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A gasp pulls Phainon from his sleep, his consciousness snapping back to the present. For a moment, the familiarity of his room feels almost disorienting, shadows still holding the shape of another world, the Okhema in his dreams. Blearily, he blinks the present back into focus.
…Ah. It happened again.
Him.
The same stranger in his dreams. A figure around his height with similar build, his skin a canvas adorned with crimson markings that flowed like an ancient, forgotten script. He was robed in deep gold and red, the only exception being the striking blues in his accessories.
A stranger but at the same time, one of impossible familiarity.
And Phainon? In the dream, he’s clad in a cascade of blue, white and gold, in an outfit that would probably earn him countless stares if he were to ever walk out his door dressed like that. What unsettles him though, isn’t the fancy-looking outfit, but the sun mark etched on the side of… his dream self’s neck that bears an unsettling resemblance to the birthmark that he has on the very same spot. It’s just a coincidence, he convinces himself.
Phainon doesn’t take himself for someone who vividly remembers dreams.
Oftentimes, he does not even remember a single thing from the night. But whenever the dreams featured him? The veil is lifted, every detail rendered too hyper-realistically, every sensation branded into his memory, feeling all too real for him to dismiss it as ‘just a dream’.
And that is the exact reason why his notes app now has a note titled ‘WHO IS THIS IN MY DREAMS’, because he’s read many times before that recurring dreams could be meaningful. They’re an echo of his subconscious mind, a glimpse of one of his alternate selves in another universe, or whatever it was that Professor Anaxagoras talked about in one of his lectures.
It’s either that, or Phainon has some serious unresolved emotional issues.
In which he doesn’t! Or so he’s convinced himself. He is fine, fully functional, mentally very well.
Yet the gold ichor on his hands felt so real—
Forcing his body to turn, a sound of pure exhaustion escapes him as sleep attempts to tug him back down again. Still, he fights through, reaching for the phone on his nightstand.
9:03AM.
Below that are a bunch of notifications and three missed calls from his best friend. Great, he just missed his first class of the day.
[Castorice] Where are you?
[Castorice] Are you coming to class today?
[Castorice] ?
[Castorice] …I’ll send you my notes after class
[Phainon] FUCK
Phainon internally curses. Right, he did promise Castorice he’d attend today’s class with her. His thumbs, still clumsy from sleep, frantically types a reply.
[Phainon] CAS I’M SO SORYRBHWJKFDJSFKJS I’M HORRIBLE OMG
[Phainon] i’ll treat you to some honeycakes later i promimse
[Phainon] Promise
[Phainon] (Sticker)
[Phainon] i’ll watch the recording tonight T__T
[Castorice] Professor Anaxa is going to kill you
[Phainon] it’s ok i’m his favourite student
[Phainon] he finds my unpredictability intriguing
A blatant lie because he very well isn’t. The professor probably owns a dartboard with his face on it and uses it to practice his aiming skills every evening before bed and ever morning after he wakes up.
He sighs, letting his phone fall onto the bed with a soft ‘thud’. The images of the dream are still fresh in his head, refusing to dissolve.
This one was gentle.
Some random market in Okhema, the same one he’s seen in history books. The dream isn’t anything special, just them taking another stroll through a rowdy market together and bickering over something stupid.
Phainon doesn’t even fully remember what they argued about.
What is the best tasting beverage in all of Amphoreus? Are the size of dromases determined by natural selection? What is the easiest weapon to fight with? Weapons, or bare fists?
One of those, maybe. Or all at the same time.
At some point in the dream, the familiar stranger pushed a chalice towards him that was half-full with something pink.
Pomegranate juice and milk.
The phantom taste still lingers on his tongue even now, the fruit’s sweetness cutting through the creaminess of the milk. He remembers the taste in an amount of detail that’s too specific and real for a dream.
Most times it’s like this. A random scenario of a peaceful life.
Sometimes though, the dreams take a darker turn.
A blade through his lower back followed by a choked gasp that isn’t his own. His hands would then be covered in blood. Not red—but liquid gold.
On those nights, he’d wake up with his breath lodged in his throat, heart hammering against his ribs and a sting of helpless tears in his eyes. He’d stand at the sink, water running over his hands until the skin wrinkles but the feeling of ichor staining them never went away.
He hated those ones.
A chime from his phone manages to pull Phainon back from his thoughts, eyes darting back down to the screen.
[Cyrene] See you later this afternoon!! :3
Right, Phainon has more important things to worry about: his sister’s visiting this afternoon.
Aedes Elysiae and Okhema aren’t exactly close geographically. Unlike Janusopolis or Styxia which are major cities with frequent trains connecting both to Okhema, his hometown is merely a small village with only a handful of slow trains. With this, it’s always been rare for his family to visit more than twice a year, especially with how busy the farm is.
This unexpected trip was orchestrated entirely by his sister who had somehow won tickets to the ‘world-renowned violinist (Cyrene’s words, not his) Hysilens’ recital in Okhema after being a big fan for years.
Fortunately for him, the walk to the station isn’t so far, so Phainon takes his time getting ready. It’s been months since he’s seen Cyrene so of course he’d want to look presentable.
Well, his version of presentable.
Which involves a white shirt with a brilliant yellow jacket over it, coupled with a pair of deep purple pants. And to top it all off: a pair of denim sneakers he gifted himself for his birthday.
Before he leaves for the station, he steals a final glance at the mirror, admiring his hand-picked clothes.
Yep, his senior, Aglaea, with her minimalistic style and muted colours, was definitely exaggerating when she called his fashion sense dreadful because personally, Phainon thinks he looks great. He’s already thinking of how to convince her that purple and yellow do go well together as he heads out of his apartment complex.
He’s only a few steps down the streets when he comes to a stop, blinking, because there, nestled between the usual laundromat and convenience store, is a new shop.
“Huh…”
Where there was once a shady looking vacant storefront with a huge FOR RENT sign plastered across it now sits a pristine shop brimming with lush greenery. Above it hangs a sign: ‘Undying Petals’.
What a daunting name for a flower shop.
Curiosity pulls him towards the store, the bell’s chime signalling his entrance.
Flowers are a nice welcome gift. Yeah.
Immediately, Phainon’s enveloped by a soft fragrance. It’s a mixture of scents: the nectar of various flowers, the damp earthy smell of soil, as well as something else. Something fruity and achingly familiar… Pomegranate? But it’s gone before he can place a name to the scent.
The shop offers a peaceful escape from the city’s usual noise. Phainon wanders aimlessly, eyes tracing over the meticulous arrangement of colours. Roses, sunflowers, lilies, and countless others that he couldn’t even name.
It’s nice. Peaceful.
“Can I help you?” The voice from the counter is low yet strangely nostalgic.
Phainon’s gaze draws to the source and the moment the owner’s head lift from whatever he was doing—
His heart stutters, the sight seizing air from his lungs.
Because behind the counter, arranging a bouquet of white tulips and pink lilies with a gentle precision, is a man who he would recognize anywhere, someone who he feels like he’s known across a thousand lifetimes.
Hair partly tied up, strawberry blonde that gradually deepens to red at the ends. Skin inked with deep maroon markings that coil up his arms until they’re hidden beneath rolled up sleeves.
Phainon would know him anywhere. He’s seen him in sun-drenched markets. In the battlefield, in bathhouses, under the moonlight with the same sharp eyes. He’s seen the same hands that are currently arranging flowers offer him a cup of pomegranate juice. He’s felt those hands against his own. He’s seen them stained with gold.
It’s him, real, every detail perfected in flesh and blood.
“Mydei?”
Only when ‘Mydei’s’ eyes widen in surprise does Phainon realize that he’s been staring, jaw slacked.
At a complete stranger.
Fuck.
Mydei’s expression softens then, from its initial shock into something softer, and Phainon wants to evaporate into thin air. “...Yes? That’s my name.” He thanks every single Titan out there for the name badge pinned to his apron, saving him from embarrassment.
Without it, he’d probably get mistaken for a stalker and get banned from this place.
“Sorry, I— Uh… Fuck.” Phainon’s brain—usually so quick—is reduced to a mess. He points to a random bouquet sitting in the far corner of the shop, earning a confused look from the other. “I… need flowers! How much are these?”
“Five thousand credits. Those are suited for expressing condolences though, you don’t exactly look like—” Mydei’s eyes him up and down, and Phainon swears there’s amusement in the way he looks at him. “Yeah, you don’t exactly look like you’re mourning. No offense.”
Phainon is definitely offended, and he’d definitely retort if not for the fact that he’s still staring in disbelief, brain short circuiting.
“How about these? They’re more versatile.” He feels another bouquet carefully pressed into his hands. The flowers are a mix of yellow and deep blue. “Could be used in any situation. Special occasions, celebrations, confessions to a loved one.”
“I’m single.”
Mydei’s smile wavers, his eye twitching.
“I mean, I’ll take it! This one, yes. It’s perfect.” What is wrong with him?
“Great. Uh, that’ll be seven thousa—”
Slamming a ten thousand credit bill onto the desk, Phainon bolts for the exit before he embarrasses himself even further.
“Wait! You forgot your—” But he’s already gone.
He doesn’t stop until he rounds a corner, his face is burning and his heart on the verge of explosion. Phainon, the head of his university’s debate team, first place in every competition, has been reduced to a stamming, incoherent mess by a pretty florist.
Not just any florist.
Mydei.
The dreams did Mydei no justice at all because the real him was… well. Even prettier, with his pretty eyes and gorgeous arms (that conspicuous body!?!) and that devastatingly beautiful smile that felt so real.
What Phainon doesn’t see is Mydei who’s left standing at the counter, clutching the crumpled banknote in his hand, just as speechless as the strange guy with horrible fashion sense that just ran out.
What he doesn’t see is a smile that slowly softens Mydei’s features before he tucks the bill into his pocket.
“What a peculiar guy.”
“You look like you just saw a ghost,” Cyrene doesn’t look up from her phone as she speaks, sitting cross-legged on his couch.
It’s another one of their ‘quality time’ evenings which mostly consisted of them doing absolutely nothing aside from munching on snacks and yapping away about some random topic on their minds.
Today, much to Phainon’s dismay, he is the main topic of discussion.
“I think I just did.”
“Should I even bother to ask what happened?” Only then does Cyrene lower her phone, eyes narrowing at her brother.
“I’m serious this time! Do you remember the guy I told you about? The one… you know…” His voice dips into a quieter tone, as if he’s about to spill his deepest, darkest secrets. “The one I told you about, from my dreams.”
Cyrene’s brow arches as she stares at him, a look of amusement slowly spreading on her face.
“Hmm…? You mean the ‘hot naked guy with red tattoos’ that you bathed with? Or the ‘mysterious warrior with the most gorgeous golden eyes’? You need to be more specific, Phainon~.”
“Cyrene!” Phainon stares at her in horror, his face flushing scarlet. “That was once. I do not call him those names anymore.”
“It was definitely more than once, I have screenshots.” Unfortunately, he knows she’s right. “Another dream? I told you! He must be your soulmate from another dimension.”
Usually, he’d scoff and call the whole idea ridiculous. His soulmate? That’s stupid… Soulmates are nothing but a fairytale.
But now, after seeing Mydei in the flower shop literally five minutes away from where he is right now, perhaps the idea of being connected to him isn’t so unappealing.
…
What is he even thinking?
Upon recalling the events from a few hours ago, Phainon groans, face partly buried in a pillow he’s now hugging to his chest. “Even worse. I think I just met him. In real life. In real life, Cyrene! And my first instinct was to tell him that I’m single.”
Cyrene almost chokes on her boba tea, staring up at him with wide eyes. “You what?”
Despite the lack of response, the look written on Phainon’s face says everything that Cyrene needs to know.
“See, this is why you’re still single! Oh, this is amazing… Now you need to introduce him to me.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maaaaybe? But I’m not the one who’s crushing on a guy I’ve spoken to for fifteen minutes, so at least I’m not as insane as you are.”
Cyrene’s right. In the six hours since their encounter, Phainon has spent five thinking about Mydei, and the remaining one deciding what to have for lunch.
With a sigh, he heads towards the kitchen to store the leftovers for tomorrow’s breakfast, his appetite vanishing at the mere thought of his own failure earlier.
“...You know, they’re not always coincidences,” Cyrene’s voice softens from the living room. “I’m sure there’s a reason you keep dreaming about him.”
“Like the fact that we were sworn enemies in our past life?”
The hazy image of gold on his hands flashes behind his eyes, along with every other detail that he doesn’t mention to Cyrene.
Sworn enemies, or something much more complicated…
“It’s either that, oooor you guys are kindred souls, destined to meet.” The look Phainon gives her is something beyond incredulous, so much so that she bursts out laughing. “Why don’t you just try talking to him though? Not about the dreams, just… befriend him? Get to know him better?”
The mere thought of that sends a wave of anxiety through him. No thanks, he would rather get trapped in the most torturous endless cycle of lives.
“I’m never going back there again, he hates me.”
Phainon does indeed go back again.
The next day, he finds himself standing on the same street corner, a nervous tremor in his hands. But this time, he brought backup because he does not trust himself enough to do this alone without ending up zooming for the exit again.
And Cyrene? No way, bringing her along was out of the question, he can already see her rapidfiring Mydei with questions regarding his astrology chart hence his decision to leave her at home with a box of expensive Okheman delicacies as a bribe.
“You’ve been seeing this man every night… for six months straight,” says Castorice flatly as they round the corner, the flower shop coming into view.
He blinks. “In my dreams! You can’t just say it like that, Cas. That makes me sound like a creep.”
“Oh, my apologies.” She does not sound apologetic at all. “In your dreams.” As if that makes it any better.
“Yes, in my dreams.”
Instead of the usual yellow and purple that he loves to wear, Phainon heeds Aglaea’s persistent nagging and goes for something more muted this time: soft beige and white.
He doesn’t even want to think about why he felt the need to make a good second impression.
As they approach the shop, Phainon finds himself drawing closer and closer to his best friend, shrinking behind her smaller yet far more composed frame until she ends up being the one to push the door open (with a very confused expression on her face).
And there he is. Not hidden behind the counter like he was yesterday, but right by the entrance, tenderly misting a pot of something that Phainon can’t even name.
Mydei looks up and his eyes land directly on him, shifts to Castorice, then back to Phainon again.
“You’re back?” It sounds like a statement more than a question.
Phainon, ever so graceful, stumbles on the welcome mat and emits the ugliest strangled sound known to mankind.
“I— Yes! I need flowers,” he blurts out. “Again.”
Mydei sets down the bottle, lips quirking upwards in amusement as he wipes his hand on his apron.
His very adorable apron with an orange chimera in the middle.
“...Sure. Looking for any specific kind this time? For a special event? Certainly not an anniversary, I believe, since you’re… single.”
Oh. This man is teasing him.
Phainon wants to melt into the floorboard at the sight of this endearingly annoying man.
Castorice gives him a pointed look. Right, he’ll need to explain that later too.
“Um. Not for me! It’s for her.” Now he’ll have to explain and apologize to Castorice, probably treat her to a lifetime supply of honeycakes too.
“Mm.” Mydei’s demeanor, Phainon notices, immediately shifts, softening to something more polite and professional.
What the hell? Double standards.
“Of course. Are you looking for anything in particular, miss?”
Maybe they should have prepared for this beforehand, but thankfully, Castorice is far better than him at talking to pretty men (not his fault he gay panics). “Something to decorate my apartment? I’m leaning towards something purple.”
“Purple? We have some lavenders, but I know some aren’t that partial towards its scent. Lilac’s always a classic too, or violets.”
As Mydei speaks, he guides them through the aisles to show the different species of flowers mentioned—well, by them, Phainon means mostly Castorice. He simply follows like a dejected puppy.
He doesn’t even know what they’re talking about anymore. Something along the lines of the different variants of a bellflower and how to care for them. He doesn’t listen to the words, but rather to Mydei’s voice and its calm timbre that no amount of dreams can ever replicate.
Phainon’s pretty sure he’s staring again but at least it’s infinitely better than whatever happened yesterday. This feels… normal, and he’s eternally grateful for Castorice’s interests in flowers which keeps Mydei engaged enough to not tease him further.
Castorice, to Phainon’s horror, becomes utterly engrossed in the art of choosing flowers for her apartment after Mydei finishes guiding them around, her attention captured by a certain deep purple blossom.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just choosing between these ones.”
Now he’s abandoned by his only companion.
The shop, once serene moments before, now feels too echoing. Mydei has moved to a worktable to the side as he trims the thorns off fresh stock of roses, and Phainon? He’s just hovering there, pretending to admire a bunch of dull leaves nearby while at the same time glancing at Mydei, watching the way his hands move swiftly, how the markings on his forearms move with each flex of his muscle.
Way too awkward, what the hell. He has to say something.
“So…” Phainon grimaces at his own lameness. Instantly, the sound of snipping pauses as Mydei half turns, glancing at him from where he is. “You seem to know a lot about flowers.”
“It’s generally a prerequisite for this job.”
“Right, yeah.” He takes a shaky breath. “Look, I wanted to apologize, okay? For what happened yesterday. For being… weird. For running, I dunno.”
“Don’t worry about it, it was memorable.” Mydei’s smile softens from something teasing to one that’s more genuine. He sets down the floral scissors, swiveling his chair to fully face Phainon. “People usually just complain about the prices, that ‘I’m single’ announcement was a new one.”
A relieved laugh falls from Phainon’s lips, tension finally lifting from his shoulders. “I’m great at this, aren’t I?”
“You are. Most people don’t really return the very next day after a bad first visit, you know.”
“I guess I’m different,” Phainon muses, his words softer than he intended.
“You are,” he agrees. “Not in a bad way.”
Not in a bad way.
His heart races with hope. In this moment, he’s aware of every detail: the same scent of flowers and pomegranate that clings to Mydei, the way a strand of blond that came loose from his ponytail falls over his face.
“The flowers you gave me—the blue and yellow ones—they’re still alive on my counter. Just by the window.”
Mydei blinks, a flicker of something warm on his expression. “The sunflowers and forget-me-nots? I’m glad you like them.”
“I do,” the words come without thought, a soft mumble.
I like them because you gave them to me, just like you did in one of the dreams. The very same flowers.
You’ve been haunting my dreams for six months, did you know?
He doesn’t say any of that.
Who exactly are you, Mydei?
Castorice’s voice from across the shop brings him back the present.
“Phainon, this orchid or the violet?”
The moment shatters. Blinking, Mydei turns to his friend, the professional mask slipping partway back into place. His eyes, though, still hold the same warmth.
Phainon lets out a breath he did not even realize he had been holding. “I should probably go and help her.”
Mydei nods. “You probably should.”
As Phainon turns, Mydei’s voice halts him briefly.
“Phainon. That’s your name… right?”
Oh. He should not feel like this, especially for someone he’s barely known for two full days. Phainon turns, hope blooming in his chest.
“Come back again, Phainon. Maybe next time, you’ll stumble over your words less and won’t need to hide behind your friend anymore.”
The teasing eases a genuine laugh from Phainon.
“Yeah,” he exhales. “Yeah. I think I will.”
Castorice doesn’t nag him about it all thanks to the new plants she acquired for her apartment that day.
While his friend got a handful of flowers and decorations—enough to fill more than one vase—all Phainon had gotten from his visit was a blurry photo of Mydei taken secretly.
“That’s not even a proper photo, your camera skills are abysmal!” Cyrene declares, squinting at Phainon’s phone screen as they exit the recital hall, too engrossed in trying to decipher the blurry photo of the mysterious man half-obscured by a bunch of tulips to complain about the crowd.
“Hey, at least you can see his face! Well, part of his face. I couldn’t risk getting caught!” Phainon defends, snatching back his phone. “He looks better in person.”
“Does he? I’m afraid I will need to verify that with my own eyes.”
“…I am not bringing you there.”
“Why not! Unlike you, I can converse like a normal human being, I’ll act normal.” There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes that scares him. “I won’t embarrass you in front of your crush.”
“The last time I talked to you about someone, you did a full background check and started looking up his birth chart— wait.”
Phainon blinks, only now registering the entirety of her words. His thoughts come to a halt.
“My what?!” Crush?
“Oh.” A slow grin spreads over Cyrene’s face. He can practically see her resisting the urge to let a giggle slip through, and Phainon wants nothing more than to be swallowed whole by the ground. He’d rather have this conversation anywhere but on the public train. “Did I hit a nerve there?”
“I do not have a crush,” he hisses in response, lowering his voice as a few passengers glance their way. “He’s… an interesting person, that’s all.”
“You are blushing.”
“I most certainly am not! It’s just the heat.”
“You are a terrible liar.” Cyrene sighs, but the look on her face suggests nothing but amusement at the entire situation.
The train comes to a stop at their station, saving him from the fate of having to endure her teasing in public. Fortunately, the walk back to his place is short. Upon approaching the flower shop, Phainon subtly quickens his pace and hopes that Cyrene doesn’t notice.
His eyes instinctively glance towards the shop’s darkened windows. It’s closed, of course. He doesn’t even know why he looks or why there’s a tiny pang of disappointment in his chest.
To his relief, Cyrene doesn’t notice, too busy spending the rest of the walk rambling away about the recital earlier and Hysilens’ performance. Phainon, with barely any knowledge when it came to classical music and with his mind half occupied by some weird feeling, could only nod along.
They decide to make a stop at a diner before heading back up to his place to pack for Cyrene’s departure tomorrow. After all, the recital prohibited food and drinks, meaning they haven’t had anything to drink for hours.
“Order anything you want, it’ll be my treat,” he says, pushing open the door to the familiar diner that he often visited on the evenings where his group projects ran late.
The warm air and sweet smell of food welcomes them and his stomach immediately grumbles as they slide into a leather booth.
“I’m getting the biggest milkshake they have, and a mountain of fries.”
“At this hour?”
“Why not?”
Phainon shrugs, unable to argue when he, too, would order every single item off the menu right now if he could. Scanning over the list of dishes available, he peeks over the top of the laminated plastic.
And regrets it instantly.
Because there, in a booth by the window, sits none other than the one who has been living in his mind rent-free.
He isn’t alone either, but with a friend, probably (he really hopes she’s a friend). Mydei must’ve just closed up his shop because his usual attire’s replaced with something simpler: a plain white tank top, jacket discarded by his side, revealing the full glory of his unique markings on his skin. His hair is no longer tied up, but it now falls freely, stopping just a bit below his shoulders.
The sight of him in this state, laughing at something his friend just said, hits Phainon square in the chest.
He looks exactly like the Mydei in his dreams.
No, he looks even softer… More real.
Beautiful.
Approachable, yet somehow more untouchable.
Everything is happening too fast and it’s suddenly too late to duck behind the menu. Mydei’s gaze, still soft with the remnants of his laugh, sweeps over the room and lands directly on Phainon.
Shit.
A mixture of recognition and surprise flickers on Mydei’s expression, then it all melts into a warm, amused smile that, as delusional as it sounds, feels like it’s meant only for Phainon.
Mydei lifts his hand into a wave.
And Cyrene notices, follows his stare, her eyes immediately blowing wide at the sight.
“Oh, great Oronyx… Is that—” She whispers, snapping her head back around to face him, a look of gleeful triumph written all over her features. “It is!”
“Cyrene. Don’t look,” Phainon hisses.
Fuck. This cannot be happening. Not when he looks his worst. Worn out, exhausted from his day and absolutely not prepared for whatever’s to come.
“He waved at you!” If there’s anyone more excited than he is, it’s definitely Cyrene. “Wave back, Phainon!”
But he could only react when it’s already seconds too late, slowly waving back with a stupid smile on his face despite his initial panic.
Oh no, he’s pretty.
And it’s then that he realizes: maybe he does have a crush.
Too busy having the revelation, Phainon doesn’t even process the movements at the other booth. Mydei says something to his friend, who glances over with a raise of her brow.
Phainon swears he could see the smirk on her lips. Maybe he’s just imagining it. He really hopes it’s the latter.
To Phainon’s horror, they both stand up.
“They’re approaching. Cyrene? why are they approaching?!”
But it’s all too late because now Mydei’s here, standing by their table with his friend peeking across his shoulder a few steps behind with a knowing look.
“Fancy meeting you here again.”
His reply comes instantly, without thought. “I was not stalking you.”
“Were you not?” Mydei teases idly, his lips upturning. “I’m glad to hear that.”
He gestures to his friend then, the girl with medium-length grey hair that he was chatting with earlier, small frame practically engulfed by a hoodie with cat ears. Phainon is sure that even without that, she’d still resemble a cat.
“This is Cipher.” At the introduction, Cipher lazily waves at him and Cyrene. “Cipher, this is Phainon, and…?”
“Oh, I’m Cyrene! His sister. The normal one between us.”
“Debatable…” Phainon mutters.
“We’re just finishing up, but we were thinking of ordering the famous golden honeycakes here. It’s too big for two,” says Mydei before trailing off.
Phainon’s heart gives a traitorous jump. He already knows where this is going.
“Soooo, share a table with us? It’s their most famous recipe! I’m sure you won’t regret it. Mydei told me he’ll treat us all if you guys end up not liking it,” Cipher chips in with a grin.
“Hey, I never agreed—” Mydei starts.
“Sure! We’d love to,” Cyrene chirps before Phainon or Mydei can protest further.
What follows is a blur of shuffling and rearranging of cutlery and plates on their table. Phainon ends up squeezed at the end of the booth as Mydei slides in next to him, Cipher on the opposite.
The booth is obviously too small for four, but Phainon… does not mind it.
To his relief, the conversation flows easily. Cipher and Cyrene get along surprisingly well, falling into an animated discussion about Okhema’s best street food and their own local specialties, lifting any remaining awkwardness from their shared table.
Which leaves him and Mydei in their own bubble.
“It’s been a while since you last visited,” says Mydei, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for Phainon.
By ‘a while’, he means three days.
Considering how Phainon visited his shop two days in a row, he supposes that three days can be considered a long time.
“Mhm, I guess I’ve been busy, with classes and everything.” He tries for nonchalance and fails. It’s a shitty excuse but hey, it’s not entirely a lie. “Missed me?”
“What if I did? You’re definitely the most interesting customer I’ve ever had anyways.”
Phainon blinks, staring dumbfoundedly. “Is that… supposed to be a compliment? Or are you calling me weird.”
Mydei shrugs, hiding the smirk on his lips by taking a deliberate spoonful of the dessert in front of them. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing.”
Oh. Well, at least that’s good, right?
“Keep that up and I’ll start thinking that I’m your favourite customer, Mydei.” Phainon couldn’t help but tease, emboldened by the sugar and warmth.
“Don’t make me bring up how you looked at me on your first visit.” A hot flush immediately blooms on Phainon’s cheeks. “I still haven’t gotten a proper explanation for that, HKS.”
“Shut up…” mumbles Phainon, vaguely registering the smugness weaved between Mydei’s tone. Muttering something incoherent beneath his breath, he busies himself with the stack of honeycakes instead.
The last word sounded… foreign to him. Probably some term in his native language. Phainon doesn’t ask.
He also ignores how familiar it feels despite being so sure that he has never heard it before. Not in this lifetime anyway.
What he couldn’t ignore though, is the warmth that lingers where their arms brush against each other, serving as a pleasant distraction from his thoughts. A part of him wonders whether Mydei notices too, or if he’s the only one affected.
He must be a bit affected as well, Phainon thinks, because throughout the rest of the evening, Phainon couldn’t help but notice the way Mydei steals occasional glances in his direction, the tip of his ears tinged a soft shade of pink.
Surprisingly, they stay until the diner almost closes.
Phainon learns that Mydei and Cipher are neighbours and they do not live far away from him at all. Even worse, they live in the building just a block away.
He also learns that Mydei recently just moved here from Castrum Kremnos a few weeks ago, seeking a fresh start.
The exchange that left him the most speechless though, was what happened when they were about to part ways.
Mydei gives them a small wave accompanied by a ‘see you around, Phainon’, but Cipher, having just exchanged contacts with his sister so they can ‘continue their profound cultural exchange later’, stays behind a few seconds longer.
She waits until her friend is far enough before leaning close to Phainon, her voice just above a whisper by his ear, a wicked grin on her face.
“He’s single too, just so you know.”
That night, Phainon dreams of a flower field.
It was a clearing in a forest on the outskirts of Okhema that Phainon had randomly stumbled upon during one of his routine patrols. The air was thick with the hum of nature, tinged with a faint floral scent.
Of course he had to show it to Mydei.
Sunlight filtered in through the leaves, painting the prettiest patterns of gold on Mydei’s skin, a perfect contrast to the red lining his arms. Mydei leaned back against a tree trunk, legs stretched out with Phainon’s head resting on his lap.
It was perfect.
“HKS. What are you doing?” The Kremnoan word sounded strangely intimate despite its true definition. Phainon, whose fingers were busy idly toying at Mydei’s braid hanging by his face, tilted his head back to meet the other’s eyes.
“You’d look pretty with flowers braided into your hair.”
“...There is no word for ‘pretty’ in the Kremnoan language,” said Mydei, eyes momentarily averting away to conceal the flush that crept up his neck.
“I’m sure there isn’t.”
“Do you even know how to braid, deliverer?”
“You underestimate me, Mydeimos,” he feigned offense. “I learned how to, back in Aedes Elysiae.”
Mydei, raising a brow, responded with a mere hum after a short moment of silence. “...Do what you wish.”
And so Phainon did. Shifting in his position, he pushed himself up until he was sitting next to Mydei. Phainon swung his legs over his—a bold gesture that had taken months of bickering and shared company to earn.
This thing between them, whatever people called it, was something fragile to him. It existed in the form of stolen touches, lingering glances and occasional affection in their most vulnerable moments. It was something they chose to not address nor speak about out loud for the sake of their duties. They weren’t this close from the start, but over time, with every incessant bickering shared and every minute spent together on missions and eventually in private, too, proximity became easier.
Carefully, Phainon undid the braid framing his face. His hair was softer than it looked.
He worked with a focused tenderness, gentle as he parted the strands into three, weaving stems of the blue flowers he had found nearby into blond and red. The action required him to inch a bit closer, fingers accidentally brushing the shell of Mydei’s ear, the line of his jaw.
Unbeknownst to him, each one sent an electrifying spark through the warrior.
“There,” Phainon whispered as he finished up, touch lingering too long on Mydei’s shoulder before he offered the last remaining flower to him. “Now you look even prettier.”
Mydei’s eyes fell to the delicate flower placed upon his open palm. “Forget-me-nots,” he mumbled out loud.
To be remembered. Everlasting affection. A love that transcends time.
Back then, Phainon did not know the meaning of such flowers. Perhaps it was better that he didn’t know.
But Mydei, having always taken interest in botany in his free time, did know.
Before Phainon could react, Mydei took the stem between his fingers, gingerly tucking the forget-me-not behind Phainon’s ear. “They suit you better. It matches your eyes.”
Phainon wakes with the ghost of Mydei’s touch on his cheek, the words repeating over and over in his mind. Even after the sun has risen, bittersweet ache still lingers deep in his chest.
“What’s your favourite flower?” Phainon asks from the couch by the shop’s entrance. It’s meant to serve as a waiting spot for customers while Mydei works on their orders, but after almost two weeks of Phainon’s near-daily visits, it’s become his personal lounge whenever the store’s not so busy.
Mydei had long since given up on complaining about the company.
“Forget-me-nots.”
Huh.
The mention of said flower in his familiar voice sends a jolt of nostalgia through Phainon, suddenly reminded of something that he strangely could not quite name.
“What’s that?”
Hearing a shuffle behind the counter, Phainon sits up and peers over, just enough to see a cluster of delicate blues in Mydei’s hands which are set aside a moment later.
“These.”
“You’re throwing them away?”
“What? No, a customer changed their mind. I’ll just keep them in case someone wants them another day.”
Something in the resigned way he says that makes Phainon move. He abandons his laptop and assignment on the couch (he’ll finish that later, whatever), stretching as he makes his way to the counter.
“Teach me how to make a bouquet.”
His words are reciprocated with a flat stare from Mydei.
“What!” Phainon exclaims, leaning against the counter, chin rested on his palm, propped up on his elbow. “It’s better than them just sitting there, or you having to throw them away.”
Silence stretches between them, Mydei’s eyes narrowing as if weighing whether he’d end up regretting it if he says yes. “...Fine. But don’t touch anything unless I say so.”
The hell. Does Mydei not trust him at all?
Mydei pulls out another set of flowers—carnations and peonies—pushing the forget-me-nots towards Phainon. “You use these.”
And that is exactly how they end up here, sitting next to each other at Mydei’s workbench. Mydei’s hands move with practiced grace, selecting the best stems and perfectly trimming them. Years of practice ensures that his fingers know exactly where to go and how to place each bloom in a way that makes the varying colours complement one another, bringing out the beauty of every individual one.
This is the first time Phainon has ever seen Mydei work up close, and all he can do is watch in awe.
As much as he tries to mimic him, Phainon’s own hands feel too clumsy. His eyes flit between the selection of blues and whites at various lengths, choosing to arrange them the best that he can.
His bouquet comes out lopsided, stems jutting out at awkward angles, the tiny blue flowers looking too messy.
“You’re holding it like you’re trying to choke it,” Mydei comments, not even looking up from his perfect arrangement.
“I’m not!” But his grip loosens, a stem sliding out onto the counter.
If anything, Phainon’s persistent, and Mydei’s comment only serves as motivation to prove him wrong. He tries again, brows furrowed in concentration. But this time, he can feel Mydei’s eyes on him which only makes things worse.
A sigh. Then Mydei scoots closer, his own finished bouquet set aside. “Here.”
He doesn’t scold Phainon for dropping some stems, nor does he take the cluster of flowers from him. Instead, he moves so that his arms reach over to guide Phainon’s hands with his own.
“This one goes here,” he says quietly, a longer stem placed behind a shorter one. “And this here.” All he can process is the warmth of Mydei’s hand over his as he places a single flower next to a decorative leaf. Fingers slotted between his own, Phainon’s hands are guided so that he slots a daisy between a cluster of blues. “This supports these ones here. See? Now they won’t fall apart.”
He repeats it a few more times with Mydei voice and guidance until the previous chaotic cluster of flowers turn into something slightly more cohesive.
Pretty.
“There.” Mydei doesn’t immediately let go. The moment suspends, charged with tension.
Then it breaks as Mydei steps back, clearing his throat and busying himself with gathering some wrapping paper.
“You’re not completely hopeless after all,” he mutters indifferently but Phainon sees the faint pink dusting the tips of his ears.
Taking both their bouquets from the bench, Mydei works swiftly in wrapping both in silence in practiced motions.
He turns, pushing both bundles into Phainon’s hands. “Take them.”
“Wait, both? This one’s yours though,” Phainon stammers, attempting to return the much more elegant-looking one made by the florist.
“I don’t need it. Consider it part of the lesson.”
Phainon’s lips part to protest, but Mydei already has his back turned now, wiping down any stray petals from the counter—a clear dismissal.
He looks down at the one they made together, pretty with traces of his earlier clumsiness still evident. The impulsive part of him wants to offer it to Mydei, to say this one’s yours, but his own fear overweighs impulse.
What if it’s weird? What if he laughs?
What if Mydei doesn’t want it?
So Phainon says nothing, Flustered, warm, and holding two bouquets that feel heavier than they actually are, he stumbles out of the shop after saying his goodbyes, bag slung over his free arm.
The cool evening air does little to soothe the frantic rhythm of his heart.
It isn’t until he’s back at his place, carefully unwrapping the flowers to place them in a vase, that Phainon notices the small slip of paper fluttering from between the stems onto his desk.
On it is a string of numbers, with words written in a quick elegant scrawl beneath.
‘They match your eyes.’
He doesn’t text Mydei until a day later. At an ungodly hour.
[Phainon] you know
[Phainon] your number could’ve ended up in someone else’s phone
[Phainon] you didn’t even tape it to the paper!
[Mydei] ?
[Mydei] Why are you awake?
[Phainon] why are YOU awake?
[Mydei] I asked first.
[Phainon] (Sticker)
[Phainon] finishing up school stuff :/
It’s a convincing lie, he thinks. Better than telling Mydei that Phainon had just woken up from a dream with him in it.
Again.
[Phainon] you?
[Mydei] I was just about to sleep
[Phainon] Oh
[Phainon] go to sleep
Phainon stares at his darkened screen.
He must’ve fallen asleep, Phainon assumes, until his phone starts vibrating, Mydei’s name flashing on the screen.
What the fuck.
He lets it ring for a few more seconds while he mentally prepares himself before picking up.
“Still working on your assignment?” comes Mydei’s voice, rough with sleep.
“I thought you were going to sleep.”
“I am.” There’s a rustle of sheets on the other end of the line.
“...Not anymore, I’ll just finish it off in the morning.”
The assignment is the last thing on his mind right now. Phainon shifts, turning onto his side, his cheek settling against a pillow.
He puts the phone on speaker just in case he falls asleep.
“Why’d you call?” Phainon asks, quiet.
“Did I need a reason to?”
Phainon grows quiet. He doesn’t have an answer.
“The flowers,” Mydei says after a long pause. “Are they…?”
Phainon doubts he called to ask about flowers but he’ll entertain him anyway.
“They’re okay. Some of them are starting to droop though.”
“Don’t forget to change the water.”
“Mhm.” His eyes suddenly feel heavier than they were just five minutes ago as another air of quiet settles between them.
He doesn’t remember when they hung up. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.
One moment he’s listening to the sound of soft breathing and the next, his consciousness slips away into another dream with Mydei in it.
“Good night, Phainon,” he hears just before sleep takes over, spoken so softly, barely above a whisper.
“Do you do deliveries?” Phainon asks one day, his cheek resting on his forearm as he watches Mydei work.
“You live five minutes away, Phainon.”
“Not for me!” Phainon defends a little too quickly. It’s become their rhythm—this easy back-and-forth between them.
For multiple weeks now, Phainon’s visits have become his routine and he never fails to drop by at least three times a week. Some mornings, he’d arrive with an extra coffee in his hand that he doesn’t have to bring, placing it on the counter without a word. Mydei never asks, but always drinks it.
On some other mornings, when he doesn’t have much on his plate in terms of academics, Phainon shows up earlier to help Mydei set up his shop. It eventually becomes a pattern that remains unspoken between them. On those mornings, Phainon helps him move potted plants outside and flip the open sign while Mydei takes care of the shop’s interior, carefully arranging the newly arrived blossoms in the shop.
It’s just a nice way to start off a day, Phainon tells himself, and Mydei’s company isn’t so bad.
Maybe that’s an understatement.
He enjoys Mydei’s company more than he should.
“It’s for Castorice. She doesn’t live in this area.”
“Castorice?”
“You know…” His hands flail for a bit as if trying to conjure her image from thin air, trying to find the right words. “My friend. The one who bought a bunch of purple flowers?”
“Oh, her.” Recognition flashes across Mydei’s features. “But no, we don’t do deliveries. Well, it’s just me here. I can note down what she got? She could probably find the same at a local florist near her.”
“Really? That’d be great.”
After which Mydei moves from what he was busy with, taking a scrap of paper and scribbling down the variants of flowers purchased by Castorice during their first visit.
“Here.” He slides the note across. “Should be everything, I think.”
“Thanks.” The brief contact as he takes the slip of paper from Mydei sends a pleasant warmth to his chest.
The rest of the morning slips by comfortably, like any other day: Mydei working on some orders behind the counter, occasionally conversing with customers that enter the shop throughout the hour, while Phainon finishes up some pre-reading required for his afternoon classes. Mydei’s voice in the background blends with the shop’s soft music, and Phainon thinks he could get used to this.
The scent of flowers, the soft music and the simple presence of the other man.
He could get used to this.
Time seems to melt when he’s here, because before Phainon knows it, it’s already almost noon.
His phone buzzes with a text.
[Castorice] Lunch together?
[Phainon] be there in twenty.
Exhaling, he packs his laptop back into his bag, his fingers brushing over the earlier slip of paper from Mydei in his pocket to ensure that it’s still there.
He should leave. He should, but he doesn’t. Not yet.
Phainon decides to spend a few more minutes browsing (because why not?), drifting towards the table with pre-made bouquets laid atop of it, his eyes skimming over the myriad of colours.
He settles on some red carnations. They’d suit Mydei, he thinks.
“I’ll take this too,” he says, already placing the correct amount of credits onto the table before Mydei can offer another of his ridiculous special discounts.
“For yourself?”
No, they’re for you, stupid, he screams internally.
Because I keep thinking about you.
Because I keep showing up for a man who sells flowers even though I myself am not even interested in plants.
“Yeah,” Phainon lies, taking the bouquet after Mydei wraps it properly. “For myself.”
So much for wanting to give it to him.
He was supposed to push them back across the table. He was supposed to confess, but fuck, it’s so much harder than he had ever imagined.
Instead, he offers a weak smile, fingers clutching onto the flowers meant for Mydei. “I’ll see you later?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,”
As he walks out, Phainon cannot help but notice the way Mydei’s gaze lingers for a second too long, as if he knows. As if he’s waiting.
He brushes it off as wishful thinking.
Winter turns to spring, and his days eventually settle into a pattern that’s structured around the flower shop, studying, and Mydei.
What started as a few visits per week soon turns into at least once per day. His mornings begin with coffee and the hopeful anticipation of seeing a certain florist. At this rate, it’s become his habit to make a stop every morning. Evenings too, if he isn’t buried in courseworks. He stays until Mydei starts turning off the lights before closing.
What Phainon ignores is how more often he dreams about Mydei and the shift in the dreams’ natures. The battles are now outnumbered by quieter moments shared between them… in another universe? In another life?
He ignores how his heart trembles at the way they share a coffee behind the counter, Mydei’s laugh echoing in the shop when he accidentally trips over a bucket, the brush of their fingers as they restock hydrangeas and lilies together.
He also ignores the sweet ache in his chest that intensifies at an alarming rate.
Phainon hates how he wakes up missing the man, both the one from his dreams and the actual Mydei who teaches him the language of flowers and the art of floral arrangements.
But of course he keeps it unsaid like a secret locked away.
With every visit, Phainon purchases something. A single sunflower because “it looks so lonely, Mydei!”. A basket of blossoms for his non-existent cousin who’s visiting. Another bunch of flowers “for a sick friend”. The lies pile up, one after another.
Never does he ever say the truth: this is for you. This, too. This one reminded me of you. You’d look pretty holding this one.
As time passes, their conversations flow easier, whatever tension that existed during their first meeting dissipating into banter that feels easier than breathing. Mydei slips into Kremnoan sometimes, saying something that he cannot decipher, but Phainon doesn’t mind.
And with time, the space between them also gradually disappears. Fingers start to linger for a second too long whenever he hands Mydei his cup of coffee. Silence soon becomes accompanied with stolen glances when they think the other isn’t looking.
Each day, Phainon comes home smelling like flowers and pomegranate.
Soon enough, flowers start to populate his apartment, filling it with various colours.
A vase by his bedside, two small pots by the window. A basket on his kitchentop, supposedly for yet another visiting relative. It doesn’t help with the whole ‘missing Mydei’ issue but it only makes the whole ordeal even worse. Because now, every corner of his apartment holds a reminder of the very man that refuses to leave his mind.
“Just give it to him! I doubt he’d reject you, Phainon.” says Cyrene, her voice brimming with pity.
“What if he doesn’t like me?” mumbles Phainon, the mere thought of that sending dread through him.
“He definitely would not let someone he dislikes hang around his shop for hours every day.”
…In a way, she’s right.
Later that night, Phainon thinks of Mydei’s knowing smiles, his mind refusing to fall asleep. He thinks of how his eyes always seemed to find Phainon’s, and of the way time seems to come to a halt when Mydei is near.
He thinks about one memory in particular: the time Mydei stared at him in disbelief at a lame joke he had attempted.
“HKS. What is wrong with you?” Mydei’s words held no malice though, the disbelief on his features breaking into a smile in no time.
And then he laughed, real and genuine, warm enough that it could put every sunflower in his shop to shame.
It’s only then that the realization hits him. He doesn’t just want to see Mydei smile, he wants to be the reason for that smile.
Fuck.
This is no longer just about a random stranger who owns a flower shop. He’s something more— so much more. He’s someone who has weaved himself into Phainon’s daily routines and became a constant in his life.
He’s so much more than just someone that Phainon wants to give pretty flowers to.
Defeated, Phainon buries his face into a pillow and groans.
He is so doomed.
Phainon’s dreams have been a sanctuary, quiet ones filled with moments shared with Mydei.
But not tonight.
It’s been two? Three months since this dream? He lost count, had thought that it disappeared for good, but of course it hasn’t. It never will.
The air no longer smelled like flowers, but of blood. And his hands—not his, but also his all the same—were heavy. There was a blade in his in his grip.
It felt wrong. It was all wrong. His clothes were no longer the familiar white, blue and gold but instead he was clad in black.
Gold.
There was gold—wet and sticky—on his hands. It coated his arms and stained his blade, each drip echoing in his ears. The metallic scent was nauseating.
And before him stood Mydei.
Not the florist that he was familiar with, but another version of him, the one with the same markings but dressed in red and gold. A different Mydei, but just as tragically beautiful.
Phainon couldn’t even stop his body as he lunged forward. In this body, he only had one purpose.
Somehow, this Phainon knew exactly where to strike.
‘Remember to stab your sword into my back through my tenth thoracic vertebra. That's my weak spot, and the only way to kill me,’ Mydei had told him once in their most vulnerable moments, trusting him enough to share that sacred information.
As if he’s done so a million times before, he pierced the blade into Mydei’s chest. What followed was a sound of torn flesh and ichor splattering onto the ground. It sickened him.
As Phainon wrenched the sword from his back, more gold blood poured onto the scorched ground. A choked gasp left Mydei’s lips before he fell, life slipping from his body.
And the present Phainon? He felt like a stranger in his own body. A prisoner screaming soundlessly, begging for himself to drop the sword, to reach for Mydei and cradle him. To whisper apologies.
But all he could do was watch as light faded from Mydeimos’ eyes.
‘Become the dawn… Deliverer.’
He jolts awake with a ragged gasp. His body was drenched in cold sweat, unsaid apologies and cries still lodged in his throat. The sound of his own heart against his chest is too loud in his ears. The phantom sensations still cling to him: the blade’s impact, the warmth of ichor on his skin and the sound of tearing flesh and bones that echoes in his ears.
His eyes flicker down to his hands, expecting to see them stained with the damned golden colour. They’re clean, but they feel dirty. All he can do is tremble as he fumbles for his phone.
4:31am.
He thinks. He has no idea. The numbers look too blurry from the tears that sting his eyes. He wipes at them angrily, only for more to follow.
It should be easy. It should be easier now, at least, after he’s experienced living the same scene over and over. But it never gets easier, not once. And knowing the real, present day Mydei with his gentle hands and the way he looks at Phainon like he’s something precious only makes everything a thousand times worse.
It isn’t just a recurring nightmare, he realizes. It is a memory that belongs to him.
Belongs? Belonged?
In another life, in another’s skin, he had done that.
He ended Mydei’s life. It was him who had been the one that took Mydei’s trust and turned it into a weapon.
A broken sound escapes him and Phainon realizes that he has to hear his voice. He needs to know that Mydei is okay. It’s stupid, all of this is stupid because he knows that the Mydei that he knows is probably sleeping safe and sound. Still, his thumb hovers over Mydei’s name in his contacts.
It’s stupid and it’s selfish.
He presses call.
The line rings once, the moment stretching. Twice. Then reality crashes down on him. It’s stupid, how he’s waking someone up just because of his own nightmare.
Phainon ends the call, face buried in his hands. Just a few more hours until the sun rises and he’ll be able to see Mydei at his store again. He should be okay… right?
His phone vibrates.
Phainon freezes, staring at Mydei’s name flashing on the screen. He lets it go to voicemail, only for it to vibrate again a few seconds later.
And again.
Until his hand moves on its own, accepting the call on the third ring before he can pull himself back again.
“Phainon?” Mydei’s voice is still thick with sleep, the sound sending a fresh wave of guilt to come crashing over Phainon.
“...Mydei. Mydei?” His name comes exhaled as a whisper, like a plea for forgiveness.
The few seconds of silence stretch between them before Mydei speaks again, any previous traces of sleep now replaced with concern.
“Phainon— What’s wrong?”
I just killed you. You were bleeding. My hands were covered in your blood. I couldn’t do anything.
I loved you and I ended your life, and the memory keeps haunting me.
But all that escapes parted lips is nothing but an ugly, muffled sound— his attempt to swallow down whatever vulnerability that threatens to slip.
He knows it’s okay, that Mydei will understand. He knows that Mydei is kind and he’ll listen even if it’s something that sounds like pure insanity.
Still, he hesitates.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mydei’s voice softens, almost enough to anchor the panic swelling in his chest.
Phainon shakes his head uselessly, but the rustle against the phone is enough to convey his answer.
“...Do you want me to come over, Phainon?”
“No—” Because the last thing he’d want is for Mydei to see him in this state. “Just… stay. Please. Don’t hang up.”
Phainon hears the soft shifting of fabric on the other end, probably from Mydei turning in his bed. “Okay,” Mydei says. “I’ll be here. I won’t go anywhere. I promise.”
It’s a promise that Phainon believes in.
Minutes stretch out, the sound of their breathing echoing through the line. Eventually, the frantic beating of his heart settles into something slower, soothed by Mydei’s presence, by the fact that his Mydei is still here, breathing. Alive.
The smell of blood that seemed to haunt his senses slowly dissipates. It’s faint, but the pomegranates return. Pomegranates and flowers.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
His eyelids flutter shut as he listens to the calm that is Mydei’s voice.
“You don’t have to explain.” The images are still there, lurking at the back of his mind but with Mydei here, it’s better. It’s more manageable.
“Just rest, I’ll be here.”
Phainon doesn’t remember when or how he fell asleep.
On Mydei’s end, he waits. He waits and listens until he’s sure Phainon’s breathing has evened out into the same slow rhythm that he knows from afternoons spent watching Phainon fall asleep on a workbench at his shop. Only then does Mydei allow exhaustion to take over, sinking into the pillows with his phone still loosely held in his hand.
“Sleep well, Phainon,” he whispers into the dark.
Phainon doesn’t drop by the following morning.
He spends the day buried in his textbook and notes in the library. It’s partly to distract himself from everything that happened the previous night.
More than once, he almost messages Mydei about something random that happened during the day, and almost sends him a picture of the salad he had for lunch.
It turns out he isn’t so good at masking the sullen expression that comes with being Mydei-deprived.
“Are you alright?” Castorice asks some time between lunch and his afternoon class.
“Yeah, just not feeling the best. I’ll be fine.” Phainon reassures.
“…Okay.” With the concerned look that he receives in response, Phainon knows she’s anything but convinced. “I’m a text away.”
“Thanks, Cas. But I’ll be okay, really.”
Later that evening, after taking a long detour back to his place, Phainon arrives home to find a paper bag hung at his doorknob.
Inside it is a few stems of orange azaleas, a tiny pot of succulent and care instructions.
‘I said I don’t do deliveries, but I suppose this can be an exception.
P.S. you shouldn’t water it too much. Don’t kill it, HKS.’
His thumb traces the letters and over the last words written in an unfamiliar script and for the first time that day, a small smile finds its way back onto his face.
He thinks Mydei did this on purpose.
Phainon has a feeling that Mydei chose this specific succulent on purpose, knowing that it’d keep him busy in trying to keep it alive, distracting him from any other thoughts.
It’s not even a difficult species to care for to begin with, but with his abysmal skills in nurturing plants, he feels a desperate need to prove Mydei wrong. He will not be the reason this adorable plant ends up wilting.
Aside from the care guide, Phainon even does extensive research and ends up moving the pot around his apartment to ensure it gets an adequate amount of sunlight, not too much, not too little.
All just so he can walk into Mydei’s shop and show him the living proof of his care.
See? I can keep things alive too.
Their texts gradually return, sporadic throughout each day, messages consisting of little updates here and there.
Then came the visits, slowly returning as well. Sometimes Phainon makes a stop, hanging out inside his stop like he always did, buys a flower or two, or twenty. Sometimes he just smiles at Mydei from outside the window when their eyes meet on his walk to the morning classes. Mydei hasn’t asked him about that night and a part of him’s grateful. He knows that Mydei won’t push. He’ll wait until Phainon is ready enough to initiate, if that day ever comes.
But how could he ever explain it? ‘I have nightmares about you’ sounds pretty much like a major conversation killer.
[Phainon] (Attachment: 1 image)
[Phainon] it’s still alive :p
[Mydei] You’re doing better than I anticipated
[Phainon] of course i am!
[Phainon] were you underestimating me :/
[Mydei] No?
[Mydei] I’ll give you a higher maintenance one next time
[Mydei] (Sticker)
[Phainon] so i’ll have an excuse to text you?
[Phainon] you’re always so thoughtful, mydeiii :)
[Mydei] ?
[Mydei] I’ll be looking forward to it then
Oh.
…Whatever.
Another chime cuts through his thoughts.
[Mydei] I’ll see you tomorrow?
Phainon stares at the single string of message for too long, face warm.
[Phainon] yeah
[Phainon] i’ll see you tomorrow
[Phainon] missed you
Shit. Was that too fast? Too direct? It takes him a few minutes of typing and backspacing before he sends another reply.
[Phainon] r shop. missed your shop. i pressed send too fast
Mydei reads it immediately. The dreaded ‘...’ typing bubble appears, then—to his horror—disappears. Five minutes of him staring at his screen in silence passes and Phainon slumps back onto his bed, convinced that he just ruined everything.
A vibration.
[Mydei] Missed you too
“Oh, you really didn’t kill it?”
Phainon gives him a blank stare. Did he really think Phainon would actually put effort into photoshopping it to look alive?
“You have no faith in me.”
Amusement curls on Mydei’s lips. It’s that time in the late afternoon where the shop’s quiet and everything slows. The sun catches the gold in Mydei’s hair and highlights his features in a way that catches Phainon’s breath. To him, this Mydei—his Mydei—is more beautiful than any Mydeimos that his dreams can ever conjure up.
They’re settled on a couch, their shoulders an inch from touching, closer than they’ve ever been. Mydei’s legs are tangled over his, ankles draping over his own. Once nerve-wracking, proximity now feels somewhat like a pull that Phainon never wants to escape.
“You did well.” The teasing is gone from his voice, replaced by something more sincere that makes his stomach flip.
Phainon blinks, his expression softening into a smile. “Careful, or I’ll end up stealing your job.”
That earns him a real laugh.
“Sure. Maybe when you learn the names of all the different types of flowers in this shop.”
“Hey, I know plenty! Enough to open my own shop.”
“Okay. What’s this?” Mydei points to the one on the table before them.
“Roses. That’s easy,” Phainon replies instantly with a roll of his eyes.
He gestures to the one on the counter next, to the vase containing a bunch of whites and pinks.
“...Camellias?”
“Impressive.”
The ones on the workbench.
“Orchids.”
Shifting on the couch they’re on, Mydei picks up a single stem sitting by his side. A full bloom of the softest pink. “Carnations?”
“Wrong. Peonies.” Ah. Phainon’s eyes follow each shift of movement as Mydei moves just a bit closer, slipping the stem between his fingers, his touch fleeting against Phainon’s skin. His gaze flickers up to meet Mydei’s, which was already watching him. “A popular choice for a loved one. Or someone you admire.”
The words hang in the air like a confession.
“Oh,” is all he manages to exhale.
He stares at the delicate, fragile blossom in his hand, fingers idly twirling it as he thinks of the dreams, the nightmares, the texts and phone calls over the past few weeks, the visits and Mydei’s unwavering patience and gentleness. He’s too kind, Phainon thinks.
Then Mydei shifts, the movement subtle, barely noticeable but Phainon catches it. He draws just a bit closer, head tipping sideways just a bit more, the incline of his body towards Phainon’s side posing a silent question.
Of course he gives in, letting his own shoulder become an offering.
It’s only then that Mydei’s head comes to a rest against Phainon’s shoulder, the weight of another sending a rush of warmth through him. The scent of pomegranate and earth embraces him, and it feels like home.
He feels like home.
Phainon eventually lets his own head fall sideways, cheek resting against strawberry blonde hair. His fingers remain loose around the flower’s stem, still turning it idly, its blossom resting atop of Mydei’s tattooed arm.
“Mydei?” He says after who knows how many minutes.
“Hm?”
“Thank you,” Phainon whispers. Not only for the phone call that night, but for everything else too.
For the patience, for letting him barge into the shop unannounced over and over. For the second chance, and the warmth he feels with the familiarity of Mydei pressed against him. A thank you, but also an apology for what he did in another life.
Mydei doesn’t press nor ask further. He merely gives a soft sound of acknowledgement, shifting into a position more comfortable fr the both of them.
Phainon doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but he feels the sun’s light dimming into something softer. Mydei’s breathing evens out against his shoulder. They aren’t asleep, just existing in a comfortable, shared stillness. The phantom sensation of golden blood on his hand finally begins to truly fade, replaced by the tangible warmth of Mydei’s existence next to him.
Slowly, he moves.
He ignores the questioning look in Mydei’s eyes as his head lifts and it takes everything in him to not pat down the subtle indent on Mydei’s hair that was caused by his head resting against Phainon’s shoulder for too long.
“I… Uh.” Phainon’s voice falters as he reaches for his bag.
He pulls it out—a bouquet. It’s not the work of a professional florist though, but by Phainon himself. The wrapping is clumsy in every way possible, the paper crinkled from being wrapped and unwrapped over and over. The stems are cut unequal and at slightly different lengths.
And the arrangement? A chaos of colours.
It’s made from the flowers he had purchased from the shop in the past few days and from the ones that are still in his home. In the centre is a sunflower, tall and out of place, asters clustered next to it. Tulips, roses, carnations he bought under the excuse of a non-existent craving, for ‘decoration’, for a friend, and…
Forget-me-nots. They adorn the bouquet everywhere in the prettiest shade of blue.
“Phainon…” Mydei’s voice hitches as his gaze falls to the bouquet in his hands. Only then does he notice the small callouses on his fingers, the bandaids covering the fresh cuts that serve as evidence of him struggling with the thorny stems.
“It’s horrible, I know—” Phainon mumbles, his face flushed. He continues before Mydei can even interject. “But all the flowers—they were never meant for anyone else. They were always for you, they always reminded me of you. I just didn’t know how to give them to you,” he trails off, clutching the fragile thing in his hands, his voice dejected. “It’s harder than I thought it’d be.”
Mydei doesn’t reach out immediately.
His fingers ghost over the cut above Phainon’s index tenderly before he carefully takes it. He cradles the flowers like it’s the most precious thing in the world, eyes taking in every vibrant, imperfect detail.
“It’s not horrible,” says Mydei eventually with a finality that leaves him no space to protest. Holding the bouquet . “It’s beautiful, Phainon. Thank you.”
With the bouquet held in one arm, he takes Phainon’s hands, his attention turning down to the small marks scattered across them. His traces his thumb over the bandage.
“A normal person would’ve just asked if they did not know how to trim rose thorns properly,” says Mydei softly.
“Maybe I just wanted you to kiss it better.”
The moment the honest words leave him, a wave of panic washes over. Did he just say that out loud, what the fuck.
“I mean— I didn’t—”
But Mydei doesn’t let go, a smile spreading over his face. He doesn’t tease but simply obliges, bringing Phainon’s hand to his lips, carefully lingering a kiss over the bandaged cuts.
Each and every one of them.
Every thought completely evaporates from Phainon’s brain and all he processes in that intimate moment is the soft warmth of Mydei’s lips against his skin. He’s going to explode. He’s going to combust into a million pieces.
“Better?”
Phainon nods.
At his response, Mydei begins to lift Phainon’s hand again, intending to land one last kiss to the final small, almost unnoticeable cut on the inside of his palm. But Phainon moves first, meeting him halfway.
The kiss catches Mydei by surprise, so much so that the bouquet falls onto his lap. It’s nothing like the violent clashes of Phainon’s dreams but soft and sweet. A tender one that tastes of pomegranates and something achingly familiar, like coming home after a long, long journey. It’s a first kiss that feels like their hundredth, every shift in movement feeling all too nostalgic. As Phainon’s hand rises to cradle Mydei’s cheek, he feels the other man melt, surrendering into the touch.
“Took you long enough,” murmurs Mydei.
“I had a lot of flowers to collect,” Phainon breathes out.
“I would’ve still waited.”
“Even if I ended up taking, like, a million years?”
He pulls back just enough to search Mydei’s face. And he sees it all: the endless patience, the forgiveness and love.
Love.
“Mm,” Mydei hums without hesitation. “Even then.”
Those words hang in the air, heavy with meaning that spans far beyond this flower shop and this lifetime. Like a language that’s understood only between them, Phainon closes the distance once more and kisses him, pouring every cycle’s longing into the present.