Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Phainon’s always been partial to the sky. 

Which makes sense, obviously, considering he has a scholarship and he’s getting a bachelor’s in aviation, but it’s an interesting enough fact that it bears repeating twice. It’s a real part of his introduction nowadays. 

Phainon’s turning 22 in July, he’s been tutoring students for tips since his first year, he likes dogs, his boyfriend of a year prefers cats, he’s also been living with said best friend-slash-boyfriend for the past two years, he knows good French butter makes a great apology gift to bakers, and he likes the sky. Those last four facts are related. 

“Hey, lover boy!” A voice calls out, “are we hopping over to the cafe for our project or what?” And he barely has to turn to be met with the bright smile of his classmate Cipher, looking far too cheery after finishing an early morning class.

Phainon’s known Cipher since his first year in University. Though they only share two classes together, those being an introduction to Nousporinism and a minor in engineering, she’s still someone basically everyone on campus knows about, be it for good or bad.

She’s controversial for a lot of things, apparently, but Phainon isn’t too privy to them. What he knows is that she’s Professor Aglaea TA, that she’s dating Castorice, and that she grew up with his boyfriend and now often drags Phainon off to visit said boyfriend as well, so she’s a good person in his books.

“Project?” He tilts his head, “is this for professor Anaxa’s class or Dr. Ratio’s?”

“Neither!” She grins. “That Grey Mystery’s 21st birthday is in two months. Don’t tell me you forgot the promise you made to help me outdo the rest of the gang ? ” 

Oh, right. 

It wasn’t particularly that he forgot , it was more so that he doesn’t recall agreeing at all.

Cipher often asks for a lot (his notebook that she still hasn’t returned, multiple favors, free croissants, and coffee) and Phainon’s too used to simply agreeing (he makes backups, he does favors for everyone, he usually has an abundance of pastries back at the apartment, and the run from the University to their local cafe is good morning exercise). So in any case, a favor sounds like something he’d do. 

“Isn’t two months a bit early to start planning a present?” He asks, but already starts packing his bag anyway. Even if Cipher doesn’t invite you explicitly; if she wants you somewhere, she’ll get you there. A verbal invitation is just her last bit of grace. 

“Well yes, if you’re lame and going to get her socks again, ” she snarks, and Phainon actually takes mild offense to that. Last year, he gifted her socks and varnish for her baseball bat. It was a very thoughtful gift. “Besides, it’s early and I want free coffee and pastries. I know you secretly want to come with– don’t lie!”  

“Sure,” he agrees easily enough. 

In general, Phainon knows better than to argue with women about gifts and he knows Cipher well enough to tell when something’s already non-negotiable. So instead, he chooses to use his mental energy to think of good gifts as she leads them both outside the auditorium and down familiar sunlit streets leading outside campus. 

The early morning light slicks bright over the pavement, catching on the wheels of parked scooters and glinting off old street signs. A breeze rustles through the narrow sycamore-lined sidewalks, where fallen leaves crunch under Cipher’s heel as she hums, and the smell of warm bread wafts from a nearby bakery window. It’s the kind of street that feels like it should be in a movie– soft-focus charm and crooked shadows and all. It’s part of why he loves the city. 

But that’s just Phainon. What Cipher loves instead, especially when it comes to party planning are two things specifically: surprises and alcohol.

“Why don’t we just rent out a bar?” He says, languidly watching the cars and pedestrians pass by along their walk. 

His attention only snaps back to Cipher as she pauses so dramatically in her tracks that he’d swear he saw smoke come off from the tips of her heels. 

“The golden boy is suggesting we get wasted for our junior’s birthday?” 

Um. He pauses in his tracks as Cipher turns to dramatically jut a finger into his chest. “...I’m sure Stelle would appreciate it?” Is his only defense.

Stelle, lovingly dubbed Grey Mystery, is one of the juniors Phainon supervises for Professor Anaxa’s class. She has a hand in nearly every University group—varsity debating, film club, band, even baseball —and is still somehow wanted as a TA by Madam Herta, the elusive Bio-Chem professor who’s never around. The real mystery, Phainon thinks, is how she finds the time to do all that and still be known as the biggest party animal on campus. 

But aside from that, Stelle’s also just a good junior. Whenever they have joint projects on whether or not a Dromas’ living philosophy is more moral than the average Okheman’s, Stelle’s always the one to pull her weight and cover for portions other students might just skip. She’s been great and reliable and it makes sense that Cipher would want to give her a hell of a surprise. 

“Well– a bar, huh,” Cipher wolf-whistles as she continues walking. “I didn’t know you had it in you to suggest that . But the Grey Mystery’s always loved karaoke and booze. Her little friends too, you know– I heard the redhead from engineering downed eight espresso martinis at the Hunters’ last houseparty,” she snorts, “so we’ll see what we can afford.” 

“Eight?” Phainon’s eyes widen before he squints at the weirdly shiny stop sign in the corner of the street. And then, “We’re not paying for all their drinks,” he says quickly, stomach clenching at the thought of his bank account. They’d have to invite the entirety of Stelle’s friend group and fronting costs for about 50 people would actually make him unable to afford rent. 

“That’s evident,” Cipher chuckles before stopping in front of a quaint bakery-cafe with a little red awning, simply named Elysium. Then, as if just remembering something important, “You’re not having any coffee today.” And it's not a question. It’s a warning.  

Despite literally walking to a cafe, Phainon doesn’t like coffee– more specifically, coffee doesn’t like him . He always gets stomach aches whenever he tries having anything that isn’t decaf and the last time he tried a sip of Cipher’s cup, he had to spend a hell of a long time in the bathroom (about 15 minutes, apparently, because Cipher kept track). The only reason why there aren’t any embarrassing videos of that incident is because Castorice was there and insisted Cipher delete all video evidence. 

“I appreciate the concern but I’d rather never touch caffeine again,” he says, feeling queasy at the memory. And it’s true. Even if Mydei’s laugh about the whole situation made it kind of worth it. 

“Oi. Get a grip. I know you’re thinking about your boyfriend again,” Cipher tiptoes to bump at his shoulder, “you have that wistful husband look all over your face. Gross.” 

And before Phainon can even try to defend his honour, Cipher leisurely steps into the cafe, ignoring the sign that obviously says they’re still closed.

“Hey, loverboy!” She calls out, “I brought your loverboy! Can I get a free croissant now?” 

The door makes way and Phainon is immediately hit with the comforting scent of the cafe. But before he can even appreciate the indoors, his attention is immediately snapped to the man standing behind the counter.

Looking over at his two new disruptions and bathed in early morning sunlight is Mydei, the man Phainon is infinitely proud to call his best friend, and luckier still to love.

He looks exactly like he did this morning—except softer, maybe, in the sun. Light catches on his red-blonde hair, pulled back in a loose bun all the way to the back, leaving a few strands out in the way that makes it look effortless. The rest of the sunlight glints against the fine wire of his black-rimmed glasses and the chunky gold of his necklace, frames the slope of his cheekbones, and settles in the delicate hollows of his collarbone, like it’s trying to memorize him, too.

This version of Mydei isn’t the half-asleep one who demanded two goodbye kisses instead of the usual one. He’s already dressed and sharp– a thin wing of red eyeliner flicked at the corner of each eye as his sleeves are pushed up to the elbows to reveal crimson lining along each forearm. There’s flour on one wrist, and an old scar on the side of his thumb that never quite healed right. Phainon thinks he’s beautiful.

Not in the magazine sense, but in the way that makes you forget the word beautiful ever applied to anything else.

And this is the real reason Phainon never minds making that morning coffee run. He can’t help the grin that pulls at his mouth, even as Mydei rolls his eyes at Cipher’s loud greeting.

“Good morning to you, Cifera,” he says, then, “and you too, I suppose,” barely glancing in Phainon’s direction. He tries not to look too pleased—though judging by Cipher’s snort, he’s not doing a very good job. What did she say? Phainon has that wistful husband look.

Once Mydei goes to exchange a few more words with Cipher, he turns to observe the rest of the cafe. He’s been here a lot. Though, lately, he’s only been in and out for a quick pick up or to drop a delivery off for Mydei since finals have been kicking everyone’s ass.

Sunlight filters in through the wide floor to ceiling windows, glinting off jam jars and cutlery tucked into ceramic mugs. The air smells faintly of butter and warm milk, with the sharper edge of espresso lingering somewhere beneath, a quiet proof that Mydei’s been baking all morning. A display case runs along the far wall, half-filled with croissants, scones, and tiny seasonal tarts that look too pretty to touch and there’s a sign in pretty cursive handwriting detailing each one. 

As always, the tables are small and close together, meant more for lingering than rushing, and there’s a shelf in the corner stuffed with battered books and half-done crossword puzzles the regulars often flick through. There’s a yellow knit scarf coiled like a sleeping snake over the back of a chair, forgotten by someone who clearly felt at home. 

This place has always felt less like a business and more like someone’s home opened its front door and let the morning in. Phainon leans over the counter with a grin. 

“You suppose? ” He starts, mock offended with a hand over his heart. “No ‘good morning my love’, ‘I’m glad you came to visit’, or ‘how’d your morning classes go’? Romance really is dead.” 

The only response he gets is a pointed eyeroll as Mydei chooses to ignore him in favor of turning his attention to Cipher instead. “I’m tweaking the recipe of those lemon-thyme cookies you tried a few days ago. There’s more lemon this time, and less sugar. Do you want to help me test a batch?” 

“Ohoho~” Cipher rubs her hands together, “now this is why you’re my favourite. I’ll have a latte with that– my usual.” 

Which, in practice, means a “coffee” concoction of whole milk, two pumps of caramel syrup, cinnamon, and half a shot of espresso. It’s more of a frappe than anything but Phainon’s got the whole order memorized from how often he does her coffee runs. 

“I hope you know none of this is on the house,” Mydei grumbles, walking to the back and passing by Phainon, still leaning over the counter but now with a pout on his face for being ignored for too long. He graciously spares him a glance, “And for you?” 

“A kiss,” Phainon answers immediately. “And my wonderful boyfriend’s attention– though I’m already enjoying that right now. The service here sure is great.” He grins. 

And the eye roll he gets in response looks like Mydei’s entire body is holding back on exasperation, but his own faux-annoyance is foiled by the soft, traitorous fondness already crinkling the corners of his eyes. It softens the sharp wing of his eyeliner into something almost like a blush. 

“Clingy,” Mydei bites out, before sneakily landing a kiss to the corner of Phainon’s mouth, “you didn’t have any breakfast this morning. I’ll whip something up for you. So go on,” he gestures towards Cipher’s booth, “have a seat.”

And then he makes way to the back end of the kitchen, leaving Phainon half-dazed by the counter. He hadn’t actually expected Mydei to indulge him, but the dopey smile on his face is proof enough of how he feels. 

Mydei’s retreating back disappears behind the kitchen curtain as the hem of his apron sways with each step, the collar of his shirt staying slightly rumpled in the casual way that reminds him there’s laundry he hasn’t ironed yet. His gaze lingers on the smudge of flour at the back of Mydei’s neck and it’s ridiculous just how badly Phainon wants to kiss it. 

But he watches him go, distracted and beaming like someone who’s just won the lottery and got insulted by the cashier on the way out.

It’s only after he notices the stink eye Cipher’s been throwing at him from halfway across the cafe that he finally stops leaning on the counter. “ Get a room,” she hisses as Phainon walks over to their booth. 

He grins, eyes still on the kitchen curtains, and then, “ No.” He settles in without another word.

Now, as a rule, Phainon maps out his expenses pretty diligently. 

He sort of has to, when all the money in his bank accounts are from the stipends of his scholarship, set aside and compiled from the two years he’s been here already. That’s not to say that he’s particularly poor – he takes odd-end jobs and tutors every once in a while when he’s free or during the holidays– there’s quite a sum that remains at the end of every semester, though he hasn’t checked it this month.

In any case he’s usually the responsible one with money. And that’s relevant here, because Cipher, evidently, is not. 

“And why can’t we just rent that high-end spot? It’s on the upper-west side! Think about it! Rooftop karaoke and shots! We could even skip the birthday cake and get our little lion to do it. He’s met Stelle too, hasn’t he?” 

Phainon sighs, scrolling through the excel monstrosity he has affectionately dubbed as ‘The Sheet’- which is actually about ten sheets, riddled with color-coded budgets and all the strange financial nonsense (Mydei’s words, not his) that make up his and Mydei’s shared expenses. He tallies an estimated cost and winces immediately. “Cipher, unless we can all cough up three hundred thousand credits each, I don’t think any of us are affording this bar.” 

“Nooooooooo,” she groans, dramatically flopping onto the table. “Golden boy, don't you know anyone rich? We need a benefactor!” 

“Aren’t you usually the one running scamming rings?” Phainon raises a brow. 

“Used to. I promised Cas I’d start coming clean after we started going out,” Cipher mumbles, dragging a finger through the wood grains of the table. “It’s fine. I’m only ripping off Skott and that flashy peacock-looking professor. Princess homebody doesn’t mind so long as they’re rich– but that’s not the point!” 

Phainon thinks it very much is the point, because the last time Cipher got involved in a wire-transfer scam, he had to write up a TA invoice for research expense reimbursement. Which didn’t even make sense. Professor Aventurine’s class doesn’t have research expenses. 

“It even wasn’t a scam,” Cipher rolls her eyes, pulling out her phone. “It was deferred academic compensation. Besides , Professor Feathers-for-Brains doesn’t even read his own ledger. I emailed him a doctored invoice and he just forwarded it to finance with a thumbs up emoji.”

“And how do you know that?” 

“Silverwolf,” she answers, like anyone is supposed to know what that means. “I paid a premium for those screenshots. Ugh. Totally not worth it.” 

Phainon can’t believe he’s spent two years at university and only now learns of some kind of super campus-hacker named Silverwolf , but that’s a can of worms he’ll open another day. Or preferably never. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And Skott?”

“Oh, that was easy. All I did was give him a flier and my Venmo and now he thinks he’s funding research into the economic rituals of Era Chrysea Janusapolian priesthoods. Who transfers ten thousand credits on a whim? He didn’t even ask for publication history. Loser .”

Phainon stares. “You told him you were reconstructing the sacred economy of an extinct theocracy?”

“I told him I was researching ,” Cipher corrects primly. “I never promised him results. And you know I really, really needed a new blender.” 

He doesn’t know. How was or is he ever supposed to know the state of Cipher’s kitchen? Actually on that note, another observation is that he doesn’t know how Castorice reins Cipher into functioning like a relatively normal person. Not to mention the revelation that Cipher is allowed in a kitchen and within close proximity to sharp things and blenders. And isn’t that a thought? 

“You spent ten thousand credits on a blender?” 

“In my defense,” she starts, “it’s a really good blender.” 

Like that’s any justification. 

Phainon’s incredulous stare and Cipher’s own satisfied one makes him think they’re going to be discussing blenders all rest of the morning, or at least until he has to go back to campus to study. 

“Can you two not discuss illegal dealings in my parents’ cafe?” Mydei says flatly as he arrives at their booth. “I’d rather not have Aglaea terrorizing this place.” 

Right on cue, his own rein into functionality shows up with a tray of goodies and an exasperated expression on his face. Though, judging from the slight lift of the right side of lip, Phainon figures Mydei’s been listening in for a while. He’s always had a soft spot for Cipher’s antics— even if he refuses to actively encourage her. But they both know he’s never been the type to shut down a scheme, either.

Cipher grins. “Aw, but you love us,” she sing-songs, drawing out the syllables. 

Mydei rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say no. 

While Phainon officially met Cipher in university, he’s known about her for as long as he’s known Mydei—which is significantly longer.

Even back then, he’d already known about Cipher through the strange mythology of Mydei’s offhand comments and non-chronological anecdotes. With riveting commentary such as: A vending machine? Those things are trash. Figuratively filled with trash, and easy to trash as well. I once watched a friend break one down and reassemble it in middle school. What for? For a candy bar, of course. We each only took one.

Phainon had filed that story away as another one of those Weirdly Charming Things Mydei Did or Does that have no good explanation other than the fact that it’s Mydei doing it. 

But then the anecdotes continued: she didn’t even stop at a vending machine. You know, she once taught me how to pick locks. All you need is a hairpin and a bit of wire. I’m not a lockpicker. But I know how to do it. Do you wanna know how to lockpick? 

And again: she always kept wire in her socks. I’m sure it was uncomfortable, but she always did it. And her socks were always mismatched, too. Do you know how much effort that is? To purposefully wear different socks everyday? I’ve known her for six years and she does it everyday. It’s madness. 

Now, to be fair, Phainon had heard most of these while Mydei was drunk. It happened first on his friend’s cousin’s birthday that Phainon was, for some reason, invited to, early on in his degree. He reasoned that Mydei probably just didn’t want to go alone.

And so they’d spent the night awkwardly standing at Hephaestion’s birthday (whoever that is) taking surprisingly high alcohol jello shots, and it ended with Mydei basically passed out drunk on his shoulder at the porch. There's a saying about drunk men’s words being a sober man’s thoughts, but at the time, Phainon had just assumed Mydei was talking out of his ass– and he’d been too distracted with Mydei’s weight against him to say anything about it. He figured his phantom-thief middle school friend was just drunken rambling. 

That is, until one night at the end of Phainon’s first semester. 

At the time, the apartment was rather unkempt. Phainon hadn’t had the time to really take care of his stuff after exams and Mydei had been run down after a week of batch orders at the cafe and so, facing the mounting pile of dishes and laundry, the two had agreed to call it a night and deal with whatever was left tomorrow.

Mydei had already gone to bed hours ago after fussing with the stove knobs and leaving a single fork in the drying rack once he saw the state of his kitchen. While Phainon, restless and underslept, had wandered into the kitchen sometime after two am. He’d meant to drink water, maybe gnaw on a protein bar, or just walk around until he felt drowsy enough to fall asleep on his mattress.

Instead, he stopped dead in the doorway. Because there was a woman in their living room.

A woman that Phainon tentatively hesitates to label as a burglar but definitely as an intruder. She wasn’t even doing anything robber-like. When he’d found her, the woman had only been sitting cross-legged on the couch, the dim blue of streetlight spilling in through the curtains and catching on her face like stage lighting. But he froze. And out of sheer survival instinct, started cataloguing as many things about her as he could. That was the safety protocol for ID-ing suspicious individuals. 

The first thing he noticed was that she seemed young, around their age, and wearing an olive tank-top and jeans– not the usual burglar uniform, but you could never be too sure. There was a tupperware he recognized as Mydei’s filled to the brim with day-old pastries in her arms which is an unusual choice to steal but Phainon gets it. His pastries are worth it. 

After observing her rather impeccable taste his attention flicked to the front door slightly ajar, despite distinctly remembering having checked them twice before going to bed. The longer he stood the bigger the grin on the burglar-intruder-woman was. Phainon decidedly tried to focus on something else before he started panicking. 

And so, his eyes flicked to the rest of her clothing. She was decked out with jewelry and a thin looking necklace tied to a coin charm which made no sense because why would a thief be wearing so much gold? But fashion choices aside, his eyes caught on something else- her socks. 

The one on the right was orange with a cartoonishly big brown rat playing the saxophone with sunglasses on and if that wasn’t bad enough, the other had  ‘GOTTA GO FAST’ plastered in bold, pink glitter lettering and was longer than the other, reaching above her ankle. It sparkled. Both pairs were neon and looked thick and rather new, as though her socks were in constant rotation. 

Of course , he thought, rather hysterically, of course they were mismatched . 

What a fucking coincidence. 

That night, the tupperware thief had introduced herself as Cipher and, after nearly freaking out, Phainon had awkwardly reached his own hand out of reflex of being polite instead of asking any of the real questions like: why and how did you break into my apartment? Cipher took his hand with a grin. 

It was only in a bit that their conversation must’ve woken Mydei up as he waddled out of his room in worn houseslippers, a loose band shirt Phainon recognized as his own and a pair of fluffy looking sweatpants, grumbling about noise and lights. Then he took one glance at Cipher, blinked and— without a word —groaned and trudged straight back to his own room, shutting his door closed. Phainon would’ve been offended at how Mydei had effectively ditched him to deal with a stranger but honestly, after a week like this , he’s just jealous he hadn’t done the same. 

And that was his first “real” meeting with Cipher. 

From then on, it became routine for her to drop by their apartment in some way or another. Sometimes to steal the leftover pastries Mydei brought back from his parents' cafe. Sometimes to return a pen or some notes she’d borrowed (stolen) the day before. Sometimes just to check in on their couch because hers was, apparently, ‘ soggy as shit ’ and terrible for her back. 

An obnoxiously loud slurp brings him out of his thoughts. 

“That’s. How did you even make that sound?” 

Cipher licks off the little mustache of milk and cream on her lips with a grin, “When do I ever reveal my secrets? And you’re welcome, by the way. I wrangled the golden boy’s soul back into his body. Can I get more cookies for that?” 

“It’s weird that you ask for stuff now. Castorice probably tells you to do that,” Mydei rolls his eyes as he gets up to, presumably, grab the batch of cookies he’d already set aside for Cipher. “And you,” he says, glancing at Phainon, “eat your food. I know you’re going back on campus after this. Don’t pass out.” 

“I’m not gonna pass out,” Phainon answers reflexively even though Mydei’s already out of earshot, but he turns to the plate Mydei had settled in front of him and has no shame to admit that he does indeed drool a little. 

On the plate are two eggs– poached and jammy, a piece of toast golden and soaked in what smells like browned butter, and a few ribbons of sweet-cured ham, probably leftover from one of Mydei’s fancy seasonal pastries. There’s also a crumbly triangle of something dense and fragrant—some kind of buttery scone, lightly sweet, flaky on the outside and soft in the middle—and a cup of steeped black tea, tannic and hot. 

It’s a very Mydei breakfast, he thinks. Balanced. Lovingly meticulous. Delicious. 

Phainon eats it like a starved man (he is). 

“Geez, relax boy, no one’s taking it from you,” Cipher mutters, wrinkling her nose as he takes a bite of scone and ham in the same forkful. “You’re mixing sweet and savory like that? You’re eating ham with a scone? And people say I’m the menace.”

“S’not that sweet,” Phainon mumbles around a mouthful. “Think it’s got thyme in it.”

“There’s thyme in everything. That’s his seasonal thing right now. It’s still gross– there was powdered sugar on that.” 

Then it’s Phainon’s turn to roll his eyes and take another bite of his powdered sugar thyme scone and ham– now with some egg yolk, too. There is no combination of Mydei’s cooking that would ever be gross or weird. It’s Mydei’s cooking. That says enough. 

Cipher leans back in the booth, idly checking her nails. “ Anyway , you’re going back to campus? Seriously? On a Friday? You don’t have any more classes today– what the hell are you doing?” 

Phainon swallows, pointedly ignoring the fact that Cipher apparently knows his schedule well enough to quote it, “I’m studying in the library. Planning to, at least,” he says. “Why, do you still need me for something? We can meet again later. I was supposed to be in the library this morning before you’d dragged me off but I just figured–”

“ Dragged you off? ” She gasps. “Wow. So you just use me as an excuse to ogle at your boyfriend. Wow ,” she says again, “our star student sneaking off to meet his love. How scandalous.” 

“Oh come on , he’d have kicked me out if you hadn’t dragged me along,” Phainon huffs a breath. “You know he hates it when I ‘loiter’. Says it delays his opening time.” 

“And yet,” Mydei says— his voice arriving before he does, footsteps firm behind them — “here you still are. Loitering.” And the flat look Mydei gives him truly does make him look like someone who grew up being friends with Cipher. 

Mydei plants a stack of metal tins firmly into her hands before turning his attention back to him.

“Phainon, go back to campus. If you don’t start studying now then I know you’re gonna pull another all-nighter to make up for it and I’d rather you not jack up our utilities this month. So go to the library and do what you need to do. And eat something decent later– not a protein bar from the vending machine. Cipher, you go and make sure he eats real food before sundown.”

“What?” She frowns at the spiel, “I’m no babysitter. Don’t you remember? I have no classes today. I’m a free woman! Why’d I have to watch the golden boy?” 

“Because I just bribed you with your favourites and you care about repaying favours. And also because Castorice’ll be there as well,” Mydei answers pointedly. “I just texted her, she’s studying for her exams too. She wants you there. I just need you to make sure that guy doesn’t starve or pass out while he’s studying. I’ll pick him up before my shift ends.” 

“I am not that irresponsible,” Phainon cuts in. 

“Yeah!” Cipher cheers. “He’s self-destructive at worst.” 

“ Thank you.” 

“That’s not a–” Mydei sighs, longsuffering as he glances at the clock again. “Whatever. I’m opening in five. Can’t you just say yes? I’ll throw in a coffee when I swing by the library.” 

She squints. “Beg for it.” 

“No.” 

“Then the deal’s off!” 

“No it’s not.” 

“Yes it is.” 

“Says who?” 

“Says me! I said what I said!” 

“But you’re being unreasonable,” Mydei frowns. “What do you want? Another coffee? A pastry? Actually, I’ll just watch Pollux for the weekend for you. That way you can go on that aquarium date without worrying he’ll tear through your apartment. How does that sound?” 

And that actually gets Cipher to pause as she mulls it over. 

“Give him a shower, too. He stinks.”

“Fine.” 

“I’m only staying till sundown. I’ll call if I think you need to bring the golden boy home but I will take pictures before I wake him up if he falls asleep.  And because I’m nice, I’ll send you the pics but you have to bring another latte for Cas! A caramel latte–”

“With two pumps of sugar instead of the usual one and with oat milk. I know. Deal . Now stop throwing things in.” 

His exasperation makes Cipher grin, and Phainon can’t help but think this is a horrible deal on Mydei’s end but she holds out her hand across the table, pinky crooked like it’s a blood pact, and Mydei rolls his eyes but takes it without hesitation. His own pinky hooks around hers in a practiced motion that feels too rehearsed to be spontaneous—like they’ve made stupid little deals like this a hundred times before. 

They shake once with a ridiculous amount of gravitas and Cipher nods, satisfied. 

"Well then, consider it done. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you," she grins. “Oh, and I might come over and bother you if I’m ever bored throughout the day. Which is pretty likely. That nice coworker of yours isn’t working today, right? I don’t wanna tease anyone too softhearted.” 

“Hyacine isn’t working today,” Mydei mutters. “And she’s not softhearted. She’s nice . But whatever, don’t bother me too much,” he tacks on, and then he’s already heading toward the front, flipping the sign to open with a practiced flick of his wrist.

Cipher sighs, stretches out like a cat, and then turns back toward Phainon with an expression that’s half mischief and half resignation. “You heard the little prince. You’re getting a study date at the library with yours truly until I ditch you for Cas, whenever she decides to show up. Hope you're prepared to be bullied into productivity!”

Phainon frowns, “I don’t need a chaperone,” he says, defensive even as he’s wiping the last few toast crumbs from his chin. “Or a study date. I’m perfectly self-sufficient.”

“Says the guy who once got a fever from rewriting that love letter you used to confess,” Cipher cackles before ruffling his hair like he’s a puppy. “And of course you don’t need one. You’re a grown man! All you really need is some snacks and maybe a nap. And you’re talking to a master in both categories. So don’t worry, your big sister’s got you covered~”

Cipher says as she whips out her tote bag of treats and miscellaneous items as if showing off her haul. She says the words ‘big sister’ like it’s both a threat and a badge of honour and Phainon is suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s seen Cipher tug Mydei down by the collar in order to pat him on the head or cheek as well, not unlike you’d pet a disagreeing cat– with stubbornness and an overwhelming urge to ruffle. 

They’re all the same age. Cipher is only older by a few months at best . 

“Why are you both like this,” he mutters, half-buried in his tea cup as he empties it.

Cipher chuckles as she gathers the tins into her bag like a prize haul with sparkling eyes. “Because someone has to be, golden boy, and you love us for it because you’re sappy. Now come on! Your nerdy airplane books await!” 

Then she speeds towards the door, not waiting for him, but Phainon can see how she glances back once she steps outside. She turns once, looks over at him and then at Mydei, and whips out her phone to presumably text Castorice in a very obvious gesture of ‘ now go do you what you have to. I’m not gonna look.’  

And Phainon, despite himself, can’t quite bite back the stupid, unwelcome smile curling at the corners of his mouth. Cipher’s giving him the time and space to be alone with Mydei, for just a little bit. In the middle of exams and in his own head of maintaining his scholarship and trying to do well in his almost final year, there’s a type of calm that exists only when those who care about you choose to drag you out of your own head. And it’s such a small gesture but so very Cipher to be double-handed even in her show of care. 

If he were any more vindictive he’d say it was frustrating almost, being half-insulted and half…known. Not pitied, not coddled, simply just and accommodated for. For him to be expected to be a little bit of a mess, and still wanted around anyway. It’s a feeling that took a long time of getting used to. 

When Mydei looks up from the register and his eyes skim over to their booth, he glances at Cipher outside before turning his head and letting his eyes linger on Phainon, once again, just long enough to make sure he’s eaten and that his cup of tea is empty. Satisfied with what he sees, the smallest smirk of satisfaction builds on the corner of his lip. And then, he's back to business– starting up the register like it’s nothing. Like all of this is habit.

And maybe that’s what this is, isn’t it? Choosing someone and someplace and something again and again and again. Has it not become habit to know and to love? 

Phainon lets the answer linger in his legs and hears the echo of his body’s response in his sole as he saunters towards the counter. Mydei doesn’t even look up from the register. 

“So,” Phainon starts, leaning forward on the table to prop his elbow up and rest his head against it, “I guess I’ll be seeing you tonight.” He leans close enough to notice the discoloration starting to form on Mydei’s beloved, brown leather apron. Certain patches are clearly worn with time and Phainon idly recounts how he’d suggested buying a new one, only for Mydei to tell him off and to be more prudent with his money.

“Hopefully earlier,” Mydei murmurs, half-smiling as he glances at Cipher once again to make sure she’s not looking, before gently reaching to cradle the back of Phainon’s head.

 Phainon’s eyes snap back to him as he feels the ghost of Mydei’s fingers threading lightly through the soft white curls of his nape, before a thumb traces a small, absent arc just behind his ear. Mydei grins when he feels Phainon shiver at the touch. “My shift could end earlier today, so I’ll see what I can do. Sorry, I’d be at the library with you but Hyacine asked to take the day off for her studies. Remember not to push yourself too hard, okay? Drink plenty, take breaks and–” 

“ Eat real food , I know,” and before Mydei can complain about being cut off, Phainon catches the front of his stupid, stained apron and pulls him in, kissing him square on the lips— firm, affectionate, and a little triumphant to be getting the last word in. His fingers bunch into the worn fabric like he’s holding onto something steadier than himself. “I’ve got it all written down, don’t worry.” He finishes. Phainon’s heard this speech every past exam season, even before they started dating. 

Mydei blinks once, twice, then huffs a sound that anyone close to him would recognize as laughter, low and warm through the gut. Mydei’s laughter always came with his eyes crinkling, a slight red on his cheeks, and the sort of breathlessness that only proves how cherished it is when it comes around. The last of it breathes out of him as his fingers move to fix the bunched apron and fabric of his collar, but pauses when Phainon gently takes his wrist, thumb brushing over a pale, fresh scar near the edge of his palm. 

“You burned yourself again,” Phainon says quietly. “Oven or pan? I didn’t see this yesterday morning.” 

“Pan,” he answers easily. “I got it last shift. Had too many on the stove at once to heat the thyme for the cookies and scones ‘cause I needed more herb butter. It’s fine, Hyacine was there when it happened and she ran it under cold water and everything. I’m still recipe testing but toasting herbs for specials has been very… time consuming.” 

Phainon opens his mouth, already about to answer with another reprimand of being more careful before his brain catches up to him. He pauses. “Did– did you just make an herb pun?”  

“What?” 

And Mydei’s confused expression very nearly makes him laugh– it’s the same expression he wears when a child runs into him on the street and he needs to watch them over until their parents come along, apologizing. It’s awfully cute. 

 “...Nevermind,” he waves it off. It’s close enough to a pun, at least. As far as Mydei’s jokes went, this might've been one of the best forward attempts at comedy he’s heard yet. 

But Mydei doesn’t seem to agree, the furrowed expression still on his brow. Phainon can’t help the laugh that finally does bubble out of his own throat as Mydei clearly continues to try and contemplate where his unintentional pun was.

And before he spirals any further, Phainon chuckles as he cups Mydei’s jaw and kisses the crease between his brows gently, running a gentle swipe of his thumb from the edge of his jaw to his chin, cradling the underside of it. 

“Don’t worry dear, you should just take this as a sign to use less thyme next week,” he grins. “Or for you to finally make your specials monthly instead of biweekly. Just saying.”

“You’re a menace,” Mydei scowls, which only results in another kiss placed on his brows. It’s almost cute how he keeps trying to frown harder, only to have each furrow kissed away immediately into satisfaction. It’s as if Mydei’s doing this on purpose. “ Stop it.” 

And it should sound annoyed but it doesn’t. It really can’t, when Mydei’s hand is still resting over Phainon’s own on his shoulder, fingers curling lightly around his wrist like he doesn’t quite want to let go.

Phainon smiles, wide and unrepentant. Because he knows Mydei when he’s being indulgent, and he’s plenty indulgent this morning. “You love it when I keep you on your toes.” 

“Right now all you’re doing is keeping me behind schedule,” Mydei sighs, but he knows there’s no real urgency behind it because Mydei doesn’t even try to step away. 

In the hush that follows, it’s quiet enough to hear the gentle creak of the floorboards from their weight, the gentle ring or the doorchime in the wind, Cipher’s heels tapping away against the doorframe and the faint crackling of something left in the oven. The warmth between them grows and smells like baked sugar, tea leaves, thyme, milk, and the lingering warmth of morning. 

‘ That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, now would it?’ Sits on the tip of Phainon’s tongue. He doesn’t say it but the thought’s there, clear as anything but unspoken. 

Mydei doesn’t respond—but Phainon knows he hears it. He always does. When Phainon’s thoughts are half-formed and when Mydei still has to wonder if the words he chooses are right , it is only between them that silence itself can be conversation. Because when Phainon meets his eyes, there’s no annoyance there, no hurry, no rush nor want to leave. It’s just Mydei, all of Mydei, and his quiet sincerity and tacit understanding of the unsaid words that live between them. That it wouldn’t, really. It wouldn’t be the worst thing at all. 

“Go on then,” Mydei says at last, breaking the silence with a reluctant smile before finally clicking the register shut and lightly shoving Phainon’s shoulder. “Cipher’s been waiting long enough. Don’t dawdle.”

“I never do,” he replies immediately, even as he very clearly lingers a few seconds longer, fingers brushing lightly along Mydei’s inner wrist before letting go.

The ghost of his warmth spreads from the tips of his fingers to the rest of arm, shoulder, neck and cheek, a satisfied glow on them both as the moment catches up to him. And what a wonderful thing it is, to linger in the present. 

He heads for the door, eventually, after tossing one last grin and wave over his shoulder at Mydei who rolls his eyes but waves back, already moving to tidy and open up the shop. 

Cipher’s waiting just outside, holding the door open with her foot and a deeply disgusted look on her face. She makes a fake gagging motion and whines that ‘ I’ve been standing here for five minutes. What did you do inside? Make out?’ And Phainon mutters something about nosy older sisters under his breath as she snorts and takes the lead as they trudge along the pavement. 

Behind him, the bell over the door jingles softly as it closes—just the same as it always does. But the sun’s a bit higher up in the sky. The weather’s a bit warmer, the streets a bit brighter. And he’s not sure if that’s entirely because of the time or the pick me up, but he guesses it’s a bit of both. 

And it’s a good morning, all things considered. Even when Cipher teases him the entire walk back. 

The campus library ranks seventh on Phainon’s list of favourite places in the world.

While that might sound anticlimactic, seven is incredibly high on his list considering the other contenders are his childhood hometown, his apartment, the cafe, the skies (that counts), and other miscellaneous but equally impactful spots around the city. So it’s not to say that the library’s lacking. It’s still his number one library, after all—and seventh overall is nothing to scoff at.

The building itself is quiet in the kind of way that feels curated—purposefully held together by high ceilings, filtered light, and a lingering expectation of decorum. It’s clean, spacious, and arranged with an almost reverent precision with smooth floors, white-painted mouldings, and tall windows that catch the morning sun just enough to give everything a soft, academic glow.

The air smells faintly of paper and disinfectant. Somewhere in the back, there’s the low hum of a printer at work and the quiet clicking of keyboards but otherwise, the silence holds. 

Students speak in murmurs or not at all, hushed whispers and fingers drumming against hardwood, pens clicking in frustration and focus both. A few are half-asleep over textbooks, earbuds tucked in; others are folded into the deep armchairs near the philosophy section, reading for leisure or cramming last-minute and trying very hard not to fail. 

To Phainon, the library is not just atmosphere—it's history. The way the floors are slightly warped in places where the tile is mismatched, where the wooden floorboards make way to concrete. The odd, dusty niche between Applied Mechanics and Theology where the light always hits weird because the tinted lens of the window peeled off just right there.

The sense that this is a place built not only for quiet ambition, but has also cradled the lives of thousands of students before him, and will continue to house the thousands after him as well. The library is the continuous pursuit of something meaningful.

That– and it has good chairs. Now that’s something his apartment doesn’t have. 

He’s still lingering near the circulation desk as he takes in the freshly restocked display of new arrivals as he chats with Livia, one of the part-time librarians, when Cipher bumps her shoulder into his.

“Hey. Golden boy. She’s been holding out your library card for three minutes– s top looking around and let’s go, ” she hisses. “You’re here every other day. Why are you still gawking?”

“Titans forbid I like the library,” Phainon replies, too defensively.

“No, you like the part-time librarian who works every Saturday and Sunday. You like when your boyfriend wears turtlenecks and his stupid glasses and his stupid ID card. You’re not slick.” 

“I like literacy ,” He says, and how Mydei looks when he works his librarian job on the weekends. Those two do coexist and it’s frankly insulting to insinuate that it can’t. His love for literature and his love for Mydei are cakes and pies or however the saying goes, and he can have both pie and cake– but that’s neither here nor there. “So what if I like my boyfriend, anyway? What’s so wrong about that?” 

Cipher snorts, ignoring him as she saunters over to a little corner of the library—affectionately and unofficially dubbed The Spot —which sits tucked in the southeast corner of the first floor, nestled between the oversized “Out-of-Circulation” archives shelf and a structural column with a little hole it, apparently caused by some student who’d punched at the wall repeatedly. 

In the corner there’s just enough room for a small round table, slightly uneven at one leg, and three chairs that don’t match but all squeak the same way when dragged across the flooring. One of them still has a dent in the backrest from when Cipher tried to stack her totebag and three textbooks on it at once and the cushion immediately gave up. He still has no idea what she stuffs in her bag. 

A single wall outlet stretches to just one functioning charger port—reachable only if you angle the table slightly left and lean your laptop precariously over the edge. It’s a point of silent contention and constant negotiation, but it’s also one of the few working charging ports on the first floor.

The unspoken rule: if you're closest to the plug, you become the distributor, the chosen one, and the sacred extension cord wielder. Whoever gets to sit closest to it changes depending on mood, favours owed, and the week. Cipher has fought wars over that charger. Mydei once brought a splitter and immediately became that week’s MVP.

The Spot is close enough to the AC to be cool in the summer, but not so close that it gets freezing. Phainon’s particular about the cold—his fingers stiffen and his nose turns pink, which is why Mydei knows to bring a thermos of warm tea or slide over his hoodie when it gets too much (Cipher knows to mock him ruthlessly) but in general, Phainon sits a bit on the outskirts to avoid the AC. 

There’s enough space for all three of them, sometimes four and for books, if you squish. It’s just hidden enough that nobody bothers them if they laugh a little too loud or spread their papers out like a war map mid-finals week. Phainon’s been in The Spot since he’d found it in his first year. Then he’d invited Castorice for a study and eventually Mydei once he started working here, and one day Cipher had invited herself over, and till now it remains his favourite spot in the library. 

Because it isn’t just for studying. It’s a ritual. A gathering point. A claim staked quietly in the history of the library– their own little place in the pursuit of something meaningful.

And Phainon, who’s here more than the average student because he does like the library and all it stands for– would never admit it, but The Spot’s probably his fifth favourite place in the world.

“I call dibs on the port!” Cipher whisper-yells, before speeding past him and towards The Spot. While she might not seem like it, Cipher actually does have a lot of decorum within shared spaces. After two years of nightly library visits and long study sessions, she’s perfected the exact decibel range to talk in to achieve the effect of screaming without actually annoying anyone. It’s an artform, and she’s long mastered it because she’s dramatic and loves picking up strange skills. 

“Oh no you don’t!” 

“You. Keep quiet in the library.” 

Though clearly, Phainon has not. 

After being scolded by a fellow student, the sheepish apology he gets out slows him just enough for Cipher to claim the seat triumphantly, already plugging the laptop she pulls out of her tote, covered in cat stickers. “And that is why you should always let me have the charging port.” She grins. 

Phainon rolls his eyes and doesn’t respond, choosing instead to get into his perfectly fine (yet equally squeaky) chair across from her. And eventually, they settle.

Cipher props her legs up on the seat and immediately begins typing, her screen flooded with what looks like a dozen open terminals, circuit simulators, and half-labeled PDF datasheets. Phainon assumes it’s either her embedded systems lab or the cursed problem set she’s been complaining about for the past week or so. Possibly both. She works with the intensity of a cat high on either catnip or redbull while Phainon straightens his notes and reopens the flight path diagrams he’s been reviewing for the past week and a half.

The day passes like this: in slow, steady increments. Notes accumulate in margins, diagrams evolve, flashcards cycle through, and Phainon whips out his glasses after a few hours of reading and re-reading.

Cipher hums occasionally under her breath, sometimes whispering memory aids about voltage thresholds or cache hierarchies by giving them names like “ the shiny one” and “the shinier one”, whatever that means. Phainon tunes her out with practised ease as the soft clack of keys forms a rhythm beneath the page turns and the quiet scuffle of chairs against wood. The usual ebb and flow.

Around noon, Castorice arrives with a tote bag so full it drags slightly on the ground and she makes way for The Spot immediately. Cipher waves her over with a grin. 

“Princess homebody finally deigned her favourite subjects a visit. I think she deserves a reward for it– would a kiss suffice?” She says, already getting up and making grabby arms at the other woman. 

Castorice places her palm on her face to literally keep her at arm’s length. “Please don’t make out with me in the library. And good afternoon, Phainon. Mydei told me you’d be here.” 

Phainon huffs, “What else did he tell you? Did he ask you to–” 

“Remind you to hydrate and not pass out, yes,” she giggles. “It’s awfully endearing. He types out the whole paragraph every time.” 

Mydei’s not known for a lot of things, but he is infamous for texting. Texts from him range from single messages on punctuation (?, !, ???) or words (no, omw, want something, making dinner, soup), to long-winded paragraphs that end up barely legible. Because apparently, texting allows Mydei to spill every word without pretext. 

One time, around the beginning of when they’d started living together, Phainon had asked Mydei what he wanted to pick up from the store. He’d expected succinct messages. Maybe Mydei texting a simple ‘ eggs’, ‘soap’, ‘flour’- all business and no fuss as he usually is for most affairs. 

Instead, he’d gotten the longest text he’s ever received from him detailing the kind of Pomegranate-Honey lather soap (the one with milk) he wanted. Specifically, the 550ml refill packet (and not the bottle, because he already had one) with the pink packaging (that’s the reformulated version) that had 55% goat milk and 65% natural fragrances (that wasn’t even a typo– the package really said that). It was astounding. It was so very…Mydei. 

“ Ack! The love of my life shows up and she’s so cold to me! After I saved you a chair, too,” Cipher pouts, once again whisper-shouting as she slumps dramatically on the table. 

Castorice pats the back of Cipher’s head with all the gentleness of swatting a cat off a counter. “You didn’t save me a chair. You just sprawled across two until I got here. I know, because you do that every time we come to the library, and because I once saw you hiss at someone when they tried to grab a chair.”

“Semantics.” 

“You know that’s exactly what I study,” Castorice leans to place a kiss on the crown of her head, smiling. “But A for effort.” 

Phainon hides a quiet smile behind the rim of his water bottle. “Personally, I think it’s sweet,” he says. “Cipher’s been sitting on two equally uncomfortable chairs for the past few hours. Even though barely anyone comes over here on Friday morning. It’s the thought that counts.” 

Cipher gasps, offended. “Excuse you? I was defending my beloved’s honor,” she insists, sitting upright again. “And now you’re mocking me. Tragic. The world has never been one for lovers.”

“She’s glad you noticed,” Castorice translates, taking her seat next to Cipher and unzipping her tote. 

The bag itself is a soft lavender canvas thing, worn at the corners and clearly loved. Along the front, a scatter of Polaroids—miniature snapshots of late-night takeout runs, library naps, and blurry park selfies—that have been carefully laminated and pinned like badges, each one a tiny memento. Dangling from the strap is a crocheted grey cat keychain with lopsided ears and an uneven tail, lovingly handmade to match the purple dragon clipped to Cipher’s own tote.

Castorice says their plushies are best friends. Cipher brags about hers to anyone that asks (or doesn’t). 

Phainon simply laughs as Cipher’s eyes trail the keychain, “Honestly, I’m just glad you’re both here. It’s a lot nicer to study when I’m not alone.”

And that earns a delighted noise from Cipher, who snaps up to throw her arms dramatically around the nearest shoulder, which is Castorice’s. Of course. “Hold on. Hold on. Cassie, are you hearing this? The stress has finally cracked our golden boy open into emotional vulnerability! He does love us!”

“We’re very glad to hear that,” Castorice smiles,ignoring the chaos incarnate beside her like the angel that she is. “We’re glad you’re here too.” 

It takes only one gentle hold on Cipher’s shoulder for her to turn her attention back to Castorice, motioning for her to sit. And she does, eventually, settling next to Castorice and leaning against her shoulder as she takes out her notes, a highlighter, and a squashed sandwich wrapped in wax paper. 

“Want half?” She offers idly. And when Phainon shakes his head, she nudges it to Cipher’s cheek, whose eyes light up and makes a noise of joy so exaggerated it earns a pointed look from a librarian three tables down.

“I’m dating an angel,” Cipher declares, full of reverence and egg-sandwhich. 

“At least you know,” Castorice casually swipes the mayo off the corner of her lip, barely looking up from her notes. 

Eventually, they all settle again, Castorice already clicking with the usual pace of their conjoined studies. Cipher pecks Castorice’s cheek as thanks and finally turns back to her blinking terminal; Castorice mutters softly as she flips through a criminal law textbook, highlighting in neat, pastel lines, and Phainon draws in a breath and holds it just long enough to feel the quiet land. They bicker softly about their day and Stelle’s birthday and Dr. Ratio’s wedding as they work. 

Time moves the way it often does during study days—elastic, disjointed, fast and slow all at once. One moment it’s early afternoon, and then it’s nearly eight, and suddenly Phainon is rereading the same sentence three times in a row and realising only on the fourth pass that it’s not even from the required section.

And it’s only by the fifth time he rereads when he pushes his glasses up, does he admit that maybe he’s starting to get tired. His vision is going a bit glassy and his hand’s been cramping on and off for the past hour. He thinks he might cry if he sees another flowchart.

Phainon blinks up slowly to take in the rest of the library. 

While the building itself opens till late, many students usually vacate around sundown to catch buses while there’s still light out and because they have other things to get to outside of just studying. Phainon would say he usually is the latter, but his scores take precedent during exam seasons. Mydei was right. If he hadn’t started studying any earlier he probably would’ve dragged the rest of his notes and flashcards back to the apartment, and hunkered down for an all-nighter. 

He groans, settling back as the chair squeaks almost tiredly. The library’s empty enough that no one even tells him to be quieter. 

Slowly, a metal tin slides across the table. It pushes against Phainon’s notes with a soft thump. 

“Mydei made that for you,” Cipher says, tone light but pointed, not even looking up from her laptop. “It had a note on it. Now go outside and eat– you hadn’t even noticed Cas and I leave twice already this afternoon. Touch grass, dude. Or the sky, or whatever.”

Phainon blinks down at the container—neatly packed, still faintly warm from the thermos bag. It’s opaque but undoubtedly Mydei’s cooking– and he can tell from the little note on a cat paw post-it that he’d bought a few weeks prior, Mydei’s neat handwriting stuck to the top of the lid. His eyes have gone blurry enough that he can’t read it at a glance. 

He exhales, picks up his glasses and the container and stands up for the first time in what must be hours. His legs feel shaky, “Thanks.”

Cipher waves him off with one hand and a tired huff. “Go, already. Cas and I are leaving in a bit– we have reservations. Call the big cat and tell him to pick you up, too. You look terrible.” 

But he hears the concern in her voice anyway. Typical Cipher– she’s probably called Mydei already. 

“Thanks,” he says again, and breathes a smile as Cipher turns back to her laptop. 

And so, he goes.

The campus quad is quiet at this hour. Moonlight filters through the upper branches of the camphor trees, the benches warm to the touch and slightly sticky where the paint’s beginning to peel. He finds a spot just outside the library near the edge of the garden path, tucks his legs beneath him on the bench, and opens the container to be me with stir-fried noodles and a half-boiled egg. He puts the note in his pocket. 

The food is good—warm and just the right amount of peppery. There’s a slight tang in the sauce that makes it bright even when lukewarm and it makes Phainon pause mid-bite, his mouth full, and eyes closing for a moment in simple, wordless gratitude. His stomach rumbles after skipping lunch and very nearly skipping breakfast as well. It’s only now that the tiredness and the ache and the numbness of his ass catch up to him after sitting for so long.

He reads the note halfway through:

“Eat. If this isn’t finished when I pick you up, you’re doing dishes for the rest of the week.” 

The handwriting is clean, the little curl at the end of the k in “week” is so unmistakably Mydei that just the thought of it elicits a chuckle from him.

Phainon finishes the meal slowly as the light shifts and the garden quiets even further. He leans back against the bench and tilts his head up toward the sky, just for a moment, as the clouds part and the moon turns its head to listen, and the street lights flicker on one at a time in the dark. 

The lights hum to life with a low, gentle buzz, casting warm halos that stretch across the cobbled path. Just beyond the hedges, the quiet rhythm of footsteps drifts in and out—students trickling from the library doors, laughter hushed and tired, book bags slung loose over one shoulder and somewhere else nearby, the last rustle of turned pages and zipped backpacks dissolves into soft conversation, the kind spoken by people who’ve finally set their work down. 

The world settles into a lull, drowsy with effort spent. And it’s not silence, not quite, but it is something gentler: the tender quiet of the day winding down. 

Phainon lets it wash over him, heavy-lidded and still, until even the sound of his own breath feels folded into the hush and then, somewhere between one thought and the next, he drifts off into the kind of half-sleep you don’t realise you’ve fallen into until you’re blinking awake again, confused about the angle of the sun and the soft noise of footsteps nearby.

Because when he stirs, someone’s standing next to him.

Broad shoulders, long legs, Phainon’s bag is slung over one arm and in a pair of hands, Phainon’s own stack of notes and laptop are held gently. 

It’s Mydei. 

And under the warm artificial light, Mydei’s hair is mussed and glowing faintly gold at the edges, caught in the amber spill of the street lamps. His sleeves are rolled past the forearms, exposing the light press of muscle and flour-dusted skin long since washed clean, slightly wet still.

Without the apron his shirt hangs slightly looser, a little rumpled from work and wear but still crisp enough to make Phainon feel guilty about the laundry waiting—his half of it, especially. It’s his turn this week. 

And yet none of that really registers. Not compared to his face.

There’s something softened in Mydei’s expression, gentled by the quiet around them. His mouth is drawn in a small, thoughtful curve, not quite a smile, but something like relief or excitement to be seeing him. And his eyes, when they find Phainon’s, seem to settle, as if glad to have found what he was looking for and familiar in a way that curls low in Phainon’s chest and makes him want to speak without knowing what to say.

He’s beautiful, Phainon thinks, for the nth time. Beautiful in the way someone can be not for what they look like, but for the way they stand there—like they’ve been looking for you, and found you without surprise.

“You forgot your stuff,” Mydei says, voice gentle. “I saw you outside dozing off and, well, Cipher told me I would wanna bring you back to the apartment once I saw the state of you and she’s right.” He sighs, settling on the bench next to him just to press up against the space, allowing them to sit thigh by thigh. Then,

“You look like shit, by the way.” 

And it’s so out of pocket that Phainon genuinely forgets his stiff back for a moment because excuse him? 

“I’ve been studying for over twelve hours. Can you cut me some slack?” 

“No. I can give you a break though. 

“Break as in—”

“As in, I’m walking you back,” Mydei says simply. “The bus hasn’t left yet and I don’t think you can walk back on your own. You can sleep on the ride though. Oh, and you left your charger, too. It’s with me now.”

Phainon rubs at his eyes, squinting as he puts his glasses back on. “I meant to pack it later," he mumbles, "but thanks. I just meant to go outside to eat.”

“You also meant to not fall asleep,” he replies, getting up to adjust the strap of Phainon’s bag. “You looked homeless for a bit- nevermind that we actually do have an apartment. Why couldn’t you just fall asleep inside? At least Cipher could document it.”

“I– what? You want Cipher to have blackmail on me?” 

Mydei rolls his eyes, the strap of the bag sliding slightly off his shoulder from the sheer weight of his eyeroll. “You’re being dramatic. Cipher does nothing with those pictures but sends them to men, and I think they're cute. Even if you do looked tired.”

“I am tired.”

“Then let’s go ,” Mydei says again, nudging at his shoulder like prompting him to do something. “Before you fall asleep on me and I have to carry a man down the street. I’m already carrying your stuff. Just walk.”

Phainon snorts, getting up as well to bump his shoulder. “Carrying me? You wouldn’t even make it ten steps.”

“Right. Then I’d have to drag you, and it’d be undignified for the both of us.”

And the laughter that follows pulls Phainon just a bit closer to Mydei, falling into step like that—close and quiet in the way they always do.

They walk the rest of the way, quiet and side by side as their shoulders brush every now and then when Phainon sways a little too close and Mydei doesn’t move away. The lights of the buildings around them flicker on through curtains and glow yellow, gold, and deep lavender. The quiet carries them the rest of the way down to the bus station as a car pulls in and, for once, it’s nearly empty.

Phainon slides into the inner seat just across from the door and sinks into the worn cushion as Mydei follows, dropping his bag with a dull thud and sitting beside him, their knees brushing lightly. Mydei’s still holding the notes and laptop to his chest but he sits a little closer until their thighs are touching. 

Outside, the hum of the engine is soft and low in a cradle of motion and it’s when the car starts moving that Phainon leans back, reclining into the seat.

When Phainon feels his head start to lull from the quiet hum of the road and the cold and the exhaustion of the late night, he feels a warm palm find his cheek, slow and steady, guiding him sideways without a word. The calluses on his fingers are rough but the gesture is careful. Familiar. Like this has happened before.

And Phainon doesn’t protest. He lets himself be tucked into the crook of Mydei’s shoulder, and feels the give of his fabric and the solid warmth beneath it.

“You can rest,” Mydei murmurs to the crown of his head, warm lips forming the words he can barely hear above the hum of the road. The words melt into the skin of his temple, the way sunlight might through a window, and it’s all so familiar he cannot help but be relaxed in the presence of it all. In the presence of Mydei. 

Phainon shifts, tilting his head to rest in the warm space between collarbone and shoulder so he can smell the scent of the cafe, of thyme, of milk and coffee, and edged with the undeniable scent of Pomegranate-Honey soap with 55% goat milk and 65% natural oil. The one that’s ridiculous and overly expensive and the one Phainon hopes Mydei never gets tired of. 

Because he wants to buy that stupid refill pack every month for the rest of their lives. 

The car hums, he breathes, and he hears Mydei exhale above him as well. The passing lights look blurry now, splotches of red and yellow and green melting into each other. Phainon blinks. He doesn’t notice his glasses slipping down his nose until they’re gently removed.

And there’s a soft click as Mydei folds them one-handed and slides them into the front pocket of Phainon’s coat.

“Hey,” Phainon mutters, more out of instinct than protest.

“You’re welcome,” Mydei huffs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He adjusts the hoodie around Phainon’s shoulders, then rests a hand at the nape of his neck, thumb brushing once—thoughtless and soft.

Phainon hums something half-asleep in reply, barely a sound, before he shifts his head just enough to nudge his nose into the side of Mydei’s neck, warm and unthinking before he moves in a slow, drowsy nuzzle. His breath fans gently against skin, and Mydei doesn’t move away. One of Phainon’s hands finds the edge of Mydei’s sleeve and holds it, loose and quiet, and rolls the fabric around on the tips of his fingers and the motion of it drifts him away to sleep.

There are a few more stops until they arrive at the closest one to their apartment, and then they’ll have to get off and walk back to the complex and onto the seventh floor to their building. But for now, Phainon feels a chin settle on the top of his own head. 

“You’re thinking too hard,” he feels a voice say, rumbling from where he’s resting against a chest. 

He wants to respond with something but when his mouth opens, all that comes out of it is a groan, a whine, a sound that makes it evident he’s more than half-asleep now. And quietly, he feels a chuckle in the expanse of Mydei’s chest beneath him. 

“Sleep,” Mydei mutters, the last hints of his laugh leaking through his voice.

Phainon wants to wake up and see it. See the laughter, tangible and real on his face. 

But it’s warm and he’s tired and Mydei’s telling him to sleep. And he thinks this won’t ever be the last time he sees laughter, quiet in the moments of just the two of them. 

And so for now, he sleeps. 

Phainon isn’t awake when the bus pulls into the next stop. Or the one after that. Nor is he up for the one after. 

When he awakes, it’s dark and decidedly not in the bus. He’s in his room. 

He groans as his own digital clock stares back at him with bold red writing: 3am, which is that point in time that’s too early to start feeling productive but a bit too late to catch a full REM cycle before Mydei’s going to wake him up again. Curse his boyfriend and his love of routine and getting Phainon to join him at the gym. 

So instead of trying and failing to go back to sleep, Phainon looks around, pops a shoulder, and cracks his neck from how stiff it was from the bus ride. 

Mydei must’ve dragged him up and took off his shoes and tucked him in which is an impressive enough feat considering he was also carrying Phainon’s bag and laptop and notes. Which means that, half way, Mydei had probably shoved the aforementioned notes and laptop into his bag in order to properly carry Phainon up and into their apartment.

Which also means he has to reorganize his notes– which isn’t particularly a bad thing. He could use the refresher. 

So, he trudges through the apartment in the dark in search of his backpack and laptop and to the bathroom, feet catching faintly on the uneven patch of floorboards right outside his bedroom where the linoleum’s peeled just slightly, curling up at one corner like a bad haircut. He steps on it once, then twice, and it peels back again stubbornly. He should really glue that down.

The hall light flickers once when he hits the switch, then again, then dies altogether. 

The apartment isn’t usually in this much disarray but it’s exam season which means Phainon’s mostly here to sleep and eat and kiss Mydei good morning before spending his day on campus. This also means Mydei’s mostly here to sleep and eat and cook and demand to be kissed good morning before Phainon leaves for the day. Point is, they’re not really present for domestic affairs right now. 

And so, he fumbles for the bathroom uncoordinated but thankfully familiar with the entire apartment. 

The bathroom light doesn’t come on the first time or the second, so he hits the wall with the side of his fist and it sputters to life on the third try, casting everything in the familiar jaundiced hue of almost-functional fluorescence. He squints at himself in the mirror. His hair’s a mess, flattened on one side and his eyes are bloodshot and there’s a crease from where his own hoodie had pressed into his cheek.

Slowly, he turns the knob of the sink which makes that choked gurgle when he runs it. The pipe under it clicks in the precarious way that it usually does. He dries his hands on the towel that barely hangs on its hook—bent half down the middle from the time Cipher had jumped up on it when Mydei had chased her around the apartment for…something. Stealing, probably.

It’s an old incident but Phainon still hasn’t replaced it, mainly because they’ve been putting off a lot of the renovations due to said exam season and other financial difficulties. He stares at the cracked grout in the tile for a second longer than he means to, then clicks the light off.

Finally spotting the backpack leaning against their couch, he picks it up and heads back to his room, the legs of his bed creaking when he sits. Loudly. Like something’s just cracked again. 

He glances down. 

One of the four support slats for his bedframe is loose– barely wedged into its groove and creaking under just his weight. Honestly, it’s impressive he hasn’t fallen straight through yet. 

Phainon lets himself fall back onto the mattress anyway, body sprawling sideways across the sheets as one arm flops over the side, staring back up on the ceiling again. 

He’s not prideful enough to claim that his apartment is perfect . Both his and Mydei’s lives are busy and exist outside of this place. For what it is, it serves its purpose– as an okay enough place to return to for sleep and for rest. That’s what it is, and that’s what they’d decided on back when they first signed this lease as friends and nothing more. 

But is that what will be? Is that all it will be?

The bedframe creaks again underneath as Phainon tilts his head. 

The room is cold. 

Yet despite the AC and despite never liking the cold, Phainon has never felt particularly uncomfortable in his room. In the two years he’s been here and truly away from home, he has never felt alone nor confused nor unhappy with where and how he is. 

And that’s the part that sticks with him—because even with everything else: the chipped paint by the window, the slightly-warped desk leg, the shelf above his head that leans just a little too far forward—it still feels like home.

Lived-in, familiar, and loved , even.

Not because the walls are whole or the fixtures are new, but because Mydei leaves the hallway light on. Because someone remembered to charge his phone. Because there’s still a half-slice of cake in the fridge with a sticky note that says, mine ( but you can have a bite ).

Because when he wakes up cold, someone’s tucked the blanket higher, and because routine can take shape in the worn paths of flooring here the colour’s faded off because Phainon always forgets to use slippers around the house. 

It’s imperfect and it’s cold and he wants to fix it into something more than purpose. He wants home to mean home and not the place they stop by at. 

For the first time in his life, he wants something better not because he needs it—but because it’s theirs.

He breathes, and reaches for his laptop without sitting back up, flipping it open with one hand. The screen glows to life.

He taps the spacebar absently, watching the laptop whir awake like a groggy second brain as a faint puff of dust escapes from between the keys when he adjusts it on his chest. The screen blinks twice, then lights up with the last thing he was working on: The Sheet in all its janky, overcomplicated Excel, color-coded glory. 

Each column is a different month, each row a line of effort and labeled in sharp corners: Tiles, Paint, Cabinet Hinges, New Light Fixtures for Bathroom, Floorboard Repair, Desk Stabilizer Screws (for the love of Kephale), Bedroom (just the one?), Living Room, and much more. One of them is just titled ??? and another is titled Throwaway Plushies. That one is in red.

He stares at it, squints in the dark as the numbers swim a little, then settles.

And then the total hits him.

Right there at the bottom of the sheet and totaled every single month with their expenses and leftover cash and renovations fund, the if function has switched. They’ve reached the savings threshold.

He double-checks. Triple-checks. Skims through the receipts, the automatically tallied bank inputs, the parts of the budget marked “Emergency Fund (Mydei’s)” and its aptly titled neighbour, “Phainon’s Not Broke (Emergencies Only).” And it’s all there– cross-checked and quiet and untouched. Stable.

His chest goes still.

Because they can do it. They can finally do it.

Renovate the place, replace the floorboards, fix the damn towel hook and pain the walls. They can finally deal with the mysterious tilt of the shelf above his bed that he suspects is one lost screw away from a decapitation– they can buy a proper bed frame. 

But more than that, more than the utility and what needs to be fixed, they can make this place theirs . Not just the place they crash in. Not the temporary thing they’ve been borrowing for two years. Not the transitory in-between of scholarship years and settling into  a business, not something they’ll move on from.

He shuts the laptop.

The high of it feels a little like the night they confessed—if you could even call it a confession. There hadn’t been anything cinematic about it. No grand gesture, no dinner date out, no big, sweeping kiss, barely a plan. 

It was just a quiet evening in the kitchen, post Phainon’s final exams, when the power had gone out mid-dinner and he’d found and lit candles mostly as a joke to call their rare celebratory fried chicken and cold Chinese takeout as a romantic candlelit dinner.

It wasn’t even supposed to last too long, but the building’s generator took too long to boot up, and so they’d sat in the dark with takeout containers between them and taking turns pushing the candle towards each other to help illuminate the food. 

And Phainon remembers it so vividly—the wax pooling at the candle’s base, the shadows on Mydei’s face, the soft huff of his laughter with the rare time he’d borrowed Phainon’s hoodie that settled on his arms too long, knees pulled up on the dining chair, a smudge of sauce at the corner of his mouth that neither of them noticed until later.

Phainon doesn’t even remember what prompted the confession or the feelings or whatever it is that followed, but he’d never forget what Mydei said. 

"You know, I’d wanna sign another lease with you after you graduate.” 

Phainon had choked on his drink and spluttered something accusatory and incoherent and tried very, very hard not to put out the candle while Mydei had just grinned like he’d already known the answer. 

They never really confessed out loud, not until later, not all at once, but it was there. It had always been there in the touches and the glances and the goodbyes where they wanted to reach out to do more. It had been there since the moment Mydei decided to move in with him and the moment Phainon had chosen an apartment off campus.

It had crystallized like something inevitable and in hindsight, that really was the first time they’d truly laid it all open. 

And now, here they are- two years in, and still choosing this. Two birthdays in, one Christmas spent making cinnamon rolls at 3 a.m. because neither of them could sleep, another new New Year’s spent washing wine out of the couch fabric, so used to the chaos of domestic living that they have a chalkboard in the kitchen to keep track of chores and an absurd number of Cipher’s surprise visits later, trailing gossip and half-eaten muffins and love like a cat who pretends it’s an accident she always ends up here. 

And it isn’t perfect, but it’s been theirs longer than either of them were ready to admit, and now they can shape it. Lay new flooring, paint the wall where Mydei had called the off-white too depressing. They can build shelves that won’t tip and fix the light in the hallway and move the desk closer to the window like Phainon’s always wanted. They can get a softer rug so Mydei stops complaining about how cold the tiles get in winter.

He can already imagine it: the smell of paint, the mess, Mydei squinting at an IKEA instruction manual like it personally insulted his ancestors, and the ache in his back from a day spent measuring, lifting, building.

And it wouldn’t just be a renovation.

It’d be a beginning.

Phainon exhales.

Outside, a car passes faintly on the street and honks at something, loud and unrepentant. Inside, the room is quiet, but it is not empty. The blanket slips lower on his legs as he sits up and the bed creaks again—louder this time—but it doesn’t collapse.

He presses the heel of his palm to his eye, half-laughing, half-stunned. Like if he blinked too fast, the moment might vanish. Like if he said it out loud, it’d be real.

“…Shit,” he says aloud, when it finally hits him. 

Because it’s not just the budget finally working out, or the numbers lining up after months of coupon-hunting and price comparisons and skipping out on impulse coffee purchases. It’s not even just about the paint or the shelves or finally replacing the chipped lamp Mydei still insists gives character.

It’s that they’re here.

That it’s been two years of scraping by and figuring things out and pretending the future didn’t always feel like a ticking clock—because Phainon had to graduate and Mydei had to save, and one day one of them would leave, and that was always just the quiet, reasonable thing hanging above them.

But maybe it isn’t. Not anymore. Not since the promise or the confession or their first date and especially not now.  

They’ve waited– not just for the savings to be enough, but for the both of them to be ready. And maybe they finally are.

Because maybe, if they wanted, this place could be home, too. 

Phainon rubs his face again and breathes deep, the kind of breath that feels like shedding a skin he didn’t realize he was still wearing and he grins and he can’t stop grinning.

It’s about time they go to IKEA.