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Over the years, Mydeimos gradually came to a deeper understanding of the nature of his relationship with his beloved Phainon. It wasn't surprising that phainon lacked a genuine response to his love. Despite his deep affection for cyrene, he remained perplexed by the vast emotional disparity between them. It all began with a passionate encounter that made him acutely aware of his resentment towards cyrene…
The pleasurable moans were always her name, not his. This realization was a wake-up call; he understood that the lover in phainon's eyes could only be cyrene, not the real him.
But that's not so bad, is it? He just… needs time, right? Soon he'll fall in love with him, mydeimos, not cyrene, right? Wrong. Years passed, and no matter how many times they entwined, embraced, kissed, and kissed, nothing changed. It was always cyrene, not mydeimos.
But it's not so bad either, is it? He was good enough to him, he cherished him, he gave him so much love… but who did he truly love, him or cyrene? Now, wouldn't it be a waste to give up this relationship? So mydeimos chose to let go. He loved her too much. If he loved cyrene, then mydeimos would respect that.
At this moment, he lay on the bed beside phainon, silently reading, without uttering a word. It had always been like this. Unless they were intimate, he seemed to want nothing to do with mydeimos at all. Given how passionate they both were, this coldness was unexpected.
Phainon closed his book, glanced at him, and noticed his expression. He placed the book on the bedside table and turned his gaze to mydeimos.
“You’re unusually quiet today,”
he said, his tone calm. It was less a question and more an observation.
“Let’s cancel our anniversary reservations.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by mydeimos's words.
“Cancel the reservations? Why?”
Phainon asked, his tone tinged with suspicion and curiosity.
“That day happens to be cyrene’s birthday, doesn’t it?”
A flicker of surprise crossed phainon's eyes, quickly followed by a hint of annoyance. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“mydei, you’re being unreasonable. Tomorrow is our anniversary; we booked the table weeks ago. I can celebrate Cyrene’s birthday another day.”
Phainon frowned, his annoyance growing stronger.
“mydei, what’s wrong with you? We booked the table weeks ago; tomorrow is our anniversary. There’s no reason to cancel.”
His tone was firm but tinged with anger. He wouldn’t easily agree to mydeimos's sudden request.
Mydeimos sneered.
“Is it necessary? What’s there to commemorate?”
Phainon gritted his teeth, his annoyance gradually turning into frustration.
“To celebrate us,” he said curtly, “tomorrow is our anniversary, a day to cherish and reminisce about our time together. Why are you suddenly so opposed?”
“Cancel the reservation. We need a break,” mydeimos said.
Phainon paused, his face darkening, his hands gripping the edge of the bed tightly.
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded sharply, his tone clearly defensive. He hadn’t expected mydeimos to say something like that.
The silence in the room grew heavier, the atmosphere between the two increasingly tense. Phainon narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing mydeimos, trying to decipher his expression. After a few seconds, he spoke again, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
“Are you going to explain what you mean, or just shut up like a child?” phainon sighed deeply, his patience clearly exhausted, his voice lowered, carrying a warning.
“No.” He looked at mydeimos. “We won’t cancel any bookings just because you deliberately made things difficult today.” His gaze was icy—he wouldn’t let him win this argument so easily.
“We need a break,” mydeimos said calmly. Phainon's frustration was palpable. He gritted his teeth, his voice laced with growing rage.
“break? The day before our anniversary? Really, mydei?” He sighed heavily, scratching his head in frustration. The whole thing was utterly absurd; he couldn’t accept it.
“You can’t just decide we need to calm down without saying a word. Talk to me.”
“I hate you.”
Phainon's entire body tensed, his expression shifting between shock and a growing gloom. His voice was low and dangerous.
“…What did you just say?”
The atmosphere in the room became tense; his usual cold demeanor was now filled with rage. He wouldn’t give up so easily.
“I hate you. I’ve had enough of you.”
Phainon froze; those words struck him like a heavy blow. This was not what he expected to hear.
“You…hate me,” he repeated, his words bitter and strained. His voice held disbelief, and the suppressed pain was palpable. “You’re tired of me.”
“You hate me too. So every time we make love, you call out her name. After you’re done, you treat me like a rag. There’s no future between us.”
Phainon's expression turned cold, his eyes narrowing. Every word mydeimos spoke felt like a sharp blade piercing him.
“So that’s how it is,” he said coldly. “You’re jealous. Jealous because I don’t call you by your name, is that it?” He took a step forward, his gaze sharp and resolute.
Phainon sneered, a bitter, cold smile playing on his lips. He took another step forward, looking down at mydeimos.
“How pathetic,” he said, his tone laced with contempt. “For so long, I thought you understood everything. But now you act like a child who hasn’t gotten what he wanted.”
He leaned slightly forward, his voice low and mocking.
“Were you waiting for me to say it? Waiting for me to say I never cared about you? Pathetic, mydei.” phainon instinctively reached out and grabbed mydeimos's wrist—*gritting it too tightly*, as if afraid to let go.
“don't you dare walk away!” he snapped, his voice trembling with some intense emotion suppressed beneath his anger. His hand trembled slightly, then tightened its grip—as if punishing their momentary weakness.
Medemos shook off phainon's hand and walked toward the wardrobe.
His next words were low and hoarse: “You won’t leave me.” phainon moved swiftly. He grabbed mydeimos's shoulder abruptly, turning him to face him. His eyes burned with a fire of anger and despair—like a man clinging to the edge of a cliff.
“You think it’s that easy?” His voice was hoarse, almost trembling. “After all this—you’re just going to leave? No.” He moved closer again, cornering mydeimos against the wall, but didn’t touch him further.
“Speak properly,” he commanded through gritted teeth.
“Tell me you hate me.”
“I fucking hate you.”
Those words struck him like a punch to the stomach, and he gasped. He thought he was prepared, but hearing mydeimos say those words felt like a blade piercing his heart. A part of him wanted to back down, to retreat into his cold, aloof facade.
But he took another step closer—close enough to feel mydeimos breath on his skin, close enough to see the tear tracks on his cheek. Without thinking, he reached out, grabbed mydeimos's chin, and forced him to look at him.
Mydeimos slapped him. A loud “smack” echoed in the room, like a gunshot. Phainon's head snapped to one side, a bright red mark instantly appearing on his sharply defined cheekbone. He paused, then paused again—before slowly turning to look at mydeimos. His expression was inscrutable, his jaw clenched. He raised his hand, carefully touching the burning spot mydeimos had struck.
A surge of anger welled up within phainon—a strange, burning anger. Every cell in his body yearned to retaliate. He wanted to grab, shove, and push mydeimos against the wall. He wanted to unleash all his frustration, all his pent-up emotions, on this man who dared—what? Hit him?—on him. He really wanted to, damn it. The feeling burned within him like fire.
But phainon restrained himself.
He stood there, frozen, his chest heaving, his fists clenched.
Mydeimos turned and walked to the wardrobe, retrieving two already packed suitcases. The moment he saw the suitcase, phainon's eyes widened in shock. He felt a surge of intense emotion—almost panic. He rushed across the room, blocking mydeimos's path to the door.
"What are you doing?" The words came out more urgently than he had expected, but phainon tried to sound indifferent—trying to mask the despair in his voice.
"Where do you think you're going? Do you think I'd let you just leave like this?"
Phainon's voice was low, his body tense. He showed no intention of moving away from the doorway. If mydeimos thought he would just let him go, abandoning him alone…
He let out a cold, emotionless laugh, a bitter sneer curling at the corner of his mouth.
"Where could you possibly go?"
Mydeimos sighed. "Unlike you, I have friends…family."
Phainon's face darkened, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides.
"Just like that?" he sneered, but his tone lacked its usual ruthlessness. “You’re just going to run back like this? It’s been so long?” His voice trembled slightly as he continued—as if a man were desperately suppressing his inner pain.
“We’ve been through so much together…you really would rather be with *them* than with me?”
Mydeimos removed the engagement ring from his ring finger and placed it on the coffee table. Phainon froze the moment he saw the ring fall to the table.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still. He held his breath, his hands clenched into fists, trembling slightly.
Then—
He abruptly looked up, glaring at mydeimos, his eyes burning with an almost treacherous intensity, his voice low and dangerous: “Put the ring back on.”
This wasn’t a request—it was a command laced with almost uncontrollable rage (and something entirely different).
Mydeimos stared at the tears streaming down phainon's face.
Damn it, he had sworn he wouldn’t cry. Not in front of mydeimos. But the tears flowed uncontrollably—hot, angry, and filled with utter humiliation. Phainon hated mydeimos for making him this way. He hated that he had stripped away his last shred of indifference, leaving only this ugly, painful weakness. But he hated himself even more, hated the immense pain he was enduring. Every muscle in his body was taut like a bowstring, his voice hoarse, each word seeming to say, "Try leaving me."
"I don't want to be here anymore... It's too tiring, phainon."
"..."
"You can't leave me... Please...?"
"..."
"..."