglaea. It will soon be their birthday and as they are a dear friend of mine, I want to celebrate this important milestone with a befitting gift.”

As the inheritor of Mnestia’s coreflame, her heart has grown numb to humans’ emotions since long but even the golden threads can feel the deep sentiment harboured in his words, so much that they have trembled ever so slightly under the weight of his silent devotion and tender feelings toward this friend. 

What her vision is incapable of doing, her golden threads make up for it. He may not yet fully understand the feeling that is residing in his heart, but it bears and seeks “romance’’ To her, he was a noble hero befitting of her handmade work. May Mnestia endow him with the blessing of beauty and love and whoever the subject of his affection is, shall they requite his sentiment alike.

“I see, it is immensely thoughtful of you to select such a gift for your friend. If you do not think of me as presumptuous, I would prefer to offer my assistance with your endeavor.”

“I- I offer you my sincerest thank you, Lady Aglaea. Truth to be told, I initially planned to seek your advice on this… matter.’’

The goldweaver could only gently shake her head as a smile spreads across her radiant countenance. “Phainon, you misunderstood me. I meant to offer my tailoring skills in creating a gift for your friend. However, I do have one condition, the colors of the attire are of my selection but the decorative patterns can be of your choices.”

“But Lady Aglaea, that’s too- I don’t think I can accept your offer!” Upon hearing Aglaea’s proposal, Phainon frantically waves his hands in refusal. With the knowledge that even her discarded designs are put up in auctions for the affluent aristocrats of the city, such a reaction is not out of the ordinary. Even though he is well aware that Aglaea herself would never demand any extortionate fee, he could not bear to request custom tailored garments from the prominent Goldweaver herself.

“There’s no need to fret. Since I have deliberately extended my help to you, I will not be asking for anything in exchange. You may as well think of this as a small gift on behalf of the Okhema citizens for your contribution to the Holy City and the Flame-Chase Journey. If you are still not convinced, then just regard this as my own way of continuing Mnestia’s divine authority.”

If Lady Aglaea had made up her mind on any matter, it would be meaningless to try dissuading her from it. In the end, the Deliverer accepts her offer with utmost gratitude and he tries to not think too much about her emphasis on “continuing Mnestia’s divine authority”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowds of people surround the podium at the Grove of Epiphany, a thunderous applause pierces through the intense atmosphere at the announcement of the 751st Great Debate winner. This marks his 10th consecutive win of the Great Debate held by the Grove. No one would have thought a guy with such a gentle voice and dashing appearance could pack so much force and reasons in his arguments, this proves his innate talent as a master orator indeed. 

As his teacher and classmate watch him being awarded the wreath of victory, a golden laurel of honor, they can’t help but exchange a knowing proud look. As they wait patiently for the award ceremony and the crowds to disperse, Castorice notices how his gaze is diverted to another direction, far away from the applause and look of admiration of the crowds, but towards a certain someone standing a safe distance from the mass of people. No longer have the crowds left the scene than Phainon disappeared as well. 

“Hm? Where is Phainon?” A puzzled look plasters across Castorice’s face as she looks around for the familiar silhouette of her friend. Her gaze lands on the far corner of the hallway, Phainon was conversing with someone. While this is not an unfamiliar figure, she hasn't seen this person very often, save for a few occasions where Phainon would often have lunch with them at some obscure corners of the Grove. He’s mentioned having a friend from Aedes Elysiae, but Castorice never pried into it for fear of crossing the boundary she has set up with everyone.

“Seems like he’s occupied with some personal affairs. It is most ideal to let them talk without any disturbance. Let's save our congratulations for a later time, Castorice.” Professor Anaxa spoke with an understanding look and a small, impenetrable smile on his face. Confused by his peculiar reaction, Castorice is still firmly planted there even when her teacher has long turned on his heels.

“Hey!You’re the winner, I shouldn’t be wearing this.” Despite the seemingly seriousness in their tone, their facial expression betrays it. As they reach out to take the laurel off their head, a pair of hands come in to stop them just in time, effectively putting the laurel back to its position as well as brushing the few stray strands behind their ears.

“Wait- Keep it there, the color of the wreath matches your hair more than mine.” While the other person is busy wrestling with Phainon’s hands on the laurel, he mutters something underneath his breath.   

You… beautiful?  Castorice can’t quite catch it from where she is standing, but from the movements of his mouth, it was something akin to that. She isn’t sure what prompts her to stay there, yet she keeps on awkwardly, with no ill intentions, eavesdropping on their conversation or more suitably, their playful banter.

“Should I be concerned if you think the colors combination is nice?’’ The corners of their mouth pull into a perky, teasing smirk as Phainon feigns a look of offense. 

“What? I may not be a fashion connoisseur but I have always had a keen eye for colors mind you!’’

Seeing as they can just effortlessly make jokes and laugh around each other, Castorice assumes they must be close friends. 

But had she been any less perceptive, she might have overlooked the way his gaze tenders at their smile when they weren’t noticing, how he meticulously adjusts the laurel on their head with genuine fondness or the constraint twitch of his touch when he holds their shoulders. 

As more people leave the place, Castorice feels as if she has trespassed and encroached on their personal space, eavesdropping into something she shouldn’t be. As the realization starts to hit her, she frantically looks for an exit from this embarrassing encounter, secretly regretting not following professor Anaxa earlier. Maybe she was staring too hard, as Phainon had already noticed her presence.

“Oh! Castorice, were you here to watch the Great Debate?”

“Uh-um, my sincerest apology, Lord Phainon. I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation with your… friend. Please excuse my discourtesy.” With a swift nod of her head, she makes her way out of the room without thinking about how wrong the word “friend” fell out from her lips. As she slowly disappears from sight, only her hurried footsteps against the ground can be heard.

“Huh, I didn’t even have the opportunity to introduce Castorice to you. Please don’t mind her, she’s a bit shy, that's all.”

Now, it is his turn to be puzzled, what in the world made Castorice so fluttered that she had to run away before he could even reply? That was surely uncharacteristic of her. Phainon pondered to himself.