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He hadn’t expected the flat to feel so different already.
The move wasn’t even done. Most of his things were still in boxes at the old place, but walking through the door tonight felt… final. Not like visiting. Like returning.
And there, exactly where he needed him, was Mydei.
Phainon hadn’t meant to stare.
But the moment he stepped inside, there Mydei was, cross-legged on the couch, one hand propping up his cheek, hair still slightly damp from his shower. His black turtleneck hugged every line of his body like a second skin. The gold chain around his neck glinted faintly in the low light.
Glasses slid slightly down his nose as he looked up. “You’re home.”
Phainon swallowed. “Yeah.”
Mydei tilted his head, eyes flicking briefly down Phainon’s form—still in his travel-worn jacket, still flushed from the wind outside. “You’re staring.”
“You look…” He trailed off, then gave up. “Really good.”
Mydei smirked, closing his book with a soft snap. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Phainon shook his head slightly, a breath of a laugh escaping him. He slipped off his jacket, draped it over the arm of the sofa with an absent hand—then crossed the room without thinking.
He reached out, fingers brushing the edge of Mydei’s glasses, gently lifting them off. Mydei didn’t move. Just watched him — quiet, open, knowing.
Phainon set the glasses on the table.
Then, he leaned in.
“Can I touch you?” he asked, voice low.
“You’re already touching me.”
His hand was on Mydei’s jaw now, thumb brushing the edge of his mouth.
“I mean properly.”
A breath passed. Then Mydei whispered, “Yes.”
Their lips met—slow, deliberate, not rushed but full of purpose.
Mydei’s hands curled into Phainon’s shirt, pulling him down into his lap. Phainon let himself be guided, straddling him on the couch, their bodies flush.
Hands smoothing over shoulders. Mouths learning the shape of each other again. Breath shared like a promise.
Phainon kissed down the curve of Mydei’s jaw, then the hollow of his throat, tugging the turtleneck down just enough to expose skin. His lips lingered there just long enough to leave heat behind.
Mydei’s breath hitched. His fingers tangled in white hair.
“You keep kissing like that,” Mydei murmured, voice low, teasing, “and I’m going to forget I’m trying to be good.”
Phainon didn’t answer. He just leaned in, and with a soft push to Mydei’s shoulder, he guided him back against the sofa.
Slow, controlled, but certain.
Mydei let himself be moved, head tilted just slightly as Phainon’s hands slid along his waist, thumbs pressing into the fabric of that black turtleneck like he was starving to touch him through it.
“Stay still,” Phainon whispered, breath brushing against skin as he dipped lower—down Mydei’s jaw, the line of his throat—
And then, right beneath the sharp curve of Mydei’s ear, where the skin was softer, warmer, vulnerable…
He bit.
Not hard, just enough to feel.
Mydei’s back arched. A quiet gasp slipped past his lips, caught somewhere between a breath and a moan.
Phainon didn’t stop. He dragged his tongue lightly over the same spot, then pressed an open-mouthed kiss there—slower, deeper, possessive.
“Mydei,” he breathed against his skin, “you’re trembling.”
“I’m not—” Mydei started, voice cracking, betraying the way his thighs shifted beneath Phainon’s.
Phainon pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, flushed and golden and gorgeous.
“You are,” he said. “And I haven’t even gotten to my favourite part yet.”
He dipped again.
This time behind Mydei’s ear, mouth hot, tongue teasing—then lower, to the base of his neck where hair met skin, where goosebumps followed every breath—
Phainon kissed him there.
And Mydei whined.
Quiet. Completely undone.
Phainon smiled against his skin. “There you are.”
Mydei was breathless now.
His head tipped back against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut as Phainon’s mouth worked along the sensitive skin of his nape — slow, open-mouthed kisses followed by a graze of teeth that left his pulse stuttering.
Phainon didn’t rush.
Didn’t speak.
Just let his hands wander—sliding beneath the hem of that fitted turtleneck, over the bare skin of Mydei’s waist, thumbs stroking the dips of his hips like he was memorising him through touch alone.
“You’re really quiet now,” he whispered against Mydei’s neck.
Mydei huffed, cheeks flushed. “Hard to talk when you’re—”
He cut off with a sharp inhale when Phainon pressed a knee between his thighs.
Their eyes met.
Phainon’s were dark. Steady. “I like when you’re like this.”
He leaned in again, hands braced on either side of Mydei’s body now, completely caging him in. “All that composure,” he murmured, “just for me to ruin.”
He kissed him again, harder this time.
Mydei met him halfway, one hand clutching Phainon’s jacket, the other fisting the back of his shirt as their mouths moved together, sloppy, desperate, perfect.
Phainon rolled his hips once, testing the friction.
Mydei gasped into his mouth. “Phainon—”
“Tell me to stop,” Phainon whispered against his lips. “Or tell me not to.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Mydei’s hand slid up the back of his neck and tugged him down by the collar, voice a low growl in his ear. “Keep going,” he rasped, low and close. “Please.”
Their kiss turned molten. All tongue and teeth and unspoken hunger.
Phainon pushed him deeper into the cushions, pressing him down until their chests touched, the heat between them sharp and unbearable. Mydei arched against him, lips parting for another kiss, chasing contact like he couldn’t get enough.
Neither of them could.
When they finally broke apart, flushed, panting and dazed, Phainon hovered over him, strands of silver hair falling over flushed cheeks.
“You’re—” he started, voice rough. “So beautiful when you come undone.”
Mydei laughed, breathless. “It’s your fault.”
Phainon brushed a thumb along his cheek. “Then I’m never stopping.”
The kisses slowed.
From urgent to lazy.
From desperate to tender.
Phainon barely noticed when Mydei’s hands moved — one slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to rest on the small of his back, the other pushing gently at his shoulder.
He followed the pressure, letting himself collapse forward until he was fully draped over him, face buried in Mydei’s neck.
For a while, they didn’t speak. They just breathed.
Mydei’s fingers idly traced the ridges of Phainon’s spine. He was warm. Still trembling faintly, but no longer from want, just the aftershocks of being touched so carefully. So completely.
“You alright?” Phainon murmured, voice low against his skin.
Mydei hummed. “More than alright.”
Phainon chuckled softly, then let his hands wander again—up under Mydei’s shirt, over his ribs, brushing lazy patterns across his waist like he couldn’t bear to let go.
“I missed this,” he whispered.
Mydei turned his head slightly, lips brushing the shell of Phainon’s ear. “We’ve never had this.”
“Then I missed what it could’ve been.”
A pause.
Then Mydei shifted just enough to lift Phainon’s head. Their eyes met.
“No more missing,” he said.
And pulled Phainon down for the softest kiss yet, slow, open-mouthed, like a promise written in breath and heat.
When they parted, Phainon melted fully onto him again, sighing into his shoulder.
“Stay like this,” Mydei murmured.
“Always.”
Outside, the sky dimmed.
Inside, they stayed tangled on the sofa, the world forgotten.
Hands laced beneath shirts.
Legs knotted together.
Hearts, finally— finally — at rest.
Mydei was up first, as always.
He padded barefoot through the flat, still in a black turtleneck and slacks from the night before, hair tousled and glasses perched low on his nose. The library keys hung from his fingers, swaying gently as he locked the door behind him.
He left a short message on the desk for Krateros to find:
Closed for the weekend.
Finalising P’s move.
See you Monday. Or not.
—M
Because this weekend wasn’t for books.
It was for Phainon.
Phainon was still half-asleep when Mydei returned, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the curtains. The blankets had tangled around one leg. His hair was a mess.
Mydei leaned over him, brushing his lips lightly across his forehead.
“You awake?”
“Mmmh,” Phainon groaned into the pillow. “Depends. Are you real?”
Mydei laughed softly. “Unfortunately for you.”
“Perfect,” Phainon muttered, eyes finally opening. “Told the old man?”
“I did.”
“So… you’re mine for the weekend.”
“You say that like I wasn’t already.”
They closed the library together.
Not just for the day, but for the weekend — shutters drawn, lights off, a hand-written sign taped gently to the door in Mydei’s graceful script: “Closed until Monday. Thank you for understanding.”
Phainon looked at it like it was the final line of a poem. “It feels… official.”
Mydei locked the door and turned to him with a smile that held the weight of quiet promises. “It is.”
Kremnos Library had always been Mydei’s sanctuary — carved out between stone columns and soft-spined books, the scent of old pages woven into the air like memory. He hadn’t let anyone stay the night there before. No one had brushed past the curated exhibits and rare editions and left their coffee mug beside the donation box. Until Phainon.
Now he was locking it not to escape, but to return — because they were coming back. Together.
The train ride to the edge of town was short, a quiet lull of motion. Mydei leaned his head against the window, eyes half-lidded, while Phainon readjusted the duffle bag between his knees for the third time.
“You know,” Phainon said, voice soft so as not to wake the sleeping child across the aisle, “this would go faster if I just sold all my stuff and let you decorate the whole place.”
“Absolutely not,” Mydei murmured without opening his eyes. “You have things worth keeping. I’ve seen your antique hourglasses. And that blue velvet armchair.”
“The armchair stays,” Phainon agreed, feigning solemnity. “It’s where I first imagined kissing you.”
That earned him a glance — just a flick of a smile, and the faintest flush at Mydei’s ears. “Then yes. The chair stays.”
They spent the morning in Phainon’s old apartment, boxing up books, bubble-wrapping glassware, and muttering quiet insults at the cursed screws in the shelf brackets.
Mydei knelt beside a crate of records, holding up a copy of an old album by a recording artist who used to be popular when they were younger. “You still listen to this?”
“Only on rainy nights when I miss you more than I can handle.”
Mydei didn’t answer that. Just set the record aside carefully, tucked it into his own bag, and kept packing.
The antique store had always carried an air of nostalgia — not just in the things it sold, but in the quiet it kept. The kind of quiet that let memories linger in corners, that made the tick of a clock sound like a heartbeat, or the creak of floorboards feel like a whisper from the past.
Phainon had left it in good order, locked the cabinets, and pulled the covers over the furniture. But they came back that evening just to make sure everything was ready — just to see.
Mydei wandered ahead while Phainon flicked the lights on one by one, the golden warmth spreading like honey across brass instruments and faded paintings.
“I’ve always liked it here,” Mydei said softly, trailing his fingers across a shelf of glass bottles. “It feels… familiar.”
Phainon smiled, distracted by the old radio he was tinkering with. “Maybe because you feel at home with me.”
But Mydei had already turned away, stepping behind the counter — a place he hadn’t ventured before. He crouched to peek into the shelf under the register, idly lifting aside a cloth-covered stack of ledgers and—
He froze.
There, tucked in the shadowed hollow of the shelf, was a weathered box. Unmarked. Unlabeled. The kind that wasn’t meant to be found unless someone remembered it existed.
Phainon looked up at the silence.
“Mydei?”
“I found something,” he said quietly. “Should I…?”
Phainon walked over, curious — until he saw what Mydei was holding.
And then everything in him stopped.
It wasn’t the box that made him still. It was the weight of what lay inside.
Scraps of paper. Folded napkins. Torn journal pages. All handwritten — some barely legible — in his own slanted script.
Mydei drew one out gently and read it aloud.
“I don’t remember your name.
But I dream of your voice.
It sounds like spring and the warmth that follows it.”
Phainon looked away, suddenly shy in his own skin. “Those aren’t… I didn’t think you’d—”
“I think I used to know you.”
“I keep dreaming of a library, but I never make it to the door.”
Mydei said nothing at first. Just sat down on the old stool behind the counter and let the words wash over him like waves from another lifetime.
“They’re all about me,” he whispered. “Even when you didn’t remember.”
“I—” Phainon exhaled. “I wrote them before I knew why. Before I even knew who I was waiting for. Just… dreams. Feelings I couldn’t place. But they were always about you .”
Mydei looked up, eyes a little too glassy to hide.
“You remembered,” he said, “even when you didn’t.”
Phainon crossed the space between them and knelt by the stool, hand resting over Mydei’s where it clutched a half-folded poem.
“Take them,” he said. “They’re yours. They were always for you.”
Mydei didn’t answer. Just leaned forward and touched his forehead to Phainon’s, closing his eyes.
Mydei glanced down at the box again, eyes soft.
“When I was writing See You At Sunrise ,” he murmured, “I kept thinking, ‘What if someone out there is waiting for this?’ Not just a reader. Someone who remembers.”
His thumb brushed the worn edge of the notebook.
“Turns out you were writing too.”
Phainon stilled.
Mydei looked at him, a smile blooming — not shy, but bright, a quiet joy that warmed from the inside out. “We were both longing for each other. All that time. Without even knowing.”
And it hit Phainon then, all over again. They had never been out of sync. Even across dreams and distances and lifetimes, they had been reaching.
In the quiet of that old shop, surrounded by forgotten clocks and longing-laced poems, they breathed as one. And for the first time in years — in lifetimes — the ache began to ease.
“Will you read them for me? When we’re home later.”
Phainon didn’t expect the words. They fell quiet between them, softer than breath.
Not your place . Not my place . Home.
Phainon’s lips parted slightly, as if to respond — but no sound came at first. Just that stunned, aching joy. Like a held breath finally exhaled.
The box of poems sat between them, full of years he’d spent chasing ghosts in his sleep. But this — this moment — it was real.
And he was real.
Mydei looked down, suddenly unsure. “I mean— only if you want to—”
“Yes.” Phainon’s voice cracked a little. He didn’t try to fix it. “Titans, yes. I’ll read every single one.”
He reached out, curling his fingers gently around Mydei’s.
“I didn’t know I was writing for you back then. But I do now. And I want you to hear them the way they were meant to be heard.”
A pause.
“And... I like the way you said that.”
Mydei tilted his head, confused. “Said what?”
Phainon smiled. Radiant. Disbelieving.
“Home.”
Mydei blinked, then laughed softly, a little embarrassed. “Well. It is.”
With a quiet laugh, Phainon pressed a kiss to Mydei’s cheek before they resumed the quiet rhythm of packing and sealing. By the time the last box was sealed, the sky was blushing into the afternoon. They sat on the floor in the empty living room, back against the wall, knees touching.
Phainon exhaled. “That’s it.”
“That’s everything?”
“Everything I’m bringing,” Phainon said. “The rest I’ll let go.”
Mydei nodded, then leaned into him, resting his head on Phainon’s shoulder. “Let's go home, then.”
“Yeah, let's.”
Their new flat was smaller than the library and older than the antique store, but it had windows that caught the afternoon light just right. It had creaky floors and room for both of them to exist. It was near enough that Mydei could walk to the shop with a thermos of tea, and Phainon could duck into the library just to brush his hand over Mydei’s and pretend it was by accident.
They could have lived elsewhere. Mydei’s family estate had more than enough space, sprawling halls, manicured gardens, rooms that echoed when no one was speaking. But that wasn’t what they wanted.
Not grandeur. Not silence.
Just a space that was theirs. A home built not from marble, but from shared mornings and mismatched mugs and quiet touches in passing.
Later that night, with the kettle whistling faintly in the background, Phainon sat cross-legged on the floor, Mydei beside him with his head resting on Phainon’s shoulder.
He opened the first page of his old notebook, hand trembling ever so slightly.
“ I dream of a boy, a prince without a crown and eyes that hurt to look away from… ”
And Mydei closed his eyes, letting the sound of Phainon’s voice carry him not into dreams, but into memory. Of a time when they never got to say what they wanted to say out loud.
When love stayed behind clenched teeth, and the end came too soon.
But not this time.
Not this life.
CODA :
Tucked near the bottom of the stack was a folded sheet, thicker than the rest.
Mydei opened it and promptly choked on a laugh.
It was a sketch. Or something that wished to be one.
A vaguely humanoid figure with comically large glasses, lopsided hair, and an aura of dramatic melancholy. Above it, in cursive too elaborate to be sincere, Phainon had scribbled: “I think this is what he looked like. I miss him anyway.”
“Titans above,” Mydei wheezed, holding it up. “Was this meant to be me?”
Phainon immediately covered his face with a groan. “It was three a.m. and I was grieving the vague outline of your soul.”
“No offence, but you have the pen of a poet and the hand of a six-year-old.”
Phainon peeked through his fingers. “Be honest— do you see the resemblance?”
Mydei tilted the sketch side to side, solemnly studying the wonky art. “Only in the emotional damage.”
And still— he folded it carefully, sliding it into the inner pocket of his coat like it was something precious.
Because it was .
Bad drawing and all.