Work Text:
Phainon always claims that he’d be fine. That he was unstoppable.
“Relax, they always treat me well there!” or stuff like, “I’m a model so they take care of me, Anaxa.”
The said man scowled, arms crossed. “You need to be taught a lesson somehow.” he said, grumpily. “Also, it's A-na-xa-go-ras.” Not happy that the ‘cheerful’ man ignored his warnings and shortened his name. The teal hair man lived with him long enough to tell that Phainon grew tired or nearing his limit.
Today, at work, Phainon needed to do a pose but he had to be soaked in rain for some production promotion. The photoshoot turned out great, the poster had Phainon not smiling, face very serious. Even though the man isn’t used to not smiling brightly in front of the camera.
It went well, but..
The aftermath wasn't that good.
The positive, radiant sun became sick. Clearly nobody expected that. He tried to pretend to be okay but his manager told him to shut the hell up (quite literally).
Perhaps it's because it took quite a lot of tries and Phainon needs to stay soaked at the photo, he fails every time to just be fashionably melancholic. Only when he's focused on his own thoughts does the photo turn out great.
Being drenched while wearing a transparent white shirt is not good, especially for a long time. It started out as just normal heat temperature, then… boom, 37 Celsius.
That's why currently, Phainon is in bed while Anaxagoras, his roommate, is helping him. Yes the gamer man, yes the chief technology officer, yes THE Anaxagoras.
“See? This is what happens when you don't listen to me.” he said, wringing out a warm cloth and placing it on the other man's forehead. “I told you to not do that photoshoot because you were gonna get a cold eventually.”
But Phainon just pouted like a sad puppy, his roommate just sighed.
“I'll make you some soup and you drink medicine afterwards.” he says, and he was about to get up but Phainon's puppy eyes grew even bigger. Maybe it's because Anaxagoras didn't have his first energy drink for today.
Anaxagoras paused mid-rise, caught between standing up and melting back into the bedside. He stared at Phainon with a grimace that teetered dangerously close to fond.
Big, glassy eyes stared up at him from beneath a cocoon of blankets, eyes that were usually too bright, too smug, too full of confidence. Now they shimmered with fever and ridiculous levels of dramatics.
“Don’t,” he muttered, the muscle in his jaw twitching “Don’t look at me like that.”
Phainon gave a weak little whine. His eyes shimmered dramatically, though his nose was definitely red and stuffy. “Like what?” he croaked, voice hoarse and unfairly soft.
“I’m dying.” The well-built man gave him a pitiful sniffle, lower lip wobbling in exaggerated misery.
Anaxagoras narrowed his eyes. “You’re not dying. You have a cold,” Anaxagoras said flatly, deadpanning more than usual. “A completely survivable, utterly mundane cold.”
Phainon made a show of groaning, tossing his head to the side with the flair of a Shakespearean tragedy. “I can see the light, Anaxa,” Phainon whispered, eyes fluttering closed.
“I hear angels, one of them has your frown.”
Anaxagoras pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear , I will pour the soup on your face.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Phainon whispered dramatically, reaching out a weak hand and pawing at his sleeve. “You love me.”
“I tolerate you.”
Phainon gave a pathetic little whimper. “Can’t even get soup without emotional abuse…”
Anaxagoras stood, ruffling a hand through his already-messy hair. “I’ll make the soup. You drink the medicine. Then you sleep. Deal?”
But just as he turned to go, he heard it—that small, breathy voice again.
“…Wait.”
A long silence passed. Anaxagoras glared. Phainon pouted.
“Can you, can you just .. stay?” he mumbled. “Just for a little bit. Until the angels get here. They might get lost.”
Anaxagoras froze. The look on Phainon’s face, hopeful, drowsy, completely unguarded—cut through his chest like a knife.
Gods.
Anaxagoras looked to the ceiling for patience.
He could leave. He should leave. Go heat the broth, grind the ginger, measure out the medicine like a responsible adult. He should.
But Phainon, all flushed cheeks and damp hair sticking to his forehead, looked so small under the blankets. He sniffled once. Looking at his happy-go-lucky roommate like this, he shivered.
“…Five minutes,” he grumbled, walking back to sit on the edge of the bed again. “That’s it.”
Phainon’s lips curled into a sleepy, radiant smile. It lacked the strength of his usual blinding grin, but it glowed all the same.
“Five minutes with you is worth a thousand in heaven,” he murmured, reaching a hand out from the blanket and clumsily poking Anaxagoras’s arm, “You’re really soft, y’know that?”
“I’m not,” Anaxagoras said stiffly, trying not to flinch at the touch. “You’re delirious.”
“Emotionally,” Phainon added, lips curling mischievously before a harsh cough cut through the moment.
Anaxagoras reached for the water without hesitation. He didn’t think, he just moved.
He helped Phainon sit up, pressed the glass to his lips, and cradled the back of his head. Their fingers brushed.
“Slowly,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. “You’re overheating. Idiot.”
Too close. Too soft.
“Thanks,” Phainon mumbled, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned into Anaxagoras’s hand for just a moment too long. “You’re always so kind when you think I’m dying.”
Anaxagoras scoffed, but didn’t pull away. Not yet. Not while Phainon was breathing warm air against his wrist like that.
“…Don’t get used to this,” he muttered, almost to himself.
“Mmh…” Phainon hummed faintly, words blurring into the cusp of sleep. “Love you too…”
The silence hit like thunder.
Anaxagoras blinked.
“…..What?”
But Phainon was already asleep, face buried into the pillow, soft breaths warming the space between them.
Anaxagoras sat there, hand still halfway tangled in the blanket, face unreadable.
“…Idiot,” he said softly.
He didn’t move for a long time.
Phainon stirred awake, blinking past the haze of fever. The soup bowl on the nightstand had long since cooled. His head pounded, skin clammy, but all he could think of was..
God. Did he actually say that?
He groaned into the pillow. “Tell me I didn’t confess my undying love to my emotionally repressed roommate while running a fever.”
From the kitchen, a quiet clatter.
“I told you not to do the shoot,” came Anaxagoras’s voice at last—flat yet gentle.
Phainon groaned louder, arm flopping dramatically over his eyes, “Thanks. That totally helps.”
Phainon flopped onto his back and squinted at the ceiling. The room spun. His heart did too, but for a different reason.
He remembered it clearly. How he’d grabbed Anaxagoras’s wrist while burning up. How he’d murmured some embarrassing line like “I think I’m in love with you, sorry.” (He didn't say that)
And how Anaxagoras had gone very, very still.
Not shocked, not flustered. Just unreadable.
That was worse, somehow. Phainon curled in on himself with a noise of despair.
He heard footsteps approaching.
Footsteps approached. The bed dipped slightly as someone sat on the edge. A warm cloth was laid on his forehead with such care it made his heart throb.
“Was it that bad?” Phainon asked, voice hoarse. “What I said?”
There was a pause.
Then, very softly, Anaxagoras replied, “No. It wasn’t bad.”
Phainon blinked the haze from his vision.
Anaxagoras was looking at him, hair mussed, sleeves rolled up, worry etched into every line of his face. He had that look he always wore when thinking too much—lips pressed together, gaze flitting away the moment you tried to meet it.
Phainon, despite the fever, managed a crooked smile. “You looked like I kicked your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog,” Anaxagoras said quickly, he even frowned. Then, after a beat: “But I remember what you said.”
“…Oh.” Phainon swallowed. “Cool. Cool cool cool. That’s, uh, unfortunate.”
“You were warm,” Anaxagoras said, folding the used cloth into a neat square. “Barely conscious.”
“Exactly. Not binding testimony.”
“But it was honest.”
Phainon blinked again.
Anaxagoras didn’t look at him. But his fingers hovered just over the blanket, like he wanted to touch but didn’t know how to ask.
“I’ve… thought about saying it too, you know,” Anaxagoras murmured, almost too quiet to hear. “Just not out loud.”
Phainon’s fever-addled brain nearly shut down. “Wait. What?”
“I don’t say things unless I mean them,” he said, still not looking up. “And I don’t always mean them in ways people want to hear.”
He finally met Phainon’s gaze.
His eyes were soft. Not unreadable, not distant, just shy. Similarly someone who’d spent too many years hiding tenderness behind careful quiet.
“I didn’t hate what you said,” he added, quieter now. “Actually… I liked hearing it. I liked knowing.”
The silence stretched.
Then Phainon reached out, tentatively, trembling, and brushed his fingers against Anaxagoras’s hand. The touch lingered.
“Then… can I say it again?” he whispered.
Anaxagoras looked like he might stop breathing. He nodded.
Phainon smiled, heart thudding in his fever-hot chest. “I think I’m in love with you.”
The teal man smiled, or smirked? “That's not what you said last night.” He was amused, of how someone has a fever so bad that they'll confess their feelings and forget about it like they're drunk.
Phainon shrieked again. Too shy.
Anaxagoras let out a short, disbelieving laugh, half joy, half astonishment. Then he reached up, brushing a strand of sweaty hair from Phainon’s face.
But right before their lips met, he turned red all the way to his ears and ducked under the covers with a pathetic squeak.
Anaxagoras blinked. And then he laughed again, breathless and real. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Phainon groaned from under the blanket. “Please let me die.”
“No,” Anaxagoras said gently, pulling the covers down just enough to press his forehead to Phainon’s. “I haven’t had my turn yet.”
Phainon laughed, a little weak, a little wobbly, but utterly real. Their fingers stayed intertwined, quiet and warm. And though the kiss never happened, not yet, it almost didn’t need to.
And Anaxagoras thought, huh, maybe I have a dog after all .