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zozo-01 · 4 days ago

Text

just pretend.

pairing: phainon x reader

word count: 8k

synopsis: you and phainon are chrysos heirs of prophecy. he is chosen by the gods as the deliverer of the world. the day before phainon is to ascend to godhood, you kill the triplets of fate, steal the coreflame, and run. contains descriptions of imagined self harm

a/n: this fic actually hurt me so much writing it. tried out a new writing style and i think it might flop but. it made me so sad and devastated writing this im going to post it anyway. please listen to just pretend by bad omens for extra angst, which is the song this oneshot is based off.

They say that golden blood is a sign of blessings from the gods.

That is what your mother tells you, the first time you fall and scrape your knees playing in the forest behind your house. That is what the village chief tells you, eyes brimming with grateful tears as he clasps at the hem of your robes. That is what the acolytes tell you, when they take you with them and bring you with them to Okhema. You are seven years old when you leave your home for good.

It is an honour to be chosen by the divine.

That is why they call you — children of the prophecy — Chrysos Heirs. Mortals with blood of the divine, bearing the power to topple thrones and overturn the world. They find you as children, scattered across Amphoreus, and bring you to Kephale’s temple to be raised. In the Eternal Holy City, there exists a romantic legend: when the Twelve Coreflames are returned, a chosen Deliverer will ascend to bear the world.

Only then will Kephale open their eyes anew and lead mankind to overcome the Black Tide, and rebuild the world once more.

But for most of your life, the prophecy is far away. Kephale’s Temple is a city within a city, and as a child, it does not take long for it to become your entire world. Although you rarely see your parents after that, you find new companions in the temple courts. Aglaea, the Goldweaver, speaks kindly to you and weaves you new clothes every time you outgrow your old ones. It is good that you are growing fast and strong, she says fondly, patting you on the head. Then, you will be able to contribute to the Flame Chase.

Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon, the messengers of the prophecy that had brought you here, watch you with gentle smiles. Occasionally, they join you in your games of hide and seek, but you quickly grow weary of them — they always find you. When you accuse them of cheating, they only laugh and tap their eyes. “We can see more than you can, little one.”

But the first real friend you make is a boy called Phainon. He has white hair that’s always messy but never dirty and blue eyes clearer than the sky. He arrives at the temple a few weeks after you, still half a head shorter than you are. He sniffles a lot, something that makes you uncomfortable, and cries often at night. He must miss his family, Tribbie tells you, when you complain about being unable to rest. Be gentle with him.

One night, you hear him weeping in the cot beside you and reach out to take his hand in the dark. You meant only to soothe him so you could sleep — but when he grips yours tightly, clinging to it like a lifeline, that is the beginning of it all.

From that day on, you are his sun and he is your shadow. You run and laugh together in the sun-drenched temple courts, evading the acolytes’ lessons and chasing butterflies together. You show him the best hiding spots, the sweetest figs to steal from the orchards, and the trees with the coolest shades to nap beneath.

And as the years stretch both of you from children to youths, your bond only deepens. The playful games of children give way to shared readings of the sacred texts and sparring sessions in the temple courts. You memorise the rhythm of his movements, the way he plants his feet before a heavy swing. He learns to anticipate the lightning speed of your strikes, how you slip past his guard with your smaller frame. Though more are added steadily to your numbers, the connection between the two of you never falters.

The two of you are side by side the day the Flame Chase journey is set into motion. You watch as he receives his weapon — a greatsword forged by the Master Craftsman Chartonus, its weight and balance perfectly attuned to him. From that moment, you are paired for every mission: tracking, retrieving, pushing back the Black Tide as it encroaches. One by one, the Coreflames are recovered, each one a testament to the success of the Heirs’ labour.

This continues until there is only one left — the Coreflame of Worldbearing.

Now, all eyes return to the Triplets of Fate. Their gazes are heavy with expectation, awaiting the prophecy to declare who among the golden blooded will bear the World. A great celebration is held, then you and Phainon stand side by side to witness the prophets vanish into the Abyss to convene with the divine.

When they emerge again, their decision is clear: the gods have chosen Phainon.

You are not surprised to hear the news. He is every bit the Deliverer the prophecy has foretold. The sun-shaped birthmark at his neck catches the light, like a mark of what was always meant to be. In the years since you were children, he has grown strong and brave, but remains astonishingly kind. Yet, in your eyes, he is still the boy whose hair you once picked leaves from — the one who sneaked you the sweetest honeycakes from the temple offerings and got into trouble for dozing off during Priest Anaxagoras’ classes.

You find him after the celebrations exactly where you expect: beneath the third fig tree next to a fountain of Phagousa. The familiar curve of his shoulders, the way he sprawls in the grass — it is a sight you have seen countless times as children. He does not open his eyes when you settle beside him. For a moment, the two of you simply exist side by side, as if the world beyond the garden walls has paused in its breath.

“I am afraid,” Phainon admits after a long silence, eyes tracing the shadows of the fig tree as the sun moves overhead. “I do not know what the ascension will be like, if I even pass the trial. I fear it will burn every part of me away and leave me hollow. I do not know what it means… to become a god.”

You sit quietly for a moment, letting the breeze carry away the weight of his words. “Do you remember the legend of Achilles?” you ask softly.

He lifts an eyebrow, a faint trace of confusion in his gaze. “You mean Mydeimos’ ancestor,” he clarifies, referring to another Chrysos Heir the two of you had befriended later on. It’d taken a long time for Aglaea to convince his parents to bring him here, as the sole heir to the Kremnoan royal family. When you nod, he continues. “Legends say that he was dipped in the River of Souls as a child and gained an undying body.”

You twist a leaf between your fingers, studying its veins, much like the ones on your palms. “I’ve read other versions,” you tell him. “Some say he only emerged from the river with his humanity intact because he held onto what was most precious to him from his mortal life. Perhaps you should do the same.”

Phainon regards you for a long moment, before a soft smile tugs at his mouth. His eyes, the same brilliant blue they had been all those years ago, catch the sunlight filtering through the fig leaves.

“I will take your advice, then,” he says quietly. He glances away for a breath, before his lips quirk up in a slight smile. “It’s a pity we haven’t found the River of Souls in the legends — then Mydei could have an immortal body too.”

“Perhaps you’ll know where it is when you ascend to godhood. Let us know, so that we can fight with less worry of injury.”

He looks at you sincerely. For a second, you see the young man who’d shared with you stolen figs beneath the temple colonnades, muffling laughter into his hands as the priests searched for you. “When I become a god,” he says earnestly, “I hope that the new world I build will not require any of you to fight anymore.”

You shake your head. “You see? This is how I know you’ll be alright.” When he raises a brow at that, curiosity flickering across his face, you continue. “You are the kindest and strongest person I know. If anyone in this world could gain godhood without losing their humanity, it would be you.”

For a moment, silence lingers between you, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves overhead. Then, slowly, Phainon smiles.

“Thank you.”

When the Parting Hour draws near, you accompany him to the antechamber. There, in the hush of torchlight and incense, you unbuckle his armour and set aside the steel he has worn all his life. After that, you help him into the white and gold ceremonial robes, smoothing each fold into place carefully. Neither of you speak. When you step back, he stands before you transformed — radiant and unearthly — like the marble statues in the sanctum, untouchable by time or mortal hand.

At the heavy doors to the inner sanctum, you pause. The silence stretches, heavy with everything neither of you can bring yourselves to say. Phainon’s eyes find yours, and for a moment, it feels as though the two of you are the only souls left in the world.

When you finally speak, your voice is steady.

“You are the most selfless person I have had the privilege of knowing. Even if you ascend, you will not lose yourself.” He simply looks at you as if your words hold more weight than the prophecy itself. “Tomorrow, keep your eyes on me, and you will not be afraid.”

He inhales quietly. “I will.”

The doors to the inner sanctum close with a finality that echoes in the marrow of your bones. The last glimpse you catch of Phainon is his eyes — clear and unwavering — and the set of his shoulders, already bearing the weight of the prophecy. And then, nothing. You simply stand there, your own words ringing in your ears.

You are the kindest and strongest person I know.

You press your palm against the cool, carved stone of the door. Somewhere beyond, he is being prepared, stripped of his past, cleansed for his future. The last Chrysos Heir this broken world will ever need. And when he emerges from the trial tomorrow, he will no longer be your childhood friend, but the prophesied god who carries the world.

It’s just a shame that you have never believed in prophecies.

Phainon spends the night as the priests have instructed — ritual ablutions until his skin stings, reciting the prayers in meditation until his lips are numb to prepare a space within his soul for a god’s fire. His mind is a whirlwind of fear and duty, but he remembers your words, the story you had shared with him. An anchor. A tether.

Tomorrow, keep your eyes on me, and you will not be afraid.

He will hold on to that memory tomorrow, during the ascension trial. He believes you more than he believes in himself, the holy scriptures and prophecies recited to him since he was a child. If you say that his humanity will survive, then it must. When the fire razes through him, he will cling to the memory of figs split open in the summer heat, of laughter beneath the olive trees, of your hand clasping his in the dark.

So he kneels, still and waiting, until the bells signalling the Entry Hour sound. IThey never come.

Instead, in the early hours of morning, the silence is broken by the sound of the alarms. First then drums, then the horns. One of the attendant priests rises in alarm when it does not cease, moving towards the sanctum door, but before his hand can even touch the latch, it bursts inwards. Another priest stumbles through, chest heaving and the hem of his robes singed with ash.

“How dare you—” the attendant priest begins to scold, voice high and sharp with anger. “To breach the inner sanctum at such a time— you risk impurity upon the Deliverer himself—”

“It is gone!” the messenger cries. His voice is ragged. “The Coreflame— the three prophets have been slain! The Abyss is burning as we speak!”

Phainon is the first to run. He is the first to reach the Abyss, and the first to see the temple of Januspolis aflame. The people are crying and screaming, and the ancient trees that were once witness to eons of prophecy are now torches, silver bark splitting with heat. Their leaves curl to ash, swirling through the air like dead moths. The flames eat into carved stone as the worshippers and acolytes alike cry and weep.

And the triplets… gods. Phainon staggers to a halt when he sees them. Their child-like bodies have been laid out on the temple steps, draped in white shrouds that cannot quite hide the golden stains spreading at their throats. The sight cleaves him in two. He remembers their laughter, their guidance, their gentle teasing. The omniscient eyes that could see into the veins of past, future and present, yet still chose to play hide and seek with the children.

Phainon’s stomach turns. His vision swims. Who could have been so cruel? Who could have been so vicious to do such a wicked thing as this?

Aglaea arrives moments later, her silks drawn tight about her frame, her face pale in the firelight. She sees the three bodies on the steps and Phainon sees her lips tighten with near imperceptible grief and rage.

“Who?” she demands.

The head priest bows his head, hands shaking. His voice barely carries over the crackle of flames, but Phainon hears your name, clear as day. Everything goes still.

Tomorrow, keep your eyes on me, and you will not be afraid.

They are to retrieve the Coreflame.

Aglaea has not spoken your name since the incident, and she does not when she gives the order to hunt you down. She speaks only of necessity, of duty, the Black Tide, of the ascension trial — of what must be recovered. You are left unnamed, as though your name is an omen of death hanging over all of their heads.

You and Mydei will track them down. You will retrieve the Coreflame. Whatever happens to the traitor is of no consequence.

The words sink their claws into him. They do not loosen as he and Mydei set out, as they press on through Aidonia’s winter winds and Carmitis’ narrow streets. Every breath, every step, carrying them closer to you. And each second, Phainon turns over the last moment you had shared together over and over in his mind, until he finally makes sense of the smile you had given him, the steady reassurance you had offered.

Now he knows. Your reassurance had been neither faith nor conviction, but a distraction. A lie dressed up with a smile to keep him placid and foolish and unsuspecting while you…

Why?

The question gnaws at him. He wants to rage, to cry, to demand answers only you can give. But Mydei runs steady and relentless next to him, and when Phainon falters, the man snaps at him like a whip. Do not waste a single tear on a traitor. Save your strength for the chase.

They catch up with you at Lethe after days of relentless rain, the forest dripping and treacherous underfoot. You move through it like a shadow, fleet footed as a deer and agile as a monkey. Moss slick stone, roots that twist like snakes — none of it slows you down. You’d once told him, laughing, the forest betrayed my golden blood first, when I tripped as a child and cut myself on its roots. Now it seems to embrace you, carrying you forward, always just out of reach.

When Mydei lunges, you don’t even glance back. Instead, you toss something over your shoulder — a small brass device that cracks open in midair. It blossoms into a net of molten light, and Mydei goes crashing down in a tangle of limbs and copper wires.

“Go!” he shouts when Phainon falters. “I’ll catch up!”

And so Phainon runs. He pursues you to the edge of a gorge, a river raging below, canopy thinning above. There is nowhere left to flee. He barely has time to draw his sword before you’re coming at him with your own, twin blades cutting cruel arcs as you fight him with a ferocity that he’s never received from you.

“Come on, Deliverer,” you mock, eyes fever bright. “You can’t expect to take the Coreflame from me with this kind of half-assed swordplay!”

He is holding back. You are not. He knows this, and so do you. “Why?” The word rips from him, raw and ragged. The Coreflame, the ascension — this is what matters to him most. “Why did you do this?”

You straighten up, your twin blades catching the light. The laugh that escapes you is sharp and hollow and nothing like what you used to share under the fig trees.

“You really have to ask?” You begin circling him, slow and deliberate, predator and prey indistinguishable. “You aren’t the smartest. You aren’t the kindest. You’re not even the strongest, Phainon. Just because three children in a trance said your name, that means you get to be the saviour? The god-to-be? You get to inherit glory and godhood, while the rest of us become chaff, fodder for the prophecy’s fire?”

He cannot believe what you are saying. He has never heard you like this before. You are so spiteful. So vicious. “This was never about glory!” he shouts, the first real crack in his composure. “It was about saving the world!”

You scoff, raising your blades again. “If the only salvation is dictated by Fate that treats us as nothing but pieces on a board — then I will upturn Fate itself!”

There is no more talking. The space between you vanishes in a clash of steel. It is as brutal as it is intimate — you know the exact arc of his greatsword, the way he puts his whole body into each devastating swing. You flow around him like a whirlwind, twin blades a tandem blur — one deflecting the immense force of his blow while the other seeks the gaps in his defense like a compass needle.

But he knows you just as well. He anticipates each one of your feints, eyes tracking the subtle shift in your weight before you lunge. This is not just a fight between a hero and a traitor. It’s a fight between two halves of a whole trying to destroy each other. And each time his blade meets yours, it feels less like battle and more like mutilation — like he is carving out pieces of himself to bleed out.

But for all of your skill, he is the stronger and better fighter. Phainon drives you back to the edge of the cliff, every strike of his greatsword forcing you closer to the abyss. Your blades lock, sparks flying. And then without warning, the earth beneath your feet gives way from the rain. For a second, he sees fear flash across your eyes.

He reaches out on instinct.

And then both of you go tumbling down into the darkness.

Phainon wakes up first.

Every muscle screams as he pushes himself up, the world tilting dangerously before it rights itself. The air at the bottle of the gorge is cold and damp, thick with the smell of wet stone. Its walls loom high, and everything is silent except for the trickling of the stream.

The fall comes back to him in flashes. The terrifying lurch, the blur of rock and sky. The way you’d fought him even as the two of you plummeted, hands digging into his shoulders, shoving him away. You had struck a rock on the way down.

Justice, he whispers to himself. Tries to hollow out his chest, tries to make the pain more bearable. Divine judgment. Inevitable. This is what the gods have willed. All he must do is finish the task. Retrieve the Coreflame. Complete the mission.

His eyes find you.

You lie sprawled against dark rocks, half submerged in the icy stream. The vicious anger in your expression is gone, replaced by a stillness so absolute it terrifies him. Your hair is matted with gold, like sunbeams woven into your hair, a river of ichor tracing a path from your temple down your cheek, dripping onto the stone beneath. And your lips — gods, your lips are as pale as death.

Aglaea’s words echo in his head. Bring them back, dead or alive.

Phainon should remember the mercy you had shown the Triplets. He should remember the acolytes you’d cut down as you sacked Januspolis, their blood still drying when he arrived. The hollowed sanctums, the burning trees. He should steel himself, harden his heart, enact justice.

Your chest flutters, just barely with a breath.

His greatsword hits the river stones with a clatter, and his feet stumble forward instead.

He falls to his knees next to you in the shallow water. His hands are shaking violently. From the cold, from fading adrenaline, from the rage in his chest that has curdled into something sick and helpless.

He curses, fumbles with the hem of his tunic and tears a long strip from it. Presses it against the wound at your temple, his other hand cupping the back of your head to hold you steady. The white cloth turns gold almost instantly, the colour of sunlit wheat, your blood soaking through without hesitation. He rips another strip with a curse, swears again, and presses harder.

“Damn you,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse and choked. “Damn you for this.”

He isn’t sure if he’s cursing you or himself. His hands act of their own volition, betraying his duty just as you betrayed everything else.

He applies more pressure, jaw clenched so tight it aches. This is not mercy, he tells himself. This is pragmatism. Aglaea will want answers, and the temple will demand a trial. He deserves to hear the reason from your own lips before they execute you. He must know what could have been worth the Triplets’ lives, worth the future of the world… worth whatever you had.

“Just because three children in a trance said your name, that means you get to be the saviour?”

The words echo, mocking him. Were those words the fracture line? The moment it all changed? Had envy always been there, festering quietly behind your smile for years? Despair, twisted into raging defiance? Or something deeper still, something he never saw — never dared to see — because he was clinging too desperately to the promise of your hand holding his in the dark?

Did that change everything? Or did it simply reveal what was always there? He doesn’t know. He isn’t sure he wants to know.

And yet, as he kneels in the cold stream, whispering desperate prayers to every god he can name to sustain the breath in your lungs, the excuses ring hollow in his ears. He is not saving you for answers.

He is saving you because he cannot do anything else.

For three days, Phainon exists in a state of suspended agony. The cave he has dragged your limp body into is damp and dark, the only light coming from a small, smokeless fire he keeps alive at the mouth. Since then, this place has become his prison as much as your shelter.

You lie near the wall on his tattered cloak, and for three days you barely move. He tends to your wounds with a clinical focus, cleaning it with streamwater and applying poultices made from herbs he can scrounge up from memory. He counts the steady rise and fall of your chest, each breath a betrayal of the dead Triplets that had cared for him so, of the world, of his duty.

He uses the time you are unconscious to build a wall inside himself. He rehearses the questions, practises hardening his tone in his mind. Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it? He emulates the cold, detached demeanor of an inquisitor, one that he’s learned from watching Aglaea question criminals. He is not Phainon. He cannot be Phainon. He must be the Deliverer, the instrument of retribution.

Was everything between us a lie?

He must be the Deliverer. When he says it aloud, the sound cracks, echoing in the hollow cave.

He swipes at the tears streaking at his face, clears his throat, and tries again.

On the fourth day, you stir.

The sound is small — a soft, broken moan of pain — but it seizes Phainon’s heart like a fist closing around it. He freezes, every nerve set alight. He forces his features into the cold mask he has rehearsed, the one he promised himself he would wear when you woke, and turns to face you.

Your eyes flutter open. They are clouded with pain and hazy with confusion, but there is a fear in them that he has not seen since you were children. You struggle to sit up, hunching over with a low groan, but press on determinedly until your eyes fall on him.

The way your shoulders sag in relief twists like a knife between his ribs.

“Phainon?” your voice is a weak, thready thing. “Where… where are we? Are you hurt?” Your gaze darts around the cave, wide and anxious. He cannot bring himself to move, to act, to even speak. “Gods, that thing in the water... its claws... did it get you? I told you to watch your left side!”

He can only stare. The universe must be playing some sort of cruel joke, retribution for letting you live. Every carefully rehearsed question has turned to dust in his mouth. Coreflame of the Ocean—Styxia. The mission had happened just barely a year ago, but it feels like it’s been a lifetime since. A leviathan had nearly taken his arm while he’d retrieved the Coreflame, and you’d thrown yourself into its path to save him. He had awoken in a cave much like this one, days later, with you tending his wounds, and when he’d asked after yourself, you had laughed and told him to mind his own survival.

He’d only glimpsed the vicious marks raking your ribs months later, when you’d been in the baths. Even then, you’d shrugged it off and claimed it as your battle scars.

“Phainon?” you say his name again, tentative now. That flicker of fear is back, and it makes him want to vomit. Even half-conscious, bleeding from your temple, you are worried for him. Still you try to move toward him, as if his well-being matters more than your own. You’ve always been like this. Always more concerned for him than yourself.

The lie leaves him before he knows what he is saying, born of a panic he does not understand. “We’re… we’re near the coast. We got separated from the others after the fight, but we managed to secure the Coreflame. You took a bad hit to the head.” His voice is strange to him — too calm, too measured. “We need to get you to a proper healer. There’s one in the town nearby. We’ll go there.”

He presses his lips together, and waits for your questions.

They don’t come. You just nod, a sigh of relief brushing your pale lips. “Oh, that’s good. I thought we might have to go down to the bottom of the ocean again… thank you, for taking care of me.”

Phainon has never been more disgusted with himself. He hates lying, and has never once lied to you. The shame clings like a viscous oil to his skin. He is lying to you. He is manipulating you. He tells himself it is necessary — and that you have already lied to and manipulated him far more cruelly than he ever could. He will take you to town, find an apothecary and procure a healing draught. Then, you will regain your memories and he will get his answers, and he will drag you back to Aglaea for judgment.

And then the elders will execute you, and he will become a god.

The apothecary tells him that it will take a week to brew the draught. A week before your memory returns.

Phainon insists that the two of you share a room at a ramshackle inn overlooking Styxia’s harbour — in case someone tries to steal the Coreflame, is his excuse, delivered in a voice he hopes is flat and authoritative. The truth is that he cannot let you out of his sight, cannot let you flee. You don’t question it, just accept it with that same unthinking ease that eats him from the inside out. The only argument comes over the sleeping arrangements, when he insists on taking the floor while you take the bed. You are injured. You need to rest.

Every day is agony.

He tends to you with mechanical precision. He brings you broth from the inn’s kitchens, changes the bandage on your temple, steadies you when you falter from the lingering wound. The inn room is on the second floor, and he carries you up and down the stairs when you come and go. In the bustling, fish scented streets of Styxia, you walk close to him, and sometimes your hand brushes his, as though nothing has changed. The ghost of your touch lingers on his skin like a brand.

Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it?

He repeats the questions like a litany. Again and again in his mind, repeating them in silence as he sharpens his greatsword, when he sits across from you at the inn’s battered table, while you tease him about how stiffly he holds himself all the time. You’re so tense, Phainon. Did you swallow a ruler? Loosen up!

Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it?

But the questions dull each time you laugh. You smile at him with easy familiarity, steal the food right off his plate, and at night you hum him a soft goodnight before closing your eyes without a care in the world. Without a trace of doubt. You trust him completely.

He tells himself it’s only a week. That this is just a means to an end. Yet, when he looks at you — mouth slightly open and face slack in sleep — he finds himself whispering the questions aloud, as if reciting them will shield him from the chaos clawing at his chest. Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it?

The questions warp into a desperate, shameful plea instead. What if I don’t want you to remember?

On the fourth night, the pressure becomes too much. He slips out into the salt stung wind and calls down his hawk. His report is short. The traitor is alive but has lost their memory. Awaiting draught to restore it. I will bring them in once I have the truth.

Aglaea’s reply arrives even before dawn breaks. You are compromised. Mydei will join you. He will reach town by the end of the week. Do not let your resolve crumble.

He clutches at the letter so hard the paper crumples in his hand. You are compromised. She is right. Perhaps it is for the best. The draught will be finished, and your memories will be restored. Phainon cannot imagine enduring the remainder of the week, yet he dreads its end even more. He cannot look you in the eyes when he returns to the inn.

That night, when you stir in the narrow bed, you whisper his name. “Phainon? You awake?”

He answers with a grunt, throat too tight for more. Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it?

“I keep having these dreams,” you murmur, voice thick with drowsiness. Your lashes flutter unsteadily, and he does not know whether you are even fully conscious. “Strange ones.”

“What about?”

“It’s like there are hundreds of us. Or thousands, even. Spread across different skies.” Your eyes shine in the dark of the room, moonlight slanting over your cheek like the caress of a cold blade. “Like universes stacked on top of each other. And they all keep happening, over and over again.”

“Are they all the same?” You shake your head. He watches you from the blanket spread out on the floor, his chest a cavern of hollow ache. He cannot stop the question that escapes him, a whisper into the darkness between you.

“And in those dreams… are we still friends?”

You hesitate, and he hears the small hitch in your breath before you answer. “Not always,” you admit. “Sometimes we’re enemies. Sometimes, we’re… more.” Your lips curve into a faint smile. “But in every world, whatever we are — you’re always the most important person in my life, I think.”

Something in him cracks. The three questions that have been his anchor, his reason, dissolve into nothing. He drags a hand over his face, pressing the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, as if he could physically stop the sting of tears, the overwhelming surge of grief so profound it feels like dying.

Because he knows. At the end of this week, when your memory returns, you will look at him with hatred in your eyes again. Mydei will arrive with his grim purpose and unwavering duty, and the two of them will drag you before the council of elders to be tried. There, they will torture the whereabouts of the Coreflame from you, and then, finally, you will be sentenced to death. They will erase your name from the annals of history and blot out the stains of your existence. And then Phainon will ascend to become a god, and please, please, please, just let him forget—

You say that in your dreams, Phainon wears many faces: your friend, your enemy, even your lover.

But in this world, he is your executioner.

The next two days bleed together in a haze of salt spray and suffocating guilt. The apothecary tells him that the draught is almost done. Mydei is nearly here. The end is a specter on the horizon, and Phainon can feel himself unravelling at the seams.

It is your fault. You smile at him over breakfast, eyes clear and bright. You fret over the dark circles under his own, chiding him to rest. You laugh at a joke he doesn’t remember making, and the sound is like music in the small room, tucked away from the rest of the world, hidden from prophecy and fate. Each note is like a needle being driven deeper and deeper into his skin.

He is a live wire, humming with a frantic, barely contained energy. The three questions are no longer a prayer for salvation, they are a scream trapped inside his skull, echoing endlessly, shredding his mind to pieces.

Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it?

He can feel his control fraying, thread by thread. During the day, he is a statue, his responses to you short and clipped. At night, he lies rigid on the ground and desperately tries not to listen to the sounds of your breathing, the questions a ceaseless drumbeat against his temples.

Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it? Why did you kill them? What did you intend—

It falls apart on the sixth evening. You’re mending a tear in his cloak that you insisted on fixing, slow and careful as you hunch over the fabric. The domesticity of this scene makes him want to claw at his skin until it bleeds. You hum softly, a tune that Trianne had once taught both of you, and look up at him with a fondness that feels like a physical blow.

“You’ve been so quiet,” you say. Your voice is soft with concern. “Is everything alright? You can talk to me, you know? It’s just us, right?”

Just us. The words break Phainon apart.

A low broken sound escapes his lips, something between a sob and a gasp. He buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. The greatsword propped against the wall glints in the firelight, an empty promise of strength, useless against the collapse gnawing at his chest.

He wants — no, needs — nothing more than to punish himself. He needs to claw at his skin until it bleeds, until the raw pain drowns the unbearing weight pressing on his lungs. Why did you kill them? What did you intend to do with the Coreflame? Where is it? The questions repeat over and over, a litany of his failure and his helplessness. Why did you do it? What were you thinking?

Why? Why? Why?

You drop the cloak, your face paling with alarm and confusion. You’re next to him in an instant, hands hovering, unsure whether to touch him. He’s vaguely aware that he’s mumbling. ��Phainon? Phainon, are you alright?”

“I can’t,” he chokes out. His voice is muffled and raw. He wants to scream, to hurl himself into the walls, to rend his own flesh just to feel anything other than the suffocating guilt and despair. “I can’t do this. I don’t know what to do. They’re coming and I… I don’t know…”

“Phainon, what’s wrong? What are you talking about?” Your voice is anxious. “You’re scaring me. Did something happen? Is the Coreflame of the Ocean in danger?”

The genuine, panicked concern in your voice is what yanks him back from the brink. The horror of what he’d almost revealed crashes down on him. He drags in a ragged, shuddering breath, forces his hands down from his face. When he looks at you, your eyes are wide with fear and utter bewilderment, and he swallows all of his words back into his throat.

“No,” he rasps. His voice sounds hoarse and fragmented. “No, it’s… it’s nothing. The mission… I’m just stressed. Forgive me.” The apology is real — the only thing that’s been real in the past week. He’s apologising for everything: for the lie, for the future, for the noose that he is leading you to with those wide, trusting eyes.

But your expression softens instantly. “Oh, Phai,” you whisper, and this time, you don’t hesitate. You move forward and wrap your arms around him, drawing his head down to your shoulder. The sudden warmth of your embrace nearly shatters him. He is being comforted for the grief that he is causing, the execution he is enabling. Every nerve in his body screams to push you away, but he is not strong enough.

Instead he buries his face in your neck, tasting the faint trace of salt in your hair, and the world threatens to dissolve into nothing more but the steady beat of your heart against his own.

“Shh, it’s alright,” you murmur. “You always carry too much. We’re in this together, remember? I’m always on your side.” He trembles in your arms, and when he closes his eyes, hot tears spill down his cheeks.

He cannot bring himself to hug you back.

The decision is like a blade to the gut, cold and final. He will give you the draught tomorrow. The week is up, and in a day, Mydei will be here. This is the last night you will look at him without hate in your eyes.

The festival in Styxia is a riot of noise and light, a celebration of the sea’s bounty. Lanterns shaped like leaping fish glow in the dark, and the air is thick with the smell of spiced wine and grilled seafood. It’s a cruel contrast to the shadow looming over the two of you.

“A drink,” Phainon says. His tone is too bright, too forced. “To remember our last night in town.”

To remember you, like this.

You smile at him, that easy, trusting grin that cuts him to the core, and agree.

He drinks. He drinks like he is trying to drown himself. He drinks the cheap, strong wine like it’s water, each cup a futile attempt to wash away the inevitability of tomorrow. Why did you do it? Where is the Coreflame? How can I undo this? He wants to drink until he is empty, until the world is gone, and the unbearable weight of your smile lessens even slightly. The festival dissolves around him into a smear of light and sound, the laughter of the crowd twisting into the mocking echo of his own conscience.

You try to keep up, your laughter light and careless as you sip your own drink slowly, but your eyes watch him with growing concern as he stumbles, as his words begin to slow.

“Phainon, maybe you should slow down,” you say, one hand on his arm. The gentle touch shatters him completely.

He sags against you there, in the middle of the joyous crowd, his forehead coming to rest against your shoulder. The dam breaks. The questions he’s held back for a week, the grief, the betrayal — everything pours out of him in ragged, broken sobs.

“Why?” he weeps into your hair, his voice a shattered thing. “Why did you do it? Why would you do it? How do I stop this? How do I fix this?”

He’s a mess of a man. The acolytes in the temple wouldn’t recognise him now — the mighty Deliverer, brought to his knees. He’s laughable. A joke. He expects you to pull away, confused and alarmed by the outburst of a drunkard.

But you don’t. Instead, you hold him up. Your arms wrap around him, steady amid the spinning chaos of the festival, his mind. And he thinks, through the alcohol-fueled haze, that he hears you whisper something into his hair. Three words, breaking with a sorrow that mirrors his own.

I’m sorry, Phainon.

The world is tilting. He’s not sure if he imagined it. The apology makes no sense. You do not remember the people you have killed, the Coreflame you have stolen, the Triplets that you have murdered. The you of now has nothing to apologise for.

You half-carry, half-lead him away from the festival, back through the quieting streets to the inn. He stumbles up the stairs, your body a warm, solid anchor against his side. When you get him onto the bed, his head is spinning.

He hears you rummage around, before you return. “Here,” you murmur, your voice soft. You’re pressing a cup of cool water to his lips. “Drink this. It will help.”

And because Phainon trusts you — ingrained, absolute, despite everything — he doesn’t hesitate. He drinks, gulping down the water, hoping that it will clear the fog of wine and misery. It’s only as the last drop goes down that a distant, warning bell rings at the back of his muddled mind. The water had a faint, bitter aftertaste. Herbs. Not from the wine.

His eyes flutter open, trying to focus on your face. Your expression is unreadable, a mixture of that gentle concern and something else… sad and final.

“What…?” he slurs, but the word is heavy and his tongue is thick. The drowsiness hits him like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. It’s not the sluggishness of alcohol, but a chemical pull, dragging him down into unconsciousness. His last, fragmented thought is this:

You have betrayed him again.

The world goes dark.

He wakes to a pounding head and a silence that feels wrong. Sunlight streams in through the window, too bright, too late. He is in the bed, the blanket tucked neatly around him.

The room is empty.

The memory of last night crashes over him like a tidal wave: the festival, drinking desperately, his collapse, your arms around him, the cup pressed to his lips. The bitter aftertaste. The sleep he’d been dragged into, like a mercy that he didn’t deserve. The room is empty.

No.

He lurches to his feet, the movement sending a spike of pain through his skull as he stumbles. His eyes dart around the room, desperate for a sign, a clue, anything.

There, on the small table beneath the window, is a single piece of paper, folded neatly. His name is written on it in your familiar hand. With trembling fingers, he picks it up and unfolds it.

See you tomorrow, Phainon.

It stirs in him, vague and half-formed: a faint impression of your lips pressed to his hair as he slipped into drugged sleep. He cannot tell if it was real or a dream, a trick of his desperate mind.

The draught. Mydei. The trial and execution. The Coreflame. The week of feigned normalcy, the lies he had whispered — everything he had clung to, every thread of control, every shred of hope… it was all for nothing.

You were gone.

And you remembered everything.

The air in the Abyss of Fate is still and cold, thick with the scent of copper. The temple is silent now as you step into the inner sanctum. Your blade drips with the blood of two demigods. The third one sits before you.

She does not cower. She does not weep. She simply sits on her stool, small hands folded neatly in her lap. When she sees you, the blood of her sisters staining the weapons they’d once presented to you, a sad, faint smile touches her lips.

“We knew you would come.”

Part of you had guessed that already. But you still find yourself trying to buy time, trying to delay the inevitable. “Why didn’t you try to flee?”

"The moment one becomes aware of prophecy is also the moment one becomes a slave to it." Her voice, normally sounding so childlike, now ancient as she replies. “That is why you are here, aren’t you?”

You swallow, and raise your sword. “Then, I guess this is payback for all the times you cheated at hide and seek.” You force your hand to stop shaking. When you take a life, your blade, hand and heart must all be aligned. That is what Trinnon had taught you, the first time you had learned to wield a sword. “I will make it quick.”

You owe them that much.

“For what it’s worth,” she says, her voice soft, “I hope you succeed.” The unspoken forgiveness in her voice is more painful than any condemnation. You wish she would fight back. It would be easier that way. Instead, her eyes close in a picture of peaceful acceptance.

When you take a step forward, however, she speaks again.

“Janus has shown us how you will die. Do you want to know?”

You were a child when you first started dreaming.Long even before the acolytes took you from your home. In those dreams, he is a god, radiant and terrible, and he burns like a scorching blaze. There is a greatsword buried in your chest, and the god — Khaslana — cries, begs, screams like a wounded animal as he clutches you in his arms. His tears evaporate before they can make contact with your skin, dissolving in the heat of his divinity.

I don’t care about the world, he sobs, his voice ragged and breaking. Please. Please just give them back.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, you whisper comfort and lies against his trembling fingertips. I’ll see you tomorrow. Promise.

You had never understood the dream. But it had come back, again and again, just like how the sun returned with each dawn. And then you had seen Phainon lift his greatsword for the first time, the way the sun shaped birthmark at his throat caught the light, and in that moment, everything had become clear.

Now, you just smile softly.

“No,” you answer, and draw your blade across her throat.

#HOE WHEN I GET YOU #I SAY WHEN I GET YOUUUUU #PHAI BABY IM SORRY BUT ITS FOR THE BESTTTT #i would love to see a version from the reader’s pov #i wanna know her motivations and reasoning #BUT AGHHHHHCBISEUHFEUIWFBRWUOVBSRUVBURSKHBVRS #POOR SAMOYED HES SUPPOSED TO BE HAPPY WHY ARE WE TORTURING HIM #keep torturing him i love it hehehehe #another lovely fic from another lovely personnn

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zozo-01 · 6 days ago

Text

like gravity.

pairing: phainon x f!reader

word count: 12k

synopsis: pacrim!au. from this day on i'm censoring the word m*t*s*s and the number s*v*n. next chapter will be the last chapter TRUST 🙏🏻

VI. ENTANGLEMENT

The dreams come in flashes.

For most part, being unconscious is like drifting anchorless through a dark sea on a moonless night. Your awareness comes in broken fragments — brief islands in an endless ocean. Occasionally, a dream surfaces from the depths, but they all dissolve in your hands before you can grasp at them. The nightmares are comforting, almost like old friends. But it’s the other dreams that unsettle you the most.

You dream of Aedes Elysiae, of a scared boy crying on a beach. Behind him your hometown burns, the little storefronts, the pale blue houses. You want to reach out and take his scraped hands, say the words you’ve been aching to this whole time — I’m here now — but the tide pulls it all away before you can.

Everything goes dark once more.

“... still showing signs… brain activity… that’s good...”

“...when… wake up…”

“... you need… been here for days…”

“... can’t leave… promised…”

Time dissolves, shifting beneath your feet like the tides. When you dream again, it’s of a man sitting at your bedside. He’s hunched over in a chair that’s too small for him, silver hair almost glowing in the dim light of the medical bay. His shoulders are shaking, and you realise distantly, that he is crying.

It hurts. You want to touch him, to brush away his tears, but your body won’t listen to you. Why are you crying? you want to ask. Who hurt you? Was it me?

But sleep drags you back under again. Somewhere beneath the surface, you think you hear the boy still weeping.

And the man does, too.

The first thing you register when you wake is pain.

For a moment, you simply lie there in the bed, staring up at the ceiling as you acclimatise to the feeling of being present in your own body again. Ow. It’s just a dull throb, fortunately, but it radiates from the back of your skull, the marrow of your bones, and spreads out to every part of your body. All your limbs feel like they’re weighed down by lead. Just keeping your eyes open requires more effort than you’d like.

The second is warmth.

Blinking against the sterile lights, you turn your head slightly to the left to find Phainon slumped in a chair at your bedside. His head is bowed where his forehead rests against the mattress, shoulders rising and falling slowly with each breath. Poor guy must have been exhausted with worry. He’s still wearing the clothes from the day you’d fought the kaiju so… can’t have been that long, at least.

That’s good.

His hand is gripping yours, so tight it’s almost painful. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear the second he lets go. You want to reach out, touch any part of him you can, but when you try to lift your arm, a flare of white hot pain surges through the limb instead.

“Ugh…”

The sound you make is barely audible to your own ears, but Phainon jerks awake like he’s been electrocuted.

He bolts upright in his chair so fast that it screeches across the floor, body coiled like a spring ready to snap. His eyes snap to you instantly. The look in them is wild, almost frenzied, but when he sees you looking back at him, he goes deathly still.

For one suspended heartbeat, he just stares at you — alive and awake. You, on the other hand, are almost horrified. His eyes are dry and red-rimmed, hollows beneath them the colour of old bruises. Has he been crying…? There’s a rawness to his expression that makes your chest ache — like he’s seeing a fragile dream in the morning light.

“Morning,” you manage to croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s. “Why do you look like shit?”

It takes him a few moments, but a sound finally escapes his mouth — a laugh, if you could call it that. It’s thin and frayed at the edges, a release of breath that sounds more surrender than amusement.

“You should take a look at yourself first,” he says, voice rough but gentler now. He shakes his head, and then, almost hesitantly, steps closer to brush a few strands of hair back from your forehead. Are his fingers trembling? “I’m not the one lying in a hospital bed now, am I?”

He isn’t. To your relief, he does look fine — no blood, no injuries, just a little worse for the wear. But there’s something in his smile that worries you. It’s thin and brittle at the edges, like glass that you’re afraid will shatter if you breathe too hard.

“I—”

Whatever you were about to say is cut off with a cough when your throat seizes up. Gods, it’s like you’ve swallowed a cocktail of splinters and wood chips. When you raise your head again, Phainon is already moving, pouring water from a jug on the nightstand.

“Here,” he murmurs. His palm is warm against your back as he eases you into a sitting position, his other hand adjusting the pillows behind you. When he’s sure you can settle back comfortably, he holds the little plastic cup out to you.

You try to take it, but your hands are weaker than you’d anticipated. It slips from your fingers.

“Ah—”

Phainon catches it before it can spill all over the blankets, water sloshing perilously close to the rim. “Shit. Sorry. Forgot—” He cuts himself off with a sharp shake of the head, blue eyes flickering up to yours before they dart away again. “Let me help.”

He steadies the cup at your lips as his other hand carefully gathers your hair back from your face. His knuckles graze the shell of your ear, and that touch is enough to send an unwarranted shiver down your spine.

Woah. Not the time or place for this, is it now…

“Slowly,” he reminds you, voice coaxing. You’re not a baby, you want to retort, but you know that you’ll only end up coughing again. So, you let him guide you, resigned to small sips under his watchful gaze. The water is cool, like a balm to your parched throat.

Fortunately, you manage to finish all the water without further incident. But now that your immediate discomfort is soothed, you find yourself bursting with questions. “How’s Stelle and Caelus?” you blurt the second he pulls the cup away. “What happened after I passed out? How did we get back here? Did the kaiju—” Phainon presses a finger to your lips.

The touch is feather light, but you fall silent under it regardless.“Slow-ly,” he repeats, enunciating each syllable carefully.

You mime zipping your lips shut, glancing up at him expectantly and he sighs before giving in. “The twins are fine. Just worried about you.” A beat, and then: “Trailblazer’s shield basically got turned into a piece of scrap metal, but it’s nothing the professor can’t fix. Aglaea’s losing her mind over how much it’ll cost to get it replaced.”

He smiles faintly at that, but it doesn’t last. “The choppers pulled us out of Dolos. Brought us back to the Shatterdome. You’ve been in the medbay ever since.”

You let out a breath that you hadn’t even realised you’d been holding. That’s good. At least everyone made it out intact. But your gaze flicks to the shadows under Phainon’s eyes, the washed out pallor of his skin, and your stomach twists.

“And you?” you press. “Are you alright?”

His fingers linger at your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse point. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he answers. “Don’t worry about me,” Phainon says, almost too gently. “I wasn’t hurt.”

You frown. Those words are technically true, but there’s something about the way they’re phrased that you don’t really like. Deflection, avoidance. But there’s something hanging about him, tired and heavy, that stops you from pressing more right now. Later, you promise yourself.

You’ll ask him later.

“I should get Dr Hyacine,” Phainon murmurs, after a beat. But he makes no move to leave.

He’s right, of course. You should be examined, probably should’ve been the moment you woke. But the thought of him leaving even for a moment sends an irrational pang through your chest that has your fingers curling tightly around his. And so the moment stretches instead, the two of you sitting there in the quiet, the only sounds the steady beep of the monitors displaying your vitals and his breathing.

Eventually, though, necessity intrudes. With visible reluctance, Phainon slips his hand from yours as he rises from the chair. The metal legs scrape against the floor and you make a face that pulls the ghost of a smile from him. “I’ll go get the doctor now, then.”

“Go ahead.” You wiggle your fingers at him with a half-hearted sigh. “Not like I can go anywhere.”

Still, at the doorway, he hesitates. For a moment he stands there, profile etched in the dim light, and then he glances back at you. Just once. A single look that brims with things unsaid — worry, regret, something you can’t quite name — before he turns and disappears into the corridor.

You barely have time to miss him, though, because he returns just moments later with Hyacine, who’s clutching a tablet in her arms. When she sees you sitting upright, her mouth falls open like she’s just seen someone rise from the dead.

You raise a hand and wave. “Hey, doc.”

That seems to snap her out of it. You’re sure that you see her eyes glistening suspiciously before she blinks furiously a few times, clearing her throat as she regains her composure.

“I see you finally decided to wake up,” Hyacine chirps as she breezes over to your bedside. Phainon returns to his usual post at your side, shoulder braced against the wall to watch you and Hyacine. “Had a good sleep?”

You smile, glad to see the bubbly doctor. “Not sure about good, but it definitely felt like the longest sleep of my life.”

She laughs a little and shakes her head. “It might have been,” she tells you, pulling a penlight from her coat pockets she glances over the monitors at your bedside. “Hmm, vitals look stable. Any ringing in your ears? Shadowy figures at the corners of your vision?”

Well, that’s… kind of extreme. You glance upward at the man next to your bed. Like the sleep paralysis demon haunting your dreams… “Not unless you count Phainon hovering, I guess.”

He lets out a sigh that’s both amused and resigned, reaching over to poke your cheek. “I’m not a hallucination.”

Hyacine giggles into her palm, before returning her attention to you. “That’s good. Any discomfort, then?”

“Some nausea. Maybe a sprinkle of a headache?”

The doctor gives you a sympathetic look. “That’s expected, fortunately. Let me just run through a few tests with you, okay? Make sure everything is alright.”

She goes through the standard checks with brisk efficiency, hands gentle but precise. First, the penlight flashes across your pupils, making you squint against the bright light, then her fingers tap lightly against your knees and elbows to test your reflexes. She has you squeeze her hand, flex your fingers, lift each arm. You follow obediently, doing each movement as she asks of you.

And throughout all of it, you feel Phainon’s eyes on you.

Hyacine huffs out a little sigh of relief when each test seems to pass without complication. “Whew! Looks like your cognitive functions are intact.” She glances sideways at Phainon. “Seems that you and your co-pilot both have a habit for conjuring up miracles, hm?”

You blink, surprised, before you remember what she’s talking about. Right, the feat that had elevated Phainon from hero to legend… “Oh. Were you expecting some sort of brain damage?”

Hyacine’s mouth quirks into a humourless smile. “Well, the first Pons Systems trial subject died from a neural overload when he attempted to control a Jaeger on his own, so…” she says, shrugs one shoulder and you press your lips together. That could have been you. Not that you’d really had a choice out there, did you… She perks herself up, despite the dreary topic. “Still, I’m glad that you were lucky enough to beat the odds!”

You almost miss the way Phainon stiffens next to you. “We’ll need extended monitoring, of course.” Hyacine continues, as she types a few things into her tablet, brows furrowed in concentration. “The brain is a tricky thing, and there’s a lot we still don’t understand about the drift. But for now, everything seems good.”

She shoots a meaningful look at Phainon as she says that. Your drift partner just nods quietly, not quite meeting her gaze. You frown a little. Did something happen when you were out?

Before you can ask, though, Hyacine is already turning back to you, beaming as she does. “Then, I’ll give you a quick full body check up, since you had some cuts from the broken glass.” Her gaze slides pointedly to Phainon, who’s still staring at the ground, arms crossed over his chest.

Hyacine clears her throat loudly. Only then does he glance up.

“Hm?”

“I said,” she repeats, sweetly. “I need to give her a full body check up.”

Phainon just stares at her with a blank expression, not a single thought behind those blue eyes. It’s like all the gears in that brilliant tactical mind have ground to a halt. “... Okay?” he says, as though waiting for any further instructions. “Go ahead?”

Hyacine sighs loudly with a sound that comes from the depths of her soul and swats at his arm with her tablet. “For goodness’ sake, it means that I need to undress her, Phainon.” She looks at him as though she’s speaking to a very small, very dense child. “Get out. You’ve been here long enough.”

The penny drops.

“Oh.” Colour floods Phainon’s cheeks spectacularly quick. He opens his mouth in alarm and then closes it before he can say anything, eyes wide with a mixture of panic and apology. You have to hold back a laugh as he practically trips over his own feet on the way to the door.

“I’ll just— uh, I’ll be right outside,” he stammers, fumbling for the handle. He gives you one last, flustered glance that somehow manages to be reluctant even then, before he steps outside.

As soon as the door slides shut behind him, Hyacine shakes her head with a sigh that sounds like a cross between fondness and exasperation. “Seriously. That man would wrestle Death himself if you were on the other side. I think I’d even put my money on him,” she remarks, reaching for the ties. You blink at her.

“Don’t you need to lock the door or something?” Hyacine just lets out a little snort, shaking her head.

“With Phainon standing guard outside, it’ll be a miracle if anyone so much as makes it within sniffing distance of your room,” she says as she helps you out of your hospital gown. You’re too exhausted to feel embarrassed, the dull ache in your limbs outweighing any modesty. “He’s been making a nuisance of himself the whole time you’ve been out.”

“Nuisance?”

Hyacine’s hands are gentle as she maps out the injuries on your torso. There are a few long lacerations beneath the patches of melolin stuck over your skin, but the drivesuit must have protected you from the worst of it. “He’s been hovering for four days straight. Refused to leave to sleep or even to shower. Mydei actually tried dragging him out yesterday—” She pauses to examine one near your ribs. “—got a fist to the jaw for his trouble.”

It takes a second for you to process those words, and when you do, your eyes go wide. You know you’d been asleep a long time, but— “What do you mean it’s been four days?

She raises an eyebrow. “You piloted solo for three minutes straight. You do know that that’s regarded as impossible, right?” Her fingers tap beneath your chin, and you raise your head so she can check over your collarbone, the little cuts left from broken glass when the Conn-Pod’s visor had shattered. “It was a coin toss whether you’d ever wake up, to be honest.”

Your stomach drops.

“You were in an almost catatonic state, when we first got you out of Khaslana.” Hyacine continues. She doesn’t really look at you when she speaks, dabbing some ointment along your shoulder. “I thought Phainon was going to lose it there and then.”

Four days. You’ve been out for four whole days. The realisation settles in your chest like a sinking stone. You’d seen Phainon’s clothes and just… assumed that no time had passed. Now, you know it’s because he hadn’t left at all.

The heart monitor makes a little beep. Hyacine’s brow furrows, but you barely notice. All you can think is how cruel it must have been — for Phainon to clutch at your limp hand for minutes, hours, days, not knowing if you’d ever hold his again in return.

“Was he alright?” Your question is hushed.

Hyacine stills for half a beat, hands pausing in their work as if weighing what to say. Then, she exhales through her nose, almost a sigh.

“No,” she admits simply. “He was a wreck. I had to threaten to sedate him if he didn’t lie down.” Her lips just curve into a wry smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Didn’t work. Stayed put right here, anyway. We’re lucky he passed out yesterday night.”

Her words cut deeper than you expect. You stare past her shoulders, chest aching when you remember Phainon’s red rimmed eyes.

“Well, what matters is that you woke up, and you’re feeling fine now.” Hyacine smiles at you as she methodically wraps up the rest of her examination. She brings you a fresh hospital gown from one of the cupboards, helps you into it before she makes you lie back against the pillows. “Still, you need rest. Lots and lots of it!” Her eyes narrow, suddenly stern. “And if I catch you trying to escape like Phainon last time, I will microchip you. Both of you. Understand me?”

You manage a little laugh. The edges of your vision are already blurring as Hyacine moves towards the door.

“Hyacine…” Your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. “Tell him… to get some sleep too…”

Her answering laugh is fond. “I’ll tell him. Can’t promise he’ll listen, though.”

With that, the door slides shut softly behind her, and then you’re gone.

You wake up a day later.

Blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you find Phainon in his usual chair again — except this time, his hair is damp, sleeves of a fresh sweatshirt pushed up to the elbows. In his hands is an apple that he’s peeling with methodical precision.

For a moment, you just watch, content as he slides the small knife along the fruit’s curve. It's almost therapeutic, the way his brows furrow in concentration, the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the faint scent of his citrus soap cutting through the antiseptic of the hospital.

“You showered,” you say, at last.

Phainon doesn’t look up, but the knife goes still for a second. You suspect that he’d already known — from the second the sound of your breathing changed, probably. Well, not like you were trying to hide that you were awake, anyway. “Hyacine said I’d give you germs with the colony I was raising on me. And Aglaea threatened to hose me down herself.”

The image pulls a laugh from you. Phainon’s mouth quirks in response, and it’s the closest thing you’ve seen to a real smile from him — not that brittle thing that he’d shown you when you’d first woken up yesterday.

That brings you more comfort than anything else.

“Didn’t know you were so domestic,” you smile a little. “Since when were you training to be a househusband?”

He finally glances up, a flicker of dry amusement in his blue eyes. “It’s a recently acquired skill. I’m attempting not to get kicked out of the medbay by the head nurse.” He nods at the fruit in his hands. “I’m going with bribery this time.”

“Is it working?”

Phainon shrugs as he resumes his peeling. “Jury’s not out yet, but she's definitely warming up to me.” The peel slides off in one long, continuous ribbon, spiralling between his knees. You're just a little bit in awe. “I’m pretty sure she thinks I have attachment issues, though.”

After all the worry you’ve put him through, you wouldn’t blame him, if he did. You watch as he slices the apple with the same focused precision, and the pieces fall into a neat symmetrical arc on the plate.

“Well, I’m a fan,” you say softly. “That is very pretty. Must have taken a lot of effort.”

His mouth twitches upwards infinitesimally. “Not like I had much else to entertain myself with. Besides, it’s the least I could do.” When you frown, he elaborates. “I ate all the jello March snuck in while you were out.”

Your mouth drops open. “You monster.”

“It was a casualty of war,” he sighs, but there’s something warm in his eyes when he looks at you. “Don’t worry, I’ll stage a raid on the cafeteria later. Promise I’ll get you a whole box of them.”

A wave of relief washes over you, so strong it steals your breath for a second. This — the easy banter that flows between you as easily as breathing, the fond look in his eyes — this is the Phainon you know. Perhaps the strange tension you’d seen in him yesterday was normal; of course he’d be shaken when you’d been out for four whole days. But now, with a night of sleep and a shower behind him, the familiar contours of his personality are reasserting themselves once more.

Just for a moment, the world feels righted again.

“Anything else March manage to sneak in?” you ask.

Phainon nods at the nightstand. When your eyes follow his, they go wide with shock. A fruit basket teeters precariously, nearly overflowing with apples, oranges, pears and what looks like an entire pineapple. A handmade sign taped to the top reads:

PHAINON CHASED US OUT BECAUSE HE SAID YOU NEEDED REST. BOOOO HE’S TAKING UP ALL THE VISITOR SLOTS IN YOUR ROOM. WE UNDERSTAND BUT BOOOO. REST WELL!!

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh. Definitely March. Beneath the message, the entire Ranger roster has signed off in various colours of ink, including what appears to be the drawing of a… trashcan in a pink glitter pen. You quirk an eyebrow at Phainon.

“You chased them out?”

“They were making a racket,” he defends, flashing the fruit basket a fond look. “But well, I’m sure they’ll be right back tomorrow. Stelle and March are doggedly persistent.” He shakes his head, and offers you the plate. “Want some?”

You look at the slices on the plate. They're cut into perfect wedges, their white flesh perfectly untouched. You remember what Hyacine had said.

Four days. Wouldn’t leave. Punched Mydei.

You’ll have to apologise for that last part, later. But right now, you think that you might be coming to an unfortunate realisation. It’s not… new, you think. More like putting a name to a feeling that’s been there for some time. Of course, there’s the familiar warmth in your chest, one that you’ve always attributed to reuniting with your last surviving childhood friend. But this is different. It’s quieter, deeper and infinitely more terrifying.

Like an ocean, swallowing you whole.

And it’s inconvenient, really. That the flutter in your stomach when he smiles isn’t just because he’s stupidly handsome. That the way your breath catches when he touches you has nothing to do with your injuries and everything to do with him.

Because it’s him. It’s always been him, hasn’t it?

“(Name)?”

It’s almost comical, when you think about it. That you get into too big robots to fight too big aliens and then now you’re sitting here, terrified of the too big emotions that you have to contend with. Gods, none of that prepared you for having to deal with this.

So you smile, a little helpless and entirely out of your depth.

“Feed me?” you ask instead.

It’s a parody of the question he’d asked you, back in the mess hall the morning after he’d set the Maw aflame. But Phainon freezes, his throat working as his gaze darts from your face to the apple slices and back. There’s a faint flush creeping up his neck.

“Your arms are working perfectly fine.” His voice sounds stripped of all its usual certainty. You shake your arms out a little.

“I guess they are.”

“Then—”

You tilt your head and the protest dies on his lips. “Wanna be spoiled. It’s my turn.” The words are a quiet admission. You’re insane, you think. But for some reason, in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to care. “Won’t you?”

He hesitates for a second. You lean forward, open your mouth a little regardless. Just looking at him. Just waiting.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he selects a slice. His calloused fingers are surprisingly gentle as they brush your lips.

His breath hitches sharply when you don’t just take the offering, though. You close your lips around it, letting your teeth graze the pad of his finger, holding him there for a second that seems to stretch into eternity before you pull away.

The sweet slice crunches between your teeth, and you taste nothing but the warm salt-tang of his skin. “Tastes good.”

His eyes dart to you, as though searching for some kind of hesitation, any indication that it was an accident, but you don’t look away. He swallows.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Phainon murmurs, already reaching for another slice. In the silence of the medbay, your heart monitor spikes traitorously.

Beep-beep-beep.

Neither of you comment.

The next few days blur together in a haze of sleep and wakeful moments. Phainon becomes such a permanent fixture at your bedside that you think he must have become one with the chair. Every time the nurse drops by to give you a routine checkup, she just sighs at him, like she’s given up on trying to chase him out of here.

Phainon flashes her his biggest smile when she's in the room, and then drags the chair even closer the second she goes.

He only leaves when you insist that he bathe. Even then, he returns within minutes, hair still wet and breathing heavily like he’s sprinted right back from the showers. “Silly,” you tell him, shaking your head. “Seriously, what’s the rush? Where would I even go, huh?”

He just shrugs. Attachment issues, you’ve heard the nurses whisper more than once. He thought she wasn’t going to wake up, so…

So it surprises you, when he turns down your offer to share the bed. You hadn’t been thinking anything untoward — only that he should lie down and rest properly, for once. “You’re still injured,” he says, but you can’t help but feel like there’s something more beneath the surface.

Despite all the time that you’ve spent in each other’s proximity, he hasn’t so much as hinted at the moment from a few days ago, when he’d pressed apple slices against your mouth and you’d all but licked their juices from the tips of his fingers. It’s as if it never happened, or worse, as if he’s deliberately pretending that it didn’t.

Something feels off.

For now, you let it slide, though a small knot of doubt lingers in your chest.

In the quiet moments between check ups, though, Phainon almost seems like himself again. He jokes about the hospital food — “this stuff’s inedible, seriously” — plays a few rounds of Xianzhou Starchess with you (he's losing on purpose, you’re sure) and reads aloud from the small stack of books Aglaea had left you for entertainment.

The General’s idea of ‘light reading’ appears to be dense historical strategy, but Phainon rambles through all of them anyway. His commentary is humorous enough to make even an instruction manual interesting, and the steady hum of his voice is comforting to your ears. He laughs at the right times, smiles just wide enough, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think nothing was wrong.

But you do know better.

It’s nothing concrete, but call it a gut feeling (oh, not again). It’s the way his eyes constantly dart to your monitors, the shaky exhale he lets out when he thinks you’re asleep. The small, near imperceptible things.

You can’t shake them off.

The others visit in shifts. Stelle singlehandedly finishes the entire pineapple in your fruit basket and ends up with a stomachache. Dan Heng brings Phainon a cushion for his chair. And Castorice sneaks a few cups of jello in from the kitchens, almost teary eyed as she does. They said I looked the least suspicious, she confesses to you in her distress.

Mydei comes last. His usual expression is intact, despite the fading bruise on his jaw. You wait until Phainon steps out to refill the water jug before you ask about it.

The ranger just shrugs. “Not the first time, won’t be the last. Don’t worry, I’ll get him back for that the next time we spar.”

You huff a laugh, but your chest aches.

Phainon returns, and the conversation shifts. Your room fills with voices — Aglaea’s dry commentary, Mydei’s bantering with your co-pilot, the occasional bright ‘hello’ from Hyacine when she passes by. You laugh along with them, clapping for March as she successfully manages to juggle four pears at once.

But the whole time, your eyes stay on him.

A few days later, Hyacine discharges you at last on the condition that you get plenty of rest. Horizontal, quiet and boring rest, she insists, eyeing Phainon very deliberately as she signs off on your papers. The threat of the microchip hangs heavy above both your heads as you leave the medbay.

Phainon walks half a step behind you the entire way back to your quarters. His hands hover near your elbows, your shoulders — ready to catch you if you so much as sway. Fortunately, the two of you make it back to your shared room without major incident, and you let yourself collapse onto your bunk with a groan. The familiar creak of springs is oddly comforting.

“Wow,” you say, face smashed into the pillow. “Forgot how terrible these beds are. I guess distance really does make the heart grow fonder.”

You hear him snort a little as he kneels to untie your boots. “Should’ve stolen one of the memory foam pads when Hyacine wasn’t looking.”

Now that’s an idea. “Maybe next time,” you sigh, sitting up to watch his careful fingers work. He slips off your boots first, and then your socks.

You’d meant that as a joke, but Phainon just gives you a look. “No more next time,” he says firmly, and the quiet intensity in his tone makes you laugh softly. You raise a hand in mock salute.

“Yes, sir.”

He moves to tuck you into the bed, his hands steady and careful. The vitals monitor beeps as he fastens it around your wrist, but his thumb lingers for a moment too long on your pulse point. He doesn’t let go.

“You should shower,” you say, forcing some lightness into your voice. “You stink.”

The shadow of a smile crosses his face. “Yeah,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Get some rest, alright?”

You watch from your bed as he pulls fresh clothes from the cupboard, gathers a clean towel, and disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind him. A second later, the water kicks on.

And on.

And—

You count to three hundred in your head before the unease sinks in. The shower’s still running. No movement. No shifting of soap bottles. Just the sound of endless, pouring water.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Phainon’s just standing there, letting the heat pound against his shoulders until his skin prunes. He hasn’t had the luxury of a proper shower in a long time, not since you wound up in the medbay. But the knot in your stomach says otherwise.

You force yourself to stand on unsteady legs. “Phainon?”

No response.

“Phai?” you call, a little louder this time.

Still nothing.

Fear wraps around your throat. Alarmed, you step over to the bathroom and yank the door open — only to be met with steam, the hiss of water, and… no one. For a second, you think he’s gone. Then your gaze drops, and—

He’s on the floor. Naked, back pressed to the tiled wall and head buried against his knees as the shower beats down relentlessly on him. Water sluices over his bare shoulders. You think some part of your heart crumbles on the spot when you see him like that. You’ve never seen him look so… small.

“Phai?” you say more softly this time, and he just sobs.

The sound hurts you more than any amount of solo piloting could. “Hey.” You step into the shower with him, the spray instantly soaking through your clothes, but you couldn’t care less. All that matters to you right now is him — curled up on the cold tiles and shaking like a wounded animal.

You kneel before him, careful not to move too fast. The second your arms circle his trembling frame, though, he shatters.

“M-my fault—” Each word that escapes him between wet, ragged breaths stabs straight into your chest. His entire body convulses against yours, wracked by sobs so violent they seem to steal the very air from his lungs. You can feel his fingers twisting desperately to the hem of your soaked shirt, like you’re the only solid thing in a world coming apart at the seams. “Sh-should’ve— couldn’t—”

You can barely make out what he’s saying, but the raw, broken sound he makes is enough. “It’s okay.” You tighten your hold on him, as though it will stop him from breaking apart. “It’s okay, I understand.”

He just shakes his head, hard. “If I’d just— if I hadn’t been so damn weak—” His voice breaks again, dissolving into another sob.

Distantly, you realise this is the first time you’ve seen him so afraid. One of your hands cradles the back of his head, while the other presses between his shoulder blades where you can feel his racing heartbeat. His skin is icy despite the warm water. “Breathe,” you murmur against his temple, desperately trying to soothe him. “Just breathe, okay?”

But he can’t breathe. It’s like a dam has broken, and from behind it surges the years of grief, of guilt, of swallowing down every scream and every tear. Phainon clings to you like a drowning man, his apologies spilling out in incoherent fragments — for running that day at the beach, for slipping up in the Conn-Pod, for every second he couldn’t protect you. Each one chips away at a portion of your heart.

Fuck. Honestly, you should have noticed sooner. It’s not his fault, of course, none of it is — but the man in front of you has the ridiculous tendency of taking every burden in the world onto himself, as though bleeding alone would somehow make him stronger. It’s just that he hides it so well, behind those easy grins and bright smiles and warm eyes that he wears like armour.

But here, under the spray of water, there is no armour left. Just a man, shaking in your arms under the torrent, muttering broken apologies into your shoulder for sins that were never his to carry.

Your lips find him everywhere—the waterlogged silk of his hair, the corner of his mouth, the sharp angle of his cheekbone where his grief tastes like salt and water from the shower. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“If I didn’t—” The sentence dies in a choked-off whimper, his face burying against your collarbone. It’s like he's trying to crawl inside your ribcage. “If I didn’t manage to come back, you would have—”

You press a finger to his lips and he shudders, eyes squeezed shut. His mouth trembles against your touch.

“No ifs,” you say. “I don’t care for them.”

A sound escapes him — something between a laugh and a sob. “What do you mean, don’t care?” His voice splinters like thin ice. “This… this isn’t something that you can just dismiss…”

“I meant exactly what I said. I don’t care for ifs or almosts or might haves.”

“You almost died!” He nearly shouts, the words tearing themselves from his throat. His entire body is trembling, as though he can’t contain his emotions any longer. “Because of me! Because I wasn’t focused enough, before I wasn’t—”

You don’t let him finish. You lean forward, closing the distance between the two of you until your forehead meets his. “I don’t care about any of that,” you say again, more firmly this time. Your thumb finds the steady thrum of the pulse at his neck, brushing over the sun tattooed there. “All that matters to me is that you came back.”

At those words, the last of his resistance breaks. He folds into you like a collapsing star, his sobs echoing in your ribs until you can hardly tell where his pain ends and yours begins. And you hold him through it all — through the shaking, through the gasping breaths, through the way his fingers clutch at your back like you might vanish if he lets go.

Phainon cries for a long, long time. Until the water finally slips from hot to warm and from warm to tepid. And as the water cools, so do his emotions. The sobs taper into shaky hiccups, then into quiet shudders. You keep your fingers curling through his wet hair, and eventually, his breathing evens out against your neck.

For as long as he needs you, you’ll stay.

You don’t know how long you kneel there, knees pressed hard against the tiles until they start to ache. With a gentle pat to the knee, you motion for him to shift and he does obediently, stretching out his long legs slightly so that you can settle on his thighs instead. The new position feels less like a collapse and more like an embrace.

The silence between you is softer now. You listen to the muted patter of cooling water, and the occasional drip from his hair onto your collarbone.

Phainon’s fingers flex unconsciously against your hips — not pulling you closer, not pushing away. Just anchoring, as if to remind himself you’re real and that he's here with you.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft and raw. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You press a kiss to his temple. “Don’t be silly.”

He exhales shakily. The sound catches halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “I think we’ve used up the entire Shatterdome’s water budget for this month.”

“We’re surrounded by ocean,” you reply, lips quirking faintly. “No worries.”

A little shiver ripples through him when your fingers slide into his wet hair, combing gently through the tangles. Or maybe it’s your own body — you don’t think you could tell where you end and he begins, now.

“Isn’t it cold?” Phainon murmurs.

“You’re warm.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that feels heavier than words. Then, so softly it’s almost lost to the drip of water: “... are you uncomfortable?”

You tighten your hold on him in response. Honestly, you think it’d take another Cat V — or maybe two of them — to pry you off him right now.

“No.”

Phainon’s throat works as he swallows, hands curling loosely at where they’re resting at your hips. It occurs to you that Phainon has always been handsome, but in your eyes, he’s more than that — he’s beautiful. It has nothing to do with the fact that he’s naked. It’s the raw vulnerability in those red-rimmed eyes, the way the water clings to his lashes, the way his lips part on a breath when you bring up your gaze to look at him.

He glances away when your eyes meet, though, a faint flush creeping down his throat and spreading across his neck. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” His tongue darts across his lower lip. He looks achingly shy, all of a sudden. “Like you want to eat me alive…”

A fond smile tugs at your lips. Gods, the sight of him like this would drive any sane person mad. “Are you uncomfortable?” you ask softly. The rest — with being naked in front of me — hangs unspoken in the steam between the two of you.

Phainon hesitates. Then he exhales, and his answer is devastatingly honest. “No.”

The admission sends warmth curling low in your stomach, spreading through your veins like liquid sunlight. You let your fingers trail higher, tracing the damp hollow of his throat before sliding down his chest, your hand coming to rest over his heart.

“Your heart’s beating like crazy, though,” you murmur. The proof pounds beneath your palm, wild and unsteady as a caged bird trying to break free.

“Not because of that,” he murmurs, tearing his gaze away from yours. He’s being uncharacteristically coy today. But you think you already know the truth.

Slowly, carefully, you lift your hand — giving him every chance to pull back. And when he doesn’t, you let your fingers brush across his lower lip. The touch is feather light, almost nothing, but his breath catches all the same. His lips part beneath your fingers, like he’s waiting.

“Look at me, Phainon.”

His eyes flicker up to meet yours at last, and you swallow hard. They’re wide, dark and achingly vulnerable.

“I’ve never looked away,” he whispers, the admission raw. His voice scrapes low, hoarse with something that makes you feel as vulnerable as he is naked. Never stopped looking, never stopped chasing. The water’s cold, but you don’t think you’ve ever felt so warm.

Then—

His hand comes up to cradle yours against his cheek, his skin fever-hot against your palm. The distance between you closes in increments — the brush of his nose against yours, the shared breath that trembles between your lips. You don’t know who leans in first, you or him, but then your mouths are meeting and the question becomes meaningless.

Nothing else matters.

His lips are warmer than you expected, yielding beneath yours with a quiet sigh that you feel more than hear. There’s no urgency, no demand — just the slow, sweet slide of mouths learning each other, of hands mapping familiar territory made new by this fragile intimacy. He tastes of sunlight and something achingly familiar. You just know that it’s sweet. So fucking sweet.

When he finally pulls back just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath comes out shaky.

“Okay?” you whisper, thumb brushing over the damp curve of his cheekbone.

“Yeah,” he rasps, before his grip tightens on your hips, fingers pressing into the divots above your waistband like he’s memorising the shape of you. His gaze drops to your mouth, pupils swallowing the blue of his irises whole. His breath comes out in a shudder. “Actually, no. One more?”

“Someone’s demanding today.”

He groans, the sound soft and pleading. “Please.”

You huff a laugh, before closing the distance again. This kiss isn’t like the first — not as questioning, less tentative. Your hand braces against his shoulder, feeling the flex of muscle as he leans into you, and his lips part with a quiet, punched out sound that goes straight to your core. You can feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat through your soaked clothes.

The tip of your tongue presses against his teeth, and he startles — just slightly — before yielding with a shudder. His mouth falls open more, warm and sweet beneath yours. You think you’re addicted to the taste of him, the soft, desperate noises that he makes each time your mouth slides against his, the way his fingers dig into your hips. He’s like a goddamn drug.

When you pull back enough to see his face, his expression nearly undoes you: lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide and dark with wonder, cheeks flushed pink. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so dazed before.

You almost want to tease him, make a remark about how undone he already looks, but then you remember. This is his first kiss. Or his second, if you’re generous enough to count that tentative press of lips just now. You shouldn’t rush him, especially not after what happened not too long ago. You open your mouth to ask if he wants to slow down—

—and then he surges forward, cutting off the question with his mouth. It’s clumsy at first, overeager, and his teeth catch your lower lip by accident, something that makes you laugh and him grumble. But then he learns, adapting with that terrifyingly quick proficiency he applies to everything — and then he's tilting his head to deepen the kiss, one hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck.

And gods, it’s unfair how good he is at this already.

Phainon kisses the same way he fights — with a single-minded intensity that makes your knees go weak. All consuming hunger and a desperate, aching want. He doesn’t just kiss you. He devours you, as if he wants to swallow you whole and keep you as a part of himself forever.

You gasp against his mouth when he tugs your head back, fingers twisted into your hair, and he uses the opportunity to lick into you. It’s like a bolt of pure lightning straight down your spine. And still he presses harder against you, his body a solid, unyielding line of heat, like he’s determined to memorise the way you shiver in his arms, how you tremble when his tongue drags over yours.

And when a quiet whimper escapes you — a sound you barely recognise as your own — he swallows it greedily with his mouth. You can feel the low, answering groan that rumbles deep in his chest, that travels straight through you to settle low and hot in your belly. His free hand grips the soft flesh of your thigh with enough pressure to bruise, and then he’s hauling you impossibly close until there’s no space left between the two of you.

Not for air, not for doubt, not for anything that isn’t the two of you.

Your fingers scrabble against his wet shoulders in a futile attempt to anchor yourself. Your head is spinning. This feels less like a kiss and more like being taken apart at the seams. It’s like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else…

And the scariest part? You think you’d let him.

The shower’s spray has gone icy, but you barely feel it — every point of contact between you burns, from the press of his thighs under yours to the slide of your fingers over his wet skin. It’s only when your lungs scream for air that you finally break apart, foreheads resting together as you both gasp like you’ve been drowning.

He’s wrecked — lips red and swollen, panting against your mouth, water dripping from his lashes. But when he looks at you, he smiles.

Gods, that smile. Brighter than the gold inked into his skin, brighter than the sun itself.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think I’m okay, now.”

It takes longer than you’d like.

The disciplinary hearing — though that seems too official a term for the tense video call happening in Aglaea’s office — feels like it stretches on for eternity. You pace the corridor outside, boots scuffing softly on the polished floor. Logically, you know it’s not a trial. Just the Marshal getting a direct report from Phainon on what happened out there in Khaslana against the Dolos kaiju (Aquila, they’ve named it). And your co-pilot is too valuable to the PPDC and to the public, for them to punish him too severely.

But logic has little power over the knot of anxiety in your chest. You hate not being in there with him. You hate that you can’t hear what’s being said.

So when the door finally slides open, you’re by his side in an instant. Phainon steps out, expression unreadable, but the lines of tension around his eyes soften the second he sees you.

“How did it go?” you ask, your voice coming out tight with worry.

Instead of answering, he just smiles a little, reaching out to pull you close. You feel his lips brush your temple. The simple act of affection, so casual yet so deliberate, saps the tension from your shoulders. You hadn’t even known it was there. Then, he laces his fingers with yours, and gently pulls you down the hall with him towards the cafeteria.

“Marshal wasn’t exactly thrilled,” Phainon admits, his thumb stroking absentmindedly over your knuckles as you walk. “Said my ‘lapse in mental fortitude created an unacceptable risk to both myself and my fellow rangers.’ She’s not wrong.” He lets out a short, quiet breath. “Aglaea argued on my behalf, said that the conditions are unlikely to happen again and that we still managed to kill the kaiju anyway. The Marshal couldn’t exactly argue with the results.”

You squeeze his hand lightly. “So, what’s the verdict?”

“Officially? I’m to clear a full laundry list of psych evals with Hyacine. No fighting kaiju until she signs off.” He glances at you, a wry twist to his mouth. “Unofficially, I think I owe Aglaea a box of very expensive tea leaves.”

That gets a small laugh out of you. “Well, if you get her those tea leaves, I’ll chip in for a new china set…” You pause when you remember something. “Right. Did you… did you tell them? About Cyrene’s AI?”

Phainon’s steps slow almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. Had to.” He looks ahead, his gaze just a bit distant. “The Marshal is… intrigued. She’s ordered a full diagnostic of Khaslana’s systems. Wants us to attempt another drift as soon as Khaslana’s Conn-Pod is fixed.” His lips quirk into a little smile. “Which shouldn’t be long, considering how hard the professor’s been working the J-Techs recently.”

You huff under your breath, shaking your head. Slave driver, Chartonus had muttered the other day as he passed you by in the mess hall. There’d been the beginnings of a scowl on his normally placid face. “He might be making himself the target of a hangar revolution… Think they’ll find anything?”

Related to Cyrene, goes unsaid. You watch his expression carefully — the way his gaze flickers just a second before steadying again. She was his previous co-pilot after all, and you remember what you’d seen in those memories, when he’d been chasing the RABIT. But Phainon shrugs one shoulder, fingers tightening briefly around yours as though to reassure the both of you. “If they do, good. If they don’t… well. The Marshal will just make us do it anyway.”

And that’s that. No ghosts, no faltering. Just him, steady as the tide, steering the conversation forward.

“Mm. Guess we’ll just have to do it together, then.”

Phainon smiles.

The two of you push through the cafeteria doors. It’s noisy inside, the air thick with chatter and metallic scrape of trays. A few heads turn when the two of you enter, but you spot Stelle immediately. She waves at you from the usual table, seated together with the rest of the rangers.

“So, how’d it go?” she asks Phainon, the second the two of you are within earshot. She’s demolishing a plate of something vaguely burger shaped. “Does Khaslana still have a ranger or did you get demoted to janitorial?”

“Psych evals and a systems review. My fate’s in Hyacine’s hands now.” He pulls out a chair, and you move to sit in the one beside it—

— only for his arm to snake around your waist. In one effortless motion, he pulls you directly onto his lap.

You let out a startled noise, instinctively gripping his shoulder for balance. Before you can say anything, he settles you comfortably against him, his other arm coming to rest across your thighs as if it’s the most natural place in the world. The conversation at the table stutters to a halt.

Dan Heng, ever unflappable, takes a sip of his coffee and continues as if nothing happened. “That aside—”

“What do you mean, that aside?” March cuts in, her fork clattering onto her tray. Her eyes are wide, darting between your seating positions and Phainon’s maddening calm face. You think your brain might be short circuiting. “When did… when did the two of you—” She makes a vague, flailing gesture with her hands.

You recover just enough to twist toward Phainon and smack him desperately on the only place you can reach — his shoulder. “God. Gods. Let me go! This is embarrassing.” You wriggle in his hold, but his arm only tightens around your waist like iron.

“Why?” He hums, leaning forward to press his mouth to your jaw in an infuriatingly soft kiss. “You’ve already seen me naked, haven’t you?”

You groan loudly. “That’s not what—”

Further down the table, there’s a clatter as Mydei sets his fork and knife down with exaggerated care, before he puts his head between his hands like he wants to physically tear off his ears. Castorice pats his head. “There, there.”

“Told you!” Caelus crows, slapping his hand so hard on the table that the trays jump. He points a triumphant finger at Mydei like he’s just won the lottery. “Pay up, sucker! I said they’d be public about it within a week!”

Your jaw drops. What?

“I thought I’d be dead before anything happened,” March chimes in, giving you an impressed look as she puts a few credits into Caelus’ hand. She flashes you an enthusiastic thumbs up. “You move fast!”

“I’m afraid to even ask what this bet was about…” you mutter through your teeth, still pushing against Phainon’s chest in a vain attempt to free yourself. His arm remains locked around you with unshakeable ease.

Of course it’s Stelle who answers. “When the two of you would fuck, of course,” she says, like this is a perfectly normal lunchtime conversation.

Before you can even open your mouth to protest, Phainon leans over, shaking his head. “Sorry to disappoint you guys,” he says cheerfully, “but you’re gonna have to take your money back.”

There’s a pause as the rangers exchange glances, eyes narrowing in disbelief. Then Caelus leans forward, uncharacteristic determination flashing in his gaze. “Oh. Did the two of you kiss, at least? That’s still in the pot.”

Your co-pilot just shrugs. “Confidential information, I’m afraid.”

The chorus of groans that follows nearly rattles the cutlery, before it dissolves into a mess of “he kissed her on the jaw just now, we all saw it—” and “we meant a mouth to mouth kiss” and “definitions were not specified” and “I should get half payout, at least!” Incredulous, you watch as the table devolves into bickering negotiations, everyone talking over each other, straight up yelling. It’s chaos.

And Phainon simply settles back, one arm still hooked firm around your waist, smiling. He looks… happy.

You bury your face against Phainon’s shoulder if only to hide the burn at your cheeks. But of course, he notices — he always notices — and you feel the curve of his smile against your temple as the arguments around the table spiral further away from you both.

“We can always rig their bets, you know,” Phainon murmurs into your ear, his voice low and teasing.

You are going to kill this man.

Over the next few days, Phainon spends most of his time in the K-Science Biolab with Hyacine. The psychological evaluations turn out to be a brutal form of exposure therapy, drifting again and again into the memories that haunt him. Each session forces him to replicate the moments he’d rather forget, to relive the terror and helplessness until his mind can endure it without collapsing.

What do you see in there? You asked him once, finger tracing the tattoos along his back as you lay in bed together. The silence after Cyrene’s death, he’d whispered back. The emptiness in your eyes when I pulled you from your rig.

It sucks to know that you’ve become part of those painful memories. It sucks even more to be unable to anything but watch, heart tightening each time the headset hums to life. You watch his body go rigid, the way his knuckles whiten as they grip the armrests, hear the quiet, choked cry that escapes him when he’s going through a particularly bad memory. Hyacine had explained that he needs to be able to pull himself back if he ever goes chasing the RABIT again, but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch him endure it alone.

But when Phainon finally emerges from the seat, exhausted and hands trembling faintly, he always smiles — however small and lopsided — when he sees you. You reach out and brush at the cold sweat dotting his forehead with your sleeve.

“Isn’t this… kind of terrible?” you murmur, unable to hide the ache in your voice. But he just shakes his head, eyes still shut as he leans into your touch.

“Better than losing you for real,” he says. His words are quiet but resolute.

And it pays off. Eventually, Hyacine evaluates him as fit to return to duty and signs off on all his forms. Her instructions are clear, though: come to her at once if anything feels bad again. You smile, grateful for her concern.

The clearance comes just in time, too. The professor has a new task for the two of you — we need Khaslana to head down to the Breach to collect some exotic matter samples, blah blah blah. He rambles something about negative matter and the Einstein-Rosen equation, but the only thing you catch is that the Mark-5 is the only Jaeger advanced enough to withstand the pressure at that depth. You don’t get to ask many questions before he’s shoved the two of you into the fitting room.

“Take this opportunity to test out the AI, too!” Professor Anaxa calls as the Conn-Pod door swings shut behind the two of you. And then, the two of you are left all alone.

The familiar hum of the reactor powering up vibrates through the floor. Phainon glances at you as Trinnon begins counting down to the Neural Handshake, and you point at the Conn-Pod’s ceiling with one hand, the other swiping through the coordinates that the Professor had given you. “Damn, they fixed it fast.”

You’re relieved when he laughs softly in response. “Well, let’s not give Chartonus another sleepless night. I think he might actually poison the Professor's coffee.”

The Neural Handshake initiates, and this time, it feels effortless — like gravity, like falling into place. His mind settles against yours like an old song you’ve always known how to sing. The memories roll — a flash of sunlight on a beach, the sound of your breathing in his ears when you’re asleep, the weight of his hand in yours — and then you’re blinking, his thoughts blurring together with yours.

Phainon grins a little when you look at him. The Titans of Amphoreus are the forces that sustain the heavens and earth—

Oh my god…

The engineers tow Khaslana out of the launch bay. Steel walls give way to open water, and then you’re sinking into the crushing black of the Pacific. The tugboats take you a distance before the ports and vents along Khaslana’s torso seal with a series of heavy hisses, and then you’re completely submerged. The Jaeger sinks until it reaches the seabed, massive feet sinking into the silt.

One small step for us, one giant leap for Khaslana…

The Jaeger takes one huge stride, then another as it moves towards the bottom of the Mariana Trench, the pulsating, unnatural light of the Breach. The pressure here is immense— you can hear it in the way Khaslana’s outer plating groans. Still, it trudges forward, steady and deliberate into the darkness.

After a long while of walking in silence, you exchange a look with Phainon before you glance up at the Conn-Pod ceiling.

“Cyrene?” you call out softly.

For a second, there is only the hum of machinery and the silence of the watery abyss all around you. You’re almost beginning to doubt yourself when a voice, warm and teasingly familiar, filters through the speakers.

“Peekaboo.”

Gods, even that laugh sounds exactly like her. You feel something soft and painful seize up in Phainon’s chest, a feeling that echoes instantly in your own.

“They said they couldn’t find you,” Phainon says. His voice is quiet, but you can feel the tightness in his words, like skin stretching at the edges of a scab.

“Well, I’m allowed to be a little shy, considering I don’t have a corporeal body anymore,” the AI — Cyrene — replies. Her tone is light, almost conversational. The same breezy cadence you both remember too well. “You could consider the Jaeger my body now, but it doesn’t really fit my vibe, you know? I’d prefer something prettier. Or pink.” She sighs, a shockingly human sound. “At least, I think she would. That’s what her memories say.”

You press your lips together. This confirms what you’d thought. “So… you’re not Cyrene?”

The AI laughs a little. “Hmm, the technical way to describe it would be… a retrieval augmented generation framework. Fancy words meaning I make decisions based on the memories that Cyrene uploaded into the drift.” You can almost hear her smile. “You can call me Mem! It’s fitting.”

Phainon swallows quietly, but the sound still carries in the silence of the Conn-Pod. “Thank you,” he murmurs, after a long pause. You can feel the ache in his chest, the quiet grief of someone who had been holding out for a hope that isn’t there, and the release that comes when it finally breaks. “For saving me. For saving us.”

Cyrene — Mem’s laugh is a little softer this time. You would almost call it bittersweet. “Well, it’s my job, isn’t it? Always knew you were awful at moving on.” The words are blunt, but not unkind. “That’s why she developed me. To give you a little push when you need it.”

For a while, Phainon says nothing. His hands rest steadily on the control displays, but then you see him lift one to swipe quickly at a tear. In the drift, you catch the flicker of a memory — Cyrene at his side, her easy grin, her teasing voice. The faint sound of her laughter echoing between you.

Finally, his voice breaks the silence, rough but sure. “I”m sorry. That I couldn’t save you.”

Mem just laughs. “You know she'd never have blamed you, right?”

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “But I still needed to say it.”

The silence that follows lingers, heavy but not suffocating. For the first time since her voice had filled the Conn-Pod, it feels like the three of you are breathing in sync. Phainon exhales slowly, shoulders easing as if a weight he’s carried for so long has finally loosened its grip on him.

“Good that you got to, then.” Mem says at last, her tone brightening with deliberate levity. “Now that we’ve all gotten our tragic confessions out of the way, how about we do something fun? Want me to show off a little? I’ve got predictive models, some adaptive targeting systems, and this nifty environmental scan— ooh, and a few surprises I bet even Anaxa doesn’t know about.”

Her grin is almost audible. It’s so reminiscent of Cyrene that it makes your chest ache and warm all at once.

Phainon just huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Still impossible to say no to you, huh?”

“Exactly!” Mem replies cheerfully as the Jaeger steps down toward the Breach. “So come on— let’s go get your samples! Time to see what I can really do.”

Phainon isn’t a man who breaks his promises. You know this with the same unshakeable certainty that you’d trust your life in his hands. His word is forged of steel and conviction, tempered in battle and honed with unyielding resolve. A promise from him is a foundation, a pillar that you can rely on without question. So when he’d promised you a whole box of jello back in the medbay, you’d regarded it as nothing more than a lighthearted attempt to make you smile.

But this?

“Storage room is locked after 2100 hours,” your co-pilot murmurs into his earpiece, his face illuminated by the map of the mess hall area pulled up on his handphone. You stand behind him, arms crossed as you watch him with a mixture of incredulity and amusement. This man can’t possibly be serious… “But the vent above the pastry cooler is loose. Caelus found out during his ‘community service’ detail.”

“So, we’re committing a crime,” Dan Heng says flatly through the comms, with the comms being the shared group call that Stelle started about fifteen minutes ago.

“Well… it’s not technically illegal if it isn’t written down in the Shatterdome handbook, is it?” March argues brightly.

“It is.”

“Oh. But I didn’t read it, so it doesn’t count,” March answers cheerfully, as though her logic somehow makes the whole operation harmless.

Mydei sighs. He sounds defeated. “I call dibs on the pink jello.”

“I’m kinda scared…” Castorice mumbles, her voice barely audible.

“Shh! The cooks are leaving!” Stelle hisses.

The heist unfolds with a surprising amount of stealth for a group that… consists of the people that it does. Caelus pops the vent with a practised flick of his wrist, and then Stelle darts inside like some sort of overgrown raccoon. A few minutes later, the door to the storage slides open and then all of you are standing inside, bathed in the red glow of emergency exit lights and staring at a shelf stacked high with shimmering rows of jello cups.

“Mamma mia,” Caelus whispers reverently.

Phainon, ever the man of his word, loads your arms with a dozen of them, grinning as you nearly topple under their weight. “Careful,” he says, steadying you with a hand to your back. “Wouldn’t want any of these to go to waste.”

You manage a shaky nod and start to turn, only to feel Stelle’s gaze land on a massive bag of pizza dough in the walk-in fridge. Her grin spreads slow and conspiratorial.

“You know,” she says, slowly, “the ovens are still warm from dinner service.”

Within minutes, the kitchen has turned into a flour dusted war zone. Phainon takes charge of rolling out the dough together with Dan Heng. For all of his reluctance to join in, each circle the dark haired ranger forms is unnaturally perfect, the edges smooth and even. “Too thick,” he mutters when Phainon shows him his lopsided handiwork, effortlessly pressing the dough back into place.

Over at the counter, Caelus and Stelle are locked in a ridiculous competition, smearing marinara across their pizzas in increasingly obscene images while you and Castorice hurriedly cover all of them in cheese. Next to the two of you, Mydei and March are embroiled in a heated toppings debate.

“For the last time, gummy worms do not belong on pizza.”

“You’ve got no creativity,” March shoots back, somehow managing to maneuver a handful of crushed potato chips past him onto her creation. It sits alongside a nest of sugary worms, three chunks of pineapple and a single pistachio. Mydei looks like he’s one topping away from a full-blown breakdown.

Eventually, the smell of melting cheese, flour and artificial sweeteners hang thick in the air. You stifle a laugh when you glance at Phainon and reach out to brush the flour from his nose. His hand wraps around your wrist instead, fingers warm and steady, brushing over your pulse point as a soft, unguarded smile spreads across his face.

The pizzas that emerge from the oven are nothing short of monstrous. Still, everyone stands around the stainless steel counters, eating slices off paper towels and arguing whose culinary abomination reigns supreme. The jello cups circulate like shots of expensive liquor. Mydei refuses to give any of the pink ones away.

Later, when the cheese has cooled and the laughter has settled into a contented hum, everyone pitches in to clean. You end up hunched over the sink, scrubbing a stubborn sauce pan in soapy water when a hand settles lightly on your shoulder.

You jump slightly and turn to find Mydei standing behind you, an unreadable expression on his face. He jerks his head toward the walk in pantry. “Hey. A word?”

Your stomach does a little nervous flip when you remember the bruise he’d earned thanks to Phainon. You rinse off your hands, and then follow him into the quiet space of the pantry, the door swinging softly shut behind you. “This reminds me of the last time you asked me to follow you,” you joke, thinking back to the mess hall incident when he’d all but dragged you along with him.

Mydei snorts. “Don’t worry. This is nothing like that.” He leans against a shelf stacked with canned kidney beans, before he looks up at you. His arms are crossed, his expression is serious — well, more so than usual.

You lick your lips, suddenly nervous. “So…?”

“Look,” he begins, voice low and careful. He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture that you’ve come to recognise as his tell for being uncomfortable with sincerity. “I’ve known Phainon for a while now. And I know he’s been through a lot.”

He meets your eyes, and for a moment, you feel your chest tighten, apprehension twisting in your stomach. “I’ve never seen him like this. Happy, I mean. Actually happy. Not just… functioning, going through the motions.” He gestures towards the door, where you can hear the sound of Phainon’s low laughter mingling with Stelle’s muffled shouting. “He’s lighter. That… that’s you.”

Your throat goes dry. Mydei’s words sink in deeper than you expect. Every laugh, every smile Phainon has given you lately — it all seems to crystallise in your chest, at that very moment.

The ranger just gives you a firm, earnest look. “So. Just… don’t break him, alright?” The corner of his mouth quirks up in a half smile. “And for what it’s worth… I’m glad it’s you. I really am. You’re good for him.”

A warmth spreads through your chest, like there’s a sun burning in the cavity of your ribs. You want to speak, to say something that would do justice to the depth of emotion you feel for the man outside. But before you can ever process a response, Mydei just claps you on the shoulder before heading out again, yelling into the kitchen as he does. “Alright, who’s the one I hear eating raw mozzarella out of the bag?”

The sudden shift leaves you blinking as the bustle of the kitchen rushes back in. I’m glad it’s you. Phainon gives you a little look as you step out — of course he noticed — and then he’s by your side, glancing down at you with soft, curious eyes. “What’d Mydei need you for?”

Your pulse stutters.

“Nothing,” you say, and press a jello cup to his lips.

#clingy phaichan... save me clingy phaichan #THE SHOWER SCENE WAS SO FJEJFBRKEJKDKWJDJCRKOEKEKSJ #BRO THE WAY HE LEARNED SO QUICKLY TOO I DIEEE #i want him your honour.#and him pulling us into his lap... bro actually just marry me #CAELUS WITH THE B99 REFERENCE I SAW THAT HEHEHEHE #hopefully we do indeed get a chapter eight!!!!#another lovely fic from another lovely personnn

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zozo-01 · 7 days ago

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remember to keep yourself nourished and well-rested so you can put your all into making 4 note flop posts on tumblr dot com

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zozo-01 · 8 days ago

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zozo-01 · 10 days ago

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Hnngh. The Audible "hack" is making the rounds again, with people claiming you can use your Audible credit to listen to a book and then return it "for free." While I am the first among many to say "fuck Amazon and we should gullotine Jeff Bezos," I need you all to know it's not Amazon refunding you.

It's the authors.

They take that out of our royalties. And that's after they take 80% of our royalties on sales we do make.

(Note: Also, do not assume that your credit is worth the price listing that Amazon shows. Amazon does not pay us the cost of the listing. ((WHICH THEY PICK, we cannot set our own prices on audiobooks and then that forces us to use the Amazon price for the rest of the market!!)) What we get is 20% of the credit's value, so my book might appear on Audible for $20-30. However, if you received an Amazon credit for one of those $4.99 deals, I'd get 20% of $4.99. Yes, it's fucked, it's all fucked. Yes, other audio retailers do the exact same thing. This is one of the reasons authors don't make half as much money as people think they do.)

This became such a big issue that they had to make it impossible to return books after a certain point without talking to a customer service representative, because people were using Kindle/Audible and Amazon's return policy "like a library," and some authors (myself included) were getting royalty checks that showed negative income.

At this point, I don't even know if the Audible "hack" still works (Amazon has made changes to protect authors from this kind of thing at a glacial pace), but I need you to know it's not Amazon that's refunding you. This isn't a fun little "fuck Amazon" thing. The way Amazon has it set up, it's directly fucking the authors over.

So, yeah. Obviously, if you download something and can't get into it, or if something pops up on the author's side that makes you not want to support them anymore, yeah, process that return. Yeet the bitch. But please don't use it "like a library."

It's really harrowing to see your predicted income based on sales and then find out you're getting one-tenth of that because of refunds. And it's not even because people didn't like your book. They're just using the wrong place like a library and fucking over your algorithm as well, because once you get too many returns, you stop getting promoted.

Try using a library. You can access places like @queerliblib for FREE provided you have a US library account that you've hooked up to Libby. It's a little bit of work, but once you've got a card number, you're golden.

Just, y'know, throwing it out there because I don't think people realize this is how it works. You're not taking something back to Walmart, and Walmart is eating the refund before dumping the item in the garbage. Amazon takes the refund, turns to the author, and takes it off our plates.

Note: this does not affect Kindle Unlimited. Flip through the end pages to give the author maximum pages read, and then return that bad boy so the author can get paid. But also, please, maybe think about switching to a Kobo+ account instead. It offers the same subscription-based membership without demanding exclusivity, so authors aren't locked into just Amazon the way they are with KU. (Royalty rates are roughly the same, but it's a better deal in terms of allowing broader market access.)

This has been a rambling and exhausted PSA from your local peddler of weres.

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zozo-01 · 10 days ago

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"humanity will never lose hope (but you're not that human anymore, are you?)"

Or: Finding out that you lover never changes, no matter which world you stand on in 12.4k words.

Oh my God, of course my first full fic in a year is over ten thousand words. Oh well, I love Phainon and I love Kevin, so that this as my love letter to both of my favourite Hoyo men.

Shout out to @baeshijima who I've been torturing with snippets for the last few months and @horrorscoupes and @gingerbreadmonsters who I have also been sending snippets to, except they have no idea what's going on. (Join the dark side please I beg.)

CW: Angst, Hurt/Kind of Comfort, Bittersweet Endings, Alternate Timeline, Not Canon Compliant, kevin kaslana haunting the reader for the rest of over, phainon is so clueless and in love, Unrequited love, more two people using each other to fill the void, Mentions of Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, we love self-deprication!, Marriage, Thoughts of Motherhood, Kevin's reader uses she/her pronouns, Phainon's reader uses they/them pronouns, Amphoreus has me aching for more, reader is the PE's Herrscher of the End, she Kiana'd the Herrscher and that's how she's still alive, Writing this before the ending of amphoreus so I could be very very right, or very very wrong

click here for the ao3 link!!!

It was just your luck that the lance that struck you out of the sky had separated you from your companions. Seriously, doesn't this planet know that it's common courtesy to radio in before you deem the flying object as a threat? This was not a good look for Amphoreus, and you shiver to think about how the rest of your trip will go.

For once, you would appreciate it if the Express could take a nice vacation by the beach. Or in a metropolitan area. Literally, anything that doesn't have to include saving or dooming the world you're standing on. You'd like to think that you've had enough world-altering missions for a lifetime.

Stumbling out of the rubble of the train car, you take in your surroundings. Perhaps back in its heyday, Amphoreus must have been a gorgeous place, with marble statues littered across the land of the heroes that have long protected their home. It reminded you of the Ancient Greek ruins that you were obsessed with. It's strange, to see familiar sights on every planet you visited, yet being so far from home. You wonder if those ancient ruins survived the destruction you brought on.

(The Honkai never left behind survivors. Even those who lived to tell the tale had their souls ripped from them. You were no exception, but that didn't mean that you wouldn't take back what was rightfully yours. Your journey to heal from your past felt like a glacier. You hope that your current comrades— no, friends, could help you move on from your past.)

You wander around the temple, not sure of what to do next. Worry filled you for your companions, not because they weren't capable, but because of the collective stupidity that seemed to arise whenever young members of the train were trailblazing. In theory, March being back at the train and Dan Heng's rational self should be enough to keep them safe, but Stelle has become such a wildcard, you don't put anything past her. She and her bat were capable of putting the entire world at risk. You were surprised that no one had come up to you to arrest you because of something she did.

At the end of the day, those two were your companions and it was best to put your trust in them. You just hope that they don't do anything stupid without you knowing. At least with you there, there would be an adult to make sound decisions. You chuckle to yourself, wondering when during your life you of all people decided to become the responsible one.

To be honest, you always felt odd about considering the younger Express members as peers. Because yes, you seem roughly the same age, with your youthful looks and durable limbs, always eager to seek out the next challenge. But if anyone looked into your eyes, really looked into your soul, they could see that time has ravaged you in ways no mortal should have gone through. Fifty thousand years is a long life to live for anyone, let alone a human. Yet you spent that time in isolation, your only company being the monster you swore you'd never become.

(You had only two reasons to endure. Your love for humanity and your love for him. The world survived, no thanks to you. He wasn't as lucky.)

Enough pondering, there were more pressing matters that you needed to take care of. Like finding Stelle and Dan Heng and figuring out how the hell to get out of here without causing too much trouble.

You were careful to walk through the ruins of the land, flinching at the crumbling stone surrounding you. The lack of light didn't help either in finding out where to go. You were hoping that eventually, there would be some ruckus– loud whining from Stelle or maybe Dan Heng's dragon guiding you to the rest of your team. Unfortunately, no such sights or sounds have reached your senses. Or maybe it is fortunate that no chaos started. Yet.

Part of you wanted to use your powers to just fly up and track Dan Heng and Stelle. It would be so easy and would waste unnecessary time. Time that you could be spending on figuring out what the hell was the deal with Amphoreus and how to contact the Astral Express. You can almost hear Welt reminding you why that's a bad idea, not that you don't disagree with him.

"We don't know what effect your Herrscher powers could have in this place and it looks like this universe doesn't even know what the Honkai is. We don't want to start another eruption."

You sigh. What a shame. All the power in the world and you're relegated to using some watered-down version of it in the form of Aeons and their paths. You wouldn't have had it any other way.

Absolutely would you never dare to use your true powers in this relatively peaceful universe. There is lingering fear left in you over the events of your rebirth. You wish you could say that you didn't remember anything, that the evil sealed within you had granted you the mercy of losing consciousness when they took control. But destiny did not care that you didn't choose this fate, it punished you all the same.

The bodies of your friends, dare you call them family, carelessly slewed across the grey land. Hands that once held yours in dance with music in the air, could barely hold onto their weapons that they swore they'd use to save humanity. One by one, they fell like the brightest shooting stars until a garden of corpses surrounded you and your beloved. He was covered in blood, of his own and his friends, with burning anguish in his glacier eyes. You remember teasing him that red was never his colour.

The ring on your finger was a cold reminder of his warmth. Your eyes tear up as the blue diamond reminds you of his eyes.

You strengthen your resolve and wipe your tears. Enough about the past! What's done is done and all you can do is prevent it from happening again. He's not here anymore and there's no use crying about it right now. You made a promise to his descendant that not only will you live, but you will live long enough until the Honkai has been properly defeated and that your powers will not be passed down to you in the next cycle.

(You'll do your crying when you're alone in bed, pretending that his arms are wrapped around you. Oh, how you would sacrifice planets to bring him back if only to see him one last time. Hopefully, should you be granted another chance, your reunion will be less bloody. One could argue that you aren't at your best when you have your lover's lance piercing through you.)

Why is it that being on Amphoreus is causing these memories to flood your brain again? Perhaps it is because this is the first time since you joined the Express that you have been left alone in your thoughts. Ever since your self-imposed imprisonment, you detested the silence, having been left alone with your thoughts for far too long. It's part of the reason why you loved Stelle's presence. Never a dull moment with her and it was enough for you to push down whatever feelings would bubble up.

Very rarely did you wish that you were more Herrscher than human if only to get rid of those pesky feelings that leave you gasping for air. Disgusting.

Maybe the quiet is doing you some good, giving you the time and space to properly process your emotions instead of dismissing them for later. You let yourself indulge in the good memories, reminding yourself that your past wasn't entirely doom and gloom. That's what made the tragedies of your life all the more painful. The sleepovers you had with Elysia, the pointless yet invigorating debates with Su and the wheat fields you and Kevin would walk down as children.

(Wait a minute, you never knew Kevin as a kid. You had met him shortly after he joined Fire MOTH. And even so, both of you grew up in metropolitan areas with no farmland in sight.)

(These weren't your memories, so who did they belong to?)

Before you can think too hard over the maybe false memories, you hear the screams of children coming from the ruins ahead of you. Without thinking you rush ahead, your heroic instincts taking over.

You turn the corner and find a young boy and a young girl, with the boy standing in between her and the stone monster. He raised his flimsy sword to try and fight the monster off, with fear and resignation in his eyes. You knew that look all too well. Even if he doesn't make it out of here, he can make sure that this little girl can get to safety. Fat chance kid, there will be no more dying kids on your watch.

"Hey!" you yell at the stone creature to catch its attention. Thankfully, it was enough to take its attention off the kids and onto you. You don't feel any fear as it hulks over, its loud footsteps and towering figure doing nothing more than making you chuckle. Silly, silly monster. Didn't it know that it sealed its face by facing something more terrifying than itself?

You didn't think twice before throwing your sword towards it, following the sword to make sure it landed on its target. You use the handle of your weapon as a pushing-off point for a backflip, making sure its blade sinks as deep as it can into the monster. The monster crumbles back into the ground as you approach the two children, kneeling down to make yourself less threatening.

"You kids alright?" you ask, eyes tracking their faces for any visible injuries. Luckily the children didn't suffer any severe injuries, the worst only being what you assume are going to be sore limbs from all the running they did today. Their nods of agreement quelled any lingering worry that you had. You add another mental note about the things you learned about Amphoreus so that you can somewhat communicate with the locals.

But before you can ask them why they were out here alone, the statues that you didn't notice earlier crumbled their hard shells to reveal the monsters within them. Now you're surrounded by five statue monsters and with two children to look after. On the bright side, these two might be easier to take care of than your fellow Trailblazers.

"I don't have time for this," you mumble to yourself, pushing the children behind you. It was just your luck that you had to face off against enemies in this world, with no knowledge of what you were going up against and with no backup. (No, the little boy and his poor excuse of a sword do not count as backup in your books.) It mattered little though, you have gone up against the worst in the past and you will continue to encounter worse in the future.

More and more statues stalk closer towards you, with their clunky movements causing the children to quiver in fear, mumbling something about Nikador's wrath, whatever that meant. Part of you was considering using your natural powers to make quick work of the statues, already annoyed that you've wasted enough time here. Sure there are consequences if you accidentally triggered an eruption, but those can be dealt with later.

With a snap of your fingers, portals opened around you, orange in colour and slicing their way into this universe. Out came a lance for each creature and in a blink of an eye they crumbled before you, turning back into the stone they came from. That was one problem done thankfully, and if all of Amphoreus' enemies were that easy to deal with, then you should have no problem traversing the rest of the planet, if you could even consider it a planet. You just hope that you won't have to use any more of your powers.

You turn around to make sure the children you are protecting are okay, but instead of fear, you are met with excited expressions, like they hadn't almost died from a falling rock. The young girl started jumping and dancing around, while the boy pumped his fist in the air.

"That was so cool! The way you summon those flying lances and beat those titankins. You have to be a Chrysos heir– no a Demigod! Just like the ones mom used to tell us about!" The child went on about Titans and prophecies that you couldn't wrap your head around entirely. This is not what you meant when you had wanted a crash course on Amphoreus history.

"I'm… not a Chrysos Heir, just someone trying to find her way through this area." You didn't want to break this kid's delusion, but it would be better than trying to lie your way and break his heart later on.

(Come to think of it, why didn't they immediately single you out as someone beyond the stars? You clearly don't look or sound like you belong here, but these children were willing to believe that you were one of them. You were about to introduce yourself as a Trailblazer, but something told you that it would land you into major trouble later on. Besides, do these people even know of the Trailblaze? Let's not confuse them anymore.)

"Oh," the boy visibly deflated, but immediately perked back up. "But that doesn't matter, thank you for saving us!" The young boy and girl launched themselves at you to give you a hug. You didn't know what to do except give them an awkward pat on the back. Still, they endeared you enough to earn a small smile on your face.

"It's not a big deal," you said as you kneeled down. "As long as you two are safe, then that's all that matters. Where are your parents though?" You wonder what parents would be neglectful enough to leave their children in a monster-infested area in this eternally dark place.

You regret asking that question so casually though, as the young girl's eyes tear up and she lets out small sniffles. She puts her hand over her mouth to quiet herself, but it doesn't do much to muffle her cries. The boy on the other hand looked away to the distance and bit his lips, trying to keep it from quivering. You commend his attempt to put on a strong front in front of his sister, but you could see right through his facade.

"Our parents were killed by the Black Tide while we were trying to escape to Okhema," the young boy murmured, almost like if he said it quietly enough, he could somehow will them back to existence. It's a hope that you had before.

You didn't know how to comfort them. Even before your exile, your military upbringing always made it difficult for you to comfort civilians. In your line of work, where death is so common it could be counted as a part of your squadron, all you could do was bury your feelings along with your comrade and pray that you won't have to bring home another corpse. And that was the best-case scenario, better than having to look into their infected eyes and do the honours for yourself.

(Elysia was always good at comforting people, and you miss having her presence to take over in situations like this. Even Kevin's awkward fumbling when it came to this was charming enough to make people laugh and make them feel better. Not you though. No one wants comfort from a monster.)

You shake your head. You're not a monster anymore and these kids need more comfort than you need pity.

"I'm sorry for your loss, but we have to keep going." You wipe the tears falling from their faces, letting them put the full weight of their heads into your hands. With a softer voice, you continue. "I know it's hard, but it's not safe here. We'll go to Okhema and figure out the rest there, okay?"

They nod their heads and you can see the resolve building itself in their eyes. The boy picked up his sword and raised it in the air with a triumphant cry.

"Yeah! We'll get to Okhema and make the Black Tide pay for taking our home!" he loudly declared. Without waiting for you or his sister, he strutted away in what you hope is in the direction of Okhema. Not that you would stand a better chance if they relied on you on where to go.

"I'm sorry about my brother," the girl sighed. "Once he gets something in his head, he doesn't stop until he makes it come true." This sounds like an issue she's been long aware of.

"It's okay," you say as you stand up with a smile. You hold your hand out to her for her to hold, and once she does, you both take off to follow the brother. "As long as you stand by his side, you two will be able to do anything."

"That's right!" she hollered out, jumping in place before holding onto your hand. Their bond endeared you, your heart always warming when you see family stick together. You wonder about your own family back home, before you were thrown into Fire MOTH. They had long since passed due to the Honkai, slightly your fault. But your new family, the Flame-Chasers, had effortlessly taken their place. For longer than some of these planets have been around when you think of family, you think of the twelve shining soldiers standing in front of you. Ready were they to die for humanity, and you wished you were given the blessing to join them. Not yet though, you still have old debts to pay and retribution to collect.

Taking these kids to Okhma has given you two things. The first was company to stop you from slipping into your thoughts and musings. With how loud and talkative they were, there wasn't a silent moment left for you to fill.

The second was some of the answers to the questions you have about this world.

The most important thing you learn is the names of the two children you saved. The young boy introduced himself and Aris and his younger sister as Pallas. Both hailed from the distant lands of Castrum Kremnos but never got to visit their homeland, as it had been infected by the Black Tide many years ago. Their ancestors had moved the Janusopolis, which was deemed safer due to the protection of the Titan, Janus. However, even that mighty city fell, as you were walking on her ruins today.

They mention the Black Tide, an evil that apparently has been taking over the entirety of this world. Apparently, it infects every living thing it touches, turning its lifeforms into dark and twisted versions of themselves, hellbent on consuming and destroying everything in its path. Supposedly it has no master, acting with no drive except the sole desire of annihilation. (If there was a camera nearby, you would have stared into it, asking the audience if they thought this was funny to them.)

They spoke of the twelve Titans that ruled over Amphoreus, the miracles they brought on and the devout worship from its peoples. As Children of Castrum Kremnos, both Aris and Pallas worshiped the Strife Titan, Nikador. Aris especially was excited to tell their tales of war and battle and of honour and sacrifice. Pallas had to be the one to solemnly let you know that the Titan had been infected by the Black Tide in their eternal battle with it. Now all that remains is a mindless beast that attacks anything living.

Finally, they explained the Chrysos Heirs and Demigods, the thing they accused you of being. Apparently, there was a prophecy that there would be twelve Chrysos Heirs, beings of golden blood, who would assume the authority of the Titans and lead this nation to an era of eternal peace.

The more and more they told you about the world that you crash-landed on, the more uncomfortable you were over how eerily similar your life was to this universe's destiny. You knew that parallel universes meant parallel timelines, and that your story would be remixed across dimensions. You remember how Acheron reacted to your presence and your solemn sigh when you found out that you didn't survive in her story either. But you're one crazy coincidence away from grabbing your Trailblazers and nopeing the fuck out of this planet. You do not need to be traumatized– or you suppose retraumatized.

(You come to the realization that in every universe, within every timeline, you do not get a happy ending. Your only regret is that it seems like you keep on dragging your lover into your doomed destiny. Misery does indeed love company.)

On the bright side, Aris and Pallas did answer some of your questions. That still didn't solve the issue of your missing companions. You only hope that they haven't gotten into any trouble.

The marble gates on Okhema greet you and your mini companions, and relief courses through your veins because finally, something is going right. Aris even ran ahead in excitement, ready to take on his new home. But he didn't see the falling stone in his peripheral vision, his tunnel vision set on the crumbling gate. Luckily you did, jumping into the air to slice to rock before it could fall on the poor boy.

Of course, just your luck. Trouble had to find you first.

You were skeptical that Okhema was considered a safe haven when all you could see were those same stone monsters that you saved the children from. Titankin, you remember Aris calling them that.

You push the two children behind you, eyes darting back and forth between the Titankin surrounding the three of you. You could see the guards past the hordes of statues, but you had a feeling that they wouldn't be able to get to you in time. No matter, you get cornered once, you get cornered a thousand times.

Through the gaps of the stone wall closing in on you, you can see what you assume are Okheman guards trying to fight off the Titankin. You were just about to summon more of your lances, but before you could, you and the children were surrounded by a wall of red crystal.

You couldn't see through the solid red crystal, but you could hear the sounds of the Titankin crumbling back into the stone they came from. There was the sound of a man grunting, but it was so soft that you assumed that he wasn't exerting too much effort like these stone statues were nothing to him.

(Jealousy bubbled in you. That would be you had your powers not come with destructive consequences.)

A moment later, there was silence. The three of you stayed still with bated breath, eager to discover the result of the battle. One crack appeared in the crystal, followed by another. You throw yourself over the children to prevent them from the shards of the crumbling wall falling around you.

You look up and in the distance stands the man who was responsible for this destruction.

Blond hair with red dyed tips, he had a tall stature with muscle and scars you could assume he only gained through constant battle. The fabric pooling around his lower body did nothing to hide the red markings on his chest, a warning for his enemies to stay away. But what captured you were his eyes. A deep red with a fire that you have only seen in one man, a very long time ago.

Kalpas…?

You dare not speak his name out loud, not wanting to make this more real than it already was.

But it seemed like you weren't the only one staring at a ghost.

A look of recognition? Of longing? Of fear? You couldn't tell because it disappeared just as quickly as it appeared. He only gave himself a split second of vulnerability before he reminded himself that he was a soldier and this was a battlefield. The only reunion either of you has time for is the one you will have with death. This was a sentiment you are all too familiar with.

"Lord Mydeimos!" Aris exclaimed. You trusted his judgement enough to give this man the barest amount of benefit of the doubt.

Mydeimos looked you up and down, taking note of your foreign clothing. His eyes singled out the golden ticket pendant you have, and you could only assume that he'd seen the ticket recently.

"Your comrades are on their way to Nikador at Marmoreal Palace," Mydeimos stated. You sighed with relief. Dan Heng and Stelle were alive and they had some sort of help with them. Still unnerved over the ghost standing in front of you, you looked back at the two kids standing behind you, your mind already set on your next steps.

"She can't fight Nikador! She's not an Heir," Pallas cried out, moving to stand in front of you. She was trying to stop you from what she believes is you throwing your life away. Her older brother joined her protest, saying how it would be better if Mydeimos went and fought Nikador himself.

"You'll look after the children?" you ask, but it is more of a command than a question. You made sure to reflect the light of the sun against your blade, making it visible and knowing what would happen to him if the children weren't safe.

He gave no response except for a quick nod, and that was enough for you, so long as he understood the consequences of his failure.

The children were in tears when you told them that you would go to Marmoreal Palace. They cry and plead for you to stay and have someone else deal with this, but you were never good at letting other people help you.

"I will be okay." You gave them a hug, trying to pour a little bit of relief into their bodies so they'd stop worrying. "Stay with Lord Mydeimos, he'll keep you safe," you ordered them both. You pull away from the hug and they nod, having learned that following your directions has kept them alive so far.

"This is not a goodbye. I will find you two again." This wasn't going to be another empty promise that you were going to break.

"You better come back to us!" Aris demanded, before running to hide behind the blond man, Pallas following closely behind him.

Before you could ask where the fuck Marmoreal Palace even was, a golden thread appeared out of nowhere, leading your eyes to a large building on the horizon. Well, that answered your question.

Mydeimos may have mentioned something about Aglaea guiding your way, but you didn't care to stay and listen. Immediately, you run off to follow the golden thread, hoping that you'll be able to get there in time to save their asses once again.

But even at your top speed, it still took you time to run over to the Palace. Time that you used to absorb the fact that you just saw Kalpas again. It was one thing for you or Kevin or Elysia had counterparts across the universe, but Kalpas? It meant that there was a chance that the rest of the Flame-Chasers were alive. That you would see him again, even if it's not the man you fell in love with.

It was one thing to hear Acheron's story. This is going to be a whole trainwreck that you weren't emotionally prepared enough to deal with. But then again, how do you prepare to see the friends that you carelessly murdered? Were you ready to face your sins, Destroyer?

You don't know which outcome you hope for more. That your past would just leave you alone and die just like your world did. Or that you would see your friends again, albeit in a completely different scenario. You would do anything to see Kevin, yes, but only if it's your Kevin. The boy who would hold all your shopping bags in one hand just so that he can keep one hand free to hold you. The man who held you to his chest to stop you from ending your life prematurely. Who held you in your final moments.

That's who you want, not some cheap imitation that could never reach your man. No offence to this world's Kevin.

You hear the grunts inside the palace before you see the mechanical creature surrounded by the fountain and the same golden thread that guided you here. To be honest, the Titan didn't seem that impressive. Sure it's massive, but size never equals power and you know that one slash from your greatsword would be enough to finish it off.

(History may remember the Judgment of Shamash as Kevin's weapon, but you and the sword knew who was its true owner. He was just keeping it warm, sharp and ready for your return.)

Your greatsword feels like home in your hands, and you revel in her power coursing through your veins.

("She's just as beautiful and destructive as you are." An amused voice spoke up, followed by strong arms wrapping around your waist. A mop of white hair tickled the skin on your neck. You wish you could bottle this moment and experience it for an eternity.)

You could see your two companions, as well as a white-haired knight fighting against the Titan. You knew what your next action should be.

Without a chance to hesitate about your own decision, you charge forward toward the Titan, flames blazing behind you. They gave you enough speed and strength to slice Nikador in half. You don't see their dismembered body, but the thud on the ground gives you the impression that you won the fight.

It was strange that they went down so easily, but your worried thoughts were cut off by your gray-haired chaos machine jumping into your arms.

"You're alive!" Stelle held you up in her arms, squeezing the Herrscher core out of you. You could feel your lungs collapsing in your chest with the strength of her hug. It was only when Dan Heng came over to pry your favourite baseball player off of you that you could finally breathe.

"It's good to see you too," you say with fondness. Things are always lively when you have your fellow Astral Express members around, and you know your mission on Amphoreus was just about to get more interesting. "I trust that you have been keeping out of trouble." The guilty look on Dan Heng's face and the nervous chuckle from Stelle made you sigh. You wouldn't have your idiots act any other way.

"Well, we had help," Dan Heng explained. "We were lucky to meet some of the locals before fighting the Titankin." You're grateful that they were able to have more guidance than you did. Not that you weren't thankful for Aris and Pallas. You should probably check on them sooner than later.

"Please! We did most of the work anyways." Stelled crossed her arms, a pout on her face. She pointed to someone or something behind you with an accusatory point. "The only thing Phainon did was steal my bat and break Cloud Piercer!"

You sigh, already knowing that Stelle added her usual dramatic flair to what has happened. You make a note to ask Dan Heng for a more accurate recount of events. This poor Phainon didn't have to catch her backhanded comments, especially if he was keeping them safe.

You turn around to thank this white knight, but you can't get the words out once you see his face.

Snow white hair. Piercing blue eyes. Even his clothes were a close replica of Kevin's. You almost didn't want him to speak, in fear that he also sounded like him. This was it, the one thing you feared. Knowing that there were alternate versions of your lover. A million lives that he can lead. A million heartbreaks waiting to happen.

It seems that this Kevin– Phainon had the same thoughts going through his head. But unlike you, his body couldn't hold the weight of his pain. He fell to his knees and it took everything in you to not hold him to your chest. The familiar words of comfort lay at the tips of your tongue, but they wouldn't be heard by the person who they were meant to, just a familiar stranger.

"Starlight..." his voice wobbled. Your soul left your body, leaving behind an aching heart at the sight of his watery eyes. Or maybe it was just your tears blurring your vision. Another memory you kept buried forced its way into your consciousness.

("Starlight, really?" You raise your eyebrows at the cheesy name. "Can't you be a little less romantic?")

(His laugh or the heavenly trumpets filled the air. He took a string from your hoodie (that you were borrowing from him) and kissed it, his old habits never leaving him. Kevin knew he was able to touch you, the sub-zero temperature not affecting you. But ever the gentleman, he did everything he could to keep you safe. Really, that should have been your job.)

("Your eyes sparkle under the stars, and you are the only light who is keeping me tethered to this world." He let go of the drawstring and pulled you in for a kiss. You put your hands around his neck and swayed in his arms, overwhelmed by the rare peace your snowstorm brought you.)

("You're making it harder to pull away from you," you mumble against his lips. You had to go to a briefing for a solo mission in an hour, but you weren't ignorant of the double meaning of your words. You knew he was too smart to let it go over his head. With every Herrscher that fell, you could feel the Honkai tightening its grip around your soul. Despite everything you could do to fight it, everyone knew it was only a matter of time before the Honkai took over and you reset the universe.)

(You had it drilled into your conscious that it would be better for you to die in some corner if only to buy this world some time.)

(He absolutely hated that sentiment, going borderline feral any time someone brought up that cursed plan. The one time that you had brought it up, you weren't allowed to leave his bed for a week, for fear that if he let you go, you would go to the void and he would have no choice but to follow you. You never want him dying on your behalf. Humanity needs its hero and you were not selfish enough to take that away from it.)

("So don't go," he growled, kissing you with more passion this time. He pulled you closer, chest firmly pressed up against yours. Even if he knew what was to come, you know that he would forsake any prophecy to keep you here.)

(This kiss was everything you wished you had time to tell each other. I love you. I want you. I miss you, even though you're standing in front of me. I'm scared. I don't know what's coming next. I wish things were different.)

(I love you. I love you. I love you.)

(For the longest time, you thought that this would be enough for you. That you could hold onto these memories to keep you warm.)

"Ms. (Y/N)..."

Dan Heng's voice snapped you out of your trip down memory lane. You didn't even realize the golden-haired lady appearing right in front of you.

You clear your throat and wipe the tears from your eyes. This was all getting too much for you, and you were desperate to break something to make you feel better. That didn't exclude you. But your team needed you to be on your best behaviour, even if it was just to have a steady leader to guide them through this mission.

"I'm fine, Dan Heng," you whispered to him. You knew he wasn't a fool to miss your shaky smile, but you were thankful that he had the tact to at least ask about it later.

"New allies of Okhema, welcome to Amphoreus." The golden-haired lady spoke up, her voice soothing your early stress and anxieties. It reminded you of how Aponia used to casually manipulate the Fire MOTH soldiers to stop harassing you, saying that it was only in her interest to have someone in power indebted to you. Looks like you were finally getting the chance to pay her back for everything she has done for you.

"While this welcome banquet is far from elegant, it has helped to remove any misgivings we had," she— Aglaea, continued. You side-eyed Dan Heng and Stelle, hoping that her doubts were due to her own skepticism and not any actions taken by the two. "From this moment forth, you shall be treated as distinguished guests of the holy city and the Chrysos heirs."

'Nice to be welcomed from the start,' you thought to yourself.

There is something odd about her beautiful eyes, seeming unfocused. They look like they were looking through you rather than at you. The whispers from two trailblazers behind you confirmed that they picked up on that fact too.

"Curious about my eyesight?" she asks, and you note her heightened perception. Typical of someone who is the alternate universe version of Aponia, and you make sure to tell the other two to keep your unflattering thoughts to yourself. Especially Stelle. Lord knows what's going to come out of her mouth.

She went on to explain how every Chrysos Heirs had an ability that was unique to each individual. How she doesn't rely on traditional sight to perceive the world around you. Perhaps it wasn't the exact same manipulation that Aponia was able to achieve, but it did make you feel wary of someone who can 'hear' conversation from across the city.

There was something else about her eyes that you noticed. They were seemingly dead, with no emotion in them. But they still looked at you with a sad longing— it made you feel sick to your stomach. Can these people stop looking at you with pity? Do they not know of the disaster that you would bring to them?

You tried to ignore the gaze Phainon was giving you, his icy eyes giving off heat that could only rival the sun.

"A manifestation of Nikador…" Phainon spoke up with disdain in his voice. You were so close to ripping his vocal cords out just to end your suffering. How dare he steal your lover's voice and force you to listen to it. An indignant and petty part of you hoped that he was suffering as much as you were. You had a feeling that he was. "Could it be that my trial has not arrived yet?" he asked, more to himself than to anyone else.

"By following the threads of fate, you have begun to write the opening chapter of your story. How do you feel?" Aglaea countered his question with her own.

"Truth be told, I don't feel any different," he answered. "I anticipated a greater challenge." You roll your eyes, of course, he would say that. Were all versions of Kevin so willing to take on the greatest challenge on their own?

You tune out the rest of their conversation, not really caring about the plans they had to counter the invasion.

What? The plan was a success and there were few casualties. Back in your world, this was seen as a blessing.

Besides, you need more time to process truly what the fuck is going on. You try not to, but you can't help but spare small glances towards Phainon. It aggravates you how truly and utterly similar he was to Kevin. He would always joke with you that it would always be you two in every universe, that his soul was tied to yours for eternity. Mei would pipe up with some smart and cynical comment about how technically every possibility exists under String Theory.

("Mei!" he whined, sending a glare to the poor girl. "I was trying to woo her!")

("You're such a dumbass," you said. It didn't stop you from smiling like a fool. "I'm already your partner, you don't need to woo me." You ruffle his hair and pinch his cheek. God, he was adorable— and he's yours. Just yours.)

("But I want to treat you right, starlight," he pouted, forehead resting on yours. "Want to be the man that is deserving of you." For him, you would relive every single awful and forced action the Honkai put you through for him.)

(Before you could say anything, a beach ball hit the back of your lover's head. He rubbed it and glared at the idiot who was dumb enough to ruin his moment with you.)

("You're a dead man Su!" he yelled, racing straight towards the scholar. You were scared that he was going to use his full might against the poor man. God. You love your man so fucking much.)

You scoffed, thanking the Lord that Welt wasn't on this mission. The old man would have suffered heart attack after heart attack for every new revelation.

Your amusement wasn't as quiet as you thought.

"Is something funny?" Aglaea asks, raising her eyebrow towards. Oh fuck, it would be so embarrassing if you were the one who started the trouble.

"It was nothing, my lady." You clear your throat. "My mind tends to wander." The smile Phainon gave you didn't go over your head. Even Aglaea shook her head in amusement.

"Distinguished guests, since you have spared no effort in aiding the holy city, I will naturally take care of you as well." How sweet of her— oh, like hell you're going to take her offer her at face value. But still, you could use a little R&R. "I've woven many unforeseen events into the tapestry of fate, this is but one instance." Always the wildcard, never the intended.

"Thank you for your hospitality, my lady." You bowed your head in appreciation. You glare at the other two the same way a mother would glare when her children forgot to thank someone. Thankfully you trained them well enough to pick up on your signal. You turn back to Aglaea. "Truly it was our pleasure to help out however we can."

"You can find me at Marmoreal Market after you've grown tired of listening to her tales," Phainon offers, but he hesitates to look you in your eyes. You didn't take any offence since you were struggling with the same thing. "In any case, I owe you my hospitality."

"We look forward to you treating us, Phainon." The softness in your voice wasn't intended, but it bled its way regardless of your best effort. "Just to warn you, this one will make a dent in your wealth if you treat us to food," you quip while pointing to Stelle, earning you a pinch and a pout from the baseballer.

He didn't say anything to respond, but he walked away with a wistful and painful smile on his face.

"Now then, where should we begin?" Aglaea said, and you don't miss the challenge in her voice.

After placing the Trailblaze Beacon down, Aglaea took you to the centre of Marmoreal Palace. You stand underneath the fountain listening to the spirit water tell the story of this land. Many of the details lined up with what Aris and Pallas had told you, but it filled in some of the gaps that they had left out. You hope that they have found a safe place for them to stay.

"The way up from here leads to a bath that the Council granted exclusively to the Chrysos Heirs," she explains as your group walks back to the waterfall. "I'm willing to make an exception, considering you're guests from beyond the sky…"

"But you have your traditions to maintain," you finish her thought with your arms crossed.

"Precisely," she confirms. Her eyes lingered on Stelle, clearly wanting her to go to the baths with her. But you think that she wouldn't do anything without your express permission.

"Go up with her Stelle, me and Dan Heng will wait down here for you." You didn't take your eyes off of Aglaea with a clear intention in your eyes. If anything happened to her, you would tear Amphoreus up with your own bare hands. You found yourself giving out more threats than you have in past missions. You couldn't help it, this world is designed to aggravate you to no end.

These people may have the skin of your family, but they were still unknown threats to you. Not that it mattered. You killed your friends once, and you could do it again.

(Yes, princess, the voices spoke up in your head. Return to your roots. Return to the purpose of your existence.)

"You have a considerate partner." She gestures to the elevator platform. "Follow me." You watch the two go up and away to the private baths.

Not even a second goes by when Dan Heng voices his concerns.

"Are you alright?" he hesitantly asks. "Ever since you saw Phainon, you've been more distracted, and don't think I didn't see the threat in your eyes that you've been giving everyone."

"It's complicated," you sigh. The truth was going to come out eventually. "Do you remember how me and Welt were taken aback when we met Acheron?" You turn to look at him as you wait for his answer.

"I do, Welt said that she was like someone you met on your world," he answers.

"That's right." You bite your lip trying to find the words to say your next thought. "Being on Amphoreus… It's like that but so much worse," you confessed. "The people you've met were people I deeply cared about back home." You shudder at your own vulnerability, but you trust Dan Heng more than you feel the pain when bringing back these memories. You opened your mouth to try and explain your weird relationship with Phainon, but you couldn't will your mind turn its thoughts into sound.

"I see…" You didn't expect him to know how to respond, but he ponders for a response anyway. "Do you think your past might give us some insight into this world?"

"If it does, then I know that this world was fucked before we even stepped foot here," you scoff. The dark thought of killing your alternate self on this world, just so that you could prove that this and any planet with you on it was better off dead.

Dan Heng puts a hand on your shoulder, and you smile at his awkward yet endearing attempt at comforting you. It kind of makes you wish March was here as well, her bubbly energy always giving you a sense of levity to any situation.

"I may not know your whole story, but me and Stelle will stand by you no matter what." If anyone knew what it was like to have a horrid past, it would be Dan Heng. The experience of being hated for something you never did was something you both shared, and it warms your heart that you have found people who will stand by your side no matter what. A luxury you weren't afforded often, but one you cherish all the same.

You nod your head with a smile, not trusting your voice to stop itself from breaking down into tears. It helps that Stelle was heading down to the two of you, another welcome distraction from the warring thoughts in your head.

Stelle starts to tell you what Aglaea had told her. Most of it was extra information added to the fairy tales that the children have told you. You had a feeling that this world was not aware of what lies beyond its firmament, but you didn't know it was something that was outright hidden from them. Whatever, their world, their rules. You have no intention to break them.

But one fact has surprised you, a pit falling in your stomach and your heart somehow aching more than it has been.

"This is Amphoreus' Flame-Chase journey — a band of heroes dedicated to slaying the gods and reclaiming the twelve Coreflames for the world to start over anew."

The Flame-Chasers haunt you wherever you go. Your past digging its claws into your flesh. Your eternal punishment for the sins you have committed. You wonder if this version of you has realized their destiny, the burden they must carry to the end.

"Hm, there's still a lot about this situation that we don't know." You cross your arms and look up to the private baths. "Why don't you two go and talk to some of the locals? Get a feel for the situation."

"And what will you do—" Dan Heng started to ask before Stelle cut him off.

"Oooooh, you're going to talk to Phainon! I saw the heart eyes you were giving him– Ow!" You're thankful that Dan Heng had the tact to elbow Stelle. You love her, but her mouth really had a way of getting into trouble.

"I want to check up on something." You hold both of their shoulders and plead with them. "Do not, under any circumstances, get into any trouble. I may not know Aglaea all that well, but she doesn't seem like the type to tolerate the slightest subordination." You shudder when you think of how Aponia would act when something didn't go her way.

"Don't you worry, I'll keep Dan Heng out of trouble!" Stelle yelled out before walking out of the baths. Dan Heng sighed and assured you that he would keep an eye on her, before following her.

You give yourself a second, trying to let your brain catch up with the last few hours or so. Your heart clenched and started beating erratically, panic and adrenaline flooding your system. This was getting too much for you to handle and you were one wrong encounter away from collapsing onto the floor in a catatonic state. But you couldn't give in to your fear, you have people depending on you. People who trust you to not let them down.

("Breathe, Starlight," he whispered into your ear. His cold arms kept you grounded amongst the field of corpses around you. "I got you, nothing is going to happen, I promise." He smiled and you almost believed him. But despite the heavens he tried to move and the hell he tried to raise, he was still mortal and you were his God. There was nothing he could do to change your fate.)

(Huh, there wasn't blood flowing from the corpses, but a weird orange energy. That wasn't exactly how you remembered how the battle went.)

You must have zoned out for quite a while because before you know it, you walk through the same streets you ran through to get to the battle. Despite the chaos that was occurring a couple of hours ago, everything seemed to go back to normal. The vendors went back to selling their produce, the lovers were walking through the streets with wistful smiles and the children were playing like they should.

"Ms. (Y/N)!" was the only warning you got before you almost collapsed under the two children you saved.

"I'm glad that you're ok!" you smile as you bend down to give your two kids a hug. Joy replaced the earlier panic, happy that there was something good that happened during your time here. "I trust that Lord Mydeimos took good care of you?"

Aris nodded while explaining how cool Lord Mydeimos – apparently he insists on just being called 'Mydei' – was, with his amazing strength and incredible knowledge on the battlefield. He tried, and failed, to recreate the fighting moves that Mydei used.

"He said that if I practice enough, I can be an even better warrior than him!"

"You still have quite a ways to go before you will reach Mydei's level."

Phainon's voice came out of nowhere, giving you a bit of a scare. He stood in front of the children, a smile on his face and hands on his hips. The children were happy to have another one of the Chrysos Heirs giving them attention. Phainon didn't seem to mind, laughing as the children took their turns treating him like a jungle gym.

You thought about having children, once upon a time. You'd crush those ideas before they could turn into something tangible, for fear that you would pass down your Herrscher curse to your children. Would this be what your life would be like if you weren't forced to bear the world's burden?

"Aris! Pallas! It's time for dinner!" You look up to see an old woman calling out to the children. Thank goodness the children had someone in Okhema to take care of them. You weren't ready to become an impromptu mother to two kids, especially with your grown children to take care of.

"Coming Grandma!" the kids respond, but they don't leave without almost knocking you over again with another hug. You make them promise again to stay out of trouble, and that you will always be there for them if they call out your name.

"Those kids seem to like you." Phainon took his place next to you, eyes scanning Marmoreal Palace for any trouble that he may need to help with. He didn't look at you, and you don't think you have the heart to look at him.

"Oh you know, save a child's life and they feel indebted to you for eternity," you chuckle, trying to relieve your nerves and the awkward tension in the air.

Neither of you know what to say. You could see Phainon opening and closing his mouth, trying to find the right words to say. Your own brain started to hurt with the amount of thinking you were doing, wanting to gather the answers you needed while protecting your own heart. There was only one way for this to end and that was in shared vulnerability. But you don't think you have it in you to be vulnerable in front of another man, even if he looks and sounds eerily like your dearly departed.

Luckily, Phainon was willing to bite the first bullet.

"Your ring is beautiful," he spoke up, eyes focusing on the blue gem around your neck. You instinctively hold it in your hand, finding relief in its biting cold. "The man who must have given it to you must have cared about you dearly."

"He did…" you trail off with a smile, letting yourself revel in the good memories without letting the bad ones taint what you have left of him. The cold from the gold brought you more comfort than you care to admit.

"If you don't mind me asking– and of course if you don't want to answer I completely understand–" Phainon goes on a tangent about not wanting to make you uncomfortable but that he was really curious. About what, he hasn't even told you yet. You put a hand on his shoulder, slowly and with hesitation, giving him enough time to pull away if he pleases to do so.

"It's alright, Phainon, just ask me what you wish to know," you reassure him with a smile.

"Were you married to someone back home?" His hands started fidgeting with his own ring finger like he was missing something there. (It just so happens that the ring you hold was an exact match for the one he was going to give his partner.)

It's the question many people ask you when they see the ring. Who's the lucky guy who captured your heart, many would ask. You'd always counter that you were the lucky one for having Kevin choose you. He was and forever will be the greatest thing that has happened to you, and you will carry that with you wherever you go. You may not have had the wedding of your dreams, but you were his. In sickness and health, till death do you part and a little bit beyond that. You don't need a legally signed paper to tell you what your soul already knows.

("Things are getting out of hand out there," he said as he knelt down to one knee. "I may not be able to give you everything that you deserve, but let me give you this one thing." He pulled the ring out of his pocket and your eyes started to blur with tears. "My heart, my love and my soul will forever belong to you. No matter where life takes you, I want you to remember that I will always be with you as long as you wear this ring." Ice started to form on his cheeks.)

("So, Starlight, my sun on a cold winter day, will you do the honours of marrying me? In this life or the next?)

(You never answered a question more quickly in your life.)

"That's hard to explain." How else can you explain that not even the day after, your closest friend and confidant revealed that she was also a Herrscher and that she sacrificed herself for future generations. How you lost your mind and became a force of destruction, ending all life in sight. That it took the combined power of all the living Flame-Chasers just to seal you away. That you spent the last fifty thousand years in exile only to be released with the death of your lover.

Phainon has a bright heart, and it reminded you of Kevin's before the responsibilities as the Deliverance took its full toll on him. Who were you to reveal him to the true horrors of his fate before he was ready? So you tell him a sanitized version until he is ready to hear your whole story. Until you're able to recount your life as objectively as possible, without driving yourself mad with what-ifs.

"We didn't know how much time we had left, so he proposed to me with hopes that we'll get married once the threat to our world was over." A bitter side of you wished to demand more time, and you've come to just appreciate the time that you had. You continue with your story, "he was right. The day after the proposal, our entire world fell apart." You don't add the fact that you were to blame for its destruction.

If the Amphoreus version of you will play the same role that you did, then you wish to preserve their image in Phainon's mind for a little bit longer.

"My apologies, I didn't mean to bring up such awful memories." Phainon was so chivalrous, it made you want to shake him by the shoulders and tell him that it's okay if he doesn't appear heroic for two seconds. He better learn this lesson before he burns himself out.

"The thing is that in between the awful memories – and trust me, there were some shit times – there are memories that I will cherish until I die." Your first birthday party after the eruption you caused, the night Kevin confessed his feelings for you, the brief hope you had when you thought your powers were under your control. These are the memories that shine through the despair you felt. And now with the Astral Express, you can create new memories that will drown out the darkness that you carry.

"You learn how to continue to live despite everything," you smile softly as you turn to look at him. Phainon's eyes were wide and hanging off of every word that you were saying. Maybe to him, the words you were saying were the Gospel he would hold close to his heart, letting them imprint themselves onto his soul. Or maybe, he was blurring the lines between you and someone else.

"Even when it hurts?" His voice stuttered, more broken than what you expected. His heart had already gone through unimaginable pain, you fear. Your instincts kicked in, wanting to shield him away from the world that had nothing but cruel plans for him.

You couldn't protect your Kevin, but you could at the very least protect Phainon.

(It's too late, for his fate was sealed thirty-three million, five hundred and fifty thousand, three hundred and thirty-six cycles ago. But with you here now, perhaps you can create enough disruption to end his suffering. You of all people should know what it's like to be locked away. You would do anything to prevent another from suffering the same fate.)

"You have people that rely on you, Phainon," you remind him. "For people like– for you, there is no break from your fate, as unfair as that sounds."

His shoulders slump and his lips start to pout. Clearly, this wasn't the answer that he wanted to hear, but you wouldn't want to lull him in a false sense of security.

You continue to look at him, trying to see past the ghosts that haunt you. For all the similarities Phainon and Kevin share, there were some differences. Kevin carried himself with calculated confidence, always trying to seem like he was in control. He'd only confide with you in private that most of it was a ruse to psych himself into believing in the future. As time went on, he became even more of a recluse, and the rare smile he'd share on some occasions was all but gone.

Phainon on the other hand wore his heart on his sleeve. He smiled freely, he cared fiercely and he wasn't afraid to hide any of his emotions. You wish to keep him like this, happy that at least in one world, you were able to see your lover before disaster.

You only met Kevin after he'd joined the Fire MOTH, and you didn't get to really know him until years after your deployment. You never got to meet the carefree version of him from Su or Mei's stories.

"There was a boy and a girl that I knew, once upon a time." Your voice had piqued his attention and all traces of that sad, puppy expression had disappeared. You continue on with your story.

"The girl's fate was sealed from the moment she was born. A terrible darkness was sealed inside of her, and it was only a matter of time before it would take over her being." You take a deep breath before you continue. "We call these beings 'Herrschers'." How could a word mean nothing to one person, but chill you to your bones?

"But despite what her destiny had decreed, she did everything in her power to fight against the darkness. It was almost futile, but she held such a deep love for humanity that it fueled her desire to win." Would the bright-eyed rookie all those years ago be proud of who you are? Of all the damage you caused and tried to fix and undo?

"The boy on the other hand had all the choice in the world." You almost lose yourself in another memory, catching yourself before you do. "He could have lived his life in relative peace, but he chose to fight."

"Because he too had a deep love for humanity?" Phainon asked.

"You're not wrong, but not exactly. He gained a new reason when he fell in love with the girl." You look towards the Dawn Machine, the closest thing this planet has to a sun. "He promised to keep her safe from fate, to defy anything that stood in his way."

Before he stood on his knee to ask for your hand in marriage, he stood before you, vowing to keep you away from anything that would bring you harm, including yourself.

("Even when the Honkai makes you unrecognizable, I will always fight to find the woman I love within." A knight swearing to his princess, an oath written in blood and stardust. There was no one that would come in between him and you, the beautiful end. You make a silent oath to yourself to never let him have to choose between you or the world.)

"In the end, they both failed to achieve their goals. The darkness that she so desperately tried to conceal did exactly what she was afraid of." The distant screams and prayers have become white noise to you. "And the boy couldn't save her from her fate, and so he had to kill her. And her revival only could happen after the boy killed himself. " You were glad that your last sight was of Kevin's face. You only wish his eyes weren't blurred by his tears. You only wish that you were there to provide him the same comfort.

Phainon took a sharp breath, not expecting the story to end so bleakly. The light in his eyes started to dim and his hands were shaky at his side. If he thought you were going to give him hope that everything would be okay, then he was speaking to the wrong person.

His voice is solemn, unlike the cheerful tone he had thus far.

"Are all of our fates destined to be that bleak?" he asks with a woeful tone. You could tell he didn't want to accept such a notion, but sometimes there is simply nothing you could do except to welcome the inevitable.

That was not the lesson you wanted Phainon to leave with.

"Maybe yes, maybe no," you muse with a smile. From the corner of your eyes, Phainon tilts his head at your light tone. You continue on with the moral of your story. "If you ask the girl, she'd probably tell you that she doesn't regret a thing."

"What do you mean?" Phainon is skeptical but doesn't shut you down.

"She met the love of her life, had a great group of friends that she called family, and even if it was for a brief amount of time, she was able to help protect her home. Sure, she wishes things ended differently, but she's come to learn that that's how life goes sometimes." You didn't know when you became so optimistic, but it was leagues better than being miserable all the time.

You miss him. Desperately so with an ache in your soul. Sometimes you stay up in the middle of the night, feeling the faint connection between your heart and his. But you have since grown without him, and slowly, you were filling the void with new friends and new loves. Himeko's awful coffee. Welt's science jokes that no one gets but him. The trio and all the chaos that they get into.

You wish Kevin could see you now. He'd be crying to see the woman who's so haunted by her past being able to let go and find peace. It's a long process, and a very slow one, but the best time to start is today.

Just as Phainon brings you hope that there could be a version of your story that has a happy ending, you hope that your story shows him that there is life beyond tragedy. That even the darkest times cannot stay forever. He just needs to persevere through all of it, and you know he will.

When you arrived on Amphoreus and learned of its peculiarity, you were scared that all the little healing that you had done was for nothing.

Now? It was just a sign of how far you have come. That you weren't sobbing at the sight and sound of Phainon. Truthfully, you think that you have gained a new friend and you are thankful for that.

"That was… a beautiful story," he sniffles as wipes his tears. You didn't mean to make the poor man cry, but at least he was comfortable sharing his emotions with you.

You thank him and continue to gaze beyond the horizon, a sense of peace that you haven't felt in millennia overcoming you. The awkward energy gave away to two people basking in the painful reminders of what it means to be human. A human who feels too much and a monster who doesn't feel at all, or at least that is what you tell yourself. You were coming to terms that maybe you aren't the monster everyone thought you were.

"When I first saw you, I couldn't help but compare you to my partner," he confesses with shame. "I was so… furious that you were just standing there while they were gone." His fists clenched, not with anger but with determination. "But now I understand that you too have lost your lover, and that our pain is shared."

"However, I am sorry, I refuse to share our destiny." He stood with a fire in his eyes. "I will not lose Amphoreus or my partner to the Black Tide or any other threat that comes in the future."

Echoes of the past whispered in your ear. "Humanity will never lose hope for as long as they call me their hero, their Deliverer."

"Good," you snark, and a little bit of your old self starts to bleed through. "I expect nothing less, Deliverer."

He smiles and pounds his fist against his heart, another oath made to you. Hopefully, this one will be kept.

"I, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, swear to you that I will see the Flame-Chase to the end, and that I will grant Amphoreus the happy ending we all deserve," he said with conviction, the same that you have heard from over the years. The desire to save your home isn't exclusive to one dying world, and you can extend your desire to other people.

"Then Phainon of Aedes of Elysiae," you start as you place a fist against your own heart, "I, (Y/N) of the Trailblaze swear that I will help however I can save Amphoreus from the Black Tide, and bring you to the Era Nova." You will not let another dying world fall.

In his excitement, Phainon lunges towards you and gives you a hug. His arms wrapped your back and lifted you up in the air. Your surprised shriek let him know that while this hug wasn't unwelcome, a warning would have done you good.

With renewed vigour, you and Phainon continue to walk through Marmoreal Market, with him pointing out all the stalls and the stories behind each of them. You laugh at his dramatic recreation, completely enchanted by the way he carries himself. In another life, he would have made for a fine historian.

It wasn't until you passed a funeral home that Phainon spoke up to ask you another question.

"Have you ever thought about death?" he asks with such innocent curiosity that it almost distracts you from the morbid question.

"Do you think I'm going to die soon?" you counter with a question of your own, happy with the panic you caused him. He stopped and turned around like a deer in headlights, and he let out another ramble to excuse himself.

"No! That is definitely not what I meant," he trembled in place, his hands waving around in surrender. "It's just that I've always thought about it – you know being a warrior, you never know when your time will come – and it's something I ask everyone. Though I understand if that seems odd, especially to an outsider. Please forgive me!" How he said that in one breath was a miracle. You need to calm him down before he bows– oh, there he goes. Bobbing his head up and down like he will be able to repent his sins.

"I haven't given it a lot of thought to be honest." Your voice snaps him out of repentance and gives you his utmost attention. "All I know is that I wish to be buried in a wedding dress," you smile. "He better have planned the biggest party for me."

"If I were to die alongside you, I expect an invitation as well." That much was obvious, but you hope he survives longer than you do if only to enjoy the happy ending he rightfully deserves. You also don't want to face the wrath of Amphoreus you for taking their man away from them so soon.

You were not his. He is not yours. The eerie similarities don't make up for the history that you share with your respective lovers. But in the shared details of your story, you find comfort that there are people like you, who face trials and tribulations beyond human comprehension. But at the same time, different enough to avoid the same doom you had to go through.

This is supposed to be a romantic story after all.

Just when you thought that all could end well, Lady Triannon comes running towards you, crying out to yourself and Phainon.

"Snowy! Come quick! Aglaea is going to execute Grayie and Dan Heng!" You don't respond, just running after her to save your idiots from their own poor decision-making.

You didn't think your life would come to this, but like you said earlier, you wouldn't change it for a damn thing.

–

(Beyond Calamity's Gate, there is an emanator waiting for their lover to fulfill the prophecy to set them free. They could only hope that he would be able to stop them from destroying the land they have come to love, and become the hero he was meant to be.)

(In another universe, there stood a man on the moon who barely escaped Death's hands. A girl with your eyes told him that you were okay, just exploring beyond the stars. He thinks that you deserved it after the sacrifices you made, but that didn't stop his longing to be with you again. He will find you, just like he promised all those years ago.)

given that all of this was written before 3.4, forgive me for the hopefulish ending ;-; mayhaps i'll write this from phainon's pov one day hehehe

may phainon wanters be phainon havers in the year of our lord 2025!!!

#reblogging because this has become officially my best performing fic hehehehe

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zozo-01 · 12 days ago

Text

like gravity.

pairing: phainon x f!reader

word count: 17k

synopsis: pacrim!au. please don't kill me after this chapter <3

V. COLLAPSE

For once, you don’t dream of darkness.

The sky is so blue that it takes your breath away, and the sea reflects it like a mirror made of clear glass. You sit on the sand, let the waves wash over your toes. It’s sunny. You’re smiling, feeling the warmth on your bare arms, your face. And there’s a dog, snoozing next to you with its big, white head in your lap.

Everything is warm.

You stir first.

Too early, is the first thought that crosses your mind when you rouse, remaining fragments of your dream still clinging to your eyelids. The next that follows is that it’s oddly warm. Frowning, you shift experimentally and the arm draped over your waist tightens its grip, pulling you flush against a sleep-warm body.

And then Phainon makes a sound against your collarbone, groggy and content, before he goes lax again, his breathing soft and slow.

It’s warm. Gods, everything feels so warm. Your shared room doesn’t have any windows to let natural light in, but that doesn’t seem to matter when you have the physical manifestation of a sunbeam curled up in your sheets.

Perhaps, there was a reason you dreamt of sunlight.

You take your time memorising him like this — unraveled in sleep, defenses lowered. His white hair falls messily over his forehead, and his lashes flutter faintly, as though chasing some dream. For a second, you let yourself wonder if you’re in it.

The collar of his shirt has slipped down, revealing the golden tattoos inked into his skin. Slowly, you reach out, trace the gilded sun at his neck before you let your fingertips ghost over the thin lines at his nape, following the rivulets of ichor down his spine to where they disappear beneath the fabric.

Phainon shivers against you, nose pressing into the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin. “Keep doing that,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep.

The sound coils low in your stomach, sweet and syrupy. Fuck. Is it weird? To suddenly feel an aching need in your chest, like you want to lean down and just—

“Phainon?” you ask, before that thought can complete itself. He just leans into you, like a sunflower tilting towards light, a contented hum in the back of his throat.

“Don’t know him.”

A little snort escapes you, fondness seeping through without permission. “The claxon’s going to ring any minute…”

“Mm. Don’t care.”

And because the world hates you both, the claxon rings immediately after he says that. A pitiful groan escapes Phainon, before he cracks one eye open with reluctance, pale lashes sweeping over ocean blue. When he sees you, though, he smiles — slow and languid and soft — as though he’s still drugged on the meds and something else. Affection, maybe. “Morning. Sleep well?”

“As good as I possibly could, with you clinging to me like lichen to tree bark.” Phainon just laughs, shifts back a little so that he can look at you properly. His cheek is smushed against the crumpled sheets.

“I like that I understood what that meant… I feel so smart, with all your science-y stuff in my head.’ He grins a little then yawns, stretching both arms over his head. Cute. When they come back down, though, one hand settles at the curve of your waist, fingers splayed out comfortably as if that’s where they’re meant to be. “Looks like you’ll just have to get used to me.”

Your breath catches. This is… platonic, right? The last decade of your life hasn’t exactly been a masterclass in emotionally healthy relationships. You’re not sure where the line between friends and drift partners and… whatever this is gets drawn.

But it’s Phainon, you suppose. Everything is different, when it’s with him.

“I have your history nerd facts up here, too,” you point at your own head, and he laughs. His hair is sticking up in every direction again, so you reach out to smooth down the unruly strands — finally, you get to do that. You swear that Phainon almost preens when you do, snuggling up to you like a big dog getting pet. It’s kind of cute, actually. Not that you’d ever admit it.

You continue to run your fingers through his hair, and his eyes flutter shut. If you find the right spot, maybe he'll even bark for you, you think to yourself amusedly.

But Phainon doesn’t bark. When your nails scratch over his scalp — an accident, just a fraction too much pressure — it is a quiet, punched out sound escapes him instead. A shudder runs through his whole body where it’s curled up against you, his fingers tightening on your waist.

Oh. That does something dangerous to your pulse.

You barely have time to think what the hell was that when Phainon’s hand catches your wrist. The sound he’d made is still echoing in your ears.

“Wait,” he says, and when you glance down, you’re stunned to see a flush creeping from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears. His eyes dart to the sides — left, right, left again — before he looks back at you. It’s only then that you realise just how close your faces are. Close enough to count every eyelash, close enough to feel the unsteady breath that he lets out. “Um…”

This strange tension, thankfully, is interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. You glance at Phainon, but he gives you an equally bemused look in return. Who would be looking for either of you so early in the morning? Frowning, you move to climb off the bed when you’re suddenly stopped by the arm around your waist.

“I need to get the door.”

He responds with his best wounded puppy expression, complete with dramatically lowered lashes. “Do you really have to?”

The knocking comes again, more insistent this time. Phainon grumbles a little, but reluctantly lets you slip out from the cage of his arms. He pouts the entire way as you cross the room to get to the door, though, and when you open it—

“Where is Phainon?” Hyacine is standing in the hallway in a crumpled lab coat, with a sweet smile on her face. She looks calm, but there’s something about her that makes you fear that she might just stab someone (probably Phainon) in the eye with a very large needle without warning. Terrified for your life, you step aside and mutely point at the bed where Phainon is now sitting up, blue eyes wide and hands raised in surrender.

“There you are.” She storms into your room like she’s on a warpath, and before he can do anything, yanks up the hem of his shirt.

“Hey!” Phainon yelps, clutching at the fabric like a scandalised Victorian maiden. “Be gentle with me! I’m an injured patient!”

The look Hyacine levels at him would have made a lesser man beg for his life. “You forfeited your patient rights last night when you broke the lock on your door, ripped out your IV and then ran away from the five doctors attempting to chase you down for your own wellbeing.” Despite her tone, she peels back the bloodied dressing with careful, practised hands. Phainon hisses through clenched teeth regardless.

You peer over her shoulder and immediately regret it. The wound is an angry red gash along his ribs, the synthetic skin graft peeling at the edges where he's clearly torn his stitches. It’s not very deep, which is fortunate, you suppose, but it’s long and blood beads along the inflamed tissue, an angry shade of pink. You swallow, hard.

“Five minutes,” Hyacine mutters, whipping out some tweezers and some alcohol swabs from god knows where. She disinfects the area with careful, practiced strokes, and you watch Phainon’s jaw clench against the sting you know he’s feeling. “I turn my head for five minutes and you break out of the medbay, pop two stitches, bleed through your bandages—”

Phainon smiles weakly. “In my defense, I was drugged…?”

“No defenses,” Hyacine cuts him off, hauling him to his feet with surprising strength for a woman so petite. “Next time, I’m microchipping you like a dog. Even Mydei didn’t misbehave like this when he wrecked his arm last time!”

You step aside for Hyacine as she manhandles Phainon towards the door (you know better than to stand in the path of a hurricane). She only pauses to give you a warm smile over her shoulder. “Sorry to bother you so early in the morning, (Name)! I’ll send this guy,” she gives him a little shake by the arm, “to the mess hall right after I patch up whatever he tore in his little escapade last night.” Her tone is light, but the sharp look she shoots Phainon suggests he won’t be slipping away again anytime soon. He cowers under her glare.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, and Hyacine beams. Phainon gives you a look of betrayal.

Traitor, he mouths, as he passes you. I’m scared, you mouth back.

You watch Hyacine haul him out of the room by the ear, your lips pressed together to stop yourself from laughing as he shoots you a pitiful look over his shoulder. You shake your head fondly.

(You’ll save him an extra juice box from breakfast later.)

Phainon comes down to the cafeteria about half an hour after you, freshly showered, dressed in a new change of clothes and bearing one very bright red ear. Mydei follows close behind, his usual stoic demeanour slightly marred by the fresh bandages peeling out from under his sleeve. People stare at the two of them as they make their way through the mess hall, but no one dares approach either of them. Probably think they had a fight or something, which, you suppose, isn’t wrong.

The second they reach your table, Phainon collapses into the seat next to you with a dramatic huff, determinedly not looking at you. Mydei, on the other hand, soundlessly takes the spot beside Castorice. She raises an eyebrow at his bandages. He shrugs, she nods, he blinks in response — was that a whole conversation? — before he starts chomping on an apple that he produces from god knows where.

The rest of the rangers watch this procession with varying degrees of amusement. Caelus is the first to break the silence.

“So… you guys got rough last night?” he asks, waggling a very suggestive eyebrow. Mydei gives him a look so flat it would have made a hardened soldier pee their pants.

“If you insinuate anything of that nature between us one more time I’m going to smash your head into this wall,” he threatens calmly, accepting the piece of buttered toast Castorice hands him with his uninjured arm. Stelle leans forward so fast she nearly upends Dan Heng’s coffee.

“So you guys did get up to some dirty business.” Her golden eyes shine with barely restrained… excitement? Enthusiasm? Insanity? Either way, you lean back a few inches. “And you didn’t invite us along for the party? Now that’s just rude.”

Mydei just shakes his head. “You lot wouldn’t have been very useful.”

March gasps, clutching at her chest indignantly. “We could’ve helped! I’ve been practicing throwing knives, recently!” Dan Heng sighs without looking up from the book in his hands.

“You threw a butter knife at one of the training dummies. It bounced off and nearly killed me instead.”

“It was a warning shot!” She insists.

Mydei looks like he’s starting to get really tired of shaking his head. He glares at Phainon, but your co-pilot is still staring away at nothing dramatically, so he sighs. “Either way, nothing all that exciting,” he mutters, slowly chewing on his toast. “We just… exterminated a big rat, that’s all.”

Stelle eyes him for a few seconds later, then shrugs when she realises he isn’t going to give away any more. “Must have been one hell of a rat, then,” she says, leaning back in her chair. Mydei just grunts non-committally in response.

The rangers go back to focusing on their breakfasts, their individual conversations. You glance to the side, only to see Phainon still doing his best impression of a widow who’s just lost her husband to war. “Phainon?”

He turns just enough to meet your eyes, lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. “Oh, don’t mind me,” he sighs loudly. Seriously, this big baby… “Just a wounded soldier, forsaken by his country, his comrades, his— is that banana milk?”

His blue eyes light up when he sees the carton you’d saved for him, but then he remembers he’s supposed to be sulking and schools his features back into a pout at the last second. He turns away from you again.

“Come on, Phainon,” you say, equal parts amused and exasperated.

“The betrayal still stings, you know. I can’t believe that after all we went through together, you left me to face Hyacine’s tender mercies alone—”

You roll your eyes to the ceiling. “I didn’t know you literally broke out of the medbay!”

“— all abandoned, helpless—”

“You outran five doctors while drugged! You were the furthest thing from helpless.”

His lower lip juts out further. “And she gave me a jab! You know I’m scared of needles!” The pout deepens, his eyes growing suspiciously shiny. “I could’ve died from neglect. Wasted away in a medical bed. All alone, without my drift partner to—”

“Gods! Alright, alright.” You’ll stab yourself with a fork if you hear him whine one more time. “I’m sorry for abandoning you. What do you want from me, hmm?”

He manages to maintain his sulk for exactly eight more seconds (you counted) before he peeks at you. His blue eyes glint victoriously with something mischievous that you’re… kind of afraid of, actually. “I’ll forgive you if you feed me,” he says, far too innocently.

The entire table goes silent. Even Mydei pauses mid-bite to look up at you.

You stare at the walking armoury doing his best to impersonate a baby bird. “Phainon. You got grazed in the side. Your arms work perfectly fine.” He pouts, batting his eyes at you again. His lower lip trembles, ever so slightly.

After a few seconds, you throw up your hands in defeat and reach for his spoon. Seriously, this man… “Fine. Fine!” Phainon’s eyes light up like a kid who’s just been offered candy. “But only because you’re being impossible. I’m not cutting up your— are you preening right now?”

He absolutely is, chest puffing up even as you jab the spoon into his mouth with as little gentleness as you can muster. “Knew you loved me,” he hums despite your attempt to choke him, finally leaning down to rest his head on your shoulder with a contented grin. “I can die happy now.”

“Hey,” Stelle holds out a hand as you roll your eyes and shove another spoonful of scrambled eggs into Phainon’s mouth. “Pay up.”

Caelus curses under his breath and slaps about twenty credits into his sister's outstretched palm. You stare between the two of them, baffled. “What’s this about?”

“About who wears the pants in this Jaeger,” Stelle grins, patting her brother on the back with no sincerity at all. “Caelus was like, almost convinced. But he voted for Phainon at the last second.”

“I always bet on losing dogs…” Caelus says mournfully, glaring at the man next to you. Phainon doesn’t even look up, chewing happily, and shrugs with the indifference of a man who’s already won the lottery in life.

“Woof.”

The ranger table erupts into chaos. Dan Heng facepalms so hard his book hits the table, March squeals, and Castorice raises an eyebrow. And Stelle— Stelle howls with laughter so loud it draws stares from the entire mess hall.

“That’s it.” You push at Phainon — or at least try to, anyway — but he doesn’t budge even a little bit. “Get off! Get off me, you sticky little…”

Fortunately, you’re saved from the embarrassment when the news channel on the television screen in the mess hall displays something about a massive chemical fire in the next city over. Something about an explosion, something about a still undergoing investigation, and then something about a secret laboratory of an international terrorist organisation…

Mydei doesn’t look up. You turn to stare wordlessly at the man next to you, eyes burning a question into the side of his face. But Phainon just stabs two straws into his juice packets, before happily shoving both into his mouth.

Apple juice and banana milk…

The other rangers stare at the television screen for a few more seconds before their gazes slide from the news report to Phainon, and then to Mydei — who continues eating with the careful neutrality of a man who knows exactly what happened but will never admit it.

“So…” March drags the word out slowly as she eyes the two of them. “That, uh, wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with that big rat you guys were dealing with last night, would it?”

Mydei just shrugs.

After breakfast, all the rangers head down to one of the meeting rooms adjacent to the Bridge — fondly known as the War Room, Stelle tells you as you walk. Aglaea is already there when all of you file in, seated at the head of the table. Her eyes sweep across each one of you as you enter, GM typing notes into her laptop in the background. Sitting at the other end of the table, for some reason, is Professor Anaxagoras, who is leaning back in his chair and just sort of… blankly staring at the ceiling.

“I’m glad to see that everyone’s made it today,” Aglaea remarks as all of you file inside. She eyes Mydei and Phainon, raises an eyebrow. “Some clearly in better condition than others.”

You glance at Phainon in alarm — does the General know what the two of them got up to last night? But Phainon just smiles, shrugs as he slides into the chair next to yours. “Even rats bite when cornered.”

“Hm.” She holds his gaze, before lowering it back to the tablet in her lap. “Using a flamethrower might have been a little excessive. But I suppose that as long as the end is achieved, the means suffice.”

The meeting begins. Aglaea flashes the reports generated by the combat analysts and the K-Science department overnight — did they even sleep? — on the many screens, begins to go through each one. The other rangers fall silent as they listen, eyes fixed intently on the numbers on charts. It’s the most serious you’ve ever seen them, you think. Even the twins have stopped cracking their usual ridiculous jokes, serious expressions mirrored on each others’ faces.

They replay the fights, footage taken from the choppers. The kaiju that Caelus had referred to as a concussed bull ends up being more difficult than he’d led you to believe. You watch with bated breath as Trailblazer baits the rampaging, snarling beast like a matador in a bull ring, dodging dangerously at the last second while Akivili rains down a barrage of shots from the distance. The dense cartilage around its head lets it shrug off the standard plasmacaster shots like they’re pesky mosquitoes.

It’s only brought down twenty minutes later, when Akivili finally manages to charge up its speciality — the Vidyadhara DF plasma railgun mounted on its right arm. The Cloud Piercing round snipes it from behind, superheated ionised gas biting through the kaiju’s leathery hide and severing its spinal column. But for one terrifying, suspended second, the monster remains upright.

Before it finally collapses into the ocean.

And when it falls, it sends up a wave, rippling outward in every direction. You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been keeping in.

“Showboating bastards,” Mydei mutters under his breath, but there’s grudging respect in his tone. March just grins, makes a little finger gun that she fires at him.

“Pew.”

They play yours next. You feel strangely nervous, hyperaware of every pair of eyes on your fight as Khaslana and Nikador take on the kaiju. But there’s nothing to criticise — every move both Jaegers make is perfectly executed. You can see the echo of Kephale in the way Khaslana fights, each defensive action flowing into an offensive one flowing into something else. Not a single movement wasted.

“Some selected clips have been released to the public,” Aglaea nods at you, after you watch the kaiju’s deformed head hit the water, still smoking from your plasmacaster. Her lips quirk in what might pass for approval. “That killing shot went viral on the World Wound Web last night.”

Caelus looks impressed. “Above the cat videos category? Now that’s saying something.” Castorice flashes you a small smile and a thumbs up.

“Public perception has skyrocketed too, after the announcement that Phainon is returning to active duty.” Aglaea looks back at the screen, smiles a little to herself as she scrolls through the social media reports. Looks like her gamble paid off, after all. “Turns out that the world still believes in heroes.”

You turn to glance at Phainon, only to see that he’s already looking at you. His lips twitch a little when your eyes meet. “Hero,” he mouths silently, just for you. You shake your head, turn away before your cheeks can grow too warm. He’s the hero here, not you.

Stelle slumps back in her chair with a sigh. “What are we, just chopped-up pieces of kaiju gall bladder?”

Anaxa's head snaps up from his datapad so fast his glasses slide down his nose. “Kaiju don't have gall bladders,” he corrects.

“What?” Stelle scowls. “Where do they store their poop, then?”

“Poop isn’t stored in the gall bladder.” Anaxa’s expression twists in scientific annoyance. “That’s not — that’s not how any of this works!”

“But all animals need to shit—”

Caelus leans over to whisper loudly in Dan Heng’s ear. “I give it thirty seconds before he throws a fit. Or maybe a chair.”

The dark haired ranger shrugs. “Twenty.”

Aglaea’s hand comes down onto the table before the two of them can get into a fistfight. “Anaxa,” her voice could ice over the Breach. “Jaeger status report. Now.”

“Anaxagoras.” The professor shoots Stelle a final look as he rises. He steps in front of the displays, tugs at the sleeves of his lab coat before he speaks. “Well, I have some bad news. Nikador’s going to be out of commission for a while so that we can do repairs on its chest plating. Means we’ll be down a Jaeger for the next couple of weeks or so.”

Mydei exhales through his nose, a look of glum resignation on his face. Castorice raises a hand. “The corrosive?” she asks, softly.

“Acidic in nature. We’re looking at replacing the plating with a tungsten-carbide corrosion resistant alloy. Since Nikador is designed for close combat, we’ll work on all of the torso’s armour as well. It’ll be…” He snaps his fingers, as though running mental calculations on the spot, gives up after a few seconds. “Well, it’ll be expensive.”

His expression looks just a tad too pleased when he says that.

Aglaea just lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “When is it never…” she mutters to herself.

Professor Anaxa runs through a whole bunch of other upgrades he has planned for Trailblazer and Akivili (which makes sense, because they are still Mark-2s despite also being technological marvels). Replacing the pneumatic joints, upgrading the reactor core… with each word he speaks, you think you can see Aglaea’s shoulders sag with the weight of the Shatterdome’s unlimited budget works.

You find yourself glancing at Phainon, calculating the PPDC's financial crisis versus the untapped market of his stupidly photogenic face. Maybe Aglaea should start selling shirtless calendars of him and Mydei, like the fire stations do of firefighters. Or, if you wanted to be a little less ethical, commemorative jars of Shatterdome bathwater. “Limited Edition: Contains Actual Kaiju-Blue Residue!” the ads would say. People would pay stupid money for that.

You don’t realise that you’re staring a little too hard until Phainon’s brows lift, and he leans in closer. “Looking at something?” he hums, voice low and slightly teasing. You jerk away.

“Nope.”

At the end of it, Aglaea rises to her feet, chair scraping on the floor as she stands. “Well, if there’s nothing else, then this meeting is adjourned,” the General announces. “Anaxa, we’ll have further discussions about the planned upgrades in my office.” The scientist makes a face. “And as for you, Phainon,” her eyes narrow as she looks at him. “Actual rest. Not whatever you consider ‘light activity’, understood? Or I'll bench you until the Breach collapses on its own.”

There’s almost a maternal sternness in her voice when she speaks to him. Phainon’s lips lift in a fond, almost defeated smile as he salutes.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The ocean wind carries with it the scent of salt and rust as you dangle your feet over the abyss. You can’t really see the waves — everything down there is just dark, black water churning. Only the occasional flashes of moonlight on the shifting crests betray the dangerous currents beneath. If you fell in, you think you’d vanish without a sound.

So, you’re glad that you don’t startle this time when Phainon drops next to you on the maintenance ledge. “Same place? It’s like you’re not even trying to hide anymore,” he comments, letting his legs swing out over the open water. Your knees bump into each other with every forward arc, but neither of you move away.

“I was never trying to hide. Besides, what’s the point? You’d find me anyway,” you shake your head, and he just smiles. I would. Your finger jabs at the once rusted railing. “Are you the one responsible for this?”

“Well, I’m a man of my word.”

You let out an exaggerated groan. “But now it’s no fun sitting here,” you lament, heels kicking at the empty air where danger used to live. “Where’s the thrill?”

“Thrill?” Phainon repeats after you, before he lets out a laugh, the sound rolling over the open water. “Apologies, I didn’t know that fighting a giant alien monster wasn’t thrilling enough. But,” he reaches to the side, sets something between you with a heavy clink, “now that the railing’s fixed, we can have this here safely.” He pauses. “Well, in comparative safety, at least.”

You frown, leaning over to inspect it and your eyes widen. The label on that glass proclaims it as some obscenely aged single malt — the kind that Lygus only cracks (sorry, cracked) open after certain successful high stakes operations, and the man had been stingier than a dragon hoarding gold. You can count the number of times you’ve tasted this stuff on one hand.

“No way,” you gasp, pick up the bottle to swish it a little. The amber liquid inside glides, catching the lights like gold. Doesn't look like a dupe… “Wow, I never realised that you were a big boy until now, Phainon!”

He snorts as he bends over to uncork the bottle with his teeth. “Look, just because I’m a year younger than you doesn’t mean I’m always—” he grunts, twists the cap off with a satisfied grin, “—going to be a kid, you know.” The scent of aged whiskey fills the small space between you, and Phainon lets out a little cough.

You laugh at that. “Could have fooled me,” you tease, accepting the bottle when he hands it back to you. “Same guy who used to scream at the sight of hermit crabs.” He shoots you an injured look.

“They pinch!”

“They’re just little guys searching for homes…” You shake your head fondly, before you glance down at the opened bottle. “So, what’s the big occasion?”

“There’s ten minutes left till the end of your countdown,” Phainon says, and your eyes widen, glancing at the watch on your wrist. 23:50. Sure enough, it’s ten minutes to midnight. Ten minutes until the new week. Ten minutes until when you’d thought the world would end for you, just a few days ago. The realisation must show on your face because Phainon’s expression does that complicated thing it does whenever he’s torn between smugness and concern. “Wow. I thought that it’d be something that would be on your mind. Guess not, huh?”

You’re a little surprised by it yourself, to be honest. But then again, you’d been more concerned about other things last night — such as Phainon disappearing from the Shatterdome, Phainon almost getting himself killed to take out the man responsible for said countdown, and Phainon returning with a knife wound in his side. Your mind had little space for anything else. “You said you’d take care of it.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You have that much faith in me, huh?” The playful grin on his face doesn’t quite hide how much the question matters to him.

“Mm.” You turn toward the ocean instead of answering directly, letting the salty wind fill the silence. He’s been in your head. Does he really need you to say it out loud? “Well, anyways, that isn't something really worth celebrating, is it?”

Phainon blinks, finger stilling where it’s been thumbing restlessly over the bottle’s label. “The death of the man who did all those terrible things to you isn’t big enough to celebrate?” He questions, brows pulling into a frown. His voice has gone dangerously soft, and there’s a bite to his words that almost makes you flinch until you realise that it isn’t aimed at you. Oh. For the first time you think you might be seeing the depth of the hatred he has for the man who hurt you.

You think it might just outweigh your own.

“Did I not make him suffer enough?” He tries to disguise the last part as a joke, but his voice wavers slightly on the question, the carefully constructed levity crumbling at the edges. “Did you want to do it yourself?”

Does he think that he’s stolen your revenge from you, somehow? You reach out, wrap your fingers around Phainon’s. The anxious tapping stills.

“I don’t… care how he died, actually.” The admission of the truth is softer than you expect. “I never thought of taking revenge on him. Or even about killing him, to be honest.” Your whole life Lygus had just been there, there, there, like the smell of blood that you could never fully scrub from your skin, the shadow that had clung to your heels to matter where you’d run. “He was just so big in my mind, you know? It felt like I would never be free of him.”

Phainon’s grip tightens imperceptibly around yours, his thumb pressing into the pulse point of your wrist. You can feel the tension in him, coiled and sharp, almost like he’s ready to burn the world down for your sake.

But he doesn’t have to. He’s already done so much more than that.

“But you reminded me he was just a man.” You exhale lightly, give Phainon a small smile. “So… thank you, Phainon.”

Silence stretches between you, filled only by the distant crash of waves against the Shatterdome’s pylons. Then, slowly, his fingers relax, his grip shifting from something fierce to something tender.

“Wow.” He pouts, after a while, to lighten the mood. “Is this your way of saying I risked court martial for nothing?”

You swat at him, releasing his hand. “Don’t be silly.” But you laugh anyway.

Phainon’s fingers drum against the whiskey bottle, the glass humming faintly under his touch. The ocean wind tousles his hair, silvered by moonlight.

“If we don’t toast to that,” he muses, “then we’ll have to think of something else.” His thumb swipes absentmindedly over the label, smudging the condensation there. “How about your first successful kaiju kill?”

You hum noncommittally, watching his brows knit together in thought.

“Your shiny new ranger status?”

You shake your head at that, too. The titles, the kills — none of it feels like something worth celebrating. You’re about to suggest that he just drink so that you can just have a taste of the good whiskey when Phainon’s voice suddenly drops to something soft.

“Then,” he suggests, not looking up at you, “how about us?”

The way he says it makes something waver in you — like it’s something fragile, something precious. “Us?” you repeat, not quite understanding. He nods.

“Meeting you like this. Finding you again.” When you meet his eyes, they're full of something that makes your chest ache — wonder, maybe, or the quiet disbelief of a man who's been given back something he thought lost forever. “Felt like a dream at first. Sometimes it still does.” He exhales, smile rough at the edges. “Not too long ago, I really thought that you’d hate me forever.”

Something in you feels desperate to banish that thought from his mind so that it never returns. “I never hated you,” you say insistently. Gods, you really want to just… punch your past self now, to some extent. “Not even once. You know that, right? You’ve been in my head.”

Phainon pauses. For a moment, he just looks at you — really looks at you — like he’s rewriting the lies you’d told him for the last four years with this moment. “Yeah,” he murmurs, after a while. “But it still makes me happy, hearing it from your mouth.” He holds out the bottle to you with a smile. “It’s midnight, now.” His eyes are soft. “Cheers.”

You take it from him. “We don’t even have cups to toast with, silly.”

“Oh, right…”

The whiskey leaves a pleasant burn in your throat, smoky warmth settling in your chest like the embers of a fire. That’s some good stuff, you think appreciatively. Phainon’s reaction, however, couldn’t be more different — he sputters after his first sip, nose wrinkling in distaste before he coughs — all while still looking unfairly handsome silhouetted against the Shatterdome’s lights.

“Not a drinker?” you ask, laughing as his expression twists. “I thought the military specialised in turning people into smokers or drinkers. Numbing the pain and all that.”

You’d meant it as a joke, but Phainon just snorts, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I mean, I did think about it, when I first joined.” The admission takes you by surprise. “Spent years just… furious you were gone. Cyrene was never really able to talk me out of it.” He takes another swig, this time without coughing, though you still catch the way his face scrunches up slightly. “But it didn’t seem right to drown that. Not when it was all I had left of you.”

Your breath catches. You watch the way the moonlight fractures against his eyelashes each time he blinks and imagine a much younger Phainon — all sharp edges and jagged grief, wearing his rage like armour. You want to reach across the years and hold that boy who missed you so terribly that it turned to fury. But time has already passed you by, and you will never be able to do anything for that pained and lonely child.

What you do have, though, is the Phainon in front of you right now.

“I got it. Let’s play a drinking game.” You clap your hands together, turn to Phainon. It’s a few years too late for teenage drunken antics and stealing alcohol from one of your parents’ kitchen cabinets, but you can still have this, at least. “Truth or dare.”

Phainon blinks at your suggestion, raising an eyebrow. “How does that work?”

“Simple,” you say, grinning. “You pick truth, and you answer whatever I ask honestly. Or you pick dare, and do whatever I say. And if you refuse either…” You tap the bottle. “You drink.”

Phainon considers this, tilting his head like he’s weighing the risks. Then, with a shrug, he sets the bottle down between you. “Fine. Truth, then.”

You seize the opportunity with merciless glee. “Did you cry when Hyacine stabbed you with that needle this morning?” you ask, just a tad bit too smug. Phainon gapes, horrified at your sudden display of cruelty.

“You can’t do this to me!” His protest echoes off the gantry below.

“Answer or drink,” you sing-song, tapping the bottle.

He glares at you hotly. You watch, delighted, as conflicting emotions war across his face — pride battling honesty until he finally admits, through gritted teeth. “It stung a little bit. Maybe… there were… tears.”

“Aww, you’re really still just a big baby,” you coo, reaching out to pat his cheek and Phainon grumbles, skin warm and flushed under your fingers. The alcohol must already be getting to him. “Alright, alright. Truth for me, too.”

He asks you what your favourite Jaeger is, and his eyes go wide with horrified betrayal when you name the Xianzhou Luofu’s Lightning-Wielding Thunder-Clapping Spirit-Squashing Lord. Everything that follows is just a subsequent descent into absurdity. You dare him to do his worst Aglaea impression (which makes him turn around and do a quick check for surveillance cameras), he asks if you still cry at terrible rom-coms (you choose to drink), and you make him confess a secret that he’s been hiding from Mydei (“I stole the last protein bar in his locker, please don’t tell him, he will actually kill me.”)

The whiskey burns lower in the bottle with each round, until Phainon’s laughter comes easier and more unrestrained, his shoulder pressed against yours. And then—

“Truth…” His voice softens as he presses his lips together, brows furrowing in earnest consideration this time. The ocean seems to hold its breath with you as he finally settles on his question. “What reminded you of me, during the time we were separated?”

You blink, not expecting such a question. But the answer comes to you easily, without thinking. “Everything.”

Phainon’s nose scrunches in that familiar way when he wants to pout. “That’s a cheat answer,” he insists, kicking your ankle lightly. “Be more specific.”

You watch a wave far below collapse against the Shatterdome’s pylons, white foam dissolving into darkness. “But it’s the truth.” You think of it for a while. Maybe it would have been easier to ask what hadn’t reminded you of him. When people laughed in the markets, you looked for him. When children cried after scraping their knees, you remembered him. You’d think of him when the sun was warm. And you'd think of him when you looked at the sea and looked at the sky.

But the thought of saying any of that out loud leaves a little knot in your throat. “Of course, I thought of you whenever I saw the elderly. They have the same white hair as you, you know.” You keep your voice light as you reach over to ruffle his hair. “You know, I think I lost count of the number of times that I thought I ran into you, only to realise it was an eighty year old grandpa.”

Phainon makes a noise of complaint. “I do not look like an old man,” he protests, looking like he wants to pout. “Hmm. Truth.”

Your mouth twitches with mischief. ��Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

You knew that it would embarrass Phainon — that’s why you’d chosen this question, after all — but you hadn’t been expecting this dramatic of a reaction. The effect is instantaneous. A flush erupts across Phainon’s face, spreading from his cheeks down to his collarbones, and his mouth — usually so quick with retorts — opens and closes like a stranded fish, before he grabs the whiskey. His adam’s apple bobs hard as the alcohol slides down his throat.

But the avoidance is as good as an admission. “Wait, seriously?” Your words come out half-laugh, half-disbelief, completely incredulous. “There’s no way.”

Phainon’s fingers fly to the sun tattoo on the side of his neck, rubbing at the ink there. “Why’s it so surprising?” he mumbles, suddenly looking both very awkward and shy. It’s endearing. “I didn’t go putting my mouth on just anyone.”

“That’s not even close to what I meant.” You lean forward, unable to resist pressing further. “I’m serious — it doesn’t even have to be a french kiss or anything. Not even a little peck.”

“No,” he insists, somewhat stubbornly now. The colour of his cheeks have deepened to match the Shatterdome’s emergency lights. “Seriously, why is it so surprising to you?”

Has this man never looked in a mirror? You gesture at him with one hand — the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his shirt stretches across shoulders broadened by years of military training, those unfairly long lashes that practically sweep across his cheeks. You’re a little incredulous. “I mean, it’s just unexpected, that’s all. Since you’re—” your hands freeze mid-wave as realisation hits, “h—”

You catch yourself just in time, closing your mouth around the word before it can escape. But Phainon’s head snaps up like a predator catching scent, all traces of embarrassment gone as a sly grin curves on his lips.

Oh god. This is dangerous territory.

“So you think I’m hot?” The way his voice curls around the word sends an unexpected shiver down your spine.

You’re never drinking again after this. “I never said that.” You inch back, determined to maintain some semblance of dignity. You and your stupid mouth! “And I didn’t pick truth, thank you. No questions from you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So, you’re picking dare?”

“Yes, dare.”

Phainon’s grin burns brighter than a Jaeger’s reactor, something that makes you realise that you’re about to regret your decision. He leans in, slow and unhurried in a way that makes your heart tremble wildly in its cage, until you can count the individual flecks of blue in his irises, until his breath ghosts warm across your lips.

“Then I dare you,” he murmurs, voice dropping to that low, private register you’ve never heard him use around anyone else, “to say that I’m hot.”

You can’t tell whether that’s just as bad or worse. Your mouth falls open. “Are you seriously that desperate to hear—”

“I’m waiting,” he coaxes.

The groan you let out is half-hearted at best. “And I’m starting to not like this game.” He just continues to stare at you, one eyebrow raised expectantly, and you roll your eyes. “Fine,” you mutter, dragging the word out like it’s a surrender. “You’re… marginally attractive. Sometimes. When the lighting’s bad.”

Lies. So much lying.

Phainon’s laugh is a dangerous thing, vibrating through the not enough space between you. You think you feel it in your bones. “Only marginally?” His knee bumps yours, insistent. “Say it properly.”

“Ugh. You’re—” You huff, glaring at him, “—objectively hot. Happy now?”

His breath hitches — just slightly — as he leans in closer. Moonlight catches the silver strands of his hair, the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his gaze flicks briefly to your mouth before darting back up. “Objectively, huh?”

The words are playful, but his voice has gone rough at the edges. His thumb brushes your wrist where it rests on the railing, a fleeting touch that lingers just a second too long to be casual. But he doesn’t let go.

Your pulse jumps under the pad of his thumb. You shift back instinctively, mouth dry—

Crash.

The whiskey bottle tips, rolling off the ledge in what feels like slow motion. You both lunge for it, fingers brushing, but it’s too late. The sound of shattering glass echoes up from the darkness below, followed by a distant, irritated shout. “What the hell—?!”

Silence.

Then Phainon bursts into laughter, loud and unguarded, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder. “Smooth,” he wheezes.

“Shit,” you try to lean over the railing to see where it’s fallen, but can’t make out much so far below. You turn to smack Phainon on the shoulder. That just makes him burst into another round of laughter, eyes crinkling. “This is your fault! If you hadn’t been teasing—”

“Sorry, sorry.” Phainon straightens, wiping mirthful tears from his eyes as he gets to his feet. “C’mon.” He offers you a hand. “Before someone reports us for killer litter.”

His palm is warm against yours. And long after the two of you have left the maintenance ledge, you still find yourself staring at where his thumb had been on your wrist, the ghost of his touch burning brighter than the haze of the alcohol.

Oh no.

Phainon is good at many things, but sitting still is not one of them.

When he’d been a child, he’d spent most of his time playing with you and Cyrene by the sea, chasing kites and fighting the crabs that had gotten too close to your sandcastles. And after he’d become a ranger, his days had been packed with training, bothering Mydei, reviewing Jaeger specs, occasionally lending an arm to the J-Techs and bothering Mydei some more.

But now, after being confined to recovery, Aglaea and Hyacine have strictly forbidden him from doing anything even remotely strenuous — in their opinion, at least. Unfortunately, for Phainon, their definition of “strenuous” is much different from his own, and it includes even light sparring, much to his dismay.

So when you ask him how you should continue training, with his injury, he suggests that you partner up with Mydei instead.

He’s the best fighter I know, Phainon had said simply, when you’d asked why. No one will be able to teach you better than he can. Then he’d grinned from where he’d been lying in bed next to you, his own bunk upstairs untouched. Except for me, of course.

That’s what he’d said. But now, watching from the sidelines, he seems to be regretting the suggestion.

“This is so boring,” Phainon grouses. He’s draped over a medicine ball outside the ring like a limp starfish, chin propped up in his hand as he watches you and Mydei circle each other in the sparring ring. “I could take you with one arm tied behind my back, Mydei.”

The soldier just rolls his eyes as he adjusts the wraps around his wrists. Mydei spars shirtless — a habit that you had to get used to but aren’t really complaining about. “You’d pop your stitches the second you sneezed, you idiot HKS.”

Phainon just pouts.

The two of you begin the spar. Phainon taught you with the staff, as is standard for the PPDC curriculum, but Mydei prefers hand-to-hand combat — MMA with a greater focus on boxing, specifically. The first time you’d clashed fists, you’d quickly been able to tell that he’s been professionally trained, and that he’s not just skilled. He’s good. Has that fighter’s instinct that only those who’ve been in real, bloody scuffles have developed.

It’s different from fighting Phainon. Your drift partner is precision incarnate — every movement calculated, every strike textbook efficient, not a single inch of wasted movement. But with Mydei it's like pushing back a storm — controlled fury, heavy strikes, aggressive but deliberate footwork. There’s a raw power behind each swing that makes your arms tremble with each hit, but he never pushes beyond what you can handle.

And despite his intensity, he teaches with surprising patience.

“Again,” Mydei says, stepping back and gesturing for you to reset. You exhale, roll your shoulders, and settle into the stance that he’d taught you a few minutes ago. But before you can move, his hands are on you — large and firm — gripping your shoulders as he adjusts your posture.

“You’re leaning too far forward,” he mutters, nudging your calf with his foot. His voice is all business, no-nonsense. “You’ll lose balance if you overcommit that way. Stay centered.”

“Yes sir,” you nod, adjusting, but before you can confirm with your instructor about your new stance—

“Cough, cough.”

You and Mydei both glance over at the same time. Phainon, who’d been explicitly instructed by you to sit still and rest, has dragged his ball over a little too close to the sparring ring for comfort. He’s still pouting, but those usually bright blue eyes are narrowed ever so slightly. You squint. Not in pain, but something that looks more like… irritation?

You’re mildly confused. Is it because he’d rather be in your position, sparring Mydei instead? He’s been restless the last few days. More whiny and clingy too, now that you think about it.

“Sorry,” Phainon says, dripping with faux innocence. “Healing injury. Currently very fragile. I get sudden coughing fits.” Then he coughs, for good measure, eyeing Mydei very, very deliberately.

Mydei doesn’t even glance his way as he drops the hand from your shoulder. “Again,” he mutters with a roll of his eyes, tone leaving no room for comment.

The scene repeats itself twice more — you reset your stance, Mydei corrects your form, and Phainon interjects with increasingly dramatic interruptions. Your sparring partner’s jaw clenches so tight you can practically hear his molars grinding where you stand.

Finally, you decide to step in, laughter bubbling up despite yourself. “Oh my god, Phainon, behave,” you chide, shaking your head. You think Mydei might actually throttle him if he interrupts him one more time. “I’ll give you a treat if you do.”

You’d meant that as a joke. Mostly.

But Phainon snaps to attention so fast he almost topples off the ball. “A treat?”

Mydei exhales through his nose with the resignation of a man who’s endured far too much of this nonsense. “You don’t have to put up with this, you know.”

“You’re just jealous.” Phainon sing-songs, already looking far too pleased with himself. He shoots you a grin. “So. About that treat?”

He’s taking this way too seriously. “Behave first,” you say, fighting back an incredulous smile. You’re going to get diabetes if he keeps acting like this. Seriously, it’s like looking at a giant puppy. If Phainon had a tail, it would probably be wagging furiously behind him. “Treat later.”

“This has got to count as a kink or something…” Mydei mutters under his breath. You elect to ignore him for the sake of your remaining sanity.

Phainon makes a big show of considering this, tapping one finger against his lips before sighing. “Fine,” he concedes, though the glint in his eyes suggests this temporary compliance comes with strings attached. He settles back, stretching his long legs out before him, eyes fixed on you. “But I’ll hold you to that.”

“I—”

“Stop flirting in front of me,” Mydei says loudly. He glances at the ceiling as he does, as though praying for some sort of divine intervention.

“We are not flirting,” you retort desperately, and before he can say anything else, throw a punch at him.

With Phainon’s theatrics momentarily contained, you and Mydei finally resume your sparring in relative peace. The rhythm of combat returns — the sharp moves, the solid blocks, the smooth slide of feet across the mat.

Your co-pilot watches the two of you with the intensity of a hawk. He’s suspiciously well behaved now, but you catch the way his fingers drum restlessly against his thigh, the occasional quiet huff when Mydei adjusts your posture. But he says nothing, at least for now.

As the session winds down, Mydei steps back and nods in approval. “Better,” he acknowledges, wiping sweat from his brow. The approval makes you smile — he’s a hard one to please, you’ve learned. “Just need to pay more attention to your footwork.” He holds your gaze for a moment before it flicks behind you, mouth twisting in the barest hint of amusement as he shakes his head. “Though it looks like you were more focused than the rest of us were.”

“Just memorising all your moves,” Phainon grins as he drapes himself casually over the ropes. There’s a spark in his eyes as he pops his knuckles. “I’m going to beat your ass the next time we spar.”

Mydei just snorts, shrugging on his shirt as he eyes the man with what looks like a mixture between amusement and exasperation. “I’m looking forward to that,” he calls over his shoulder, challenge clear in his voice as he leaves the combat room. The door clicks shut behind him.

Silence settles over the room. You busy yourself gathering your gear, undoing the wraps around your own hands. They come off in quick, practiced motions—

— right before you flick Phainon squarely between the eyebrows.

He staggers back a step, clearly not expecting that from you. “Ow!” He whines, blue eyes going comically wounded as he rubs at it with exaggerated hurt. “What was that for?”

“For misbehaving,” you scold, although you have to bite your lip to stop the amused smile from breaking through. “You were the one who suggested I spar with Mydei. Why were you being so disruptive?”

You’d chalked it up to him being restless, so you’re surprised when he does give you an answer. Phainon makes a face, eyes shifting to the side as he does. “He was shirtless,” he mutters, as if that explains everything.

It explains nothing. “Yeah?” You raise an eyebrow, utterly baffled by your co-pilot’s hypocrisy. It’s staggering. “You prance around the room shirtless all the time when you get out of the shower.” The recent development has been nothing short of biological warfare — the double standards on this man! “And you come out in nothing but a towel, sometimes!”

“Exactly,” Phainon grumbles. He’s looking… annoyed now, for some reason. “So why do you look at him when he’s shirtless, but not me?”

Your pulse stutters. The answer is simple: Mydei could be chiseled by the gods themselves and it wouldn’t matter, because looking at him doesn't make your palms sweat or your mouth go dry. But just a glance at Phainon — shirt or no shirt or unbuttoned shirt or towel — makes your brain want to fall out of your skull.

You can’t tell him that, though, so you contemplate saying that it’s because Mydei has a nice physique (not a lie, after all). Your mouth is halfway open when you see the look on his face and it dies instantly on your lips. Something tells you it would not be a good idea.

“Oh gosh…” You force a laugh, reaching forward to poke at his cheek. Deflection, always the default option. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say you were acting like a jealous partner, hm?”

Phainon’s expression twists into something between a pout and a grimace at your words. You snort a little at his dramatics and start to pull away — only for his hand to snap up with lightning quick reflexes, capturing yours before it can escape.

Then, without warning, he presses your palm flush against his cheek.

“But you are, aren’t you?” His skin burns beneath your touch, lips almost grazing your pulse point. His eyes, usually so easygoing, have gone startlingly intense. Your breath hitches. What? “You're my drift partner.”

Oh. So that’s what he meant.

“Silly.” You shake your head, fighting down the strange feeling of disappointment welling up in you. Instead, you let out a little laugh and bop him on the nose with your other hand. It does nothing to calm the storm surging in your chest. “I’m not about to go skipping off into Nikador together with Mydei just because he’s shirtless.”

“Had to make sure.” Phainon shrugs, nonchalant. His eyes dart towards the door that Mydei just left through. “I’ll take off my shirt more often, just in case.”

He’s joking… right? “Come on,” you say with a roll of your eyes, barely holding back your laugh. “Let’s go.”

Phainon doesn’t release your hand as the two of you walk towards the exit together. Instead, his grip only tightens — and just for one moment, you let yourself imagine it means something more.

The mini-projector was meant to be a surprise, but it doubles well enough as a treat for good behaviour, you suppose. You’d bought it on impulse a few weeks ago, with some of that pro-rated ranger salary that Aglaea had finally paid you. It’d been a little expensive — the convenience of not having to travel to town to pick things up — but when Phainon’s face lights up upon seeing it, you decide that it was money well spent.

“Movie night?” you suggest. He’s been restless the last few days — the forced recovery is clearly chafing at his desire to just do something and be useful. He’s never been able to sit still for long, ever since he was a boy. So, you’d thought it’d be nice to take his mind off things with this — a movie sleepover.

You used to do them with Phainon and Cyrene all the time when you were younger, except now it’s not really a sleepover anymore, considering you and Phainon share the room. And the bed, too, if you’re being honest with yourself. “I have a thumbdrive of kaiju movies that I pirated off the internet.”

Phainon’s lip curls in that particular way that means he’s trying not to smile. “I’m a civil servant, though?” he says with mock reluctance, though his blue eyes are dancing with mischief. You snort a little and decide to play along.

“Oh, my deepest apologies. I had no idea you were such a law-abiding citizen.” You pull back your projector with feigned remorse. “Let me just—” Phainon grabs it before you can so much as take a step back. He’s grinning like a boy again, eyes alight.

The two of you split up the work: you set up the projector and he builds a blanket fort in the lower bunk, out of the military issue blankets and spare bedsheets. Somehow, despite the lack of resources, he manages to make this work — when you turn around again, your bunk bed has transformed into a cozy little nook complete with curtains made out of a spare bedsheet and a blanket.

You fish out a bag of chips from your snack stash under the bed and the two of you climb onto the bed, settling shoulder to shoulder as the movie begins to play. It’s by all standards an awful film — it was made even before the Breach had ever opened, and the so-called kaiju is clearly three men in a rubber suit. The special effects are looped over and over again to save budget on animations, pixelated fireballs appearing at increasingly improbable angles. At some point, you swear you see a staff member’s shoe in the corner of the shot.

Yet when the kaiju trips over its own tail for the third time, Phainon’s laughter erupts like sunlight breaking through storm clouds — unrestrained and impossibly warm. His shoulder shakes against yours, and he throws a chip at the screen when the protagonist somehow defeats the monster with a— is that a glitter katana?

“Technical inaccuracy,” Phainon tries to complain seriously, but his voice is still rough from laughing. “Even a Cat I would require at least a plasmacaster to take down…”

You snort, letting your head drop against his shoulder. “Gotta allow for some artistic liberties, Phai…” They’d zoomed in and out on some of the shots so many times that you’re feeling slightly nauseous.

The two of you lose track of time between terrible monster movies. Four hours slip by in a haze of pixelated explosions and Phainon’s running commentary — his impressions of the overdramatic narrator growing increasingly ridiculous until you’re both clutching your sides.

“Oh god,” you wipe the tears from your eyes as the credits on the last movie roll. “Did you see that?”

The projector casts blue light across Phainon’s face, still flushed with laughter. “The railgun looked like someone animated it in MS Paint,” he snickers, leaning back and using the motion as an excuse to tug the shared blanket tighter around both of you.

Ten minutes into the second movie, he’d insisted that he was getting cold — which was a ridiculous statement, considering how warm his body ran — and put the blanket around both of you like this. It’d been a little too small to fit both of you, forcing you to press against him so that the corner wouldn’t slip from your shoulder, but Phainon had stopped you before you could fetch another.

The other blanket’s making up the curtain, he’d said quickly, pulling you back down when you’d started looking around. Don’t tear down the fort I worked so hard to build!

Now, a comfortable silence settles between you, filled only by the projector's quiet hum and the sound of the Shatterdome’s night crew working somewhere in the distance. Then, he smiles, tilting his head so that it rests on your shoulder. “Thanks for this,” he says softly.

“No problem,” you murmur in response, fighting back a yawn. This specific combination of comfort and warmth is dangerously soporific. “I’m kinda sleepy.”

“It’s late, we should rest,” Phainon agrees. But neither of you move, both pretending not to notice how the other remains stubbornly in place. The silence stretches, comfortable and strange all at once.

Finally, Phainon breaks it first. “Y’know,” he says, voice deliberately bright. “I’ve got some stuff to watch, too.” You raise an eyebrow, and he grins. “Someone put meme music over some of the kaiju fights. You know the Cocolia fight?” You nod. “They edited Hope Is The Thing With Feathers into the video when Trailblazer slipped.”

You snort at that. “Alright, alright. But after that, we’re going straight to sleep.”

“Right,” he agrees solemnly, crossing his heart with one hand — the other remains firmly trapped beneath the blanket, his thigh warm against yours. “Thumbdrive’s in the cupboard, bottom shelf.” He gives you an expectant look.

You eye him skeptically. "You know, you could just get it yourself."

The pout Phainon gives you is Oscar-worthy, complete with a dramatic clutch at his bandaged side. “I’m injured, remember?” he sighs, flopping back against the pillows. “I would if I could, but Hyacine said no strenuous activity. Alas, it is the doctor’s orders.”

This drama queen… You shake your head as you cross the short distance to the cupboard. The metal door creaks as you pull it open, revealing the organised chaos inside — rolled up socks, a seashell from the day the two of you had gone to the beach together, and a half eaten bag of chimera cookies. You rifle through the bottom shelf, searching for the thumbdrive, when your fingers suddenly brush against something plastic and cylindrical.

Frowning, you pull it out. The orange prescription bottle stands out starkly against the drab greens of his uniforms — the date printed on the label indicates that this was dispensed about a month ago. You turn it over slowly in your hands, throat suddenly tight. The thought of him lying awake at night, unable to find solace even in sleep, settles like lead in your stomach.

When you hold them up to Phainon wordlessly, his eyes soften. “Ah, yeah. Those.”

But he’s been sleeping well. Too well, actually — you would know since he’s been curled around you every night since the two of you had returned from that kaiju fight. Teddy bear duty, Phainon had called it with a laugh. You’d chalked it up to some lingering anxiety that you might disappear, hadn’t really questioned it. Now you wish you had.

“You’ve been having trouble sleeping?”

He just shrugs, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “Not for a while now.” You don’t like how casual he’s being about this.

“How long?”

His lips press together for an almost imperceptible second, before he exhales. “After Cyrene died… just some nightmares.”

You crawl back into the bed, arm pressed against his as you sit next to him. “What about?” you press, softly.

Phainon’s smile is a quiet thing — the edges softened like well-worn leather, not quite reaching his eyes. “Just the usual. The day the kaiju destroyed our hometown. I think I dreamed of a thousand different ways you might have died.” His thumb traces absent circles on your palm. “And sometimes, if my brain really wants to make me suffer…” he lets out a little chuckle, as though he’s letting you be privy to some sort of inside joke. “I dream of all the ways I could have saved Cyrene. Maybe if I were just a little faster. Or just a little bit smarter…” he breaks off, just shrugs.

Maybe things would have been different, goes unsaid.

His expression stays calm, but his hand reaches for yours, lacing his fingers with yours. “Don’t worry. Won’t let the same thing happen this time,” he jokes, but the projector’s flickering light catches what he can’t hide — the dilation of his pupils, the way his throat works as he swallows hard. “We have the power of friendship on our side, don’t we?”

I won’t let you die. I won’t let you die. I can’t let you die.

“Of course. We’re a whole eighty-six percent.” You nudge his shoulder. “I’ll even get the professor to install a giant pink glitter katana for Khaslana.”

Phainon tries and fails to stop the snort that escapes him. “We’d slay any kaiju in our path.”

Even as you laugh along with him, the realisation settles over you: all those reassuring pulses through the drift, the steady stream of you've got this and I'm right here during battle — maybe they'd never been just for you.

Maybe this whole time, the one he’d been reassuring inside the drift had been himself.

The emergency summons crackle through the Shatterdome’s PA system with an unusual urgency. You’re all in the mess hall when it happens, but the alert isn’t what you’re used to — there’s no kaiju attack, no Breach signatures detected. Just a request, for all rangers active and inactive, to report to the War Room immediately.

Hushed murmurs pass between the rangers as they take their seats in the meeting room. It’s not the standard debrief, and there’s a strange grimness hanging in the air, probably from the terse expressions on the General’s and Anaxa’s faces.

“We have good news and bad news,” Anaxa announces, the second everyone’s taken a seat. You barely have time to exchange glances with Phainon before he continues. “The good news is that the Breach is probably collapsing. The bad news is that we will probably all die before then.”

The General holds up a hand before March and Stelle can open their mouths. “Please elaborate, Professor,” she mutters, looking more… tired than annoyed, actually. That’s not a good sign. “In the order that we discussed the matter, please.”

The professor rolls his eyes, but fiddles with the device in his hands. The displays on the wall switch on, showing several photos taken of the Breach. You press your lips together when you see it — a open wound torn into the seabed of the Pacific Ocean, ugly and jagged. A traversable wormhole, they call it, a path to another world. All the time they’d been searching for alien life beyond the stars, only to find them right beneath our feet… “Exotic matter readings are fluctuating strangely. We think the Breach might be on the verge of a collapse.”

Every ranger in the room sits up when they hear those words. For so long, the only path ahead has been fighting the kaiju, a war with no end in sight. No one has really thought about dealing with the problem at its source — the Breach itself. Little is understood about it, after all, and you can’t really punch an interdimensional rift in space-time.

“That’s a good thing, right?” Dan Heng is the one who breaks the silence, his words deliberate and careful.

“It depends,” Professor Anaxa responds, already starting to gesticulate. The General leans back, frowning whenever one of his hands gets too near. “A wormhole is like a rubber band — without exotic matter to stabilise it, it collapses. Perhaps we can usher the process along, accelerate it. But whatever’s on the other side must know it’s collapsing, too.”

No one knows for sure what is on the other side. Scientists have tried to send things through, but they never come back. But there are many theories, and Professor Anaxa has his own: the kaiju are biological weapons, genomes artificially engineered to produce creatures best suited to wipe out humanity. Regardless, the conclusion is the same.

Mydei’s eyes narrow. “You think that they might send more kaiju through.”

“Not might. Will. But how much bigger, stronger, more dangerous…” Aglaea takes over, sighs as she glances up at the displays. “The professor will work on a predictive model, see if it can give us better approximations. But for now, all we can do is to prepare ourselves for higher categories to come through.”

She looks at all of the assembled rangers. “We don’t have a plan in mind yet, but we will alert all of you, once we do.” she says. “For now, everyone should remain on the alert and be ready for deployment at any moment. If there’s nothing more, you’re dismissed.”

The briefing room empties with unusual quiet, the rangers filing out without their usual post-meeting banter. The two of you are halfway to the door when Aglaea stops you.

“How’s the injury?” she asks, sea green eyes flickering down to Phainon’s side.

Phainon taps a finger along his ribs, where the bandages used to sit. Now, it’s just pinkish, healed scar tissue under his shirt. “More or less done. Hyacine cleared me for sparring about a couple of days ago.” He grins a little, gives a mock salute. “Ready to return to duty.”

“Good,” Aglaea nods. Her expression is grim. “Because with the numbers that Anaxa is getting, we’ll be needing you more than ever.”

>>>

You wake up uneasy.

There’s no explanation for it. No nightmares, no indication that anything is out of place. Just a strange feeling in your stomach, like the kind of dread you get right before a huge rollercoaster drop. You close your eyes again, hoping to sleep the feeling away, but then Phainon shifts closer to you, inhaling deeply right next to your ear as he does and then you’re wide awake.

The narrow bunk groans in protest. It was never meant for two full-grown rangers, especially not for one built like Phainon. You’d entertained the idea of putting in a request for a bigger bed earlier this week, but the notion had survived for approximately eight hours before dying a swift death. The thought of having to explain your current sleeping arrangements to the General was just too humiliating.

Besides, you have a suspicion that Phainon prefers it like this, anyway.

His lashes are fluttering just as you turn your head back to him, blue eyes lifting to meet yours. The arm around your waist tightens.

“Morning, sunshine,” you joke, in an attempt to ease the disquiet in your chest. “Did our wireless connection ping you to let you know I was awake?”

Phainon snorts at that. He must notice, regardless, because he leans in, nuzzles against the side of your head where he can reach. You can feel his lips graze the shell of your ear. “Bad dream?” he murmurs into your hair. When you glance back, his gaze is sharper than it should be for this hour, carefully scanning your face.

You shake your head, suddenly feeling stupid. “No. It’s nothing, really...”

“Still want to hear it.” His thumb traces idle circles over your hip, but his eyes linger, studying you in the dim light. “Please?”

This is unfair. He’s weaponising that look — the one with his lashes slightly lowered, head tilted towards you just so — it makes your resolve crumble like a sandcastle before the tide. You’re sure that this must count as emotional manipulation of some kind, with how easily you give in.

“It’s really nothing,” you admit with a sigh.”Just a bad gut feeling.”

“Eat something bad yesterday?”

You swat at his shoulder, roll your eyes when your palm connects with solid muscle. “Not that kind of gut feeling.” It would be preferable, actually — at least then you could point fingers at the questionable mystery meat from the mess hall as the culprit. But now it just sits like a hive of phantom hornets, buzzing about somewhere in your insides. “Just a feeling that today is gonna suck.” You shrug, shaking your head. “I don’t know… is that weird?”

“I mean, you woke before the claxon rang, so I assume an extinction level event is on our doorstep—”

You gasp and smack his shoulder again. “You’re awful, you know that?”

“Oh, yeah?” Phainon’s eyebrows shoot up, that dangerous spark of mischief lighting up his blue eyes. Uh oh. You know that look. Before you can scramble off the bed, his fingers descend like a tactical drone strike — fingers finding your sides with the precision of someone who’s memorised every one of your weak points.

You try to twist away with a shriek of laughter, but his other arm holds you against him like an iron band. “So I’m awful, huh?”

“This isn’t fair! You—” You try your best and fail to form a coherent protest. “Stop!”

“Just living up to your expectations,” he counters. One large hand pins your wrist to the mattress while the other finds that spot just below your ribs.

Your laughter bounces off the walls. “I surrender! Ah, please, I— ahahaha!”

For one moment, with Phainon’s laughter still in your ears and his skin warm against your own, the weight in your stomach lifts. And then—

The claxon rings.

You both still mid-breath. Then Phainon’s arm tightens briefly around your waist — one last quick squeeze, solid and reassuring — before he rolls off the bed, the mattress creaking as he does.

The two of you move through the motions of getting ready for the day — brushing your teeth, lacing up your boots, throwing whatever’s close at hand when Phainon inevitably comes out of the shower topless. Everything soon falls into that steady rhythm, familiar and routine, and the two of you leave the room, discussing what might be on today’s menu in the mess hall.

Hopefully, that uneasy feeling will go away soon.

At exactly 14:53, the sirens wail.

The Bridge is thrumming with controlled chaos by the time you and Phainon arrive on the scene. The other rangers are already gathered, awaiting the Breach analyst reports. The feeling only gets worse when Tribbie swallows and turns around to announce that a Category V has left the Breach and is on its way to the coast of Dolos. The designation alone sends a ripple through the assembled rangers — no one knows what a Cat V will look like. The scale was never meant to go this high.

Fear grips at you, but when you glance at Phainon, his face is still set in that same determined expression, eyes focused on the display. It makes you feel a little less afraid.

Aglaea turns to Anaxa. “Jaeger status?”

It speaks mountains about how tense the situation is when the professor doesn’t respond with a snarky remark. “Nikador’s still undergoing repairs. The rest are operational, ready to go.”

Opposite you, Mydei lets out a frustrated sound through a clenched jaw. Castorice puts her hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly.

The General just nods, turns back to the assembled rangers. “Then, Khaslana and Trailblazer will go.”

“Sweet.” Stelle flashes you a grin, but even then you can see a hint of worry behind the humour. The new category designation hangs heavy over all of you, an unknown variable in an already deadly equation. “Finally, we get to fight alongside you guys.”

You manage a smile, but there’s an uneasiness in your chest. The last time you and Phainon had been out there, it’d been two Jaegers against a Cat IV. Now, you have the same numbers, but the enemy will be bigger and stronger. It would be so much better if they could send out all three available Jaegers — from the looks on Dan Heng and March’s face, they’d agree with you — but if it turns out to be another double event, or if one of the current Jaegers gets damaged…

“It’ll make landfall before we do,” the last of the redhead triplets — Trinnon, you’d learnt her name was — speaks up. “Aggy, should I give the evacuation order?”

Aglaea gives her affirmation, eyes sweeping across the siblings, then you and Phainon. “Best of luck, rangers.”

Phainon grips your hand, as the two of you follow the technicians to get suited up. This time, the neural handshake feels just like an extension of that, your mind reaching out and finding his almost instantly. A blink, and the two of you are in Khaslana, core whirring up to power the Jaeger, and then the choppers are already lifting you out of the Shatterdome to take you across the sea.

You hear the kaiju before you see it.

It sounds like nothing you’ve heard before. It’s not the usual roar or even the odd reptilian hiss, but something eerily avian, trilling with an unnatural vibrato. It’s like listening to someone scratch their nails across a chalkboard, makes the hairs on your arms stand on the end. And in the drift, you can feel Phainon’s unease, though his face doesn’t show it.

The Dolos coastline is barely a smudge in the distance. And visibility is absolute shit, slate grey rain pelting at the Conn-Pod, the visor, everything.

Another shriek. It sounds more like a scream this time, followed by a series of strange, clicking noises. You bring up the long range cameras, let it zoom in and wait for the AI to compensate for the downpour. Five to ten seconds later, the feed resolves into horrifying clarity on the main display.

The kaiju stands in grotesque parody — a bone white monster with an elongated neck — like someone tried to reconstruct a bird from memory and failed terribly. Even as the two of you watch, it claws its way through the city, sharp beak parting in another sky-splitting screech, revealing rows of serrated teeth as it carves through the downtown buildings.

And it’s so, so big (that’s what she said— shut up, Phainon).

“Hope the two of you are thinking of a plan,” Stelle jokes. She sounds calmer now, more like her usual self. That’s good. “The only thing us siblings are good for is hitting things.”

“Didn’t the two of you defeat that bull kaiju last time?” you ask, as Dolos draws closer. “Baiting it was a pretty good plan.”

Caelus just snorts through the comms. “That was all Dan Heng. He’s the only one with a brain cell between all four of us.” He pauses. “We don’t even get to borrow it, most of the time.”

“Hey. I was the one who let him have it. Out of generosity!”

Phainon manages a little smile, glancing sideways at you as he speaks. “Just like the Graeae, huh?”

“What the hell’s that?”

“Three sisters from mythology. Daughters of sea gods who shared an eye and a tooth—” you find yourself explaining before you can stop yourself, then shake your head. “Stop speaking with my mouth!”

Phainon just grins. “Aw. But it sounds so much nicer in your voice.”

“Alright, lovebirds, stop the flirting.” Stelle sounds amused, and you can’t tell whose pulse it is that jumps — yours or Phainon’s. “We’re approaching the drop zone.”

The choppers reduce in altitude, and the kaiju lets out another shriek. It raises its head over the buildings to stare directly at you.

“Well, there goes the element of surprise we never had,” you mutter, turning to Phainon. “Let’s do this?” Not exactly an inspiring pep talk, but Phainon nods regardless, lips twitching (Don’t laugh! —I didn’t).

“Yeah.”

The cables holding the Jaegers to the choppers release. Khaslana falls first, and you feel the hydraulic absorbers dampening the impact as the legs hit the seabed, grey water churning beneath the Jaeger’s knees. Trailblazer lands a short distance behind, metal panels on its left arm unfolding and then interlocking to form a solid shield large enough to block the Jaeger’s torso.

Man, you kind of wish Khaslana had a shield, too…

“Trailblazer, you’ll take point since you’ve got the shield. We’ll provide cover fire for you,” Phainon says, fingers flying over the displays. The plasmacaster comes up, a holographic display coding itself around your wrist as the weapon readies on the Jaeger’s right arm.

“Got it,” Stelle and Caelus answer together. The thrusters in Trailblazer’s legs let it jump onto the beach, before it starts moving towards the wreckage along the coastline. Khaslana follows from a tactical distance, plasmacaster raised.

For a moment, it’s eerily quiet, like a graveyard of shattered glass and steel — the kaiju has slunk between the skyscrapers, and the rain makes everything difficult to see. Trailblazer steps into the city cautiously, shield raised as it looks around for the beast.

You keep one eye on the sensor displays and another on the visor. Playing hide and seek here…

Then— movement. You catch it at the corner of Phainon’s eye, scales rippling as it slips out of sight and your stomach drops when you come to the same realisation he does.

“Trailblazer, your three o’clo—”

With a shriek, it whips its elongated neck sideways, slamming it into a half-collapsed skyscraper. The building groans, sways like a reed in the wind, before it plummets directly toward Trailblazer in an avalanche of concrete and steel debris.

The Jaeger barely has time to raise its shield before the skyscraper crashes over its frame in a deafening hail. Through the dust, the kaiju lunges, razor-edged beak stabbing straight for Trailblazer’s Conn-Pod. Your body moves before your mind can react. The plasmacaster fires three shots, and though your aim is true, the kaiju twists at the last second, unnaturally quick.

It dodges the first two, but the third grazes it, and satisfaction rushes through you when you hear its scream, see the bright blue running down its neck. It screeches, recoiling—

—just as something whips through the smoke behind it.

“Move!” Phainon’s shout echoes both inside and out of your head and Khaslana pivots behind the nearest building as fast as the mechanical joints will allow. The next second, the building’s facade erupts in a staccato of impact as a hail of jagged, bone-like projectiles hit the side. You stare at the spikes, incredulous, each one as long as a car.

“Since when do kaiju have artillery, huh?”

Caelus grunts over the comms, which is great, because it means he’s still alive. “Not just that. It’s got a—”

“Tails! Plural!” Phainon warns as two more lash out from the dust. You exchange glances. “We need to get rid—”

Of the tails first, you finish in your head. You’ll never get within striking range of its head with those things, and the kaiju moves too quickly to be hit with a plasmacaster. “Trailblazer, think you can bait it while we go for the tails?”

“Piss it off? Don’t worry, that’s our talent,” Stelle jokes. Trailblazer gets up again, shield raised before it charges and just slams into the kaiju like a human — well, Jaeger — battering ram. The monster flies back a short distance, its claws gouging into the tarmac with an awful screeching sound, leaving deep gashes in the road. It flicks its tail again, and the same volley of spikes slam into the Trailblazer’s shield.

It tries to snap at the Jaeger’s head again, but you fire a few shots at it that make it slink back.

“Deploy sword,” Phainon demands.

“Deploying sword,” the AI hums pleasantly, and Khaslana’s left arm splits open with a hiss, ejecting twenty-four tungsten carbide plates in rapid succession. They lock together to form a massive greatsword, and the edges thrum to life, glowing faintly. The rain vaporises the instant it comes into contact with the blade. “Thirty five seconds till plasma temperatures reached.”

The kaiju’s eye snaps to the weapon and its entire body turns, ready to deal with the new threat.

“Uh-uh. Eyes on us!” Caelus barks through the comms. Trailblazer lunges before it can move, right hand closing around the monster’s throat. The siblings then proceed to drag the kaiju’s skull through the whole floor of an office building, glass shattering into glittering rain, steel girders twisting. The beast shrieks.

“Sword now at operational temperature,” the AI announces.

This is your opening.

Left tail! You and Phainon move in sync, and Khaslana steps forward, sword arm raised. Phainon’s eyes track their movements with near superhuman focus and the Jaeger’s left hand comes up, manages to grab one of the tails somehow. The two of you bring the sword down in a high, overhead arc. The superheated edge bites into the kaiju’s flesh. Blue blood drips all over the blade, corrosive hissing and steaming as it comes into contact with the metal.

Still, it cuts through.

“One down—” The words barely leave your lips when the remaining tails snap forward, faster than they’d been earlier. Two bone-white projectiles cut through the air — straight at Khaslana’s Conn-Pod.

The first spike almost grazes the Jaeger’s head as Khaslana sidesteps. And then—

The world explodes. There’s the awful sound of shattering glass and metal tearing and the entire Conn-Pod shakes. The impact registers first, and chasing at its heels, the fear. When your vision clears, there’s a spike the size of a small bus embedded in the visor, and its tip is just a few feet away from your face. Drops of water — rainwater — hit the side of your face. The Conn-Pod was breached.

Your hands won’t stop shaking. Oh god. Oh god. You’d almost died.

Trailblazer pulls the kaiju off you, slams its shield right across its head. The kaiju shrieks. But you barely register it, as though you’re drowning underwater.

Your eyes search for Phainon automatically, and—

You’re greeted with an even more horrifying sight. The light of the interface paints his face in frozen horror. His eyes have gone glassy and distant, staring at some invisible point that you can’t see. Every muscle has gone rigid — not the controlled stillness of combat focus, but the terrifying paralysis of a mind snatched away by memory. His breathing comes out in ragged, shallow gasps.

“(Name)!” Tribbie calls, sounding panicked. “Phainon is offline!” Her voice cracks. “He’s chasing the RABIT!”

Your heart drops into your stomach.

“Pilot Disconnected,” the AI says.

Everything in your head feels like an endlessly collapsing tower of jenga blocks. But what scares you more than the chaos is the silence — the Neural Bridge is collapsed, and you don’t hear the reassuring sound of Phainon’s little thoughts, or his steadfast presence. Just a yawning void where his consciousness had been moments before.

It’s as though a dam has broken, and there is nothing stopping the fear from washing over you like a giant tsunami wave. It takes everything in you not to drown beneath it.

Somewhere in front of you, Trailblazer is still struggling to hold off the monster. “Plasmacaster!” you manage to gasp out, feeling like your brain is trying to rend itself in two straight down the middle.

“Deploying plasmacaster.”

Everything around you is muffled by an incessant ringing in your head, every limb in your body weighing down like you’re Atlas, carrying the world on your back. Trailblazer stumbles, you blink, and—

“Wow. Look at this!” You’re grinning, holding up something in your hands. Phainon takes a step forward, sees a little crab cradled in your palms, makes an ‘eep!’ and retreats three steps back. Cyrene just laughs from where she’s crouched. There’s a small assortment of shells in the sand next to her. “Oh, come on, Phai. It’s cute!”

“It’s looking at me!” Phainon squeaks.

“It’s like… two centimeters wide. It couldn’t even reach your toes from down there.” You move as if to offer him the crab and he yelps again, backpedalling quick. The setting sun paints everything in gold — the wet sand, the freckles on Cyrene’s nose, your laugh.

You’re not there. You know you're not. You are not sixteen anymore, not playing at the beach of your hometown with your two childhood friends. Aedes Elysiae is gone, and so is Cyrene. But the air still tastes like salt, and you can hear the seagulls crying in the distance, feel the warmth of the setting sun on your face. And Phainon is young. So young, so carefree, his eyes still bright and innocent and unshadowed by loss.

And—

“Alright, alright.” You relent with an amused snort, turning your head to squint at the horizon where the sun is melting into the sea. “We should probably be heading back soon, anyway.” You eye Phainon, raise a brow. “Or someone might get grounded again.”

Phainon’s cheeks heat. “That was one time, and I was, what, like ten?” he mumbles, rubbing at his left earlobe — he still remembers his mother’s vice grip. She’d nearly mobilised the entire neighbourhood in a search party when he’d lost track of time at the local bookstore, and had only wandered home long after it’d gone dark. “I don't have a curfew, anymore.”

“Still a history nerd, though.” Younger you sticks out your tongue when he protests, before you step down to the water’s edge to let the crab go. It scuttles across the sand, disappears into the sea foam cresting the waves, and then…

A roar, so loud that it shakes the sky. All three of your heads snap up. In the distance, a nightmare unfolds on the horizon.

You remember this day. The screaming. The fear. “Phainon!” you shout, your voice cracking, but it comes out muffled, like you’re buried under layers of ice.

Phainon doesn’t hear. He’s looking at yours and Cyrene’s faces, seeing his own terror mirrored there. The cries of the seagulls are replaced by the screams of fighter jets as they tear through the sky, faster than sound. The kaiju is so far away, but it is so, so big it blots out the sun. And they are like ants, crawling on the ground and utterly helpless.

The only thing they can do is run, so they do, but nowhere is safe. There are underground shelters, though, designated points for evacuation, so they head up the beach alongside the other terrified evacuees. Somewhere behind him, he sees a Jaeger — Phagousa — drop from the sky to face off against the beast.

There are other people running too, crying and terrified and similarly afraid. An old lady behind them falls, and Phainon slows, nearly tripping over his feet as he looks back. “I’ll help her,” you say, already turning around. “Go! I’ll catch up.”

“But—” Phainon hesitates, torn between telling you to just leave her behind and choking on the shame of it. You meet his eyes, see the fear there — for his life, for yours — and force a smile.

“I’m taller and a faster runner than you, remember?” You reach out to squeeze his shoulder, but your hand finds the side of his neck instead in its rush, where the sun tattoo is branded into his skin today. “I’ll be back in a minute. Promise!”

He wants to argue, but Cyrene grabs his hand and then they’re running in the opposite direction. They’ve barely gotten over the bridge that separates the beachfront from the town, scrambling up the steps onto higher ground, when a massive wave crashes and everything behind them goes under.

You don’t come back after a minute. You don’t come back at all.

Phainon stares. You feel it — the exact moment his ribcage becomes a hollow thing, the sudden emptiness that will stay in the chest for the next six years. The loss. The helplessness. The grief clawing at his throat like a cry that he can’t quite let out.

The kaiju storms inland, but Phainon can only follow numbly as Cyrene drags him along with her, her own cheeks wet with tears. Phagousa follows, blade dancing with a wicked sharpness. The kaiju falls, collapsing into the sea.

But it’s too late.

Something flashes, briefly. The Trailblazer staggers, and you hear Stelle and Caelus yelling over the comms as they struggle to push the kaiju off them. You force your hand up — it feels like redirecting a runaway truck by kicking the wheels, but somehow you manage. A sharp pain lances through your head.

You fire. The plasmacaster shoots out, hits the kaiju’s side and it screams.

Then, Phainon is a little older. His blue eyes are no longer cheerful, and there’s a fresh tattoo on his neck as he inspects himself in the mirror, dressed in an army uniform. Cyrene stands behind him, and when he turns around she steps forward to adjust his collar.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Phainon?” she asks, her voice quiet with concern.

He can’t bear to hear it. “Yeah.” His voice sounds foreign to his own ears.

Cyrene spends a little too long on the top button, fixing his sleeves, smoothing down the fabric. After a moment of silence, she puts her hands on his shoulders, takes a deep breath. “You couldn’t have done anything, you know?” she says, finally.

Both of them know what she’s referring to.

But Phainon shrugs anyway, turns away to fit the too big cap onto his head.

“Maybe that was the problem.”

The kaiju thrashes in Trailblazer’s grip, teeth biting mercilessly into the top of the shield. Caelus shouts. What do you do? you think helplessly. You don’t know how to help Phainon, don’t know how to get him out of the memory—

“You need to pull him back.”

For a moment, your breath catches in your throat. It’s a painfully familiar voice. You can’t tell whether it came from the Conn-Pod or from the memories Phainon is still drowning in. Then it speaks again, and you realise that it’s the AI, but it’s also—

Heard she developed the Jaeger AIs, too…

“Hey~ now’s not the time for reminiscing,” Cyrene, no— the AI says and you stumble as Trailblazer wrestles the kaiju into a building. The voice sounds like that familiar, playful smile, and it makes you want to laugh and cry all at the same time. “Him, too. You have to remind him that he still has something to fight for. Someone that he needs to fight for.”

The memories surge again, black eclipsing white and colour and—

The sickening crunch of armoured plating giving way. The glass of Kephale’s visor shattering inward. Cyrene’s final scream cut short as the kaiju’s teeth close around her side of the Conn-Pod. And when he blinks again, Cyrene is gone.

He thinks he dies, in that moment, together with her. Feels it happen, like a candle being blown out. And then, he’s left in that awful, deafening silence that will keep him awake at night for the next three years, staring at the wall with his hands over his ears until dawn creeps in.

And then everything flashes.

Digging through the sand with bloodied fingers. Stepping into a Conn-Pod for the first time. Killing all those kaiju, knowing these empty victories will never bring you back. Cyrene’s funeral, the empty casket. He wishes it was his instead.

You feel the edges of his mind unravelling, twisting, fraying, collapsing under the weight of his own guilt.

Failed her. Failed you. They call him the Deliverer. What a joke. He’s never been able to save a single person that matters to him.

“Phainon!” He’s getting further and further from you, lost in the memories. You don’t even know if you can still reach him. “Phainon, please hear me!”

“Hurry!” AI-Cyrene urges. “If you don’t manage to reach him in time, he might not be able to come back.”

Fear surges through you. You force yourself through the memories desperately with your mind, tumbling through flashes of shadows and light and sound until you find him.

He’s standing in the Conn-Pod, staring out of the half-destroyed Jaeger’s head. There’s a crushed rig next to him, metal bent and live wires sparking, where you would be in real life.

You grip at the bond the two of you share, wrest it into your hands like an anchor in the midst of a storm. Pull at it, with all of your might, digging your heels into the sand.

Phainon blinks. The sea outside is so calm, so peaceful. There’s nothing to be afraid of here. Nothing left to lose, anymore.

“Please,” you beg, voice cracking with fear. Fear that the two of you might die here, fear that he might never come back. “Phainon, I need you, please…”

The memory flickers.

The Conn-Pod blurs at the edges, and then for a second, Phainon sees a person in the rig next to him. His breath hitches.

“We can’t do this much longer!” Stelle shouts, her voice cracking.

You blink furiously, force your eyes to find the kaiju through the downpour, its tails whipping around as it lunges for the other Jaeger, fire again. You can’t tell if the shots hit, but you vaguely hear something scream. Maybe it’s the beast, maybe it’s you. Something drips down your nose, into your mouth. You think you taste blood on your tongue.

“Phainon,” you cry. You’re sobbing now, every nerve ending burning hot and cold and confused all at once. Your brain feels like it’s about to pop at the seams. “Phainon, I need you to come back to me. You said you wouldn’t let me go this time. You said you wouldn’t let me fight alone again. You promised!”

The world goes hazy. The Conn-Pod, the sea, even himself, scenes flashing by like a zoetrope, present overlapping with the past. But you’re clear, where everything else is a blur, and then you’re gripping him in that memory, hands pulling him down until his forehead is pressed against yours.

He’s afraid. Here is safe.

“Please, Phainon,” you whisper, desperate. His eyes, so blue and so wide and so scared, look up at you. “Don’t leave me.”

But here means leaving you.

And he can’t.

Everything collapses onto the two of you, and then it’s like you’re being sucked through a black hole. When you open your eyes again, gasping, rain is pelting one side of your face. A short distance away, the kaiju still roars, Trailblazer still putting up a stubborn fight. But you hear—

“Pilot reconnected. Welcome back, Phainon.”

The immense pressure on your skull lifts — whether from the Neural Handshake reinitiating or from relief, you don’t know — but then Phainon is gasping, blue eyes bright and alert again and that’s all that matters. They dart upwards to the spike still lodged in the Conn-Pod, then to where you’re rigged up next to him. You must look like absolute shit, because something twists so painfully in his chest that you feel it in your own.

“Hey,” is the only word you can muster, and the image of bloodstained teeth flashes in your head. Ah, fuck.

“Hey,” he whispers back, looking like he’s about to cry. But then the kaiju screams again, and you don’t have time for tears.

“We need—”

“Yeah.” Phainon breathes deeply, before he narrows his eyes. “Trailblazer, can you shoot at its face? We’ll go for its remaining tails now.”

“Fucking finally!” Caelus shouts.

“Real entitled of you to be making demands now, Deliverer!” Stelle yells, but their Jaeger charges forward anyway, shield mangled beyond repair as it raises its plasmacaster and shoots. The kaiju raises its tails, ready to unleash another barrage of spikes, but Phainon lunges, and both you and Khaslana move with him as he raises the sword and slashes. One tail falls to the ground like a dismembered snake, blue hissing as it comes into contact with the asphalt.

The other tail whips around, but Trailblazer grabs the kaiju by the neck and yanks the whole beast forward. The spiked end grazes Khaslana’s shoulder plating sending up a shower of sparks, but Phainon doesn’t let the opportunity go to waste. You fire your plasmacaster at one of its clawed legs, causing it to stumble, and Phainon cuts at the other tail as it goes down.

The kaiju flings Trailblazer into a nearby building, glass raining down as its head comes around for a final, desperate attack. Khaslana swings one last time.

The greatsword severs the beast’s neck in two.

The head joins the tails on the ground, blue pooling everywhere, before the body collapses and more blue pours from it in spurts. It crashes to the pavement with an impact that makes the whole street shake like there’s an earthquake, crushing a couple of cars beneath it. And then for a moment, everything is silent.

Khaslana’s sword arm drops, the plasma edge cooling off with a dying hiss.

You turn to Phainon once again, only to find him already looking at you. Really looking, not that blank, glassy eyed stare that had turned your blood to ice when he was chasing that RABIT. His eyes are present again, pupils dilated not with panic but… something else. A dozen words crowd your throat: Welcome back. We did it. You scared the hell out of me. You came back.

The world tilts before you can choose.

Everything goes weightless, and your knees buckle beneath you all of a sudden. When you collapse, the only thing that keeps you upright is the rig that you’re attached to. Distantly, you can feel something warm — blood — dripping from your chin, the panicked click-hiss of something disengaging.

And the last thing you remember before the world goes dark is the sound of someone shouting your name.

#praying for more mitosis to happen hehehehe #sleepy phai chan....... save me sleepy phai chan #he's so cute and sweet and fluffy keeping this man docile like this hehehe #HYACINE GET HIS ASS!!!!! LOCAL STUPID BOY ESCAPES THE HOSPITAL TO SEE THE CHILDHOOD FRIEND HE LOVES EVEN IF HE DOESNT KNOW ITTTT #love is stored in the saved juice box at the mess hall hehehe #lygus = rat confirmed hehehe #local stupid boy acts like the love of his life is dead. they just wanted him to go to the doctors.#he's such a baby FUCK YOU MEAN YOU WANT US TO FEED YOU #reader throughout the chapter: WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE?????#OMG WE'RE FAMOUS HEHEHEHEHEH #OMG SHIRTLESS CALENDARS WITH PHAINON AND MYDEI WOULD SELL SOSOSO WELL #STOP HE WOULD FIDN THEM ANYWAYS FJPRI;NJRIUEP;GJRHUEGV #mmmmmm phainon and whiskey........... im picturing him with a watch too....... for me purposes #phai baby you tortured him enough its OKAYYYYY #TOASTING TO THEIR REUNION I CRYYYYYY #he's actually so down bad fishing for compliments like that #PLEASE HIM BEING JEALOUS OF MYDEI AND THE READER SPARRING YOU STUPID SWEET SAMOYEDDDD #“So why do you look at him when he’s shirtless but not me?”#HES GONNA KILL ME FKTYFGTUGFY6TI76R56UDRUFCDRYJFK #phainon is plotting on the reader so hard for someone who doesn't know he likes them #THE SLEEPING PILLS JFEWOPFJEFIROFJIOA #THE NIGHTMARES #i fear the nightmares and that bad feeling will not be leaving any time soon #need me a man who would flirt with me during a kaiju crisis #THE TRAILBLAZERS????? NOOOOOOOO #PHAINON ISTG IF YOU DIE IM GONNA KILL YOU #MY QUEEN CYRENEEEE WELCOME BACKKK #WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ENDING???????#oh god... this is the real phai chan crash out time #another lovely fic from another lovely personnn

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