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To him, Phainon was the everblazing sun destined for world-bearing.
The first time he met him, nothing stuck out more than the sun birthmark branded on the side of his neck. It was fitting—really, he shone and embodied what it meant to be as a Deliverer. He knew from the beginning that the Coreflame of Strife had no business consuming his being, for blood did not suit staining his hands. (He would not have allowed it.)
Clashes of steel echoed throughout the high walls of the stadium, sweat dripping from both sides. Each swift strike could not divert his attention away from the way his silver hair flowed against the wind, standing out from the golden dawn. He swallowed those lingering feelings and clutched his sword even harder as he delivered another blow aiming for his neck.
“Still won’t take on the trial?”
That teasing smile he had been well-acquainted with for years never failed to bring an uproar that threatened to spill out of his throat.
“HKS” was all he could weakly mutter, absorbing himself into dealing more hits.
Strife was nothing at all like World-bearing. The bitter taste of discord only brought a type of madness that can be quelled by one of life. One like Phainon.
But if Phainon was the sun, then what was he?
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Soon enough, their mindless sparring turned into a match of playful roughhousing that none of them planned on backing out on. Headstrong and relentless as they both are as they tumbled and thrashed throughout their scuffle. A strong grip landed on Phainon’s arm and before he knew it, Phainon was pinned right under him.
Mydei felt greedy basking in his warmth. Both heavily panting, hitched breaths mixing in with the cold air while his eyes drooped—half-drunk on adrenaline and the other on something he could not admit to himself yet.
Phainon shifted his position, but never dared to move out of it and only held his gaze even longer. There had long been an unspoken heat behind each tease and a fondness with every spar that never seemed to outgrow them.
From his cyan eyes to his soft lips, his gaze wandered carelessly—unreadable. Between furrowed brows and shallow breaths, the brief contact of Phainon’s broad shoulders to his rough hands lingered for far too long. He invaded his very senses, and all Mydei could smell on him was home.
Birds continued their chirping, and the sun’s fleeting rays found themselves kissing Mydei’s face. Something flickered behind Phainon’s eyes, his lips trembling with the words stuck in his throat; and Mydei braced himself for ridicule.
“I love when the sun hits your eyes. You're glowing.”
Time stopped at that moment. What bothered him more was that he did not act like it was an embarrassing slip of the tongue. More like it was the most natural thing to conclude with. And there he surmises.
That if Phainon was the sun, then he was a sunflower ready to follow. One willing to be both scorched and bathed in his light. For he did not follow because he was the sun, but because he was Phainon.
𖤓☽˚₊