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It started with a voice. Sharp-edged, echoing off the noticeboard like it belonged there. Mydei hadn’t meant to stop. He had tea in hand, errands to run, a shelf in the library to reorganise.
Just another afternoon. Quiet. Predictable. His kind of peace.
But then someone said Phainon’s name.
And laughed.
Laughed like it was funny. Like he was funny. Like the name Phainon — all that brilliance, all that sweat-earned pride — was something small enough to be played with.
“I swear, the only reason that guy even got into the finals was because the debate judge has a thing for pretty boys. You’ve seen him, right? All hair flips and doe eyes—”
“Must be nice, having professors wrapped around your finger,” another chimed in. “Probably flashes that smile and suddenly it’s straight As.”
“He’s got the whole ‘tragic prodigy’ act down. Probably cries in front of the admin office for extra credit.”
Mydei stood still. Very still. Something in him tensed. Tightened like a thread pulled too far. His fingers curled tighter around the cup. His breath, shallowed. He turned around.
Three of them. Business faculty boys — crisp shirts, fake laughs, egos too large to fit their GPAs. One of them leaned against the vending machine like he owned it. The other two hadn’t noticed him yet. Not until he walked up.
Quiet.
Purposeful.
“Say that again,” Mydei said, calmly.
They blinked. One scoffed. “Sorry, did the debate prince send his boyfriend to defend him?”
Mydei smiled. It was not kind. “I said,” he repeated, stepping closer, “say that again.”
The one with the smug face and crooked collar pushed off the vending machine. “Look, if you’re that sensitive about your little boyfriend—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Mydei’s fist did that for him, in the face.
The sound was dull, like a dropped book. The boy stumbled back with a yelp, hand flying to his nose. Blood burst through his fingers.
“You crazy—!”
The second one lunged, fists up like he thought this was a movie but Mydei was faster. Years of karate honed into clean, brutal instinct — a block, a twist, a step off-centre, and a hit straight to the gut. The boy crumpled, breath knocked clean out of him.
The third hesitated. Smart. But not smart enough.
“You think this is funny?” Mydei snapped, voice rising for the first time. “Tearing someone down just because he worked harder than you ever will?”
He moved like a storm wind — not wild, but precise. The third boy tried to swing, but Mydei ducked and landed a clean uppercut. The boy went sprawling across the pavement.
People were watching now. Phones half-raised. Mouths open. No one intervened. Not even the campus guards, who recognised Mydei from library duty, from student councils, from the honour roll.
And this — this wasn’t like him .
But nobody said he was wrong.
“Next time you say his name,” Mydei said, panting slightly, one hand split at the knuckle, “you say it with respect.”
He turned on his heel and walked away.
No apology. No shame.
Just the soft sound of his shoes against the pavement, and the sudden, terrible silence where all that mockery used to be.
The courtyard was quiet now.
But Mydei’s pulse still roared in his ears.
He didn’t look back.
[ 🚨 BREAKING NEWS: LIBRARY PRINCE GOES FERAL”]
A full-on fist fight broke out outside the Student Commons today at approximately 3:42PM involving one (1) usually mild-mannered, cardigan-wearing, cat-loving student librarian.
Witnesses confirm that Mydeimos of the Library™ launched a flawless punch directly into the face of a third-year finance major after overhearing a group talking trash about another student.
Two students are bruised, one has a very broken nose.
“He moved like a martial arts anime character,” said one anonymous source.
“Twelve out of ten punch form,” said another.
More updates as this unexpectedly romantic brawl unfolds.
[Group Chat]
Cipher:
[📹 attached video file: mydei_mortalkombat.mov ]
CAPTION: bro didn’t even blink 😭😭😭Tribbie: OH MY GOD
OH MY GODDDDDDDD
THAT GUY FELL LIKE A DOMINO PIECEAnaxa: wait pause
was that the smug one from our finance class??
bc if yes then i say: deserved. In capital D.Hyacine: the way i just inhaled my noodle!!!
also little ica is hissing supportively at the screen rnCastorice: I am not emotionally prepared for how HOT that was
Cipher: Phainon have you seen this
[Private DM: Cipher > Phainon]
Cipher: check your messages bro
also ur bf is a menace
and i love him so much omg📹video1.mov
📹video2.mov
📹video3.mov[pinned: 47-second video of Mydei blocking a punch and decking the guy mid-air with perfect form.]
Phainon watched the videos once.
Then again.
Then again.
And then just… sat there. Head in his hands. Blushing so hard it looked like he’d been slapped.
Because there Mydei was — expression sharp, movements deadly, voice trembling with fury for his sake. For him .
He hadn’t known anyone could look that beautiful throwing a punch.
He hadn’t known someone would ever fight for him like that.
And Titans, he had it bad.
Phainon: …how much for the full video
Cipher: free of charge.
i ship it too hard to capitalise.
After the shock wore off — somewhere between the second rewatch and realising oh god, that's blood — the panic set in.
[Private DM: Phainon > Mydei]
Phainon: you okay?
you didn’t even block the second guy??
mydei. seriously. where are you.
love?
No reply.
He tried calling next. Straight to voicemail. Then tried asking Castorice, Tribbie, even Anaxa, but no one had seen him since the fight.
His heart started doing strange things — clenching, twisting, whispering worst-case scenarios in the corners of his chest.
And then he found him, looking like a war had ended — and maybe it had.
The bruises were still fresh when Phainon found Mydei outside the library — hand wrapped in a cold compress, one knuckle still bleeding through the gauze, hair mussed like someone had grabbed it mid-swing.
He sat on the stone steps like nothing had happened. Like the weight in his chest hadn’t just detonated in a storm of fists and fury.
Phainon didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, eyes trailing the bruises, the dust, the blood still blooming softly beneath the gauze. His phone was still in his pocket — screen paused mid-video, comments exploding like wildfire. He just stood there, watching the boy he loved. The one who never raised his voice unless it was in defence of a student or a cat or a dog.
And now, apparently, him.
“Three of them,” he said quietly. Not a question — just awe. “You floored three of them.” The words felt too small for the sight of it — the glint of dried blood on Mydei’s sleeve, the gravel dust on his knees, the wild heat still simmering behind his dark eyes.
Mydei didn’t look away from the horizon. “Only two hit back.”
That shouldn’t have made Phainon smile. But it did — just a little. Enough to make the world tilt back into place. Mydei didn’t look at him. He just continued staring out across the courtyard, where the sun was beginning to lower, drawing long, trembling shadows from the lampposts. A hush settled. Then—
“They said you only got your scholarship because you flirted with the dean,” he murmured, voice too calm for what followed. “Said you were nothing but a pretty face with a silver tongue. Said someone like you couldn’t have earned it. That all your trophies were bought, not won. That you were—”
He stopped. Jaw tight. Fists tighter.
Phainon didn’t need to hear the rest.
“They don’t know you,” Mydei said after a moment. “They don’t know how hard you work. How much you’ve bled for everything you’ve earned. They don’t know the nights you don’t sleep because your brain won't stop running circles, or how you read entire law books just to argue for fun.”
“You’ve heard me argue for fun?”
“Unfortunately.”
That got a huff of a laugh — quick and surprised. But it faded almost immediately.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I did,” Mydei cut in, sharp. He finally turned to look at him — eyes dark, fierce, and trembling. “I know you’d do it for me.”
Phainon opened his mouth — to argue, to comfort, to pour gratitude into the space between them — but Mydei stood first. Stepped close. Their shadows merged.
“They made you look small,” Mydei whispered. “Like your name was a joke. Like you were something they could laugh at and walk away from.”
A pause.
“I just wanted to remind them that they couldn’t.”
Silence hung between them, caught on the edge of something bright and breaking.
And then Phainon kissed him. Gently, but not quietly. Not like a whisper. Like a promise.
When they parted, Mydei finally exhaled. And Phainon whispered, lips still barely touching his, “You really got into a whole fistfight... for me??”
“…Yes.”
“Punched them hard?”
“My hand is still bleeding, isn’t it?”
“Hot.”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
“Too late.”
They laughed — one bruised, one breathless — and the echo of it lingered in the courtyard, trembling like a ripple across still water.
On the walk home, no one stopped them. But people looked. Eyes flicked up from phones, conversations dimmed to murmurs. Familiar faces from lecture halls and cafés averted their gazes just a little too late.
“…is that Mydei and—?”
“I heard it was three guys.”
“He really threw—”
The whispers weren’t cruel. Just quiet. Just curious. Just… watching . They were known here — Phainon and Mydei — the golden couple everyone pretended not to envy. And now they were something else, too.
A boy with blood on his knuckles, and the boy who held his hand like it was the only thing still steady.
Mydei didn’t say a word. Phainon didn’t let go of his hand.
The murmurs trailed behind them like smoke.
By the time they reached the steps of their shared apartment, the adrenaline had begun to fade.
The door clicked shut behind them. Silence bloomed soft and golden between the shelves of books and the low hum of the lamp. Still, Mydei didn’t let go of his sleeve. He stood near the doorway, hands clenched in the hem of his sleeve like he could hide the scraped knuckles with enough fabric. His fringe fell into his eyes, and he didn’t brush it away.
He didn’t meet Phainon’s eyes.
“…I shouldn’t have done that,” he said at last. Voice low. A tremble tucked beneath every syllable. “I know it’s not… how you’d want things handled. And I know it might’ve made it look like you couldn’t stand up for yourself.”
Phainon blinked. “Mydei—”
“I wasn’t thinking,” he pushed on, eyes still fixed somewhere near Phainon’s shoes. “I just heard what they said and something in me snapped. I didn’t plan to hit anyone. I just moved. Like my body decided for me.”
He let out a shaky breath. “You’re the calm one. The composed one. And then there’s me. Throwing punches like I’m trying to win a street brawl in a drama club production.”
He laughed, hollow. Then, he finally looked up.
“I didn’t want people to think you were weak. Or that you needed someone to fight your battles.”
“But I do,” Phainon said, almost instantly. He took a step closer. “Sometimes. Everyone does.”
Mydei looked startled. Unsure. Like he didn’t quite believe it.
Phainon reached out, gently taking Mydei’s bruised hand in his own. His thumb brushed over the angry red split on his knuckle like he could smooth the pain away.
“You didn’t make me look weak,” he said quietly. “You made me feel loved.”
And god, wasn’t that the truth ?
All his life, Phainon had fought for himself — with words, with wit, with walls too tall for most to climb. But today, someone had fought for him. Not because he asked. Not because he needed it.
But because Mydei couldn’t bear the sound of his name being dragged through the dirt.
Mydei’s eyes flickered. “You’re not angry?”
“I’m in love,” Phainon replied. “I’d be more upset if you weren’t furious on my behalf.”
A long breath passed between them. Then another.
“You didn’t punch those guys because you thought I couldn’t,” Phainon whispered. “You did it because you wouldn’t let it pass. Because something in you refused to let them soil something you care about.”
“I—”
He stepped in closer. Close enough to see the confusion in Mydei’s eyes melt into something soft. Hopeful.
“You don’t have to apologise for loving me like that.”
Mydei’s breath caught. His eyes flickered, wide and stunned — like Phainon had just said something he didn’t know he needed to hear.
But he had.
“I still shouldn’t have scared the underclassmen,” he muttered.
“I think they’re in awe of you now.”
“That’s worse.”
Phainon smiled and stepped even closer, closing the space between them. He reached up to cradle Mydei’s face.
“Next time,” he said, lips just brushing his cheek, “let me at least be there and throw one punch too. Then we can win the brawl together.”
That got a laugh — real, this time.
“I don’t want you expelled,” Mydei said, softly.
“And yet you nearly were.”
“…Worth it.”
Phainon kissed him before he could say anything else. Slow and grateful. Like pressing a thank you into his mouth. Like forgiveness. Like everything he couldn’t find words for.
And Mydei melted. Into him. Into the moment. Into the knowledge that even when he lost control — even when he snapped for the first time in years — Phainon had not looked at him like he was a monster.
Only like he was his .
//////////////////////////////////
Three Days Later – Amphoreus University Disciplinary Hearing Room
There were three other students sitting stiffly in the meeting room, each with varying degrees of bruises, Band-Aids, and false bravado. Their parents sat behind them — tailored suits, polished shoes, eyes that screamed don’t mess this up, I paid your tuition in advance .
And across the table?
Mydei.
Calm. Composed. Clean shirt, pale knuckles still healing.
Beside him sat a woman in a crisp charcoal pantsuit, hair pinned into a coil that could slice egos in half, with a stare that had once made CEOs and senators forget how to breathe.
Lady Gorgo.
Owner of the Kremnos Corporation, which held stakes in everything from space-tech to luxury finance. A name that could shift markets. A mother whose silence held more weight than a courtroom gavel.
She did not speak at first.
She didn’t need to.
The dean cleared his throat. “Given the nature of the altercation and the number of witnesses involved, we’ve reviewed the footage, statements, and past conduct of all students. After deliberation, the board has decided to issue formal warnings to all involved.”
He paused, watching the room carefully. Mydei said nothing. One of the boys let out a low breath, like he thought that was the end of it.
“It must be stressed,” the dean continued, “that physical violence cannot be condoned under any circumstances. Therefore, Mr Mydeimos, while your academic record is exemplary, you will also receive a temporary suspension from extracurricular roles and complete one week of community service, along with the others.”
Mydei inclined his head. “Understood.”
But then one of the boys — the one with the still-bruised jaw and more mouth than sense — leaned forward.
“I still don’t see why he’s getting the same treatment. He attacked us.”
Silence fell sharp.
Gorgo looked up.
“You’ll want to rethink the word ‘attacked,’” she said, voice soft as silk and twice as dangerous. “Given that the video clearly shows the three of you instigating with a series of vile remarks directed at my son’s partner. Slurs, derogatory insinuations, and verbal harassment.”
Her eyes flicked toward the boy — once, and only once — and he visibly paled. She folded her hands. “If we’d like to talk about harm done, I have no issue presenting this footage to the relevant administrative boards. Or perhaps to your future employers? Some of you applied for internships with firms under my corporation, didn’t you?”
A beat. Nobody moved.
The boy paled.
So did his parents.
“I can assure you,” she said, folding her hands neatly in front of her, “we take conduct and character very seriously.”
“My son,” she added after a pause, looking at the parents, “acted emotionally. He knows that, and he will accept the consequences with dignity. But make no mistake — he did not start this. He simply ended what your children lacked the backbone to admit they began.”
The boy’s mother opened her mouth — something halfway between a protest and a plea — but no sound came out.
Gorgo turned her gaze toward her, not unkindly, but with the quiet authority of someone who had never once needed to raise her voice to be heard.
“I’m not here as a businesswoman today,” she said calmly. “I’m here as a mother. But as you can imagine, the boundaries between the two can blur.”
The air in the room seemed to shift — not with menace, but with recognition. There was no need to name the company she led, no need to recite its holdings or influence. Everyone already knew. The silence that followed wasn’t fear. It was awareness.
The dean cleared their throat, attempting to steer the room gently back to protocol. “Lady Gorgo, with all due respect—”
She offered a small, measured smile. “No need to tread carefully. I’m not here to throw around influence — only to ensure that fairness is upheld.”
She turned slightly, her gaze drifting toward the row of parents seated across from her.
“I trust we all understand how far a name can carry. And how far it echoes, in the right circles.”
It wasn’t a threat.
It was simply the truth.
And no one argued.
Anonymous Post:
WHEW LADY GORGO DRAGGED THEM THROUGH FILTH AND LEFT THEM THERE
Three finance bros found dead in the metaphorical job market. Kremnos Corporation hiring team has apparently blacklisted them before they even graduated.
Side note: Mydei looked hot during the hearing. And terrifying. But hot.
The hearing was over. The polite formalities had faded, and the weight of a too-bright room filled with consequences had been replaced by soft breeze and birdsong.
They stood outside on the garden balcony of the Kremnos estate, where the old cypress trees cast gentle shadows across the stone railings. Mydei leaned against the edge, sleeves rolled up, the thin bandage on his knuckle catching the golden light.
He hadn’t gone back to the apartment.
Not because he didn’t want to — but because she had called.
Two nights ago, right after the first campus report circulated, Gorgo had summoned him home with a tone that allowed no room for protest. “I think you should rest somewhere quiet. And let your mother see you with her own eyes.”
So here he was. Home. Rested, yes. But not exactly at peace.
Gorgo stood beside him, quiet for a while. She didn’t ask how he felt.
She knew.
Eventually, it was Mydei who broke the silence.
“I wasn’t proud of myself,” he said, voice low. “Not at that moment.”
His mother tilted her head slightly. “Because you lost your temper?”
“Because I became someone he wouldn’t have recognised.”
There was no need to say who.
Gorgo’s gaze didn’t waver. “Your father had his flaws,” she said, evenly. “But don’t mistake restraint for virtue, Mydeimos. He kept his voice level even when his spine bent under the weight of it all. It doesn’t mean he was right to do so.”
Mydei’s jaw tightened.
“I didn’t throw that punch because I thought I was better,” he murmured. “I threw it because I couldn’t stand to hear them speak about Phainon like that. Like he was small.”
“You defended someone you love,” Gorgo said simply. “That isn’t weakness.”
He looked down at his hands. “I thought you’d be disappointed.”
She was silent for a moment, but then she held her hand out to tuck his hair behind his ear. “Darling, I’ve been many things in my life. A CEO. A widow. A strategist. But I have never — not once — been disappointed in the boy who still keeps his heart soft despite the world’s best attempts to harden it.”
That made something in Mydei’s throat tighten.
Gorgo stepped closer, reaching to smooth back a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes — a mother’s gesture, unchanged since childhood.
“If anything,” she added gently, “your father would have admired that fire. He had it too, once, before diplomacy dulled the edges.”
Mydei didn’t answer.
Not in words, anyway.
He leaned his head, just slightly, against her shoulder. Not for long. Just enough.
She rested her hand on the back of his neck — light, grounding.
They stood like that until the wind shifted, carrying the scent of the lemon trees from the lower gardens.
“You’re still grounded, by the way,” she added mildly.
Mydei laughed. “Figured.”
“And I sent Phainon a care package.”
He groaned into her shoulder. “Of course you did.”
The knock at the door was too polite to be Cipher, and too early to be Mydei — not that Phainon expected him.
He already knew Mydei wouldn’t be coming home for a few more days. Gorgo had insisted on it, citing rest and “a change of air, darling” — and when Gorgo insisted, even Mydei knew better than to argue.
Still, Phainon had caught himself listening for the familiar sound of Mydei’s key more than once. Just in case.
He opened the door to find a courier standing there, expression professional, holding a sleek black box tied with gold ribbon and the faintest scent of cedar. There was no return address — only the embossed seal of Kremnos Corporation and a small white card tucked beneath the bow.
Delivery for: Mister Phainon
(Note: Handle with care. Contains several varieties of emotional damage healing.)
He stared at it for a second.
Then another.
“…Oh Titans,” Phainon muttered.
He brought it inside with reverent hands. Set it on the table. Took a breath. Then opened it. Inside was a neatly packed assortment of items, each wrapped with crisp precision, each item screaming “chosen with terrifying specificity.”
- A navy wool scarf, fine and soft, with tiny embroidery at the corner that read "Steady flame."
- A tailored blazer in deep navy with gold-thread embroidery. Just Phainon’s size.
- A tin of herbal tea, labelled “for restless minds and tender nights” in looping Kremnos script.
- A slim volume: Selected Legal Discourse and Ethics: First Edition, Kremnos Archive Series.
- A packet of soothing salve. For bruised knuckles that weren’t yours.
- And finally, a handwritten card.
Not printed. Not typed.
Handwritten. In Gorgo’s elegant, poised hand.
Dear Phainon,
Mydei is still pretending he returned home of his own volition. I let him have the illusion.
I imagine this week has been difficult for you as well. I hope these small items provide some measure of comfort, or at least distraction.
The tea is made from Kremnos hillside lavender and is best steeped during sunset. The scarf matches your usual coat. The book belonged to his father. I thought you might appreciate it.
Take care of yourself not just for his sake, but for your own. If ever you need support - financial, legal, or emotional - know that our door is open.
Warmest regards,
Gorgo
Phainon read the letter five times.
Then again.
Then he sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling like he’d just been hit with a meteor made of affection and fine tailoring.
“…She gave me his father’s book,” he whispered to no one, stunned.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry, scream, or frame the note in gold and hang it next to his trophies.
[Voice Message to Mydei]
“Okay. Okay. I just opened the box. You— she— Mydei.”
“She sent me stuff... She sent me a literal first edition legal text. I— what do I even say?”
[long pause]
“…I think your mum likes me.”
“Mydei. Your mum likes me. I’m so happy.”
[another pause]
“I think I’m going to cry. Do you think I can call her Mum yet?”
The invitation arrived on thick cream paper, sealed in wax and delivered by someone who definitely was not working part-time for a courier service.
Cipher screamed when she saw the handwriting and attempted to swallow the envelope whole, muttering something about 'accidental possession of a historical artefact and claiming no mortal hands should hold correspondence from the Lady Gorgo.
Phainon opened it.
Dearest Phainon,
I hope you’ve been sleeping well. Mydei returns home tomorrow, but I would be delighted if you joined us for brunch at the estate the following morning.
I imagine you’re not used to being doted on. Consider this part of your adjustment.
Yours warmly,
Gorgo
(P.S. Dress code is relaxed. That lovely navy blazer will do. Don’t tell our boy.)
He read it twice.
Then out loud, in disbelief.
“Did I just get summoned for tea by a woman who owns more ships than our university library owns books?”
“You’re meeting your mother-in-law,” Cipher whispered like a prophecy. “You’re gonna die.”
The morning started too early for Phainon.
He was up before the sun, already staring into his wardrobe like it might offer answers. The blazer Gorgo had gifted him hung from the door — quiet, dignified, navy — like it was judging him.
Mydei wasn’t there.
Still at the Kremnos estate, recovering under the gentle tyranny of herbal tea, gourmet cuisine and Mother Knows Best ™ energy. He was supposed to come home in the afternoon. Phainon had even whispered a soft “good night” into the empty half of their bed the night before and rolled into the warm dent Mydei had left behind.
But now the morning had arrived.
And so had his friends.
“Emergency fashion squad has entered the chat,” Cipher declared as she barged in without knocking, balancing an iced coffee in one hand and a box of accessories in the other.
Aglaea followed, carrying an ironing board. “You’re not going to embarrass yourself in front of your maybe-mother-in-law on my watch.”
Hyacine waltzed in behind her. “Have you moisturised?”
“I didn’t sleep,” Phainon said flatly.
“Even worse,” Castorice muttered, already inspecting fabric for lint.
They got to work.
Shirts were vetoed. Hair was pinned. Scarves were debated. All to fit the navy blazer that Aglaea confirmed to be worth at least four months of their rent combined. Cipher unbuttoned two buttons, Tribbie rebuttoned one, and Hyacine added a lapel pin for “silent flair.”
“I feel like a doll,” Phainon muttered.
“You look like a threat,” Cipher corrected. “Mydei’s going to need a minute to reboot when he sees you.”
By the time the whirlwind of zippers and buttons and combs passed, the apartment had fallen quiet again. The fashion squad had declared their work complete and left in dramatic fanfare — Castorice calling it “a gift to aesthetics” and Tribbie yelling “don’t slouch in the car or I’ll haunt you.”
Now, nearly an hour later, Phainon stood in the hallway mirror, blinking at his reflection.
He looked like someone else — or maybe like a version of himself that had been waiting quietly to be let out. Back straight. Cuffs neat. Hair neat. The navy blazer sat on him like it had always belonged there. The group sent a picture to Anaxa, and he had declared the look to perfectly embody “academic yearning” with devastating accuracy.
He smoothed a crease near his sleeve. Then stood still.
Waiting.
The Kremnos estate was quiet in the way only large, old houses could be — a hush threaded with the ticking of distant clocks and the faint rustle of wind moving through high trees. Every footstep was softened by velvet and space. Every breath felt like it echoed.
He didn’t hear the door open.
Or the familiar footsteps padding across the marble.
But he felt it — the subtle shift in the air, the static charge of being seen.
“Phai—?”
Phainon turned.
And Mydei froze.
He stood barefoot in the doorway, sweater sleeves falling past his wrists, hair still damp from a too-quick rinse. His eyes were slightly puffy from sleep or too much lemon tea, and he looked halfway between a university student and a reluctant heir on house arrest.
Phainon, by contrast, looked like he’d walked out of a portrait . Blazer fitted to every quiet line of his body, cuffs neatly rolled. Everything about him felt deliberate .
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then Mydei blinked. Slowly. Like he wasn’t quite convinced this was real.
“You— how— why are you here? ” he asked, his voice doing a little stumble as it left his throat.
Phainon offered a tentative smile. “Your mother invited me.”
Mydei blinked. “To brunch?”
“Yes.”
“ Here? ”
“Yes.”
A stare. “Like. Now? ”
“…Yes.”
“You’re early.”
“You’re barefoot.”
Mydei looked down at himself in horror. “You look like an heirloom oil painting, and I look like a half-baked scone.”
Phainon’s lips quirked. “You look warm.”
“That is not the point.”
Mydei stepped forward, eyes trailing down the line of Phainon’s blazer. “Who did this to you?”
“The girls,” Phainon said. “They ambushed me. Got me dressed like I was meeting a diplomatic envoy.”
“Seriously?”
“They were afraid I’d offend your mum with my usual look.”
“Now I feel emotionally betrayed. No one gave me a heads-up.”
Phainon blinked, then leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Mydei’s cheek, warm, apologetic, a little too effective..
“I’m sorry?” he said, just a little sheepishly, lips still hovering near his skin.
Mydei tried very hard not to short-circuit. He failed. Spectacularly.
“You shouldn’t be,” Mydei muttered, gaze dipping to the collarbone just barely framed by the open collar. “You look unfairly good. And I bet my mother told you not to warn me.”
Phainon smiled, just a little, and stepped in closer. “Would it be a problem if she did?”
“It’s rude,” Mydei said flatly. “She’s going to see you looking like that and start drafting monograms.”
“I think she already has.”
“She’s going to adopt you.”
Phainon smiled softly. Before Mydei could say another word, he leaned in again — this time pressing a kiss to Mydei’s forehead. Gentle. Certain.
Mydei was still stunned, blinking up at him, when a voice echoed from down the hall:
“Lady Gorgo is ready to receive guests.”
They both jumped slightly.
Phainon cleared his throat.
Mydei swore softly and shoved his hands into his sleeves like they might protect him from this emotional exposure.
“…You’re lucky you’re hot,” he mumbled.
“Only for you,” Phainon whispered back.
And then they walked, side by side, toward brunch — hearts pounding, cheeks warm, and completely unaware that Gorgo had been standing just out of sight for exactly three minutes.
The table was long. Too long. Decorated with hand-plated gold cutlery, freshly bloomed wisteria, and a blood orange compote that probably cost more than Phainon’s entire rent.
He sat straight-backed and polite, still wearing the blazer Gorgo had sent him and trying not to tremble every time a servant refilled his tea.
Mydei sat beside him, hair finally dry, shirt slightly rumpled, and steadily shrinking into his chair like he might disappear between the cushions if he concentrated hard enough.
Gorgo? She was glowing.
“Well,” she said lightly, not even bothering to hide her amusement, “ that was a charming entrance.”
Phainon flushed. Mydei audibly groaned.
“You saw that,” he muttered.
“Of course I did,” she replied, slicing into a perfect croissant. “This house has excellent sightlines. And better acoustics than the Conservatory of Music.”
Phainon looked like he wanted to melt into the linen.
“I’m so pleased you came, Phainon,” she added warmly, smoothing her napkin over her lap. “You’ve got an excellent posture. And better manners than half the ministers I’ve had to entertain.”
“Thank you, Lady Gorgo,” Phainon said, trying not to sound breathless. “It’s an honour.”
“Don’t be silly.” She reached for the teapot. “You’re practically family already.”
Mydei choked on his drink.
“You’re fine, darling,” Gorgo continued, utterly serene. “If anything, it confirmed I made the correct choice sending that blazer.”
“You sent it?” Mydei muttered, scandalised.
“Of course I did. He needed something that said charming but responsible, not burnt-out but trying.”
“I like his usual hoodies—”
“You’re in love, dear, not blind.”
Phainon covered his mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.
Gorgo continued pouring tea like she hadn’t just committed emotional arson. “I simply want what’s best for my son. And, evidently, what’s best for him just walked in like a tailored daydream and caused him to malfunction in the foyer.”
Mydei let out a noise so strangled it might’ve been a plea for divine mercy.
“You know,” she added, tilting her head with amusement, “he used to write your name in the margins of his notebooks.”
“Mum.”
“I believe there was even a doodle of your hair once.”
“MUM.”
She sipped her tea, the picture of composure. “I still have the notebook.”
Phainon looked like someone had just been handed the stars in a velvet box.
And Mydei looked like he was about five seconds from crawling under the table and reconsidering all of his life choices.
The sun had shifted by the time brunch ended, slanting gold through the tall windows of the estate’s main hall.
Mydei had vanished upstairs to pack what little he’d brought for his “rest and reflection,” mumbling something about “reclaiming emotional control over his own wardrobe.”
Phainon waited by the front doors, hands loosely clasped behind his back, trying not to stare at the oil painting of Lady Gorgo that hung above the fireplace.
“You can relax, you know,” came a voice beside him.
He turned. Gorgo stood there, still composed in every inch of her posture, though her expression had softened now — the razor-wit tucked away, replaced by something quieter. Something real.
“You’ve made a good impression,” she said, folding her arms as she looked at him. “Though frankly, you didn’t need to try so hard.”
“I wasn’t sure what you’d expect.”
“I expected someone who loved my son. You exceeded that.”
Phainon looked down for a moment. “He means everything to me.”
“I know.”
She stepped forward and adjusted the lapel of his blazer, fingertips careful, almost fond.
“I saw it,” she added. “Not just in how you looked at him, but how you carried yourself. Even when you were nervous. Even when I was trying to scare you a little.”
Phainon huffed softly. “You succeeded.”
Gorgo smiled. “Good. You passed.”
He laughed, quiet and warm.
Then she glanced up toward the stairs. “He takes longer to pack than he does to fall in love. Be patient with him.”
“I always am.”
She nodded once, then stepped back. “Take care of him. And let him take care of you.”
“I will.”
A pause.
Then, more quietly: “Thank you. For everything.”
Gorgo only inclined her head and smiled.
The car purred softly in the driveway, waiting at the bottom of the wide stone steps.
Phainon stood beside it with Gorgo, hands loosely clasped in front of him, his blazer now slightly rumpled from brunch but still dignified. They both looked up toward the grand open doorway of the estate — tall, arched, sunlight spilling through it like an invitation.
Mydei stepped out a moment later, duffel over one shoulder, his expression a mix of apology and fond exasperation.
“Sorry,” he said as he descended the steps. “Didn’t mean to keep you both waiting.”
Gorgo gave a soft, knowing hum. “We assumed you were building anticipation.”
“I was folding socks,” he muttered.
When he reached them, she didn’t hesitate — simply leaned in and kissed his cheek with quiet precision. Then she turned to Phainon and did the same, one hand resting briefly on his shoulder like she’d placed something unspoken there.
“My boys,” she said, softly. “Don’t be strangers.”
“We’ll visit soon,” Mydei murmured, a little embarrassed, a little moved.
“Text me when you get home,” she added, brushing imaginary dust from his collar.
“I will.”
They stepped into the car together — Mydei first, then Phainon. The door shut with a clean click, sealing in the hush between them.
Through the window, they watched her one last time — standing tall at the top of the steps, framed perfectly in the open doorway, the afternoon light behind her like a crown.
She didn’t wave.
She lifted her hand just once — like a blessing, or a command — and that was enough.
The car began to pull away.
And the estate, with all its quiet elegance and sharp affection, receded behind them like the end of a well-kept chapter.
~FIN~
BONUS:
The campus didn’t talk about The Incident™. Not immediately.
But one morning, not long after Mydei’s suspension was lifted, something shifted.
It started in the hallway outside the library, where a girl with a Physics textbook and nervous eyes glanced at Mydei, hesitated, then quietly said:
“Thank you.”
He blinked. “Sorry?”
“You don’t know me,” she said quickly, “but… two of those boys used to mess with my friend. Whisper things. Trap her seat with chewing gum. Stupid things. Petty. But it hurt.”
Mydei didn’t know what to say.
So she just smiled. Soft and unsure. “They had it coming. We just… couldn’t say it out loud.”
And she left.
Later, a boy in the student lounge walked past and gave him a solemn nod. Mydei, bro” he said, grinning faintly. “Nice left hook.”
Another left a sticky note on the campus bulletin board.
"About time someone did it. Thank you, Mydei."
The next day, he received a note, folded twice, slipped through the crack in the library return chute. No name. Just one sentence: “Thank you.”
Then came another. And another. Scrawled in corners of returned textbooks, wedged into cubby holes.
“They did the same to me.”
“We never said anything. We thought no one would listen.”
“You made them bleed. Thank you.”
Mydei didn’t respond. Just quietly sorted the papers, tucked them into an envelope he never opened again.
Yes, no one on campus talked about The Incident™, not out loud. But they did nod more when they passed. Held his gaze longer. Whispered less.
The three boys kept their heads down after that.
By the end of the week, one of the vending machines in the quad — the one he’d fought beside — had a new sticker on the side.
It said:
“Respect is free. So is a black eye.”
In very neat handwriting.