The first anniversary really sticks, Audata once said, giggling against her palm giddily as Phainon looked at her with an expression that only an exasperated teenager can make.

He’s heard their stories a thousand times before—hell, maybe even more. He’s heard of how they met (Hieronymus was fifteen, trying to make some extra money fixing fans during the summer, and quickly found out that the girl who hired him was a pretty girl his age who had just moved in), how their first date went (Audata hitched a ride at the back of her crush’s bike and felt so free as her hair was tousled by the wind and kept laughing at her mother’s furious yelling). But, most importantly, how their first anniversary as a couple was.

His mother sighed about how dreamy her darling Heironymus was, how she felt his love with every display. His father huffed proudly at how he managed to pull such a sweet smile from his beloved Audata, how she shyly laughed when he whispered how much he loved her. They tell the story so vividly that Phainon could close his eyes and picture himself there, out of place in a world he’s not supposed to exist in.

(“Oh, Phainon,” Audata said as she ran her fingers through Phainon’s hair. “You were always there with me. With us. Maybe not physically, but you were there.”

Phainon grimaced at the sight of his father nodding in agreement. “Please, don’t tell me any more.”)

Their anniversary was so memorable that, even after over twenty years had passed, his parents remember every detail as if it were just yesterday. They tell the tale over and over again like broken records. And while the teenaged Phainon could not be any less appreciative, the Phainon of today holds the memory close to his chest, keeping it there, safe and sound.

Today, their words echo in his mind. The first anniversary really sticks, he repeats in his head, his voice in unison with his mother’s. Naturally, he has to try his best to impress Mydei enough that, someday, they could tell the story to… well, honestly, Phainon isn’t sure. Their kids, maybe?

Warmth blooms in his chest at the thought. But before it can turn into something burning hot that travels south, the pressure of preparing the perfect first anniversary strikes his head like a mallet.

Mydei is… a little hard to impress, Phainon thinks. He knows how to keep Mydei happy, sure, but what’s the point of an anniversary when your happiness levels are just the same as they are on a regular day? What makes an anniversary special, anyway? He’s never dated anyone long enough to get to anniversaries, and he doesn’t think he would’ve had it in him to prepare flowers and dinner if he were ever to reach that point back then.

(The Phainon of the past always had one foot out the door, after all. He was sweet enough to want, but not enough to keep.)

The thing is, Phainon gives Mydei flowers—origami ones, anyway—daily when he’s visiting. With an additional fun fact about the flower of the day, for good measure. Was he to make a larger bouquet of them and spout more fun facts? And what about dinner? Mydei does the cooking most days he’s in Aedes Elysiae, and he’s a damn good cook. As expected of the executive chef, of course. And, another thing: how is the head chef supposed to impress the executive chef? Mydei’s his boss, for Kephale’s sake; he’s already tasted everything Phainon has to offer.

He bows his head, his forehead bumping against the table. His list of ideas for their anniversary only gets pathetically thinner every time he combs through it and actually thinks about it rationally. Why in the world did he ever think it was a good idea to bring Mydei to an amusement park? Mydei isn’t fond of crowds. And an escape room, really? Because solving riddles definitely is a fun way for Mydei to spend an anniversary, right?

Phainon lifts his head and then drops it down again, hitting his forehead a little harder. It doesn’t make him feel any better, nor does it give him any brilliant ideas. If anything, he’s only feeling more hopeless. Their anniversary is in a week, and Mydei is coming to Aedes Elysiae in three days—if he doesn’t finish his plans now, he risks spoiling the surprise if Mydei catches him brainstorming in the future.

He’ll sleep on it. And when he wakes up, he’ll be invigorated and overflowing with ideas. That’s usually how it goes.

Phainon is decidedly fucked.

Mydei barrels in his home like a tornado—not literally, but he might as well have—arriving at eight in the morning and two days earlier than expected.

“Mydei!” Phainon greets as he shoves his notes filled with brilliant ideas under the couch with a stealthy foot. “You’re early.”

Mydei sets down his bags. He smells like heaven, and Phainon stops himself from rushing in for an embrace and a kiss. It’s not for lack of desire, make no mistake—it’s just that Phainon’s last shower was yesterday afternoon, and he absolutely sweated through the night. He’s not about to subject Mydei to that.

“Are you sending me out?” Mydei asks with a raise of his eyebrow.

He manages a laugh. He swipes his foot behind him again, just to make sure. The feeling of being a failure makes his chest twist. “I would never.”

“Uh-huh. You’re sending me out. Don’t worry, I can take a hint.”

(Phainon loves his dry humor, the flat way he delivers every joke. Phainon even loves how Mydei didn’t bother texting him a heads-up for his arrival, how he just pulls up to the front of his house, honking. Phainon loves Mydei, and he wants this to last so, so badly—but he can’t plan the first anniversary that Mydei deserves after everything he’s done for Phainon.)

“No,” Phainon replies, the word a drawl in a way he hopes is playful. He swallows hard. “I love you, stay.”

Mydei looks at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. But when he steps closer, uncaring for the light sheen of sweat on Phainon, Phainon’s arms automatically open to accommodate Mydei, and everything melts away, for a while.

“Matthiola Incana,” Phainon says, handing Mydei the flower of the day. “They’re native to Amphoreus, and they’re coastflowers.”

Mydei takes it. He notes, “I’ve seen this in Styxia before. They smell good.”

“We should go there someday.”

“Someday,” Mydei nods.

“What’s a good anniversary gift?”

Cyrene looks up from her phone and gives him a look, “So you haven’t finalized your anniversary gift for Mydei?”

Busted. Not like Phainon has any dignity left, anyway. Cyrene has seen him through it all. Still, he feels the need to defend himself, “I mean, I have ideas, but I need to refine them.”

“Okay,” Cyrene chirps in a way that makes her sound like she’s unconvinced. She probably is. “Run that idea by me, then.”

“Flowers and a nice dinner cooked by yours truly. An out-of-town three-day vacation. And…”

“And…?”

Phainon looks at Cyrene with lips pressed into a thin line. A silent sign of surrender. Maybe it’s the stress weighing down his shoulders, maybe it’s the pressure she can clearly read—but Cyrene simply sighs at his answer before looking down at her phone again.

She’s typing when she says, “Don’t overthink it. Mydei would be happy with anything you have to give.”

Easy for you to say, when everyone loves what you do, is a reply Phainon leaves unsaid.

Every hour ticks by awfully slow and terribly quick at the same time; Mydei is in his kitchen, chopping up onions with such quickness that his hand almost blurs in Phainon’s vision. He refuses Phainon’s help, saying something about Phainon being more of a nuisance than anything else. Phainon, as the law of arguing with one’s boyfriend demands, insists that he can handle the kitchen.

“I’ve been ruling this kitchen for years, you know?” he says, watching Mydei work with nearly mechanical precision. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I know you do. We wouldn’t have hired you if you didn’t,” Mydei replies, not even looking at him.

Why is it that, nowadays, nobody looks at him when talking to him? Phainon casts out that thought in favor of replying, “Exactly. So let me do something instead of just leeching off of you.”

Mydei stops chopping the onions. He finally looks at Phainon, “You’re already cooking on the daily, and you’re on PTO. I won’t put you to work.”

“Still, it’s your first day back—”

“No,” Mydei firmly replies. Phainon pointedly ignores the frustration building in him, mustering a smile instead.

Phainon takes his plans outside. The cover of the notebook has been crumpled from his hasty attempts at hiding it, and the pages are filled with ideas scratched out. The summer heat burns through his shirt, unbearably hot. It makes his mind move slower, like it’s caught in a haze.

He’s torn between flowers with dinner and a three-day vacation. It’s nice to stay in—Mydei has shown his clear appreciation for staying in. However, a three-day vacation would be a good art exercise for Mydei.

“If only I could bring Mydei somewhere impressive,” he muses aloud, tapping his pen against the table. If only money weren’t a problem; Phainon would fly Mydei out to a nice, scenic location and sit by his side as he draws. Instead, all he has to offer is a vacation a few towns over and—

He pauses abruptly at the harsh reminder of his lack of a car. What good would it be to have Mydei drive them to the plans Phainon made? How could he be so stupid and forget the logistics of how they’d get there to begin with?

Phainon sighs deeply as he scratches out yet another idea.

“I love you,” Phainon breaks the silence in the night, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Mydei’s ear.

“I feel like you’ve been upset at me.”

Phainon blinks. “Huh?”

Mydei shifts in bed, getting a little closer to Phainon. In summer, the proximity is agonizing in two ways; the weather makes their bodies sticky, and Mydei has always been an irresistible presence when pressed against him. Phainon’s heart wants to pull him closer, and Phainon’s brain demands to pull away.

“You spent most of the day out,” Mydei says. “Are you avoiding me?”

(Phainon couldn’t avoid Mydei, even if he tried. As much as his brain asked him to pull back and keep his body cool, his heart wins the battle.)

“No,” Phainon says sincerely. He’s upset, yes—at himself, not at Mydei. Never at Mydei, he thinks. So he repeats, “I love you.”

The way Mydei looks at him is a challenge, asking him quietly, do you? So Phainon places a hand on his chest, then makes a fist and offers it to Mydei.

Finally, Mydei curls against Phainon, “You’ll have to think of another way to prove it.”

Phainon gets the hint. Still, he feels the need to be the voice of reason, asking, “Don’t you have an alarm set early tomorrow?”

Taunts come easily. Mydei says, “And this is a concern, why…? Will it take you seven hours to get me off?”

Now, that is something Phainon won’t let slide. He laughs wryly, snaking an arm around Mydei’s middle, pressing their bodies closer. “Okay. Just don’t blame me for how you feel tomorrow.”

“Casa Blanca Lily,” Phainon says as he hands Mydei the flower of the day. “These flowers are native to Xianzhou. Very expensive.”

Mydei appears amused, “Bought some before?”

He gasps in mock horror. “Hey, don’t tell me you forgot the flowers I gave you before! Casa Blanca Lilies were in your apology bouquet last year!”

“So they were apology flowers.”

Mydei admits he’s never tried fried bananas before, so Phainon chooses Mydei’s cheat day to beat him to the kitchen and prepare their snacks.

“My mom used to make these for me when I was a kid,” he says, dropping the sliced bananas in the frying pan. “They’re delicious.”

“And sweet,” Mydei points out, gesturing to the sugar-coated bananas yet to be fried.

“And sweet,” Phainon nods, and he feels a slight tug of irritation at nothing in particular. What is with him? Is it the weather? Was the heat making his temper flare up? “But it’s good.”

Mydei’s lips curl into a small smile, “I find it hard to trust your taste. You like to mix and match all sorts of strange things.”

Phainon’s eye twitches. That feeling of irritation grows in his chest. He just wants to be a good boyfriend, but he feels like he’s being denied a chance at every turn. “Are you doubting my mom’s choice of snacks?”

Maybe it’s because Mydei heard the edge in his tone, maybe because Mydei saw how his grip tightened on the frying pan’s handle—but he backs off, and his smile fades. He says, “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.”

Phainon breathes out slowly. “Okay.”

The rest of the afternoon is quiet. Phainon regrets speaking at all.

When Phainon crawls to bed, Mydei says nothing to him. Not a greeting, not even a provocation that used to come easily. Phainon finds himself missing Mydei poking and prodding in his own little way that, when faced with silence, he finds himself unsure of what to do with himself.

He opts to wrap his arms around Mydei. “I love you,” he whispers.

Mydei says nothing in response. He hardly replies to it verbally, anyway. At least, that’s what Phainon tells himself to push down the unease.

Phainon slides little origami flowers towards Mydei. “Daphnes. They mean immortality and victory. Flowers for heroes.”

“I don’t think I’ve done anything particularly heroic recently.”

“You’re doing charity work as my boyfriend.”

Mydei gives him a dry look. “Ha-ha.”

Guilt begins to form in his chest. Phainon doesn’t know what to do with it.

He looks up from the plates he’s washing to watch the window. Mydei and Cyrene are lounging in the yard. He heard they made plans to work together on one of Cyrene’s ideas, and Phainon thinks that’s what they’re talking about; Cyrene does the writing, and Mydei illustrates her ideas. Outside the window, bathed in the afternoon sunlight, Cyrene says something funny behind her iced lemonade, and Mydei offers her a little huff and a smile.

They look happy, Phainon realizes. And while he’s happy that two of the most important people in his life are getting along, there’s a sense of bitterness that takes over. But he isn’t stupid—he knows Mydei sees Cyrene as a friend, and Cyrene is very much uninterested in men. So it isn’t jealousy, he tells himself. Not that.

But when he’s so used to being Cyrene’s bestest friend, when he feels like Mydei has given him more blank looks than a smile these days, Phainon feels his heart clench in his chest.

Phainon looks down at the plate he’s holding under the faucet. All that water, and he hasn’t even scrubbed off the grime yet.

“How’s the project with Cyrene going?” Phainon asks Mydei over dinner.

Mydei shrugs, nonchalant. “I’m still waiting for her to give me the complete story. She says she’s going to try to go hands-off on what I draw and let me be my own boss.”

Phainon shoves a cauliflower in his mouth. After he swallows, he replies, “As if you haven’t had enough of being your own boss, huh?”

Mydei pauses. Then, his expression twists into a frown, “You’ve been snarky these days.”

Guilt twists and turns in Phainon’s chest, taking up more space than it deserves. He replies with a shrug mirroring Mydei’s, “I’m learning from you.”

“Forget Me Not,” Phainon names the blue paper flowers. “Guess what they mean.”

“It’s a gift for when you want the person to forget you.”

Phainon laughs at Mydei’s sarcastic tone, “Yes, correct. Brilliant.”

Every hour ticks by awfully slow and terribly quick at the same time; Mydei is in his kitchen, chopping up onions with such quickness that his hand almost blurs in Phainon’s vision. He refuses Phainon’s help, saying something about Phainon being more of a nuisance than anything else. Phainon insists that he can handle the kitchen. Mydei gives a firm ‘no.’

Later, after lunch, Mydei and Cyrene are lounging in the yard. He heard they made plans to work together on one of Cyrene’s ideas, and Phainon thinks that’s what they’re talking about; Cyrene does the writing, and Mydei illustrates her ideas. Outside the window, bathed in the afternoon sunlight, Cyrene gives Mydei a playful nudge, and Mydei nudges her back. Phainon looks down at the greasy bowl still in his hand and scrubs a little harder.

“I love you,” Phainon whispers when he slips into bed. Mydei turns his head to glance at Phainon. He tells Phainon to go to sleep already.

“Marigold,” Phainon says as he gives Mydei yellow paper flowers. “Back then, priestesses of Mnestia used them as love charms.”

Mydei takes it wordlessly.

The dreaded day arrives.

Phainon hates to think that he dreads their first anniversary. But he does. His hands feel clammy, his heart is ready to beat out of his chest, and the summer sun seems determined to cook everyone alive. Weather forecast claims that it’s only 33°—one of the cooler days and not even close to the most brutal of temperatures that Aedes Elysiae has to offer—yet it has never felt hotter.

Mydei is busy preparing lunch when Phainon sneaks into his parents’ bedroom to retrieve the flowers he’s been folding up for the past few days. His parents’ bedroom was sacred to them both, especially to Mydei, who made a point of not touching it when they cleaned together, so Phainon was able to hide away one half of his pathetic, pitiful gift.

(And, in his mind, the plan goes like this: Phainon gives Mydei the flowers. They enjoy Mydei’s lunch together. And then, Phainon will tell Mydei that he’ll take care of dinner, and Mydei will say yes. Phainon will then prepare a movie for them to watch before bed. Or before whatever they might do before bed.)

Only that, when Phainon walks out of the room with the bouquet hidden behind his back and into the kitchen, Mydei is already waiting for him. Oh. Phainon cringes at his lack of discretion. Still—

“Happy anniversary,” Phainon says just as Mydei deadpans, “You’re breaking up with me.”

Phainon’s jaw drops as he pulls out the flowers from behind him. Mydei’s expression turns into pure shock for a moment, but swiftly recovers with a mild look of disbelief. He eyes the flowers, wary, like they could grow teeth and start biting anytime soon.

He asks with a disbelief that matches Mydei’s, “Why would you think I’m breaking up with you?”

Mydei looks offended at the question—he gives Phainon his signature frown, and his lips press into a firm line. He says, “Don’t say that like I’m an idiot. You haven’t been a stellar boyfriend these past few days.”

A flinch is promptly restrained. Apologies begin to form in Phainon’s throat, but what comes out is, “I’ve been really stressed recently, Mydei.”

“So you avoid me.”

Phainon lightly shakes the flowers still in his grip, “I wasn’t avoiding you. But I can’t exactly just fold these in your presence now, can I? You’d be asking me why I was suddenly mass-making them when you only get one per day.”

“I’d think you were preparing for the next few days.”

“No, because you’re not stupid,” Phainon huffs. “You’d be able to read me. Easily!”

Mydei crosses his arms, “I wish I could read you easily. Then I wouldn’t have to guess what’s wrong all the time. I try to say the right thing, and you give me sarcasm. Thanks for that.”

“Are you calling me immature?”

“When did I say that?”

“It sounded like it,” Phainon says, and there’s a sharpness creeping in his tone. He doesn’t like it.

Mydei glares at him, “You really do have a talent for putting words in my mouth.”

“You’re the one assuming I’m breaking up with you! On our anniversary!”

Mydei glances away, directing his gaze to the walls. “Because you’d probably prefer to break up with someone face-to-face than through the phone.”

Phainon has plenty of protests. One, he has broken up with someone—multiple people, actually—over the phone before (Mydei doesn’t need to know that right now, though). Two, he can’t even imagine breaking up with Mydei; it’d be like trying to pull the sun from the sky. Phainon is happy to belong with Mydei. Elated, even.

Silence lingers between them, a little painfully awkward. Just like how it was a year ago, Phainon wistfully thinks. So he amends, “I’m not breaking up with you. I don’t want to, and it didn’t even cross my mind.”

Mydei’s eyes meet his. “So what’s the issue, then? Why won’t you just tell me?”

A million worries rush to Phainon’s mind, some of them not even relating to Mydei. And what comes out is—

“I’m not proud of how we began,” Phainon says, gesturing with a hand vaguely. The way Mydei’s eyebrow raises just makes him feel crazy. “I mean, imagine having to explain to people, oh, yeah, I met my husband because his parents paid me to date him, then I fell in love for real. And on top of that, our first anniversary is pathetic and simple and forgettable because I can’t take you somewhere impressive. It’s embarrassing.”

“Husband,” Mydei repeats, his voice just slightly choked, like it’s the only thing he gathered from the conversation. The heat in the room vanishes because it all rushes to Phainon’s cheeks instead.

A second passes before Phainon hastily corrects, “Boyfriend. Boyfriend, sorry.”

Mydei dwells on it a little more. “You said ‘husband.’”

“Slip of tongue,” Phainon says, turning red in the face. Because of the heat, obviously. What else would it be? “I meant to say ‘boyfriend.’”

Great. Now he’s about to scare off his boyfriend on their first anniversary by rushing into marriage. When his mother said that the first anniversary sticks, he liked to think it was because it was perfect, not because it was horrifying.

The silence is beyond painful. Phainon wants to dig a hole in his kitchen floor and curl up there until the end of time. (Here lies Khaslana, it’d say. And when people ask who the hell is Khaslana, he’d just laugh from beyond the grave, because nicknames really do stick.) Maybe Mydei would even help him dig.

“I’m sorry,” Mydei says, the apology in his mouth sounding unpracticed. It shouldn’t sound endearing to Phainon, but it does. “I was so caught up in my assumptions.”

“No,” Phainon shakes his head as he steps closer to Mydei, wrapping one arm around him. “I’m sorry, I’ve been so short with you recently. And Cyrene too, I think.”

“And Cyrene?” Mydei echoes, his tone sounding a little lighter. “Unforgivable.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Phainon repeats against Mydei’s shoulder. “I’m stupid.”

“You are,” Mydei affirms. Then, he adds, “I love you.”

Phainon pulls Mydei into a kiss. And then he tries his luck, “Let me take care of dinner tonight, please?”

“Begging for work… You’re something else.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“I know. But you love me.”

Mydei doesn’t reply with words, no—instead, he gives Phainon another kiss.

“Your father brought me to the courtyard,” Audata sighed, all dreamy and nostalgic. “And he gave me my favorite flowers.”

Phainon scratched his head. “But the courtyard is something you go to every weekend. And you said Dad gives you flowers every week. If you do the same thing you do on the regular, what makes it so special?”

Audata reached for Phainon’s nose and gave it a pinch. She chirped, “You’ll get it when you do.”