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Phainon had not replied for two hours. And Mydei waited.
Two hours and twenty-four minutes, precisely. It shouldn't bother him, but there he was: laying absentminded on his bed, hand clutching tightly at his phone just above his head.
Mydei was, by all means, restless.
Way too restless.
He had the belief that if he thought about Phainon hard enough, maybe his brain waves could send a message through the phone without him even texting.
Of course it wasn't possible, scientifically speaking.
Phainon was better at those science things than him. Those whatever principles of the universe or laws of nature... Mydei couldn't comprehend why the hell would Phainon care about dark matters when he was literally here, waiting for a message like a fool waiting for love that would never come.
But don’t be mistaken. Mydei had the love all right.
For the record, he had already succeeded in the first step of courting for the gorgeously pretty white-haired man.
The problem was that he wasn't making any progress in step two.
Ask Phainon out for a proper date.
Mydei had planned it all for them. Their first date. Ever first date. Never-as-first-as-ever date.
He shrunk when he thought about it. How stupid , he had thought this thoroughly for more than two weeks.
Yet, when he finally gathered all of his courage and asked... Phainon went offline.
"Did I say something weird? Was it strange to ask him out? What if he doesn't want to? What if he hates me now? Will he break up with me!?"
Though Phainon probably wouldn't, Mydei's dysfunctional mind settled for the opposite.
The lovesick man lied there on his bed for another fifteen minutes of unreasonable dread. He was just being dramatic…
Until his phone rang.
“Ting!”
Mydei swore he didn't pounce on the phone.
Which he did.
The message was short. A little “of course!” with a shy, blushing sticker followed. It should have been enough. There was even a cute sticker.
Or… there had been one.
The message suddenly disappeared.
... Huh?
Mydei stared. Hard. Like the sticker would come back if he blinked…
But when his traitorous brain just had another idea—
“Sure.” That popped up on the screen.
... Short. Shorter than the former. And no sticker.
He stared again, at the message.
“That sticker wasn't for you then.”
0-1. His mind won this round. Great.
Still… It wasn’t like Mydei would ask about it. Oh, nope. No, no, no. no… Absolutely not.
… However, he technically could , just that would be way too desperate for his taste. And let's be honest, he had already hit the pathetic quota when he confessed—but no one needed to remember that part.
In the end, all he did was texting back the time and the place and asking Phainon if he wanted any adjustments…
“It’s fine,” came the reply.
Mydei groaned into his pillow. Not because he was upset (a lot) but he was distressed (a lot more).
Hah… May the gods help him for he had fallen in love…
.
Phainon flung his face into the pillow and kicked his feet once… Twice.
Then, he also screamed into it. Once… Nevermind, twice .
Because— with every word available to mankind —what in the actual unholy nonsense was that ? A sticker? A blushing one that looked too anime, too? Seriously? What was he, twelve years old and starring in his own low-budget rom-com???
If there were to be a word for this, it would be uncool.
No— unthinkably uncool.
Ridiculous even.
God, he was ridiculous.
Now Mydei probably thought he was some tragically uncool, anime-watching, blush-sticker-sending clown of a boyfriend.
“... Aaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhhhhh!” Phainon clamorously yelled into the poor pillow.
When the yelling soothed down (he was already feeling it again), he rolled over, face flushed, hands smacking his own cheeks in punishment. The memory of the deleted message seared behind his eyelids like that shame kaomoji on his recently used icons.
Then he thought about it…
He came off too eager. Too clingy. What if Mydei thought he was cringe?
Better, what if Mydei “ew”-ed him…
Phainon panicked again.
Of course with all might he panicked.
After all, this was Mydei. Mydei.
The same man who looked like he could lift entire planets with a deadpan glare—and still somehow managed to look devastatingly handsome while sipping pomegranate juice like it was the blood of his enemies.
The same man who had confessed, out of nowhere, in that low , dangerously calm voice like he was just stating the weather: “I like you. A lot.”
And how had Phainon reacted? Oh you know, the normal way involved staring at Mydei for a long ten seconds, laughing nervously, making some weird fox noise (yes, that happened), then tripping over nothing on the floor.
Honestly, he was lucky Mydei hadn’t withdrawn the confession right then.
So when he got the message three hours ago—
“Hey. Wanna go out on a date this Sunday?”
— well, Phainon’s brain didn’t just shut down. No, that would’ve been merciful…
It caught fire instead.
Yeah. That.
He’d been in the middle of brushing his hair, singing off-key to some playlist, when the message came in. His reflection caught the slow forming smile that bloomed like a sunrise across his face. And then?
Full meltdown.
Phone dropped. Hairbrush tossed. Ran in literal circles around his apartment because— because—
Mydei ask him to go on a date!?
Like an actual, honest-to-stars date?
That sit-down-somewhere-and-make-eye-contact-for-hours kind of date?
The maybe-he’d-get-to-watch-Mydei-eat-something-sweet-and-look-secretly-happy—!
… Oh dear.
Phainon had felt light. Like, woah… He was completely and utterly undone by just a text.
But in a good way… Probably.
So, when Phainon finally recovered from his mini meltdown in the bathroom, he sent a reply.
“Of course!” His fingers hovered, heart stammering, and then the fatal mistake. The sticker. That dumb little blushing cartoon sun with tiny hearts orbiting its head like it was in love. Which, to be fair, Phainon was.
He hit send. He stared at it.
…
He deleted it so fast his thumb cramped.
It took one full minute of lying in repentance, staring at the ceiling and questioning every decision in his entire life, before he sent the much tamer: “Sure.”
This was good, he thought. Totally casual! …And devastatingly sterile.
Now he couldn’t stop replaying it. He imagined Mydei seeing the deletion. He imagined Mydei’s brow twitching at his pitiful “sure”. He imagined Mydei thinking he wasn’t excited, or worse—indifferent.
Gods, he was going to have to explain himself, wasn’t he?
But maybe… maybe he could explain it? Just… casually drop it into the conversation? Something like: “oh by the way, sorry I deleted that message earlier, I totally meant to send you a sticker that screams ‘I’m madly in love with you and can’t wait to watch you exist in public for two hours straight’”?
………………… No.
However, despite everything—despite his chaos and his cartoon-level anxiety—he was still smiling. Still kicking his legs like a fool. Still glowing like his internal sun refused to dim. Because Mydei had asked him out. Because they would be going on a date !
And he’d better get ready. Because if Mydei was brave enough to ask, Phainon would be brave enough to show up. Even if his entire existence felt like a walking blushing sticker (please stop mentioning the sticker!)
He pressed the pillow to his face one last time and curled up, phone in his chest.
Phainon could hardly wait any longer…
.
Mydei was a man of precision.
He always had been.
Sharp eyes, steady hands, a mind wired for patterns, for discipline, for control .
Hence, of course, when he finally landed a date with Phainon—his Phainon, the most blindingly beautiful chaos to ever stroll into his life—it became |an operation|. A secret mission disguised in simplicity. But a mission nonetheless.
He had a plan. Or rather, The Plan.
Mydei had been rehearsing it more than once. Several times, actually.
… Fine, dozens of time.
He had read a lot, too, which made his search history—with a noun to describe it—an unfortunate, pitiful disaster.
“ How to plan the unforgettably best first date?”
“What to wear to make you look handsome and your date swoon over you?”
“How to not sweat through your entire shirt when looking at your boyfriend’s smile?”
… That last one had no good answers.
Still, Mydei had mapped it all out with military precision. He’d picked a place, a time, a route.
Okay. Recap .
First: the place. A quiet café in the south district. Good lighting, low traffic, tables spaced just right—1.3 meters average. Close enough to touch hands. Optional.
Second: the time. Sunday. 8:30 sharp. Late enough to avoid the lunch crowd, early enough that the light would still be soft by the time they left.
Third: the route. Meet at the station. Walk three blocks. Turn once. No delays if they were lucky. Arrive five minutes early. Hold the door. Offer the inside seat. Sit down. Talk. Perhaps smile… Possibly.
Plus, one bonus: the outfit. Oh, this one was critical. Had to be neutral but good-looking. Approachable but sharp. The kind of outfit that said: “I care about this but not in a weird obsessive way” even though it was, in fact, obsessively planned.
He already had a checklist. Three backups. Two weather contingencies. A schedule that looked effortless but was built like a covert operation—down to which side of the booth he’d suggest Phainon sit on (the one with better natural light, so Mydei could see Phainon better, obviously).
And of course, an emergency script in case his brain short-circuited and he forgot how human speech worked in front of Phainon.
Mm .
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Not when he’d be brushing his teeth and suddenly:
What if Phainon laughs too hard and falls over? Should I catch him or pretend it’s normal?
Or when he’d be washing dishes and think:
What if we run out of things to say? What if I say something dumb? What if I say something romantic and he—what if he kisses me?
That one sent him into a spiral for a solid ten minutes, during which he dropped a spoon, knocked over the soap bottle, and stared out the window like the outside world owned him an apology.
But when he didn't overthink, he daydreamed instead.
Those sweet sweet dreams… A whole gallery of imaginary moments playing behind his eyes like footages:
Phainon looking at him across the table, smiling that brilliant, too-bright smile. Phainon teasing him with something too sweet. Phainon leaning a little too close. Phainon reaching for his hand.
Hand .
He stared at it sometimes, wondering if it was too calloused, too rough… Would Phainon flinch? Or would he just hold it tighter? (The second thought threw burning tree branch at his face).
Mydei also shaved, twice: once out of necessity, once out of anxiety.
He was still contemplating whether he should shave again actually…
The apartment smelled like clean linen and citrus—Mydei had lit a candle mindlessly while pacing and decided that maybe scent mattered too. That maybe, he should consider buying a new cologne while he was at it.
Would Phainon notice? Would he like the change? Would he even lean in and—
The thought made him sit down. Very fast.
Still. Still… Mydei breathed (he choked) and reminded himself: it's just a date. A simple walk. A little meal. A small moment in time. Nothing to worry about…
Except for this was with Phainon.
And that just happened to change everything.
Because it wasn’t just any first date. It was their first date. After everything, after the awkward confessions, after the held breath and quiet stares. After he’d spent nights wondering if it was one-sided, if Phainon would drift away like the light he so often reminded him of.
But Phainon had said yes.
“Sure.”
Short. Simple. And somehow still the most important thing Mydei had read all week ( cough the sticker cough) .
He read it five times that day. Maybe six.
He had smiled.
He didn’t smile often. Yet, he had.
And now?
Now Mydei was ready.
Well— not exactly.
He was still nervous—if not nearing having a panic attack.
His stomach pretended to do backflips. His heart felt like bursting out of his ribs. Plus, his reflection looked like a man on his way to war, not to love.
But he would be going anyway.
Because he’d asked.
And Phainon'd said yes.
.
It was Friday.
The date was on Sunday.
That meant, technically, two more days to go. Forty-eight hours, plenty of time. Totally manageable, a whole reasonable span to prepare…
Unless you were Phainon.
Because if you were Phainon, it meant you were currently lying face-first on the floor of your bedroom, shirtless, with a half-buttoned Hawaiian monstrosity draped over your back like a fabric crime scene, surrounded by enough fabric to supply a theatre troupe on tour, yet somehow, in the middle of it all, he still muttered the most outrageous lie known to man: “... I have nothing to wear.”
Oh please.
He had clothes. He had the fashion and the taste (arguable, depending on how you felt about banana-yellow tank tops that screamed “I’m allergic to subtlety” and purple pants loud enough to make royal peacocks blush).
What he didn’t have was “something to wear when your terrifyingly gorgeous boyfriend invites you on a date and you suddenly forget how shirts work, colors exist, or how to stand without looking like a knockoff statue of awkward Greek godhood because apparently, your mind turns into soup.”
He sat up like a man crawling out of emotional quicksand. His hair—normally windswept in a cute, just-rolled-out-of-the-sun look—now looked like he’d been in a wrestling match with a raccoon and got whooped .
A burgundy shirt was hoisted to his chest. He frowned at it. Squinted. Held it higher. Lower. Tried angling it in the mirror like a guilty art thief trying to appraise a stolen painting.
The shirt looked fine enough though…
Yeah as if.
It was promptly yeeted across the room like a doomed grenade.
Next phase: Fragrance .
At first, it was innocent. A couple sprays here and there. A whiff, a shrug, a small mental note.
But ten minutes later, Phainon was practically waterboarding himself in scent samples, sitting on the bathroom counter with a perfume tester in each hand, violently sniffing like a bloodhound in crisis.
“Crisp lemon zest kissed with woody amber and the memory of first love,” he read aloud from one bottle, before narrowing his eyes.
He squinted at the label like it had insulted his intelligence.
“... What the hell does that even smell like?”
He sprayed it onto his wrist, sniffed.
Immediately recoiled. Made the exact face someone makes when they realize the milk has expired after drinking it.
Now he smelled like a leftover fruit salad and scammed regret.
Then came the smiles.
He spent twenty-three minutes contemplating what smile to bring. Not metaphorically. He was literally standing in front of the mirror, trying different ones, cycling through expressions like a malfunctioning dating sim character..
Smile #1: Soft. Sweet. Safe. Like he was a delicate flower who liked picnics and emotional availability.
Smile #2: Mysterious. Subtle. A little dangerous. Like maybe he owned a Ferrari and also your heart .
Smile #3: The one he did when Mydei complimented him unexpectedly and he forgot how faces worked. Accidentally looked constipated.
All three got sticky notes. All three were labeled and posted around the mirror. He even added comments.
" Too teethy ".
" Might induce suspicion ".
" This one made me sweat ".
The note-taking kept escalating. They didn’t stop.
Soon, he had practice lines scribbled across a dozen torn notebook pages and three backs of receipts.
Cool things to say. Funny jokes to crack. Those that didn’t sound like a desperate, flirty "oops, I’ve just happened to be in love with you for like three solar cycles."
Each line was worse than the last.
“Hey, you look—wow. I mean just…
Wow
.”
“No, I wasn’t staring, I was just... appreciating. Your... uh. Bone structure.”
“Do you believe in fate? Because I think mine just walked in wearing black and looks like it bench-presses planets—”
He slapped a palm over his face.
Notes. Where were the notes…
After that, the mirror had them:
“ Remember to blink naturally. And breathe. Can’t forget that .”
“ Don’t stare too long, Or maybe, don’t look at all .”
“ Actually, don’t say ‘bone structure .’”
“ DO NOT BRING UP HIS ABS .”
Hours later, Phainon eventually sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by notes and shirt options, dabbing his wrist with lemon balm tea in a failed attempt to neutralize the multiple scent layers now clashing like a chemical duel to the death.
“Mydei’s gonna think I broke into a candle shop and rolled around in the clearance bin,” he groaned, or moaned, or both.
Then his phone buzzed.
He lunged for it like it held divine answers.
It was a weather update.
He nodded solemnly, like this was important information for a military operation. Because it was.
Kind of. Emotionally.
“Clear skies,” he murmured. “Hmp. Romantically symbolic.”
He took a deep breath.
Stared at himself in the mirror—shirtless, stressed, faintly glittery from who-knows-what perfume sample.
“This will be fine… I will be fine…”
His voice cracked. Phainon sighed.
“I’m gonna have to breathe in front of him,” he whispered, eyes frowned. “Through nose, Phai. Not mouth. And not choke yourself.”
But somewhere in that chaotic, doomed, delightfully dumb spiral… he smiled despite all.
Because regardless of the panic, the meltdown, that even when he currently looked like a perfume ad gone rogue, he was excited.
He was really, really excited .
And that made everything worth it.
He just had to survive until Sunday.
No big deal.
Small thing.
Easy.
Right?
… Right?
…
Not in this economy—
(He immediately collapsed backward and groaned into the carpet.)
.
Sunday had finally come.
The station's clock clicked to 8:29 AM.
One minute left…
Mydei arrived ten minutes early.
In truth, twenty-two minutes and thirty-seven seconds early—but really, who was counting? Certainly not him. Not the man who had walked past the meeting point three times already. Not the one who had circled the square like a suspiciously well-dressed hawk trying not to combust.
He’d made himself take a stroll. For his nerves. For his health. Definitely not to check the lighting from multiple angles in case Phainon wanted a photo. Definitely not to count how many couples were already holding hands. Or to fix his hair in every reflective surface. Or to rehearse his smile. Again.
The streets were quiet, gilded in gold. Morning light spilled across the pavement like syrup—slow, thick, sweet. There was a soft breeze that played with the hem of his coat. His hands were in his pockets, heart behaving like it was training for a sprinting event, and still, Mydei looked calm. Effortlessly so. Leaning against a lamppost like this was just another morning.
Cool.
Dope.
Yeah, keep on being so.
Soon, the time showed exactly 8:30.
And then—then—
Phainon appeared.
Phainon, who rounded the corner like he was late to bless the world. Which, technically, he was right on time. But his entrance said otherwise.
The sun—traitor that it was—immediately changed allegiance. It caught his hair like it’d been waiting all morning just for him. Turned it to spun silver, like soft light made solid. A breeze caught his collar. His skin glowed like dawn remembering it had a favorite.
He was radiant. Absolutely radiant. A man haloed by morning.
A living god. Not just angelic. Divine.
His scent too, faintly, beautifully—like sunshine caught in fresh linen and citrus soap, the kind of warmth that made your chest ache without warning. A scent that said “I woke up smiling and the day smiled back.”
Mydei’s breath faltered. Just a half beat. Just enough.
Then Phainon smiled.
Like he didn’t even mean to. Like joy just leaked out of him naturally, uncontainable. It was lopsided. Soft around the edges. Disastrously perfect.
“Hi!” Phainon called, lifting a hand in greeting—then promptly tripped over absolutely nothing.
He caught himself, luckily, and laughed.
Still grinned wider like daring the gravity to interrupt his steps again.
Mydei, standing still—though he’d nearly rushed forward—offered a nod. Subtle. Sure. Like gravity meant nothing, but Phainon did .
“Wow, you look—” Phainon started, then completely stalled. His mouth opened, closed, reopened. “—Good. Really good. Like… like you were sculpted by someone with a personal vendetta against my self-control.”
Wait. What.
Mydei’s mind tripped harder than Phainon had.
Were those… pick-up lines? Actual ones? Was that a compliment? To him?
Mydei blinked. He hadn’t prepared for this part. The script had no notes for this level of chaos.
And, god , Phainon was still going, bless him .
“Ah, wait, no, that sounds weird—um. I mean… You’re just—” He motioned vaguely at Mydei’s entire existence, helplessly. “—You look like you punched an angel and stole its wardrobe and it’s working really well for you?”
There was a beat.
A loaded, static-filled beat.
Mydei tilted his head, mostly to buy a fraction more time. His heart had done something odd and off-rhythm. That sentence— those sentences—weren’t expected.
“You always talk like this in the morning?” he asked, voice dry as desert sand.
Phainon stopped. Winced a little—just the smallest flicker of it. His fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to grab something and disappear into it.
“I—not usually. I swear I’ve got better material than this, I just…” he gave a breathless little laugh, cheeks turning the color of something fragile and blooming, “I think my brain just saw your face and forgot how sentences are supposed to work so…”
That was another one. Bless Mydei!
Phainon scratched the back of his neck, chuckling. “That’s pretty bad, huh. Sorry, I must sound like I just swallowed a romance novel.”
That did it.
Mydei looked at him then. Really looked. The way one does when trying to remember something important— like why he did all this .
And something softened around the edges of his gaze, like cooled embers.
“You do,” he said. Then hesitated. Because Phainon halted. A slight drop of his jaw, but it was already screaming “alert! alert!”.
Had he said something wrong?
Mydei straightened subtly, mentally thinking of a way to recalibrate.
Come on. Fix it. Redirect it. Quick—
“Anyway, you look good as well. I like… uhhhh…” Mydei still had to pause. His gaze ran over the outfit. It wasn’t the most fashionable thing in the world—Phainon had clearly swapped through options until his brain exploded and just picked whatever survived. A comfy blue o vershirt over a merely plain white tee, denim that looked lived-in, and his simple black strap around his neck that glinted his golden sun tattoo whenever he tipped his head.
But somehow it worked. All of it.
“… You,” Mydei finished.
And then— Phainon froze . Entirely.
For a fraction of a second, Mydei’s brain hit every emergency button. Oh no. That sounded dumb, didn’t it? That wasn’t a compliment, it was barely a sentence. He should’ve just—
But then Phainon smiled.
No— melted . Completely. Like warmth incarnate had just taken over his body.
“Oh,” the white-haired said, voice catching slightly on the syllable. “Wow, that’s just… Wow . I… don’t know how to counter that.”
And suddenly, Mydei could breathe again.
Somehow, just like that , the tight coil in his chest loosened. That smile—genuine and bright and stupidly beautiful—made the world feel a little more forgiving.
He allowed a corner of his mouth to lift.
“I won this time then. Shall we now?” Mydei asked.
Phainon nodded too fast. “Yes. Let us.”
And they began walking, side by side.
Just two idiots who were too in love and didn’t know that the other also loved them the same crazy way.
One was trying too hard to seem normal. One was glowing so hard he made flowers bloom in his wake.
And neither aware that from a distance, they already looked like something out of a movie.
The morning was just beginning.
And the day was theirs.
.
The café they stepped into was small, tucked under a terrace of leafy sycamores and hanging flower baskets. The sign outside read Miel , painted in curling cursive on weathered wood, and the air inside smelled like roasted hazelnuts, cinnamon foam, and soft vanilla. The hum of soft jazz wrapped around the place like a cozy scarf.
Before Phainon could even touch the welcome mat, Mydei was already holding the door open— smooth move —and Phainon did that awkward little hop-skip people do when they’re trying to seem polite but not desperate to get inside.
He knew it looked stupid. Mydei pretended not to notice—which, honestly, was probably the most affectionate thing anyone had ever done for him.
As soon as they stepped in, Phainon spun toward the counter like it owed him money, then remembered he was on a date and spun back to Mydei with an exaggerated nonchalance.
"So! What would it be?" he declared, just a bit too loud. “Coffee? Beans? Bean juice? The classic drink of suave intellectuals and definitely-not-nervous people?”
Mydei raised an eyebrow. “Is that your order?”
“Uhhhh, no? Unless you want to have something that matches?” Phainon blurted, then immediately regretted the phrasing. “I mean—not like match-match, just… you know, I could get whatever you’re getting. Unless you’re getting something weird…? Not that you would. But like, if you did, it’d still be cool. You're cool. Whatever you order is cool.”
He was smiling too hard. Definitely talking too fast. His hand went to his hair in a heroic attempt to fix it and made it worse. Naturally..
Mydei regarded him for a beat—composed, eyes blinked once, like the café ambiance itself had bowed to him. He stepped forward, adjusting the fall of his coat like it meant nothing, and scanned the chalkboard menu with a serenity that should’ve been illegal.
“I’ll get a latte,” he said, smooth as satin.
Phainon turned. “Sweet?”
“Sweet,” Mydei hummed. Then, unannounced, “Like you.”
“Oh.”
That was… flirting…
ABORT! ABORT! BRAIN ERROR 404: CHILL NOT FOUND.
But his brain had already tripped over itself.
“I… will get one like him then…”
Mydei didn’t comment. Not verbally.
The guy just looked . With that gaze. That quietly ruinous gaze that made Phainon feel like he was being studied and kissed at the same time.
He didn’t even notice the barista until she asked, “Name for the order?”
“Oh! Uh… For Phainon. And Mydei,” he added. A beat passed. His eyes narrowed at the counter, suddenly struck by a thought. “Wait—what if we used code names? You know, for the vibe . Like, you can be Sunbreaker and I will be The Sun.”
Mydei’s eyes flicked, narrowing just slightly. “So I’m breaking you now?”
Phainon blinked once. Twice. Thrice.
He should really shut up now—
“You will…?”
… oh god.
The barista simply… paused. The kind of pause that’s born not of confusion, but of sheer cognitive overload—when your brain throws up its hands and quietly steps out for a smoke.
“So… Two lattes,” she said, writing quickly, “for… ‘The Sun’ and ‘Sunbreaker.’ Sweet, yes?”
Phainon stared ahead, already grieving his dignity like it was a pet goldfish floating belly-up in a bowl of bad decisions.
“Yeah. Sweet… ” he echoed, voice hollow with acceptance, and exhaled through his nose. The kind of exhale that comes with watching your own soul pack its bags and leave for a less embarrassing host.
Mydei moved to pay before Phainon could react, gliding a card from his coat like a magician pulling a dove from his sleeve.
“Ah—no, wait, I got this,” Phainon said quickly, already fishing in his pocket.
“I invited you,” Mydei said, without looking at him, like it was the most logical response to everything in the universe. His voice was smooth, firm. “I pay.”
Phainon opened his mouth.
But Mydei was staring back at him .
So Phainon closed his mouth.
“Right, right. No arguments. You win. I love yo—I mean I love that for you. Mmhp. ”
He coughed, rubbed the back of his neck like that would scrub the moment away. “Then, window seat?”
“I already picked one,” Mydei said, gesturing slightly to the far corner.
Of course he had.
The window seat was absurdly perfect. Ivy spilled over the sill like a green cascade, and the sunlight that filtered through the leaves dappled the table in gold-green flecks. A glass of water sat there already—placed by a barista, probably, but it felt more like the universe itself had decided to hydrate them in advance. A single bee hovered lazily near the glass before drifting off, clearly outclassed in the presence of two disaster gays.
Naturally curated, like Mydei himself.
And dangerous, in how easy it was to want this.
Phainon trailed after Mydei to the seats like a moth with very poor decision-making skills.
Mydei sat with practiced ease, hands folded lightly over his lap. One leg crossed neatly over the other. He was statuesque, composed, and radiating just a bit too much “calm morning elegance” for someone who had been awake since 5 AM rerouting backup date plans in his head in case the café’s Wi-Fi was bad and Phainon hated foam art.
While the said person, across from him, tried to sit in a way that made himself look taller and cooler and definitely like someone who had not, in fact, been panic-memorizing icebreakers for the last 48 hours.
He folded his hands. Then unfolded them. Elbows on the table? Too aggressive. Hands under chin? Pretentious. Hands in pockets? Weird.
“Table’s shorter than it looks,” Phainon mumbled, then cleared his throat and planted his elbows down with purpose. “So.”
A pause.
“So,” Mydei echoed, hands folded neatly on the tabletop. He looked like a man in total control.
Phainon, meanwhile, looked like a man trying to remember if he’d ever learned how to blink at a normal speed.
“Nice café,” Phainon blurted. “Very… ‘locational’. With tables. That exists.”
There was a beat of silence. A jazz piano meandered gently in the background. Somewhere, a spoon clinked against porcelain.
“… It’s a compliment.”
Mydei leaned forward slightly. Just a little. Just enough that his hair caught a shaft of morning light, and his eyes burned molten under it. “I see.”
Oh, not the “I see” with that kind of smile…
“I-I have actual lines, y-you know,” Phainon said, sitting straighter, eyes darting to the sky outside like it might offer a cue card. “Like… interesting ones. Date things. Like—uh…”
He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering above the screen like it might spark divine inspiration.
“Don't tell me you wrote a script,” Mydei said, dry and unbothered, like a gentle flame watching a moth choose ruin.
Phainon’s ears turned red. He huffed. “I’d call them notes . Just… some outlines. A cute flirtation roadmap, if you will.”
Mydei tilted his head. “You made a flirtation roadmap? ”
“I had to! You—you short-circuited my planning centers the moment you did the whole coat-holding thing earlier. Like some kind of romcom action hero. I panicked! ”
Mydei’s lips twitched. Tiny. Barely there. But it happened.
And that was a good sign.
Phainon leaned forward, sheepishly, elbows gently resting on the table, fingers steepled like he was hosting a podcast.
“But it’s okay,” he said solemnly. “I’m improvising. And I think I’m killing it.”
“You’re killing something,” Mydei said.
“Hopefully not your interest…”
Mydei met his gaze. His foot shifted slightly under the table—just enough to brush against Phainon’s.
“No,” he said. “Not that.”
Phainon froze like someone had just whispered a spell directly into his spine.
Because he could think of a few flirty things…
Then the lattes arrived.
Two cups, delicately placed in front of them. Each topped with latte art—a sunflower for Phainon, and a flame for Mydei. (How the barista managed that, no one questioned. Destiny worked part-time at Miel.)
Phainon leaned in, inspecting his drink. “Oh, they made me a sunflower!”
“You look like one too,” Mydei murmured.
Phainon straightened so fast he nearly bit the straw in the water glass.
“I—what?”
“Sunflower,” Mydei clarified. “Bright and dazzling. It suits you.”
Silence breathed for a second. Phainon, cheeks pink, picked up his cup and said, “Well. If I look like a dream and you smell like one, I guess we’re covering all bases, huh.”
Mydei smiled behind his cup, a silent agreement.
They lapsed into a rhythm after that—back and forth banter where Phainon kept pulling new metaphors out of nowhere (“Your voice is like espresso—strong and only a little dangerous”) and Mydei kept refusing to laugh, only to betray himself with soft exhales and even softer glances.
Time blurred, gently. The café filled in slowly with the weekend crowd, but their corner remained its own little sanctuary.
At one point, Phainon tried to subtly dust cinnamon on Mydei’s drink as a romantic gesture, but the shaker lid fell off and dumped half its contents directly onto the foam.
He froze. Mydei stared down at the crime scene.
“… Enhancing the flavor,” Phainon offered.
“I see,” Mydei replied, and didn’t blink once.
Still, he drank it. Cinnamon and all.
They talked about anything and everything. Nothing about time. But when the wooden cuckoo clock of the café chimed 10:15 faintly from above the counter, Mydei stood with a grace that made the air .
“Ready?” he asked, offering a hand—not formally, not flamboyantly. Just... casually. Like it was normal to reach out to someone like this.
Phainon took it.
“Lead the way, Sunbreaker.”
And the touch—brief, warm—lingered longer than physics should’ve allowed.
They left the café with cups in hand and shoulders brushing. And as they stepped into the light again, the city felt like it was watching them. Softly. Hopefully.
Because sometimes love starts with caffeine and cinnamon accidents.
And sometimes it starts with the way someone tries so hard to appear effortless… only to be loved even more for every fumble.
.
The walk to the cinema wasn’t long, but Mydei felt every step like he was crossing a tightrope.
Phainon walked beside him, animated again—rambling about a documentary he’d watched that accidentally turned into a horror film halfway through. Something about squirrels. Or was it solar flares?
Mydei didn’t catch all the words. He was too focused on keeping his stride relaxed, his posture casual, his coffee cup gripped just right like he wasn’t measuring the distance between their elbows every few seconds. The sleeve of Phainon’s overshirt fluttered close. Mydei looked away. His ears were not pink.
The cinema loomed ahead—a charming, vintage place with velvet-curtained windows and golden script on the marquee. A movie neither of them had seen, picked deliberately for the fact that neither of them could predict what would happen. Just like today.
The lobby smelled of popcorn and nostalgia, the kind that stubbornly clung to red carpets and lounge chairs. They were standing in front of the movie poster wall when Mydei, ever the composed one, finally asked:
“So. What do you want to watch?”
Phainon tilted his head, fingers tapping on his chin. Studied the options. A couple blockbusters. A romance. Something moody and French.
Then he pointed…
At “Wandageddon: Rise of the Velvet Warlord”.
A vividly colored fantasy film where the villain collects magical wands from defeated teenage sorcerers and monologues about friendship being a pyramid scheme.
Mydei stared at the poster. Then at Phainon.
“That one?” he asked, very slowly.
Phainon beamed. “Absolutely. Look at that guy. He’s got four cloaks and a glitter beard. I respect that kind of commitment.”
A pause. Then, resigned but not without a sliver of fondness:
“Fine.”
And so they bought tickets for Wandageddon . No regrets. (Yet.)
The seats were in the back row—Phainon’s idea. “Best for cinematic immersion,” he’d said with a grin, but Mydei could feel the truth buried in the joke. The same reason he’d chosen a quieter café earlier. They wanted space. Space to breathe, maybe. Or space to hope.
The theater lights dimmed. The film began.
And Mydei... Mydei realized he was in trouble.
Not because of the movie. He barely registered the first fifteen minutes. Something about a futuristic heist. Neon lights. Snappy dialogue. But none of it mattered, because—
Phainon, three seats in, had laughed at a trailer with his whole chest—so open, so loud, so there. He had leaned in to whisper something ridiculous, and Mydei had only half-heard it, too busy trying not to melt from proximity.
But he did—because how could he not?
When Phainon’s warmth lingered in his bloodstream, impossible to shake…
When his clumsy charm tugged at the seams of Mydei’s stillness, more than just a little…
It was a physical thing. A tug in his chest, sharp and inexplicable. Like a compass needle snapping toward the wrong north.
Mydei's fingers twitched on the armrest.
He had calculated everything. The date, the timing, the ease with which he could look composed. He excelled at restraint.
But Phainon, damn him, was not behaving.
He kept reacting to the movie with tiny sounds—soft gasps, half-laughed comments under his breath. He leaned closer a few times, to whisper something about a plot twist or a ridiculous line of dialogue. And each time, Mydei’s pulse spiked like he was being haunted by something dangerous and beautiful.
“Hey. Do you think they planned the banana scene?” Phainon whispered suddenly, voice inches from Mydei’s ear.
Mydei turned. Slowly.
“What banana…”
Phainon’s eyes sparkled, wide and innocent. “You missed it, didn’t you?”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did—he threw it like a grenade. It exploded. There were sound effects. Mydei, are you even watching this movie?”
Mydei stared at him.
Then, flatly: “… I am now.”
Phainon blinked. And then he grinned . Bright and full, his teeth catching the screen light like a second sun.
Mydei returned his eyes to the screen.
He had not thrown himself at Phainon. This was a small victory.
But his foot had moved, sometime during the last scene, just slightly to brush against Phainon’s.
He didn’t move it back.
Phainon didn’t either.
And that. That was enough.
By the time they left, Phainon was still quoting the film and doing impressions like a man possessed.
“So the villain, like, did he even have a plan? Or was he just really into collecting antique sticks for dramatic effect?”
Mydei gave a noncommittal hum, which somehow translated to you’re ridiculous but I’m listening .
“Also, that soundtrack? That was illegal. I have goosebumps in places I didn’t know had nerves.”
Phainon was grinning up at him again. Always grinning. Mydei had no idea how that much light could fit into one human expression without breaking the world open.
“It’s almost lunch,” Mydei said, checking the time like it hadn’t already tattooed itself into the back of his mind. “Shall we?”
They ended up at a small food stall tucked into a market alley—ramen, quick and warm and a little messy. Phainon slurped a noodle too fast and choked halfway through a joke. Mydei handed him a napkin before the panic even finished reaching his eyes.
He didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow like he was judging. (He wasn’t. Was admiring.)
“You saw nothing,” Phainon declared with a wheeze. “I am grace incarnate.”
“Uh huh.”
“And if you did see something, it’s your hallucination.”
Mydei sipped his miso broth, eyes half-lidded with faux serenity. “Of course.”
After lunch, they walked.
And walked.
And wandered.
They wandered with no real destination, letting Phainon take the lead now—something he seemed to delight in, a rare gift Mydei treasured in quiet awe.
They paused at a small flower stall, where Phainon crouched to examine a cluster of wildflowers tangled with tiny daisies and lavender. He picked one—a stubborn, slightly crooked bloom—and carefully tucked it behind Mydei’s ear, smirking like a kid caught sneaking cookies.
They ducked into a tiny bookstore squeezed between two cafés. Phainon picked up a battered copy of a fantasy novel, flipping the pages with exaggerated seriousness, then whispered, “Look, it’s got a villain too. Maybe he collects bad puns?”
At a nearby fountain, Phainon made a show of tossing a coin over his shoulder, eyes closed as if making a grand wish. Mydei watched him, heart folding in on itself like paper cranes, and quietly wished for a hundred more Sundays like this.
They took turns pointing out the quirkiest street art—an enormous mural of a fox wearing a monocle, a painted door that opened to nowhere, and a whimsical statue of a cat balancing a teacup on its head. Phainon tried mimicking the cat’s pose, wobbling dangerously and laughing breathlessly when Mydei gave him a sidelong smile.
By mid-afternoon, they found themselves on a small hill overlooking the city. Phainon pulled Mydei close, warm and steady, as the breeze tousled their hair and the city spread out like a storybook beneath them.
No words were needed. The silence between them was full—comfortable, sweet, and utterly theirs.
And that was exactly as planned.
Or rather: as Mydei had planned.
But Phainon didn’t need to know that.
At some point, it was almost late afternoon.
“You sure you’re okay with this?”
Mydei nodded. “Mhm.”
“Like, this this? Me dragging you into a bakery just to smell things?”
Another nod. “Why not?”
“You’re not just saying that because you think I’ll explode into glitter if you say no?”
Pause. Then, smoothly: “You will be very glittering then.”
Phainon made a sound that could only be described as a dying squeak-giggle, and Mydei— the ever unshakeable Mydei—very nearly tripped over absolute nothing.
He managed to recover, of course. He always did. Externally, nothing changed.
But internally?
Disaster.
He might’ve survived the café.
He had survived it—barely. From the cinnamon-sweet mess, the slipped-out flirting, and that whole Sunbreaker and The Sun thing … He’d even managed not only to keep a straight face but to flirt back… Somehow .
But this?
This was the part he hadn’t braced for.
The part where there was no script (because he wanted Phainon to enjoy doing things he wanted). No lead role. Just Phainon laughing freely, tugging him toward another turn, another idea, another piece of wonder.
He was sweating. Not visibly. Not physically. But spiritually? Yes. Fully. He was glowing with restraint.
Phainon was holding onto his sleeve now. Just lightly. Like it meant nothing.
But it did mean something.
It meant everything .
And as the golden honey light shifted above them and the city opened wide with possibilities, Mydei followed—gladly, stupidly, willingly—wherever Phainon wanted to go.
To the part where he didn’t lead.
Where he didn’t plan.
Where he simply stayed close, close enough to feel that warm radiance from the person he loved.
And hoped—quietly, desperately—that he wouldn’t combust before the day was done.
Mydei had never wanted to be careful more than he did now.
Because this mattered.
.
They wandered. Again.
Through art stalls and buskers on the sidewalk. Through rows of sun-warmed glass windows that spilled golden reflections on the pavement. They stopped at a shop just because it had silly socks in the window (Phainon tried to convince Mydei that the ones with flying toast were “obviously meant for him”). Then again at a corner where a jazz trio played with the kind of ease that only came from real joy.
Phainon clapped along, a little off-beat. Mydei didn’t correct him.
They simply walked in silence like that, letting the time fold softly around them like a hush settling over the city at dusk.
Mydei—usually a map, a compass, a clock—ignored it all to a blur.
Eventually, Phainon halted so abruptly that Mydei almost bumped into him.
“There,” he said, pointing.
A sidewalk food cart, brightly lit. Steam curling into the soft dusk like breath. The scent—savory, grilled, a little sweet—caught Mydei attention: comforting, welcoming.
“Street skewers,” Phainon said, like it was sacred. “Nothing ends a day better than eating things on sticks. Good thing I’m starving.”
There was no need for any further argument. Not that Mydei was planning to anyway.
He soon led Phainon, with bags of grilled skewers in his hands, to the riverside terrace.
They sat on a bench there, legs barely touching. Mydei’s gaze drifted toward the city that had just begin to hum in its night colors—soft blue overhead, orange that gleamed through window shops nearby, the slow blush of neon signs… He chewed slowly, totally unhurried, taking sweet time to savor each bite, while Phainon narrated his like a food critic with an overactive amygdala.
“Mmphhh… Mmmmmm~! Thishh one aigh here… Absholute pure umami… maghhic. ‘M not even… mmh—‘xaggeratin’. Ffffai shtars. Even shhix. Full conshtellayshun!”
“You say that about every bite,” Mydei murmured.
“That’s ‘cuz I’m honest,” Phainon swallowed the bite, dramatically offended, and licked sauce off his thumb. “Also, kinda mildly overwhelmed.”
The white-haired man let out a long sigh, leaning back on his hands, elbow brushing slightly over the blonde. The motion was unthinking. Just a careless, casual gesture.
But not to Mydei.
He could feel every degree of that touch like a temperature shift.
The air had cooled. Gently. Like the sky had taken a new breath.
Then—
A distant thump echoed.
“SSSSS… PSHHHHHH!”
The dusky grey sky above their heads suddenly blazed.
Bright. Glittering. Shining.
The first firework exploded high, sparke and golden, radiating open like a flower.
Phainon gasped. A surprised “hah—” with a chest full of awe.
He snapped his head immediately to Mydei, looking at him like a kid about to share the biggest secret in the world.
“You knew there'd have fireworks!?” he asked, eyes reflecting light in scattered fragments.
Mydei blinked once before shrugging, his eyes wandering away. “... Maybe.”
Phainon narrowed his eyes with mock suspicion, scoffing playfully. “You… You romantic, calculating man! You sure have planned this place!”
Mydei’s mouth twitched. “It was on the city’s event board.”
“So I missed a big update, huh. Guess I’ll have to check the board more often.” Phainon chuckled, a smile pressing on his lips.
The sky lit up with another firework burst—this one in silver streaks that cracked like crunchy laughter from far high.
They fell quiet after that, a comfortable moment.
Sitting still, together, on the bench of the sidewalk with the world stretching wide and glowing around them.
Mydei didn’t move. Didn’t dare. He let the tension melt away into the warmth between them while the weight of Phainon’s presence—way too radiant, reckless, and impossibly tender—pressed gently against his side.
He wasn't sure about what to do nor how to act now. His nerves started acting up…
Then all of a sudden, Phainon’s hand drifted down and rested lightly over his.
Not to hold. Not a grab.
But being there. Present. Close.
Mydei didn’t look away from the sky. But his fingers curled—deliberately, slowly, gently—around Phainon’s.
None of them spoke up. Didn’t really have to.
The fireworks were blasting one after another now—spirals, bursts, trailing gold and violet. The firmament echoed softly with each distant crack, and in between the noise, the silence felt full.
Phainon’s hand was still in his.
Warm. Still. Sure.
Everything else faded into the background.
There were only warm fingers of the two lovers and the faint scent of grilled skewers in the air. The world felt suspended, held in the hush between the colors above and the pulse in Mydei’s chest.
It could keep glowing, bursting, burning—and Mydei wouldn’t care less.
But then—
Phainon spoke, voice quieter without the usual playfulness.
“You always follow me.”
Mydei turned, catching off guard. Phainon was still looking up, but his eyes weren’t laughing as freely as before. They were softer. Almost pensive…
And honest in a way that unsettled Mydei more than any teasing ever could.
“I mean… You let me drag you around all day. Let me pick the weird movie. Let me drag you into dumb alleys. I even made a scene at the café, yet you went along with it…” He paused. “You just… followed. Like that.”
Another one. Purple-white .
“I wanted to,” the blonde replied.
Phainon gave a small, broken chuckle. “You always make it sound so easy.”
“It is,” Mydei said, quieter now. “With you.”
That caught Phainon off guard. Mydei could tell—by the slight shift in his expression, by how his hand tensed, just barely, in his.
“You don’t have to say that,” Phainon murmured. “Not just because tonight’s been… whatever this is.”
“I’m saying it because I mean it.”
Silence stretched. Tensed.
Then Mydei turned, just slightly, shoulders angled toward him. “Phainon,” he said, quiet but steady. “You don’t have to try. I don’t want the polished version. I don’t want the act. I want… you. ”
Phainon’s breath hitched—silent, visible only in how his chest rose once and held.
“I wanted to be with you,” Mydei continued, eyes locked on him. “Not the idea of you. Not your brightness or your noise or even your jokes—though I like all of them. But I really simply wanted the person who gave me the name ‘Sunbreaker’ and laughed like it meant something. I wanted the hand that always finds mine. I want this .”
Phainon blinked. His mouth opened just to shut again.
And Mydei was staring, his gaze sharp. But his voice was soft. Steadily unfazed…
As he spoke:
“ I want to be with you .”
The sentence landed between them like a dropped stone—solid, firm, irreversible.
Phainon’s lips parted, barely.
He laughed.
Not loud. But true nonetheless.
Like something fragile… Something cracking open.
Too real for the ears of a lover like Mydei.
And when he looked at him—really looked—there was no mask left. No silhouette of a shiny boy. No shadow of an overacted joy.
This was simply Phainon. A Phainon who had honest eyes and a hopeful heart.
A beautiful mess. Mydei’s beautiful mess…
“I thought I was the one trying to impress you here,” he whispered.
Mydei let a slow breath go. “I was also trying.”
The darkened sky was sparked with yet another bloom. Red and gold this time. With a soft cascade of silver followed.
Phainon leaned forward, head down. His shoulders shook just a little—like his laughter and breath had tangled somewhere.
When he looked up again, his grin was there, but it was different now. Smaller. Truer.
“You mean that?”
“Always.”
“Huh… Seems like we're the same there,” Phainon chuckled, reaching up to rub his face with one sleeve. “Just— ‘M not very good at shutting up or saying things straight—”
“You don’t have to—”
“I feel like I need to,” Phainon shook his head.
A beat.
Then, as if embarrassed by his own sincerity, he added, “And also maybe to win one round of teasing someday… But mostly the first thing…”
Mydei didn’t answer right away. He looked back up at the sky, now glittering with quiet bursts.
He only leaned in, just enough for their shoulders to touch again. Enough for Phainon to feel the weight of it—grounding, anchoring.
Then he turned, one arm draped easily around Phainon's shoulders, pulling the man closer, and glanced sidelong.
Their foreheads touched first. Then their noses. A small gravity pulling them close.
A kiss followed—gentle, brief, like punctuation.
Mydei still didn’t respond.
What was the point of it anyway?
Because this…
Was already his answer.
Overhead, the darkness blossomed again, each burst flaring like stars waking all at once.
And somewhere, in the space between sound and silence, joy and fear, Mydei felt it: that this wasn’t the end of anything. Not even today.
Rather, this was a start.
Of something real.
Of something chosen .
Something that only belonged… to them.
At the riverside overlook…
The night sky stretched soft and the city cobblestones hummed beneath them with every step. The wind smelled like grass and warm concrete and a hint of coming rain. Phainon leaned on the rail he came to rest. Mydei stood silently beside him, one hand near—their pinkies touching now.
A moment passed…
Phainon, in a murmur, almost like a secret:
“I like today.”
And Mydei, after a pause, chuckled:
“… Me too.”