Archive of Our Own ^beta

Act I

When Phainon wakes up in the morning, the first thing he does is to instinctively roll toward the emptier side of the bed where his husband should be. As he expects, there is neither the weight nor the warmth of said husband there, only a rumpled hollow, faintly scented of Anaxa’s hair. Still, he reaches across the sheet anyway, his hand moving the way a swimmer searches for the shoreline in the dark, before he does his usual round of quick stretches and gets out of bed.

He finds his husband in the living room, laptop already open and all. The light from the screen turns Anaxa’s face into a kind of coastline, bright where the screen hits him with darkness pooling beneath the eyes. The usual melody of the keys being typed, followed by the occasional sigh as Anaxa scrolls through emails and dense lines of code, grows clearer as Phainon makes his way towards his husband’s side.

Sunlight has not yet reached the penthouse, yet it already feels as though the day is far advanced.

Phainon, of course, does what every good husband does—greets his husband with a kiss at the top of Anaxa’s head and says, in his still sleep-thick voice, “Morning.”

Anaxa, for his part, looks up, smiles, and returns the morning greeting.

“Morning.”

Twelve kilos of cloud and optimism, which Phainon named Pomelo, pads in from the hallway with a rubber ring clamped in his mouth. The Samoyed drops it at Anaxa’s bare foot, sits, and wags as he waits patiently for one-half of his parent to pay him any attention. Anaxa, for his part, smiles as he pats Pomelo’s head without looking, fingers landing in precisely the same groove between the ears they always find. The dog accepts this offering, before turning to his other parent, Phainon, as if to ask: do we stage a coup or do we wait him out?

Phainon responds by lifting the coffee mug sitting next to his husband’s laptop.

“Cold,” he states.

Anaxa snorts. “Fuel,” he answers, eyes still on the screen.

Phainon puts the mug down and bends to kiss his husband’s temple.

“At least drink a hot coffee,” he says. “Or, better yet, actual food. Like eggs. You remember eggs? Round, friendly, not a protein bar?”

Anaxa’s mouth tilts. “Make one for me then.”

Without a word, Phainon crosses to the kitchen and starts preparing breakfast for the two of them. Just a quick one, before his husband jets off somewhere. When he returns, there are two cups of hot coffee and two plates of eggs on the tray he carries.

“You know,” Phainon begins, voice soft but deliberate, as he spoonfeeds his husband, “they say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

Anaxa raises a single eyebrow as he chews the egg offered by his husband. Then,

“Is that so?” he murmurs, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

They continue as it is, with Phainon eating his own breakfast while simultaneously feeding his husband. Once done, he slips the laptop half-closed with two fingers, like dimming the house lights, before echoing himself from mornings past.

“Five minutes. Stretch. Blink like a mammal.”

Anaxa lets out a sigh, but pulls his hands off the keyboard and starts rolling his shoulders. He looks up then, and Phainon catches the quick brightness in his eyes that only appears in the hinge between tasks.

“Good?” Anaxa asks.

“Better,” his husband responds.

The familiar notes of concern—always gentle, never truly sharp—flutter between them. Anaxa closes his laptop fully just long enough to regard his husband. There is weariness in his eyes, but also something softer, something grateful.

“Thank you,” he says, and leans forward to press a brief kiss to Phainon’s cheek. “You worry too much.”

“Someone has to.”

The answer is automatic as Phainon reaches out to brush a strand of hair from Anaxa’s forehead. Anaxa smiles at the gesture.

“This is just a busy week. Next week should be better.”

“My love, you’ve said that for the past three weeks,” Phainon replies, placing the bowl beside the laptop with a gentle thud.

At the reply, Anaxa laughs.

“Big release, then a quick breath,” he adds. “You know I’ll come back to Earth.”

“I know you’re already on Earth,” Phainon says. “I’m just trying to keep you gravity-adjacent.”

The day moves forward as all their days do. They both hit the shower, get dressed, and prepare themselves for the day. Phainon watches as Anaxa slides his laptop into the bag, then makes a quick grab at their fridge and tosses a protein bar in his husband’s direction.

Anaxa, on his part, catches it perfectly.

“See?” he says, looking proud of himself. “I can do both. I can be a person and a calendar entry.”

Phainon chuckles before pressing a light kiss on his husband’s forehead.

“Be a body first,” he says, softly, almost like a prayer.

At Anaxa’s feet, Pomelo noses a battered squeaky toy against his ankle, tail wagging hopefully. Anaxa crouches to meet Pomelo’s gaze before proceeding to rub the dog’s snout and press his forehead to that soft crown.

“Wish me luck, Pomelo,” Anaxa murmurs, before standing up to meet his husband’s gaze. “You, too. Wish me luck.”

Phainon laughs before nodding his head. They share a quick, light kiss before he hands Anaxa his scarf.

“Text me when you eat real food,” he says.

“Anything for you,” Anaxa replies, already slipping on his shoes. He pauses, halfway into the day.

“You know I’m fine, right?”

In that moment, Phainon can feel something akin to worry pressing against his chest, mingling with a love so persistent it sometimes feels like longing. Still, he nods.

“I know,” he says. “But I’m legally bound to keep my eyes on you.”

Anaxa smiles at that. They share one last kiss before he slips out the door. Pomelo, on his part, remains seated next to Phainon, as he exhales and crouches down to scratch his dog’s chest until the tail thumps the floor like a metronome.

“There he goes again,” he says, almost to himself. “Maybe one of these days we’ll have to tie him down to get him to relax, eh?”

Pomelo tilts his head, as if pondering the suggestion with due seriousness.

For a moment, Phainon smiles. Then he stands and looks out at the awakening city, before he, too, steps into his own routines.

The glass-walled conference room of Nous Consulting Group, perched on a high floor, looks out onto streets still finding their rhythm. Inside, the morning meeting proceeds as it usually does: efficient and brisk, as Anaxa guides his team through a discussion of project updates, technical hurdles, and whatever the management has decided to tackle that morning. He doesn’t have to sit at the head of the table, nor does he have to say much, for his teams to come back to him whenever they hit a wall in the middle of the discussion.

“Double-check with the DevOps team again regarding replicating the existing demo environment as backup, but there should be no issue with pushing the updates to production today,” Anaxa states, when one of the senior product manager expresses their hesitancy regarding updating the service due to possible changes breaking the production environment. Then, he turns his attention towards one of the senior principal engineers whom he trusts the most and says,

“Castorice, I need you on standby for this deployment. Give me a heads up once everything is ready to be pushed to production, but I reckon it’s best to push this as soon as possible, so we have more time to assess the errors.”

Castorice silently nods in response.

The rest of the meeting proceeds as usual. Every question that is directed towards Anaxa is met with the same level of enthusiasm that does not quite match the seemingly permanent shadows under the man’s eyes. The half-eaten bagel on the table has already announced its surrender.

When the meeting finally ends, the rest of the team quickly gathers their laptops and exchanges a few pleasantries before leaving the room and heading to the cafeteria for lunch. Anaxa, as usual, is always the last one to leave the room. This time, however, two other figures also stayed behind with him—Castorice and Hyacine.

It is the latter who speaks first, her voice pitched somewhere between a joke and a warning.

“You plan to keep those raccoon eyes as a brand identity, boss?” she asks.

Anaxa, on his part, looks up, and in the clear glass reflection, he sees the dark circles under his own eyes. A soft chuckle escapes from him as he lifts his hands in a mock surrender.

“I’m pacing myself,” he replies. “Had breakfast and exercised earlier before I came to the office, even.”

Hyacine snorts. “I’m sure you do.”

“No, really, I did,” Anaxa states as he stands up from his seat and makes his way towards both of his subordinates. “Besides,” he adds, “deadline doesn’t wait for anyone. If we keep this pace, we’ll land the release before the weekend storm.

“Then learn to delegate,” Hyacine counters.

“I do delegate.”

“Do it better,” Hyacine states firmly. “You’re a VP, for God’s sake. You should be busy with future roadmaps and the company’s vision. Not running on fumes and cold bagels.”

“That so?” Anaxa angles an eyebrow. “You volunteering to steal a few of my dragons?”

“Hah!” Hyacine barks out in laughter. “I’m on the Product team, which means I’m outside of your jurisdiction, VP of Engineering,” she states, matter-of-factly, before pointing her pen at Castorice with the blithe efficiency of a seasoned prosecutor, “That means the dragons are yours, Cas.”

Castorice’s eyes widen, betrayed by the most human flinch. “I prefer my dragons medium-sized,” she said, “and doesn’t require me to work on weekends or fill in my overtime sheets.”

Anaxa chuckles before he adds, “I’m fine. I’ve survived plenty of all-nighters before. This is nothing.”

But Hyacine, never one to let the moment slip, crosses her arms. “Uh-huh. Remember your senior project,” she says, “when you nearly face-planted at the lab, and we had to bribe you with coffee to get you to nap? You didn’t even want to leave the lab for ten minutes.” She shakes her head, as if still unable to believe it, years later.

Instantly, the memory rises; unbidden, but vivid. The computer lab back at their university was bright and sterile. A much younger Anaxa, thin with ambition and sleeplessness, sat inside, hunching over codes. Then, came in Hyacine, just a year behind him, pressing a latte into his hand. Standing next to her was Phainon, then only an earnest and awkward freshman, quietly offering an energy drink in case Anaxa refused the latte option.

For a moment, the taste of exhaustion returns before Anaxa eventually lets the recollection settle with a wry smile and says,

“And yet, I still graduated top of class, didn’t I? The system works.”

Hyacine lets out a sigh, the air leaving her in an affectionate exasperation. “You’re hopeless,” she declares, though the word softened at the edges as it left her mouth. “Absolutely hopeless.”

Castorice lifts the abandoned bagel, wraps it in a napkin, and tucks it into Anaxa’s palm. “Lunch insurance,” she says, as if they are not about to make their way towards the cafeteria for lunch.

Still, Anaxa slips it into his coat pocket. “All right,” he concedes. “I’ll hand off two tasks. Maybe three.”

“Five,” Hyacine says, already moving toward the door.

“Three,” he insists, following her into the corridor’s daylight.

The glass walls hold a pale reflection of the three of them as they walk: Hyacine in front, while both Anaxa and Castorice are half a step behind.

Against all odds, Anaxa manages to return home just before the clock strikes six. In the foyer, he pauses long enough to unlace his shoes. His movements are slow, as if feeling the familiar weight of the day clinging to his body. He makes his way in, dropping his bag on the living room couch, before proceeding to let himself be guided by the warm light in the dining room.

From the kitchen, Phainon emerges. The look on his face tells Anaxa that his appearance must have surprised his husband. After all, it isn’t too often that Anaxa manages to return home when the sun is just about to set.

“You’re early,” he says.

“Didn’t want to risk you staging an intervention,” Anaxa replies, before adding, “Also, I handed over three tasks.”

“Three?” Phainon lifts an eyebrow. “Not five?”

“Three,” Anaxa repeats, but the word has less stubbornness than usual. “I’ll aim for four next week. See? Progress.”

Before Phainon can reply, Pomelo skids into the hallway, tail flying behind him like a white flag, and the Samoyed fixes Anaxa with a wide-eyed stare and promptly lets out a high-pitched and dramatic howl.

Phainon glances at the dog, then at his husband. “See? Even Pomelo’s surprised.”

“So am I,” Anaxa replies, bending down to ruffle the dog’s fur. Pomelo, mollified, circles his legs and collapses contentedly at his feet.

Dinner remains warm, the kitchen still redolent of ginger and garlic, of rice and vegetables steamed to softness. It’s a simple meal, the sort of thing Phainon likes to prepare on nights when he doesn’t particularly feel like putting in an extra effort for just two people and a dog. He dishes out rice and slides the serving spoon toward the vegetables. There is a look of mock sternness on his face, though the genuine concern in his eyes softens the effect, as he spoons a generous portion onto his husband’s plate.

“Eat,” he says. “And not just the rice.”

Anaxa offers a weary laugh, but does not protest. Instead, he takes up his chopsticks and obediently chases a piece of carrot across the plate.

“You’re relentless,” he says.

“Someone has to be,” Phainon replies. He watches his husband for a moment longer before setting out to eat his own dinner.

They talk about small things at first: the weather, Pomelo’s latest antics, their following grocery shopping schedule. The lull does not last. As they finish their meal, Phainon sets down his chopsticks and says,

“You should take tomorrow off. Properly off. No laptop. No work calls.”

Anaxa responds by reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose, as if to smooth away the day’s tension. “I was thinking about sleeping in, actually,” he concedes, “Then, I don’t know, maybe we can go for a walk with Pomelo.”

“Take the day,” Phainon repeats. “Sweetheart, you’re running yourself down.”

“I know,” Anaxa says, too quickly. “But the roadmap for Q1 is due. And I promised to look over Hyacine’s documentation. She’s covering a lot, but the requirements for next year are already stacking up. And there’s still the integration project-”

“Love,” Phainon says, even softer this time. “The year will still be there if you sleep in for the day.”

Anaxa lets out a sigh before replying, “The year is always there.”

“Exactly.”

There is a short silence, broken only by the kitchen fan. Anaxa gives a small, rueful smile.

“You’re very good at this.”

“At what?”

“At reminding me I’m human,” he murmurs. “Sometimes I forget.”

“You need the reminder.”

Anaxa laughs at the response, while Phainon leans back and lets the quiet stretch between them. He can see the exhaustion in his husband’s face; the lines that have deepened within each passing day, the way his hands linger at his temples. The urge to reach out is there, to gather him in and to force rest by the sheer force of love, but Phainon knows his husband better than anyone.

So, he does what he can and takes care of Anaxa in the ways his husband allows him to be: a full plate, an early night, a promise of morning sunlight, and the dog at their heels.

As Anaxa finishes the last bite, Phainon exhales softly, as if relieved of this small, ordinary win.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Anaxa smiles before reaching out across the table to place his hand on top of his husband’s. For now, at least, it is enough.

The week does what weeks do when no one is watching: it multiplies. One minute, Anaxa finds himself waking up at eleven in the afternoon on a Saturday and finding his laptops, both his work and personal ones, locked away by his husband. Next, he finds himself back inside the glass-walled conference room of his office, sitting at one side of the long oval table while listening to the ongoing discussion regarding the upcoming Q1 roadmap.

Nevermind the fact that they barely reached the end of the third quarter of the fiscal year.

Around him are the muted colors of autumn, a tray of untouched pastries, several open laptops, and his own half-cold coffee with teeth marks on the rim. He barely tastes his coffee now, as his nights have become staccato things. Dreams giving way to code and code giving way to restless staring at the ceiling. It’s a series of dawns bleeding one into the next.

If he blinks too slowly, he will find the world swimming at its edges. Everything becomes thinner and unmoored.

He hears his name; first from the VP of Product across the table, then again, closer. Hyacinthia. She gently prompts him before gesturing towards the screen.

“Your thoughts on the integration timeline, Anaxa?”

Anaxa turns his attention towards the screen first, studying its contents for a while before starting his explanation.

“Two dependencies here,” Anaxa says, laser pointing at the screen. “If Procurement closes by mid-January, we can stagger the rollout and—”

The rest of the words, unfortunately, trail off. Anaxa tries again to focus on the slide deck, but everything just looks unfocused to him at the moment.

The last thing he sees, before the darkness, is Hyacine rising from her seat, her mouth forming words he cannot hear.

It happens quickly, though not noiselessly, as the room’s hush is quick to be replaced by the scrape and clatter of panic. Almost everyone stands up from their seats and makes their way towards Anaxagoras’s side. Hyacine, being the one sitting next to him, gently lifts Anaxa’s head from the desk and straightens his seating position.

Someone—perhaps one of the executives—is quick to bark orders.

“Someone call an ambulance! Now!”

Two of the bigger guys gently carry Anaxa’s body from the chair and lay him down on the nearest sofa. Both Castorice and Hyacine follow every movement before kneeling next to the couch. Gently, though with trembling hands, Hyacine presses her fingers at his throat, searching for the steady drumbeat of his pulse, before loosening his tie.

As steady as her movements are, one look at her pale face tells bystanders she is not calm.

For a moment, everything else recedes. Hyacine’s hands tremble as she fumbles for her phone, breath uneven, thumb slipping twice before she manages to pull up Phainon’s number. She listens to the ring once, twice, three times.

“Pick up,” she whispers to the ringtone. “Pick up. Pick up.”

No answer.

She tries again. And again. And again.

Eventually, she swallows, presses record, and leans into the microphone. Her voice is tight as she says, “Phainon, it’s Hyacine.”

She pauses momentarily to steady her voice before continuing, “It’s Anaxa. He . . . he collapsed. We’re at the office. They already called an ambulance. Please call me back. Please.”

Then, she releases the button and follows the voice message with a brief text:

Anaxa collapsed. Paramedics are on the way. Will text you the hospital name ASAP.

Around her, the world narrows to a corridor of actions: one of the managers informing others that the ambulance has arrived, Castorice telling Hyacine to go with Anaxa, informing her that she’ll pack their things before following suit using her own car, and Hyacine herself making her way inside the ambulance.

As the vehicle begins to move, she finally manages to steady both her breathing and her voice before answering the paramedics’ questions, surprising herself with her knowledge of her own boss’s health. They tell her that Anaxa’s pulse is steady, albeit weak. Hyacine nods along, acknowledging the statement.

From the window, she watches as the pale light of late afternoon colors the sky. Then, she turns her attention back to her phone and, once again, presses it to her ear as she waits for Phainon to call her back.

Phainon has never been a fan of hospitals. There is just something about the place’s atmosphere—neither loud nor quiet, as if it exists in that strange, in-between space—that never sits right with him. Now, as he rushes out of his own car, out of the parking lot, and towards the ER, he can feel his chest tighten with something closer to fear that he wishes to admit.

At the reception desk, his words come out too fast, while his hands tremble as he tries to take out his phone to call either Hyacine or Castorice. It is a small mercy that both of them spot him and immediately rush to his side, dragging Phainon towards the waiting area. Rows and rows of empty chairs greet him as he enters the room, but Phainon believes that if he sits down, he might not be able to stand up again.

So, he turns his attention towards his two friends, both looking too composed and too weary at once.

It was Castorice who broke the silence, gently saying that Anaxa is stable. Hyacine follows the explanation by stating what the doctor must have told Castorice and her before Phainon arrives—that Anaxa collapsed from a combination of exhaustion, stress, and improper diet.

“You know how he is about food,” Hyacine says. She manages a small, brittle laugh, though her eyes are rimmed red, before adding, “He’s resting now.”

The surge in Phainon’s body, anger with nowhere appropriate to land, flickers momentarily before it eventually dims. Instead, he nods and murmurs his thanks. For a brief moment, silence fell between the three of them as they stood shoulder to shoulder, united by a sense of helplessness towards their mutual friend.

Then, Hyacine reaches for Phainon’s sleeve. Her touch is brief as she says,

“Room 134. They’ll let you in.”

Phainon turns his attention towards Castorice, who nods and says, “We’ll be here.”

And so, Phainon finds himself walking through the seemingly impossibly long hallway towards where his husband is. Waves of memories begin crashing down on him with each step forward: mornings when Anaxa’s side of the bed was already cold, the soft sigh of his breath over a cup of coffee gone untouched, the endless deferrals from next week, to next month, to ‘after this one last deadline.’

When Phainon finally enters the room, he finds his husband lying in a high hospital bed. Alone. Up close, Anaxa’s face looks younger. The same face that is usually so quick with wit or a tired half-smile is now utterly still, pale as porcelain. His lips parted just enough to show the quiet effort of his breathing. One of his arms is outstretched and tangled in the IV drip.

Phainon wraps his fingers around that hand. It’s cool, dry from too much air-conditioning and not enough water. For a moment, he can feel anger, fear, and something like relief war inside him: anger at Anaxa for letting it come to this, but also at himself for not doing more; fear for what might have happened; and relief that it isn’t any worse. He leans down before gently pressing a kiss on his husband’s knuckles.

“This is exactly what I was afraid of,” he thinks. The words echo too loudly in his head because Anaxa has promised him, multiple times, that he will take care of himself.

And Phainon? Phainon always believed in him.

Always.

Even if a small part of him finds itself unable to be surprised at this outcome.

“How far will you push yourself, love?”

A sharp exhale comes out of his body as soon as the thoughts leave his mind.

A nurse enters and, once they notice Phainon’s presence in the room, smiles. They inform him that Anaxa is doing okay, though the staff will keep him under observation and run a few lab tests before they are confident enough to discharge him. Phainon returns their smile, before managing a small thanks.

Once they are alone again, he pulls one of the chairs closer and finally sits down. Still holding on to his husband’s arms, Phainon brushes Anaxa’s thumbs gently across the knuckles, as if trying to summon his husband back from the depths of sleep.

“You dummy,” he murmurs, soft but firm. “What am I going to do with you?”

The silence that follows is expected, though it does not stop Phainon’s mind from thinking of all of the possible methods to slow his husband, once cleared to go home, down. Perhaps he can try hiding Anaxa’s laptops and work devices again, this time locked somewhere inside the house. Or forces him to work from home, especially since he knows that Anaxa’s company does not even require him to come to the office every day.

In the end, as his eyes drift towards the bleeping monitor next to his husband’s bed, Phainon finds himself letting out another sigh, before shaking his head and bending down to press his mouth to Anaxa’s hair. He breathes in the clean, hospital version of the scent he is familiar with.

“Come back to me, my love,” he whispers.

In the corner, he watches as the wall clock moves its second hand like a swimmer tracing the lane rope in the dark, while the sun sets from beyond the window. For now, Phainon feels that it is enough just to sit there, holding Anaxa’s hand, and wait for him to return.

When Anaxagoras surfaces from sleep, he does it slowly, as if he is swimming upward through syrup, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The ceiling, he notices, is plainly painted. His mouth feels dry, and there is the impression of a weight on his left hand. When he carefully turns his head, he finds Phainon there. His eyes are closed, while his fingers are intertwined with Anaxa’s, as if to say, ‘I was here when you left, and I will be here when you return.’

If love is a chorus, sometimes it is sung only in the way someone refuses to leave your side and give up on you. No matter how empty the room grows.

Anaxa doesn’t try to wake his husband. One quick glance out the nearest window tells him everything he needs to know about the time. So he lets Phainon rest and waits for him to wake.

When Phainon finally opens his eyes, his blue eyes are quick to find Anaxa’s turquoise ones.

“Don’t try to sit up yet,” he says, before Anaxa can say anything, “The nurses have asked that you take things slowly.”

Anaxa blinks once. Twice. Then, he takes a deep breath before asking, “How long?”

“A few hours,” Phainon replies. “You fainted at the office. Hyacine and Castorice were with you, but they’ve gone back. I told them I’ll let them know once you’re up.”

Anaxa silently nods in response, so Phainon continues.

“The doctor will come round again.”

“I see,” Anaxa murmurs, and after a moment: “I’m sorry.”

Phainon shakes his head. “There’s nothing to apologise for,” he says, before pressing the button to call the nurses.

Shortly after, the doctor and nurses arrive. The former, a man presumably in his late 50s, asks a series of questions, most of which Anaxa answers with brief nods. He speaks of dehydration, sleep debt, and an overburdened schedule, before recommending two days at home with light activity, a follow-up with a general physician, and some blood tests to be repeated in a week.

“Your results so far are reassuring,” the doctor states. “I have to say, you’re very lucky to be able to bounce back as fast as you do.”

Anaxa nods. “I see.”

“But I would not take this lightly, especially considering your age and physique,” the doctor continues, before adding, “A fainting episode is often your body’s way of sending you a warning. Treat it as such.”

Once again, Anaxa nods in response. “Understood.”

Eventually, the doctor and nurses take their leave, and the room returns to its soft sounds. Phainon adjusts the blanket, which has folded awkwardly near the rail. Through it all, he keeps his gaze on Anaxa’s face, as if trying to convince himself that his husband is here—alive and breathing.

When Anaxa tries to apologize, Phainon just shakes his head.

“None of that,” he says, so quietly that Anaxa almost doesn’t catch it. “Don’t say sorry. Just rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Anaxa nods and, for once, doesn’t resist when drowsiness takes over his body again.

By the next afternoon, the staff declares that it is safe for Anaxa to return home. The nurse reviews the doctor’s instructions once more, checking and rechecking Anaxa’s blood pressure, before noting the importance of fluids, regular meals, rest, and a gradual return to work. Once done, the staff helps escort them out of the room, to the parking lot, and into their car.

Back at the penthouse, Pomelo meets them at the door, with his tongue lolling and his tail beating out the time they’ve been away. He presses up against Phainon first, who bends down to rub his head, before pushing his nose against Anaxa’s leg. Just before Anaxa is about to bend down to meet Pomelo, Phainon stops him mid-way.

“Bed first,” he states, before gently guiding Anaxa towards the bedroom with Pomelo trailing behind them.

In the master bedroom, Anaxa sits on the bed with his back against the headboard, while Phainon fusses with the pillows and blanket at first, before stepping outside to head to the kitchen. When he returns with a glass of water, he finds Pomelo lying down at the foot of the bed, as if acting as Anaxa’s guard. A soft snort escapes from Phainon’s mouth before he himself sits next to his husband on the bed and hands him the glass of water.

Anaxa takes a small sip before he tries again, one last time, to explain.

“I overdid it,” he starts. “I thought I could keep going. I thought-”

Phainon hushes him. “You don’t have to explain anything,” he says, as his thumb softly runs a slow arc across Anaxa’s knuckles. “Just rest, okay? No work, no laptops. Just rest. Doctor’s order.”

Anaxa looks down at their joined hands. “I don’t like making you worry.”

“I know,” Phainon replies. “I don’t like making you worry, too.”

There is a silence, though not heavy. Eventually, Anaxa nods and lets his body sink further back into the bed. Phainon lets out a sigh of relief before adjusting the blanket one more time, as if that small gesture can stave off all future harm. Once done, he, too, lets his body sink into the bed and pulls his husband closer, letting Anaxa’s head rest on his chest.

“I’m here,” Anaxa murmurs, so softly that only someone listening with their whole heart could hear it.

Phainon leans down to press a gentle kiss on his husband’s temple and says,

“I know.”

As instructed by the doctor and further advised by his colleagues and leads, Anaxa is on leave for the week, which sounds more daunting than it is. The days pass in a subdued progression as the light shifts through the penthouse windows. At the same time, Phainon learns to measure out hours by the cadence of Anaxa’s breathing, the intervals between sips of water, as well as the rise and fall of temperature by touch and thermometer. 

Phainon is meticulous about it as well. In the morning, he will wake up before his husband, then head to the kitchen. There, he will carefully set out the medications on a small porcelain dish to make sure that the doses are correct. Once done, he will prepare breakfast before bringing it on a tray to the bedside: congee (always a safe option) with ginger, vegetables cut small and steamed soft, and poached fish.

By the time Phainon returns to the master bedroom, Anaxa will already be awake. The latter’s attention is focused on Pomelo, who conducts his own routine. The dog will press his snout gently to Anaxa’s wrist as if to check for a pulse.

When their eyes meet, Anaxa’s face contorts into a soft smile. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Phainon returns the greeting, before pressing a gentle kiss on his husband’s cheek. Then, he’ll set out the tray on the bed as carefully as possible, before passing the medications and a glass of water to Anaxa.

“Open,” Phainon says.

Anaxa sighs, but obediently opens his mouth to swallow the medication. The bitter taste causes him to wince.

“Again in six hours,” Phainon states, as he passes Anaxa a bowl of porridge.

Anaxa takes it. “Copy that,” he murmurs.

On the second afternoon, Anaxa tries to test the border. Phainon is only out for a minute to grab cups of tea, and when he makes his way out of the kitchen, he finds his husband halfway through entering the study room. He lets out a sigh before putting the tray of tea aside, pulls Anaxa away from the study room, and gently carries him back towards their bedroom.

“Just a quick email check,” Anaxa says as Phainon gently lays him down on the bed.

Phainon simply sits next to his husband and says, “Emails will not die if you ignore them.”

Anaxa blinks once. Twice. Then, he lets out a laugh, soft and wrecked around the edges, before he raises both hands and says,

“All right, all right. You win.”

“I’d better,” Phainon states, matter-of-factly. “Or else we’ll be back at the hospital by Friday.”

Another laugh escapes from Anaxa. “You drive a hard bargain, Nurse Phainon,” he says, and because he is already in bed and gentled by the week, he smiles while he says it. “What would I do without you?”

“Let’s not find out,” Phainon says as he tucks the blanket to ensure it covers both of them on the bed before snuggling closer to Anaxa.

That sets the tone for the week. As it turns out, Phainon is relentless when he is armed with love and a doctor’s note. Mostly, the second one.

There is a rhythm to it.

They will start with a breakfast plate and medication in the morning. Then, Phainon will prepare a full lunch for both of them, along with a plate of sliced fruit (mostly apples), before letting Anaxa take a nap. Sometimes Phainon will join him; sometimes he is content to watch Anaxa sleep. 

They measure distance by naps. Sometimes, Anaxa will drift into sleep without a fight. Sometimes, he will pretend that the page in his hand is heavier than sleep. In the end, sleep will always take its place. By the time the sun sets, dinner will roll in, followed by medication. Then, it’s a full eight hours of sleep at night, before the day starts the next morning again.

Sometimes, while Anaxa is asleep, Phainon will find himself looking at his husband lying there and watching for the small movements that show signs of life, such as how Anaxa’s eyelid will sometimes quiver or how his chest will rise and fall with each breath he takes. Mostly, what strikes him the most is how gentle Anaxa’s face looks when his defenses are down. It is then that a thought creeps in:

He gives in so easily when he’s sick.

Phainon does not like the thought, but what he hates even more is the fact that Anaxa’s body has to falter first for this softness to exist. He wishes Anaxa would listen like this when the latter is healthy because, for some reason, illness has lowered the ceiling of Anaxa’s stubbornness.

In the end, Phainon will find himself letting out a sigh before going back to lie down on the bed and hold his husband.

It is on the first Saturday afternoon of Anaxa’s prescribed convalescence when Phainon receives a notice from the lobby: he has visitors. Ten minutes and two elevator rides later, he reenters the penthouse with Hyacine and Castorice following him behind. Both of them are carrying paper bags of takeout, which they place on the dining table before Phainon escorts them to the master bedroom.

Anaxa is propped up in bed when the three of them enter. His back is against a tower of cushions that Phainon has fluffed at least three times already since the afternoon, while Pomelo curls loyally at his feet on the bed. He looks, for the most part, well, albeit slightly thinner, sleepier, and still wearing a layer of fatigue around the eyes that no amount of broth or rest has managed to erase. But when he sees the three of them, his expression shifts into a smile.

“You two,” he greets, voice still scratchy around the edges. “Did Phainon bribe you?”

“Nope,” Hyacine says as she makes a beeline towards Pomelo’s side of the bed, before asking, “How much water have you had today?”

“Enough,” Anaxa replies, though the word is undercut by a sheepish glance at Phainon, who wordlessly hands him a glass from the side table before taking a seat on the bed next to his husband.

Castorice, meanwhile, takes her seat on the chair right next to Anaxa’s side of the bed. “We brought your favorite congee. Phainon told us that you still can’t eat solid food that well,” she says.

Anaxa laughs at that. “You make it sound like I’m a baby,” he states.

“You’re more like a teething toddler,” Hyacine replies.

For a time, the bedroom is filled with the soft murmur of conversation—updates about the office, Hyacine’s running commentary on how she has been making sure that the project runs afloat (“By sheer force of will, and caffeine,” she insists) with Castorice chiming in now and then. Even Pomelo joins in, nudging Hyacine’s hand for a pat whenever her tone grows too stern.

Somewhere, between the third and fourth anecdotes, Anaxa’s laughter begins to trail off. His replies begin to shrink before, eventually, his eyelids flutter closed, and his head tips sideways against Phainon’s shoulder. In the hush that follows, Castorice gently draws the blanket higher while Hyacine brushes the fringe from Anaxa’s forehead. Phainon finds himself watching both gestures and feeling a pang of gratitude.

It is then that Hyacine glances up. There’s a quiet and insistent weight behind her gaze as she meets Phainon’s.

“Make sure he truly rests, okay?” she says in a low and gentle voice.

Phainon nods.

Soon, the penthouse settles once more into stillness, as Phainon watches his two friends prepare to leave. Castorice gives him a reassuring hug before she slips on her coat, while Hyacine lingers a moment longer near the bedroom door, as if checking for Anaxa’s condition one last time. They say their goodbye as Phainon accompanies both girls back towards the lobby.

When he returns to the penthouse, he finds Pomelo waiting for him. Phainon smiles and lets the Samoyed follow him back towards the master bedroom. There, he finds Anaxa still asleep, his face looks untroubled, as if the lines of worry and fatigue are smoothed away by sleep. Once again, Phainon takes his place right next to him on the bed. For a while, he simply watches the corners of Anaxa’s mouth twitch once in sleep and counts his breaths.

Outside of the room, time marches forward. Inside, Phainon leans down to press a gentle kiss on Anaxa’s forehead and softly whispers,

“Rest well.”

Then, he lets the silence hold them both.

A week flies faster than one expects it to be. When the next Tuesday morning arrives, Anaxa, freshly showered and noticeably steadier on his feet, saunters into the kitchen with that particular brightness that hasn’t visited his face in weeks. There is a spring in his step as colours have slowly crept back into his face.

Phainon is already at the stove, turning off the heat under the congee pot. He looks up as Anaxa enters and tilts his head, as if trying to search his husband’s face the way someone looks at a familiar photo they haven’t seen in years—trying to figure out what has changed.

“You look better,” Phainon says.

Anaxa smiles before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss on Phainon’s cheek. “I feel better.”

It isn’t a lie. The dark circles have faded, and his shoulders are less hunched. He even stands straighter. It is as if looking at a man who has returned from battle, rather than one who is still fighting ghosts. So, Phainon nods in response and busies himself with arranging the breakfast things. For a few precious minutes, they simply sit together at the table, quiet except for Pomelo’s gentle panting and the faint click of ceramic on wood.

“I think I’ll go back in tomorrow,” Anaxa says, before taking another bite of his toast.

Phainon doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he takes one of the apples from its basket, peels and slices it, then places it on a plate and gently pushes it towards Anaxa. He watches as Anaxa takes one slice before carefully suggesting,

“Maybe take a couple more days? Ease back into it?”

Anaxa reaches across the table, takes Phainon’s hand, and laces their fingers together. “I’ve learned my lesson,” he says gently. “Really. I’ll be careful.”

There is a pause that stretches long enough for sincerity to bloom before Anaxa softly adds,

“I don’t say it enough, but I’m so lucky to have you.”

That question, small and made over a lukewarm breakfast, breaks something loose inside Phainon. He lets out a sigh before standing up from his seat to make his way to his husband’s side and pressing his forehead to Anaxa’s.

“Just,” he pauses momentarily before continuing in a softer voice, “Just look after yourself, alright?”

Anaxa smiles at that and says, “I will.”

And for a while, Phainon lets himself believe that this is healing and not the beginning of a relapse. The next morning, he kisses Anaxa on the lips before the latter enters their car, ready for work.

“Text me if you need anything,” Phainon says.

Anaxa nods. “Anything for you,” he says, like a promise that might stick this time.

Phainon watches as the car drives away before letting out a sigh. His heart is full, but not entirely settled. Still, he makes his way to his bike and drives to his workplace.

The first week of Anaxa being back at work is, by most measures, a win. He arrives home at dusk, sometimes even a little earlier, and he delegates small meetings to his various subordinates. Both Phainon and he have dinner together at a sensible hour, and afterwards, Anaxa will stretch out beside Phainon on the sofa, and they will talk about works, about the weather, about everything.

“You’re doing great,” Phainon tells him one night, brushing a kiss across his temple as they lie in bed. “I’m proud of you.”

Anaxa smiles. “Told you I’d listen.”

For a while, it is enough, and Phainon lets himself believe that this can be a permanent thing. Yet, he soon learn how easy it is for routines to reassert themselves when no one’s watching. The weeks progress, the cadence of the business cycle swells again, and it doesn’t take long before deadlines begin to exert their familiar gravity.

Three weeks after the hospital, Phainon wakes to the unmistakable absence of breath beside him. The sheets next to him are still faintly warm, which means Anaxa hasn’t been gone long, but it is still barely 2:17 in the morning. With Pomelo trailing behind him, Phainon pads out into the hallway barefoot. The soft glow of the kitchen light spills into the corridor, and there, exactly as he fears, sits Anaxa.

As he watches Anaxa sitting at the counter with his laptop open and an empty coffee cup sitting beside him, Phainon can feel his heart sinking. He wishes he could say that he’s surprised, but, really, he isn’t. For a moment, he just stands there and watches the familiar scenes with his husband, the same man who has no idea how to stop and measure his own worth in hours burned and deadlines met, starring in it.

Phainon loves him more than anything, but at this moment, that love is beginning to feel like a quiet kind of grief.

Eventually, Phainon approaches slowly, so as not to startle the other. He places his hands on Anaxa’s shoulders and begins to rub gently, feeling the tension in those tired muscles.

“Come to bed,” Phainon murmurs softly.

Anaxa glances up and offers him a weak smile. “Just a few more minutes,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m almost done.”

There is a pause, and Phainon considers pressing the point further. In the end, however, he swallows his frustration down and, instead, takes a seat right next to Anaxa.

“Alright,” he says, finally. “I’ll wait for you here then.”

It takes Anaxa another thirty minutes before he finally closes the laptop and allows Phainon to lead him back to bed. Phainon kisses the crown of Anaxa’s head, as the latter rests his head on Phainon’s chest. For a while, Phainon lies awake in the dark and lets his thoughts circle the same question: What more can he do that hasn’t already been tried to make rest something his husband can accept without illness forcing its hand?

In the end, Phainon finds no answers, only the realisation of the true cost of loving someone who has never quite learned how to stop.

Act II

Some ideas come in loud and immediate, like a fire alarm or a slap. Some ideas arrive like fog creeping under a door: soft and slow. It’s the kind of idea that makes you question if it is your idea in the first place at all, or something the universe has slipped into your pocket when you aren’t looking.

Phainon has been having a week like that.

It happens on a Thursday while Phainon is sitting in the faculty lounge. His cup of tea has grown lukewarm, while his grading queue has grown sentient. His students are either sick, ghosting, or suddenly rediscovering passion for the subject in the last two weeks. So, yes, typical semester for him.

He is in the middle of preparing another cup of tea for himself when he overhears his coworker, Caelus, telling a story about his last camping experience.

“I swear to God,” the man says as he stands at the center of a half-circle of amused colleagues, “I thought they were oyster mushrooms. They looked like oyster mushrooms. You know the kind? The one with the cute little frills?”

He pauses for a bit, waiting for confirmation from his audience before continuing with his story, “Except real oyster mushrooms don’t make you want to empty your stomach by midnight!”

One of the younger teaching assistants casually asks, “You didn’t Google it first?”

Caelus rolls his eyes at the question. “Bro, Google had no signal out there!” he retorts.

That earns him another round of laughter. This time, Phainon joins along as he watches Caelus mime the retching, the feverish chills, and the dramatic retelling of how his partner finds him curled in a blanket under the stars.

“I have to deal with fever, stomach cramps, full-body nausea, basically the whole package!” Caelus says, before adding, “But, honestly? The worst of it passed in days.”

“It got you out of grading midterms, though,” one of the younger lecturers chimes in.

Caelus grins at that. “Hell yeah,” he says.

There are more chuckles. Then the conversation shifts to other topics, including the weird smell in Lab 5, the upcoming funding, and more. Yet Phainon, now back at his seat, finds himself staring at his monitor screen. His mind recalls how Caelus has said it all so casually.

Fever. Nausea. Not life-threatening. Just debilitating.

His first reaction is shame. He shakes his head and tries his best to drown the thought before it takes root. Yet, no matter how hard he tries, it stays. It lurks behind his eyes, following him into his next lecture and clinging like the scent of old coffee and panic.

Phainon goes home early that day.

On Sunday, Hyacine and Castorice come over to the penthouse for brunch. Castorice brings pastries, Hyacine brings everyone’s favorite coffees, and the penthouse smells like maple syrup and overripe bananas, courtesy of Phainon’s works in the kitchen. He is busy handling the waffle iron along with the stove, while Anaxa is setting the table with mismatched ceramic plates and a big bowl of fruit.

Halfway through their meal, as the waffles and sliced fruits begin to disappear, Hyacine gestures with her fork and says,

“So you won’t believe what happened during Friday’s lunch between the Product team.”

“Oh no,” Phainon says, mid-chewing. Then, with a grin on his face, he asks, “Did Castorice accidentally poison someone again?”

Castorice sighs in response. “One time,” she mutters.

“No, no,” Hyacine says, trying her best not to laugh at her friend. “It was Duncan. Poor guy has a rare shellfish allergy, but no one knew, and he didn’t mention it. So, he ate a bite of the dumplings, and boom! Full-on reaction!”

“God,” Anaxa mumbles.

“They had to wheel him out,” Hyacine says, concluding her story.

“Note to self,” Castorice mutters, “always label the potluck.”

Hyacine nods in agreement and says, “Always.”

“That’s terrifying,” Phainon says. He takes a sip of his tea and adds, almost offhandedly, “One of my colleagues nearly poisoned himself with wild mushrooms.”

Almost immediately, every single head on the table turns toward his direction.

“What?” Anaxa asks.

“You know, Caelus, right?” Phainon asks his husband.

Anaxa nods in response.

Phainon continues, “Well, he went camping some weeks ago, found some mushrooms in the forest, and thought they were safe, but apparently not. Got a fever, stomach issues, and has to skip work for a couple of days, but he’s fine now.”

“Oof,” Hyacine winces. “Nature said: no more work.”

“Honestly,” Castorice says, shaking her head as she adds, “maybe that’s the dream.”

That draws a laugh from everyone at the table.

“What about you two?” Hyacine asks, turning her attention towards both Phainon and Anaxa. “Any allergies we should know about? Before we start experimenting with the next brunch?”

Phainon shakes his head. “No food allergies,” he states. “At least, none that I know of.”

“Same here,” Anaxa chimes in. “Iron stomach here. Though,” he adds, glancing at Phainon, “some of the meds during recovery messed with me. But nothing serious.”

“Yeah, he’s clear,” Phainon says, smoothly as if to confirm Anaxa’s statement. “I would’ve known by now if he wasn’t.”

The words are automatic, almost reflex-like, yet they taste different on his tongue.

Because Phainon does know.

He knows precisely what Anaxa can handle, knows his husband’s limits, and has them catalogued the way a scientist tracks changes in temperature and their samples. There is no brief moment of silence as the conversation continues. Hyacine says something about the management level, Anaxa and Castorice laugh in response, and even Pomelo barks along.

Phainon, however, finds himself deep in thought as he reaches for another pastry.

Not an allergy, nor a mistake. Just a controlled burn that is enough to force someone to rest. Enough to force someone to stop.

He doesn’t want to think about it, tries his best to shake it away, but the thoughts are there. Uninvited and rooted.

By late September, Phainon finds that Anaxa’s work schedule does not ease. If anything, his meetings multiply, the emails arrive faster, and the deadlines grow heavier. Some nights, Phainon finds himself falling asleep while waiting for his husband to come to bed.

Phainon knows that Anaxa means well, but the signs accumulate, and they each tell a different story. One time, Phainon finds himself coming home from a late-night grocery run to find his husband on yet another conference call at 9 PM. Another time, he wakes up in the morning and finds the other side of the bed already cold. When he enters the kitchen, he finds a plate of omelette and a sticky note with his husband’s neat handwriting on it sitting on the dining table.

Early meeting. Made you an omelette. Love you.

Phainon can only exhale before taking a bite of the food. It’s delicious, albeit slightly cold. He tries not to keep count—he likes to believe he isn’t that spiteful to his own husband—but it just happened. He keeps count of everything: the number of times he finds Anaxa sitting in front of his laptop on Saturday afternoon, the number of cups left in the dishwasher, and the number of times he catches Anaxa taking a nap on the living room couch.

The argument seems inevitable at that point.

It happened once after dinner on a weekday. Anaxa is standing by the washing machine, waiting for the cycle to finish, while responding to a Slack message on his phone. At first, Phainon is content to simply watch from the laundry room doorway. Until he decided to break the silence and say,

“I thought you said you’d delegate more.”

Anaxa looks up, blinks once, and softly says, “I am.”

Phainon raises a single eyebrow. Like hell he believes that excuse.

“Is that so?” he asks.

Anaxa responds with a nod.

Phainon continues with, “Then why did I see you revising the quarterly roadmap earlier before dinner?”

“Because it’s important,” Anaxa says, matter-of-factly. “And I can’t just hand it off when everyone else already has their hands full. Plus, I was revising it, not writing it from scratch.”

Phainon doesn’t say anything for a moment. He could argue, remind Anaxa of the importance of rest. Hell, he could even bring up the hospitalization if he feels particularly spiteful.

But Phainon doesn’t.

Instead, he simply nods and stands next to his husband inside the laundry room. The conversation ends there for the night, and the pattern continues.

Another night, Phainon walks into the study room with the intention of notifying Anaxa that dinner is ready. He doesn’t do that, as he finds Anaxa asleep at his desk. For a moment, Phainon watches as the glow of the monitor screen casts long shadows across his husband’s face. Eventually, he gently carries Anaxa towards the main bedroom.

It takes another hour for Anaxa to eventually wake up. They proceed to have dinner afterwards, though Phainon insists on bringing the food to bed. He manages to get his husband to stop working for the night, take a warm shower, and rest.

As Phainon watches Anaxa’s sleeping face while gently running his hands through his husband’s mint-green hair, he finds his mind circling back to the same thoughts that have kept him up for days:

If he keeps this up, next time it might be worse than a collapse.

A sigh escapes his mouth before he leans down to press a gentle kiss on Anaxa’s temple.

It is 2:48 AM when Phainon wakes. His mouth feels dry, and his throat aches. Carefully, he slides out of bed so as not to wake Anaxa, especially since, for once, the latter is asleep in their shared bed and not at the study desk or the living room sofa. In the dark, Phainon makes his way across the chilled tiles and toward the kitchen. There, he pours himself a glass of water, takes one sip, then another.

He doesn’t return to bed right away. Instead, he sits at the dining table with the glass still in his hand, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. There’s nothing urgent or new. For a while, he continues scrolling while occasionally taking a sip from his glass. Until a notification slides across the top:

Caelus has edited “Syllabus – Term 2 Draft.”

Phainon blinks down at the screen before he huffs a small laugh through his nose.

Of course, he thinks, as he types out a message:

“Go to sleep, bro. It’s 3 AM.”

Instantly, the reply arrives.

“Yeah, yeah. Just wrapping things up.”

Then, another message follows almost immediately:

“My girlfriend already yelled at me anyway. Said I’ll end up barfing mushrooms again.”

Another laugh escapes from Phainon. He still recalls the dramatic retelling in the faculty lounge, where Caelus describes the fever and nausea that he experienced during his camping trip. For a while, Phainon finds himself hovering his thumbs over the keyboard. Then, he types:

“What kind of mushroom was it again?”

A beat passes, then a picture appears in the chatroom—a pale, dull cap with slightly yellowed gills. It is fairly unremarkable at first glance, like something you’d walk past on a forest floor without thinking twice. Another message follows from Caelus:

“These bastards. Apparently they look like the edible ones but aren’t. Google it. It’s nasty lol.”

A small smile creeps up on Phainon’s face as he lets out a small hum. Then, he replies with a simple:

“Thanks. Go rest, dude.”

Phainon closes the chatroom, though his eyes catch a short reply from Caelus (“Aye aye, captain.”). Then he opens his phone’s browser and drags the mushroom photo into Google for a reverse image search. The results spill across the screen almost immediately.

Agaricus xanthodermus, the yellow-staining mushroom.

He scrolls through various links; each showing several articles, scientific reports, and mushroom identification blogs. Eventually, he clicks on one and carefully reads:

It can cause gastrointestinal distress. Symptoms may include, but are not limited to, nausea, vomiting, abdominal cramps, diarrhea, and possible low-grade fever. The onset is 30 minutes to 2 hours after ingestion. Hydration and rest are required for a swift recovery.

He reads it once. Then twice. Then thrice. Then he clicks out of the article and checks another. He repeats the process over and over again until his mind comes to a single conclusion, until a single sentence is etched into his brain.

Not fatal.

Then, he switches off his phone screen, washes his now-empty glass of water, and makes his way back to the bedroom. Carefully, he slides into the bed before turning his attention to Anaxa’s sleeping face. Like this, at peace and not staring at his monitor screen with eyebags under his eyes, his older-by-almost-seven-years husband looks younger.

Phainon lets out a sigh and wonders what kind of man it makes him to sit in his own kitchen at 3:14 in the morning, rereading a list of symptoms and wondering what it would mean to force his husband to rest?

In the end, he decides against dwelling on the thought for too long and goes back to sleep.

Monday arrives, and with it, the major Q3 presentation is finally delivered while the Q4 roadmap is finalized. Phainon knows this because one day, Anaxa comes home looking slightly brighter than he has in days. And also because Anaxa tells him about it straightforwardly during dinner.

When he hears it, Phainon thinks that, if the universe is fair, now would be the time when his husband will slow down, recalibrate, and rest. In an ideal universe, that will be what happened. And yet, Anaxa remains as relentless as ever.

This time, however, Phainon doesn’t bother arguing.

Partly because he knows this will happen, and partly because this time he has a plan. So, he simply watches and takes notes on everything, making sure that the outcome of his plan will not jeopardize his husband’s year-end performance review. He understands the importance of timing after all.

That’s why, on one Wednesday morning, Phainon finds himself packing his worn hiking boots and a cooler box along with his work backpack, calling in sick, and driving his car past the university and out towards the edges of the city. Almost two and a half hours later, he finds himself just outside the hiking trail that he finds through Caelus’s geotagged Instagram posts. Silently, as Phainon walks the same trails Caelus walked weeks ago, he mentally thanks his coworker for his tendency to post everything online and for not straying far from the city during teaching terms.

It takes him another hour, but eventually, Phainon finds what he is looking for. There, clustered beneath the damp shade of a trailhead, are the yellow-staining mushrooms. Carefully, he puts on his gloves before crouching down to gather enough of them to use and, with a sense of foresight, enough to cultivate again later.

Just in case.

By noon, he’s already back in the city. Just before heading home, he stops by the grocery store and gathers everything else: cream, parsley, garlic, and fettuccine. He adds other supplies too—onions, carrots, ginger, rice, bananas—just in case he decides to change the recipe midway, as well as two bottles of wine. The illusion matters. It has to look like care, and it must taste like love.

When he finally arrives at home, he makes his way towards the kitchen as usual. He sets up the music to play through the kitchen speaker and starts prepping as always. He cooks the mushrooms with the others while humming along as always, remaining careful not to mix up the plate meant for Anaxa and the one for himself. Once done and everything is set up at the table, Phainon makes his way towards the main bedroom.

Gently, he knocks on the ensuite bathroom’s door and keeps his voice light as he tells Anaxa that dinner is ready.

“Five minutes,” Anaxa says in response from the other side of the door.

Phainon hums in response before making his way back to the dining table. When Anaxa arrives exactly five minutes late, he has his iPad in hand. Normally, Phainon would roll his eyes and pluck the device away for the remainder of the dinnertime. Tonight, he says nothing about the device.

Anaxa eats without complaint. He keeps most of his attention on whatever requirement document he is currently reviewing, though he occasionally hums in acknowledgment and makes a quick comment as Phainon tells him about the latest story from the university.

When the plates are empty, Anaxa reaches out, presses a kiss to Phainon’s cheek, and thanks him for the dinner, as always. The amount of trust nearly makes Phainon vomit out of guilt. Still, he maintains his composure, lightly flicks Anaxa’s forehead when the latter tells him that he will be going back to the study room for a while, before kissing his cheek.

For a while, Phainon spends his time in the kitchen, washing each plate, glass, and utensil by hand. His hands are steady, but his heart is not. He can practically hear it pounding inside his ear. Then, the thoughts cross his mind again:

Will it work? Did I overdo it? What if he gets seriously ill?

A sigh escapes from him. He turns off the kitchen speaker and makes his way towards the ensuite bathroom. Inside it, he is quick to step out of his clothes and into the shower, letting the warm water hit his back like absolution. He lets the guilt cling to his skin just long enough to acknowledge it. Then he begins, slowly, to rinse it all away.

The bedside clock says three in the morning when Phainon wakes up, heart hammering before his body can catch up. There’s a low and guttural sound coming from the ensuite bathroom. In a single, swift motion, he throws the sheets off and crosses the distance on muscle memory alone.

The door is half-open when he reaches it. Inside, under the harsh bathroom light, he sees Anaxa. Pale and sweating as he curled over the toilet, Anaxa’s hands shook as he clutched the bowl like a lifeline, while his shoulders rose and fell with another retch.

Immediately, Phainon drops to his knee beside Anaxa and begins rubbing small, deliberate circles on his back. He is careful not to press too hard, as he studies his husband’s conditions and catalogues everything: the way Anaxa’s jaw clenches, his shallow breaths, and his damp skin and the tremor underneath it.

Then, a small thought crosses Phainon’s mind:

Just as expected.

He does not, however, feel victorious.

When the worst of it finally passes, and Anaxa finally leans back from the toilet, Phainon gently lifts him, bridal-style, and carries him. Gently, he places Anaxa on the bed, studies the way Anaxa breathes through his mouth, and is clearly still in pain, before he turns away and begins packing their emergency bag. After placing two sets of clean clothes, spare toothbrushes, and chargers, as well as an additional blanket inside the bag, Phainon zips it and kneels to find Pomelo already sitting next to his feet. He places a gentle kiss on the crown of the Samoyed’s fluffy head and says,

“We’ll be back soon. Be good.”

Pomelo licks his face in return. Phainon smiles before standing up on his feet and making his way back to his sleeping husband. He carefully carries Anaxa out of their penthouse and towards their building’s parking lot. Once his husband is safely tucked into the passenger seat, Phainon starts the engine and drives.

At this hour, the streets are dark and nearly empty, so it doesn’t take a long time for them to reach the hospital. There, things move quickly. The staff tends not to dilly-dally when they see someone carrying another half-conscious man in their arms. One nurse takes Anaxa’s vitals, while another starts preparing the IV drip. Phainon answers every question efficiently, keeping his voice even throughout.

Minutes late, the doctor enters with a result in hand.

“Gastrointestinal upset,” they say, before continuing with the diagnosis, “Dehydration and stress might have made it worse as well. He’ll need fluids and rest for a couple of days before he can bounce back.”

And just like that, it’s done.

There is no mention of poisoning, nor are there any raised eyebrows regarding Anaxa’s condition. Just a clinical nod to a body that has finally, finally, been forced to stop. Phainon lets out a deep sigh of relief, as if something has been ripped from his chest.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll make sure he rests.”

He even manages a smile in the end and a slight bow as he watches the doctor and staff leave the room. Then, once the silence returns, Phainon turns his attention back to his sleeping husband. There, on the bed, is Anaxa, with his hand hooked to IVs and a slowly ticking pulse monitor. His skin is clammy, his lips are cracked, and he looks worn out.

Carefully, Phainon brushes a hand through his mint-green hair, something he always does when Anaxa is asleep. He tucks the strands back from his forehead before placing a gentle kiss there like an apology. Because while Anaxa’s condition isn’t fatal and not a single soul suspects Phainon of anything, he cannot stop the guilt from creeping inside of him.

Then, without a word, Phainon sinks into the chair beside the bed. It’s a horrible chair, possibly designed by someone who has never had to wait beside a sickbed. Still, Phainon lets his body fold into it anyway and sleeps.

When Anaxa opens his eyes, pale morning light has only just begun to thread its way through the hospital blinds. Phainon, who is always alert when it comes to his husband, quickly sits up and helps his husband to sit up on the bed.

“Hey,” Phainon says, softly. “Good morning, love.”

Anaxa mumbles a soft “Good morning” in return.

Moments later, the door opens and the doctor, followed by their team of nurses, enter. One nurse immediately checks the bedside monitor, noting down details regarding Anaxa’s condition. The other does a double-check on his IV bag before changing it with a refilled one. In the midst of it all, the doctor moves closer to Anaxa’s side of the bed and repeats the diagnosis, the same one they had given Phainon earlier that dawn.

“Gastrointestinal upset,” the doctor says. “The dehydration and accumulated stress likely worsened it. You’ll need fluids, rest, and at least a few days off work.”

Phainon watches his husband closely. Anaxa is quiet throughout, his jaw clenched tightly, and he looks visibly frustrated. Yet he does not argue nor ask how soon he can return to his work and routines. Instead, Anaxa only nods and murmurs a soft,

“I understand.”

By noon, the machines are unplugged, the paperwork is signed, and Anaxa is allowed to go back home. Phainon wheels his husband through the hospital corridor, despite the latter’s insistence that he can walk just fine.

“The rest period starts now,” Phainon states, once his husband is settled on the passenger seat of their car.

Anaxa merely rolls his eyes, though there is no malice behind it.

The drive back to the penthouse goes relatively smoothly, despite the afternoon traffic. At home, Pomelo greets them at the door with frantic enthusiasm. His tail wags like a metronome as he noses at Anaxa’s legs. Phainon shushes him gently, strokes his soft crown, and guides Anaxa back toward the bedroom.

“Stay here. I’ll be back with food soon,” Phainon says to his husband.

Anaxa nods, already sitting comfortably in bed, while Pomelo claims his place at the foot of the bed.

“Can you bring me my laptop first? I need to tell Hyacine and the others that I’ll be taking the week off,” he requests.

Phainon nods, grabs the laptop from the study room, and makes his way back to the main bedroom to hand it to his husband. In the kitchen, Phainon is quick to prepare congee as he always does in times like this—ginger, a touch of garlic, and with just enough salt. He makes a pot of tea, mild and herbal, just like how his husband likes it.

When he returns to the main bedroom, he finds Anaxa still sitting up on the bed with the laptop open.

“Yes,” Anaxa says into the microphone. His voice sounds steady, albeit slightly tired. “I’ll take the week. Again.”

Hyacine’s laughter crackles through the speaker.

“You really caught something again?” she says. “You’ve only been back for what? Two weeks? Three?”

“Hyacinthia, it’s been more than a month.”

“Time flies in Q3,” Hyacine replies, then, “Honestly, I think your body just never really healed after the last time.”

Anaxa hums in response. “It’s frustrating.”

“You should just work from home more,” Hyacine says. “You’re literally one of the VPs! Take advantage of that WFH privilege, girl!”

That earns her a burst of laughter from Anaxa. Phainon can feel his heart swell from it. It has been a while since he heard his husband laugh like that.

“I’ll try,” Anaxa says.

When the call ends, Phainon picks up the laptop and places it gently on his side of the bed, away from Anaxa’s reach. Then he hands over the tray with the steaming bowl of congee and a pale-green teacup. Anaxa accepts it with both hands and begins to eat slowly.

Halfway through, he lets out a small, quiet sound. It’s not quite a sigh, but it’s close to it.

“I can’t believe I caught something again,” he mutters. His voice is thick with frustration, a little hoarse still from the night before, and he sounds so embarrassed by himself. “I was doing so well.”

Phainon doesn’t offer hollow reassurances, nor does he say anything for a while. Instead, He waits and watches as Anaxa takes another spoonful.

“Thank you,” Anaxa says, as he looks up to meet Phainon’s gaze. Then, he adds, “For taking care of me again and again. I’m so sorry.”

This time, Phainon smiles in response. Then, he gently brushes a hand down the side of Anaxa’s arm and says, “Just focus on getting better. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

When the bowl is empty and the tea is gone, Phainon collects the tray. He hands over another small porcelain dish holding the meds. Anaxa takes them without complaint. Afterwards, he settles deeper into the blanket and closes his eyes.

Phainon leans down to kiss his husband’s forehead. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmurs, “Just washing up.”

Anaxa nods and lets himself rest.

Phainon walks out of the room with the tray held steady in his hands. The moment he reaches the kitchen and sets it down in the sink, he allows himself to lean forward slightly. Somewhere between rinsing the bowl and wiping the counter, a thought crosses his mind.

This was the only way.

Phainon closes his eyes and lets the water run a second longer, as if it will be able to wash away his guilt. Then, he turns off the tap and makes his way back to the bedroom, back to his sleeping husband who trusts him more than anything.

Just like the last time when Anaxa had to spend the week at home, Phainon carefully structured their routines. The meals are provided at measured intervals, a glass of water is always within Anaxa’s reach, and morning light stretches and afternoon naps are insisted on daily. And, just like last time, Anaxa complies through it all.

One afternoon, while Anaxa is taking his usual nap in the bedroom with Pomelo lying down like a warm, watchful knot at his feet, Phainon steps out onto the balcony to do his own usual daily routine: tending his garden. It isn’t much. There are pots of herbs in neat rows: basil, thyme, and rosemary. Pots of tomato plants and a couple of flowers are placed near it and on several of the wooden shelves. Beneath the shade, tucked deliberately into the shade so the sun cannot directly reach it, sits a small colony of mushrooms. They look harmless enough—pale caps with just the faintest hint of yellow when bruised.

Phainon crouches to tend to them all with the same level of care. Then he picks two small, fresh mushrooms, plucks them, and sets them aside to dry later. As he works, his thoughts continue to move.

It still surprises him sometimes how easy it is for him to slip into this role, into someone who can perform care and control with ease. If anyone would confront him about it, Phainon thinks that he will most likely not deny the wrongness of his actions. He knows what he’s doing, he’s fully aware of the consequences should Anaxa ever find out, and yet he does not regret his actions.

Phainon has always loved Anaxa in his entirety: his intelligence, his ambition, his stubbornness, and everything else that makes Anaxa Anaxa. 

In sickness, however, Anaxa is different. He smiles and laughs more. He says “thank you” without flinching, as if having a weakness should be considered a sin. He lets Phainon spoonfeed him and wrap him in blankets. Most importantly, in sickness, Anaxa is softer and kinder to his own body.

After making sure that he’s done with his gardening work for the day, Phainon rises, dusts the soil from his hands, and steps back inside the penthouse. He has mushrooms to dry and store after all.

A week passes, and by the following Tuesday, Anaxa’s strength has recovered and regained its strength. When he enters the kitchen that morning, Phainon, who is standing by the stove and busy himself with flipping pancakes for both of them, watches over his husband’s movements. They are still fairly slow, but the colors have returned to Anaxa’s face.

What surprises Phainon, though, is that his husband does not bring any of his devices. Not his laptop, his iPad, or even his phone. Just Anaxa, taking his seat at the dining table. Phainon does not point this out and continues preparing their breakfast. Then, they eat together.

Somewhere between the bites, Anaxa says,

“This helps.”

Phainon raises a single eyebrow, as if urging him to go on.

“I think the stress and my workload just made everything worse,” Anaxa continues, then adds, “It probably wrecked my immunity more than I wanted to admit.”

Phainon sips his morning coffee and nods. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying,” he replies, keeping his tone gentle and firm, and trying his best not to sound like a broken record. “You can’t keep running like that and expect your body to keep up. You’re not that young, sweetheart.”

Anaxa lets out a snort. “Are you calling me old?”

“Well, you are,” Phainon states, matter-of-factly, though with a smile on his face, “That’s kinda why I married you.”

That earns him a burst of laughter from his husband. “Ah, yes,” Anaxa begins, “You and your preferences for older men.”

Phainon shrugs. “There’s no shame in having a preference,” he says, before adding, “Seriously, though. You need to stick to a healthier schedule.”

Anaxa nods. “I know,” he says, then, “I’ll try to stick to a healthier schedule.”

When breakfast ends, they both kiss Pomelo goodbye before locking the penthouse and walking together down to the parking lot. Anaxa pauses before getting into his car, reaches out, and kisses his husband.

“Thank you,” he says again, quietly. “For everything.”

Phainon smiles, kisses him back, and says, “Always.”

Then, Phainon watches as his husband pulls out of the lot, waves once, and drives away. Once the vehicle has disappeared into traffic, he climbs into his own car, turns the key, starts the engine, and drives to work.

A week after Anaxa’s return to work, Phainon allows himself to believe in the illusion of something that will last. That something is his husband finally embracing a healthier lifestyle through better eating and sleeping, not checking his laptop before bed, and not sleeping in the study room. Then, the calendar flips to the end of October, and the old rhythm resumes.

It starts slower this time, with Anaxa bringing his iPad to the dining table and spending more time typing on it than putting food in his mouth. At that time, Phainon moves his chair right next to Anaxa and begins spoonfeeding his husband while the latter keeps his eyes on his screen. Then, Phainon finds Anaxa falling asleep in front of his laptop in the study room on a Saturday midnight. The document on the screen mentions Q4 retrospective. Phainon puts the device on sleep mode before gently carrying his husband to bed.

It continues for several days. Phainon is aware of how draining year-end work can be, with its Q4 reviews, next year’s roadmaps and budget alignments, team and individual performance reports, and even more endless rounds of holiday-season logistics. After all, it’s not like Phainon’s works have been slowing down either, what with the term breaks approaching and him still needing to review his students’ papers. Most of all, Phainon is well aware of his husband’s refusal to rest at this time of year.

This time, however, he isn’t helpless.

So, on the first Saturday morning of November, Phainon makes smoothies, one for each of them. He adds banana, almond butter, oat milk, and flaxseed. Then, to one and only one of the glasses, he adds a dusting of something dried and finely ground. It’s nothing more than a whisper of yellow powder. After all, Anaxa still has urgent meetings and work to tend to, so the dose has to be lower this time. The last thing Phainon wants to do is to jeopardize his husband’s performance and reputation at work.

Anaxa drinks it in three large gulps, his lips catching flecks of oat foam. He thanks Phainon with a kiss to the cheek before muttering something about how he’ll just “crank out a few updates before lunch” and disappearing into the study. Phainon nods in return, then leaves the penthouse for his usual morning run with Pomelo. He needs somewhere to channel his adrenaline that comes through the guilt, and running helps.

The fever and nausea don’t start until the afternoon rolls around. Phainon walks out of his own study room to find Anaxa curled up on the living room couch.

“I want to die,” he murmurs when Phainon kneels to touch his forehead.

Phainon lets out a snort. “So dramatic,” he says, as he slowly lifts his husband and carries him to bed.

By Saturday evening, Anaxa is asleep minutes after dinner. The laptop stays unopened for the remainder of the weekend. When Monday comes, Anaxa, who still looks pale and tired, emails in sick and spends the day curled in bed with Pomelo pressed close against him. On Tuesday, he works remotely from bed. Through it all, Phainon remains a constant presence by his side, preparing meals and medications as well as anything else that Anaxa needs.

By Wednesday, Anaxa is mostly back to normal. During breakfast, he apologizes again for being ‘useless’ over the weekend. Phainon simply tells his husband that weekends are meant for useless activities, not for work.

Then, on the last week of November, it happened again. This time, Anaxa tries to pull two all-nighters back-to-back. A final push, he claims, to finalize the review of the manpower planning documents for Q1 that his engineers have prepared before they can be raised to upper management. Phainon doesn’t fight him on it. Instead, he lets it play out. He spoonfeeds his husband at dinnertime while the latter keeps his attention on his laptop screen, gently massages his shoulders during bathtime and just before bed, and waits.

On Thursday night, after dinner, Anaxa walks into the dining room with a smile on his face.

“It’s done!” he exclaims. “Thank God, it’s done! Now it’s everyone else’s problems!”

Phainon laughs. “Congratulations, love,” he says.

They eat their dinner as usual. Later, as Anaxa prepares the bath, Phainon brews the tea. It’s the usual chamomile blend, with a dash of honey for Phainon himself and something else for Anaxa, something so small that it disappears between the teaspoon and the steam. He places both cups on a tray and carries them to the bedroom.

One round at the bath and two cups of tea later, they both head to bed to rest for the night.

The next dawn, Anaxa wakes up with a mild fever and stomach cramps. It’s not dangerous enough to warrant a hospital visit, but enough for Anaxa to send a quick message to Hyacine to let him know he’ll be taking a sick day. By breakfast, Anaxa is feeling better enough to sit upright and have his meals in bed, albeit swaddled in blankets.

“This sucks,” Anaxa mutters, before taking a bite from his pile of pancakes. “But at least the documents are done.”

Phainon doesn’t answer at first. He simply pours tea into Anaxa’s mug, lifts his own fork, and takes a bite of pancake.

“It’s good timing,” he finally says. “You should rest while you can.”

Anaxa hums in agreement, and for a while, they continue to eat in silence.

Later that afternoon, while Anaxa sleeps after lunch with Pomelo by his side, Phainon once again steps out onto the balcony alone. His knees are pressed to the warm tiles of the balcony as his fingers ghost over the mushroom caps. They have grown well. Phainon notes how soft they feel under his gloves, as his fingers linger longer than necessary each time he twists each stem free from the soil. It is as if he is delaying the moment when he must acknowledge his actions.

When the basket is full, he does not stand right away.

Instead, he closes his eyes.

For several days now, he has avoided mirrors. It’s not a deliberate decision; he simply does not want to see the person reflected back at him. Phainon does not want to trace the line between the man who worries and the man who knows exactly how many grams of dried mushroom equals a mild stomach cramp.

Eventually, he rises and steps back inside the penthouse’s living room. Then, he hears it, someone calling out for his name.

“Phainon?”

“Coming,” Phainon answers instinctively, before he rushes towards the bedroom.

Then just outside the door, he stops. He draws in a breath, smooths his expression into something gentle and familiar, and finally steps inside.

“I’m here,” Phainon says as he sits on his side of the bed, right next to his husband, who is still curled under the duvet.

“Can we not do congee tonight?” Anaxa asks. There is a small pout on his face as he continues, “Just because I’m sick doesn’t mean I have to eat congee every time!”

Phainon laughs. “All right,” he says. “I’ll think of something else. Any requests?”

“Anything but congee,” Anaxa murmurs, as he settles deeper into the sheets. “Surprise me.”

Phainon promises he will. It costs him nothing to say it after all.

This softness is dangerous. This sleepy, petulant version of his husband. All warmth and complaint and dependence. Later, the day folds into evening. Dinner (a bowl of phở) is eaten slowly, medication is taken without complaint, and soon Anaxa walks out of the bathroom, freshly showered, and drifts off to sleep early.

That night, Anaxa curls closer to Phainon than usual. His head rests against Phainon’s chest as his breathing evens out quickly. Phainon lies still as his hand moves through mint-green strands, careful not to wake his sleeping husband.

In the dimness, with the city distant beyond the glass and the room narrowed to the space they share, the thought crosses his mind.

Just a few days of sickness for months of life.

Phainon does not say it aloud. Instead, he continues running his hand through Anaxa’s hair as he thinks of how his husband will thank him one day when he’s not in an early grave. After all, that is what Phainon wants.

It is never about controlling Anaxa nor about forcing obedience. Phainon just wants them to grow old together, with gray hair, garden slippers, and maybe Pomelo Jr. or another dog by their side.

Gently, he presses a kiss to Anaxa’s temple, closes his eyes, and lets sleep take him.

On a Saturday afternoon, the scent of brown sugar and butter lingers in the penthouse kitchen. With his sleeves rolled up and wrist deep in dough, Phainon finds himself humming something soft and tuneless under his breath. Behind him, sitting on the kitchen barstool with a tub of ice cream on his lap while being wrapped in a blanket, is Anaxa. For a while, they stay like that, close but not directly interacting with one another.

Then, Anaxa says, “It’s strange.”

Phainon looks up to meet his gaze. “What is?”

“Every other month, I get knocked down again. It’s like clockwork,” Anaxa says, tapping the spoon against the rim of the container and offering a small smile. “Maybe something’s actually wrong with me.”

“It’s stress,” Phainon states, matter-of-factly. He tries his best not to sound like he’s giving a lecture as he says, “You’ve been carrying more than you’re meant to. No one’s supposed to function under that kind of load forever.”

Anaxa hums, but doesn’t argue. He rarely does these days. Instead, he tips his head back and exhales. Then he looks at Phainon, eyes searching.

“I worry about you, too, you know?” he finally says.

Phainon raises a single eyebrow, surprised at his husband’s words.

With a quieter voice, Anaxa continues, “You have to take care of me, Pomelo, the house, and you still have your own works and students to worry about as well. Are you sure you’re okay?”

At that, Phainon lets out a light, immediate laugh.

“Please! I’m much better at balancing my work and life!” he replies with mock smugness, then adds, “Plus, my students haven’t mutinied yet. So, I’d say I’m doing fine.”

That earns him a small laugh from Anaxa, the real kind this time. The sound fills Phainon’s chest with warmth.

“I don’t know how I can ever repay you,” Anaxa murmurs.

Like this, he looks so soft, the kind that Phainon has come to treasure. So, he walks over, bends down slightly, and kisses his husband.

“I’m your husband,” he murmurs. “In sickness and in health. Remember?”

The words are simple, but they land with a quiet weight. It is the truth after all, the kind has never needed repeating, but still feels grounding when spoken aloud.

Anaxa tilts his head up to kiss him back, slower this time.

“I just didn’t think we’d be testing the ‘sickness’ part so soon,” he says with a half-laugh, “or so often.”

Phainon smiles into the kiss and pulls back just enough to nudge him lightly on the nose. “Well,” he says, “at least you’re not boring.”

Anaxa snorts, then returns to his ice cream, while Phainon turns back to his dough and the oven.

Act III

Something that Phainon has learned after thirty years of living in this world is how slow the days are at the beginning of the year and how fast they are by the time December has settled into its second week. In the midst of him submitting the final grades of his students as well as reviewing every paper and thesis proposal, he finds himself watching over his husband, as always. Anaxa is trying. Phainon will give his husband that. He has begun taking his vitamins without being reminded, drinking more water, and resting his head back against the sofa cushions when the day has gone on too long. These are small things, but Phainon, hopeful as always, likes to think of this as minor improvements. Still, old habits die hard.

Two weeks before the year folds itself into a new one, Phainon finds himself sitting on the living room couch with Anaxa by his side. It’s Saturday afternoon, and the TV is on, though neither of them pays much attention to it. Anaxa has his laptop balanced on his thighs, while his fingers are moving in that familiar, efficient rhythm across the keyboard.

As Phainon flicks his attention from the TV screen to his husband sitting next to him, he comes to a single conclusion: all the vitamins, naps, recoveries, and everything else may not be enough to let Anaxa know the danger of not stopping. Phainon thinks of the past months and the illnesses that have slowed Anaxa just enough to breathe again. Then, the thought crosses his mind:

One final intervention.

Something that is enough to make an impression and linger.

Phainon lets out a small sigh before leaning sideways to rest his head against his husband’s shoulder. The laptop keystrokes pause, and Anaxa glances down at him. There’s a small smile tugging at his mouth. Phainon wants to kiss that smile.

“Everything okay?” Anaxa asks.

Phainon closes his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just tired.”

Anaxa shifts slightly to accommodate him. He presses a brief kiss to Phainon’s hair before returning to his work. Phainon stays where he is, listening to the sound of keys and the steady beat of his husband’s breathing, while holding that smile in his mind. For a moment, it is enough.

On the last night of the year, the city is all light and distance. If one looks from the penthouse balcony, they will see the horizon glitter and the cars moving like constellations below. Somewhere in the city, a party is already roaring. Inside the penthouse, however, the rhythm is much slower and calmer. They have chosen, as they always do, not to join the crowds. Neither of them is fond of parties in the first place anyway.

In the kitchen, Phainon stands with his sleeves rolled, while the knife in his hands glides through the ingredients. He chops, stirs, and tastes everything. Then he carefully prepares the garden-grown mushrooms, keeping the dose light as always. He recalls how December has been unkind to his husband, what with meetings piling up and deadlines pressing in from all sides. Thus, Phainon simply wants Anaxa to be able to rest at the start of the year.

When Anaxa enters the dining room, the table is already set.

“Smells good,” he murmurs.

Phainon smiles. “All for you.”

They sit, with Pomelo lying down at Anaxa’s feet. As always, the conversation drifts easily. They talk about everything: the year’s highlights, Pomelo learning to nudge the fridge open with his nose, the one vacation they took back in April, and more. Then, Anaxa says,

“This year really flew by, huh?”

Phainon notices his husband pushing a piece of broccoli around his plate before his fork stops mid-motion.

“It did,” Phainon replies, keeping his voice steady as always.

The candlelight flickers between them like it knows what’s coming. Phainon doesn’t look away. Anaxa doesn’t blink.

“I was sick a lot this year,” he says, quiet and matter-of-fact.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The candle flickers. Pomelo settles at their feet with a quiet huff, unaware of the shift in the room. Phainon feels his heart begin to pound loudly in his own ears. A single thought crosses his mind:

Does he know?

Phainon studies his husband’s face. There is no anger or accusation there, just something that looks like understanding. In the silence, his mind races:

He knows.

Maybe not everything, maybe not the details of how it happened, but Phainon is sure that, at this point, Anaxa must know enough. Eventually, he breaks the silence and says,

“I know. But at least you got to rest more.”

The sentence holds two truths at once: a consolation and a justification. Because Phainon obviously cannot say ’at least it worked. At least this has made you stop. At least you were safe,’ out loud to his husband.

Anaxa considers the reply for a moment before slowly nodding his head. There is no shock on his face. Instead, Phainon catches a flicker of something like wry amusement—or perhaps recognition—in his eyes. As if Anaxa is thinking, So this is how you love me.

Without breaking eye contact, Phainon reaches forward and gently slides Anaxa’s plate closer to him, nudging it just within easier reach. The gesture is simple, domestic, and unmistakable. He doesn’t have to say it out loud, but Phainon is sure that Anaxa can understand the gesture just fine.

It is, after all, an invitation.

Yes, I’m still willing to do it. Do you trust me? Will you accept this unusual way I care for you?

full images on twitter.com/st3amedbun

Anaxa glances down at the plate, then back up at Phainon. The moment stretches. Outside, fireworks begin to test the sky, distant and muffled, as if even they are reluctant to intrude. Then, without a single change in his expression, Anaxa reaches for his fork and keeps eating. In that moment, Phainon decides to interpret the gesture as if Anaxa is saying, ‘I know what you’re doing, and I’m letting you.’

Once the dinner plates are cleared, both Phainon and Anaxa carry their shares and make their way towards the kitchen. In the kitchen, they stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink. Both of their sleeves are pushed up, and their fingers occasionally brush as they rinse, wipe, and dry. Phainon scrubs a bowl, then carefully places it aside so as not to let it clatter, and glances at his husband. Then,

“You know,” he says, voice low but clear, “I only ever wanted you to be safe.”

The sentence lands lightly in the room. It’s not a confession or an apology, but it’s the closest thing that Phainon can give to his husband. For a moment, the words hang between them. Then, Anaxa looks up from the sink and meets Phainon’s gaze. He doesn’t laugh or deflect. Instead, he says just as softly,

“I know.”

Phainon searches his husband’s face for signs of resentment, but finds none. If anything, his expression borders on something like awe. The look one reserves for someone who’s both exasperating and beloved. And, somehow, that’s enough.

They finish the dishes, dry their hands in silence, and move through the penthouse in practiced motions. Phainon switches off the dining room light, while Anaxa nudges Pomelo’s toy out of the walkway with his foot. Once done, they step out onto the balcony, with Pomelo, eager as always, padding after them.

Phainon wraps his arms around Anaxa’s waist from behind. pressing his cheek to his husband’s shoulder. It’s an easy, habitual gesture. Anaxa leans into the touch, tilting his head ever so slightly and resting his back against his husband’s chest.

As if on cue, fireworks begin to bloom in the distance. It’s brief and brilliant, as if the city itself is trying to remind them that time is moving, that the year is about to leave, and another one will soon arrive. Pomelo lets out a bark at the first burst of gold. His tail sweeps the balcony floor. Anaxa chuckles. Phainon laughs along. For a moment, they simply stand there for a while, wrapped in each other.

As the countdown begins, muffled and distant as it comes from the television they left running inside the living room, Anaxa speaks.

“I will take better care of my health this year.”

His voice is soft enough that the wind can easily carry it away. Phainon doesn’t answer right away. He only tightens his arms, forehead pressed to Anaxa’s spine like a vow. Then, as the clock strikes midnight, he turns Anaxa gently within his arms and kisses him. It’s not urgent nor dramatic, just something that feels like coming home.

Anaxa kisses him back. His fingers are curling into the back of Phainon’s shirt, as if he doesn’t want to let go.

When they pull apart, Phainon looks into the same face that he has studied a hundred different ways in a hundred different lights. In the end, he gently brushes a strand of hair from Anaxa’s forehead, presses a gentle kiss there, and softly says,

“I know you will.”

It is just one line, and the meanings are shared plainly between them. It’s a belief, a promise, and also a warning. Because, yes, Phainon does trust Anaxa to do better. But, more than that, Phainon will ensure it gently, lovingly, and if necessary, by his own methods.

Above them, the sky continues to explode in color. Beneath it, in the quiet that only two people in perfect understanding can create, the new year arrives.

Epilogue

To Anaxa, the realisation comes in a series of small inconveniences.

One night, he is fine. Slightly tired, yes, because when is he ever not physically tired? But, he’s fine. At least, that’s what he thinks before he finds himself folded over the toilet at three in the morning. He can feel his stomach collapsing on itself, can feel the way his body wrings itself out with a quiet ferocity that feels disproportionate to the day he has had.

Anaxa closes his eyes, and the next moment he opens them, Phainon is there. His palm is steady at the center of Anaxa’s back, voice low and patient as a metronome. Then, there’s a cool towel and a glass of water, and soon, Anaxa finds himself being lifted by his husband, as if he weighs nothing at all.

Anaxa does not think much of it at first. He is too busy concentrating on breathing, swallowing, and just letting the wave pass. Most of all, he does not complain. He tells himself it is stress. He tells himself his body is still catching up from the last time he was hospitalized. He tells himself that executives are not supposed to be fragile, and that if this is the cost of steering a department through Q4, then so be it.

Mostly, though, Anaxa looks at the way Phainon watches him as if he’s guarding a small, sacred flame. He sees the devotion written in every movement of Phainon’s hands and feels something close to gratitude crack open inside his ribs. Because, at the end of the day, despite the humiliation of another sick day, the way he hates sending the message (“Taking leave again. Back soon”), and everything else in between, he still has Phainon.

And, silently, he thanks something else, too.

He thanks the fact that he still has Hyacine teasing him (“Girl, just rest!”) but always covers his meetings, along with the rest of his Product team. He thanks Castorice and the rest of his Engineering team for quietly absorbing meetings, sprint reviews, and retros without complaint. Mostly, he thanks the fact that no one makes him feel like a liability, nor does anyone question his capability and call him ‘unreliable’.

Because if there’s anything Anaxa absolutely hates, it’s disappointing those who rely on him, who have placed their hopes and expectations in him.

So when the last week of December approaches, and he can feel his health stabilizing, albeit not entirely perfect yet, Anaxa allows himself to breathe. He can feel it in his bones one morning when he steps onto the balcony and lets the winter sun press against his face. The air is mild with the city yawning awake below. Slowly, Anaxa does his morning stretches until he can feel his bones loosened up.

It surprises Anaxa how rarely he stands here on the balcony. The balcony has always belonged more to Phainon than to him. So, he lets his gaze wander. There are the neat rows of basil and thyme, the small tomato plants clinging to their stakes, and even a few stubborn flowers that somehow survive the season. He knows Phainon sometimes cooks with what he grows. Anaxa is absurdly proud of that fact, of the way Phainon seems to collect skills the way other people collect mugs.

And then, tucked into the shaded corner beneath a wooden shelf, he notices something else.

Mushrooms.

There are small clusters of pale caps, their gills faintly yellowed. They do not resemble the button mushrooms from the supermarket, nor the shiitake he occasionally requests in soups. There are more of them than he expects. For one, he does not remember them cooking that many mushroom dishes. Or, at least not enough to justify a colony.

Anaxa crouches, then reaches out to press his fingers lightly against one cap. It yields slightly under pressure.

Odd, he thinks.

For a moment, he simply observes it. Then, because he has always been very good at tracing lines between disparate dots, the memory opens.

Then, slowly—almost reluctantly—his mind begins to rearrange old memories. Phainon retelling Caelus’s camping story during one of their brunch sessions with Hyacine and Castorice, the occasional dishes layered with spices strong enough to obscure subtler flavors—spices Phainon himself normally avoids, the timing of his illnesses and the seemingly irregularity of it all, the initial diagnosis of it being “gastrointestinal upset”, and more.

He closes his eyes and lets his mind assemble the pattern the way it would debug code: inputs, outputs, recurrences, and control variables. Then, his eyes widen in recognition. Slowly, he stands up and straightens his body, leaning slightly against the balcony’s railing as if to steady himself.

Anaxa lets out a soft, incredulous chuckle.

“I see,” he murmurs to the quiet balcony, amused as he realizes how the pieces have settled into their places.

Who would have thought that his husband, his gentle and academically principled husband, the same man who spoonfeeds him porridge and tucks blankets beneath his chin, and the same man who kisses his temple every morning and every night before bed, is clever enough, bold enough, devious enough to orchestrate something like this?

Anaxa thinks he should be mad, should probably report his husband to the police or any authority figures, or, at the very least, should not let Phainon get away with it. But Anaxa also remembers the looks on Phainon’s face every time Anaxa’s body failed him, as if it physically pained him to see Anaxa in pain. And, maybe, it does.

Because here is the truth: Anaxa has been running himself toward an early grave with these works and deadlines. He has been measuring his worth by performance review results, KPIs, and other measurable achievements. Most importantly, he has been tempting fate, as if daring his body to fail him.

Then, he thinks of all the nights Phainon has waited awake, of the arguments that have ended in silence, and of the way Phainon has always tried to reason with him first, to persuade him gently, and to coax him back toward sleep.

And when persuasion failed?

Anaxa crouches once more to, once again, study the mushrooms. As his fingers continue to trace the shape of the object in his hands, he finds his affection toward his husband swells instead of shrinks.

Deviously heroic, he thinks.

There is audacity in it. There is also love. The kind of love that goes beyond wedding vows and anniversary dinners, the kind of love that refuses to watch their other half burn himself down, and, most importantly, the kind of love that is willing to be misunderstood even by the objects of said affections.

Anaxa stands, brushes the soil from his fingertips, and leaves the mushrooms where they are. Then, he turns and steps back into the living room. Inside, he can hear Phainon moving in the kitchen, ceramics clinking softly in the background with the occasional hum of something tuneless here and there. Anaxa pauses at the kitchen door and watches his husband for a moment.

There is flour on Phainon’s sleeve. The kitchen light hits his silver hair just right. Pomelo is lying down next to Phainon’s foot. The images cause a smile to surface on Anaxa’s face. He’s not sure if he fully approves of Phainon’s method, nor does he intend to let it continue.

At the moment, however, Anaxa comes to a full understanding of just how far Phainon is willing to go to keep him alive.

Truly, love is rarely as gentle as it pretends to be.