more than three words

Honest, from here on out.

Summer is not summer without shaved ice, sticky and humid heat, and Phainon’s friends by his side. And his friends are not his friends without the smiles, the perfectly-timed jokes, and the high-fives after a successful teasing.

It’s in this afternoon, sitting by the docks, that he finds out summer isn’t summer, and his friends aren’t his friends. Not quite, not today. And it probably won’t feel like summer for a long while, not when someone is intent on avoiding them. Cyrene is busy with work, but she still makes time for this quick getaway. The same can’t be said about Piso—missing, leaving texts on delivered, and calls outside his door unanswered. It’s his father, Galba, who answers in his stead, looking every bit disgruntled as he poorly lies about his son being busy.

(“If he needs some time,” Livia said, pleading with Galba with the same eyes she used back in her childhood to beg for an extra ten minutes of play time. “That’s fine. Just tell him I want to talk, please?”)

Cyrene’s shaved ice is halfway melted when she says, “Everyone is quiet today.”

Not really, Phainon wants to say. It’s as lively as ever. There are people taking their jet skis out for a spin, some children laughing and chasing each other on the shores, the sound of music playing from a loud radio of someone lounging on the sand. It’s as noisy as it always has been in summer—but Phainon knows that when Cyrene says everyone, the words that matters go unsaid right after.

Livia digs at her ice with the plastic spoon a little harder. “That guy’s not here, so I guess that makes sense. He’s the loudmouth, after all.”

Phainon knows that tone well. He’s mad at me, Livia intends to say. But it comes out all wrong, too sharp and too antagonistic. The bait is tossed in the water, but no one comes to bite. And so, a heavy type of silence blankets the three of them—the last thing they need in an already-hot day, tensions high and ready to snap at any moment.

“Why didn’t you tell him that you got accepted?” Phainon decides to ask, straight to the point, as they watch the waves come and go.

A scornful sort of laugh comes from Livia, a sound not often heard from her. They’re far more accustomed to hearing stomach-splitting, borderline-painful, and unashamed laughter from one another. This falls completely out of place, like a puzzle piece forced on the wrong spot. “He’ll have a lot to say about it. But he won’t tell me any of it, and he’ll complain to the two of you instead.”

It sounds like half-truths, an attempt at hiding the core of the rot; Cyrene looks over at Phainon, and they silently come to an agreement, in sync as always. Get it out of her system.

“Hm? What did you expect him to say?” Cyrene asks.

A pause to mull over her thoughts. And then, Livia replies, “I don’t know. But he always has something to say about the things I do, so I figured he’d have something to say about this, too. And even with his… his stupid habits and saying that his blunt words are just honesty, he doesn’t tell me anything that’s on his mind. We’re friends, but he keeps hiding things from me.”

The fondness somehow seeping through the bitter words is not lost on Phainon. He knows that before anything else, before glances turned into discreet staring, before sarcasm softened into teasing, before something innocent might’ve bloomed into more, they were—and still are—friends, and that fact isn’t something so easily forgotten even in the midst of a spat.

“You hid something from him, too, though,” Cyrene sighs. “The more secrets you keep, the more he’ll keep from you, too.”

“Hah! He deserved that much from me,” Livia retorts with spite. “He’s the one who started keeping secrets from me first. See how he likes to be treated the way he treats others. He can stay mad for all I care.”

Whether the sharp words are a show to convince Livia herself or him and Cyrene, he doesn’t know. But he has a feeling, and he comments, “So, the pleading with Uncle earlier… What was that about?”

A glare is thrown his way, yet another rare thing from Livia. She compensates for the absence of a certain ill-natured man when she says, “And your boyfriend? Where is he to pick you up after you’ve been moping around all day? It’s been a few days since he last showed up.”

That quickly, the guns are turned to point at him. Cyrene leans forward from where she’s sitting, peering at Phainon with a curious look. It’s dangerous and, honestly, the last thing they need. Phainon’s troubles are the least of their concerns, especially when Livia is leaving for the Grove soon and Piso is ignoring them.

“Mydei isn’t and never was my boyfriend,” flies from Phainon’s lips before he can even think of the words. “And I’m not moping around.”

A knowing look from Livia, then, “I didn’t say a name.”

“Who else would you be talking about?”

“Right,” Livia says, mimicking his voice. “Because who else would it be, if not Mydei?”

Her words nearly sting. Phainon resists the urge to retort with something equally sharp, just to be petty; he’s the adult in the situation, he reminds himself. No need to sink down to her level, especially when she’s upset. He’s not so immature that he’ll try to get even.

Instead of answering, he shoves a spoonful of half-melted shaved ice into his mouth—ignoring how his teeth scream with sensitivity—in hopes that it’ll remove the foul taste of longing that Mydei’s name leaves on his tongue.

Routine is a simple, ten-step dance:

One, Phainon will open his door to a quiet home. Some nights, he’ll see Cyrene’s windows illuminated, and he’ll call her over. Some nights, he’ll see Cyrene’s windows completely dark, her home empty.

Two, Phainon will place his keys on a small ceramic plate that he bought in Dolos, back when he was out on a trip with friends. Originally a souvenir for his parents, now all his to use.

Three, Phainon will drag himself to the shower. He’ll try his best not to waste too much time staring at the wall in contemplation of whether he’s really happy here or if he’s just comfortable, because he would not want the water bill to increase.

Four, Phainon will pass by his parents’ old room with its doors still closed. He’ll leave it frozen in time because, inside, he’s still a child who remembers being scolded for rummaging through their room when he grew bored. He’ll go straight to his room and put on fresh clothing.

Five, Phainon will prepare dinner for himself. He’ll follow the same motions he watched his mother do, follow recipes that a younger version of him would proudly declare as the real family treasures.

Six, Phainon will sit down for a meal. Alone at some nights, with company at some nights. But in every night, it’ll be him that will wash his father’s beloved porcelains, plates once treasured behind a glass display.

Seven, Phainon will brush his teeth and stare at his reflection. Sometimes, he’ll see his mother staring back at him. Sometimes, it’ll be his father staring back. He’ll wonder who he resembles more as he spits out toothpaste, and he’ll kill that thought before grief threatens to swallow him whole.

Eight, Phainon will spend some time browsing through Jadeslist on his newly obtained laptop. Then, he’ll peer into the lives of his old friends in Okhema through pictures and posts on his feed until he feels queasy.

Nine, Phainon will go to bed. Some nights, he’ll simply stare up at his ceiling, gaze at the little remnants of tack from peeled-off glow-in-the-dark stars. Some nights, he’ll stare at his phone and waste more time than he should.

Ten, Phainon will fall asleep—quiet, still, alone.

That night, Phainon dreams well.

He dreams of being nineteen again, air distinctly smelling like freshly-cooked venison. His mother is to his right, rubbing his back and smiling wistfully. His father is to his left, holding back tears. And Phainon? He’s laughing hard enough that his sides hurt.

In that bubble of memory, he’s still their so-called baby. He’s ready to leave for college, not for forever—though his parents make it seem like he’s going to be gone for their entire life.

He takes his mother’s hand, he offers his father a smile. He swears to them: he’ll be back before they know it. And he promises that when he comes back, he’ll drag them right out of Aedes Elysiae and all the way to Okhema so that his father’s camera can capture new sceneries, so that his mother can meet his friends. Hieronymus clicks his tongue in admonishment and tells him to think of his studies before he thinks of what comes after. One step at a time, he says. Audata laughs and gives Phainon’s hand a squeeze.

When Phainon wakes, the silence does not bother him. He doesn’t glance towards closed doors. He doesn’t think that home feels more like a hollow shell without his parents. He’s outgrown the grief that used to wrap around him. Time heals, and he knows he’s had more than enough time.

Phainon goes through the motions as best as he can, his normal life coming back.

A flirty patron winks at him and slides a napkin with their number on it. He offers a polite smile in return before his bolder, much more blunt coworker spits out something about work hours and knowing the difference between customer service and being interested.

Livia and Cyrene come over to his place like they always do, lounging comfortably and trading stories until they get tired. Every visit no longer feels like it’ll be the last. He spouts jokes easily, knowing their base is secure. They try to pretend the lack of a sharp, snarky voice does not bother them.

Someone answers his three-week-old post, asking him to save their garden. He finds a friend in the gray-haired woman with the two strange roommates—a cheery, pink-haired woman who apparently thinks you can never have too much fertilizer, and a quiet, black-haired man who tortures their plants with the water hose. After he pulls out weeds and trims rotten leaves, he tells them that you should not pretend your plants are a flock of pigeons waiting for bread crumbs, nor blast your plants with enough water to fill a kiddie pool (trade secrets, really). And with him finishing a glass of lemonade, he pockets his pay and offers a friendly wave goodbye, not expecting to see them once summer is over.

Aedes Elysiae, after all, turns back into the sleepy town it once was when the days get shorter. Everyone eventually has to go back to their normal lives, and keep the sight of eight pm sunsets and the sparkling sea in their memory. For tourists, the time to move on just so happens to be autumn. For Phainon, it starts in the middle of summer.

Phainon pushes open the door to a home that is truly his. The so-called mail pile has been cleared out and shoved into a garbage bag. There are no dishes waiting in the sink. His books are all neatly tucked in the shelves.

It’s quiet. Peaceful. Normal. There’s no letter threatening to take his home away, no knocks on his door about a debt waiting to be paid. It’s the life he knew and lived for years. Only that, this time, there’s no more computer with a display that has given him ninety percent loading screens and ten percent actual webpages, the poor thing having been sent to retirement after Phainon’s pay came in.

(Enjoy your pay, a voice echoes in his head, cold and spiteful. At the same time, a voice that Phainon has been searching for, yearning to hear for days. If this cruelty is all the voice can spit out, he’ll take it kindly and in stride—better to have this than nothing at all.)

He should be happy. He should be relieved. He should be many things—anything but uneasy. Like a child itching to move, bored during their summer vacation. It’s a familiar feeling; it’s what he felt back in Okhema as he spent his days chasing interview schedules, job fairs, and every time-waster. There’s a buzz under his skin that tells him he needs to do something. Anything at all, just to work that restless energy off, because if there’s anything Phainon hates, it’s having nothing to do and feeling useless.

Relief doesn’t come from browsing online for a new gig; his fingers linger over the slightly peeled-off command and letter Z key, seemingly looking for a new thing to destroy further. The solution isn’t to rearrange his living room, either; straying from how his father decided to arrange the table and seats felt wrong. The answer doesn’t seem to be cleaning out his closet, too; spring had whisked out the very few clothes he was willing to part with.

When he’s exhausted his options, he decides to go for a run. And when circling the same four streets proves insufficient, he makes the foolish decision to extend his run past the usual, familiar scenery, feeling the ground beneath him change from uneven dirt paths with dried grass shying at the edges to concrete sidewalks. The view changes from rows of colorful homes sitting with dried lawns to tall towers of silver and glass windows. Unaware—or uncaring, that works too—tourists block the path, moving at a painfully slow pace and taking up most of the space. He runs past a woman who’s stationary in the middle of the sidewalk to rummage through her bag, past a man with a crew of people holding a phone and a reflector, past a couple holding hands but walking a foot apart.

He runs and runs until his breath feels too sharp for his lungs and until his legs ache. It feels like atonement, even if the one whose forgiveness he wishes to earn does not see. It’s the principle, perhaps; he’s hurt someone, so he must hurt himself in return. Then, he stops, realizing his thoughts drift back to the one person he should keep out of his mind now that everything is said and done.

Phainon tries to steady his breath as his pace starts to slow. The run works to remove all the unease, replacing it with exhaustion. So he makes a move to turn around, go back home—

And Phainon’s world stops. Because a few feet away is Mydei, walking out of a gym with headphones on and his gaze lowered to his phone. He crosses the short distance to the opposite side of the street, approaching that gaudy car of his. He doesn’t see Phainon, not yet—but he probably will, if Phainon stays there like an idiot.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. The day Phainon happens to go past his usual jog route, he sees Mydei. Why not, right? It’s not like Aedes Elysiae is large enough to avoid such an encounter. It’s not like it’s bad enough that the mere thought of Mydei makes Phainon feel like his body is turning inside out, ready to spill everything hidden within—he has to see Mydei, too.

There’s only one option: to turn away and run. Forget the fact that this other route is longer, more exhausting, and more polluted with city-typical smoke—this route is without Mydei, without all the unpleasant weight of guilt within, without the strange elation of seeing the man that his heart has taken a liking to. Less confusing, more manageable.

Coward, his mind jeers, singing the same song from that night. Unable to say sorry, unable to face the consequences. An overgrown child. But he doesn’t let the jeering slow his pace, and he doesn’t look back. He ignores the way the unease comes back, stronger this time around.

(Unease, or guilt? He doesn’t know. But what he does know is that a part of him wishes Mydei—no, Mydeimos, because they’re not so familiar anymore—had done more than just look at him that night. Wishes that Mydeimos had hurt him back. Wishes that Mydeimos threw at least a single punch. Something that leaves a mark—a real ache to feel, not just a phantom weight in his chest.)

“What’s the Grove like?” Livia asks over the movie dialogue, and then hurriedly follows up with, “And don’t tell me stuff I’ve already seen online. I mean, what is it like, really?”

He laughs, “I’m not sure about the other faculties, but it’s a battlefield from where I came from. Attendance is mandatory for most classes, and every class is half a lecture and half a graded recitation. The exam season is even worse, and you’ll be wrestling people for seats and sockets in the library.”

“Is this you trying to stop me from leaving?”

“Me? Stop you?” he points to himself in mock bewilderment. “You asked for the truth. I gave it to you. You know I could never stop you from achieving your dreams. And no one could. Not even your mother, even if she ever tried to keep you home by grabbing onto your leg and stopping you from walking out the door.”

It manages to pull a laugh from Livia, too; it sounds real and light, a change from her mood for the past few days. It makes Phainon laugh too—relief with a mix of pride, knowing that he managed to lift her spirits. And he adds, “At least, the aftermath of the exam season is something to look forward to. You’ll finally be able to drink to your heart’s content. No one’s going to be there to stop you from ordering whatever you want.”

Livia laughs even more, “And now, you’re promoting drinking to me. Who are you, and what have you done to the Phainon I know?”

He raises his hands in surrender, “I’m being realistic. I know no amount of ‘absolutely no getting drunk’ speeches can stop you. It’s just not possible to be completely sober during the weekend after exams. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with indulging a little, especially as a reward… or as a way to get your mind off of mess-ups.”

“Did you go indulging, then?” she pointedly asks. “Or going beyond indulging?”

He opens his mouth wordlessly. It’s a response in and of itself. Then, he says, “I’d like to pass up on answering that.”

“Hah! Careful not to let mom hear you. She thinks you’re a reliable adult and a great role model now.”

“Oh, but I am a reliable adult and a great role model.”

Livia fully collapses into a fit of giggles, leaning against his shoulder. Phainon would pretend to be offended, had this been any other day—but it isn’t. It’s one of Livia’s last few days in Aedes Elysiae this summer. So he wraps an arm around Livia, squeezing her closer and ruffling her hair with the other hand. “We’ve got the next Aglaea in Aedes Elysiae,” he marvels. “A scholarship to the Grove… All that hard work to build your portfolio finally paid off, huh?”

She peels herself from Phainon. She replies as she combs her hair with her fingers, taming it after his attack, “I still can’t believe it either. Sometimes, I think they emailed the wrong person.”

“Well, I think they have the right person. You’re brilliant.”

A shy smile curls on her lips, accompanied by a light flush. Still, she keeps up pretenses, “You’re laying it on thick. Do you have a favor to ask me?”

“You’re welcome,” he opts to reply. “And there’s no favor. I mean it. Every bit of it.”

He really looks at Livia now—one of his closest, dearest friends. A girl who used to tug on his sleeve and eagerly show him her latest artwork, eyes sparkling as she awaited praise. He watched her waddle over sidewalks with squeaky shoes, watched her cover her mouth every time she spoke when she lost her first teeth, watched her fascination for fashion grow each and every year, watched her grow into the woman she is now.

He knows her well enough to know the little quirks to her expression; he doesn’t pretend not to notice it, the way she looks scared and hopeful at the same time. And he remembers himself, excited and afraid of failure, taking the early morning bus out of Aedes Elysiae and into the city. He remembers the guilt with every night he spent out making friends, knowing now that his parents only had pretty lies to offer to him on the phone, reassuring him that they were okay when that was the furthest thing from the truth.

He decides he’s had enough of pretty lies, too. So, he lets himself be honest.

“I’m worried about you,” he admits, and he restrains laughter at the way Livia’s face shifts to show how offended she is. “And I don’t want to speak for the rest of us, but I think we all are worried about you.”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” she says, crossing her arms. “I can handle myself out there.”

“I know you can,” Phainon replies, unable to hide the affection in his tone. “But the funny thing about caring about someone is that you can’t stop yourself from worrying even if you know they can handle whatever is going on.”

“Maybe you should try listening to yourself for once,” says Livia, her tone a touch too serious. “You know we care about you, but you don’t allow us to worry about you at all.”

Phainon doesn’t make it a habit to stay up longer than necessary, but the allure of staring at his phone until he inevitably falls asleep is one he cannot resist as a modern, mortal man.

He catches up on his backlog of short videos that Cyrene and Livia have been sending him throughout the week. A video of a man dancing in a crocodile costume in an abandoned supermarket? What the hell, sure. A video of a dog befriending some birds? Cute. A video detailing how to deal with various garden pests? Bookmarked. An animated video of a snoozing orange chimera dragged out of bed by a mischievous white chimera? Somewhat unsettling, despite the lighthearted nature of the video. Something about the art just does not sit right within him.

He catches up fast, the list surprisingly thinner than usual. Idle yet again, he steers himself to a familiar hack-and-slash game, tapping on his screen to do his supposed dailies that he hasn’t attended to since the end of spring. His account is in a state of rot, his units getting outdated each and every day. Meta is ever-changing, and farming is brutal—especially when he’s not one of those people who can dedicate time to the events the game puts out every month. Sucks to be the most employed unemployed person in the world.

He’s halfway through his dailies when Cyrene messages him. The banner on top of his screen reads: You feel like going out tomorrow night?

He clicks the notification, redirecting him to his messages. He replies, Where?

You know where~ We are sooo overdue for some drinks…

Drinking? Are you trying to get me to spill the beans about Mydeimos?

There’s no hiding anything from you, Cyrene replies with an accompanying sticker of a cat hiding its face behind its paws. He laughs faintly and begins to type his response.

You can just ask me like you always do. I would tell you.

The typing bubble appears and disappears like it’s performing a magic act, lingering for a few seconds before vanishing from view. Cyrene takes more than a minute to reply, and all she says is, Suresies~ Wait for me after work!

He acknowledges the message with a sticker of a dog nodding before swiping to the right to dismiss their chat. His contacts list comes into view, the latest messages appearing underneath their names in light gray. And because he’s intent on punishing himself further via memories, he clicks on Mydeimos’ name.

Their last messages consisted of him making a joke—a corny one, he’ll admit—which only received a thumbs-up reaction from Mydeimos. He remembers typing it and then laughing, not at his own joke, but at the speed Mydeimos saw it and reacted; instantaneous, like he immediately opened it and was disgruntled at what Phainon had to offer.

He scrolls up. Oh. The messages from after that night. Never having made it a habit to check in once anyone’s out his door, Phainon grimaces at the awkwardness with which he messaged Mydeimos—an attempt at playing a role he has never taken on before, no script to base his new act on. His ‘how are you’ and ‘get home safe’ sound insincere through text, and his clumsy efforts receive only a blunt ‘I know how to drive’ in response.

He scrolls up further, and his finger sabotages him, ever so lightly grazing the call button next to Mydeimos’ contact name.

He flinches at his own stupidity and—as if Zagreus was out to get him—his phone falls from his hold, bounces off his bed, and thumps down on the floor. He groans, “Oh, come on!”

In a mad scramble to get to his phone, he partially slides down his bed, and the top of his head meets the tiles of his room before he successfully snatches it as it rings a number he shouldn’t be—

The call ended after being on the line for two whole seconds.

Phainon pulls himself back to his bed and sits up as he stupidly stares at his phone. It rang. It rang for a good few seconds, and it didn’t go to voicemail. The call went through, it was accepted, and then ended.

(Cyrene once exasperatedly told him that he was the most imaginative man she’s ever known, capable of making up a world so far-fetched and detached from reality when he was taken over by worry or excitement. While it served to make their camp nights entertaining when they were children, it also served to feed either their deepest fears or build anticipation for something that essentially amounted to nothing. While he likes to think that those tendencies died the moment reality hit him full-force a good few years ago, it all comes back to him as his phone locks, leaving him in the darkness of his room.

Hope. Something dangerous to have.)

Despite everything, Phainon manages a laugh. He sinks back in bed, making a mess of his sheets in the process. The lightness in his chest feels familiar.

So the door was closed. Just… not locked.

It’s a Sunday night when Phainon is ushered into the resto-bar by Cyrene, their usual spot for their one-on-ones, and he can’t help but feel like a fool for having tainted its memory with a first date with a certain man. It was his and Cyrene’s spot, not Mydeimos’, yet his presence haunts the establishment like a ghost that only he can see.

It’s the bar where he and Cyrene spent their nights drinking their woes away when things go wrong or celebrating their joys over a shot glass when things go right. The tables have been a victim of getting drummed on when Cyrene first got her work published in a magazine. The tables have also been stepped on when Phainon’s drunken glee over getting accepted to the Grove led him to almost perform a strip show. The walls have heard of Cyrene’s first long-term girlfriend breaking up with her to reunite with an old ex. The walls have also heard of Phainon missing Okhema but feeling as though it’s turning away from him. They’ve stumbled through sidewalks, laughing all the way home when the other trips over air, trouble half-forgotten or joy doubled by the time they decide they’ve had enough.

(Tonight, however, he doubts both the guilt and the hope will die with their heads held under the liquor.)

He stares into the table for Oronyx knows how long, tracing the lines of the wood. Two seconds. For two precious seconds, Mydeimos answered. Was it a mistake? Mere force of habit to just accept a call? Whatever the case may be, it hardly matters. What does matter is this one thing: he wasn’t blocked. Well, he might’ve ended up blocked after that mishap, but Phainon would rather not entertain that line of thought.

He looks up, and Cyrene slides a glass of Drifting Wind his way.

“Thanks,” he smiles. He swirls the drink in the glass, watching as the blues and greens blend into a pretty turquoise.

She starts the interrogation immediately, sipping on her glass of Drowning Sweetness. He catches the sickeningly saccharine smell of her drink from across the table. “So… You and Mydeimos. What happened? Spare a detail, and I won’t forgive you. Ever.”

His smile turns thinner. It’s instinctual, the need to maintain that pleasant smile—until he remembers this is Cyrene, and any attempt at falsities is unnecessary. She’s seen him through the good, the bad, and the ugly, and she’s there to stay. So his smile falls into something more melancholic.

“Last Saturday, when he picked me up from work, I told him that his parents hired me.” A pause, then, “Needless to say… he wasn’t happy to hear it.”

Cyrene doesn’t say anything. At least, not aloud. Her expression, on the other hand, says about a thousand different things at the same time. But years of experience in speaking Cyrene’s language tells him, loud and clear: I told you so.

He takes the silence as an invitation to continue, but not before he takes a sip of his bitter drink. “He didn’t beat me up, at least. He just… walked out. Drove away.”

“You sound disappointed that he didn’t hit you. There’s—”

“—a word for that, I know,” Phainon laughs, but it sounds too heavy, too forced, too fake. Unpracticed. It grates his own ears. “I guess I hoped he would make it even. It would make me feel far less guilty. Just… a selfish desire to make me feel better.”

“Your selfish desire is to be punched by Mydeimos because it would make you feel better.”

Another laugh, and this time, it’s not false. “Don’t say it like that.”

Cyrene laughs too—sweet, genuine, and familiar. She playfully raises her brows, “At least he knows now, eh? That means you can give it a second try, but for real. No more secrets.”

“A second try?” he echoes, ignoring how hope flickers in his chest again. “Oh, no, no. That’s not happening. I’m not as thick-faced as you think I am, you know.”

(Hope is the opening act to a tragedy. And Phainon has had enough tragedies for about thirty million lives.)

“Do you still like him?”

“Yes,” he replies, and he hates how that answer comes so quickly. “I’m not so fickle that I’ll stop liking him in a snap. It’s not going to go away that easily.”

“Then, go get him,” she says, like it’s so simple. Like Phainon could just march up to Mydeimos and ask for his trust and his heart to go with it, too. Cyrene’s confidence in Phainon’s charm is a confidence that, in his opinion, is ill-founded. Does she not see how rough and gauche his so-called charm is compared to hers?

Just as Phainon’s about to protest, she adds, “We’ve had enough regrets over the years. Let’s not add another one.”

Regret—yet another thing Phainon is familiar with. He regrets wasting so much time in Okhema when he could’ve stolen a few moments more with his mother and father. He regrets taking for granted all that joy he was given, regrets not paying it back in full. He regrets not destroying the pedestal where they display ‘Phainon’ before it became too high.

(How funny it is that, here, he stands so high, seen as infallible and selfless and perfect and all things good. Yet, when he’s next to Mydeimos, he’s a flickering fire next to the sun.)

“We’re in different worlds, Cyrene. He’s way up there—” he points up with one hand, and then taps the table with the other. “—and I’m all the way here. He wouldn’t be happy with me.”

“I don’t think you get to decide that for him.”

He leans back against his chair, “Do you think he’d like some guy whose idea of a dinner date is not at a fine-dining restaurant, but at a local eatery?”

“He seemed to enjoy the food we had when we did eat at a local eatery.”

“He was probably just being polite,” Phainon sighs. He’s nice despite the resting frowning face, he almost says, but manages to swallow the words before he throws them up. “But that’s not the point. The point is, he could go out with some guy back home—or anywhere else—who can bring him to some… bougie place where the price of a glass of wine will make me weep. Someone on his level.”

“Not everything is about money. And—” She takes a sip of her drink. “—He seemed to like you. A lot.”

“Sure, not everything is about money,” he acquiesces, but continues with, “But it started with money, and he’ll keep thinking it’s about money. If I try to fix things, he’ll think I’m just trying to dig some gold.”

She shakes her head, “It’s simple! Just prove that you aren’t.”

He gives her a look, “Okay, thanks. And what do you suggest I do to prove my integrity?”

“Talking is a good start.”

At that, Phainon downs all the contents of his glass. Then, placing it down the table, leaving circles of condensation on the wood, he says, “Oh, I forgot that it’s that easy.”

Cyrene gives him a mischievous smile before she proceeds to gulp down her drink in one go, too. She dabs at her lips with a handkerchief before saying, “Normally, drinking makes someone braver. Don’t tell me it gives you cold feet instead?”

“Hoh,” he huffs, rising to the challenge without intending to. “Are you calling me a coward?”

Only then does the night truly begin; Cyrene and Phainon take turns raising their hand, calling for their next drink. And when they both laugh about the next glasses being outside of their weekly budget, they downgrade to shitty beers. Still, when Cyrene’s there with him, even the most bitter of drinks turn into something sweet. Drinks are accompanied by stories after stories after stories—he talks about his first time kissing Mydeimos and liking it more than he probably should, and she talks about a woman with pretty mulberry eyes and a strange name.

And before they know it, he’s ready to cry over a picture of a dog that Cyrene showed him three minutes ago, while she’s bowing her head on the table and still giggling about a joke he cracked five minutes ago.

“Remember Snowy? He looked like Snowy…”

“Huh…?” Cyrene tries to peel herself from the table, nearly knocking over an empty bottle of beer in the process. He leans forward to help her up, holding her arm. Her face is red from all the laughing and—

She sits up straight, like she just swallowed a rod. He sputters wetly at the display, ready to laugh. But she peers behind him, and her eyes widen, ready to pop out of their sockets. She bumps her elbow on the table when she leans forward, then she roughly and hastily tugs him closer by the shirt. She whispers, “Whatever you do, do not look behind you.”

Phainon sluggishly breaks away from her hold to turn in his seat, and he quickly regrets not taking Cyrene’s advice.

It feels almost like a bucket of cold water has been poured over him, chasing away the fog of drunkenness. Because there, a few feet away, is Mydeimos, looking as perfect as he usually does—with a man on his arm.

(It has been a week since he last saw Mydeimos. He remembers vividly how Mydeimos looked under the warm glow of the street lamp, face twisted in a mix of fury and betrayal. He remembers the sound of the brass bell as his bike falls to the ground. He remembers anticipating a strike, only to be left in a night too cold for summer.)

Disgust quickly fills Phainon, his brows drawing together as he spots the two lovebirds’ shoulders brushing. It’s sweet, it’s romantic, it’s sickening. It’s the last thing Phainon wants to see—and how strange it is to feel so sick over the sight, because this was the point, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it the goal for Phainon to be the springboard for Mydeimos’ love life, to give him a taste of the sweetness that is romance? He witnesses the fruit of the great experiment. Mydeimos—shut-in, anti-romantic, dry, terrible conversationalist Mydeimos—now seeks the warmth that Phainon once provided.

Phainon stares, a self-inflicted punishment. He watches as Mydeimos is led deeper into the bar by his date, watches as Mydeimos’ face twists into a familiar frown when the man whispers what might just be a terrible joke, watches as Mydeimos is beckoned to a chair. Worse—their eyes meet in that brief moment, both avidly aware of each other’s presence in this bar that suddenly seems too small, too suffocating.

He breaks away first, bringing his gaze back to Cyrene. Disbelief is all over his tone when he says, “He’s on a date.”

“I told you not to look,” Cyrene weakly says before covering her mouth, almost as if scandalized.

He watches as Cyrene’s eyes trail something—no, a certain someone behind him. Her expression sours with each passing second, and oh, he just can’t resist. He glances back again.

Mydeimos is already looking at him, face twisted with some unreadable expression. The lack of recognition makes Phainon’s stomach twist; Mydeimos’ expressions are always so telling, betraying his mouth’s attempts at dishonesty. Yet here he is, unable to decipher what it is exactly that Mydeimos wishes to say with his staring.

“Oh, Kephale,” he mumbles as he turns back to Cyrene, and she makes a noise in agreement with his crudely expressed sentiment. “He looked at me.”

She whispers, “Still looking at you. Do you want to leave?”

His answer comes out too desperate—closer to pleading than anything else. “No.”

Cyrene presses her lips together in a line. “Okay.”

Two bottles of beer are brought to their table. Cyrene tries to act normal, miming a regular night out with him as she discreetly whispers what Mydeimos and his date are doing. Two more bottles are brought over at Phainon’s request. Phainon tries to resist the urge to see for himself, to twist the knife a little more. He calls himself a fling because that’s what he is to Mydeimos, and that’s also what he wants to do to himself. Two shot glasses are brought over at Cyrene’s request. Cyrene laughs unnaturally at his attempt at a joke. Phainon stands up and excuses himself to the toilet, because he’s drunk enough to drown a ship.

It’s on the way back from successfully freeing up space for more drinks that he sees Mydeimos again. And yet again, Mydeimos’ pretty eyes are on him. He looks right back. How could he not? Something about those eyes draws him in, and why would he resist now? It’s Mydeimos. Gorgeous Mydeimos with that head of strawberry blond hair and eyes of gold. Almost too pretty to exist—

“Watch it,” hisses the lucky bastard that gets to hold Mydeimos’ hand, colliding with Phainon when he turns around.

Unlike some people, Phainon was raised with proper manners by a loving family; an apology slips from his lips on instinct, albeit lacking sincerity. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” He eyes Phainon with distaste, his hold on two glasses of tangy Daiquiris tightening. Before Phainon can make a face at the display of attitude, he walks past, shoulder jostling against Phainon’s.

(Something about the man was irking. Was it the thick and nearly offensive scent of cherry and coriander around him? Was it the unpleasant personality seeping through every syllable spoken? Was it both? Or maybe something else, a feeling that Phainon doesn’t want to name just yet?)

Phainon’s fist flies faster than his mind runs. He pulls the man back with one hand before he sends the other hand colliding with the man’s face. Two glasses shatter on the floor.

Mister Looking Punchable is assisted by a nearby patron who whispers an ‘are you okay’ along the way. The concern is brushed off as he lunges for Phainon, and his punch clumsily connects with Phainon’s shoulder. Phainon stumbles back, but quickly sets himself right.

(Somewhere, he hears his name being yelled. Is that Cyrene’s voice? He’s not sure.)

He lifts another fist, but just as it’s about to hit the man again, arms wrap around his middle, feebly attempts to pull him back. “Ah, ah… That’s enough, Phainon! Stop, stop!” Cyrene tries for a cool and easy tone, her words muffled against his back. He feels her pull away slightly, turning her head to the side, “Help me, please?”

Cyrene’s hold is slack, more like an embrace than anything else. And he loves Cyrene and tries to listen to her advice as much as he can—but tonight, he thinks he doesn’t lend his ears to her words. Her attempts at pleading go in one ear and out the other.

Phainon breaks free from her, his fists still clenched. He rushes over to the man, throws another punch, and then another, and another—until he feels satisfied.

“Don’t tilt your head back,” is what Mydeimos says as Phainon presses a tissue to his nose.

It’s the first words Mydeimos has to offer after a week of silence; Phainon has no choice but to listen. The drunken haze still clings, but Phainon’s rationality is more or less back—at least, more present than it was earlier.

Phainon was hoisted off to Mydeimos’ care and, for whatever reason, Mydeimos agreed to keep him company. Something about being the only one who can hold him back should he decide to go swinging again. It was Mydeimos who handed him a tissue after his nose was left bleeding from a lucky punch.

(It’s a punch that Phainon returned in kind. And though there was a sense of victory in it for the briefest of moments, he remembers his father’s half-worried, half-angry face when he once came home with a bruised face—and that was all it took for him to back away, giving up the fight.)

So here they are. Sitting on the curb, still waiting for Cyrene to emerge from the bar. He makes a note to come back the next day to apologize to Kyros. Then, to Cyrene, because Kephale knows that her forgiveness will take quite a bit of work after the stunt he tried to pull off. And with two apologies already tacked to his mental board, what’s another one?

“I’m sorry,” Phainon says, yet the word feels too light for the weight he wants it to carry. He wants to repeat it over and over until Mydeimos bends to his pleading, like a child begging for forgiveness after a transgression.

Mydeimos laughs coldly. “For what? For beating the shit out of my date?”

It’s a confirmation, and it’s one Phainon didn’t need to hear. The word echoes in Phainon’s head, bounces around like a ball. Date. They were on a date. Mydeimos went out with someone and allowed that someone to take him out on a date at a bar. Since when did Mydeimos like going to bars? Wasn’t he so averse to it, glaring when Phainon took him to one?

So Phainon can’t help but scoff, “Your date, huh…”

Mydeimos huffs right back. “What? Something wrong?”

“No,” Phainon replies, trying to be cool, like his head isn’t pounding and his heart isn’t ready to fall to the ground at the thought of Mydeimos going out with someone else. “No, no. He’s… alright. He’s okay. Just… okay.”

“Okay?” Mydeimos echoes, incredulous. “What, you think you’re better than him?”

Phainon laughs despite it all—because he is amused by the implication behind Mydeimos’ words, as strange as it is. He’s inviting rivalry, like some sort of princess who wants suitors falling at her feet and declaring their superiority over the other. And if that’s what Mydeimos wants, so be it. Denying Mydeimos is the last thing on his mind.

The words escape before Phainon can restrain them. “Yeah. I mean, I beat him, didn’t I? I’m better.”

(He is. That man walked out, cheek bruised, nose bleeding, and furious when Mydeimos went to Phainon, pulling him up when a strong shove sent him back. A side silently taken—Phainon knows victory lies not in who was left less battered, but in who gets to earn Mydeimos’ concern.)

Mydeimos’ lips part wordlessly for a beat, then, “You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”

No denial, no cutting retort about his ego—just familiar words. The first time he heard a similar sentiment from Mydeimos, the words were clumsily hiding amusement beneath them. This time, there’s no amusement. But there is something else. Something that Phainon wants to pry from Mydeimos’ heart. That something sparks confidence in Phainon, lighting the cinder left by the liquor.

“No, don’t pretend you didn’t go out with him just to spite me,” he says, pulling the tissue away from his nose. “Not after you spent the whole night staring at me instead of paying attention to your sorry excuse of a date to notice his terrible personality.”

Mydeimos’ expression twists, but there’s not a single protest that leaves his lips. Strange—Phainon expected a defense on the ready, just waiting to slip. The fact that there isn’t, that Mydeimos is caught off-guard and is rendered quiet, pleases a part of him.

That self-satisfaction fades into nothingness when the silence lingers. He quickly works to amend the mistake his unthinking mouth has made. “I mean… I am sorry. I’m sorry for hiding it from you.”

“Hiding what from me?”

It’s not like most of Mydeimos’ questions—the ones where he pretends to be dense, just for the pleasure of hearing Phainon struggle to get the words of his entire flirtation out. It’s not a jab at how ridiculous Phainon is. It feels too sharp.

(He hears those words again: I’ve forgiven them. Phainon wishes for Mydeimos to extend the same grace, even if every pinch of his fury is fury earned.)

“The…” he pauses, thinking of the right word to use. He decides then, “…arrangement that your parents and I had. I’m sorry I hid it from you.”

Mydeimos’ sarcasm returns full-force, “No, it’s alright. The acting was almost convincing.”

“It wasn’t acting.”

“You mean to tell me that the incessant flirting wasn’t acting? The pushy attempts to get me on a date with you? That it wasn’t because you were paid?”

“I didn’t even know who you were when I first approached you,” Phainon laughs, softer than he expected from himself. “But I did mean every praise, even after I knew. And I wasn’t just pretending to be happy that you were willing to go on another date with me.”

Mydeimos scoffs, half unconvinced and half disgusted. He turns his head away from Phainon as though he couldn’t even bear to look. A part of Phainon wants to hold his chin, tell him to look at the bleeding nose and bruised knuckles. Proudly declare that this is the least that Phainon could do to prove that it was real.

“You say that like I trust you.”

“I’ll do anything to convince you that it was real,” Phainon says, and it sounds scarily close to a promise. “It wasn’t just work.”

Mydeimos turns to look at him again. This time, Phainon catches a glimmer of something too similar to hope glinting in his eyes. That hope flickers in Mydeimos’ eyes under the warm street lights, and Phainon just wants to share everything he has to offer, just so Mydeimos understands. But he tells himself he should take it one step at a time. There’s no ticking clock, no home on a timer, so—

(One step forward—)

Mydeimos says, voice touched by betrayal, “It was work. You took the money.”

”I was going to lose my home without it. I needed it,” Phainon says. And, before he can stop himself— “Not everyone has Mommy and Daddy around to buy them their way through life.”

If the way Mydeimos’ expression twists in a mix of humiliation and fury is any indication, Phainon thinks he’s achieved nothing but feed that spite that Mydeimos harbors.

The nights are shifting from hot to warm, summer slowly making way for fall—but Phainon thinks the distance between them makes the air feel crisp and cold like it’s winter.

(—and two steps back.)

“I,” Cyrene says, getting up from her garden stool, gloves covered with dirt, “am putting you on a liquor ban, Phainon. And I mean, Okhema-seventy-years-ago-during-Prohibition kind of liquor ban.”

Phainon offers a feeble, apologetic smile as he says, “I don’t plan on drinking anytime soon, so please, don’t worry.”

“And that’s right!” she replies as she takes the plastic gloves off. “In fact, you shouldn’t be drinking for the rest of your life!”

Phainon’s apology takes two forms. The first form of his apology is an earnest sorry, and the second form is being roped into helping Cyrene with moving her jasmines and geraniums.

(He dares not protest when she huffs and hands him his gloves, telling him to get to work. Getting in a bar fight is the second-to-the-last item on the list of things he wants to do; the very last item on the list would be having to apologize and clean up after such a fight.)

Cyrene’s fountain of patience flows endlessly for Phainon, though, because soon enough, they’re sprawled on her couch, exhausted from gardening. Her head rests on his lap, and his hands busy themselves with her hair. He drags his fingers through smooth locks, rakes her bangs back. The fact that she doesn’t glare up at him or slap his hand away proves that, yes, his apologies are accepted.

(Back then, their friendship was tested by whispers. Phainon was ten, Cyrene was twelve, and everything started to get weird; best friends turned into not-so-friends, and holding hands wasn’t as innocent as people used to view it. Growing up meant that it was no longer sweet for him to tug at her shirt before whispering gossip he overheard. Growing up meant that it was no longer cute for her to come knocking at his window late in the night, looking for company when her mother’s promise of coming home early was broken yet again. Best of friends turned dirty, filled with speculation.

People were so sure that all the denial between the two of them would melt into the sweetness of romance, just as all friendships between girls and boys tend to do. It took years to dispel rumors; Phainon will never take the comfort of having her by his side for granted. He won’t make such a mistake again.)

She looks at him, peering up from her phone. She’s the same Cyrene he approached all those years ago, bright and pretty, just a little older and less of a tease. For a moment, he’s struck by how the clock seems to reverse when Cyrene’s with him—everything is so simple with her, and it almost feels like they’re still children idling after class.

(She’s a living, breathing piece of home. Home, fifteen years ago.)

She hums, “Pizza dinner party? I’ll call those two over.”

One successful call and three messages left on delivered later, pizza dinner party turns out to be a party for three held within Cyrene’s home, complete with yet another debriefing. Phainon relives Sunday night with every word Cyrene says, and he internally sighs over her vivid storytelling painting too good of a picture of his foolishness.

“You’re lucky Uncle Kyros likes you,” Livia wrinkles her nose at Phainon’s now-empty salad bowl. “Or he would’ve had you banned from the place.”

“No, it’s all thanks to Cyrene,” he shakes his head, because the words lucky and Phainon simply don’t belong together. “If it weren’t for her, everything would’ve been much worse.”

Cyrene beams, “Yes, it’s all thanks to me! If it weren’t for my pretty girl charms, he can say goodbye to Aedes Elysiae—no, Amphoreus’ best fries!”

The conversation twists and turns like it always does; Livia talks about being mad at (read: missing) Piso, Cyrene talks about a pink-haired girl like her, and Phainon talks about anything but Mydeimos until he runs out of empty topics to recycle and until they’ve grown unamused at how he avoids the topic. There’s no such thing as secrets when it comes to his friends, it seems.

“Do you like Mydei?” Livia says, comfortable and familiar in a way that makes Phainon want to frown. He wants to correct the name, but thinks better of it.

The question registers a second too late. It lingers in the air, unanswered, for a full second before he does end up frowning and leaning back against the carved wooden chair of Cyrene’s kitchen. By then, the silence already works to answer the question for him—but he tries to speak over it, because he’s not the type to let silence talk for him. “What’s with the question?”

(Like and like—two different things. Because Livia knows Phainon will say he likes everyone, but finds it hard to say he likes someone.)

Livia takes on a pensive look. “You date a lot of people, so I want to be sure.”

Cyrene has the decency not to laugh, but he does see her lips twitch in amusement before she turns away to get a pitcher of water.

Here, he pretends to be offended. Well, no—he is offended, because her observation almost sounds like an insult. He wonders then, when the truth started to be offensive to him. He places a hand over his heart and leans back when he says, “Calling me a playboy, Livia?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “But you don’t seem to actually like anyone you’re going out with. It’s like you’re going out with them because you’re too polite to say no or because…”

“…because?”

Livia pauses. Then, she decides saying, “I wasn’t born yesterday. You know what I mean.”

Phainon laughs, skeptical. “This is not a conversation I will have with you. Try again when you’re a little older.” Then, “You make it sound like I’m just using people or leading them on all the time.”

Livia takes a bite of her Penaconian pizza, savoring the pineapple chunk with a hum. She opts to say, “Mm, this is so good.”

When people talk about Phainon, they have many good things to say.

Phainon is warm. He has a smile that makes people let their guard down and a tongue that seems to know exactly what to say to soothe. No one’s intimidated by his presence; children love him, lost strangers gravitate towards him for directions, and people know to approach him for help. Phainon is the sun in spring.

Phainon is charming. He is the most wanted bachelor in town, mothers and aunties happy to steer their daughters and nieces his way. He’ll shake his head and refuse as politely as possible, but his refusal is taken as humility; no one believes him when he says their daughters and nieces sound too good for him. Nonsense, they’d say. No one’s too good for a man like you. If anything, you’re too good for anyone.

Phainon is selfless. He lends a helping hand even at the cost of himself. He helps out even the outsiders—the same people who drove half his friends away with every home torn down in exchange for a hefty sum of money.

People don’t know him at all. Maybe that’s a good thing; that way, his flaws are simply little secrets spoken between friends over a box of pizza and a bowl of greens.

Children in Aedes Elysiae learn the story of how Aquila’s cruelty brought long and scorching summers to their town. Oronyx was weakened for three months, defeated in their duel with the Eye of Twilight. When Oronyx clawed their way out of their prison, they ended the merciless reign of Aquila, shortening the days once more.

Aedes Elysiae’s annual festival is fast-approaching with every step towards autumn. It happens at the end of summer, when days feel shorter, the afternoons much cooler, and the waves a little rougher. It’s the maker or breaker of many relationships—the time when so-called outsiders decide to either stay forever or leave the town as a mere summer destination.

Summer is leaving soon.

(Mydeimos is leaving soon.)

He looks at the bright side. At least, there’ll be less trash by the sea. There’ll be fewer people holding karaokes at three in the morning. Life will be quiet as usual.

…His life is quiet already, he thinks as he sits, keeping watch over a street. It’s a quick gig—just controlling the boom gate for the three days people will spend decorating the street for the upcoming festival. Manage the traffic, make sure no big cars go in and destroy the bunting or run over ladders. It’s boring. It pays. He spends hours of his day sitting down under the shade, and only standing up when he has to lift the arm of the barrier and let a car pass.

(His dream of being a museum curator rots in its grave as he brushes his bangs back, feeling sweat start to drip down his forehead.)

Day three rolls around—a cool Thursday that offers him reprieve from the afternoon-typical heat. He thinks of his must-dos to stave off the boredom that comes with sitting down by a barrier gate for six hours. He has to go shopping for lettuce and pepper. He has to clean his dishwashing rack. He has to—

A car rolls up, bright, flashy, and familiar in a way that sends Phainon’s heart beating like a sledgehammer to his chest. The roof is folded, giving him a perfect view of a head of blond hair and a hand pressing down on the car horn.

Phainon doesn’t stand up, doesn’t lift the arm. He sits there, stupidly staring at the car—no, at its driver.

Mydeimos pulls his sunglasses up his head. He calls out in the flattest voice Phainon has ever heard, “Is this area closed?”

“Um,” he sputters and fumbles, the memory of Sunday night far too vivid in his head. “Yes.”

It isn’t. Somehow, his inability to say no to Mydeimos affects his logic, too. And on cue, in an intersecting road beyond the barrier, a car passes.

Mydeimos rests an arm on the window and looks at Phainon, unamused. “I don’t think so. Let me through.”

There’s a moment of silence between the two of them—Mydeimos looks at Phainon expectantly, and Phainon looks at Mydeimos with what he hopes is an expression that hides how his knees wish to meet the ground and how his hands want to clasp together in a display of begging for forgiveness. Composure and restraint is essential, after all; Mydeimos is an expert at it, seeing how he’s not tossing his sunglasses at Phainon’s head.

“Street decorations are undergoing,” Phainon decides to say. “You’ll have to go around.”

Mydeimos pinches his nose. Then, he does something that makes Phainon want to frown—he pulls out his wallet, and takes a few bills between his fingers. He extends his hand wordlessly.

It’s ridiculous. For a moment, Phainon wonders just how many hurdles Mydeimos has easily jumped over all thanks to his wallet. It makes Phainon laugh, but it sounds empty even to his ears. “I don’t want your money.”

The skepticism in Mydeimos’ face is as clear as day. When he speaks, his voice is low yet sharp, “You don’t? I was under the impression that you needed it.”

Phainon swallows down the bitterness. He takes the first step again, “I’m sorry.”

Mydeimos stops for a moment before sliding his sunglasses back down to his nose. He places his wallet back in his pocket before he says, “Not your fault that the road is closed.”

“No. I’m sorry for summer,” he says, like summer is already over. In a way, it feels like it already is. Mydeimos might as well take the entire season with him. “And I’m sorry for what I said Sunday night. I was just… I felt like it was the best way to express how lost I was. I know now that it wasn’t. I’m really sorry about that.”

His apology is wholly genuine, but unpracticed. There were no bathroom mirror rehearsals to make sure the words come out right, no pleading eyes presented in hopes that his charm will leave the offense forgotten. Just him—just Phainon, fumbling in the dark. Just him with his heart in one hand.

Mydeimos shakes his head. His voice comes out less sharp when he says, “No, I know the panic that comes with potentially losing a home. But stop feeding me more lies.”

Phainon has to protest, words flying out unprovoked, “But I wasn’t lying. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I’m just using you for money. I just wanted to come clean. I did enjoy being with you, going on dates with you, getting to know you. I liked when you call me out when I try to tease you. I loved every single date with you, even when you brought me to that café with the overpriced menu and you kept targeting me with your bumper car. And I liked listening to you when you finally moved past the one-word replies.”

(Unspoken, because it feels too heavy to say aloud: you didn’t see the pedestal, you didn’t see me as someone too good. Thank you.)

“Did my father offer you a bonus for grovelling afterwards?”

“This isn’t even grovelling,” Phainon laughs weakly. He doesn’t want Mydeimos to leave with a sour memory of summer, of a tainted memory of Aedes Elysiae. He surprises himself with how easy the words come to him. “This is just me being honest. I mean everything I said. I’m sorry, Mydeimos.”

Mydeimos looks away from him. His car moves again, turning to the right. Phainon breathes out easier; he said his piece, it’s out in the open. Even if Mydeimos didn’t seem to believe it—

Before Mydeimos speeds off, he calls out, “You’ll have to try harder than that, if you want me to forgive you.”

(Unsaid, because pride is a stubborn, unmoving thing: I’ll hear you out. Do your best. Win me.)

“Do you think he’ll like it? Or should I make it more… flashy?” Phainon asks, his knee brushing against Cyrene’s as they watch the sun set in the distance.

“Mm? It’s so not like you to think this hard.”

“Thanks. I have to think hard,” he wryly says. “It’s Mydeimos we’re talking about here.”

Cyrene smiles. She simply says, “Just be yourself.”

The only thing Phainon is used to chasing is billing dues, but there is a first time for everything.

Phainon has never properly courted anyone before; people flock to him and he simply takes his pick. He’s inherited his mother’s beautiful snow-like hair and his father’s dazzling sapphire eyes, and such fortunes has gotten him far in the realm of not-quite-love.

Mydeimos stands outside his gate in his home clothes and with his hair haphazardly tied back. He looks utterly unprepared. Phainon finds that there is something so charming about seeing Mydeimos wearing a shirt featuring a worn print of a cat.

“What… am I looking at?” Mydeimos asks, astounded.

Phainon gives his guitar a strum. “A serenade.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Mydeimos replies, then looks at Cyrene and Livia standing behind Phainon. “What I meant was, what are they doing here? Did you recruit them into your circus?”

“I need my bandmates to ensure a quality show for the VIP audience.” And it’s the truth. Phainon’s serenade would not be complete without Livia’s tambourine and Cyrene acting as the bouquet holder. He cashed in this favor by promising Livia that he will drag Piso out—Talanton can take Phainon if he doesn’t do good on that—and promising Cyrene that he will help her move furniture around to rearrange her kitchen. Never mind the fact that they’d all do this for one another without the favor trade; they enjoy the illusion that it’ll take a trade before they agree to do something so ‘incredibly silly.’

Cyrene counts down, and Phainon watches as Mydeimos’ expression shifts from astonished to mildly horrified and embarrassed. And when Phainon begins to sing, Mydeimos closes his eyes and puts a hand to his forehead like he can’t bear to watch, but he doesn’t retreat into the safety of his home. Phainon counts it as yet another victory.

He sprinkles an apology between verses. And while he can’t see Livia’s expression, he can sense her starting to regret accepting the trade offer, her hesitance making the tambourine delay. Cyrene, on the other hand, keeps her upbeat attitude, bright like the sun with every sway to the beat.

The people going about their day in the upper-crust side of Aedes Elysiae slow their pace to gawk for a moment. Phainon overhears some surprised remarks about how open the province is to something so progressive and he wonders if they smell the poor off of him that it only takes a glance for tourists to recognize him as a local. He also overhears some dreamy whispers from women passing by, giggling with their friends about how they want an admirer as shameless as this.

Once the song is over, Cyrene hands Phainon the bouquet, which is then promptly offered to Mydeimos. Roses, lilies, and tulips—a bouquet that the florist had recommended to him. Apology flowers, she called them.

The flowers are held under Mydeimos’ scrutiny. He gives them a long, hard stare, and just as Phainon thinks he’s about to slap them away harshly and give the performance a grade of zero like a harsh music teacher—he takes it. He takes it in his arms, and Phainon is momentarily stunned at the sight of Mydeimos holding the flowers close as though it’s precious. He almost wants to take a picture of the scene, freeze it and frame it, come back to the memory later.

“Thanks,” Mydeimos says, looking at… Cyrene and Livia? Phainon is ready to open his mouth and ask for Mydeimos’ thoughts about the performance, if he’s willing to give it another try, if—

Mydeimos retreats behind the gate. It shuts with a click, and Phainon stays to watch Mydeimos climb the stairs and disappear when he turns the corner.

Phainon manages to lure Piso out through an offering of a free late lunch and persistent knocking on his door.

He steels himself for the upcoming conversation, carefully picking each and every word he’s about to say. It’d be no good to be as graceful as an unleashed dog in a glassware aisle; he’ll have to tackle the conversation with the tact it requires, because Piso has made it abundantly clear that ignoring their group is something that comes easy. Phainon inwardly channels the eloquence that has won him many debates in college—

“I can’t keep avoiding her forever,” Piso says over a stick of barbecue, shattering the silence that Phainon was ready to swing a bat into.

“You can’t keep avoiding us forever,” Phainon corrects, offering a lighthearted nudge that hopefully hides the tiny grudge that bloomed over the course of Piso’s absence. “You’re refusing to answer everyone’s texts.”

Piso’s expression twists with guilt, but no apologies leave his lips. Yet. He says first, “I mean, you’re all kind of a package deal.”

“Still, there’s no need to punish us for something Livia did, don’t you think?”

With that, Piso breathes out, “Sorry.” And then, he hastily adds, “I missed you all.”

Phainon feels the grudge wither in his chest. “We missed you, too.”

The words come out of Piso swiftly, like he can’t help it, like Phainon was tugging it out his lips, “How is she?”

(How is she, he asks, like Livia is on her deathbed. Phainon almost snorts.)

“Upset,” Phainon answers. “And also missing you. A lot. But she won’t admit it.”

“Mm…”

He finds himself not liking the look of triumph on Piso’s face upon hearing the words. That boy might just take it as a sign that avoidance is an effective way of garnering affection. It isn’t. Phainon can vouch for that. “If your goal was making her miserable,” he says, “You succeeded.”

Piso shakes his head, “That wasn’t my goal. I just… needed some space to think.”

“Mind sharing?”

For a second, Piso hesitates. Then, he seems to think, what the hell, and just decides to spill, “I am happy for her. I really am. She’s smart and she worked so hard for all those projects and… I know a scholarship isn’t easy to get. I want her to spend summer celebrating that. I’m just sad about her leaving and keeping it a secret until the very last minute. And I don’t want to be selfish and make it all about me. ”

Too late, Phainon wants to say. He says instead, “She’s been sulking a lot. Not really in a celebratory mood.”

“Can she stop thinking about me for a second?” Can she stop breathing for an hour? “I excused myself so she won’t have to spend days apologizing over every celebratory lunch and dinners with me ruining the mood.”

“Celebratory lunch and dinners aren’t celebratory without you.”

“And what’s left of the year won’t be right without Livia,” Piso replies. And he realizes his mistake, quickly backtracking, “I mean, it’s just that she’s always been—”

“We know,” Phainon says, saving Piso from the burden of having to perform a clumsy dance around the forbidden L-word. “We all know you’re into her.”

Piso groans and drops his stick of barbecue on his plate. He puts his head in his hands, seemingly devastated at having been found out. As if Cyrene and Phainon didn’t find out before Piso himself did. “Is it obvious?”

Painfully so. “A little.”

“Thanatos, take me now,” Piso mumbles. It’s only after a beat that his priorities kick in. “Does she know? Does she… like me back?”

It’s a ridiculous question. Yes, obviously. Does Piso genuinely not see the way Livia’s eyes seem to be unable to look away from him? Does he not notice how she finds a new excuse to touch him every single day? How can someone be so blind to so much affection?

“Only one way to find out.”

Piso frowns. But—

“Summer isn’t going to last forever,” Phainon warns, like both of them aren’t keenly aware of this. Like both of them are stupid and just letting the days pass them by. “Tell her what you feel before she leaves.”

Phainon returns to familiar silver gates with a new bouquet in hand. This time, budget was lowered (read: Cyrene’s working, Livia’s already preparing to pack, and Piso’s helping Livia), so he only has himself as a so-called circus member this time around.

“Hi,” he greets the intercom, expecting Mydeimos on the other side. “Come down, let’s talk so I can beg properly?”

No answer comes. Phainon prepares himself, expecting Mydeimos to glare at him through the window in the third floor, but instead—

A moment passes, and Eurypon emerges from the gate. Phainon stiffens, rod materializing in his back.

Eurypon eyes him up and down, and then his eyes land on the flowers. Phainon is tempted to hide them behind his back.

“Did we not pay you the remaining half yet?” he asks, brows furrowing the same way Mydeimos’ does.

Ah. Here it goes. “You have, um—” he pauses, trying to think of the proper way to refer to the parent of a man he wants to impress. “Sir.”

Eurypon’s brows might as well be superglued now. He echoes, voice dry, “Sir.”

Phainon realizes, with horror, that while Mydeimos might take after his mother’s beautiful features, his mannerisms are entirely his father’s. A pretty face all scrunched up in a frown, an alluring voice as lively as the dead, a sweet mouth that—no, stop, it’s not good to think about Mydeimos’ mouth in front of his father.

He clears his throat and tries to explain, “I’ve been paid, yes. But I’m here to win Mydeimos over. Properly, with no external motivations.”

“You’re courting Mydeimos,” Eurypon flatly says.

Phainon grimaces. He braces himself for what might be the worst grilling session of his life—with him as the meat about to be slowly burnt over the fire, of course—because overprotective, helicopter parents always want to know everything about their child, including the hired date that turned out to be real because he made the happy mistake of falling in love. And the scary part? He’s ready to spout out the truth and not just what Eurypon wants to hear. He’ll tell the truth, the whole truth, and if Eurypon decides to chew him out for it, then—

“Oh,” Eurypon chokes, then places a hand on his face. He wipes his eyes and— oh, Kephale, is he… crying?

Phainon almost lowers the flowers. Almost. He doesn’t want to damage them, so he keeps them cradled in his arms, and then takes a tentative step forward. He asks, cloddish, “What… Did I say something wrong?”

“Oh, finally,” Eurypon says. “Mnestia hasn’t forsaken my son. This is the first time I’ve ever seen a suitor in my entire life.”

Is it truly so bleak? Is Mydeimos’ love life so bleak that the sight of someone courting him sends his father to tears? Phainon highly doubts it. While he doesn’t want to think of Mydeimos’ mouth and what it does, he has to; a man who can kiss like that is not someone whose love life is hopeless.

Phainon manages an awkward laugh. “I’m glad to be the first.” And, after a beat, “Is… is he here, though?”

It takes a moment before Eurypon calms down. And when he finally does, he gives Phainon a look that might be sympathetic. “Mydeimos is out with his mother.”

“Oh,” he looks down at the flowers. And then, “Ah, I’ll just leave this for him, then. Please tell him it’s from me.”

(He nearly adds: Be careful with it.)

Eurypon nods sagely, “I will.”

With that, Phainon hands the flowers to Eurypon with the same care one would have when passing a child between arms. The arrangement of flowers smiles at Phainon, and he can’t help but wonder if Mydeimos would like the sight of them, too.

A text message comes late at night, his phone vibrating right when he’s about to drift off to sleep. He expects it to be Cyrene with a well-timed and calculated joke a few minutes after seeing his lights turn off, sending him a link of an obscenely expensively priced regular product (a six thousand Balance Coins red plastic cup last week, a three thousand Balance Coins bubble wrap the week before that) and captioning it ‘buy this.’ He nearly drops his phone on his face when he reads the name on the notification.

Don’t talk to my father, Mydeimos says. Don’t kiss up to him.

Phainon’s mouth opens. He rubs the beginnings of drowsiness in his eyes before typing out his response: There’s only one person I want to ki|

No, not that. Be serious. Mydeimos would like a frank answer, he thinks. I didn’t intentionally look for him, if that’s what you think I did. He just so happens to be the person who answered the door when I came knocking earlier.

Ok. Don’t talk to him from now on. And don’t kiss up to him again.

I’ve done no such thing.

You’ve given me a different impression. Don’t talk to my parents ever again.

I won’t, Phainon replies. And, he adds, Did you like the flowers?

Read. Phainon thinks it’ll stay unanswered, but after a whole minute, Mydeimos reacts to the message with a thumbs up. Nothing more.

Fondness comes with the chuckle, and Phainon quickly learns that fondness is typical when it comes to matters involving Mydeimos.

The festivities bring noise along with it. Drum and lyre bands go on a parade, dancers fill the streets, and people gawk and watch before they’re pulled into the celebration by overly-welcoming locals; the last hurrah of summer, of liveliness, before Aedes Elysiae goes back to being the quiet seaside province that it usually is.

The heart of the province acts as the heart of the festival, too. There, greased bamboo poles are waiting for climbers, ropes are ready for tug of war, and piñatas are hanging with treats. Excited chatter and drumbeats coalesce into one big song, every note a perfect soundtrack to summer. It’s something that Phainon has been a witness to too many times, but it doesn’t get any less special with every passing year.

This festival has become a melting pot of every culture, a taste of everyone’s home; some tourists try their hand at running stalls, selling their local specialties and managing games they’ve brought from their hometown. And though Piso dislikes how the outsiders bring raised prices along with them, he seems more than happy to compete with Livia in scooping goldfish, a game brought all the way from Izumo.

“This is actually rigged,” he grunts, looking at his ripped scooper and then at Livia’s successful catch.

Livia sticks her tongue out at him. “No, you’re just terrible.”

Cyrene cleverly claims that Phainon has to join her in retrieving something she forgot at home, that she’ll have to leave the two of them to it as she puts him to work—before giggling and whispering to Phainon the question of how he managed to lure Piso out.

“We had a conversation, man to man,” Phainon jokes.

(If Cyrene gives him an unamused huff and a light swat, he absolutely deserves it.)

She drags Phainon to the other side of the square, jumping from one stall to another. As she finishes her quailed eggs covered in orange batter, she asks, “So… That’s one out of two quarrelling couples reunited. How’s Mydeimos?”

Phainon sips his cup of silken tofu, sugar syrup, and sago pearls before replying, “He’s definitely softening up. I mean, the fact that he didn’t slam the gate in our faces is a good sign, right?”

“You’re optimistic,” she says. “I like it. What’s next on the game plan?”

“This,” he points down. “I’ll ask him to come to the final day of the festival. A real date.”

Now, Cyrene raises an eyebrow. “Huh, you’re sure he’ll say yes? But what if he says no?”

“Never plan for failure.”

“That is quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever heard from you, and I’ve heard you sing with a sore throat.”

He raises one hand in a gesture of surrender and downs his treat in one go. He says, “I have good reason to believe he’ll say yes. He texted me the other night. And he says he liked the flowers.”

“He said it?”

“Well, he reacted with a positive emoji when I—hey, don’t laugh!”

Phainon chases Cyrene as she effortlessly weaves through the crowd, her laughter filling the air with song. He tries to touch her shoulder, but she remains just slightly out of reach, her talent of making the crowd part for her coming in far too handy. He’d say she’s playing dirty, but the protest comes out as a laugh.

(For a moment, he feels like the town is a little smaller, still fitting him perfectly. Summer may not look the same as it did ten years ago, but it still tastes like a sweet drink, sounds like drums and lyres, and feels like the good ache in his lungs when he laughs with each quick step.)

It’s later that evening when Phainon and Cyrene spot two certain friends walking around town hand in hand, fingers interlaced. Piso’s free hand carries bags of prizes. Normal Piso would groan and complain about it, but lovestruck Piso smiles tenderly at Livia like she hung the moon and the stars in the sky.

“Technically,” Phainon says, “I win. It’s almost fall.”

Cyrene gives him an unamused look. “Summer isn’t over yet, dummy. We both lost.”

Phainon finds the courage to text first, sitting down at the foot of his bed. Are you free Friday?

As soon as the text is sent, he locks his phone, places it on his bed face-down. He breathes in deeply, closes his eyes. Inner peace. Don’t panic. Don’t overthink. Don’t analyze your four-word text. Don’t—

His phone vibrates not even a minute later, and he cracks one eye open. He carefully picks up his phone to read: Why?

Summer festival this week. I want to celebrate it with you.

You’re very funny.

It’s not a joke! I’m serious. You can try coming outside your room and seeing for yourself.

I meant that your confidence in asking me out is very funny.

I’m happy I can entertain you.

Don’t be.

Phainon shakes his head. He swipes at his first message, adding a reply to it: Are you?

What if I am, but I don’t want to come with you?

That’s okay. Just tell me no, he says. He swiftly follows it up with: But I think you want to come with me.

?

A very simple reply from Mydeimos. Phainon huffs out a quiet laugh before replying, You’re talking to me.

You’re so cocky that you think everyone who talks to you wants you.

And yet you’re still talking to me.

The typing bubble appears and disappears. Phainon counts yet another victory under his belt. Mydeimos takes a minute, and then another, before he replies—

I’ll swing by the square after lunch. You’ll see me if you do.

(As if Phainon’s gaze could ever sweep past Mydeimos. As if Phainon wouldn’t comb through a crowd just to find him.)

I’ll see you, then.

Days move awfully slowly, sunny Wednesday sluggishly rolling into a cloudy Thursday. Every minute feels more like an hour, a crawl towards the end of summer that feels more like a dramatic, unnecessary slo-mo scene in a movie. It’s the worst days of not-summer, the air all the more humid thanks to the clouds hanging above with the threat of rain.

Come Friday, the sky has grown dark, the air cooler. It spells gloom. The gloom sinks right into Phainon’s chest, unfamiliar pre-date jitters coming to shake his being. It’s a strange feeling; he’s never been nervous for a date before yet, here he is, twenty-nine and shaking like a leaf in the wind as the clock ticks closer to after-lunch. Less like a man who’s gone on more dates than there are flowers in Cyrene's yard, more like a boy who’s still shoving letters under desks.

“I look fine, right?” Phainon asks, turning away from the mirror to look at Cyrene.

Cyrene looks up from her phone, eyes him up and down with an approving hum. “You look more than fine! What’s with the fuss?”

Phainon breathes in, gestures at his shirt. “I told you, I asked him out. I want to look perfect.”

“Oh, wow,” her brows raise, impressed. “He said yes?”

“I told you, he’ll say yes,” Phainon extends a hand, aiming to lean against the mirror. His hand doesn’t miss, but the mirror slides to the side, bringing him with it.

Once Cyrene manages to peel Phainon from the mirror and out of the house, they traipse through streets and into the square. The long walk doesn’t do wonders for Phainon’s nerves, doesn’t clear his head. Quite the contrary, in fact; each step feels like a step closer to a courtroom.

“If you were Mydeimos, where would you go first?” Cyrene asks, tugging on Phainon’s sleeve as she scans the stalls through the crowd—because four eyes are better than two. Phainon would argue otherwise as she’s nearly drowned out by the crowd thanks to her height, but commenting on her height might just earn him a pout.

“I’d go to… a stall where they serve Kremnoan food,” Phainon muses. It’s a shot in the dark, but one that Cyrene takes seriously nonetheless. She steers their way through the crowd, her hand curled around his arm. And then—

Phainon’s throat closes up. Because there, just a few feet away, is Mydeimos. Half of his bangs are braided back, held in place by a golden clip. His eyes are lined with red, making them look sharper and making the golds of his irises more prominent.

“Mm, maybe we should try somewhere else,” Cyrene says, peeking through shoulders as she stands on her tiptoes.

“No,” Phainon swallows dryly. “No, he’s right here.”

Somehow, as soon as Phainon says those words, Mydeimos finds him, too. They look at each other and—oh, Mydeimos tilts his head, sending an arrow right through Phainon’s chest. He looks down at Cyrene, but there’s only a dotted line outlining where she once was; she’s disappeared right under his nose, likely giggling with every step.

When he looks up, Mydeimos is already in front of him. Phainon’s heart joins the festive drums, echoing in his ears. He greets clumsily, “Oh, hi.”

Mydeimos simply nods in acknowledgement.

As far as dates go, this has to be one of Phainon’s worst attempts at starting one. They’re quiet in the middle of the buzz, too-tall and too-wide as people around them shuffle about and mumble ‘excuse me’s and ‘pardon’s. Mydeimos’ gaze is intense and, despite that, Phainon prefers this; he prefers this staring over the avoidant looks, the turned head like Mydeimos can’t bear to look at him.

He offers his hand yet again, just to test his luck for the day. “Let’s go somewhere less crowded?”

And yet again, Mydeimos doesn’t take his hand. He says, “Lead the way.”

(Phainon would say something about how more efficient it’d be if they held each other’s hand—that way, they won’t be separated—but he can already hear Mydeimos calling him a child.)

Phainon acts as a tour guide yet again, showing Mydeimos around the festival and telling him about local games. Mydeimos interrupts him every now and then to tell him that they play a variation of such games back home, just with a different name. Phainon whisks him from one food booth to another, where he earns free samples from friends’ stalls. He thinks he’s had his fill of sweets from the previous days, but he remains polite and smiles nonetheless—

Mydeimos steals the treat from Phainon’s hand, popping it right into his mouth. And after he swallows, he says to the one manning the booth, “It’s delicious.”

(He shrugs off the bewildered looks sent his way, uncaring in a way that Phainon never could be.)

It’s when Phainon receives his fifteenth free sample of the day and they decide to steer clear from food booths that Mydeimos finally strikes up a conversation. “If you don’t want it, you don’t have to accept it.”

“It’d be rude to refuse.”

“It’d be far more rude to not properly savor food that they clearly worked hard to make,” Mydeimos replies. “Learn to say no.”

Phainon sits with that advice for a moment, lets it hang in the air before he waves it off with a laugh, “Alright. I will.”

(Easier said than done, his mind says.)

They wander farther away from the crowds, away from the festivities. Here, it’s easier to listen to Mydeimos—but he mourns losing the opportunity to lean closer under the guise of hearing better. But there’s better privacy, at least.

“Sorry,” Phainon says as they aimlessly walk around. “The weather around this time of the year is usually pretty good. The clouds want to participate in the festival, I guess.”

Mydeimos sighs, dissatisfied. “I’ve heard sorry from you for the past few days more times than I care to count. Aren’t you tired of saying it? I’m getting tired of hearing it.”

Without thinking, Phainon says, “Sorry.” And then, “I mean, I’m trying to apologize, so…”

“Do you think saying it over and over will make it any more convincing?”

Phainon stops. He asks, “You… don’t think I’m being sincere?”

“I don’t care for your apologies,” Mydeimos says. “Not anymore. I prefer to hear the reason why you took my parents’ offer.”

Oh. Straight to the point. Phainon breathes out slowly, as if to prepare himself. He starts, “Like I said, I was going to lose my home. Living here isn’t cheap. Not anymore. Well, not like it ever was cheap to be alive…”

Mydeimos raises a brow then vaguely waves with a hand, prompting him to continue.

Phainon quietly speaks, more vulnerable than he’d like to be, finally dismounting from that high horse called his pride, “I can’t bear to lose it. It’s the last of what I have of my parents. They worked hard to keep it. But ever since a lot of richer folks…” he gestures to Mydeimos. “…started moving in here, everything’s gotten a lot more expensive, you know? The high demand of everything here every summer drives the value up, too.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s already hard to keep up as it is. So you can imagine how terrible it is in the summer. And I don’t really have a regular, five-days-a-week job because I’m overqualified for everything because I made the fatal mistake of having a masters degree on a history of all things, so—” he inhales sharply. “—yeah. That’s the problem that made me sink low enough that I thought going on dates with you and getting paid for it was the solution.”

He expects a cynical laugh, a shake of head, a declaration that he’s ridiculous—but what he gets is a question: “History? What did you want to do after graduating?”

Phainon is surprised that Mydeimos wants to talk about that; his dreams took a backseat the moment he came back home. “I wanted to work at a museum as a curator. That was before I found out that you needed a PhD and connections, that it’s highly competitive, and that, if you do land a job there, the money you spend out of your pocket to maintain the museum is more than the money you get from working. So, that’s a bust.”

“So money really is the problem.”

It’s not funny, but Phainon laughs still. “Since when was it not a problem? If I could, I’d go back in time and tell my younger self to pursue something more practical like… anything science. Maybe I wouldn’t be stuck here if he was a little smarter.”

“Yout want to leave?”

Phainon goes quiet at that. After a moment, he says, “No. Everything I need is right here.”

“Not everything, clearly,” Mydeimos pointedly says. “You can’t possibly get the job you want if you stay here. There’s no museums in Aedes Elysiae.”

He snorts, “Right, you’re a fresh graduate. I almost forgot about that. It’s not that easy. Besides, I already made peace with the fact that I’ll never get to work where I want. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles. Besides, I think I’ve been enjoying cooking more lately…”

“You’ve given up.”

“No, I’m just choosing my battles,” Phainon corrects. “You can’t fight it all, Mydeimos. You’ll get tired and burn yourself out fast.”

Mydeimos frowns—not a new look, but the way he looks at Phainon seems to say that he’s upset at something unsaid. “So you’re just staying here? And when summer comes around again and you can’t afford anything again? What do you do?”

“Oh, are you concerned about me?”

“Answer me,” Mydeimos presses. “What’s your plan if this happens again? Are you going to date someone new, pray they have parents willing to pay you?”

“It’ll all work out again.”

“This summer only worked out because of me,” Mydeimos says, words enough to cut through Phainon’s easy smile. “You got lucky we were here.”

It slices the wrong nerve. “Ah, so I should thank my lucky stars that led me to answer your parents’ listing?”

“It’s the truth,” Mydeimos replies. “If we weren’t here, what would you do? If I didn’t come with my parents and they never made you date me? What, then?”

“Stop,” Phainon puts his foot down before anything else happens. Above, the clouds grow thicker, gray covering the summer-typical blue skies. Then, he sighs. “If you weren’t here… I guess we’ll never know, won’t we? You’re already here.”

“It’s work,” Mydeimos says again, his voice quieter, as if to whisper to himself. “I was work.”

“You weren’t work,” Phainon swiftly takes Mydeimos’ wrist. “Going on dates with you weren’t things on my checklist. I’m sorry that it’s how everything started, but—”

“Stop saying sorry,” Mydeimos interrupts, wrenching his hand from Phainon’s hold. “You’re not sorry.”

“I am sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I did.”

“I had a feeling it was too good to be true.”

(Too good to be true. Is that how Mydeimos viewed Phainon? That knowledge cuts deeper than any other insult Mydeimos could spit out. Phainon feels the distance between them grow larger, feels the pedestal grow taller under his feet. Perfect Phainon, infallible Phainon, everything-good-in-the-world Phainon. He wants nothing more than to lose that title.)

Phainon knows when he’s fighting a losing battle. Yet, he tries again—“I meant it, Mydeimos. I meant it when I said I didn’t see you as just a friend.”

There—the cynical laugh long awaited. “Really?”

“You want the truth? I’ll give it to you,” Phainon says. “I wanted to keep this casual. It’d be a lot easier that way. But you… you’re you, and I somehow forgot how to do casual. You made me break every rule I set for myself with your snark and your pretty face. You made me—”

(—feel like I’m just myself. Like I’m not perfect. Like I’m not untouchable.)

“—feel like there’s more to this,” he continues, “That it’s not just all about praise and drinks and mindless conversation. And I think… no, I know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I lose you once summer’s over.”

That softens Mydeimos’ stance, makes his tense shoulders relax ever so slightly. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“It’s not flattery. It’s honesty.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you?”

“It’s honesty,” Phainon repeats—but he places a hand to his chest before making a fist and extending it towards Mydeimos.

(Take it, he wants to say. It’s yours now.)

Mydeimos looks down at Phainon’s hand. It’s like déjà vu, the way he stares down, unsure whether to take it or move past it. After a second passes, he tentatively lifts his hand, almost as if to take—

Rain pours down, sudden and heavy. It’s the first rain after months of merciless heat, but it feels more like punishment than relief, coming at a time like this. People around them begin to take shelter, sprinting with friends and laughing as they go.

Somehow, between the stalls and the rain and the laughter—Phainon’s hand finds Mydeimos’ and they run, too.

There’s no laughter between the two of them, just quiet resignation that almost feels like a knife against Phainon’s throat. He looks back to glance at Mydeimos, and his heart gets lodged in his throat, because Mydeimos is looking at Phainon like he’s keeping this memory in his head to draw later, eyes raking over the wet snow-like hair, the silver necklace, the white clothes clinging to skin thanks to the rain. It’s a look so unbelievably tender that Phainon wonders if Mydeimos has ever looked at him like this before—then he realizes how stupid that thought is, because it’s an obvious yes, judging by the way Mydeimos looks away.

He gives Mydeimos’ hand a squeeze, another form of apology.

Mydeimos doesn’t yank his hand back.

They temporarily seek shelter in the abandoned courtyard, and Mydeimos squeezes the rainwater from his hair. “I don’t know why I like you,” he grumbles, but Phainon doesn’t miss the fondness in every syllable.

“So you like me.”

Mydeimos’ mistake registers a second too late. He doesn’t amend it. Instead, he goes quiet.

It feels too real, too much, in all the right ways. And for the first time in a long time, Phainon doesn’t shy away, doesn’t plaster a cool smile on his face while internally planning his disappearing act. This time, he scoots closer to Mydeimos, damp shoulders brushing against one another.

“I like you, too,” Phainon admits, because if there’s one thing he learned this summer, it’d be that falling in love feels a little less like a blade seeking to cut through his lies and more like the truth naturally floating to the surface.

(Summer tastes like a sweet drink, sounds like drums and lyres, and feels like the good ache in his lungs with each laugh. Love? It tastes like promises in his lips, sounds like the rain, feels like eyes cast on him, and looks like Mydei.)

“I know,” Mydei says. Then, “You don’t have to tell me. You’re not very good at hiding it at all.”

“I don’t want to hide it. I want to be honest.”

“Honest, huh?”

“It’s what you want, right?” Phainon asks. “You said you preferred it that way. Less flattery, more honesty.”

Mydei gives Phainon a look that looks ready to bring up Saturday night under the street lights. But he doesn’t. What he says is, “The flowers looked like flattery to me.”

“You don’t like the flowers?”

“They wither and die.”

“Origami flowers it is, then.”

“You’re really into the idea of giving me flowers.”

“I’ll stop if you say you didn’t like it. But you didn’t say you didn’t like flowers. You just said you don’t like how they die.”

“Humph.”

And if Phainon laughs before pulling Mydei into the world’s clumsiest kiss ever… No one else has to know, right?

Livia leaves one rainy Saturday morning, taking the first bus out of Aedes Elysiae. To beat the post-vacation traffic, she says.

By some miracle, she manages to shake off her mother, declaring that it’s about time she’s independent, that she can walk to the bus stop by herself—but she doesn’t manage to shake off Phainon, Piso, and Cyrene. Not in a million years.

Cyrene’s putting on a brave smile—one that Phainon knows will melt into small sniffles and tears later—as they all wait under the bus stop, watching the rain pitter-patter against the road. Piso’s in a worse state, his hand grasping Livia’s so tightly that Phainon is tempted to peel it off if only to help Livia’s circulation.

“I’ll be home every summer and winter,” Livia exasperatedly says, sweeping her gaze across them. “Why do you all look like that?”

“You’ll be gone for half the year,” Piso replies, more earnest than he’s ever been. “And if you meet someone new—”

“Don’t even,” Livia interrupts. “You idiot, I told you I only have eyes for you.”

Phainon closes his eyes tight as he restrains a laugh that’s more from embarrassment than it is from amusement. To be polite, he clears his throat, “We’re still here, by the way.”

The bus soon pulls into the stop, doors folding and revealing cold interiors. Phainon and Piso both take Livia’s bags, helping her lug them into the vehicle. And they watch through foggy windows as Livia sits down and waves goodbye.

Only when the bus is out of sight does Piso sigh heavily and Cyrene lean against Phainon. He wraps his arms around them both, pulling them close, letting the scent of floral shampoo and cedar soap mix and surround him.

“You know what they say,” Cyrene sniffs. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

Piso laughs weakly, the sound weighed down by unspoken sentiment. “I guess.”

Summer doesn’t last forever.

Phainon watches as Aedes Elysiae grows smaller, quieter. The air carries the promise of winter, the chilly winds of autumn already beginning to sing against the leaves. People leave, packing up and taking the noise with them.

Mydei leaves, too. There’s no teary goodbyes this time around, of course—Phainon is above that, and Mydei claims that he never cries. Besides, goodbye doesn’t mean goodbye forever.

(Summer comes back. It always does.)

“Text me when you’re home?”

“Mhm.”

“Can I call you?”

Mydei focuses his attention on his bag like it’s the most interesting thing in the world when he says, “Do what you want.”

Phainon is still Phainon; some secrets stubbornly refuse to reveal themselves, hiding under their comfortable cloaks. He’s still the apparent most eligible bachelor. He’s still known as the helpful north star.

And he goes to work as usual, customers fewer in number, nights quieter. But when a woman slides him a napkin with her number scrawled on the soft sheet—

“Oh,” he says, smiling as gently as he could. “I’m not interested.”

(Next to him, his colleague gives him a look. Like Phainon grew a second head.)

It’s one winter morning when he notices something out of the ordinary. There’s something under construction where a bar used to be, just a three-minute bike away from home. He adjusts his glasses, pushing it up his nose with a knuckle, nosily reading the building permit tarp.

Huh. A restaurant, according to the project name. Phainon chuckles. Unless the owner bleeds money, there’s no way it’ll remain open all year. Yet another restaurant that’ll say hi for the summer and then go bye-bye right after summer.

He prepares to pedal again, but pauses when his eyes land on the name of the project owner.

He coughs, “Mydei?”