Chapter Text
Phainon scratches his head with his free hand as he stares at the bubbling concoction on the stove. The other hand was covering his nose lest he die from asphyxiation from fumes emitting from the pot – if he could call it that anymore. He watches dejectedly as the seared handle falls to the floor with a pathetic noise reminding him of his recent failure.
Phainon knew he wasn’t the best cook in the world, but even he didn’t prophesize his kitchen smelling like a new element on the periodic table. He was trying to make ramen for fuck’s sake, and who was going to tell him that you needed to boil the water first? As soon as whatever was in the pot started looking sentient, he accepted defeat and turned the stove off.
He could barely take care of himself, a roommate homunculus born from generic brand ramen and questionable liquids was out of the question.
He only had one option right now, one friend who he knew would be up this late. To offer what – moral support (“No Phainon, the package instructions were wrong, you just did what anyone else would do,”), an offer for take-out (he’s sure at least one joint would be open for the stoners), or advice on how to save his smoke-filled kitchen which was honestly starting to look kind of green.
So he dials. And waits for three rings, before the subject finally picks up.
“No.”
“Cas—wait! didn’t even say anything!”
“And yet I already know what’s going to happen.”
Phainon mumbles. “I got hungry.”
“Open a window or something, I can’t deal with this right now. It’s too late. Goodnight.”
The line goes dead while Phainon shudders. His sweet friend Castorice rarely scares him, but his blood never fails to run cold when she does. He supposes that he shouldn’t have assumed she’d be awake and willing to chat right now. She follows a normal sleep schedule when she wants to.
He really shouldn’t have skipped dinner for a deadline of all things.
Fighting the tears prickling his eyes -- from the smoke, of course, Phainon drags himself to the sole couch in the living room. It was a pretty uncomfortable couch, made of denim (the seller drove a hard bargain and Phainon was also inebriated at the time of purchase), but Phainon couldn’t bring himself to care about the inevitable morning back pain.
Already dressed in his matching pajama set patterned with white-furred chimeras, Phainon flopped down into the jouch and fell into a dreamless sleep.
***
Phainon blearily blinked open his eyes after what felt like minutes later to the sound of incessant knocking.
The sun was shining harshly through the blinds in his living room. He flopped on his back and instinctively swiped the back of his hand on his mouth. He felt crusted drool. Great.
The knocking started again, angrier. Phainon almost tripped in his haste to run to the kitchen sink, ignoring the air thick with smoke, to splash water in his face. He smoothed his hair down to no avail and accepted that it would be sticking in all directions. He calls it his “effortless” look. Castorice calls it “gross.”
Trying to look unaffected, like he was up for hours, Phainon strides over to the front door and opens it with his signature grin plastered on his face.
He’s met with two pairs of eyes, both looking positively affronted. One familiar pair of green ones, and gold?
Phainon’s smile melts off his face in horror as he looks down to his own figure, no doubt sporting that chimera pajama set. Well, shit. He forgot he was wearing that.
He then slowly moves his head up to take in the image of the usually composed and lovely Aglaea with disgust and fear contorting her features. And standing to the right, the most beautiful man Phainon has ever seen in this life and the last and also any future iterations of a life he’d be forced to go through again if he was trapped in a samsara, which would be worth it if he could see this man’s glorious face every time he died and was reborn—
“What. The hell. Happened.” Aglaea’s voice rudely interrupts the epiphany Phainon was having. Rude. He hadn’t even gotten to the mental wedding planning yet.
After Phainon sputters something about having to change, please have a seat and ignore the smell from the kitchen, make yourselves at home but also don’t look at the kitchen at all, and would you please excuse him so he can also brush his teeth; he walks back to the living room to find Aglaea and the beautiful stranger seated on the jouch. Well, Aglaea is barely on the edge, no doubt distrusting the safety of any contact with Phainon’s furniture currently, which – okay, fair.
The stranger, however, is a sight that makes Phainon’s soul leave his body. Almost. He’s leaned fully on the jouch, his legs spread enough to take up the space of two people. His right arm is extended on the headrest, and Phainon faces the devastating conclusion that not only is his arm beefy, it’s also tattooed. The position causes his already tight black polo to stretch taut across his front.
If Phainon was any more delirious than he already was, he would’ve whimpered.
“So.” Aglaea breaks the silence while Mystery Man’s fiery eyes were trained on him. His shaggy strawberry blonde hair framed his face. It looked amazing.
“Castorice called me today.”
Phainon’s shoulders slumped from where he was still standing in the middle of the room. Oh.
“Something about how you possess a danger to yourself and others and should not be allowed within a fifty-mile radius from any kitchen anymore. Sound familiar?”
Phainon nods, hanging his head. An Aglaea lecture in front of his future husband will make sure his already shitty week turns into irredeemable territory.
He respected Aglaea, he really did. Everywhere the woman walked, she demanded attention without saying so much as a word. She was an aunt figure to Phainon and Castorice, a mentor, and Phainon trusted her with his life.
He already knew there was no arguing when she introduced Adonis in a black polo as his new private culinary coach.
“Mydei here owes me a favor,” she said, glare turning icy as she looked to the left. To the Greek god—Mydei’s—credit, he didn’t look sheepish being the subject of Aglaea’s disapproval. Her disapproval could melt a statue, Phainon’s sure he’s seen it once. And lived it.
“He will be your personal chef slash teacher in the kitchen. By the end of this, you should have learned not to cause an OSHA hazard everytime you step into the kitchen.”
“It’s a two-week punishment.” Mydei is gruff but his voice is not unpleasant when he speaks and Phainon can’t do much more than stare dumbly at him. “Don’t waste my time, let’s get this over with.”
“You’ve been awfully quiet, Phainon. Taking this in stride? Anything you want to say?” Aglaea continues.
So when Phainon blurts out “Mydei your tits are HUGE,” and resolves himself to change his name and move countries, he couldn’t help but blame Aglaea for letting him speak.