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The plan was terrible.
Phainon knew it was terrible. Mydei knew it was terrible, though they say it with the kind of grin that made it clear they had no intention of backing down.
They had spent nearly twenty minutes perched on the stone wall bordering the estate gardens, listing every possible reason why the idea was doomed. Each reason only seemed to make the plan more irresistible. Perhaps it was because they were seventeen, balanced precariously between adolescence and adulthood—old enough to be trusted with responsibility, young enough to find joy in profoundly questionable decisions. Or perhaps it was simply boredom. Phainon suspected boredom was the truest culprit, though he couldn’t deny the way Mydei’s laughter made even the worst ideas sound like adventures worth having.
"Mydei," Phainon murmured, tilting his head back to watch the stars scatter across the velvet sky, "this is theft."
"It's borrowing," Mydei countered, his shoulder brushing against Phainon’s as he leaned closer. "From my father."
"Borrowing implies we're giving it back."
Mydei considered this for a moment, lips quirking before he leaned closer, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “…It’s temporary relocation… to our stomachs.” The last words were whispered directly against Phainon’s ear, the warmth of his breath tickling sensitive skin. Phainon shivered at the sensation, a blush rising unbidden as the whisper curled through him, stomach tightening with a flutter that felt equal parts laughter and longing. The closeness, the teasing intimacy, the way Mydei’s tone carried both playfulness and affection—it all left Phainon helplessly smiling, his heart and stomach tangled in the same dizzy warmth.
“That’s still theft,” Phainon muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.
The seriousness lasted approximately three seconds before both of them dissolved into laughter. The sound echoed across the gardens, quickly smothered behind hands as they remembered they were supposed to be sleeping and not outside.
"You're a terrible influence," Phainon informed him, cheek pressed against his soft hair.
Mydei just scoffed, tone teasing as he circled his arm around Phainon. "You agreed immediately."
"I never claimed that I wasn't." That only made Mydei laugh harder.
The truth was that neither of them was usually reckless. Not in the ways people expected. They weren't troublemakers, weren't the sort to pick fights or break curfew just for the thrill of it.
But together?
Together, they occasionally developed a shared braincell and used it exclusively for nonsense.
Moonlight spilled across polished floors and tall windows. Portraits watched from the walls with silent judgment as they padded down the hallway, trying and failing to look inconspicuous. Not that anyone was around to witness them. Most of the household staff had retired hours ago.
"Why are we whispering?" Phainon asked quietly.
"Because we're sneaking, hks."
“There is literally no one here,” Phainon whispered, his voice carrying both exasperation and amusement. Mydei opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again, lips pressing together in stubborn silence. For a moment he seemed to weigh the logic, eyes narrowing in thought, before he simply lifted his hand and pointed forward with quiet authority, as though the gesture alone explained everything.
"Because sneaking has rules."
Phainon nearly walked into a decorative table because he was trying so hard not to laugh. For all his dignity and composure in public, Mydei took ridiculous things astonishingly seriously. Especially when those ridiculous things were his own ideas and Phainon found himself both exasperated and charmed by it.
The study was located on the third floor, tucked away behind a pair of heavy doors.
According to Mydei, his father kept the most valuable bottles in a locked cabinet there.
Mydei’s hand brushed against his once, twice, lingering just long enough to make Phainon’s pulse jump before pulling away.
The study was tucked away on the third floor, behind heavy doors. Mydei produced a brass key with a flourish, holding it up between two fingers. Phainon stared at him in disbelief.
"You’ve had a key this entire time? I thought we were performing a heist."
"We are," Mydei replied, genuinely confused. "I don’t see how that changes anything."
Phainon buried his face in his hands, muffling laughter. When the lock clicked open, Mydei’s shoulder brushed against his again, steadying him as they leaned forward to peer into the cabinet. Rows of bottles gleamed under the faint light, lined up with military precision if he had to guess inside rested enough wine to fund several months of tuition or perhaps an entire village.
Phainon wasn't entirely sure. Rich people collected expensive things in ways he never quite understood.
Mydei pointed decisively. "That one." Phainon squinted at it but the bottle looked exactly like all the others. "What's special about it?"
"My father talks about it constantly."
"Oh."
"Apparently it's exceptional."
"Do either of us know anything about wine?"
"Nope."
"Perfect."
They stole it immediately. Well—borrowed. Extended relocation to their stomachs, technically. Whatever term made them sound less criminal.
Still, he followed Mydei’s lead, because that was what he always did. The bottle was smuggled into Mydei’s room beneath a jacket, their victory declared complete.
The first problem was opening it. Neither of them had considered that. The second problem was that once they finally succeeded, neither of them particularly liked wine. The third problem was that they kept drinking it anyway, sprawled across the bed with knees touching, shoulders pressed together in Mydei's stupidly large bed, glasses in hand.
"This tastes terrible," Phainon muttered, grimacing. "It does," Mydei agreed, though he took another sip anyway. "It tastes like old fruit."
"It is old fruit."
"Fair."
Phainon took another sip, the glass tilting just enough for the bitter liquid to slide across his tongue. He made a face immediately, nose wrinkling, lips pulling tight in protest, but instead of stopping he stubbornly lifted the glass again and took a third sip as though sheer persistence might change the taste. Across from him, Mydei mirrored the exact same motions—sip, grimace, sip again—his expression equally pained yet equally determined. The symmetry of it was ridiculous, two boys locked in silent competition, neither willing to admit defeat to a bottle of wine they didn’t even like. Their eyes met over the rims of their glasses, and the shared suffering sparked a flicker of laughter that threatened to break through.
The room grew steadily warmer as the night wore on. Or perhaps that was simply the alcohol. Phainon wasn’t entirely certain, because the thought that it might be their close proximity made him want to do something that could ruin their friendship—like kiss Mydei’s soft lips, perhaps. He wasn’t entirely sure when that realization had started to settle in, only that it was now impossible to ignore. Mydei’s presence beside him felt closer than it should have, every small movement drawing Phainon’s attention in a way that made his thoughts blur at the edges. And worse, there were moments—quiet, unguarded moments—when Phainon caught himself thinking far too carefully about things he absolutely should not be thinking about, like the plushness of Mydei’s lips, or how easily one wrong choice could turn everything they had into something neither of them knew how to recover from.
The bottle slowly emptied between them.
By midnight, their conversation had wandered into entirely nonsensical territory. Their laughter grew louder as the night wore on, their conversation drifting from nonsense into outright absurdity, until they were lying side by side on the floor, clutching their stomachs from laughing too hard. Somewhere between jokes and half-finished thoughts, the distance between them had quietly dissolved without either of them noticing.
Mydei’s hand brushed against Phainon’s as he gestured wildly about fish and friendship, and neither of them pulled away. The contact lingered longer than it needed to—warm, accidental at first, then something neither of them corrected. The silence that followed their laughter felt softer now, shimmering with something they want to say.
“Fish absolutely have friends,” Mydei insisted, turning his head slightly toward Phainon, his voice closer now, quieter, as if it belonged only to him.
“They do not,” Phainon replied, though there was no real conviction in it anymore—only amusement, and the faint awareness of Mydei lying right there beside him, close enough that even breathing felt like something they were doing together.
“They travel together!”
“That’s called swimming.”
“It’s friendship swimming.”
“That isn’t a thing.”
“It should be,” Mydei said, softer this time, as if he wasn’t arguing anymore so much as hoping Phainon would speak more with him just for the sake of it, his gentle voice and quiet laughter lingering in his mind like something he didn’t want to forget.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The laughter faded into a quiet that didn’t feel empty at all. It felt heavy in a different way—full, almost careful. Phainon could feel the space between them more sharply now, like something he was suddenly aware he could cross if he moved even slightly.
Then Mydei did. Slowly, hesitantly, as if pretending it was still part of the joke, his hand shifted. His fingers slid along Phainon’s palm, uncertain at first, then settling more firmly as he turned his hand over and matched it palm to palm with his. His touch was warm, slightly unsteady, and when their fingers finally aligned properly, it felt like a decision neither of them had said out loud yet.
Phainon didn’t pull away.
Instead, his fingers curled gently, closing the space between them, and Mydei let out a small breath—almost a laugh, almost something else—before their hands fully held on to each other in the quiet, both of them suddenly very aware, very still, and very, very close.
When light started streakingthrough the curtains, they had somehow ended up sprawled across the floor laughing so hard they couldn't breathe. Eventually, the floor became "suspiciously uncomfortable," and they migrated to the bed. Phainon wasn’t sure whose idea it had been, but he suspected it was his. The memory blurred after that, softened by alcohol and sleep-deprivation.
What he did remember was the warmth of Mydei’s shoulder against his, the sound of his laughter dissolving into the dark, and the way his voice had dropped into something quieter and more intimate just before sleep claimed them, as if the world outside the room belonged to someone else entirely. There was a comfort in it that Phainon didn’t know how to name properly, only recognize when it was already there.
“Promise me we’ll do stupid things together when we’re old.”
Phainon had laughed softly then, pressing his forehead briefly against Mydei’s arm as if to anchor the moment in place, half teasing and half unwilling to let it slip away.
“We’ll probably still be doing stupid things next week,” he had replied, his voice low with sleep and something gentler underneath it that neither of them acknowledged out loud.
Mydei’s answering smile had been the last thing Phainon saw before drifting off completely. “Good,” he had murmured, like it was less a response and more a quiet agreement to stay exactly like this, for as long as they could get away with it.
The consequences arrived at eight o’clock sharp. Phainon woke first, head pounding, sunlight stabbing through the curtains. He groaned and rolled over, colliding with Mydei, who looked equally miserable—blonde hair in disarray, face buried in a pillow, one arm dangling off the bed. He looked dead, Phainon considered joining him.
For a moment, Phainon considered staying like that, pressed against him, sharing the quiet misery. But the door opened, and everything shattered.
Mydei’s parents stood in the doorway, eyes falling immediately on the empty bottle resting on the bedside table. Silence stretched unbearably. Phainon felt his soul leave his body, huddling and using Mydei's body as a shield. Mydei pulled the blanket over his face, as though it could shield him from reality.
Eurypon looked at the bottle, then at the two teenagers sprawled across the bed, and then back at the bottle—the empty bottle, the very, very expensive empty bottle. The room fell into a silence so deep that even the birds outside seemed unwilling to break it.
Giving up on trying to die, Phainon lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling as if sheer embarrassment alone might allow him to transcend the mortal plane. Beside him, Mydei had apparently reached the same conclusion and was now face-down in a pillow, completely motionless except for the occasional low groan that proved he was, unfortunately, still alive.
The stretch of quiet dragged on unbearably long. Phainon’s hangover did nothing to help—his head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, his mouth felt dry and wrong, and even the smallest sound seemed determined to split his skull in half. Breathing alone felt like a heavy chore, as if the room itself was judging him for existing too openly.
Finally, after what felt like an entire lifetime compressed into a few agonizing minutes, Eurypon folded his arms and spoke. “Good morning.”
Neither boy answered. They were too busy dying.
Phainon slowly turned his head to greet back, immediately regretting it as the room tilted sharply and his stomach threatened revolt. He abandoned the movement and returned to staring at the ceiling. Beside him, Mydei made another muffled sound into the pillow and pulled the blanket higher over his head, as if fabric alone could shield him from consequences. It could not.
Across the room, Gorgo stood with one hand pressed over her mouth, shoulders shaking slightly. Whether she was trying not to laugh or trying not to deliver a full-scale lecture was impossible to tell.
“You stole the wine,” Mr. Eurypon said calmly.
Calmly, which infinitely made it worse.
Phainon kept staring at the ceiling. Mydei kept suffocating into the pillow. Neither offered a defense, not because they didn’t have one, but because every excuse they had invented the night before now sounded catastrophically stupid in the light of morning. After a pause, Mr. Eurypon repeated. “You drank the wine.”
"You drank the entire bottle."
That finally produced a reaction. Mydei made a pained noise into the pillow, the kind of sound that contained no words, only regret. His father regarded him for a moment longer before asking, “Do you have something to say?”
Phainon wished the sun would blow up and consume him.
“I paid a great deal of money for that bottle,” he said, sighing and dissapointed.
Phainon briefly considered whether it was still possible to simply cease existing in a socially acceptable way. Eventually, he forced himself upright. The world immediately tilted in protest, and a sharp pain shot through his skull which he tried not to show on his face. His expression must have betrayed him anyways, because Gorgo made a small, sympathetic sound that only deepened his humiliation.
“My apologies, sir,” Phainon croaked, his voice rough and uncooperative. He cleared his throat, though it did nothing to improve his rough throat.
Across the bed, Mydei finally emerged from the blanket just enough to glare weakly at the sunlight as if it had personally offended him, then shifted his glare to his father, as though genuinely insulted that he had made Phainon move away from the comfortable position at his side. His hair stuck out in every possible direction, and pillow marks lined his face in a way that would have been funny under any other circumstances, especially with Phainon still so close that the warmth of him lingered in the space between them like something neither of them had fully acknowledged yet.
For a moment, Mr. Eurypon simply studied them both in silence. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, “How was it?”
The question landed like a second blow to their heads. Both boys blinked at him, caught entirely off guard. Of all possible outcomes—anger, disappointment, or punishment—this had not been included in any of their mental scenarios. The confusion of the question only made their already spinning heads feel worse, as if their thoughts had been jostled loose and left to drift aimlessly in the aftermath.
The boys exchanged a glance, shoulders brushing, hearts pounding. It was a terrible idea, but Mydei said it anyway because there is no word for fear in the Kremnoan language, hks. "It tasted awful."
Silence dropped instantly into the room. Phainon closed his eyes. That was it. That was the end of them. “And awful,” Phainon added anyway, betraying himself without hesitation.
The silence returned—heavier this time with their acceptance of their death. Then Gorgo made a strangled sound before completely losing control, laughter spilling out of her despite her best efforts. She had clearly tried not to react, but the image of two severely hungover teenagers just tickled her right.
Even Eurypon's expression shifted slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. That tiny reaction made everything worse in the most humiliating way possible.
Mydei groaned and buried his face in the pillow again, hiding his reddening face. “Please stop laughing,” he muttered.
That only made her joy worse. His mother laughed harder, leaning heavily on her husband.
Phainon covered his face, the pain in his head pulsing relentlessly, the room still slightly spinning every time he moved. He had never been more embarrassed in his life, and yet—despite everything—a weak laugh escaped him.
Then Mydei began laughing at his mother and Phainon’s joy. And suddenly, both of them were laughing quietly into their pillows, dizzy, exhausted, and painfully aware of their poor life choices, while their heads threatened to split open.
It hurt. A lot.
But not enough to stop. By the time the lecture arrived, neither of them could take it seriously, not with hangovers splitting their heads open and the memory of last night lingering warmly beneath the embarrassment.