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Phainon was the sunshine of Aedes Elysiae High School. A first-year student with a smile that could make even the strictest teachers smile. He was the ace of the baseball club, the top batter. His swing sent both the ball and the crowd skyrocketing.
But his many victories, including his academic accomplishments, were not the reason for his popularity. The main reasons behind the countless compliments were that he could remember names, smiled easily, could make even the most awkward situations feel warm, and had a way of making people feel like they belonged.
Alas, nobody was perfect.
For Phainon, it was the chronic feeling of emptiness. When the crowd stopped cheering and the pitch became deserted, the warmth vanished as well. Wins faded too quickly, and the applause turned into silence that felt too loud. It felt like there was a hole inside of him that nothing could fill. He had friends and a place to belong, but none of it lasted long enough to make him feel alive.
That was why he had been drawn to the town library since he was in junior high. Reading was not his passion, although he didn't hate it either. But somehow, the library captivated him. While flipping through the pages, he often had a feeling that whatever he had lost, the nameless piece that made him feel empty, was somewhere among the books. Waiting. It felt like a memory that wasn't his, yet still belonged to him, hidden between the bindings and whispers of old stories.
So, on days when there was no baseball practice, he would sneak in. He visited the library at least two times a week after school.
That day, too, Phainon pushed open the heavy glass doors of the library. just like he had done so many times before. The familiar hush welcomed him, wrapping around his shoulders in a way that nothing else could. He walked over to the announcement board near the entrance and looked at the neatly typed sheet that listed the new collection. And there it was: a book he had been dying to read for months, one he had been counting down to.
He went straight to one of the catalogue computers and typed in the title with quick fingerworks. But the outcome made him blink. It wasn't there. Someone else had already borrowed it. A small note in the system called the borrower "M." It was only the letter "M", not the full name.
Phainon pushed down his disappointment and chose to grab something else. But while he ran the database, M had already checked out the books he looked for. He was curious. He looked up the borrowing history of some books he had read a few weeks ago. M was also there. He chuckled to himself when he saw that. This mysterious M had good taste, just like him.
But then, it kept happening.
M always seemed to get to the newest books first over the coming weeks. Phainon started to notice a pattern: whenever his name appeared on the list of borrowers, it was almost always listed directly below M's initial. This occurred at least three out of four times. Phainon was unknowingly reading in M's footsteps.
He couldn't say why, but it made him feel strangely competitive.
Petty? Absolutely. But he couldn't stop himself from wanting to beat M to the next book. He wanted to be the first borrower on the list. It turned into a little game that M didn't even know they were playing.
Phainon came early on the first Monday of the month, when the library usually got a new batch of books, and without a hint of shame, he borrowed them all. Every single one. He borrowed study references, non-fictions, magazines, novels with covers that were so tacky like they begged to be made fun of, as well as one that looked like the content might be too spicy for his liking. He carried the giant stack to the counter, trying to look like he knew what he was doing with a victorious grin.
Cyrene, the librarian on duty, raised one perfectly arched eyebrow as she began to scan them in.
She then murmured, "I hope you're not going to open your own rental," her voice was full of mirth as she looked at one of the covers. "Or maybe you've found your inner beast?" She turned the book slightly so that he could see the shirtless man on the front cover.
"It's, um, enlightening," Phainon said quickly, which made her smile even bigger.
"Okay. 'Tempted by the Prince of Strife', huh? I hope you get something out of this."
Phainon nodded solemnly and tried to maintain eye contact with her. "Don't underestimate how much erotica can teach you."
Cyrene laughed and shook her head. "Okay, if you say so, sunshine. Just don't rip the book or, you know, make it dirty."
"I won't!" He walked away from the counter with his arms full, feeling so good about himself.
M wouldn't have a chance this time.
Phainon came home and threw the stack of books on his desk. Then, he stared at them for a long time. At the library counter, the victory had been sweet. But now, surrounded by books he wasn't really interested in reading, he wasn't so sure anymore. Still, he was too proud not to at least try to read a few.
He picked one up. Then one more. A chapter here, a few pages there. Most of them were fine. But nothing caught his attention until he opened a book about a hero who was always on the move and a king who was always alone. The story was full of strange but beautiful symbols, a lion and a sun that were always circling each other. Although it wasn't exactly a love story, the narrative contained a connection and warmth that lingered gently.
When he got to the halfway point, Phainon thought to himself, "M would probably like this one." He didn't even know why the thought stuck, but it did. It could have been curiosity. It could have been a strange idea. Maybe he just wanted to see if this quiet, hidden enemy would respond.
So, he ripped a page out of his notebook, picked up a pen, and wrote in his messy but easy-to-read handwriting:
[Hey M, What do you think of this? The Lion King and the Sunny Knight are pretty cool, right? I like how they bonded throughout the story. —P]
He carefully slipped the note between the pages before shutting the book. A little invitation thrown into the dark to see if anyone, especially M, would throw something back.
A few days later, Phainon returned the books. He left the one about the lion and the sun at the very top, the note still folded between its pages like a hidden thread waiting to be tugged.
The next day, he came back. Not for more books but to check the computer catalogue. There it was. The novel had been borrowed again. M. The name flickered quietly on the screen. Borrowed for two days.
Two days.
He bolted to the counter where Cyrene was sorting through a box of returns.
“Cyrene,” he leaned across the desk, with a smile tinted in all faux-innocent brightness, “could you keep a book for me? Just for a bit? If it comes back?”
She looked up; her eyes landed with suspicion on Phainon. “Which book?”
“The one with the lion and the sun. You know, the king and the hero. That one.”
Her brow arched. “Didn’t take you for one to adore a homoromantic story.”
"A what?"
"Well, maybe you care more about the fantasy setting, huh?"
“Well, yeah. I’m evolving. The story is nice,” he replied with a wink. “Anyway, keep that one for me. It’s important. Super important. Like, maybe, life-changing important.”
Cyrene stared at him for another second before sighing. “Fine. I’ll hold it if it comes back.”
Two days later, after baseball training, Phainon didn’t even change out of his jersey when he sprinted from the field to the library. Sneakers thudding against pavement, the taste of sweat still clinging to his skin. He burst through the doors, his silvery hair a mess, breath ragged.
Cyrene, barely looking up from her paperwork, held up the book without a word.
Phainon grabbed it like it was something fragile, He moved quickly to one of the desks by the windows, his usual spot. He opened it, page by page, careful and slow, a bit worried that he wouldn't find anything inside.
And then he found it. A slip of pale paper tucked neatly where he’d left his own. There was a tiny cat sticker in the corner, round-faced, paw raised, like a lucky charm. The handwriting was neat and beautiful, a penmanship that looked like it had never once scribbled anything by mistake.
He read the reply.
[They are always competing but actually know each other the best. They're waiting for the dawn side by side as equals. It's good. I liked it. —M]
Phainon stared at the note for a long while, lips tugging into a grin he didn’t try to hide. For a reason he couldn’t name, his chest felt full. Stupidly full. Like someone had tucked a spark of light into the hollow part of him, and it decided to stay.
Since then, it had become a ritual.
Phainon didn’t talk about it and didn’t explain it, not even to himself. But every time a new collection came in, he tried to be the first. He’d sprint after practice, dodge traffic lights, and even skip his breaks just to make it to the library before someone else could touch the spines.
And when he succeeded, he always slipped in a note in one that he loved the most. Tucked between chapters or nestled beneath the inside flap, always written in that same cheerful scrawl, as if he were grinning even as he wrote. M always wrote back. Their notes became little conversations, pieces of paper that never said too much but always meant something.
The game had rules now. Unspoken ones. Phainon would first borrow the book, leave a message, and then place it in Cyrene's care, after which M would return with a reply. It wasn’t just about stories anymore. It was them, a thread weaving between pages, and days, binding two strangers together in ink and paper.
But not every match went his way.
One rainy Thursday, he reached the library a few hours late. He rushed to the catalogue computer and typed in the title of the novel he’d been eyeing all week, Borrowed. M. Again.
Phainon groaned softly, rubbing his forehead. “Unbelievable, I wonder if he knows which one I want...”
Still, when M returned it a few days later, Phainon was already waiting. He checked the return box obsessively until Cyrene chuckled and handed him the book she kept hidden in her drawer.
"From M," she said. He took it to the same desk, flipped through the pages, and there it was.
A slip of pale paper with the familiar cat doodle, slightly smug this time. The handwriting hadn’t changed: neat, intelligent, and painfully careful. But the message had a teasing air to it that tickled a laughter.
[Seems like P is getting slow. Should I get worried or proudly own my win? Furthermore, what did you think about this one? I can't say much because it might spoil it, but the end got me hooked. —M]
Phainon leaned back in the chair, smiling to himself like an idiot. He tapped the paper against his lips, the quiet warmth in his chest spreading slowly outward.
Phainon checked out the book and wrote his reply that evening, hunched over his desk with the book open beside him, flipping pages as he went so he wouldn’t forget a single detail. He wrote honestly this time, about how the pacing felt weird at first, but the way the tension built between the two main characters hooked him halfway through. He ended up liking the quiet bitterness at the end more than he had expected.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added:
[Also... what if we move the notes to a safer spot? Like that desk near the west window, third from the back, the one with the loose drawer. Just fold it and slip it inside. Easier to talk, maybe? So we won't always bother the librarian all the time. —P]
He placed it carefully between the pages and returned the book first thing the next morning.
The day after, he came back, not expecting much. Maybe M hadn’t checked it yet. Maybe the idea was too weird. Maybe it was too forward, though he couldn’t imagine anything more anonymous than secret paper-passing between strangers.
Still, he sought the book first. Nothing. Not a slip. Not a scribble.
His note wasn't there, so M should've found it. A little concern ghosted his mind, but underneath, curiosity gnawed at him.
"Could it be..."
He made his way to the desk he’d mentioned, the one tucked near the window. He ran a hand along the underside and found the drawer's edge. It stuck a little, as always. He tugged, and it gave with a soft click.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper. Cream-coloured. On the front, in familiar neat handwriting, it read: Dear P.
He picked it up slowly, thumb brushing the edge, and the faint scent of something sweet and floral drifted from the paper. Something soft. Something entirely unexpected.
He unfolded the letter.
[Dear P, I like this idea. This is much easier to communicate. Also, I agree, the bitterness at the end lingered nicely. It reminded me of that other novel, Seaside Sketch. I think you'll like that one too. A sequel is coming next week, so if you haven't, try to grab the first one. —M]
Phainon read it once. Then again. Then a third time, slower.
His cheeks were warm, though the library’s AC buzzed in the ceiling. He couldn’t stop smiling.
Since then, the conversation shifted, quietly, like sunlight slipping through curtains. Soon enough, their words no longer fluttered between ripped pages of a book. They now lived inside a notebook with numberal lock tucked neatly within the sliding drawer of that window-side desk. Phainon made the change first, claiming it was better than having people mistake the notes as trash. M agreed, and now they became penpals through the notebook. The covers were plain, slightly dented from use, but inside bloomed a world only two people inhabited.
The diary became their shared space and not just about books anymore.
Phainon still wrote in his usual chaotic handwriting. Words looping across the lines with bursts of emotion. Sometimes sloppy, sometimes far too enthusiastic. He didn’t always talk about the book, began adding little pieces of himself. A window here. A door there. Enough for M to peek through.
[Today I had fried chicken for lunch and accidentally spilt the mayo on my pants. I'm officially the clown of the baseball team. Again. Anyway, have you read the horror novel Chain Mail? Totally not scary. But the ending was kinda sad in a weird way. Also, do you like cookies? I left some here. It’s my favourite. Try it! —P]
Phainon had grinned when he came back a day later to see a reply written in neat lettering. Sometimes, M added stickers. Tiny cats peeking from behind speech bubbles, sleepy bears curled beside margins, and a blushing strawberry here and there. Phainon never knew what he’d find, and somehow that made his chest warm every time he flipped the page. That time, he received one with a small angry bunny sticker stuck beside the first paragraph.
[Bringing food to the library is illegal, you know? But yes, the cookies were delicious. Thank you. BTW, don't leave a chain letter in the book about curses. It's not funny. P.S. Hope your pants are okay. —M]
[Haha, ain't that a funny addition? My pants are ok. Anyway, on my way here, there was a street performer juggling apples near the station today. I watched too long and missed the green light. Got scolded by angry grandma. 10/10 would do again. Also started that 'Soundless Mountain' thriller. Halfway through. Pretty sure the butler’s the villain. Just saying. —P]
[I hope the grandma hits you with her cane next time you try. Also, I only checked the first few pages from the sample, but I think it’s not the butler. I bet on melon bread. P.S. There’s a bakery on that street with amazing croissants. If you haven't, give it a try. —M]
Phainon never said it out loud. But every time he opened that drawer and saw M had written back, his heart beat so fast like it had somewhere else to go.
And day by day, he found himself wondering, more and more, what kind of person M really was.
He imagined someone quiet. Meek, maybe. The kind of person who sat near windows with a scarf even when it wasn’t that cold. Someone with soft footsteps and a softer voice. Definitely someone who liked adorable things. Phainon had long surrendered to the stickers war, and now their notebook looked like a battlefield of animals, cakes, suns, and sparkly stars.
But it wasn’t just the stickers or the perfect handwriting. M was... attentive. Strangely, deeply so. The kind of attentive that made Phainon feel seen in a way most people didn’t bother to look.
That one day, Phainon was not in his best mood. He got three strikeouts, forgot his lunchbox, the cafeteria ran out of his favourite breads, and somehow, his outdoor shoe lost its lace when Phainon took it out of the locker. It felt like one calamity after another that he was getting tired of smiling too.
[Today's practice was rough. Coach went full drill sergeant mode. I almost fell asleep on the train but didn’t because a baby was screaming like it was being exorcised. Anyway, I read the last three chapters of the Soundless Mountain. The pacing is wild, but I think I like it. One chapter left. Also! Cute lion sticker because I found it and thought of you. —P]
The reply came with a watercolour bunny sticker and a new kind of softness in the handwriting, like M had slowed down their writing pace.
[You always sound so bright, but you seemed down today. Did something else happened, other than the rough training? Take care of yourself. Even heroes need rest. P.S. The lion is glaring. I don't glare. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the book. Please finish it fast so I can read it next. —M]
Phainon stared at the lines longer than he meant to. It caught him off guard. He didn’t realise someone could read into tiredness through written notes, let alone his. But M had. And somehow, it made something in him felt fuzzy. In the nicest way.
So he wrote again, his writing grew a little neat, clearly he was thinking deeply before jotting it down the pages.
[You caught that, huh? You’ve got scary observation skills. I’m okay. Just a little fried. But I had warm soup today, so I think I’m 80% human again. Also, I finished the book. I'll drop it in the front as usual. The bet is still on about the villain, right? —P]
The response came with a sparkly sun sticker and an adorable doodle of a bowl of soup.
[ You made me worried with your reminder of the bet. So, I finished the book as fast as I could. But just as I thought, it's not the butler. You owe me melon bread. And yes, I read carefully. That’s what you do when something matters. P.S. Next book suggestion: something fluffy like 'Flag on the Hill'. You need it. —M]
That’s what you do when something matters.
Phainon reread that line more times than he’d admit, then pressed his forehead to the notebook, grinning like a fool. His cheeks were hot, but not in a bad way.
It was strange how someone he hadn’t even met could feel so close. Like warm light slipping into all the places he hadn’t noticed were cold.
The competition was drawing near. The pressure was building. Practices ran late, drills got harsher, and Phainon hadn’t realised just how heavy his legs felt until he was already at the library, with his notebook open in front of him and his pen dragging halfheartedly through a half-finished sentence.
He didn’t remember falling asleep. But when he stirred, eyes blinking blearily against the golden afternoon light pouring in from the windows, he felt warmer.
Something soft was draped across his shoulders. Not his school jacket. Not anything he recognised. It was a pastel pink cardigan with long sleeves, slightly fuzzy at the edges. It had a faint sweet smell, something like vanilla sponge or the glaze of honey pastries.
Still half-asleep, Phainon blinked at it, puzzled.
Cyrene? Maybe. She was always hovering in her maternal way, but the thought disappeared when his eyes landed on the notebook sitting atop his desk.
A new message, written in that familiar, careful handwriting:
[Don’t push yourself too far.
The world can wait. Take a nap when you need it.
You deserve one.
—M]
Beside it, a can of pomegranate juice sat on the desk. On the front was a sticky note, a cartoon cat with tiny, determined eyebrows, holding up a paw in a fist. The speech bubble said, “GOOD LUCK!”
Phainon stared.
Then he laughed quietly, soft and muffled into the sleeve of the cardigan.
He ran his fingers across the fabric. It looked... big. The sleeves were long and a little stretched at the ends, and somehow that made his brain picture it, not on himself, but on someone else. Someone small. Petite. Maybe with hair tucked into a loose bun. Curled in a chair, reading, the cardigan hanging well past their fingers and brushing against their knees.
He imagined M drowned in this cardigan like a kitten wrapped in a towel.
Phainon chuckled, a low, warm sound from the chest, and murmured under his breath, “That’s cute.”
He hugged the cardigan and didn’t let go for a very long time.
Two days later, Phainon arrived earlier than usual. The cardigan—washed, dried, and neatly folded—was now tucked inside a simple tote bag slung over his shoulder. He was nervous but his steps remained light, knowing well where to head.
(Maybe...) he thought, (Maybe today I’ll catch a glimpse of M.)
It wasn’t just a wild guess.
He had, without meaning to, pieced together the fragments of M’s schedule. What days they usually came, and how long they stayed. He never stayed during that time, always making sure to leave before there was even a chance of crossing paths. He told himself it was because he wasn’t ready. That anonymity was safer, sweeter.
But now, it wasn't enough. He wanted to say his thank-you directly, to see what kind of face M would make when he told M that he made it to the finals, and he wanted M to come and watch him hitting homeruns.
After a deep exhale, he stepped into the library and headed straight for their desk, the one near the west window with the loose drawer and notebook waiting like a heart between them.
But someone was already sitting there.
Phainon slowed down.
It wasn't Cyrene or another student he recognised. The boy wore a white hoodie, the hood pulled up, casting a soft shadow over his face. Blond hair peeked from beneath it, pale and tousled. He wasn’t as tall as Phainon, but still taller than average. A thick history book lay open in front of him, fingers turning a page carefully.
Phainon hesitated, then grabbed a random book off a nearby shelf, something about gardening, of all things, and pretended to read as he sat at the table next to him. Just wait until the stranger left, he told himself. Just wait, and then he could put the cardigan inside the drawer. Or maybe just wait, and maybe M would come later.
He glanced, just a bit.
But this time, he saw it. The bruise along the man’s cheekbone and the faint red smeared across his knuckles.
Phainon gasped. “You’re bleeding,” he blurted without much thought.
The stranger lifted his gaze, and Phainon’s breath caught mid-thought.
Golden eyes. Clear. Sharp. Almost disarming in how vividly they stood out beneath the shadow of the hoodie. And even with the bruises, especially with the bruises, he looked... beautiful.
Striking.
Phainon forgot his script. Forgot the cardigan. Forgot the book about roses or tomatoes or whatever plant that he had upside down in his lap.
“I—uh, your hand,” he tried again. “You need to take care of it.”
“I’m fine,” the stranger replied, husky and deep.
( Even his voice sounds so good...) Phainon thought, a little dazed.
But he recovered quickly, setting down the book. He then pulled out his water bottle and a small towel from his bag. “No, you’re not,” he said firmly. “That’ll get worse if you leave it.”
The stranger looked like he wanted to argue, but Phainon was already unscrewing the cap. “C’mon,” he said, stubbornly. “Let me help.”
After a moment, the stranger extended his hand. Slowly. Reluctantly.
Phainon took it with a touch far gentler than the tone of urgency he used, cradling the injured knuckles in one palm while he soaked the towel with water. The blood had dried around the ridges of the skin.
“What even happened?” he murmured as he wiped the wound. “You punch a wall or something?”
The stranger didn’t answer. Just watched him in silence. But he didn’t pull away, either.
Phainon focused on cleaning, trying not to think about how warm the hand in his felt or how those golden eyes were still watching him and made him felt a bit funny, weirdly but pleasantly funny.
When Phainon finished wiping the last streaks of dried blood with gentle fingers, his lips pressed in a line of concern. Then, without a word, he reached into his bag again and pulled out a small metal tin, worn from use, the label almost rubbed off.
“My secret weapon,” he muttered, half to himself, scooping out a dab of ointment balm. “I always carry this around since I’m a professional klutz.”
He carefully spread the cool salve over the bruised skin, the scent of mint and citrus rising faintly between them. Then he reached for a strip of Bandaids. Not just any bandaids. Bright, cheerful ones with cartoon dogs, smiling strawberries, and even a ridiculous-looking superhero banana.
He paused, then chuckled sheepishly. “Sorry, these might make you look a bit... um. Festive?”
The stranger tilted his head to look at the bandaids already covering his knuckles, then turned his golden eyes toward Phainon. “They’re cute,” he said simply. “I like them.”
Phainon blinked, then grinned. “Wow. You’re awfully chill about being covered in sparkles for someone who looks like they just came out of a brawl and has arms like those.” He gestured vaguely at the stranger’s defined build.
The stranger shrugged, lips tugging faintly at the corners. “Liking something cute doesn’t make me any less masculine.”
Phainon gave a laugh, not the loud one he used around classmates, but a real one that didn't ring hollow. “You know what? Yeah. Preach.”
Then he stood up. “Wait here.”
Before the other could protest, Phainon jogged off in the direction of the vending machines near the lobby. A minute later, he returned, breath a little uneven, holding a cold canned drink with a cartoon peach waving cheerfully from the label.
Without asking, he gently pressed the can to the stranger’s bruised cheekbone.
“There,” he murmured, thumb brushing against the rim as he held it in place. “Should help with the swelling…”
The touch had brought them closer than either expected.
Phainon looked up and froze.
The stranger was blushing. Not just a faint hue but a full, stunning flush that bloomed across his cheeks, up to the tips of his ears. He looked devastatingly adorable. Even with the hoodie shadowed his feature. Even with the bruises marred his visage.
Phainon’s heart flipped over in his chest.
“Oh—uh, sorry!” He stammered, pulling his hand back as if burnt. “Here, you can hold it yourself.”
The stranger nodded quickly, eyes lowering as he accepted the can. Then, without a word, he reached for his sling bag, slipping it over his shoulder in one smooth motion. He stood up, returned the book to the nearest shelf, and looked at Phainon.
“I’m sorry for the trouble,” he said, softer, but in haste. And before Phainon could say another word, the boy turned and walked briskly, then ran towards the exit, his hoodie bouncing, his ears still visibly red.
Phainon remained seated, blinking his eyes rapidly after the abrupt escape.
Then he looked down at the now empty chair across the desk.
Somewhere in his chest, something fluttered. And his heart, without warning, did another little flip.
"C, cute..."
Phainon stroked his chest, regulating his breath. He stayed at the desk long after the stranger left, trying to exhale whatever strange, fluttering mess had nested inside his chest. When he finally calmed down enough to think straight, he reached into the drawer and pulled out the notebook.
Of course, the pages were untouched. M hadn’t come.
He sat there for a while, chin propped in one palm, eyes flicking toward the entrance every few minutes. He waited. And waited. But the afternoon bled quietly into evening, and still, M didn’t appear.
A flicker of disappointment curled low in his stomach, followed by something heavier, concern. They hadn’t even met properly, not really, but he couldn't help but be worried if something happened to his pen pal.
He stood, slinging the tote bag back over his shoulder with the folded cardigan still inside, and then he walked toward the front desk.
Cyrene was tidying a stack of returned books. She looked up when Phainon approached and raised an eyebrow at his expression.
“Hey,” Phainon said, scratching his cheek. “If, um, if M comes, could you let me know? Just text me or something?”
Cyrene blinked, then smiled in that amused, knowing way of hers. “Aww. Worried?”
“A little,” Phainon admitted.
Cyrene hummed, tapping her pen against her chin. “Well, understandable. But don't worry too much. He’s always coming looking like that.”
Phainon tilted his head. “Huh?”
“You know,” she added, like it was obvious. “All bruised and scraped up. Surprised me a bit at first, but he never answered, so I think it’s just his rough situation. He never cause any problem so I doubt he is a delinquent or something...”
“...He? Bruise?” Phainon echoed slowly.
Cyrene gave him squinted eyes. “Wait. You do know who M is, right?”
Phainon’s brows furrowed. “Huh? No? I haven't even seen them yet. What do you mean?”
She paused, eyes narrowing just slightly playfully. “Phainon... Are you telling me you don’t know the person you nursed earlier? That was Mydei. The M. The one you’ve been flirting with via notebook stickers and literary debates for months?”
Phainon opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He closed it, then opened it again. Still nothing.
Cyrene parted her lips, feeling a bit stunned as well. “...Oh my. You didn’t know.”
“I—” Phainon began and then stopped. He just turned around, walking toward one of the available desks, and sat on the chair like he might pass out. Cyrene also watched him in concern.
Phainon was lost in his mind. His hands were on his head, fingers buried in his hair like he was trying to physically hold his brain together.
"That guy... Mydei is M...?"
The words left his lips in a whisper, as if saying it out loud might make the universe take it back.
Then everything hit him one by one, in pieces trying to fit into the mold.
The cardigan.
The stickers.
The meticulous handwriting.
The floral scent.
The cute doodles.
The sparkly Bandaids.
The sparkly Bandaids.
He let out a muffled noise, somewhere between a strangled laugh and a scream, and knocked his head onto the table with a thump.
“Mydei has that handwriting?” he murmured. “Mydei… uses stickers?”
He remembered the bruises, the blood, the knuckles. The way Mydei barely flinched, how those golden eyes had stared at him like they’d seen far worse. A guy who clearly knew how to fight. A guy whose biceps had absolutely no need to be that toned, like some god of war.
And the same guy had sparkly stickers in his bag.
Phainon gasped, shaking his head. “Just...HOW?!”
This was whiplash, a cognitive dissonance on steroids and extreme cuteness.
However, Phainon's mind paused before he could break down any further.
He remembered what Mydei had said before:
"Liking something cute doesn’t make me any less masculine."
The memory washed over him like a warm wave, tailed by the image of Mydei blushing as Phainon pressed the cold can to his cheek.
Phainon let out a high-pitched, muffled squeal, which made Cyrene shush him to keep it down.
“Oh no, he’s adorable. He’s so adorable. He’s so damn cute.”
There was no need to deny. Mydei was terrifyingly gorgeous, low-voiced, hoodie-wearing, fight-hardened, pastel-cardigan-wearing, sticker-using, and note-writing, all at once. A lethal combination.
Phainon curled up again, his heart racing.
This was worse than any book plot twist he had ever read.
This was so unfair.
He couldn't fight it anymore.
He had a crush, a huge one.
He was so screwed.
So very, very screwed.
The next day, Phainon arrived early. Again.
This time, not to observe from a distance nor to wait.
He had the tote bag slung over one shoulder, the freshly folded cardigan nestled safely inside. His steps were lighter than before, but his heart pounded with every one of them.
When he stepped into the library and turned toward the west-side desk, his breath caught.
He was there.
Mydei.
Seated at their desk, no hoodie but just a shirt this time, golden hair catching the light that streamed through the windows. He was hunched slightly over an open book, fingers calmly turning a page, as if he hadn’t recently thrown Phainon’s entire universe into disarray.
Phainon exhaled, steadying himself. Then he walked forward, slow and deliberate, before dropping the tote bag gently in front of Mydei with a soft thud.
The man looked up. Their eyes met.
And just like that, Phainon forgot how to breathe.
He wanted to kiss him. Just right then. Right there. Because, damn, the universe had no right to make someone so painfully beautiful.
But he didn’t, fortunately. That would be the worst way to introduce himself. He grinned instead.
“Thanks,” he said warmly. “For lending me the cardigan.”
Mydei looked back down at his book and flipped a page that did not need to be turned. “...So you know me now.”
His tone was flat. Emotionless. But not distant.
Not when Phainon could clearly see the way the book was slightly tilted, just enough to hide the pink blossoming across his cheeks.
Phainon pulled the chair out and sat across from him, resting his chin on his hand with a lazy smile. “Yeah. You knew who I was from the start, right?”
"You didn't use initials on the logs before, so yes." Mydei didn’t look up. “And I thought maybe you’d prefer us to stay anonymous.”
Phainon tilted his head. “Not fair. It's not really anonymous if you already knew who I was.”
“Right,” Mydei murmured, still not meeting his eyes. “But still.”
The tips of his ears were turning redder now.
Phainon couldn’t help it. He leaned in slightly, grinning wider. “Were you embarrassed?”
“No.”
The blush deepened.
“Really?”
“...No.”
Phainon chuckled softly, utterly endeared. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Mydei’s fingers fidgeted at the edge of the page. “I just didn’t have time to deal with your expectation.”
Phainon blinked. “So, you know you have a gap, huh?”
No answer, but that answered enough.
Phainon leaned forward with his elbow on the table, and his voice dropped to a velvety tone. “But yeah, you weren’t what I imagined.”
Mydei finally glanced up, guarded with a scowl.
Phainon smiled. “You’re better.”
And with that, he reached across the table, slowly and gently, then poked Mydei, right beneath his eye, where the red marking sat like a hidden signature.
“Still think you're cute,” he said quietly. “No matter what.”
Mydei finally lowered the book, but his expression was flat judging, betrayed only by the faint but stubborn flush on his cheeks.
“You need your eyes checked if you think that,” he muttered.
Phainon threw his head back and cackled, loud enough for Cyrene to consider throwing something at him from the front desk.
“Say whatever you want,” he grinned, leaning on his elbows with a lopsided smile, “but for me? You’re absolutely, devastatingly adorable. Can’t change my mind.”
Mydei looked away, muttering something unintelligible into his collar, but his ears were flaming.
Phainon reached across the table again, this time not to poke, but to offer his hand.
“Alright, let’s make this official,” he said, his tone dipping playfully warm. “Name’s P. For Phainon. First-year, Aedes Elysiae.”
He wiggled his fingers, as if waiting for a magic spell to complete. “Favorite food’s fried chicken with extra lemon and spicy mayo. And hobbies...” He paused. “I was gonna say playing baseball, but scratch that.”
He leaned in with a smirk. “My current hobby is exchanging diary with someone unreasonably adorable.”
Mydei stared at him like he was debating whether to roll his eyes or slap him with the book he held.
“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.
But he still reached out.
Phainon’s grin widened when their hands met. Mydei’s hands are still bandaged with sparkly Bandaids.
“Mydei,” he said softly. “For M. Obviously. I’m a second year at Kremnos High.”
Phainon blinked. “Ohhh. So you’re older.”
Before Mydei could react, Phainon lifted his hand, turned it palm down, and pressed the gentlest kiss to the knuckles, right where the bandaids still clung.
He then pulled back with a wink, all sunshine and wicked charm. “Nice to meet you.”
Mydei blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then his entire face flushed. Not just his cheeks but everything. His ears, the bridge of his nose, even down to the curve of his neck. The deep pink hue spread like a spill of watercolour, impossible to hide.
He snatched his hand back so fast the table trembled, fingers curling into the book like he needed to physically protect himself from further damage.
“Don't you have any shame?” he blurted, flustered, barely meeting Phainon’s eyes.
Phainon was cackling again, thriving.
“You’re so red. Are you overheating? Should I get you a fan?”
“Stop talking.”
“You’re hiding your face; look at you! You’re like a tomato in human form.”
“I will throw this book at you.”
Mydei’s eyes were darting everywhere but back at Phainon, like just one more second of eye contact might completely short-circuit him.
Phainon leaned forward again, cheek resting against his palm, smiling oh-so-sweetly.
“You know,” he said, “I already liked you before I knew how you looked. But this? You being this cute? It’s kinda dangerous for my heart.”
Mydei let out a strangled noise and buried his face in the bend of his arm.
“Don’t talk to me.”
“I can’t not talk to you. You’re my hobby, remember?” Phainon watched Mydei try to recollect his composure with a grin so wide that it almost hurt, his heart racing in a way that felt new, perfectly real.
Phainon leaned back in the library chair, legs stretched out just enough to almost touch Mydei’s side of the desk. The notebook lay between them, open to a page with Mydei’s neat handwriting and a cat sticker in the margin, next to a scribbled reply in Phainon’s bright, overexcited scrawl.
But today, Phainon wasn’t writing. It was Mydei's turn to reply.
Meanwhile, Phainon continued to stare.
Unapologetically.
“So,” he dawdled. “You’re M. M for mysterious. M for moody. M for... mine, soon?”
Mydei didn’t even blink. “M for mildly regretting this friendship.”
Phainon dramatically placed his hand over his heart. “Now I'm P for painful heart.”
“Good.”
It didn't stop Phainon, sadly. “You know, when I imagined M, I thought I’d find someone... smaller. Fragile. Drowning in sleeves and bookish silence.”
Mydei glanced at him, unimpressed. “I’m deeply sorry I didn’t meet your cutie quota.”
“No, no,” Phainon said quickly, grinning. “This is even better. Like, criminally better. The contrast? Chef’s kiss.” He mimed the motion. “You’re so calm and cold, but you put sparkly bunny stickers in your notes. It’s illegal. You’re illegal.”
Mydei sighed and returned to reading. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet you stay here with the notebook open and ready to write your impression of that book anytime,” Phainon sing-songed. “Secretly enjoying my attention, aren’t you?”
Mydei flipped a page. “You're delusional.”
“Ah, come on. Admit it. You look forward to me walking into the library like the dramatic lead of a novel.”
Mydei raised a brow, still not looking up. “If you were the lead, I’d drop the series.”
Phainon grinned wider. “You’re getting faster at this. Sharper.”
“I’m trying to gain immunity,” Mydei replied dryly. “It’s like surviving allergies. Mild exposure over time.”
"Hmmm..." Phainon leaned closer, chin resting on his folded arms, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “And what are you allergic to?”
“Loud people. Silver-haired gremlins who flirt instead of reading in the library.”
“You’re literally describing me.”
“Observant today, aren’t you?”
Phainon clutched his chest again. “You know me so well. Gosh, I’ve never been more in love.”
“Tragic,” Mydei muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Their banter slowed for a moment, settling into the quiet hum of the library, the scribble of pen on the shared notebook, and the low buzz of fluorescent lights.
Then Phainon shifted on his chair; his gaze fell softer now. “Hey, can I ask something?”
Mydei didn’t look up, but his hand paused mid-note. “Depends.”
“About the bruises.” Phainon gestured vaguely. “Is everything okay?”
Mydei’s eyes dropped to his sleeve, which today was rolled up just enough to show a faint yellowing bruise. He shrugged. “I don’t start anything. But I guess I draw attention. Kremnos runs on weird rules. You don’t get left alone if you don’t put someone down first.”
Phainon frowned. “So they just challenge you? Randomly?”
“They think it means something.”
“And you never wanted to play along?”
Mydei closed the notebook. "I just don't have time to deal with people who think they can be right by using violence.”
Phainon huffed a small laugh. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
Mydei raised a brow. “Because I survive a glorified fight club disguised as high school?”
“No, because you survive that while still leaving cat stickers in the margins of our notes.” He said, tapping at the page that Mydei scribbled on earlier.
“Balance,” Mydei said flatly.
“Beauty,” Phainon corrected, dreamily. “Ethereal. Grace.”
“Keep going and I’ll throw this chair at you.”
“You say that, but you’d miss me when I’m gone.”
“I’d recover.”
Cyrene’s voice cut through between them. “You two. If you’re going to flirt again, out. You two are getting distracting.”
They both looked up.
“Sorry, Cyrene,” they said in perfect unison.
And even as they packed up, Mydei sighed and pulled his cardigan over his shoulders. That soft pastel pink settled across his frame, sleeves clinging neatly to his arms, collar resting against the curve of his neck.
The cardigan fit.
Perfectly.
Neither too snug nor too oversized. Just... right.
And it didn’t look strange on him at all. If anything, it made the bruises stand out like art. Made the golden hair softer.
Phainon nodded slowly, like he was being handed divine proof.
(Actually, this is hotter than my imagination...)
Not that he said that out loud.
Which, apparently, didn’t matter.
“Stop staring,” Mydei muttered, eyes not even meeting his. "You got a perverted gaze."
“Sorry, it’s a medical condition. Chronic admiration. There’s no cure.”
Mydei turned, deadpan. “There’s treatment.”
Phainon smiled coyly. “...Is it a kiss?”
“No. Prison.”
“Ah. Kinky.”
Mydei reached for the notebook like he might smack him with it. But he didn't. He just shoved it into the drawer and walked out, with Phainon following right behind.
As they stepped out of the library, the fading sunlight painted the sidewalk in warm golds and soft shadows. The air was cooling, and Mydei had his hands tucked into his cardigan pockets as if shielding himself from more than just the breeze.
“So”, Phainon said, walking a little too close but not quite brushing against him, “you take the bus home?”
“Yeah,” Mydei replied, his eyes flicking ahead. “Why?”
“No reason,” Phainon said quickly, too quickly. “Just... you know. Buses are boring.”
Mydei raised an eyebrow at him.
Phainon cleared his throat. “I mean, we should take the scenic route. Just in case. Stretch the legs. Better digestion and all that.”
“…We ate nothing.”
“Exactly! Perfect time for snacks!”
Before Mydei could argue, Phainon was already tugging him, not by the wrist or hand, but by gently walking a step ahead, then walking backward with a grin that dared anyone to say no to it.
"Let's have an impromptu date."
And Mydei didn't know why he gave in to that smile.
They detoured two streets down, past the busier part of the station and toward the alley near the convenience store where the vending machines always had the weirder seasonal stuff.
“Alright!” Phainon beamed, practically bouncing on his heels. “You wait here. I’ll be back with a carefully curated selection of tastebud wonders.”
“Don't poison me,” Mydei mumbled, but he didn’t walk away.
A few minutes later, Phainon returned with an armful of snacks: fried dough filled with custard, mochi wrapped in leaves, weird purple chips that claimed to be limited-edition spicy sweet potato, and a can of soda with a capybara bathing in citrus fruits on the label.
“What is that?” Mydei asked flatly, pointing at the capybara.
“It’s called joy,” Phainon said solemnly. “And you’re about to drink it.”
They sat on the kerb just off the main road, the light from the vending machine casting a soft blue glow behind them. Phainon opened the package and handed the first dough to Mydei, who took it with a sceptical glance.
“It’s good,” Phainon assured him. “Promise.”
Mydei bit into it. His eyes widened, just barely.
“…It’s warm.”
“And soft,” Phainon added with a grin. “And now you’re ruined for regular snacks forever. You'll always crave something better!”
They worked through the rest slowly, Phainon doing most of the talking, and Mydei, mostly quiet but always listening, adding comments here and there, sometimes dry, sometimes with a smile so soft that it made Phainon’s chest squeeze a little.
When Phainon handed him the soda with the capybara on it, Mydei gave him the most unimpressed look.
“This looks weird.”
"Maybe. You haven't try it yet.”
“...It smells like yuzu.”
“It's capybara extract.”
"That's gross..."
"Haha, come on, just try it first."
Mydei took a sip. Slowly.
“So?” Phainon leaned in. “You like it?”
Mydei didn’t answer. But he took another sip.
Phainon chuckled, leaning back with his arms behind him. The sky slowly darkening above them as they shared the purchased snacks.
“This is the best date ever,” Phainon murmured. Not loud. Just enough to slip between them like a breeze.
Mydei looked at him out of the corner of his eye.
“You’re the only person who considers sweet potato chips and carbonated rodent juice romantic.”
“Hey,” Phainon nudged his arm. “You're here. That makes it romantic."
Mydei didn’t answer, but he reached for the last piece of mochi, pulled it apart carefully, and, without looking, offered half to Phainon.
Their fingers brushed.
“Shut up and eat,” Mydei said curtly.
Phainon did. It was the best mochi he’d ever had.
Time surely flew faster when enjoyed. When they realised, the sky had already faded to a blanket of stars. Streetlamps flickered on one by one, casting long shadows and halos of golden light. The air smelt faintly of warm pavement and the sweetness of leftover mochi on their hands. They decided to continue walking side by side, talking about nothing important until they reached Mydei's bus stop.
The bus rumbled in the distance, almost like a final chorus for their date.
Phainon kicked at a loose pebble, hands shoved in his pockets. “So. Guess this is where I let you return to your mysterious, cardigan-wearing vigilante life.”
Mydei adjusted the strap of his sling bag, a soft curve at the corners of his mouth. “You make it sound like I fight crime.”
“Who knows?” Phainon grinned. “You do have the scars for it. And the sparkly Bandaids. You’re like a glitter-powered antihero.”
Mydei rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But charming,” Phainon added brightly. Then, with a softer whisper he asked, “Hey, before you vanish into your dimension, can I get your number?”
Mydei looked away slightly.
“So, you can text me memes at 2AM?”
“I mean, yeah. You know me so well,” Phainon chuckled. “And book recommendations. And maybe call you when I’m bored. Or just miss your voice.”
Mydei rolled his eyes, but he pulled out his phone and tapped a few buttons, handing it over. “If I start getting cursed emoji chains, I’m blocking you.”
Phainon took it like he’d been handed something sacred. “You wound me. I’m a very responsible texter.”
"I remembered you wrote 'uwu' on your entry. That doesn't seem responsible.”
“Say it again?”
"What?"
"Say it, uwu, but with cutesy."
"Give me back my phone."
Phainon cackled, saved his number, and then sent a text to himself. Mydei received his phone back and furrowed his brows when he saw the screen.
"Saving your number as 'My Sunshine' with a sun emoji and sending a love emoji to yourself..."
"Efficient. I make it easier if you want to send the emoji later.
"I'm blocking you."
Phainon laughed again, heartily. At that moment, the bus stopped with a screech.
Phainon gave a quick wave as Mydei stepped on. “Talk later?”
Mydei paused at the top step. “You’re going to call me no matter what I say.”
Phainon beamed. “You do know me.”
The door closed, and the bus pulled away.
Later that night, Mydei was sitting on his bed, cardigan thrown on the back of his chair, the room dim except for his desk lamp and the glow of his phone. It buzzed once.
Incoming call: My Sunshine☀️
He picked up.
“Mydeeeei,” Phainon said on the other end. “Just wanted to confirm your number is active and not a decoy to send me into emoji purgatory.”
“Unfortunately real,” Mydei murmured, stretching out on his bed. “What do you want?”
“To hear your voice again.”
"I'm hanging up.”
Phainon laughed wholeheartedly. “C’mon, admit it. You missed me.”
There was a pause.
Then, softly a whisper came through: “Maybe.”
Phainon sat up straighter on his own bed, smile slowly blooming. “Whoa. That almost sounded like affection.”
“It's not."
“It's a maybe so still positive response!”
Mydei scoffed but even that sounded like beautiful melody to Phainon.
“You’re always like this?” Mydei asked. “Even on calls?”
“Like what?”
“Shameless. Loud. Flirty.”
Phainon grinned into the receiver. “Only to a guy who looked absolutely handsome in pastel pink. You like me so much that you let me seducing you like this, right?”
There was the briefest pause, followed by a breathy chuckle.
“...If I didn’t like you enough, I wouldn’t still be on the line, would I?”
Phainon’s brain short-circuited. For a moment, all he could manage was a stunned silence and the sound of his own heart punching his ribcage.
“N, now that's definitely a yes, right?!
“Goodnight, Phainon.”
“No no no you can’t just, wait! Mydei!”
"I have class early. Good night."
The line went dead.
Phainon stared at his phone. Then fell back on his bed, clutching it to his chest.
"He's just, too adorable."
Since that day, everything had felt brighter.
Phainon’s morning always started with his favourite fried chicken. His practice was so flawless, as always. And as a cherry on top, Mydei replied to every single one of his texts. Sometimes dry, sometimes short, often with stickers that Phainon now secretly cherished in his saved gallery. They still wrote to one another and kept the book discussion there, but they often hung out when their time aligned. Sometimes they just stayed at the library; most of the time they walked outside. To the park, the game centre, the cinema, even to random eating competition. Mydei won, much to Phainon's distress.
Today, they promised to settle the score at the billiards. Phainon had been humming a tune when he left school, bag slung over one shoulder, excitement bubbling in his chest as he made his way toward the library.
However, a bad feeling crept on his nape.
The alleyway near the station had been too quiet. The sound of footsteps behind him was too quick. By the time he turned, a hand was already on his collar. He kicked, hard, but there were too many.
Everything blurred afterwards.
When his consciousness resurfaced, Phainon was tied against a rusted pillar beneath an old bridge. The metal was cold at his back, his bag tossed on the ground. Rope bit into his wrists, but he wasn’t panicking. Yet.
He looked around, eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the concrete. Four of them. Different uniforms. None from Aedes; it looked similar to Mydei's.
His brain connected the dots, but he acted nonchalant.
“...Okay,” Phainon said after a moment, calm but incredulous. “Is this a hazing ritual? Did I forget I sign up for delinquent club or something?”
The tallest of them stepped forward. “Shut it. You’re friends with that bastard, aren’t you?”
Phainon blinked. “...Who? Unlike you, I have so many friends, you see...”
“Mydeimos! You’re always hanging around with him. Don’t lie.”
Another one scoffed from the side. “We’ve been trying to get at that arrogant freak for months. This’ll get him. Let’s see if he still acts high and mighty when his little boyfriend gets beaten to a pulp.”
“Boyfriend?” Phainon echoed, his eyes crinkled as he grinned. “Okay, I mean, not yet, but thank you for your support. I'll...”
He was cut off by a foot pressing against his knee.
“You really don’t know who he really is, huh?” Another thug muttered. “You think that guy’s just some pink-wearing honour student? He’s the top of Kremnos. The top.”
Phainon tilted his head. “Top? Like... GPA?”
They laughed. One spat to the side. “Top of the food chain. You don’t get to stay at Kremnos if you’re weak. To be the top, you gotta beat the previous one. Our school’s run like a damn wolf den, not some boring shit in a smarty-ass school like yours.”
Phainon let out a slow exhale. “You know, from what I’ve seen, he’s not playing your little survival-of-the-edgiest game. You can just count him out and brawl all you want.”
“Shut up!” One snapped. “Don't talk like you know about anything!”
“Oh yes, yes, please.” Phainon smiled, his voice dripping with sugar. “I urge you to tell me more about how all of you couldn’t beat one guy. It’s honestly inspirational.”
That was the last straw.
The punch landed hard across his cheek, snapping his head sideways. Pain bloomed sharp and hot along his jaw. Blood filled his mouth, metallic and warm.
The blow rang sharp in Phainon’s skull, but he didn’t give them the satisfaction of groaning. He let the sting settle in his cheek, blinked through the dizziness, and rolled his jaw once, twice.
Then he looked up, blood staining the corner of his smile. “Wow,” he drawled, “what a punch. You’ve almost graduated from tantrum toddler phase.”
Another punch landed in. Phainon spat the blood to the ground.
“Shut the fuck up,” the guy snarled, cracking his knuckles.
Another one crouched nearby, smirking. “Man, I don’t get it. You really hang around that guy?”
“He’s a freak,” someone else chimed in. “All quiet and smug, looking down on people like he’s better than everyone else, walking around like he’s untouchable.”
“And have you seen the crap he likes?” the first one added, laughing now. “Damn sissy wears pink cardigans, drinks that cute-ass sweet juice, and eats strawberry cake.”
“Yeah,” another one sneered, “probably sleeps hugging a teddy bear too.”
Phainon tilted his head slowly, like something inside him had just snapped at the derogatory laughters around him.
“Ohhh,” he said, dragging the word out. “So that’s what this is about.”
The group quietened down.
Phainon let out a chuckle. “This isn’t about strength. This is about the fact that a guy who likes candy, soft sweaters, and adorable stickers has been stomping all over you wannabe alphas without even breaking a sweat.”
They scowled, defensive.
He leaned back against the cold metal post, blood still wetting his lip, but he kept going.
“He’s not even trying, is he? He’s just vibing, getting perfect scores, probably reading a romance novel, and still outclassing all of you while looking better in pastel than you ever will in your discount leather jackets.”
“You little—”
“You’re mad,” Phainon continued, lightly but dripping with poison in each word, “because your tiny, fragile image of ‘tough guy masculinity’ got obliterated by someone who doesn't shy away from being himself.”
The thug’s eye twitched.
“Which, by the way,” Phainon added, his voice tone dropped lower now, “only makes him cooler than any of you combined."
The nearest guy groaned in anger. Another moved forward, knuckles went tight.
And Phainon, even tied up, grinned, unflinching.
“Go ahead. Prove me right.”
The thug raised his fist, the others stepping in behind him, all decided to just end Phainon here.
A punch landed, then a kick. But before Phainon could lose his stance, a voice cut through the space.
“Enough.”
It was deep, grave and it stopped every movement cold.
From the shadows beneath the bridge, Mydei stepped into the dim light. Golden hair was a little tousled, his eyes were not his usual half-lidded, bookish gaze. No. These eyes were sharp. Bright. Burning like twin suns just on the verge of collapse.
Phainon exhaled, low.
(Oh no,) he thought. (He’s hot.)
The thugs turned, one of them scoffing, “Look who finally showed up—”
But Mydei didn’t wait.
He crossed the distance in a blur, fast and controlled. The first punch landed square in the ribs of the nearest guy with a sickening thud, folding him instantly. Before the others could react, Mydei spun, elbow crashing into another’s temple without holding back, made it clear this wasn’t his first time against so many.
Phainon watched, wide-eyed, barely breathing.
Mydei didn’t fight like someone brawling. He fought like someone who’d studied violence until it sang in his blood. Every move was efficient, brutal, unrelenting. One ducked a punch, and Mydei returned with a knee straight to the gut. Another reached for him from behind; Mydei grabbed the wrist and twisted it, fast, a sickening crack echoing in the hollow space. The thug screamed, but Mydei didn’t flinch.
His expression didn’t change. Not even once.
He made a bloody fight look like an art.
Phainon couldn’t look away. The lines of his body moving in the dim light, muscles coiled, hoodie sleeves rolled up to the elbows, dark bruises on his jaw still healing beneath all that elegance.
There was a terrifying grace to it. He was feral, utterly dangerous, and yet so composed that it was disarming.
One of the thugs tried to run. Mydei was faster. He slammed him against the wall, fist clenched at his collar. “Touch him again,” he whispered, gravely low, “and I’ll break every single bone in your body.”
The thug whimpered, nodding fast. Mydei let go, letting the guy ran before turning and moved toward Phainon.
His chest was rising and falling quickly. His shoulders tense, fists still clenched. But his eyes, those gorgeous gold eyes, widened as he took in Phainon again. Bruised, bleeding.
“Sorry, I made you wait. You're still holding on?"
Phainon's eyes were wide open, slowly nodding.
He should probably be shocked. Maybe worried. Maybe terrified that the sweet, blushing boy who had stickers all over their exchanged diary just wrecked a small gang of delinquents like it was morning exercise.
But instead, his heart was thudding like a jackhammer. His breath caught in his throat.
“Mydei... You’re so sexy.”
Mydei, still panting, tilted his head. “...Huh?”
“Like, absurdly hot,” Phainon whispered, half-dazed. “That was... I think I fell in love all over again with you when you kicked that guy’s jaw.”
Mydei’s expression shifted into flat disbelief. “You’re literally tied up right now.”
“And it’s still the best day of my life.”
“...You need help.”
“You're the help,” Phainon muttered, grinning through the pain.
Mydei groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “HKS.”
And yet, even as he moved forward to untie him from the pillar, he turned his face slightly to the side.
So Phainon wouldn’t see the flush blooming at the tips of his ears.
Alas, the moment of peace was fleeting. Before Mydei untied his hands properly, Phainon’s gaze flicked up.
“Behind you!”
Mydei turned just a fraction too slow.
And Phainon moved faster.
Despite his wrists still being half bound, he surged forward, twisting his body just enough to slam his shoulder into the charging thug’s side. The guy stumbled back, but it wasn’t enough. They could hear more people. Either the one who ran away actually called their friends or they already called more people beforehand to beat up Mydei.
No matter which, the situation was grim. Phainon spotted something by the corner of his eye, a rusted metal pipe, half-buried under broken crates. He kicked out, rolling onto his side until he could hook his foot beneath it, and with a well-practiced snap of his heel, sent it flying up into the air.
Mydei caught it midair, but Phainon shook his head, breathless and grinning.
“C’mon, let me have this.” He twisted his wrists hard against the rope, ignoring the sting as the knot loosened just enough. One more pull, then it snapped.
He stood up, rolling his shoulder, blood still trickling from the corner of his mouth, and caught the pipe Mydei tossed back with a low whistle.
Mydei shook his head. “Phainon. Just take that to protect yourself and run.”
Phainon tilted his head, grinning through the mess of dirt and blood. “What? And miss our first tag-team brawl? You said it yourself! Liking cute things doesn’t make you less of a man. And refusing to run doesn’t make me dumb.”
“...It kind of does because you just made absolute nonsense,” Mydei muttered.
But he didn’t stop him.
The new group of thugs arrived, stunned at the sudden reversal but quickly surrounded them. But now there were Mydei and Phainon standing back-to-back in the middle.
“Say, Mydei, you might think I started baseball for cardio.” Phainon said, spinning the pipe once in his palm. “Nah. Let me tell you, I’m just really, really good at swinging things.”
"I don't think anything but sure. If it gets rough, just run."
"Haha, as if I'd leave you alone!"
Mydei struck first. Elbow, knee, heel, his attack was flowing through like a storm. One guy swung a chain at him; Mydei dodged, grabbed the wrist, and flipped him clean over onto the concrete.
Phainon wasn’t quite as graceful, but he had momentum. He let out a sharp yell as he swung the pipe and slammed it against the thug’s shin. The guy screamed, stumbling back.
“That’s for the punch, arsehole!” Phainon barked.
“You are scarily enthusiastic about this,” Mydei muttered as he ducked another fist.
“I’m trying to impress you!” Phainon shot back, blocking a kick with the pipe. “Is it working?!”
“No,” Mydei said flatly.
Phainon laughed, dodging a flying elbow. “Liar.”
Their movements began to sync like it wasn't their first fight together. Mydei knocking one low, Phainon swinging high. One thug tried to flank Phainon, only for Mydei to slide between them and slam him against the pillar. More of their enemies fell to the ground, unconscious.
The remaining two, clearly rethinking life choices, backed away and finally fled with curses and limping steps.
Phainon exhaled, bent over slightly with the pipe still in hand. His heart was racing. His lip was split. His whole body ached.
But he’d never felt more alive.
He turned to Mydei, eyes sparkling. “Okay. Now it’s the best day of my life.”
"...You’re a disaster.”
Mydei's gaze slowly moved across Phainon’s face. Bruised cheek, dirt-smudged skin, yet still that persistent and insufferable grin still tugging at the corners of his bloodied lips.
“You’re hurting,” Mydei whispered softly, felt his chest tightened.
Phainon tilted his head, his smile was tender. “Yeah. But only in the places that’ll heal.”
Mydei frowned. His jaw clenched, the golden gaze thrown to the ground. “I didn’t expect that being seen with me would make you a target.” His voice was heavy with guilt. “I should’ve known. It's my fault. I'm sorry.”
“Hey,” Phainon said, stepping forward without hesitation, pipe now discarded on the ground. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t apologise.”
He grinned again, cocky but reassuring. “I told you earlier, right? It was fun. I’m serious. You're coming in like that? Wrecking them? Kinda made it worth the bruise.”
Mydei scoffed. “You’re so weird.”
But his hand lifted slowly, brushing along Phainon’s lip with a gentleness that contrasted the violence they’d just endured. His thumb ghosted over the split skin. “This must hurt a lot.”
Phainon hissed softly. “A bit.” Then smirked. “Might hurt less if you kissed it.”
It was a joke. Light, teasing. Just another one of his lines.
But Mydei didn’t laugh.
He stepped in closer; his golden eyes softened under the shadow of the bridge. The adrenaline still sang through their veins.
And then, Mydei kissed him.
Lips to lips, firm and real.
The taste of blood lingered, metallic and sharp between them, but neither flinched. Phainon made a small, surprised sound in the back of his throat, but his hands found Mydei’s hips like instinct, holding him steady as the kiss deepened.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was fire-catching contact, built from bruises and tension and everything they didn’t get to say between notebook pages.
Mydei tilted his head slightly, pressing in harder, and Phainon leaned into it, letting his mouth part just enough, just enough for Mydei to take what he wanted. The kiss burned, heady, and fast, like they were still fighting but using mouths instead of fists.
Mydei pulled back, breath heavy, a thin string of saliva still connecting them before it broke.
Phainon blinked slowly, lips tingling, dazed. “I wouldn’t mind getting hit again if it means you’ll kiss me like that.”
Mydei looked at him, deadpan, but his brightened ears betrayed him. “You don’t need to get beaten up, idiot. Just ask.”
Phainon grinned, pupils blown wide. “Or...” he leaned in again, voice dipping low like seduction, “I could just kiss you myself.”
And he did.
This time slower. Deeper. Less heat, more aching adoration. His hands cupped Mydei’s jaw as their mouths met again, moving with something softer now, something warmer that bloomed slowly and surely through the cracks of pain.
And under that broken bridge, in the middle of the wreckage, with unconscious bodies all around them, they kissed again. Hungrily, passionately, like they’d been waiting all this time to stop imagining and finally feel it in person.
The final bell rang, echoing through the halls of Aedes Elysiae. Phainon burst out the class with his usual burst of energy. His school bag swung, his tie was half-loosened, and the breeze tousled his silvery-blue hair.
His smile was infectious; he answered every wave and greeting with his own. But never did he slow down because someone was waiting.
He was leaning against the gate with his arms crossed and the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up to his elbows to show off his muscles. Mydei, who was calm despite the look and whisper, looked way too perfect like a famous artist had painted him there.
Phainon's grin widened, if that was even possible. “Is this a boyfriend privilege?” he asked, stopping in front of him and tilting his head.
Mydei looked at him with his usual unimpressed gaze, but always so soft now in the corners. “I just want to make sure you're safe.”
“That’s what you say,” Phainon teased, stepping in and looping an arm around Mydei’s, “but this is the second week you’ve waited at the gate. You do realise I’m not gonna get kidnapped every week, right?”
Mydei huffed but didn’t shake him off. “One time was enough.”
As they walked side by side, Phainon still clinging to Mydei’s arm like a koala in a school uniform. The late afternoon sun lit their path, leaving a long shadow behind them. The breeze was gentle, comforting.
However, Phainon had been silent for a bit longer than usual. Not brooding exactly, but something was brewing in his head.
Mydei glanced at him. “You’re being suspiciously silent.”
Phainon puffed out his cheeks, still holding on to Mydei’s arm. “I'm just thinking.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“I can think, you know.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t. Just said it was dangerous.”
Phainon clicked his tongue. “Fine. Since you brought it up, so what did you do with that love letter from your classmate yesterday? Did you open it? Did they spritz perfume on it, or maybe my imagination was right and there's glitter bomb in it?”
Mydei tilted his head, eyebrows arched slightly higher. “You’re still on that?”
“Because you just said it didn't mean anything eventhough the letter seal was shaped like a heart. A heart!”
“I didn’t read it.”
“You still accepted it!”
“Only because they ambushed me by the library, and I didn’t want them to cry on the floor.”
Phainon narrowed his eyes. “So considerate. So calm. So mysterious in their eyes.” He sniffed dramatically. “You didn’t even tell them you have a boyfriend.”
“You never say you wanted it public.”
Phainon tugged on his sleeve. “Wait, so you’d tell people if I was okay with it?”
Mydei looked away. “...Why not?"
"Then do that. Say that you have boyfriend if anyone try to confess."
Mydei didn't say anything, only nodded. But his face was clearly tinted in pinkish tone.
Phainon's heart pounded slightly faster. He recovered quickly, though. “So, what did you do with letter?"
"I returned it to them today and apologised."
"Wow, they got your apology. How lucky..."
"Do you prefer me to glare at them or what?"
"Yeah?? If that will stop people from idolising you?"
“Your jealousy is getting uncontrolled.”
“Can you blame me when my boyfriend is just so cool?”
Mydei scoffed, looking to the ground, letting a pause settle between them.
Then, Mydei muttered casually, “So was I.”
The cyan eyes blinked fast. “What?”
“That time you said your manager gave you chocolates,” Mydei explained in a soft tone. “And you said she called you cute.”
Phainon stared at him. “That was a team set! She gave it to the whole team, and it had the team logo on it! And she is like... basically a mom to me!”
“You still smiled when you talked about it.”
"I was grinning because I talked about it with you! I always smile when I'm with you!"
"Yeah, of course."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I do." Mydei shrugged. "Still, it doesn't make it any less annoying. You know what I meant, right?"
"Yeaah, but really, Mydei. You'll always be the one whose name I shout out while doing the homerun."
Mydei grimaced, as if remembering what happened that day. "Don't do that again."
"Ehh, why not? I was thinking to recite a poem for you while running base to base."
"I'm not going to your next match."
"Hahaha, don't be so cruel. I can't do anything right without you as my moral support."
"You did fine before we met."
"But I'm better with you now!"
As they passed under the tree-lined road, Phainon slowed a little. His gaze drifted again and again to Mydei’s face, sharp yet gentle, cool yet flustered so easily.
Mydei eventually caught the stare. His brows furrowed. “...What? Is there something on my face?”
Phainon nodded seriously. “Yeah. Close your eyes for a sec.”
“What? Why?”
“Just trust me,” Phainon said, the grin was playing at his lips.
And somehow, Mydei did fall to it.
He closed his eyes.
And Phainon leaned up without warning, brushing their lips together in a quick, feather-soft kiss.
When he pulled back, his voice dropped into a whisper near Mydei’s ear. “You’re way too beautiful.”
Mydei’s eyes flew open, a blush blooming so fast it spread from his cheeks to his neck. “Cut it out.”
Phainon smirked. “Or what? You’ll kiss me harder?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Phainon blinked. “...Was that flirting? Wow, my cool boyfriend seduced me!”
“I’m leaving.”
“You’re not. You like me way too much to leave me stranded here.”
Mydei sighed, but his smile betrayed him as they reached the library gate.
They still wrote to each other, still filling the notebook, because some habits are worth keeping. Tucked it into the drawer at the desk near the window like always. The book remained as their space, their little world with margins full of stickers.
But now, their words didn’t live just between pages. It was after-school walks and cold drinks, arguments about which book was overrated, and silent reading sessions where Phainon fell asleep against Mydei’s shoulder.
From notes between strangers to holding hands in public.
From stickers and reviews to soft smiles and kisses that meant more each time.
It all began with a page.
But now, their story lived in between moments.
**