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The silence of the bookstore was interrupted only by the soft purring of Fig Stew, curled up in his makeshift bed near the register, and the occasional turning of a page. Mydei was behind the counter, arranging a stack of newly arrived books, his fingers tracing the spines with familiarity. That was his little kingdom, built with years of savings and a determination that had surprised even his parents.
He remembered vividly the day he opened the doors for the first time. The smell of paper, the natural light pouring through the front windows, the feeling of finally having achieved something that was entirely his. Ever since high school, he had dreamed of that moment, but between part-time jobs and college, money always seemed to slip through his fingers like water. The bookstore had been a dream delayed, but never abandoned.
Fig Stew stretched, displaying his orange belly, and Mydei smiled. The cat had come into his life just a few months after the store opened, a scrawny kitten that insisted on following him for three blocks until Mydei, surrendering, had taken him in. Now, the animal was as much a part of the bookstore as the bookshelves.
The door chime jingled, and Mydei raised his eyes, expecting to see a customer. Instead, he met Phainon's radiant smile, a paper bag in his hand.
"I brought food!" announced Phainon, holding up the bag like a trophy. "The new bakery on the corner had those croissants you like."
Mydei raised an eyebrow. "Did you come all the way here just to bring bread?"
"And to see my favorite friend, of course." Phainon rounded the counter with an ease that bordered on trespassing and deposited the bag on the surface. Fig Stew, awakened by the smell, raised his head with interest. "Not for you, you glutton. You've already eaten today."
The cat solemnly ignored him and went back to sleep.
Mydei opened the bag, appreciating the buttery aroma. "Didn't you say you had a tattoo session scheduled for now?"
"Tired of working." Phainon leaned against the counter, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "Cipher is taking care of the studio."
"Cipher is going to charge you your soul for that."
"Probably, but the soul was a fair price to come bother you."
Mydei merely smiled and gave a light shove to Phainon's shoulder. Their friendship was like that: easy, natural, as if they had known each other in another life and had simply met again. Mydei rarely opened up to people, but with Phainon it had been different from the start. Perhaps it was the context — sitting in a tattoo chair while needles marked his skin for the first time. Or perhaps it was something in the way Phainon talked, genuinely interested, without that layer of superficiality Mydei so detested in others.
He remembered their first meeting as if it were yesterday.
Three years earlier
Castorice's recommendation had come with a warning: "Phainon is good, I finally managed to finish my arm sleeve without feeling all the pain I was promised and the place is super cool! Ah, but he talks a lot, so if you want to get it done enjoying the silence, bad luck to you."
Mydei didn't dislike silence, exactly, but he wasn't a fan of small talk either. He prepared himself for a long and possibly irritating session. Instead, he found himself discussing Brazilian literature with the tattoo artist while he prepared the stencil on his skin.
Phainon was tall, extremely handsome, with white hair that wasn't dry at all, and a sun tattoo on his neck in delicate lines that seemed to capture the light when he moved. As soon as he noticed Mydei's fixed stare at his neck, he quickly explained that it had been his first tattoo, done by a friend.
"Cipher," Phainon had said, smiling. He spoke naturally, as if they had been friends for decades. "She put up with me for a long time. We shared the studio. Now I finally have my own place."
"And she wasn't upset?"
"She practically kicked me out of there. Said it was time for me to 'fly the coop'." Phainon's laugh was contagious. "She's a better tattoo artist than me, but she hates the administrative part. I think she was tired of dealing with my messy schedule."
Phainon went over the quote they had agreed on online once again and began to explain that he would divide the project into zones, respecting the healing time for each area and allowing the lines to flow naturally from one region to another.
"If we did it all at once, you wouldn't take it," he explained, adjusting the height of the chair. "A full-body tattoo is a long-term project. It takes months, sometimes years, depending on the complexity and the client's pain tolerance."
"I have a good tolerance."
"Everyone says that until they reach the ribs or the groin." Phainon laughed. "But let's start with the arms and shoulders. Then we'll move down to the chest, the back and finally the most sensitive areas."
"Why did you decide to become a tattoo artist?" Mydei observed how meticulous Phainon was with the details, and the question came naturally.
"Because I've always liked art, but I never fitted into traditional forms." Phainon began to work, the needle sliding over Mydei's skin with surgical precision. "I got my first tattoo," he indicated the sun on his neck, "...and it was a revelation. The pain, the environment, the transformation... I fell in love with all of it."
"Who did it?"
"Cipher, of course. She was the only one I trusted to touch my neck." Phainon wiped the excess ink with a paper towel. "We became friends back then. Later, when I decided to become a tattoo artist, she took me on as an apprentice and pointed me toward the right courses to take."
"She must be good."
"Better than me. But don't tell her I said that."
Mydei watched as the outline of the red tattoos took shape on his left forearm. They were drawings he had carried in his mind since high school, meticulously planned, just waiting for the right moment and, above all, the right money. Opening the bookstore first had been the rational decision, but now, finally, he could treat himself to that luxury.
"Did you wait long for this?" asked Phainon, focused on his work, the tattoo machine humming softly as it traced the initial lines.
"A good few years," admitted Mydei. "But it was worth waiting until I could do it right."
The conversation flowed from there and when the session ended, Mydei realized he had barely noticed the needles.
The second session was scheduled for three weeks later, the necessary time for the skin to heal properly. Mydei followed Phainon's instructions to the letter: healing ointment, constant hydration, no direct sun, and a few foods to avoid. The skin flaked slightly during the first few days, a process Phainon had explained was completely normal, and when the scabs fell off, the outline remained crisp and precise.
"Good healing," praised Phainon, examining Mydei's forearm with a professional eye. "You took good care of it. A lot of people neglect that part and then complain the tattoo turned out blurry."
"I didn't spend years planning this just to ruin it out of laziness."
Phainon smiled. "It's exactly that kind of attitude that made me like you."
This time, the work was on the shoulder and upper arm. The session lasted almost four hours, with short breaks to rest. Mydei felt the pain, of course — the needle puncturing his skin repeatedly, the burning sensation intensifying in the most sensitive areas —, but he endured it with a stoicism that seemed to impress Phainon.
"You didn't even complain," he commented at the end.
"Does complaining help with anything?"
Phainon laughed and applied a layer of ointment, wrapping Mydei's arm in plastic film and promptly explaining the post-session care once more. Mydei listened attentively, even though he already knew the procedure.
"No sun for at least two weeks. Moisturize three times a day. Don't scratch, even if it feels like you're going crazy." Phainon handed him a printed flyer. "And if you have any strange reaction, call me immediately."
"Do you answer clients outside of hours?"
"I answer you." Phainon smiled, and there was something warm in that expression. "You're a special client."
Mydei didn't know how to respond, so he merely nodded.
The following sessions maintained a constant pace. Every three or four weeks, Mydei returned to the studio and Phainon advanced another segment of the project.
The chest was particularly challenging. The skin there was sensitive, and the vibration of the machine seemed to reverberate through his ribs, causing a strange sensation of internal pressure. Mydei gritted his teeth and endured, though he broke into a cold sweat when Phainon worked on the area near the sternum.
"Want a break?" asked Phainon, noticing the tension.
"No. Keep going."
"You are stubborn."
"You've mentioned that. Several times."
"Because it's true."
The back was divided into multiple sessions, each covering a specific portion. Phainon explained that the skin on the back was one of the best for tattooing in terms of ink retention, but also one of the hardest for the client themselves to reach for post-session care.
"You're going to need help applying the ointment," he said, after a session that covered the entire lower back region.
"I have a friend who can help."
"Good. Because if you neglect the healing now, it will compromise the whole work."
The recovery of the back was uncomfortable. Sleeping on his back was impossible, and every movement of his torso seemed to stretch the newly tattooed skin. Mydei adapted to sleeping on his side, with strategically placed pillows, and followed Phainon's instructions religiously.
When he returned for the next session, Phainon examined the healed work with approval.
"Perfect. You are one of the most disciplined clients I've ever had."
"Discipline is important."
The conversation during sessions became the highlight of Mydei's encounters. They discussed books, movies, music. Phainon was a fan of action cinema while Mydei preferred psychological thrillers, but they found common ground in well-written thrillers and intelligent screenplays.
"You own a bookstore, right? You must have an impressive personal library." Phainon asked while changing the needle.
"Modest, but well curated. I can show it to you any of these days."
"I will eagerly await the invitation."
The promise hung in the air, and Mydei realized he liked the idea of welcoming Phainon into his home and sharing that intimate space with him. The realization surprised him, but didn't alarm him.
The final session was relatively fast compared to the previous ones: just three hours to finish the details and shading.
Phainon worked in concentrated silence, his movements precise and economical. Mydei observed him shamelessly: the line of his jaw, the arch of his eyebrows, the way his tongue touched the corner of his mouth when he focused.
"Done," announced Phainon at last, turning off the machine.
Mydei looked in the mirror. The result was impressive: red lines intertwining in patterns that seemed alive, flowing over his skin like rivers of fire. More than eight months of work, and the final result exceeded any expectation.
"It's perfect," he murmured.
"You deserve the credit. The design was yours." Phainon wiped away the remnants of ink. "I merely brought it to life."
"Don't underestimate yourself. You are talented."
Phainon smiled, and there was a subtle blush on his cheeks. "Thank you."
Mydei put his shirt back on carefully, feeling the newly tattooed skin burn lightly under the fabric. He prepared to pay, but Phainon stopped him.
"Save it for next time."
"What next time?"
Phainon blinked. "You think this is over? A full-body tattoo needs maintenance. Touch-ups, adjustments. Not to mention you'll probably want more. Everyone wants more."
Mydei raised an eyebrow. "And do you plan to be the tattoo artist for those touch-ups?"
"I plan to." Phainon handed him a piece of paper with a scribbled number. "...But I also plan to be more than that."
Silence stretched for a moment. Mydei felt his heart race.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I enjoyed your company. Our conversations." Phainon hesitated for the first time, looking insecure. "And I wanted to know if you'd like to hang out with me. As friends."
Mydei considered the proposal. He wasn't someone who made friends easily, and the idea of extending that connection beyond the studio was both attractive and daunting.
But the truth was he didn't want it to end.
"Friends," he repeated, testing the word.
"Friends." Phainon smiled, relieved. "Saturday night... there's a rock club near my place. The band is good. Do you like rock?"
"I do."
"Then it's settled."
Mydei put the paper carefully into his pocket. "It's settled."
And as he left the studio, he felt that something had changed. Something small, subtle, yet irreversible. Like a line of ink newly drawn on the skin, permanent and destined to remain.
Mydei's thoughts returned to the present while he ate the croissant — which was indeed excellent — as Phainon idly flipped through one of the books in the stack.
"Are you still going to that show at the club on Saturday?" asked Phainon.
"Which show?"
"The new band I told you about last week."
Mydei vaguely remembered. Phainon loved live music, and Mydei had discovered that, surprisingly, he liked it too. Perhaps it was the energy of the place, or the company. It was hard to separate things lately.
"I am," he replied. "If you stop talking about their posters as if you were being paid for the promotion."
"They're good, Mydei! You'll see."
Phainon returned the book to the stack and stretched his arms, causing the shirt he was wearing to ride up slightly and revealing a brief glimpse of his abdomen. Mydei looked away, suddenly feeling strange. Over the past few months, Phainon's presence had been triggering reactions that were increasingly hard to ignore. A warmth in his chest, an uncaused nervousness, a tendency to look for excuses to prolong their meetings.
It was different from what he felt for his other friends. Different from the casual affection he held for Castorice, the chaotic moments with Cipher, the casual conversations with Aglaea and Anaxa, or his admiration for Hyacine. It was deep, persistent, and increasingly difficult to deny.
Phainon looked at him, tilting his head. "You're quiet today."
"I'm always quiet."
"More than usual." Phainon's smile softened. "Is something wrong?"
"No." Mydei deflected. "Just thinking about life."
"Ah, the good old thursday afternoon existential crisis. I get it."
Mydei didn't answer, and Phainon didn't press. That was the good thing about their friendship: the respect for silence, the understanding that not everything needed to be said.
But as Phainon said goodbye, promising to meet him at the show, Mydei realized that the silence now bothered him. There were things he wanted to say, and he didn't know how.
In the following months, the realization became impossible to ignore.
Mydei found himself eagerly waiting for Phainon's messages in the middle of the day, for unexpected invitations to try a new coffee shop or walk in the park. He liked sitting in silence while Phainon scribbled in his sketchbook, capturing the silhouette of a tree or the figure of a distracted passerby. He liked the shared laughter at noisy shows, the heated discussions about the ending of a book, the nights when Phainon showed up at his apartment with a crazy recipe for them to test together.
"Soy milk with pomegranate, orange and pineapple juice," Phainon had said once, holding a bottle with a triumphant air. "Trust me."
"I don't trust anyone who mixes dairy with three acidic fruits."
"You have no adventurous spirit, Mydei."
"I have common sense."
The drink turned out horrible, and Phainon laughed until tears ran down his face while Mydei spat into the kitchen sink, cursing him for ten minutes straight. Fig Stew had observed them with feline contempt, as if judging their existence.
It was in these little things that Mydei found himself lost, drowning in a feeling that grew without asking for permission. He wasn't naive. He recognized the symptoms: the racing heart, the constant attention, the desperate desire to be near. But what to do with it? Phainon was his friend; risking that friendship felt like too high a gamble.
So he put it off. And put it off. And put it off.
And then Cyrene arrived in town.
The first mention came on a random Tuesday, when Phainon appeared at the bookstore more excited than usual.
"Remember my childhood friend, Cyrene? The one I told you about?"
Mydei looked up from an inventory log. "The one you used to get into trouble with and who helped you skip class?"
"Her. She's moving back to town next month. It's been years since I last saw her in person."
Phainon's tone was pure joy, and Mydei felt something cold slip down his stomach. "That's great," he replied, with more effort than he cared to admit.
"I'll introduce you. You two will get along, I'm sure."
Mydei forced a smile and went back to the logs, but the words floated in his mind, refusing to settle.
He knew about Cyrene. Phainon had mentioned her a few times over time, always fondly. A childhood friend, the partner in crime, the person who knew all his embarrassing stories. Mydei had never paid much attention to it — after all, everyone had friends from the past.
But something in Phainon's excitement bothered him. There was a tenderness in his eyes, an anticipation that seemed to go beyond friendship.
Don't be ridiculous, he scolded himself. You're looking for trouble where there is none.
But the feeling persisted.
Cyrene's arrival was a hurricane. A pink hurricane, full of energy and with a contagious smile.
Mydei met her at a casual gathering, hastily arranged by Phainon, who insisted everyone should get together. Mydei had almost refused — the idea of seeing Phainon with that beloved friend squeezed something in his chest —, but he knew his absence would raise questions. So he went.
She was pretty, with light pink hair, enviable charisma and a warm smile that seemed to light up the room. Mydei observed her from afar for a moment, noticing the ease with which Phainon orbited around her and the naturalness with which they touched each other.
"I finally met the famous Mydei," said Cyrene, shaking his hand enthusiastically. "Phai talks so much about you that I already felt like I knew you."
"Phainon talks too much," replied Mydei, casting a glance at his friend.
"And yet you put up with me." Phainon had smiled, and Mydei felt his heart stumble.
The meeting was brief. Cyrene was radiant, mentioning that she needed to sort out a few things in town, but would love to meet up again. Mydei nodded politely, but was already planning to keep his distance.
And he did.
Over the next two weeks, Mydei turned down Phainon's invitations to hang out with Cyrene. He claimed work, tiredness, invented commitments. Phainon didn't push, but Mydei saw the disappointment in his eyes, and that hurt more than he liked to admit.
He heard the stories: that Cyrene loved the coffee shop on the corner, that they visited the park, that they went to the rock club together. That Cyrene was waiting for someone to arrive from abroad, but in the meantime was enjoying the city with her old friend.
Mydei imagined the scenes with agonizing clarity: Phainon smiling at her, the two of them sharing inside jokes, the closeness he would never have, the result of an old bond cultivated since childhood. With every story, with every photo Phainon showed on his phone, something inside him broke a little more.
"You should come with us," Phainon had said once, putting his phone away. "Cyrene wants to get to know you better."
"She already met me."
"Barely. You stayed five minutes and left."
"I have a bookstore to run."
Phainon had looked at him with a strange expression, between frustration and sadness. "You've been acting strange, Mydei. Did something happen?"
"No." The answer came out too fast. "Just busy."
Phainon didn't press, but the silence that followed was heavy with unsaid things.
That day, while staring at the ceiling of his own apartment, Mydei decided to accept it and move on. Phainon would never be his, not in the way he wanted. And that was fine. He would survive. They would continue the same dynamic as always, and the feeling would eventually die out.
It was that night that the first petal rose to his throat.
It started as a strange itch. Mydei coughed, waiting for the discomfort to pass and felt something soft touch his lips. He looked at his hand and found a blue petal, small and delicate.
He blinked. Coughed again. More petals.
"What the fuck is this?" he muttered, looking at the petals in his palm.
His first reaction was to think he was hallucinating. What normal person would have the ability to cough up petals? Had the wine he drank yesterday somehow taken effect? His second idea was to do what any sick person would do: search the internet while hoping it was just a weird flu. The results spoke of Hanahaki, a rare and poetic disease: flowers that grow in the lungs of those who love unrequitedly. Mydei read the symptoms, the prognoses, the options. He felt his stomach turn and wanted to laugh at the absurd situation.
Impossible, he thought. Must be an allergy.
But the petals continued, and the coughing grew worse.
Hyacine was the first and only person he told. He sent a short, almost embarrassed text message, feeling bad about bothering the group's doctor:
"I'm coughing up petals. Blue ones. Small. Please tell me this is a new type of flu spreading around and the government is conspiring so that some kind of general chaos doesn't break out."
She called immediately, her voice heavy with concern.
"Mydei, this is serious. Are you sure you coughed up flowers? How is your breathing? Do you know what it is?"
"Just a few petals. My breathing is normal, just a slight residual discomfort in my throat. As for what it is, I looked it up, but I only saw articles and crazy theories."
"...Do you know who it is?"
Mydei hesitated for only a few moments.
"I do, but I'm not going to confess."
"Mydei..." Hyacine's voice managed to clearly convey all her frustration.
"He likes someone else, Hyacine. There's nothing to be done."
Hyacine seemed to want to insist, but Mydei ended the call. He sat on the bookstore floor, phone still in hand, and felt the weight of that truth: he was in love with Phainon, and Phainon was in love with Cyrene.
There was nothing that could be done.
The following weeks were a silent torment.
Mydei maintained his routine with a facade of normality: he opened the bookstore, organized the shelves, attended to customers. Fig Stew, oblivious to his owner's agony, continued sleeping near the register, his presence an anchor of familiarity.
But with each day, the attacks worsened.
Isolated petals were easy to hide. He folded them into tissues and discreetly discarded them in the bookstore's trash or at his own apartment, feeling like a criminal covering up a crime. Every petal was proof of his weakness, of his unrequited feeling.
And yet, he couldn't pull away from Phainon.
In fact, his friend's presence seemed to intensify everything: the pain in his chest, the difficulty breathing, the desperate desire that burned like a fever. And, paradoxically, it brought relief. Seeing Phainon smile, hearing his laugh, feeling the familiarity of his company — all of it filled something inside Mydei that he hadn't even known was empty.
"You're acting strange," Phainon commented one afternoon while they were sitting in a coffee shop near the bookstore.
"I'm tired," Mydei lied.
"Lately you're always tired." Phainon frowned. "Are you sure everything is okay? You've been coughing a lot."
Mydei swallowed hard. "It's allergies. Everything is fine."
The skepticism in Phainon's eyes was obvious, but he didn't press. Instead, he pulled out his sketchbook and began scribbling something while silence stretched between them.
Mydei watched him work: the concentration on his forehead, the slight twist of his lips when something didn't turn out as planned, the firm way he held the pencil. He desperately wanted to believe there was something more there, that his feelings were returned. But every time he considered that possibility, the image of Cyrene surfaced in his mind, followed by the certainty that he was being foolish.
The fear wasn't rational, and it clung to him like the roots in his lungs, sucking his energy, draining his hope.
With his coughing worsening, Mydei isolated himself. He avoided the group, answered Phainon's messages with monosyllables, invented excuses not to go out. The bookstore became his sanctuary — and also the stage for his attacks.
The petals gave way to whole flowers. Small, round, of a pale blue with a yellowish center that Mydei recognized immediately.
Forget-me-nots.
He laughed bitterly and the memory surfaced involuntarily: Phainon lifting his shirt in the studio, showing off a tattoo on his ribs. "Forget-me-nots," he had said, smiling. "They're my favorite flowers. Cipher did them as a late birthday present, but I'm sure she just wanted a guinea pig for her new needles."
Mydei remembered thinking the design was pretty, asking about the flower. Phainon had explained its meaning: "Fidelity, memory, true love. It's a flower that represents what cannot be forgotten."
The irony was too cruel to be a coincidence.
Mydei closed his eyes, feeling the pressure in his chest increase. It was almost as if the roots knew, as if they recognized the connection between the flower killing him and the ink on Phainon's skin.
Hyacine kept calling, insisting he go to the clinic. Mydei gave in, more to calm his friend than out of his own will.
She examined the flowers with a clinical eye, turning them between her gloved fingers.
"They're small. The upside is that smaller flowers take longer to completely block the lungs. But if you don't make up your mind soon, the quantity could increase. And then your time shrinks."
"How much time do I have?"
"I don't know, it depends on how many flowers bloom per day. Mydei, you shouldn't be thinking about time, you should be thinking about confessing."
"What for? To get rejected and die faster?"
"To have a chance to live."
Mydei shook his head. There was no chance. He had seen Phainon with Cyrene and was sure they would soon announce their lovely relationship.
But doubt gnawed at him. What if Hyacine was right? What if confessing was the only way out? What if, by some miracle, Phainon...
No. He couldn't afford that luxury. It was safer to accept death than face rejection.
The attack in the backroom happened on a Tuesday afternoon.
Mydei was sitting among the boxes, trying to sort out the new books that had arrived. His phone was vibrating with messages from Phainon that he didn't open. "You disappeared again. Is everything okay?" "Mydei, reply. I'm getting worried."
He sighed, ran a hand over his face, felt the familiar sharp pain in his chest.
It started with a tickle in his throat, followed by a pressure in his chest that quickly intensified. He coughed, doubling over, feeling the petals tear at his trachea. A whole flower, then another, then another, falling to the floor like a macabre rain.
Fig Stew meowed from the other side of the door, and Mydei tried to control his breathing, pressing his hands against his chest as if he could soothe the internal growth. The cough persisted for long minutes, his body trembling from the exertion, until it finally began to subside.
He was gasping, eyes watering, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Around him, a constellation of blue flowers lay scattered on the floor, some intact, others crushed.
It was at that moment that the door opened.
Phainon entered with light steps, a paper bag in his hand and a smile on his face. The smile, however, collapsed instantly when his eyes hit the floor. Mydei was hunched over, one hand resting on a box and the other on his chest, breathless, with a red streak on his lips and a macabre heap of blue petals around him.
"Mydei?!" The bag fell, forgotten. Phainon crossed the space in two steps and knelt beside him, dread written in his voice. "What... what is this? What happened?"
"It's nothing." Mydei's voice came out raspy as he tried to cover his mouth. "Just a coughing fit."
"You're coughing up flowers and blood!" Phainon tried to touch his shoulder, his hands trembling. "How is that nothing? How long have you been like this?!"
"I already told you it's fine."
"It's not fine! For God's sake, Mydei, you're suffocating in front of me!" Phainon's voice rose, tinged with a pure panic Mydei had rarely seen in him. "Why didn't you tell me?! Why did you hide this from me?!"
Mydei turned his face away, his throat burning with pain and frustration. "Because it's none of your business."
"None of my business?!" Phainon let out an incredulous laugh, anger locking his jaw. " Mydeimos, I'm your best friend! I come here almost every day, I've watched you waste away for weeks and you tell me it's none of your business?!"
"I didn't want to talk about it!" Mydei growled, feeling his chest explode. "And you don't have the right to come in here and pressure me!"
"I have every right to care about you when you're visibly dying!"
"It's Hanahaki, damn it!" Mydei finally exploded, the words coming out tearing at his throat. "A ridiculous disease because I was stupid enough to fall in love with someone I shouldn't have! Now I'm coughing up flowers, I'm suffocating and I'm going to die because the person loves someone else. Satisfied?! Was that what you wanted to hear?!"
The silence that followed was absolute. Mydei's uncontrolled breathing was the only sound in the backroom.
Phainon froze. He stared at Mydei for a long moment, panic slowly giving way to deep shock. Phainon's blue eyes blinked, trying to process the information and then slowly lowered to the floor. He looked at the flowers scattered about. Small, delicate, pale blue.
Forget-me-nots.
Phainon frowned. A crease formed on his forehead as his mind connected the pieces.
"Hanahaki..." Phainon murmured, his voice suddenly low. He drew a little closer, looking fixedly into Mydei's eyes. "You started getting worse... how long ago exactly? A month? Six weeks?"
Mydei clenched his jaw, refusing to answer.
Phainon continued thinking out loud, the reasoning unfolding as the facts fitted together in his head. "It was right after you started stopping hanging out with the group... No. It was when Cyrene arrived, wasn't it? It was when I started talking about her and you stopped going out with me."
Mydei felt his blood run cold. He tried to turn away, but Phainon grabbed his shoulders gently, forcing him to stay in place and maintain eye contact.
"You thought Cyrene and...?" Phainon paused, his eyes widening in a mixture of disbelief and a nearly painful realization. He looked down at the forget-me-nots on the floor — the exact flower he had tattooed on his ribs. The flower he had shown Mydei months ago.
"Mydei..." Phainon whispered, his voice wavering. "The person you love..."
Mydei held his breath, shame and vulnerability burning him from the inside out. He tried to push Phainon's hand away, but the tattoo artist's grip remained firm, though incredibly gentle.
"Don't do this," Mydei pleaded, his voice coming out fragile like dry paper. "Please."
"Is it me?" Phainon's question didn't come with arrogance, but with a jolt of pure emotion. The pieces finally aligned with tragic perfection. "All these weeks... you've been sick because of me?"
Mydei closed his eyes tightly, unable to face the light of that realization. "She's your childhood friend. You spoke of her with so much affection, you two have a whole history together... I thought..."
"She has a girlfriend, Mydei!" Phainon let out a short, breathy laugh, a sound mixed between relief and the despair of someone who couldn't believe the absurdity of the situation. "You know Stelle? The girl who works with traveling, whom I've mentioned like twenty times? Cyrene is like a sister to me, there was never anything between us."
Mydei opened his eyes slowly, stunned. "What?"
"You are a complete idiot" Phainon said, and for the first time his voice truly trembled. He slid his hands down Mydei's arms to hold his hands, pressing them against his own chest. "You almost destroyed yourself over a misunderstanding? Do you really think I would look at anyone else when I spend months making up excuses to come to this bookstore just to see you?"
Mydei's world seemed to stop spinning. "You..."
"I was waiting for you," confessed Phainon, his blue gaze shining with a clean, blunt intensity. "Ever since the day you sat in my tattoo chair and spent hours discussing literature with me while I outlined your arm. I fell in love with you right there, Mydei. And I've been trying to get closer ever since."
Mydei blinked, heat rising up his neck to his ears, burning like fire. Indignity and relief collided all at once: weeks of suffocating, blood-stained tissues, and fear of death... all because he had jumped to conclusions.
"I..." Mydei tried to formulate something, but his voice failed him.
Phainon smiled, a small, sweet and relieved smile. He drew closer, reducing the space between the two of them on the cold floor of the backroom and brought Mydei's hands to his lips, kissing his knuckles with utter calm.
"Tell me I guessed right," Phainon asked softly. "I want to hear it from you."
Mydei turned his face away, his ears ablaze. "You already know the answer."
"I want to hear it."
Mydei huffed, unable to contain a faint curve of his lips amid the absurdity of it all. "You are insufferable."
"And you love me."
"Unfortunately," grumbled Mydei.
Phainon laughed — a light, free sound — and leaned in to seal his lips over Mydei's.
The first touch was hesitant, a request for permission that Mydei answered immediately, relaxing his shoulders and deepening the contact. The feel of Phainon's breath against his was warm, clean, and, for the first time in weeks, Mydei felt air enter his lungs without any pain, without any obstacle. The roots in his chest simply dissolved, turning into mist.
When they separated, Phainon rested his forehead against Mydei's, both breathing softly.
"Does it still hurt?" asked Phainon, worried.
"No." Mydei tested the air, inhaling deeply. The tightness was completely gone. "I'm okay."
"Great." Phainon wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him into a tighter embrace. "Because if you died over silly jealousy of Cyrene, I would go to the next world just to scold you."
"It wasn't silly jealousy," complained Mydei, though he returned the hug, resting his chin on Phainon's shoulder. "You're terrible at disguising affection."
"And you're terrible at drawing conclusions. You should rethink your career as a detective."
The chime of the shop door echoed down the hallway, announcing the arrival of a customer. Mydei let out a frustrated sigh, remembering he still had a bookstore to run.
"I need to work," he said, adjusting his shirt.
"I'll wait." Phainon blinked, his eyes shining. "Can we have dinner together after you close?"
Mydei looked at him, at his radiant smile and at the blue flowers scattered across the backroom floor — which now seemed like mere harmless petals.
"We can," conceded Mydei, feeling a comfortable warmth spread through his chest. "But you're going to help me clean up this mess later."
Phainon laughed, standing up and extending a hand to help him. "It's a deal."
Mydei accepted the hand, letting himself be pulled up. Before leaving the backroom, however, he looked back one last time — at the forget-me-nots on the floor, at the chaos of petals that had almost killed him. The flower he carried in his lungs, the very same one Phainon carried on his skin.
For the first time, it didn't seem like a cruel irony, but rather a promise.