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Lately, Phainon’s mornings sometimes start with him throwing up into the toilet bowl as if it personally offends him.
Nothing too dramatic, no. He isn’t retching too badly or tragically collapsing to the floor, but it’s persistent enough that by the time he’s done, his eyes are watering and his throat burns. He stays bent over the toilet bowl for a moment longer than necessary, breathing carefully, before reaching for the flush.
He fumbles for the sink next, rinsing his mouth until the sour taste fades to something tolerable. When he straightens, his knees wobble a little, and he briefly considers sitting down—but then, stubbornly, decides to power through. After all, he's not the one who—
A gentle hand settles between his shoulder blades.
“Easy,” Mydei murmurs, already there.
Phainon exhales and gives up before the argument even starts. He lets himself be steadied as Mydei steps in close, close enough that Phainon’s back brushes the front of his stomach. The solid curve presses there, warm and steady, and Phainon stills instinctively, acutely aware of where he is—of who he’s touching.
Carefully—slowly—he turns around, making sure not to jostle Mydei as the awareness settles fully into his chest.
Up close, Mydei smells like sleep and eucalyptus and that faint pomegrenate scent Phainon associates with home. Phainon reaches out without thinking, palm resting over the round belly beneath the cream-colored pajama top. Not for the first time, the thought lands heavy and reverent all at once: there’s a life in there—and it’s theirs. Something unbearably precious, something he would guard with everything he has.
Morning sickness be damned.
A cool, damp towel dabs at his lips, careful and precise. Then Mydei tilts Phainon’s chin up with two fingers and presses the rim of a glass against his mouth like this is non-negotiable.
Phainon wraps both hands around it immediately, taking the glass from him so Mydei doesn’t have to juggle everything at once. He drinks in small, obedient sips, like he’s been trained for this.
“You’re really committing to this role reversal,” Mydei says with a crooked smile. “I feel like I’ve been robbed of a trimester.”
Phainon swallows, coughs once, and manages a weak laugh that barely clears his throat.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Didn’t realize you were attached to the experience.”
Mydei simply hums, lifting a hand to the back of Phainon’s neck and tracing slow, familiar circles with his thumb—a mirror of what Phainon used to do for him, back when the roles were reversed.
When Phainon sets the glass down on the counter, he notices Mydei’s other arm hovering close, ready—like he’s prepared to catch him if he sways again. His posture is steady and deliberate, in that way Phainon both loves and fears—because Mydei is still the one ready to catch him, when it should be the other way around.
That’s the thing. At the core, Mydei has never changed.
No matter how round his belly gets in this final trimester, no matter how carefully he has to move now, and despite the rough patches earlier in the pregnancy, there’s still that same instinctive care, that same quiet protectiveness woven into everything he does. Even more so now that Phainon seems to have it rougher in this final trimester. Mydei would soothe first, making sure Phainon is alright before anything else.
Phainon swallows around the tightness in his throat.
He should be the one doing this. Especially now, when there’s a life inside Mydei that needs protecting too. He should be the one guarding, hovering, making sure Mydei has nothing to worry about—including worrying about him.
And yet—here Mydei is. Still taking care of him anyway.
Which, Phainon thinks dimly, is unfair.
This part was supposed to be over.
He takes another sip of water, then stills as his stomach gives a warning roll that makes him freeze mid-swallow.
“Okay,” Mydei says immediately. “Sit.”
“I’m fine,” Phainon lies, even as his knees disagree.
Mydei doesn’t argue. He simply shifts his grip and guides Phainon down, slow and deliberate, until Phainon’s back meets the cool edge of the bathtub and then the tile floor. Mydei doesn’t crouch so much as carefully lower himself, one hand braced against the tub, the other steady on Phainon’s shoulder.
The nausea ebbs, then settles into something dull and persistent.
And that's when he notices Mydei's regulated breathing. The way he's balancing himself, staying close without crowding, knees angled away, belly given space.
Phainon's hands immediately settle on Mydei's side, as if to help him up.
“You didn’t have to—” he starts.
“I did,” Mydei says calmly, grabbing the cold towel and pressing it to Phainon's forehead. “Stay still.”
So Phainon relents and focuses on breathing. The bathroom feels smaller from down here, quieter. He can hear the fan, the pipes, the soft rustle of Mydei adjusting his balance to stay close.
This position feels strangely familiar, because there was a time when mornings always started like this. But back then, it had been Mydei sitting on this floor instead, frustrated and miserable, while Phainon counted breaths and murmured reassurances that went mostly ignored.
Not so long ago, it had been Mydei sitting here instead—jaw tight with frustration, breath shallow with nausea, refusing to make a sound even as his body betrayed him.
He hadn’t cried ever since these morning sickness started. Not even once. What he had been was angry—quietly, constantly, like someone stuck in a body that refused to cooperate.
Phainon noticed it in the small ways first: the way Mydei lingered too long at the sink, knuckles white against porcelain; the way his jaw tightened when another meal failed him; the way he stared at food like it had personally wronged him.
Mydei had always been disciplined with his body. Fit. Precise. Thirty percent exercise, seventy percent diet, as if it were a philosophy instead of a habit. He knew exactly what worked for him, exactly how far he could push himself without consequence.
Pregnancy scattered that certainty.
Foods he relied on—red meat, rich stews, anything dense with protein, even the sweets he usually enjoyed—turned his stomach. What remained tolerable were softer things, cooler things, sweetness diluted until it barely registered. Even salads, once the subject of endless jokes at Phainon’s expense, became what little food he could keep down.
The change offended Mydei in a way Phainon understood instinctively. It wasn’t about control so much as familiarity. About his body no longer recognizing the rules he’d always lived by.
So Phainon adapted. Quietly, he took over cooking whenever he was home. He read labels he’d never paid attention to before. Learned which textures Mydei tolerated, which smells turned traitorous without warning. He experimented in small batches so nothing would go to waste. After work, he would sometimes bring back simple foods from the market to test what Mydei’s stomach would accept, and finished whatever Mydei couldn’t without comment. He treated every meal that stayed down like small victories.
The exercise ban, however, was harder to swallow.
Mydei paced when he couldn’t sleep. Stretched restlessly in doorways. Flexed his hands like he was holding himself back from something. They used to spar in the gym—gloves on, controlled punches, the kind of boxing that left them both sweaty and bruised, tension burned off in a rhythm they knew by heart. Now, Phainon wouldn’t even entertain it.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Mydei snapped once, breathless and pale. “I know my limits.”
“I know mine too,” Phainon said, stepping closer instead of backing away. “And I’m not going to risk crossing them.”
Mydei’s jaw tightened for a moment, fingers curling slightly as if punching the air would help. He exhaled sharply, tension humming just beneath the surface.
Slowly, Phainon spread his arms, a small, patient smile tugging at his lips. “If you still want to practice your punches on me, you can. I just won’t hit back.”
Mydei glared at him, took several deep, steadying breaths, and finally leaned closer, sinking forward into the embrace. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured into Phainon’s shoulder, hands coming up to grip the back of his shirt. “That kind of one-sided match isn’t sparring.”
Phainon’s arms closed around him slowly, careful, grounding. He rested his cheek lightly against Mydei’s, and when there's no resistance, nuzzles closer. “Mm, it can count as sparring if I say so.”
“Who died and made you king?”
“As far as I’m concerned,” Phainon said easily, “you’re the king in this house, Your Highness.”
"Haikas." The playful punch to his ribs caught Phainon off guard. He laughed—and felt, with quiet relief, Mydei’s shoulders finally loosen.
That, Phainon realized, was how it would have to be. Not fixing. Not forcing. Just meeting him where he was, again and again, until something eased.
Phainon learned the rhythm pretty quickly—when to hold Mydei’s hair back, when to stay silent, when to speak anyway. He learned the difference between anger that needed space and frustration that needed anchoring. He learned how to rub slow, gentle pressure into Mydei’s nape and back until the tension bled out of him.
Sometimes Mydei snapped. Sometimes he went quiet. Sometimes he cursed the kitchen, the lingering smells, the unfairness of craving things he didn’t even like.
Phainon learned to meet it with patience—lighthearted jokes when they landed, quiet steadiness when they didn’t. When Mydei’s hands twitched in frustration or his breath went shallow with it, Phainon stayed close without pressing, voice low and even. He waited for the small cues: a pause that lingered too long, a glance that asked without words. Then he stepped in—offering a glass, steadying a bowl, rubbing slow, grounding pressure into Mydei’s nape until the tension eased.
And more often than not, Mydei met him halfway. He took the sips offered. Let his shoulders relax under familiar hands. Leaned in instead of pulling away. Small concessions, barely noticeable on their own, but enough to keep the rhythm between them intact—enough to sand down the sharp edges of the first trimester.
Pomegranate juice disappeared from the house around that time. Quietly, it joined the list of things Mydei no longer wanted, filed away alongside everything else his body rejected.
Somehow, that loss hit Phainon too. Pomegranate juice had always felt almost synonymous with Mydei—bright, sharp, unmistakably him. Just as Mydei seemed to lose a small, unspoken piece of himself, Phainon felt it go too. He didn’t comment on it, though. He couldn’t risk making Mydei sad on top of everything.
The mornings shifted slowly after that.
Mydei still got sick, but less violently. Less often. Some days, he could sit at the table instead of bracing himself against the counter, shoulders tight like he was preparing for impact. On those mornings, he looked faintly surprised by his own body, like he wasn’t sure whether to trust the reprieve.
Phainon still made salads along with whatever Mydei could tolerate that day. Plain grains. Soup that barely smelled like anything at all. When Mydei pushed his bowl away halfway through, brow furrowed, Phainon slid it closer and finished it himself.
“You don’t have to,” Mydei muttered, watching him.
“I want to,” Phainon said with a smile, and ate anyway. "You know I eat a lot."
But they both knew it was because Mydei always hated wasting food, and Phainon would rather not have him feel bad for being unable to finish his meals.
When Mydei finally deemed himself fit enough to cook again, Phainon hovered for the first few times like it was a habit he hadn’t quite learned how to break—opening windows, quietly shifting ingredients out of reach, watching Mydei more than the stove. Eventually, work pulled him away. He lingered by the door anyway, only to be waved off with a fondly exasperated 'I’ll be fine', Mydei already reaching for a pan like proof.
And, for the most part, he was.
Smells dulled. Textures stopped rebelling. Meals became less of a negotiation. When Phainon was home, he still nudged Mydei toward gentler flavors, still kept a quiet tally of what stayed down. And now and then, he could slip in a small portion of something sweet—not enough to overwhelm, just enough for Mydei to pause, sigh, and eat it anyway, like he was reluctantly admitting he’d missed it.
It was sometime in the second trimester that Phainon noticed something.
At the market, Mydei slowed near the juice stall every time. His gaze lingered on the neat rows of glass bottles—deep red, almost luminous—before he looked away, lips pressing together like he was conceding something he didn’t want to name.
Phainon never commented. Never asked.
But one evening, he came back from work with a small glass bottle tucked carefully under his arm.
He didn’t announce it. Just set it on the table, poured it slowly, then added milk until the color softened into the familiar pink.
“You don’t have to try it,” Phainon said quickly. “I just thought—”
Mydei lifted the glass with both hands and took a cautious sip.
Then another.
His brows drew together. His breath hitched—so subtly Phainon almost missed it. Mydei stared down at the glass, unmoving.
“Hey—” Phainon started, already stepping closer. “Is it bad? I can—”
A tear slid down Mydei’s cheek.
Phainon froze.
“Oh gods, I’m sorry,” he said at once, panic tumbling over itself. “Did it turn? I should’ve checked—”
Mydei blinked, startled at his sudden panic. Sowly, he reached up to touch his face—and then he laughed. It's sharp and incredulous, but there's a wetness to it.
“No,” he said as he wiped at his eyes, laughter gradually subsiding. “No, it’s good. It’s right.”
He took another drink, shoulders loosening as he exhaled.
“Mmh,” Mydei breathed, smiling despite himself. “I missed this.”
Phainon sagged in relief and walked over to stand behind him, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze.
“I know,” he said softly, then slid his arms around Mydei’s shoulders, careful of the glass still cradled in his hands.
When Mydei leaned back against him with a quiet, content hum, something unclenched.
It didn’t fix everything. But it softened something that had been held too tight for too long.
Mydei still couldn’t eat red meat the way he used to. Still craved things that would have offended him months ago. But the anger dulled, then loosened its grip entirely. He stopped fighting his body like it was an enemy.
If there was one thing Phainon never doubted, it was this: Mydei never regretted the pregnancy. Not once. Not in frustration, not in exhaustion, not even at his sickest. He wasn’t resentful—just learning, day by day, how to live in a body that asked different things of him now.
And it took time. More patience than either of them had ever learned to measure—especially on the nights when Mydei’s body refused him even rest.
Sometimes, sleep came hard. Restless shifting. Shallow breaths. Frustration humming even in exhaustion. Phainon would murmur softly—more sound than words—steadying him the way they always had. A slow hand at Mydei’s back. Gentle pressure between his shoulders. Counting breaths together until Mydei’s began to follow the rhythm.
When sleep finally claimed him, it did so completely.
It was after one such night that Phainon lay awake beside him, one arm curved protectively around Mydei’s back, the other resting where his breathing rose and fell—slow, even, finally untroubled.
He shifted and pressed their foreheads together.
Aeons, he thought quietly, without flourish. Please take all of Mydei’s pain and discomfort away and give it to me instead.
The words settled in his chest with surprising ease.
Phainon didn’t linger on them. He simply held Mydei a little closer, as if that alone could make it true, and let the thought fade with the sound of Mydei’s breathing.
By morning, he had almost forgotten it.
Months later, here they are: Phainon sitting on the bathroom floor, stomach heaving, forehead damp with a cold cloth while Mydei, now well into his third trimester, is calm.
Calm, in the way Mydei has learned to be these days.
He moves slower, yes—pausing mid-step to stretch the ache from his back, rubbing at his hips after standing too long, sighing softly when a grocery bag turns out heavier than it looks. But there’s no frustration in it. He knows when to rest, when to ask for help. He even jokes about it, light and dry, like it’s just another adjustment to be managed.
Phainon does not joke about it. Instead, he throws up in the mornings.
As he sits on the bathroom floor, he wonders if this is the result of his prayer back then.
Mydei removes the cloth from his forehead, and Phainon blinks up at him.
"Feeling better?" Mydei asks gently. "I'll make you some ginger tea after this, okay?"
The tenderness in his voice settles something in Phainon’s chest—and twists it at the same time. Embarrassment flares, hot and sudden. What is he doing here, sprawled on the bathroom floor, while Mydei—round-bellied and careful with his balance—bends to take care of him?
Tears sting the corners of his eyes. “Mydei,” he whimpers. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Haikas, there’s nothing to cry about,” Mydei says fondly, thumbing the moisture away before it can fall. “Now let’s get you that tea, okay?”
Phainon nods, swallowing hard. He pushes himself up first—quickly, before Mydei can try to do it for him—then reaches out to steady Mydei in turn as they rise together.
*
Phainon is propped against the pillows, ginger tea cupped in both hands like it’s the only thing anchoring him. Mydei eases himself down beside him with careful and practiced movement, and studies his face. In an attempt to not get read like an open book, Phainon takes a slow sip of the tea.
“You’ve been stressing a lot,” Mydei says.
Phainon huffs. “I’m fine.”
“You threw up and then apologized,” Mydei replies. “Again.”
Phainon exhales, shoulders slumping. He stares into the tea, watching the steam curl and thin.
“We know what this is,” Mydei says gently. “Hyacine warned us about it.” He reaches out, palm open in quiet invitation. Phainon responds immediately, freeing one hand from the mug to lace their fingers together. “You’re having sympathetic pregnancy symptoms because you’ve been carrying too much on your own.”
Phainon swallows. He can’t really taste the tea over the knot in his chest.
“So,” Mydei adds softly, thumb brushing over Phainon’s knuckles, “won’t you share that with me?”
Phainon takes a slow breath, letting the sharp warmth of ginger steady him.
“I just—I need you to be okay,” he admits. “I know you are. The baby’s healthy. All the checkups have been good. I know all of that.” His grip tightens around the mug. “But back then, you were hurting. A lot. And I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t make it stop.” His voice drops. “Now it's so close and whenever I see you wince, slow down, pause to breathe—it feels like I’m right back there. Like if I don’t watch closely enough, I’ll miss the moment you need me again.”
Mydei listens without interrupting, thumb warm and steady against Phainon’s wrist.
“Phainon,” he says at last, calm and sure. “You never missed anything. You were always there.”
Phainon lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “It felt like it wasn't enough. That I—”
“I know.” Mydei’s grip firms, just slightly. “But that doesn’t make it true.”
Slowly, Mydei shifts closer and Phainon immediately sets the mug aside, automatically making room, bracing an arm behind Mydei’s back so he can lean in if he needs to. Mydei settles against his side, solid and warm.
“I know that first trimester was rough,” Mydei continues, unflinching. “I was angry. At my body. At food. At myself.” His mouth quirks. “And it wasn’t just hard on me. It was hard on you, too.”
Phainon opens his mouth. “It wasn’t—”
“No,” Mydei cuts in gently. “Listen.”
He tips his head back just enough to look at Phainon properly.
“My hormones were everywhere. Sometimes I snapped. Sometimes I shut you out. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t keep anything down, and because you’re you,” he says, fond and exasperated all at once, “you decided it was your responsibility to fix all of it.”
“But it was my job—”
“It was your job to be my partner,” Mydei says, calm but firm. “Not my cure.”
Phainon goes quiet.
“You stayed,” Mydei continues. “You learned. You adjusted without making me feel like a burden. You let me be miserable without trying to rush me through it.” His thumb traces a slow circle at Phainon’s wrist. “That matters more than you think.”
Then, more quietly, Mydei says, “Do you remember when I stopped drinking pomegranate juice?”
Phainon stills. Of course he does.
“I didn’t say anything,” Mydei continues. “I tried not to. It felt… silly, to miss something like that.” His mouth curves, wry. “It’s just a drink.”
It hadn’t been. Phainon had known that even then.
“But you saw it anyway,” Mydei says. “You saw how it bothered me—how it felt like losing something that had always been mine.” He glances down at their joined hands. “I wasn’t angry because I couldn’t have it. I was angry because it felt like my body was taking pieces of me without asking.”
Phainon’s chest tightens.
“And when it eased—when my body finally stopped fighting everything—you just brought it back." Mydei pauses, a faint smile on his lips. "Like you were handing me something I’d misplaced.”
He leans in a little more, trusting Phainon to hold him.
“That’s what you do,” Mydei says softly. “You notice when something hurts—even when I think it doesn’t. And you remember who I am when my body makes it hard for me to.”
Phainon’s throat works. He tightens his arm at Mydei’s back, careful, reverent.
“So when I say I’m okay now,” Mydei adds, steady and sure, “it’s not because this hasn’t been difficult. It’s because you carried me through the part where I couldn’t recognize myself.”
Phainon closes his eyes. The nausea lingers faintly, but something else loosens in his chest.
“I just want to do this right,” he murmurs.
“Phainon,” Mydei says, shifting closer. He takes Phainon’s hand and guides it to rest over the curve of his swelling belly. “You rub my feet every night without being asked. Even when you’re exhausted. You wake up before me just to make sure I’ve eaten something. You braid my hair in the morning and set alarms for my vitamins.”
Phainon opens his mouth.
But Mydei isn’t done. “You sit through every appointment like it’s a personal mission. You hold me when I’m sick, even when I snap at you. You’ve never once made me feel like I’m doing this alone.”
There’s a knot in Phainon’s chest that feels like it’s tightening and loosening all at once. Mydei’s thumb presses lightly against his knuckles—a familiar, grounding touch.
“So if that’s not doing it right,” Mydei adds, mouth quirking, “then clearly I’ve been severely misinformed about what a good partner should be like.”
As if on cue, there’s a firm little movement beneath Phainon’s hand—a slow press, then a definite kick.
Phainon inhales sharply.
Mydei’s mouth curves. “See?” he adds lightly. “Even our baby agrees.”
Something in Phainon breaks open at that—our baby. Growing inside Mydei is a life made out of their love. His throat tightens, emotion rising fast and unguarded, and he brushes his thumb over the spot again, slow and careful, like he’s afraid of startling something precious.
“So stop worrying,” Mydei continues, gentle but sure. “You’re doing great.” A beat. Then, fondly, “You’re almost a perfect husband.”
Phainon stills. He looks down at Mydei, who only meets his gaze with a faint, knowing smirk.
“Almost?” Phainon asks.
“Mmh.” Mydei’s thumb traces a slow, absent circle against the back of Phainon’s hand, still warm against his belly. “You’d be perfect if you didn’t stress yourself out so much it starts manifesting physically.”
Phainon lets out a weak laugh. Right. He should be stronger. There are two lives he’s meant to protect, to support. He can’t afford—
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, though,” Mydei adds quietly, like he knew where Phainon's mind went to. “You wouldn’t be you otherwise.”
Phainon leans in and presses his forehead to Mydei’s temple, breathing him in until the tightness in his chest finally loosens. The baby shifts again beneath his hand, smaller this time—almost shy—and Phainon smiles despite himself.
“Okay,” he murmurs, softer now. “I’ll try not to borrow your symptoms anymore.”
Mydei huffs a quiet laugh and nudges his knee against Phainon’s. “Good. There can only be one pregnant person between us.”
Phainon chuckles, the sound low and tired but real, and wraps his arm more securely around Mydei. He stays there, hand warm over the steady rise and fall of his belly, feeling the small, insistent life shifting beneath his palm.
In a few months, there will be a third heartbeat in the room. New worries. New mistakes. New rhythms they’ll have to learn the hard way, together. Phainon knows now that there will never be a version of this where fear disappears completely.
For now, he presses a kiss into Mydei’s hair and lets his breathing finally match the calm he’s been borrowing all morning, hand still resting where their baby reminds him, quietly and surely, that whatever comes next, whatever they fumble through or figure out too late…
They are in this together.
—Fin.