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Phainon doesn’t know why his hands tremble slightly as he gazes down at the little object sitting in his large, now sweaty palm. In reality it weighs nothing—yet it feels as though Phainon’s holding something with a density rivaling that of two suns combined.
Or rather, he does know the reason. But the answer is just so absurd to him that he pushes the notion away in denial, if only to preserve what little calm he has left. His right foot thumps at the ground at the same pace as his racing heart.
Just half an hour ago he’d been pacing around the whole house. Up and down the living room, the kitchen. Bouncing between the walls in the bathroom. Climbing and descending the stairs to your bedroom like it was another one of his workout routines.
Your neighbours might even recall seeing the young man in the garden, bashing his head against a tree as if it would sprout legs and run away with his problem—if only to save itself from his physical abuse—if he hit himself hard enough.
Definitely not his proudest moment… Phainon groans. He has half the mind to apologise to poor old Helena for such a sorry sight when he next sees her. With a huff, the Chrysos Heir had resorted to dragging his feet back indoors, plonking his ass down on the sofa after the stunt. He could make a fool out of himself privately that way.
This is ridiculous, he scolds himself in a tone that most would consider self-depracting. Sharp and critical. Like he can’t properly execute a routine for the most straightforward of dances, stumbling over his own two feet.
You’re the Deliverer. This is nothing.
Phainon had won hundreds of debates against fellow students and professors alike. He had given emotional, passionate speeches in front of thousands of Okhema’s citizens to rally their spirits. He’d argued—still poised, still calculated and composed—with the more aggravating members of the Council of Elders at Dawncloud about their lack of urgency for the severity of the once impending crisis.
From simpler topics regarding better trade routes into and out of the city and preparations for upcoming festivals, to more dire subjects concerning the most harrowing situations imaginable, Phainon utilises his natural charisma and honesty to sway the masses in his favour, for the safety and good of all. All whilst maintaining his signature level-headed demeanor—even if it’s all just a facade.
Like him or not, the undeniable fact is that Phainon reaches people without even trying. Moves them. Speaks with such heartfelt conviction that you can’t help but feel safe in his presence, in the promises that people know he’ll do just about anything and everything to keep. His words are a formidable weapon. A strength comparable to that of his combat-honed body.
All of these commendable feats, yet his heart quivers at the mere thought of presenting you—one, single person—with something so simple. How unbelievable.
He wills the stubborn organ to calm down with a deep breath. In, then out, and in again with his eyes closed. But every inhale only seems to worsen the load. Exhalation settling like jagged stones in his chest.
It should feel like coming down—like unshackling the invisible weights bound to his wrists and ankles. It doesn’t.
Phainon repeats the steps three times more but decidedly gives up with a shake of his head. Fluffy strands of blue-tinted hair sway at the motion, brushing over his forehead in light kisses.
There is really, truly nothing to be worried about. It really, truly shouldn’t have him stressing out as if he’d be handing you a piece of himself to forever be called yours if you’d be kind enough to grace him with your approval.
Except, he kind of was. Quite literally.
One golden feather.
One of his very own, plucked out from his still-furled wing in the early morning after you had left for work—not before leaving him with a chaste kiss on his temple—and inspected twice, thrice, and four times over. Five times, possibly, just to be extra sure of its quality.
And sure he was. It’s the most exquisite one Phainon has ever seen, its luster so ethereal that the feather appears to have its own mini halo when he holds it up against the window.
Upon first glance, it almost looks as though it should feel solid. Rigid and firm like tempered steel.
But it isn’t. It’s soft. Fluffy. Bends to the forgiving will of his fingers.
There was none else like it, no matter how hard he skimmed over his two wings just to be one hundred percent certain he wasn’t dreaming.
Phainon wants you to have it.
You absolutely had to have it. You must. A most beautiful feather, such a delicate thing born of his burning, inhuman body, for the most beautiful person in the world. It was perfect. You are perfect. It makes sense.
Another deep, shaky breath. In, hold, and out.
Be still, my heart. A mantra he whispers to himself whenever his entire being starts to act embarrassingly, wholly consumed by the thoughts of you. He tries to repeat it with as much confidence he can muster. Be still, lest I lose myself to you completely.
Phainon turns the feather over by its shaft and scrutinises it once more. He trails his right index and middle finger across the downy barbs, then carefully across the rest of the vane.
Would it be strange…? To randomly give you this little feather. Something he had extracted out of his own flesh and blood, and immediately thought you must have. Is this weird?
…Is he weird?
The young man swallows down a lump in his throat, thick and leaden, that he hadn’t even realised was forming and thinks about how you might react when you walk past the threshold.
Maybe you won’t like it.
And maybe you’ll stare at him blankly.
Maybe you’ll furrow your brows. Frown and ask why you’d ever want such a thing. Maybe you don’t need this, this useless quill that serves no real purpose other than to prove his wretched constitution. And maybe this is all just too much and maybe he’s stepping too far. Or—even worse—maybe it’s not enough. You deserve far, far more than whatever he could possibly offer you—and he most definitely isn’t enou—
The shrill, distinct sound of keys jingling and the knob of the front door turning drags him out of his spiral. That final thought is snuffed out before he can attempt to grapple with it.
Phainon’s whole body jerks up immediately, shooting up off of the couch and standing ramrod stiff facing the entryway of your shared house. Quickly, his fingers curl over the gilded source of his distress as he tucks his hand behind his back, shielding it from your view.
The door opens.
Your form drags in with it, silhouette illuminated by the opening. A resounding click echoes down the hallway as you begin to shut the entrance, the outer world now left behind you.
“Dawnlight,” he greets you with that special little endearment just for you, sounding quite breathless. Phainon begins to make his way over to you in small strides but freezes just short of meeting you all the way.
Right away he takes note of the tired slump of your shoulders. Of the dark circles framing your eyes and the way you haphazardly toss your bag on the ground. Your clothes are a slight mess, one half of your collar upturned and the necklace he’d given you hanging off-centred. Jumper sporting a stain that wasn’t there when he saw you this morning.
Phainon hears something vaguely calling out to him.
A familiar voice asking how his day had been and if he’d eaten breakfast, had dinner, but none of it registers in his brain. Your mouth moves. He follows the movement of your lips. Nothing tracks. It’s all a blur. He sweeps over your knackered form once more.
Yeah. You really, really don’t need this right now—
“Phainon…?” Your voice. It’s no louder than a cautious murmur so as to not startle him, finally breaking through the sudden haze. You had called his name, concerned, after he failed to respond to your words.
The Chrysos Heir blinks once. He realises how you’ve somehow bridged the small distance between you without him noticing. You stand right in front of him now, the worry on your visage clear as day, and he silently curses himself for adding yet another point of stress to your day.
You should be relaxing. Not fretting over him. Over his stupid dilemma.
Well, he braces himself, this is it. Phainon shakes his head. Gathers his bearings as best he can.
Wordlessly, your lover gently reaches for your hand. You give it to him easily, no questions asked, watching him from beneath your lashes. A flash of concentration suddenly washes over his face as you observe him curiously. You don’t miss how he refuses to meet your eyes when you try to catch his azure gaze.
There’s a pause—half a second of hesitation, of him worrying at his lip—before he relents.
You want to point it out, want to ask what this is all about. But you don’t. You can tell he’s trying to find something, and so you allow him the space to navigate freely without interruption.
He’ll come to you. He always does.
“Here,” Phainon beckons a moment later in a soft hush. There’s a certain raspiness to his tone that you pick up easily. Like he’s choking the word out. A light strain, as if that simple utterance is paining him somehow.
His hand, large and calloused from the years of training and ruthless battles as it may be, radiates a steady heat so characteristic of himself from where it cups the back of your palm tenderly. But it shakes. Shudders. Barely, but it’s there.
You bite your tongue.
With great care, Phainon brings his other hand out of hiding and places the aureate piece right in the centre of your upturned palm. It catches the fading sunlight filtering through the curtains, glowing in that same way from when he held it against Okhema’s light, and you can’t help but gasp faintly.
Awed.
You tilt your hand from left to right slowly, Phainon’s own following your motions. The feather’s gleam remains fixed on the setting sun, drawn to it like a flower. That small halo appears again—real and otherworldly all at once. Your eyes twinkle as they catch the gentle rays of light reflecting off of the plume, and Phainon finds himself unable to resist the way you draw him in with the sight.
A hallowed little thing, you think. Surprisingly warm, too. It feels like sunlight made tangible. Like weightless gold.
Almost unbearably nervous at your lack of an immediate response, coupled with your sudden noise, Phainon begins to speak again before you even manage to look back up at him. Your gaze remains fixed on the gift he’d just given you.
“It’s a feather—one of mine. The best of the bunch,” he explains, all in a single breath. Phainon winces instantly, a grimace settling over his features. Of course they can tell it’s a feather, stupid. They can see that. But he presses on. “It caught my eye earlier this morning. The shiniest one I’ve ever seen.”
When you seem to closer inspect the feather, face leaning in to have a better look, Phainon roughly clears his throat once. “Don’t worry—I cleaned it a while ago. Before you got home.”
Another recollection of his mantra. Still, you don’t speak. He wishes—oh, Titans he wishes—you would. Something. Anything.
So he continues. Unsteady, and unsure. Like a fawn learning to walk.
“I know it’s not much, but…” Phainon inhales deeply. You pick up the most minute tremble in the sound, one that squeezes at your chest once you finally piece together what’s going on. “I… I hope you like it.”
It’s then when you finally raise your head to look at him, and almost immediately, the look in your eyes dispels the fear that had been festering inside of him for the better half of the entire day.
Radiance—in the shape of you—scattering the dark.
You hold no scrutiny. No clawing inspection or the crushing weight of expectation. Just innocent curiosity. In your irises Phainon finds nothing but a deep, profound sense of admiration. Wonder. So intense, in fact, that the sight would send him reeling if not for the grounding feel of your skin against his own.
Then you see it. You see the gears turning in his head, you see his mind coming down from the high of uncertainty and vicious self-doubt.
You understand. You always have.
Always, always.
Without much thought and before you can think to stop yourself, your empty hand smoothly glides past the column of his neck and the sharp cut of his jaw to cup at his cheek.
Phainon follows you, fingers gingerly grasping at your wrist. The action borders on the line between fear and reverence. Trust and the instinct to hide, all at once.
Your touch feels like a soothing balm against the eternal flames raging beneath his skin. Grounding. Anchoring him to the present, away from the noise. The stones chaining him prisoner—their heaviness, their rough surfaces—all but fade at the sensation of you.
And for a moment, you see everything. From the way his chest rises and falls just a fraction too quick to be considered normal, to the outline of his cheek from where he gnaws on it with itchy teeth. You see it in his eyes. Something more vulnerable. More raw. The way his gaze wavers for just a split second, but a split second too long. His eyes never falter. Never—not when he looks at you.
The dawning realisation crushes you in ways you can’t even begin to describe. It’s a feeling heavier than the weight of the world, doubled.
“Oh, Phainon…” You utter his name so quietly it's practically a whisper, low and intimate, and Phainon feels like he wants to cry. “You sweet thing.”
But before he even has the chance to, your limb is slipping out of his grip. For a moment a sharp burst of panic surges through his spine at the loss of contact. He wants to chase after you—very nearly does—but you’re already two steps ahead.
Your free hand slips below his arm and rests in between his shoulder blades, igniting a trail of goosebumps underneath his shirt from where you smoothed over. Silently, carefully, you pull him into you until you’re flush against each other.
Phainon all but melts into you with zero resistance. Gladly. His head falls easily, finding its home in the crook of your neck like it was second nature. Because it is.
He doesn’t miss the way your other hand curls over the golden feather protectively.
You hold it firmly to your chest. Protected. Cherished.
Something cracks inside of him. Then it swells and swells until he feels close to bursting. You’re warm from where you’ve tucked him against you, and Phainon wastes no time burrowing further into you. Into your softness. Into your acceptance of him in his entirety. He’s hyperaware of your heartbeat, thumping away against his own sternum like a steady lullaby.
“It’s beautiful, honest. Thank you so much.” The sincerity in your voice undoes him completely. Phainon lets slip a small, relieved smile, burying it into your neck. “I love it,” you swear. “Truly,” you promise.
He knows you mean every word. Doesn’t need to think twice about it.
It’s only then does he let go of the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding in. Phainon pulls you in closer, impossibly closer, until he can’t tell where he ends and you begin. Until your breaths synchronise and warmth bleeds into one pool.
And then you do something that almost sends his knees bucking. Something that only happens when you know he’s close to splintering.
Your hand between his shoulders travels upwards, lingering at his nape. Now cradling the back of his head, you begin to delicately pet his hair, toying with the silky strands and tugging with a gentle pressure you know he craves.
This—you, your presence, your embrace—feels like home. Feels right.
It should feel like coming down. And it does.
No more weights. None on his wrists, none on his ankles. None in his heart.
Phainon makes a choked noise at the back of his throat at the comforting sensation, at the relief. He wants to say something—tell you he’s glad and that he’s forever thankful for your kindness. But he doesn’t trust his voice to not waver and crack at the seams. Doesn’t trust himself to not break this fragile silence that has settled over the both of you like a blanket.
So he merely stands there, in the hallway, with you in his arms. You’re swaying him side to side now. Or maybe he’s swaying you. And he sighs a pleased sound.
Content.