y0url0calmushr00m

[y0url0calmushr00m]

💘 before 3.4 comes let me be in delulu land byee guys 😘

FOR YOU, I'd retrace our footsteps together. For you, I would suspend time regardless of the sin you have done.

CONTAINS SPOILERS ON AMPHOREUS QUEST!! FLAMEREAVER PHAINON!! AND NO TB/ASTRAL EXPRESS.

Time was a cruel thing. It twisted and turned, never allowing him to escape its suffocating grasp. Phainon had grown accustomed to this endless loop, each cycle a repetition of the last. He had been the Flame Reaver for what felt like an eternity, his soul bound to the constant churn of time, his heart forever yearning for something he could never touch.

Once, he had been a warrior of honor, a man driven by a purpose greater than himself. The Titans' Coreflame had once been something he fought to protect, a power meant for good. He remembered the fleeting joy of watching the flames ignite, watching them burn brightly, but those days were long gone now.

Now, Phainon was a mere shadow of that man. The loop had done something to him, stripped him of his ideals, leaving only the embers of hatred and pain. He was no longer a protector, nor a servant of justice. He was a destroyer.

The Cycle, over and over again, had been the same. He had lived it countless times, and each time he had fallen into the same traps. He'd watched the deaths of the Coreflame’s heirs, those young souls who carried the promise of a new dawn, only for him to snuff it out like a mere flicker of a flame. He became the villain each time, cold and calculated, a heart hardened by too many cycles of death.

Each life he had taken, every flame he had claimed, had brought him closer to something darker. His mind had become twisted, his thoughts only focused on eradicating what he once held dear. He hunted the heirs of the Chrysos bloodline, taking their Coreflames, feeling the heat of their power surge through him with every kill. He had long since shed any pretense of righteousness.

But even in this madness, there was a flicker of something softer, a memory that lingered in the darkest recesses of his mind. Her.

The nameless swordmaster who had appeared with the black tide. Her presence was a constant in the loops, a reminder of what he had lost—and what he could never have again.

It was funny, really, how he could fall in love with her over and over, only for time to erase her memory each time. Every iteration of the loop, every repetition, led to the same tragic end: she was taken from him, her name slipping from his grasp like sand through his fingers. And yet, with every reset, he would remember her. He would fall for her again, only for time to tear them apart once more.

The Grove of Epiphany had been one of the first casualties of his downward spiral. He remembered the bloodshed, the carnage, and how, at one point, he had believed that every life he took, every flame he consumed, was for some greater purpose. Now, all that remained was a hollow emptiness. And through it, through all the chaos, one thing was certain: the Coreflames were his now.

And with each Coreflame he took, the bitterness in his chest grew, as did the hatred for the world that had betrayed him. The Titans had failed him. The Chrysos heirs were nothing but pawns, sacrifices in his endless quest for meaning in a world that had none. He no longer cared for anything or anyone.

But her… she was different. She had always been different. Even in this new, twisted form of himself, he felt something for her that he couldn’t explain. Perhaps it was her strength, the same cold determination he saw in himself before the time loops had stripped him of everything. Or perhaps it was because, in a world of endless repetition, she was the only thing he couldn’t control.

There was no escaping it—he was a villain now, a fallen hero. He was the Flame Reaver, and he would burn the world down if it meant he could find an end to this torturous cycle. But in the deepest parts of his soul, there was a quiet, soft whisper that still cared for her, even if he knew he could never have her.

He had given up on redemption, on saving the world or saving himself. But there was something inside him, buried deep beneath the weight of all his hatred, that refused to let her go.

In a world untouched by the cruelty of time’s endless loops, there was peace. There was happiness, something you could hardly remember. For you, life had become a delicate balance of duty and love, of learning your place in the world as one of the Chrysos heirs, the rightful bearers of the Titans' Coreflames. Among your family, you were revered, your Coreflame of Orynyx, the Titan of Time, a symbol of eternal strength and balance.

In this life, there were no endless resets, no cycles that forced you to watch loved ones die over and over again. There was only the now—the soft whisper of the winds as they carried you through the vibrant meadows of your home, the laughter of your family echoing through the halls of the Chrysos estate.

And then there was Phainon, the Cheerful Chrysos heir. In this timeline, he was nothing like the broken soul you had glimpsed in the darker corners of your memories. His smile was warm, his laughter infectious, and in his presence, you felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

You had met when you were young, both heirs of the ancient Titans, bound by destiny yet free to forge your paths. Phainon had always been your companion, a figure of unwavering strength and kindness, someone who stood by you through every trial and tribulation. Your connection was undeniable—your Coreflame resonated with his, both burning brightly in the world you had chosen to protect.

The world was kind to you. You had no inkling of the silent shadow that followed you—Flame Reaver Phainon, the one trapped in a timeless cycle of death and destruction. You didn’t know that he, the man you loved in this timeline, was also the same villainous figure who had once hunted you down, the one who had wiped out the Coreflames and caused so much destruction.

You only knew the happy, carefree version of him—the one who danced with you under the moonlight, who whispered words of encouragement as you trained with your sword. The one who smiled and held your hand, promising to protect you, no matter what.

But somewhere in the periphery, Flame Reaver Phainon watched silently, his presence felt only as a shadow. He never made himself known, never revealed the truth of his existence to anyone. He could not. The loops had twisted him into something that would never be recognized by you. He could not bear to break the world that you had built, the world you believed in.

Time was cruel, but it was cruelest to him. He had watched you live this life, free from the burden of the past, and though he hated himself for it, he could not bring himself to destroy it. To destroy you.

Flame Reaver Phainon stood far away, hidden in the shadows. He kept to the outskirts of your life, a distant observer, never crossing into your path. He didn’t want to disrupt your peace. You deserved happiness, and in this life, you would have it—even if he could never be the one to give it to you.

You had never noticed the subtle shifts in his demeanor, the dark thoughts that occasionally clouded his once bright eyes. He had mastered the art of wearing a mask, of being the cheerful, carefree Flame Reaver you knew and loved, while the real Phainon remained trapped in a world of despair. The Phainon who had lost himself to time, who had become a villain to secure the only thing that had ever truly mattered to him: you.

But the irony was cruel. Here, in this timeline, you were happy—unaware of the danger that lurked just beyond your reach, unaware that the same man who promised to protect you was the same one who had burned the world down in another life. And what could he do? How could he ever tell you the truth? That the happy, loving man you held dear was nothing but a shadow of the monster he had once become?

Your love for him was real, pure, untainted by the past. You had no reason to suspect the darkness that was still buried inside of him. No reason to believe that the man who cared for you so deeply was also the man who had taken so much from others, who had razed the Grove of Epiphany, who had killed those who carried the Coreflames.

But he could never leave you. He could never walk away.

Even if his love for you was doomed—even if he had to stay in the shadows for the rest of his days, watching you live this perfect life without him—he would never stop loving you.

And in the quiet, as you laughed with your family, as you trained with your sword, as you lived a life untouched by the chaos of his existence, Flame Reaver Phainon knew that his heart would forever ache for what he could never have.

This—this happiness, this peace—was the only thing he could never take from you. Yet, He would be forced to.

You had never truly understood the weight of the Coreflame within you, the Coreflame of Orynyx, the Titan of Time. It was said that the Titan’s flame granted eternal strength, the ability to manipulate time itself, and yet it never felt like something so monumental to you. It was simply a part of who you were—like breathing, like existing. You trained with it, honed it, but you had never been burdened by it. Not in this life.

Instead, you found joy in the little things: in your family, in your home, and most of all—in Phainon.

He was always by your side, always smiling, always the light to your darkness. When you sparred with your sword, he was there to cheer you on. When you sat in the courtyard, your mind swirling with doubts about your duty, he was the one who would sit beside you, offering his comforting presence. His laughter, carefree and genuine, was a balm to your soul.

It was hard to imagine a life without him. He was the one who had been with you through it all—the good and the bad. You often found yourself leaning on him, finding solace in his strength and kindness.

He was, after all, your closest friend.

Your companion.

Your confidant.

And sometimes, in the quiet moments when he would look at you with an intensity that made your heart race, you wondered if it was more than friendship. But then he would smile, that soft, radiant smile of his, and you would think better of it. No, Phainon was your friend. Your ally. Your protector.

But there was a part of you that couldn’t help but hope that maybe—just maybe—there was something more. Or maybe, you had known

You had never been one to fear dreams. They were just that—fleeting, intangible fragments of your mind's wanderings. But lately, something had begun to shift in your sleep. The nights were becoming… unsettling.

It started small. A whisper in the back of your mind as you drifted off to sleep, something that gnawed at your thoughts. Then, the dreams became more vivid—more real. You could feel the weight of them, the weight of something else—something ancient, something twisted. Your dreams were filled with time, with moments that seemed so… wrong. Memories that weren't yours.

You didn’t understand it at first. It felt as though you were looking through the eyes of someone else. Someone far away. Someone distant. And each time, as you ran through the distorted visions, you saw a shadow. A man cloaked in darkness. His features always blurred, his face just beyond your reach. His presence was terrifying, yet strangely familiar.

You'd find yourself standing in the middle of a desolate battlefield, flames licking the horizon, the scent of ash heavy in the air. There was pain in the air, a destruction so profound it shook you to your core. But what terrified you the most was how familiar it all felt. The emptiness, the coldness in the very air… and his presence. The one who stood at the center of it all.

The dreams would always start the same. A flash of his silhouette, his figure towering over the flames, as though he were one with them. He was wielding a blade, the darkness around him seeming to twist and bend to his will.

And then… you'd feel it. His gaze. It was almost like you could sense his eyes on you, even though you never saw them directly. The weight of them, cold and sharp like a knife. But you could never see his face. It was always obscured by the smoke, the shadows, the fire.

Each time the dreams played out, you grew more desperate, more frantic to see his face—to understand who he was. The moment you were just on the edge of recognizing him, of seeing his features, the dream would shatter. You’d wake up with a start, gasping for air, heart pounding in your chest. The cold sweat clung to your skin, the room around you far too still, too quiet.

And yet, despite the unease these dreams brought you, you couldn’t shake the sense that there was something important—something deeply tied to you—in these visions.

Tonight, however, the dream was different. The feeling of time—your Coreflame’s power—roared to life within you, and the images began to spiral faster, like a kaleidoscope of fractured moments. You saw yourself standing in a place you didn’t recognize, a strange landscape, distant and unfamiliar.

Then, there he was.

A silhouette, cloaked in black. His figure towered over you, just like in the past dreams. But this time, the shadows didn’t obscure his face. You could almost see it. A flicker of recognition, something deep within you calling out, but as always, the vision faded before you could fully make out his features. You could feel his presence, his overwhelming aura of power and coldness.

Your heart raced, your breath hitched as you tried to reach out, to grasp the fleeting vision of his face, but it slipped away—just like the others. It was maddening.

Then, you heard it.

A whisper. A voice, distant and yet so familiar, it sent a chill running down your spine. The words were unintelligible at first, but as the voice grew louder, you realized it was speaking to you:

"Three slashes."

The dream fractured, shattering into a thousand pieces as you tried to make sense of it. A thousand thoughts clashed in your mind, a storm of confusion and fear, until you couldn’t take it anymore. Your vision blurred, and you were ripped away from the nightmare, your eyes snapping open to the dimly lit room around you.

You were breathing heavily, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven gasps. The remnants of the dream clung to your consciousness, haunting you.

Sweat slicked your skin, your heart pounding as if it had just sprinted miles in terror. The air around you felt thick, suffocating. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog from your mind.

"What was that?" you muttered to yourself, your voice hoarse. You rubbed your temples, trying to chase away the lingering sensations of the dream. The fragments—those images of him, that presence—were too real. Too close. And yet, you couldn’t quite grasp them.

You stood up from your bed, shakily making your way to the window, trying to breathe in the cool night air. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft, ethereal glow. But despite the calm outside, you couldn't escape the feeling that something was terribly wrong. That you were being watched—tracked—even now.

You had no idea who this shadowy figure was. You had no idea why you kept seeing him, or why it felt as though you had known him for a thousand lifetimes. But the strangest part was the feeling that the closer you got to uncovering the truth, the further away it slipped from your grasp.

And then, amidst the confusion and fear, there was a strange thought that crossed your mind—one that had no place in the current reality you were living:

What if this wasn't just a dream? What if these glimpses were real? What if this man was real?

But that thought left you with more questions than answers, and as you collapsed back into your bed, the exhaustion of the night, both mental and physical, finally took hold. But sleep… sleep didn’t come easy. The weight of those unanswered questions lingered, refusing to let go.

And somewhere, just outside the edge of your consciousness, a pair of cold, distant eyes watched.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ You found yourself walking towards Phainon as he sat near the edge of the campfire, the soft glow of the flames flickering across his face. His expression was always warm, kind, like the sun itself—so different from the shadowy figure that haunted your dreams. You hadn't told anyone about the dreams. They were too strange, too disorienting, and you had no idea what they meant.

But you had to know. There was something about this black-cloaked figure, a presence so powerful it felt like it was reaching out through time itself. You needed answers. And somehow, you had a strange, unsettling feeling that Phainon might be the key to it all. After all, his warmth and the way he always seemed to smile when he saw you made you feel safe, protected. But there was an undeniable curiosity, a nagging question you couldn't shake.

You approached him, trying to push aside the unsettling feeling in your gut. "Hey, Phainon," you began casually, trying to mask the tension you felt. "I was just curious about something." He looked up at you, a soft smile spreading across his face.

"Curious? About what?" he asked, his voice light and reassuring.

You hesitated for a moment, debating whether you should bring up your dreams or not. Instead, you opted for something safer. "Well, I’ve been hearing rumors about a black-cloaked figure. You know, one who’s supposed to be really powerful and dangerous. Do you know anything about them?"

Phainon's smile faltered, just for a moment, before he chuckled softly. "Ah, that old ghost story. It’s not really a story, though," he said, his tone almost too casual. "I know about him. It’s part of my history, actually."

Your heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t what you were expecting. "What do you mean?"

Phainon shifted slightly, leaning back on his hands as he stared into the fire, his gaze distant for a moment. The warmth in his eyes seemed to dim, replaced with something heavier. "That black-cloaked figure, Uhm Flamereaver- ..He was the one who destroyed my village—Aedes Elysiae. The one who left us in ruins. The one who brought us to our knees."

Your pulse quickened, but you managed to keep your voice steady. "Destroyed your village? That’s…" You trailed off, unsure how to phrase your thoughts without revealing too much of what you were feeling. You couldn’t tell him about your dreams, not yet.

Phainon nodded solemnly, his voice quieter now. "Yeah. It’s not a memory I like to revisit. That black-cloaked figure, the one who towered over everything, wielding power that seemed to bend the very world around him. He destroyed everything I held dear. And after that, it was just… chaos."

The weight of his words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to grow still. The fire crackled, but it felt distant, almost irrelevant compared to the heavy realization settling in your chest.

Aedes Elysiae. Phainon’s village. The place that had been ravaged by this monstrous figure. The same figure that had appeared in your dreams—his face just beyond your reach. The connection between your dreams and Phainon’s past suddenly hit you like a bolt of lightning.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, but the truth was sinking in, sinking into your bones. The man you had seen—this terrifying, shadowed figure in your dreams—was the destroyer of Aedes Elysiae, the very place that had shaped Phainon’s life. This man, this figure, had destroyed everything Phainon had ever known.

The weight of it nearly crushed you, the realization that your dreams were linked to his trauma, to his pain.

You took a breath, trying to keep your composure. "So, you’ve met him, then? Flamereaver?"

Phainon’s gaze darkened, his smile gone completely now. "No. I never did. No one did. He came, destroyed everything, and vanished. No trace of him ever remained, except for the ruins he left behind."

You felt a strange chill, as though the very air around you had thickened. You couldn’t quite explain it, but there was something unsettling about the way Phainon spoke. His voice was so steady, but there was a palpable sorrow, a longing that echoed through his words.

"I never found out why he did it," Phainon continued softly, more to himself than to you. "We were just… collateral damage in whatever war he was fighting. And we paid the price."

A lump formed in your throat. "I'm sorry," you said softly, not quite knowing what else to say.

Phainon turned to look at you, his eyes softening slightly. "It’s not your fault. And don’t worry about it. It’s just something that happened a long time ago. I’ve moved on."

But as he said those words, you could see the cracks in his facade—the sadness that he’d buried so deeply. It was clear that this event, this destruction, was something that had changed him. And perhaps, despite his smiles and his warmth, he was still broken by it.

You nodded, feeling a strange weight pressing against your chest. You hadn’t expected Phainon’s story to echo so deeply with the images from your dreams, nor had you expected it to hurt as much as it did. You couldn’t tell him what you had seen—about the figure’s eyes, the way he’d felt so connected to you, the haunting whisper you’d heard in the darkness.

But you couldn’t ignore the terrifying realization either. The man you had seen in your dreams—the figure of destruction—wasn’t just a figure of myth or nightmare. He had been real. And somehow, somewhere, he was still connected to you.

You blinked, snapping yourself back to the present. "Well, thanks for telling me," you said, forcing a smile. "I wasn’t expecting that."

Phainon gave you a small, warm smile. "No problem. If you ever want to talk about it more, I’m here."

You nodded, stepping back, though the weight of his words lingered. There was so much more you didn’t understand, so many pieces of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. But one thing was certain: The man in your dreams—the one who haunted your nights—was tied to Phainon’s past.

And somehow, that connection felt deeper than anything you could’ve imagined.

The night had come swiftly, blanketing the world in an inky blackness. But sleep, when it finally came, wasn’t peaceful.

Your body tossed and turned as unsettling dreams clawed at your subconscious, dragging you through a nightmare that felt far too real. In the darkness of your mind, you were pulled into the void, and the figure you had been seeing in fragments now stood clear as day in front of you.

Flamereaver.

His presence was suffocating, a looming shadow that seemed to swallow the very air around you. His figure was clad in a flowing black cloak, the same cloak you had seen, but now, it was different. Now, his face was obscured by a black and gold metal mask, sharp and cruel, with angles that made his expression unreadable but no less terrifying. The golden sword in his hand gleamed ominously, its edge stained in a crimson hue, a dark reflection of something far more sinister than just a weapon.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t scream. But the vision played before you as if you were a spectator, unable to escape the horror.

Flamereaver's sword—a golden monstrosity—was pointed directly at you, its sharp tip glinting as if it had been forged in the very fires of torment. You could feel the weight of it in your chest, even though it didn’t pierce you. The cold, hollow sensation was enough to make your heart race, the fear that gripped you was as tangible as the blade that hovered inches from your skin.

Then, the vision shifted—abruptly and painfully.

A figure—someone familiar—stood before you in the flames. It was Mydei, his body lit by the firelight, and yet there was something horribly wrong. The sword you had seen moments before was buried deep in his back- his 10th vertebrae. Blood pooling around him as his once proud form crumpled to the ground. His eyes were wide with pain, his golden gaze fading as he collapsed.

You couldn’t move, but the weight of the tragedy hit you like a tidal wave.

And then, the scene shifted again, and you were standing before a pile of ash and golden threads, Aglaea's body lifeless on the cold stone floor. The threads that once had wrapped around her form now lay scattered around her, their beauty twisted in the face of death. The golden strands still clung to Flamereaver, wrapping around him like a pathetic attempt to bind him, to pull him back from his path of destruction, but it was useless. She was dead. A hole through her chest, the final sign of her futile resistance.

Your breath caught in your throat as the image of her body, still draped in those golden threads, haunted you. You had seen her, so graceful and so powerful in the waking world, but here she was, a lifeless body, a casualty of Flamereaver's wrath.

Aglaea, the weaver of fates, had fallen before him.

The words from the prophecy rang through your mind as if they had been spoken to you in a thousand voices at once:

"The undying Mydeimos is, the lion apart from the rest. Chrysos Heir who seeks the Coreflame of Strife, must suffer a thousand deaths, be bathed in blood on the path home, and bear the madness of fate alone."

The images blended into one final, crushing vision: Flamereaver standing over you, his sword raised high. The echo of his voice, cold and detached, filled the air, though you couldn’t make out the words. The bloodstained sword gleamed, and you knew, you just knew, that this wasn’t just a dream. This was something more.

And yet, despite all the horror, there was something strangely familiar about him. The mask. The presence. Flamereaver wasn’t a stranger. It was as if you had seen him before—felt him before—but from where? Why did he feel so... intertwined with your fate?

The vision ended abruptly, your body snapping awake, drenched in cold sweat, your heart racing as if it had been through the flames itself. You sat up, gasping for air, as the lingering images of Flamereaver, Aglaea, and Mydei haunted your every thought.

You couldn’t understand. Why had you seen that? Why had it felt so real?

You pressed your fingers against your temples, trying to stave off the overwhelming dizziness. The confusion. The connection that tied you to them, to Flamereaver. His name hadn’t been spoken aloud, but you knew—deep in the pit of your gut—that this was no simple nightmare.

The visions were more than just fragments of your subconscious. They were memories, perhaps not your own, but they were real. Flamereaver, the destroyer of Aedes Elysiae, the end of Aglaea, and the death of Mydei... it was all intertwined with you.

Your blood ran cold as the fragments began to piece together: Flamereaver, the man who destroyed everything, was somehow connected to you, just as Phainon had said. The connection was deeper than anything you could have imagined.

And yet, you still didn’t know how. Why. How could your fate be so entangled with the one who destroyed Aedes Elysiae? How could he have been the one to bring about such tragedy?

You had the Coreflame of Orynyx, the Titan of Time. And yet, it seemed that the time you lived in wasn’t the only timeline you were a part of. The glimpses, the memories that never happened, the visions—they were all a part of a story that was still unfolding.

And as much as you hated it, as much as you fought against it, the answer seemed to lie in Flamereaver—the villain who had become a shadow of what Phainon used to be.

You laid back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling as the storm outside began to pick up, the wind howling like the fury of forgotten gods.

In the quiet, you whispered to yourself, uncertain but desperate, "What is it about him?"

The answer was hidden, buried deep within your Coreflame, but you couldn’t touch it. Not yet.

You closed your eyes, but even as you tried to sleep again, the shadows of Flamereaver and the bloodstained sword haunted your thoughts.

You awoke with a sudden start, the remnants of the haunting visions still clinging to your mind like an insistent fog. But they quickly dissipated as panic shot through your veins. The dream’s weight faded, replaced by the reality of the chaos unfolding around you.

The room was in disarray. The walls, normally quiet, seemed to hum with tension. The air itself felt thicker, heavier. The sound of frantic footsteps echoed through the corridors outside. You could hear voices shouting, calls of alarm, the sense of urgency thick in the air.

Tribbie. Trianne. Trinnon.

They were gone. Missing.

Your heart skipped a beat. You barely had time to process what was happening before instinct took over. You leapt from your bed, your legs unsteady from sleep but propelled forward by the pounding sense of dread. You didn’t need to hear the specifics to understand—your companions, your friends, the remaining parts of Tribios, the ones who bore the Coreflame of Passage, had vanished.

Their absence wasn’t just a loss. It was a void. They were the heart of the Chrysos Heirs, the key to a future you hadn’t fully comprehended yet. Without them, something would break. Something crucial. You couldn't lose them.

Without hesitation, you grabbed your weapon—a gleaming sword that reflected the dim, flickering light in your room—and sprinted out the door. Your breath hitched as you charged through the corridors, the air thick with panic and confusion.

The moment you heard the cries for them, it was like everything clicked. You had to get to Janusopolis. You didn’t know how, or why, but you felt the pull deep within you—the place where Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon always went when they needed to calm their minds.

Janusopolis.

The holy land blessed by the tripartite prophecy. The very ground where Tribios, the Holy Maiden, had once tread. The land that held the secrets you hadn’t fully understood yet. You could feel the prophecy stirring in the depths of your soul.

Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon—the remaining fragments of Tribios—needed you. They were not just missing. They were calling to you, urging you to find them before something terrible happened. The fragments of the prophecy you’d heard before rang in your ears, but now, it made sense.

"Seek the children of humanity with golden blood in their veins, shatter the dimmest dark in this world, and walk toward the tomorrow where the stars gleam."

The words were clear now. You had to find them.

The cold night air bit at your skin as you raced toward the gates, not stopping to think about the danger you might be in. You had no time for that. Every part of you screamed for urgency, every breath felt like it could be your last if you didn’t find them.

As you ran, your mind raced. Why? Why were they gone? Was it connected to the visions you’d been seeing? The presence of Flamereaver? Could he be the one who had taken them? The thought made your blood run cold, but you couldn’t afford to think like that—not now.

Your feet carried you faster and faster until the silhouette of Janusopolis came into view—a holy city blessed by the stars, kissed by the dawn, a place of serenity and power. But tonight, it felt anything but peaceful. The quiet, peaceful aura that usually hung over the place seemed to be suffocating. The city that once whispered of hope and deliverance now felt hollow.

You skidded to a halt at the gates of Janusopolis, breathless and trembling with adrenaline. You pushed through the crowd of panicked Chrysos heirs and soldiers, no longer caring about the chaos that surrounded you. Your eyes were locked on the entrance to the holy land—the same entrance you and the others had walked through countless times before, when you sought peace and guidance. But now, it seemed to be leading you to something else entirely.

You entered the city, your heart pounding in your chest. The holy streets were empty, the usual hum of life and light eerily absent. It was silent, too silent, save for the soft echo of your footsteps as you moved deeper into the city.

There, at the center of the city, in front of the great temple that once stood as a beacon of hope, you found it—the source of your fear.

Tribbie.

She was standing there, her small frame illuminated by the flickering light of a nearby lantern, her wings drooping. Her purple eyes were wide, filled with confusion and fear, but there was something else in them too. Recognition. Pain.

“Tribbie?” you called, your voice hoarse with panic. “What happened? Where’s Trianne? Where’s Trinnon?”

She didn’t respond immediately, her gaze distant, as though she were lost in some sort of trance. The golden threads, the ones that connected the Coreflame of Passage to her very soul, glowed faintly, almost as if they were guiding her toward something.

Slowly, she turned to face you, her expression softening slightly at the sight of you. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely a whisper.

“They’re gone,” she said, her voice trembling. “All of them... taken.”

You blinked in disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘taken’? Who did this?”

Her eyes flickered toward the shadows that seemed to stretch unnaturally in the dim light. There, at the edge of her vision, you could almost make out a figure—a figure cloaked in darkness.

The figure who had been haunting your dreams.

You clenched your sword tighter, adrenaline pumping in your veins. You knew it was him.

“Flamereaver,” you murmured, the name tasting bitter on your tongue. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Tribbie didn’t answer, but her silence was all the confirmation you needed.

“We need to stop him,” you said, determination hardening in your voice. "We have to find Trianne and Trinnon, and we’ll stop this madness together."

But as you took a step forward, the city around you began to tremble, the ground vibrating beneath your feet. . . . . .

Time seemed to slow as you, Tribbie, and Trinnon continued your search through the darkened streets of Janusopolis. The golden threads of the city flickered faintly in the distance, and the air, thick with tension, pulsed around you. Every footstep, every breath felt like it echoed louder than before. Despite everything, there was a flicker of hope inside you—hope that Trinnon and Trianne were still alive, hidden somewhere within the city, waiting to be found.

You turned a corner, your heart skipping a beat when you saw them standing ahead, safe but clearly weary. Trinnon was leaning against a column, her expression tense and filled with concern. Beside her, Trianne stood tall, but her posture was fragile, almost as if the weight of everything was slowly crushing her spirit.

“Trinnon! Trianne!” you called out, rushing toward them. Tribbie, who had been close by, ran ahead, her little wings fluttering with excitement.

“We found you!” Tribbie exclaimed, her voice barely above a breathless whisper, but the relief in her tone was unmistakable.

Trinnon gave a weak smile, but there was something in his eyes that unsettled you. Shee wasn’t quite himself. Neither of them were. “It’s been too long,” she muttered, looking between you and Tribbie. “We’ve been trying to keep them at bay, but I don’t think we can hold out much longer.”

You frowned. “Hold out? From who?”

Before anyone could answer, a shadow fell over you all. It was cold and suffocating, a darkness that swallowed the light, even the very essence of Janusopolis itself. You turned slowly, dread clawing at your chest.

Behind you, emerging from the murky shadows, stood Flamereaver. His towering form, cloaked in black, rippling with an unsettling aura, made your blood run cold. The metal mask covering his face gleamed like a twisted version of the moon, reflecting a darkness that seemed endless.

“Flamereaver!” Tribbie cried, her voice high with fear. But there was no surprise, no uncertainty. This was the force you had feared, the figure from your dreams, the one you had known was bound to come for you all.

Flamereaver’s golden sword, shaped like a crescent moo,n gleamed in his hands, stained with a sickening red that made your stomach churn. His stance was relaxed, but you could feel the weight of the death and destruction he carried in every movement. His eyes, hidden behind the mask, were a cold abyss of madness.

The silence that followed was unbearable, suffocating. Finally, Flamereaver spoke, his voice distorted by the mask. “So, we meet again.”

Before anyone could react, Trianne stepped forward, her posture regal and strong despite the way her hands trembled. “You won’t have them, Flamereaver.” Her high pitched yet weak voice rang out, resolute.

Suddenly, the air around Trianne shimmered. She raised her arms, and before any of you could move, a massive holy gate began to form behind her, glowing with ethereal light. It looked like an impossible barrier, a final line of defense. But Flamereaver was not a force that could be stopped easily.

“Trianne, no!” you shouted, but it was too late.

With a flick of his wrist, Flamereaver lunged toward her, but the holy gate expanded rapidly, forcing him back. The Gate of Passage, as it was known, was a last-resort barrier designed to seal away any being of immense power. But Flamereaver was no ordinary foe. The gate trembled as if it were alive, and with a screeching sound, the atmosphere crackled with raw energy.

Flamereaver didn’t hesitate. He plunged his golden sword toward the gate, and for a moment, the world itself seemed to hold its breath. The holy gate’s light flickered, but Flamereaver’s strength, bolstered by the sheer force of madness, proved too much.

Trianne’s face twisted in pain as the gate flickered one final time. “You have to go!” she gasped, her voice strained and fragile. She turned toward you, her eyes filled with regret.

“No, Trianne!” Tribbie cried, reaching out to her. But it was too late.

Before you could react, a force from the gate swept over you and Tribbie, throwing you backward. Trinnon, too, was knocked off his feet. You could barely hold onto your weapon as the force pulled you, the world spinning in disorienting chaos.

“Trianne!” you shouted one last time, desperate, your heart shattering with each passing moment.

And then, in a heart-wrenching instant, the gate slammed shut. The light dimmed, the air grew still, and you were thrown into the distance, far from the destruction. The three of you landed hard on the ground, dazed and disoriented, your mind still struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

You forced yourself to stand, gasping for air, but the world felt heavy. You turned back toward the gate, your chest tightening as you realized what had happened.

Flamereaver had...gotten Trianne.

You didn’t need to see him strike—because the weight of his power, the flickering glow from the gate, told you everything you needed to know.

Through the shimmering walls of the closed gate, you could see Flamereaver standing before Trianne, his mask cold and unfeeling. The last thing you saw was his sword raised high, and then, in a moment that felt like eternity, the light of the gate went out.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The journey back to Okhema felt like an eternity. Every step you took seemed to drag you deeper into a world that had already begun to crumble. Trinnon, her usually calm eyes now dim with sorrow, walked beside you, her face pale and tight with grief. Tribbie flitted nervously around, the usual playful energy replaced with a quiet sadness, as if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen onto her small shoulders.

As you reached the entrance to Okhema, the ancient gates groaned open, revealing the familiar yet ominous surroundings. The moonlight barely penetrated the canopy above, casting long shadows on the stone path ahead. You felt a growing sense of dread, something gnawing at your insides, the remnants of the painful memory still fresh in your mind.

Then, you saw them.

Phainon, Anaxa, Aglaea, and Mydei were gathered in the center of the village, standing together as if in solemn unity. They were all here. Phainon, with his usual carefree demeanor, was in stark contrast to the turmoil within you. His hair, the color of pearls, fluttered gently in the breeze, his posture relaxed as he chatted with Anaxa, the strategic genius with a calm and composed aura. His sharp features, marked by the cold wisdom he held, were unmistakable.

Aglaea stood near the group, her golden attire gleaming softly even in the dim light. She was the picture of elegance, but there was a distant sorrow in her eyes—a far-off look that made her seem out of place in this gathering, as if her mind was elsewhere.

And then, there was Mydei. The calm, calculating nature of his gaze was gone, replaced by something more unsettling. His golden eyes, always so sharp and perceptive, now held a layer of sorrow and desperation that was deeply unsettling. You could see it in the way he stood, slightly apart from the others, as if weighed down by an invisible burden.

“You’re back.” Phainon’s voice broke through the silence, his tone warm but somewhat distant. He grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "How did things go?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words felt stuck in your throat. Trianne’s last moments, Flamereaver’s cold, unfeeling mask, his sword raised above her—everything was a blur now, the weight of the loss pressing heavily against your chest. The air felt thick, suffocating, as you glanced at the others, waiting for them to notice that something was wrong.

But no one seemed to.

Anaxa tilted hiss head, sensing something amiss but not pressing for details. "You look... tired," he said, his voice laced with his usual sharpness. "Did something happen?"

Tribbie shuffled uneasily, her wings fluttering nervously. "We... we couldn’t save her," she whispered, barely audible.

Mydei shifted, his gaze narrowing. “Who? What happened?” His voice carried the weight of someone used to having the answers, always in control, but this time there was a hint of vulnerability in it.

You couldn’t bear it anymore. The emotions roiled inside you, the memories of Flamereaver and Trianne’s sacrifice pressing against your ribcage like a thousand pounds. You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the tears that threatened to spill. "Trianne... she’s—" You couldn't say it. The words didn’t feel real.

Before you could finish, Phainon stepped forward, his brow furrowing in concern. "What happened?" His voice, despite its usual playful tone, now held an edge of genuine worry. "Where's Trianne?"

You felt a wave of frustration rise within you, mixing with the sorrow, the confusion. Why was he acting like everything was fine? Why wasn’t he seeing it? Flamereaver had already destroyed everything. Everything you had fought for. You could feel the anger bubbling in your chest, but it was quickly swallowed by the guilt that followed.

Anaxa, ever perceptive, observed your reaction. He stepped forward and placed a hand gently on your shoulder, offering silent support. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Flamereaver came... he took her.” Your voice cracked. “Trianne’s gone...”

There was a long, painful silence. Then, it was Mydei who spoke first. “So he’s still out there,” he muttered, his voice colder than you had ever heard it. His eyes were fixed on you, then on the others, calculating. "I’ll find him."

Aglaea, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke, her voice quiet but steady. "We need to be careful. Flamereaver is not just any enemy. He’s far more dangerous than we could have imagined."

Phainon finally spoke again, but this time, his voice had a dark edge. "If Flamereaver is out there, then everything’s changed. But there’s something else… something about him that doesn’t make sense."

You stared at him, confusion flickering in your mind. "What do you mean?"

Phainon turned his gaze toward you, his usually bright eyes now clouded with something more... haunted. “I’ve faced him before. In a different world. He’s not the same anymore. But he’s... so familiar."

You stared at him, a chill running down your spine. There was something about the way he said that that made you uneasy. His expression was too distant, too removed, as if something far darker was lurking beneath the surface.

Before you could probe further, Tribbie looked up at you, her large eyes wide with worry. "I don’t like this... I don’t like how we’re all acting like nothing’s happened. We need to stop him. We have to save everyone."

Mydei moved to stand closer to Phainon, a grim expression overtaking his usual calm demeanor. "We will. But we have to be prepared. We need to find Flamereaver before he finds us again."

The weight of the situation finally hit you in full force. Flamereaver wasn’t just a villain. He was something far worse—a reflection of someone you knew, someone you cared about. Someone who had loved you.

And now, in a twisted, painful way, that love had become the very thing that could destroy everything. . . . .

As the words of the Chrysos heirs echoed in the darkness, the weight of it all became too much to bear. The grief, the uncertainty, the loss—it all collided inside your chest like a tidal wave. Your heart raced, pounding with a rhythmic intensity that you couldn’t escape, as if something was trying to break free. Your vision blurred, and the world around you started to spin.

Before you could stop yourself, your knees buckled, and everything went black.

You woke with a sharp gasp, the coldness of sweat against your skin making you shiver uncontrollably. But what truly caught your attention was the sheer clarity of the vision that flooded your mind—a vision that felt too real, too vivid to be a mere dream.

You were standing in a desolate place. There was no sound, no movement, just an eerie silence. The air felt heavy, thick with tension and despair. A figure stood before you—Flamereaver—but the figure before you was different. His mask was gone, revealing a face that was both familiar and foreign. Phainon.

But something was terribly wrong.

His eyes... those cold, piercing blue eyes—his eyes—were filled with anguish, a depth of sorrow that seemed to crush everything around him. Tears streamed down his face, each drop carving through the hardness of his expression, making him seem like a shattered version of the man you knew. He looked at you, not with the warmth that used to define him, but with an unbearable emptiness, as if he had lost everything and was now nothing more than a shell of his former self.

And yet, despite everything, he still reached out to you. His hand trembling as it extended toward you, like a broken plea.

Without thinking, you smiled at him. Not the gentle smile you gave him before, the one full of affection and warmth—but a soft, sorrowful smile. A smile that spoke of a connection beyond what you could understand, beyond what you had ever experienced. You didn’t remember this, you couldn’t. This never happened in your current timeline. But it didn’t matter.

It was another timeline. Another place, another time. The fragments of him—the real Phainon—tugged at your heart, and you could feel a deep sadness in the pit of your stomach. The same sadness you saw reflected in his eyes.

And then, the vision fractured.

Your mind was suddenly overwhelmed with images, flashes—shards of memories from alternate timelines. Each vision more vivid than the last. The pain, the loss, the unspoken love between you and Phainon, the never-ending cycle of worlds where he was Flamereaver, a villain, a destroyer—yet always, somehow, still tied to you.

In one, he was standing beside you in a field, the two of you laughing, your fingers brushing, everything so perfect. But as quickly as it came, that image cracked and splintered.

In another, you saw him, his golden sword raised high, drenched in blood. His eyes were wide with madness and fury as he stood over a body. The vision distorted as a scream echoed, a sound so agonizing it made your heart stop. It was your scream. Your voice, distorted and broken, reaching out to him as his cold gaze met yours, unwilling to stop.

And then there was another. You saw yourself, bound and broken, trapped in a cage of golden light, as Flamereaver—Phainon—stood outside, watching you, the expression in his eyes unreadable, cold, lifeless. There was no sign of the man who once loved you, no trace of that warmth. Only a villain. Only the cold steel of a mask.

The pain in your head intensified. The memories came faster, harder, bleeding into your mind, each one crashing against your senses like waves. You groaned in pain, clutching your head, trying desperately to hold onto yourself as the visions tore through your thoughts. They didn’t make sense. They were too much. It felt like your mind was splitting apart, each fragmented memory pulling you deeper into the abyss.

"No." You whispered the word, unable to stop yourself. It felt like you were losing yourself to these alternate timelines. These lives you hadn’t lived but could feel so intimately, as if you had been there—had been with him—in all of them.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to shut out the images, but they persisted. Phainon, Flamereaver, Phainon again. All different, all the same. Always him, always torn between the love and madness.

Finally, your vision cleared. But the pain didn’t subside. It remained, a gnawing ache at the back of your mind, as if something was trying to break free, something that didn’t belong in this timeline. Something wrong.

You took a deep breath, still shaking from the flood of images that had nearly drowned you. Your hand instinctively went to your chest, pressing against the thumping of your heart. The Coreflame of Orynyx pulsed softly, almost as if it were echoing the pain you felt, resonating with the memories you had just seen.

The timelines. The memories of love, betrayal, and death. You couldn’t make sense of them. But one thing was certain. Phainon, or Flamereaver, was a part of all of them. No matter the timeline, no matter the world—he was there.

And you were bound to him. Always. And forever will be.

With trembling hands, you slowly rose to your feet. The world around you still seemed distant, like you were standing outside of it all. Your head pounded, but your resolve was hardening. You couldn't ignore this any longer. The alternate timelines, the visions—they were leading you somewhere. To him.

To Phainon.

And you weren’t sure if you could save him from the madness, or if he was already too far gone.

One week later, everything felt heavier. The visions hadn't stopped, but they had become quieter, more subtle. The ache in your chest, the strange pull between worlds, lingered but was manageable—at least for now. It didn’t stop you from constantly being on edge, though, as if you were always on the verge of a breakdown.

You hadn’t spoken to anyone about the visions. Not about Flamereaver or about what had happened when you passed out. They were too real, too overwhelming. You didn’t know if they were a warning or simply your mind unraveling from the burden of the Coreflame. But the truth lingered in your heart, and you couldn’t escape it.

You couldn’t escape him.

It wasn’t long before you found yourself standing at the edge of the bustling Okhema, the city’s skyline stretching out before you like a shimmering maze of lights and shadows. The week had passed in a blur of activity and chaos—just the usual for someone with your position as one of the Chrysos Heirs. The loss of Trianne and the uncertainty of your friends weighed heavily on you, but today, today was different.

Today, the gnawing sense that something was wrong kept you from being at peace. The dark thoughts, the phantom memories, all pointed to the one thing you had tried to ignore: Flamereaver, Phainon.

You knew he was close.

Your intuition had never steered you wrong, and the Coreflame within you pulsed softly, almost as if it were calling to you, beckoning you towards something you couldn’t yet understand. The lingering echoes of the visions haunted your every waking moment, especially the one where you saw Phainon, his face covered in sorrow, tears staining his cheeks as he reached for you.

The feeling of helplessness swelled within you.

"Hey," Trinnon’s voice broke through the haze of your thoughts, bringing you back to the present. She was standing next to you, her usual mischievous smile softened with concern. Her deep blue eyes studied you with a gentleness that, on a normal day, might have comforted you. "You’ve been staring at the skyline for what, an hour? What’s going on?"

You didn’t know how to explain it. The memories. The pull. The relentless images of Phainon and Flamereaver tormenting your thoughts. How could you tell her that you were seeing multiple versions of the same man, each more broken and distant than the last? How could you explain the confusion, the fear of seeing him as both a lover and a villain, as both someone you trusted and someone you feared?

"I’m fine," you said, the words slipping out more easily than you’d expected. You smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach your eyes. "Just thinking."

Trinnon raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further. Instead, she placed a hand on your shoulder, her touch warm, reassuring. "Well, whatever it is, don’t bottle it up. We’re all in this together, you know?"

You nodded, appreciating her words, though you couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was lurking in the distance, waiting for you.

It came suddenly, like a storm.

The world around you had been eerily quiet, peaceful even. A brief moment of respite, one you hadn’t truly had in a long time. You stood outside, near the base of the Chrysos estate, when a dark figure appeared in the distance. The air thickened, crackling with tension, and you could feel your heart race before you even saw who it was.

There he stood, Flamereaver—his presence like a shadow that consumed everything around him. He wore the same black and gold armor, his mask now covering his face once more, though the haunting blue eyes of the man you knew still seemed to pierce through the metal.

His arrival didn’t go unnoticed. Mydei, the cheerful and unburdened version of Phainon you knew from this timeline, immediately appeared by your side. His face was calm but alert, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Flamereaver.

"Stay back, you," Mydei said with a forced calmness, but there was a flicker of something else—something that you could feel—but it wasn’t the warmth you were used to. Instead, it was an edge of something deeper, something darker. Maybe it was fear.

The air seemed to vibrate with the tension, the ground beneath your feet shaking as the power of the two forces gathered. It was as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath.

Then, like the snap of a thread, the battle began.

Flamereaver swung his golden sword, sharp and relentless, his movements precise and calculated. Mydei, without hesitation, leaped into action, summoning his own weapon—a brilliant sword made of shimmering light—and met Flamereaver's blow with equal ferocity. Sparks flew as the two clashed, their swords ringing with the intensity of their strikes.

Behind you, Tribbie and Trinnon were watching from a distance, unsure of what to do. You could see their fear and confusion, but you couldn't afford to pay attention to them now. The sight of the two polar opposites Phainons fighting each other sent a shock through your chest.

You didn’t know what was happening, but you could feel the weight of it in your bones. You knew they didn't understand what this was, what was happening between them. Neither of them knew that the man they were fighting—the man they saw before them—was a version of Phainon, twisted by the realities of alternate timelines.

But there was no time to explain.

The battle raged on, their swords clashing over and over, each strike shaking the ground beneath your feet. Mydei fought with all his strength, every movement elegant and full of purpose, but there was something different in the way he moved. Something almost... hesitant.

Flamereaver was relentless. His strikes were brutal and precise, as if he had lived a thousand lifetimes of pain, of loss, and now, he was taking it out on the world. His rage was palpable, swirling around him like a storm.

It was almost as if he wasn’t fighting for something, but rather, against everything.

You couldn’t help but feel the weight of the fight on your shoulders. Something in you ached, a deep, visceral need to end this. But you didn’t know how. How could you end something that you didn’t understand? How could you stop this man—Phainon—who was so broken, so shattered by everything he had gone through?

As the battle continued, you felt the shift in the air. Something was about to change. You could sense the power building around them, the two Phainons locked in an almost tragic dance of strength and fury.

Suddenly, Flamereaver let out a loud roar, his sword raised high above his head, glowing with an eerie golden light. His power surged, the earth beneath your feet cracking and breaking as if the very world were reacting to his fury.

"You don't understand," Flamereaver growled, his voice cold and full of malice. "I don't want to fight you. But I have to. I have no choice."

Mydei’s expression faltered, the weight of those words striking him harder than any blow. His sword faltered, just for a moment, and that moment was all Flamereaver needed.

With a brutal strike, Flamereaver knocked Mydei back, sending him crashing to the ground. The impact sent a wave of pain through your chest, and you gasped, your heart racing. Mydei was down—your Phainon was down.

But before Flamereaver could take another step, you found yourself moving, the Coreflame within you pulsing as you reached for your weapon. It was instinct. You couldn't let this continue, couldn't let Phainon destroy himself, no matter which version of him it was.

"Phainon!" you shouted, but your voice caught in your throat as you stepped forward, eyes locked on his face through the mask.

For a brief second, the world stopped.

Flamereaver's gaze flicked to you, and there it was again—the flicker of recognition. Those eyes, so cold yet full of something deeper, something that made you feel the weight of his suffering.

But then he turned away, pushing the moment aside.

"You don't understand," he said again, his voice breaking. "This... this is the only way."

But you refused to back down.

You couldn’t let him destroy himself. You couldn't let him fall further into the darkness. . . . .

The world around you seemed to still, a sudden heaviness pressing down on your chest as your mind raced. You felt the surge of power from your Coreflame of Orynyx, the Titan of Time, deep within you, pulsing like a heartbeat. You could feel its raw potential—an energy that was both ancient and infinite. It was a power to manipulate time itself. You had tried to avoid using it, knowing how dangerous it could be. But now, there was no other choice.

Your breath hitched as you raised your weapon, and with a single, strained command, the air around you distorted. Time itself seemed to ripple, warping into a protective barrier that expanded, consuming you and Flamereaver, trapping both of you in an isolated bubble, a prison where only the two of you existed. No one could come through. No one could escape.

It was a barrier that bent the laws of reality. The world outside would continue, but inside, time would stagnate—like the eye of a storm, everything would be frozen except for you two. No reinforcements. No interruptions. The battlefield was set, and now, it was only a matter of survival.

Flamereaver paused, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. His golden sword lowered slightly, his cold blue eyes locking onto yours.

"What... are you doing?" he asked, his voice sharp and tinged with confusion. His eyes searched your face, the mask still covering the rest of his expression, but there was no mistaking the uncertainty hidden within him.

"This ends here," you said, your voice steady but filled with determination. "I won’t let you destroy yourself. Not like this."

The words seemed to hang in the air between you two, but they were as much for yourself as they were for him. You couldn’t let him destroy everything. Even if it was Phainon—your Phainon, the one you knew in this timeline—he was still the same man who had once brought warmth to your world. The man who had laughed beside you, fought beside you, and cared for you.

But now, he was a shadow of himself—Flamereaver, consumed by pain, by rage, and by the haunting memories of those alternate timelines. He was the same, yet so different. You knew this fight was inevitable, but it didn't make the weight of it any easier to bear.

"Phainon," you breathed, but it came out more as a whisper than a plea. A flicker of recognition passed through his eyes, but it quickly faded, replaced by the cold, determined rage of the Flamereaver you had seen in your visions.

His grip tightened around his sword, and in an instant, he lunged at you, faster than you could react. His strike was brutal, a slash that could cleave mountains, and you barely managed to raise your weapon in time to block it. The force of the blow sent a shockwave through your body, but you stood your ground.

You were not going to lose. Not now.

You summoned the full power of your Coreflame, letting time bend and distort at your will. With a flick of your wrist, the air around you froze—time itself locked in place for just a moment. The world around you blurred, but you could still feel Flamereaver’s presence. He had slowed, momentarily caught within the barrier you had created. The trick was simple: time had stopped for him, but not for you.

With speed borne of necessity, you launched yourself at him, your sword glowing with the intensity of your Coreflame. But just as quickly as the pause in time had come, it was gone, and Flamereaver was moving again, the collision of your swords creating a shockwave that shattered the air around you.

"Is this really what you want, Flamereaver?" you shouted as you pushed back against his strength. "This... hatred? This destruction? You’re killing yourself, piece by piece! I can’t let you do this!"

Flamereaver’s face twisted, the sharp edges of his mask catching the light, and for a brief moment, you could see the faintest hint of conflict in his eyes.

"You think this is a choice?" he spat, his voice rough with pain and anger. "There’s no choice, not for me. Not anymore. I’ve seen it all. I’ve lived it all. The timelines, the futures, the deaths… I’ve had to do this. It’s the only way. And you... you don’t understand."

The energy between you two was electric—shaking the very air with every blow, every clash of swords. But deep down, you felt the pull of his words. He wasn’t wrong. The weight of countless timelines had driven him to this madness. The suffering of one too many lifetimes had made him into Flamereaver, a weapon of destruction, not the man you had known. The man you loved.

But that didn’t matter now.

You raised your sword again, pouring more energy into it, time swirling in chaotic, twisting loops around you. A flash of light, and the barrier around you intensified. The air itself began to crack with the pressure of the fight.

“I do understand, Phainon,” you said through gritted teeth, refusing to call him Flamereaver anymore. “I understand more than you know. I see everything. The pain, the loss, the futility. But I won’t let you destroy everything for the sake of a timeline that doesn’t matter anymore!”

The air hummed with power as the final blow approached, and everything seemed to slow down, the world bending and shifting with the force of your Coreflame.

But as you charged, your heart heavy with the truth of what was at stake, you could feel the clash of wills—his against yours.

The air crackled with energy, the space around you a vortex of swirling time, the very fabric of reality trembling with the intensity of your battle. You pushed yourself harder, your sword clashing violently against Flamereaver’s golden blade, the force of each strike reverberating through your body. The power of your Coreflame surged through you, yet the toll it took was unbearable.

Your vision blurred as pain sliced through your chest, the blood rising in your throat. You coughed, red staining your lips, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt. But you couldn’t stop—not now. Not when everything was on the line.

You gritted your teeth, forcing your body to move despite the agony. With a harsh shout, you released another wave of energy, bending time and space around you, creating a domain where only you and Flamereaver existed. The ground trembled beneath you, and time itself seemed to freeze around you in a swirling, distorted cocoon.

"Phainon!" you screamed, your voice raw and desperate, but still fierce. "You have to fight for what’s beautiful in this world! You have to fight for life, for love, for all that’s worth living for!"

Each word felt like it tore through your very soul, as if you were speaking not just to him, but to all the futures that had led you here, to this moment, to this endless loop of pain and loss. You didn’t want to fight him. You wanted to save him. You had to save him.

But as you said those words, your body betrayed you. Blood poured from your lips, staining your hands as you continued to focus on the barrier, continuing to manipulate time, even as the pressure on you became unbearable.

The world around you shook with the sheer power of your Coreflame, the barrier you’d created nearly cracking under the weight of your will. You could feel it slipping, the exhaustion pulling at you. It hurt to breathe. But there was no way you could stop. Not now.

Flamereaver’s sword moved again, but this time it paused, his blade hovering in mid-air. His cold, blue eyes flickered with something faint—something that might have been concern—but he quickly masked it, his stance hardening, his expression unreadable behind the mask.

He stepped back slightly, his gaze flickering between you and the barrier you were weaving, his voice low but heavy with something unspoken.

"Why… why do you keep fighting like this?" Flamereaver’s voice was almost a whisper, the icy edge of his words betraying the flicker of doubt within him. "Why do you continue to believe in something like this world? There’s nothing left to fight for. There’s only… endless destruction."

But you were undeterred. Even as your body screamed in pain, even as your strength waned, you stood tall, refusing to give up.

"I remember," you whispered, the words tumbling out in a broken breath, the truth slamming into you like a tidal wave. "I remember every timeline, Phainon. All of them. Every time we fought, every time I tried to save you... I remember it all."

The words seemed to hang in the air, like the echo of a thousand lives lived in vain. Your hand trembled as you pointed your sword at him, and you could see the flicker of realization in his eyes—recognition, maybe even regret.

"You were my Phainon, and I was your anchor," you continued, forcing yourself to speak even as your voice cracked. "In every timeline, we fought, we lost, and we loved… But I still remember. I remember you, Phainon, and I won’t let this timeline be another where we’re torn apart by fate."

His blue eyes hardened again, his grip tightening on his sword as he stepped forward, a twisted smirk pulling at the edge of his lips. "And what will you do, huh? Keep fighting? Keep trying to change the past? It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore."

But you weren’t listening to him anymore. You were listening to the truth in your heart. The truth that had been born from countless lifetimes of love, pain, and regret. You knew what you had to do, and you would do it, no matter the cost.

You gritted your teeth, one final wave of power pouring through you. You could feel the strain in your body, every fiber of your being crying out as you pushed your Coreflame to its absolute limit, warping time itself to bind Flamereaver within your domain.

"I won’t let you destroy everything, Phainon," you whispered, barely able to stand as the weight of it all bore down on you. "I will fight for this world. For what’s good. For you. Even if you can’t see it."

But even as you said those words, the pain overtook you. Your vision blurred again, a red haze clouding your sight as the blood kept flowing. You were so tired. So very tired. The barrier you’d created flickered, cracking under the strain of your power. But you wouldn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

Phainon, or Flamereaver, or whoever he was now, was silent for a moment. His cold eyes never left yours, the mask of indifference slipping just for an instant. For a brief moment, you saw it—the faintest glimmer of the man you once knew, the man who had loved you, the man who had laughed with you, the man who had once been whole.

But it was fleeting. Too fleeting.

"You don’t understand," Flamereaver muttered, his voice cracking with emotion, though he quickly masked it again. "I’ve lost everything. I’ve seen all the futures, all the deaths, and there’s nothing left for me anymore. Nothing left but this path."

You smiled through your pain, the tears blurring your vision as you whispered back, "Then fight for something new. Fight for the future, Phainon. Fight for a new opening."

And just as you spoke those final words, everything went dark.

The last thing you heard was his voice, soft and distant, but almost filled with something... something you couldn’t quite place.

The world around you shattered as the full force of your Coreflame surged through you, sending a wave of excruciating power pulsing outward. Time itself bent, twisted, and unraveled in an unstoppable cascade, and all the memories—the infinite timelines, the endless iterations of you and Phainon—flooded the space between you and him.

You saw the glimmers of the past—the laughs shared in quiet moments, the times you had fought side by side, the love that had once blossomed, only to be torn away by the cruel hands of fate. All of it surged through you with such overwhelming force that it felt as though your very soul was being ripped apart.

But you kept going. The memories of every single life, every battle fought, every whispered word of love, every sacrifice—it all came rushing back. They were never forgotten. They never would be. You couldn’t let them fade, not now. Not when this was the last chance you had.

With a desperate scream, you lunged forward, charging straight at Flamereaver, your heart wild with emotion, your body burning with the raw power of your Coreflame.

“Phainon!” you cried out, your voice raw and filled with anguish. “This world might not be all sunshine and rainbows, but if you want to kill me and get away from me again, I would go to hell and back to stop that from happening!”

Tears streamed down your face as you threw yourself at him, your sword raised high, your heart an inferno of defiance. The memories blurred in your mind, flashing like streaks of lightning. Every version of you, every timeline, every instance where you fought for him, fought alongside him, died for him—it all flooded back in a painful torrent.

But as you reached him, something changed. The air around you grew thick with the weight of your memories, and Flamereaver—no, Phainon—stood still, frozen in place, watching you with cold eyes, yet there was something more behind them. Something that flickered faintly with hesitation, but it was quickly buried beneath the icy mask of indifference.

And then, with one final push, you reached him. The strain was too much. The blood you’d been coughing up stained your lips, a thick, red reminder of the toll this fight was taking. Your vision blurred, and as you took a step closer to him, your body betrayed you. You staggered, your legs buckling beneath you, and you collapsed to your knees before him, your strength finally giving out.

Blood pooled around you, your heart pounding erratically in your chest as you struggled to breathe. The world spun around you, the edge of consciousness pulling at you, but you fought to stay awake. You couldn’t let go now. Not when you were this close. Not when you could finally reach him.

Despite the pain, despite the overwhelming exhaustion and the blood that continued to pour from your body, you lifted your gaze, locking eyes with him. You smiled, even as the darkness threatened to overtake you, the memories flashing around you like stars in the night sky.

“I remember, Phainon,” you whispered softly, barely audible as your vision blurred. “I remember it all. All of our timelines. All the lives we lived... I won't let you go again. I refuse."

The memories of your past lives, the love you had for him, the pain you had shared—all of it came rushing in, flooding the domain you had created between the two of you. Your soul reached out, pulling his with it, drawing him into the same space of memories you had built together. You weren’t just fighting him now. You were pulling him with you, into the places where you had loved and fought and dreamed of a different world.

Flamereaver—Phainon—didn’t move. His face remained frozen in that cold expression, but there was something in his eyes now. Something different. Something like recognition, but also resignation.

The memories of every life, every timeline where you had fought, bled, and died together, were now swirling around you, enveloping you both. He was trapped in them as much as you were, unable to escape the flood of emotions, the weight of all the pain and love and loss.

In the quiet, in the storm of your memories, you finally reached out, your fingers trembling as you touched his arm, the touch gentle despite the violence of the battle.

You didn’t want to fight him anymore. You just wanted him to understand. You wanted him to remember. You wanted him to see you—see both of you, in every timeline, in every reality, in every life.

“You’re not alone, Phainon,” you murmured, your voice trembling with the last remnants of your strength. “You never were... We were always together, no matter what. And we can still be...”

But before you could finish, everything blurred, and your world tilted. The power of your Coreflame, the memories, the barrier that had separated you both from the rest of the world—it all crumbled.

And with that, you collapsed completely, your body no longer able to sustain you.

But your soul... your soul reached for him, even as everything around you faded to black.

The last thing you felt was his hand, cold against yours, pulling you deeper into the memories you shared.

The world slowly came back to you, warmth and light filtering through the haze that clouded your mind. You blinked, eyes fluttering open as you felt an unfamiliar sensation—softness beneath you, the slow rise and fall of steady breathing around you. Your body felt heavy, almost too heavy to move, but it was a comforting weight, one that seemed to be wrapped in warmth.

It took a moment for your vision to clear, but when it did, you found yourself staring up into the sky, the remnants of your Coreflame’s power still crackling faintly in the air. But what stood out the most—what truly jolted you—was the feeling of someone’s hand gently resting on your head, a steady, reassuring presence.

You shifted, only to realize that you were lying on something. Or rather, someone. The shape beneath you was warm, solid, and unmistakably familiar.

Your gaze slowly drifted upward, meeting the eyes of the person whose lap you had ended up on.

Phainon. Flamereaver. The one who had stood as your enemy, your tormentor, and your love across timelines. The one whose cold eyes had been an unyielding wall of ice.

But now—now, as you gazed up at him, you saw something different. His eyes, once so full of indifference and hatred, now held an undeniable warmth. A warmth that you hadn’t seen in him before.

Tears streamed down his face, staining his usually stoic features. His expression was a mixture of disbelief, sorrow, and something else—something more fragile, like a shattered version of the man you had known.

“You’re awake…” His voice was hoarse, cracking as if he hadn’t spoken in centuries. It was softer than you remembered, almost as if he was afraid to disturb the fragile moment.

You blinked, confused. "Phainon?" Your voice came out weak, and you had to swallow to clear the rasp in your throat. The events of earlier—the battle, the memories, the fierce fight between you—felt like a blur, like it all belonged to a distant world.

He let out a shaky breath, his hands trembling as he carefully brushed a strand of hair away from your face. The gesture was tender, almost reverent. "I thought… I thought I lost you," he whispered, voice breaking.

It hit you all at once—the realization of what had happened. How close you had come to losing him. How close he had come to losing you. Everything that had led up to this moment, all the pain and the fighting, had led you both to this point. A moment where you were here, lying in his lap, alive, and for the first time in so long, together.

You reached up with trembling hands, touching his face, feeling the wetness of his tears on your fingertips. "You didn’t lose me, Phainon," you said softly, your voice full of quiet sincerity. "Not this time. I’m still here. And I’m not going anywhere."

His eyes—those cold, distant eyes—flickered for a moment, the warmth that had bloomed there growing, flickering into something more. His hands, which had been so stiff and unyielding in the past, now cradled your face with an almost reverential gentleness.

"I’m sorry," he murmured, his voice shaking with the weight of his emotions. "I didn’t mean to hurt you… I didn’t want any of this. But I… I couldn’t stop myself. I—"

You interrupted him, shaking your head weakly. "You don’t have to apologize. Not anymore. I understand now… why you were the way you were. It’s not your fault." Your words were soft, but they carried the weight of all the pain you had shared, all the regrets that had been building between the two of you.

Phainon’s gaze softened, and he let out a ragged sigh, one that seemed to release all the tension in his body. His shoulders slumped, as if he had been holding up the weight of the world for too long.

"I don’t deserve your forgiveness," he said, his voice low and thick with emotion. "I don’t deserve you."

You looked up at him, your eyes filled with a quiet determination. "No. You don’t get to decide that," you replied, your voice steady, though still tinged with exhaustion. "I choose to forgive you. I choose to be here with you. And I choose to fight for us, even if this world isn’t perfect."

He stared at you, as though trying to understand, as though he couldn’t quite believe the words coming out of your mouth. But his heart—his heart, so broken and battered, was slowly beginning to heal with every word you spoke.

"I don’t know if I can fix all of this," he whispered, his hand gently cupping yours. "I don’t know if I can ever make up for everything… for everything I’ve done."

You smiled faintly, despite the ache in your chest, despite the exhaustion and pain that still lingered in your body. "Maybe you don’t need to fix everything," you said softly. "Phainon, when you think this story is simply the end, it is a new beginning. A beginning for you, and— For us." And then he leans in—his lips against the soft inside of his palm and smiles at you softly. "Enough of this emotional bullshit now come idiot," You say as you grab his hand and the barrier around you all shatters to pieces, running off with his hand in yours, smiling.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Never can we suspend the time, Having to leave the tracks behind. - da capo.

HOPE YOU LIKE IT :DDD I PRSNALI LOVE THIS EGIUREJKF OH MY GODDD IVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS NON STOP SINCE 7 HOURS

[y0url0calmushr00m]

:D yippe phainon my favourite flavor 😁

— cleanup on aisle three ⟢

phainon’s late-night grocery runs are a masterclass in chaos: strange ingredients, fish-shaped lighters, and recipes that could either save the world or end it. and you, a cynical store clerk who just wants to end your shifts quietly, find yourself caught in the storm of his culinary madness.

★ featuring; phainon x gender-neutral!reader

★ word count; 8.3k words

★ tags; friends to lovers, the grand chrysos au (from the april fool's chef pv lol), fluff, idiots in love, several food mentions

★ notes; kaientai tumblr reinstation starts NYEOW! if you follow me on ao3, you've probably already seen this, but i thought it would be a nice idea to crosspost on tumblr since i have a fairly decent following here as well :")

It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service. 

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?” 

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right. 

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with. 

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you. 

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room. 

And you did. For about twenty minutes. 

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that. 

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus. 

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break. 

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift. 

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?” 

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.

⟢ end notes: wahoo, you made it to the end! thank you so much for reading qwq it's been a hot minute since i posted on this acc and tumblr in general (i was mostly active on the kpop side of things in 2023), so i'm kinda just posting this to feel out the vibes. if i should crosspost my other stuff here etc etc. i also just started writing for hsr about,, a month ago?? so i've no idea how the fandom is on here JSDHFJSDGFH either way!! i'm just happy to share my stuff anywhere i can :^)

[y0url0calmushr00m]

....God I love angst 🙏

a decade | caleb.

synopsis: two years apart and a decade of loving him, caleb returns to your life again through a spontaneous roadtrip and shared bottles of alcohol that leads to unearthing the uncertainty of your feelings.

content: caleb x nonmc! reader, little hurt/comfort, light angst, feelings are hard and confusing! third and final part of the seven years series. a LOT of drinking and alcohol involved.

part one / part two

word count: 7k

cross posted in my ao3

It is an unusually chilly night, the scent of spring permeating in the air. You wrap your arms around your slightly shivering body, shifting your weight to your other foot. You exhale, glancing at your wristwatch. The bus is fifteen minutes late, again. Since the news about the train undergoing maintenance, you have never gone home before 10 pm. Before you can even release a sigh, a navy blue sports car slows its acceleration and stops across you. With furrowed brows, you take a step back from the curb, senses heightening. The window rolls down.

“What are you doin’ here?”

Oh.

You catch a glimpse of his curled lips and the shine glazing in his eyes. Then you cock your head to the side, looking at him like he grew three heads. 

“I work here, dummy.”

There was a pause.

“...Right. I knew that.”

His reply remains in the howl of the wind as you merely stare back at him as if to say “Of course you do, dumbass,” but his eyes avoid yours and instead fixate on the leather of his steering wheel. He bites the inside of his cheek as you refuse to reply. 

He whips his head back to your direction and with a beat of silence, he speaks again, “You got a ride home?”

You blink at him slowly and turn your head to the huge blue sign beside you with a bus printed across it, “What do you think, Caleb?” You reply, turning back to him. In the shadow of the night, you make out the faint tinting of his ears and cheeks.

With a sheepish grin and a hand rubbing the back of his head, he says, “Just get in. I’ll get you home.”

You hesitate.

A thousand options run through your head. A myriad of scenarios flashing before your eyes. And the memory of him lying supine in the cold tiles of your kitchen floor two years ago surfaces again. Getting in that car seems like a bad idea. No–the worst idea you’ve concocted ever since you got drunk and confessed to him three years ago. But you’ve been waiting for the bus for fifteen minutes now. It seems it won’t even arrive at this point. 

And so, with a sigh, your trembling hands reach to the passenger door and climb in.

You could feel him staring at you. You ignore it as you drop your bag to your feet and pull the seat belt beside you, locking it in place.

“Get driving, then,” you demand jokingly, looking at the emptying street across you. He gives you a chuckle, “So bossy.”

He shifts the gear and picks up the acceleration. The sound of the engine and heater enclosing the small space. 

It was silent. 

Suffocatingly silent. 

The streetlamps guide the way of the dim road. And yet it feels too dark. 

While Caleb maintains the speed of the vehicle, you could barely contain the hastening beat of your heart against your ribcage. You want to clutch your chest and breathe heavily to rid of the smothering air between you two.

This is a mistake. 

It hasn’t even been a minute but you already rack your brain of excuses to get out of the car. 

You forgot something at the office? No, he’ll just wait outside for you.

You want to grab a meal instead? It’s certain he’ll just come with.

You need to pick something up at a friend’s home? He’ll definitely drive you there,

There is nothing.

And you can even barely get a word out before you hear the sound of windows rolling down. You glance at your side, welcoming the fresh air, calming your pacing heart.

“You seem restless,” he speaks.

Of course he knows.

Of fucking course.

How could he not? When he spent most of his college and early adulthood reading you. He consumed eight years of his life studying you. 

Like you were a test he wants to pass with flying colors.

Like there was nothing else in the world that mattered aside from learning you.

And yet, two years ago, in his intoxicated state on your kitchen floor, he ruined everything you two built around.

Well. You ruined everything you two built around, three years ago. 

Or maybe it was him, confessing his stupid, non-existent feelings towards you?

Whatever, semantics. It’s just the same either way. Both decisions end up where you are today.

You don’t reply back to him, just a small nod.

Despite the wail of the wind and the steady hum of the vehicle, you could still feel the strangling silence. 

With a click of a tongue, you reach his radio. Your fingertips hover over the screen of his car while Caleb steals glimpses of you from his peripheral.

“Whatever song that plays on this will answer my fate on my lovelife,” Caleb suddenly says before you can tap on the radio, eliciting a snicker from you.

“Oh so you want to play that game huh?” You say, “Alright then. What song will describe Caleb’s fate in his lovelife?” You press the button.

Now shut up and drive (drive, drive, drive)

Shut up and drive (drive, drive, drive)

Caleb chokes on his spit and you cackle, hands clutching to your sides. 

“Sucks to be you,” you say in between fits of giggles and Caleb just alternates his gaze between you and the road with an amused smile tilting on his lips. “Well, how about you?” He says, reaching for the button. You swat his hand away and he just grins. 

“Oh please no thanks!” You protest.

“Oh no, no. We need to hear yours too.” He reaches for the radio, “What is her fate in her lovelife?” He says, turning the station randomly.

So I’ll wait for you, love

And I’ll burn

Will I ever see your sweet return?

Oh, will I ever learn?

Oh-oh, lover, you should’ve come over

‘Cause it’s not too late.

The laughter dies in your throat. The reverberating sound of the riffs of the guitar, hard beating of the drums, and the raw longing from the vocalist catches you two off guard. You squirm in your seat uncomfortably as the air between you thickens.

Caleb clears his throat, “Want to just connect your phone to the bluetooth?”

“Yeah. Sure,” you murmur, taking your phone from your bag.

He removes the radio and taps on the bluetooth option of his car as you connect to it successfully while scrolling through thousands of playlists. He glances at your brightly lit phone and your squinted eyes as you try and settle for a mood for the evening.

“How about that playlist we made in college?” Caleb says.

You purse your lips and hesitantly, you reply, “...I deleted it.”

“Oh. Right.”

There was a brief pause.

“But how come I can still listen to it?” He replies with a raised brow. “I dunno,” you respond blankly. “Must be an error.”

He hums, ignoring the dull ache in his heart.

You deleted the playlist.

Something you two cherished while tolerating the agony of four years in college. He tries to ignore it. He wills himself to. He tells himself, he deserved it.

“When?” He asked, listening to the random playlist you played.

“Huh?”

“Did you delete it.”

“Oh. Two years ago.”

“Oh.” He shrugs. “Okay.” You notice the tight grip he has on the steering wheel and his shoulders tensing.

You two neither exchanged words after that. And you knew everything had been a mistake the moment he pulled up from the curb and greeted you with that warm smile you were oh so familiar with. 

He could still tug at your heartstrings the same way he did the first time in your freshman year, when you asked him if the class he was in was Calculus 1. He gave you a nod and a polite grin, “Yeah! You can sit beside me,” he said. With hesitation, you sit beside him. And for some odd reason, he hands you his registration card with ease and precision, like you knew each other for years.

“Check if we have the same classes together,” he says casually. You could only nod obediently, perplexed at the situation as you pulled out your registration card squeezed between your binder. He leans over to your space as you compare your schedules.

“It seems we have the same schedule,” you say under your breath. And it appeared like he cheered.

Since then, you two would do everything together–despite begrudgingly avoiding his company initially. He was a strange man, you thought. But in the end, he came into your life, rather forcibly. And for some reason, even in the most mundane of things, you find yourself in his presence. Enroll in classes, join the same organizations, study the same subject, assist your juniors, even become officers of the organization you were in. It went as far as juniors calling you the “couple” of your organization. You two deny the claim profusely, settling on the term “twins,” instead. 

Four years of college and eight years of him. And you never saw him remotely look at you romantically.

With bated breath, Caleb speaks, pulling you out of your trance, “Wanna go to Whitesand bay?”

You stare at him incredulously, “At this hour?” 

He shrugs, “It’s only 8 PM.”

“At this hour?” You parrot.

“What? It’s a Friday.”

You continue to stare at him skeptically.

“We can grab a few drinks too on the way there,” he persuades.

“By drinks, you mean alcohol?” 

He bites the inside of his lips, “Yeah, why not?”

“And then you will drive back home?” 

“Huh? I mean yeah but I won’t drive while I’m drunk! I’ll get some sleep before we head home.”

You narrowed his eyes on him, “There are no hotels near Whitesand bay.”

“My car has plenty of space,” he says confidently with a smirk.

You roll his eyes at him. “Call yourself Caleb the gloater with your boastfulness,” you scoff, followed by a series of sounds imitating the noises a goat makes. 

Caleb only laughs at your teasing, 

“So? What do ‘ya say?” He asks.

You look at the passing buildings by your side, the gush of wind sweeping the hair across your face. You tuck a chunk of strands behind your ear and with a sigh, you turn to him.

“You know what? Fuck it.”

Minutes later, you find yourself under the buzzing overhead lights of a convenience store, across the fridge of alcohol with a wide array of bottles displayed. 

“What should we get?” Caleb asks, his hand against the glass door and arm outstretched. You ignore the flex of his biceps that is inches away from you. “Beer?” Caleb asks, “Not in the mood for that,” you say. 

“Surely not tequila.”

“Do you want to die?”

“As if that wasn’t your go-to drink in college.”

“College.”

He only chuckles then glances at the bottommost shelf. “How about this? We used to drink this a lot together when we’d hang at your apartment,” Caleb says, opening the door, and grabbing a bottle.

You stare at the vodka-based drink with lime and ginger beer, waves of memories flooding over your senses immediately. Especially tracing back to that one, freezing winter night at your apartment in your last year of college, sitting across Caleb on the floor. There was a pink tint on his cheeks and ears, something unusual from him since he never flushes this red when you drink. 

“Come on, cheers,” you said, clinking the bottle against his. He sent you a half-hearted smile before you noticed his downcast gaze. “Hey, what’s wrong?” You ask him, throwing him a quizzical look and your fingertips ghosting over his shoulders. Caleb shakes his head, “It’s nothin’, pips.” 

You frown at him, “It’s not nothing when there’s clearly something, Caleb.”

He just chuckles with obvious hesitation and his fingers draw imaginary apples on your floor. He gulps, “It’s really nothin’,” he says but he exhales when you remain quiet, “But…” His eyes flitted across yours which makes your heart increase in speed. Under the dim glow of your warm light and the scattered papers on the couch, you have learned the past four years that being with him just felt right. When he would get sick and had to skip class, being alone felt nauseatingly wrong. And everytime you would spend your nights with him, it would always feel like a missing puzzle piece that you didn’t even know you needed made its way to your incomplete life. You admire the freckles on his cheeks, his chapped lips slightly parting and curving into a smile and his hair slightly disheveled from the amount of times he ran his fingers through it. 

You were deeply, completely enamored by this man. 

And you’d like to think that the universe was built around you two.

“She’s just back, pips.”

The beating of your heart paused. The snow on the outside seemed to momentarily freeze your world altogether. Caleb sensed your confusion, which he misconstrued with forgetfulness rather than a heartbreak.

“The childhood friend I was always talking to you about. She’s back.”

Your world split in half.

You clear your throat as you hear the buzzing lights of the convenience store again with Caleb looking at you expectantly, a bottle still in his hand. 

“Yeah, sure. Let’s just have that.”

With a nod, Caleb returns the lone bottle and effortlessly grabs the 6-pack from the lowest shelf with one hand. You ignore the heat forming in your cheeks as he walks over across the aisles of the store, one hand holding the pack of alcohol and the other grabbing chips you two enjoyed in college. You trail behind him like a lost puppy, unsure of what to do in this unexpected situation.

Half an hour ago you were just complaining about the transportation system and now you’re back with the man you’ve longed for in years.

And your infatuation towards him is still the same as ever. Noting how in all of his 6’2” glory, the shadows of his muscles behind his white tee still manages to show and the veins in his hands protruding at the amount of items he is holding, all the while he refuses to let you hold anything.

“Hey,” he calls, slightly looking to his side to catch your attention, “Sorry but can you get us a bottle of water? We’ll need it for sure.” 

You don’t even need to be told twice. You nod and hurriedly escape from the grasp of his insanely good looks. 

Minutes later, you two find yourself back in his car.

“I’ll send you my half of the bill,” you insist.

“And I’ll return it back to you. As I said, it’s fine. I’ll cover it,” Caleb argues, locking in his seatbelt in place.

“Who is this man talking to me? In college he would force me to pay the fifty cents I owe him,” you joke, leaning against his polished seats. 

“That was in college, pips. I earn good money now. Let me treat you,” he gloats.

“Oh right, treat me with what? Alcohol and junk food?”

“And water. Duh.”

You laugh. And for a second, everything felt like it was back to where it was. How it all used to be. Music echoing across the small enclosure of his vehicle, wind gushing in the open windows, and his hands aching to reach in your warmth.

The night continues on as Caleb skillfully drives through the empty streets. The faint sound of the forgotten playlist plays in the background and the howl of the wind accompanying you two. For a moment, you blatantly watch Caleb yawn beside you, his hand covering his stretched lips. You turn away when his mouth closes. 

Half an hour passes by and you find yourself drifting to sleep, your head cocked to Caleb’s side. He catches a glimpse of your peaceful state, his lips slightly curving upward. He fights the urge to brush the stray hair away from your cheek.

It has always been like this.

Caleb beside you. 

Whether in loud and colorful spaces or in tranquil and intimate positions. Despite being apart from you for the past two years, he somehow, in some way, found his way back into your already busy life. As if to tell you that he refuses to be a fleeting moment.

That he was there to stay.

No matter what.

And it doesn’t matter if you think of his presence as a blessing or rather a pest that you couldn’t get rid of, he frankly doesn’t care.

He is there to stay. He knew that the moment you entered the doors in the classroom in college.

He drives to Whitesand bay at a steady pace, often finding himself avoiding the potholes and slowing the acceleration at the speed humps. Despite that, he always finds a way to glance over your sleeping figure.

Another half an hour later, the sounds of the waves crashing on the shore filled your ears, stirring you in your sleep. Caleb gradually applied the brakes in his car, until it came to a complete stop, cutting the engine. He turned his gaze to you, curled up in the passenger seat. He presses his lips together, eyes softening at your state, contemplating whether to disrupt your peaceful sleep. He releases a soft exhale as his hands reach over to you, pausing for a moment in sheer hesitation. 

“Hey, pips,” he whispers, his breath fanning your cheeks as he slightly nudges your shoulder. “We’re here.” Your eyes fluttered open from the movement, slightly stretching your body away from him.

Through the windshield, a thin slice of the dock is visible, along with the stretch of the ocean. You sit up straight, blinking to get a hold of your surroundings, darting your gaze to Caleb who is looking at you expectantly–with the most doe eyes you have ever seen on him.

You shake your head to get rid of the drowsiness and thoughts away, exiting the vehicle with a light slam of the car door beside you while the brunet follows suit.

You wrap your arms beside you as you lean beside his car, the wooden planks of the dock beneath you creaking with every step you take. 

You marvel at the glistening dark blue waters in front of you, the moonlight rippling against the waves crashing against the shore beneath the dock. You hear the sound of the trunk being slammed closed behind you as you rub your eyes blearily, a yawn escaping your lips. 

“Hey pips.” You turn your head to Caleb. He pats the hood of his car, a blanket hovered over it. He props himself up to the hood, leaving some space beside you. You slide next to him as he hands you an already opened bottle of alcohol.

“Cheers,” Caleb says, clinking your bottles together.

Your lips meet the opening of the glass, chugging the alcohol, feeling the cold liquid slither down your throat. Caleb lets out an exaggerated exhale of satisfaction. 

For a moment, everything felt right.

“So, how are you doin’?” He opens, eliciting a chuckle from you that sounded more like just an exhale.

“You should’ve started with that hours ago, Caleb,” you reply, side-eyeing him.

“Better late than never, right?” He replies with the same boyish chuckle he had in college. Your heart skips a beat.

You turn your gaze to the ocean. “Just fine, I guess.”

“Just fine?” He parrots.

“Hmm. Yeah. I’m doing fine.”

He scoffs, “Come on you’re sellin’ yourself short.”

You turn to him, cocking your head to the side in confusion but before you could express it verbally, he speaks as he stares at you with owlish eyes, “You’re on literal magazines and billboards across the whole damn city of Linkon. It’s a surprise the cashier from the convenience store didn’t recognize you.”

It was your turn to scoff, “Oh please. That little thing? I’m just doing my usual nerd shit at work.”

“I never thought doing nerd shit would warrant you in huge billboards on highways, pips,” he says teasingly with a grin.

“Oh please! Don’t tell me that when you’re what, one of the highest ranking pilots at the Deepspace Aviation Administration at the age of 25?!” You exclaim exaggeratingly, waving the bottle in the air. He laughs, “It’s nothin’, I swear.”

He tries to hide the disbelief written all over his face with laughter, surprised that you know that he’s a high ranking pilot at the DAA despite having no connection. He tries. But the curl of his lips in amusement is betraying him.

“It’s nothin’, I swear!” You mock him and you two laugh together, the sound resonating in the quiet air. As the laughter dies down, you take another swig of the alcohol, already downing it to its half. The tangy taste sits in your tongue and the icy cold liquid crawls in your throat with a stinging sensation. You remember the first time you drank alcohol with Caleb.

It was the evening after midterms season, or as you two like to call it–hell week. The grades were just announced in your campus portal and as two eager, overachieving students that you both are, you decided to check it together in a shared space in your apartment. Upon loading into the website, you quickly skim through the courses and its corresponding marks. As your eyes file through the last subject, you let out a sigh in relief. Passed. But just as soon as you realize your passing grade, Caleb speaks, “Want to get drunk?”

Caleb almost dropped out of the Dean’s List.

Just .1 shy away from being dropped from the roll.

And within ten minutes, Caleb has already set up the first ever drinking session between you two.

“No, but seriously, how have you been?” A voice pulls you out of your reminiscence. You watch him warily, his eyes refusing to meet yours while he chugs down his drink, “It’s been two years without contact,” he continued, followed by a shaky laugh. He wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand and places it back in the space between you two, just mere inches away from yours.

You let out a sound of contemplation, “Well,” you begin, ignoring the desperation laced in his tone, “I got promoted to two positions higher than what I used to be.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And I got in magazines because of work, as you already know.”

“Yep.”

You trace your fingers over the print of the alcohol bottle, ignoring his watchful gaze at you, “And I finally travelled somewhere outside of Linkon City for once.”

“Hm? Where have you been?” Caleb asks with his head tilting to the side, propping his left knee up and resting his elbow. “Chansia City?” He continued.

You shake your head. “No.”

You press your lips together in a thin line and with a heavy breath, you say, “Skyhaven.”

Caleb feels like he’s been dumped with ice cold water.

“Skyhaven?” He repeats.

“Yeah.”

He swallows, “When?”

You down your alcohol, emptying the bottle, “Hm. A little over two years ago? Probably some time in October.”

“October? You mean two months after we…”

Ignored each other deliberately?

Fought?

…Broke up?

“Yeah,” you just reply. Caleb continues to stare at you, but this time, with wide, owlish eyes and mouth slightly agape. You refuse to look at him and instead stare at the thick clouds obstructing the full moon. 

“Why were you in–”

“Can you get me another beer?” You say, shoving him your empty bottle. “And get some chips too. I’m famished!” You joke. 

Caleb observes you for a second before giving you a slight nod and sliding off the hood of the car. 

You never meant to slip that you went to Skyhaven, you just thought he wouldn’t ask further questions. But you must’ve forgotten how relentless Caleb could be when learning things about you. After all, this was the man that asked you about your schedule the moment you sat your ass down beside him on the first day of meeting him.

When he returns, your arms wrap around your legs and your chin settles atop of your knees with your eyes looking at somewhere distant over the horizon. 

“Here,” he says, handing you a cold bottle. You murmur a thanks and as soon as you take the drink, both of you guzzle down almost half of the alcohol in sync. He opens the bag of chips effortlessly and places it between you.

Before you can even change the topic, he says, “Why were you in Skyhaven?”

You catch a glimpse of him. 

Which was a mistake.

You see regret lingering in his eyes, his flushed cheeks, and quivering lips. Like he was on the verge of demanding all answers from you and the universe for your falling out.

You turn away from his stare. You nestle deeper in your knees, “Nothing. It was for vacation,” you say.

Caleb waits. 

He knows there’s still something in your words.

“Well, initially it was for vacation,” you continue, “But… I think deep inside, I was looking for something familiar,” you murmur.

“Something?” He asks in clarification.

“Someone,” you correct. Caleb had to physically tear his eyes from you, gravitating instead to the rusting freighters floating in the distance. “In hopes that maybe I would… bump into him,” you muttered, as if the person you were talking about isn’t getting drunk beside you.

He remains silent, counting the buoys he could spot. You take a sip of your alcohol.

“And… Get him back? I don’t know. He was never mine, anyway.” You whisper the last sentence under your breath, hoping he didn’t catch it.

Of course he did.

Caleb feels like his heart is clawing its way across his throat. Ignoring it, he takes a sip of his beer.

You chuckle uneasily, “God, I’m already tipsy. I’m still a lightweight even after being trained by you.”

Caleb’s first mistake of the night, he notes, was looking at you the moment you said those words. Your eyes are glassy, your cheeks red, lips slightly parted and curled up in an intoxicated smile, and your composure is already driven by the alcohol. 

“I didn’t know you were in Skyhaven back then,” he said.

“Of course you don’t, dummy! I never told anyone. Just our HR,” you reply, slapping his shoulder playfully.

“But you could’ve told me. We could’ve–”

“What? Fix things?” You cut him off with a frown. “Impossible. We could’ve never fixed it. Not then, not now, and not later.”

It was his turn to scowl. “What do you mean not now and not later?”

“What? I’m just telling the truth, Caleb.”

“Then don’t say that,” he says, begging. “If that’s the truth then I don’t want any of it. I don’t care if college has been dead for six years now or if we lost ourselves along the way. I hated being away from you.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have shown up to my doorstep, drunk out your mind, and almost cried on my stupid kitchen floor two years ago,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. 

Caleb groans, rubbing his temples with his fingers before drinking another shot. “I was stupid, okay?” 

“Was?”

“...I am stupid.” 

“I know.”

Silence engulfs the two of you again, only the sounds of the waves from the sea filling the empty space.

“Look–” He sighs, running his fingers through his hair, “Even before I got drunk at your doorstep, I was already regretting things between us.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “What do you mean regret? Which one?”

“Letting you handle all the burden of being alone,” he murmurs.

And you recall the month leading up to his drunken confession. After realizing how much he waited for his childhood friend to come back and how you saw the yearning stares he gave to her, whether through a screen or in person when he introduced you to her, when he was certain no one else was looking, you knew you had to save yourself.

You thought drunkenly confessing your feelings a year ago would set you free from the iron grip he has on your heart. You were certain you had been okay since that intoxicated revelation of how you have loved him since college. But every single time you see him longing for someone that wasn’t you–it tears you apart. And so, you decided that you’ll take a month-long venture in moving on. It was just a short journey, just enough so you’ll get rid of any romance in your system. It started with short texts to nothing at all, too fixated in your career and always on do not disturb. Then, it was bailing on dates that involved only you two. If Gideon was there, you’d come–god forbid you’re left alone with Caleb.

But unfortunately, Caleb didn’t take it well. He thought you were ending everything. He thought you were throwing away seven years of your friendship.

Hence, the intoxicated, faux confession of him loving you.

After he was rejected by his childhood friend.

Leading up to complete and absolute falling out. 

Which was not in your initial plans.

“Burden?” The word nearly sounds like a laugh and you shake your head, “Caleb, please. I was just in love with you, I wasn’t dying.”

“But you left.”

“So?”

“It’s the same thing.”

You look at him with furrowed brows, “You are so dramatic,” you laugh and he follows suit, emptying the alcohol bottle.

“Sorry,” he mumbles sheepishly, “I just miss moments like this more than anything.”

You ignore the dull ache in your chest, “I’m sure you do.”

He sighs for the umpteenth time tonight. “I think of you in the most mundane things I do,” he confesses.

“Like what? Getting drunk? You make me look like an alcoholic,” you joke.

He shakes his head with a laugh, “No,” he says as your lips reach the rim of the bottle, “Like when I make instant noodles and I instinctively reach for two packets because you don’t like the way you make them,” he says. Your eyes slightly widen. 

“Or when I read reports, I reach for a pen that’s your favorite color to comment on it.”

He takes a big swig of his drink.

“Sometimes when I see a new cafe in Skyhaven, I would think about asking you to come with me, only to find out I don’t even have your number saved anymore.”

You blink, feeling the gush of the salt air tangle in your hair. The crease between your brows deepens.

“Caleb…” You drawl, turning to him with a frown, “Why are you telling me this?” 

He turns to you.

“If you’re telling this to make you feel better about not loving me back after eight years, I will be the first person to tell you that it’s not your fault that you didn’t love me back.”

“No, I–”

“You don’t have to apologize for not loving me back either. It’s just the way it is, Caleb!” You almost exclaim, “We’re just friends and I have long accepted that,” you continue, inching closer to him with tears welling up in your eyes, “It’s time you do too.”

The sound of waves sloshing around the dock envelops the situation. The light from the streetlamp illuminates your skin as you forcibly try to restrain yourself from reaching out to him.

With a shake of your head, you exhale a deep breath and look away. “Sorry,” you begin, “That was a bit dramatic.”

“No, don’t be,” he replies.

“Yeah.”

Caleb chews on his bottom lip. “You want to finish another bottle or you’d rather sleep inside?” He asks.

You fiddle with the neck of the bottle, “I think I’d sleep this off. The alcohol is getting to me,” you say. 

Moments later, you find yourself in a situation that the you two years ago would find baffling. Laying inside your college friend’s car, with the seats on recline and him being inches away from you. You could feel the waves of the ocean lulling you to sleep despite the hammering beat of your heart against your ribcage, and with closed eyes, you try to.

You ignore the cramped space you are in.

You deny the subtle confessions Caleb was declaring to you.

You ignore the stares you could feel on your side.

Ignore. Deny. Ignore.

“We could get arrested for this,” Caleb whispers behind you.

“For sleeping in a car?” You reply, eyes still shut.

“For parking in a no park zone.”

“Just bribe them with your big pilot money. I’m sleeping here.”

“I didn’t expect those words to come out of your mouth,” he replies.

“And you won’t expect the next one either.”

“What?” He says, watching you turn to your side and face him, nuzzling your cheek on your hand and eyes screwed shut. “Shut the fuck up,” you whisper back, “Emphasis on the fuck and shut,” eliciting a chuckle from him.

“Alright.” 

But shutting the fuck up is something Caleb somehow can’t do when he’s lightheaded from the alcohol.

“I missed you.”

You hum.

“I missed the silence between us.”

“Then I beg of you to shut up. I miss the silence too,” you grumble.

He ignores your protest. 

“Won’t you ask why I’m in Linkon?” He asks

“To torment me, probably. I don’t fucking know.”

“That’s one thing.”

You don’t reply, relishing on the couple of seconds that Caleb has his mouth zipped.

“But I wasn’t in Skyhaven in October two years ago.”

Your heart could leap out of your throat.

“Pips, I was in Linkon the moment you were in Skyhaven.”

Like he couldn’t make it any more clear.

“I waited outside your office every day. All the restaurants you enjoyed. The cafe shops. Everywhere.”

Caleb’s second mistake of the night was when he saw how you slowly opened your eyes when his words fell from his mouth. He could see the way your lips fall into the deepest frown and your brows creased together with a fury of ten years of loving him. 

“Again, Caleb, why are you telling me this?” You ask, seething.

“What?” He asks, dumbfounded.

“You don’t have to tell me all of this, Caleb. Everything has happened already. Everything,” you begin, sitting up straight. He follows suit.

“I drunkenly declared to you my love and you outright rejected it. A year later, you visit me, intoxicated and you declare the same shit, right after you got rejected?” You scoff, “Come on, Caleb. I’m not stupid. Please.”

He looks at you, bewildered.

You feel the rush of heat in your cheeks and ears. Your fingernails clawing against the fabric of your jeans.

With a sigh, you shake your head, feeling the impending headache loom over you. “I know you missed me, Caleb. And I understand, trust me. ‘Cause I missed you too, I missed us,” you begin, slumping your back against his leather seat, refusing to look at him any further. “But nostalgia is a liar. You keep visiting the past but no one’s there anymore, Caleb. I’m here and you’re here. And we chose different things and that’s fine. We have to move on eventually.” 

“No but I just hated how I said all those terrible things to you–”

“Me too! I hated having to let you go,” you confess, your voice cracking but no tears threaten to spill from your eyes. “But let’s face the truth, Caleb. It’s what we needed.”

The man across you remains silent while you heave a deep breath, alcohol coursing through your veins, and you know what he’s doing.

He’s studying you intently. Again.

With a click of a tongue, you shake your head, plopping your body back to the reclined seat, laying on your side facing him. 

“I’m getting dramatic again. Goodnight, Caleb. And I expect you to shut up for real.”

The moon hangs bright in the sky, with sparse clouds littering around it, and a handful of stars accompanied the satellite with their soft light. A couple of rusting freighters and dimly lit buoys are still floating in the distance, with the soft sounds of waves continuously lapping against the pier. The tick tick tick from the hazard signal of Caleb’s vehicle is akin to a metronome.

He still sits upright, studying your steady breathing and eyelashes fluttering across your cheeks. Swallowing thickly, he leans back into the seat. He instinctively curls into the radiating warmth lying beside him, screwing his eyes shut in an attempt to doze off. But the pacing beat of his heart deemed it fruitless. Fluttering his eyes open and rubbing the intoxication off, his breath hitches at the sight of you.

With your hands tucked under your head as a makeshift pillow and your chapped lips caused by the harsh weather slightly parted, he finds himself staring at your serenity.

Caleb inches closer to your face, clamping his mouth shut to avoid his breath fanning you awake. His vision is still dazed from the alcohol and his mind is almost short-circuiting from exhaustion. The cold air from the slightly ajar windows whizzes through the two of you, causing you to twitch. He flinches at your sudden movement, eyes widening at the possibility that you would rouse from your sleep. But instead, you snuggle deeper in your arms, sighing blissfully.

Caleb contemplates, slowly blinking. And with the courage of ten years of being with you, he reaches over your sleeping figure, tucking the stray strands of hair behind your ear.

He softly calls your name.

Once. 

Twice.

“What?” You grumble.

“I’ll shut up for real,” he says.

“Then do it. Don’t say it.”

“But I need your help in doing it.” 

You peek at him with one eye open. “Help you shut up? It’s like telling me to hang the stars in the sky,” you say.

“Kiss me.”

“What?” Both your eyes fly open, startled by his words.

“Do me a favor and kiss me,” he casually says. You grimace, shaking your head. “You’re just drunk, Caleb. Jeez don’t say things you will regret–”

“You think two bottles of that beer will get me drunk?” He raises a brow at you and tilts his head knowingly.

Touche. 

“You say nostalgia is a liar,” he continues, “Then help me move on from it then. Make me realize it’s not real.”

He sits up once again and you follow suit.

You chew your bottom lip in contemplation, darting your stare from the steering wheel, to the shift, and back to your lap. 

“Just a kiss?”

He nods slowly. 

You gulp. 

Another mistake is about to be made, you mentally note. And you swear this is going to fuck up your friendship and you’re just inebriated, this is just the alcohol talking nonsense, and you’re certain you’re demolishing all the stability you’ve built in your life but–

“Fuck it.” 

Caleb didn’t have to be told twice.

Within seconds, Caleb slowly leans into you, “Here I go,” he mutters. You nod at him, your breaths shallow and fanning his face as his hand reaches to your cheek. With his trembling fingers over your skin, he presses your lips together–the feeling of his chapped lips against yours, slowly moving along the rhythm of the waters. Despite the tenderness of it all, you were caught off guard with the sensation, but eventually, you relax under his touch. He feels the rapid beating of his heart against his chest as you carefully slip his actions in sync.

Your heart both sinks and swells at the feeling of his warmth radiating against you, your hands grip onto his shoulder as the two of you continue to glide your lips against each other. He trails his fingers from your cheeks to your chin, gripping it tight before slightly pushing it downward, urging you to part your mouth further. He slides his tongue against yours as his other hand reaches for the back of your head, pulling you closer to him. You let out a small whimper, your hands shaking as you try to hold ground yourself back into reality.

Your nails claw through the fabric of his shirt, earning a groan from Caleb between your mouths.

Unable to keep the wild thumping of your chest at bay, you pull away from him before he can push himself further into your space, avoiding his gleaming irises. You pant heavily, heat rushing to your cheeks.

“There. That ought to shut you up.”

Caleb almost laughs in between his heavy breathing.

But you lean back into the seat, turning your back against him. 

He feels his heart sink to his stomach.

“I don’t want to hear another word from your big mouth, Caleb,” you say jokingly. “You better keep your promise.”

And for the first time in the long night, he was quiet. Of course, he kept his promise. Not until the words slip from his tongue, “I think you’re still wrong. Everything I’ve felt about us has always been real.”

But you no longer heard it with the soft snores coming from your slightly parted lips.

Hours later, after a pathetic convenience store breakfast, and the heat of the morning seeping through the car windows, you two find yourself threading through the highways and avenues of the city again.

Laughs were shared in the small enclosure of his vehicle, complaints about a splitting headache were echoed, random catching up were made, and even sob stories about how life treated you two during the years you’ve been apart were declared.

For some reason, the air still hangs thick–but this time, with more uncertainty than ever. But it’s okay, you tell yourself, with your head leaned back onto the seat of his car and his hand sometimes ghosting over yours, you tell yourself that it’s fine. 

Because once this is all over, when you’re back in the comforts of your apartment, you’re certain that whatever Caleb feels about you will come to fruition the following days. Whether he’d come to your doorstep with flowers in hand or just through random texts like a friend, it won’t hurt you.

By the end of the day, he was still the Caleb that you cherished in college. And you were content with either outcome fate decides to give you. 

a/n: hope you guys liked this :") tbh i didn't want caleb taking the route of blatantly confessing his love because i could never wrap my head around the concept of loving someone after yearning after a different person for years.

reblogs, comments, and likes are highly appreciated! pls share some love <3

[y0url0calmushr00m]

Why can't 3.4 come soonerr I'm bawling my EYES OUT MAN WHY MUST I SUFFER BEING IN THIS GODFORSAKEN FANDOM

Phainon come home so you can be together with mydei in my account 💔

the drip finally stops

(this sound hit a lil too close to canon, it's scary)

[y0url0calmushr00m]

😨 I'm...bamboozled,confuddled and flabbergasted beyond BELIEF

10/10 story

W h a t j u s t h a p p e n e d ?

Mydei is ruined

ㅤㅤㅤ꒰ 🍂 ꒱ ─ 'Cause when I hear your name, I cannot stop cheesing

ㅤ❝ summary ⨾ Your boyfriend was a famous rockstar─ no he wasn't your boyfriend. Just a guy you hooked up with a few times and now you travel with him and his band, you weren't really sure of yours and Mydei's “relationship” for that matter. Neither of you were really committed to the relationship or at least that's how you felt, Mydei though felt a different way about it...

ⵌWARNINGS ⨾ angst with no happy ending , stalker-like behavior (mainly from mydei) , choking , obsessive yearning , unrequited love , suicide , death (both you AND Mydei die.)

ㅤㅤㅤ─ ꒰ rockstar! mydei × male! reader ... 🍁 ꒱ ⊹₊ ⋆

Watching quietly as Mydei and his band played on stage was not something you thought you'd ever witness but here you were, you weren't sure why Mydei brought you with him and his band because you've both only slept together a few times yet Mydei had said that “you make great company.” So you didn't say anything about it and just watched them perform on stage, then you got a notification on your phone. When you checked it you saw that the guy you'd been texting for the past few weeks was in the town you were currently in (because of Mydei) and asked if you wanted to meet up.

You said yes without a second thought because even though you enjoyed Mydei and his band, you weren't really a fan of their music, not to say that it was bad but it just wasn't for you. So you waited until the show ended to try and leave to venue that Mydei booked for the show only to be stopped by a voice calling out to you─

“Where are you goin'?” you froze for a moment at the raspy and deep voice that belonged to none other then Mydei himself, but slowly you turned around to look at him “I'm heading out to go hang out with one of my friends.” You lied through your teeth as you gave Mydei a faint, yet soft smile in hopes that Mydei wouldn't notice your lie and would soly believe you. Mydei stared silently at you before giving you a short nod and walking off, letting out a soft sigh of relief, you turned back around and left the venue to head to the nearby bar to meet up with your “friend”.

You don't really remember what happened, except for the fact that you got extremely drunk. Your head was spinning and you kept stumbling as he tried to walk back towards the venue place, unaware that you were being watched from the very moment you left the venue. Mydei's golden honey eyes were sharp and narrowed with anger, pain, and hatred, he hated how you lied to him, he hated the very fact that you kept texting other men who weren't him, and he hatred how you would never love him like he loves you.

Which is why it pained him to see the life fade from your eyes and your struggling body go limp as he tightened his grip around your throat, he'd choked you to death. He felt immense guilt and terror for doing it, but he had to if he wanted you to stay with him and only him. Which is why when he stabbed himself in the heart multiple times, he made sure to embrace you as you both fell against the concrete in the dark alleyway he'd dragged you in moments prio, the both of you dead.

As Mydei's vision slowly faded to black he couldn't help but gaze at your handsome face one last time...

ⵌ all writings on this blog belong to me @/strwbrydreamz, so don't copy, or repost on any other website.

[y0url0calmushr00m]

You are absolutely worth it phainon 😘

Am I worthy of your endless patience?

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in which: he's barely got enough time to spend with you because of the weight of the duties he carries on his shoulders.

warning/s: none, just a little angst and kinda ooc!

pairing/s: Phainon x gn!reader

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( ๑ •ᴗ•`)っ 💌 — i haven't written something like this for years, pls bear with me! (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠) i'm not that good in English, so there might be errors in grammar! (it's funny how I actually wrote this after waiting for someone dear to me for two weeks LMAO) thank you to those who encouraged me to write again! u guys have no idea how grateful i am! (⁠ ⁠˘⁠ ⁠³⁠˘⁠)⁠♥ this will be a very, very short one for now since it's already 1am and I still need to sleep to get my research paper checked! enjoy reading, lovelies!!♡

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"I don't deserve you."

Phainon is a busy man, he's one of the chrysos heirs after all. The safety of Amphoreus and its people are in their hands. Others would've cut the ties and walked away already if they were you. And yet, you lingered. You willingly stayed and waited for him like your patience and understanding has no limit.

He often feels a deep pang of guilt, knowing how many plans and dates he’s canceled and how many times he’s kept you waiting. It weighs heavily on him, knowing that he might be asking too much of you.

He gently holds your hand, pressing it against his cheek. His thumb brushes against your skin tenderly, almost as if trying to commit your touch into memory.

"I know you don't." You replied, your heart melting at the softness of his caress. "But you, my love, deserve the entire world."

The entire world...?

The phrase repeated in his mind as his gaze locked on yours.

His eyes softened, and there was a small pause. Suddenly, a soft laugh escapes him, the sound coming out a little dry and forced.

How could you utter such words so easily? Do you even realize what you're saying?

What worth is the entire world to him, when you’re not in it?

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[y0url0calmushr00m]

Mydei makes me ill omg whyyy dude just be in another shitty gacha game but noo he had to be in a hoyoverse game 💔

The Titan's Curse

The price of immortality is always steep, especially when you have to watch your loved ones grow old and pass away.

Mydei couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when time seemed to stop touching him. It flowed around him, while he... remained still. The reflection in the mirror changed so slowly it was as if carved from stone. Scars vanished, his hair never lost its color, and his heart beat with an unchanging rhythm, no matter how many years went by.

At first, he took it as a gift. Then – as a blessing. And later, he understood: it was a reckoning. For strength. For the victory that had made him something more than human. His body had grown stronger, his soul filled with the power of the world and the heavens. And now he knew for sure: he was repeating Nikador's path.

The one who had once been a hero. The one who had been the Strife Titan. And the one who had eventually gone mad.

But there was still time. Time to love.

His wife laughed in the garden, scooping up their youngest daughter, who was reaching for the flowers. His son boasted of his successes, and his middle child – of her victories in the arena. The house hummed with living, simple, human sounds.

He absorbed each one of them.

He memorized the scent of her hair when she fell asleep on his chest after the day. The sight of her hands – with fine wrinkles from water, but still strong. His daughter's furrowed brow after a loss and his son's gaze, full of respect that Mydei considered undeserved.

Years flew by swiftly. For everyone – except him.

First, she was gone. Not in battle. Not from a wound. Just... one day she didn't wake up.

He held her hand until the very end. And then for many hours more. Not believing. Not letting go.

And then – the children. One after another. They lived long, happy lives. Each became a parent. Each left something good behind. And each, dying, asked him: "Live. For us."

He lived.

Grandchildren grew up and then grew old. He helped them. With building houses, with working the fields, with protection. And then he buried them. Again and again. He erected new graves next to the old ones. He knew them by name. By dates. By the voices that echoed in his head more often than the voices of those who remained.

Great-grandchildren... Over time, they began to look at him with unease. Some revered him. Some feared him. He understood. He was a stranger to them. Immortal. Strange. Unchanging.

His beloved granddaughter once whispered:

"Grandfather, you smell of old times. Like you're a page from a book that can no longer be opened."

He smiled. But didn't show how it wounded him.

And then... he was alone. The entire lineage – on cold stones. Names, dates, withered flowers. Mydei came every day, placed his palm on the gravestones. He could still hear their voices. He tried to talk to them, as if they could answer.

But the silence grew deeper. And the loneliness squeezed his throat tighter and tighter.

He stopped going out. He found himself talking to himself more and more often. He thought he heard his wife's voice. Or his daughter's laughter in the garden. Or his son calling him to training.

They came to him... only in dreams.

And then the nightmares began.

He saw his hands covered in cracks, his face crumbling in the mirror, the sky groaning with unknown sounds. He heard laughter turning into screams. He felt something alien, cold, rebellious, growing in his chest.

Strife. The curse.

He screamed into the void. Called her name. Begged for forgiveness. For staying. For being alive. For not being able to bring them back.

With each passing day, reality became more and more ghostly. He sat in the empty house and talked to shadows. Wrote letters to nowhere. Sewed clothes that no one would wear.

He broke.

He became what Nikador had once been – a being who had outlived his humanity. A titan without a home. Without a family. Without reason.

And only sometimes, in the stillness of the night, through the haze of longing, he remembered:

Her hands. Her eyes. Her words: "You are my lion. Even if you ever become a god – remember who taught you to love."

He fell to his knees before the grave, gasping for breath with tears.

He wanted to die. But he couldn't. His curse was to live.

And in this infinity, in this madness, only one bright, warm spark flickered – love.

And so Mydei... still loved. Even plunged into madness.

[y0url0calmushr00m]

Hey atleast mydei joins me forever like he wanted to after 3.3 ! 😁

*smiling through the pain*

Until Death Do Us Part

Synopsis: for a man with an immortal body like him, death is all but temporary. what he forgets, however, is that not everyone is like him.

Character: mydei.

Warnings: gender neutral!reader; established relationship; angst; hurt no comfort; character death; 3.2 trailblazing mission spoilers.

A/N: first thing i write in months and it's angst for my newest husband OTL i am so sorry mydei i promise i'll make it up to you </3

When Mydei at last embraced his destiny and acquired the divinity of Strife, he knew he would have to leave everyone he cares about in Okhema: his people, who wish to go back to a Castrum Kremnos that doesn't exist anymore in the way they want; his fellow Chrysos Heirs, which he had joined their cause to save Amphoreus from destruction; his new comrades from beyond the sky, who he was wary at first, but soon grew to trust and rely on.

And lastly, the new demigod would have to leave the one person he wished he'd never leave: you. You were the last person Mydei bid farewell before he met up with Phainon at the entrance of the Holy City. There were no tears, no begging for him to stay, nothing of the sort, after all, you were aware of what it would mean after he had decided to go through Nikador's trial.

In a way, Mydei has always known that his relationship with you wasn't meant to last and the goodbye would come sooner or later. He was a Chrysos Heir, meant to take down a mad Titan and inherit their divinity. He was the last crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, meant to inherit the throne after spilling the blood of his wretched father. He was Mydeimos the Undying, meant to rise from the dead again and again ever since he was thrown in the River of Souls as a baby.

Despite all that... his heart was stubborn. Despite knowing that there wouldn't be a happy ending where you two would stay together, his heart still longed for you. Despite saying goodbye, there was a part of him that hoped he'd see you again one last time...

...But he had never imagined, much less wished for his reunion with you to be in the nether realm.

The realm of Thanatos was a place Mydei knew well and "visited" quite frequently, especially after returning to Kremnos to fight the Black Tide. Truth to be told, it's not really accurate to say he is "rejected by Death", but rather he is the one that rejects Death, channelling all of his might to claw his way back to the world of the living.

That was what the demigod had been doing, ignoring the sweet beckoning of the dead and killing the cursed monsters of the Black Tide that dared to stand in the way of his return to life.

Until he saw you.

Even amidst a crowd (be it of living people or dead souls), Mydei can recognize your presence in an instant. However, as he stares at your wide eyes, he wonders if this skill is a blessing or a curse this time.

"Mydei--?!"

"You shouldn't be here."

He doesn't ask what happened or what you are doing in the nether realm of all places, and he really doesn't bother to ask. Because he knows what it means for you to be there, but he refuses to accept it. You don't belong in the world of the dead. Not yet. Not until you grow old after living a long and happy life...

...Perhaps he can do something about it.

"Come, let's get out of here." Mydei grabs your hand and begins to pull you along.

"H-Huh?? Wait--"

That's right, if he can go back to life by leaving the nether realm, then he can bring you back as well.

"Mydei, hold on--!"

Yes. Castorice, or rather, Thanatos brought the Trailblazer back to life, surely they won't mind another person returning, right? After all, it's not yet your time to reach the sea of flowers at the end of the west wind--

"Mydeimos!!"

Mydei stops on his track, you being the only person that can command the demigod of strife by saying his name in that firm tone.

He tightens the hold on your delicate hand, gathering the courage to look back at you and oh... The look on your eyes is enough to make him understand that his plan is futile.

"I... I can't go back, Mydeimos. I am not like you..." He opens his mouth to suggest yet another futile idea, but you're quicker, well aware of what he was about to say. "And no, you can't stay here either."

If it were in any other circumstance, you'd probably say he was pouting, followed by that melodic laughter of yours, but now... There's no pout, no laughter. Only silence, as the cruel realization that they won't ever see each other again sinks in.

"It's not time for you to give in to Thanatos's call... You remember the chaos that befell the world after Nikador's divine seat was left open for too long..." You cup his face with your free hand, gently coaxing him to see reason. "Okhema needs you, Mydei. Amphoreus needs you."

"But I need you!!!" Mydei has never raised his voice while talking to you, but this time he can't hold back the desperation to make you understand him. He brings the hand he's holding to his chest as he rests his forehead on yours, tone lowering again.

"I need you to be okay... I need you to be happy... I need you... to be alive."

His words hang in the silence that falls between you. He was never the best in expressing himself through words, especially when the kremnoan language lacks so many in his dictionary, having to rely on other means to convey his feelings. But how ironic it is that the one time he can share his desire through earnest words is when it can't be fulfilled anymore.

You are dead.

For you, death is not a temporary inconvenience. It's permanent and unchanging.

And, with the smell of flowers growing ever stronger, you both know that the time for the last farewell is nigh.

Mydei has always adored your smile, how bright, captivating and contagious it is. Even now, as the Hand of Shadow approaches to ferry you across the River of Souls, the smile you wear is the most beautiful he's ever seen.

"I love you, my dear Mydeimos. When the time comes, we will meet again at the end of the west wind, where I shall be waiting for you at the sea of flowers."

The warm feeling of your lips on his is burned into his memory before a swarm of butterflies pulls him away from you and towards the exit of the nether realm, courtesy of the demigod of Death herself. After all, it is not yet time for her to bring another fellow Chrysos Heir into the afterlife.

----------

Mydei finds himself on his crystal throne, exactly where he had previously "fallen asleep" after facing a particularly large amount of Black Tide creatures and Titankin. His body is as good as new like always, not even scars can leave their mark, no matter how deep the wound he gets.

This time, however, he did not return from the nether realm unscathed: there is a void in his heart, left by yet another person he loved who departed from the world of the living far too soon.

One can say he's used to pain, thanks to his body that is "like a sponge that soaks up damage", a ridiculous but not exactly wrong description said by a certain Deliverer. But this pain in his chest? The hollow feeling of grief from losing your beloved? That is something he will never get used to.

And yet life doesn't wait for those in mourning, nor do the new wave of monsters rapidly approaching Castrum Kremnos.

And so, Mydei continues to fight the Black Tide, continues to protect Amphoreus the best he can, for your sake.

And so, when the time comes for him to accept Death's call, he shall reunite with you at the end of the west wind, where you shall greet him with open arms and a brilliant smile once more amidst a sea of flowers.

thanks for reading <3 likes, reblogs and comments are very appreciated <3

heart divider made by @/cafekitsune

blue mydei banner (angst) made by @/the-writer-arrived aka yours truly ;)

[y0url0calmushr00m]

Im so ill omg whyyy did you die mydei?? The reason i went back to star rail 😭 I'm not okay

˖ ࣪⊹Lover's Embrace, Fading Warmth

Contents: 3.3 Quest Spoilers, Mydei x GN reader, angst, I'm a grieving widow so y'all gonna suffer with me

Words: 334

Red skies stand still as gold splashes across the underfoot, glossy and thick as words come to a choking standstill in your throat.

A blade holds Mydeimos pinned in place, pierced through him mercilessly like a faulty childhood memory - old, blurred and betrayed, only leaving behind something that was supposed to keep him safe. For even a moment longer. His eyes find yours in the small distance away, bleeding just as he was, expressing shock and regret, so many thoughts slowly fading from those eyes you love - eyes bringing a shattering symphony to your heart. Light was all but gone from him, even as he made one last attempt to reach for you with his mailed hand.

Your own pain doesn’t sway you, but it weighs you down all the same, the ground coming up to meet you with a cruel slap to your entire body as you collide with it, the Flame Ravers blade having cut through you like a hot knife through butter. It hurts.. it hurts..

“M.. Mydei..” choked words resonate on each fragment of your broken heart as you watch him tumble down like a sack of sand, boneless, with a distinct breath wheezed out as he meets the cold ground. Bitter, angry , grieving tears blurred your vision until all the colors of the world merged into a muddy, gloopy puddle. All you could see was that wretched gold mixed with browns and reds and blacks. The Flame Reaver was far away from your mind, and you didn't realize you were moving until you were near Mydei again, hopeless prayers falling from your trembling lips. Blood lined the path you crawled, and your last ounces of strength evaporated from you as you collapsed on top of his back, embracing him with a quiet sob. 

The idea of those distant shores of the west could not quell the hurt of your heart. The wound you suffered did not kill you, but the absence of warmth of your dear Mydei’s body did.

Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[y0url0calmushr00m]

I will fall in love with you, over and over again

Tags: Just a little drabble, Angst with a bit of hope, Reader's death, grief, Phainon becomes an astral express member in this AU after the events of Amphoreus, might be ooc idk

wc. 315 (this was just a little idea I had so sorry if its too short)

Phainon remembered your last conversation with perfect, painful clarity—the way your voice had wavered, the way your hands had trembled as you asked him that impossible question. If I come back as someone else... will you still know me?

His answer had been immediate. Yes. Always.

He hadn't understood then how deeply that promise would haunt him. Now, every stray breeze carrying a familiar scent, every flicker of movement at the corner of his vision sent his heart aching.

He'd turn, half-expecting to see you smirking at him, only to find nothing but empty air. It was ridiculous. Pathetic, even. But he couldn't stop himself from wanting you to be by his side again.

The numbness after Amphoreus had been a mercy at first. Feeling nothing was better than feeling everything all at once—the guilt, the grief, the crushing weight of all the things he should have said, should have done.

The Trailblazer's antics were the only thing that ever made him feel warm again, their reckless energy so much like yours that it hurt. Sometimes, when they grinned a certain way or made some absurd joke, Phainon had to look away at times.

He'd started to wonder if you'd planned it. If somewhere beyond the stars, you'd pulled strings to make sure he wasn't alone. The thought was equal parts comforting and infuriating—of course you'd still be meddling, even after everything.

Then came the Astral Express.

The moment he stepped aboard, time itself seemed to stutter. There you were, leaning against the parlor car's doorway, alive and whole and real, arguing animatedly with someone.

"[Name]?" His voice cracked. He didn't care.

You turned. Your eyes widened that someone called out your name, an unfamiliar voice. For one suspended heartbeat, the universe held its breath.

Then you smiled, bright as supernova. "Have we met before?"

And just like that, the world began again.

[y0url0calmushr00m]

God anything that has epic songs related to it somehow is instantly so much sadder ;-;

Op did you peak into my brain or sum?? Cuz I was literally cooking up something like this but way less coherent

10/10 no notes

I will fall in love with you, over and over again

Tags: Just a little drabble, Angst with a bit of hope, Reader's death, grief, Phainon becomes an astral express member in this AU after the events of Amphoreus, might be ooc idk

wc. 315 (this was just a little idea I had so sorry if its too short)

Phainon remembered your last conversation with perfect, painful clarity—the way your voice had wavered, the way your hands had trembled as you asked him that impossible question. If I come back as someone else... will you still know me?

His answer had been immediate. Yes. Always.

He hadn't understood then how deeply that promise would haunt him. Now, every stray breeze carrying a familiar scent, every flicker of movement at the corner of his vision sent his heart aching.

He'd turn, half-expecting to see you smirking at him, only to find nothing but empty air. It was ridiculous. Pathetic, even. But he couldn't stop himself from wanting you to be by his side again.

The numbness after Amphoreus had been a mercy at first. Feeling nothing was better than feeling everything all at once—the guilt, the grief, the crushing weight of all the things he should have said, should have done.

The Trailblazer's antics were the only thing that ever made him feel warm again, their reckless energy so much like yours that it hurt. Sometimes, when they grinned a certain way or made some absurd joke, Phainon had to look away at times.

He'd started to wonder if you'd planned it. If somewhere beyond the stars, you'd pulled strings to make sure he wasn't alone. The thought was equal parts comforting and infuriating—of course you'd still be meddling, even after everything.

Then came the Astral Express.

The moment he stepped aboard, time itself seemed to stutter. There you were, leaning against the parlor car's doorway, alive and whole and real, arguing animatedly with someone.

"[Name]?" His voice cracked. He didn't care.

You turned. Your eyes widened that someone called out your name, an unfamiliar voice. For one suspended heartbeat, the universe held its breath.

Then you smiled, bright as supernova. "Have we met before?"

And just like that, the world began again.

[y0url0calmushr00m]

You do NOT get to pull the 'you were a wonderful experience' card on me op no no NO ughh makes me sick 10/10

PAINTING PINK. or in which mydei finds amusement when a recently hired artist takes notice of his favorite color where others haven't.

mydei x reader , angst.

His lips pulled into a small, rare smile as his eyes gazed upon a newly painted portrait. It wasn’t the portrait itself that made him smile, though, it was a single detail that caught his eye. A vibrant pink color that swirled around in a blood-tinted glass that was gripped in his right hand. Most painters always sought to paint him in such a destructive light. Usually bathed in blood or recovering from wounds sought from the battlefield, so to see something so useless as pink pomegranate sitting idly in a painted cup, it made him smile. If only a little.

“Do you like this one, Lord Mydei?”

“A little… who painted it?”

“That would be-“

You groaned loudly as you went through your twelfth shade of pink that morning. Your patience was so close to tossing all your paint brushes out the closest window and watch them fall to the ocean where the sea god could take them away or throw them right back at you.

“Something the matter?”

You looked over at your fellow artist, the both of you were recently commissioned by the royal advisors of Castrum Kremnos to paint for the people of the castle. How long your stay will be, you weren’t sure, but you both figured that it will be until they all were bored of your silly little paintings.

“Yah, I can’t get the pink right in his Lord’s pomegranate juice.”

Your friend, Mikhail, crinkled his nose, “pink of all things. Don’t you think you will offend his Lord? I hear he cuts people down for just looking at him the wrong way, you know…”

You rolled your eyes and waved your brush in a dismissive manner as you turned back to your painting, “if he didn’t want to be painted with pink, then he shouldn’t drink pink juice.”

Mikhail prayed silently for your safety.

It wasn’t until a week later when you were by yourself in the work room that was set up for you both when you first came to Castrum Kremnos that you would meet the man you have been painting with pink hues with. He was already there when you walked in, his steel gaze flicking from art piece to art piece – his expression holding amusement with each painting his eyes came across.

“Do you favor the color?”

Looks like he already knew you were the culprit so you couldn’t pin this off to Mikhail…

You swallowed your fear, “I do not.”

“Then why?”

“Because you seem to like the color.”

Then he finally looked at you. His gaze sized you up. Eyes seeming to etch each feature that you had before he met your face, “you would say I favor pink?”

“Well, I didn’t say you favored it perse, but I certainly paint you in the color.”

You looked at a certain piece you were still working on. His back to a sunset as he leaned against a stone ledge, the sunlight itself being a mix of yellow, orange, and pink. His hair fit the color palette perfectly.

“You…,” you braced yourself for a verbal lashing, “wouldn’t be wrong.”

You blinked. Once, twice, three times. Huh … you were not expecting that. Not in the slightest. Mydei, the king of Castrum Kremnos, was an enigma to you. It would be later that he would tell you that he actually disliked portraits of himself and didn’t see a need for them, so you decided to change your tactics and started to paint other things with that pink hue you were still very much trying to master.

“Does it taste good like that? You know, making it pink and everything?”

You didn’t expect to be hanging around the king so much these past few weeks, but you enjoyed his company and you liked to think that he started to enjoy yours as well.

He held it to you, “try it for yourself.”

You thought he was joking at first. You, some outsider, drink from the King’s cup? Perpostrous-

He held it to your lips, the edge of the glass creasing your bottom lip as you could feel a small indent, “drink,” his voice all but commanded as he held it for you. You opened your mouth a bit as he started to tilt it for you. It tasted … normal. Just like how it should taste. You furrowed your brow as you looked at him when he brought the cup from your lips.

“So the color of it doesn’t change the taste? You really just like pink?”

He didn’t give you an answer as he brought the cup to his own lips and took another sip. You started to think he enjoyed teasing you so subtly especially when you found your painting station moved to another room.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

His arms were crossed over his chest as he looked down at your annoyed expression.

“Don’t you what me. Are you really going to make me paint here?!”

It wasn’t even actually a room. It was in an outside pavilion where your paint, stand, brushes, and canvases were all set in the middle where you were directly facing towards the training grounds. The training grounds that his lord often frequents when he isn’t meddling in the kitchen (which you found out by accident one night when you were craving a midnight snack) or when he was patrolling the city and giving children piggyback rides.

“You need the fresh air.”

“And my coworker?”

“He’ll be fine, he’s near an open window.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes as he gestured for you to sit down. Muttering to yourself, you took a seat at your stool as he gave you a small smirk of victory before heading towards the training grounds where a a few stray weapons laid.

And truthfully, if you were being honest, it was hard to concentrate on any of your projects with Mydei sweating in front of you like that. An no matter how much you tried to block him out with your canvas he still managed to come into your view. Before you know it, by the end of the day, you find yourself accidentally painting another portrait of him. It was a rough sketch, but still very much obvious that it was him. You hoped he wasn’t curious enough to see what you were working on…

But of course, all good things come to an end. All jobs have to be concluded and new commissions must be accepted.

“You’re leaving? Just like that?”

You didn’t know who it surprised more, you or him, when he was the first one to break the silence. Despite it only been a few months, it felt like years that you were painting by his side.

“Just like that, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t seem all that saddened by the fact that you’re leaving.”

“Should I be?”

It hurt to say that, but at the end of the day…who were you if not but a poor painter? And who was he but a strong king? You heard the rumors, the whispers that came from the cracks in the walls. You know of the princesses that trail after his ungiving hand, the allies who seek to bend the knee, the enemies that quake in fear of his arrival.

What need does he have towards a painter with an assortment of pink anyway? He has no need at all.

“You were a lovely experience, my lord,” you truly meant that. The soft nights where you two would meet abruptly and without warning. The bright mornings where he would already be holding a spear and you already having a paintbrush between your fingertips. The afternoons where you would share snacks and drinks - savoring each and every second hand kiss. And right back to those soft nights where your fingers would brush against one another in a silent goodbye in fear that the walls might one day grow ears and eyes.

And you were everything, Mydei thought bitterly as you bowed to him and took your leave. And despite the bittersweet departure you left, he couldn’t bring himself to hate the color pink.

[y0url0calmushr00m]

Anything with epic songs related is instantly so much sadder ;-;

Op did you peak into my brain? Cuz this is exactly something I was cooking up but WAY less coherent lol

10/10 no notes

I will fall in love with you, over and over again

Tags: Just a little drabble, Angst with a bit of hope, Reader's death, grief, Phainon becomes an astral express member in this AU after the events of Amphoreus, might be ooc idk

wc. 315 (this was just a little idea I had so sorry if its too short)

Phainon remembered your last conversation with perfect, painful clarity—the way your voice had wavered, the way your hands had trembled as you asked him that impossible question. If I come back as someone else... will you still know me?

His answer had been immediate. Yes. Always.

He hadn't understood then how deeply that promise would haunt him. Now, every stray breeze carrying a familiar scent, every flicker of movement at the corner of his vision sent his heart aching.

He'd turn, half-expecting to see you smirking at him, only to find nothing but empty air. It was ridiculous. Pathetic, even. But he couldn't stop himself from wanting you to be by his side again.

The numbness after Amphoreus had been a mercy at first. Feeling nothing was better than feeling everything all at once—the guilt, the grief, the crushing weight of all the things he should have said, should have done.

The Trailblazer's antics were the only thing that ever made him feel warm again, their reckless energy so much like yours that it hurt. Sometimes, when they grinned a certain way or made some absurd joke, Phainon had to look away at times.

He'd started to wonder if you'd planned it. If somewhere beyond the stars, you'd pulled strings to make sure he wasn't alone. The thought was equal parts comforting and infuriating—of course you'd still be meddling, even after everything.

Then came the Astral Express.

The moment he stepped aboard, time itself seemed to stutter. There you were, leaning against the parlor car's doorway, alive and whole and real, arguing animatedly with someone.

"[Name]?" His voice cracked. He didn't care.

You turned. Your eyes widened that someone called out your name, an unfamiliar voice. For one suspended heartbeat, the universe held its breath.

Then you smiled, bright as supernova. "Have we met before?"

And just like that, the world began again.

[y0url0calmushr00m]

Check out my second blog a-dream-among-the-stars because the rest of the phainon art will be there

Yippe

[y0url0calmushr00m]

Cool ass art ratio looks like he was waterbending when I first saw this so 10/10

Something between full art and sketch

[y0url0calmushr00m]

Holy shit

Detangling Mydei's Backstories Backstory?

My last post, casting doubt on 3.2's revelation that Mydei's immortality is deliberate on his part, led to some interesting discussion in the comments that definitely reinforced my earlier thoughts that the inconsistencies in Mydei's backstory are too numerous to be accidental. Star Rail is not known for its flawless continuity (Robin and Sunday's backstory, I'm looking at you lol), but usually the inconsistencies are not so overt, and repeated so many times, that they become central to the entire plot of a character.

So I wanted to refine my earlier theory a bit: I'm cautiously optimistic that there are enough signs that the inconsistencies in Mydei's backstory are deliberate, and that the Mydei of the current cycle in Amphoreus is actively experiencing an entanglement between two different timelines, without (yet) consciously recognizing the incompatibility of his own "memories."

When we work from the standpoint that the events of Mydei's backstory can be separated into two distinct timelines, the inconsistencies vanish:

The "Sea of Souls" Timeline

This is the most prominent timeline, and the one that appears most accurate for "our" Mydei. In this timeline, Mydei was thrown into the Sea of Souls as a tiny infant and spent the first nine years of his life there. This is confirmed both in the flashback we're provided early in 3.1, as well as in Mydei's voicelines and character stories.

After nine years, he crawled out of the sea (possibly motivated by witnessing Tribbie's "star" in the sky). On the same day (or very near it), he met with a band of Kremnoan exiles.

Whether this was a larger group already, constituting a small "detachment" army of exiles, or just started with the five exiled friends and Mydei then grew into a small army by picking up other exiles over time, is still unclear. However, at this point, Mydei makes no mention of returning to Kremnos and instead goes straight from "leaving the sea" to "living ten years in exile:"

This is the key point of inconsistency between the two "halves" of Mydei's story--either he lived in Kremnos or he didn't. We can handwave here and say "Yes, he returned to Kremnos with his friends and they just hid their identities, leaving Kremnos years later in a self-imposed exile," but the story gives us absolutely no indication that this realistically could have happened. Mydei never once mentions hiding his identity, changing his appearance, or living a double life in the city, and never explains how he would have had access to the inner city of Kremnos ("as befitting a crown prince") and the royal library, yet still go totally unnoticed by his father or anyone loyal to Eurypon, including Krateros. (There's also no explanation at all for why he would have wanted to return to a city ruled by someone who tried to murder him and where he would have had to live life under a fake identity just to get by, but you know...)

Instead, the game does give us several pieces of information indicating that the five Kremnoan exiles did not return to Kremnos after meeting Mydei:

First, Mydei's character stories confirm that Mydei deliberately hid his name while traveling in exile across Amphoreus, indicating that he knew he would be recognized by Eurypon/Eurypon's loyalists if he didn't hide his identity. This awareness suggests it is extremely unlikely that Mydei could have returned to Kremnos without being identified:

This also suggests that, at this point in this timeline, no one in Castrum Kremnos knew for sure that Mydeimos had survived being thrown into the Sea of Souls and returned. This is further confirmed by a memory fragment where Krateros says there has been a "rumor" that the leader of the exiled Kremnoan army is one who "defied death." Krateros alone makes the assumption that this could be Mydei and decides to defect to aid him:

This memory suggests two things clearly: Mydei was not living in Kremnos at the time Krateros defected, and the exile of all of Mydei's friends must have taken place before they met Mydei, years in the past, as there is no way an entire small army could have been exiled from Kremnos, with Mydei in toe, and not at all attract Krateros's attention until after they were gone.

The idea that Mydei never returned to Kremnos is further enforced by Eurypon, who did not recognize Mydei when he confronted him, to the point that he didn't believe Mydei was even Kremnoan. This suggests that Eurypon not only didn't know Mydei's true identity--he'd never seen him before at all, making it extremely unlikely that Mydei was walking around Castrum Kremnos, talking to Chryseus Leo, and reading in the royal library all under some false identity for years. Eurypon certainly wouldn't have been capable of exiling someone he'd never seen before from Kremnos, in any case!

Therefore, we can assume the series of events in this timeline is pretty straightforward: Mydei entered the Sea of Souls as a baby, came out nine years later, went straight into a life of exile with his five friends, amassed power and support for ten years, and then returned to seek vengeance on his father.

The only remaining question in this timeline becomes "When did Mydei join up with Okhema?"

I think, in this timeline, it makes the most sense for Mydei to have only joined up with Okhema after killing his father. In 3.1, Mydei confirms to Phainon that all his friends died before he was able to kill his father, and that none of them ever made it to Okhema:

Therefore, the final order of events for the more prominent timeline is:

Dumped into the sea as an infant, nine years in the Sea of Souls

Ten years in exile with his friends amassing strength and support

Returns to Kremnos, kills his father, and the last of his friends dies that day

Then he defects to Okhema, leading any of the Kremnoans willing to follow him there.

By itself, this story makes perfect sense. If this was all the information we'd been given, there wouldn't have been any gaps.

Unfortunately, we also have a whole other set of information that massively conflicts with these events, which can only really be explained two ways: Either Hoyo messed up (again) and really dropped the consistency ball when it comes to writing Mydei's backstory... Or there's an entire separate timeline going on. Personally, I'm leaning toward the latter, because there are just too many seemingly deliberate fingers in the story pointing toward the inconsistencies for them to feel entirely unintentional to me.

Therefore, I propose that Mydei's memories are actually getting infiltrated by a second, entirely different timeline:

The "Gorgo Lives" Timeline

From 3.0 all the way to 3.2, we're given numerous pieces of information that point to a wholly different order to the events of Mydei's life, contrasting the story that Mydei tells Phainon in the Garden. At first, these events seem scattered and nonsensical, contradicting the "main" timeline in too many ways to be anything but errors... But when taken as a whole, we can build a second coherent timeline out of these events if we make one assumption: There is a timeline where Gorgo lived longer.

In the second timeline which is intruding on Mydei's memories, there appears to be one key point of divergence: Gorgo did not die dueling Eurypon. Either she never challenged him to the duel, or (more likely) she was never successfully poisoned, and therefore it's possible she won the duel, allowing her to rescue Mydei from the sea.

Working from that possibility, a second complete timeline emerges:

Mydei was thrown into the Sea of Souls as an infant but did not drift there for nine years. Instead, he was rescued and brought back to Kremnos, where he was allowed to grow up in the inner city, with access to both Chryseus Leo, who served as his teacher, and access to the royal library, which he is proud enough of to call "his" library. He is able to lead Phainon and the Trailblazer around Castrum Kremnos even in its ruined state because he grew up there, spending enough time there to know the city like the back of his hand:

This is where we can slot in the inconsistent memories Mydei has of Gorgo:

(By the way, although Mydei writes this scene off as a dream, you can actually hear Oronyx's whisper play in the black screen seconds before this "dream" occurs...)

But okay, let's say this is just a wishful dream. Maybe this scene never happened. If all we got of Gorgo supposedly raising Mydei was this moment in 3.1, I might agree that it was just a dream (other than there being no reason to play Oronyx's sound effect there, but you know). However, in 3.2 they then hit us with this:

That's multiple moments now pointing to a timeline where Gorgo raised Mydei. Once is handwave-able--twice? That's deliberate.

In this secondary timeline, Mydei appears to have grown up as Kremnos's beloved crown prince, being warmly embraced by his people (at least until Kremnos fell into calamity). Apparently his days consisted of eating pomegranates, training for combat, playing with Kremnos's kids, and hanging out with his five friends. We see snippets of this idyllic life (along with his five friends appearing to be roughly the same age as him--something that likely wouldn't be true in the "main" timeline, by the way) on Mydei's long march back into Castrum Kremnos:

I know some people took this to be Mydei hallucinating or just wishfully imagining a life where he was able to be happy with his friends, possibly even some metaphorical "encountering the souls of the departed in a paradise," but I don't think this is true. Every single time Mydei phases in and out of this "hallucination," the visual effect and the sound effect of Oronyx are distinctly played--the exact same sound and visuals that play when Trailblazer activates Oronyx's prayer to jump between timelines.

Mydei himself doesn't seem to quite understand what is happening to him in this moment, as you can hear him stumble and pant as he repeatedly goes through flashes of Oronyx's power. You can listen to comparison video clips on the prior post I made about Mydei's backstory.

Furthermore, if we work from the assumption that these moments actually represent a rupture between timelines, then the rest of the inconsistencies can finally be cleared up:

In 3.0, Mydei says that his choice to leave Castrum Kremnos was not a forced exile but a "self-imposed" one:

And this aligns with what he stated in the Garden of Life to Phainon, that he and his friends "left Castrum Kremnos" to go into this self-imposed exile, rather than having never returned to Kremnos from the sea:

Furthermore, this also aligns with the angry NPCs in the past version of Castrum Kremnos that Trailblazer and Castorice travel back to:

Remember that this version of Castrum Kremnos was supposed to be occurring while Eurypon was still alive, so there is absolutely no way this line makes sense in the same universe where Eurypon didn't even know Mydei had survived. There isn't any way, in "our" timeline, that Mydei could have been both the "crown prince" of Kremnos for these NPCs and completely unknown to his father, the king.

These NPCs, furthermore, directly accuse Mydei of "deserting Kremnos," suggesting that Mydei was living in Castrum Kremnos as their prince, and then abandoned them to join Aglaea in Okhema, getting himself and everyone who went with him labelled as "traitors to Kremnos" in the process. None of this makes sense in the context of a timeline where no one in Kremnos knew he had even survived.

Instead, all of these elements point to a different sequence of events:

Gorgo lived, likely winning her duel and thereby (likely) giving her the right to save Mydei from the Sea of Souls and bring him back to Kremnos. He was raised by his mother as the beloved crown prince of Kremnos. Then, years later, as his father and Nikador both descended into full madness, Mydei and the Kremnoan detachment defected.

But what would have triggered this sudden need to defect after years of leading Kremnos as a well-liked prince?

The flashback between Mydei and Eurypon actually suggests a possible reason:

Apparently, at some point, in some timeline, Mydei knew about Eurypon's plan to break Nikador's divinity into separate parts and seal him away, harnessing the power of their titan for himself.

Yet the Mydei of 3.0 seems to have no idea about any of this, never able to give any explanation for how Nikador has degraded so much nor why Nikador is seemingly unkillable. Castorice, Mem, and the Trailblazer have to come up with the idea to go back in time to the past Kremnos by themselves, because Mydei never makes any mention of there ever having been a plot to break up and seal away Nikador's divinity, even when they walk past the very blades that did the sealing.

Finally, there's one last piece of conflicting information: While talking to Phainon in the Garden of Life, Mydei states that all of his friends died before the detachment could ever join up with Okhema and that all of their deaths occurred by the time he went to kill his father. But this conflicts with the NPCs above, who state that Mydei had already defected to Okhema and joined the Flame Chase Journey as a Chrysos Heir while his father was still alive.

This inconsistency is further reinforced by a memory fragment with Krateros, who confirms that Mydei had joined up with Okhema already before killing his father:

Putting all of this together, the complete series of events for this second timeline becomes:

Infant Mydei is quickly rescued from the Sea of Souls, is instead raised by his mother, and grows up as the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos with his five friends.

At some point, years later, he discovers Eurypon's plot to break up and imprison Nikador's divinity, and he and his friends and supporters defect from Kremnos as a result.

Either they go straight to Okhema (I'm inclined to say that "ten years of wandering" doesn't fit, chronologically speaking, into this secondary timeline) or they do wander a bit, but ultimately, Mydei reaches Okhema and aligns with Aglaea before killing his father.

After aligning the Kremnoan Detachment with Okhema, Mydei returns to Castrum Kremnos to kill his father, possibly to halt Eurypon's evil plan to harness Nikador's power.

At some point in this timeline, presumably before Mydei returns to kill his father, Gorgo likely still dies (possibly killed by Eurypon and/or Nikador), which explains why the Gorgo in the Sea of Souls seems to be the one convinced that she raised Mydei.

And this is just pure personal speculation, because there isn't enough evidence to really confirm it, but I almost feel like we can even pinpoint how/when the whole decision to defect to Okhema took place. At the end of Mydei's flashbacks to the "peaceful" Kremnos, Peucesta says that Mydei has been away from Kremnos for a while.

Leonnius assumes that Mydei was away on some apparently extended training trip, but this moment specifically ends with Gorgo welcoming Mydei home and asking him one very important question:

Obviously these lines are doing double duty, symbolically welcoming the present Mydei back to the ruins of Castrum Kremnos and asking him whether he's finally ready to take on his role as the "Guardian of Amphoreus." But as the wiki notes, this takes place in a flashback to the past, and for the "Mydei of the past" (aka the Mydei of the alternate timeline), this could very well have been Mydei disappearing from Kremnos to make contact with Aglaea in Okhema, and Gorgo questioning him about his decision to commit himself to the Flame Chase Journey, leading up to an ultimate and permanent defection from Kremnos. (This is just speculation though, trying to tie the last few loose ends together.)

Anyway, when taken from this perspective, that there are two separate backstories here, one from a world where Gorgo lived and the more prominent one where she died, we can sort all the seeming inconsistencies in Mydei's backstory into two surprisingly tidy and complete timelines.

I haven't yet found anything in any Mydei scene that doesn't fit one of these two scenarios, so I'm starting to definitely feel optimistic here that this writing was intentional, and that the "contradictory" backstory we're seeing for Mydei isn't "the worst continuity Star Rail has served up to date," but instead an actual deliberate choice to present us with a character whose memories are a hodge-podge of two divergent timelines, snippets of one timeline constantly erupting and "filling in the blanks" of the other.

I think this would be a fascinating way to lead up to the idea that Amphoreus's world isn't real, that it's a cobbled together story or set of memories that someone is barely holding together, and that it's constantly cyclical in nature, with events repeating with slight variations across times. The idea that Mydei is actually experiencing two different sets of memories crushed together into a tangled jumble and that he's only just now starting to become aware of the discrepancies would be such an excellent way to reinforce the "unreality" of Amphoreus's plot as a whole.

I really hope this is the direction that they take the story... Or at least that I won't one day be looking at all my Mydei posts and sadly thinking to myself that I put a lot more thought into the character's backstory than his own writers did, RIPPPPP. 😂😂😂

Cope with me, people!

[y0url0calmushr00m]

:0 *steals art cutely*

more of the amphoreus magical girls/boys au