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To say Mydei has grown used to Phainon’s presence would be an understatement.
Phainon has become a constant in Mydei’s life, made a home in his heart. Phainon was always there, loud and bright. Cheering the loudest at graduation, beaming with that thousand-kilowatt smile, laughing without a care in the world, one arm slung around Mydei’s shoulder, holding an umbrella for the two of them in the rain. He was one of those cliche love interests in romance novels: a charming heartthrob more a beam of sunshine than a man, with a presence enough to make a room feel more alive. A love Mydei is proud to call his, a love that everyone knew.
But, in the deep recesses of Mydei’s mind, there are also the quieter moments like secrets for him and him alone to know—fingers laced under tables, thighs pressed together as they sat next to one another, warmth of a breath against his neck as they’re tangled in an embrace. And those secrets, he held them close to his heart. He held Phainon close to his heart.
It was impossible not to love Phainon; it came naturally. To Mydei, it was muscle memory, etched on every bone, written all over his very soul. It was as easy as breathing. With every flutter of his eyelashes, with every rising of his chest, every beat of his heart, he loved Phainon.
And when their love went sour, the world felt a little emptier.
There wasn’t an argument. There was no big fight, no screaming match, no punches pulled. Just quiet resignation after a conversation—then it’s over. Phainon packed boxes, took back the pieces that made their house a home. The matching dog mug on the dish rack, the blue toothbrush by the bathroom sink, the misshapen ceramic projects on the living area… all gone.
Mydei found bitter irony in it. It took them years to build this life. They would lounge in bed, wistfully sighing about forever together. Yet, it only took a few words and a few hours to destroy it all. How funny is it that their life together can be packed in five boxes and carried away by a truck? To think that there was a time when Mydei had a hard time distinguishing what was his and what was Phainon’s. Phainon would give him that blinding smile, declare that everything that’s Phainon’s is also Mydei’s.
(‘But this,’ Phainon once said, pressing Mydei’s palm against his chest. ‘This one’s all yours.’)
Turns out, this whole time, there was a drawn line marking whose is what that was invisible to his eyes. Their home is left half-empty with Phainon’s absence. There are awkward spaces in the house: places where shelves used to be, spots where Phainon’s plants used to thrive. But the most obvious empty space is one that Phainon left behind in bed—a king-sized bed felt too big for one person.
The silence that fills the home that once held all their love feels wrong. Like the world is off-kilter, a few inches tilted off its axis. The first few mornings, Mydei would still blindly grasp at the cold space next to him, reaching for warmth that wasn’t there. The nights were even worse; his mind would wander, remember how good it felt to have arms around him, and a hand rubbing his back. The comforting mumbling he used to grumble at became a noise sought. Mydei never thought he was needy, but he learns a little more about himself with Phainon’s absence.
Though he yearns, he won’t beg, he won’t cry for ghosts in a haunted home. He doesn’t visit the diner they would frequent every weekend, even as his tongue misses the taste of their so-called usual. He turns off the radio when they play the song Phainon would hum idly. He doesn’t entertain the tempting thought of texting a number he has long memorized. He’s better than that. He’s above that.
But Phainon wouldn’t stay away from him. Not for long.
His heart still felt like a heavy weight beneath his ribs when he first opened the door to a familiar face. It was nothing short of a spit to the face when he realizes—oh, he’s here.
(‘Sorry,’ he said. Mydei wanted to punch that beautiful face. ‘I forgot to pack some of my books. I’ll get them, and then I’ll be out of your hair forever, I promise.’)
Picture this: the love of your life stands before you, a bashful expression on his face. He asks you if he can please get his books. He promises you that he’ll be gone after— forever, he says. Would you refuse him? Tell him he can go fuck himself and that those books can go to hell for all you care? Cuss him out for daring to return for something as trivial as a book instead of apologizing for breaking something as heavy as your heart?
Mydei’s choice didn’t involve any rational thinking. His reason frays with Phainon’s dizzying presence.
He couldn’t turn Phainon down. He couldn’t let his clenched fist do the talking. Not when his heart traitorously raced and its beat echoed in his ears. Having Phainon in the same room again, though a bad idea, felt like a promise of rain after a long drought.
(Later, he blames his lapse of judgement when he moves out of the way and lets Phainon walk back in like he still belonged. But at that moment, he would watch as Phainon’s fingers brush against spines of books sitting by the television and bit back the urge to ask for that touch on his spine.)
It didn’t take more than three days until Phainon came knocking again.
Phainon couldn’t stay away from him.
A forgotten jacket, a sorry excuse. I’m sorry for intruding again, please let me get it, and thank you.
The first time, Mydei could blame his surprise for rendering him stupid. The second time, maybe it could be blamed on disbelief at the audacity on display. As for the third, the fourth, the fifth… He’s not so sure.
Mydei doesn’t know who to blame, but there’s hardly any time to think when he opens the door to be greeted by the usual sight of one white-haired man.
“Hey,” Phainon says, trying for a smile. “So…”
He doesn’t wait to hear more. He pulls Phainon in by the collar, surging forward for a kiss.
At some point along the line, visits to retrieve a so-called forgotten item became this—heated kisses exchanged, words forgotten in favor of feeling.
Mydei’s hands go to Phainon’s face, cupping his cheeks. Phainon returns the sentiment, running his palms over Mydei’s body as though he’s familiarizing himself with the flesh. Both of them know they don’t need to be reacquainted. Not like the memory of one another could possibly fade that easily. It’s a source of frustration for them both—not being able to move on, to finally close the chapter for good—and it all culminates in the same song and dance they perform come late night.
Phainon is not a good liar, Mydei thinks. He could easily read through every fib, call Phainon out on his bullshit. He takes—no, used to take pride in it. Phainon, for all his so-called innocent smiles, is hardly honest. Mydei has always been forced to read between the lines, and reading Phainon became a skill. But there are some things Mydei thinks he shouldn’t know, especially now that they’re supposedly over. Only that—he does know. He knows what it means when Phainon’s smile falters for the briefest of moments. He knows what makes Phainon laugh the hardest. He knows how Phainon likes his breakfast. He knows that Phainon returning to his home nearly every damn night to retrieve an item he forgot is a total lie. He knows that every time Phainon picks up a book or jacket or anything he apparently forgot to pack when he moved out, Phainon replaces it with something else to ‘forget,’ a new item to come back for and start this play all over again.
Mydei doesn’t know why he even fell for the lie in the first place. Last week, it was a book on Egyptian history that Phainon forgot. The other day, he picked up a tie that he somehow lost in Mydei’s closet. And tonight, it’s…
He doesn’t know. He had gladly interrupted Phainon before he could even get his usual greetings out. But does it even matter anymore? They both know it’s an excuse. Phainon knows he only needs to come knocking with a polite smile. Mydei knows he’ll open the door. Phainon knows it’ll work. Mydei knows he’ll let it happen.
So it happens again and again and again. Phainon comes by his place after work, still weary from a long commute. He hides his need under sheepish smiles and a request to let him fetch whatever it is that he has apparently forgotten.
Mydei tells himself it’s just a habit, a part of routine marked on Phainon’s agenda that’s yet to be erased; this was Phainon’s home, too. If he tells himself how methodical this is supposed to be, if he ignores how right the warmth of Phainon’s breath feels against his skin, if he pretends not to feel the tenderness, he could tamp down the hopeful fire that threatens to ignite.
Led by Phainon, they both stumble to their bed—no, it’s Mydei’s bed. Phainon doesn’t own a damn thing here anymore. Not the bed, not the shelves they assembled, not the mismatched ceramic plate set, and especially not Mydei’s heart.
(Mydei repeats it over and over again in his mind in hopes it comes true.)
Phainon kisses Mydei like he’s starving. All tongues and teeth, three parts needy and one part apologetic.
I won’t take you back, Mydei should say. But he doesn’t. Instead, he kisses back just as desperately. He savors Phainon’s desire like it’s the last time he’ll ever taste it.
“Mydei,” Phainon groans against his mouth. “I still…”
Mydei brings a hand to the back of Phainon’s head, pulling him down hard, stopping whatever stupid thing will come out of that mouth. It could never be anything good. Not when they’re here. Not when Phainon is tugging on Mydei’s shorts.
Thankfully, he gets the hint. Phainon busies his mouth with more kissing and less speaking. And when he gets hungry for more, he trails his lips lower, slotting his face in the crook of Mydei’s neck like he belongs there. Teeth lightly nip at Mydei’s earlobe, and Mydei does not bite back the gasp that threatens to escape him.
“Phainon,” he says, and he finds himself hating how breathless he sounds. Nothing has happened, and yet he’s already reduced to a mess. It’s humiliating—despite it all, Phainon could still melt him down and get him hard.
Phainon doesn’t lift his face from Mydei’s neck. He says between kisses, “Yes?”
“Just–” he sucks in a breath, trying to sound steady. Like Phainon’s lips don’t fill him with need. “–just get on with it.”
And the bastard laughs. Mydei hates how it makes his cheek feel warm. Hates how right it sounds, like his home was always made to contain the sound of his laughter. Phainon asks coyly, “It? What’s it?”
“You know what it is.”
“Hm… The monster clown that comes every sixteen years?”
That doesn’t even make any sense. Mydei should be annoyed. Really, he should. But his treacherous heart skips a beat at this familiar humor. Why, he wants to ask himself, does he miss this? Why does Phainon’s irritating personality amuse him still?
The lingering silence only serves as an invitation for Phainon to tease him further. “Come on, be honest. What do you want?”
His lips part, about to say, you. But he swallows all the sentiment and keeps them contained, away from Phainon. His response comes a second too late. “I want you to fuck me.”
Phainon’s lips curl into a smirk. He sardonically says, “Ah, you’re so sweet and romantic,” before sliding a hand under Mydei’s top. The fabric is ruched over a wrist until the hem is lifted to above Mydei’s chest. Another complaint is ready to escape Mydei’s throat—something about stalling—but is swiftly forgotten when Phainon starts to thumb at a nipple.
He jolts at the contact. Phainon, thankfully, makes no comment to tease. Phainon remains quiet as he’s above Mydei, eyes hazy with want. A familiar expression, to be sure. There have been many nights of Mydei bearing witness to Phainon’s look of arousal.
Phainon mumbles something under his breath. Mydei would ask what he’s saying, but the softness that comes to Phainon’s face is enough to dissuade him. He doesn’t want this conversation now. And maybe not ever.
He can’t bear to think of this mess anymore. He wants to think less—he spends enough hours in the day occupied by a jeering of a voice that’s his. He’d rather have these moments marked with Phainon’s voice, so his hand comes to cup the bulge on the other man’s pants.
Phainon’s head drops to his neck once more, groaning. Hips buck against Mydei’s hand, and he considers this his victory. It’d be no good if he were the only one desperate between the two of them.
“Off,” he says as he moves his hand to the buckle of Phainon’s belt. “Now.”
“Demanding,” Phainon replies, but obliges. He pulls away from Mydei, depriving the other of his warmth.
Hands make quick work of discarding his pants and button-up with the grace of a frog. Not that Mydei minds—against his will, every little thing about Phainon had turned into something endearing. The display of desperation and need only serves to fuel to Mydei’s own.
The embers of Mydei’s need fully ignite when Phainon tugs his boxers off, revealing a hard cock, tip red and angry. But then, Phainon starts to stroke himself as he looks down at Mydei with half-lidded eyes, and Mydei can hardly believe the gall. Mydei’s all laid up beneath him for the taking, but he’s satisfying himself with his hand? Phainon’s stupidity knows no bounds.
“Stop,” Mydei sits up just to hold Phainon’s hand in place. “I’m right here.”
An amused look comes over Phainon’s face. He says, “You’re so eager. Did you miss me?”
A vein could pop at his forehead anytime now. Mydei doesn’t dignify the taunt with a response. Instead, he pulls Phainon down again, until their groins are only separated by Mydei’s shorts.
“Wait, this is not fair,” whines Phainon. “I’m naked and you’re still all dressed.”
Way to state the obvious, Mydei thinks. He pushes Phainon back ever so slightly, just enough to give him space to hastily pull his bottoms down. When he lifts his head to look at Phainon, he shudders at the blatantly hungry look on Phainon’s face.
“Don’t just stare,” Mydei says.
“Yes, love,” Phainon returns, his voice painted with a dreamy lilt.
Love, he says, like they’re still together. Love, like he isn’t the one coming over for a fuck and only for a fuck. Love, he says, and it sounds more like mockery than affection.
Mydei freezes. That– that is exactly why he thinks this is a bad idea. A disaster waiting to happen. An endearment slips past Phainon’s lips thoughtlessly, and every cog in his brain starts to work overtime. Phainon, stupid Phainon with his perfect smile, his tempting body, his effortlessly sweet words—they work to weaken Mydei’s defenses.
(They agreed it was already over, but why does Mydei feel like it could never end?)
Phainon wraps his hand around Mydei’s cock, pumping at leisure, and those spinning cogs sputter. Mydei hates it.
“Don’t be a tease,” he grits out, tone purposely harsh even as he twitches in Phainon’s hold. “Just fuck me.”
A beat of silence passes before Phainon replies, “Why are you in such a hurry?”
Mydei doesn’t have an answer that’ll please either of them. He decides to do what usually works—a kiss for distraction, both for his sake and for Phainon’s.
It works; Phainon melts above him, resting his body on Mydei. His ribs don’t protest against the damningly familiar weight. His hips shift and move restlessly, grinding their cock against one another. The friction is both delicious and not enough. Mydei misses the feeling of Phainon (and probably always will)—but he will not settle for this clumsy pleasure.
“Do it properly,” Mydei says against Phainon’s lips. “Phainon.”
Phainon shivers at the sound of his name. He pulls away from the kiss with red and spit-slick lips, just to obediently indulge Mydei, reaching for the bottle of lube they keep on the nightstand. Carefully, tenderly, with the gentleness of a lover, Phainon moves a hand behind Mydei, prodding at his entrance. The coldness of the lube makes Mydei tense up for the briefest of moments, but Phainon catches it. As he always does.
“Is this—”
“Yes,” Mydei says, not letting Phainon continue his sentence. He doesn’t trust Phainon’s words, not when they come at a risk of an endearment to punctuate them.
Phainon looks displeased at being cut off, but doesn’t protest. He instead shifts his focus to preparing Mydei, adding a second finger to stretch out the flexed hole. Mydei burns at Phainon’s gaze, unwavering as they’re cast on his face, as if to look for a hint of denial. How ridiculous—they’ve done this so many times before, and Phainon has always been able to read even the most subtle of messages that his body has to say. There’s no need for this intense staring, not when Mydei could—and had once already— come from this alone.
The lingering displeasure on Phainon’s face evanesces the longer he stares down at Mydei. He says, “You’re getting so red. Are you seriously embarrassed over this?”
A frown forms on Mydei’s brow, “No.”
“You’re such a bad liar.”
“Says you.”
“Me? What do you mean?” Phainon snorts.
Mydei could laugh. He has about a few thousand words to say, an endless ramble on evidence of Phainon’s lack of ability to lie. He can go all night, he thinks, and there are only so few topics that can turn Mydei into a chatterbox. The topic of Phainon is one of them.
(He realizes belatedly, with shame, what that makes him.)
Either because Phainon can sense the retort prepared and he hates losing, or because he himself is growing impatient, he doesn’t give Mydei a chance to reply—he adds another finger within and moves them in a scissoring motion. He smugly gazes at Mydei, finding a place for his pride even at moments like these.
“What?” Phainon coos, sickly sweet. “Come on, tell me. Or are you so easy that this is enough to make you go quiet?”
He feels the need to compete, prickling at the base of his spine. Just like Phainon, Mydei bites every bait, leaving not a single one hanging unattended. It’s why they fit together like puzzle pieces, according to so many friends. Separated, they show maturity. Together, they unleash the immaturity they never afford themselves otherwise.
Is it immaturity or desire that makes Mydei reach for Phainon’s neglected need? He doesn’t know. He hardly has any answers when it comes to Phainon.
Mydei runs his thumb over Phainon’s slit, gathering the precum that has leaked out. Then, taking advantage of Phainon’s unrelenting stare, he brings his thumb to his lips, making a show of licking it clean. Phainon trembles in response, and a triumphant smile breaks on Mydei’s face. He coos in a tone mirroring Phainon’s, “You’re just as easy.”
Phainon manages a weak laugh—a sign of his waning restraint. “Just as easy? So you are easy.”
Mydei thinks Phainon is being petty when he pulls his fingers out. But the emptiness lasts for but a moment when Phainon takes one of Mydei’s legs, moving to hook it over his hip to make space between Mydei’s thighs. He guides his cock to Mydei’s awaiting hole, preparing to make his way in.
“No more teasing,” Phainon murmurs. “Happy now?”
Mydei could bristle at the tenderness with which Phainon regards him. Turn away from the unneeded care that twists in each word from Phainon.
He doesn’t. He basks in it instead.
“Quiet. You talk too much.”
Phainon softly chuckles. The fondness in it makes Mydei ache. “You’re the boss.”
When Phainon eases in, Mydei’s hand finds stability on Phainon’s back. He holds on tight, nails forming crescents on the skin, as he relishes the feeling of being filled. Phainon is careful in his journey of burying himself in Mydei, and he could almost cuss with impatience if not for the gentle kiss that Phainon presses against his lips.
Before Mydei’s reason and foresight could kick in, Phainon whispers against his lips, “I miss you every day, you know?”
Mydei will put it bluntly for himself, a reminder to keep himself from hoping—this could be nothing more than mindless sex. He doesn’t want to believe in the words carelessly spoken in the throes of pleasure. He doesn’t trust a tongue that had been in his mouth just moments ago. A mouth running on lust is oftentimes, if not always, deceptively sweet.
“Do you, now,” He bitingly says. Not a question, not an invitation to elaborate. Instead, a chance to take it back or let those words fade with words more filthy and less loving.
Phainon doesn’t take the chance. He doubles down as bottoms out, “I do. I miss you every day.”
Mydei groans, a mix of pleasure and exasperation. Of course. Phainon has always been sentimental in bed, unable to stop himself from spouting promises—marriage, kids, house with picket fence, the whole nine yards of a happy ending. He has half the mind to tell Phainon that they’ve broken up, that he was the one who so quickly drew a line between them, upped, and left.
Phainon wants him dead, he’s sure. Wants to rip his heart out of his chest because he’s not satisfied with the damage he’s already done. If Phainon wants to destroy Mydei, he should opt to obtain his victory fairly by moving his hips instead of using dirty tricks like honeyed words.
“Shut up. And move.”
“Tell me you miss me, too.”
Mydei closes his eyes. He restrains the urge to spit in Phainon’s face as thanks for all the trouble caused, and then confess just how much the word miss doesn’t come remotely close to what he feels in the next breath.
Phainon buries his face on Mydei’s neck once again. He presses a trail of kisses along Mydei’s throat until he reaches Mydei’s ear. He sounds almost wounded when he whispers, “Please? It doesn’t have to be true.”
“Shut up,” he repeats. And then, “I miss you, too.”
It’s enough to put Phainon at ease. Pleased and placated, he gives what Mydei has been wanting.
The first few thrusts are shallow. Then, Phainon speeds up, holding Mydei’s thigh in place. He takes Mydei’s length in hand, pumping in tandem with his hips rocking. Mydei feels Phainon breathe him in. And, despite himself and the way they’re tangled in bed now, a warm flush comes to his face, pinks blooming in his cheeks.
“Mydei,” Phainon doesn’t allow the sound of their bodies moving to be the only noise. “You’re… so beautiful…”
The words send a fresh wave of arousal over him, praise rushing straight to his dick. He moans, “God… Phainon…”
“I keep dreaming about you and then– hah– I get disappointed when… you’re not there… with your pretty face…”
At that, Mydei’s eyes shut. No, not this again. He doesn’t want to—
“Please… look at me,” Phainon mewls close to his ear. “Please, never look away from me…”
(Here, Mydei forces himself to face the fact of the situation: try as he might, he will never be free from Phainon, won’t he? It’s why he opened the door, even when he knows it’s the farthest thing from a good idea. It’s why he allowed Phainon to bring their lips together even as they’re over. He knows why his stomach twists at the idea of Phainon stopping these visits. It’s why he lets this happen; he’d rather that Phainon come to him every time he’s needy, because he doesn’t know what he’d do if Phainon found someone else to indulge in.
Mydei’s a fool who has to accept the truth—he will always be weak when it comes to Phainon.)
“I won’t,” he says, opening his eyes. Phainon’s pleading face, colored by the exertion of his movements, is what greets him. Utterly adorable, no matter what.
Phainon lets out a sound between a moan and a whine. He shifts, changes the angle, and his pace quickens even further. Mydei’s breath hitches—there, he’s reeling from the pleasure.
“Fuck, Phainon—”
“I’m here,” Phainon breathily says. “I’m here.”
“Hah…”
The pace is merciless, and Mydei would feel used if not for the fingers raking back his hair lovingly and the nearly incoherent sweet nothings that Phainon offers him. When Phainon shifts his hand lower and squeezes—
He spills all over his stomach. Phainon follows shortly after, but not inside—he’s lost that privilege the moment he walked out the door. Their release mix, a combination that Mydei would taste for himself had he not been slapped with reality the moment he came down from his high.
This is when he pays his penance—in the aftermath where only their labored breaths fill the empty air. When the pleasure is over, and the haze of the moment dissipates. Consequence.
Phainon isn’t one to overstay. He springs to action after a beat, moving to wipe both Mydei and himself clean. Only this time, he moves slowly. More deliberate. Like he’s deep in thought as he cleans the evidence of their mistake.
Yet, in the end, he says nothing.
He has the grace to pretend to still pick up the stupid mystery item of the day. Phainon lifts a tie clip—small, inconsequential thing that it is. Buying a new one costs less than the commute to Mydei’s place and then to Phainon’s new home. “I got it.”
Mydei can’t help but say with a hint of snark, “Anything else you forgot? Better look around and take them home once and for all.”
Phainon pauses at that. His lips part wordlessly, his brows knit together, and he looks almost hurt.
Mydei closes his eyes, almost as if it’ll make both Phainon and the regret go away. (Un)fortunately, it doesn’t. Both stay in Mydei’s heart.
The sound of Phainon shifting around, setting his appearance right once more, fills the silence. The music to conclude the play for the night.
“Mydei…?” Phainon calls out. “Are you asleep?”
“I’m tired,” And he is. Half of Mydei wants it to end, wants closure, wants to forget. The other half wants the easy banter back, the late conversations, the smiles, the—everything.
(Mydei doesn’t beg.)
“I’m so sorry,” Phainon says, sounding not as apologetic as Mydei wants him to be. There’s a brief pause, as if to test the waters, trying to gauge what’s the right thing to say. He decides with, “I’ll get going.”
If disappointment twists at Mydei’s chest, that’s only for him to know. “Mhm.”
Mydei pretends not to see Phainon place a wristwatch on the nightstand before leaving.