Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Phainon thinks of Mydei, the first thing that usually comes to mind is: Wow, he’s so hot.

But that thought is always—always—followed by a flash of irritation, especially when the memory of the preparations for the campus-wide debate competition is still so fresh in his mind. Phainon still hadn’t quite recovered from the weeks of battle it took to get the event going.

It all started when the Debate Club based in the Faculty of Communications and Media Studies which Phainon had just joined, submitted a proposal to the Student Government. Unfortunately for him, the one assigned to review it was Mydeimos from the Programs & Activities Division—who also happened to be a business major, not that Phainon would’ve guessed judging by his appearance alone. What business does a business major have looking that conspicuous—broad shoulders, defined arms, a very toned chest and abs that he’s seen when they happen to be at the gym at the same time—

Anyways.

The point is, Mydei is meticulous.  Every time they sent in the proposal, it came back covered in red notes and comments. He picked apart their sponsor ideas, asked for way too many details about the budget, and left behind politely savage remarks like “needs to be recalculated” or “please revise for clarity.” It felt less like feedback and more like being slowly roasted—professionally, of course.

Phainon took it personally, though. He wasn’t the type to back down. Not at the gym, where he'd once nearly pulled something trying to match Mydei’s deadlift weight, and certainly not here. Every revision turned into a mission. He stayed up late refining every word and checking through the numbers, pushing back in meetings with clipped smiles and sharpened arguments. He wasn’t a member of the debate club for nothing, after all. 

He didn’t simply want to impress Mydei—he wanted to win.

So really—never in a million years did Phainon think he’d wake up in bed with Mydei. 

Well, okay—maybe in the rare instance of a wild, half-forgotten dream he’d quietly pretend never happened when morning came. But still. That’s not the point.

The point is: he can’t believe his eyes when the first thing he sees upon waking is Mydei’s face—frown lines, sharp eyes, and a look that screams just as much confusion as he’s feeling.

Phainon bolts upright, only to immediately regret it when a pounding headache crashes down on him like a truck. Yep. A hangover. He knows the signs. He doesn’t usually drink himself into oblivion, but hey—young, dumb university nights happen.

The difference is, normally, he’d wake up alone. In his own bed. Not here. And definitely not next to a very naked—

His eyes flick down before he can stop himself. Mydei’s bare chest, toned and golden from sun or effort—or both—and his collarbone is marked. Very marked. And Phainon isn’t even talking about the red tattoo lining his body. There are red blotches, and lower on his neck, a more obvious bruise-like smudge. Bite marks littering his right shoulder and around a nip–

His own face heats like it’s caught fire. Mortified, Phainon yanks the one blanket they share up to cover Mydei’s entire form.

“Haikas, what the hell??” Mydei pushes the blanket away from his head.

“What happened?” Phainon croaks, voice dry and rough with nerves. “Did we—?”

“Get blackout drunk?” Mydei replies as he pushes himself up, only to lean forward with a groan, probably from the very same headache. 

Phainon has never heard his voice like that—heavy and hoarse with sleep. He tries not to think of how sexy it sounds, because what the hell, brain? 

So instead, he clears his throat and admits, “I don’t really remember…” how they even got here, for one. Nevermind how they ended up together in bed—“Oh. Wait—my ass isn’t even hurting…” he mutters. Which, unfortunately, leads to another question he’s almost afraid to ask. Almost. "Uhm… is your ass… hurting?"

Mydei lifts his head enough to stare incredulously at Phainon behind the curtain of his ruffled hair. "No.”

"Oh, good," he sighed in relief and closed his eyes. "Just making sure. If neither of us is hurting in the ass, then we didn't go all the way, at least."

Beside him, Mydei snorts, then finally swings his legs over the edge of the bed. That’s when Phainon confirms, with rising dread, that yes—Mydei is, in fact, butt naked. Phainon tries not to stare at the expansive red tattoo that spans Mydei’s back—something he’s only ever caught glimpses of when Mydei wears muscle shirts to the gym.

He peeks under the blanket and—yep. So is he.

Okay. So they probably did go far enough. But for the life of him, Phainon remembers nothing.

 What exactly did they do? Who started it? Did they even enjoy it—

“Look, Deliverer.”

The nickname snaps him out of his spiral. Mydei started calling him that after he became the unofficial errand boy for the comms and media dept, hand-delivering proposal revisions that he worked on himself to the Student Government until it was finally approved.

When Phainon looks up, Mydei’s at least got his pants on now.

“Stop freaking out. Nothing happened. Okay?”

So Mydei wants to pretend last night never happened? Honestly, that’s probably for the best—and Phainon can work with that.

“Yeah,” he replies awkwardly, but with no small amount of relief.

It’s short-lived.

As he moves to get out of bed, he feels a tug—and glances down to find his boxers tangled around one ankle. Not exactly “nothing happened” territory, but…

“I’m good at pretending nothing happened,” he mutters anyway.

“Of course you are.” Mydei snorts again, and Phainon knows he should probably be offended, but… well. The situation is already weird enough, and he doesn’t have the energy to argue.

Besides, Mydei isn’t wrong.

⋆ ☀︎ ⋆

If Phainon hadn’t already been surprised when Mydei offered him the use of the shower in his dorm, he’s downright stunned to find breakfast for two waiting on the kitchen table. Mydei stands by the stove, still in the same black tank top Phainon saw him wear fresh out of the shower. His hair is tied back, and a red apron is hugging his form as he casually stirs a pot. The next thing Phainon notices is the sharp, comforting scent of lemon and ginger filling the room—an herbal, tea-like concoction that makes his pounding headache ease just a little.

When Mydei hears him approach, he turns his head just enough to look at him and says, “Sit down and eat first.”

Slowly, Phainon pulls the chair and sits down where indicated. He quietly admires the simple breakfast–just sandwiches, but honestly, they look like those from the fancy coffee shops rather than something made by a university student in their dorm.  Maybe it’s the layers of crisp lettuce, bright slices of tomato, creamy scrambled eggs, and what looks suspiciously like real smoked chicken. 

“...Did you buy these sandwiches?” he asks tentatively.

Mydei whips his head around so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t strain something, scowling like he’s personally offended. 

“Why would I buy something I could easily make myself?” he snaps, gesturing toward the array of used kitchen utensils on the counter.

“Oh.” Phainon scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Sorry, they just look so good, not like anything a tired uni student could whip up.”

Mydei scoffs and turns back to the pot. “Skill issue.”

“Hey!”

Mydei ignores him, so Phainon stays quiet and turns his attention to the breakfast laid out in front of him. It looks almost too good to eat, so he gives in to the urge and quickly snaps a photo. It shouldn’t be a big deal; all the dorm rooms look similar enough that no one would guess he’s in Mydei’s—

A steaming cup suddenly appears beside his plate. Phainon looks up, startled, to find Mydei standing there with one brow raised in mild judgment.

“Oh, uh—sorry,” Phainon says, grinning sheepishly as he lowers his phone. “Your sandwich just looks amazing. I had to get a picture.”

Mydei doesn’t respond, but the look on his face makes it clear he’s unimpressed.

Phainon glances at the cup, then back at Mydei. “What’s this?”

“Some hangover concoction,” Mydei replies as he finally takes the seat across from him, arms folded as if daring Phainon not to drink it.

So, naturally, Phainon takes a sip—

And immediately burns his tongue.

The liquid is still scalding hot! He lets out a soft yelp and pulls back, sticking out his tongue while flapping a hand wildly in front of his face.

“Careful—” Mydei says, though it’s clear the warning comes about five seconds too late.

Without a word, Mydei slides a glass of cold water across the table and into his hand. Phainon takes it like a lifeline, practically chugging half of it before finally sighing in relief, sticking his tongue out once again to let it meet the cool air.

He hears a snort, and when he looks up, Mydei is pressing a fist to his mouth, clearly trying to hold back a laugh. But the moment their eyes meet, he loses it—his shoulders shaking with quiet, stifled laughter.

For a moment, Phainon is stunned. In the few months he’s known Mydei, he’s seen many expressions—from cool neutrality to bored, mildly annoyed to vaguely murderous—but never this. He’s never seen Mydei smile, let alone openly laugh. And now he’s struck by how that usually gruff voice softens with amusement, how those sharp eyes crinkle with genuine mirth, how beautiful he looks—

Embarrassingly, Phainon’s heart stutters like a fool in a romcom movie Cyrene used to make him watch back in their hometown.

Then, Mydei gasps out, between chuckles, “You looked like a dog with your tongue out like that.”

And just like that, the spell breaks.

Flushed and flustered, Phainon scowls, dragging a hand down his face. “You could’ve told me it was basically lava.”

“And you could’ve tested the temperature like a normal person.”

Okay, so that one’s actually on him. Phainon has heard that Kremnoans in general are used to much higher—practically scalding—temperatures. Elysians, on the other hand, tend to prefer things tepid, almost lukewarm. So he leaves the drink alone to cool a bit more and goes to eat the sandwich instead.

It’s delicious .

Phainon isn’t sure if it’s whatever Mydei put in the sandwich or if he’s just that hungry, but after the first bite, he practically wolfs down the rest in record speed. It’s only when he’s done with his sandwich that Phainon notices Mydei watching him with an expression that might be—pity? The kind you'd give a starving stray on the street.

Damn. His dignity seems to have gone MIA since he woke up today, huh.

He coughs, trying to mask his embarrassment. “That was great—thanks for the food,” Phainon says instead, flashing his best PR smile.

Then, in a moment of poor decision-making and desperate attempt to shift the focus off himself, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind: “Do you usually show this much hospitality to your one-night stands?”

The moment the words leave his mouth, regret hits him like a truck. First of all, didn’t they agree that nothing happened last night? And second—

It feels like he’s just stomped all over Mydei’s unexpected kindness, even though that was not his intention at all. 

Mydei’s expression shutters into cold neutrality, and Phainon swears the room temperature drops a few degrees.

“No,” Mydei replies curtly, before turning his attention back to his breakfast, effectively shutting Phainon out.

Just like that, the easy sense of familiarity that had started to bloom vanishes. It feels like being thrown back two months—to that first tense meeting with Mydei and the Student Government, where Phainon’s event proposal was picked apart line by line.

The memory leaves a sour taste in his mouth, and it has nothing to do with the lemon-ginger concoction he’s nursing just to fill the awkward silence.

Once Mydei finishes his food, Phainon finally gathers the courage to speak. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything with what I said.”

Mydei glances at him from under his lashes but says nothing.

Phainon presses on, voice softer. “I just… wasn’t thinking.”

After a pause, Mydei lets out a sigh. “I knew your head was empty half the time.”

The words are sharp, but the tone is more exasperated than cruel—so Phainon takes it as a green light to keep talking. He tries to make small talk while they both sip on the hangover concoction.

Over the next ten minutes, he learns a few things: the dorm they’re in is one of the bigger ones meant for three people, though only two currently live there. Mydei’s only roommate has been on medical leave this semester. And surprisingly, once the topic moves away from proposals and paperwork, Mydei is… actually pretty easy to talk to.

Phainon finds himself wishing they’d met under different circumstances. Maybe they could’ve been friends.

But for now, he’s just glad that by the time he leaves Mydei’s dorm, they part on a decent note—not a sour one.

⋆ ☀︎ ⋆

Once Phainon makes it back to his own dorm, he beelines straight to his room, collapses onto the bed, and buries his face into his pillow to let out a long, muffled scream. No one else is around to hear it, thank goodness.

He’s desperately trying to piece together what actually happened last night—and more importantly, how in the world he ended up in bed with the Mydeimos.

Okay, so. Last night, there was a party hosted by the debate club to celebrate the successful execution of the campus-wide competition. Naturally, they also invited the student associations from the comms and media—since they’d helped with the event prep—and members of the Student Government, who were involved in overseeing the process. That was why Mydei was invited.

Phainon remembers all of that pretty clearly, right up to the moment a couple of seniors from his faculty’s student association cornered him. Apparently, his ability to survive multiple proposal revisions and not throw hands with Student Gov had earned him a certain reputation. “Reliable,” they said. “Knows how to deal with the higher-ups,” someone added. 

And just like that, Phainon found himself being half-flattered, half-coerced into formally joining the faculty’s student association—as an event liaison, no less, meaning he’d be dealing with the Student Government even more, seeing the comms and media is one of the more active departments in holding events, from seminars to talk shows inviting industry experts or their city representatives. His university life is about to get even more eventful, pun intended.

And that’s... where things start to get hazy.

He remembers the drinks. Some sweet, suspiciously fruity punch that did not taste alcoholic until it was way too late. He vaguely recalls laughing too loudly at something Mydei said, which, in hindsight, might’ve just been a sarcastic remark. There might’ve some talking and arguing involved. 

Was he flirting? Mydei didn’t exactly seem like the type to flirt casually, so it must’ve been him… right? Not that Phainon makes a habit of flirting, but he can’t deny the constant thought in the back of his mind about how hot Mydei is—at least when he’s not nitpicking his proposals to death. So maybe some of those thoughts slipped out when alcohol made him loose-lipped.

Groaning, Phainon flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling in quiet despair. He hopes he didn’t say anything too stupid—or worse, let his mouth run about Mydei’s very conspicuous body. The tattoo. The muscles. Everything he’s been secretly cataloging in the back of his mind during the short time they’ve known each other—and especially during those occasional gym showdowns. 

Thinking of Mydei brings everything rushing back: the fact that he’d spent the night in Mydei’s bed, used Mydei’s shower—including the cinnamon-scented soap that now clings to his skin like a guilty reminder. Mydei’s scent.

He remembers the red marks that weren’t part of Mydei’s tattoo—and the bite marks that were unmistakably his doing. In the mirror above the sink back in Mydei’s bathroom, he’d seen matching evidence on his own neck and chest, though admittedly there are significantly less bite marks on his person.

Lifting a hand, Phainon’s fingers curl against the air, as if chasing the memory of skin—of touching Mydei’s chest, kissing it, biting—

Shit.

Even thinking about it is enough to cause problems down there.

Phainon groans into his pillow again. He has no idea how he’s supposed to pretend nothing happened when his body clearly remembers everything.

~⋆tbc⋆~

Chapter Text

When Phainon thinks of Mydei, the first thing that usually comes to mind is: Wow, he’s so hot.

It has been that way since the very first time he laid eyes on Mydeimos at the campus gym. It was about a couple of months ago, even before he was formally introduced to Mydei due to event preps for the debate competition. 

It was early morning on a Sunday, and Phainon felt like working out even though he usually liked to sleep in and work out at night after class. Just as he finished warming up and doing some cardio, he spotted a blond man casually doing reps with a barbell so loaded it made the five other people in the gym stop mid-set just to stare. He lifted it like it weighed nothing, his biceps and pecs flexing with every movement, sweat glinting off his skin like it had no business being that distracting. While most people would be grunting and straining, Mydei looked like he was just warming up—calm, collected, and devastatingly gorgeous.

Something about that display had lit a fire in Phainon’s chest—not just the usual heart-pounding kind, but the I-can-do-that-too kind. Maybe it was pride, because Phainon knew he could do that too. He’d been working out regularly since he was a snotty brat, inspired by some superhero series that made him want to grow big and strong. By now he is confident with his lifting prowess. In fact, he had yet to meet someone who could lift as much as he did

Until that day, at least. So maybe he wanted to be noticed by Mydei. Maybe it was just something about Mydei's indifferent ‘this-is-nothing’ look that poked at his ego. Either way, before he could think twice, Phainon had marched over, added the exact same weight to the bar, and attempted a set. 

Okay, he could do it no problem, too. His form was decent. Though he usually would start with something lighter than this, so maybe he wobbled a little due to lack of adjustment. 

Mydei noticed, and added more weight plates.

One thing led to another, and suddenly it wasn’t just two guys working out—it was an unspoken competition. One added more plates. The other matched it. Then another. And another. The entire gym was watching by the time they reached weights so absurd that even the regulars started to look concerned. It ended eventually when another visitor, a well-built guy with long limbs who seemed to be familiar enough with Mydei, downright told him to stop because they had somewhere to be .

Phainon swore he saw Mydei smirk as he let go of the bar, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon—but somehow still looking unfairly good doing it.

Phainon didn’t catch Mydei’s name until their first official meeting a week later, but the blond man—too beautiful to fit the brute stereotype—had already left a lasting impression.

⋆ ☀︎ ⋆

With the debate competition already concluded, Phainon’s days return to how they were before event preps took all of his free time and then some. His schedule opens up again—though “free time” is a generous term for the few hours not swallowed by lectures, assignments, or student association meetings. Still, there's something comforting about the return to routine: early morning coffee runs, afternoons spent at the campus café doing essays, and the occasional gym session when guilt about his inactivity catches up to him.

It’s been a little over two weeks since Phainon last saw Mydei—since that disorienting morning he woke up in Mydei’s bed—and he’s already experiencing what feels suspiciously like withdrawal. Which is ridiculous. He refuses to believe he’s so pent-up that he’d miss something he doesn’t even remember,  beyond the ‘evidence’ that something did happen. Which is stupid, because they agreed to pretend that nothing happened, didn’t they?

Still, there's a nagging sense of something unfinished, like a sentence left hanging or a song cut off before the chorus. It’s been jarring, these two weeks of silence—after getting used to seeing Mydei at least once a week, whether for proposal revisions or when he just happened to time his gym sessions to overlap with Mydei’s. He hasn’t done that lately. Not since that morning, out of fear that things would be awkward.

And yet, the thoughts of Mydei refuse to leave him alone.

He actually has Mydei’s number—officially, for scheduling proposal review appointments and follow-ups. When he scrolls his chat window with Mydei, it’s all brief messages and to the point; when to meet, what part needs revision, asking for feedback clarifications. The last message was from a little over two weeks ago; when Mydei confirmed that he would attend the party thrown by the debate club. 

And then there has been nothing. It’s ridiculous how aware he’s become of the silence between them. He doesn’t even know how to casually text him. What would he even say? Hey, remember me?  

Now that’s just lame.

“You’ve been sighing a lot,” Cyrene points out from the seat beside him.

The campus café is packed at this hour, filled with the buzz of students catching up, gossiping, and occasionally launching into heated academic debates. In short, it’s anything but quiet. But of course, even when all the noises are blocked by the earbuds in her ears, and while her eyes are locked on her laptop screen, Cyrene notices Phainon sighing.

Maybe it’s an older sister thing. Even if she’s only a few months older and they’re not actually related by blood, she has that uncanny sixth sense when it comes to him—or his misery.

When Phainon lets out another sigh instead of answering, Cyrene pauses her music, pulls out one earbud, and turns to give him a pointed look.

“Are you, like, in love or something?”

Phainon chokes on his drink and sputters. “Where did that come from???”

Cyrene raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “The brooding. The sighing. The tragic staring into nothing like some lovesick fool. Come on now, spill.”

“I wasn’t—” Phainon starts, then cuts himself off. Because technically, he was brooding. But not because he was in love.

Probably. No, definitely.

He groans and buries his face in his arms. “It’s complicated.”

Cyrene hums thoughtfully, resting her cheek on her upturned hand. A smirk forming on her lips. “So not a no, then.”

“Don’t you have an essay to finish?” Phainon mumbles from under his sleeve.

“Yes,” she says sweetly, amusement glinting in her eyes. “But watching your emotional downfall is much more entertaining.”

“What a lovely sister you are,” Phainon says, voice thick with sarcasm.

“Your one and only, unfortunately,” Cyrene replies with a smirk. She nudges her laptop a bit farther away—a clear sign that whatever assignment she was working on has officially taken a backseat. “So? Tell me about your mystery man.”

Phainon frowns. “How do you know it’s a man?”

Cyrene arches a perfectly unimpressed brow and gives him a slow once-over. “Please. I grew up with you.”

Phainon sighs again—but quickly clears his throat as sighing will only add to Cyrene’s satisfaction.

He takes a long sip of his frappe before starting, “So there’s this guy…”

And Phainon tells her—or the abridged version of the events, anyway, leaving out the details he himself barely remembers. He tells her about how he met Mydei—how he was impressed by how much Mydei could lift, and how that somehow turned into a competition. (He only mentions in passing how, for the past two months or so, he’d been deliberately going to the gym early in the morning, knowing full well that Mydei liked to work out around that time.)

He tells her about the agonizing weeks of revisions that followed. (“He was so annoyingly nitpicky! But he’s hot, ugh.”)

He tells her about the party after the event was finally organized, how he has no memory of going back with Mydei, and how—despite everything—Mydei was unexpectedly kind the morning after. He made breakfast, brewed that weird hangover drink, and didn’t push for answers. Instead, they simply agreed to pretend nothing happened.

“But you want something to have happened,” Cyrene says.

Phainon groans, burying his face in his hands. “That’s not the point.”

“It kinda is. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be brooding like this.”

“I’m not brooding.”

Cyrene doesn’t say anything, but the way she raises her eyebrow says plenty.

“You know,” Cyrene finally says, once she’s done silently judging him. “If you don’t even remember the sex—”

“We didn’t have sex!” Phainon hisses in a hushed tone, glancing around in panic and praying no one nearby heard that.

“Okay, okay—so if you don’t remember the almost sex,” she amends, smug, “then why are you pining now?”

“I’m not pining, ” he mutters, but the way he stirs his drink a little too aggressively says otherwise.

Cyrene leans in, resting her chin on one hand. “You are. Which is fine, by the way. It's just—you’re acting like some tragic lover who got amnesia and is now haunted by the memory of a man’s abs.”

“You’re the worst.” Phainon groans into his hands. Then, quietly, he mutters, “And it’s his chest.” 

Cyrene laughs. “Okay, so you’re into manboobs.”

“Don’t be crude!”

“Whatever.” Cyrene waves her hand dismissively and takes another sip of her strawberry milkshake before continuing, “Look. If you want to see him again, just text him. You said you have his number, right?”

“Yeah, but it was for official stuff—like proposal reviews and revisions. Now that I’m with my department’s student associations, I’ll probably see him again for more event preps, but…”

“But you want to get to know him outside of the official stuff.”

Okay, he can admit that. He remembers the tied back hair, the red apron and the burning hot concoction that Mydei sipped on with ease. He remembers the delicious  sandwich that looks like it belongs in a high end cafe. He remembers the calm and easy conversations, contrasting the reserved and practical feedback on his revisions. He remembers both the amused smile and the pitying look from that morning alone, and how warm Mydei's voice sounds in laughter. 

He wants to know more. 

But all he can say is, “He was… surprisingly easy to talk to, outside of the proposal business. And he’s a good cook.”

Cyrene tilts her head, tapping a finger against her chin in thought. “Right, he made you breakfast,” she says slowly, to which Phainon nods. “You know… you could’ve texted him after to thank him for that and offered to pay him back by—I don’t know, taking him out for coffee or something.”

At that, Phainon stares. And stares some more. And for the nth time that afternoon, he groans. “Why didn’t I think of that??”

Cyrene gives him a look that clearly says you’re hopeless. Phainon can’t blame her. He feels hopeless. “It’s been over two weeks,” he laments. “It’s way too late now.”

Maybe she finally feels a little sympathetic, because Cyrene reaches over to rub his shoulder in consolation. “You know what? Go analog. Head to the gym tomorrow morning—same time you used to when you were trying to bump into him. Leave it to fate. If he’s there, talk to him. If not, well… we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Phainon hesitates, swirling the ice in his nearly empty cup. “…And what if he is there and it just ends up super awkward?”

Cyrene shrugs. “You won’t know unless you try. Just go for it. I didn’t grow up with a quitter.”

Slowly, Phainon relaxes, taking another long sip of his drink. “You’re right, I’m going to try.”

“Good.” Cyrene nods, satisfied. “You can do it. Don’t make a fool of yourself.”

Phainon lifts his head just enough to side-eye her. “You say that like I’m not going to spiral the second I see him.”

“You can spiral all you want after you talk to him.” She picks up her laptop again and pops her earbud back in. “Until then, pretend you’re a functioning human being. You’re good at that.”

Right. He’s definitely good at that.

⋆ ☀︎ ⋆

Phainon isn’t sure if Fate is being kind or mischievous, but he does, in fact, meet Mydei when he goes to the gym. 

Today, he’s on a treadmill—his hair pulled back in a loose tie, a towel draped casually around his neck, earbuds tucked in, his pace steady and unbothered. Of course Mydei would look good doing cardio too, because why wouldn't he? It’s almost unfair. And clearly, Phainon isn’t the only one who thinks so. A few of the gym’s early birds, supposedly here to focus on their own workouts, are sneaking glances in his direction. Some less subtle than others.

Mydei, in a simple sleeveless gym shirt that clings to his body from exertion that makes the defined muscles of his body visible.  Mydei, with his toned arms bare; the vivid red lines of his tattoo curling down like molten rivers along the slope of his skin. Mydei, looking effortlessly hot without him even trying—focused entirely on his run, oblivious or maybe just indifferent to the attention he’s drawing.

Phainon doesn’t like that people are looking . At the same time, he cannot blame them, because Phainon can’t take his eyes away when Mydei is right there, looking like a work of art brought to life by pure sweat and discipline—

Mydei slows down to a walk on his treadmill, turns his head to Phainon and asks, “Are you going to keep staring or are actually going to work out?”

Phainon startles, nearly tripping over his own feet. “I—uh—just warming up,” he stammers, cheeks flushing.

Mydei simply raises an eyebrow, but from the treadmill on his other side someone barks out a laugh. Phainon follows his gaze and realizes Mydei isn’t alone. Leonnious—the guy he’s seen working out with Mydei from time to time—peers at him with an amused grin.

“Do you usually warm up by gawking?” Leonnious asks.

“I wasn’t—” Phainon scrambles for an excuse, then blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I just… wasn’t awake enough yet.”

Leonnious snickers, clearly not convinced, but Mydei simply shakes his head. “Then go warm up before you pull a muscle trying to work out half-asleep, Deliverer.”

With that, Mydei pivots back toward the front, presses a few buttons on the treadmill, and resumes his run. Leonnious follows suit, stifling another laugh as he jogs.

Phainon exhales, cheeks still warm, and shuffles over to the stretching area to start his warm-up in earnest.

*

When he returns fifteen minutes later, Mydei is getting off the treadmill.

 “Oh. Are you done?” Phainon asks, trying—and mostly failing—not to let his disappointment show.

“I’ve been on this thing for forty minutes. I’m taking a break,” says Mydei as he ruffles his damp hair with one hand. 

When Phainon simply hums in response, Mydei finally turns to him with a raised eyebrow, as if reading him far too easily. 

“You wanted to compete with me?”

Phainon opens his mouth, then closes it, feeling heat creep up his neck. To be honest—yes, if only because that’s the only way he knows how to talk to Mydei right now. If Cyrene was here, she’d probably laugh at him. Does this count as spiraling? It doesn’t count if he’s just staying silent, right?

“You know, if you’re that eager, why don’t you race Leonn­ius?” Mydei suggests, breaking Phainon out of his thoughts. “He’s a swift runner. See if you can beat him.”

Leonnius, who had just slowed to a walk, looks over with a grin that promises nothing good. “I’m game if you are, dude.”

Phainon squares his shoulders. “Three kilometers?” he says, trying for confidence.

Leonnius smirks. “Three it is.”

Mydei steps aside, arms crossed over his chest, clearly settling in to watch. As Phainon gets ready on the treadmill next to Leonnius, he catches Mydei’s gaze—steady, unbothered, maybe a bit curious, and a little bit more amused.

Phainon makes a promise to himself that he shall not make a fool of himself this time.

The treadmills beep in unison as Phainon and Leonnius start up their run. At first, Phainon holds his own just fine—he matches Leonnius’ pace, finds his rhythm, and even dares to think maybe he could actually win this.

But Mydei wasn’t bluffing about Leonnius being a swift runner. At the two-kilometer mark, he casually taps a button to increase his speed, his strides eating up the distance without breaking a sweat.

Phainon, stubborn and proud, tries to keep up. He bumps up his own speed, legs pumping furiously, lungs burning, sweat stinging his eyes. Every few seconds, he sneaks a glance at Leonnius, who doesn’t even look winded yet. Phainon lowkey regrets not training his legs more for running. He’s got decent endurance when it comes to breathing, sure, but by now he can feel the muscles in his calves straining.

Desperation creeps in. Just a bit faster, he thinks, jabbing at the treadmill speed button again. The machine whirs obligingly—
—and that’s when things go wrong.

The belt moves faster than he’s ready for. His foot catches awkwardly mid-step, and suddenly he’s stumbling forward, arms pinwheeling, desperately trying to keep upright. He manages two wild, slapping steps before his shoe squeaks against the belt, throwing off his balance completely.

Phainon lets out a very undignified yelp—

—and before he can faceplant onto the machine or get launched backwards, a firm hand grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him upright.

It’s Mydei. Somehow, he’s crossed the short distance in record time, bracing Phainon steady while reaching over with his free hand to smack the treadmill’s emergency stop button.

The belt slows to a halt with a beep-beep-beep of mechanical disapproval.

Phainon, still gasping and wide-eyed, clings onto Mydei’s arm like a lifeline. Leonnius, meanwhile, slows his own treadmill to a stop, looking actually worried that it’s almost embarrassing.

“You,” Mydei says, deadpan, “are banned from racing either of us on the treadmill.”

Flushed with both exertion and embarrassment, Phainon wheezes. His heartbeat pounds erratically in his ears, like it’s about to burst. Then the faint scent of cinnamon soap—mingled with something distinctly Mydei—fills his nose, and Phainon involuntarily takes several deep breaths.

He calms down after a moment, and then he says, “Can we do it on an actual field, next time?” Because, as Cyrene said—Phainon is not a quitter.

At that, Leonnius laughs while Mydei has to help him off the treadmill because his legs fucking wobble, so badly he nearly sinks to the floor.

Phainon knows he’s going to feel it for the rest of the day—maybe even into tomorrow—but that’s the least of his worries. Right now, all he can think about is how he’s once again managed to embarrass himself spectacularly in front of Mydei.

Maybe, Phainon thinks miserably, it really would’ve been safer to keep their interactions professional. At least then Mydei wouldn’t have seen him being this stupid—

“Sit down,” Mydei commands after leading him to the nearby bench. Phainon obeys, because there’s not much else he can do, and he sure as hell is done making a fool of himself.

He’s still surprised when Mydei crouches down to check his legs, though. Phainon watches as Mydei’s fingers press lightly against the calf muscle, testing for any tightness or swelling. But then his eyes are drawn to the way Mydei’s arm muscles flex and shift under his skin with every careful movement. The loose cut of his gym tank top doesn't help either—each time he leans in, it gapes just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of smooth, firm pectorals. They look like a work of art, truly—the kind that was sculpted by the gods.

He remembers then—the red bruises scattered across those strong collarbones, the faint bite marks marring his right shoulder and chest—

Phainon swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry for reasons that have nothing to do with dehydration.

He’s so fucked. There’s no way he’d be able to go on like nothing happened when the sight of Mydei keeps reminding him of that morning.

Mydei, oblivious—or maybe mercifully pretending not to notice—taps his calf lightly. “Doesn’t feel torn, but it’s going to cramp if you don’t rest.”

"I have a morning class," Phainon huffs. "Well, it’s not like I run around for class anyway."

"Then that’s enough workout for you today," Mydei says, decisive as ever. He straightens up and grabs Phainon’s water bottle from the bench, pressing it firmly into his hands. 

"Also," he adds casually, as if it’s just a fun fact, "I forgot to mention—Leonnius is here on a sports scholarship. He’s a national runner-up for the 400-meter sprint."

Phainon stares at him, incredulous. "You what ?"

Leonnious, still leisurely cooling down nearby, grins without remorse. "You never asked."

Phainon groans into his water bottle, feeling both betrayed and stupid. No wonder Leonnius made running look effortless.

From his peripheral vision, Phainon sees Leonnius scoot closer to Mydei and whisper, “Wow, you’re right. He does look like a kicked puppy—”

Mydei shushes him. Then, turning to Phainon, he says, “That’s why—don’t feel too bad about losing. I’ll race you next time—but not on a treadmill.”

Maybe it’s just Phainon, but Mydei sounds a little awkward—and almost gentle? Beside him, Leonnius stifles a laugh, only for Mydei to elbow him.

Phainon looks up. “You’re not secretly an athlete too, are you?”

Mydei sighs. “No, I’m not.”

“He could be one if he wanted to, though,” Leonnius chimes in, earning another elbow. He quickly amends, “But not in running, no.”

“Okay,” Phainon brightens up. “It’s a promise then!”

It’s only after they part ways—when Phainon is slumped in class, calves aching—that he realizes: he was supposed to get to know Mydei today. Maybe ask him out for coffee, like Cyrene suggested. Instead, he made a fool of himself. Again.

Still, as he shifts in his seat and winces, he remembers Mydei’s promise of racing him next time, and how he said it in an awkward, almost gentle tone. So maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t completely blown it yet.

He’d just have to try harder next time.

~⋆tbc⋆~

Chapter Text

Phainon’s phone rings three seconds later.

“Hello—”

“What do you mean you fell off the treadmill?? Right In front of your crush??”

“He’s not my crush—”

“You suck at this, bro.”

Phainon groans, and Cyrene bullies him into telling the full story.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Before that promised race can happen, Phainon is buried under an avalanche of assignments—both individual and group—that quickly shove everything else to the back of his mind. Mornings at the gym are no longer an option; he’s been shouldering most of the workload in a particularly chaotic group project, which means late nights and snatching whatever extra hours he can to sleep.

Now that the worst of the group work is finally behind him, Phainon turns his attention to the next mountain: catching up on his neglected individual assignments, deadlines ticking louder with each passing day.

He still hasn’t texted Mydei, either. What would he even say? He’d meant to use the race as an excuse to reach out, but with everything else piling up, even that had slipped further down his mental checklist. If he couldn’t find the time to show up, what was the point of texting? So, like everything else lately, it got pushed aside—out of sight, out of mind.

So instead of following up on his definitely-not-a-crush, Phainon finds himself once again alone at the campus café, hunched over his laptop, trying to cram the last of his essays before the deadline.

Sometimes, Phainon thinks, the café really isn’t the best place to work. Sure, there are days when he enjoys the low hum of background chatter, or when he can plug in his earbuds and tune everything out with music. But today isn’t one of those days. Not even his second glass of americano helps him focus. Today, he needs real quiet—a place where the only noise is the faint rustle of pages or the soft clicking of keyboards. Somewhere like the library, where he won’t be tempted by noise, smells, or distractions.

Sighing to himself, Phainon closes his laptop, grabs his spare tumbler, and pours the still half-full americano into it. He gathers his things and leaves the campus café, feeling the weight of unfinished work settle heavier on his shoulders. He’s barely made any progress anyway—History is both his most and least favorite subject. He only took the class for extra credits, partly because his parents are antique collectors. Back home, they run a small gallery that also doubles as an antique shop—a place meant to showcase their curated finds while funding their ever-growing collection.

Growing up surrounded by relics from different eras—fragments of amphorae, bronze utensils, oil paintings with barely legible signatures—Phainon had always been curious about the stories behind each piece. Each item was accompanied by some tale or speculation: where it might have come from, who might have used it, what it could’ve witnessed. Sometimes, Phainon tried to appraise antiques just out of curiosity, and though he was still a long way behind his father, he liked to think he had a somewhat decent eye.

In a way, he thought studying history wouldn't be so different. It was just piecing together the bigger story—one artifact, one ruin, one forgotten name at a time. Or at least, that was what he thought when he picked History as an elective. He had expected something similar at university: discussions on the lives of everyday people, the cultural threads between objects and identity, maybe even some exploration of local legends through a historical lens.

But the actual course turned out to be far more rigid. Lectures revolved around timelines, dynasties, and policy reforms. He was drowning in lists of dates, academic jargon, and compulsory readings that seemed more focused on historiography than on the stories he cared about. He found himself missing the simple joy of holding a weathered object and letting his mind fill in the gaps.

As his mind drifts, his feet carry him a couple of blocks to the university’s central library—a two-story stone building that looks like it came straight out of a history book, fitting for one of the oldest buildings on campus. The building’s façade is all clean lines and aged marble, held up by thick stone columns, and carved above them are faded figures of old philosophers and muses from Amphorean history. 

Phainon remembers why he doesn’t come here often—this building feels almost intimidating, almost sacred, like he’s expected to behave the moment he steps inside. He usually prefers places with a warmer, more inviting atmosphere. At least the library doesn’t look as imposing as it did in winter. Now that spring is well underway, ivy creeps along the walls, and tall cypress trees and clusters of blooming flowers line the walkway leading up to the steps.

The heavy wooden doors groan softly as he pushes one open, giving way to cool, hushed air tinged with the scent of paper, polished wood, and something older—dust and time, maybe. Tall windows framed by stone columns let in soft daylight, which spills across the stone floor in long stripes, illuminating the rows of towering bookshelves on the ground level. The shelves are neatly organized, their sections marked by small brass plaques. Above, a column-lined gallery wraps around the open central hall, its pale stone balustrade overlooking the space below.

The first floor houses the bulk of the university’s collection, shelved tall and tight. A few rows of large tables sit in the middle of the hall, already packed with students doing group work. The gallery level is reserved for a more relaxed study space—broad tables and individual workstations set between stone arches, with cushy reading corners tucked into alcoves along the walls. Soft lighting spills from old-fashioned sconces and pendant lights, casting a warm glow over the dark wood furnishings. 

Phainon considers getting a few reference books to help him finish his essay first, but seeing the crowd already gathered in clusters around shared tables, he decides to prioritize finding an empty seat before anything else.

So he goes to the second floor, hoping to find a seat in one of the individual workspaces. But alas, he isn’t the only one looking for a quiet place—especially at this time of the semester, when midterms are a few weeks away and people are flooded with assignments. 

Eventually, Phainon finds a relatively unoccupied table—that is, a work table for six that only has two people sitting at it. One is a girl with purple hair in low twin tails, thick glasses sitting on her face as she types away on her laptop; and sitting beside her is a guy with dark shoulder-length hair tied haphazardly as his hooded eyes spares him a glance when he approaches the table.

Phainon puts on a friendly smile, hoping it isn’t a study date he’s crashing on. “Excuse me, mind if I sit here?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind these,” the guy in the navy shirt says, gesturing to the spread of books and journals covering the table between him and the girl. At a glance, it’s obvious they’re medical students, perhaps still in their pre-clinical studies judging from the thick anatomy textbooks lie open beside neatly highlighted physiology notes, and a few academic journals are stacked nearby. A sketchbook sits by the girl’s elbow, anatomical figure and a drawing of a human heart.

Now it’s Phainon who’s worried he might be disturbing them. “Ah, I’m sorry—if it’s too much trouble, I can find another spot—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” the girl says this time. Like her friend, she looks tired behind her glasses, but she offers him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s hard to find a seat around this time, I get it.”

“Thank you! I’ll make sure not to get in your way,” Phainon replies gratefully, settling at the outer corner of the table opposite them to give them space.

Once he finishes setting up his laptop and pulling out his notebook, Phainon gives the two students a polite nod. “I’ll be back in a bit—just going to look for a couple of reference books,” he says.

The girl waves him off with an understanding smile, already turning back to her notes. Phainon quietly slips away, going back downstairs to access the full collection. He weaves through the aisles of shelves with purpose, the quiet rustle of pages and the soft hum of fluorescent lights guiding him deeper into the library until he finds the history section.

This section has one of the most book-dense layouts in the building, with tall shelves crammed to the edges and narrow walkways that force him to turn sideways if someone else passes through. Titles range from ancient civilizations and war chronicles to obscure political treatises and translated personal letters of long-dead monarchs. They even have a subsection on the mythology of the Titans in Amphoreus—a series of tales that once accompanied Phainon’s childhood nights.

Phainon trails a finger along the spines until he spots a familiar name—one of the historians he’s loosely referencing in his essay—and pulls the book out with a quiet huff of relief. He cradles it in both hands, scrutinizing the title and flipping through the index to make sure the topics he needs are actually covered. Just in case, he decides to grab a couple more promising volumes.

Arms now slowly filling with books, he makes his way toward the end of the aisle. As he’s about to turn right toward the stairs, he accidentally jostles into someone approaching from the left.

Phainon yelps—softly—and jerks to the side, nearly dropping all three books in his arms. One teeters, slips, and is caught by a quick hand before it hits the floor.

“Careful with the books,” comes the familiar gruff voice.

Phainon blinks, eyes trailing from the book that was nearly knocked from his hands to the one who caught it—only to meet a brilliant pair of amber eyes. His heart stutters, involuntarily, and he quickly clears his throat in a poor attempt to cover it up.

Of course it’s now that he runs into Mydei. Phainon honestly can’t tell if Fate is being nice to him or just loves to see him fumbling.

Judging by the faint flicker of surprise in those eyes, Mydei hadn’t expected the encounter either—but, as always, he recovers quickly, smoothing his expression back into that calm, unbothered look he wears so well.

"Oh, hey," Phainon says, aiming for casual, though his eyes flick—briefly—to the red tattoo peeking out from where Mydei’s maroon shirt is unbuttoned, down to the third button. When he looks back up, Mydei is already raising an eyebrow, clearly catching where Phainon’s gaze had just wandered.

Phainon clears his throat again and adds, a little too quickly, “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Without a word, Mydei pushes the book back into his arms, fingers brushing briefly against Phainon’s. Phainon tries not to notice how defined Mydei’s forearm looks with his sleeves rolled up, but his eyes betray him—and when he finally drags them back up, he’s met with an amused gleam in those sharp eyes.

Mydei doesn’t say anything, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth says enough. Phainon wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. 

“Cramming?” Mydei asks suddenly, gesturing to the pile in Phainon’s arms.

Bless the Titans—Mydei is mercifully not mentioning the way Phainon had been embarrassingly staring. So Phainon quickly takes the offered out, replying—perhaps a little too loudly—“Yes. I’ve got some history essays I’m weeks behind on, no thanks to group projects.”

Mydei hums. “So that’s where you’ve been.”

The way Mydei says it is casual, but Phainon hears it—or maybe it’s his hopes playing tricks on him—but there’s just a flicker of implication, like Mydei had noticed his absence too.

And maybe that’s why he feels emboldened to say, “Aww, did you actually miss me?”

Mydei gives him the most deadpan look Phainon has ever received—worse than the ones he gets after a botched proposal presentation—and Phainon immediately rethinks his life choices.

“…It was a joke,” he mutters, weakly. Phainon can practically hear Cyrene’s exasperated voice in his head, scolding him for fumbling yet again.

Mydei exhales through his nose, a subtle huff of amusement. “I missed the entertainment, maybe.”

Phainon gapes at him for half a second, cheeks warming as his brain quickly runs through the many stupid things he’s done in Mydei’s presence. Then, to mask his embarrassment, he lets out a sarcastic, “Glad to be of service.”

Mydei simply snorts at that. “Well, if you’re trying to be productive, I won’t keep you.”

Phainon’s mind, pathetically, says, I wouldn’t mind if you did, but he squashes that thought—he’s already embarrassed himself enough in under five minutes. So instead, he walks with Mydei toward the stairs, since they’re headed the same way.

He doesn’t expect them to be heading to the same table.

Phainon thinks it’s odd when, as they turn the corner onto the second-floor gallery, the purple-haired girl looks up and waves almost excitedly. For a second, Phainon nearly waves back, thinking she’s being friendly—only for the guy beside her to glance up and say, “Oh, Mydeimos. You’re finally here.”

Mydei gives a small nod in greeting, barely slowing his stride, and sets the book he’s carrying down beside the guy’s stack of notes—right across from where Phainon has already set up his laptop and materials.

Phainon blinks, glancing between the three of them. “Wait—you know each other?”

Mydei raises an eyebrow and returns the question. “You know them?”

“No, he just joined us because he couldn’t find an empty seat,” the dark-haired guy replies instead. Then, glancing between Phainon and Mydei, he adds, “I didn’t know you were friends with Mydeimos.”

“We’re, uh…” Not exactly friends, Phainon supposes—but it would be nice if they were. Still, he opts for the safer, more neutral answer. “I was under his care during preparations for the last debate competition.”

Something like understanding—or recognition—flashes across the guy’s face. “Ah. The proposal guy?”

Mydei’s eyebrow twitches. “What has Leonnius been saying?”

“You’d know if you actually read the group chat once in a while,” his friend replies with a casual wave. Then he extends that same hand toward Phainon. “I’m Perdikkas, by the way, and this is my classmate, Castorice.”

“Oh, nice to meet you both.” Phainon shakes Perdikkas’ hand, then offers his to Castorice as well. “I’m Phainon, from Comms and Media.”

He flashes his usual charming smile, though inwardly, he’s trying not to think too hard about the fact that Mydei’s friend Leonnius has apparently been talking about him.

Hopefully not about that incident. Perdikkas only said “Proposal Guy,” which isn’t… too damning? Leonnius wasn’t even involved in the preparation, but he always seemed to be around Mydei when they met at the gym. And Phainon did mention Mydei helped oversee his proposal when they were introduced. 

Well. Phainon survives the rather awkward introduction and continues to awkwardly sit across from Mydei, trying not to stare for too long. He definitely hadn’t expected to run into him today. There’s something different about him. Phainon had seen him in glasses plenty of times during the debate competition prep, but back then Mydei was almost always frowning—either in concentration or because of how abysmal he thought the proposal was.

Now, though…

Phainon risks another glance—and finds himself lingering.

There’s a softness to Mydei like this, seated under the warm overhead light, half-shadowed by the sweep of his bangs. His glasses slide just slightly down the bridge of his nose, and he absently pushes them up as he reads. His posture is relaxed, one arm propped up so his cheek rests against a loosely curled fist, while the other hand turns the pages of his book with an ease that speaks of deep familiarity.

Phainon follows the line of his jaw, the sharp cut of cheekbones softened by the golden fall of his hair, touched with that unmistakable red at the tips. Even like this, in complete stillness, Mydei has a presence—like someone built from calm confidence and quiet control. Even the smallest movement, the shift of his fingers, the tap of his pen, feels deliberate.

And Phainon is staring. Again.

“I thought you had a deadline,” Mydei says suddenly, still not looking up from his book. “You should get to work, Deliverer.”

Phainon startles, heat rushing to his face, especially when he hears Castorice stifle a giggle. He chances a glance at Mydei, who still isn’t looking at him—but the corner of his lips is twitching, unmistakably amused.

“Deliverer?” Perdikkas asks. “Do you work in delivery or something?”

“No, he’s the errand boy of the Comms and Media Dept,” Mydei explains. “Delivering proposals back and forth and all that.”

“Ah.” Perdikkas nods in understanding. “That’s why he’s the proposal guy.”

Phainon is just glad that the topic has shifted from his apparent staring. So this time, he actually wills himself to get to work.

They settle into a quiet rhythm after that, the only sounds being the occasional flip of pages and soft keyboard clicks. The library hums with subdued energy: a few muted whispers, the distant creak of a chair, the low whirr of the air vents. Phainon manages to stay focused for a solid stretch, chipping away at one of the essay prompts he’d been pushing back for weeks in favor of group projects that he ended up doing most of the work for.

Eventually, the fatigue sets in. His eyes blur over a particularly dense paragraph about early Amphorean trade relations, and he lets out a quiet groan as he leans back and rubs at his temple. He’s not the only one, though. Castorice, seated diagonally across from him, has already slumped over her notes in defeat and Perdikkas is distractedly doodling anatomical diagrams on the corner of his worksheet.

Then, unexpectedly, Mydei pulls a small container from his bag and pops the lid open with a quiet click. The smell hits almost instantly—rich, bittersweet chocolate with a hint of spice and roasted nuts.

“Want some?” he offers, nudging the container toward the middle of the table. Inside are neat pieces of chocolate bark, studded with almonds, pumpkin seeds, and what looks like dried figs. “Made it last night.”

Before Phainon can say anything, Castorice is already making grabby hands across the table. “Yes, absolutely, bless you,” she says, snatching a piece with dramatic reverence. “You’re always a lifesaver during these study sessions, Lord Mydei.”

Perdikkas chuckles despite the tiredness in his eyes. He takes a piece and adds, “Every time we start burning out, he shows up with snacks. We thank you for your generosity, Lord Mydeimos.”

“Quit the dramatics,” Mydei says, rolling his eyes—but he doesn’t actually protest. Noticing Phainon just watching the exchange, Mydei nudges the container closer and says, “You can have some too.”

Phainon blinks, caught somewhere between amusement and mild awe. Maybe the "lord" thing is some kind of inside joke, but Mydei takes it in stride. Honestly, it kind of fits—he does carry himself with that kind of poise. Which is why Phainon hadn’t quite pegged him as the chocolate-making type—or the cooking and baking type in general. But thinking back to that morning—the sandwich Mydei made, looking like something off a fancy café menu and tasting just as good—it actually adds up.

Slowly, Phainon reaches for a piece, careful not to drop any of the seeds. “This looks really good.”

“It tastes good too,” Mydei replies with the quiet confidence that Phainon always finds unfairly attractive.

So Phainon does, biting into the bark and finding it actually delicious—rich, dark chocolate with just the right amount of sweetness, and a lingering warmth of cinnamon. “How is this so good?” Phainon asks in between bites. “How are you good at everything? This isn’t fair.”

Perdikkas raises an amused eyebrow while Castorice stifles another giggle. And Mydei simply says, “Just eat and don’t make a mess, Deliverer.”

“I’m not,” Phainon pouts but he does eat slowly, placing a hand under his chin whenever he takes a bite. Chocolate barks are generally tidy to eat, but this one has a lot of nuts filling.

In the lull as everyone munches away at the chocolate bark, soft murmurs and the occasional appreciative sigh fill the table. Then, out of nowhere, Castorice speaks up.

“I just remembered something my roommate told me a while ago—about her brother,” she begins, tone flat as if she’s simply telling about the weather.

Mydei and Perdikkas both hum in acknowledgment, clearly accustomed to Castorice’s sudden bursts of gossip. Phainon, meanwhile, only half-listens at first, assuming it’s just one of those conversations he probably isn’t meant to join as an outsider.

“So apparently, her brother had this one-night stand not too long ago,” Castorice continues, popping another bite of chocolate into her mouth. “Woke up in some guy’s bed totally confused, no clue how they got there—freaked out and everything. Worse, he actually kind of knew the guy.”

Perdikkas snorts. “Wow, talk about awkward.”

“Right? Apparently, they agreed to pretend it never happened, and yet her brother’s been hung up on him for weeks now.” Castorice pauses to take another bite of chocolate bark, while a slow, creeping dread settles into Phainon’s stomach. Because—why does this sound familiar?

Across the table, Mydei slowly raises an eyebrow, now clearly paying attention to Castorice. Phainon gulps.

“So this guy offered her brother a shower and even made him breakfast,” Castorice adds, sounding just a bit dreamy. “That’s awfully nice for a one-night stand. It’d be hard to forget someone like that.”

“Wow,” Perdikkas says dryly, like he’s responding just to let Castorice know he’s still listening, even as he returns his attention to his laptop.

Undeterred, Castorice goes on, “Anyway, my roommate said her brother just kept thinking about the guy—or his body, who knows. But anyways. He didn’t know how to text him. I don’t get the problem. The guy gave him breakfast—that’s the perfect excuse to text him and ask him out for coffee as a thank you or something.”

Phainon goes very, very still.

He remembers how Cyrene told him exactly that. It can’t be… right? What kind of coincidence is this? What are the chances that the roommate Castorice is talking about is Cyrene?

“That brother of hers sounds kind of hopeless,” Perdikkas comments flatly, not even looking up.

“I know, right? Apparently, he’s usually smooth with people. She doesn’t get how he fumbled this so badly. I think it’s kind of cute, though. He’s like a lost puppy, the way he wants this guy’s attention but doesn’t know how to even ask for it.”

Phainon feels the world tilt just slightly. He suddenly becomes very interested in the last piece of chocolate bark in front of him, not daring to look at anyone—especially not Mydei.

And yet, from the corner of his eye, he catches the smallest glance from Mydei. Not accusatory. Just… aware. Like he’s starting to connect the dots.

Alright, it’s time to escape.

Phainon discreetly gathers his things while Perdikkas is commenting, “Huh, sounds like her brother didn’t usually hook up. How did he end up in one—oh wait. Alcohol.”

“Alcohol,” Castorice echoes, nodding as she starts scribbling furiously in one of her notebooks.

Perdikkas glances at her and sighs before turning his attention back to his laptop—only to catch Phainon right as he’s closing the lid of his own.

“Oh, you’re done already?” Perdikkas asks.

Phainon tries not to flinch. He doesn’t even dare to meet Mydei’s eyes. Instead, he quickly shoves his things into his bag and says, “Yeah, I just remembered I have somewhere to be. Thanks for letting me share the table!”

He’s already slinging his backpack over one shoulder, ready to bolt, when he suddenly hears Mydei say, “Phainon, wait.”

At the use of his actual name rather than the usual nickname, Phainon freezes mid-step. Slowly, he turns back, trying to mask the alarm rising in his chest. When he responds, it comes out a little high-pitched. “Yeah?”

Mydei stands—still calm, still unreadable. He nods toward the small stack of reference books Phainon left on the table, one of them still open. “You need to return those to the shelves.”

“Oh.” Phainon glances at the pile and immediately feels stupid. “Right. Sorry, I—yeah.”

“I’ll help you,” Mydei says simply, closing the open book and stacking it with the others before picking them all up.

Phainon hesitates. “You really don’t have to—”

“It’s fine.” Mydei’s tone is even, but there’s a glint of something in his eyes—that same calm observation and perhaps, a bit of curiosity. “Come on.”

And so Phainon follows. Mydei took all his books, including the one he wanted to check out to borrow, so he has to follow him anyway. They went down the stairs, then to the row of shelves within the History section. All the time, Mydei is quiet, so Phainon doesn’t speak either. 

When they arrive at the aisle where Phainon originally got the books, he wonders if now is the right time to mention that he still needs one of them.

Before he can open his mouth, Mydei beats him to it.

“I was wondering if you’d text,” he says casually, sliding a book back onto the shelf.

Phainon’s eyes widen. His cheeks grow warm, and maybe his heart starts beating just a little faster. The words make him feel hopeful though also a little dreadful. 

“You did?” he asks, almost in wonder. “But I thought you wanted to pretend nothing happened.”

Having shelved the last book, Mydei crosses his arms with a quiet huff. “Only because you looked like you were freaking out.”

Phainon winces, rubbing the back of his neck. “I kind of was.”

Mydei gives him a look—somewhere between amused and speculative. “You don’t usually do one-night stands,” he concludes.

“No, I don’t,” Phainon confirms. “I also don’t usually get so stupidly drunk that I forget everything in the morning, just so you know.”

“That makes the both of us,” Mydei agrees with a sigh. “We had a drinking competition and got—well. Competitive.”

That actually sounds like something they’d do. Phainon can feel a knot loosening in his chest and lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah. I can see how that would happen.”

Mydei scoffs, and Phainon clears his throat. He feels like he needs to say something—needs to make something clear. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he blurts out, “I wasn’t freaking out because I regretted it.”

That makes Mydei’s brow lift slightly. He doesn’t say anything right away, but when he does, it’s with measured calm. “That’s good to know. But I don’t think the library is the place to talk about this.”

Phainon’s ears burn. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

There’s a small pause, filled only by the faint rustle of pages and distant footsteps.

Then, using the last of his courage, Phainon asks, “Are you free right now?”

“I am. Why?”

“Can I buy you coffee?” Phainon offers, scratching the back of his neck. “For—well, that delicious sandwich you made me that morning. It’s very late, I know. Just... I also haven’t thanked you properly for all your help during the event preparations, and—well. For not laughing at me now, I guess?”

Mydei tilts his head, considering. The longer he takes to think, the more nervous Phainon gets. But he has a feeling he needs to act now, or he’ll regret it—embarrassment be damned.

Finally, Mydei looks at him, lips curling into a small smirk. “I thought you had somewhere to be?”

Phainon groans and buries his face in both hands. “Spare me,” he murmurs into his palms.

A quiet chuckle rings in the air—and Phainon immediately perks up, pulling his hands away just in time to see—

Mydei, stifling a laugh against his fist. The way his shoulders shake with quiet laughter, the way that strawberry-blond hair frames his face and sways with the movement... it’s all so mesmerizing that Phainon almost forgets to breathe. He remembers that morning again, when he saw Mydei laugh for the first time, and how he’d wished they’d met under different circumstances—so that maybe they could’ve been friends.

Well, he could start trying now, right?

Especially after Mydei calms down and answers, “Sure, but I get to pick the place.”

Phainon tries not to look too relieved, but his smile probably betrays him, stretching his cheeks until they hurt.

“Sure! But first, I need to check a book out.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

The coffee shop Mydei leads them to is a quiet, hole-in-the-wall place tucked just one block behind campus. From the outside, it’s easy to miss—just a narrow wooden door with a brass handle, framed by ivy that snakes around a modest sign barely bigger than a notebook. A slightly fogged window beside the door allows a peek inside: warm light, soft colors, and a few people quietly chatting over mugs of coffee.

Phainon takes it in slowly. From the outside, it looks nothing like the trendy cafés near the student commons—no neon signs or designated photo spots. This place feels older, lived-in, and maybe some would even call it outdated. But something about it reminds him of the old houses back in his quiet countryside hometown.

Mydei’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “Hey, quit standing there like a creeper and come in,” he says, holding the door open with one hand and arching a brow at him.

Phainon startles, then hurries up with a sheepish laugh. “Sorry, just… appreciating the vibes,” he replies before following Mydei inside.

Once they step through the door, the air is thick with the rich scent of coffee, butter, and something sweet baking in the back. The cafe is small but cozy, with soft lighting that casts everything in a gentle glow. Instead of the clean, minimalistic style more modern cafes tend to adopt, the furniture here is a mix of mismatched tables and worn-out armchairs—some leathers, others wooden—but each one was clearly chosen more for comfort than style. A shelf of books leans slightly in the corner, housing a jumble of old novels and yellowing magazines. There’s even an orange cat dozing by the counter, its ears twitching lazily at the sound of the espresso machine.

It all feels so cozy and warm. So comfortable. It’s not a place Phainon would’ve expected Mydei to like, but somehow, it also makes sense—especially when he thinks about what little he’s seen of Mydei outside their event preps dealings.

The barista greets Mydei with familiarity, offering a smile that speaks of routine. “Good to see you again, Mydei. The usual?”

Mydei nods and turns to Phainon. “Their freddo espresso is good, but pretty strong—if you still need to tackle your essay later. Otherwise, I usually get their pomegranate milkshake. They use goat milk here.”

“Oh, hmm.” Phainon takes a moment to scan the menu. He’s tempted to follow Mydei’s recommendation, but he’s already had a shot of espresso in the morning and an iced Americano before he head to the library today. Still, he’s never had a pomegranate milkshake before… and if Mydei likes it, then maybe it’s worth trying. “I’ll try the pomegranate milkshake too, then.”

“And something sweet for him,” Mydei adds. Before Phainon can protest, he glances at him and says, “You look like you need it. And you’re paying anyway.”

“Right…” Phainon gives in, and the barista throws him a knowing smile. After placing the order and paying, Phainon lingers a bit at the counter and whispers, “Two sets of cutlery, so we can share, please.”

“Of course,” the barista whispers back with a wink. “Enjoy your date!”

Phainon wonders if it even counts as a date, but he simply smiles and follows Mydei deeper into the café.

They find a seat near the back, beside a bookshelf filled with old books and scattered knick-knacks. It’s quieter here, the dimmer lighting giving the corner a sense of calm and privacy. Perhaps it’s not intentional that Mydei picks this spot—after all, the café is fairly busy, though not nearly as crowded as the one on campus.

Still, Phainon can't help but notice how nice it feels, sitting across from Mydei like this without event prep notes, printed out proposals littered in red inks, and looming deadlines between them. Just the soft hum of conversation, the clink of cups, and the faint smell of something sweet baking in the oven.

“So,” Mydei says after a beat, his voice low but not unfriendly. “Are we going to talk about it? Or should we keep pretending we’re just here for milkshakes?”

Phainon chokes, caught completely off guard by how casually—and suddenly—Mydei brings it up. Then again, they had started this conversation earlier at the library. He fidgets with the paper napkin in front of him, folding and unfolding it as he tries to gather his thoughts.

“Well… I’m not sure where to start,” he admits, not quite meeting Mydei’s eyes. “It’s like you said, I did mean to text you, but I didn’t know what to even say. I mean, we barely knew each other outside of work stuff, and then suddenly we—”

“Slept together?” Mydei finishes, tilting his head slightly. He has that habit, Phainon notices, and it’s actually kind of cute—

Wait. He’s getting distracted again. Phainon flushes. “Yeah, though we didn’t go all the way, did we? Haha… anyways, it’s bad enough that I didn’t even remember anything… I mean, now that you mentioned the drinking competition, I vaguely remember something like that, but honestly, not much after. Or how we got to your place, and—well.”

He’s rambling. Phainon realizes it by the way his hands keep gesturing as he speaks and how his eyes flick away the moment they land on Mydei’s. It’s unfair, the way Mydei just sits there calmly, legs spread like he owns the place. Admittedly, that, too, is distracting.

Just then, the barista rings the bell and calls out Mydei’s name, signaling that their orders are ready.

“Wait, I’ll go get them,” Phainon says quickly, stopping Mydei before he can stand. He rushes to the counter.

It feels a little like running away, to be honest, but Phainon tells himself he just needs a moment to breathe—and this is the perfect excuse.

He pauses in front of the counter, staring at their order as he breathes in deep. Okay, he can do this. He’s a grown ass man, and Phainon feels like he’s embarrassed himself enough by now, that it can’t get any worse, right? 

Right.

So he carries the tray back to their table—two tall glasses of pale pink pomegranate milkshake, each topped with a dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of something crimson, and a plate of pancakes. There are already two sets of cutlery, just as he requested. As he carefully sets the tray down, he feels the weight of Mydei’s gaze on him. Not intense, not judgmental—just watching. Patient.

He slides one of the milkshakes across the table, places the golden pancakes in the middle, and sets the cutlery on each side.

“Here you go,” he says, aiming for his usual cheerful smile. “We should share the pancakes—they’re pretty big.”

Mydei hums his thanks. “They call this the Golden Honeycake. It’s one of their specialties.”

“I see.” Phainon nods. Out of habit, he takes out his phone to snap a photo of the honeycake. Maybe he’ll send it to Cyrene later. 

When he puts his phone down, Phainon notices Mydei watching him with a raised eyebrow. He smiles sheepishly and rubs the back his neck.

“Sorry, I usually send photos to my sister when I eat something good,” he explains. 

“Your sister, huh,” Mydei responds, contemplating. Then, Phainon remembers what just happened in the library and that Cyrene’s roommate is most likely Mydei’s friend. 

Just remembering how a random girl has unknowingly outed him like that was enough to send heat up his face again.

So he moves away from the topic. “You come here often?” Phainon tries.

“Since my first year. Sometimes I come here with friends.”

Right. Mydei doesn’t strike him as the type to have a lot of friends, probably because he comes off aloof most of the time. But now that Phainon thinks about it, by today, he’s seen at least three people who seem close to Mydei. Didn’t Perdikkas also mention a group chat? Maybe he’s more personable than he’d assumed.

That thought brings a quiet pang. He really doesn’t know much about Mydei—and Phainon doesn’t like that.

He pushes the feeling aside and takes a sip of his milkshake as a distraction. The taste is sweet, tangy, and surprisingly refreshing. A bit too sweet for his usual preferences, but it’s growing on him.

“This is pretty good,” Phainon comments, mostly to keep the conversation going. “Is this your favorite?”

Mydei nods, sipping slowly like he’s savoring it. “I can make it at home, but theirs still tastes better.”

“I never pegged you as someone with a sweet tooth,” Phainon says with a low chuckle. “I mean, you always seem so strict. And you’ve got the body of someone who’s… health-conscious, for lack of a better word.”

Mydei raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. “What does my preference for sweets have to do with my body? Are you checking me out?”

Phainon nearly chokes. “That’s not—! I mean, I wasn’t trying to—uh—”

Mydei lets out an amused snort. “You’re not exactly subtle. Especially at the gym.”

Oh, Phainon wants to die.

Of course he noticed. Anyone with a body like his has to be aware of the attention. Phainon’s seen it—how people watch Mydei while he’s lifting, stretching... existing. Of course he’s used to it. And Phainon? He was probably being incredibly obvious the whole time.

He opens his mouth to say something—anything—but a low chuckle from Mydei cuts him off.

“Relax,” Mydei says, setting his milkshake down and picking up his fork. “Sweets are fine in moderation. Like most things.”

He cuts into the honeycake, lifts a syrupy slice to his mouth, and takes a slow, thoughtful bite. He hums in approval, then lets his eyes drift—once, deliberately—from Phainon’s face down to his chest, then back up again.

Then, calmly, Mydei says, “Your body doesn’t look like someone who slacks off. A little dessert won’t hurt you.”

Phainon lets out a small laugh, caught somewhere between flattered and flustered. Was that a compliment? It kind of sounded like a compliment. Maybe even flirting?

He stirs his milkshake just to keep his hands busy. “That’s… nice of you to say,” he replies, smiling into his straw. “I guess I’ll take that as your professional opinion.”

Mydei quirks a brow. “Professional?”

“Well, I mean, gym expert. Resident health-conscious sweet tooth.”

That earns him a scoff and a quiet “Haikas.” Phainon heard Mydei say that a few times before. He still hasn’t figured out what that means. Before he can ask, though, Mydei gestures to the plate between them. “Just eat the damn honeycake.”

“Okay, okay.” Phainon cuts a piece and pops it into his mouth. It's sweet, fluffy, and almost unfairly good. “...Alright, you win. This is dangerous.”

“See?” Mydei leans back in his seat, looking smug for seemingly no reason. “Told you.”

And just like that, the tension between them softens into something easier. Warmer. So Phainon thinks this might be as good a time as any to restart that conversation they’d started in the library.

He takes a deep breath. “So, about what we talked about before…” He pauses, trying to find the right words. “You’re right. I’ve never had a one-night stand before, and with you, I had no memory of what actually happened. That’s why I panicked—I literally had no clue what to do.”

Mydei hums to let him know he’s listening, but doesn’t interrupt. He’s focused on cutting into the pancake again, then taking another bite.

“I was afraid things would be awkward, but then you made breakfast, and we got to talk, and I thought—oh, you’re actually easy to talk to when you’re not tearing into my proposals—”

“That was necessary,” Mydei says flatly, without missing a beat.

Phainon laughs, a little caught off guard by the deadpan delivery. “Okay, fair. Still scary, though.”

Mydei shrugs. “Scary gets results.”

“What are you, a killer professor?” Phainon shakes his head in amusement, while Mydei lets out another scoff and takes a sip of his milkshake.

There’s another easy pause—comfortable now, not loaded like before. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled with words, as soft music from the cafe speakers mingles with the occasional clatter of cups and the quiet murmur of conversation around them. Phainon takes another sip of his milkshake, noting again how sweet it is, but somehow it fits the moment. He watches the way the amber light bounces on Mydei’s blond hair and softens his features.

There’s something friendlier about the way Mydei leans back slightly in his seat now. His expression relaxed and more open. He looks softer like this. 

And then Phainon thinks—this might be the weirdest but nicest non-date he’s ever been on.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” he says quietly, eyes focused on the rim of his glass rather than on Mydei. “And I don’t mean in the ‘oh no, what did I do?’ kind of way. I meant it when I said I didn’t regret it. I just... didn’t know how to text you. Our chat window is filled with all that work stuff from event prep, you know? So it felt weird to suddenly drop a casual message. Especially after I made that really thoughtless comment that morning.”

“Thoughtless comment?” Mydei tilts his head, brow slightly raised—until recognition settles on his face. Phainon can see the exact moment he remembers, and he really wishes he wouldn’t.

‘Do you usually show this much hospitality to your one-night stands?’

Yeah. That one. Titans.

Now that he thinks back on it, Phainon feels an intense urge to go back in time and smack himself across the face. Sure, he apologized immediately, and Mydei forgave him just as fast, but still—

“Ah, that,” Mydei says at last, and Phainon’s stomach dips a little in anticipation. But Mydei only takes a slow sip of his milkshake before adding, “I don’t usually do one-night stands either. Especially not with someone I see semi-regularly.”

Phainon feels a twinge of guilt at that. Regardless of his intentions, his question that morning did sound accusatory in hindsight. It shouldn’t matter how often or not Mydei had hookups—that’s no one’s business but his own.

“But you,” Mydei continues, pulling Phainon’s attention back to him. “I kind of knew you. So making an extra portion while I was already making my own breakfast felt like a decent thing to do. Besides, you looked like you needed it.”

“Oh.” Phainon takes another sip of his drink, unsure what to say. He’s both flustered and oddly touched. After a beat, he looks up to meet Mydei’s eyes and offers a smile. “You’re actually really nice, aren’t you?”

Mydei blinks, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “For making breakfast?”

“I feel like that’s such an understatement, but sure, if you want to frame it that way.” Phainon grins. He stirs his milkshake, trying to gather his thoughts. “That morning, I also thought—well, that you were actually nice. And that... it would be nice to be your friend.”

Wait. It feels like that came out a bit differently then he wanted to, but—

Mydei stares. And stares. And stares.

Then: “You wanted to be friends?”

There’s something in his voice—mild disbelief, definite amusement, and maybe... something warmer underneath.

A soft chuckle escapes him, and he presses a fist to his mouth again. That, too, is a habit Phainon is starting to recognize—and one he wouldn’t mind seeing more of.

“Sure,” Mydei says after a moment, laughter still lingering in his voice. “Being friends is a good start, I guess. But I’m not going to pretend that night didn’t happen. You don't have to either. I think it’ll be easier for us both.”

The words settle into Phainon like a weight he hadn’t realized he was carrying—one that now feels a little lighter.

“Yeah,” Phainon agrees. “It’s less complicated that way.”

Because honestly? Phainon isn’t built for that—tiptoeing around issues and pretending everything’s fine.

“I figured,” Mydei says with a small smile. “You’re more the type to blurt something out and regret it later.”

“That’s... rude, but fair,” Phainon replies, resigned but amused, his lips twitching into a grin. “I swear, sometimes my mouth moves faster than my brain. You have full permission to smack me if it happens again.”

“I’ll definitely take you up on that. Maybe then your head wouldn’t be so empty.”

“Hey!!”

“Now, as your friend,” Mydei starts, emphasizing the word almost playfully, “I advise you to finish whatever essay you were working on. If it’s history, I might be able to help.”

“Really?” Phainon’s eyes light up. “Wow, I’m so glad you’re my friend now, Lord Mydeimos.”

Mydei scrunches up his nose. “Don’t call me that.”

Phainon laughs and pulls out his laptop along with the book he borrowed from the library earlier. As they lean in to talk about the essay, the air feels lighter, warmer—like they’ve found a new, comfortable pace. 

The milkshakes are mostly gone, the honeycake long finished, but neither of them seems in any hurry to leave. And for all the strange twists that led them here, Phainon thinks this is definitely the best non-date he’s ever had.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

𓂃 ོ☼ tbc ོ𓂃

𓂃 BONUS 𓂃