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Mydei had expected exhaustion after the birth of his daughter; pain, certainly. Perhaps even fear.
But nothing had prepared him for the heaviness that settled into his bones in the days that followed, as though something inside him had quietly dimmed. The world did not pause for him, though.
The house moved gently around them, like a vessel crossing a quiet sea: steaming bowls of broth appearing by his bedside; the soft shuffle of blankets being adjusted when Phainon thought he was asleep; the faint melody of lullabies hummed in another room, tender as thread. Phainon’s voice reached him in soft currents, checking on him or coaxing, yet Mydei drifted in and out of himself, as if his heart had dissolved into a thin mist that the slightest breath could scatter.
He hadn’t yet looked at the baby.
The cradle sat only a few steps away, draped in a pale cloth embroidered with tiny stars —a gift they had chosen together months ago. Every time he tried to approach it, something seized him by the ribs; a tremor, almost hidden, ran along his hands. He would turn away with some fragile excuse each time: he needed rest, he hadn’t showered, he would try again later… But later never came.
He told himself he was tired, that his body was healing, that even strong people lost their footing after such a trial. But the truth was harsher, lodged like a shard beneath his breastbone: he feared touching their daughter. Feared that the moment he held her, she would sense the weakness he had tried all his life to bury, the insecure parts of him he kept hidden even from his husband.
And beneath it all simmered a thought he couldn’t banish, no matter how viciously he tried to shove it down: Phainon will grow tired of me.
His body felt unfamiliar now —softened in places where he had once been sharp, marked with new lines and scars that seemed to echo every fragile hour of the past months. The elegant and luring silhouette he once wore with unthinking confidence had become a faded memory. When he passed the mirror, he saw someone altered, someone blurred around the edges, as if the painter had not finished the final strokes. On some days, he couldn’t even meet that reflection at all. He would catch a glimpse of the shadows beneath his eyes, the slope of tired shoulders, and look away with a sting of shame.
How could Phainon still want him? Desire him? Maybe he didn’t anymore… Two weeks had passed by since their daughter’s birth, and Phainon hadn’t initiated anything —no familiar brush of fingers at his waist, no lingering kiss at his throat, no quiet murmur of later, my love.
Mydei told himself he was imagining things, that Phainon was simply busy and tired, or giving him space. Yet the doubt coiled tighter each day, whispering cruelly: You are not the Mydei he once loved anymore. He never said these things aloud, though. He couldn’t bear the thought of Phainon witnessing how deeply the darkness had rooted itself inside him, couldn’t allow the possibility of confirming those fears with a single glance or word.
Phainon, with his steady eyes and steady hands, deserved someone whole —not Mydei, who felt as though he’d been hollowed out and left echoing.
So he kept silent.
And the silence grew teeth, sharp and patient, gnawing at him day after day until he no longer knew where the quiet ended and he began.
Mydei sat on the edge of the couch, robe pulled tight around him though the room was warm. His tea had gone cold in his hands again; he hadn’t taken a sip.
Phainon entered softly, carrying their daughter in the crook of one arm. She was asleep, her tiny fingers curled like a promise around his father. She made a small noise, halfway between a sigh and a hum, and it struck something deep in Mydei’s chest, something that ached too fiercely to name.
“Mydei,” Phainon said, voice warm, careful. “Thea’s been awake all morning. I thought… maybe you’d want to see her.”
Mydei’s breath caught, his gaze drifting toward the bundle in Phainon’s arms, only to recoil a heartbeat later. His stomach twisted. “I can’t,” he murmured, eyes fixed on his cooling tea. “Not right now.”
Phainon approached anyway, but gently, as though Mydei were a frightened bird that might bolt at any sudden movement. He knelt beside the couch, their daughter slumbering peacefully against his shoulder. “My love,” he said quietly, “it’s been three weeks. You don’t even have to hold her. Just look at how precious she is. That’s all I’m asking.”
A tremor ran along Mydei’s fingers. He placed the cup down before it slipped from his hand.
“I said I can’t.”
“Could you tell me why?”
Something inside Mydei shuddered under the soft tone in his voice, like a thin structure bearing too much weight. His throat tightened; he hated how small his voice sounded when he spoke again. “I don’t know,” he lied. “I just… I can’t.”
Phainon’s brows knit with helpless concern. Not frustration —he really never got fed up with Mydei’s little fits—, but something gentler, something that made Mydei want to flinch away and fold into him at the same time.
“You barely eat,” Phainon said, lowering his voice so it wouldn’t disturb the baby. “You don't even sleep fully. I can’t know what’s happening if you don’t tell me anything, so please let me help you. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
Mydei’s breath broke. His arms wrapped around himself as though he could hold in everything that had been gathering dangerously close to the surface these past few days.
“Don’t.” His voice cracked. “Don’t ask me that.”
“Mydei—”
“I said don’t!”
The sharpness surprised both of them. Thea stirred lightly at the sudden edge in his voice, but Phainon rocked her with practiced ease, murmuring something low and soothing until she settled again. Only then did he look back at Mydei —not wounded nor angry, but with a calm sadness.
Mydei felt something inside him snap under that gaze. Tears welled before he could stop them. His vision blurred, and he pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes, but the tears broke through anyway, slipping hot down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” Mydei whispered. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Phainon reached out slowly, offering his free hand. Mydei stared at it through his tears, then hesitantly placed his trembling fingers over Phainon’s palm. Phainon’s thumb brushed the back of his hand, small circles that grounded him more than any words could.
“Okay, okay… You don’t have to force yourself,” Phainon murmured, and Mydei’s breath hitched again. “We will wait. Thea and I will wait for you. As long as it takes.”
The words struck Mydei with such gentle certainty that he bowed his head, shoulders shaking as the tears came harder —silent at first, then ragged. Phainon stayed by him, hand wrapped around his, daughter sleeping peacefully against his chest, forming a small, patient constellation around Mydei’s shattering.
And Mydei cried without holding anything back, the guilt and fear spilling out drop by drop, while Phainon’s warmth remained a quiet anchor pulling him back from the drifting dark.
A week later he woke to emptiness on the other side of the bed.
Phainon’s warmth still lingered in the sheets, folded into the shape his body had left behind, but the man himself was gone. The room felt dim, as though dawn had forgotten to arrive.
Mydei blinked at the ceiling. The silence pressed against him heavily, like a blanket he didn’t know how to crawl out from under. To make matters worse, he had not slept well for the past few days. His dreams came in fractured pieces now —shadows of fear, echoes of cries, the hollowed sensation of waking and not knowing how to breathe through the darkness.
Pulling him to reality, he could hear a faint murmur somewhere in the house. Soft, low, rhythmic —like the tide withdrawing from the shore.
Mydei rose before he even decided to, feet hitting the cold floor with reluctant gravity. His steps down the hallway were padded, slow, as though wading through water. His heart thudded in his chest with a strange anticipation he didn’t understand.
The nursery door was cracked open, lamplight spilling through in a thin slash across the floorboards. The light was warm and golden, a quiet hearth in the middle of the night. He paused and then, with a breath that didn’t quite make it to the bottom of his lungs, he looked inside, where Phainon stood by the window, the lamplight haloing him in soft amber. His robe hung loose around his shoulders, revealing the line of his collarbone and the mark shaped like the sun in his neck. And in his arms, their daughter.
He held Thea with a reverence that made something within Mydei twist painfully. One hand supported her back, the other cupping her small form as though she were a blessing that might vanish if he didn’t hold her just right. She fit against him like a second heartbeat.
The baby made a sound and Phainon swayed. Smooth, as if this little dance to calm her had always belonged to him. Mydei’s breath hitched and pressed a hand against the doorframe to steady himself. He had not seen this before, not truly; he had never allowed himself to. Phainon bent his head, brushing his cheek lightly against Thea’s thin hair. When he spoke, his voice was low, nearly a whisper, softened with a tenderness that Mydei had never heard directed at anyone but himself.
“There we go…” he murmured. “Hush now. You’re safe, little star.”
The words warmed the air, and Mydei felt them lodge beneath his ribs. His eyes blurred without him really noticing.
Phainon continued, unaware that his whispers, as if he was telling a secret, were being overheard. “You look like him, you know.” He stroked Thea’s cheek with his thumb. “Like your mommy.” A fond exhale followed, soft as silk sliding over skin.
“He doesn’t believe it right now,” Phainon whispered, “but you are both so radiant the sun must be jealous.”
The words struck Mydei like an arrow. He covered his mouth with a trembling hand, while Phainon’s voice grew quieter, thick with something devotion-shaped.
“He thinks he’s losing me. Losing himself.” His head bowed, lips brushing the crown of their daughter’s head. “He thinks he’s not ready, but he loves you. He loved you even when he hadn’t seen you, since the first moment we knew.”
Mydei’s knees buckled, and a sound tore from him —something cracked and wounded, half-sob, half-gasp. Phainon turned sharply.
“Mydei?”
His eyes widened at the sight of him: shaking, tears streaming unchecked down his face, body folding in on itself as though his bones could no longer hold him upright.
“Mydei, my love, come here—”
“I—Phainon—” The words burst out, collapsing under their own weight. “I can’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I can’t hold her… I look at her and I feel like I’m not good enough—”
Sobs ripped through him, raw and unrestrained. Phainon shifted instantly, cradling Thea securely with one arm while extending the other toward Mydei. He stumbled into Phainon, clutching at his robe like a drowning man.
“I thought you’d be tired of me,” he cried into Phainon’s chest. “You don’t touch or reach for me anymore, not like before. I thought you looked at me and saw something ruined, broken and disgus—”
Phainon didn’t let the rest exist. His breath caught sharply and then his mouth found Mydei’s, a steadying press of warmth, a vow in the shape of a kiss. His hand rose to cradle the back of Mydei’s head, thumb brushing damp strands of hair as if smoothing the very thought away.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against Mydei’s, and Thea was still sleeping soundly between her parent’s heartbeats.
“Don’t finish that sentence,” he murmured, voice low and shaken. “Not even in your mind.”
Mydei shook his head, sobbing too hard to manage it, but Phainon tipped his chin up with gentle fingers.
“I didn’t touch you,” Phainon started, “because you were in pain. You were exhausted, and you needed rest. I could see you drifting away from us, and I was terrified I might make it worse.”
“And because sometimes,” he admitted in a breath that trembled, “I couldn’t trust myself. Not when I wanted you so badly. I didn’t want to burden you with my desire when you could barely stand.”
Mydei blinked at him, stunned. Phainon’s voice softened, breaking open.
“I wasn’t rejecting you. I was longing for you so much it hurt.”
Something in Mydei cracked deeper, yet the fissure didn’t swallow him; it let air in for the first time in weeks. Phainon shifted, drawing him closer, warm and grounding even while holding their daughter.
“You haven’t lost me,” he whispered. “You never could.”
Mydei’s sobs ebbed into shaking breaths. His head rested against Phainon’s shoulder, the strength of him, the steadiness of him, carving a path through the fog he’d been trapped in. Then Phainon guided him, really slowly and with care, toward their daughter.
“Mydei,” he murmured, voice like warm dusk, “let me give her to you. Just for a moment.”
Mydei froze, hands trembling as Phainon lifted Thea slightly, adjusting his grip.
“She won’t break,” Phainon said gently. “And neither will you.”
His hand found Mydei’s wrist, guiding it closer to Thea. A soft whimper escaped Mydei, part fear, part longing. Then, hesitantly, as though touching something sacred, he placed his hand against their daughter’s back.
So warm. So small. So fragile.
Thea breathed against his palm without waking up, as if she was trusting him without hesitation, as though she recognized him immediately. A little smile appeared in her face, and Mydei’s breath shattered. A soft sob spilled out, different from the others. Phainon’s forehead pressed to his, breath unsteady.
“We will be the greatest fathers,” he whispered. “We will learn together. You are not alone, Mydei... will never be.”
Mydei lifted Thea into his arms with Phainon’s help. She curled into him, her cheek resting against his chest. His tears fell onto her blanket and he held her even tighter.
“…I want to try,” Mydei said, voice shaking.
Phainon’s exhale trembled with relief and kissed the crown of Mydei’s head.
“Then we start here,” he murmured, placing a hand over both of them, binding them in warmth.
Mydei closed his eyes, and for the first time since the birth, he felt something other than fear swelling in his chest.
He felt home.