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i. Bougatsa
At the pivot of a lesser known frescade in Okhema City, stands Phainon's humble bakery.
Built inch by inch by his parents’ hands since their migration from the remote outskirts of Aedes Elysiae, and eventually succeeded by him, it has carved a place of trust for quality confections among the locals and beyond.
From fresh koulouri to creamy eclairs, Phainon's passion for the art of weaving smiles through every piece of sweet treat can be felt in every slice of bread, every splash of caramel and every spoonful of honey — just like his love for you.
Except, you do not share the same fondness for sweets as him.
They do say that opposites attract, but to the extent of your dynamic, no one could've seen coming. Leading his parents to often joke about the contrasts between your tastes amidst dinner chatters.
While Phainon could eat nearly anything offered to him (and despite being so closely involved with sugar, seemed to be no less fond of it day-by-day), you’d rather chug down raw garum than eat more than a bite of any dessert.
This state of difference tends to lead to the assumption that there must be no end to the conflicts between you and your lover. But on the contrary, it’s never been detrimental to the bliss of your relationship. In fact, you and Phainon tend to bond more over your spice tolerance, which is the only area where he's always lost in against you.
Even strangers can surmise where the love of this man takes bloom, from the bright smiles that grace his face whenever he's caught by them in the midst of baking.
He doesn't even need the excuse of love in fact, Phainon’s generosity is always apparent in the way he never shies away from giving big scoops of ice-cream and custard ; a fact that has patrons returning again and again.
So yes, it is no hidden fact that Phainon expresses a good chunk of his adoration through baking and making pastries, and yes, because of your strong distaste for the flavor, you have avoided being the recipient of it.
Not that it's an issue between you. Of course, he understands. And of course, Phainon would never force you to experience something you hate. That, is simply unthinkable.
ii. Portokalópita
But there is one item among Phainon's desserts of expertise that you have opined to find… tolerable.
And ‘tolerable’ from you, means excellent to Phainon. Which is why, the moment the first of the season’s ripened oranges were available in the market, he made sure to snag them.
Every ingredient was measured with the precision of a surgeon’s eyes and every crumble of zest was collected with the utmost focus to give shape to his most perfect rendition of this dessert.
But as he cut into the cake and plated the slice to offer to you with jittery hands —
“Sorry, Phaiyi! I have an urgent meetup with my cousin right now!”
… That was what you said before walking off in a flurry of coat and papers.
Phainon concealed the disappointment that threatened to spill out onto his face with the best reassuring smile he could muster as he waved you goodbye, though the drop in his shoulders refused to smoothen.
It’d been noon then, your brisk footsteps had created a beat against the heated cobblestones that'd sent faint tremors to his heart. Though he quickly shoved that creeping dismay away and focused on his tasks at the shop.
Now, upon his walk around the neighborhood (which he definitely did not go on because his mind refused to settle), the glitters of afternoon sunlight through the crevices of leaves remind him of the bright sunbeams of the high noon when you’d strutted away.
He hoped you were having fun, considering how rare it was for you to meet up with anyone because of your demanding job. Had you not been living with him and his family, he probably wouldn't be able to see you more than twice a week.
But at the same time, he couldn't help the way his heart was tugged by the thoughts of you, which ultimately composed his wish for you to return to him soon.
The stray pebble thunks against the road as he kicks it aside, shaking his head to focus on his path as vehicles whoosh past, telling him that he'd turned towards the shopping district at one point on his mind(and you)less walk.
It takes him a second to soak in his surroundings, and another to reach the decision that he should turn away now.
A zephyr makes the strands of his silver-blue hair rustle, a welcomed guest in the otherwise warm day, they glitter in the golden light of the approaching evening as he turns on his heels (the thought that it is oddly reminiscent of those oranges he’d purchased earlier today passes by him).
He frees one hand from his pant’s pocket to tug at a string of his hoodie, not to adjust it, but out of habit.
The aglet of that string brushes against his skin as it slips from where his index finger had wrapped around it, the loud honk of a passing truck prompts him to glance sideways at the array of shops on the other side ; where you sit under a cafe’s roof, eyes shut as you accept the spoonful of a golden confection from who he assumes is your cousin.
The fulgid light of the evening sun makes your silhouette gleam, orange blossoms brush against your hand when you pick up your spoon to break a bite of portokalópita by yourself this time.
And Phainon observes no visible distaste this time on your features.
iii. Galaktoboureko
Lately, there has been an insistent cloud of discomfort in your chest.
It seemed to be most apparent when you were on the clock, and because of that, you dismissed it as just being the result of stress.
Heavens know when the last time was when you’d gotten a full eight hours of sleep, it would not be unusual for your body to react a certain way due to the sheer chaos of your schedule.
It isn't painful enough to be debilitating either, just, annoying. Like the lingering aftertaste of syrup and cream. Clingy, unavoidable and nauseating—
“Whoa! Easy there.”
The sound of your boyfriend's alarmed voice brings you back. Within the second blink, your brain registers his hold on your waist, steadying you back upright from where your elbow had slid from the counter’s edge.
You're still not fully stabilized, because Phainon has to abandon the pot of custard he’d been stirring altogether to check on you, and you feel as though you’ve remembered how to breathe when his hand cradles your face to tilt it up to his worried gaze.
“Earth to my moonbeam? Ah, I thought I'd almost lost you there…!” he chuckles nervously, you would’ve fallen face-first into that hot pot of custard had he not caught you in time, goes unsaid.
The upturn of Phainon's lips macerate when you remain silent, “You’ve been like that for a while, you know,” he squishes your cheeks together in his grip, “Like you're drowning in your thoughts.” a corner of his lips quirk again at the indignant mmph he manages to coax out of you at last.
“Has work been too hard on you, honey? Is your boss being a stickler again?” the callouses of his hand brush against your cheeks as he loosens his grip, leaning back slightly to peer into your wandering eyes.
The lilt of tender concern in his questions makes your heart ache, meshing with the existing fog of discomfort in there. Phainon has always been unquestionably supportive and understanding of you, perhaps more than what you deserve.
A part of you almost blurts out that no, this silence of yours has nothing to do with that prick of a boss you have. But you don't want to worry him further with your woes, especially when this could just be a case of indigestion.
Phainon's sigh breaks your guilty trance, though it seems like he’d expected that he wouldn't get anything out of you. You’d always been more of a distanced person, but you were not in the habit of being so spaced-out. However, if you wouldn't tell him what was bothering you yourself, pestering you would only worsen your mood.
So, he decides upon a change of strategy and scoops you up from the floor by your hips. Your yelp of surprise gets muffled against his shoulder as he sets you down on the cool counter, grinning down at your baffled expression.
“Keep your eyes on me.” he brushes some unruly strands of hair away from your eyes, snapping you out of your daze by booping your nose with a finger.
You have no choice but to listen when he gives you that look, and accordingly, you keep your eyes set on the motion of him tying an apron around his waist, the glinting kitchen light on the skin of his arms bared as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, blinking only when he places a lump of dough on the counter besides where you sit.
You lean back on your hands when he sprinkles flour over the dough, head tilting as he presses the heel of his palm against it and begins to knead.
His voice takes the shape of a hum as he works, one of those old songs that you would've completely ignored had it not been sung in that way only Phainon can — sweetly, like every other part of him.
Had anyone told you two years ago that you would be in a relationship with a baker, and a pastry chef at that, and would happily watch the ripple of veins and stretch of muscles on his arms as he pressed and molded dough, you definitely would've called them crazy.
But for as unexpected a match you two were, there was something you could never deny ; Phainon was a confection himself, and perhaps the only one you truly enjoyed.
(Not that you were going to admit it out loud.)
“You’re kneading that filo so diligently… it's almost making me jealous.”
(But you would blurt out something a bit tamer.)
Phainon is startled to a complete pause at your admittance, hands frozen mid-press. A beat passes where only the popping sounds from the simmering custard fills the silence.
And then, the baker’s head snaps up to look at you, cyan eyes matching the haze in yours.
“Is that so…? How insensitive of me.” he pushes back from the dough, his advancing step echoing ominously.
“Have I been a bad lover, moonbeam?” you offer no resistance when his knee nudges between your legs, making himself home.
“Bad?Terrible, I'd say.” you're forced to lean back more when his flour-clad hands grip the edges of the counter, boxing you against it.
“Oh no…” his breath caresses your lips, “That warrants a punishment, no?”
You dodge before that caress could go further, biting back a smirk. “How arrogant of you to assume you deserve to be punished just once, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.~”
Phainon draws in an inhale that sounds suspiciously like a hiss, choker hugging his throat tight from how firmly he clenches his jaw at your coy act.
But that slip doesn't last long. His hand shoots up to grip your face, angling your gaze close to his with a force that knocks the breath out of you.
Your heartbeat stutters as you realize that there is no escape this time, “Place your verdict then, your honor.” flour paints your lower lip as his thumb brushes against it, the tenderness of it at odds with everything else about him.
“I—” you gulp, torn between continuing this game or giving into the urge to kiss that smug grin off his face.
Phainon goads you with his eyes, before his eyebrows pinch together abruptly, nose twitching as he catches the whiff of something burning.
A curse escapes him as his hand leaves your face, rushing to turn off the stove just as the custard on the pot spills over.
You watch, wide eyed, still processing the sudden turn of events as he busies himself with the now burned custard. You're about to apologize for distracting him and urging this mess, when he turns to you and flashes a flustered grin, skin reddening as his right hand raises to rub the nape of his neck.
And that smile, that display of patience makes warmth in your chest surge, pushing away the previous discomfort.
It reminds you why you’d chosen him at all, and despite how much even the thought of sweetness sickens you at times, you stay.
… But looking at the way your lover starts a new batch of custard breezily, no complaint, no accusation — you can't help but let the thought simmer in your head.
Maybe sweets… aren't so bad after all.
iv. Pistachio ice-cream
Stare at the computer screen until your eyes burn, clicks of keys echoing in the air, rustles of papers and the taps of busy shoes against the floor, the boss’ countless complaints about his wrecked conjugal life clashing with your appeal for one signature ; again, and again, repeated everyday with bursts of caffeinated frenzy in between — such is the life of the average corporate slave.
Phainon has always been there to ease the weight of stress from your person, in whatever way he’s able to.
Breakfast cooked with care every day even though you are never able to finish more than half of it, all your shirts washed, dried and ironed even though you never ask for it, lunches packed diligently despite knowing that you may not have the time to eat it at all, and dinners where he focused more on coaxing smiles out of you while spoon-feeding you himself when you're completely tuckered out.
Those are the moments you find yourself looking back to the most in between the boredom of work.
You hate your job, maybe even more than your student years. Tendrils of ache wrap around your heart, suffocating you under the ocean of stale office air.
Only when you step foot into the threshold of the bakery, can you breathe.
And when you're drowning in that haze, you find your mind circling back to him. What must he be baking today? Did he put too much cream on the vanilla cake again? What song must he be humming as he sweeped the floors? Was he thinking about how to hide another clumsy burn on his hand from your sharp eyes?
The less you control these wandering worries, the more insistent those tendrils become — like someone has melted sugar crystals into your soul and tangled them with the fibers of your psyche in one hot, sticky mess.
Phainon's love keeps you tethered through it all.
And you're assured of this fact with every touch, every bite made by his hands and every smile he makes sure to welcome you home with.
But tonight, even after diligently finishing every morsel, the cloud of inexplicable longing refuses to disperse.
So, you ask something that you never thought you would've.
“Phaiyi… what's for dessert?”
Phainon freezes mid-whistle, the splash of running water is cacophonous in the otherwise quiet kitchen.
He turns slightly to look at where you sit hunched on the dining table, peering up at him calmly.
He holds that stare, standing in perfect pause while gripping a plate halfway clean, hands soaked in bubbles, as if expecting the punchline of a joke.
But when you don't take back your question, and wait patiently, seriously ; Phainon smiles wide.
“Well…” his chuckle is faintly shaky, and you get the distinct feeling that it isn't from disbelief, but delight. “I actually made pistachio ice-cream for the first time today...! Sound good, honey?”
Music to your ears.
The taste of butter and nuts melt on your tongue, not too sweet or too bland. By the third spoonful, the chill of the dessert freezes even that nagging jolt of pain within you.
If you merely believed it then, you're certain about it now, there is peace only by Phainon's side.
v. Strawberry shortcake
You’ve never felt more parched in your life.
It wouldn't be an unusual situation, had it not been the middle of autumn and had you not already been on your third bottle of water. But alas, no matter how much water you chugged down, that thirst remained insistent under your tongue.
At first, you blamed it on your unfinished breakfast earlier today. Even though you had ample time to eat everything Phainon had cooked, you just… couldn't.
Perhaps the gods have finally struck you for wasting food everyday, you leaned back against your chair with a sigh, and also for disappointing Phainon repeatedly — that thought made you flinch.
So, you took it upon yourself to eat your lunchbox clean, albeit with some difficulty.
But that thirst refused to wane.
“I baked these cookies last night..! Please have one every—”
Your poor co-worker is startled to a halt mid-speech at the way you straighten in your seat, eyes fixed unblinkingly at the box of cookies in her hands.
When your teeth sink into the cookie at last, you're sure that you were not just thirsty — you were craving, and craving something sweet at that.
Although your colleague graciously decided to not point it out, you knew this sudden interest for sweets has baffled everyone else in the office.
You, the you whose face would contort in the most disgusted of frowns at the mention of dessert, ate a sugar dusted cookie eagerly and even seemed relieved afterwards? They wouldn't believe it had they not seen it with their own eyes.
You didn't have the mind to fret over your co-workers’ bewilderment, far too busy focusing on your work now that the thirst had quenched.
Only for a few minutes though.
This time, it was nearly painful to swallow, or think through the chaos in your mind.
Chocolate bars from the office’s vending machine, some absurdly sugary latte, a croissant oozing with cream — you’d tried it all, but nothing worked in satiating that craving for more than a few minutes.
No no, you were doing it wrong from the beginning, you think as you stumble back home. You weren't craving just any dessert, you were craving dessert made by Phainon.
The adumbration of his name makes your heart kick, and you feel so stupid. Why were you even foraging for relief in random hits of sugar, when the desserts made by Phainon's loving hands awaited at home?
Had it been even raw filo made by Phainon, this thirst would've evaporated long ago.
The rest of your walk back home is a daze, and by the time you're finally standing in front of the bakery again, you find it… closed.
Not just that, there is not even a trace of Phainon's parents around, and the second floor, where you all live, is far too quiet.
Sweat beads on your forehead as you cross the living room, objects swirling occasionally in your periphery. You know you should search the rooms, or at least call for them. But your breaths have gone far too astray and saliva has pooled too deep in your mouth.
So, the moment you catch the faint sillage of strawberries, your legs move on their own.
The thirst of before has morphed into hunger so loud they deafen your ears, chanting loud pangs in your head, blurring your vision until all you can focus on is the way your hands dig into the sponge of the cake, the stray strawberry sent flying off the plate in your frenzy and the sweet embrace of sugar on your tastebuds again.
Cream smears on your cheek, makes a colloidal mess on your hands, a smidgen of crushed strawberry stains the collar of your white shirt — but you can't, can't bring yourself to stop.
Even as your throat closes up from the lack of proper breaths, even as your brain stutters from the overload, you keep going, keep digging into that cake and shoving fistfuls of it in your mouth ; until the string of ecstasy snaps and your knees buckle beneath your weight.
You're cradled close by a pair of arms before you could hit the floor, and it takes but one inhale of that fragrance of citrus for you to recognize who had caught — nay, saved you.
If Phainon had said something to you back then, you can remember nothing of it over the tender memory of his hand holding your cream-coated, messy hands with one of his.
Had you not been near paralyzed, perhaps you could've seen the flicker of guilt in his cyan eyes.
Had your hands not been trembling from poison, you would definitely have done something other than lean into the slide of his thumb over your cheek, you certainly would've reacted differently than whimpering as he collected the smudged cream and licked it clean off his thumb.
Empathy bleeds into the waves of sadism in Phainon's mind as you cling to him viciously, trying and failing to verbalize your pain — but he understands, of course he does.
Because unlike every other day before, the antidote is not in the dessert this time.
Foolish, careless you. Sparing no thought to your lover’s feelings when you gobbled down that cheap portokalópita, did you? Look at you now, grasping at his face, pulling him down, insane for a taste of him.
Ahh, but then again, this is precisely why he could never truly be angry at you. Not when you reach for him despite it all, not when look at him like he's your salvation.
Because, true to his words, Phainon would never force into anything. He’d simply… coax you into the addiction, and you would remain none the wiser.