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⪻────𖤓────⪼
There was a reason people in Okhema never bothered to label whatever it was going on between Phainon and Mydei.
They woke together on the same bed. They bathed together—twice, at Phainon’s insistence, once in the morning “to start the day properly” and once at night “because armor carries more than dust.”
They argued about whose turn it was to choose breakfast and competed over who could finish their duties faster, they spar with each other til they were sweaty and aching, and when Curtain-Fall Hour came, they divested themselves of steel and responsibility alike and collapsed into Phainon’s quarters as though the bed had been waiting for them all along.
Friends did not do that.
Lovers, perhaps—but neither of them ever said the word. Never even crossed the line at kissing even.
Which was why, when Mydei did not return one morning, the absence hit Phainon like a missing limb.
⪻────𖤓────⪼
Phainon noticed the absence first in water.
There was no familiar sound of armor being set aside behind him, no quiet huff of breath as someone leaned against the stone rim of the bath and complained—mildly, affectionately—that it wasn't hot enough. The water cooled faster than usual. Or perhaps Phainon lingered longer than usual, scrubbing his arms with unnecessary diligence, as if routine alone might summon Mydei by habit.
It did not.
When he rose, steam trailing from his shoulders, the room felt too wide. Too still.
“Busy,” Phainon told the empty air, fastening his tunic. He smiled to soften the lie. “He’ll return.”
He set out two cups at breakfast later at a casual meetup with Hyacine anyway.
Hyacine noticed. She always did. She said nothing—only watched with the painstaking patience of someone who understood watching two pining men be absolute idiots around each other.
“I think I’ll walk,” Phainon said later, lifting his coat. “The gardens, perhaps.”
Hyacine inclined her head, pigtails bobbing. “Fresh air does wonders.” she magnanimously said, eyes crinkling with knowing.
⪻────𖤓────⪼
The Garden of Life basked in afternoon warmth, chimeras scattered across the terraces like living ornaments. Phainon greeted them as he passed, fingers brushing fur, voice warm and familiar.
“Good afternoon. Yes, yes—I see you’ve claimed the shade.” he spoke to a chimera that was lounging lazily in the shade a potted plant made, when he took notice of familiar orange fur.
It was a familiar orange chimera, smug satisfaction in it's chosen spot, like a prince sitting snugly on his throne. It chirred smugly when Phainon scratched beneath its chin, tail smacking the marble floor.
Then Fig Stew suddenly hissed.
Phainon paused mid-scratch. “Hmm?”
Fig Stew’s eyes were fixed past him, body tensed in unmistakable offense.
Phainon turned—and his breath caught, just a little.
Near one of the marble pillars, half-curled into deliberate smallness, sat another orange chimera.
Similar enough to Fig Stew to invite confusion. Different enough to dispel it at once. The color was similar, but the posture was not. Where Fig Stew sprawled, this one folded inward, limbs tucked close, as if trying very hard not to be noticed.
Phainon already knew Fig Stew.
Everyone did.
Fig Stew was infamous in Okhema: a round, bright-orange chimera with no identifiable horns, a collar of darker fur around its neck, and a remarkable talent for being exactly where it should not be. It lounged freely near the Garden of Life, wandered into the Marmoreal Market whenever it pleased, and had—once—delayed an entire council session by curling beneath the Speaker’s dais and refusing to move.
This was not Fig Stew.
Phainon realized that as he descended the white steps into the lower gardens, hands clasped loosely behind his back, expression open and curious rather than suspicious. Castorice, who was calmly taking pictures of chimeras, saw Phainon and walked beside him, unhurried, matching his pace.
“You’ve been drifting all afternoon,” she said gently, eyes kind. “Is the fresh air helping?.”
Phainon smiled, the kind that came easily to him, and sidestepped the question with ease. “I think I’m simply unused to waiting alone.”
“Kremnoan duties tend to consume Lord Mydei entirely,” Castorice replied, twining her hands. “He forgets to rest.”
“So I’ve noticed,” Phainon said, warmth threaded with worry he didn’t try to hide.
Castorice nodded—then tilted her head. “But look there, is that one new?.”
Phainon slowed. “That one’s new,” he said mildly.
“It arrived earlier,” Hyacine said, suddenly appearing beside them, politely not giving notice to the twin flinches. “Hasn’t caused trouble. Just resting.”
Phainon’s smile softened immediately. “Then it’s welcome to the peace.”
He approached without hurry and crouched a respectful distance away.
“Good afternoon,” he said, as though greeting a person. “You’ve chosen a lovely place to rest.”
The chimera’s ear flicked, did not even looked at him. It did not move. So taking that as permission, Phainon crouched away, movements slow, white trench cloak pooling around him.
Phainon chuckled. “I won’t disturb you, then. I’ll just… sit here.”
He leaned back against the pillar, legs stretched out comfortably. For several heartbeats, nothing changed—then the chimera shifted, inching closer until its side brushed his knee.
The chimera’s ear flicked. A small sound escaped it—barely more than breath.
“Awoo.”
Phainon stilled.
Then relaxed.
“That’s all right,” he said warmly. “I don’t mind.”
The chimera’s throat vibrated faintly.
A purr.
From a distance, Hyacine and Castorice watched and smiled to themselves, glad that their friend finally looked mellowed from his previous absentmindedness.
⪻────𖤓────⪼
They did not plan to spend time together. The new orange chimera and Phainon
It simply happened.
Phainon passed through the Garden of Life often—between meetings, after council sessions that ran too long, during hours that used to belong to shared routines with his equal.
Phainon found the chimera waiting at the edge of his path each morning, always pretending coincidence. It followed him through Okhema’s promenades with careful devotion, never quite touching, always close enough to be felt.
Sometimes Phainon spoke. Sometimes he didn’t.
“The Marmoreal Market was lively today,” he said one afternoon, seated on the steps overlooking the lower plaza. “One of the young Dromas stole a plant directly from a vendor’s hands.”
The chimera chirped, sharp and amused.
Phainon laughed, the sound surprised out of him. “Oh, you approve?”
It leaned its shoulder against his calf, tail flicking.
“Mm. I thought so.”. Shaking his head, Phainon looked at the orange one, stamping the impulse to crush the cute thing with affection.
“I had imagined you’d be better behaved,” Phainon added lightly. “You have a calmer air.”
The chimera glanced at him, eyes bright, then deliberately started swiping at his leg.
Phainon laughed, unguarded. “Or perhaps not.”
Cipher noticed them later, leaning against a nearby column. “That’s not Fig Stew,” she remarked, looking at the chimera with assessing eyes.
“No,” Phainon agreed easily. “But it’s pleasant company.”
Cipher squinted. “Huh.” the chimera looked at her straight in the eyes, challenging her to say something.
She grinned and kept watching. 'Oh, well the tease will be worth it' she flicked her coin once.
⪻────𖤓────⪼
Curtain Fall hour grew quieter.
Phainon walked the rooftops, where he and Mydei usually spar together, the chimera trailing him with careful steps. It stayed just behind him, never touching, never straying. Observing what the Deliverer does in his own habitat, when Phainon is alone.
Phainon walked around and around the market, making small talk with the people, helping people carry heavy boxes, even appraising an antique or two.
It had happened often enough that the vendors had begun to notice.
Phainon stood at the pomegranate stall with the careful posture of someone trying very hard to be useful. Hands folded. Expression polite. Entirely too earnest for a transaction involving fruit.
“Do you need assistance with those crates?” he asked—for what must have been the fourth time that week.
The old woman behind the stall looked up at him slowly.
She blinked once.
Then she laughed.
Not loudly. Not unkindly. Just a soft, knowing sound, like a bell rung with affection rather than alarm.
“Oh, dear,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “If I let you help me any more, the rest of the city will think I’ve adopted you.”
Phainon flushed immediately. “I—I didn’t mean to intrude. I simply thought—”
“I know what you thought,” she interrupted gently, eyes warm as she leaned closer over the stall. “You thought keeping your hands busy might keep your heart quiet.”
That did it.
Phainon’s mouth opened. Closed. His ears burned.
“I—” He laughed weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is it so obvious?”
The woman clicked her tongue, selecting a pomegranate and pressing it into his hands with practiced ease. “Only to those who’ve lived long enough to recognize it.”
She peered at him over the rim of her spectacles. “You’ve been circling this market like a lost soul for days. Helping where help isn’t needed. Asking questions you already know the answers to.”
She smiled—soft, teasing, unmistakably fond.
“Bathhouse,” she said decisively. “You look like a man in desperate need of steam and silence.”
Phainon stared at the fruit in his hands. “I—really?”
“Oh, absolutely,” she said, waving him off. “Either that, or sit down and cry into a sack of pomegranates. And I charge extra for that.”
A startled laugh escaped him—real this time.
“…Thank you,” he said, bowing slightly. “For the advice. And the fruit.”
“Any time, dear,” she replied, patting his cheek like any grandma do. “Come back when you’re done pretending you’re fine.”
He left the stall still flushed, pomegranate tucked under his arm like a confession.
⪻────𖤓────⪼
The bathhouse doors welcomed him with familiar warmth.
Steam curled upward as Phainon disrobed, movements slower than usual, shoulders sagging the moment his armor was set aside. He slipped into the water with a quiet exhale, heat seeping into places he hadn’t realized were tense.
“Steam and silence,” he murmured, sinking lower. “She wasn’t wrong.”
The water lapped gently at his shoulders.
And then—
A sound.
Soft. Familiar. Barely more than breath.
“Awoo.”
Phainon froze. He turned his head slowly.
Near the edge of the pool, half-hidden behind a pillar, the orange chimera sat curled tight, fur fluffed from the humidity, ears tilted back in unmistakable embarrassment.
Phainon stared. Then laughed—quiet, breathless, relief and fondness tangling in his chest.
“So,” he said softly, water rippling as he shifted closer. “You took her advice too.”
The chimera chirped, defensive and small, then padded closer, tail flicking. When it reached the edge, it hesitated—then settled down, purring low and steady.
Phainon rested his arms on the stone rim, chin atop his hands.
“…I’m glad you’re here,” he admitted.
The purr deepened.
Steam curled around them both, and for the first time all day, Phainon stopped trying to be useful—and simply rested.
⪻────𖤓────⪼
At a fountain near the bathhouse court, Phainon paused.
“This carving depicts the first vow of protection,” he said, gesturing to the relief. “It’s meant to remind us that strength is responsibility, not burden.”
The chimera sat at his feet, attentive.
“You remind me of Mydei,” Phainon added, thoughtful. “You listen the same way.”
The chimera’s ears tilted.
Phainon smiled—but the ache beneath it lingered.
“I hope he’s resting,” he murmured. “He never does.”
In the later hours, when exhaustion makes the little aches in his heart feels like burning, Phainon melts on a bench beneath the lanterns near the area owned by the Detachment, Phainon spoke more quietly to the orange chimera.
“I worry sometimes,” he admitted. “He carries everything alone.”
The chimera edged closer—not pressing, just present, small body quivering so slightly Phainon doesn't notice it, so busy looking at the distant homes in longing.
Phainon rested his palm against his chest, his pining heart beating beneath it. “I’m glad you, little one, found somewhere safe to stop.”
⪻────𖤓────⪼
It doesn't take long for a warrior like Phainon realize he was being followed.
He slowed near a balustrade overlooking the city. When he turned, the chimera froze mid-step and sat down very deliberately.
Phainon blinked—then smiled.
“Oh,” he said gently. “Hello again, little one.”
The chimera refused to meet his eyes. Phainon waited. Then resumed walking.
The chimera followed. Always half a step behind.
When Phainon slowed deliberately, it bumped softly into his calves. Phainon laughed and, without thinking, bent down and scooped the chimera into his arms.
The chimera went completely still. “Oh— I’m sorry,” Phainon said at once, not looking sorry at all. “I should have asked.”
He adjusted his hold, careful. “I’ll put you down if you want.”
The chimera did not move, if anything, the slight rumbling Phainon can feel from its body is definitely permission enough.
Phainon carried it the rest of the way, pace even, grip gentle. The chimera hid its face against his shoulder.
Phainon found himself breathing lighter.
⪻────𖤓────⪼
The cart came too fast around the corner the one morning. A shout. Wheels skidding. Water exploding outward in a filthy arc.
Phainon turned instinctively, trying to shield the chimera—and slipped directly into the puddle himself.
Water splashed high, soaking them both.
They both froze. Phainon stared down at his drenched clothes, then at the chimera, fur plastered flat, tail dripping miserably.
“Well,” Phainon sighed, then laughed helplessly. “That was poorly handled.”
The chimera let out a tiny, mortified chirp and looked away.
“Yes,” Phainon added softly. “I'm sorry, little one.”
The baths were quiet.
Phainon scrubbed mud from his own arms first, deliberately, before turning to the chimera.
“We’re both a mess,” he murmured. “I won’t rush.”
The chimera stood rigid, eyes shut tight, body angled away. Phainon noticed the trepidation on deeper waters, so he resolves to wash the little one quickly.
The baths were warm and quiet. Phainon narrated every movement as he cleaned them both, careful hands, no delays.
When he reached for the chimera’s back, it flinched—then held still. “You’re safe,” Phainon murmured, he waited until that back was no longer tense. “I promise.”
The purr returned, low and tentative. When Phainon finished, he stepped back first.
The chimera relaxed—now knowing even in deep waters his Deliverer is there to keep him safe and afloat.
⪻────𖤓────⪼
The mistake with the scare happened two days later.
The swipe was light, startled—but the horror afterward was immediate. The chimera recoiled instantly, curling in on itself, apologetic and ashamed.
Phainon touched his cheek, then laughed softly. “That’s fair.”
“It’s all right,” Phainon whispered, he scooped the chimera up, lightly booping noses with it. “You didn’t hurt me.”
The chimera trembled—then leaned forward, tongue brushing carefully against his cheek, apologetic and precise.
Phainon giggled, giving in the urge to softly nuzzle with the little chimera.
⪻────𖤓────⪼
And finally, one day the little orange chimera claimed his lap without asking. Phainon died a little inside at the cuteness of it.
Phainon read with one hand, the other resting absently against warm fur. He was halfway through a passage when Fig Stew appeared at the foot of the steps.
Fig Stew took one look at the scene—
—and burst into loud betrayed wailing.
Phainon startled. “What—?”
The hiss that followed was sharp and unmistakable.
Phainon stared down at the little one, aghast at it's surprising behavior. “No,” Phainon said firmly, lifted it at once and set it aside. “Timeout.”
The little one sulked visibly, tail lashing, while Phainon comforted Fig Stew with murmured apologies and familiar affection.
When he glanced back, the little one looked away, huffy and indignant.
Phainon sighed, fond and helpless. “You’re jealous,” he said softly.
The adorable little one did not deny it.
⪻────𖤓────⪼
The revelation came quietly.
Steam curled thick through the baths, softening stone and sound alike, blurring the world into warmth and breath. Phainon was already submerged, water lapping gently at his shoulders, when the thoughts finally aligned—small coincidences stacking into something undeniable.
The way the little one always arrived when Mydei should have been there instead.
The way it knew his routines.
The way absence had never quite felt like absence at all.
Phainon’s voice carried softly across the steam, almost careful.
“Mydei.”
The chimera froze.
It was not a dramatic reaction. No startled movement, no attempt to flee—just a stillness so complete it answered him more clearly than words ever could.
Phainon’s chest tightened.
The shift followed, slow and gentle, as though the form itself had been resting too. Fur smoothed into skin. Smallness unfolded into familiar breadth. When Mydei stood there at last, the steam clung to him like a second skin, his shoulders bare, his expression turned away.
“I was going to tell you,” Mydei said quietly.
Phainon did not move. He let the moment settle instead, let relief bloom so warm and sudden it nearly hurt. Even when he had thought himself alone, he realized now, he never truly had been.
“Did you rest?” Phainon asked.
The question was simple. It was also everything.
“Yes.” Mydei’s voice wavered, just slightly. He still didn’t look up. “I didn’t mean to—take advantage of it. Of you not knowing. I just… needed somewhere I wasn’t being seen.”
Phainon’s heart softened, melting into something unbearably tender.
“That’s all I wanted,” he said, and reached out slowly, deliberately, giving Mydei time to pull away if he wished. When he didn’t, Phainon rested his hand against Mydei’s wrist, warm and steady. “You never had to disappear.”
Mydei exhaled, the sound shaky, like something long held finally released. “I just wanted to be… nothing. For a little while.”
Phainon smiled, warmth threading through every line of him. “Then I’m honored,” he said softly, thumb brushing just once against Mydei’s pulse, “that you chose me to be nothing with.”
Mydei finally looked at him, that look of adoration shining brightly reflected in his blue eyes. He looked at Phainon and felt the quiet certainty of having been chosen—again, and without disguise.
The bath was quiet again, but the silence was different now—full instead of empty.
⪻────𖤓────⪼
That night, during Curtain-Fall Hour, Phainon lay down alone—
—and then felt the mattress dip beside him.
No pretending this was convenience. No careful distance. Just warmth, solid and unmistakably human, settling in as though it had always belonged there.
Phainon’s breath stuttered. Then slowed.
He relaxed into the sheets, the steady presence at his side drawing his heartbeat into rhythm with another’s. For the first time in days, it felt synchronized—two pulses finding the same quiet tempo, unhurried and sure.
Mydei shifted closer, close enough that their backs were pressed together, so, so warm and unmistakable.
Phainon turned his head slightly. “If you dont have plans in the morning, can we talk? … about us?,” he said, voice low, hopeful in a way it hadn’t dared to be before.
Mydei huffed a soft laugh. “I wasn’t planning to go anywhere else, I'd rather spend my days with you.”
Phainon smiled into the dark.
He shifted, pressing impossibly closer—not because there wasn’t enough room, but because the act itself had always been an invitation. Mydei accepted it without hesitation, warmth pressing close, familiar and new all at once.
Tomorrow, Phainon told himself. Tomorrow, he would find the words. The ones they’d been circling for far too long.
For now, this was enough.
To rest beside each other.
To choose each other—openly, deliberately, without hiding.
And this time, neither of them intended to let it remain unlabeled for long.