Work Text:
Phainon sits at the table in his quarters, chin propped on one hand, staring at nothing in particular. The silence presses in around him - not uncomfortable, exactly, but empty in a way he hasn't quite gotten used to yet.
The story is over. The cycles have ended. He's free.
And he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself.
He's tried a few things, of course. Dog trainer had been a disaster – the dogs loved him, but he spent more time being knocked over by enthusiastic puppies than actually doing any training. He'd briefly considered becoming a musician, a baker, an architect, but none of them felt right.
Maybe I could be a professional taste-tester, he thinks idly. Or a cloud-watcher. Is that a job? I could probably handle that.
His teleslate buzzes against the table, mercifully interrupting his spiral into increasingly ridiculous career possibilities. The screen lights up with a flurry of notifications. He reaches for it with more enthusiasm than he's felt all day when he sees who it's from.
The Trailblazers have been keeping him updated on their many travels. The messages arrive sporadically and start with “we're okay but” far more often than he'd like, but Phainon appreciates how they try to include him all the same.
Caelus
yo phainon check this out
the locals here have this awesome holiday called valentine's day
[picture]
it's all about romance and giving gifts to the one you love
dan heng we should totally participate 👀 i saw this neat flyer earlier
Dan Heng
No.
Caelus
you didn't even let me finish!!
Dan Heng
I didn't need to.
Phainon finds himself chuckling under his breath. Those two have a dynamic he's never quite understood but finds oddly comforting to witness. Still, the mention of this “Valentine's Day” catches his attention in a way he doesn't expect.
He feels his cheeks warm, a flash of heat spreading across his face as one person in particular immediately comes to mind. His heart skips a beat, and he finds himself unable to suppress the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Phainon
What kind of gifts do they give?
Caelus
flowers, chocolate, cards, the whole romantic deal
it's actually kinda sweet. get it. chocolate. sweet.
Dan Heng
The historical origins are complex, but today's version centers on showing affection through meaningful gestures. Though it's mostly observed by couples, some use this day to celebrate platonic and familial love as well.
Caelus
see dan heng IS into it, he's already infodumping
March 7th
Omg YES valentine's day is the BEST
Caelus we should get everyone matching friendship bracelets!!
Dan heng you can't say no to friendship bracelets
Dan Heng
Actually I think I can.
Phainon lowers the teleslate slowly, watching the screen dim to black.
A day for giving gifts to people you care about.
The idea is warm and terrifying in equal measure. He can already imagine it: making a day of offering something thoughtful and saying the words that have been building in his throat for longer than he can name. The image makes his heart race.
The person he has in mind isn't easily swayed by sentiment, though.
Would flowers and confections mean anything to someone like Anaxa, or would they seem trivial? Or perhaps a sorry attempt by someone who doesn't know how else to bridge the gap between what he feels and what he can articulate.
He exhales sharply and drags a hand down his face. He’s overthinking again. That’s not who he wants to be anymore; he wants to be braver than that, more optimistic. The kind of person who takes chances instead of always holding back.
Anaxa cares about him. He knows that much. And while there’s a world of difference between caring and wanting, maybe that gap isn't as wide as he fears, if he’s bold enough to find out.
Still, he won't go so far as to confess – not yet. Not without knowing if there's even a chance Anaxa returns his feelings. They’ve slipped so easily back into familiar rhythms, the old pattern of Phainon stopping by to make sure Anaxa remembers to eat and sleep enough. It's safe, comfortable territory.
And if he happens to start paying closer attention now, to watch for something beyond a professor’s fondness for his pupil...
Well.
That's a start.
Decision made, he stands and heads for the study. It's late, but Anaxa is likely still buried in his single-minded devotion to actualizing Amphoreus. It's been a few days since Phainon last dragged him away from his desk, which makes this the perfect excuse to stop by.
The door to Anaxa's study stands slightly ajar, cold light spilling from the gap. Phainon slows his approach, hand raised to knock, when he hears voices: Anaxa's familiar measured tone, and another voice, crisp and precise even through the holographic distortion.
Phainon's hand freezes mid-air.
“– so the recursive stabilization would need to account for temporal drift across each iteration,” Dr. Ratio is saying. “Otherwise the actualization framework collapses at the threshold point.”
“Precisely.” Anaxa's voice carries that particular liveliness it takes on only when he's genuinely engaged. “Though I suspect the drift itself might be a feature rather than a flaw. The accumulated variance could provide the necessary catalyst for full manifestation.”
“Interesting. That would explain the anomalous readings in the substrate layer.“ A pause. “I'll need to recalculate the phase transitions with that variable in mind.”
Through the gap, he can see Anaxa's profile – and there it is, that expression. The one Phainon knows intimately, has memorized without meaning to. It’s the way his whole face seems to brighten with subtle delight when his brilliant mind finds something worthy of engaging with.
Something uncomfortable settles in Phainon's chest – not quite jealousy, but close enough to sting.
He's always known, intellectually, that others existed who could engage and challenge Anaxa and make him come alive like this. He was never special in that regard.
But knowing it and witnessing it are entirely different things.
The abstract knowledge sat harmless in his mind, a fact he could acknowledge without feeling. This – watching through a crack in the door as Dr. Ratio effortlessly draws out that look, that tone, that spark – cuts in a way theory never could.
He should knock, or leave, or do something other than stand here feeling sorry for himself.
But his feet refuse to move.
“I'll send you my revised calculations once I've worked through them,” Dr. Ratio says. Then his tone becomes more businesslike. “Before I go, I should mention that the IPC has already shown interest in recruiting you once Amphoreus is actualized. They see your value as both an educator and a researcher.”
Phainon's breath catches.
Anaxa's voice turns carefully neutral. “I see.”
“I'm telling you now because if you don't give them an answer quickly, they'll send Aventurine to recruit you personally. Their most persistent dog, as I've come to think of him.” There’s a thread of dry fondness in Dr. Ratio’s voice. “It's how they got me, after all. He doesn't take no for an answer easily.”
“I appreciate the warning,“ Anaxa says, still unreadable.
“I’ll send the details. Take your time considering it – though not too much, if you’d prefer to avoid Aventurine’s particular brand of persuasion.” The hologram flickers. “I should let you go. Thank you for the discussion.”
The hologram flickers out, leaving Anaxa's study in relative dimness.
Phainon turns and walks away before Anaxa can notice him standing there, his footsteps quick and quiet against the stone floor. His chest feels tight, his throat constricted.
Dr. Ratio is everything Phainon isn't. Accomplished through his own merit, not prophecy. Someone brilliant and confident who can stand toe-to-toe with Anaxa intellectually – and now, potentially, professionally. The IPC could place them at the same institution. The same department.
The man is even muscular, Phainon thinks with a surge of wholly irrational frustration. He doesn’t even get to have a physical advantage –
He stops in an empty corridor, pressing his back against the cool wall.
Wait.
Is he really spiraling over Dr. Ratio's muscles right now?
He's supposed to be different now. That's the whole point of trying to move forward and reinvent himself in this strange, liminal space. He doesn’t want to be Khaslana anymore; he wants to be Phainon.
Phainon takes a breath, consciously reframing his thoughts. The conversation he overheard was professional. There’s nothing romantic about dimensional anchoring or IPC recruitment. And he has no evidence Anaxa would even be interested in Dr. Ratio like that – or interested in anyone romantically, for that matter. Phainon has never seen it across all the cycles he can remember.
Which means maybe – just maybe – the way Anaxa treats him could mean something.
The way his hand sometimes lingers on Phainon’s shoulder. The way his voice softens without realizing it. The way he looks at Phainon like he’s seeing a person, not a prophecy.
Those moments have to mean something.
And if they don't, if Anaxa's affection is only that of a teacher for a student, at least Phainon will know. At least he will have tried to want something for himself, just once.
Maybe that’s what bravery looks like now. Not a prophesied hero facing impossible odds, but someone willing to risk his heart.
This “Valentine's Day“ the Trailblazers mentioned could be the perfect opportunity. Chocolates, flowers, cards, declarations of affection – all the small ways of saying you matter to me that he's never learned in thirty-three million cycles of self-sacrifice.
He can learn now.
He will learn now.
And he knows just who to ask.
---
Phainon
I think it'd be great to bring Valentine's Day to Amphoreus.
Caelus
YESSSS 🎉🎉🎉
YEAH BOY GET IT
Who's the lucky valentine??? 👀
Phainon's fingers hover over the keyboard before he comes up with a believable excuse.
Phainon
It's for everyone. Didn’t Dan Heng say it’s for platonic love, too?
Learning about new traditions from beyond the stars will be a great way to boost morale!
Caelus
uh huh
“everyone“
sure buddy
Phainon's face flushes hot. Surely he can’t be that transparent, can he? He scrambles to redirect Caelus's attention, pressing him for more details.
Phainon
What is chocolate, anyway?
Caelus
oh man chocolate is AMAZING
sweet and rich and melts in your mouth
March 7th
It’s SUPER romantic
Like basically required for confessions!!
Caelus
also fun fact it's an aphrodisiac 😏
just so you know
March 7th
No one asked!!
That fun fact isn't helping him cool down his burning face. The entire time Caelus is messaging his very unhelpful information, Dan Heng has been typing in the background. Finally, his message appears in the chat.
Dan Heng
Chocolate is a category of confections made from the processed seeds of the Theobroma cacao tree. The primary active component is theobromine (C₇H₈N₄O₂). Its base ingredients are cocoa solids, cocoa butter (a fat primarily composed of palmitic, oleic, and stearic acids in a specific ratio, see below for triglyceride structure) and typically refined sugar for sweetening. The process for refining [read more]
Caelus
DAN HENG NO
that's not helpful
he needs to MAKE chocolate not BUILD IT FROM ATOMS
Dan Heng
He asked. I answered.
Caelus
😭 you’re so unromantic
Phainon stares at his teleslate and considers, for the first time, that Dan Heng might not always be the voice of reason between the three.
Instead, he researches chocolate recipes for beginners. Considering everything else he's accomplished, surely he could manage something as simple as candy.
All he has to do is follow the instructions.
How difficult could it be?
---
Very difficult, as it turns out.
Phainon stands in his kitchen, staring at the recipe's first line: Begin with cacao beans.
His fingers tap a frustrated rhythm against the back of his teleslate.
The first obstacle is immediate and devastating: cacao beans do not exist on Amphoreus. Neither does refined sugar. The foundation of chocolate is apparently two ingredients that his world has never even heard of.
Surely he can improvise. He's the Deliverer. He's supposed to be resourceful.
Phainon digs through his pantry and finds the darkest, most bitter thing he can: roasted carob pods that Hyacine had given him months ago. They're brown, bitter, and bean-adjacent.
Close enough.
Several hours later, his kitchen looks like the aftermath of a culinary crime.
Alongside the carob, he tried mixing figs, honey, and grape must for sweetening, and olive oil for texture. Every attempt has either seized, separated, scorched, or turned into a substance with the structural integrity of tar.
One batch hardened into something that could plausibly be used as a defensive weapon. Another refused to solidify at all and stained everything it touched a rather lovely shade of purple. The most promising version tasted like sweetened dirt with aspirations.
Phainon surveys the wreckage. Honey drips from one counter. Dark powder coats another. There's a suspicious stain on the floor that might be grape must or might be his dignity, pooled and congealing. Almost every pot and bowl he owns is coated with unidentifiable substances.
He picks up one of the firmer pieces and takes a cautious bite.
It tastes like regret.
He sets it down with great care.
The truth can no longer be avoided: he has no idea what he's doing. He's never made anything more complex than a salad. Real chocolate clearly requires knowledge, technique, and ingredients beyond his reach.
That’s alright. Phainon is someone who can lean on his friends.
He needs help, particularly from someone who actually understands how to coax ingredients into becoming something edible.
Someone with real skill at cooking, who could translate this unintelligible recipe into reality.
---
“Just so I'm clear.” Mydei crosses his arms, studying Phainon with an expression somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “You want to recreate a type of candy that doesn't exist here, using replacements for the most basic ingredients, because they also don't exist.“
“That about sums it up,” Phainon says.
“And what's the occasion?“ Mydei tilts his head. “Is confectioner the newest career you've decided to explore?”
Phainon feels heat start to creep across his face. “There's this celebration the Trailblazers told me about called Valentine's Day. It's from outside Amphoreus, and I thought…” He gestures vaguely. “I thought it would be nice to bring it here. A new tradition for everyone, unrelated to Titans.”
“What sort of celebration,” Mydei asks, his tone mildly dubious, “requires this chocolate?”
“It's about expressing appreciation,” Phainon says. “Giving gifts to people who matter to you, spending time together, that sort of thing.”
Mydei is quiet for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest. “And why does the candy have to be from beyond the skies, too? Surely you can think of a suitable replacement.”
Phainon opens his mouth, then closes it. Did it have to be chocolate? He's been so fixated on the idea that he hasn't really considered alternatives. Caelus certainly hasn't mentioned any. “I suppose... it doesn't have to be chocolate specifically, but I'd really wanted to make it work.”
Mydei is watching Phainon's face with the kind of attention that makes it impossible to hide anything. “What does chocolate mean that makes it so integral to this holiday?”
“It doesn’t have any meaning at all,” Phainon lies, with heroic and deeply unconvincing confidence. “It’s just what Caelus said is traditional, and I thought if I'm going to introduce a new celebration then I should do it properly, you know?”
Mydei's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. A piece of information filed away without comment.
“I see,” he says simply. “Show me the recipe.”
Phainon taps his foot while Mydei peruses the recipe on Phainon’s teleslate. It takes longer than he expects for Mydei to work his way through the page.
“We can recreate these,” he says at long last. “But you’re on your own for the heart-shaped box.”
Phainon gapes at him, then looks down at the screen.
Mydei had done an additional bit of research – specifically, images of “Valentine's Day chocolate” which shows the kind of unmistakable visual context that makes the entire charade fall apart.
Phainon opens his mouth, then closes it again. His face burns even hotter. There's no point denying it. Mydei has already seen and understood enough. The embarrassment sits heavy in his chest.
“There’s no need to explain,” Mydei adds, still holding out the teleslate. “It’s none of my business. Let’s just figure out how to make them.”
It's the most dismissive thing he could possibly say, and somehow it's exactly what Phainon needs to hear.
Mydei tilts his head thoughtfully, already moving on. “We have figs that grow here. Good ones, sweet. And honey – plenty of that. We could combine them with nuts, press the mixture into shapes, and get what you're aiming for here.”
“You think that would work?”
“I think,” Mydei says, “that whoever you’re making this for will understand what it means. The effort matters more than the ingredient.”
“When did you become such a sap?” Phainon asks, forcing a laugh that sounds only slightly strained. “'The effort matters more than the ingredient?” That's almost poetic, Mydeimos. What has gotten into you?”
“HKS. Do you want my help or not?” Mydei scoffs. “Let’s go.”
Phainon huffs out something that might be a laugh and might be a sigh. The knot in his chest loosens just a little as they head toward Mydei’s quarters.
Mydei's kitchen is, of course, pristine and organized. It makes Phainon's chest tighten with anxiety; he tries his hardest not to touch anything, afraid of recreating the chaos he left behind in his own kitchen. But Mydei has other ideas.
“You're making these yourself,” he says, setting out bowls of fig paste, honey, and crushed nuts. “They're from you, after all. I'm just supervising.”
It seems reasonable. Phainon nods, rolling up his sleeves.
It's a disaster within minutes.
He manages to combine the figs with the nuts just fine. But then he pours the honey. All of it. The entire vessel of honey, because he misjudges the flow and suddenly the mixture collapses into a sticky swamp that clings to the bowl, the spoon, and his elbow, somehow.
“Deliverer.”
“I can fix it,” Phainon insists, grabbing a wooden spoon and stirring frantically. The paste only grows stickier. He adds more nuts. Now it’s sticky and crumbly, which seems like an impressive culinary contradiction.
There is honey on the counter.
There is honey on the floor.
There is, inexplicably, honey on the ceiling.
Mydei exhales the long, suffering sigh of a man reconsidering his life choices. He steps in, wordlessly removes the spoon from Phainon’s hand, and nudges him aside with his shoulder. He scoops portions of honey out into a different bowl, then adds some carefully measured additions. Under Mydei’s hands, the mess slowly transforms into a smooth, glossy paste that actually holds its shape.
“You’re cleaning the kitchen when I’m done,” Mydei says, already shaping the mixture into neat rounds. “All of it.”
“Fair,” Phainon says, watching in awe. The confections almost look just like the truffles from the photo if he squints.
Mydei arranges the finished confections on a plate, each one placed just so. “They turned out well,” he says, stepping back to assess his work. “I’m sure the intended recipient will enjoy them.”
Phainon reaches out and plucks one from the plate, holding it up between them with a grin. “Didn't I mention Valentine's Day is for celebrating all the ones you care about?”
Mydei's expression flattens. “I had to make my own gift?”
“Consider it payment for services rendered,” Phainon says, still offering the confection.
Mydei huffs, but he takes it anyway, biting into it with the air of someone deeply put-upon. He chews thoughtfully. “Tastes as good as it looks.”
Phainon grins. “Complimenting your own work now?”
“Should I not?” Mydei gestures at the honey-coated disaster surrounding them. “Now start cleaning.”
---
Phainon
What flowers are traditional for Valentine's Day?
Caelus
roses obviously, red ones
very sexy. very romantic. very “take me to bed“
March 7th
Yes!! Red roses are PEAK romance!! 🌹💕
They're like the ultimate symbol of love and passion!! You HAVE to get red roses Phainon!!
Dan Heng
Roses are traditional, yes, but if you’re giving these to friends, it’s best to pick one that fits the sentiment you wish to express. The symbolism varies by color: red for love, white for purity, yellow for friendship.
Caelus
dan heng no one actually believes he’s doing this for “friends“
get with the program
March 7th
Exactly!!
Red roses = romance, everyone knows that!! 🌹✨
Dan Heng
Regardless of the recipient, it may be more meaningful to consider what flowers symbolize on Amphoreus.
I’d be interested to compare local meanings with those we know.
Caelus
this is not the time to be expanding the databank
What a relief, Phainon thinks. Unlike chocolate, not only do roses exist in Amphoreus – he’s seen them climbing old stone walls, wild and stubborn – red ones carry the same meaning of love and romance.
There are flowers growing all over the Exotale. That’s how Phainon finds himself wandering between the courtyards, dirt scuffing his knees and hands. He's been searching for nearly an hour now, moving methodically through each courtyard, but the results remain the same.
No roses.
He moves to another promising set of bushes, scanning the clusters of purple and white blooms. Still nothing – not even another red flower to substitute instead.
“Snowy?”
He turns to see Hyacine approaching, a basket of medicinal herbs looped over one arm. Her dress flutters in the breeze, her expression already edged with amusement.
“What are you doing out here?” she asks.
“Looking for roses,” he tells her distractedly, still searching around their feet for any sign of them.
“Oh?” Hyacine's smile widens. “And why would you need roses?”
He explains Valentine's Day in the same way he did to Mydei, making sure to lean on the platonic love aspect. “Red roses are apparently a traditional gift. Isn’t it interesting that they have the same meaning here as they do out there?” he muses.
Hyacine's expression shifts from curious to delighted. She presses a hand to her mouth, but it doesn't quite muffle her giggle. “Phainon,” she says, eyes sparkling. “You must not have explained Valentine's Day right, then.”
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
“You said it's for celebrating friends and family,” she says, still smiling. “But roses are one of Mnestia’s symbols.”
There’s no coming back from this slip-up. He clears his throat, looking away. “What other flower could I use?”
Hyacine mercifully doesn't press, though her amusement is obvious. She taps a finger against her chin, considering. “Well, hydrangeas are really lovely in a bouquet, even if their meaning is very different from roses. They symbolize arrogance or boastfulness.” She pauses, her smile turning impish. “Does that remind you of anyone?”
“Please don't tease,” Phainon whines, his face burning.
“I'm not teasing,” Hyacine says, though her eyes are sparkling. “Well, not much. Phainon, don’t even pretend like I don’t know who you’ve been crushing on for as long as we’ve known each other.”
His face burns so hot he’s surprised the flowers around him don’t wilt. He can't even deny it – she's right, and they both know it.
Hyacine's expression softens, and she relents. “All right, all right.” She gestures toward a cluster of small blue flowers near the garden's edge. “What about forget-me-nots?”
Phainon follows her gaze. The flowers are delicate, five-petaled, the blue fading to white at the centers. They grow in dense, unpretentious clusters.
“Forget-me-nots,” he repeats slowly.
“They mean 'remember me,'”Hyacine says. “True love and faithful remembrance.”
Something in his chest tightens.
Remember me.
After endless cycles of being forgotten, of resetting, of standing in front of strangers wearing familiar faces –
He catches the spiral as it starts.
No. This isn’t about that anymore. It’s about remembering, now – about building something that lasts on top of the ashes. These flowers are a promise, not a memorial.
He tells himself that, repeated in his head like a mantra. It doesn’t make the ache disappear, but gives it somewhere gentler to land.
“Those,” he says quietly. “I'll take those.”
Hyacine nods without comment, her hands gentle as she helps him gather a small bouquet and tie the stems together.
As they finish, Phainon spots a bright splash of yellow near the garden's far wall. He walks over and carefully cuts one of the tall sunflowers growing there. He turns and presents it to Hyacine, bowing with a flourish. “For another person I care about,“ he says.
She stares at the massive bloom, then at him, then back at the flower. “Snowy,” she says, her voice caught between laughter and exasperation. “How am I meant to put this in a vase?”
“Very carefully?” he suggests.
She swats his arm, but she's smiling as she takes the sunflower, cradling it like something precious despite its unwieldy size. “You're impossible.”
Phainon just smiles, clutching the forget-me-nots a little closer to his chest.
---
Phainon
What typically goes in Valentine's Day cards? What do they look like?
Caelus
finally the man drops the excuse and admits he’s down bad
i'm so proud
here are some classics:
“Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm terrible at rhyming, but I'm into you“
“I love every bone in your body but I do have a favorite“
“All I want to do on Valentine’s Day is you“
“I'd spend 33 million cycles with you“
too soon?
March 7th
CAELUS
Phainon ignore him!!!
Valentine’s cards are supposed to be ROMANTIC. You gush!! Tell them how much they mean to you, how they make your heart race, how you want them in your future!
Lay it on THICK. That’s the point!!
Nothing comes from Dan Heng as he has long since left this group chat.
Phainon reads both sets of advice and immediately discards the first. Caelus’s suggestions are definitely not the direction he wants to go. It’s not that he doesn’t have those feelings about Anaxa, but…
That might be a card better left for later.
March’s advice echoes instead. Gush. Lay it on thick.
That’s what a confident person would do. That’s what Phainon would do. There was a time he was known for his charisma, after all.
He closes the chat.
He can do this.
He sits down at his desk, picks up his pen, and starts to write.
In the endless darkness, you were the light that never dimmed
He stops.
“…No,” he mutters, already crumpling it and pulling out a fresh sheet.
Your brilliance illuminates not only the mysteries of existence but also the hearts of those fortunate enough to stand in your orbit
He grimaces. “Why do I sound like I’m nominating him for an academic award?”
Another crumpled paper ball, another new attempt.
From the moment you challenged me to think beyond the epistemological constraints of my prior cognitive framework
“…That is an abstract. That is the opening paragraph of a peer-reviewed paper.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Romance should have poetry, not footnotes.
Loving you feels like drowning in starlight while the universe sings our names
He recoils from the paper like it burned him. “Oh, that’s revolting.”
Soon there’s a small mountain of rejected confessions beside his chair. His hand aches.
After he already received so much help for the first two gifts, he’d really wanted to do this one alone. He wanted to prove he’s grown, that he can just be the kind of person who says what he feels.
Instead he’s surrounded by piles of crumpled failures.
Maybe he does need help… again.
He leaves his quarters without a clear destination, just walking. The corridors are quieter at this hour, which suits him just fine.
His first thought is to find his parents. They would know what to say, wouldn't they? Except – he stops walking for a moment, the thought catching on something painful. His parents. He tries to picture their relationship and finds the image slipping away like water through his fingers. They died when he was small. They died when he was small in every lifetime, every iteration. He's lived so many lives without them.
He resumes walking, pushing the thought aside. It doesn't help.
What about Diotima? Anaxa and his sister spend a lot of time together now, and Phainon knows Anaxa has always cared so deeply about her. But even as the thought forms, he realizes how little he actually understands about their relationship. What was it like for Anaxa, living so many lifetimes without her, and then now, having her back? There's a closeness between them that Phainon can observe but not quite grasp, something built on shared history he'll never fully access.
Besides… Diotima likes to tease. The thought of approaching her for advice about confessing feelings to her brother makes something in his chest tighten uncomfortably. He can already imagine the glint in her eye, the gentle ribbing he's not sure he could handle right now.
He turns a corner, still thinking, still gathering the scattered pieces of his courage. The corridors stretch out before him, dimly lit and peaceful. He's almost resigned himself to figuring this out alone when he spots a familiar figure ahead with a book tucked under her arm and a distant, thoughtful expression on her face.
Castorice looks up when he approaches, and her face brightens with a gentle smile.
“Phainon,” she greets. “Is everything alright?”
“Of course,” he says automatically, then hesitates, considering his next words. The familiar explanation rises to his lips, the same careful half-truth he’s used with everyone else – a new holiday, gifts for people you care about – but he lets them go with a sigh.
“Actually,” he says instead, voice quieter, “I wanted to ask you something about writing.”
Castorice tilts her head, curious. “Writing?”
“You're good at putting feelings into words,” Phainon says. “How do you do it?”
She looks surprised for a moment, then taps her chin thoughtfully. “I suppose I just... well, write,” she says slowly. “The characters tell me what they need to say, in a way. But that's fiction.” She pauses, studying him. “What are you trying to write?”
“Something personal,” he admits, “that I intend to give to someone.”
Castorice’s expression softens immediately, a gentle warmth entering her smile. “I write stories, not letters for people or poems about my own feelings. I'm not sure I can help with that, specifically.” She shifts the book in her arms, considering. “But I think... the best writing is always honest, even in stories. When I'm stuck, I try to write the first things that come to mind. It might not be clever or impressive, but it feels honest.”
“The first things that come to mind,” Phainon repeats.
“Even if they're simple. It’s more important that it comes from the heart.” She reaches out and touches his arm lightly. “Whatever you're writing, Phainon, I'm sure it will be enough.”
The words settle over him like a blanket, warm and reassuring. He thinks of all the people who've helped him without question – of Hyacine saying something similar in the garden, of Mydei's gruff acceptance.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. Then, on impulse, he opens his arms. “Can I –?”
Castorice blinks, startled, but she steps forward. Phainon wraps his arms around her in a careful hug, and for a moment she's stiff, uncertain – physical affection still something she's learning to accept – but then she relaxes, sinking into the embrace with a soft, contented sound.
When they part, Phainon feels steadier somehow.
Back in his quarters, Phainon sets everything out on the desk: the fig confections Mydei made, their surfaces gleaming golden in the lamplight; the forget-me-nots Hyacine helped him gather, their delicate blue petals like fragments of sky; and a fresh, blank piece of parchment, cream-colored and waiting.
Write the first things that come to mind, Castorice had said. The honest things.
He dips the pen in ink.
Anaxagoras, he writes, the name careful and deliberate. Then, with a small smile, he crosses out the last few letters.
The next lines come more slowly.
Anaxagoras,
Your presence in my life has meant more to me than I've ever properly said. I admire your mind, your dedication, and the way you look at the universe like it's something meant to be understood, not feared.
Somewhere along the way, admiration became something deeper. I've come to need you in a way that goes beyond friendship—not just your guidance or your company, but you. The person you are when no one else is watching. The way you challenge me to be better while accepting who I am now. I think about you more than I probably should.
I'm asking if there's room in your life for what I'm offering. If there isn't, I'll understand. But I wanted you to know how I truly feel about you.
The words sit on the page, ink gleaming wetly under the lamplight.
It's a clear, undeniable confession – more vulnerable than he intended, but still measured enough to give Anaxa space to step back if he needs to.
He signs it simply,
Phainon
It does not say I'm yours.
It does not say Loving you feels like the most natural thing I've ever done.
It does not say I want you to choose a future with me.
He stares at the letter, at all the careful words that dance around what he really means. Why can't he write those things? What is he actually afraid of?
Not that Anaxa will fall for Dr. Ratio – that's not what's been eating at him. It's that Dr. Ratio represents everything Phainon isn't sure he can offer. Someone Anaxa would choose to stay with, to build something alongside. And if Anaxa leaves for opportunities like that – for the IPC, for universities, for a life Phainon can't follow him into – then what becomes of him?
Those truths remain unspoken, tucked carefully between the lines where they're safer.
Tomorrow, he'll give Anaxa the sweets, the flowers, and this letter.
Tomorrow, he’ll tell him how he feels.
And if it’s too much… at least he said it gracefully.
---
The morning arrives with the same clear skies and Phainon's stomach in knots.
He's been awake since before dawn, and by the time the sun rises he can't stand the confines of his quarters anymore. The fig confections are wrapped in cloth, cradled carefully in one arm. The forget-me-nots sit in a porcelain cup from his personal antique collection, their delicate blue petals trembling with each step. The letter is tucked into his pocket, where he can feel it burning against his side.
He tells himself he's looking for the right moment and place. Somewhere private, somewhere meaningful.
Really, he's just walking in circles, trying to breathe.
He moves through the corridors with no destination in mind, past the main courtyard where voices echo, along the outer walkways where the morning sun warms the stone. His hands are shaking. The confections feel heavier than they should. Every time he thinks he's ready, his courage fails him and he turns down another corridor instead.
Just find him. Just do it. It doesn't have to be perfect.
But his feet keep carrying him away from anywhere Anaxa might be, buying himself more time, more distance, more excuses.
He rounds a corner into one of the smaller courtyards – the one with the fountain, columns framing the space in elegant arches. Sunlight streams through in golden shafts, catching on the water, on the pale stone, and –
Anaxa.
He sits at the fountain's edge, one hand trailing absently in the water. The light catches in his hair, illuminates the thoughtful set of his features, and Phainon's heart stops.
And then Anaxa looks up.
Their eyes meet, and Phainon freezes.
“Phainon,” Anaxa says, his expression turning questioning as he takes in the sight of Phainon standing there stock still, clearly caught off-guard, clearly holding something. “Good morning.”
There's no time to retreat, no chance to compose himself, no opportunity to prepare the words he's been rehearsing all morning. Anaxa has already seen him.
There's nowhere to go but forward.
“Good morning,” Phainon says, and his voice comes out steadier than he expected, even as his pulse hammers in his throat. He forces his feet to move, to close the distance between them. “I have something for you.”
He holds out the plate of confections first, because they're the easiest, the least revealing. Anaxa takes them with careful hands, unwrapping the cloth to reveal the chocolate-shaped candies inside.
Anaxa studies them for a moment, then glances up with a slightly bemused expression, his single brow arched elegantly. “You made these? What's the occasion?”
“Mydei helped,” Phainon admits. “I tried to make them myself first, but, well, you know how I am with cooking.” He starts rambling, nervous energy spilling out despite his best efforts. “They're figs and honey and nuts, shaped like chocolates, because apparently chocolate is traditional for Valentine's Day but we don't have chocolate here, so –”
“Chocolate?” Anaxa's head tilts slightly, curiosity sharpening his gaze. “Valentine's Day?” He looks between the confections and Phainon's flushed face. “What are you talking about?”
Phainon realizes he's been speaking as if Anaxa would understand any of this. “It's a holiday from beyond the stars. One of the traditions is…” He falters, feeling his face heat further. “Giving gifts to people you – to people who matter to you.”
Something shifts in Anaxa's expression then, the bemusement giving way to something warmer. His eye settles on Phainon with new understanding. He sets the plate of confections down carefully on the fountain's edge beside him, still processing what Phainon just said.
“I have something else, too,” Phainon says, the cup of forget-me-nots cradled carefully in one hand. He reaches for his pocket with the other, fingers searching for the card.
His hand closes around the envelope. He starts to pull it free, but the edge catches on the fabric. He tugs, just slightly, and the cup tilts in his other hand.
The porcelain slips from his grip.
He jerks to catch it out of pure instinct and the letter flies from his fingers, launched by the sudden movement. The cup hits the stone with a sharp crack, blue petals scattering across the broken pieces, and the letter arcs through the air in a pale flutter before landing in the fountain with a soft ripple.
Phainon lunges forward without thinking, reaching desperately to grab the card before the water ruins it completely. His arm sweeps across the fountain's edge – and connects with the plate of confections. They tumble into the water with a much larger splash, fig-and-honey confections scattering across the surface before sinking.
The splash catches both of them, water droplets spattering across Phainon's outstretched arm and Anaxa's robes.
Phainon freezes, arm still extended over the fountain, watching the card float there among the bobbing confections. The ink begins to spread, bleeding outward, blurring the words he'd labored over.
Anaxa looks at the broken cup on the ground, the scattered forget-me-nots among the shards. Then at the card and confections floating in the fountain, ink spreading like dark clouds across the paper. Then back at Phainon, water droplets still clinging to his sleeve.
“Well,“ Anaxa says mildly, “that's certainly one way to present a gift.”
Phainon makes a sound that's half laugh, half groan, frustration welling up hot and sharp in his chest. This was supposed to be perfect, and he'd destroyed it all in one fell swoop. All three gifts. Every single one.
He sits down heavily on the fountain's edge next to Anaxa, dropping his face into his hands.
“I'm sorry,” he mutters into his palms. “That's not what I wanted to happen.”
“I rather imagine so.” Anaxa's voice is dry as ever, but there's an undercurrent of patience.
Phainon drags in a breath and forces a lighter tone, the way he always does when things get too close to the bone.
“I promise I did put thought into all of this,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh. He's aiming for casual, breezy, like this is all just an amusing mishap rather than the complete collapse of something he'd agonized over. He waves a hand vaguely at the wreckage around them. “The intention was there. I wanted to give you something that showed how much you mean to me. Just, you know, minus all of the destruction! I hope you don't take it personally.”
“Phainon.” Anaxa's voice is quiet, but there's something sharp beneath the gentleness. “Who exactly are you trying to be right now?”
The words knock the air out of him.
Anaxa is watching him with that steady, perceptive gaze, the one that always makes Phainon feel seen in ways that are both comforting and terrifying.
“And I thought I was the one they called the Great Performer,” Anaxa continues mildly. “You’ve been acting strangely since we arrived here. And this,” he says, gesturing at the wreckage, “doesn’t feel like you.”
And that's it. That's the thing that breaks him.
Phainon's hands drop to his knees, fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers.
“I don't know,” he admits, his voice cracking. “I've been trying to be... different, I guess. Better. More –” He makes a vague, frustrated gesture. “I don't know. This just feels like my chance to start over. To finally be the person I always wanted to be.”
The words come tumbling out, messy and uncontrolled, now that the seal has been broken.
“I thought if I could just get it right – say the right things, do the right things, act like the kind of person who’s confident enough to make a gesture like this – then maybe it would mean something.” He laughs, breathless and strained. “But even when I write it down, it still sounds like someone else. Like I'm borrowing the voice of a better version of myself, hoping you won't notice.”
He pushes to his feet, pacing a few steps away, hands threading through his hair as if that might steady him.
“I saw you,” he says abruptly. “With Dr. Ratio. On the call, when he was trying to recruit you.“ He pauses, jaw tight. “I was jealous. I am jealous.”
Several emotions flit across Anaxa's face – not alarm, but surprise that sharpens into something like clarity. His lips thin, but he doesn't interrupt.
“I know that sounds ridiculous,” Phainon continues quickly, as if afraid the moment will vanish if he slows down. “It’s not him specifically. He’s just…” He gestures vaguely. “He was the moment it clicked. You were talking, and you looked so alive, so engaged, and I realized how easily you could leave. How many places there are that would want you.”
His voice drops, quieter but no less intense. “You could go somewhere I can't follow. Work with people who actually challenge you. And here I am, standing here thinking I can make up the difference with flowers and sweets like that isn't completely absurd.”
He stops pacing and scrubs a hand over his face. His cheeks are warm, his eyes burning, but he needs to get it all out now before he loses his nerve.
“If you leave,” he says softly, “there will be so many opportunities out there for you. That's what really scares me. Not that you'd choose him, but that you'll choose something bigger than just... me.”
His gaze falls to the crushed forget-me-nots at their feet.
“I don't want to just be your student,” he says, each word scraping its way out of his chest. “I don't want to be someone you outgrow. I want…” His breath catches. “I want the one you choose to be me. But I don't know if I have anything to offer that's worth half of what the IPC could give you.”
His shoulders sag with the weight of everything he's just said, every confession and admission that's been building up inside him for who knows how long. The adrenaline that had been fueling him drains away, leaving him feeling hollow and spent.
“I’m sorry,“ he mutters. “I know this is a mess. I know I sound insecure and dramatic and…” He exhales shakily. “But I just can’t pretend I’m fine with it.”
The silence stretches.
Anaxa doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he pats the stone beside him, an unmistakable invitation. He waits until Phainon sits again before leaning forward and reaching into the fountain. Water ripples around his fingers as he retrieves the ruined card, ink blurred into meaningless shadows. He handles it carefully, reverently, as though it’s still something precious.
For a moment, he only looks at it.
“For someone who claims he can’t express himself,” Anaxa says, almost lightly, “you’ve been remarkably clear. Clear enough,” he adds, quieter now, “that it would be irresponsible of me to pretend I haven’t understood you.”
Phainon's throat bobs as he swallows.
Anaxa watches him for a long moment, gaze steady, unreadable in that way that usually precedes a question rather than an answer.
He glances down at the ruined card again. “What did it say?”
That wasn't the question Phainon had been expecting. He, too, looks at the ruined paper in Anaxa's hands. For a moment, he considers salvaging what's left of the moment and reciting his carefully penned words from memory.
Then he shakes his head.
“It doesn't matter,” he says quietly. “The letter – it was just pretty words. It wasn't really what I needed to say.”
He meets Anaxa's gaze, holding it despite the vulnerability clawing at his chest.
“What it should have said is… when I leave Amphoreus, I want you with me.” he says. “I can't imagine building anything – figuring out what my dream is, finding whatever I'm supposed to be – without you there.”
Phainon hesitates, letting the words settle between them. Anaxa’s expression gives away nothing of his thoughts; he simply waits patiently for Phainon to find the rest of his words.
Phainon takes a sharp breath before pushing on. “I know you have your own path. But I want you by my side anyway. Because the truth is, I'm already yours. I have been for a while. And what I really want… is for you to be mine as well.”
The silence stretches. The fountain murmurs behind them.
Anaxa does not speak right away.
Instead, he reaches out. His hand settles against Phainon’s wrist – carefully, as though he’s testing whether the contact will be allowed. His fingers are warm and steady, and his gaze stays fixed on where their skin meets rather than on Phainon's face. “Understand that I'm not humoring you,” he says quietly. “And I'm not indulging in a fleeting moment of sentiment.”
His thumb shifts, almost unconsciously, pressing lightly at Phainon’s thundering pulse as he takes time to consider his words.
“Jealousy is an ugly thing,” he says at last, measured but not cold. “It clouds judgment. It makes us act foolishly.”
Phainon braces himself for the rejection he'd been expecting all along.
“But,” Anaxa continues, his voice gentler now, “it is also rarely born from nothing. And perhaps it isn't such a terrible thing if it finally drove you to be honest about what you actually want.” He draws a slow breath, and for a moment his composure seems to almost waver. “If you hadn't said anything,” he continues, not quite looking at Phainon, “I probably wouldn't have either.”
Phainon nods faintly, staring at the ground, accepting it – until the phrasing catches, sharp and unexpected.
His breath stutters. Hope flares before he can stop it, small and terrifying, pressing at his ribs incessantly. His head snaps up, looking at Anaxa with his mouth agape.
“I have been called many things across my lifetimes,” Anaxa says as he looks back up at Phainon through his lashes. The color across his cheekbones has spread to the tips of his ears. “But being yours…” A faint, sincere smile curves his mouth. “I think I could grow quite attached to that idea.”
That clawing anxiety in his chest finally relents – relief crashes into joy, disbelief tangles with something bright and almost dizzying. He laughs softly before he realizes he’s doing it, a breathless sound, and his smile breaks wide and unguarded, still a little wet around the edges.
Anaxa’s composure slips just enough to match it. The corner of his mouth curves wider, genuine and impossibly fond, his eyes softening in a way Phainon has rarely seen turned fully on him.
Phainon doesn’t think, he just moves – closing the distance and pulling Anaxa into a tight embrace, arms wrapping around him as if to anchor himself to the moment before it can vanish. Anaxa makes a quiet sound of surprise, more breath than protest, and the ruined card slips from his grasp, fluttering down into the fountain.
After a beat, Anaxa’s arms come up in return, settling around Phainon’s shoulders and drawing him close. He holds him with a careful pressure, like he’s something precious rather than breakable.
They stay like that, bodies aligned, close enough that Phainon can feel the steady rhythm of Anaxa's heartbeat beneath his palms. The reassurance of it seeps in slowly, grounding him. He still bears the scars of his experimentation and sacrifice, but underneath it all, he's been remade whole once again.
Anaxa shifts first, just enough to tilt his head. The kiss he presses to Phainon's jaw is gentle and deliberate, dry lips warm against his skin, lingering just a touch longer than necessary. A quiet shiver runs through him.
Phainon pulls back enough to meet Anaxa's eyes and for a moment neither of them moves. Then Phainon closes the rest of the distance himself.
The kiss is careful and hesitant at first, as if asking permission even after everything already said. Anaxa answers immediately, tilting in just enough to meet him.
When they part, neither pulls away. Anaxa's arms stay wrapped around him, steady and sure, and Phainon leans forward until their foreheads touch.
Phainon swallows, gathering his courage. “I'd like it if you'd call me yours, too.”
Anaxa's hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, thumb brushing against his jaw. “Mine, then,” he murmurs, and there's something almost reverent in the way he says it.
The fountain burbles beside them and the morning sun climbs higher. Around them, the evidence of Phainon's disaster remains – forget-me-nots scattered across the stone, the broken cup, the fig confections still scattered beneath the water. The card floats serenely by.
Anaxa draws back at last, his hand sliding down to rest against Phainon's shoulder. “For what it's worth,” he says, “I declined the IPC's offer before they even had a chance to officially make it. Did you honestly think I'd be interested in being yoked to corporate bureaucracy?”
Phainon blinks, relief flooding through him so suddenly it makes him dizzy. “You – already?”
“Yesterday,” Anaxa confirms, and there's the faintest thread of amusement in his voice.
He'd spent all of yesterday frantically preparing these gifts and all of it had been unnecessary. Anaxa's answer had been waiting beneath the surface all along; Phainon just hadn't known to look.
Somehow it doesn't feel like a failure anymore, if it got them here.
Phainon exhales slowly. There's one more thing that needs saying - he won't make the same mistake of leaving his intentions unspoken. “I do still want to travel on the Astral Express,” he says carefully, “but maybe not right away. And I’m hoping to convince as many of our friends as possible to come with.”
“Hopefully not in the same manner?” Anaxa asks, one brow perfectly arched.
“Of course not!” Phainon replies, aghast. “This wasn’t – I mean, I’d never –”
Then he catches it: the faint quirk at the corner of Anaxa's mouth, the glint of gentle amusement at Phainon's expense.
“Oh.” The panic dissolves into something softer, and Phainon finds himself chuckling self-consciously at his own reaction. "You're teasing me."
"Perhaps a little," Anaxa admits, his thumb brushing comfortingly against Phainon's shoulder. The mischief on his face gentles as he adds thoughtfully, “The Astral Express is certainly a more appealing option than the IPC. Intellectual freedom, access to phenomena across multiple worlds, and...“ He pauses, lips curling into a gentle smile. “The company would be considerably better.”
And just like that, the last scared, guarded part in him surrenders.
It was the part that had been bracing for distance, for abandonment, for inadequacy. It loosens like a knot coming undone, and he realizes he's no longer standing on the outside of Anaxa's life, trying to prove he deserves a place in it.
He’s already there.
For so long he’d been trying to step into roles that never quite fit – the model student, the prophesied hero, the Worldbearer. But sitting here, forget-me-nots scattered across the stone and Anaxa’s hand warm against his shoulder, there’s nothing to perform and no version of himself to manage.
Phainon is no longer a role to play. It's just who he is.
And, for the first time, that feels like enough.
“Happy Valentine's Day,” he says, and this time when he smiles, there's no nervousness behind it.
Anaxa's answering smile is small but genuine. “Happy Valentine's Day, Phainon.” He pauses, then adds with perfect dryness, “Though you still haven't fully explained what it actually is.”
Phainon laughs – surprised and incredulous and a little breathless. “I'll tell you later,” he promises.
“I'll hold you to that.”
They linger by the fountain as the morning stretches on, close and quiet and together. The future can wait. For now, this moment – honest and imperfect and theirs – is all they really want.