Chapter Text
The Okhema Airport, the third largest airport of the galaxy, with a grand total of 12 terminals each providing departing and arriving flights from the first peek of the sun's halo to the looming moon's last shine. Giant windows making up the majority of the airport, an opening letting light breezy wind blow between people waiting in line in front of their gates, boarding pass and passports in hand. A fascinating view of airplanes lined up ready to depart when filled and seemingly endless roads leading somewhere, anywhere in the vast galaxy.
A breathtaking scenery Phainon is very familiar with. He's been a pilot for over a year now, Okhema airport being his airline's base airport. He's been to every terminal, restroom, shop, every corner.
While lost passengers might find themselves asking questions like Where's my gate? or Where the hell is terminal 7?, after searching everywhere but what’s designated on their boarding pass, Phainon needs less than 5 minutes to situate himself and get to the right flight, though he inevitably arrives 5 minutes late. He might still not be able to get to his flights with any other crew member's ease but he doesn't mind. He has dreamt of being a pilot ever since he was 8, tardiness won't stop him from living his dream.
He takes a quick look at his golden framed watch, 5:23 displayed but he registers 5:26 instead, his watch being 3 minutes late. He constantly assures himself he'll reprogram it later but procrastination takes over him.
He's half an hour early to a meeting Aglea, the airline's aviation manager, arranged to prepare and discuss next week's schedule, the airplanes he'll have to manoeuvre, meteorological conditions he'll fly in, the co-pilot he'll be with and hotel reservations for nights he won't be at Okhema.
Phainon's mornings as a pilot are typically the same, white hair strands poking his bright blue eyes blinding him from time to time, one hand holding his small luggage trailing behind, the other gripping onto his bag filled with important paperwork he must present at each and every demand. His stomps and the roll of his luggage wheels merging into an awful noise resounding through the marble floor. He often bumps into passersby as he hastily mutters sorry. His mornings can be resumed by a single word: Running, he's constantly running when he isn't flying a plane.
His afternoons are not as chaotic, he usually follows along other pilots he shares flights with.
At night back home, he cooks himself a simple dinner, usually soggy rice, canned peas and a fish fillet as a protein. After his improvised meal and a quick shower he jumps to bed and falls asleep the second he gets in contact with his pillow, wasting no time to cover himself up with a blanket.
This morning is different, he's finally early for work, too early even. The meeting is scheduled for 6 in the morning, as it is every Friday.
Phanon's day would have been nearly perfect if he had eaten breakfast despite the continuous alarms meant to wake him up early enough to quickly cook up something edible. Which he's used to, happens at least once every week. He usually just prepares twice more oven-ready spaghetti and thrice more industrial honeycakes in his puppy-shaped lunchbox that he forgot to pack today.
Phainon rarely ever forgets his lunch, thankfully. He can barely skip breakfast and make it through the day, subtracting lunch from the already light equation is enough to make him crumble from fatigue into a puddle on the cold flooring of the airport.
All Phainon has to do, to avoid death from malnutrition, is to wait until lunch time and beg for a colleague's leftovers. Should be enough, and it's the cheapest option. Most food in the airport costs half an arm, so buying something here is out of the question.
Phainon isn't very organised, adding a layer of complications to his life as a pilot. He's always forgetting something. He tried many times to use to-do lists, day planners and notes scattered around his room but they somehow disoriented him instead of helping.
On some Friday night, he had strategically placed sticky-notes around his little apartment, in the kitchen counter reading EAT BREAKFAST or on his bed-side table DON'T FORGET YOUR WALLET , written in capital letters to later read them out loud making it a reminder he can't ignore, according to Phainon.
The next day Phainon had spent with Aglea and Castorice, he had forgotten to take out his socks from his messy wardrobe covered in sticky-notes meant to remind him. He was already too late so he didn't bother going back into his room. He had to walk around with burning blisters on the back of his heels, keeping it to himself to not worry his friends. Castorice had noticed he was slightly limping and the rest of their night turned into one of Aglea's endless lectures.
Back home he had untied his shoes to reveal sweaty feet and blisters that took a week to heal. He had to buy 3 boxes of bandaids because they would easily peel off his skin and had to place a new one every hour, making him arrive to his flights later than ever. That week Aglea scolded him more than usual. After the socks incident, as he called it, he made sure to take his socks out of his wardrobe first thing in the morning.
After walking around Terminal 10's deserted halls, he found himself in a secluded area he remembers going to just once or twice.
He sat on the plastic cushion of a metallic seat, setting his exposed forearms on the unusually cold armrests, making him slightly wince. He's always wondered why such seats weren't taken down, they're meant to be uncomfortable to sleep in, dissuading passengers from taking a proper rest, which —he knows all too well— is much deserved with all the energy drained from preparing a flight with no mishaps. Why keep them if they have no purpose?
He held onto his abnormally rumbling stomach. He often skips breakfast, it's nothing new, though this time he feels as if he's being stomped on. He should've known that half-cooked canned beans only aren't a proper dinner.
To pass time Phainon searches for his boss’ contact on his phone, giving her a quick call to let her know he's not tardy this time, expecting a semblance of surprise from her. He didn't have to wait long for her to answer the call, putting an end to the monotone ringing.
"Good Morning. You're already at the airport aren't you Phainon?" She guesses a tender voice piercing through the silence around him. Aglea put an end to his attempt at a surprise, slightly unnerving him.
"Morning. How did you know?" He questions, awaiting a quizzical laugh and a vague response, typical of Aglea.
She notes, as if it's a fact "You call to warn me when you're already late, not when you're about to be.” She laughs audibly into her microphone, “not very logical if you think about it. I can see you’re late when I don’t see you in time."
Phainon expected an ambiguous answer and was slightly shaken. Aglae was right, he really does make no sense.
“Ugh! Am I that predictable," he cackles back. “Aglea, could you—”
“Sorry Phainon, I’ll have to hang up. I’ll call you back later.” Aglea cut in. Phainon’s phone beeped with the call ending.
He deflates, slouching in his seat, crammed between two metal bars. Here he was going to brag about being early. Well, bragging isn't the right word for being at work on time like any other employee.
A long moment passes before Phainon checks his watch again, gifted to him by Cyrene, his older sister —who had assured it would be an elegant but subtle touch to his blindingly vibrant outfits. Only 3 minutes had gone by since he sat down. The rumbles became way too frequent to ignore so he gave up waiting for lunch and began looking around for the closest store to buy something to eat, deviating completely from his initial plan.
He spotted a cafe at the end of the hall, the only open shop around, he recalls going to months ago when he was still new to the job.
Phainon remembers precisely what he had bought last time: A caramel frappe with extra cream drizzled with more caramel, topped with chunks of even more caramel. A drink with a copious amount of burned sugar barely balanced out with the freshness brought by ice cubes. The beverage's high caffeine level had kept him awake all day long. At night he had to run a few laps around his building to drain enough energy to close even a single eye. The long-term experience was unforgettable, whether it's in a good or bad way is a little harder to decide.
He walked up to the primarily ruby red facade accompanied with a variety of warm hues of orange and yellow, giving the place a colorful cozy ambiance. The shop's sign was decorated with white plastic flowers, their earthy green vines hiding part of the letters from where Phainon was standing.
Phainon took a long minute trying to decipher the letters in a bubbly font "Krem de la Krem". A play with the words Kremnoas, a grand nation he has flown to many times. Although he never left the airport he has seen enough advertisements inviting to visit the land's many historical sites to deduce that Kreamoas' complex history —he recounts it being about royal murders and knight betrayals— is what attracts most of its tourists. And "Crème de la crème" a famous line spoken by a chef of renown tasting some cooking show finalist's pastry. Phainon has heard of the chef a few times, he's sure her name starts with the letter M, or was it a T.
The glass shelves displayed a wide selection of pastries, from mini pavlovas adorned with a generous quantity of different berries to macaroons topped with six pumps of cream, forming a cute pastel colored flower. Simply looking at the sweets made Phainon drool from both ends of his mouth.
Phainon found that no one was at the counter, he figured the shop may still be opening up this early in the morning.
"Hello! Are you guys open?" Phainon asked, loud enough for anyone around to hear, looking for a call bell to tap.
"Cipher!" A deep male voice in the back of the shop called out.
Another voice, this time a female one, answered after an exhausted grunt, "Can't right now!"
Phainon then heard somewhat of a sigh and the flappy door to the back creak. A man walked out of the door frame he seemed to barely fit through. In his hand a blue towel he used to rub the sweat off of his forehead, strands of blond hair with deep red tips clung to his face, he swiftly brushed them back in place.
He threw the cloth somewhere and leaned on the counter, his arm twisting in a way that made the red streaks on his skin bend around the curves of his defined muscles, a small shift Phainon couldn’t help but trail.
His attention shifted from the arms to the man's torso. His white dress shirt only emphasized his build, its light fabric making his blood-red tattoos very much visible, its buttons barely held his prominent pectorals in place, revealing a big part of them. What use is there wearing that shirt? Phainon joked internally, shamelessly hoping it was off.
Now staring at the man's face, Phainon's jaw might as well drop to the floor. His eyes sharp with a piercing look, amber irises resembling gems with the way they shine. His eyebrows thick and dark accentuating the eyes brightness. The length of his nose curved into a perfect arch, his lips thin topped by a slightly noticeable cupid bow. A crimson tattoo making its way atop of his cheek in the shape of a small diamond. All of these aspects together give the man distinct traits similar to those of a feline.
If Phainon had been asked what color the towel was he would have babbled some total nonsense helplessly trying to explain the obvious awe he felt at the sight of the man in front of him. Looking at him. Now talking to him. Lips gently parted letting words escape, spoken by a coarse yet melodious voice, lashes shifting in a delicate manner every time he blinked. Divine, Phainon thought, going as far as feeling giddy simply by looking at the man.
"Hi, what can I get you?" The man asked with the usual tone used when talking to customers, slightly cheerful but often covering up exhaustion, waiting for the customer to order, finger hovering over the register screen.
Phainon's ability to think abandoned his mind when the man folded up his sleeves over his elbows, meticulous with his movements, making sure the folds of the fabric are the same size on both sides, exposing thick and veiny forearms.
Woken up from his daydream and reminded of his current dire situation by the thankfully low growl of his stomach, Phainon began praying to every God he knew of to keep his stomach quiet. He would not want to embarrass himself in front of the most beautiful man he's ever laid his eyes on.
He picked up the top menu off of the stack next to the cash register. Reading through the drinks Phainon recognized what he had gotten last time: Unlimited Caramel Frappe. Never ever, not even a million years, buy again. He mentally noted, imagining the damned drink getting thrown into a vast ocean with no visible end or depth, sure to make better use of the beverage than Phainon had that day. He may have been in the best shape his overworked body and mind could possibly ever be in, but 4 hours of sleep on a work night is a sacrifice no sane person should make.
Phainon turned between the pages long enough for the man to blow under his breath. Noticing the man’s evident exasperation, Phainon looked up from the menu to find him staring, head resting on his clasped hand, blinking slowly.
Phainon would give anything to put an end to the pressure, but ordering the same drink as last time is out of the question. Even though it's Friday, he values his sleep enough to not take the pointless risk.
Picking something else isn't easy either, all of the other beverages and deserts look appetizing. He thought about getting everything on the menu, that way he would see the man longer. He has the money but his pointless spendings are high enough as is.
"What would you recommend? I'm starving, and not picky." Phainon finally confesses trying to end the awkward moment.
The man's half smile didn't escape Phainon's attentive stare, a rapid twist of his lips Phainon found cute on the man’s features... Facial features. Cute would be the last word to come to mind when looking at his body.
Actually, the first word that came up was a long, rather obscene damn accompanied by a gawking stare and a thousand horny thoughts flooding his mind. Like the man’s hard palms pressing on dough to knead it over the counter with a repetitive movement of his hand sliding forward and back. Phainon really tried to tie the thoughts to the man’s job and not a bed. He was just hit with an image of the man's wrists tied to a bed frame. Phainon felt like banging his head on the counter, anything to stop the running fantasies.
"I like the pom-pom shake," the man offered after a long hum, "pretty sweet and refreshing, you could try that one out."
Phainon searched for the drink in the menu, a pomegranate milkshake. He only hopes the goat milk will be sweet enough to cover up the fruit's sourness.
The man then taps on the register screen, "StrawbeRolls are a best seller." He pointed at the final price of a thousand two hundred credits.
He looks over at the menu again. StrawbeRolls, a pastry in the complex shape of a spiral as elegant as a snail's shell, stuffed with a sugary strawberry jam, covered in a vibrant coat of red fruit icing. He understands why such a desert is a best-seller. Phainon is glad the prices are reasonable and not some far-fetched evident scams.
"Do check out the contents in case of allergies," the man adds, pulling a terminal under the counter.
Struck by the man’s visibly worried expression, that may in reality only be a fear of getting fired for not fully informing a customer, Phainon stops in his tracks. He was about to throw a cheeky line as his attempt to impress the man. He couldn’t now, for some reason, not panic, some reason.
Instead, he only nods, pulling a card out of his wallet, tapping it over the terminal which signaled the payment approval with a playful beep.
The man ripped off the receipt, handing it over to Phainon. Their fingers brushed against each other for a split second, the contact caused his lame excuse of a heart to skip a beat.
Phainon missed his pocket twice before finally shoving the receipt in. He felt like the floor couldn’t have picked a better moment to just turn into moving sand and pull him in right then and there.
Why is he so pathetic around this man? Why is his body reacting this way right now? Face hot, heart racing, hands shaking, knees weak. This all happens when he's working out at the gym. Even worse, he feels his heart is about to leap out of his chest.
"You can wait at any table, I'll bring your order," the man pressured, arms crossed, inviting Phainon to leave. He must have felt embarrassed having to watch through Phainon's inner turmoil.
Phainon muttered a low 'Thanks' before retreating to a table as far away from the shop facade as possible, hiding his bright red face from the man’s line of sight.
Phainon had to make a quick stop in the bathroom to splash water on his hot face, cooling himself up from all the heat that had built up in his head. All the thoughts that had washed over him so suddenly for him to manage, flooding his senses, making him react in ways he would never. Phainon was rubbing them away with the water. But they clung on, somewhere under his skin, new and unexplainable, itching to come out.
Back to the area around the cafe, he settles on a, this time, much more comfortable chair, slouching lazily.
This feeling was totally normal, a new concept to him, yes, but not new to the world. It wasn’t love, he was sure of that, nobody falls in love so suddenly from a single look. He's had crushes here and there, none of them made him feel like this.
What if he was just mesmerized by the man's beauty? Nothing more.
Envious maybe. No, he didn't want to have the man's body as his, rather have his body for himself. Phainon can't even believe he could think of something so horny.
There it is, what if his body demanded he’d get laid, and his brain, to fill in the blank, picked the first person Phainon could be attracted to this morning. Then his brain would trick his body into thinking he was getting laid with realistic hallucinations. Phainon knew he was smart, but not this smart with how easily he connected the dots. He’ll have to credit his brain for that one.
He was pulled back to reality by his loudly buzzing phone on the table.
"Sorry for hanging up on you, I had an urgent matter to attend to. You were saying?" Aglea admits, running the conversation back.
"I'm begging you Aglea," he says in a serious tone, different from his usual bubbly way of speaking "please give me some of your lunch. You won't let your favorite pilot starve to death, won't you?"
At that moment, the man appeared on his left, setting the tray's load on Phainon's table, appearing to be focused on his task.
"One second Aglea," Phainon cuts in before Aglea answers him, tapping his screen to turn his microphone off, locking his attention on the man in front of him.
First, the man places a glass filled to the brim with slightly pink pomegranate milkshake, topped with a white bunny-shaped mousse which he guesses is a mascot. Then the StrawbeRoll, larger than Phainon expected it to be.
He stared at the man work, arms perfectly sculpted to carry heavy weights now holding a flimsy plastic tray, fragile porcelain and glass dishware. A squeeze of his powerful grip and all of it breaks drawing blood Phainon fantasizes gladly licking off. The fluid would slide on thick veins from the man's wrist down to his elbows. That absurd body being materialized in front of him, Phainon wishes he could just reach out and touch as the man flexes.
Phainon shifted his ogling up to the man's huge pectorals, quick to notice that more of them were out for display. The man had only undone two buttons which was enough to render Phainon speechless.
His brain short-circuited in an attempt to break eye contact from the merging curves of the man's chest. His skin glowed from being slightly wet with sweat. The man breathed hard, his chest raised and lowered in a hypnotizing way. Phainon’s oh-so-smart brain just lost its new title.
What could have possibly led the man to think leaving his chest out for Phainon —and other people who will come after, which he prays isn't true— to gawk at would be well perceived for a human brain with simply human desires?
Not that he can't wear whatever he wants, but doesn't he have some kind of dress code to follow when working. A specific way he must dress when speaking to customers. Surely he does, and he must know that having his chest out is unacceptable for work.
Then comes the possibility driven by hope: What if it was done on purpose, only for Phainon to see, for Phainon to marvel at, to pull him in? It was working, working too well. The thought made his heart flutter in a weird way.
But unfortunately, him not noticing is more probable.
He attempts with a mix of curiosity and a hint of made up suspicion, teasing with a wide smile, "Temperatures seem high back there."
He should've formulated that in a more straightforward, less cocky way. He immediately regrets, sipping on his drink trying to look casual, thoroughly inspecting the very interesting table.
The milkshake wasn't too sweet, full pomegranate seeds popped under his teeth, watered down by a mixture of sweet goat milk and sour juice taking over the rest of the drinks ingredients. Too bad he couldn't fully savor it with the fabricated taste of the man's sweat on his tongue.
He hesitantly raises his head to read the man's expression, and finds him scowling in confusion. As he follows Phainon's line of sight down to his own chest —because Phainon can't possibly look him in the eyes after the embarrassment he put himself through but can't look anywhere else but the man's chest—, it hits him. Phainon can tell by the undeniable flush of embarrassment gracing the man's cheeks.
Although the sight delighted him to the point he was holding back a smirk, he had to come up with a believable excuse to clarify his rather inappropriate remark and have a slight chance at a casual conversation.
He rambles in an attempt to clear the confusion, "I— I mean you work next to coffee machines, ovens maybe, and you must be dying—"
He was interrupted by a barely audible voice and a low cackle, "Thanks. Enjoy your meal." To Phainon's disappointment, the man had buttoned his shirt to the top and left in a hurry.
He agrees to his approach setting an awkward mood, but running off when Phainon obviously had not malicious intentions stung. Well the man had no reason to stay longer than needed, but a little small-talk wouldn't have hurt.
Brushing the matter away in shame, Phainon concentrates back on his discussion with Aglea and unlocks his microphone to rapidly offer an explanation, "I had to get my breakfast, sorry about that."
"Oh! I should have guessed, you're early at a price" Aglea chuckles but he senses a hint of annoyance. "Listen, I can give you a share, but I'm not sure my quinoa salad and stuffed eggplant will be to your taste."
Quinoa, he's had a dish with a lot of that once, too much of it actually. It tasted like soggy cardboard, even with the super savory steak and flavorful vegetables, which could have been a dish of their own. No, they should have been a dish of their own. Quinoa ruined the dish completely. He even remembers attempting to separate the wheat from the rest. Attempting because Cyrene, who he was eating with at some fancy restaurant, didn't let his bad manners slide.
Phainon didn't even bother considering stuffed eggplants.
Thinking of what Aglea has to offer itself made him feel like barfing —which he made sure to refrain from doing given who could be around, and he's not sure Castorice and Hyacine can spare him some of their lunch. He only hopes another colleague can.
Phainon turned Aglea's offer down, admitting that the options were indeed not to his taste.
He was now taking big bites of the StrawberRoll, a combination of sweet strawberry jam and soft bread that hit his taste buds.
"What will you have for lunch then?" Aglea asks in concern and adds, mirroring Phainon's past attempt at begging, "I really don't want my favorite pilot starving to death."
He knows he's far from being her favorite pilot, but he's sure she sees him as a good friend at least. Although Phainon sometimes feels as if she speaks to him like he's her nephew or grandson, not a favorite one at that, but a troublesome and agitated one she would ground with no hesitation.
He follows in on the joke, increasing the level of sarcasm "I would never ever subject the best boss known to man to the loss of her favorite pilot, don't you worry." Begging for someone else's lunch really was the only option here, "I'll just ask Hyacine or Castorice."
“Phainon. I don’t think the girls' lunch will be enough for them and you. Quinoa is good for your health. Pinch your nose and just eat it.” Aglea ordered, in her very own motherly way.
“Alright, but I’m not making promises.” In this situation, the best Phainon could do was accept that she was right, as Aglea always is. He’ll have to eat quinoa. He can’t even call in sick on Monday, he’d be all healed up.