Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Phainon is broke. No, scratch that—he’s beyond broke at this point. Beyond saving, even.

There is silence within the four walls of his home, save for the faint hum of the fan as its blades spin. There are no eyes on him. Just Phainon and his degree on display by the fireplace. The degree that is almost mocking him; to all persons to whom these presents may come, be it known that the local car-washer and lawn-mower has so well merited as to be proclaimed Master of History.

As the most expensive piece of paper lies secure behind glass, its competition comes in the form of piles of overdue mail sitting at the kitchen table. The electricity’s taken care of. The water bill is relatively low and affordable. As for the house itself…

He’s fortunate enough to live in the picturesque town that is Aedes Elysiae. Wheat fields with swaying gold, sprawling green hills that turn a chocolate-like brown in the summer, the air filled with the song of the rushing rivers, the crystal blue waters of the ocean… It’s a provincial paradise. Phainon is proud to call it home.

Very few people came by; they were mostly travelers who were passing through. Aedes Elysiae was, at first, just a pitstop. People who stopped were friendly—Phainon remembers being no older than thirteen, assisting a lost Aidonian, guiding them through the maze of beat-up paths near the fields. Some would stay just long enough to sing and dance with the locals at festivals. Some would stay forever, finding their fated half and their new home.

An omen comes in the form of a popular influencer taking a digital detox and travelling to find his inner peace. When he came back to the world online, he posted about his nomadic experience, talked about how a certain town was so sweet and welcoming and just the perfect getaway to escape the fast-paced city life; a hidden gem, one he dared not gatekeep. Before everyone knew it, Aedes Elysiae made its way to the list of the world’s top must-sees, hashtag cottagecore, hashtag nature, hashtag aesthetic.

Trouble starts with T. T, as in tourists. Everything slowly changed. The sleepy town soon became lively as more and more people flooded in, rude and elbowing their way through everything. Tourists come in droves every summer to see Aedes Elysiae’s wonders in person. Cell towers stand on the horizon, a connection once difficult to reach now coming with ease. Homes are torn down to become summer houses, because there’s low demand for home walls painted vivid orange with flowerbeds on the lawn as opposed to a monochrome modernist house. Neighbors start moving, and faces come and go. Prices double, sometimes even triple.

Worst of all, property tax only gets higher. It was already bad enough when Phainon was still young, still getting waved off with ‘don’t worry’ and ‘just focus on school.’ Those smiles and pats on the back do not render him deaf; he used to overhear his parents talk late in the night, whispering conversations of maybe one of them going to the city to find a new job, just to have something to keep their home. Desperation leaves a mark, and Phainon is not so naive as to pretend he doesn’t see it through their forced smiles and reassurances.

Now, there are no smiles, no one to tell him not to worry. Just him at his kitchen table, with paper demands to keep him company.

“You’re kidding,” he mutters to himself, staring at the numbers in bold. He rubs his eyes just to check if he’s imagining one of the zeroes. Nope. Still the same number. A whopping twenty thousand Balance Coins overdue. Twenty thousand! Kephale wept.

He tries, in vain, to think of a way to save himself. He’s working at a bar every Friday and Saturday night. Bleak schedule, he knows, but it’s better than nothing. Washing cars is a possibility, but an automated car wash just opened recently. He also cleans yards, which is perfect for the summer—the tourists love their green lawns and uniform lines more than anything. It’s just a matter of beating others to the gig. Maybe he’ll put up a post about that later.

He doesn’t need to do mental math to know it’s not enough. It’s not half, not even a quarter of what he owes.

His grip on the paper tightens as his stomach twists into a knot. He doesn’t feel any better when the bill crumples under his hold; it’s not like its destruction means the erasure of whatever debt he’s found himself falling into.

It’s hard to accept that, just as he once outgrew his favorite yellow sweater, his town is outgrowing him.

He knows this is expected. He lives in a tourist magnet. A ‘must-visit.’ Naturally, people will gravitate towards his home, buy summer houses that will put the neighborhood value through the roof, and then drive the locals out when everything gets too pricey. Tale as old as time.

But, this is just beyond ridiculous, isn’t it? Where is he going to get twenty thousand in three weeks? It’s definitely not through cleaning yards or repairing some broken fans or serving some drinks or walking dogs. Not in three weeks. In three years, maybe. But before then, what? He’ll live in cardboard boxes? Let someone have his home—his family’s home?

He lowers the crumpled letter, lets it rest on top of the unopened envelopes of bills. Twenty thousand, he repeats in his head, as if it’s not real enough for him. Twenty thousand that he needs to pay in three weeks, or else. He doesn’t want to think of the else. Not when he can still see the scratches on the floor from when he’d carelessly drag his chair when he was younger, not when he can still see the lines marking his height on the kitchen doorway, not when he’s still left his parents’ room as it is.

He’s spent years running along dirt paths, laughing until his sides hurt. He’s danced in every festival, claimed his title as the longest reigning champion in climbing greased bamboo poles. He’s familiarized himself with the shapes of the hills, the hues that the leaves take in every season. Aedes Elysiae is his home, and it always will be. But if it wants him out so badly, then—

He closes his eyes.

He’ll be fine.

He has no choice but to be fine.

“You look terrible,” Cyrene says in lieu of a greeting, voice sweet and melodic. She sits in the old swings they used to waste hours on, swaying lightly as she sips at her morning tea.

Phainon’s other half, his closest friend, and the sister he never had comes in the form of a head of light pink hair and an even brighter voice. Despite her being older by two years, she stands a foot shorter than him. She never grew, not really—she’s given Phainon some grief for him daring to have a growth spurt when he was fourteen, and she’s also given him the most immature of smiles and jokes. Poking fun at him comes naturally to her, just like how biting her bait comes naturally to him.

“Thanks. I had a terrible morning,” he replies. He doesn’t want to talk about what’s wrong. Not yet. Not when she’s all chipper. So he says, “Messed up my coffee.”

“Oh? Whose fault is that?” she hums, wiggling her brows. “Did you have someone over again, huh? Have them serve you world’s worst breakfast in bed?”

He makes a face, half exasperated and half amused. He loves her dearly—it’s Cyrene, it’s hard not to love her—but she’s impossible. He’s long accepted the fact that he wouldn’t have it any other way, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel an incoming migraine at the prospect of her endless teasing. “No,” he says. “I just tried something new. I learned I didn’t like it.”

“Really?” she presses, persistent. “What did you try?”

He pauses for a split second, just enough to spit out a blend off the top of his head. “Cranberry coffee.”

“Aw, so it’s really just coffee news today? No sexcapades gone wrong?”

“Cyrene, please…”

She laughs. It’s something familiar in the ever-changing Aedes Elysiae. Phainon is assured that, no matter what happens, he’ll at least still have that. His mother once joked that she and he were a package deal. He’s happy to think of them that way; as long as there’s Phainon, there will be Cyrene, and vice versa.

“Come on! Don’t clam up on me,” she gives him a little tilt of her head and a knowing look. Translation: jig’s up. He should’ve known there’s no hiding anything from her. She doesn’t make discovery twist into dread. Instead, it feels more like acceptance, a warm embrace to sink into. “Your nose always does a little scrunch, and you’re all tense when you’re trying to hide something. Plus, that dark look on your face… My sensors tell me that that can’t be anything but bad news.”

Oh. He tries to relax. His shoulders sag and he fixes his expression, undoing that alleged scrunch. He marks this as a record-breaker as the shortest time he’s ever spent hiding something from Cyrene. Less than a minute. It’s either he’s bad at acting or she’s a mindreader, but he’s leaning towards the latter.

“The house,” he begins, and it feels almost too heavy to say aloud. It feels like a curse on his tongue—like just saying it would just establish the fact and indicate his surrender. “It’s… I may or may not be sinking into debt as we speak.”

Her eyes practically pop out of their sockets. Her mug falls from her hand, and her tea is reduced to a mere splatter on the wooden platform. It’s exactly how he predicted.

“Debt?” she clutches at her chest, standing up from the swing. “What do you mean, debt? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything insidious like betting my house, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he weakly laughs. “It’s… twenty thousand Balance Coins due on taxes. On the property. They’re upping it, as you know. You must’ve seen your own bills… and managed it much better than I have.”

Cyrene’s face shows her concern, brows furrowing and teeth worrying at her bottom lip. He hates to see that expression, most of all because it’s he who brought it to her face. He’s never been fond of sharing his burdens; he knows she would carry its weight along with him. Shared misery is misery halved… or so they say.

“You… haven’t been paying?”

A pained laugh. “No.”

“Oh, Phainon,” she sighs the same way an owner would sigh at a dog chewing their shoes.

“Not intentionally,” he jumps to his own defense. He swiftly continues, “I mean—yes, intentionally. But not because I don’t feel like paying. I just… can’t afford to pay.”

The admission is humiliating. Cyrene knows Phainon as well as he knows her, but matters such as money problems frequently go unsaid. Saying it aloud is a type of shame he wouldn’t wish upon anyone; the shame of admitting that he’s not making enough money despite… everything.

(He was a hopeful eighteen-year-old once upon a time and dreamt of becoming a museum curator because he’s yet to realize that there are very few openings in the entirety of Amphoreus that pay a humane wage for that position. Reality slaps him in the face hard when he gets turned down at everything else he’s applied to for being apparently overqualified. He’s hit even harder when he catches word of his mother falling ill, a fact hidden from him so as not to worry him. That’s something that runs in his family’s blood—the need to shoulder everything alone.

If he were to waste his time in the capital getting rejected by everyone, he might as well just go home and tend to his mother. And so, that’s exactly what he did. He packed his bags, left Okhema, and returned to Aedes Elysiae with only two sheets of paper to show for all he’s done while away from home. Though his mother held his hand and told him she was proud, he didn’t feel pride over anything he’d done. Not when all he could do was watch as his mother grew worse, and his father followed in heartbreak.

His parents worked hard to keep him happy. He repaid them by doing fuck all in Okhema and returning with no money and watch them go.

Years passed, and nothing’s changed.)

“What do you plan to do?” Cyrene asks, stepping close to Phainon. She places a hand on his shoulder, comforting and grounding at once.

He smiles, because that’s what he does best, and it’s the most he can offer. “What I usually do. I’ll work my magic.”

It’s half past noon when he makes a posting about offering his landscaping services. The sun is high up in the sky and burning through the window pane, heating up Phainon’s back. The spinning fans of the computer are not helping the weather, either.

The computer runs slow. His phone is working perfectly, but it’s not the best way to go to Jadeslist. He’s tried it before; the mobile display optimization is nonexistent. Besides, the computer is fine. Slow, but not so much that it’s borderline unusable. It’s just enough to make him feel like he’s watching a snail race rather than one of humanity’s greatest inventions. The attached images aren’t helping, he figures. But he needed it to sell his services convincingly, to show that he’s cleaned up gardens devastated by storms before. Trimming some grass and hedges is peanuts to him.

He chews on his lunch of chicken and brown rice, left hand holding his spoon and the right holding the mouse. He shifts to lift one leg and rest it on the chair. It does little to ease his discomfort. Sweat is forming on his forehead, and his back is not getting any cooler.

He turns his gaze to the fan. It shakes where it stands from the speed at which the blades are spinning. Though it seems a few seconds away from exploding, he knows better—it’s one dramatic fan, rattling every few seconds for nothing. It’s also hardly helping him feel cool; it simply propels the warm air in his direction. Still, Phainon would rather not bathe in his sweat and decides that a warm breeze is better than feeling no breeze at all.

“Come on…”

Uploaded. Success. His post is up. Now, all he has to do is wait.

And then, he gets a harsh reminder. Right. No, he can’t. He literally cannot afford to waste time sitting on his ass, waiting for someone to come and give him money. He has to move.

Services in Aedes Elysiae. Click. The loading wheel spins and freezes mid-animation, because it just does that sometimes. Huh. It’s surprisingly quiet. The posts are calls made by people like him, looking to be hired, but the dates between posts are rather far apart. The latest listing was posted five days ago, and the previous one a week ago.

He scrolls down. And then he stops. He cannot help the way he perks up at the first few words of the title alone. Who knew the words ‘we are looking for’ could bring so much hope?

Without thinking much of it, he clicks. He shoves a spoonful of rice as the page takes its sweet time to load, each element acting as though it’s a fifty gigabyte game. It’s as if it can smell Phainon’s excitement and wants to keep him waiting for as long as possible. Unstoppable force (Phainon’s need for a job) meets an immovable object (a computer half Phainon’s age). It’s a game of who gives in first.

The page finally loads. He swallows his food and leans forward, eager to read.

“We are looking for anyone aged early to late twenties to date our twenty-one-year-old son,” he reads aloud, brows furrowing. “Temporary arrangement, lasting only throughout the summer. Compensation will come in the form of—”

He coughs when his eyes land on the following few words.

“—in the form of a secondhand Nymphbook Air and twenty-five thousand Balance Coins, serious inquiries only?!”

His eyes narrow at the screen. Seriously, the listing is too weird. It was posted two weeks ago and updated a day ago. It means no one has answered, and they’re probably sweetening up the deal to attract anyone stupid enough to fall for such a blatant scam.

Hah! Well, Phainon isn’t a fresh graduate who’s desperate for a job. He’s a twenty-nine-year-old in debt who’s desperate for a job. Get it right. There’s a difference. He knows what’s legit and what’s not. It’s all up to him not to get his hopes up.

He presses the back button. The loading screen stays on display for a full minute for his viewing pleasure. An impatient groan leaves his lips, but he refuses to be frustrated by something as simple as this. Don’t be frustrated by things you cannot control, his mother’s voice reminds him in the back of his head. And she’s right. He also has bigger priorities than getting a better computer.

The listings come to view once more. He scrolls further. Are you looking for an Amphorean tutor? Nope. Willing to be a part-time housekeeper. Ah. Will take any job at all. Oh… They’re all just people looking to get paid, each post only getting more desperate the deeper he goes.

He scrolls up, returns to the outlier. Click. The loading page gives him time to contemplate his decisions. When it loads, he gives the listing a stare, as if it could grow legs and walk right out of his sight. And who knows? Maybe it could. The possibility of this only opportunity slipping by is not a thought lost on him.

He lifts his other leg, rests both feet at his seat, resting his chin on his knees. If something is too good to be true, that’s because it is. Twenty-five thousand Balance Coins and a Nymphbook? It’s ridiculous. The pay might as well be a free cruise ship complete with a staff.

And what if the son in question is a murderer? Someone who’s off their rocker? Someone who’s so creepy he needs his parents to beg people online to date them? And what do they mean by date in quotation marks? What does ‘date’ imply? Is he supposed to wine and dine the son in question? Oh, Kephale, maybe have sex with the son? What if there were no parents involved, and it’s just one sick individual pretending to be a hopeless and loveless man to lure people for nefarious reasons?

He drags his mouse over the compensation, highlighting the words in blue. Twenty-five thousand. Secondhand Nymphbook Air.

A glance at the bills waiting on the dining table. They sit with a half-empty fruit basket, a sweating pitcher of water, and the silver pot for the rice cooker. It ruins his appetite.

If he dies… at least, the debt will die with him.

He clicks to reveal the contact number.

Phainon gives up on riding his bicycle uphill, opting to just drag it along as he walks through the more extravagant side of Aedes Elysiae, summer houses galore. He’s gone to this side of the province before, but only to clean pools—because the beautiful river and the white-sand beach are not enough—and not for a job interview.

At least, job interview is what he calls it. When he made a call, they said it was just a conversation to talk about the details and know more about him. They provided an address, and Phainon did his due diligence by checking it on Loogle Maps first. His phone displayed a luxurious mansion, and he had to hold in a humorless snort. Of course. Only people who lived in such an ostentatious home would get the idea of hiring a date for their son.

(The last time Phainon went on a job interview was years ago, back in Okhema. People in Aedes Elysiae know him as Audata and Hieronymus’ son and north star, reliable, sweet, and kind. It’s gotten him jobs with every business that opens and closes; people’s trust in him allows him to skip the formalities and just get straight to the point.)

He’s slightly winded when he stops in front of a set of silver gates. The house number plate reads 13. An intercom waits half a foot away from the gate.

“Hello, it’s Phainon,” he greets after pressing the call button. “From the Jadeslist post.”

A woman’s voice greets him back, “Come right in.”

The gate unlocks for him. Wow. Rich people… No, he shoves all his thoughts to the back of his head. Bitterness does not look good on him, and he wants to give the best first impression for his potential employers. That’s the rule. A smile fits him far better.

He walks past a garage housing two shiny, red cars. One is flashier than the other, though; a convertible, open two-seater. The other is more practical—a six-seater MPV, perfect for road trips. Phainon thinks both are beautiful, but that may just be him longing for something he can’t have.

A window cleaner glances at him as they wipe the glass. He offers a polite wave. They don’t wave back; their hands are occupied. Not a local, he notes. He knows everyone in Aedes Elysiae—the ones who have always been there. Their numbers are dwindling by the day, and he doesn’t blame the ones who leave.

“Phainon,” the same voice from the intercom calls from the balcony above. He tilts his head up to look, gaze landing on a woman with long, blond hair. The woman gestures to the set of stairs below. “Come in, please.”

He lets his bike rest on the stone wall on the side of the stairs. He ascends the steps, palms suddenly going clammy. Interviews have become linked to rejection in his mind—every step feels like one getting closer to the inevitable apology preluding a hard no.

Welcoming him on top of the stairs is a fancy fire pit. To the left, glass sliding doors. The entire house is practically made of glass, really—it’s like living inside a clear cube. Does it look good? Debatable. Is it almost an obscene display of wealth? Absolutely. Everything inside is on display.

A man emerges from the left, and Phainon instantly feels on guard. His hair is long, tied back with a bun. He looks well into his fifties, just a few inches taller than Phainon, made of pure muscle. He could probably punt Phainon off the balcony, and Phainon would leave nothing but a little glint in the sky before disappearing.

“Phainon?” the man asks.

“Yes, that’s me.”

He gestures with a tilt of his head to follow before he turns around and walks back into the home. Phainon trails behind him, careful to keep his footsteps light. They walk past the living area where a helper is vacuuming the floor, and past the kitchen where another helper is cutting watermelons. Another set of stairs is trudged through, and only when white double doors come to view do they stop.

The man opens the doors and wordlessly gestures for Phainon to come in. Phainon prays that his smile has not melted into a grimace in the wake of the ostentatiousness he had to pass through.

Inside, the woman from earlier is sitting on one of the couches, legs crossed and comfortably leaning against soft cushions. This close, Phainon is almost taken aback by how gorgeous she is. Her blond hair fades to a red hue at the tips—a detail easy to miss at a distance. Her arm, slung on the backrest, features bulk of muscle. Her eyes are gold, almost matching the signet ring on her finger. Smile lines leave their mark around her lips.

“Please, get comfortable,” she says, voice rough yet welcoming all the same. She motions to the seat opposite hers.

The door closes with a click, and the man takes his position next to who Phainon assumes is his wife. When he takes a seat, Phainon follows—he’s been taught not to sit before the host does.

“I’m Gorgo. And this—” she places a hand on the man’s thigh. “—is my husband, Eurypon.”

Phainon nods, “Thanks for having me.”

“Right,” Gorgo replies. “So, where are you from, Phainon?”

Straight to the point, no small talk about his favorite biscuit dip or his typical weekend. He appreciates that. “I’m from here.”

“A local,” Eurypon notes with a nod. “Must be wonderful, living in such a beautiful town.”

Yes, but also no. He makes no move to voice out his true thoughts—that’s not what he’s here for. He instead replies, agreeable as ever, “Absolutely. Can’t imagine leaving by the time summer ends.”

“Aedes Elysiae has always been on our list of places to visit,” Gorgo says. “But Eurypon and I… well, we feel bad leaving without our son, since he’s always so busy with studies. So, we waited until he finished his studies. Have this vacation as his graduation gift.”

A vacation as a graduation gift. Must be wonderful. Not that Phainon would know; he can only imagine. He slowly nods in response.

Eurypon adds, “He’s a kind boy. Too kind, if you asked me. It’d do him some good to—”

Gorgo clicks her tongue. She gives her husband a look, and it instantly quiets him down. With his silence, she turns her attention back to Phainon and continues, “The ID you sent us… You’re twenty-nine, no? You’re not married, are you?”

Phainon nearly chokes on his own spit. “No, I’m not. Ha-ha.”

“Had to be sure,” Gorgo says. “But I’m curious. Do you have any experience as an… escort?”

He runs his tongue across his teeth, the pause lingering in the air for a second too long. His first mistake, he realizes. He quickly amends the mistake with honesty. “No. But I have enough dating experience to know what to say and what to do.” Another pause. He adds, for good measure, “Two girlfriends and four boyfriends.”

(Oh, and a handful of one-night stands, but that’s overkill, isn’t it?)

The couple exchanges a glance. A sigh escapes Gorgo’s lips. Phainon braces himself for the inevitable, the no about to hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Our son… Mydeimos,” she says. “He’s a sweet boy. Not much of a talker, but a good listener. He’s withdrawn, though. He prefers to spend most of his days indoors. And when he’s out, he’s alone. He came out to us back when he was fifteen, and we expected a boyfriend to come along with it, but there was nothing. Just… an announcement. He hasn’t had a single girlfriend or boyfriend his entire life. And we’re so worried.”

Oh? The pit in Phainon’s stomach closes up in a snap. He can’t help it—he leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. He hums, indicating his interest in whatever it is that Gorgo may say.

Eurypon is the one who continues, “It’s not good for him to be alone. People need nourishment in all aspects—physical, social, spiritual. Mydeimos… is severely lacking in the social aspect. We’re not getting any younger, and we want to see our son explore his options and find his other half while we’re still here. We don’t want to be jars in the background of his wedding photos.”

Awfully morbid, Phainon thinks. He slowly nods in response, not quite sure what to say.

Gorgo adds, “Mydeimos is just… avoiding the dating scene for reasons beyond us. We’ve asked what puts him off, and he says there’s just a lack of sincere people in the pool. But how would he know, if he doesn’t try?”

Your son is concerned with the lack of sincerity, so you’ll pay me to pretend to love him to ease his anxiety? Phainon is in awe. Still, he sets that thought aside. “Mm, I see,” he says. “So, when you say you need someone to date your son, what do you mean by… date, with those quotation marks on the post?”

“Give him some love,” Eurypon answers. “Show him the delights of having someone by his side. Be a… what do they call it? A summer fling, right?”

“Right.” That clarifies very little. He asks further, “So, I’ll bring him on a few dates, get him curious about the world of dating, and nudge him towards it?”

“Yes, exactly. Get him out of his shell,” Eurypon affirms. “Mydeimos’ friends… well, the very few friends he has, they’re not people who promote relationships. They want to act like eternal bachelors, probably jumping from woman to woman with no intention to commit.”

“Love, they’re… they’re gay,” Gorgo says in a hushed voice, but loud enough for Phainon to hear. “His friends, they’re a ‘polycule.’”

“A what?”

“I think that means they’re dating each other.”

“That’s worse,” Eurypon grunts. “They can’t even invite Mydeimos in? Is he that unappealing to them?”

…Okay. A parent’s concern can be too much, sometimes bordering on insulting, when they keep seeing you as their baby sent off to daycare instead of a whole separate person. But is Phainon really about to lecture a couple about how they’re supposed to treat their twenty-one-year-old son when he’s hoping for some cents from their pockets? Fuck, no.

“Well! If he looks anything like either of you, he’s sure to be a looker!” Phainon laughs lightheartedly to remind them of his presence. He also prays to all the gods that their son is not adopted. “And Aedes Elysiae has an abundance of people for him to meet. Who knows, he might meet the one right here.”

“That’s what we hope,” Gorgo says. “But really, we don’t care where or who. We just want him to find his match.”

He presses his lips together. “That bad, huh? Bad enough that… there’s all this… for twenty-five thousand Balance Coins and a laptop?”

“Yes. That, and no one’s responded to our listing,” Gorgo replies, and Phainon is tempted to tell her that it’s because it reads like a scam. “It’s been up since we got here two weeks ago.”

“I’m up to the task,” he replies, a little too eager for his own ears. “I promise, your son will be taken care of. We’ll have the most peaceful and amicable breakup to send him right back to your home and get him craving more of the sweetness of dating.”

Gorgo looks at him, just eyes him in a rather scrutinizing fashion that makes Phainon’s skin crawl—before she says, “You’re a very cheery person, Phainon. You’re the sun our son needs. We’ll put him in your care.”

His brows practically fly to his hairline. He rushes to fix his expression because his astonishment at the acceptance is not one he wants to show so readily. “Oh, great! So… when do I start? Do I just… go up to his room now, tell him he has another gift?”

“No, he’s out right now. He’s at the beach, probably brooding,” Gorgo huffs and shakes her head in fond exasperation—a mother’s love shines through despite the trouble their child brings… even if said trouble is just the sin of being an introvert. “You can come in here tomorrow, pretend to fix—”

“Honey, he won’t believe that,” Eurypon interrupts. “I built him a treehouse from scratch. Anything we have broken doesn’t need anyone’s hands other than mine.”

Gorgo rolls her eyes and lets out a weary, heavy sigh. “Fine. Phainon, you can come by the beach tomorrow at two in the afternoon. We’ll be at the grilling area. You can… use your imagination on how to approach Mydeimos.”

“Of course,” Phainon nods. “I’ll see you there.”

Eurypon chimes in swiftly, “But you can’t tell him about this. This remains between the three of us, you hear?”

It sounds suspiciously close to a threat. Phainon knows when not to negotiate when trying to secure a job. “Yes, of course. I promise, my lips are zipped. He won’t know. No one would know. Ever.”

“To a wonderful summer!” Phainon raises a glass with no response whatsoever.

Livia and Piso remain as quiet as a mouse and as judgmental as he expected them to be. They’re nursing glasses of orange juice, much to their own chagrin, but Phainon will absolutely never hear the end of it if their parents find out they’re drinking under his supervision.

The silence is fine—Phainon tips the shot glass and downs it in one go, feeling it burn its way down his throat. He squeezes a lemon slice right after. He hisses, “Whew…”

Piso, once a little boy eager to get Phainon’s attention, is the one to give Phainon the dirtiest of looks. The years have turned him sharper, his mouth faster—fewer dreams about being a hero spouted and more derision dispensed. His snark softens only for one certain girl, who just so happens to be sitting beside him. He breaks the almost-solemn silence on their table, sarcastic when he asks, “Are you… okay? No, seriously, we’re concerned.”

“Fine and dandy,” he replies, voice coming out all sorts of wrong in the aftermath of his hasty drinking. “I’m celebrating, as you can see.”

“Ignore him,” Livia says without missing a beat, because of course she does. She’s soft to everyone but the so-called outsiders and Piso. Her hands are accustomed to both painting pretty pictures and slamming down on Piso’s back in reproach. She’s got a good eye for design, but Phainon frequently catches her staring at Piso’s back despite the boy’s usual plain clothing. “He’s just being mean to be mean.”

“Coming from you, of all people?” Piso rags. “This might be the pot meeting the kettle.”

“You’re an idiot. And you’re just not observant enough.” Livia then turns to Phainon. Her voice is softer when she asks, “You usually don’t drink unless something really bad happened. Are you okay?”

They’ve already grown up, Phainon knows. But now, he sympathizes with the helicopter parents who have to hire someone just to get their son out there. Livia and Piso will always be kids in his eyes, he thinks, remembering the days of them tugging on his arms and asking him to come humor them for a game as though it only happened yesterday. They don’t need to know that he’s so desperate to make money that he’s getting himself involved with the outsiders they’re so wary of, don’t need to know that he’s a few weeks away from possibly losing his home if he messes it up.

“Fine and dandy,” he repeats pointedly, just to tease. “I’m celebrating.”

The effects of the night before have already long worn off by the time the afternoon rolls around. He’s feeling as fresh as a dewdrop on a leaf on a spring morning. He’s in prime condition for some… well, seduction. Unbuttoned summer linen shirt? Check. Freshly shaved? Check. Hair raked back carelessly? Check. He’s the quintessential Aedes Elysiae surfer without the surfboard.

His target having no prior experience in dating is a challenge. If he just knew a little bit more about this Mydeimos person, Phainon could wear that type as a mask. A bad boy? He’ll put on such a convincing act that he’d be worthy of being a male lead in a Penaconian TV show. The boy next door? Sure, why not; he can be sweet and down to earth. Nerds? Cool, he can play the part. (He can hear Cyrene’s voice in the back of his head, singsong as she says he is a nerd already.)

With the way the man’s parents talk, he doesn’t know what to expect in terms of appearance. Mydeimos is apparently kind. A sweet boy. Not a talker. Phainon’s mind conjures an image based on that. How funny would it be if he looked exactly like his father except… like, deflated? Scrawny, no muscle whatsoever. If he’s withdrawn, he’s probably pale. But then again, Gorgo did say Mydeimos was at the beach yesterday. Maybe he was out to get a tan.

He descends on the beach. There are plenty of people sprawled on the sand, splashing around near the shores. The sun burns high up in the sky, merciless and unyielding as it always has been during this season. Summers in Aedes Elysiae have always been brutal as far as Phainon could remember.

His hand comes above his eyes, a shield against the rays, giving him a better view of the grills from afar. Damn. He’s in need of glasses, isn’t he? All he sees are lumps of color from a distance.

The scorching hot sand making a home on his slippers is ignored, long used to the feeling. He continues to approach the grills. The roof over it provides reprieve from the harsh heat, and Phainon is ready to make a casual remark about the summer and the sun and start the usual small talk he tries to strike up—but a man is working on the grill right there, and Phainon thinks, no, it’s still hot.

Grilling some weiners is the hottest man Phainon has ever seen. And Phainon has seen his fair share of attractive people; he does not give that title willy-nilly.

It’s not a local. Of course, it’s not. If this man were a local, Phainon would’ve noticed him long ago. The man’s conspicuous: tall, tanned skin decorated with red lines of ink, and… shirtless. Okay, duh, it’s the beach, but holy shit. His body is on display, pecs and abs and all. Phainon is in possession of basic human decency, so he doesn’t say anything indecent out loud—but he’s also in possession of functioning human eyes and good taste, so he leers as quietly as humanly possible.

His eyes flick down. “Wow. Nice weiner.”

The man turns his head to Phainon’s direction, golden eyes narrowed. There’s a little twitch to his features, one with a meaning that Phainon can’t decipher. “What?”

Phainon gestures to the grill, where the frankfurters are being charred. “That. Looks delicious.”

“…Right,” the hot man slowly says as he moves the food a little bit to the right, closer to him, as if Phainon’s about to snatch them up with his bare hands and run.

A beat of silence. Then, Phainon tries again, “You’re here for the summer?”

There’s a momentary pause, likely the hot man contemplating if it’s worth humoring Phainon or if he should just pack up the wieners, close the grill, and walk off. He doesn’t seem like a person who enjoys small talk. Tough luck! To survive in the world, a bit of small talk must be endured.

The hot man casts a wary glance at Phainon. Well—a glance, then a second, longer look. Phainon sees him get a good gander, eyeing him from head to toe. Phainon welcomes the not-so-discreet ogling with great relish.

When Phainon smiles and playfully raises his brows, the hot man seems to catch himself. He clears his throat and then replies, “Yes. Vacationing with family.”

“Oh, family? You got a wife and kids?”

“No,” comes a hasty answer. “No. I’m here with my mother and father.”

“Hey, ease up, I’m joking,” Phainon laughs. “How are you liking Aedes Elysiae? Even better than in the photos, right?”

“Yeah. It looks good. Really beautiful.”

That, at least, sounds a little less forced. Phainon can’t help the smile on his face. Despite his predicament, he feels some sort of warmth and pride at the fact that this is his home. This paradise that they can only escape to for the summer? This is his life.

Only once the silence between them lingers does Phainon realize he’s wasting time yet again. He’s supposed to be here to seduce the single-since-birth son of his employers, not hit on a random tourist. But the thing is, he doesn’t see the family he’s supposed to be meeting. Did they go the grills further to the left, near the bar? Maybe they did.

Just as Phainon’s about to turn around and wave the hot guy goodbye and all the usual pleasantries, Eurypon and Gorgo arrive. Just the two of them. And when Phainon opens his mouth to ask where their son is, if he’s brooding in his room this time—

“Mydeimos,” Gorgo says, her eyes flicking to the shirtless man and then to Phainon. “You made a friend?”

The hot man replies, “No.”

Phainon’s head snaps towards the hot man—no, Mydeimos, at high speed. This? This was Mydeimos? No, wait, it makes sense. He has his mother’s hair, eyes, lips, nose… well, everything. Was Eurypon involved, or was he simply a suggestion in the creation of Mydeimos? In any case, Mydeimos is gorgeous. He looks like an angel descended from heaven with that pretty face. And the body? Oh, the body.

But… this is the man who hasn’t gotten a single date in his entire life? There is no way. The world’s order must have gone awry, the planet must’ve gone off-kilter. Is Mydeimos an apparition who only appears to men sinking into debt? There’s no way that this man, this Adonis, has been single his entire life. Phainon simply doesn’t believe it. Maybe he is a part of his friend group’s polycule and just refuses to disclose it to his parents for some unknown reason.

Eurypon looks at Phainon expectantly. Phainon doesn’t want to fail before their eyes, so he says, “Yes! We’re friends now. Mydeimos, huh? Nice name.”

Mydeimos’ brows furrow at the sound of his name coming from Phainon’s mouth. He says, “Uh-huh. I don’t know who you are.”

“Phainon,” he supplies, easy as ever. “Now, you know. I will also have you know that I can show you around because I know this place like the back of my hand.”

“Whatever you two have going on, you can leave us out of it,” Gorgo says. On cue, Eurypon makes his way to Mydeimos’ side, taking over on the grill and practically shooing off his son.

Mydeimos doesn’t budge from where he stands. “I don’t—”

“Go, Mydeimos. Take it easy, make some friends,” Eurypon says, nudging his son. It sounds final.

Oh. Now, Phainon just feels awkward. Like he’s wandered into someone else’s home and overheard a father scolding their five-year-old for tugging on a classmate’s pigtails. Only that, the one being scolded is a whole adult man with muscles matching his father’s.

Hot-man-now-known-as-Mydeimos shows the strength of his will; he huffs, shakes his head, and steps away from the grill. A dry look is sent Phainon’s way, but Phainon’s smile remains unwavering. His charm won’t fail him. It can’t.

“Let’s go.”

Phainon learns three things about Mydeimos quickly.

One: Mydeimos is fond of sweets. When stopping by the bar, his order comes in the form of a strawberry milkshake topped off with whipped cream. Phainon’s prepared tease gets lodged in his throat when Mydeimos glares at him sharply as if to challenge him as his lips wrap around the straw. The amusement then turns to mild surprise as Phainon watches Mydeimos finish the beverage in what seems to be the blink of an eye. And get this—he even gives Phainon a look of judgment for not downing his watermelon shake just as fast.

Two: Mydeimos is drier than the desert. Every conversation Phainon tries to start swiftly turns into a monologue. For every fun fact Phainon dispenses, all he offers is a polite or acknowledging oh or ah or hm. It quickly gives Phainon an explanation for his status—who wants to date a man who can’t even hold a proper conversation? Minus ten points!

Three: Mydeimos can throw a really good punch.

Phainon stumbles back and into the river when Mydeimos’ fist meets his cheek. He sputters out the water that flowed into his mouth. He says the only thing going through his mind. “What the fuck!? What did I do?”

Mydeimos looks down at him, face steely. “You think I haven’t caught onto your cheap tricks?”

Shit. Does he somehow know that Phainon was hired by his parents? Did he let something slip by accident? But Phainon’s not careless, never has been. Trust doesn’t come by easily, and once lost, it’s forever gone. He’s delicate when he handles everything entrusted to him.

“Spare me from your schemes, Phainon,” Mydeimos continues. “If that’s even your name. I’ve heard of human trafficking rings happening in the countryside, but I didn’t think you’d be so bold as to target someone who can fight back.”

A beat. Phainon’s jaw drops. His cheek pays the price, still feeling the burn of the punch. The flow of the river water fills his ears. Mydeimos’ glare doesn’t soften all the while.

And then—

He laughs. Incredulous, at first. Then, genuine. Amused. He spins the idea in his head. Mydeimos the beefcake is on guard because he thinks… he’s about to be a face on a missing poster? A cautionary tale about vacations on Aedes Elysiae?

Mydeimos steps away, looking at Phainon as if he’s gone bananas and ready to start biting. He hisses, “What?”

“You think–” Phainon breathes in, trying to recover from the pain on both his sides and his cheek. “–you think I’m trying to traffick you? Seriously? Do I look like I could just pick you up and run?”

“You do,” Mydeimos responds, dragging his gaze across Phainon’s figure. “If I was caught unaware.”

Phainon elects to ignore the scrutinizing gaze in favor of defending his integrity. “But I don’t plan to! What even gave you that idea?”

“You came to the grill in the most suspicious way possible. You act weird when there are others around, almost as if you’re trying to act unassuming. Then, you volunteer to ‘show me around,’ as if a tour guide would offer their services free of charge.”

Phainon props himself up by his elbows, getting up from the shallow water he had unceremoniously fallen into. “Unfamiliar with someone being friendly to you, buddy?”

“Don’t call me that,” Mydeimos says, and Phainon raises his hands in surrender. “You’re trying to get me alone.”

Phainon looks left, looks right. He says, chary, “Sorry, I’m not a professional tour guide, just a local. Did you expect me to bring along a whole wagon of tourists?”

“You brought me to a bar. Hoped to get me drunk, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t! Day drinking is not my style, and I got you the strawberry milkshake that you were eyeing on the menu.”

“Right.”

“Dude,” Phainon breathes out. “You have tattoos all over. You’re not getting trafficked.”

Mydeimos crosses his arms. He shifts his weight to one foot, still looking down at Phainon quietly. He has no more retorts up his… nonexistent sleeves because he’s still shirtless, and Phainon takes it as an invitation to explain.

“I’m going to be honest,” he says, standing up from the river. The afternoon heat works to keep him warm despite the drenched clothes. “I approached you because I thought you were hot.”

If Mydeimos did not look skeptical enough a moment ago, he definitely did now. At least, he doesn’t take a step back when Phainon approaches—makes sense, given that he had just proved that he’s more than capable of defending himself.

He decides to be a little more direct. “Let’s start all over again. Hi, I’m Phainon. Let’s go on a date, please?”

The way Mydeimos’ expression curls into a mix of disbelief and disgust would almost be humorous if not for the fact that his fists are clenched. “You’re out of your mind. You don’t know who I am.”

“I don’t know you yet. I want to. The point of a date is to know more about the person you’re going out with. I’ll consider it as an apology for you punching me for no reason.”

“No reason? I had my reasons. I just told you.”

“Reasons,” Phainon says, “that I’ve countered. I’m not a criminal. What is criminal is the way you’re walking around looking that gorgeous.”

Mydeimos cringes. Phainon internally does, too.

“You seem so assured that I’m interested in people like you,” Mydeimos says, and Phainon knows what he means by people like you. It doesn’t carry the same distaste that the older people in town have. “that I wonder where you get that arrogance from.”

“I mean, I saw you checking me out a while ago.”

Silence, once again.

Phainon drawls, “So, tomorrow night? There’s this restaurant bar…”

Cyrene doesn’t know the full truth of the situation, but Phainon has dropped enough hints for her to find out. He can say in earnest that he did not tell her—he didn’t, not directly—and keep his promises to both people at once. No secrets for Cyrene, and no telling anyone for Eurypon. They’ll have to chalk it up to his best friend having the uncanny ability to see through Phainon. The fact that he makes himself as transparent as glass when it comes to her is not his fault and is entirely unrelated.

(She did have a few choice words to say about his latest racket and lightly swollen cheek, but whether because of the desperation she can smell on him or something else altogether, she didn’t let the lecture drag on for a minute longer than necessary.)

She does exactly what he expects her to do. She lies in bed, legs up and against the wall, as she scrolls through her phone. He sits beside her and occupies himself with toying with the eight-year-old stuffed cat he won for her at the fiesta while she does the Cyrene-typical stalking (investigation, as she prefers to call it) of whoever Phainon is involved with.

“He’s really quiet online,” she muses. “His profile might as well have a dust bunnies collecting on it. But! He has a friend who posts a lot.”

“Yeah? What are they up to? I need to plan around his interests to keep him hooked.”

A disapproving look is sent his way, but she answers his question nonetheless, “The pictures don’t say a lot about their interests. They’re just sitting down at a table on every single image.”

He snorts, “Sitting down at a table. Are you sure those aren’t business partners?”

“There is alcohol present, and it’s not celebratory wine,” she says.

“May I see?”

Cyrene hands her phone to Phainon, and he takes a good look at the image on the screen. Seated among four men Phainon doesn’t recognize is Mydeimos, smiling in a way that almost seems strange. With all the frowning and grumbling that the man had to offer earlier, Phainon was not aware it was possible for him to make such an expression, but he digresses—the entire group in the picture is smiling. One man has his hand on top of another man’s hand, whose free arm is slung around another man.

A lightbulb turns on above Phainon’s head. “This is the polycule.”

“Hm?”

“No, nothing,” he shakes his head.

It doesn’t look like Mydeimos is out of place; he seems perfectly happy where he is, which just further supports the possibility that his parents might just be a little too dramatic. But then again, Phainon accepted the job, his house is on a three-week timer, and the man agreed to a date.

The word drops on Phainon’s head like an anvil. A date.

He’s dating a man for money. Money from his parents, at that. And the man himself is not supposed to know that he’s going to be paid just to lure him out of his shell. The facts process a day too late, and it makes his stomach churn the same way eating something rotten would.

“Oh, Kephale,” he mumbles. “I’m actually doing this.”

For the first time in years, Phainon’s not sure what message Cyrene’s face is supposed to express—is it sorry, or I told you this was a bad idea?

The destination for the night is more a bar than it is a restaurant, and that’s what he told Mydeimos—the good food is usually just a bonus, because everyone comes for the drinks. It’s open all year round, unlike half the places near the beach. When tourists leave, half the businesses leave, too.

(Mydeimos had given him the stink eye when the word ‘bar’ left Phainon’s lips. But really, there were very few options on where to go. A quick scan of the commercial side of Aedes Elysiae, and one will see bar after bar after bar. Unless Moneybags wants to sit outside an eatery—and Phainon has a strong feeling he doesn’t—their options are slim.)

Phainon waits outside. Summer is more merciful by the time night rolls around, but it doesn’t hurt to dress cool. He’s comfortable in his plain shirt and linen shorts—a safe outfit, according to Cyrene. Whatever that means.

Mydeimos arrives a minute past nine. A whole minute of tardiness that Phainon can use as leverage for jokes, because if he doesn’t will away the guilt in his stomach, he’ll look like a hostage the entire date despite being the one who asked Mydeimos out.

However, whatever joke Phainon had planned to spit out remains lodged in his throat. Mydeimos seems to have that effect, he thinks—make his tongue foreign in his mouth, render him stupid with just a look.

The first thing Phainon notices is the hair. Mydeimos’ hair is held back by a claw clip, exposing the nape of his neck. Phainon is not a hormonal teenager, he swears, but the tattoos reaching Mydeimos’ neck are making his imagination work overtime.

The second thing he notices is that Mydeimos smells really, really good. It’s citrusy. He’s tempted to tease and ask if he can see if Mydeimos tastes as good as he smells, but the dull ache on his cheek prevents him from doing so. He’d rather not destroy both his and Mydeimos’ image by fistfighting in front of a business.

“Hey,” he greets, pretending Mydeimos’ sleeveless shirt is not making his head spin. He offers a hand for his date to take because he’s willing to push his luck past its usual bounds. “Let’s go?”

Mydeimos gives the offered hand a second of his attention before deciding he doesn’t want to take it. He nods, “Mm.”

Tough. Phainon is not used to the nonchalance. All his previous dates were, in ways, like him—desperate for someone to embrace for the night and stave off the creeping coldness that came with an empty bed. Fingers are quickly interlaced, kisses are given like they’re mere candies, and sex is… expected, by the end of it all. One might even say that sex is the main event, and that the dining and sweet talk is just an opening act.

Mydeimos is a change from Phainon’s usual picks, though that’s partly because he’s not one that Phainon picked for himself. Yes, he found Mydeimos attractive—who wouldn’t—but it’s not his style to be so persistent. A single wilting glance is all it takes for him to back off, because he’s not one to push his way into places he’s not welcome.

“They have really good fries here,” Phainon says as they take a seat. He gives Mydeimos his full attention. That’s the mission—make the man feel special, lay it on thick. Like he’s courting some princess.

“Greasy,” Mydeimos notes simply, but his voice has an inflection to it that sounds too close to disapproval.

He blinks. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want a salad?”

A flat response to a sarcastic question, “No, I didn’t. I’m not hungry.”

What a conversation-killer. Mydeimos’ talent for making Phainon speechless is not just through looking like a model that just escaped a magazine. He also makes Phainon speechless through his extremely engaging responses. Some banter would be nice, he thinks, but the other half is an unwilling participant.

He claps his hand once, trying to fan away the gloomy air that Mydeimos’ reply has brought to their table, “You know, I have to ask. What’s the routine?”

“The routine?”

“You know, the workout routine for…” he raises his brows, makes a show of eyeing Mydeimos’ body, and then licking his lips. He grins in lieu of finishing his sentence.

“Oh,” Mydeimos replies. His eyes light up. Phainon counts it as a small win. “I warm up ten minutes on treadmill first, then…”

Phainon zones out, eyes zeroing in on the way Mydeimos’ Adam’s apple moves, and he feels an urge to bite the side of that throat. Mydeimos has a blank look on his face now, but how will his features shift if Phainon were to drag a tongue along the side of his neck, he wonders? And will he breathe out shakily, maybe cuss? Will he be shy and try to tug on Phainon’s hair to pull him away, or will he try to press their bodies closer?

“Phainon,” a waiter stands by their table, and just as luck would have it, it’s a friend. “And his date! What are you two having tonight?”

“I’ll have whatever drink he’s having,” is Mydeimos’ response.

Phainon knows a hidden challenge when he hears it. He has two options: he could order the strongest thing they have and watch with delight as Mydeimos struggles through it like everyone does, or he could order something that Mydeimos would like. The first option is rather tempting because Phainon, frankly, loves to see a tourist’s reaction to the local drink, witness how their face scrunch up at the intensity—but he knows it won’t be received well, remembering their encounter by the river. It leaves the second option, which would be troublesome… if not for the fact that Mydeimos had already revealed his drink preferences.

“Honey Kumquat Caipirinha for me and this…” Tumbleweed. “Hottie.”

Kyros shakes his head and sighs, but amusement tugs at his lips as he turns to leave. “Right, right, I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. Don’t mess this one up, Phainon.”

“Ha-ha. I won’t!”

When Kyros is out of earshot, Mydeimos turns to look at Phainon again. “You’re uninterested.”

“I am interested,” Phainon replies, and he’s honest. Uninterested? In what world? Phainon has been staring at him all night, save for the time they—he had to order. It’s just that Phainon would be a hell lot more invested in what comes out of Mydeimos’ mouth if he stopped talking like he’s perpetually bored. Phainon knows he isn’t the problem; he’s not boring. Many of his past dates can vouch for that. This twenty-one-year-old celibate, on the other hand? Hah.

“You aren’t,” Mydeimos says. “You haven’t been listening to me at all. I can tell. It’s more like you’re imagining me… standing up on the table and giving you a strip show.”

“Are you offering to make that a reality?” is Phainon’s immediate response, punctuated by a laugh. The air’s getting a little too heavy for a first date—he needs to rein in the mood that keeps going off-course.

Mydeimos’ eye twitches. “So you aren’t denying it.”

The joke falls flat.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Phainon puts his head in his hands, rubs his forehead. Then, he looks up at Mydeimos again. He lets some honesty bleed through when he says, “You’re just not a very entertaining conversationalist.”

“Say shallow things, get shallow answers.”

Now, Phainon’s eye twitches. “Let’s talk about your childhood, then. Mydeimos, where did it all go wrong? When did you realize Santa wasn’t real and that it was just Daddy in a white beard?”

That prompts the faintest of titters from Mydeimos. “You expect me to pour my heart out to you? In your dreams.”

“You are the most confusing man I’ve ever met.”

“Thanks. An honor, considering it’s coming from you.”

“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You seem to know plenty of men,” Mydeimos replies with a sassy little brow raised. “I’m happy to stand out and claim a title.”

“Hoh,” Phainon guffaws dryly. “You know, it’s not very polite to call your date a slag.”

“I didn’t call you that.”

“You might as well have. What gave you the impression?”

“It’s a conclusion I formed after hearing you fill my ears with pointless fluff.”

“Pointless fluff?”

“Praise. Empty praise.”

“It’s not empty praise. I mean it. I do actually think you’re hot.”

“It is empty praise because you’re only saying that with the goal of getting me in bed with you.”

About thirty thousand potential replies fill Phainon’s head at once. Ranging from no shit to I would never to but will you let me?

“You’re very intelligent,” Phainon decides to reply. “But wrong. And I do wonder—what counts as meaningful praise to you, Mydeimos? Please, do tell.”

“Not anything that comes from your mouth, that’s for sure.”

He puts a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “Oh, you’re so mean. Is this any way to treat a date? We hardly know each other, and you’re already at my throat!”

“We hardly know each other because you keep saying worthless things that don’t move the conversation along. You’re a bore, and your attempts at praise are laughable.”

What Phainon feels is beyond disbelief at this point. They have to make a new word for it. “You’re saying this, mister ‘oh’ and ‘humph?’”

Mydeimos says, “I already told you. Say shallow things—”

“—get shallow answers,” Phainon finishes. “Right.”

Their drinks are placed on their table. Phainon’s incredulity hasn’t worn off, and he’s sure the smile he gives Kyros as thanks is not the most pleasant one he can offer.

As he lifts the glass to take a sip, he peers at the man seated across the table. Phainon might know what the issue is, why he’s single.

Mydeimos is a brat.

He can’t say he’s shocked, not really. Rich kids from the city tend to have an arrogance that is unmatched. It’s from a lack of discipline as a child; a cheeky remark in kindergarten will go unpunished because daddy can buy the whole school and all the staff, too. Phainon is willing to bet a good amount of money (even if he probably shouldn’t) that Mydeimos’ dear parents once called him—or maybe even still call him—their precious little prince.

Phainon tries again, because he’s many things and one of them isn’t a giver-upper. “Where are you from, by the way?”

Mydeimos answers, “Kremnos.”

“Kremnos?” His brows raise as he echoes the response. “Wow. Wanted to give it a visit back when I was younger.”

“Only back then?”

Phainon laughs, “Well, I still do. But I’m comfortable here at home.”

“Didn’t think you were the type to want to stay in,” Mydeimos replies.

“It’s not about wanting to stay in,” Phainon clarifies. “It’s more about a vacation to Kremnos costing a fortune.”

“Oh.”

And that’s another potential pleasant conversation taking a nosedive. Why did he say that? He could’ve said something else. Anything, really. Money talk is the fastest way to bring the mood down.

“…So, what do you do for fun?” Phainon asks, managing a smile. Move on, because he is not about to let them sit in here in complete silence. That would be a shoddy first date to have, especially if he’s trying to score a second one. And a third. And a fourth. And maybe even a fifth, if Mnestia wills it.

Mydeimos, thankfully, replies and goes along with it, “I draw.”

“Draw… what?”

Mydeimos hesitates. He looks down at his glass, almost as if… shy. Is that it? Is he ashamed of what he draws? Could it be that he draws something lewd? Maybe something not so easy to admit? Could he be one of those artists Livia talked about—a furry artist? No shame in it, of course. Whatever brings in money! He’s not one to judge. In fact, he should be the last to judge a person for what they do for money. Look at him, being a sort of secret sugar baby at the grown age of twenty-nine.

“I draw,” Mydeimos swallows. “Animals. People. Or both. Whatever piques my interest.”

What a delightfully elaborate answer. And an interesting combination. Phainon might have actually been right about his date being a furry artist. He prompts, “Like, realism? With pen and paper?”

“No. I draw digitally. In a—” Mydeimos frowns. “—cartoon style. And I animate them when I have the time.”

Yep. Definitely a furry artist. “You’re the artistic type, huh… Didn’t expect that one.”

Mydeimos eyes him suspiciously. “Why not?”

Phainon gets the feeling that whatever he says next will decide whether the honeyed drink in Mydeimos’ hand will stay in the glass or find itself splashed on his face. He cautiously says, “I mean, it’s a pleasant surprise! Not a lot of people appreciate art nowadays. Especially with the rise of that, uh, generative stuff recently. You know, the trend of ‘turn my image into a Clockie Studio anime.’”

The tension on Mydeimos’ hand eases up. He replies, “Oh, that garbage. I find value in the process of creating. It’s not always about the outcome.”

“Of course, of course,” he nods.

“And what do you do when you’re not busy acting suspicious on beaches?”

Two feelings emerge at once—incredulity with a side of amazement. Mydeimos is actually asking him questions now. It came with an insult, of course, and Phainon would like to record it, keep a tally for every jab he has to return. But for now, he’ll answer properly. “I like to read all sorts of books, no matter the genre. I also like to do treasure appraisals but—” he laughs, catching himself before he says something about his financial situation again. “It’s not a very common hobby, so I’m usually watching others do it instead.”

“Hm.”

Yet another beat of silence. Oh, no, no. Phainon is not going to let this momentum die. He turns the conversation back to Mydeimos, asking, “Can I see anything you’ve made?”

“Huh?”

“You know,” he vaguely gestures with a hand. “Your art.”

Are Phainon’s eyes deceiving him, or are Mydeimos’ cheeks getting dusted with the faintest of reds? His date’s eyes are lowered, seemingly ashamed. On one hand, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, because Phainon won’t laugh at anything a person is passionate about. On the other… He wants to see this expression on Mydeimos more frequently.

When the silence lingers for far too long, Phainon adds, “I mean, it’s fine if you don’t want to. We’re all at different skill levels—”

“Haikas,” Mydeimos grunts, eyes snapping right back at Phainon. “Are you trying to imply I’m not a skilled artist?”

Phainon would ask about the unknown first word, but he decides against it for now. He has to throw in the bait, get Mydeimos to bite it. “No? I’m just saying, it’s okay to be unconfident with your art. You know, I wouldn’t be jumping to show someone poetry I wrote when I was just starting out,” he whistles. “Rookies make rough stuff, so.”

A tug on the fishing line. Mydeimos practically snatches his phone out of his pocket. Without breaking Phainon’s gaze, he keeps tapping on the screen. And then, he turns his phone around, showing the screen.

On the screen is a cartoon GIF of a man looking suspiciously close to one of Mydeimos’ friends, relaxed on a couch with a cat on his lap. The man is petting the cat on loop, and the cat’s tail is slowly wagging in response. It’s… adorable. It’s a sweet scene—and certainly not what Phainon expected. Sure, Mydeimos did say he draws animals and people, but a part of Phainon was… well, imagining a whole other thing. That, and he doesn’t believe Mydeimos to be the type to draw something cute. But, as they say, to see is to believe.

Mydeimos turns his phone back to him and locks it before hastily shoving it back into his pocket. “Did it look rough to you?”

“No,” Phainon smiles. “Looks perfect to me, really.”

Yet another pause. Mydeimos says, “Thanks.”

Phainon takes in the light flush on Mydeimos’ cheeks. He decides to be polite and not comment on it. Instead, he says, “How you’re still single is beyond me.”

Mydeimos doesn’t frown, doesn’t give him a dirty look. What he says is, “When did I say I was single?”

Phainon’s mouth opens wordlessly. Then, another laugh is pulled from his lips as his brows knit. “An attempt was made at comedy, huh?”

Mydeimos smiles.

(Here, he allows time to melt. Talk, laughter—all from him, unfortunately—and stories filling the in-betweens. Phainon talks about his friends. Mydeimos talks about home, fondness coating every word. Phainon finds it just the slightest bit humorous; one would think Mydeimos was torn from his home instead of simply taking a vacation. People filter in and out of the bar until—)

“I had fun,” Phainon says, the greeting that would normally prelude a cheeky little invitation to come back to his place. He doesn’t continue the habit. “Maybe we could do this again?”

Much to Phainon’s surprise, Mydeimos agrees. “Sure.”

Phainon freezes for a split second before grinning. “Ah, let’s—”

“I’ll see you when I do,” Mydeimos says, so sure of himself, and then he’s gone.

“He’s… a bit of a showoff,” Phainon concludes the obligatory debriefing. “And a little dry. But he’s not that bad.”

“You’re going through with it?” Cyrene asks. There’s a very thin trace of distaste on the question, small enough to go unnoticed. Not by Phainon, though. Never by him.

A sigh of surrender, “What other choice do I have?”

Livia makes herself at home at Phainon’s kitchen, chowing down on her treat of choice—fried bananas, its exterior crunchy with caramelized sugar. Piso’s on the other side of the table, gnawing at the half-empty plastic of iced candy.

“Wow,” Phainon places his hands on his waist, watching the two with their shamelessly lifted shirts, his shaking fan pointed in their direction. “First of all—it’s late. And second… you guys were helping yourselves to my fridge while I was gone?”

“There’s nowhere for us to hang out in without those noisy tourists all stinking up the whole place. Plus,” Piso retorts, “you’re the one who said we can come in here anytime.”

“Right. I haven’t forgotten.”

The call of the shower is loud and tempting, especially after a long night at work; Phainon had to smile at a customer trying to ask for his number, tolerate people who spoke far too loudly despite the close proximity to the bar, and another customer whose drunkenness brought memory loss and practically smacked the drink out his hand, claiming they didn’t ask for anything. The typical summer night, really. Phainon takes off his nameplate, placing the pin down the table. Then, panic. There’s a distinct lack of piles of paper on the surface and—

“Your mail’s on the coffee table,” Livia explains. “Piso moved it, by the way. I told him not to touch it.”

His head snaps at Piso. “You didn’t look, did you?”

“Uh, no?” Piso says. “I wouldn’t do that.”

A sigh of relief. Then—“Don’t move anything next time.”

Two days later, Mydeimos is looking out of place and overdressed in a family mart—linen shirt with the first few buttons undone, dark pants, half of his bangs braided back, and he completes the look with sunglasses resting on top of his head. It’s ridiculous, it’s flashy, and somehow expected. While everyone else minds their own business in their tank tops and home shorts, Mydeimos looks ready to be whisked off into a summer-themed photoshoot.

Phianon approaches the man as he’s scanning the shelves for snacks. “Hey.”

Mydeimos doesn’t spare him a glance. “Do you need something?”

“Did you forget me already?” He pretends to pout. “The man who gave you an amazing date just a few days ago?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Mydeimos dryly replies. He repeats, “Do you need something?”

“I thought you’d see me when you do, and then we can talk about that second date you agreed to?”

“I—” Mydeimos finally decides to give Phainon a glance, but does a little double-take as his eyes land on the red shirt and trail down the green cargo shorts. His sentence is abruptly cut off, but he immediately tries again, frowning, “I didn’t see you. Not until you started disrupting my shopping experience.”

“Disrupt?” he echoes. “You’re pretty rude, you know that?”

Mydeimos stops as he’s about to put a pack of local treats in his basket. He says, “I’m sorry.”

At that, Phainon blinks owlishly. He says, “I was just joking. I don’t mind.” And he means it—in part because that pretty face can get away with anything, and in part because he’s hired for this. Being around people who liked to tease meant growing a thick skin, too.

The pack of treats rests on the basket, plastic crinkling, the only noise between the two. Phainon thinks he’ll have to carry the conversation again. So, he asks, “Shopping here, huh? What’s on the list?”

“Just shopping for some snacks for my friends back home.”

“Doesn’t that usually happen when you’re about to go home?”

“I’d rather have it done now than rush later.”

“With all these weeks of summer still about to come, they’re more likely to end up in your stomach than anywhere else.”

Mydeimos shakes his head. “I have plenty of self-control.”

“Huh! Must be why you’re still able to resist me after all this time.”

Mydeimos turns to look at Phainon slowly, his face expressing just how unamusing he found the remark. “You,” he says the word with heavy emphasis and mild vexation, “are the most cocky man I’ve ever met. This conversation is over.”

“So our second date’s off, huh?” Phainon jokes. “Aw, you got me all excited for nothing.”

“I didn’t say it was off. I just wish that you would stop yammering on.”

He perks up, “So, we’re still on?”

“You don’t have to sound that happy about it,” Mydeimos grumbles, but there’s amusement to be heard beneath it all. Just trying to hide it, and doing a poor job at it, too. “Are you always this desperate for a date?”

“No, not really. Just desperate to be with you.”

“Flattering,” Mydeimos flatly says as he begins to walk towards the cashier. Phainon follows. “This time, no bars. I’ve got a place in mind.”

“Oh? You planned our second date, huh? You weren’t dreaming about seeing me again, were you?”

Mydeimos does not attempt to return the tease. He says, “If you bring me to another bar again, I’ll start thinking you’re an alcoholic.”

“Hey, you agreed to the date! If you didn’t like where we were going, you should’ve told me.”

“I should’ve,” Mydeimos agrees as he places the goodies on the counter. “So I’m telling you now.”

When Mydeimos’ items are rang up, Phainon notices the cashier—Possephone, fresh from her honeymoon and currently suffering from a severe case of fear of missing out on the town gossip—eyeing them with great interest. He considers it a small mercy that she says nothing now, but he’s aware that rumors spread faster than any disease, and he’ll soon hear things about himself that he never knew.

(Later; Phainon will realize that he’s made the most pointless mart run of his life, leaving empty-handed, having forgotten why he came to the mart thanks to Mydeimos.)

Mydeimos pulls out his wallet, takes out a few bills. He takes the plastic bag, “Keep the change.”

Possephone’s gaze flicks to Phainon, then to Mydeimos. Then, a smile spreads across her face—not a customer service smile, but a sly smile. “Thank you for your patronage.”

Phainon begins the interrogation once they’re outside, “So, where are we going? When?”

“Now, since you’re already here. Get in the car.”

What car, Phainon was about to ask, but then they turn the street and he lays his eyes on a red convertible parked in an alley. But of course, the flashy car previously seen is the one owned by Mydeimos. Sure, why not.

The look of mild judgment on Phainon’s face must’ve been clear as day; Mydeimos explains, “It was a graduation gift, back in high school. I didn’t ask for it.”

The explanation does not make it any better. It is not any less gaudy. And Phainon is not quite sure what an incoming college student needs a convertible for when there are more practical cars to have, but what does he know? Rich people do live in a world of their own.

“Get in,” Mydeimos repeats.

Phainon follows the orders. His hand tugs on the handle, and he slides into a car worth more than his debt. He sits stiffly—

Mydeimos extends a hand, offering the plastic bag of treats to Phainon. “Take this.”

“…Do you want me to eat it?”

“No. Hold onto it,” Mydeimos clarifies, exasperated. “The passenger seat’s for my stuff.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for taking the spot, then.”

His sarcasm is not well-received. Mydeimos simply drops the plastic bag on Phainon’s lap. Both hands now free, he peels the car out of the alley… and begins to speed through the road as though they’re in a chase.

“Whoa,” he laughs, nervous because, while he does not know the speed limit, he knows they’re well past it. “Are we in a hurry?”

“Scared? Should I slow down?”

Sort of. “Me, scared? No. This is fine.”

Phainon distracts himself by gazing out the window. He clutches the plastic bag of treats that Mydeimos has placed on his lap as he watches the scenery blur. Trees and more trees. Some people. And then trees again.

“May I ask where we’re going?” Phainon says. “Or will you drive both of us off a cliff if I keep talking?”

“I won’t do anything unreasonable,” Mydeimos says, and Phainon is tempted to argue that he is already unreasonable with his speed. “We’re going to the next town over.”

He can’t help but huff. “Wow, eager to escape Aedes Elysiae?”

“No,” Mydeimos says. “But you’re a local, so everything must be the same old to you by now. Let’s go something new for both of us.”

Phainon turns his head, checking to see if Mydeimos has grown a second one. Is that a trace of softness in his voice? “Huh. And how are you so sure I don’t go here, either?”

“Because you’ll tell me,” Mydeimos easily says, looking at Phainon. “Won’t you?”

There’s something about the way Mydeimos speaks—something so attractive that Phainon can’t quite describe. It’s deadly on its own, but combined with the eyes… he can’t help but shift on the leather seat. Like some sort of school boy having a crush, his heart speeds up under the attention. He’s supposed to make Mydeimos’ heart race, and yet…

“Eyes on the road,” he admonishes instead.

Mydeimos chuckles before turning his gaze back up front. Phainon wills his heart to slow.

Phainon is, at least, in charge of his safety now, behind the wheel of a bumper car. Surrounding him are children giving both him and Mydeimos weird looks, but Phainon is willing to ignore it—especially when Mydeimos has the most diabolical smile on his face, and Phainon can almost see the invisible target that his date is painting on his car.

An amusement park might just be the last place that Phainon expected Mydeimos to take an interest in. Frankly, he looks like a grouch, ready to scoff at anything childish, disapproving of joy. Mydeimos seems set on keeping Phainon guessing, though, and the surprise isn’t an unwelcome one. If the man wants to go to the amusement park, then he will. Not like Phainon will protest.

“No head-on bumping,” he gestures to the sign. “Be good, Mydeimos. You don’t wanna set a bad example for the kids, don’t you?”

The warning is ignored. Phainon’s car jolts as Mydeimos bumps against him. When Phainon shoots Mydeimos a look of exasperation, Mydeimos defends himself, “It’s not a head-on bump.”

He murmurs smartass under his breath. He returns the favor, steering his car to Mydeimos as the other tries to weave through the packs of children giggling. It’s a fail—the children are too close together, closing the path, and Phainon scores a hit on Mydeimos.

“Are you challenging me, Phainon?”

“Me, challenging you? I would never.”

(Mydeimos then proceeded to make a point of bumping directly into Phainon—and only into Phainon—the entire time. Seems like so long as Mydeimos is behind any wheel, Phainon’s safety is not ensured.)

An aching neck later, Mydeimos practically drags Phainon to a game of ring toss. (Mydeimos wins two rounds, all the rings around the bottles; Phainon doesn’t come close to even one win.) And then, air hockey. (Phainon wins; Mydeimos is terrible at playing defense.) And then, balloons and darts. (Mydeimos wins; Phainon’s aim has never been the best.) And then, reaction ring. (Phainon wins two rounds; Mydeimos’ record sits at seven of ten batons and was about to demand another rematch before Phainon successfully dragged him away.)

“The final challenge,” Mydeimos says as he finishes up his cotton candy. “To decide the true victor.”

They stop before the high striker, lights obnoxiously blinking. It stands rather tall, taller than most games Phainon has seen before. Or, maybe, that’s just a trick his memory is playing on him; he was a boy when he last played such a game and would waste his money repeatedly attempting it for a higher score.

Phainon chuckles, “The true victor, huh? What’s the prize?”

“Loser will have to pay for the next date,” Mydeimos says. “So the winner can freeload in the café of their choice.”

Traitorously, Phainon’s heart starts racing in his chest, aching to escape the confines of his ribs. It’d be no good to show how ridiculously excited he feels over the prospect of another date. He says, “Next date on a café? You haven’t even asked me if I agree to a third one just yet.”

“Are you saying no?” Mydeimos challenges, an eyebrow raised.

“It’s hard to say no to a face like yours.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Phainon purses his lips. Then, a sigh, and he lowers his head. Strangely, the laugh that leaves his lips sounds fond. “Yes, I’ll go on another date with you. There, happy?”

“Humph.”

Typical, Phainon thinks, and pauses when he realizes he’s formed an idea of what a usual Mydeimos is like. He pushes the thought aside as he moves closer to Mydeimos, watching as the man takes the mallet. He’s half-tempted to ask Mydeimos to slam it down his head instead of the game, but manages to reel in the urge. Mydeimos takes a step back, lifts the mallet above his head, and—

A loud bang as the mallet meets the lever. The machine flashes its lights even more obnoxiously—a feat, truly—and the screen at the very top of the machine reads 147.

Mydeimos turns to Phainon, smiling smugly, so assured of his win. “Your turn.”

“I’m a little occupied at the moment,” he says, looking down at their spoils of stuffed toys from previous games won. “So, if you would please…”

The plushies are transferred to Mydeimos’ arms—a funny yet endearing sight. Muscled arms wrapped around stuffed cats and dogs. Phainon, for the briefest of moments, allows himself to indulge in the image of him taking the place of those toys.

He picks up the mallet, flexes his fingers, and tightens his grip. Think of your wallet, he whispers to himself. Your poor, poor wallet.

A foreign power surges through his body. The power of being a penny-pincher, he supposes. Empowered by the image of his wallet, healthy and full, Phainon lifts the mallet and brings it down as hard as he possibly can. Please, 148 or higher. Please.

The screen reads 146.

Mydeimos’ laugh rings from the side, a little too amused over a win in such a childish game. “Too bad,” he says as he proceeds to shove the stuffies back to Phainon’s arms, bragging both his win and his free arms. “So sad. Don’t make that face, I might start to feel bad for you.”

Bewilderment is not strong enough a word to describe what Phainon feels. He feels as though he has gotten a clearer look at Mydeimos—sweet-toothed, speedy driver, gloating winner Mydeimos. Phainon doesn’t know what’s worse: the defeat, or not minding losing as much as he thought he would?

(He and Cyrene have gotten into far too many petty fights during their childhood. Phainon, the sore loser, Cyrene would jeer, sticking her tongue out and making an L with her fingers. They wouldn’t talk for hours, sometimes days afterwards. Then, he’d come crawling back, still pouting, but missing the warmth of her company nonetheless. Grudges have always been Phainon’s strength, and Cyrene has always been his weakness.

And Cyrene will remain his only weakness, or so help him.)

“Don’t be too happy,” Phainon mumbles, embracing the plushies tightly. “I’ll beat you next time.”

Mydeimos drops him off a few streets away from the fields; the roads are tricky to navigate, and Phainon doesn’t want Mydeimos to deal with the headache of looping around just to go back to his posh summer home.

“Are you sure?” Mydeimos asks as Phainon struggles to wiggle out of the car with everything that has been placed on his lap. “You’re carrying quite a lot.”

Phainon turns to the side, trying to prevent the plushies from practically exploding out of the car should he open the door. “Please, when I was ten, I’d carry sacks of rice from our home to the shops.”

“Uh-huh.”

At last, the door opens. None of the plushies spill out. Success. Phainon’s about to leave—then he looks at Mydeimos, plastering a worried look onto his face. “Hey, wait, you forgot something.”

Mydeimos bites the bait once again, clueless as ever. He frowns, “Huh. Did I?”

“Yeah,” Phainon nods, then grins. “You forgot to give me my goodbye kiss.”

In an instant, Mydeimos’ face twists as though he has licked a lemon. He heaves out a very heavy sigh. “Get out.”

The plastic bag of treats takes its rightful spot on the passenger seat, and Mydeimos drives off. Phainon stays at the side of the road until the tail lights disappear into the distance, waving as much as he could when he’s been burdened with keeping their prizes.

The walk back home is short. No matter how long he’s seen the same sprawling scenery, its charms never grew dull and, honestly, he thinks it never will. From where he lives, he gets the perfect view of the seemingly endless sea of gold and the sea. Just a stone’s throw away are his friends. His whole life, all in a little bubble.

When he passes by a familiar set of pink fences, he briefly considers visiting Cyrene, but then he thinks better of it—tales of his date will be shared only when prompted. He doesn’t want to be one of those friends that only speaks about their latest fling and nothing more.

His home is as empty and welcoming as it always is—unpaid bills still waiting, an unwashed glass still at the sink, unfinished book still at its spot on the coffee table. He collapses on the couch, plushies raining down on him. Warmth spreads across his face, unbidden.

(Later, at night, Phainon will lay awake in bed, his gaze meeting a plush cat. Under the dim light of the moon spilling from his windows, he will eye the orangey threads for its eyes, the upside-down V for its mouth, and he’ll think of Mydeimos. Whether he finds himself giddy at the thought or not—that’s between him and Mnestia.)