Archive of Our Own

Phainon wakes up to the sound of rain and violins, and a vague, fleeting memory of the farm. He’s had that dream again. It cruelly replays his fifteenth birthday, Audata’s smile as she retrieves his cake from the oven. For my good boy; that sugary strawberry-red. He used to wake up agitated, looking around for his childhood posters and figures, thinking he might have gone back; that’s how vivid of a dream it was, waking up with his lungs empty from blowing the candles. Now he’s only nostalgic and painfully aware he’s still in Aglaea’s house; can’t ever go back to his mother’s home.

He sits up to stretch, having passed out at his desk somewhere between the 100 years war of Kremnos and his algebra homework. His computer is the sole survivor of his all-nighter, the orchestral YouTube playlist he put on to study still looping and his phone almost dead. His shoulders are sore. 

His skull pounds with a rising headache, and he moans at the thought of dragging his exhausted self to uni and to an unending slew of exams. It’s been a couple weeks of cramming and staying up late, shoveling meager mouthfuls of pre-processed foods into his unrelenting stomach while stuffing his brain with lessons that felt too large for it. The semester is nearing its end, hopefully marking the end of his nightmares. But then the next semester will be here, just short two weeks of hard-earned vacation and a three-day class trip, and there’ll be more classes, more surprise tests, more expected questions he doesn’t have the answer to — post-graduation plans, a Masters degree he’s unsure whether he wants to pursue or not, the vague idea of a job in the law firm he went on an apprenticeship at over the summer.

It was easier when his mother was around. He could talk to her about everything, his plans for the future, his fears, and she’d fix everything as if magic sprinkled from her fingertips. Aglaea does her best to be motherly, and he finds some of Audata in her at times — they are sisters, after all,— but she’s seldom home, occupied by her busy career, and Phainon refuses to be one more thing she’ll worry about. She’s already paying for his tuition, which is sometimes the sole reason he drags himself to uni.

Going to Era Chrysea University is the same daily slog. Aglaea’s house sits near the outskirts of the city, where few buses bother stopping, so Phainon waits extra early every morning while brushing up on class material. When he’s done, if the bus isn’t here yet, which it almost never is, he repeats I’m okay, silently, trying to convince himself. Then he gives a first fake smile to the bus driver, and the rest is history. Top grades. Well-liked. A good student; a good boy. 

The school building towers high, imposing white marble a thousand years old, heavy with the weight of education and accumulated knowledge. As solemn as a tomb. Phainon waves to every student and teacher he meets; perfects his smile until it looks natural. He only slips when Castorice asks, Hi Phainon, are you okay? Replying,

“I’m fine, Castorice, thank you,” as he shuffles through his notes. “Just a little tired is all.”

She doesn’t seem particularly convinced. She does that thing, he believes, sometimes, where she just knows he’s not, like some human lie detector. Cipher comes tumbling in however, eyes going wide when she spots Phainon’s completed homework. “My favourite person ever~,” she coos, and Phainon, who already knows what she’s after and is too tired to talk her into doing her own homework, smiles again as he surrenders his answer sheet.

At first Phainon is tired; by lunch he's annoyed. His classmates’ usual chatter is making his headache worse, and when the bell rings it neatly tears through his skull. He excuses himself to go to the infirmary in search of medicine and some quiet, and Castorice looks at him again with that concerned look he has to escape from.

He likes the infirmary, or the room dubbed that, anyways. It’s mostly a small storage room, dimmer than the other classrooms because the blue curtains here are thicker, with a single bed and basic first aid tucked onto high shelves. He naps there sometimes, at lunch mostly, when he’s alone, which he usually is — except today.

Another student has invaded Phainon’s dedicated haven of peace. His sneakers are off,  legs dangling from the only bed, one of his feet pierced through by sharp shards of glass. Mydeimos. Phainon remembers their first meeting when Mydei had transferred here halfway through the year, like a comet crashing down from another galaxy; foreign, dangerous and fiery. Can I call you Mydei? Mydei had scowled and said You can’t, his voice disdainful and his eyes cold. Phainon remembers their second meeting too, when he’d found Mydei smoking on the roof, said It’s forbidden to be here, and Mydei had ignored him and blown white clouds of smoke up at the sky, pretending to not understand; and the third as well, when he’d been ordered to give the transfer student handouts from some classes Mydei had been missing — skipping, but teachers were too diplomatic to call it that, — and Mydei had scowled, again, illegal amount of piercings catching in the dimming sunlight that filtered through the curtains, strong, tattooed arms crossed, and said, contempt plain, accent gorgeously thick: “Thank you, Deliverer boy.”

The nickname had caught on, which wasn’t as embarrassing as Phainon’s obvious, growing interest for Mydei. He felt like a caged dog watching a wild wolf roam free; Mydei, who barely showed up at school and only did with dangerous-looking wounds, feral, broken bones and broken rules. He wore branded clothing and smoked expensive cigarettes, and rumors said that he had been expelled from his previous school for violence, that he was trouble, that it was better to stay clear of him, like some rabid animal that might bite unprompted.

His nails are painted black, and there’s red underneath them, blood pooling from the wound he’s trying to clean, and Phainon watches, dumbfounded, captivated. “That looks like it hurts,” he says.

Mydei’s eyebrows furrow and his lips purse in a thin pink line. He glares until Phainon looks away, feeling guilty and somehow angry. It’s nothing personal. He tries to think of wounded animals, alone, scared and rejecting everyone who tries coming close; remembers an old blind neighbourhood cat who seemed to belong to nobody and depended on strangers for food yet refused to be properly rescued, adopted. It’s nothing personal, but sourness builds up below his tongue, along the words he knows he’s not allowing himself to say, the wave of resentment he ends up swallowing, mouth dry, because he can’t let himself behave the way Mydei does, and he childishly dislikes Mydei a little for that.

He strolls through the room while ignoring the other boy, his plans of napping now completely ruined, and rummages through cupboards in search of any headache pills that haven’t been looted yet. 

Mydei is still barefoot. Sitting on the only bed as if it was his throne, both hands applying pressure to his wound, thumbs digging into veiny, hacked flesh. Phainon wonders how many more of those he has, crimson-mauve bruises and pale beige scars snaking around his arms and legs like chains, and where he’s gotten them. The last time he fought was in elementary, when some boy two years older had said something about the lunch Audata cooked. He returned home with his baby tooth knocked out and Audata had scolded him, while applying ice on his cheek. Good boys don’t get into fights, Phainon. It’d been his first and last fight.

He wonders what Mydei looks like when he’s getting battered and bloody. Red, he imagines, like the tribal tattoos spiking up and down the length of Mydei’s foot, pausing just short of his toes, eating at skin tanned by a sun hailing far from here. Kremnos is hot and sunny all year round, coastal with long beaches of white sand Phainon has only seen in photographs, and Mydei looks like he’d fit nowhere else on earth but here, his hair blond as if the sun had bleached it itself and calcined red at the ends, pretty in a way it shouldn’t be.

“Staring is bad manners,” Mydei says. He’s still not looking at Phainon, frowning at his own foot and the blood there that has seeped through the bandage under his painted nails, and for a second Phainon wonders if he knows. If he’s aware that Phainon either dreams of nothing, or of his fifteenth birthday, or of Mydei licking at his busted lower lip. If it’s fun for him to be another thing on the list of things Phainon shouldn’t do:  skip class, get into fights, become obsessed with the rich foreign student.

Their eyes meet. Phainon flushes violently, grabs a couple of boxes of pills from the cupboard, and flees. 

He remembers to breathe when he’s alone in a hallway on the third floor, between the science lab and the drama club room. His cheeks ache from how red they are, and his glasses are fogged up. He can’t help it. He hates that Mydei gets away with everything he does: skipping class, bleaching his hair; turning Phainon’s life into a mess. Hates that he can’t help but lust after him in spite of it all, replaying his honeyed accent curling the vowels in his voice when he says Deliverer, and imagining him saying Phainon the very same way, low and tentative beneath him, and Phainon knows he’s fucked. Six whole months of this left until graduation, if his heart hasn’t exploded by then. Six months of pretending he’s never thought of licking the blood off Mydei’s naked foot before biting another wound into it, wondering which colors his teeth would carve onto tanned skin — six months of pretending Phainon is normal; that he’s good.

He checks the medicine he pocketed in his rush, hoping he salvaged something for his the ache in his ribs, or at the very least a remedy for his now growing headache. His haul consists of two boxes of medicine for period cramps. He groans.

Castorice is thankful, and Cipher impressed, that he’s gentleman enough to have medicine ready for such occasions, and he lets them believe he’s just this good of a guy because it’s what the whole world expects of him at this point, happy they don’t question why the boxes look slightly trampled from how hard he’s been holding them in his fist. 

Exams follow each other like days, relentless. Phainon manages to navigate through them while munching down on sandwiches he buys at the convenience store down the street, ignoring the enormous amount of food he leaves to mold waiting in the fridge. Under enough stress, his bad habits resurface: he isolates himself more than necessary, pretending his headaches persist even though he just craves some quiet and space to himself; he goes to bed later than he should; his leg starts to bounce when his lips quirk into smiles. 

The girls study without him after class. He finds out by accident, which hurts more than anything else, and Cipher doesn't really apologise, only saying You're way too smart to waste time with idiots like us anyways! Even though she's a maths fiend, Castorice’s English is unmatched, and Phainon struggles with his history. He tries not to hold it against them, but it’s lonely re-reading his notes alone in empty classrooms — until it’s not.

Mydei walks in one evening. He obviously doesn’t expect Phainon to be here because he walks leisurely, carelessly: both hands in his pockets and earphones plugged in. His left eye is hurt, circled blue like a moon’s hanging at the corner of it. Rumors say teachers gave up on discipline, Mydei’s father not even replying to the phone, a dog refusing to be baited by broken bones. They exchange a short glance before Phainon returns to his studies, the mixture of embarrassment from their last encounter and stress from the finals keeping his attention to his messy notes.

“Deliverer,” Mydei says when he walks close. His bag is waiting for him in the spot just next to Phainon — black, expensive-looking leather. He smells like cigarettes. Glancing at Phainon’s History essay, he says, “You got this date wrong.”

Phainon pauses.

“Wait, really?”

“Really.” He points to another line further down with his chin. “This one, too,” he adds, but he doesn’t give Phainon the correct answer.

Phainon raises a helpful brow. “Help me?”

Mydei grabs his bag and sniffs. “Why should I?” 

Phainon blinks, a little stunned. He has no convincing argument. They’re not friends. They don’t know each other at all in fact, and Mydei doesn’t look like he’s interested in changing that, already walking out of the classroom. It enrages Phainon a little, that he’s so uncaring, so free. Uninterested in Phainon, and perhaps that would change if he, too, proved he was able to bend some rules and rebel, but he doesn’t even remember the last time he disobeyed Aglaea, or anyone. So he lets himself be petty, calling out, “Thanks for nothing then,” just to see Mydei turn and give him a blank stare, and he takes in the ecchymosis crowning his eyebrow again, amber-orange in the afternoon light, and thinks, hoping it hurts, Serves you right.

The sky is aluminium grey throughout all of the next week, heralding a rain that refuses to fall yet. Phainon’s science teacher finds him slumped in the library, going through material before the last week of exams. He straightens up, expecting another task he won’t be able to refuse, and she puts down a stack of forms next to his books and notes and smiles at him.

“Phainon Khaslana,” she starts. “Always hard at work, I see.”

He gives a polite smile in return. She doesn’t have to know he hasn’t understood a single thing he’s read in the past hour, nor that he doesn’t particularly like her, because her lessons are always exceedingly long and hard to follow.

“I don’t have your signed form for the class trip,” she continues, tapping the stack of already-signed sheets. “If you’re already twenty-one, then you can sign it yourself, but—”

“I’m twenty,” he replies, stupidly, just a few months short of being able to sign his own paperwork without his guardian’s authorization. He’s twenty, and Aglaea won’t be home for another few months, if ever; he’s about to tell his teacher he won’t go, and it’d be too bad, really, missing out on Dolos, especially because Cipher was so excited to go and show them all around (if she even cares for him going, which he sincerely doubts at this point) — but he sees Mydei’s name on top of the stack and changes his tune. “Sorry. I completely forgot, with the exams and everything.” His teacher gives an understanding nod. She’s tired too, most of her time spent grading and looking after exhausted students, and the thick rim of her glasses doesn’t quite hide the dark circles digging under her eyes. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”

She all but sighs with relief, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “Great,” she says. “And also, if I may ask—”

He tenses up, swallowing back the No he so badly wants to reply. 

“—Can you also make sure everyone behaves?”

His smile hurts at the edges. “Of course, professor,” he says, but he resents her for asking, wanting to misbehave too just to prove he’s no better than ‘everyone.’

She leaves with a relieved string in her step. The form is already in Phainon’s bag, carefully trapped between his English essay and Maths exercises, having not moved an inch since he’d been handed it. He shuffles around in his stuff to find it, fist closed around his pen. If Mydei is going — no, if Mydei is thwarting the rules, with his bleached hair and piercings, then why shouldn’t he? Aglaea wouldn’t know, and even if she did, chances were she wouldn’t care, too busy organizing her runways and her propelling designer career to return home just to scold a boy who wasn’t even her son, and the trip was only three days long, a breath of fresh Southern air after spending weeks cooped up in busy hallways and boxed between stuffy classrooms. 

Phainon takes a look around. The library is empty. The classes are over. The rest of the students are chatting in the hallways, finding each other like lost, scattered ducklings before returning home, and he knows what Aglaea’s handwriting looks like — her card thrones on his desk, at home, elegant cursive spelling out Goldweaver.

Imitating her signature is easy. His hand slightly shakes when he ticks the box that says Agrees to let my child leave the school’s premises, and his stomach churns with the thought of Aglaea finding out somehow, and of her face scrunching up in disappointment and regret for taking him in. He digs through his backpack for the cramp meds and swallows a pill. 

Rain crashes down once the exams are over, on the very last day, when everyone lets out a collective sigh of relief and starts entertaining the idea of vacation days and free time. 

“You have to come to karaoke with us,” Cipher insists, her long manicured nails digging into the softness of Phainon’s sweater. It’s her way of apologizing, Phainon figures, and letting him know he’s still part of their trio. Castorice nods vehemently, half of her face concealed in a purple scarf too large for her, and Phainon lets himself be convinced, because he wants to believe he is.

The girls happily tear up their throats over Robin’s recent album — Cipher singing and Castorice clapping her hands slightly off-beat. They order expensive food he insists on paying for while they make plans for the Dolos trip and the places Cipher says they absolutely have to stop by: the beach, obviously, the flea market, the lighthouse. He happily nods along. It’ll be nice, having some peaceful time without exams or Mydei to throw his life into chaos.

He meets Mydei on his way back home. 

His lower lip is busted by an ugly cut, and his left eye struggles to fully open. He’s swiping blood off his chin with his sleeve, spreading it with ugly red streaks going haywire, and he’s panting, breathless, chest heaving slowly, up and down, up and down, to the same rhythm of his shoulders. Smiling. Phainon has never seen him smile before. It’s a wild thing, like the rest of him; a beast that refuses to be caught. A line that slices into his cheeks to reveal sharp, bloodied teeth, and his pink tongue darts to swipe at the blood, and something inside Phainon’s chest squeezes viciously. 

He wonders, again, what Mydei looks like, fighting. If he’s smiling all the way through, even as he’s getting punched down — certainly when he punches back. Thinks of the feeling of his own knuckles pushing into the nerves of Mydei’s muscles, punching any kind of sound out of him, Mydei laughing, and groaning, and moaning; Mydei colored red and it’s such a fitting color on him; Mydei wheezing, breathing stolen by Phainon’s hands.

Phainon swallows. Mydei’s head turns, facing him, golden eyes bright like fireworks in the alley, a feral lion. The smile vanishes, replaced by a hard, warning light in his pupils. He speaks slowly, sounding out the words and munching on the pain flaring in his jaw, raindrops getting caught in his long eyelashes. “Deliverer. I told you already,” he starts. His accent is more obvious now, either because he doesn’t care as much, outside of the school’s hallways, or because he’s in his element here, post-fight, unleashed, raw Kremnoan violence. Slow consonants and strong vowels. Deliverer. (Phainon.) “Staring isn’t free.”

“That’s not what you said,” Phainon argues, even though he’d pay millions just to stare, and then, because everything Mydei says he’s got taped in his grey matter, playing on loop, “You said Staring is bad manners.”

Mydei scoffs. “Of course you’d remember. Always such a good little boy.”

The implication stings more than a hit. That Mydei, just like everyone else, sees him as a perfect model student who remembers what he’s told and applies it diligently. That Mydei looks down on him for being him. That Phainon’s nothing but an extra in Mydei’s life. His fists are squeezed so tight they hurt. He doesn’t have anything smart to say. He says, “You don’t know me,” because he doesn’t want Mydei to believe he does, that this boring Phainon who does what he’s told is all he has to give. Mydei’s eyes are hooded like he’s just been fucked, and he relaxes against the wall, palming through his jacket for his smokes.

“I think I do,” he replies. Leisurely, like he’s talking about the weather. Knowingly. “You know, you always have that look.” The corners of his lips barely twitch, a contained smile he won’t free just yet. “Like you want to hurt me.”

Phainon’s breath catches as his fingers twitch. Mydei sniffs, then wipes the blood that starts trickling down his nose with the back of his hand, cigarette caught in his mouth while his free hand now searches for a lighter, and Phainon — Phainon is stuck here, feeling hot and naked, doused by the cold rain and all these repressed urges he thought he’d take to the grave now flooding out.

He runs. It’s the second time he escapes, and not the most glorious one. His sneakers slip on the wet pavement, and he almost falls one, two times. He slams the door to Aglaea’s place behind him and he’s panting and clutching at his side, wheezing. His face burns. His dick throbs in his pants, hard. You want to hurt me. You want to hurt me. He does. Choke him, stuff fingers in his mouth, pin him on the infirmary bed as punishment for invading there. Dig red lines in his skin to cross out all the things Mydei thinks Phainon is. Fold him until he can fit into a little bottle Phainon would toss out to sea, a plea for help so everything returns to normal. 

He’s on his knees at the unlocked entrance door. The pouring rain has followed him all the way here, beating against the windows. His hand mindlessly slips past his jeans, groping at his dick, but it’s uncomfortable and too tight, so he blindly fumbles to unbutton his pants. He’s a mess. His breathing is loud and scattered, and warmth rushes up his face all the way to his ears and the corners of his eyes like an ugly rash. His knees ache, and his thighs burn, and his cock springs free from his pants, red and angry like he is, flushed all over and leaking at the tip, and he wants- he wants-

He wants Mydei. He chews on his lower lip thinking of Mydei’s, plump and cut at the corner, seeping an ugly dark, syrupy red, like a fruit that’d just gotten bitten into, and he groans, cock in fist, embarrassed by the sound of his own loud gasps as he strokes himself. It’s been way too long for him to last, no matter how coarse his hands feel, using a mix of drying rain and precome as lube. He twitches each time his fingers rub down, too sensitive, release quaking in his belly, and he replays in his head moments he shouldn’t, Mydei’s bare feet dangling above the tiled floor, Mydei’s sharp, bleeding grin, Mydei’s voice, good boy, Mydei, Mydei, Mydei.

His dick keeps dribbling onto his pants, fat droplets of jizz staining the nice denim Aglaea ordered just for him that now feels too constricting around his thighs. He moans, feeling his orgasm loom in, urging it on with messy jerks of his hand, hips twitching and out of sync, and he feels the heat creeping up his ears, his nape, his stomach. He gasps, breath caught in his throat, eyelids fluttering — and he spurts in his palm and on the floor, silently reciting Mydei’s name like he would a lesson.

Dolos feels like freedom. It’s the kingdom of the unleashed sea, salt prominent in the air and seagulls floating abovehead, and Phainon is thrilled just at the thought of not seeing the imposing buildings of Era Chrysea looming in the background. Most of his time is spent outside, following Cipher, who’s excitedly hopping around. His good mood quickly wilts however: male students are packed in alphabetically ordered rooms, and he finds himself with Mydei and two other guys he isn’t particularly fond of. He catches Mydei changing on accident, wet from the waves and hair slicked back, back covered in scars, and he leaves before he can get called out for staring again, or get hard. He misses a phone call from Aglaea, which leaves him suddenly dry-mouthed, and he’s a little annoyed when no one except Castorice worries over him suddenly skipping lunch.

At night, they return to the beach. The sand is rocky and burning, seashells burrowed underneath, and the wind picks up, a gentle light breeze that passes through his hair. Phainon has traded his glasses for contact lenses. The girls play with sparkler sticks while he eats an ice-cream, their smiles lighting in yellow and orange hues. 

“To a well-deserved holiday!” Cipher says, raising hers in the air. She’s had two beers, and Phainon three. “And to Dolos, the most beautiful city in the word!” 

Castorice giggles. Phainon smiles, and playfully teases, “Deserved by some more than others.”

Cipher turns to him, her own face still hanging on her face, although slightly tense. “What was that?”

Phainon chuckles. “I’ve done half your homework for this semester,” he says. He doesn’t mean to be prickly; his voice is quiet, gentle almost, swaying in the southern wind. It’s just a harsh, drunken truth slipping out, one he expected to go unnoticed. The air crackles like fireworks.

“You could have just said no,” Cipher says, and she looks as if she’s just stating the obvious; as if she doesn’t understand that Phainon cannot say no, the same way he can’t say no when Aglaea texts to ask if he’s okay.

He wants to say something. Add hurt to the injury, say, You could have just done your work like everyone else, but he knows he’s at fault too for enabling her, and he doesn’t want to fight, not again. He still doesn’t feel quite adopted yet, in their group, still feels like — like an orphan. He chuckles again. His smile tastes bittersweet. “You’re right,” he says, but it’s plainly dishonest. “I think I’ve had too much to drink — I’m going to head back first. You two have fun.”

Castorice looks like she wants to say something but stays quiet, and even though he loves her she frustrates him too, always so thoughtful and concerned yet never stepping in.

He returns to the boys’ room with a knot in his stomach. Opens the door, expecting to find blessed silence — it’s not late enough for the other three to have returned from whatever they’re doing outside, and no one would pass up the opportunity to have some fun in a different city.

Mydei is here. Of course he is. Phainon lets out a jaded laugh. And then he notices the bottle of rum Mydei is holding, unscrewed, a few gulps already stolen out of it, and he laughs again. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he says. It’s not fair is all it is, that Mydei always gets to do whatever he wants scot-free, while Phainon gets humiliated just for entertaining thoughts of being anything else but the perfect guy everyone wants him to be. It’s unfair, and he decides tonight it’ll be Mydei’s fault — and fuck it, he’ll apologize tomorrow as well if he has to, grovel and smile,— but tonight he wants to fight, to rebel; feels it beating loudly in his veins, so he walks up to Mydei and grabs the wrist holding the bottle.

Mydei’s glare instantaneously sparks. “Let go.”

Phainon doesn’t let go. “Drinking indoors is forbidden,” he says.

They stare at each other for a moment, Phainon’s hand clasped tight around Mydei’s wrist, holding it mid-air, and the bottle dangling between the two of them. It’s expensive Dolosi alcohol, and of course Mydei would be selfish enough to buy and waste a whole bottle to himself without even offering to share, while Phainon drank cheap beers on the beach and got into a stupid argument. He squeezes tighter. Mydei replies in kind, his free hand coming up to twist Phainon’s collar. His scowl darkens, yet the corners of his mouth tick into a snarky smile he brushes against Phainon’s jaw, leaning in:

“So is forging signatures,” he murmurs.

The bottle goes flying. It rolls on the floor somewhere; Phainon feels it knocking against his foot before he’s pulled up, Mydei’s hand dangerously close to his throat. He pushes, shoves. Feels for the ravaged skin of Mydei’s hips when his nails scratch there, sneaking past the hem of his loose sweater. He hasn’t fought since childhood, and this feels as clumsy as back then, a rough tangle of limbs where he doesn’t know what his hands and legs are doing, only acutely aware of Mydei’s fingers pulling his hair and his own knee jabbed between Mydei’s thighs. Mydei gets a clean punch in, and it takes the taste of blood flaring in his gums for Phainon to realize he’s lost; dazed, pinned to the floor, Mydei kneeled above him. 

“Done already?” Mydei taunts, and he shifts, and the curve of his ass rubs dangerously against Phainon’s dick. “What, first time?”

He’s not even paying attention to Phainon, looking for the bottle instead. Phainon grits his teeth and uses the distraction to shift his hips, toppling Mydei so their positions are reversed. Mydei gasps, a delicious, surprised sound, and squirms, seeking for a weakness in Phainon’s hold. Phainon pins Mydei’s wrist longer than necessary, harsher, his thumb brushing at the columns of veins pulsing there. He’s about to say something when Mydei’s knee finds his stomach so he curses from both pain and annoyance, and grinds down to encourage Mydei to keep still — and he’s not sure whether they’re fighting or fucking anymore at this point, their bodies interlocked and Mydei’s hips rolling against his as he struggles.

“Pervert,” Mydei says, noticing Phainon’s erection. Grinning.

“Shut up,” Phainon groans. Spurred on, his hand finds Mydei’s mouth, forcing it shut. It feels unbelievable, the feel of Mydei’s lips against his palm, the softness of his cheeks pressed between his thumb and index, and the face he makes, muzzled by Phainon’s hand — mad at first, a strike of thunder passing through his eyes, and then it dulls, softens into something else when Phainon rolls his hips in turn; arousal, swimming in gorgeous amber as Mydei’s body goes slack.

Mydei’s mouth opens against Phainon’s palm. He recoils for the expected bite, but all he gets is the fat slide of Mydei’s tongue across his hand, the testing caress of his teeth hardly digging into the skin of if, and the mad parts of him want to tug at them, pull them out, stab Mydei in the chest with his own enamel. Mydei’s sweatshirt has rolled up over his stomach during their scuffle, revealing honey-toned muscles rippling over his skin and the marks Phainon has just made, long lines belting around Mydei’s waist from when he dared grab it, surrounding a belly button Phainon wants to dip his tongue into then trail his mouth along, either lower down his stomach, or higher, following the sweat and ocean salt up to his chest, his armpit. 

Mydei’s hard too. Phainon can feel him fatten against his own dick, making him crazy. His fingers slip, thumb drawing over Mydei’s reddened cheek before it pauses by his lip, feels the plumpness of it, the dried-up blood, and then Mydei parts them, tongue teasing against the flat of Phainon’s finger, and Phainon gasps and pushes in. 

Wet warmth graces him, so wet Phainon’s shoulders shake a little, and he pushes deeper, grazing against the hard ridges of Mydei’s teeth, pressing down on Mydei’s tongue until spit has pooled over his nail. 

“Look at you,” he breathes out, because that’s all he can do, looking at Mydei, and Mydei moans, hips rolling against Phainon’s. Phainon’s stomach does somersaults. He grabs at Mydei’s waist with his free hand to stop him from moving. But then — then his other hand caves, as if on his own, palm eating away at Mydei’s skin, up, up, while he’s still exploring Mydei’s bruised mouth with the other, feeling Mydei’s chest and squeezing, and Mydei makes a delicious noise around his thumb and Phainon thinks he might just come like this. 

Mydei’s exposed collarbone is flecked with bruises too, spreading over his skin like birthmarks, and Phainon grinds his hips down when he sees them, focusing on the sound Mydei makes now — a quiet, defenseless huff, not fighting at all, only sucking on Phainon’s digit like some sort of pacifier. Their cocks lazily swell against each other, and everything is too hot, suffocating; Phainon feels drunk, wants to plunge his finger deep enough that it brushes against Mydei’s epiglottis, wants to bury his face in his throat and lick like some kind of animal.

“I knew you liked this,” Mydei smirks, a lopsided thing that sends Phainon’s head spinning. His voice is low, and his hands high, still at the place where Phainon left them — beside his head, palms facing the ceiling as if he’s surrendered. He opens his mouth wider to talk, and his incisors are sharp, like a kitten’s fang, so Phainon’s finger retreats just to play with their dangerous edges. “Take it out,” he adds, nodding at where Phainon’s dick sits hard and trapped in his pants. “Want to see.”

“I don’t like this,” he says, yet he obeys, moving all on instinct, no thoughts. He presses their dicks flush against each other, squeezing hard, feeling Mydei rise to full mast. His dick is an obscene pink against the tan of his belly, and he hisses when Phainon touches it with his cold hand and tugs at his hair. 

Phainon laughs, then hauls Mydei’s left leg over his shoulder, bending him in half until he’s convinced Mydei will break if he bends him more, one hand doused in saliva, snuffing out Mydei’s breathing, and the other working them both, but he feels his orgasm will never come; he’s drunk, nervous, fingers jittery anywhere they touch because he has it: Mydei, pinned underneath him just like he imagined a million times, and it doesn’t feel real; never will.

“I don't like this,” he repeats, slowly, because the only thing worse than coming first would be to let Mydei believe he does. “And I don’t like you. You’re-”

Mydei cants his hips forward, meeting the motion of Phainon’s hands, and Phainon swallows down a curse.

“I’m what?”

His chest is unfairly distracting, bouncing up and down to the rhythm of Phainon’s thrusts. Phainon thinks of fucking him for real, but thats not how he’s supposed to do — sex, it should be gentle, and loving, and caring, and not this messy humping on the floor where he wants to tear Mydei’s skin off with his mouth, but that’s all he wants and-

“Trouble,” he groans. “You’re trouble.”

And Mydei laughs, a shaky thing, barely louder than a whisper:

“Then make me behave.“ His lips brush against Phainon's jaw, almost a kiss but not quite, like he hasn't earned it yet. “And make me come.”

Phainon’s frown is so deep it hurts, molding a crease into his forehead, so he pushes it against Mydei’s shoulder as he picks up the pace, focusing on the sounds his breathing makes, and the feeling of the place where Mydei grabbed him earlier, right in the ribs, where it stings each time his body rocks back and forth. Doors slam open and closed. He hears the others returning from the beach, laughing, and he moves his hand faster, the slick sound it makes so loud he’s sure they can be heard in the hallways — but he doesn’t stop, couldn’t even if he wanted.

“Fuck,” he mutters, both because it feels good and because Mydei’s knee just twitched and bumped into the place he’s been punched. “I’m close.”

“Quickshot,” Mydei says, each syllable a deliberate taunt, smirking. Phainon wonders where he learned the word. “I’m not.”

“Liar,” he says, and he pushes harsher, letting his weight drop onto Mydei and panting against his throat, impossibly close. Mydei pets his hair, lightly scratching at his scalp, and it feels so good his dick throbs against Mydei’s, he’s about to come- 

He nuzzles against Mydei’s neck, desperate, feeling the humiliation of coming first and alone creeping in, and he grips more harshly to delay his orgasm. The pain makes him grunt, but Mydei shudders, suddenly going quiet. Phainon takes the obvious hint, dragging his nails against the sensitive underside of Mydei’s dick. 

Mydei cums with a soft gasp and a shiver, and Phainon follows as soon as he feels thick, creamy spend drool over his knuckles. “See-” he pauses to inhale, arms shaking with the effort, “You were lying,” he finishes. His dick refuses to soften, greedy and pushing against Mydei’s stomach. Mydei looks at him, satisfied and sleepy-looking. 

“Get off me,” he says. He doesn’t sound that angry anymore. Phainon isn’t either.

That night, Phainon dreams of his birthday again. It’s a little different: there’s one more chair gathered around the table, and Mydei sits there, face drilled with piercings at his lip and ears, adorning the crimson bite marks someone has made. He smirks when Phainon blows out the candles, and when Audata says Good boy, he sticks his tongue out. There’s a piercing there as well, shining like an oyster pearl.

The trip goes by impossibly fast. He and Cipher make up as they always do, by not mentioning the argument and having Cipher make him take a picture in those stands with holes in the head and drawn cartoon characters for the body. Phainon tries not to think of Mydei, he really does, but he’s unable to forget the feel and the weight of his body under him, above him. They don’t talk again. Mydei is gone most of the time, doing things only he and God know, and he returns long after Phainon has gone to sleep. Avoiding him, Phainon figures. He convinces himself it’s fine, but he must look off because Cipher playfully elbows him and asks, Love trouble? and he coughs and spits out his drink.

She doesn’t probe, releasing the fish once she’s caught it. She simply looks at him for a few beats, pensively, then says I know exactly what you need, and drags them to a bar.

The bar is, frankly, better than Phainon expected. A few other students from their university are here too, because it’s close to the place they’re staying at and they need to be up early tomorrow to catch the bus back to Okhema. He orders something Cipher recommends, sweet and fruity and way too expensive for how little the bartender pours him. 

Mydei is here too. Phainon has started to expect him now, like some kind of curse that’ll follow him until he dies. Never here when Phainon looks for him, yet always appearing where he’s least expected. He’s isolated from the group, gathered around a pool table with a couple of older strangers. He blends in with them, wearing a black short-sleeved shirt and a gold chain that matches the enticing glow of his eyes, and Phainon can’t help but stare, stupidly, mouth dry, dick half-hard. He downs his drink when he sees Mydei laugh, remembering the feel of his own teeth diving into Mydei’s skin when Mydei bends over the table to hit two balls into a hole. Something gnaws at him, ugly and possessive, and he wonders if anyone’s seeing Mydei the way he does, the incredibly tempting and suggestive curve of his arching back; if anyone’s ever seen Mydei like Phainon has yesterday: raspy and red in the face and beautiful. Mydei turns to him from the other side of the room, and mouths: No staring. 

Phainon orders another drink. 

Someone asks him if he wants to dance; some girl whose name he forgets as soon as she says it. She resembles Cipher, peppy and malicious, and her perfume is sweet, sugary like fruits that are harvested in the middle of summer. He keeps watching Mydei over her shoulder, throat tight when he sees him freely laugh, then distracted when he can’t find him any more.

“I need some air,” he says before the song is even over, and he doesn’t care how disappointed she looks, nor does he wait to hear her give him her phone number.

There’s a small balcony on the second floor. Phainon aims to isolate himself there; take a deep breath of cold Dolosian air, letting the ocean breeze fill his lungs when he slides the door open — but there’s someone there already, always the same person. His curse.

“Stalker,” Mydei says, arms hugging his frame before they pat down the back of his pants for cigarettes. 

Phainon closes the door behind him. “I’m only looking out for the group.”

“The group,” Mydei repeats, like it doesn’t include him somehow. He closes his eyes when he takes the first puff. 

“The group.” Phainon walks towards him, encouraged by how open Mydei looks tonight, the first few buttons of his shirt undone and his braid loose. He brackets him against the guard rail, softly inhales the smell of Mydei’s cigarette, realizing how much he’s been missing it. “In which everyone behaves, except you.”

Mydei sneers. Tilts his head back, an amused glint flashing in his pupils. “So you say,” he retorts. “So what, has the Deliverer offered to be my guardian dog?”

“Yeah.” Phainon’s eyes flick between Mydei’s eyes and his lips. His voice drops. “Or I could be something else.”

“Big words,” Mydei says, and he pulls the cigarette away from his lips to tease it against Phainon’s. Phainon catches it with his mouth, inhales, and coughs. “Coming from a nerd like you.”

“I’m not a nerd,” he says, but he’s not convincing anyone, choking from smoking wrong, desperately fighting the burn in his throat. Mydei smiles.

“You are,” he decides. His hand plays with Phainon’s collar, pulling to find the sun tattooed at the side of his throat. He had it inked years ago, after the funeral, and he apologized to Aglaea afterwards. “First place in maths and sciences. Always.”

“I just- “ He stumbles over his own excuses, because he realizes they’re terribly lame as they form in his head, and because Mydei’s knuckles brushing against his skin are too distracting to think properly. “I just study hard.”

“I’m sure you do.” Mydei seems amused, his smile softer than usual, fleeting. He pulls Phainon close, so close Phainon can smell the hotel shampoo on him and the scent of new leather, and then touches his jaw, lightly; his chin, and he tilts Phainon’s head up towards the sky. “See the big star above us?”

Phainon sagely nods, but he’s barely looking at it, glancing down at Mydei’s moving lips. 

“Tell me its name,” Mydei orders. 

It’s an easy ask. He looked at the night sky often when his mother passed, learning catalogued stars and imagining Audata might have taken refuge in one of the many unknown ones. Then Aglaea took him in, and he slowly started keeping his curtains shut at night, because the sky was much more polluted in Okhema than in Aedes Elysiae, and realizing the sky was nothing but an unfathomable, starless black curtain made him sad.

“That’s Sirius,” he says.

“Of course,” Mydei says, mocking, petting Phainon’s cheek, and Phainon rolls his eyes, but then Mydei continues, “In my home, we call it Nikador. And the one next to it — do you see it?” Phainon nods again. “Tell me its name too.”

“Procyon.”

“Kephale,” Mydei corrects.

“What does it mean?”

“Doesn’t mean anything.” Mydei tilts Phainon’s gaze back to him, and interrupts him before Phainon can say That’s not possible, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and academic outrage. “See,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You are a nerd.”

“You came from my hand just yesterday,” is the only ammunition Phainon has to defend himself.

“So what,” Mydei laughs. “Think you’re special?”

His fingers are freezing cold, red at the joints and stupidly slender, like a pianist’s.

“Either I am or you’re surprisingly easy,” Phainon replies. “Which is it?”

Mydei smirks, his touch already retreating, and he mumbles something in Kremnoan, a short word with harsh-sounding consonants that makes Phainon’s cock twitch for some inexplicable reason. He takes a long cigarette drag before he translates, smiling, “You’re a smart boy. You’ll figure it out.”

So he figures it out. Mydei finds him — summons him, really — when Phainon expects it less, when he’s tired and about to snap; ambushing him before his class starts and telling him nothing more than Gym, Five, to which Phainon nods like a well-trained puppy.

He finds Mydei in the gym storage room long after both classes and practice are over. He’s sitting splayed on the floor, coated in sweat with a bottle of water he’s emptied next to him, next to a stack of old mattresses where cotton seeps through. Angry — he’s looking down, face closed, and then up at Phainon. Phainon shuts the door behind him. 

“I won’t always come running just because you call,” he warns, and it’s the fattest lie he’s ever told so far because he would, no questions asked; would throw himself from the roof if Mydei asked not even nicely. 

“Yet you came,” Mydei retorts. He’s wearing a shirt and a red sports jacket he's kept unzipped, and a pair of matching shorts. He’s not in a club or team, Phainon knows — because he asked, a few days back — but he’s good at virtually every sport, a mountain of muscles looking to find a way to release some steam, so he often subs when needed or joins for practice when he feels like it. 

His knees are bruised purple-grey, symmetrical splashes of hurt painting them both, staring straight at Phainon. Phainon crouches in front of Mydei, tilting his head to look.

“How did that happen?” 

“I fell,” Mydei says plainly. Phainon’s finger idly traces over the bruise, and before he knows it he’s kneeling, nose almost brushing over Mydei’s right knee, hypnotized. 

“That’s a nasty fall.”

“Concrete does that.” Mydei cards through Phainon’s hair, palms still rough and flaring from holding a ball or from fighting, Phainon doesn’t know, doesn’t care when Mydei’s fingertips play with Phainon’s sensitive earlobes, kicking arousal straight into his groin. Phainon hums, opens his mouth. Kisses Mydei’s knee, then licks at it, scraping at the wound with the tip of his teeth. There’s no dripping blood this time; only the jolt of Mydei’s skin when Phainon teases it, and the sharp drag of his nails against Phainon’s scalp. “I knew you’d like this,” he says.

“I don’t,” Phainon replies, but the breath is punched out of his words, his eyes glued to Mydei’s naked knees. The bones here are sharp, curving inwards, and his leg looks absurdly strong, a perfect mix of fat and muscle he wants to sink his teeth into. “I’m not into that — into pain.”

“Right,” Mydei says, shifting to spread his legs open further. His shorts are so large Phainon can glimpse his inner thighs when he moves. He tightens his jaw to keep from biting. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“I’m not,” Phainon insists, but his hands are viciously closed around Mydei’s ankles, sure to leave yet another bruise, and he pulls on them harshly, making Mydei stumble backward as his back hits the floor. “Can I,” he starts, and then he stops, tongue heavy in his mouth, unable to look elsewhere but at Mydei’s leg, Mydei’s thigh. There’s a scar here, cross-shaped and so pale it’s almost invisible, right past the rim of the red shorts, and the need to mouth and lick until it rips is so urgent it stuns him a little.

“Can you what,” Mydei asks, even though he already knows, legs subtly lifting up and hugging each side of Phainon’s head. He's just taking it out on Phainon, whatever it is that got him moody.

“Touch you,” Phainon manages. Mydei’s not wearing his piercings or his rings, having removed them to exercise, and it looks almost pornographic to see him like this, unburdened by all the spiky metal and gold he’s usually covered in, with so much new skin bared. Phainon’s face heats up when he quickly adds, “Lick you.”

Mydei sighs, and his knee bumps against Phainon’s temple. “Only if you make it hurt,” he says.

It feels like a trap. Phainon happily jumps in with both feet joined. Mydei tugs at his shorts, exposing more skin, and Phainon follows with his tongue, lapping at his knee then leg then thigh, following the red ink lines like they’re instructions, biting when he feels Mydei try and escape his touch. He tastes of sweat, salt, burning, damp, and the more he devours the hungrier Phainon becomes. The flexing of Mydei’s hand is delicious, curling in Phainon’s locks, pushing when his stomach quivers and pulling when Phainon’s tongue retreats. He’s kissing hickeys into the crook of Mydei’s thigh, and finds a place that’s softer, more fat and fewer nerves, crazy sensitive. He abuses it until it’s starry with teeth imprints, hands hooked behind Mydei’s knees, crawling up, up, stopping short of his ass when Mydei’s breath catches.

He makes loud sucking noises on purpose, because he can feel Mydei twitch under him when he does, pressing his thumbs into the meat of it when he bites, and Mydei squirms, trying to push Phainon’s head closer to his erection and groaning when Phainon ignores him in favor of the hissy, choked-up gasps he gets for it.

“Fuck,” Mydei grunts. He sounds like he struggles to be angry. The word sends tiny rippling shocks up Phainon’s spine.

“What?” he murmurs against Mydei’s leg. “Think you could come like this?” He licks along the scar’s sensitive tissue, feeling Mydei shiver. “Untouched?”

“Fuck you,” Mydei says, because he could, his knees desperately trying to squeeze shut, his shorts sloppy wet already. His eyes are veiled and watery, trained on Phainon like he's trying to drown him in them.

“That’s not very nice of you.” 

Phainon opens his mouth, deliberately dragging his lips across Mydei’s skin with kisses that don’t linger, before pressing against the fabric of Mydei’s shorts, where he can feel his dick bulging angrily. The part of him that wants to tease and refuse cannot outweigh the part that craves knowing what Mydei tastes like and the sounds he’ll make once Phainon gets him in his mouth. “You’re so wet,” he says, dazed, and hard too. “So fucking wet.”

Mydei makes an ungodly sound, voice breaking at the edges. “Fuck,” he moans, tilting his hips up, trying to find Phainon’s mouth again. “Phai-”

A phone buzzes. Mydei’s — Phainon feels it vibrating through the pocket of his shorts. Time freezes.

For the first time in a long while, Phainon is upset, too, like a child whose toy had been stolen away the very second he was about to grab it, his name he dreamt of hearing from Mydei’s lips — now gone. His nails scratch deeper lines. Mydei’s eyes flutter through his scowl. He bites down on his lower lip, like he’s now aware of what was about to happen, of the needy, not so angry hitch in his voice when he almost called Phainon’s name. The phone buzzes again.

“Pick it up,” Phainon sighs. 

One of Mydei’s hands leaves Phainon’s hair to pat down his pocket. He pauses. Hesitates.

“Pick it up,” Phainon insists. “Go.”

He’s sulking, he knows, his words muffled in Mydei’s shorts, but he can’t bother to pretend he isn’t. Mydei retrieves his phone warily, then brings it to his ear, shuffling on his back to get more comfortable, supporting himself on his elbows. “Hello,” he says.

Phainon slides his shorts down. Mydei gives him a warning glance. He ignores it, kisses the leaking tip of Mydei’s cock, and Mydei tries to pull away from him but he’s stuck between the hard floor and Phainon’s weight, who doesn’t budge even when he gets kicked. “Yes, Uncle,” Mydei adds, quickly, for Phainon to understand that he must stop. Phainon doesn’t stop. The slight panic in Mydei’s tone spurs him on, and he licks timidly at first, listening to Mydei’s voice as it twitches through his teeth. School is great, Yes I’ll call him, Yes, Yes-, and then Mydei switches to Kremnoan, says words Phainon doesn’t understand but that makes him hot and sweaty all the same. Mydei’s dick slaps against the inside of his cheek when he takes it in his mouth, fat and so incredibly slippery, and he has to hold onto his hips to stop it from gliding out. 

He’s clumsy, clearly lacking practice, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm, bobbing his head faster so he can feel the harsh grip of Mydei’s fist against his scalp, and he picks up Kremnoan words, Yes, mostly, because that’s all Mydei can say when he’s not meekly going Mmh, breathing scattered.

Mydei sighs with deep relief when he manages to hang up, head lolling back, chest heaving, exhausted, and he says something else in Kremnoan, once, twice, the beginning of a third time when Phainon understands he’s coming, swelling above his tongue and pulsing with release. He rubs the inside of Mydei's thighs, where the skin is rough from being bitten, and moans around Mydei — and Mydei comes, a thick load that coats Phainon's tongue white. 

“HKS,” he breathes out, knuckles pale around his phone. “Are you insane-”

“Did you like it?” Phainon cuts him off, as out of breath as Mydei, throbbing in his pants, licking the sperm that spilled out of his mouth and back onto Mydei’s length. “Did I do good?”

Mydei’s expression twists into surprise. He swipes his hand over his face, and sighs, and then — his shoulders shake. Soon, the rest of him follows, his body relaxing as it shakes — he’s laughing, a cute, quiet thing, sharp fangs poking out. 

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Phainon says, smiling. 

Mydei sits up, pulling Phainon up to his knees as he does. “You are stupid,” he says. He cradles the back of Phainon’s nape, scratching at his hair then playing with the hem of his own jacket, fingers dancing lazily on the blue fabric. Relaxes. Phainon lets him, pleased, happy with the gentle touch and the mean memories of himself he’s left on Mydei’s skin. Mydei hums a song without lyrics as he tugs on Phainon’s collar, and then — he frowns, moving closer to look at it.

“You own Goldweaver’s clothes,” he says blankly, peering at the clothing tag. 

“Uhm, yes,” Phainon replies. “It’s my adoptive — my aunt,” he explains. “Made this.”

Mydei’s mouth gapes a little. “Your aunt owns the Goldweaver brand,” he spells out. His gaze darts from Phainon to the designer tag. Phainon feels himself heating up from embarrassment but the corners of Mydei’s lips quiver and spread into a genuine smile, a crystal clear laugh. “HKS, your aunt owns the Goldweaver brand yet you dress so badly.”

“What does that mean?” Phainon asks. 

“It means you’re an idiot.”

“I know.” He’s smiling too, and he feels he might explode with the need to kiss Mydei, and he would if only it didn’t mean that beautiful sound his laugh makes would stop. “But that word you said, Hikas? What does it mean?”

“Haikas,” Mydei corrects, and really, what a beautiful language it is, Kremnoan, “means you’re an idiot, HKS.”

Phainon aces his finals. History is his lowest grade. No one is surprised, not really, except Cipher who says Woah when she sees Phainon’s name at the top of the results boards. Aglaea says Congratulations in a tender voice that has Phainon’s heart coil into itself, and Mydei only says C’mere, the both of them isolated on the roof, assaulted by the cold autumn wind, and he grabs Phainon by the collar and kisses him. He tastes of metal and blood — and there’s some blooming across his knuckles, a bright, crazy red where the skin has been ripped away from violent punches. There’s no piercing on his tongue.

The fluffiest part of Mydei is the red ends of his hair, spilling from under Phainon’s hand, pressed against Mydei’s nape as he’s pushing him into the mattress. It’s been so long since they last touched that Phainon left both their clothes on, only stumbling into Mydei’s bedroom and manoeuvring him into the bed. Mydei’s house is huge, multiple empty rooms and fancy furniture, and his bedroom is a fascinating blend of everything he likes and has done, the places he visited, the things he doesn’t share. There’s a guitar against the wall, souvenirs hanging on a cluttered desk, and a picture of Mydei and a woman who looks exactly like him.

“What’s the occasion?” Phainon murmurs, hand gliding over the sweaty skin of Mydei’s stomach. He’s pressed against his ass, the curve impossibly perfect, cushioning his swelling cock, and Mydei rolls his hips against him and arches his back in a way that should be forbidden. 

“Rewarding you,” he says, mockery obvious even through gritted teeth. “For acing your exams and getting an internship." 

Phainon plays along. “Right,” he says, cupping Mydei’s chest from above. “Despite all these distractions, too.” He’s focused now though, humping against Mydei’s clothed ass until he’s got him pressed flat into his own bed, clutching at his pillow. 

He looks for kisses everywhere he can, now that he’s allowed; short ones and longer ones, licking into Mydei’s mouth, needily nibbling at his lip. The cut has healed; it doesn’t quite taste like blood anymore, perhaps won’t ever do again, now that they’ve graduated. Phainon bites until it does.

“I’m hungry,” he says, when they’re both kissed out and stupid. Mydei quirks an eyebrow and looks at him like he’s some sort of strange animal. Phainon nuzzles against his throat, unsure where he’s put his phone. “I could order something?”

“Takeout,” Mydei spells out slowly. “In my traditional Kremnoan household?

“Is that a no?”

Mydei turns his head to look at Phainon, who waits, chin hoisted on Mydei’s chest, listening to his breathing. He’s greedy tonight — greedier; aching to grab that weird anxious feeling in that stomach and crumple it into a ball to toss out the window of Mydei’s bedroom, and he has a hunch Mydei will indulge, because Mydei only has two modes: fight too hard or give too much.

Mydei sighs, and gently pushes Phainon off him. “I’ll make us something,” he says. 

Phainon grins.

Mydei is different at home. He strolls around like a lazy, bored cat, hands shoved in his pockets and yawning without shielding his open mouth with his hand. He works the kitchen like he owns it, which he does, but Phainon can’t help but be impressed still. The fridge is jam packed with condiments and meat and cheese and all kinds of foods Phainon has never even considered buying when passing their aisle at the supermarket. Mydei ties a pink apron around his waist, removes his rings and bracelets and washes his hands, and Phainon feels a sharp pain in his chest as if an arrow had gone through it.

“They’ll never believe me, at school,” he says, still a little shell-shocked and helplessly crazy for the contrast between the rough, wild Mydei and the domestic one that cooks for him and keeps old plushies from his childhood in his bedroom.

Mydei barely glances at him from the counter, where he’s already busy chopping vegetables. “If you tell anyone about this then I’ll have to kill you.”

His voice is neutral; it’s the impressively sized knife he’s holding makes the threat extremely believable. Phainon holds his hands up in surrender and inches closer. “Can I help, then? Surely you need an accomplice.”

Mydei smiles. “HKS. Have you ever cooked something in your life?”

Phainon considers lying, just because he has a feeling Mydei will evict him from the kitchen if he knows Phainon’s diet consists of pasta boxes and sandwiches, but Mydei’s glare is as sharp as his knife, threatening him into being honest, and he has a feeling Mydei knows the answer already. He clears his throat. “It was ten years ago, on a cold winter night,” he starts, “I had lost my way, and I was starving-”

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen,” Mydei says, shaking his head, but there’s obvious laughter hiding in his voice. “And pick us a movie to watch.”

Phainon blinks. “You know,” he says, stupidly, “this is starting to feel like a date.”

“Not a date,” Mydei retorts. A mushroom gets cleanly decapitated. “Dog-sitting.”

“Mean,” Phainon pouts, but he can feel his metaphorical tail wag as he scrambles to the living-room and the large, comfy couch here, and scrolls through the TV movie catalog. 

He ends up picking a horror movie, on the cheesy off-chance that Mydei gets scared enough to scoot over closer to him and cuddle, and he realizes he doesn’t need to: once Mydei is finished cooking, he plops down impossibly close to Phainon, hands him his plate, and rests his head onto his shoulder. “What’d you pick,” he asks.

His voice is the lowest it’s ever been, a tired, relaxed thing, even when he eyes the movie’s preview warily — it looks pretty terrible, actually, some unknown flick from ten years ago with incredibly mediocre ratings and actors no one has ever heard of. Mydei groans, but he shuffles closer to Phainon, pulling the comforter over their laps; then he presses play and only sighs once.

Phainon expects to be properly kicked out once the movie is over, as punishment for how horrible it was, the cheap CGI and unconvincing actors, but Mydei hasn’t suffered through most of it — he’s passed out at some point, long lashes fluttering shut, and his eyes blink open once the credits roll with some loud, spooky music playing. “Sleep over,” he says — orders. Phainon only says ‘Sure,’ because, really, he wants nothing more but to obey.

Mydei seems oddly lax, lending Phainon his own clothes to stay and then abandoning him to go shower, and Phainon listens to the sound of the water running as he looks around. The house, perhaps because of how big it is, seems desperately empty, and judging from the amount of food stacked in the fridge, untouched. He easily imagines Mydei lives here alone most of the time — lonely, and maybe a little sad, too. He tries to shove the thought away; they’re not like this, and Mydei would probably murder him in cold blood for assuming, but he can’t shake off the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

They sleep cuddled together like it’s normal, Phainon curled up behind Mydei like a parenthesis, arms idly wrapped around his waist, head on his shoulder. Mydei smells like shampoo; something fruity yet strong that Phainon inhales quietly. It’s a strange thing, proximity. He’s so close he can hear the dull sound of Mydei’s heartbeat, yet he can’t bring himself to ask all the things he’s locked in his mind for months. Where did you get all these scars? and So, was I special after all? He asks, “What will you do after we graduate?” as if graduation isn’t already looming over their heads like a leaky roof with all the uncertain holes it poked into Phainon’s future.

Mydei shifts against him. “Whatever I’m told to do,” he says.

“You could continue studying,” Phainon continues. “You’re smart.” Mydei snorts. “You know so much about history, and stars, and-”

Mydei shifts again, rolling on his back with a quiet sound. He pushes Phainon’s head into his shoulder and looks at him with that tired air he’s had on all night, like he’s waiting for something that’ll never come, that raincloud that passes over but doesn’t burst; like he knows Phainon won’t say the things he’s thinking: the obvious We could move in together that sounds so foolish now, when reality stalks close and he doesn’t have a solid plan and still uses Aglaea’s card for his expenses. Phainon swallows.

“I’m thinking of going to the Grove uni,” he says, which is a lie, but he has to say something, anything, that could get that pretty light in Mydei’s eyes to return. “Or maybe Aedes Elysiae.” He’s just throwing names like stones on a flat lake, hoping they’ll bounce, spark a reaction, anything; a promise or a hint that Mydei won’t just disappear without a word, lost in his big, empty house. Mydei lets the words sink. “Will you go back home?”

Mydei looks up to the ceiling as if there were stars here to gaze at. His hand rubs lines across the planes of Phainon’s back. Phainon imagines him running on these beaches made of burning white sands he sees in photographs, holding a shellfish where the sea can be heard through when you put it next to your ear, and he wishes they had stayed in Dolos forever.

“Do you remember Nikador?” Mydei asks.

Phainon nods.

Mydei breathes slowly, his hand still drawing steady circles over the shirt he’s let Phainon borrow. “He and Kephale were two gods,” he starts. “And they were two lovers. But they were fated to be apart.”

“Why?” Phainon asks.

“Because it’s a sad story,” Mydei replies, “with a sad ending.”

“Did you just spoil me?”

Mydei closes his eyes. “I did.”

“You’re horrible, Mydeimos.”

“And you’re a nerd. And it’s past your bedtime.”

Phainon scoots closer. “Finish the story first,” he says, one of his legs sliding between Mydei’s. “Why did they have to part?”

“Because Nikador couldn’t live without waging war.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a god of war,” Mydei says patiently. “That's what they do.” He’s idly playing with Phainon’s hair now, and Phainon’s ticklish but he lets him.

“And what about Kephale?”

Mydei’s head turns just enough for him to look at Phainon quizzically. “What about him?”

“What kind of god is he?” Phainon insists.

“He’s just, some god.” 

“He can’t be ‘just some god.’”

Mydei’s eyes shut again, and he murmurs something that’s definitely not very nice in Kremnoan. “HKS. I just said he was.”

“He has to be the god of something!”

“No he doesn’t,” Mydei retorts with a frown.

“You have a Nikador bias,” Phainon accuses.

“And you ask more questions than a three-year-old,” Mydei says, before relenting. “Fine. Kephale is the god — the god of all good things.”

Phainon isn’t convinced. “The god of all good things,” he repeats. “That sounds like you’re making it up.”

Mydei pinches him. “I’m not making it up, Deliverer,” he says. “I’m trying to remember a boring story about a boring god that doesn’t exist and that I was told when I was ten.”

“Growing senile already,” Phainon says, and he giggles when Mydei looks at him in horror. When he was ten, his dog had died, and Audata told him he would turn into the stars and watch over him from space. “My apologies,” he offers with a stifled laugh. “Please continue.”

“Thank you,” Mydei says, eyes narrowed, but he’s only playing it up for the bit, exaggerating his anger — Phainon can tell now when the heat won’t burn even if he puts his hand into it. “So Nikador can’t live without warring, and Kephale tries it too at first, waging war with Nikador for hundreds of millenia just so they can be together. But Nikador’s fury has no end, and Kephale is a peaceful being at heart, so he tires out, burned by Nikador’s flames, and dies.”

There’s a silence that stretches on.

“That’s it?” Phainon says when he realizes he’s not getting more. “That’s the story?”

“Yes,” Mydei says flatly. “Completed. Fin. Now, sleep.”

“I don’t like this end,” he says, shuffling closer. “Couldn’t Nikador have just stopped battling, and retired in a nice little cottage or something with Kephale? You know, the ‘and the history books said they were great friends’ ending?”

Mydei turns again, getting on his side to face Phainon, and he kisses his forehead, eyes shutting close. “You’re not reading the right history books,” he mumbles. “And the mighty god of war would never live in some puny cottage. Sleep.”

Phainon tries. He counts Mydei’s heartbeats like he would imaginary jumping sheep, one, two, three, four, trying to drift to sleep. 

“Hey,” he says, poking at Mydei with his knee.

Mydei opens a stern eye. Grabs his phone, reaching behind Phainon’s back, and types, screen tilted so Phainon can see, ‘My dog keeps waking me up.’ Phainon chuckles and gives him a light headbutt. The phone falls somewhere between the two of them.

“What?” Mydei says.

“He must have cared for him,” Phainon says. “Nikador.”

Mydei just watches him without asking what he means, once again waiting to see what conclusion Phainon has come to. Phainon’s voice feels tiny in the huge, dark house; vulnerable. 

“Else their stars wouldn’t be so close,” he explains, and this time he closes his eyes first, because he doesn’t want Mydei to see what face he’s making. He thinks of Audata, of how he believes her star must be close to Snowy, and maybe Phainon’s will be here too, in fifty, sixty, seventy years, and maybe Mydei’s too, and that lady from the picture he never talks about.

Mydei stays silent and hugs him a little tighter.

Phainon graduates. Aglaea buys him a car and the keys to a small apartment, because he’s been good. It’s unfair, because all Mydei gets is nothing from his father and a kiss from Phainon, but he seems satisfied with that. Things don’t really change. Phainon tries his hand at the law firm apprenticeship, and Mydei does things he doesn’t tell Phainon about, and messages him once every week or two, to meet and get the edge off, and then he spends the night. Sometimes he doesn’t, just leaves in a hurry, still upset. Frustrated.

He trades the bruises and leather jackets for tight suits that make his shoulders broad and his waist a honey trap, always catching Phainon’s sticky fingers, and he’s moody when he drops by Phainon’s new place, and he asks for rougher things every time. Choke me. Slap me. It's been four months of this, about a year since they first met. Phainon has bought condoms he’s kept stashed in a closet but never used, unable to cross that line yet, and the more this keeps up the more Mydei seems to return to an even more feral state than before, because no matter what he likes to pretend, calling him a whore does not help improve his overall mood or situation.

He stops replying to texts, only initiating first, sometimes shutting off his phone completely. He wears a little plastic employee card with the suit, something with the name of his father’s company on it, and Phainon always wants to tear it off and chuck it into the traffic when he sees it, blaming it for all his problems. He doesn’t know Eurypon, but every time he hears about him from Mydei he wishes he hadn’t. Mydei seems to know, because he rarely talks about his father.

Aglaea gets sick. Phainon starts to worry, replaying in his head what happened to his mother: the long nights at the hospital, the stressful appointments; medical hell, the obvious weight loss clawing at her cheeks. He spends all his free time with his aunt until she's better, missing Mydei's calls. Forgetting to reply to texts. A whole month goes by. When he returns to his normal, orderly life, reassured that Aglaea has many long years in front of her still, he faces the notifications he thought he’d reply to later, when he’d get more time, seeing with horror how many days it’s been since then. A different kind of panic slams in, like when the blind neighbourhood cat had vanished and everyone thought she'd got run over by a car. He dials Mydei in a frenzy. 

It takes five ringtones before he picks up. Five different scenarios Phainon imagines of Mydei in someone else's arms. “Hey, Mydei” he says, quickly. “How have you been?”

“Not as busy as you, it seems like.”

He sounds distant. Detached. Phainon tries to keep his voice steady.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “My aunt was sick.”

“Oh,” Mydei replies, genuine worry instantly seeping into his voice. “Is she okay now?”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks. Are you?”

“That’s good,” Mydei says, ignoring the latter half of the question. Phainon paces, unable to keep his cool.

“Can we meet?”

There’s a long silence before Mydei replies. “I don’t know,” he says. He sounds like he really doesn’t. Phainon pushes.

“We could grab dinner,” he continues, clumsily trying to imply that sex doesn’t have to be on the table. He’s desperate, trying to stop Mydei from leaving, and Mydei’s already gone. It feels like they’re back to the beginning of their relationship and these three first meetings where Mydei didn’t care what Phainon did or said. 

“I’m working late tonight,” he says. He sounds so horribly far.

“That’s okay,” Phainon says. “I can wait.” A heavy silence. “I miss you.”

“Okay,” Mydei ends up choking out. Okay, not Me too. Phainon doesn’t dwell on it. “I’ll try.”

It’s past midnight when he knocks on Phainon’s door, and it rains. Mydei’s soaked like a wet cat, looking glum and cold, and Phainon has to resist the initial urge to rush in for a hug — they don’t do that, ever; Mydei either gets on his knees and sucks him off, or Phainon slams him against the door and kisses him breathless, but they don’t get soft, not until very late at night, when they came blame it on exhaustion. His pretty curse.

“Give me three seconds,” he says, holding up the same amount of fingers. Mydei doesn’t move, and Phainon returns in barely two with a clean towel he dabs Mydei’s damp hair with. 

Mydei raises his hand, lightly pushing him away. “Don’t,” he says. Phainon immediately stops.

“Why?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

Mydei forces a slow breath. He’s tense, the whole past month of unreleased frustration bundled in his body, balled in his fist and thundering behind his eyes. “It’s okay to do it like usual,” he says, but he looks like he’d break if Phainon were to grab his head and push his head against the wall or the floor, the way he’d usually like; looks like he’d cry if Phainon were to call him any names, and Phainon doesn’t even want that, really, only wants to hug Mydei and inhale the stinky cigarette scent.

“Is it really okay?” he asks.

“It is,” Mydei replies.

“Because you don’t look okay.” Mydei has no visible wounds but he looks like he’s been hurt, somewhere too hidden for Phainon to see, and he’s getting agitated at how powerless it all feels.

“Things don’t need to change,” Mydei reaffirms, and then he crosses his arms, and his voice raises a little, as if he’d grown more self-aware of how vulnerable he looked. “You can still be the same Mister Nice Guy, with your nice apartment and your nice job-”

“Hey-”

“-And then return home to unleash how frustrated you are that the whole entire world doesn’t sing your praises on me. I thought that was the deal.”

Phainon breathes out, unevenly, disbelieving. “I wasn’t aware there was a ‘deal,” he says. Trying to not allow the situation to slip out of control.

Mydei sneers. “What did you think? That we were dating?”

He says it like it’s an impossible thing; a joke; a pipe dream. Phainon wants to hug him hard, kiss him until the smirk leaves and he gasps for air, bite into the sensitive part of his spine until it leaves an ugly mark he’ll know how to tend for.

“No,” he admits. “But I would have liked-,” he tries, hesitating, blindly putting one foot before the other. “-dating you.”

Mydei laughs. “Yeah, right.”

“Mydei. I’m serious.” 

They look at each other for a moment, Mydei’s face an iron mask while Phainon’s is shattering from how honest he’s being. It’s been a long time since he’s shown himself to be this vulnerable, unable to even summon a smile, blinking too fast, but every time he has it’s been around Mydei, who’s strong and breaks through all his defenses so easily.

Mydei shakes his head, looking to the side. “I knew I shouldn't have come.”

Phainon chuckles. He’s getting upset too, Mydei’s clear disregard turning into familiar anger, a territory they both know.

“Four weeks without getting laid turned you into an asshole,” he says. Mydei looks at him again, eyes at first wide and surprised, and then he smirks, and takes a step toward Phainon.

“I don’t get laid,” he snaps. “Ever — Because someone is too much of a pussy to fuck me.”

“Oh, please,” Phainon says.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Of course you’re wrong! I haven’t fucked you because-” He pauses. Mydei is staring, gaze hard as granite, waiting for the next thing Phainon will say, the venom Mydei will let Phainon inject into him like adrenaline shots. “I haven’t fucked you because if I didn’t want you to get scared.”

“Scared,” Mydei replies, unconvinced; cold. “I’m not scared. Much less of you-”

“Then why can’t you be honest?” Phainon cuts in. “Why do you pick up my calls yet show up angry? Why do you refuse to stay over but then you do and say all these, these things-”

He’s Googled them, the words Mydei whispers into his ear when they fall asleep; found meaning in something he’d tried convincing himself didn’t hold any. He expects — hopes — that Mydei will reply to his own question, saying, Because you are special to me. It’d be enough. It’d be all he could ever dare to hope. He wants to cry, and he hopes it doesn't show but he feels the prickle at the corner of his eyes. Mydei looks unguarded and a little lost.

“Because you’re good,” he ends up saying, quietly. “You’re good to me. For me.” His lip wobbles. “And good things never last.”

Phainon touches Mydei’s cheek. He thinks of Audata; of the farm. Of the blind cat, and of the picture on Mydei’s desk.

“You’re an idiot,” he says.

Mydei opens his mouth to answer but Phainon crashes his mouth against him, unwavering. He’s not entirely forgiving Mydei, and Mydei is still angry at him and at the entire world as he kisses back, hands gripping too hard at Phainon’s hair. Good boys don’t fight, but Phainon fights, the tears and Mydei too, because for Mydei fighting is like breathing — he’s conditioned to it, won’t feel okay if there’s not that rush of anxiety and fury coursing through him, will suspect something is amiss if he didn’t have to get hurt for it, and Phainon understands. He understands.

It’s a challenge not to tear Mydei’s expensive suit off him, and a second, more arduous one to remember where he’s put the lube. He topples Mydei into the couch, struggling with his belt as he shoves three fingers into Mydei’s mouth just to shut him up, because he keeps saying Hurry up, and Fuck me, and Fucking Finally, even though he does nothing to help Phainon undress him, in a voice so rough it sounds like he’s been waiting for this his whole life — and Phainon’s cock is so hard already it hurts. 

“I should have done that a while ago,” Phainon says, talking both to himself and to Mydei, who’s nibbling on his fingers, legs split, pants wet, dress shirt riding up his chest. Just waiting to be taken. “If I knew you’d get all sweet like this.”

Mydei scowls, which isn’t very impressive when he’s gagging on Phainon’s digits, mouth too full for him to bite down properly, and Phainon just says “Mmh,” appreciatively as he finally manages to unhook Mydei’s belt buckle.

He coats his free fingers in lube, warming them up before he presses them against Mydei’s asshole. He’s done this before, when they were getting too into it and he almost took Mydei right here and there, but he’s been an idiot, and a scared one at that, always keeping sex where he could control it. He starts with two, because he knows Mydei always enjoys a little pain, and he’s rewarded with the beautiful arch of Mydei’s back rising off the couch. “Hurts,” Mydei moans around his hand.

“You love it,” he says. 

Mydei moans again, but doesn’t argue — he does love it, cock already hard, precum bubbling at the tip, again, and again, and again, an unending flood that lazily drops into his sparse blond hairs and against his stomach. 

Phainon doesn’t think; only leans down, mouth open, and sucks. His fingers probe around until they find the spot that makes Mydei gasp, his moans now all silent things he shushes against the pillow, because he doesn’t like being loud despite how much Phainon loves to hear him, and Phainon has learned that patience earns him what he wants. He gets into a steady rhythm, pumping his fingers against Mydei’s sensitive spot while cleaning his shaft of all the milky precome gathered there with his tongue. Inevitably, Mydei pants, Let me come, and Phainon’s saliva-slick hand comes up, keeping his orgasm at bay.

“No.” He’s feeling a little mean, angry at how easy it is for Mydei to just pull away and cut the chain linking them.

“Phainon,” Mydei says, agitation seeping into his voice. He stopped calling Phainon Deliverer after they graduated, settling for HKS and Phainon when he feels especially soft or angry, and he’s both right now, hissing orders with his legs spread and his cock leaking onto Phainon’s tightly closed fist. “Let me come.”

“Say please,” Phainon says.

“You’re- ngh, ridiculous.”

“And you’re not cumming until you say please.” 

Mydei makes the closest sound possible to a scoff for someone who’s been sexually neglected and with Phainon’s mouth on them. Phainon knows the game now. He smiles, then pulls back and spits on Mydei’s dick, and Mydei moans, loudly, legs kicking out. “Phainon.”

He resumes sucking, working his mouth and throat up and down until his lips find  the top of his closed fist and Mydei’s scratching at his shoulders and nape, and he moans each time he feels the blunt sting travelling through his skin, because he’s missed it, missed this, all of it. Mydei’s anger and Mydei’s pleasure and Mydei’s weaknesses. He gets drunk off it, swallowing and moaning around Mydei’s cock, his own arousal throbbing in his pants.

“Please,” Mydei says, giving up. The word sounds ripped from his throat, spoken softly, almost religiously, begging. Phainon wants to hear more.

“Please what?”

A glare again, which still isn’t impressive when he has Mydei’s cock in his mouth, pulsing against his tongue, impossibly close. Mydei tries to kick him but his legs feel like jello, weak and barely hurting, and Phainon feels them quiver against his sides from how sensitive Mydei is. 

“You said-”

“I know what I said, baby. Please what?”

Mydei’s face grows as red as his tattoos. “Fuck you,” he says, but it’s lacking bite, mollified by the pet name. Phainon smiles, nuzzling against his jaw.

“Almost there. Come on baby, for me.”

It’s crazy easy how it is. Like he’s got the instruction manual to everything that Mydei likes and loves, everything that makes Mydei swoon and give in, lasered right into his fingertips.

“Fuck me,” Mydei breathes out. “Please, Phainon, fuck-”

“Yeah,” Phainon says. He’s not much better himself, his mind screaming at him to do something about his aching erection, and he sighs when he pushes it against Mydei’s rim, feeling how warm and wet it is. 

“Hurry,” Mydei says. Now that he’s given into begging it seems it’s all he can do; lowering his hips to ease Phainon’s hips, pupils turned into a dark and hungry black hole. “Phainon.”

Part of him wants to tease. To purposelessly slip his cock against Mydei’s hole without pushing it in, just sliding it against his dick, and see what kind of desperate sounds Mydei would make, and what other words he’ll say. The other part, the one that doesn’t know all Mydei’s been through the last month, and the one before, and the ones before too, before they knew each other, has too much time to catch up on and not enough self-control. He thrusts in, pushing in effortlessly in a naughty wet slap, and Mydei keens and cries out.

Phainon doesn’t stop. He holds the base of his dick and pushes it further in, until Mydei’s hole has swallowed him completely and Mydei is gasping softly, starry-eyed. 

“I’m going to come inside you,” he warns. They’re both close, and he already knows he won’t be able to stop, much less stop and pull out, not until Mydei’s belly is fat with his come and he’s too fucked out to even consider not staying over tonight.

“Phainon,” is all Mydei says. He’s carefully running his nails against the hard planes of Phainon’s arms, as if he’d die if he didn’t, and he’s panting, mouth unable to close, and he’s so beautiful Phainon might come with his first few shallow thrusts — but Mydei comes first, with Phainon murmuring You feel so good for me baby, so good, so sweet, and Phainon follows suit. 

“You don’t have to move in,” he says. He’s still hard, lazily pumping into Mydei, unable to stop and playing a little unfair too, when Mydei looks dazed enough to have forgotten his own name, but he supposes he has to say it. “We don't even have to date. If you don’t want to.” But it’ll be hard, watching Mydei return from work with his infuriating plastic card that bears his father’s name and not being able to do anything about it.

“I want to,” Mydei says, voice raspy and quiet. Lashes fluttering open and shut as he blinks up to Phainon, “I want to try.”

Trying is better than what Phainon has bargained for. Trying is — trying is fine. Lazy mornings cuddled up in bed and breakfast while Mydei kicks him out of his own kitchen sounds fine, too. Perfect, actually. He nuzzles against Mydei’s throat.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m very needy, you know.”

“I know,” Mydei replies. He’s stopped scratching to hug Phainon. He presses a kiss to his forehead.

“And you’ll have to tell me bedtime stories,” Phainon adds.

“Mmh,” Mydei says. “We’ll see. If you’re good.”

Phainon smiles.

“I’m always good.”