Chapter Text
Mydeimos
Hey.
We need to talk.
“I know you’ve got the soul of a geriatric at heart, Mydeimos,” Phainon says, slipping off his shoes at their door. He bounds towards Mydei in their small living room, eyes bright and smile wide, “but sending a text like that is gonna make a guy anxious.”
Mydei looks up. Phainon presses a chaste kiss on his cheek, slipping a hand into his palm. His other hand flutters over his back, drawing him closer.
He stiffens, stepping out of Phainon’s grip and shaking off his hand.
Phainon’s smile freezes, eyes rounded and wide. They stare at each other, and for a long moment, neither of them says a thing.
“So something did happen then,” Phainon murmurs, hurt.
“Phainon,” Mydei says, drawing out the name. Phainon flinches like he’s been slapped. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” Phainon says, tenuous. His fingers twitch. Mydei watches him rub the back of his neck, a nervous laugh leaving him. “I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?”
“You didn’t,” Mydei says, averting his gaze. His eyes land on their two coffee mugs standing side by side on the coffee table. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “You did nothing wrong, Phainon.”
“Then… what do we need to talk about?” He watches Phainon take a hesitant step forward. Mydei curses, frustrated, and jerks his head to face Phainon head-on.
“I think we should take a break.”
Phainon stops.
Silence settles between them, still enough to hear a pin drop. His shoulders tensed—muscles bunching up under the sudden tension. Phainon’s staring at him with wide, confused eyes, and Mydei cannot—will not—lose his nerve here.
“We need to take a break,” he repeats, firm. “I need some time apart. And I believe a break would be good for the two of us—”
“Why?” Phainon interrupts, the word sudden and loud. “You said I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You didn’t,” Mydei assures. “Not truly.”
“Then why do you want to take a break?” Phainon takes another step, like it’s unconscious, hand outstretched towards him. Mydei takes two steps back out of Phainon’s reach. He watches Phainon’s expression crumple. “What happened?”
His nails bite into his palm. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
“Phainon, when we first met, there were times when I wondered how you knew a stranger like me so well,” he says. “You always seemed to know of the snacks I liked, the hobbies I dabbled in, the stories I enjoyed, the studies I’d taken up… if you hadn’t seemed so innocent and earnest, I would’ve thought you had stalked me back then.”
“I didn’t stalk you—”
“I am aware,” Mydei interrupts, voice rising. Phainon tenses further. “Instead, you knew me in my past life—knew the me back then. You were close to him… close enough that you memorized all his habits like they’re your own.”
“Where are you going with this?” Phainon asks meekly. “What does this have to do with us taking a break?”
Mydei studies Phainon’s expression, the pinched press of his lips, the furrow in his brow, the way his shoulders draw up like he’s preparing himself for a blow. He lets everything he knows about this man wash over him, then gathers the parts he’s learned these last few months that have kept him up at night.
“Sometimes, you would be so sure you knew some detail about me that I would wonder if you were seeing someone else in my place,” Mydei says, soft. “And whenever you guessed wrong, it felt as if I was missing something you desired—like I hadn’t matched up to whoever it was you truly wanted.”
Phainon freezes, his hands curling into fists.
“What?” he breathes. “What are you… Mydei. Mydei, there is genuinely no one else in this world I’d rather be with right now.”
“I refuse to play second fiddle to anyone, Phainon,” Mydei says. “Even someone I used to be in my past.”
“But… you aren’t second fiddle. You’re… you’re Mydei.”
Mydei exhales. He crosses his arms.
“Be honest with yourself, Phainon,” he says, “are you with me because you love me, or because you love the idea of being with me?”
“I love you. I swear on my life.” Phainon’s hand makes to grab Mydei’s wrist, but aborts the movement before he makes contact, arm awkwardly held between them. Mydei’s brows pinched, chest tightening. Between the two of them, Phainon had always been the more tactile one, and Mydei feels cruel for denying something he would’ve freely given Phainon just yesterday.
He takes a deep breath.
“That may be true,” Mydei says, soft—placating, “but I don’t believe you, Phainon.”
He hears Phainon suck in a sharp breath. He sighs, averting his gaze again.
“You did nothing wrong,” he repeats. “I just need some time to… reassess our relationship. I can’t do that while I’m still in it with you.”
“Are we breaking up?” Mydei looks back at Phainon and clenches his jaw. Phainon has curled in on himself, making his normally wide frame appear small. His frown is etched deep, and he looks miserable, staring at Mydei like he’s hoping this is all a practical joke. “Is there really nothing I can do to convince you, Mydei?”
Mydei turns the question over in his head. Months ago, before Phainon told him of their past life saving an apocalyptic Amphoreus, Mydei wouldn’t have questioned Phainon’s affection for him—not for a second. But every act of affection Phainon does now is tainted—marred by his insecurity that this isn’t for him, not truly. This is for the lover Phainon lost—for the lover who could never be. This is for the man the Mydei of now could never hope to match up to because he is not him.
Not really.
“Give me some time, Phainon,” Mydei says instead. “It’s only for a little bit. Not forever.”
His exhale shakes out of him. In Phainon’s next breath, his lips forced on a smile, shaky and pained no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Mydei clenches his jaw tighter and doesn’t say a thing.
“Okay,” Phainon says, voice low and worn at the edges. “Okay, Mydei. Take as long as you need. I’ll be here.”
When Mydei first stepped past the threshold of the apartment he’d leased in Okhema for graduate school, he was met with the sight of his newest roommate, Phainon, staring contemplatively at their empty living room. Mydei had watched Phainon turn his head and freeze—his striking blue eyes wide, his face pale as his hair, and his lips parted. The reaction was so jarring, Mydei found himself pausing as well, wondering if he’d somehow arrived at the wrong apartment or something equally as awkward.
“Hello,” he greeted cautiously, holding his hand out. “You must be Phainon?”
“Uh… I… um.” Phainon’s cheeks flushed pink. His eyes flickered up and down Mydei’s body, growing progressively redder the more times he looked. “Yes… yeah. Yeah. I’m Phainon, from Aedes Elysiae.”
He took Mydei’s hand and shook, his hand warm and his grip firm if not tight. The shock disappeared from Phainon’s face—replaced by a warm smile and kind eyes that Mydei was sure could’ve fooled any cynic. Mydei’s lips quirked.
“Mydeimos, from Castrum Kremnos,” Mydei said, letting his hand drop from Phainon’s. Phainon’s fingers twitched minutely—as if reluctant to let go—before they curled and dropped at his side. “It’s good to finally put a face to a name.”
“Yeah,” Phainon breathed, nodding his head. He looked dazed. “Yeah. It’s good to finally meet you, too, Mydeimos.”
He nodded, shutting the door behind him and slipping off his shoes.
“Which room is mine?”
“Oh. This one. Here.”
Phainon led him through the small living room and down the hallway—pushing open the second door on the left. Mydei dragged his suitcase inside, setting it in the middle of the room like a flag staking claim. He scanned the walls, arms crossing over his chest.
“Have you already done a walk-through?” Mydei asked, glancing at Phainon. The other was already staring back, eyes bright and intense; the smile on his lips was soft and pleased, but his expression was creased with something Mydei couldn’t name—something that made him wonder if Phainon was even aware of the way he was staring.
“Sorry?” Phainon asked, jolting back to life and tilting his head. “Did you say something?”
“A walk-through,” Mydei repeated, raising a brow. “To check if there’s anything we should call maintenance to fix before they take it out of our security deposit.”
“Already did that,” Phainon said, sounding self-satisfied. “You just need to move your stuff in, Mydeimos.”
Mydei pursed his lips, hearing the way Phainon’s voice curled around his name with something like awe.
“Just Mydei is fine, Phainon,” Mydei said.
Phainon only smiled wider, eyes bright.
“Was the trip from Castrum Kremnos bad?” he asked.
“Not particularly. Just long. At the very least, the rest of my belongings should be here in the next few days.”
“That’s good,” Phainon offered. He loitered at the entrance of the bedroom, shifting on the balls of his feet. Mydei watched him expectantly.
“Is there something you needed?” he asked.
“Ah… well… not really. Nothing important.” Phainon gave Mydei a sheepish smile. “I just… if you aren’t too tired… I figured we could go to a cafe and get to know each other better. You know? Since we’ll be roommates for the next year.”
“Where?”
“There’s a place a block away that sells these nice pomegranate drinks,” Phainon offered, voice tense with trepidation. He stared at Mydei, eyes so wide and innocent that Mydei couldn't help but be reminded of a puppy.
He glanced at his suitcase, then at Phainon.
“Alright,” he said, tilting his head. “You lucked out. I happen to like pomegranates.”
For a singular moment, Phainon’s expression scrunched up, an odd look passing across like a veil fluttering over a mirror. The moment passed quickly, though, and Phainon’s unassuming smile returned with a renewed fervor—eyes gleaming with excitement.
“Perfect!”
(The gates of Okhema tower over him and his detachment as if the city itself is making it known he and his people are not welcome. Mydeimos strides onwards, flanked by his people. This is the last safe haven left in Amphoreus for them; his detachment has nowhere else to go, and he is not so cruel as to lead them to a blood bath. That is the last thing he wants to do.
It is only at the edge of the Holy City that Mydeimos stops, eyes narrowed at the lone figure guarding the gates. His hair is white, and his eyes a striking blue, left hand gripping a greatsword as he surveys the detachment just behind Mydeimos. The person looks young, likely around Mydeimos’ age. And though the smile on his lips is soft and kind, his eyes are cold.
“Crown Prince Mydeimos,” the man greets. “The Goldweaver has been expecting you.”
“Then, she must be aware that my detachment and I are merely seeking asylum,” Mydeimos responds, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Really? With a group this large?” the man asks, raising a brow. “Forgive my impudence, Crown Prince, but that’s rather hard to believe.”
“It is the truth,” Mydeimos says. “Castrum Kremnos is on its last few breaths. King Eurypon sees us as exiles and vermin. Nikador themself has descended into madness. But Okhema has the Goldweaver, the Demigods, and the protection of the Worldbearing Titan. There is nothing to be gained from a conquest on Okhema.”
He hears his people murmur just behind him. Mydeimos ignores them. They would be walking into a needless massacre if they tried to take Okhema.
The white-haired man hums.
“Prove it, then,” he says. “I hear the Kremnoan people value ‘valorous death after glorious return.’ Prove it to me in a duel, Crown Prince. If you win, I promise your people will be granted safe passage into Okhema.”
“And if I lose?”
“Already throwing in the towel so soon?” the man teases, smile crooked and playful.
Protests roar behind him from the crowd of Kremnoans. Mydeimos raises a hand, silencing the dissent. He sizes up the swordsman in front of him, crossing his arms.
“In Kremnos, it is a sign of respect to introduce yourself to your opponent before dueling,” Mydeimos says, shifting his stance. “Who is it that the Goldweaver personally sent to greet the people of Castrum Kremnos?”
The man’s smile widens, eyes gleaming with excitement.
“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, Crown Prince.” Phainon raises his greatsword, feet planted steadily on the ground. “A pleasure to duel with you.”)
Mydei flinches awake, his morning alarm blaring in his ears. He groans, slowly rising from his bed, and slams his alarm.
The room goes quiet. For a moment, Mydei sits—disoriented—the flickers of his dream disappearing with the daylight, but the memory of it still so damn clear. He blinks slowly, then presses the edges of his palms against his eyes.
Phainon had been there. Phainon, in clothes more grand than Mydei had ever seen him, had challenged him to a duel. And Mydei himself was practically topless, with gauntlets on his hands and a pauldron to his right shoulder and capes more intricate than anything he’s ever owned. And they were at the gates of a much older version of Okhema that Mydei has never seen before but feels he should know well.
He had called him the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos in his dream—the same title his Phainon told him he held in their past life.
Mydei scoffs, rubbing away his lingering sleep. If that dream had been their previous life, then it’s a cruel joke by fate for him to dream of it right after he told Phainon he needed a break.
He lifts his head, tilting it back until he’s staring at their ceiling, and sighs.
He finds Phainon sitting at their dining table once he musters the will to leave their—his bedroom. The other has his head resting against his hands, his shoulders slumped and defeated in the weak morning light. Mydei pauses at the entrance, hesitating. He’s seen Phainon crushed before—buried under the weight of mundane stress and everyday life—but there’s been only one other time Mydei can remember seeing Phainon like this: crumpled and small like a fallen house of cards.
He sighs, turning away and rooting through their kitchen. Minutes later, he sets down a fresh serving of strapatsada, berries, and bread between the two of them on their dining table, settling in the chair opposite Phainon’s.
His chair screeches against their floor. Phainon flinches, jerking up from his hunched position. His face looks paler than usual—his eyes red at the edges, like he hadn’t slept well or had been crying the night before. Mydei notes the dark shadows under his eyes, a frown pulling on his lips when Phainon seems to shrink under his gaze.
“Mydei,” Phainon breathes, voice rough.
“Eat,” he says, soft. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
Phainon presses his lips together, expression guilty and lost.
“I did,” he says, running a hand across his face. “Just… not that well.” He glances down at the table, eyes shifting over the spread. His expression falls like he’s one wrong word from crying.
“Are we really over?” Phainon asks, turning back to him. “Did I mess up?”
“We aren’t over,” Mydei says, sighing. “I just need to reorient myself, Phainon. I need some time to feel secure in my place as your partner again.”
“But, there’s no one else, Mydei,” Phainon insists, leaning forward. “Genuinely.”
“No matter how much you may see us as the same person, to me, he and I are two different people,” Mydei says. “I’m not that person in your past.”
Phainon bites his lip, pulling back.
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Mydei takes a piece of toast, scooping the strapatsada on. “I just need some time apart.”
Phainon chuckles weakly.
“That’ll be hard given we live together.”
Mydei hums, chewing on his toast.
“If it’s too difficult, I can find some other accommodations for the time being—”
“No!” Phainon interrupts sharply. He flinches, curling his shoulders inward like his own voice startled him. “No. No, it’s fine, Mydei. You don’t need to do that. It’s too expensive.”
“You know money isn’t a problem,” Mydei says. Phainon squeezes his eyes shut.
“I know. I know it isn’t. But I don’t want you to go.” He looks up, lips quirked in a humorless smile. Mydei could probably count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Phainon look so sad. “I know it’s selfish to ask this of you, but please don’t leave, Mydei. If you leave, it makes everything feel final. It makes me feel like we actually broke up.”
Mydei presses his lips together. Phainon holds his gaze for only a moment before averting his eyes, head bowed and shoulders tense. Mydei exhales—rolling his shoulders like he’s the one holding himself stock still.
“Eat, Phainon,” Mydei says, and leaves it at that.
Very quickly into their new living arrangements, Mydei had found himself inexplicably endeared by Phainon and his antics. It wasn’t hard when Phainon seemed to embody a mischievous sort of innocence and naivety, not unlike an over-exuberant puppy.
By their first week, Phainon had created a running tally of mundane competitions between the two of them. Who bought groceries that week, who cleaned their room the fastest, who cleared the most dishes, who finished grading first. They were constantly tied, apparently, much to Phainon’s chagrin, especially when Mydei often never knew they were competing in the first place.
“It isn’t fair,” Phainon complained, scrubbing roughly at their pan. “It’s you and your gods damned body’s fault.”
“My gods damned body?” Mydei repeated, amused.
“Yes! It’s so…” Phainon waved his hand around, shooting Mydei a sour look. “It’s distracting. It’s leaner than I thought, and that’s so… that’s so…” He growled in frustration.
Mydei raised a singular brow.
“Leaner than you thought,” he repeated, tilting his head. “Does that mean you think of it often, Phainon? My body?”
Blood rushed up Phainon’s face so quickly, Mydei was almost worried he would pass out.
“That’s not what I said,” he denied, the words tumbling over themselves.
“But it’s what you implied,” Mydei said.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Phainon insisted, eyes flickering down Mydei’s body before jerking back up. “I think of your body a socially respectable number of times. Only as much as one should.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“Don’t tease, Mydeimos,” Phainon said with a pompous sniff. Mydei snorted, gently cuffing the back of his head. Phainon shot him an unimpressed look and knocked their shoulders together, lingering for just a moment too long to be conspicuous before pulling away.
That was the other thing; Phainon was rather tactile—brushing a hand across Mydei’s back, ruffling his hair, throwing an arm around him. It seemed instinctual to him to seek out Mydei’s touch, like it was a need he couldn’t ignore. But, he always seemed to know when to stop, when to hold back, when he would cross an unspoken line if he pushed Mydei a little too much. Somehow, Phainon knew him almost as well as he knew himself.
There were other things too, small things. Phainon always seemed to get lucky guessing what Mydei liked: the dishes from Castrum Kremnos he enjoyed, sweets he was partial too, his area of research, his hobbies, his fondness for children, that he helped out at his school’s library during his undergraduate years, that he liked to take naps, that he valued nutrition and healthy eating above all else, that he loved to cook. It was odd how well Phainon seemed to just know him—how spot on he always seemed to be.
And every time Mydei confirmed his lucky guesses, Phainon’s eyes would always light up, his smile stretching wide and excited like he’d received some sort of treat. And the reaction would be endearing and innocent enough that Mydei would let his suspicions slide—chalking it up to coincidence, to luck, to Phainon’s perceptiveness whenever he tried. Eventually, they’d gotten so close that Phainon knowing almost everything about Mydei was simply to be expected, because Mydei knew nearly everything about Phainon too. That was simply how they were.
Every now and then, though, the thought would reappear like a specter haunting the edges of Mydei’s thoughts—even after he and Phainon began dating. This simple suspicion that, in many ways, it felt like this wasn’t the first time Phainon had gotten to know him.
(“So, Mydei,” Phainon says, accosting him in the streets of Marmoreal Market, “I hear Lady Aglaea’s asked you to join the Flame Chase.”
Mydeimos grunts, eyeing the fresh produce. The Okheman vendor has been watching him warily, as if he’s worried he’ll rob him in broad daylight. He glances at Phainon and internally snorts.
As if he’d attempt to plunder anyone with Okhema’s Golden Boy next to him.
“Will you join?” Phainon prods, following Mydeimos as he ambles through the vegetable stall. “We’re truly lacking in impressive warriors, and you fit the bill quite nicely. I would know. I’ve felt the weight of your punches against my sword. They were no joke.”
Mydeimos hums, picking up a head of lettuce and examining the leaves, before setting it back down. He moves to the fruit stall. Phainon follows at his heels.
“It’d be nice to finally have a sparring partner too,” Phainon continues, unperturbed by Mydeimos’ non-response. “I haven’t felt as exhilarated as when I was fighting you for those ten days and ten nights. Even though it was a tie, I thought, ‘I can’t let such a warrior pass me by. I have to fight him again and beat him.’”
Mydeimos scans the display before striding towards the left side where a pile of pomegranates sits. He takes one, examines the outside, then glances up at the stall owner.
“Excuse me.”
The stall owner flinches, body stiff as she turns to him.
“How much is it for the pomegranates?” he asks, keeping his tone even.
“We don’t sell to Kremnoans,” the stall owner says stiffly. “Especially to their prince.”
Mydeimos presses his lips together.
“I see.” He sets the pomegranate down. The woman tenses—eyes narrowed as if she’s raring for a fight. Mydeimos takes one last look at the stall before turning on his heel.
A hand grabs his, stopping him in his tracks. Mydeimos stiffens.
“Ah, Ms. Daphne, Mydei here is with me,” Phainon says, tone cheery and light. Mydeimos glances back, catching Phainon’s expression. The smile on his face is convincing, but forced—ostensibly friendly. He shakes Phainon’s hand off and crosses his arms. “I’m showing him around the Holy City. He’s a guest of Lady Aglaea’s. He may be a part of the Flame-Chase soon.”
“Lady Aglaea’s inviting a Kremnoan to the Flame-Chase?” Ms. Daphne sneers. “Has she truly lost her mind? Did she forget the Kremnoans are war-mongers and barbarians?”
“Mydeimos here doesn’t seem barbaric or war-mongering, though,” Phainon says. His eyes trail up and down his body. Mydeimos raises an unamused brow. Phainon meets his gaze, flushes a slight pink, and clears his throat. “I can attest to Mydei’s character, Ms. Daphne. Mydei has already informed Lady Aglaea that the Kremnoan Detachment will help defend the Holy City against Nikador’s titankin so long as they can stay in the Holy City.”
Ms. Daphne scoffs.
“Does Lady Aglaea not see the power-play, Kremnos’ Crown Prince is planning?” she asks. “I thought she was supposed to be all-knowing. Here she is, training that Kremnoan Detachment so one day, their king can take over Okhema.”
“There is no king amongst the detachment, Miss,” Mydeimos corrects. Ms. Daphne flinches, jerking her gaze to him. “I am not here for needless bloodshed. Castrum Kremnos is weakening in power, and in times like these, unnecessary strife will only sink morale.”
“See, Ms. Daphne?” Phainon says. “I can attest to Mydei’s character. I promise he’s an honorable man. So, there’s no reason you can’t sell him these pomegranates.”
Mydeimos furrows his brows. He glances at Phainon.
Ms. Daphne huffs.
“I will only sell the pomegranates to you, Lord Phainon,” she says, her tone broaching no argument.
Phainon blinks and shrugs.
“How many did you want, Mydei?”
Mydeimos stares.
“Hmm… you were looking at this one really closely.” Phainon grabs the one Mydeimos had, and then three more, before holding them out to Ms. Daphne. Ms. Daphne rings him up, bags it, and hands it to Phainon, who holds it out to Mydeimos.
Hesitantly, Mydeimos takes the bag.
“There.” Phainon claps his hands, looking as if he’s patting himself on the back. “Where to next, Mydei?”
Mydeimos blinks. He glances at Ms. Daphne and bows his head.
“Thank you for the pomegranates,” he says, then turns away, striding towards the exit out of Marmoreal Market. He hears Phainon hurry after him.
“Wait, Mydei—”
“There was no need for you to do all that just for a few pomegranates,” Mydeimos says, ignoring Phainon’s words. “It is only natural that Okhemans would be wary of Kremnoans.”
“But you’re helping us now,” Phainon argues. “And in times like these, wouldn’t it be better to stand unified?”
“The hatred between Kremnoans and Okhemans is centuries long. It would be foolish to assume something like that can be settled in a few weeks,” Mydeimos says. He shakes the bag. “You did not need to go out of your way to buy a few pomegranates for me.”
Phainon scoffs. He lengthens his steps so he’s right in front of Mydeimos and stops, forcing Mydeimos to stop too.
“You know, a simple ‘thank you’ would suffice,” Phainon says, crossing his arms. “That’s how it went in my hometown at least.”
Mydeimos eyes Phainon.
“Thank you,” he says, “but there was no need to vouch for my honor to deaf ears.”
“They don’t know you. They don’t have the right to make such judgments on your character.”
“But they know my people,” Mydeimos says. “To them, that is enough. Besides, it’s not as if you know me either.”
Phainon raises a brow. He glances at the bag.
“What did you want those pomegranates for?” he asks, apropos of nothing. Mydeimos frowns.
“For pomegranate juice,” he says. “It’s a common drink in Castrum Kremnos.”
“Is it your favorite?”
“I’m partial to it with goat milk, yes.”
Phainon nods sagely.
“I know your favorite drink now,”—he grins—“which means I know you too.”
Mydeimos narrows his eyes.
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is,” Phainon insists. “We crossed weapons. I know your favorite drink. We’re practically lifelong friends.”
Mydeimos scoffs, his lips quirking up against his will.
“You are impossible.”
“And you never answered my question,” Phainon says, sharp and proud like he’s struck the winning hit in a duel.
“Which one? You were rambling for so long, I figured you simply enjoyed hearing your own voice.”
Phainon snorts.
“Out of the goodness of my heart, I will pretend I didn’t hear that,” he says wryly. “Will you join Lady Aglaea’s Flame Chase?”
Mydeimos’ smile fades.
“Did the Goldweaver ask you to ask me?”
“Lady Aglaea will hear all anyway,” Phainon says dismissively. “I’m asking because I’m truly curious. I’ve never met a warrior as skilled and strong as you. I believe we would work well together.”
Mydeimos purses his lips. The bag of pomegranates feels heavier in his hand than before. While they were abroad, fruits like these were seldom—a privilege. But here in Okhema, they are commonplace and abundant.
“If it guarantees my people’s safety and asylum in Okhema under the Goldweaver’s care and Kephale’s protection,” he says evenly, cherry-picking his words, “then I will join the Flame Chase.”)
Mydei blinks, peeling his eyes up and away from his computer. He’s been staring at it for the last five minutes, and he can practically feel the strain in his eyes—tension pulling just behind them.
His gaze drifts, roving around his office with his shelves and shelves of textbooks without thought, before landing back on his computer screen—the brightness blinding. Mydei rubs his eyes and attempts to refocus on the email he’s spent the last half hour drafting a reply for.
It’s a simple student email. It should’ve taken him five minutes to respond at most. And yet, the blank textbox stares at him, the cursor blinking in and out of existence at his lack of action.
He sighs and checks the time, then shuts his computer, rooting through his bag. Maybe a lunch break would do him some good. Mydei stands from his seat and scans his desk—gaze slowing when he passes by the propped-up photograph.
He frowns.
Perched next to his computer is a framed picture of him and Phainon, the two of them pressed against each other in front of their old apartment when they were still working towards their PhDs. Phainon has a cheesy smile as always, eyes bright and striking against the sunlight, while Mydei’s expression is more subdued. He hadn’t been staring at the camera when the photo was taken; he’d been staring at Phainon instead, gaze soft enough that anyone could tell who Phainon is to him.
An odd feeling curls around his chest like a vice. Mydei hesitates, then reaches out towards the frame, gently tilting it down so it lies flat on the table, the photo out of sight. Then, he quietly slips out of his office.
Castorice already has a table saved for the two of them when Mydei arrives at the campus cafeteria. She waves him over, a little smile on her face that Mydei returns as he slides into the seat across from her.
“Mydei,” she greets, eyes crinkling. “How are you? How was your morning?”
“Slow, but can’t complain about,” he says. “How was yours?”
“The same as usual. The students were surprisingly receptive during morning class today.”
Mydei chuckles.
“That’s more than I can say for mine,” he says wryly. Castorice laughs.
Her expression suddenly softens, then, concern marring her face. The shift puts him on edge.
“How are you and Phainon doing?” she asks. “I heard things haven't been going well lately?”
“Who did you hear that from?” Mydei asks, cracking open the lid of his lunch.
Castorice hesitates.
“Phainon, actually,” she admits sheepishly, sticking her spoon in her basmati rice. “He asked if you were doing alright. I was surprised to see him ask that, considering you two live together.”
“Both of us have been busy these last few days,” Mydei admits, mixing the leftover dinner he packed. He purses his lips. “We’ve hit a bit of a rough patch in our relationship recently, so I decided it was best for us to take a small break from each other for now.”
Castorice blinks. Her spoon stills.
“A break?”
Mydei nods.
“Why?”
Why? That was the question, wasn’t it?
Truthfully, he’s been tossing the idea around in his head the moment Phainon told him about the past life he couldn’t remember. Certain things began clicking into place after that—Phainon’s ease in understanding him, all those coincidentally lucky guesses, the way he looked at him as if he were something precious to be coveted.
It isn’t a question of if Phainon loves Mydeimos; Mydei knows he does—knows he has loved Mydeimos since their past life. It’s a question of what he loves now, if Phainon loves him or the idea of him.
Beyond that, there were some nights when Mydei wondered, in the wee hours, if perhaps he'd known Phainon better in the past than he does now. Maybe, he’d know the right words to say to bring Phainon out of any mood. Maybe, he’d known all of Phainon’s quirks like they were his own. Maybe, he’d simply been better then—a better lover, a better companion, a better friend. So good that Phainon tried to find him again, in this lifetime too.
Maybe, one day, Phainon will fall out of love with the idea of his past Mydeimos he’s built up in him. And maybe, Mydei will be left behind then, shaded by Mydeimos’ grand shadow.
“I’m not sure if I’m what Phainon wants,” he eventually says, words measured and precise. It’s close enough to the truth without all the baggage and festering insecurities. Castorice does not need to know there had been a life before this that they’d shared.
Her brows furrow further, the frown deepening.
“I’m sorry, Mydei, I don’t quite get it,” she says, perplexed. “Phainon seems to be the happiest when he’s with you. To me, you are exactly what he wants.”
“That might only be because I am very similar to the person he truly wants to be with,” Mydei says. His tone is ostensibly light for how bitter the words taste on his tongue. And Castorice’s expression doesn’t smooth out from her confusion, but her eyes do soften around the edges.
“Are you doing alright, Mydei?” she asks tentatively. “I’m not sure how you came to this conclusion, but knowing you, I’m sure you have some justification for it.”
Mydei laughs through his breath, a wry smile pulling at his lips.
“My mind is a mess, to be honest,” he says, running his thumb up and down the spoon handle. “That is part of the reason I wanted to take a break—to sort myself and my thoughts out.”
Castorice nods. She looks like she wants to ask what spurred all these thoughts, but she doesn’t press. That quality of hers has always been something he appreciated.
“What’s the other reason?” she asks.
“The other reason is Phainon and I need some space from each other,” he says, honestly. “It’ll be good for us to be our own people for a little bit. And Phainon… he's been attached to my hip ever since my accident. His anxiety surrounding it hasn’t disappeared, even now. I think some distance would help.”
Castorice nods, lips pursed.
“I see,” she muses, humming under her breath. “That makes sense.”
Mydei smiles. He raises his spoon and starts eating.
“How is Phainon, by the way?” Mydei asks, pausing between bites. “The debate club had a meeting yesterday, right?”
“We did,” she confirms. “He seemed sad, honestly. Professor Anaxa eventually told him to go home early because he was bringing the mood down with his moping. And Phainon seemed… even sadder after Professor Anaxa mentioned home.”
His smile fades. Castorice sighs and shakes her head like she’s banishing the memory.
“I can talk to him if that would help?” he offers.
“No, no. It’s not that big of a deal,” Castorice assures. “Professor Anaxa is just… very blunt sometimes. That’s simply how he operates.”
He raises a brow at Castorice’s delicate phrasing. Castorice smiles.
“Mydei,”—she hesitantly places a hand atop his free hand—“I know it’s not much to offer, but if you need someone to talk to, you can talk to me anytime. It sounds like you and Phainon are going through a bit of an ordeal, and… I’d like to help you both, if possible.”
Mydei smiles. He squeezes Castorice’s hand gratefully.
“Thank you, Castorice.”
“Tell me something you like, Phainon.”
“What?” Phainon looked up from his computer, eyes rounded and endearingly confused. “Why?”
Mydei crossed his arms, leaning his hip against their kitchen countertop. He raised a singular brow.
“You always seem to know what I enjoy,” he said. Phainon’s cheeks pinked, a sheepish expression on his face. “I figure it’s about time I return the favor.”
“Huh.” Phainon smiled, leaning forward from his seat at their dining table. “But I like treating you. It makes you happy, and I like it when I get to see you happy.”
Mydei blinked. A hot rush of embarrassment flooded his system. He scowled.
“Just answer the damn question, HKS.”
Phainon’s smile stretched wide into a beam, eyes soft. He brought a hand to his face, tapping his chin as if in deep thought.
“I like Kremnoan food,” he said, eventually. Mydei tilted his head. “I had a… friend. He would cook for me sometimes, which was really nice because I’m terrible at cooking and he was really good.”
“He’s Kremnoan then?” Mydei asked.
Phainon nodded, smile dimming the slightest bit.
“Yeah. He was.”
Mydei frowned. He uncrossed his arms, pushing off the counter and approaching Phainon slowly.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mydei murmured, stopping just across him. Phainon watched him, the good nature in his expression fading for something not quite nostalgia, not quite grief. “He sounded like a kind man.”
Phainon chuckled, the sound ironic and suspiciously wet.
“He was a good person, yeah. I miss him.” Phainon glanced down at his hands. He splayed his fingers across the cheap wood of their dining table. Silence covered their tiny kitchen-slash-dining room before Phainon met his gaze again, a small smile on his lips. “But, I’m happier that you’re in my life now, Mydei.”
Mydei watched Phainon’s smile, pursing his lips together.
He’d spent the rest of the day preparing a dinner of all his childhood favorites, paspalas, tsaitias, and moussaka. Every single one of them was a recipe he’d learned from his mother as a child, and when he’d set the table, the scents reminded him of being back home in Castrum Kremnos—of cooking with her.
When Phainon set eyes on the spread, his expression had scrunched up, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure if he was happy or sad. For a moment, Mydei worried he would start crying.
“It smells amazing, Mydei,” he murmured. He turned, eyes meeting his with an expression caught between desperation and grief.
Mydei frowned. He carefully stepped forward, hand outstretched and worried.
“Are you alright?”
Phainon’s expression fell. He grabbed Mydei by the hand and pulled him in, gripping onto Mydei’s shirt by the handful. Phainon pressed his nose against the line of his neck—arms wrapped tight like he was worried Mydei would slip away, both of them chest to chest. Mydei stiffened, feeling Phainon’s hair tickle his jaw, before gently returning the hug—wrapping his arms just as securely. Phainon shuddered, breath ghosting across his collarbone.
“Thank you for dinner,” he said, the words thick and wet. “It’s just as I remember it.”
(“As I am sure you are aware, Nikador is the biggest threat to the Flame Chase currently.” Aglaea stands across from him in the Hero’s Bath, elegant as always. Her golden thread wraps around her arm not unlike that of a snake. “If we want to have any hope of continuing the journey, we must deal with them first.”
“I am aware,” he says, watching her approach. “I am prepared to do anything to help protect Okhema in the interim while we figure out how to kill the Strife Titan.”
Aglaea tilts her head, her unseeing eyes piercing—staring into his soul.
“How much are you willing to give for the Flame Chase, Mydeimos?” she asks, her golden thread snaking up her arm. “Your life?”
“As many of my lives as you require,” he says, “so long as my people can live freely in Okhema.”
“What about Strife’s coreflame, then?”
Mydeimos frowns.
“I don’t see what Strife’s coreflame has to do with me,” he says. “Your hero seems just as willing and worthy of Nikador’s coreflame, if not more so.”
“You are the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, Nikador’s patron kingdom, Mydeimos,” Aglaea says, voice almost cold. “You have seen firsthand the cruelty Strife can bring. There is no one more fitting, in my and my Teacher’s opinion, for Nikador’s coreflame than you.”
“It is precisely because I’ve seen the cruelty of Strife that I refuse to take on Nikador’s coreflame,” Mydeimos says, crossing his arms.
Aglaea raises her brow.
“Are you worried you’ll follow Nikador’s footsteps?” she asks. “Or perhaps that your people will follow you to their dooms as they have followed Nikador?”
Mydeimos narrows his eyes. His lips twist into a scowl.
“I apologize, Lady Goldweaver, but I must disappoint you here,” he says, voice hard. “Find someone else for Nikador’s coreflame, someone like your golden boy hero.”
“Phainon is fated for a different Titan’s coreflame,” Aglaea says. “He is our Deliverer. He will not pass Nikador’s trial.”
“Then find someone else who will. Someone who is not me,” Mydeimos says. “The Kremnoan Detachment and I will help protect Okhema from Nikador and the black tide, but I will not take on the coreflame of Strife.”
Aglaea’s hazy eyes scan his face. He stares back, undeterred and unrepentant. Aglaea sighs, her disappointment echoing like a mourning call.
“I understand,” she says. “That is all I summoned you for. You are dismissed, Mydeimos.”
Mydeimos nods once. He turns, striding towards the platform that will lead him back to the main baths of Marmoreal Palace—blood thrumming and itching to leave Aglaea’s presence. He stalks towards the entrance of Marmoreal Palace, uncaring of the perpetual whispers that follow him as he makes his way to the training grounds.
Mydeimos turns a corner, clipping someone’s shoulder on the way through.
“Oh, Mydei! Just the man I was looking for.” Phainon’s hand grabs his wrist. Mydeimos stiffens, scowling when he turns to face Phainon. Phainon blinks, immediately dropping his wrist.
“What did you need, hero?” Mydeimos asks, clipped. He crosses his arms.
Phainon’s brows pinch.
“Are you alright?” he asks gently. “Did your meeting with Aglaea not go well?”
His brow twitches. He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling heavily until his annoyance cools.
“I’m fine,” he says evenly. “The meeting was fine. Lady Goldweaver and I disagreed over a rather important matter.”
Phainon frowns, eyes roving Mydeimos’ expression. Mydeimos raises an unamused brow.
“What did you need me for, Deliverer?” he repeats, tone less harsh—more gentle. Slowly, Phainon’s expression relaxes, returning to his good-natured smile. Mydeimos feels his shoulders loosen at the sight of Phainon’s familiar cheer.
“I was hoping to have another sparring session with you, since the first one ended in a tie,” Phainon says. He starts walking, a slight spring in his step as he heads towards the training grounds. Mydeimos follows just behind. “I’m desperate to know just how strong you are, Mydeimos, the one-man army. Let’s see who turns up as the victor this time—”)
“I heard you and Phainon are taking a break?”
Mydei looks up, raising a brow. Aglaea stands by the doorframe of his office, watching him curiously as he packs up the last of his belongings for the day.
”It’s good to see you too, Aglaea,” Mydei greets politely. “I didn’t know you would be here today.”
“I had a guest lecture.” Aglaea waves her hand dismissively, eyes peering straight into Mydei’s soul. “Why are you and Phainon taking a break?”
“I see someone tattled to you about my relationship,” Mydei says, amused, hefting his bag up from his chair and slipping it on his shoulder. He glances at his desk, eyes lingering on the downturned picture frame before facing Aglaea.
“I have my ways of keeping tabs on you all,” Aglaea responds, eyes gleaming. “God knows it’s the only way I can ensure some of you are alive and well.”
“Always the knowledgeable one between us,” Mydei says, slipping his hands in his pockets and leaning against his desk. “Phainon and I are fine. We are taking a break, though. For now.”
“Whatever for?” Aglaea enters the office in earnest, taking the seat just across from him. “You two were inseparable during graduate school, even before you started dating. This break of yours feels rather sudden, especially after your accident.”
Mydei lets a small smile settle on his face. In the days and even weeks after he’d been discharged, Phainon had been relentless—sticking to his side every minute like they were glued together. He’d become so clingy, Mydei remembers having to yell at him multiple times before Phainon finally stopped hovering. Though, he’d still held onto him through the night for months after.
“I’m not sure if I’m what Phainon wants,” Mydei says, repeating the same thing he told Castorice just last week.
Aglaea nods, though her brows pinch together.
“I heard that was the reason, though I can’t wrap my head around how you came to this conclusion, Mydeimos.” She rests her hands atop each other on her lap, sitting in Mydei’s office chair like it’s a throne instead of a school-funded chair. “Phainon clearly loves you. He stares at you like you are what brings in the dawn every day. He would hang the stars in the sky for you if you asked or cut down the sun if you said you wanted it gone.”
Mydei raises a brow.
“I didn’t realize you were such a romantic.”
“It is more like Phainon is rather unabashed about his affections towards you,” Aglaea corrects. “Before you were dating, he talked to Castorice about you all the time—almost talked her ear off in the process.”
Mydei averts his eyes. He clears his throat.
“He never mentioned that to me.”
“Of course not. He was trying to get with you,” Aglaea says matter-of-factly. “He couldn’t afford to be pathetic and lovesick when you were around. He had to pretend there was at least some chase.”
Mydei snorts, the image of an anxious Phainon coming easy to his mind. It causes a smile to flicker across his face as his chest squeezes itself.
“What’s the real reason you’re taking a break?” Aglaea asks, the sound of fabric shifting as she leans forward in her seat. “Don’t give me the excuse of ‘Phainon doesn’t love me.’ I know there’s more to it than you’re letting on, Mydeimos.”
He can feel Aglaea’s stare on him, critical and burning. Mydei lifts his gaze to meet her eyes.
“I suppose I’ve realized that I may not know Phainon as well as I thought,” he says. Aglaea raises an unimpressed brow. He continues, “I don’t believe it’s a bad thing to take a break. These past few years, we’ve become a packaged deal to everyone. But at our cores, we are two very separate people.”
“Of course you are,” Aglaea says. “The only reason you two came as a set is because you were always around each other, even before you started dating.”
“We lived together all through graduate school,” Mydei points out. ”Of course we were always around each other.”
“And you still live together now, years later,” Aglaea says. “You can’t seriously be implying you disliked being a packaged deal with Phainon after all this time, Mydeimos?”
Mydei frowns.
“No. I’m only saying this could be good for us, to grow as our own people.”
“But you two were happy before. What has changed?” Aglaea’s tone is precise, her eyes boring into him. Mydei presses his lips together, jaw clenched. He doesn’t break gazes with Aglaea, but he also does not answer.
The tension pulls itself taut—palpable enough to be cut. And then, Aglaea sighs, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ears.
“I see,” she says simply.
“The true reason is more complicated than I’m willing to speak on, Aglaea,” Mydei offers, as if those words are a consolation for his silence.
“I am certain it’s less complicated than you believe, Mydeimos, but your relationship with Phainon is between you and Phainon,” she concedes. “I’m not particularly worried about you, though. You can handle yourself. Phainon, on the other hand, had always seemed more reliant on you than you him—as if somehow, your presence stabilized some part of his personality. I am sure he didn’t take you requesting a break too well.”
“He took it as well as anyone else would,” Mydei admits, still remembering Phainon’s downcast expression, shoulders drooping and lips twisted in a frown. He’d look so small then, so unlike the confident person he usually is.
“Perhaps it was only in front of you that he took it well,” Aglaea says, tilting her head. Mydei chooses not to ponder that.
Instead, he asks, “How is Anaxagoras doing these days?”
The reaction is immediate. Aglaea’s lips curl into a half-scowl, half-grimace. The expression she shoots him is wholly unamused.
“I am aware you are doing this to change the topic,” she says, tone flat. “For now, I will let it slide. But I refuse to talk about that man.”
Mydei’s lips quirk.
“Guilty,” he says. “As you said, it’s between Phainon and me. We’ll work it out.”
Aglaea sighs and nods.
“There is one last question I have, though,” she says, standing up and brushing out the wrinkles in her skirt. “The triplets’ birthday party is next month. Will you both still be there? Even if you are still taking a break by then?”
Mydei blinks. He huffs a laugh and smiles.
“Of course,” he says, pushing up from his desk. He falls into step with Aglaea as they leave the office. “Neither of us would miss it for the world.”
After one year of living together and unanimously deciding to extend their lease, Phainon asked him out.
His hands were sweaty when he asked; Mydei only knew because he kept wiping them over his washed-out jeans while he loomed over Mydei. His eyes hadn’t been able to focus on anything then, shifting between his face to their chimera pillow gag gift Mydei had bought him, to the book in Mydei’s lap, to their coffee table, and back again.
Mydei raised a brow.
“Did you need something, Phainon?”
“Um… yes, actually. I did need something. From you,” Phainon said, voice quavering the slightest bit. He wet his lips, swallowing roughly enough that Mydei saw his Adam’s apple bob. “I was wondering, if you have time, that we could go out for dinner, one day.”
“Dinner?” Mydei repeated, watching Phainon vigorously nod. His lips twitched.
“Yeah, dinner. Maybe to a fancy place too—or, fancier than we’d usually choose.” Phainon tried for a tentative smile, his hands dragging across his jeans. He looked terrified, swaying from side to side, thrusting his affection out in the open for Mydei to pass judgment. “Just the two of us, you know? Like a… well… Like a—”
“Like a date?” Mydei asked, feigning ignorance.
“Yeah.” His voice cracked. Mydei hid his snort behind a cough. “Like a… like a date. Between the two of us. Just the two of us.”
“Just the two of us?”
Phainon nodded, hands flexing. Mydei watched his fingers twitch, oddly endeared by how Phainon could not seem to stay still. He glanced back at Phainon’s face, hope lingering on the edges of his face—behind all his anxiety.
“What do you say, Mydei?” Phainon asked, shuffling forward.
Mydei hummed, pursing his lips like he was considering it.
“There was this Styxian Restaurant I wanted to try,” he said. “How do you feel about accompanying me there tonight?”
Phainon blinked, mouth parting.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“For dinner?”
“Yes.”
Phainon grasped his wrist, leaning forward. His eyes were wide, as if he hadn’t expected Mydei to say yes.
“On a date?”
Mydei squinted at him.
“I thought you were asking me out, Phainon.” He flicked his forehead. Phainon flinched, hissing. “Not the other way around.”
“I was—am! I am!”
“Good,” Mydei said. “Then, yes. Dinner tonight.”
He dragged his eyes away from Phainon’s stunned expression back to his book. Phainon’s fingers curled tighter around Mydei’s wrist, but Phainon was otherwise unmoving. He sat down—close enough to press against Mydei’s side and tuck his face into his shoulder.
“We’re going on a date tonight,” Phainon mumbled, awed. He huddled against him like he needed the physical contact for confirmation. “We’re going on a date together.”
“It’s only me, Phainon,” Mydei grumbled, glancing at the tuft of white hair he could see. He ruffled his hair with his free hand. “We’ve lived together for a year now. You’ve seen me exhausted out of my mind. It’s only me.”
“Exactly,” Phainon said, hushed. He lifted his head, eyes dazed and wide. Mydei’s lips quirked up, endeared—eyes flicking briefly to Phainon’s parted lips. “It’s you, Mydei.”
Mydei blinked and huffed.
“Smooth talker.”
The Styxian Restaurant they went to that night was elaborate to the point of garish—gilded plates, delicate wine glasses, polished silverware. Both of them had cleaned themselves up for dinner, Mydei in a deep red trench coat over a black button-down and fitted slacks, and Phainon in a knitted sweater over a pair of khakis.
“You look better dressed than I do,” Phainon said, eyes narrowing. “It’s going to make me look bad.”
“Why?”
Phainon’s eyes trailed up his form, slowing when he reached his face. A crooked smile pulled on his lips.
“People are going to wonder what I did to bag such a handsome catch.”
Mydei’s lips flattened. He shoved Phainon’s shoulder, Phainon laughing while he stumbled.
They talked about everything that night: school, class, students, hobbies, interests, family. If it weren’t for the overpriced food and Phainon’s inability to sit still, Mydei would’ve believed this was simply them splurging on a fancy dinner for once.
Just as they finished their dinners, Phainon took his hand from across the table and started playing with it. He traced shapes over his palm and ran his fingers along the bumps of his knuckles, the touch gentle and featherlight.
“How has your mother been?” he asked, fanning Mydei’s fingers out.
“She’s fine. Doing well. I’ve heard her clients have been easy these days. Mostly people asking for legal advice,” Mydei said, watching Phainon slip his fingers between his own. “How about your family? How’s your sister?”
Phainon smiled.
“Cyrene’s doing well. She’s been trying to write a book between her nursing job. And my parents are traveling the world now that the two of us are mostly settled.” Phainon curled his fingers around Mydei’s hand—fitting snugly together like a lock and key. He looked up, catching Mydei’s gaze.
“That’s good,” Mydei said, curling his fingers over Phainon’s. “I hope her book turns out well.”
Phainon squeezed his hand tight, expression soft in the yellow lighting of the restaurant. He looked unassuming then in his knitted sweater, even as his gaze dipped downward to Mydei’s lips, a wrinkle forming between his brows as he pressed his own lips together.
“I really want to kiss you right now,” Phainon mumbled—quiet enough that only they could hear. Mydei huffed, lips curving into a smile as he leaned over the table.
“Then, do it.”
(“So… Mydei.” Phainon’s half-sprawled over the edge of the bath—a cup of wine in his hand and a healthy flush over his face. It’s anyone’s guess whether the flush is from the heat or the wine at this point in time. “What is it like? Being the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos? Did you have people waiting hand and foot for you in the palace? Everything you could ever want? All the food you could ever imagine?”
Mydeimos raises a brow. Phainon’s eyes are sharp, but the rest of him is loose-limbed and loose-lipped. An impish gleam enters his eyes as he leans closer to Mydei—head propped against his hand.
“I wouldn’t know,” Mydeimos says. “I never lived in Castrum Kremnos. My father threw me into the Sea of Souls the moment I was born.”
Phainon’s expression freezes. He straightens from his slouch.
“What?”
“He was told a prophecy that I would one day ascend as King of Castrum Kremnos,” Mydeimos says leisurely, back pressed against the wall of the bath—his elbows resting on the ledge. “Every Kremnoan king only becomes one by killing the previous king. So Eurypon sought to kill me before I could have the chance.”
Phainon gapes.
“But… But that—titans.” He leans forward, a grimace on his face. “How did you survive?”
Mydeimos tilts his head, a dry smile on his lips.
“Death refused me.”
Phainon’s expression shifts. He downs the rest of the wine in his glass and sets it down—wiping the wine off his lips with the back of his hand.
“I’m sorry, Mydeimos.”
Mydeimos scoffs.
“I don’t need your pity or your apologies,” he says, sinking further under the water. He lets his gaze travel lazily across Phainon’s somber expression, curiosity piqued. “What about you, Nameless Hero? Who are your parents? What is your story?”
Phainon blinks. A smile forces itself onto his lips, stretching in all the wrong places to look natural. Even in his inebriated state, Phainon’s past is a touchy subject—touchy enough that he’s put some distance between the two of them even now.
He hears the forced chuckle that falls from Phainon’s lips and says nothing.
“My past is hardly that exciting,” he says—the words spoken lightly. “I came from a small village called Aedes Elysiae. A simple country boy. Nothing compared to you—the crown prince of a kingdom.”
“There’s no sense comparing something as useless as lineage in this day and age,” Mydeimos says. “What happened to the villagers of Aedes Elysiae? Are they in Okhema now?”
“They’re dead.”
Mydeimos’ jaw clenches. Phainon still has that painfully polite smile on his face. His eyes are no longer meeting Mydeimos’ but focused on the ripples in the water instead.
“I see.” Mydeimos exhales softly. “May Thanatos guide their souls towards the sea of flowers.”
He hears Phainon chuckle, the sound crackling and weak. Mydeimos gently nudges his arm with his elbow—if only to let him know he is here.
“Yeah,” Phainon whispers.)
“How are your parents doing, Phainon?”
Phainon glances up, halfway between toeing his shoes off. His face looks pale and his hair messy and limp—so unlike the soft, fluffy texture it usually has. Phainon shrugs out of his coat, expression perplexed.
“They’re fine,” he says. “They’ve been trying to start a garden recently in our backyard. They mentioned wanting to visit us soon.”
Mydei tilts his head and nods.
“I don’t mind hosting them if they decide to come,” he says, leaning against the threshold into their dining room.
“We don’t have a spare bed, Mydei,” Phainon says glumly.
“We have the guest room.”
“The one I’ve been sleeping in?” Phainon asks.
“You won’t be in that room forever, Phainon,” Mydei answers, running a hand through his hair. Phainon’s head jerks, expression caught between distress and apprehension. At this angle, their overhead lights catch the shadows of Phainon’s face better. Under his eyes are dark bags—large enough to look like bruises. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t been sleeping well, and that knowledge makes Mydei’s body tense, jaw clenching.
He wants to coddle him—gather him in his arms, and tell him they’ll be alright and back to their usual routine soon. But that would be a disservice to his and Phainon’s feelings. And there’s still a large part of him that watches Phainon and wonders—doubts—that the emotions passing through Phainon’s face are truly for him.
“If they come while we’re still on our break,” Mydei says, quiet, “I wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with you.”
Phainon lowers his eyes, shoulders stiff.
“I would mind.”
Mydei doesn’t respond. The silence lingers heavily over them.
“No plans have been made. There’s no point considering what ifs,” he eventually says, pushing off the wall. “Dinner’s ready. Come eat.”
The two of them settle around the table. Phainon takes one look at the soutzoukakia before his expression falls.
“You don’t have to keep cooking dinner for the two of us,” Phainon says, voice tired and almost bitter. “And it doesn’t have to… smell so good, look so good.”
“Why would I serve you food that doesn’t look good?” Mydei asks, brow raised. He takes Phainon’s plate and drops a scoop of rice down—portioned exactly to Phainon’s preference.
“You always serve me shitty food when you’re angry at me,” Phainon says, serving salad on Mydei’s plate.
“I’m not angry at you, Phainon,” Mydei corrects, exasperated. He scoops some rice for himself. Phainon adds meatballs to his plate right after.
“Then why did we break up?” Phainon asks, leaning forward. His brows are furrowed, expression anxious and desperate. It reminds Mydei, oddly, of the time Phainon first asked him out.
“We didn’t break up, Phainon,” Mydei says, his tone curt. Weeks later and they’re still somehow running this same song and dance, like Phainon still hasn’t processed Mydei’s words. “We’re taking a break so I can process that you knew me in our past life.”
“But I still don’t understand,” Phainon presses. His hand grabs Mydei’s before he can spear one of the soutzoukakia, and then jerks away like it had been burned. His lips twist into a painful grimace. “It’s you I love. It’s Mydei I love, no matter who it is. Isn’t that enough?”
“It matters to me, Phainon,” Mydei says, brows furrowing. He can feel frustration licking flames up his throat and setting fire to his gut. He exhales roughly. Phainon’s shoulders draw up from the sharp sound. “Even if we have the same name, even if I am the reincarnation of the old Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, to me, we are two separate people. He is Mydeimos, the crown prince. And I am Mydei, the history professor at Chrysos University. We are not the same person, Phainon.”
Phainon bites his lip, eyes shifting between his food and Mydei.
“I know you aren’t,” he says, soft. “I know that, Mydei.”
Mydei sighs.
“I know, you know. Which is why we are taking a break,” he says. “It is a problem I need to work through. It was never your fault. I simply couldn’t—I can’t settle my thoughts if we are still romantically involved. Especially, when I keep viewing my old self as your ‘first love,’ and me now—present me—as simply the person you settled for because you couldn’t have him.”
“I didn’t settle for you, Mydei.” Phainon’s hand shoots for his wrist in earnest now, holding on tight. His eyes are blazing—aching like an open wound. Mydei blinks, surprised. “Mydei, you are… you are it for me. I don’t want anyone else if I can’t have you. You have always been my first choice.”
Mydei presses his lips together, studying Phainon’s expression. Gently, he pries Phainon’s hand from his wrist. Phainon immediately lets go and draws his hand back, grimace deepening.
“Be honest with me,” Mydei says. “Can you truly deny that the me you knew in our past had any impact on your relationship with me now? That you didn’t reach out to my roommate request the year we started graduate school because you recognized my name and my face? That you hadn’t asked me out because you knew and loved the me in your past?”
Phainon opens his mouth and then hesitates. Mydei waits for a moment, and then another. Phainon’s silence weighs heavy between them.
“That’s not a fair question to ask, Mydei,” Phainon argues weakly. “It’s not like I chose to be the only one to remember. I can’t erase these memories from my mind—no matter how much I’d want to.”
“I know it’s not fair,” Mydei says evenly. “That's why I didn’t break up with you over this, Phainon.”
Phainon stiffens, fear creeping across his expression. Mydei brings a hand over his mouth and sighs. Then, he stands from his seat, his food untouched.
“Where are you going?” Phainon immediately asks when Mydei grabs his coat off their coat hanger.
Mydei glances back for one brief moment.
“A walk.”
He slips on his shoes and grabs his keys. They jingle loudly as he slips them into his pocket. Mydei twists the handle of their front door.
“I always loved you, Mydei,” Phainon blurts out, the words running out of his mouth faster than he can think. “I always did and I always do. I can’t imagine being with anyone else—I refuse to. You’re… you’re it, for me. You have always, always been it for me.”
Mydei’s hand tightens around the handle. He squeezes his eyes shut, a low ache forming in his chest. There’s still that ugly feeling in him, an insecurity in him that makes him feel disgusting because he never doubted Phainon’s love before. He chances a glance at Phainon, one last time.
“Please, Mydei,” Phainon pleads—gaze trailing after him, hand outstretched in an aborted movement. Mydei averts his eyes and opens the door.
