Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Phainon returned to his apartment in Okhema long after the last of the passengers had filed out of the aircraft, long after the polite smiles and practiced goodbyes had been exchanged, long after he had stepped out of the airport and into the hot Okheman evening that still clung stubbornly to the city like a second skin. He saw nobody, none of his neighbours as he walked through the halls, and they were quiet, the kind of quiet that felt expensive, insulated, and very deliberate. Even the elevator seemed to hum softly, as if it had been trained not to disturb anyone’s peace.

His apartment greeted him with the same sterile stillness it always did.

Everything was in its place, and nothing was out of order. There were no shoes kicked carelessly near the entrance, no half-finished mug of bitter coffee left on a counter, no faint traces of another person’s presence in the air. It was clean, it was efficient, and it was the kind of space someone like him was supposed to live in, someone with an endless schedule that never allowed room for mess or softness, but it was also painfully empty.

Phainon set his bag down with more care than necessary, loosened his tie with a rough exhale, and rolled his shoulders as if the tension could be physically dislodged. He ran his tongue down his teeth, which ached as he moved through the motions of his routine with the same precision he brought to his work, because routine was what made him the person he is today, and the only thing that kept his mind from slipping, but tonight his mind felt like it was already standing at the edge of a cliff.

He washed his hands, splashed water on his face, and he stood there for a few seconds, water dripping down his face and arms, his body tense, muscles aching, before he continued with his routine. He drank a glass of water he didn’t want, but he knew he had to. He checked his phone even though he knew there would be nothing there, no messages that mattered, no voice that would reach through the silence and pull him back into something human, and then he plugged it in to charge. Then he stared at the darkened window for a moment, watching the city lights flicker in the distance, and turned on his heel to go back to his bathroom to brush his teeth, then he went to his bedroom and lay down.

He closed his eyes.

The darkness behind his eyelids should have been a relief, and it should have been rest and an escape.

Instead, Aurora’s face appeared immediately, too vivid, too sharp, as if his mind had been waiting for the moment he stopped moving to throw her at him again. Her smile was bright and unguarded, and her voice, as clear as glass. The way she’d said, “Thank you, mister,” as though he were nothing more than a kind stranger in a crowded terminal, as though she hadn’t just turned his entire world inside out.

Her eyes, Mydei’s eyes.

Phainon’s chest tightened as he rolled onto his side, pulling a pillow closer, trying to force his body into sleep, trying to convince his body that if he lay still long enough his body would fall asleep, and his thoughts would quiet themselves out of boredom, but they didn’t, and instead they only grew louder, filling the empty spaces his work usually occupied.

She’s nine, his mind whispered, treacherous and relentless.

The number settled into him like poison.

He tried to shake it off, tried to reject it the way he rejected every other thought that threatened to crack his composure, but it clung stubbornly to the inside of his skull. Nine years. Ten years since he’d left. Ten years since he’d walked away with his dreams clenched in his fists, away from Mydei, telling himself he was doing what he had to do, telling himself he didn't want pity to follow him for the rest of his life, and that leaving was the right thing, the best thing to do.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, breathing in slowly through his nose as if he could steady his pulse by force alone.

She may be mine.

The thought came again, quieter this time, almost reverent in its horror.

Phainon’s jaw clenched, and he pushed it away immediately, harshly, because the thought itself was an insult. He had no right to entertain it, no right to let himself reach for something that might belong to him when he had been the one to abandon everything that could have been.

Besides, there was another possibility, one that his mind offered him, the possibility that Mydei had moved on.

Mydei had found someone else, and he had built a life without him, a life where he could laugh and smile and hold Aurora close, a life where he was warm and whole and untouched by Phainon.

The jealousy hit him fast and ugly, like it always does, because no matter how many years passed, deep down he was still an angry, bitter and jealous boy. A flash of heat under his ribs that made him feel sick with himself, and it was irrational, selfish, extremely pathetic, and yet it rose anyway, fierce and instinctive. Some part of him still remembered the way Mydei had looked at him when they were young, when they were both stubborn kids who regarded the world with caution because they were taught early life can be cruel, when they had loved each other like it was the simplest thing in the world.

But he had thrown that love away, and now, he had no claim over him.

He had no claim over Aurora, no matter whose eyes she had inherited, no matter whose hair colour shone pale under the terminal lights. Even if by some cruel twist of fate she was his daughter, he had forfeited the right to stand beside her the moment he chose ambition over the life Mydei had wanted.

Phainon stared up at the ceiling, breathing shallowly, the loneliness in his chest widening until it felt like it might swallow him whole. The apartment was too quiet, the sheets were too clean, and the air itself felt too still, as if the world itself had paused to watch him suffer in the space he had built for himself.

He couldn’t stay here.

He sat up abruptly, the movement sharp and decisive, as his bare feet touched the floor, cold against his skin, and he remained there for a moment, shoulders tense, hands curled lightly against his thighs as if he were restraining himself from doing something reckless.

Then he stood, and he changed quickly, not bothering with anything more than a dark shirt and trousers, and a long trench overcoat, shoved his phone into his pocket, and left the apartment before he could think himself out of it. The hallway lights were dim, the city outside quieter than it had been earlier, though the summer heat still lingered in the air, softened now by night.

_______

The streets of Okhema were alive even after dark. Not loud, not chaotic, but pulsing with the steady rhythm of people who refused to let the heat dictate their lives. Shops glowed behind glass, and a few cafés remained open, warm light spilling onto sidewalks. Somewhere in the distance, laughter rose and fell, dogs barking, and a scooter zipped past, the sound fading quickly into the night.

Phainon walked through it all.

He didn’t have a destination, and he didn’t have a plan. He only had the desperate need to move, to put distance between himself and the apartment that felt like a grave to bury himself whole, to try and outrun the thoughts that had followed him home from the airport.

It didn’t help as much as he’d hoped.

Even with the night air against his skin, the city moving around him, his mind stayed trapped in that terminal moment, replaying it over and over with merciless precision. He walked with his eyes downcast, gaze fixed on the pavement ahead, watching the way the streetlights painted pale stripes across the ground. His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders tense, and he didn’t see the woman until it was too late.

She appeared in front of him like an obstacle the universe had deliberately placed in his path, carrying a stack of boxes so large they rose taller than her head, wobbling slightly with each step. Her arms were wrapped around them tightly, her chin tilted up as she tried and failed to see over the top, her pace careful, steady, but determined.

Phainon collided with her before either of them could react.

The impact knocked the boxes and the woman sideways, and for a fraction of a second everything hung in the air – the cardboard tilting, the woman’s balance shifting, the inevitable fall suspended, and then the spell broke, and the boxes and the woman tumbled.

They hit the ground with a loud, chaotic crash, sliding across the pavement as their contents rattled inside. The woman stumbled back with them, losing her footing, and Phainon’s body moved on instinct, to steady her, to fix the mess he had caused.

“I’m sorry–” he began, voice tight with reflexive politeness, but his words died in his throat.

Because the woman, sprawled out on the ground among the fallen boxes, lifted her head.

Long pink hair spilled over her shoulder, catching the streetlight in soft strands, unmistakable even after all these years. Her face was older than the one in his memories, sharper, more defined, less soft around the edges, but the shape of her features was the same, the same presence, the same quiet strength, the same way she didn't let a stumble lose the way she always held herself, even when she was startled and on the ground.

Phainon froze completely, breath catching, as the city noise blurred into the background, his pulse suddenly loud in his ears, and the name slipped out of him before he could stop it, hesitant and disbelieving, as though speaking it might make her vanish, “Cyrene?”

Cyrene’s head snapped up so quickly, from where her eyes were downcast, one hand rubbing her head, mumbling something under her breath, so fast that her pink hair swung forward, catching against her cheek before she pushed it back behind her ear with a hurried, clumsy motion. For a second, she only stared, blue eyes wide and bright in the streetlight, as if her mind had to run through a dozen possibilities before it could accept the one standing in front of her.

“Phainon…?”

His name left her like a question and an answer all at once.

Phainon didn’t even have time to draw breath, didn’t have time to decide what expression to wear or what mask to pull over himself, because Cyrene’s face changed in an instant – shock melting into recognition so complete it looked almost like relief. Her mouth fell open, as she gasped, sharp and loud, “Oh my Titans – no, it really is you.”

The words tumbled out of her, disbelieving and delighted, and before Phainon could even straighten fully from where he knelt, she surged forward and threw her arms around him.

It was sudden, fierce, and utterly unrestrained, and Phainon stiffened out of reflex, the instinctive tension of a man who had grown used to distance, to careful boundaries, to the polite, controlled touch of handshakes and formal greetings. For the briefest moment, his arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, caught between habit and the sheer force of her warmth, and presence, and then something in him gave way with a quiet, almost relieved surrender.

He hugged her back.

It wasn’t perfect and it wasn’t smooth. It was the kind of embrace that belonged to an older version of him, one that had existed before he learned to keep people at arm’s length, but it happened anyway, his hands settling at her back with hesitant certainty, and then desperately holding on as if the contact itself anchored him to something real.

Cyrene laughed into his shoulder, a breathless sound full of disbelief, and then she pulled away just as quickly, hands immediately flying up to his face.

Phainon blinked, caught off guard, as she cupped his cheeks with both palms as though she needed to confirm he wasn’t an illusion, her fingers warm against his skin, “Look at you,” she breathed, eyes shining, “Look at you!”

Before he could respond, she was already fussing, tugging lightly at his hair as if she couldn’t resist, as if the sight of it was too familiar and too strange at the same time, and the movement was achingly familiar, as her hands moved over him with the brisk, affectionate chaos of someone who had missed years and intended to make up for it in seconds, touching his jaw, his cheekbones, the line of his shoulder, as though cataloguing every change.

“You’ve grown so much,” she squealed, half laughing at herself, half overwhelmed, “Oh Titans, I remember how I used to be taller, and how much you used to whine about it, but look at you! You’re enormous.”

He opened his mouth, the beginnings of a reply forming, but Cyrene barreled right over it, her excitement unstoppable, “And handsome,” she added with ruthless emphasis, as if she were personally offended by it. “Titans, you’re handsome. Are you aware of that? I bet you're breaking hearts left and right! You look like you stepped out of one of Okhema's fashion magazines, I see at Aglaea’s.”

Her grip on his face tightened briefly, playful and affectionate, and then she shook his head gently as if he were something precious, as if he were still the young boy she knew.

Phainon knelt there and let her.

He let her pull at his hair and examine his face and marvel at him as if he were still the boy she had once known, as if he hadn't carved himself into something sharper and quieter. His throat felt strangely tight, his chest heavy in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion, and he realized with faint, stunned clarity that he couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him like this without hesitation, without fear, without the careful distance people always kept from the perfect pilot they admired but never dared to approach.

Cyrene finally leaned back, still holding his shoulders, smiling at him as if she might burst. “Phainon,” she repeated again, softer now, almost reverent, “It really is you.”

Cyrene held his shoulders and stared at him like she might blink and lose him again, her smile too wide and too genuine to be anything but real. The streetlight caught in her eyes, turning the blue into something almost luminous, and for a moment, he felt as if he’d been pulled backward through time, back to a version of himself that still knew what it meant to be touched without flinching.

He cleared his throat, the sound rougher than he intended, and forced a laugh that came out slightly awkward at the edges.

“Yes,” he managed, voice low, almost disbelieving. “It’s me.”

Cyrene’s grin only widened, as if his confirmation delighted her even more, and Phainon exhaled through his nose, trying to steady himself. He tried to gather the right words, something smooth and polite, something that would match the image people expected from him, but the moment had already slipped past that kind of control.

“I’m… surprised,” he admitted, and he meant it, “I thought you–” He didn’t finish the sentence.

The words lodged somewhere behind his ribs, caught between I thought you’d never come back and I thought you’d forgotten us and I thought you didn’t care, and none of them were fair. None of them were things he wanted to say out loud.

Cyrene’s expression shifted, just slightly, as if she heard the unspoken part anyway, and her gaze slid away from his face, and in that brief glance downward, she seemed to remember where they were, what had just happened, the very real mess scattered around their feet.

“Oh Titans,” she muttered, the embarrassment arriving a beat late, and she shifted quickly to begin gathering them, “My boxes, I’m so sorry, I bite off more than I can chew and I wasn't looking, and ran into you, and I dropped everything, I–”

Phainon moved at the same time, reaching her side without thinking, his hands already reaching for the nearest box. The cardboard was slightly dented from the fall, but nothing seemed broken, and he lifted it carefully, then another, stacking them with the same methodical precision he applied to everything else.

Cyrene was still talking, her voice faster now, threaded with something that wasn’t excitement anymore, “I did hear,” she said, words catching slightly. “About Aedes Elysiae, I–I heard what happened and I, Phainon, I tried to find you, I really did.”

His hands stilled for a fraction of a second because Aedes Elysiae brought back memories and still had the power to tighten his chest like a fist closing around his lungs, even after all these years, even after he’d built a life that was supposed to be untouchable by the past. He kept his gaze lowered, focused on the boxes, because looking at Cyrene while she spoke about it would make it too real, and he had spent too long surviving by refusing to let it be real.

Cyrene’s fingers fumbled with a corner of tape as she lifted another box, and she was rambling, the words pouring out of her, and Phainon suspected this was the first time she ever spoke so much about Aedes Elysiae. “I wrote letters, I called old numbers, I asked around, and I even went back once, and there was nothing left, and nobody could tell me where you’d been taken and–” She inhaled shakily, then tried to steady herself with a small, forced laugh, “I couldn’t reach you. I couldn’t find you.”

Phainon’s throat tightened, and he felt the familiar surge of something bitter and heavy, the part of him that had always wanted to be angry at the world for taking everything from him, the part that still didn’t know what to do with kindness because kindness felt too much like pity, and pity had always been unbearable for him.

He adjusted his grip on the boxes, stacking them more neatly, giving his hands something to do, and when he finally spoke, his voice was controlled, even. “It’s okay,” he said.

Cyrene’s head snapped up, wide eyes searching his face for something, and Phainon kept his expression steady, his shoulders relaxed, even though his chest felt tight and his pulse was loud. “It’s in the past,” he added, the words coming out too practiced, too clean, “I’m fine.”

It was a lie, and they both knew it, but it was the only one he could offer without falling apart in the middle of the street, and Cyrene blinked, then nodded slowly, as if she was accepting the boundary he had placed between them even while it pained her.

Phainon straightened with the last box in his arms and deliberately shifted the conversation before the silence could deepen into something dangerous.

“So,” he asked, tone lighter than he felt, “What’s in these? And where were you taking them?”

The change in subject was so abrupt it should have been clumsy, but Cyrene latched onto it like a lifeline. Her face brightened instantly, relief and enthusiasm rushing back in as though she were grateful for the escape.

“Oh!” she said, eyes lighting up, “Right. Yes! These!” and patted the nearest box as if it were a beloved pet, “They’re my books.”

Phainon paused, his head tilting in question, “Your books?”

Cyrene nodded vigorously, her pink hair bouncing, “My latest novel, my pride and joy! It just came in today, well, technically yesterday, but I only managed to pick them up now because I’ve been running around like a maniac helping the others.”

Something about the way she said it, the casual confidence, the ease of it, made Phainon blink. He had known Cyrene was brilliant even when they were younger, had fallen asleep many times to her reading her stories, had known she was the kind of person who seemed destined to leave Aedes Elysiae behind, but hearing her speak like this, hearing the certainty in her voice, felt like seeing proof that she had actually made it.

“You… you’re an author?” he asked, and the surprise slipped through despite him, and Cyrene’s grin turned mischievous. 

“A famous one,” she said, and dramatically flipped her long pink hair over her shoulder, then, as if she couldn’t resist the dramatic flair, she added, “You might have heard of me.”

Phainon lifted an eyebrow, faint amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Should I have?”

Cyrene laughed, “Okay, rude, but fair. What I am going to tell you is a top secret. If you spill the beans, I will have no option but to grow a beard and change my name and flee the city, so listen up.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret even though the street was empty save for the two of them, “I publish under a pen name.”

Phainon’s gaze sharpened, his interest showing, “Which is?”

Cyrene’s smile turned almost proud, “Philia.”

The name landed softly, strange and warm against the night air. Phainon’s breath caught ever so slightly, not because the name itself was shocking, but because it felt… deliberate, like a choice made with intention, with meaning. A name that meant fondness, the very thing he had spent years pretending he didn’t need.

“Philia,” he repeated quietly.

Cyrene beamed, clearly pleased by his reaction, “Yes, and these are special copies,” she added, tapping the box again. “Limited edition! A bookstore in Okhema partnered with my publisher for a signing event, and they wanted a small run with an exclusive cover and sprayed edges and all that fancy collector nonsense.”

Phainon’s lips twitched into a smile, “Collector nonsense.”

“Oh, just one day in my shoes and you too will agree that it is nonsense,” Cyrene replied cheerfully, completely unapologetic. “But my readers love it. They’re going to line up, and I’m going to sit there with a pen until my hand cramps, and I’m going to pretend I’m not overwhelmed.”

She lifted one of the boxes slightly, testing its weight, then sighed dramatically, “Which is why I was carrying them like an idiot instead of making two trips.”

Phainon adjusted the boxes in his arms, looking at her with the faintest exasperation. “You were carrying all of them alone?”

Cyrene shrugged, as if it were nothing, “I’m strong! Remember how I used to carry you around?” She joked.

Phainon laughed softly, and it felt strange in his chest, like a sound he hadn’t used in a long time.

Cyrene tilted her head, studying him again, and her expression softened. The excitement remained, but something gentler slipped beneath it, something that looked like careful concern. Her smile lingered, softening into something quieter as she tilted her head, studying him like she was trying to memorize the proof that he was real.

“And you?” she asked, voice gentler now. “What have you been doing all this time? What’s your life like now?”

Phainon’s fingers tightened around the edges of the box in his arms. The question was simple, harmless, but it still scraped against the inside of him in a way that made him feel strangely exposed. As if she’d asked for his heartbeat, not his occupation.

He forced his mouth to move, “I’m a pilot,” he said.

For a second, Cyrene just blinked at him, then her face lit up like a lantern.

“A pilot?” she repeated, delighted, and then she laughed, bright and disbelieving, “Of course you are!”

Phainon’s lips twitched faintly, though the sound of her laughter made something twist in his chest, too. Her laugh felt like it belonged to golden wheat fields, gentle wind chimes swaying in the air, the noise of crickets, the return of the fishermen, the sound of the river, summers, scraped knees and the warm safety of a place that didn’t exist anymore.

Cyrene leaned in a little, eyes gleaming, “You were always ambitious,” she said, nudging his arm with her shoulder as if he were still that boy trailing after her through wheat fields, “Always so ambitious, always acting like you had somewhere important to be.”

Phainon grimaced, but there was a soft smile on his face as Cyrene continued, voice turning fond with memory, “Do you remember? You used to say you wanted to fly everywhere, all over the world.” Her gaze lifted briefly, as if she could still see it, the sky the two of them had stared at from the edge of Aedes Elysiae, the clouds which were like promises for both of them, “You said you didn’t want to stay trapped in one place forever, but no matter what, you always said you'll return. No matter how far you went, how much you see, you said you'll always return in time for dinner.”

The words hit him with an unexpected force, not because they were wrong, but precisely because they were right.

He had wanted that, once. He had wanted the sky the way some people wanted freedom; he wanted to see it all, be along the clouds and the stars.

And he had achieved it; he had everything he’d ever claimed to want.

So why did it feel like he’d lost something essential along the way?

Cyrene’s smile softened into pride, genuine and warm, like she was offering him something he hadn’t realized he’d been starving for.

“I’m proud of you,” she said simply, “You did it. You actually did it.”

Phainon’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. The praise didn’t feel like a reward. It felt like grief, like someone praising a dream that had come true, while the boy who’d dreamed it was long gone.

He swallowed, forcing his voice to remain steady, forcing his face to hold the expression people expected from him, “Thank you,” he said.

The words were polite and perfectly placed, but something in his eyes flickered anyway, something that didn’t quite match the calm in his tone.

Cyrene didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she did and chose not to press. She just smiled wider.

He shifted on his feet, a subtle movement, the kind that betrayed discomfort only to someone who knew him well enough to notice. His grip around the boxes tightened, and he needed something practical to do, something that didn’t require him to feel. “Where should I put these?” he asked.

Cyrene blinked like she’d forgotten the boxes existed at all, then she laughed under her breath, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe him.

“My apartment,” she said, and before he could reach for another, she made a sound of protest and hugged the stack closer to her chest. “Actually–no, wait, let me–”

Phainon didn’t give her the chance to argue, as he stepped forward and took one of the heavier boxes from her arms anyway, as naturally as if he’d always been there to do it.

Cyrene stared at him for a heartbeat, then her mouth curved, something soft and grateful flickering through her eyes.

“…Alright,” she said, and with a small nod, she adjusted her grip on what remained, “I’ll lead the way.”

They began walking.

_______

Okhema at night was quieter than it was in the daytime, but it was never truly silent. Streetlights cast warm pools across the pavement, the air carrying faint traces of summer heat trapped in stone, somewhere nearby, a café door chimed with late customers, and distant laughter drifted through the streets like smoke.

Phainon walked beside her with the same measured composure he carried everywhere, but the space between him and Cyrene felt… fragile.

Not hostile, and not uncomfortable in the way strangers were uncomfortable, but awkward in the way two people became when they had too much history and too many missing years, and neither of them knew which part to reach for first.

Cyrene’s steps slowed a little, her gaze flicking toward him from the corner of her eye. She hesitated, then spoke in a quieter voice, careful as if she was testing the strength of old memories.

“Do you remember the swing?” she asked, “In Aedes Elysiae? The one I always used to play with?”

Phainon’s pace faltered, barely, just for a moment as his mind offered him an image before he could stop it: sun-warmed wood, a rope worn smooth by hands, Cyrene’s laughter rising.

He blinked once, steadying himself, “…Yeah,” he said, voice calm. “It was still there.”

Cyrene’s face brightened instantly, like she’d been holding her breath, “And the tree?” she asked, almost too quickly, “The big one! The one we–”

Phainon’s fingers tightened against the edge of the box, as he remembered the bark beneath his nails, remembered the crude carving they’d made, two names, uneven letters, an immortal promise made by children.

He paused for half a heartbeat before answering, his smile returning with effortless grace even as his throat tightened, “It was still there too,” he said, “The tree, and our names.”

Cyrene let out a laugh, soft and bright, and for a moment, the years between them felt smaller.

“Oh Titans,” she breathed, “I really thought we were doing something profound.”

“You were,” Phainon replied lightly, as if it didn’t cost him anything to say it.

Cyrene glanced at him again, her smile widening, “Look at you,” she said, teasing now, “You’ve gotten charming.”

Phainon’s smile sharpened, polite and practiced, “I’ve always been charming,” and Cyrene gasped dramatically, “Oh, would you look at that! He’s confident now!”

The banter helped, and it gave them something easy to hold onto, something that didn’t require them to look too closely at the shadows beneath the surface.

By the time they reached Cyrene’s building, Phainon had adjusted to the rhythm of her presence beside him–her quick steps, the smell of peaches and cedarwood that followed her, her chatter that came in bursts, her habit of filling space before it could turn heavy.

Her apartment was on an upper floor, and when she opened the door, warm light spilled out into the hallway. Phainon stepped inside and immediately noticed how alive it felt.

It wasn’t large, but it was full of color. Bright cushions on the couch, a throw blanket folded carelessly over the armrest, flowers in mismatched colourful vases that looked freshly changed. There were books stacked in uneven towers, papers spread across a table, a half-finished mug of something left beside an open notebook, drawings and pictures of herself and others taped up on the walls.

The place looked lived in.

Phainon set the box down where she gestured, careful not to disturb the precarious clutter. Cyrene placed hers down beside it, exhaling with relief, and then, again, the air between them shifted.

The warmth of her home only made the silence sharper, as if the apartment itself highlighted how unnatural it was for him to stand here, how strange it felt to be in someone’s life again without knowing what his place was.

Cyrene rubbed her palms together, glancing at him as if she could feel the awkwardness too.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out, then huffed a laugh, “This is the part where we either say goodbye like normal adults, or we acknowledge that it would be insane for me to let you vanish again after I’ve just found you.”

Phainon’s smile stayed in place, his body remained relaxed, and his voice remained steady, but his mind flickered with something complicated, something that was dangerously close to relief.

Cyrene pointed at him as if she’d made a decision, “Come with me,” she said, and Phainon blinked, “Where?”

“A café nearby,” Cyrene said, already moving toward him, “It’s still open, and we need to talk. Properly.”

Phainon should’ve hesitated, he should’ve made an excuse, he should’ve said he had work, or an early flight, or anything at all.

Instead, he heard himself answer with an ease that surprised him, “…Alright.”

Cyrene’s eyes widened in delighted disbelief, “That was too fast, you didn’t even pretend to be reluctant.”

Phainon’s smile turned bigger, “I can pretend, if it makes you feel better.”

“No,” she said immediately, shaking her head, “Don’t, I like this version of you.” and she clapped her hands once, decisive and bright, “Let’s go, something sweet will definitely help cheer you up.”

Phainon stared at her.

Not because her words were strange, but because they landed too accurately. He hadn’t realized he looked like anything at all, he hadn’t realized his mask had slipped even a fraction.

His brows lifted slightly, “Cheer me up?”

Cyrene paused mid-step and turned back, her expression softening. “You look like you have something on your mind,” she said, quieter now, not teasing, more observant and certain.

Phainon’s smile held, but something in him bristled faintly, an old instinct, the reflexive discomfort of being seen too clearly.

He wasn’t used to people looking past the facade, wasn’t used to anyone noticing the weight he carried beneath it. So, because it was easier than admitting the truth, he blurted the first deflection he could reach for.

“You probably chose the café because of your sweet tooth,” he said.

Cyrene froze as her lips parted, and for a second, she looked genuinely offended.

Phainon’s smile deepened, more real now, not soft, not warm, but edged with something sharper.

Cyrene stared at him, and then she burst out laughing, “Oh, wow,” she accused, pointing at him like he’d committed a crime, “You little – you’re looking right through me!”

Phainon lifted a shoulder in an elegant half-shrug, all effortless charm again, “Someone has to.”

Cyrene’s eyes gleamed as she grabbed his wrist like she’d decided he was hers to drag around the city now, and Phainon, still holding that perfect smile, still looking like the golden boy everyone adored, let her.

She pulled him toward the door, and with her free hand, she locked it behind them with a neat, practiced click.

“Come on,” Cyrene said, her voice bright, “We’re getting pastries, and you’re telling me everything.”

Phainon didn’t correct her, and instead, he just followed her, because for the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts.

______

Cyrene didn’t let go of him until they were halfway down the street, as if she was afraid that if she loosened her grip for even a second, Phainon would slip out of her life again the way he had years ago, quietly, neatly, without leaving behind anything but absence.

The café she dragged him to sat on a corner where the streetlights pooled gold across the pavement. It was the kind of place that looked warm from the outside, windows fogged faintly from the contrast between summer heat and relentless air-conditioning. A sign hung above the door in a looping script, soft lights twined around its frame like lazy stars.

Nymphaea Café, the name read.

Inside, the air was cool enough to raise goosebumps on skin that had just been touched by the night’s warmth. The scent hit Phainon immediately, fresh pastry, caramelized sugar, coffee, something floral like vanilla and orange blossom. It felt almost indecently comforting, the kind of comfort he rarely allowed himself to indulge in.

The café was busy, even at this hour. Couples leaned close over shared plates, friends laughed softly with their shoulders pressed together, and a mother sat near the window with a sleepy child curled against her side. Everything about the place hummed with quiet intimacy, the kind of ordinary happiness that Phainon had spent years telling himself he didn’t need.

Cyrene, of course, looked entirely at home.

She made a satisfied sound and tugged him toward the counter like she was introducing him to an old friend.

“See?” she said, eyes gleaming as she glanced over her shoulder at him, “Told you, it's popular, amazing, and life changing.”

Phainon’s smile came easily, effortless and polite, the same one he wore for strangers and coworkers and admirers, “Life-changing,” he echoed.

“It will be,” Cyrene promised with absolute confidence.

They stepped into line, and Cyrene rocked lightly on her heels, scanning the menu board with the seriousness of someone preparing for battle, and Phainon stood beside her, still, composed, gaze flicking over the options without really taking them in.

He wasn’t hungry.

Cyrene pointed decisively at the display case, where rows of desserts gleamed under warm lights, cakes dusted with powdered sugar, fruit tarts glazed like jewels, delicate pastries filled with cream.

“I’m getting the honey-cream mille-feuille,” she announced, “And that pistachio rose cake, and, oh! Those little moon cookies, too!”

Phainon glanced at her, “That’s… a lot.”

Cyrene shot him a look of pure disbelief, “Phainon,” she said, as if he’d insulted her entire bloodline, “It’s been years, this is not the time for restraint!”

The barista smiled patiently, already reaching for a small tray, as Cyrene turned her head slightly, eyes flicking toward Phainon.

“And you?” She looked at him, eyebrow raised in a way that made it feel like a challenge.

Phainon hesitated at the counter, his gaze sliding over the menu as if he were genuinely considering it, even though his mind was elsewhere, still stuck on marble floors and golden eyes and the way a small voice had said Aurora with wary pride.

“I’ll have a green tea,” he said at last.

The barista blinked, “Sweetened?”

“No.”

Cyrene made a sound, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. She didn’t say anything at first, only watched him as if she were taking notes, her eyes bright with a sharpness that had always unnerved him when he was younger.

“Sugarless,” she repeated slowly.

Phainon’s smile didn’t change, “I like it that way.”

“Mm.”

Cyrene didn’t press.

Instead, she waved a hand at the barista with cheerful finality, “And his tea then, put it all together please.”

Phainon’s lips parted, “Cyrene–”

She turned sharply, cutting him off with a look that brooked no argument, “It’s on me.”

Phainon’s eyes narrowed slightly, “You don’t have to–”

“I want to,” she corrected, and the warmth in her voice made it sound like a fact, not a favor, “You’re not allowed to argue, not tonight.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then let out a controlled breath through his nose, his smile softening just enough to look genuine.

“…Fine,” he said.

Cyrene’s grin returned instantly, “Good.” She hummed, pleased with herself.

They moved to the side while the barista prepared their order. Cyrene leaned against the counter, humming under her breath, looking entirely pleased with herself, as Phainon stood beside her, hands deep in his pockets, gaze drifting across the café.

The laughter. The conversations. The gentle warmth in how people interacted with each other.

It made his chest feel oddly hollow.

Cyrene must have noticed the faint shift in him, because her voice gentled when she spoke again.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out as she turned to face him fully, “Pilot.”

Phainon’s gaze returned to her, his expression smooth, “Author.”

Cyrene laughed, “Touché.”

The barista called their number, and Cyrene swooped forward to collect everything: two plates piled with sweetness, a cup of coffee crowned with foam, and Phainon’s green tea that looked simple and plain beside the rest.

Cyrene carried it like it was nothing, despite the absurd amount, and Phainon reached out automatically, taking one of the plates from her hands before she could protest.

They found a table near the window, tucked into a quieter corner. The lights above them were warm and low, casting soft shadows over Cyrene’s face, over the sharp lines of Phainon’s jaw, over the steam rising from their drinks.

They sat down, the table small enough that their cups nearly touched. Outside, Okhema’s streets glowed under lamplight, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed briefly before fading into the night.

For a moment, the silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it was simply heavy, full of everything they hadn’t said and yet, there was an awkward pause again, an old hesitation resurfacing.

The kind that came from not knowing how to speak to someone you used to know, like breathing.

Cyrene broke it first, because she always did.

Cyrene leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on one hand, and smiled at him with an expression that was equal parts teasing and sincere, as her fingers wrapped around her glass.

“So,” she began, casual and bright, “Tell me everything.”

Phainon’s smile held, smooth as polished gold, as he stirred his tea, “Everything is a lot.”

“I have time,” she said, and her blue gaze sharpened, “And don’t give me that look, you know what I mean.”

He let out a soft laugh, the kind that sounded real enough to pass, and tilted his head as if he were considering her, “What about you? You’ve been gone for years. You’re in Okhema now, you have an apartment full of flowers, boxes full of books. A whole life I know nothing about.”

Cyrene’s mouth curved, pleased, but her eyes didn’t soften, “Deflecting already?”

Phainon lifted his tea and took a sip. “I’m not deflecting.”

“You are,” she said simply, and took a sip of her drink, “It’s cute, but it's also obvious.”

He held her gaze, unbothered on the surface, and let the silence stretch just long enough to make it seem like he didn’t care. He’d practiced that kind of silence until it became second nature.

Cyrene tapped her straw against the glass, then tilted her head. “What are you up to these days? Apart from being… you.”

The question required him to be vulnerable, and Phainon Khaslana did not like being vulnerable. He shifted his feet under the table, as if he could physically adjust himself into a different version of himself, the one where he didn't find the idea of talking about himself unbearable, the one where he didn’t feel like a fraud wearing someone else’s face.

Then, because it was easier than sitting in the weight of her sincerity, he reached for the nearest task he could create.

He reached across and broke off a corner of a cookie, “Your apartment… the flowers? Do you take care of them all yourself?”

Cyrene laughed again, softer this time, “Nice try.”

Phainon’s eyes flicked up, “It was a question.”

“It was a distraction,” she corrected, and the amusement in her expression didn’t hide the sharpness underneath, “But yes, I bought them for myself, no secret lover watering them when I’m asleep, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He didn’t ask that, but he let it pass, because it was easier to let her joke than to explain why the word lover made his chest tighten like a fist closing around his heart.

Cyrene studied him for another long moment, and then her voice softened,

“What about you, Phainon?” she asked, stirring her drink, “Friends? Anyone… close?”

His fingers tightened around his teacup, and the ceramic was warm, grounding under his fingers, but still it didn’t stop the cold that crept up his spine.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

Cyrene’s expression didn’t change, still smiling, “That wasn’t my question.”

He smiled again, perfectly timed, perfectly polite, “You’ve always been nosy.”

“And you’ve always been terrible at lying to me,” she returned, as though it were a simple fact. Then she leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, her voice quieter now, slipping beneath the noise of the café.

“I know we can be called strangers,” she said, and the words carried something heavier than nostalgia. “There’s so much we missed, and so little we know about each other now, but something is bothering you, don’t deny it. I want to help, so please, tell me.”

Phainon stared at the surface of his tea, studying his own reflection, and he should have refused. He should have smiled, made some charming excuse, shifted the conversation back onto her, let the night end without ever exposing anything raw enough to bleed.

But Cyrene’s eyes were steady, and familiar, and unafraid of him in a way almost no one was anymore. She wasn’t looking at the golden role model Okhema admired, the man people praised from a distance because they didn’t know how else to approach him.

She was looking at him like she remembered the boy he used to be, and that made his throat ache.

Phainon inhaled slowly, then slowly exhaled.

“There’s someone,” he said at last.

Cyrene didn’t interrupt. She didn’t even smile as she’d won; she only waited, patient as stone.

Phainon’s gaze stayed lowered, unable to handle her steady gaze, “His name is Mydei.”

The name left his mouth like a confession, and it should have been easier to say after all these years, but it wasn’t, because his name still carried weight; it still tasted like the past he couldn’t outrun no matter how high he flew.

Ten years ago, the evening air in their apartment had been warm in the way summers in Okhema always were, thick and unmoving, clinging to the skin even after the sun had gone down. The windows were cracked open, but the breeze that drifted in was lazy and faint, carrying the distant noise of the city rather than any real relief. Somewhere outside, a group of people laughed too loudly as they passed, their voices echoing between buildings, and a scooter revved once before disappearing down the street.

Inside, the lights were dim.

Their apartment wasn’t large, but it had been theirs in a way that mattered. Even now, it smelled faintly of flour and sugar most days because Mydei baked whenever he was tense, or there was something he wanted to ignore in his head, and Phainon pretended he didn’t notice how often he was anxious. 

The kitchen counter was cluttered with jars of spices, a chipped mug Mydei insisted on using because it was something he had impulsively brought because it was “cute”, a bag of powdered sugar folded and clipped shut. There were soft blankets thrown over the couch, over a pile of plushies Phainon had won for Mydei in the arcane, and a small plant by the window that both of them watered faithfully.

It was not the kind of life Phainon had once imagined for himself when he was younger, when the world had still been something he could dream about without feeling angry at it.

But it was a good life. How could it not be when he has Mydei, and Mydei had him?

Phainon sat on the edge of the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, a letter clutched in his hands like it was the only solid thing in the world. He had read it so many times that the words had started to blur together into one senseless mess, but they still looked like proof.

It was proof that he was not just the poor boy whose village had burned down, that he was not a story people whispered about with sympathetic eyes and lowered voices, that he could be admired instead of pitied.

He ran his thumb over the edge of the envelope, slow and deliberate, feeling the thickness of the paper beneath his skin. It was absurd, how something so small could hold so much weight. A single piece of mail, stamped and signed, and suddenly the future looked like it had cracked open just enough for him to slip through.

Edo Star Institute of Aeronautics.

Even the name felt like it belonged to a world far above the one he had crawled out of.

He could still remember the numerous times he sat in the corner of a room, drumming his fingers against the table, trying to prevent he didn't hearing or seeing the whispers and glances of pity thrown at me. Staring down, all he could remember was the urge to crawl out of this skin, to prove he was more than someone to pity, and the urge ignited something in him. It wasn't hope, it was hunger. It wasn't the kind that faded when you fed it, only sharpened, and even then, he had wanted it so badly it made him sick.

And now it was here, in his hands.

His fingers drummed against the paper in a restless rhythm, betraying him. He told himself it was excitement, that it was anticipation, that it was the joy he was supposed to feel.

But underneath it, deeper than all of that, was the same old thing that had always lived inside him.

The need to prove himself, to be more than what had happened to him.

The need to outrun the past so thoroughly that it could never catch him again.

He kept glancing toward the door, listening for the sound of Mydei’s footsteps in the hallway. He’d been waiting for him to return for nearly an hour, and the waiting had made his nerves raw. He tried to remember if Mydei had told him anything in the last few days, anything about club activities, anything that may hold him back, and he tried to distract himself, as he checked the letter again, folded it neatly, unfolded it, and smoothed the creases like they were imperfections he could erase.

Phainon Khaslana had stood up twice and paced the length of the living room before sitting down again, because sitting still made him feel like he was going to tear apart from the inside.

He wanted to tell Mydei, he wanted the blond to look at him with pride, and he wanted him to smile his soft, genuine smile that was reserved for Phainon, and Phainon alone most days, the one where his golden eyes turn warm, the world suddenly quieting because nothing mattered to him more than Mydei, when his attention was on him.

Phainon wanted Mydei to say he deserved it, because no matter how hard he worked, no matter how much he achieved, some part of him still believed he didn’t, but he always believed Mydei.

The lock turned.

Phainon straightened immediately, as if the sound had pulled him upright by a string, as the door opened, and Mydei stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed wasn’t his bag or the way he nudged the door shut with his foot, nor the way he tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind his ear; it was his face.

He looked paler than usual, as though the day had drained him of color. There was a faint tightness around his mouth, plush lips pursed, and his eyes were slightly unfocused, distant though he was forcing himself to stay present through something his body was struggling with.

Phainon’s excitement faltered, just for a moment, and concern flickered up instinctively.

“Mydei,” he said quickly, the brightness in his voice almost too sharp. “You’re back.”

Mydei’s gaze snapped to him, like he hadn't even realised Phainon was there, and for a moment he looked startled, then he smiled in amusement, “Of course I’m back, HKS, I'm not the type to lose my way around.”

He stepped further into the apartment, moving carefully, and set his bag down near the door. His movements were slower than usual, controlled, like he didn’t want to make any sudden motions, and there was a frown on his face, like he was distracted.

Phainon watched him, and a quiet unease settled in his chest, but then he remembered the letter in his hands, and the unease was swallowed by something louder.

“I have something to tell you,” he said, unable to stop himself.

Mydei blinked, and for a moment he looked startled, as though he’d forgotten he was waiting for him, and then his expression softened, “I have something too,” he replied, as he busied himself with brushing his long blond hair free of tangles.

Phainon’s heart kicked hard against his ribs, and for a second, relief washed through him so fast it almost made him dizzy, because it meant they were still aligned, still together, still moving forward as one. He didn’t know what Mydei meant, but he didn’t need to, at least not yet.

He only knew that if Mydei had something to tell him, then it made him feel like the world was balanced again.

Mydei settled the brush down, crossed the room as he tied his hair up, and sat beside him on the couch. His knee brushed his, warm and familiar, and Phainon instinctively turned slightly toward him, his body already leaning in towards his warmth.

Phainon smiled, and for once the expression didn’t feel entirely like a mask. “Together?” he asked.

Mydei hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second, so brief he might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching him so closely, if he didn't know him so well.

Then he nodded, “Of course, together.”

Phainon unfolded the letter, the paper crisp beneath his fingers. “I got it,” he said, voice bright with triumph he couldn’t contain, “Mydei, I got it, Edo Star accepted me!”

The words felt like a door swinging open, as the sky itself had finally made room for him.

He had expected Mydei to speak at the same time, expected his voice to overlap his, whatever news he wanted to share, meeting his in the middle like it always did, the way they used to finish each other’s thoughts, the way they always seemed to share a rhythm.

But Mydei didn’t speak, and Phainon’s smile faltered, as he turned his head slightly, looking at him, only to find the blond staring at the letter, and it wasn't surprise or happiness, but with something else entirely, something sharp that he tried to hide the moment Phainon noticed it.

His gold eyes were wide, fixed on the words as though they were a threat rather than a blessing, as his fingers curled slowly in his lap, knuckles tightening until his hands looked pale. The smile on his face remained, but it was thin, strained, almost a grimace, like it had been pasted on quickly to cover what he couldn’t let show.

A quiet dread crawled into Phainon’s chest. “Mydei?” he asked gently, “What is it? Are you okay?”

Mydei blinked, as though he’d forgotten where he was, and the panic in his eyes dimmed, and Phainon knew he was quickly covering it up, as Mydei breathed in, and lifted his steady gaze to him. His eyes were still too bright, still too tense, but his voice came out steady,

“Congratulations,” he said, “That’s… that’s amazing.”

Phainon leaned in closer, searching his face. “Say it again,” he murmured, and he didn’t mean it as a demand, only as a plea, as though hearing it twice would make it real enough to settle into his bones. As if hearing it from Mydei would confirm that it was actually happening, that it wasn't just a dream.

Mydei’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, he saw something trembling behind his steady composure, panic, and uncertainty, but he swallowed it down.

He swallowed it down the same way he always swallowed things down, and shut himself out. “Congratulations,” he repeated, and his smile sharpened into something more convincing, “You worked so hard for this, I'm proud of you.”

Phainon exhaled, relief and confusion mixing in a way that made him feel unsteady, as he glanced back at the letter, then at him again.

“Mydei,” he began carefully, “What were you going to say?”

The question hung between them, and Mydei’s lips parted as his gaze flicked to the letter again, and something in his expression shifted, like a door closing quietly, as he had just made up his mind.

He shook his head once, small and firm, and his voice was back to normal when he spoke, “It’s nothing,” he said, “It can wait, don't worry.”

Phainon frowned slightly, “It didn’t look like anything. Mydei, are you okay, baby?”

Phainon noticed the way Mydei’s fingers tightened about the material of his shirt as he drew in another breath, and Phainon could tell he was forcing his voice into something lighter.

“But isn’t that from Edo Star?” he asked, “You’re going to move abroad?”

Phainon’s excitement surged again, instinctively filling the space her question created.

“Yes,” he said, and tried to keep his voice calm, tried to make it sound like this was normal, like he wasn’t trembling inside. “Yes. It’s… It’s everything I’ve been working for.”

Mydei stared at him, at first it was anger, and disbelief, and then something quieter, something that made Phainon’s chest tighten because he couldn’t name it.

“Why?” Mydei asked, voice steady, “You can still achieve your dream here.”

Phainon shook his head immediately, the determination rising in him like a tide. “No,” he said. “No, you don’t understand.”

He sat up straighter, the letter still in his hands like a shield and a weapon all at once.

“I’m sick of the pity,” he continued, and his voice grew sharper, more intense as the truth spilled out. “I’m sick of people looking at me like I’m something tragic. I’m sick of being that boy in the news. Edo Star will help me step out of my past, and it’ll make them see me for what I am now, not what happened to me.”

Mydei’s eyes didn’t leave his face, as Phainon pressed on, unable to stop himself now that the words had started.

“I need to do this,” he said. “I need to be someone they respect. Someone they can’t look down on, someone they can’t pity.”

Mydei’s expression barely changed, only slowly becoming more unreadable. “So it’s confirmed?” he asked.

Phainon hesitated, just for a heartbeat, because something about his voice made him feel like he was standing at the edge of something dangerous, and then he nodded, “Yes.”

Mydei’s gaze held his. “What about us?” he asked, an eyebrow raised in question, and it struck him like a blow, sudden and heavy, as Phainon’s throat tightened.

He reached for Mydei's hands instinctively, leaning closer as if he could bridge the gap between them with touch alone.

“We’ll be fine,” he said quickly, desperately, “We can still talk, we can visit, we can make it work. I’ll call you every day, I promise. I love you, Mydei, you know I do.”

Mydei stared at him silently, and for a moment, he didn’t speak, and in that silence, Phainon felt something cold begin to creep into his chest, but then Mydei’s mouth curved into a smile.

It wasn't the one that was usually directed at him; it was more common for strangers, or whenever he had decided on something, and it was shown in the stubborn line of his lips.

“Okay,” he said, “Go for it.”

Phainon blinked. “Mydei–”

“I’ll support you,” he continued, voice even, “And I love you.”

Relief rushed through him so fast it made his hands shake, because he wanted Mydei's permission so badly he hadn’t even realized it until he had it. He wanted Mydei to tell him it was okay, because if he didn’t, then it meant Phainon was selfish, it meant he was choosing himself over Mydei, and that only meant he was becoming the kind of person he hated.

Mydei had said it was okay, and no matter what, he always believed him.

Phainon didn’t see the way his fingers curled tighter behind him, trembling faintly, hiding them away from the white haired man, or the way his gaze slid away from him, as if he couldn’t bear to look too closely.

He didn’t see the quiet devastation Mydei swallowed elegantly, like everything that happened to him, because Phainon only saw the future, the sky, a version of himself he was desperate to become.

He did not realize, not then, that he had just walked away from the only thing that had ever made him feel like he didn't have anything to prove, at least not to Mydei.

Back in the café, Phainon’s voice had gone quiet without him realizing it. He had finished the story like someone reading out a sentence he’d been trying not to think about for years, and when he stopped, he sat back in his chair as if he’d run out of strength to hold himself upright.

Cyrene didn’t speak immediately, she only took a sip of her drink, eyes on him, thoughtful and unreadable, and then, slowly, she said, “Mydei…”

Phainon’s gaze lifted, wary.

Cyrene’s brow furrowed slightly, as if she were searching through a memory she couldn’t quite grasp, “That name is… very familiar.”

Phainon let out a short, humorless laugh, “I doubt it.”

Cyrene didn’t answer, and instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. Her fingers moved quickly as she scrolled, her expression still thoughtful, still calm.

Then she turned the screen toward him and asked, “Is this him?”

The moment the screen turned toward him, the café around them blurred into something distant and irrelevant, as though the warm lights and murmuring voices had been pushed behind glass, and all he knew was Cyrene's phone screen, there he was – Mydei caught in a candid moment, his long lashes lowered in concentration, his hands steady as he piped frosting onto a cake with the kind of careful precision he had always possessed. A thin streak of flour sat on his cheek like an absentminded touch, and the sight of it made something in his chest twist with a quiet, vicious ache.

Phainon’s fingers tightened around his teacup, and the ceramic pressed warm against his skin, grounding him, but it did nothing to stop the sudden rush of memories that rose like heat behind his eyes. 

Mydei’s voice. Mydei's gentle and warm hands. Mydei’s quiet way of caring that had never been loud enough for the world to recognize, but had always been enough for him.

Phainon had not earned the right to remember him like this, yet he did, relentlessly, as though his mind refused to let him become a closed chapter no matter how many years had passed.

“That’s…” His voice came out rougher than he intended, and he cleared his throat as if the motion could smooth it back into the calm tone he preferred, “That’s him.”

Cyrene didn’t look pleased with herself, she didn’t look like someone who had successfully cornered a secret. She only watched him, quietly, with the same sharp intelligence she’d always carried, the kind that made it impossible to hide behind charm alone.

She swiped the screen once, almost absentmindedly, and lowered the phone into her palm.

“I can say I’m close with him,” Cyrene said.

Phainon’s gaze lifted immediately, his expression still composed but his attention suddenly too focused, too intent, “How?” he asked, and the question held more weight than it should have.

Cyrene’s lips curved faintly, as if she’d expected that reaction, “Remember how I told you I’ve been busy with something big recently?”

Phainon nodded slowly, and his face didn’t change, but something inside him tightened, wary and restless.

“Well,” Cyrene continued, her tone light enough to seem casual, “I met him over that.”

The words should not have affected him, because they were harmless, ordinary, spoken with the ease of someone mentioning a mutual acquaintance, but Phainon felt the impact anyway, sharp and immediate. After all, the idea of Cyrene knowing Mydei, of Cyrene existing in his orbit, made something unpleasant stir inside him.

It was jealousy, quiet and ugly, and he hated it the moment he recognized it, because he had no claim, no right, and no place.

He had left Mydei behind with nothing but a promise he hadn’t been capable of keeping, and he had spent ten years building a life so polished that no one could see the cracks beneath it. He had achieved everything he once believed would make him feel whole, only to find that the loneliness at the top was sharper than anything he had known at the bottom.

Now Cyrene had simply… met him, spoken to him, and seen his smile.

He forced his fingers to loosen their grip on the cup, forced his breathing to steady, forced his expression into something mild,

“That’s nice,” he said, because it was the kind of thing a person was supposed to say.

Cyrene’s gaze didn’t soften into relief, and it stayed sharp, almost unimpressed. “You don’t mean that,” she replied.

Phainon let out a small laugh, smooth and controlled, “I do.”

“You don’t,” Cyrene repeated, and there was no accusation in it, only certainty. She leaned forward slightly, her intense eyes fixed on him with a calm patience that made him feel strangely exposed, “You went stiff the moment I said it.”

Phainon’s smile held, but it thinned at the edges, “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not,” Cyrene said simply, “I’m observing. We are both very good at that, Phainon.”

Phainon’s gaze drifted down again, settling on the dark surface of his tea. He could still see the photograph in his mind as clearly as if it were still in front of him, and he hated how easily it undid him. Mydei looked warm there, alive in a way that made his chest ache with something too tangled to name.

He had always known he wanted a quiet life, the opposite of what his family expected of him, and Phainon had always known he was too hungry inside to want the same. Mydei had built it anyway, without him.

The thought should have been comforting, proof that he was okay, proof that he had survived his absence. Instead, it felt like a knife turned slowly, because it meant he had learned how to live without him, while Phainon had never truly learned how to live without Mydei.

Cyrene’s voice cut gently through the silence, “Do you want to see him?” she asked.

Phainon’s head lifted, his eyes narrowing by instinct, “No,” he answered immediately, too fast, too sharp, as though refusing would stop his mind from running.

Cyrene didn’t flinch at the hostility in his voice, and only watched him, unshaken, “You don’t,” she said, her voice softer now, “or you’re afraid to?”

Phainon’s fingers flexed once against the cup. The truth pressed at the inside of his ribs, demanding to be acknowledged, but he held it down with sheer force of will. It was easier to be cold than honest, easier to be controlled than vulnerable, and bear his heart out.

“It’s been ten years,” he said at last, quieter.

“And?” Cyrene asked, as if time meant nothing to her.

Phainon’s jaw tightened. “He moved on.”

Cyrene’s brows lifted slightly in question, “Did he?”

The question struck too close to the image in his mind, too close to the terminal earlier that day, the small girl with white hair and golden eyes, the way her hairclip had looked familiar in a way he hadn’t wanted to admit. The way Mydei’s frown had softened into a smile when he picked her up, how effortlessly they fit together.

He did not deserve to see them together like that, even from a distance. Even if by chance, Aurora was his, he still did not deserve it.

Cyrene leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful, her fingers loosely twirling a strand of pink hair in between them, and she watched him for another moment. Then her voice softened further, almost careful, “He works at a bakery not far from here,” she said, “It’s still open.”

Phainon’s heart stuttered in his chest, and he hated himself for it, hated the way his body reacted before his mind could catch up. He had trained himself for years to remain unshaken, to keep his composure unbreakable, to be admired from a distance because it was safer that way, but the idea of seeing Mydei again made his chest feel too tight for air.

“And you’re telling me this,” he asked, voice even, “Because?”

Cyrene’s smile was faint, but her eyes were serious, “Because you’re sitting here looking like you’re tearing yourself apart,” she said quietly. “And you’re doing it so neatly that no one else would notice, but I do.”

Phainon’s laugh was soft and humorless. “You always did.”

Cyrene’s gaze didn’t waver, “Yes. Yes, I did.”

The silence between them settled again, heavy and thick, full of everything Phainon had never said out loud. The guilt was there, always, an old companion that never truly left. He had told himself for years that he didn’t deserve to think of Mydei, that remembering him was selfish when he had been the one to abandon him. He had tried to bury him under achievements and titles and admiration, and it failed.

If anything, the emptiness had grown sharper the higher he climbed.

Cyrene’s voice softened, as though she were offering him something fragile, “You don’t have to do anything,” she said, “You don’t have to confess, you don’t have to beg, you don’t even have to make this a scene. You can just… see him.”

Phainon’s gaze flicked up, his expression tense, “And if he hates me?” he asked, the words quiet but rawer than anything he’d said all evening.

Cyrene didn’t offer false comfort, she didn’t lie to him. “Then he hates you,” she said simply, “And you will live with it.”

Phainon swallowed, the motion tight in his throat, his fingers clutched tight, “And if he doesn’t?” he asked, almost against his will, as though the question slipped out before he could stop it.

Cyrene’s eyes narrowed slightly, sharp with understanding. “Then you live with that too,” she said, “Because it means you can’t hide behind guilt anymore.”

Phainon’s chest tightened painfully as he stared at his tea again, as though the dark surface could swallow his thoughts whole. 

He had walked into fire once and survived, he had walked into the sky and made it his home, but the thought of walking into a bakery and seeing Mydei again, alive, real, close enough to touch, terrified him in a way nothing else did.

Because if he looked at him with the same indifference he had when they first met, when they were strangers, it would break him, but if he looked at him with anything softer than that, it would also undo him entirely.

Cyrene rose first, gathering her bag with the ease of someone who had already made a decision. She glanced down at him, her expression gentler now, “Come on,” she said lightly. “Let’s go get something sweet.”

Phainon didn’t move immediately, then, slowly, he stood, his body feeling heavier than it should have, as though he were stepping toward something inevitable. His smile returned out of habit, faint and polished, the golden mask settling into place without effort, but his eyes were heavier than they had been when he walked into the café.

“Fine,” he said quietly, and Cyrene’s smile warmed, satisfied, as she turned toward the door.

As they stepped out into the night, the city air warm against his skin, Phainon felt something settle into his bones that was not quite hope and not quite dread. It was the terrifying awareness that he was no longer running, and for the first time in ten years, he was walking straight toward Mydei.