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khuzena · 24 days ago

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The Ink Didn’t Fade

Phainon’s Version: My DearestPairing: Phainon x AFAB!Reader Word Count: 11.1k (overall fic)

Part 1, Part 2

Summary: He held the line. He made the shot. He remembered the smell of your burnt bacon while bleeding out.

A casket. A letter. A love that survived the war—he just didn’t.

Phainon died a soldier. But he loved you like a man.

And the ink didn’t fade.

C.w: Major character death, war themes, graphic violence, implied ptsd, survivor's guilt, tragedy, hallucinations, violence, blood, grief, separation anxiety

A/n: second part here we fking go bro SOBS HYSTERICCALY I WAS GOING INSAEN TRYING TO POST IT YESTERDAY ON MOBILE BUT IT KEPT CRASHING AND WOULDN'T SAVE. It was actual hell trying to post from mobile so I had to wait AGAIN to post it so welpp here we are. HEy, read part 1 first !!!! idk man wtf why

taglist: @reapersan @strawb3rri-bliss @sugilitez @aerisevx @takeyomikamakura

The moment you step out of the bathroom, the hallway slams into you again.

Shouting. Moaning. Blood on the floor.

Hyacine runs past, her braid loose, gloves smeared red. “He’s seizing!”

Another soldier. You follow, legs still trembling, mind still fraying at the edges. You’ve already treated six today. You’ve watched three die.

You’re not supposed to be this shaken.

You can’t afford to be.

But your hands are trembling, and your heart won’t stop racing. There’s no time to cry again. There's no time to feel.

Inside the treatment room, it’s chaos. The boy who just came in is on the cot, shirt half-ripped open, wound gushing from his lower abdomen. He’s maybe nineteen. His mouth foams faintly at the edge, his eyes rolled back. He's losing blood. Fast.

“BP 85 over 50,” Hyacine yells. “He’s going into hypovolemic shock.”

Your body moves. Instinct. Experience. You grab gauze, press it to the wound, and call for saline.

“Get the morphine,” you mutter. “He won’t hold long.”

Mira’s already preparing the syringe behind you.

But the bottle’s half empty.

There’s a shortage. Everything’s running low. Running low on meds, hands, and hope.

You grab another vial. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You try to steady them. But your vision is swimming, and your ears are ringing, and…

You miss the mark.

The syringe pulls in too much. 10 milligrams.

Too much. Far too much.

“Mira!” Hyacine yells before you can inject. “That’s over 10!”

“What?” You freeze. The needle’s inches from his arm.

Mira’s already stepping forward. She gently but firmly takes it from your hand. “This is your second shift with no break,” she says, voice soft, “Go sit down. I’ll do it.”

You blink. “I’m—no, I can still—”

“You almost overdosed him.”

The words land like bullets.

The boy coughs, blood spurting over the side of the cot.

You step back, dazed. Mira adjusts the dosage quickly to 2 milligrams. Not a hair more. She injects it fast and starts wrapping the wound, calling for clamps and thread.

You’re still standing there. Stupid. Frozen.

Hyacine looks up, her expression torn between worry and frustration. “You need to rest,” she says. “You're doing too much. We all are.”

But you don’t move.

You hear the clipboard clatter against the table. Somewhere, one of the newer nurses vomits in the sink.

Everything’s falling apart.

You’re down five nurses this afternoon alone. One of them fainted in the hall from dehydration. Two are treating the burn victims from last night’s shelling. Another is coughing up blood herself. The last? You’re not sure. She hasn’t come back since noon. Maybe she never will.

The soldier on the cot begins to breathe normally again. Mira wipes his face. Hyacine double-checks his vitals.

And you just stand there.

You almost gave him enough morphine to stop his heart. A single careless dosage of 10mg in a man this size, already bleeding out, already crashing. it could’ve killed him in seconds.

A voice echoes in your head.

He might be gone too.

Phainon. No letters. No word. Maybe you’re unraveling because you can’t bear losing one more man—even a stranger, while not knowing if your own still breathes.

The tears are rising again. But you can’t cry here.

Not in front of your girls. Not in front of a patient who just nearly died because of your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice dry and empty.

You leave again. You don’t wait for permission this time. You walk to the storeroom, step inside, shut the door.

The dark smells like metal and alcohol. The floor is sticky. The air is too hot. You press your back to the door and slide down again.

You breathe.

You clench your fists.

And this time you don’t cry.

You sit there, shaking, until Mira knocks once. Gently.

“I covered your charts,” she says through the door. “But we still need you.”

You close your eyes. You nod. When will this end?

For what felt like forever, four days flew by.

No reply.

Still no reply.

You check the incoming crates again. the envelopes bloodied, creased, or waterlogged. You sift through them one by one in the mail tent during your short break. Still nothing from him. Not even a scrap of handwriting. No flower, no tape, no ink-smudged paper. Not a single thing from Phainon.

You’re starting to think the letters got lost.

You’re starting to wonder if he’s the one who got lost.

Mira walks past you in the mud, her boots sinking slightly with each step. “Still nothing?”

You shake your head slowly.

She doesn’t push. But she lingers, just enough to place a hand on your arm, squeezing gently. “They’ve been rerouting mail. There was a screw-up at the intercom dispatch. One of the couriers said half the letters meant for the 4th division got sent back to the capital by accident.”

You blink. “Phainon’s division is the 4th.”

“Exactly.”

Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your clipboard. Something cold and sick coils in your stomach. “So… he might have written.”

She nods. “It just never got through.”

Then she exhales — long, quiet, full of the things no one says out loud in places like this.

“And…” she adds softly, “Word is, they had to relocate. Ambush near the ridgeline. They lost the original station. No signal. No outgoing post for two, maybe three days. Might be longer.”

The clipboard slips a little in your hands.

Your head spins.

He wrote.

He could have written.

But you wouldn’t know.

Because the wires failed. Because someone else decided a new station was safer. Because the war swallowed one more piece of hope before you could hold it.

Your throat tightens

Mira’s already walking back to the clinic. You stand still, cold in the chest, hot in the eyes. Everything hurts. And no one even died today — not yet.

You pull out your pen.

You write again anyway.

Not because you know it’ll get to him. Not because there’s any promise it’ll even leave this field. But because if you don’t write, the silence might eat you alive.

So, you harden your grip one the pen and start writing.

“Dear Phainon, I hope you’re okay. I’m okay. I’m trying to be. Mira says our post is messed up. I don’t know if you’ve gotten anything from me. I don’t even know if you’re still where I last wrote to. But I’ll keep writing. In case you are. In case this one gets through.”

Your hand shakes as you write, wailing of soldiers still echoes in the hallways.

“A boy died last night. He was so small. And he wanted to go home. And I wanted to cry again but I couldn’t. The girls… they’re all really exhausted. We’re losing nurses every day. We keep covering for each other. The pain here doesn’t stop. I’m scared, Phai. But I love you. I love you so much. So I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep waiting even if your reply takes months later.Come home to me, okay?”

You fold the letter. Tape a tiny leaf you found outside, the same kind that grew near the hill you both used to walk. There’s no flower today. But he’ll understand.

“Stay safe, from your dearest.”

You slip it into the box. You don’t know if it’ll reach him.

But it’s better than doing nothing. Better than letting the silence be the last thing between you.

Back at Phainon's, the rain hasn’t let up in hours. It pours in sheets, washing over the wounded, slicking the mud until everything stinks of metal, blood, and gunpowder.

“Get the perimeter secured,” Phainon says hoarsely, voice frayed from shouting over cannon fire and screaming. “Use the broken crates. We don’t have time for sandbags.”

Charis jogs past him, splattered in mud up to the neck. He doesn’t need to reply. He just nods, already barking orders to the remaining able-bodied soldiers. Merek is stabilizing Nolan under the collapsed tent, fumbling with the bandages while keeping one eye on the hills.

Phainon kneels beside the boy with a shattered leg. Holds his hand. Tells him he’ll be okay. That he’s strong. That help is coming.

The boy smiles faintly before he seizes up and goes still.

Phainon shuts his eyes. Just for a moment. Then he stands.

There’s no time to grieve. Not yet.

The new post is worse.

They said it was safer, higher ground, better cover…but Phainon knows better. Safer just means the dead haven’t warmed it yet.

The soil’s still wet from the last rainfall, but not enough to wash away the blood. Trenches are half-dug, uneven. The fires won’t stay lit long. The food’s cold before it’s even passed around.

They lost too many men in four days.

He walks past the fallen. Past the half-covered bodies they don’t have enough tarps for. Past the tent where someone is sobbing into their hands. He doesn't stop. Can’t stop.

He doesn’t count them aloud, but he knows all their names.

One of them died laughing, delirious. One died choking. The youngest begged for some nice pasta before he died. Phainon had held that one’s hand until it went cold.

He keeps hearing their voices at night. He hasn’t slept properly since they switched camps.

Now Phainon walks the new ground like a ghost tethered to duty. He doesn’t speak unless he has to. His coat is stiff with dried blood and ash. His boots are worn through at the soles.

The men still look to him.

So he gives them what he can—orders, a steady hand, sometimes just silence that doesn’t break.

He crouches beside another injured soldier, He was young, freckled, trembling. The boy flinches as he adjusts the bandage. “You’re not gonna die tonight,” Phainon mutters. “That’s an order.”

A weak laugh.

Then a cough.

Then a shiver.

He tucks the boy’s letter into the boy’s pack. No postage, no name on it yet. Just a shaking hope that someone will send it.

A dog howls somewhere far off, and it catches him off guard. He flinches.

He remembers the last one. The dog he had to shoot because it wailed loudly in pain.

He can still feel the click of it in his bones.

He finds himself by a collapsed shed, away from the eyes. The frost creeps along the edges of the wood. He doesn’t shiver.

Instead, he touches his chest—

And there it is.

Your letter.

Pressed flat and protected in the inner lining of his uniform. The edges are soft now, the ink a little faded. He still remembers every word. He still imagines your hands folding it. Taping the flower. Writing his name.

His fingers slide down to the ring on his hand, dull with dirt, but still there. He turns it slowly. A ritual now. A vow in motion.

“I’m coming home. I have to.”

He grazes the ring again and again, like it’s the only thing keeping his hands from shaking. He cannot cry. Not when Nolan’s still unconscious. Not when Merek is holding things together by a thread. Not when Charis is covering three positions at once and hasn’t eaten since dawn.

He cannot cry.

He thinks about you.

He wonders if you sleep enough. If you’ve eaten. If you still hum when the kettle boils. If the flower he taped into the letter stayed in place, or if it crumbled on the way there.

He wonders if you smiled.

He misses your voice. The way you said his name like it was alive.

He wants to hold you.

He wants to come home.

But the enemy is pushing harder each day, and they’re running low on ammo. Low on warmth. Low on hope.

And Phainon is a lieutenant—but that doesn’t mean he’s made of stone.

He is still a man.

Still someone’s fiancé.

Still someone who promised a future. A wedding. A garden behind a crooked little house. A quiet life.

And now?

Now he’s not sure he’ll come back intact.

Or come back at all.

The alarm screams—a frantic, terrible sound. It was cutting through the rain and the gunfire. It’s starting again. The enemy’s coming.

“Get down!” Charis shouts, but it’s too late.

A shell explodes nearby, the earth erupting in a shower of mud and splinters.

Phainon’s chest tightens… not from the blast, but because every explosion pulls him further from you.

I have to come home. I have to.

He’s yelling orders, voice raw, throat burning from constant shouting over the chaos. “Move the wounded! Cover the flanks! We hold here!”

But inside, his mind is spinning. He ask himself again.

Did my letter reach you?

Are you safe?

Are you warm? Are you hungry? Did you sleep at all last night?

A soldier next to him stumbles, clutching his bleeding side. Phainon catches him, but there’s no time to linger.

Merek’s still stabilizing Nolan under the tent…

How many are left?

Eleven gone in days. Eleven too many.

The sky lights up red with fire. Bullets zip past, pinging off scrap metal and stone.

Phainon ducks behind broken crates, heart hammering—not just from the gunfire, but from the weight of every life depending on him.

Then, the alarm screams—a desperate, grating wail cutting through the rain and gunfire.

It’s starting again. The enemy is relentless, always surging forward.

“Someone’s down!” Merek ducks under the rubble nearby as he yelled, but the world erupts before Phainon can react.

A shell detonates again nearby, mud and shards tearing through the air.

Everything is slowly starting to become a blur. How much longer will peace take?

He raises his rifle, breath ragged, eyes burning.

Bang.

One enemy falls.

Bang.

Another drops.

But with every shot, a ringing clogs his ears—sharp, insistent, drowning out the chaos but magnifying the screams he heard back at camp.

The boy with the shattered leg, fading too fast.

The dog’s terrified eyes before the final, painful shot.

Nolan’s faint moans under the torn tent.

Phainon blinks away the memories as a hail of bullets sprays toward him. He rolls, firing again.

Bang. Bang.

His muscles scream, sweat and rain mixing on his skin, but his mind fractures further with every enemy he takes down.

How long can this go on?

Charis yells nearby, rallying the soldiers, but Phainon barely hears him.

He catches a glimpse of Merek, frantic, trying to keep Nolan alive.

His throat tightens.

He forces himself forward, dragging a wounded man across the slick ground, heart pounding like a war drum.

The ringing grows louder, blurring the world into white noise—guns, screams, the rain pounding on broken earth.

He wants to shut it out, but it only pulls him deeper into the dark corners of his mind.

Do you miss me?

Do you ever think of this place—of me—when it’s quiet where you are?

The thought is a brief spark in the suffocating fog.

Phainon fights on, every breath heavier, every movement more desperate.

He can feel the weight of the fallen pressing down on him—their faces etched in his mind like shadows he can’t shake.

The sky burns, the enemy presses, and Phainon fights—because surrender isn’t an option.

Because somewhere beyond this hell, there’s a home waiting.

Somewhere beyond the gunfire and loss, there’s you.

And he clings to that, even as his body screams and his mind edges toward breaking.

As the rain lashes harder, turning the battlefield into a mire of mud and blood. Phainon’s boots slip with every step as he drags a wounded soldier toward the crumbling wall of crates.

The man’s weight nearly pulls him down, but Phainon grits his teeth and presses forward.

Gunfire cracks sharply all around, bullets whistling past with deadly intent. A hail of lead tears through the air. Phainon drops to one knee, firing blindly at the advancing enemy. The recoil jars his aching shoulder, sending sharp jolts through his arm, but he holds the rifle steady, squeezing the trigger again and again.

An explosion nearby shakes the ground violently, throwing mud and splinters into the air. Phainon’s ears ring, and his vision blurs for a heartbeat. As the dust settles, he pushes off the crates and staggers to his feet, only to catch a searing pain ripping through his thigh

He looks down to see blood soaking the torn fabric of his uniform, the wound deep and burning cold in the rain.

Ignoring the pain, he limps forward, using the crates as cover, the weight of his body dragging him down. Another burst of gunfire forces him flat to the ground, the wet earth slick beneath him. He crawls a few desperate feet toward a fallen comrade, trying to shield the man’s head from the rain and flying debris.

Charis yells orders somewhere behind him, but Phainon barely hears through the roar of cannon fire and the ringing in his ears.

The enemy closes in. Shadows move through the sheets of rain—figures advancing with ruthless determination.

Phainon grits his teeth, manages to raise his rifle once more, and fires. The crack of the shot cuts through the chaos, and a figure drops, but the effort drains him. His knees buckle, his hands tremble, and he slumps forward onto the mud, face pressed against the cold, wet ground.

A sudden sharp sting explodes in his ribs as shrapnel tears through his side. He gasps, the air forced from his lungs, his body convulsing with the pain. Blood bubbles at his lips as he fights to stay conscious.

Somewhere beyond the storm of violence, he hears the frantic cries of his men—calls to regroup, to hold the line. But his body betrays him. Limbs heavy and unresponsive, Phainon struggles to lift his head, his vision swimming in and out of focus.

The rain mixes with the blood on his face as the world narrows to the taste of iron and the relentless pounding in his ears. The enemy surges closer, and the fight drags on, even as his strength fades.

The sharp crack of a rifle shot split the air. Charis was moving fast, dodging debris, trying to reach cover when a bullet whistled just behind him. Without thinking, Phainon grabbed Charis’s arm and yanked him down hard behind a broken crate. The ground exploded where Charis had just been standing.

Phainon barely had time to catch his breath before a searing, crushing pain stabbed into his ribs. He gasped, staggering as a bullet tore through muscle and bone. His body slammed against the jagged wood of the crate, breath caught in his chest.

Charis’s eyes widened in horror. “Phainon!” His voice cracked, frantic and raw. “You’re hurt…stay with me!”

Phainon swallowed back a groan, clutching the wound as blood soaked his fingers and ran down his side. His breath was ragged, each inhale sharp and burning like fire in his lungs. Around them, the world was a chaotic blur of gunfire, screams, and explosions, but Charis’s voice anchored him.

“We can’t lose you now,” Charis pleaded, his hands trembling as he grasped Phainon’s shoulders. “You’re the only reason half of us are still breathing.”

Phainon’s eyes flickered, pain and determination wrestling for control. He tried to speak but only a rasp escaped. His fingers brushed his engagement ring—dirt-smudged, bloodied—an unspoken promise locked on his hand.

Charis’s chest tightened as he took in the deepening pallor of Phainon’s face, the way his breaths grew shallow. “Hang on, just a little longer,” Charis said, voice breaking. “I’m not leaving you. We all need you.”

Phainon’s vision blurred. The pounding in his ears grew louder, a relentless ringing that drowned out everything but the thundering of his own heart. He tried to focus, to push back the pain, to fight for every second.

A fresh volley of shots sent dirt and splinters raining over them. Charis pulled Phainon further behind the crate, shielding him as best he could. The world tilted, and Phainon’s grip loosened, his fingers barely holding on.

Charis’s breath caught as he saw the flicker of fading life in Phainon’s eyes. “No. Not like this. You’re not done.” His voice was fierce, desperate. “You still have to see it. The future you fought for.”

Phainon’s lips parted slightly, blood bubbling at the corners. Somewhere deep inside, a stubborn spark flared. But the pain was swallowing him whole.

Charis pressed closer, refusing to let the silence grow. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Phainon’s head was pounding like a drumbeat inside a cave—each throb louder than the last, drowning out the chaos around him. The ringing was relentless, a high-pitched scream echoing in his skull that blurred his vision and muddled his senses.

Despite the pain clawing through his body, a single memory pierced the fog.. a flash of your smile in the quiet light of dawn, the way your fingers curled around his in a silent promise. The image brought a tear, hot and unbidden, tracing down his cheek. He blinked it away, unwilling to let weakness take hold.

The battle wasn’t over. Not yet.

With trembling hands, Phainon gripped his rifle. His breath came shallow, ragged, but he forced himself upright, steadying against the broken crate. Every movement was agony, blood seeping through his fingers and dripping onto the ground, darkening the mud beneath him.

Through the haze, he saw the enemy advancing. THE figures moving like shadows, relentless and ruthless.

He raised his rifle, squeezing the trigger. The crack was sharp, a small victory in the endless storm. One fell.

Another shot. Another.

But his body was betraying him. Each breath was a knife twisting in his ribs. His strength was fading, and the medics, too far to reach, swallowed by the chaos, couldn’t come to him.

Charis’s voice was a distant anchor, pulling him back from the edge. “Stay with me, Phainon.”

Phainon’s lips quivered, an unspoken vow burning behind closed eyes. He still had a future to fight for—a life beyond this hell. There were plans left unfinished, laughter to share, a wedding to have, a home to build.

His fingers brushed the ring again, the cool metal grounding him once again.

Was this the end?

He refused to let it be.

With a ragged breath, he readied himself to fire once more, the world narrowing to the muzzle flash and the desperate hope that he could hold just a little longer.

Phainon’s grip tightened around the rifle, but his arms trembled beneath the weight. The pain in his side flared—hot, relentless—burning through every breath he forced into his lungs. Each heartbeat pounded louder, drowning out everything else.

Stay awake. Don’t—don’t give in. Not yet.

But the world around him blurred. The sharp crack of gunfire and shouts faded into a distant hum, like echoes underwater. His vision flickered at the edges, darkening.

Then…. warmth. A gentle touch. He blinked, confused.

Was that… your hand?

His fingers twitched, searching desperately. The cold rifle in his grasp began to feel unreal, like a weight lifted.

No. That can’t be real.

His mind wavered between pain and memory.

The house. The one we dreamed about.

He could almost smell the rich coffee brewing in the morning light, feel the warmth of the sun spilling through the crooked windows.

You’re there. You’re always there.

Your laughter floated through the quiet room, a fragile thread anchoring him. He reached out, eyes barely open.

I’m almost home. Just a little further.

The ache in his ribs screamed, but the phantom warmth of your hand held him steady. His breath hitched, a tear slipping down his cheek.

I promised. I promised you a future.

A future he wasn’t sure he’d see.

His mind raced—thoughts scattered like shattered glass.

Did you get my letter? Are you safe?

Are you warm? Are you even thinking of me now?

He wanted to say so much, but words tangled and slipped away. The noise of battle was gone now. All that remained was the fading echo of your voice, the feel of your hand in his.

"Hold on, Phainon. Hold on for me."

But his body betrayed him. The rifle felt lighter, almost as if it melted away beneath his grasp, replaced by the softness of your hand. He imagined fingers weaving into his, steadying, unyielding.

I’m tired.

So tired.

He swallowed hard, vision dimming further, every edge blurring into the quiet sanctuary of the house.

Please don’t let this be the end.

A final tear, warm and salty, slid down his dirt-smeared face.

I’m not ready. Not yet.

The world slipped away, but the warmth stayed. Your hand, the scent of coffee, the promise of home.

Phainon’s breath was shallow and uneven, the cold seeping into his bones like ice water. His body trembled, wounds burning, muscles screaming… but his mind was quieter now, softer, turning inward.

He wasn’t fighting anymore. Not really.

The distant roar of gunfire faded into a dull, pulsing hum, replaced by the fragile echo of his thoughts.

If this is the end... what will happen to you?

The thought hit him harder than any bullet.

Will you be safe? Will you be alone?

His heart clenched, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest. He could already see your face, pale with worry, holding back tears he wouldn’t let fall.

I’m sorry.

Sorry for the nights you’d spend waiting, wondering if he was alive.

Sorry for the future he might never build with you.

Sorry for the silence that would stretch between you like a chasm.

The memories came unbidden, a bittersweet flood.

The day you became a nurse, he remembered, pride twisting painfully in his chest. How fiercely you’d fought to make a difference, how your hands had saved lives—while his own blood stained the ground here, so far from you.

And me, my first day as lieutenant.

The weight of that title, once a promise, now felt like a curse.

I wanted to protect you.

His fingers brushed the dirt and sweat caked over the engagement ring beneath his uniform. The ring he’d spent weeks searching for, the one you’d worn as a symbol of everything you two had planned.

I never wanted you to carry this alone.

Phainon’s mind drifted to the small moments—the burnt bacon smell in the kitchen, your teasing laugh as you shook your head. The quiet evenings spent dreaming of a crooked little house with a garden, of a life far from this war.

I wish I could have one last breakfast with you.

The ache in his chest deepened, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes.

He knew the world was slipping away. His body growing colder, his thoughts more distant.

I hope you can forgive me.

If I don’t come home... please know I loved you.

His grip on the rifle loosened, the weapon feeling impossibly heavy. But somewhere deep inside, a spark remained, fragile, but alive, holding onto your face, your voice, your love.

Phainon closed his eyes, the sounds around him fading as the hallucination grew stronger.

You’re with me now.

It wasn’t long till three months later.

The capital was too quiet for a day like this.

No bombings, no alarms. Just the wind moving through rows of black flags, flapping weakly under a silver sky.

They’d set the memorial in the central square—an open ground, framed by the shattered columns of what used to be the Hall of Triumph. It had been hastily rebuilt, just enough to stand. Just enough to hold the weight of grief.

There were caskets lined across the stage, draped in the flag. Each one sealed.

Each one silent.

And there you were, standing among a sea of mourning families, white-knuckled and barely breathing, clutching the small pin they gave you—one of the medals he earned. Valor. Leadership. Sacrifice. The words meant nothing. They clinked dully against your chest.

They wouldn’t even open the casket.

They said it was better that way.

“Too much damage,” someone whispered.

“He wouldn’t want you to see.”

But you wanted to see him.

You needed to see him.

Your body moved before your mind could stop it. Shoving past soldiers, stumbling up the steps, tears hot and streaming down your face. You heard your name shouted, hands reaching for you, but none of them mattered. Not now.

Not when it was real.

Not when his name was carved into that plaque like a period at the end of everything.

“Phainon,” you choked out, falling to your knees before the casket.

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

Not him. Not your Phainon.

The man who picked burnt bacon out of his teeth and still said it was the best breakfast of his life.

The one who held your hand like he was memorizing it. Who kissed you like he was afraid time would steal you.

The one who promised you a crooked house with a little garden and a roof that always leaked when it rained.

You pressed your forehead to the wood of the casket, the smell of polish and smoke mixing in your lungs. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t get to say goodbye. You didn’t get to hold him. You didn’t even get to bury him properly—just this fucking box, this thing, and a stupid folded flag.

“Come back,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Come back, come back…”

You knew he wouldn’t. You knew.

But it didn’t stop you from wishing.

Not when Charis was there too, standing beside you… alive, limping, eyes rimmed with red.

“I tried,” he said quietly, kneeling next to you. His voice was hoarse. “He saved my life. Took a shot meant for me. I—I held on as long as I could but…”

He looked away.

“He was asking for you until the end.”

That broke you.

Your sob echoed across the memorial, raw and guttural. No one stopped you this time. No one rushed forward to pull you back. The war had already taken so much; how could they deny you this one, final collapse?

You stayed there, your hand pressed to the casket like it could somehow keep him here. Like if you were still enough, quiet enough, maybe he’d reach back.

There’s no word for what you are now.

Not widow. Not fiancée. Not wife.

Just… left behind.

The world has terms for every kind of grief, every kind of role. But not this. Not for the woman who was supposed to marry a man who never made it home. Not for the ring that gleams cold and thin on your finger—a promise that never got fulfilled, a vow that never got spoken.

The train ride was quiet.

Too quiet.

The countryside blurred past the window, the same hills he once wrote about—how the grass turned gold at this time of year, how he wanted to show it to you himself. You sat still, hands clenched in your lap, eyes burning but dry.

You’d run out of tears days ago.

The bed still dips where he used to sleep. His uniform still hangs in the closet—pressed and perfect, waiting for a body that won't wear it again. His boots by the door. His sweet tea bags in the kitchen. The ones he insisted made him "feel human again" after deployment.

Sometimes, when you boil water, you reach for one out of habit.

Just to hold it. Just to pretend. Just to feel like he might walk through the door and say it was all a horrible joke. That he’s here. That he made it.

But the tea cools. The cup stays full. And the door never opens.

The sky was overcast by the time you reached your stop. The path home felt longer than it ever had before, every footstep hollow. The sounds of town—bakers shouting, carts rolling, distant laughter—felt like echoes from another life.

No one looked your way. You were just another shadow walking home with nothing left to carry but a silence so loud it filled your lungs.

And then you saw the house.

The same way you left it. The roof still crooked. The vines still overgrown. The front gate still squeaking like it always did, just slightly off the hinge.

But the flower taped to the letter—it had wilted.

Once a deep, vibrant red. Now a sad curl of dried brown, shriveled at the stem.

You paused, frozen.

There was a letter tucked behind it.

Your name on the front.

You reached with shaking fingers.

Two envelopes. One in his handwriting—sharp, careful, like always. The other... stamped and returned. Yours.

Unopened.

Marked: "Recipient Deceased. Unable to Deliver."

Your breath caught.

The world spun.

And you dropped right there on the doorstep, knees hitting the ground, arms folded around your stomach as the sobs finally returned—deep, wrenching, and endless.

He had written you. You had written back. But the war stole the time in between.

You held both letters to your chest, curling in on yourself as if the paper might warm you, as if maybe it still smelled faintly of him—his hands, his cologne, the ink he always accidentally smudged.

You didn’t read it yet.

You couldn’t.

Some of your friends talk about wedding dresses and baby names now. One of them wears her husband’s dog tags over her heart, with their newborn sleeping two rooms away. Another is learning how to build a life with someone new. Some are expecting.

You? You have silence.

No new beginning. No second chapter. Just this ghost of a life that almost was.

You sat on the kitchen floor, the envelope trembling in your grip. The same kitchen where he once spilled coffee trying to impress you with breakfast. The same counter still bearing the scorch mark from that one time he tried to iron his uniform “like a real adult.” Everything still smelled faintly like him. Or maybe that was memory clinging to the air.

The kitchen still smells like lemon and smoke. Like that last morning. His laughter still echoes faintly in the tiles, tucked between the cracks in the floor. You find yourself stepping over them gently, like the memory might shatter.

Sometimes you sit at the dinner table, two plates set out. One untouched.

And sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, you swear you feel the warmth of him. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember what it was like to be loved that much.

And then it's gone.

Your fingers worked numbly, slipping under the flap. A soft tear. The paper inside unfolded slower than your breath, careful like you might break it. And there it was.

His handwriting.

“My dearest—”

You didn’t even make it through the second line before the tears came. Hot and soundless, tracing old paths down your cheeks, stinging like ash. The ink had long dried, but none of it had faded. Each word held him—his quiet warmth, the way he overthought every sentence, the little notes he always tucked in to make you smile.

You read it like scripture. Like prayer. Like if you memorize it deep enough, maybe he’ll come back in a dream and finish the parts he left unsaid.

But he doesn’t.

The only thing that answers is the wind outside the window, and the slow, steady ticking of a clock that won’t stop for grief.

The message hadn’t aged. Not even a little. It was like he was still here.

Still trying to love you across the distance. Still trying to come home, in the only way he could. With this.

Your hand pressed to your mouth as you read, not because you were trying to hold back the sobs, but because it felt like speaking would ruin the fragile spell, the impossible moment where time bent, and for just a heartbeat, you were his again.

He wrote of hope. Of how he missed you. Of the way he imagined your face when you opened this. Of love that refused to vanish.

And when you reached the end, when the last word met the edge of the page, there was nothing else.

No final twist of fate.

No more time.

Just the quiet.

The weight of a letter that had come too late.

And the echo of someone who never stopped loving you, even as the world burned around him.

You folded it back with reverence. Pressed it to your lips.

And for the first time in weeks, you whispered his name.

But he didn’t answer.

Because it was over.

notes: wow that was an emotional rollercoaster woweee! okay enough of that I cried writing this. i actually posted the of version on ao3 if u search hard enough but this ver I posted on tumblr is a bit refined but ya. Okay, kinda disappointed a bit but yes thank you reading this depressing fic of mine. and no I am not fine which is why I wrote this fic. I start jumping up and down in joy from feedback and notes so any type of interaction is appreciated and I will post the anaxa fic series and work on mydei's tomorrow. Thank you for reading this was something. 11k words of sobbing. How awesome of me. Even read some real world war letters from soldiers and civilians for some idea. idk man.

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #hsr fluff #honkai star rail angst #honkai star rail x you #hsr angst #hsr smut #phainon angst #phainon fluff #hsr phainon #phainon #phainon x reader #amphoreus

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