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A galaxy's myriad of stars, bright and golden flecking into blue streaked lights, dance as they pass by through the Astral Express' windows. Head lain, neck curled in what surely must be an uncomfortable but as close to comfortable as she could get for now position, on one clutched pillow, she stared into the vast nothingness of space.
Another wave of pain, not a gentle tide but the beginning draw of a tsunami, washes through her; it seems to light every nerve with a solar flare of pain, a coming dawn that reeks of blood, not solace or glory. She grimaces to herself, trying in vain to massage the cramps away with shaky, stiff hands. Tears threaten to fall as the pain continues to worsen, mind taking a turn with it. Was she weak? Her own body betraying her made no comment to assuage the concern. Was this normal? The dryness of her throat and the tension behind her temples formed no response.
Rolling, with effort, to face the window more fully, she sighed through her nose, a sound of pain escaping her at the action. Hand reaching, fumbling, for her phone, she considered searching (yet again) for the supposedly normal parameters of a menstrual cycle, and when to seek help. The search results never brought as much comfort as she hoped: everyone's cycle was different, afterall. Normal for one is a calamity for another, miracles of relief for some cause pain for the rest; how could she sift through so much trial and error in the midst of this pain? The cycle never ends (it would, probably, some day, just not today).
She groans, exasperated with her own mind and body, and feeling a tad bit dramatic (although she feels as though the drama is something she is allowed to indulge in, just a little, for this time of the month because it is not truly drama when the pain is real and the effect is tangible). Moving to sit up, she feels the tell-tale signs of the source of her distress below her and resigns herself to getting up to take care of it.
A knock on her door startles her. The head of white hair, blinding and bright like a beautiful dawn breaking and the grin he gives her freely, pokes in.
"Miss me?"
Eyes tired with the exhaustion that pain brings (that blood loss and internal dismantling and rebuilding bring, too, frankly), she still finds herself softening her gaze and smiling back to him through the halo of light that follows his every move. Phainon takes that as his cue to enter, letting her door slide shut behind him to seal them away from the noise of the outside world. The action narrows her world down to solely the room that they stand in, to no one but him and her, and the effect is immediately a soothing balm to some of the sharpest edges of her pain. She goes to his open arms willingly, letting him embrace the full weight of her without so much as a sound.
Breathing in through the feel of the clutched fabric of his shirt, light blue and patterned with little golden stars, she hardly notices the concern that has made its home in his now-furrowed brows. Watching her slowly crumble in his own arms, Phainon waits for the right moment to intervene; he lets her take her time to feel the full weight of her emotions, to process them as she deems fit first, ever his strong girl (the strength of a new dawn to outshine all of the old ones, the tenacity of the sun to always shine again, things that endear her to him and have from the moment they met) even when she does not realize it.
When tears drop, slow and pained, between the little stars of his shirt, he lowers his hand to the small of her back, subtly pulling her (willingly, always) closer, tighter. He buries his nose into the crown of her head where it presses into his shoulder and murmurs his questions to her. Asking her what's wrong, what she needs, can he help? earns him mumbled answers from the depths of his blue shirt that she seems content to all-but suffocate herself in.
Fondness in his eyes, bright blue like the stars outside that pass by, he knows what plagues her now. Manuevering the two of them to curl up more comfortably amongst pillows (cases on and easily washed) and blankets (nested, twisted and tangled and made into the most comfortble pile) that lay nearby, he parts from her only to make a quick supply run. Snacks first, he thinks (fruits and protein, and something salty and something sweet, a fine assortment of the things she would need most), then drinks (water, so much water, and tea- the kinds that are best for this like elderberry or raspberry or peppermint or pomegranate are all available to him so he grabs a variety just in case).
Anything else that he can think of for her is stockpiled along the way, hyperaware that he does not want to leave her alone for too long. He knows she does not need his help, per se, but she tends to appreciate his help, to cherish it, to want it even- a novelty for her to be able to lean so fully on to someone else is something that he refuses to take for granted. The act of serving her this way pleases something inside of him, a hero's need to provide and love so wholeheartedly apparent even in the mundane, and he takes great joy in helping her with the simple things (especially if he can help her mitigate the pain; her cycle really does look painful each time). If the way her eyes soften when she looks to him sparks his heart in ways he has never known, if her kisses taste even sweeter in the wake of his gentle care, then that is just a bonus, he decides.
"I'm back."
Gently, through the door again and making his way over to where she has curled herself into a tightly wound ball, he sets the things he has collected within arms reach. He lays himself next to her, stretched out, and coaxes her to follow suit at her own pace. From experience, they both know that the cramps will only continue to worsen if she ignores them, curls into them, and he seeks to help with that next. Her legs tangle with his, slowly but surely, and she stretches herself, hips first, to alleviate the pain that shuffling around has wrought. One sun-warm palm finds the worst of her pain points, Phainon taking the initiative and letting her know, through the action, that she can trust him to take it from here.
A kiss to her temple thanks her for trusting him, a kiss to his collarbone thanks him for being him (a squeeze to his wrist promises him that she will return the favor whenever he so needs it, and they both know it will be out of love, not obligation), and he begins a gentle massage of the tension her body carries. Delicate, firm, warm pressure persuades her cramps to ease up just a bit, and she breathes easier for the first time since her current state had started.
She falls asleep, exhausted by her body's own taxing process and the mental toil it brings, right there in his arms. Humming a tune to no one in particular, Phainon only holds her closer as she dreams of the solace of gentle ocean waves rolling through a bright golden dawn, serene.
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚🌅˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚🌅˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚
When he steps out of the room only briefly, set off to find himself a suitable snack once he knows she is safely sound asleep, he runs into Himeko and March. The Astral Express crew takes care of its own, takes care of each other, and so, they know exactly why he had pillaged the Express' cupboards the way that he has. March gives him a deciphering look anyway, as if sizing up his worthiness in this endeavor.
"Well?" She asks.
Phainon only laughs, shaking his head playfully to the two women so concerned for their friend (their family, really).
"Don't worry, ladies; I too, go through cycles."
March groans, exasperated, while he laughs and winks good-naturedly and heads back towards his dozing lover. Returning to the arms of the person he loves feels like stepping into dawning light each time, a warm sense of home that he will fight to never leave again. If he must help her endure her own cycles, then he only considers it an honor and a privilege, not a burden, and lays by her side every time, forevermore.